At first her conductor about the village was Laluala, but later her halter might be merely handed to half a dozen children who led her along the street, strutting with self-importance at being entrusted with such a duty, delivering her to next encounter. It seemed that the male savages had a low opinion of females and were half suspicious of Isobel’s ingratiating displays of readiness, though readily susceptible to any flattery of their power. Fortunately these primitives knew nothing of the arts of sexual intercourse such as she had observed on the island, or been forced to practice aboard the schooner. This was no place or situation to allow for scruples upon her part. So it seemed she was doomed to employ the skills appropriate to a Parisian whore upon a gang of male savages, even more conceited and less predictable than her previous captors. She remembered how easily her former captors had been deceived by her acting ability, and the darkness inside the enclosed houses lent her boldness. She even learnt to make some excitement out of the fact of being thoroughly fucked by a brute who might kill and eat her with as little ceremony. Though bound to feel ashamed when satiation finally came, in the concealment of the night she gave herself up regularly to uninhibited expressions of appreciation over the effects of a large penis and pounding male muscles.
Not that her encounters were always so private as her first union with a savage had been. Many of those houses she was taken to were large and occupied by whole families of natives, so that Isobel had to get used to this shameful coupling with her allotted partner within earshot of his elders, sisters and younger siblings and with no more privacy afforded her performance than a bachelor cubicle with flimsy walls. The food items handed over to her conductor each morning, rather than being a fee for her use, turned out merely to be an expected contribution to provide for her common maintenance. The matter of the size of the portion was left to the judgement of the females of the family and handed over with a bad grace. Several times the female relatives made their view of Isobel’s usefulness clear by bullying her. Nor was it of any avail to appeal to the satisfaction of that night’s possessor. The first time she did so, the brute, loftily ignoring the affairs of mere females, simply stalked off in lordly fashion, no doubt to recount his nocturnal feats of endurance to his fellows seated before the skull platform. It earned Isobel a spanking before he was even out of earshot which, recalling that she was lucky not to be one of those impaled skulls, she dared not resist, even that been feasible.
Accustomed to doing all the hardest work, the skinny limbs and scrawny bodies of the females were deceptive, they were all muscle and sinew and far stronger than Isobel. Sprawled across the long black thighs of a seated tribeswoman with her bottom being soundly spanked by a work-hardened hand, the repeated impacts landing in close proximity to parts still tingling from the after effects of strenuous activities during the night, she found that she was stimulated to unwelcome reactions. Each smack landed with a stinging impact that drove Isobel’s loins against the woman’s bony knee. It was this that evoked the renewed sensation. Lodged against the prominent knob, the protective lips of Isobel’s vaginal slot were squashed and spread apart until the exposed clitoris, still tender from a night of prolonged activity, was pressed right against the rounded upper surface. The successive hand spanks delivered to her bottom cheeks, landing upon right and left by turns, drove the sensitive bud rasping softly to and fro and almost in a circular motion sent such thrills through Isobel’s body that it made her gasp with growing desperation between her plaintive squeals. How could she be so lost to shame to be thinking this way, prostrated over the lap of a naked female savage with her backside being rapidly emblazoned with multiplying palm prints and yet her mind conjuring up erotic thoughts? She had to fight to keep such emotions under control. She tried to shake off the persistent memory of the long night, and the male member that had thrust enormously into her vagina while she fingered herself in the darkness into a state of shameful ecstasy.
She was barely aware that her punishment had come to an end amid shrieks of female laughter and it was half a minute before she realised how far she had betrayed herself, her backside moving back and forth as if the spanks were still coming, the female knee acting as a substitute for the erection of the departed male. Her face bright scarlet, Isobel tried to lift herself up, the clearly derisive reaction of her captors impressing her further with the shame of her behaviour, but was held firmly in place. A large gnarled toe wriggled up and down the crinkled lips of her vagina. Never having experienced any form of footwear, these women had enormous feet. Giggling, they took it in turns to experiment so that a succession of almost prehensile big toes explored its little irregularities, strummed on her clitoris, then, wriggled deep into her channel, the hard toenails scraping sensitive flesh, while Isobel jerked up and down on her captor’s lap in helpless reaction. Inquisitively probing the wet and reddened vagina with fingers that could penetrate deeper than the longest toe, the black woman sniffed the results and lifted them up for her sisters to sample, producing even more hilarity as a result. Laluala picked out the largest of the tribute vegetables from her basket and passed it over to be introduced to that betraying orifice. Fortunately the sisters had chosen a kind of tuber for their donation that Isobel knew as a sweet potato, rather than yam or coconut, so its size was more reasonable, being like an outsized, pink carrot. Its skin, though knobbly, had a smoother surface too, than either of the other two staples. Tapered sharply to a point at one end, it entered easily between slippery vaginal lips and at the same time, the returning hand delivering a smack to her bottom, made Isobel’s muscles slacken involuntarily, allowing the vegetable to be thrust readily in to its full thickness. It felt chillier at first than a man’s hot implement but otherwise gave its recipient very similar reactions. Her female tormentors played skilfully upon this, light smacks keeping Isobel’s glowing bottom cheeks hot and twitching, alternating with thrusts and twists of the vegetable going in and out, its point reaching to her very limit. The bony knee that thrust up from beneath to lift Isobel into a suitable position provided continued stimulation to her clitoris at the same time, as she was driven to and fro against its immovable dome. The savage females continued to whoop and giggle at Isobel’s wriggles and wails, seeming so prepared to go on with this amusement indefinitely, that their victim’s demoralisation became complete and she abandoned the battle for control, giving herself up to an orgasm over the plunging body of a mere root vegetable. At least this seemed finally to gratify the inflictors of her punishment, but at Laluala’s suggestion, before they let Isobel go they thrust the wet and slimy vegetable under her nose to be licked clean of all her juices in order to be returned to the basket.
As Isobel’s language lessons ranged wider, the ex-wanderer Miaki was brought in to assist, but he was evidently as superstitious as his fellows, shooting terrified glances about the clean-swept coconut matted interior of Sirawea’s house and at the rough stone idol in particular. He shied even at the most innocent seeming of furnishings, like the bundles of herbs, leaves and roots that dangled from the dark ceiling in netting bags. So the venue for the lessons was moved outside, much to his relief, where Isobel’s progress became a matter of interest to any idler and particularly for a gathering of stark naked children, all dazzling white teeth, frizzy mops and big eyes, girls and boys directly distinguishable by their sexual parts being on view. They enjoyed making the captive repeat her lesson, greeting any mispronunciations with hoots and giggles. One small black imp, wearing nothing but a string around her belly, copying what she had seen her elders do, took it upon her to smack Isobel’s bottom and then, fascinated by the little red handprint she had made, delightedly called her playmates’ attention to the result. The others then vied to do the same whenever Isobel was judged to be in error, eager to see their own handprint on her white curves. The older ones, seeking for permission to apply the tutorial cane to the same place, appealed to Laluala, who sat compliantly by, weaving long red hairs culled from Isobel’s otherwise u
ncut mane into a flat plait in the form of a circular arm-band for her man, a badge of ownership or even magical control, perhaps.
The potion that Sirawea had mixed and his wife had administered proved effective, though Isobel suffered a fright at first when she found her breasts had become tender to the touch and were swelling enormously in size, beginning to leak white beads of milk. For a while she feared that she had become pregnant with a half-cannibal baby after all, but no swelling of her belly ensued. She concluded doubtfully that the potion she had swallowed must have prevented pregnancy by fooling her body into believing that she was already in that state. Her hair too, seemed to have shared in the effect of the potion, growing longer and thicker, the inevitable accretion of a coating of oil and grease from her hands and body, only seeming to make it more glossy and positively repel the rain.
She was eventually forced by the insistent development of her breasts to beg the female savages to help her achieve some relief, but at first they only laughed. Then at last, Laluala took pity upon her and, squatting cross-legged in the littered pigpen, took Isobel’s head and shoulders in her lap, bending over her to suck the aching nipples, leaning sideways at intervals to carefully spit each mouthful onto the earth. The young pigs were soon attracted to the spillage, scurrying to lick it up. The other women, watching, screamed in alarm, endeavouring to drive the pigs away as if what Isobel had produced might be poisonous. After a few days of this, Laluala became less diligent in her disposal of the mouthfuls and, no ill effects having been displayed by any pig, the neighbours decided that Isobel’s strange colour did not affect the quality of her milk. Soon they began bringing young runt piglets and using her as a nurse sow, tying her wrists and ankles and laying her on her side in the narrow confines of the pen with a stake parting her breasts in different directions so that the swollen nipples pointed this way and that, allowing two greedy piglets to suckle from her at the same time, while their owners leant on the edge of the pen, proudly watching their wealth rise in value.
Once satisfied that Isobel had resigned herself to this daytime function, Laluala equitably allowed her to take the piglets up on her lap to suckle and before long, a nervous grandmother approached with a newly orphaned black baby to require her services, small black hands clutching at Isobel’s full white curves instead of scrabbling little hooves. As a useful nursemaid she was rewarded by the female savages with more generous portions of the tribal staple, a kind of stiff custard of grated yams and coconut milk, dull but filling. Sometimes it contained shreds of meat but having been assured by Miaki that, “Not proper, woman eat man! No woman! No boy! Woman only cook man!” she trusted fervently that it was no worse than pork.
The savages grew three crops a year in their small gardens, which though owned by the men were cultivated by the women, growing mostly yams, but also taro and sweet potatoes. Here and there, plantains grew wild in the bush, as did breadfruit trees with a leaf like an oak and breadfruit like a green grapefruit with a polka-dotted skin. Coconuts came up from the shore and fish occasionally supplemented the vegetable diet, but yams were the most important produce. When the sorcerer was called upon to perform yam magic, Isobel was made to take part in a kind of beauty contest with several native women, relatives of the yam garden’s owner, kneeling in a line in front of the sorcerer’s house with their naked chests thrust out for inspection, while Sirawea prodded and poked them with his painted wand. Apart from one young maiden with firm sharp-peaked cones, the native candidates were all full breasted but their breasts were long and dangling from extensive suckling of children. Of course none of them would have been given the potion, since presumably they were expected to breed, so none had Isobel’s combination of round volume and proudly jutting prominence. Reflecting how those would have looked in her green silk evening dress, all plump quivering liquidity above its low bodice, tears sprang unbidden so that her emotion made them jiggle even more. She was far from civilised drawing rooms and elaborate gowns, exhibiting herself naked and coated with grease for the inspection of a black savage in a cannibal village.
At the sorcerer’s waved dismissal the others hurriedly bolted into the bush, black rears bobbing. Isobel had been chosen, as perhaps had been the intention all along. At the end of her rope leash she was taken out to the yam gardens where women were digging holes to take the plants, bending and bobbing, having no better tool than large clumsy poles with pointed ends. The yam garden in particular focus was nothing like an English ploughed field, but merely a roughly cleared area of bush with occasional tree stumps sticking up, scattered about with young green yam plants newly sprouted. In the centre was a wooden structure like a large bird-table across which Isobel was prostrated belly down on the tabletop arms outstretched, with her wrists fastened to a crosspiece and her ankles tied to the pole. Her heavily dangling breasts were bound tightly at their base with coconut fibre string and her projecting bottom cheeks were tied round with string above and below their roundness in similar manner, the lines coming in between her thighs and knotted together exactly over her vagina, separating her bottom flesh into two round masses. Her nipples were further bound tightly with twine each made to hold in place a little leafy top from a yam plant while another rather larger, was chosen to be inserted with the leaves sprouting from her anus, the whole effect being intended to show the yams what size they had to grow to. For the occasion Sirawea was disguised by a long mask, cut out of a section of tree trunk, carved with a hideous face, a thin hooked nose, goggling eyes and pursed mouth, all painted in earth colours and outlined in white shell. He began his strange ritual capering and chanting, sprinkling fibrous material over the plants and circling closer and closer about Isobel on her perch, while at the edge of the field, two men struck tall slit-gongs with decorated batons, producing a hollow rhythmic booming, the proprietor his wives and family looking on anxiously. At first, Isobel was inclined to scorn his antics, but soon the ritual began to be extraordinarily painful to her, as at the appropriate point in his circuit, the sorcerer delivered a hard spank to one or other of the blood engorged rounds now throbbing and rapidly darkening in hue. Isobel was positively encouraged to respond noisily, supposedly appealing to the yam god and took her cue by shrieking louder and louder “Beasts! It hurts! Help! Please! Oh help!” whatever came into her head. She had a brief vision of a rescue party bursting out of the jungle to find her thus, but of course nothing stirred beyond a good many startled birds. She was kept there until nightfall, suffering torments from visiting insects until it made her welcome the brief but frequent tropical showers that burst upon her naked form, a characteristic of this moist, cloudy climate. Her bottom rounds and breasts ached for days after this, ringed around by red lines that refused to fade.
It was while she was making her second round of submitting herself to the bachelor warriors of the tribe that a big ceremonial was held. A party of adolescent youths had been out in the bush for several days, undergoing the frightening and brutal ritual that would allow them to be considered men. They returned battered and exhausted but full of bravado, the village celebrating with a dance and feast. The savages danced in two huge circles, male and female facing, women on the outside. They circled stamping and hand clapping to the throbbing rhythm of drums made from hollowed logs with long slit in one side. The married women wore short grass skirts, the girls mere aprons of leaves and the motions of the dance seemed to consist largely of lewd invitations to the men. Isabel had been chewing kava all day to make drink for the latter to imbibe after the feast. These were small plants with glossy dark green leaves. The roots were chewed very small, then spat into a coconut shell cup to make an emulsion with added water, the saliva aiding the preparation. She now found the combination of the soporific kava acting to dull her civilised inhibitions and the pounding rhythm of the dance running up her legs and thighs from her thudding heels was making her receptive too. Having no more covering than her own hair, she offered no further obstacle to those lewd savages who d
ecided from time to time in the excitement of the night to take her off into the bush with them and anticipate their turn.
At dawn she crawled wearily from the latest of her places of assignation, a vacant yam store, twisting her hair into a more convenient plait, to find the excited youths lining up with spears and axes and, along with a few older experienced men, set off into the mist on a raid of a neighbouring village’s yam gardens. When they returned she guessed that she was likely to have several new customers. The raid, however, went drastically wrong. The raiding party straggled back, bloodied and missing one of their number. The enemy tribe evidently intended to retaliate, for after that the conches blew the alarm almost daily, the women and children scattering shrieking into the houses and men running to snatch up weapons and venture out in defence. At last a long series of nightly male debates seemed to come upon a resolution. The warriors spent several hours checking weapons, adorning themselves with paint and feathers, their ferocity to a European eye compromised by the sight of strips of Isobel’s frilly underwear encircling their thick waists or bushy heads. Unusually they gathered together nets and baskets of food and other valuables as well, before marching out, followed by the apprehensive wails of the women and children.
They carried Isobel with them as one of the valuables, suspended from a stout pole, between the shoulders of Sirawea’s two young sons, compressed and tightly contained within a cylindrical bundle of thick canes fastened round at the ends with numerous turns of flexible strips of the same material to make an elongated basket. The canes compressed her soft flesh at knees, elbows, shoulders and hips and her toes, fingers and stray wisps of hair poked from between the gaps. Through her tangled hair and the converging longitudinals of her basket she had only a limited view of the enveloping greenery, with immediately before her the dark pumping buttocks and wirily striding calves of her forward bearer. Occasional outbreaks of shrill complaint reminded her that similar pairs of men before and behind her in the line, were carrying similar cage bundles which contained live pigs, trussed up in exactly the same manner. Like her they seemed to be special luxury items for a possible feast. This didn’t reassure her. She bumped and swung, any exposed surfaces painfully whipped from time to time by springing vegetation, wondering all the time where and to what she was being delivered, welcoming the sudden sunlight of an open space, which provided a wider view. Before she was suddenly deposited on bare ground she saw ahead of her a dark mass of naked bodies, evidently another all-male gathering, judging by the mass of barbaric finery and feathers and the menacing swell of deep male voices.
Wild Woman Page 6
