Pleasure Island [The Chronicles of Lidir]

by Aran Ashe

  Travix left her for the present, tucked the cockstem in her belt and stepped out of the cabin. She hesitated at the foot of the stairs. Her face, illuminated in the flickering lamplight, looked intent yet peculiarly beautiful. She was thinking of her lovers; they were thinking of her, she knew. But she was unaware of the silent swarm of women who, at that very moment, were creeping like spiders up the side of the ship and sweeping out across the deck to parcel up the watch like dozing flies. And because she set off up the stairs, she was also unavailable to receive the Prince of Lidir when, some minutes later, he and Ikahiti broke into her room, only to be greeted by a blonde girl spitting fire at them - especially at him - and to find the long-lost Aka-lisha tied up on the floor.

  Anya opened her eyes; somehow, she had fallen asleep, but the low whistling sounds had woken her. There were people running on the deck behind her, but she could not move; it hurt to turn her head. She thought at first that it was dawn and she had slept all night, but she could only have dozed, for though the sun hung low, it was evening. Her breasts ached, her wrists and feet were numb and searing pains stabbed through her shoulders. She stared down at the water far below. The fish were there, the ones she had seen on that first day. But they seemed larger and more sinister in the failing light; their bodies formed dark streamlined shapes below the water and there were three of them at least; she saw now that they had but one wing on their backs and it seemed small in proportion to their bodies. They seemed to slink through the water in interlacing sinuous patterns, as if searching for something that eluded them. For the first time, she felt afraid of the water that she had come to think of as her friend. She wanted to cry out - to plead to be released and stand again on solid ground - but she was gagged.

  Then she saw three boats to seaward, like tiny slivers of gold in the evening light. Two more appeared to landward, not fifty feet away, and she knew then what the sounds on deck must be. Other boats must have passed beneath her while she was asleep. Her heart surged - the islanders were attacking; the great ship was beset. Over the next few minutes, wave upon wave of these boats appeared, moving very quickly. Yet nobody had seen her; the boats slid past and Anya could do nothing. But if they had not seen her from below, how would they ever see her at all? Slung below the bowsprit, she would never be noticed by anyone from above. She hung there, listening as the noise appeared to spread to below deck; then there were cries above her, from the men; they sounded as though they were up in the rigging. And there was laughter - women's voices amid the cries - the attackers must be winning.

  With a yell, one man fell past her into the water, then another. They floundered and shouted down below - perhaps they could not swim? Then suddenly, it mattered not whether they could swim or not: there was a swift movement - the dark shapes swept across beneath the surface and both men were gone. It was as if they had never existed. She blinked and now the fish were nowhere to be seen. Anya's fear had turned to terror. How had they moved so fast? How had they known the men were in the water? The ship lifted very slightly on the swell, the ropes that fastened her to the bowsprit creaked and the fine hairs stood up on the back of Anya's neck. Then she heard sounds of a scuffle behind her; the bowsprit began to vibrate and the hairs on Anya's neck stood even stiffer. There was a clash of metal, a thud, a scream then a voice, crying: 'Stand back!' then a chopping sound as of a sword biting into wood, then the voice again, harassed yet defiant. 'Stand back - or I feed your precious Princess to the sharks!' And Anya's eyes, already wide with fear, grew large as dinner plates.

  Travix stood on the bowsprit, the broad blade in her hand. The island women formed a half-ring before her. The one she had disarmed lay on the deck, groaning and retching from the punch that had felled her. Travix could not escape; she knew that; she knew the ship was taken. One boat had got away; the captain had not taken her.

  In the centre of the ring, above the woman on the floor, stood the Prince of Lidir, ashen-faced, with Niri under his arm. Behind him, the remaining pirates were being herded to the deck by his lieutenant and his men. The ones in the rigging were being allowed to come down to be spread-eagled on the deck and tied. Cautiously, the Prince put Niri down. 'Keep back,' warned Travix. 'Put down your sword.' She crouched above the tethered Princess. The Prince had little choice; he obeyed. 'Now back away.' His eyes had narrowed down to slits. 'Niri ...' whispered Travix, and Niri's dark eyes widened momentarily before she looked away. Travix smiled. And when the Prince looked down at Niri, Travix saw the scratches furrowed in his cheek. That gave her cause for satisfaction too. She saw the blonde girl in the background, struggling with a native woman of great beauty, but greater strength. The woman carried a whip. Travix smiled again; she found the match appropriate. She looked again at the one who must be the Prince. He had bearing, it was true, but no strength. She despised him for that. He was fighting back the tears; his heart was thumping, Travix knew, but hers was steady - though she faced this horde of weaklings who surely wished her dead.

  'I should have finished you long ago,' she said to him, 'but I will finish you now.' She kissed the blade. 'I salute you, in your weakness, Sire. And this fitting gift to a frail heart, I bequeath.' And the blade flashed down and cut the rope that tethered Anya's feet to the spar. Her body dropped like a stone and swung. The Prince screamed, 'No!' ran forwards, then stopped, for Travix had moved quickly. She was balanced out above Anya with the blade poised to cut through the one remaining rope. Each time he made a move, the blade threatened to slide across it.

  'I can cut this before you reach me,' said Travix. 'If you do not think so, try it.'

  'Yield,' cried he in desperation. 'You cannot get away. Yield to me now and you will be spared. I promise.'

  Travix laughed. She twisted the dangling body round, so the Prince and Princess were face to face and Travix could see the Princess's terror reflected in his eyes. Then she pronounced sentence. 'You are weak - a coward. A stronger man would have taken her back by now; a stronger man would not have let her go.' And then her expression changed: it seemed that some terrible haunting vision was written on her face. Her head lifted defiantly against it. But her next words were distant and spoken slowly, as if by someone else. 'Perhaps I can yield to you this one service - with this cut, perhaps I can teach you strength.' And she turned her cheek - the scarred, disfigured cheek - and smiled again, even as the blade chopped down. A single strand remained. 'And now, my lord, I fear it is too late.'

  The cry came - a terrible cry - and it momentarily stayed her hand, for it was not the cry she had expected.

  From behind the Prince, a small man carrying a large wicker box appeared through the hatch, pursued by several women. He tripped; the box burst open and chickens spilled and sprawled and skittered across the deck. In the turmoil, Travix moved to make the fatal cut. Before the blade had touched the strand, the Prince had dropped; his sword was flung. It should have passed straight through her heart; but instead, it was deflected by an airborne chicken, which plummeted into the sea. Travix jumped up, laughing. There was a swish. She looked down to see the whipcord wrapped around her ankle, then looked up to see the beautiful woman, and there was nothing she could do. Ikahiti tugged; when she was sure the woman's balance was broken, she threw the handle of the whip after her, then watched her disappear, watched the water fleetingly churn, then still.

  The Prince ran out on to the spar; when he reached for his Princess, the strand broke, her hands slipped through his fingers and a hammer blow smashed through his heart. She dropped like a spear through the air and into the water. The screams of the islanders, he ignored. He did not hear them. He hardly even saw the canoes. All he saw were the dark shapes in the water, and he dived.

  He could not reach her; she kept slipping smoothly, endlessly down. He had to fight against the buoyancy the giant gulp of breath had given him. Then he was hit by a shark. Its head lifted as a dozen spears struck into its back and it knocked the breath from his body; for a second he floated in velvet blackness.

/>   He opened his eyes to find himself in the large canoe, surrounded by the women. 'Where is she? Where!' he cried. But she was not there. They held him back, held him down. 'Nika, shiru,' they said gently, but he could see it in their eyes. The women around him were wet; the water droplets were gathered on their skin. How long had he been unconscious? A woman surfaced beside the canoe; another woman dived. He screamed, knocked his comforters away and dragged himself to the side. The water was black; there was a black impenetrability there. He looked at the women; the expressions in their eyes - the way they looked at him - spoke a terrible sadness. A haunting quiet had fallen. He counted the seconds; he listened; he looked into the black. How could she live? Her hands and feet were tied. The diver surfaced, shook her head. And he was in the water again, diving into blackness, reaching out, shouting under water, then choking, surfacing and banging his head against the boat. The arms reached out to grab him and he fought them, screamed. Then everybody suddenly stopped. He wiped the water from his face and turned. She was there; but she was dead; no life was in that body being hauled into the canoe opposite.

  He swam across but he had not the strength to climb aboard and nobody would help him. When the gag was removed, her head lolled back. Her lifeless body was thumped and slapped and turned and pummelled. Then there was total silence as they listened; there came more thumps, followed by agitated chatter. The women crowded closer; there were several quick slaps in succession, then excited cries, then hush. One of the women was kissing her. And in that hush and amid those kisses, he heard her choke and it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. In a second he was aboard and beside her. And he was afraid - he was a coward; his eyes filled up with tears and he was too frightened to touch her for fear that that frail gift of life should even now be taken away - for fear that she should be snatched away from him forever.

  She lay in the broad bottom of the boat. Her eyes were closed, but she was breathing. Her nose was streaming. Beside her lay a stunned and sodden chicken that blinked in mild bewilderment and clucked with faint concern.

  [15]

  Firebrands of Passion

  No bodies were given up by the sea. The boat in which the captain had escaped was washed ashore, capsized next day and its occupants were never found. That night, Anya and her Prince stayed aboard the ship, though the islanders had wanted them ashore. The pirates had been taken in ropes and chains and their slaves had been freed; some of them had gone with the island men. The blonde girl had remained with Ikahiti; she had hardly left her side since the fatal incident on deck. Anya had interceded on Ratchitt's behalf. In the end, he had been freed and Miriri had taken him under her wing. Anya saw them several days later; they made a handsome pair. The Prince's crew had survived the wreck and the journey overland and were now distributed equally between the island and the ship, with plans afoot for stocking her for the long voyage home. Anya had mixed feelings about this trip; there were people here who had shown her great kindness and consideration. She felt a warmth for many of them - Miriri, Ikahiti, the younger girls and, it had to be admitted, even one of the men.

  There was a strange irony in the fact that she slept that night in Travix's cabin. The terrible events of that day - the whippings, harsh pleasures, pain and ultimately the deaths - were dissolved in the warm security that she felt in her Prince's arms. He had followed her relentlessly across the ocean in a ship stripped bare of provisions, then he had battled through the jungle, across the mountains, and he had dived to almost certain death to try to save her. She would never forget his expression when the cord had snapped and she had fallen; and when she had opened her eyes again he was there beside her in the boat. She snuggled up against him now. He had not tried to take her, though she could feel his strength of hardness pressed against her back. She took his hand and held it to her belly and his other hand and held it to her breast. She tensed when his fingertips moved down. With butterflies in her belly, she opened her legs and directed his fingers to the ring; she allowed him to explore it. The feeling was strange and frightening. She listened to his breathing: how would he react? When he turned her to examine her, Anya closed her eyes.

  He could see the marks of the strap upon her body; she had been thrashed with a leather belt. He touched her very gently and she murmured - and he saw that her sweet full lips had been bitten in a cruel kiss; the upper lip was swollen and at the corner was a spot of blood. Her breasts showed broad criss-cross bands; when he touched them, he felt the raised contusions there - even her breasts had been punished. He showered them with gentle kisses; he sucked the hard distended nipples, then he looked down at her belly. It formed a perfect rounded swell of pink, punctured by the deep dark oval navel. Faint lines of deeper pink traversed it; they became deeper, darker, more crowded, angrier yet across her lower belly; they were dense across the front of her upper thighs, then they weakened lower down. She had been smacked only in those places that deserved nothing but gentle kisses. What manner of mind would execute such wicked tortures upon a creature of perfect beauty such as this? She murmured again when he opened her thighs, but the Prince gasped, not at the ring, but at the fine lines - whip marks - lashed into her tender skin and the wicked dark oval stains imbued into the sides of her sex. Her flesh looked as though it had been gripped between iron tongues and squeezed until it was bruised. She whimpered softly when his fingertips touched that very tender skin, and the small gold ring stirred. He knew what that tiny movement meant, but he also knew that he must show his lover tenderness and concern.

  And so it was that the Prince of Lidir slept not at all that night but knelt or sat beside his lover, watching over her while she slept intermittently and he caressed her back, her belly, her breasts and legs and lips, stroking the wiry curls about her sex until they turned to silk, stroking the fine down upon her bottom, continually tickling her skin until her expression had softened, until even in her sleep she smiled. For the Prince, a task such as this was both sweet and taxing, for every time he even touched her skin, his cockstem stood up hard. This was the effect she had upon him. Even in sleep, her body exuded a continuous sensuality - in the way she moved, even in the way she breathed, the way she would place her breasts against the sheets whenever her body turned, the way her thighs would gradually open when his fingertips approached, the way she would become aroused then, half awake, would direct his fingertips into her and push herself against him. And in the middle of the night, the long slow liquid pleasuring would begin.

  Her slim thighs would be spread deliciously wide, so wide that her mound would form a perfect bulge, which would be moving as her belly moved, as her bottom lifted and slid across the sheets. His fingers would be sliding against the warm soapy wetness, pressing against the inside of the front of her sex, which felt like the curve of a soft nose. And when she gasped, the feeling would well inside him, his head would buzz and he would hold her there, his fingers lifted against her, curving inside and he would draw the hood back, expose the ring and suck it. He would rub his tongue-tip round and through it until her belly trembled, then he would take his fingers out of her and, with the hood still held fully back, would gently suck her nipples. Then the hood would be released and the slow wet rub inside her would begin at the back wall, then move to the front. It would be followed by the lifting back of the hood, the suck upon the ring and then the nipples. The rubbing inside her would then be delivered with the legs closed, then open, the hood would now be pinched back harder and the upstanding ring would be licked. She would be turned on to her side with her legs tucked up and squeezed together while her sex was not touched, but the entrance to her bottom was explored with a fingertip and then a tongue. Then the whole process would begin again - the turning on to her back, the opening of her legs, the gliding of her bottom over the sheets, the fingers rubbing inside her sex, the pulling back of the hood, the sucking of a nubbin that was bone hard, the sucking of the nipples and, when she pleaded with him that she could take no more, the placing of a pillow underneath h
er bottom to lift her hips and open them yet more, and the holding of the hood back while he watched the nubbin moving the ring almost imperceptibly as the tip of his middle finger rubbed inside her. And when he made her curl her head down, lift her breast and suck upon her own left nipple, her pleasure came.

  To the Prince, witnessing his lover take her pleasure was as sweet as pleasure itself, and that very forfeit of his own pleasure helped to stave off the guilt that haunted him. For while his lover was being abused and whipped, the Prince, seeking solace after his long journey, had lain in another's arms, and even now, though he looked upon the only woman that he loved, the memories of those strange pleasures inveigled his guilt-ridden mind.

  Anya slept soundly, dreaming they were lying on the sun-drenched sand. In the early morning, her thoughts began to drift. She sat up and glanced around the cabin, at the large circular mirror, the stool beside it, the sheepskin draped across the floor, and the whips and a pale blue suit which hung behind the door. She crept across to the dressing-table and looked at herself in the mirror, then she covered her breasts to hide the marks. On the table were a cushion and a brush. She picked up the brush and began to brush her hair. Then she saw that the drawer was partly open. Nervously, she opened it fully; inside was a blue silk sleeve and a soft brushed velvet cloth. When her fingertips touched the cloth, her eyes closed and she shivered. She could feel her pulse-beat thumping in her throat.