by Avery Aster
It is also a huge tourist draw, one that I figure a smart business man should capitalize on. Never, until this very moment, have I seriously considered the possibility that there might be something to the stories.
Joely looks at me, takes in my expression. Her face set in inscrutable lines, she wades back into the water. “There are some things in this world that just can’t be explained, Mr. V. Doesn’t mean they’re not real.”
The words are grim, full of... acceptance, perhaps? But she doesn’t give me much time to think on what she means, instead splashing her way back to the plane.
I chase after her—what kind of a man would let a woman haul all of his supplies? Though she doesn’t look at all open to the idea of talking further on the subject, I can’t stop turning things over in my head.
She knows things, she’d said. What does that even mean?
It would be easy to tell myself that she is crazy. But I can barely bring myself to entertain the notion. The fact is, she was there at exactly the moment I needed her, and even she doesn’t have a good explanation for that.
And something just happened on that beach. I might be a skeptic—actually, it’s probably more accurate to say that I’ve never paid any attention to the supernatural at all. My topics of choice were sex, money and power, usually in that order.
But whatever just happened... like Joely, I’m not afraid. I’m... curious. Energized.
I feel truly alive for the first time since that bitch Celeste watched me burn.
Joely and I each take another armful of gear and wade back to the shore. At the edge of the sand I shake off the excess water, dump my cargo, turn back to my pilot.
Rather than stepping back onto the island herself, she hands me the box and remains ankle deep in the water.
“Thank you.” From my pocket I pull out yet more cash. Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of the thick roll, and for a brief second I wonder if this has all been an act, an elaborate hoax to get at what everyone wants from me—money.
My body tenses as my mind flashes back to the fire, the fear, the utter betrayal.
But Joely shakes her head vigorously, again stuffing her hands into her pockets, something I’ve noted that she does when she’s uncomfortable.
“I can’t take your money. I thought I could, but I can’t. I told you; I think I was supposed to be here.” She eyes the sand with distrust and undeniable curiosity sparking in those bright green eyes.
Is she as interested in this place as I now am? Digging my bare feet into the sand feels like home.
“Do you want to explore the island with me as payment?” Even as I say it I know that isn’t what I want. It’s mine. I’m supposed to be here. I need to see it for myself.
Joely shakes her head again. “No payment needed, and I think you came here for some alone time right?”
“Yes.” Seeing that her mind is made up, I slide the money back into my pocket. But something makes me hesitate. We just shared something unexplainable, me and this strange girl who has too much pain in her eyes.
And she doesn’t notice my scars.
“I don’t have everything I need,” I speak swiftly, without thinking. “I believe they shorted me on supplies. I’ll get myself set up and then I’d like to make another run to Miami and back tomorrow. I want you to be the one to pick me up.” I don’t give her a chance to say no. “Where shall I radio you from?”
I have a satellite radio, somewhere in one of these boxes. I have everything that I might need until I can find the nerve to return to the world. But I’m not ready to be completely alone just yet. Not after today.
She shakes her head again, and another sliver of that brotherly annoyance works into me.
“I don’t have a phone,” she hesitated. “But if it’s okay with you, I’ll stay here.” Crossing her arms over her chest, her expression just dares me to argue. “In the plane.”
Something inside me, as loud and clear as if someone were whispering in my ear tells me Joely has nowhere else to go. It just doesn’t tell me why.
“You can’t stay in the plane.” Exasperated, I run fingers through my hair. After the day I’ve had, I know it’s standing up in thick black spikes all over my head, but I don’t care what I look like. In fact, if I never have to think about what I look like ever again, that will be just fine with me.
“Come camp out for a bit.” I hold out a hand, scowl when she steps back.
“I’ll be in the plane,” she repeats firmly. “Best camping spot I know.”
And then she’s gone, her steps making small waves in the crystal like water of the lagoon. Shading my eyes, I watch as she climbs back into the tin can with wings, sliding the door shut behind her. Her actions speak of competence, but I wonder if the reason she’s so familiar to me is because my own loneliness recognizes its twin in her.
But standing here, on the beach of my own island, I find an anchor. Clutching tightly to it with both hands, I watch the sun set, blazing streaks of apricot and amethyst painted by the fingers of God.
And beneath that miraculous view, a small metal plane, bobbing all alone on the darkening water. It looks as solitary as I felt, right up until I set foot on this island.
Chapter Three
I’ve never slept under the open sky. I’d thought it might feel strange, being out here all alone, when I’m so used to the crush of the city. Instead, I haul my sleeping bag out of my tent and lie on my back under a velvet dark sky dripping with silver stars.
I’m exhausted, but I feel as though I could stay awake forever like this and be perfectly content, lulled by the gentle sound of the waves lapping at the shore, washing away my pain—the cold light of the stars filling me back up with something new and clean and pure.
I’ve always been a man with a plan, but right in this perfect moment in time, I could care less about where I go from here. Instead, I wallow in the strange sensation of peace. And I’m not afraid of sleep the way I have been since the accident, which is yet another triumph.
For the last six months, my memories have terrorized me each time I close my eyes. Haunting me. Reminding me of the pain I’d brought on myself. Of bitterness and betrayal.
Here, I fall asleep without even being aware that it is happening.
The next time I open my eyes, I am standing in the middle of the woods. My toes curl, digging into a tangle of roots and the moistness of soil.
In front of me is a small, rugged wooden shack of sorts. It’s barely bigger than two outhouses placed side by side, constructed roughly from branches, woven together with plant matter.
“What the fuck?” I’d be lying if I said that my pulse doesn’t pick up speed as I blink the grogginess from my eyes and realize that, somehow, I’ve made my way into the island’s forest in my sleep.
My body tenses, a human’s instinctual response to the possibility of nature. But as I take a deep breath, the calmness of the night filters back in, the quiet of the island soothing my inner animal.
When I purchased the island, every scrap of information that I could find on it said that it was deserted, and likely always had been. But this tiny, crude building is evidence that someone was here first.
When I press my hand against the low door, the cool night air pulses with something that feels a lot like magic.
Before I can ruminate too much on what might be inside—bats, rats, a human skeleton—I press my weight against the door. It swings inward on loose hinges made of what appear to be braided palm leaves; I squint, and all I can see inside is darkness and dust.
Then I enter the shack, and the sight before me takes my breath away.
She is kneeling at the base of a large flight of stone steps. Beyond her I can see a castle, a crown atop the mountain of the island. It is beautiful, and the details etch themselves into my mind even as my eyes greedily devour her.
Blue is what I see first—eyes of the purest, most intense sapphire, surrounded by a thick fringe of golden lashes. The amber colored half veil that
hides the rest of her face only serves to emphasize those orbs, which look up at me as though she can see into my very soul.
She shifts on her knees as I approach her, long locks of hair the color of the sun parting to show me that she is naked. Her body is lushly rounded, feminine curves that have my blood rushing straight into my cock.
Jeweled clamps connected by a thin golden chain decorate nipples that are the most perfect shade of pink. The sweet flesh between her legs is naked, plump, and begging for my attention.
“Rise.” As I stalk toward her I know, inexplicably I know that she is mine. She rises to her feet, her stare fixed on me.
As soon as I can reach her, I catch her chin in my palm, squeeze just hard enough that I would have been sure to get her attention. But I already have it. Her breath catches in her throat, and I watch, entranced, as a beautiful flush spreads over her chest and cheeks.
“I’ve waited so long for you.” Her voice is musical, clear as the church bells that ring along the coast back home.
“And what would you have me do to you now that I’m here?” My grasp slides from her chin to her throat, clasping her neck in a gesture of primal possession. The ends of her half veil brush against my hand, waking the nerves.
My soul sings when she sighs contentedly and arches into the touch. When those stunning eyes again meet my own, my pulse stutters.
“I wish only to please you.” Handing me a silk scarf she waits, utterly still, completely focused on me.
It is what I’ve dreamt of since I first identified my need for a power exchange—a sweet submissive who wants to yield to me, and only me.
It hardens my cock, makes my muscles tremble with need.
More than that, it makes my soul sing.
Gaze fastened on hers, I wrap my fingers around one of her wrists. Lifting it to my lips, I press a damp, open mouthed kiss to the place where her blood quickens. She gasps when I graze my teeth over the vein where I can feel her own pulse pick up speed.
Slowly, teasing us both, I trail the end of the silk scarf over the heated curve of her wrist, where the pulse beat steady and true. I savor the coolness of the fabric, a direct contrast to the heat of her flesh, as I wrap the scarf around first one wrist, then the other, a perfect figure eight that binds her hands in front.
The position of her arms makes her breasts press together enticingly. Catching a finger in the chain that links her jewels, I tug once, sharply, then swallow her cry with my mouth.
“Turn around.” I don’t know where the whip comes from, but as soon as I want it, it’s there, a well worn coil of leather that is as familiar as my own hand, and moves like an extension of me.
She trembles as she looks at it, then me, but when she does as I say I note the way that her blood has risen to stain her skin with a blush, the arch of her spine, as if she can already imagine the blows.
She wants what I will give her. The sensation is heady.
“Bend over. Place your palms flat on the third step.” She does, and I am given a view of the most luscious ass, the soft curve of her waist, the creamy skin of her inner thighs.
My free hand drops unbidden to stroke over my solid erection, and my thumb sweeps over the moisture already gathering at the tip. The muscles of my arm ripple beneath swirls of black ink, tattoos that seem to dance, and this gives me pause.
I don’t have tattoos. Do I?
I can’t remember. And with this woman—my woman—surrendering so beautifully before me, I don’t much care. The vague confusion quickly fades away.
Stepping back, I let the whip fly once, twice, practice strikes that flick against the stone steps. She jumps each time, a quick movement that makes those lovely large breasts sway and jiggle in a way that makes me glad I’m naked, that my hard to the point of pain cock isn’t trapped beneath tight layers.
How did I get naked?
Who cares?
The whip sure in my hand, I send it flying again. The lash swipes over the smooth skin of her lower back, leaving a stripe of red in its wake.
She jolts again, shudders beneath the blow. But she doesn’t cry out, and this makes my lips curve in a slow smile.
I’ve trained my submissive well.
I lash out again, and again, raining practiced blows down her back, over the curves of her ass. She continues to jump, her body tense, fighting against the pain.
I can tell the moment that she begins to embrace it, the tension melting, softening her body like warm wax from a candle.
“Good girl.” To reward her, I flick the tail of the whip up between her legs. Finally she cries out, the sound a mix of joy and pain, and raw need slices through me.
I need her. I need my woman now. Striding toward her, I grip her hips, intending to mount her from behind, to slake my lust in that slick heat between her thighs. But suddenly there is a flower in my hand, something bright and tropical and sweet smelling.
Without thinking, I stroke the soft, cool bloom over the scarlet ribbons that paint her back. She tenses, moans, and I know even without turning her over that she is taking the long, sweet slide into subspace.
With my free hand I slide between her thighs. I growl with satisfaction when I find her hot and wet, knowing that I am the one who did that to her.
Sliding two fingers inside of her, I begin to pump them in and out, all the while running the soft bloom over skin that I know is on fire. Her hips cant back, and soon she is rocking against me.
My own need rises, a furious, demanding creature, but I shove it away and focus on the woman beneath me.
Bringing her pleasure will bring me pleasure. And so giving her a release that makes her weak is my only objective in the world.
Deepening my thrust, I crook my fingers, find that tight bundle of nerves buried inside of her.
“Oh! No—I... wait!” Pressing against me, she squirms, bucks, not sure if she wants me to stop or wants more.
Grinning to myself, I add the slide of my thumb over her clit. She cries out, her pussy clutching at my fingers, her sweet arousal dampening my hand.
I want to wait. Want to bring her back up again, and then again. But now that I’ve found her, this creature who is mine, the need is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.
Turning her quickly, I hook her knees over my arms and slide into her impossibly tight sheath. I grunt as I thrust, gaining an inch, pulling back, then working forward again.
Fuck me, but she’s tight. All swollen with arousal and need. But the utter surrender in her eyes tells me that she won’t accept anything less than all of me, so I continue to work forward until I am hilted inside of her, her pussy squeezing my cock tight.
Her eyes blur with pleasure as I slowly, gently tuck the flower behind her ear. This—this is what the games of dominance and submission are about for me. About giving the power to someone else so that you might lose yourself completely.
“You’re perfect.” I reach for her veil, but she shakes her head at me. In another situation, I might press, not allowing my submissive to say no.
But even here, in this dream that isn’t a dream, I understand that that veil is something my own mind has conjured, a reflection of my own need to hide away.
“I want to see you. All of you.” My voice is gritty with desire as I slowly pull back, then work my way back inside of her. Oh, she just feels so fucking good, her slick heat easing my passage bit by bit until I am thrusting inside of her with all of my pent up need, hilting completely with each press of my hips.
I want to make her come again, but I am lost, lost in her. Sighing with pleasure, she lifts her hand, clasps my cheek in her cupped palm.
And then I remember. Remember what I look like—that half of my face is horribly disfigured.
“Don’t!” I flinch away, even as the pleasure draws tight at the base of my spine. I groan as my release causes every muscle in my body to tighten, the wave building.
I can’t, I can’t. I can’t let go, not while she’s looking at me. Not while she sees m
e the way that I am.
She can’t possibly be seeing me that way, or else she wouldn’t still be sighing with pleasure. How could I have forgotten? Even the most well trained of submissives wouldn’t be able to hide their disgust at my hideous face.
“Eyes down.” I snap, searching her face for a hint of that revulsion. The part of me that has come to feel less than human curls into a ball inside of me, even as my body rockets towards climax.
“No. I want my eyes on my Master.” Her hand strokes softly over my cheek, her fingers finding and tracing the raised lines and shallow grooves of my scars. The tender touch is what undoes me, and I gasp, then shout, pushing into her once, then again and again as the pleasure shoots from the soles of my feet, through my entire body, into pulsing waves of release from my cock.
I ride the shudders of bliss, my arms straining, my breath heaving. Sweat drips from my temple to her breasts.
Slowly, suddenly unsure, I wipe it away, then carefully release her nipples from their clamps. She gasps as I palm the soft globes, rubbing in slow circles designed to drive us both crazy.
“I’m a beast.” I know this to be true. And yet here, with her, I feel like a man.
Pushing her breasts into my hands, she writhes beneath me, and though I’ve just spilled inside of her, I can feel myself growing hard again. Her face is flushed with pleasure, but when she clasps her hand in my hair and forces me to look down into her eyes, I don’t object.
“I will know and love every part of you.” This woman is submissive to the core, I’d have bet my fortune on it, but strength radiates from inside of her. With her free hand, she pulls the sheer fabric of her veil down, and I am blinded by the sheer perfection of her smile.
“The island knows what you need.” Her lips curve into a smile as she takes the flower from her hair, presses it into my hand. Her lush curves undulate beneath me, her movements synchronized to my own, but as she moves she fades away, vanishing before my eyes.
“Wait!” I reach for her, my fingers swiping through air. “What’s your name?”
