MASTER AND BABY : A Tale of Erotic Submission

by J. J. MacGuire

  "Daddy!"

  "Daddy!"

  A small girl in a red floral frock ran out of the shadows and clung to the Captain's leg. Across the square a boy about the same age with a puzzled expression on his face stared at the Captain from under a Miami Dolphins baseball cap.

  "Daddy?"

  A woman appeared behind the boy. She was dressed in a brightly patterned frock with a deep cleavage, shaved head, and a frown.

  "Daddy?"

  Another woman put in an appearance, this time below me. I recognized her as my waitress. She wore a short black skirt and white blouse, and long braided hair.

  Captain Ahab tried to shuffle away, but the little girl hung onto him fiercely. The waitress grabbed him by the arm and swung him round to face her.

  "Why dat boy say Daddy? Who he?"

  Shaved Head strode across the square and stood in front of the Captain with her hands on her hips.

  "Why dat girl say Daddy? Who she? And who dis trollop in de fancy clothes?"

  The small boy had followed her over and now he picked up a fistful of fallen leaves and threw them at the Waitress.

  "Trollopy! Trollopy!"

  Ahab tried again to back away but by now he was surrounded. The little girl retained her grip on his leg and gazed up at him seraphically. The small boy, not to be outdone, stopped yelling at the Waitress and grabbed Ahab's other leg.

  The little girl glared at the small boy round Ahab's uniformed leg and tugged. The small boy glared back and tugged as well.

  I had heard stories from ancient Greece of execution by teams of horses running in opposition directions whilst attached to the limbs of the victim, but this was the first time I had seen it in action. Ahab did a creditable impression of a turkey's wishbone at Christmas and with an anguished cry collapsed to the ground. The two children collapsed as well and started crying.

  Shaved Head and the Waitress looked at each other and solicitously helped the stricken Captain to his feet. Shaved Head brushed the back of his uniform and the Waitress brushed dust off the front.

  Suddenly Shaved Head grabbed both Ahab's arms in hammer locks. The Waitress ceased brushing, drew back her fist, and landed a blow Cassius Clay's daughter would have been proud of in what must have been his solar plexus. Ahab would have fallen despite Shaved Head's grip on him when the one-two uppercut landed on his jaw. He shot bolt. I heard his teeth click together and wondered who his dentist was.

  "Why dat child say Daddy?" demanded both women simultaneously.

  Ahab gasped but could make no intelligible sound. The women realized it would be a while before he made sense and shoved him into the old British red telephone box on the street corner. They closed the door and leaned on it. The two children reconciled themselves to the situation and started searching for ants to insinuate under the door.

  The Waitress started.

  "T'ree year ago, Carnival." The stress on the last syllable betrayed her Jamaican origins. "He marry me here in St Kitt' on Boxin' Day."

  "Four year ago, CropOver." Shaved Head was clearly from Barbados, the stress now on the penultimate syllable of the annual Bajan festival a dead giveaway. "He marry me in Bathsheba on de beach."

  "An" after de weddin' night I never see he again!" they chorused as one.

  The two women contemplated the imprisoned Ahab, beating on the door made immovable by a rope the children had thoughtfully wound about the telephone box.

  The Waitress looked at Shaved Head.

  "I know bon lawyer in Port o' Spain. He get us plenty alimony an' plenty maintenance!" Again the accent on the last syllable. Never mess with a Jamaican woman. She knows how to look after herself.

  "An' my cousin he chief of police station here in St Kitt'. When we get all de Capt'n money my cousin t'row he in de jailhouse!"

  The bigamized pair looked at Captain Ahab in his prison with satisfaction. The Waitress reinforced the knots the children had made in the rope, then the pair of them linked arms and headed up the road to a rum shop to celebrate. The children waved to Ahab and skipped after them.

  * * * *

  OK, Harry Neptune. Which coconut palm are you hiding in?

  I already knew the answer, without recourse to scanning the lush green hinterland of the beach. My dear husband had done a runner again. Or, given the gimcrack condition of his kneecaps, perhaps "hobbler" was a more apt description. Impatiently, I took in the idyllic Caribbean scene. I've never been one for lounging around on the sand, largely because my skin is such that a prolonged sunbathing session is liable to render me as crispy as a barbecued chicken. The sun was still high in the sky and the available shade was occupied by a motley assortment of senior citizens playing Bingo and making an incredible amount of noise, like a hen house with a randy rooster on the rampage. It was stay out and fry or retreat to the tree line. I decided to beat a retreat, but not before I had experienced the simple pleasure of squishing a little soft and silvery sand between my toes. I sat down on a rock and unfastened my sandals. The whiteness of the beach was almost dazzling, quite breathtaking against the glittering turquoise of the curving bay. This was Paradise indeed. Gleefully, I stood up.

  "Owowowowowowowow!!!"

  The perfect, pristine sand was too hot to stand on. Hopping madly from one scorched foot to the other, I beat an unexpectedly speedy retreat to the beckoning shade. Once safely in the shade, I threw my sandals to the ground and jumped up and down several times.

  "Bugger you, Harry Neptune!"

  The degenerate lout was no doubt comfortably ensconced in some picturesque local den of iniquity, while I was forced to lurk in the undergrowth until the sun went down. Suddenly, I remembered Hermione and I glanced over my shoulder for outsize arachnids. To my surprise, I spotted that spider's namesake, the Black Widow, pressed up against the trunk of a nearby tree. Unbelievably, a good-looking young man crouched before her, enthusiastically licking and kissing her large, soft breasts. The bright pink swimsuit was pushed down to the woman's thick waist and her plump little legs ended in matching high-heeled mules. Voluptuously, Mrs. Goldfinkel raised her arms above her head and moaned softly.

  "Oh yesss, Darrin! Oh, you are such a good boy! Now, if dear Troy will only add a little stimulation to naughty Gigi's love nest..."

  Good heavens! There were two of them! Another young man, just as handsome as the first, although as dark as the other was Scandinavian blond, came forward from the shadows. Swiftly, he knelt between the Black Widow's legs and wrenched her swimsuit down to reveal her well-padded hips. With typical Latin gusto, he applied his face to the squirming woman's crotch.

  "Oh, good boy! Oh! Oh!"

  If I hadn't seen what they were doing, I would have sworn she was training a pair of dogs. They were far too involved to notice the silent observer who lurked nearby and I quietly crept behind the trunk of a tree to conceal my presence. It was quite exciting, even if it was Mrs. Goldfinkel. It wasn't long before the woman was naked and blond Darrin extricated a ten-inch dong from his skimpy, bulging thong. He was tall, deeply sun-bronzed and muscled in that clearly defined way which showed he spent his free time in the gym, shifting weights. Bit of a cliche but each to her own. Roughly, he pushed the Black Widow down onto her hands and knees and forced his rigid cock between her large, plump buttocks to give her a sound doggie-style pounding. There was a lot of slapping and a considerable amount of wobbling, and I stifled a giggle. Troy looked on impassively, a similarly impressive if redundant swelling in his skintight shorts. The Black Widow's breasts flopped wildly and a large collection of gold chains tinkled musically as she ground and bucked her ample rump against the young stud's frantic thrusts.

  "Owowowowowowowow!!!"

  A familiar squeal but, this time, nothing to do with burning sand. Mrs. Goldfinkel had attained orgasm. The blond immediately withdrew, seemingly unconcerned about his own satisfaction. I saw him exchange a knowing glance with the waiting Troy. The Black Widow looked rather dazed and, for once, seemed lost for words. Finally, she carefully
eased herself back into her swimsuit and reached for a large floral beach-bag. I knew what was coming. The brace of gigolos' eyes lit up with the unmistakable glint of impending payment. Playfully, Mrs. Goldfinkel stuffed several one hundred-dollar bills into each young man's swim-shorts.

  "And there's plenty more where that came from if you take good care of your Auntie Gigi!"

  The three emerged from the shade of the tree line and sauntered nonchalantly off across the sand. I noted that Mrs. G had substituted a more practical pair of beach shoes for the high-heeled mules. Suddenly, I noticed that a discarded book lay near the scene of the menage a trois. Aflame with curiosity, I wandered casually over and picked it up. It was just the type of trashy paperback novel I could imagine Mrs. Goldfinkel reading, some lurid 1970s Hollywood bonk-buster with a glitzy cover. Idly, I opened the book and spotted a sprawling signature in a large, multi-curlicued hand.

  Lily May Scroggins

  The handwriting was familiar, often seen embellishing checks on my little shopping expedition with Gigi Goldfinkel. Thoughtfully, I replaced the book and, noticing that the Bingo had finished, I decided to brave the crush in the shelter and have a long, cold drink. Maybe, while my errant spouse was AWOL elsewhere on St. Kitts, I would solve the case of the mysterious Lily May.

  * * * *

  I propped the bicycle against a bollard with a certain sense of achievement. It wasn't far from The Circus to the cruise ship dock, but there were many and various obstacles along the way to be avoided. Considering my sight was a little blurred after the afternoon's entertainment it was no mean feat to arrive without biting the dirt even once.

  I had ruled that discretion was the better part of valor and left the good Captain in the telephone box. Someone would let him out when the tourists had tired of taking snaps.

  "Good evening, Mr. Neptune."

  The Third Officer stood in his immaculate whites beneath the awning at the top of the stone steps leading down to the tenders. The Caribbean Conch lay at anchor a mile offshore, wisps of smoke already drifting from her high raked funnel.

  "Good evening, Admiral. Seen the memsahib anywhere? She went hunting rhino or something in the hills and hasn't been seen since."

  The young man looked at his feet.

  "Mrs. Neptune went aboard on the last tender, sir. She gave me a message for you, but as I am Plymouth Brethren I fear I cannot pass it on. Not that I fully understood it, anyway."

  "Don't bother, old boy, I can guess. Well, off we go. Where's the next port of call anyway?"

  "Antigua, sir. Wadadli in the old Arawak tongue. Sugar mills, Nelson's naval dockyard, and a rather splendid museum."

  "Indeed, yes. I recall the place. Not the spot for a bit of bird shooting."

  The Third Officer winced. The Birds, father and son, have ruled Antigua for fifty years, before, during and after independence. The once rich sugar island is now almost entirely dependent on tourism, the fledgling offshore finance industry having been largely shut down by international pressure and online gambling going the same way with the help of outrageous demands for fees and licenses from the government. It's a pity. Antigua should have a lot going for it.

  "Never mind, the beaches are still there I imagine. 365 of them it's said, one for every day of the year. And I dare say the rum hasn't gone off."

  "Indeed, sir," muttered the Third Officer in barely disguised disapproval. The Lord knew what his idea of fun was. W.C. Fields had something when he said, "Never trust a man who doesn't drink." I discretely checked my wallet though I couldn't really see Young Upright doing anything more dishonest than cheating at Happy Families.

  "We must get on, sir. This is the last boat. We nearly went without you."

  He gave an officious glare that was rather out of place on his pink face. I made my way down the steps and onto the tender.

  "Cast off forrard! Cast off aft! Full speed ahead to that big bateau yonder!" I struck a pose in the bow.

  The crew ignored me but managed to follow my orders anyway. I suppose they knew what they were doing.

  We arrived at the gangplank with what I considered unnecessarily violent application of the brakes. I leapt aboard – twice, because the ship lurched and moved away the first time and a crew member rescued me by the shirt collar from a briny fate – and breezed up the gangplank to the hole in the ship's side that doubled as a portal for returning passengers. I was beginning to feel thirsty.

  "Where the hell have you been, fish face?"

  "Welcome home the wandering sailor, my love! Let the whole world know you have been pining for my return! Don't hide your relief under a bushel – embrace me!"

  "Have you been drinking?"

  "What a stupid question! Of course I've been drinking – drinking is what I do. You should know that by now."

  Miss Lawrence didn't bother pursuing the issue. She knew well enough. She looked remarkably sober for twilight after a run ashore, so I guessed the question might have had something to do with being miffed at not having shared the nectar.

  "Come, my dear, let us toast St Kitts as she disappears into the sunset."

  I took my wife by the arm and led her glaring but not resisting in the direction of the Sharp End Bar.

  "You wait 'til you hear what I found out today," she said with venomous glee.

  "Not as juicy as what I found out, I dare say. Not as juicy at all. Why, Captain..."

  "Watch it, buster. Ladies first. Unless you want those shiners touched up?"

  My black eyes had reduced to barely discernible bruises by now, and I had no desire to recreate the panda look. I watched it. Ladies first it was.

  We collared a couple of steamer chairs and in a trice a waiter with a good memory delivered margaritas. He went straight off to collect a couple more – he had a very good memory.

  "The Black Widow got rogered by a couple of beach lotharios. She gave them wodges of money for the pleasure."

  "That's hardly news, my love. Happens all the time. A well known industry in the West Indies. Frustrated honky women pay for a good seeing to then dump the poor buggers and go back to their secretary swiveling chairs or whatever. Services rendered, and a few more greenbacks into the local economy. Supply and demand."

  I leaned back with the air of a man of the world who has imparted wisdom. The second margarita followed the first.

  "That's not it, you fool. I couldn't care less how many beach boys she deflowers!"

  I raised my eyebrows but refrained from comment.

  "Lily May Scroggins!"

  "Lily May who? What are you wittering about?"

  "That's the name she had written in her book! In her Jackie Collins shopping and bonking book! In the same handwriting she wrote Gigi Goldfinkel on her checks! Have you got it yet?"

  "No." I looked around for the waiter.

  "You half wit! Her real name is Lily May Scroggins! Not Goldfinkel at all."

  "So what? Elizabeth Windsor likes to be called "Your Majesty," but no one's arrested her yet. Now shut up and listen to some real news."

  Jay's lips pressed together in a thin line, but she shut up like a good girl. I guessed she had more revelations to come. They could wait.

  "Ahab has two wives and two sets of children!" I leaned back triumphantly.

  "So do most Hollywood stars over the age of fourteen. What's the big deal?"

  "They didn't know about each other, that's what the big deal is. They didn't know about each other until this afternoon, when they both bumped into him in The Circus. I had a grandstand view – best cat fight I've seen since From Russia with Love."

  Stretching the truth, but I knew that would get my Jaykins going.

  "So Ahab's a bigamist and you got your rocks off watching two women knocking each other's lights out. Move on, big boy – men are deceivers, in case you hadn't noticed."

  I took a breath.

  "Listen to a few facts from Detective Chief Superintendent Neptune.

  "One – Ahab dropped a piece of paper, an unsig
ned note telling him to be outside Ballahoo at three o'clock if he knew what was good for him.

  "Two – one of his paramours is a waitress at Ballahoo.

  "Three – the other paramour made a long bus journey from the far end of the island in response to another unsigned note, which also fell into my hands in the melee."

  Jay looked determinedly uninterested, but there was a glint in her eye that told she had made the connection.

  "Add one, two and three and you get..."

  "...a blackmailer's bluff called!"

  "But it wasn't any bluff. Now all we have to do is find out who it was."

  "Bravo, Sherlock!"

  I puffed on my imaginary pipe. I really must give it up – it looks stupid.

  The third margarita disappeared and I was feeling peckish.

  "It's a short hop to Antigua. I suggest, my dear, that we partake of dinner in our cabin tonight. I bought myself a rather spiffing new belt today. Heavy, embossed..."

  Miss Lawrence looked up at me. Her lips parted and a tip of pink tongue appeared.

  "I'll put up a fight..."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: RUMBLE IN WADADLI

  "And this time, you're not abandoning me with a cart load of Bingo-obsessed senior citizens! I want to see something of your blessed Wadiddly."

  "My wadiddly is always at your command, as you very well know, my love."

  I gave Harry a disparaging look and he winked, his eye already firmly fixed upon the varied delights of St. Johns, Antigua. We stood in a small square, freshly deposited by yet another kamikaze cab driver, and I swayed slightly, still regaining my land legs. My other half scanned the milling crowds, as if looking for something specific. Finally, his face lit up and he took me by the hand and strode off towards a small wooden cubicle with a brightly hand-painted sign.

  Hardy Tours

  The Isle in a Day

  "I shall treat you to a tour worthy of Her Majesty!"

  "Well, oi'll be damned!"

  It took me some time to discern that there was, in fact, a person concealed within the shadowy confines of the rather rustic erection. It was a very small and wiry looking man with a thick Irish accent. Predictably, the leprechaun recognized Harry and leaned over the little counter of the hut to shake his hand enthusiastically.