by Nicole Dere
‘You’re going to rape me?’ I glance from his brown figure beside me to Wanda, who kneels over me. I lie still, my feeble struggles once again abated. I’m tormented by similar earlier scenes from my young life, where other defeats were acknowledged by such yielding passivity – the runt of the pack, who must show its acceptance of its inferiority by its non-resistance.
‘Don’t be so bloody silly!’ Wanda says scornfully, and suddenly climbs off me. I sit up, snivelling, my arms crossed, shielding my breasts, making no attempt to replace the bra top which lies a few feet away. Mattius is still kneeling close to me, his compact brown body on show, and the cock that still curves up between the smooth, muscled thighs, the pink helm revealed, the shaft still swollen in semi-erection. ‘“Mattius is at your service – anything you want!” ’ She echoes Simon’s parting words, and suddenly there’s a new tension between us, almost like a challenge. ‘Don’t make out you don’t want a shag! I know you’re bi, don’t try to bullshit me, lady! If it was Simon here giving you the order, you’d be wrapped round Matt like a fucking python. You know you would!’
‘Yes! But he isn’t, is he?’ I cry, kneeling up myself, leaning in towards her. In my agitation, I let my arms fall and, even then, in my sudden flare of anger, I spare time for the fleeting thought of how inferior my pale, slight tits look against hers. Not that Mattius isn’t enjoying the spectacle of my bobbing white, pink-nosed boobs once more under his nose. But what the hell! He’s seen them before. ‘It’s not Simon telling me to fuck with Mattius, and so I don’t want to! All right?’
She shakes her head. The long, black strands, the salt water dry now, swing like thick ropes across her shoulders. ‘You’re one weird little cunt!’ Wanda murmurs with a shrug. ‘Come on. Let’s get the boat back in the water.’
I notice now that Mattius is scrambling back into his yellow trunks and, glancing round, see one of the glass-bottomed boats coming in close enough to the reef for the tourists crowded at the low gunwale to take a marked interest in the spectacle of a naked beauty, a topless companion, and a guide who is just hauling on his shorts. I think of the number of high-powered zoom lenses hanging around their necks, and wonder how long they have been enjoying close-ups of the playful trio on the rocks. I clutch at my bra, fit it on and fasten the catch. Wanda makes no effort to hide herself, not even to wrap a kikoi around her splendid frame – no doubt to the ogling delight of the spectators towards whom she gives a friendly wave, then what I guess must be a spectacular rear view as she turns her back, bends, and takes hold of the prow of the canoe to assist the ever grinning Mattius in its relaunching.
Safely back in the water, on the increasing swell which is already starting to lap over the warm flat surface where we were resting, and out of sight of the boatload of prurient spectators, I resume my interrupted display of outrage. ‘Please put your swimsuit back on! They’ll know who we are, for God’s sake! Most of them will be staying at the hotel. There’s nowhere else!’
‘Nonsense!’ Wanda settles herself facing me, her back towards Mattius, who is concentrating on the tricky task of steering us through the choppy passage between the rocks by which small craft like his can reach the calm of the lagoon. She shows no sign of complying with my urgent request. ‘Our lot don’t go out on those pleasure trips. They’re mostly kids from the beach chalets along the shore, or day-trippers off the morning ferry. Besides, what could they see? A bit of nude sunbathing and a couple of girls frolicking about for a bit of fun! Don’t come the Victorian missionary with us, Crissie. It doesn’t ring true!’ She jerks her head backwards towards Mattius to include him. ‘That went out with the abolition of slavery!’ She gives a malicious little laugh and I see the gleefully wicked expression on her face. ‘And I bet you sure as hell regret that too, yes?’ I feel deeply uncomfortable, in spite of my weak effort at incomprehension.
‘You’d just love Bwana Simon to put you in chains. The old neck irons, the anklets, huh? And take the old rhino hide whip to your cute little backside now and then! That would really turn you on, wouldn’t it, my kinky little beauty!’
‘Shut up! Just shut the fuck up!’ My face is flaming, my whole body feels hot, and the tears blind me. It is so close to some of my vivid masturbatory scenarios that I am incapable of further speech and blink at her helplessly.
Her smile is one of triumph. ‘Guess I hit the old nail right on the head! You sick little bitch. But never mind. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t have a bit of innocent fun. I’m sure you can’t object to me dipping my little wick in your snatch, seeing as it was Simon’s express order that we should take care of each other. So lie back, baby, and I’ll give you some really wicked tongue to make up for the dong almighty you’re missing so much.’
All at once, defiance and outrage sigh out of me like a deflated balloon, and I acknowledge almost wearily that pulsing, newly wetted, hidden crotch, which quivers yet again at the so familiar, fatal acquiescence.
Wanda moves forward towards me, kneeling up, reaching for my limbs, and I lie back, my shoulders nipped by the narrowness of the canoe’s prow, like a deep coffin. She turns her head very slightly, so that her dark eyes remain fixed compellingly on mine, as she speaks to Mattius. ‘Don’t take us in, Matt. I’m going to need you, old son. I’m afraid you’re going to have to make do with me , until Bwana Simon gets back and he can set you up to shag Missy Crissie again. But she needs to get her metaphorical rocks off, in a girlie kind of way. And I know she likes a bit of three-way jiggery-pokery, so if you wouldn’t mind?’
I lie in the watery dregs of the bottom boards, breathing in the salt and fishy, damp wood flavour, my ears filled with the soft slap and musical ripples of the water only a couple of inches from me, on the other side of the hull. I yield myself entirely to the moment, to my sense of surrender and need. Slowly Wanda’s fingers roll my briefs down off my loins, past my knees and finally off my feet. She parts my legs, my knees jutting up, my feet and ankles resting on her dipped shoulders. Her lips on my sex lips are the lightest of caresses, the touch of an alighting butterfly, as they move down the furrow of my labia.
The dark shape of Mattius appears above me, looming over Wanda’s shoulder. He doesn’t remove his trunks again, just flips the elastic at the front down over his belly to expose the tight black curls and to allow the brown arc of his cock to flip into sight over the yellow nylon. It is visibly regenerated despite its recent labours, and that great pink dome raises its head like an animal picking up a familiar scent. He attaches himself in a limpet grip to Wanda’s uplifted rear, and I feel the breath of her sighing gasp on my own sensitive flesh as he rams in and locks on.
We have lift off. I cry quietly, recalling my beloved Simon adopting an identical position, observed from my identical view. Wanda’s own mounting, mounted excitement serves to increase the pace and intensity of her oral assault on my too-willing flesh and I turn my gaze up to the pale sky, with the first faint tinges of its evening blush, and the high, remote towers of pink rose cloud ... I let myself go, my fingers unthinkingly digging and twisting deep in Wanda’s coarse locks as I speed faster and faster along the torrent of physical passion and plunge over the lip to that freefall of exquisite torture that is pure release.
Chapter Eight
‘THIS IS M. AUGUSTE Ramazin. He’s a very close associate of mine and I hope in the days to come, a dear and highly valued friend. I want you girls to make sure he is made to feel most welcome. One of our little family, eh? These are my two exquisite beauties, Auguste. They’ll take care of your every need. Your wish will be their command.’
Simon laughs, but I shiver internally at the look those grey eyes fix on me, and the clear message of “every need”. While he makes the introductions, my thoughts riot in keeping with my thudding heart. “You girls”. So Wanda is included. Have I lost my exclusive claim to be Simon’s girl? Are Wanda and I now partners, equal in his possession of us, and our obeisance? No, no! My brain screams its condemnation even as I smile demur
ely, lower my eyes, even blush a little, with almost a tiny bob of acknowledgement. To distract myself from the painfulness of my reflections, I turn my gaze towards the stranger Simon has brought back to the island with him.
M. Ramazin is short – no more than five foot six – and round. His shoulders and chest are broad, but a prominent belly thrusts out below, even in the expensively cut tropical suit in light grey. His head sits squat on those broad shoulders, which make it look contrastingly small. His jet-black hair is cut short at the sides and at the back of his thick neck, and cropped too on the top of his narrow skull. Its glossy blackness is dotted here and there with just the first faint suggestion of iron greyness. The complexion is brown, of a much deeper shade than Wanda’s creamy au-lait , and, along with his surname, suggests an Indian ethnicity, which has been well represented in East Africa for many generations. But the flatness of his facial features, and in particular his eyes, which appear slit-like in the folds of flesh behind his black-framed, extremely thick-lensed spectacles, as well as his apparently permanent wide smile, suggest a more extreme oriental background. The French name of Auguste and the “monsieur” mode of address merely add to the mystique.
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Wanda tells me, when we are dismissed to make ourselves ready for dinner, and what will no doubt be a long session of dining, wining, dancing and who knows what else. Perhaps we’ll watch the sun come up out of the ocean in its superb blaze of gold and red over the bruise-dark bank of clouds before they disperse at the rising paleness of the new sky. But with whom? I wonder, and I feel that hollow, sick tension in my tummy while we scrub each other’s backs and jostle companionably at the long mirrors of one of the bedrooms. We pull on the few miniscule scraps of dainty underwear – Wanda selects a transparent thong, a misty pale wisp which shows her carefully trimmed bush and leaves that magnificent bottom bare, before wriggling and easing a sheath like a second skin up over her body. Its hem reaches a few inches below her knees, requiring her to trip along like a hobbled geisha, which in turn makes that awesome backside, its swell of cheeks and pert crevice breathtakingly outlined, sway in a manner to draw all eyes, male and female, letching or fuming with envy. At the top, the half cups put her breasts on show to the discreet hint of the peeking tips of the areolae. This devastating little marvel is in dazzling white that sets off the creamy brown skin tone to perfection.
My throat closes. I have to struggle to speak, she’s so beautiful it hurts, and I don’t know how I feel, but I’m compelled to murmur, ‘God! You look absolutely stunning!’
She grins, looks like a young kid, her dark eyes shine, and I feel myself reacting instinctively to her beauty. ‘Thanks, honey. It’s OK as long as I don’t burp, fart or bend more than six inches. Imagine what our new guest will say when my tits pop out in his soup. Might even steam up those inch-thick goggles of his.’ She zips up my own pale blue number, also off the shoulder but not cut so daringly low nor filled half so well. Underneath, my glad-rags are of a matching shade – a bustier that nips my already slim waist, with long satin, ribboned suspender straps attached. Though my legs are picking up a tan, my fair complexion doesn’t take too well to sunburn and I’m all the more conscious of my pale skin and slight frame. I’m happy enough to wear stockings – I’ve always enjoyed the sexy feeling they give me, and prefer the old-fashioned discomfort of suspenders to hold-ups or the dreaded tights. In the comparative cool of the air-conditioned rooms of the luxury hotel they are perfectly bearable. I do think briefly of dispensing with the wide-legged, lace-trimmed French knickers that go with the bustier. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve gone knickerless, but I decide I’d better not risk it on this occasion. For a start, I’m sure it wouldn’t escape Wanda’s notice, who might well make mischievous use of her knowledge. And in any case, there are already quite enough imponderables on this night, given our illustrious new guest and Simon’s explicit, far-reaching instructions concerning our duties towards him. Your wish will be their command.
When we get down to the wide veranda which is an extension of the bar, where most of the well-heeled clientele gather for their sundowners, and now that the heavy tropic night has fallen, their pre-dinner drinks, Simon and M. Ramazin are deep in earnest conversation with a group of four or five men, of varied appearance, none of whom seem to fit in with the wealthy types that make up the usual guests in this exclusive establishment. Among them I am surprised to catch sight of Mattius. I’ve never seen him dressed so formally. He is wearing a pressed shirt of dazzling white, short-sleeved, with top buttons open to allow a generous display of his smooth brown chest. Most startling of all is the smart pair of pale chinos, which have knife-edge creases. I realise I have never seen him in trousers, and am briefly furious with myself for letting my gaze stray immediately to his crotch. Even in his unaccustomed finery, the swell of his genitals is prominent. Dragging my gaze from his loins, I notice that his formal dress code does not extend to socks. His bare ankles and feet show above a pair of rubber flipflops. His teeth dazzle as pristinely as his shirt as he recognises us. It’s the first time to my knowledge that he has penetrated so far into this elegant interior. Usually, he waits in reception, in his more normal garb of yellow shorts and cheap, open shirt, or at the front entrance outside. None of the group attending Simon and M. Ramazin looks at ease in these surroundings, though Mattius’s expression reflects just a flash of his normal familiarity when he catches sight of Wanda and me in all our finery. His bright gaze moves over us, doubtless in his mind’s eye stripping away our fancy clothes, to comfort himself with the thought of how comprehensively he knows and has enjoyed what lies beneath.
Though each of the newcomers is holding a glass of beer, it is clear that they are not here to socialise and, at our approach, Simon nods in what is clearly dismissal, and the men turn away, avoiding looking at us – all, that is, except Mattius, who cannot resist showing off to his companions. ‘Jambo, Missy Wanda, Missy Crissie.’ He grins again, and my anger returns as I feel the colour mounting up my neck to my cheeks. I can just hear his insufferable tone to his mates a few seconds from now. ‘Yeah, I fuck them both, mingi sana .’ Many times.
But of course, Wanda beams back at him with perfect aplomb. ‘Hi there, Matt my man! My! You really look swell. You must have a hot date tonight, yeah?’
He giggles, with a mixture of his usual cockiness and a rather juvenile pride in front of the others, like a kid who’s pulled at a disco. But also there’s just a shade of embarrassment, and instead of being jealous at Wanda’s easy manner, I relax and decide that her friendliness is really a put-down of neat subtlety.
Then they are gone, and I’m absurdly pleased at the fuss of welcome Simon and his chief guest make of us as we settle into our comfortable loungers – not as easy as it sounds in our attire, but worth it, I guess, at the gleam of approval behind the bottle-bottom glasses, and Simon’s smile and little nod of approval. We linger over our drinks, and by the time we move at the maitre d ’s summons to our table close to the small circular dancefloor, we are a relaxed and you might say intime quartet. The wine makes me pleasantly heady, puts a touch of colour in my cheeks which I flatter myself is not unattractive, and smoothes the edges of my admittedly somewhat diffident nature, to make me more outgoing.
And I need it when, just before midnight, I return to our table after a lengthy, slow, smoochy dance with “M. Auguste”. I am on such permissively intimate terms with him now as a reward for accepting the hard, cold feeling of his black spectacles digging into the exposed tops of my breasts, and that cold, broad nose of his rootling between then, as well as his comprehensive exploration of every centimetre of the admittedly slight curves of my bum. The fact that he explored through the fine silk layers of my dress and knickers seemed an added stimulation, judging by the noise and indeed the feel of his breath whistling through the broad nostrils of his stubby proboscis.
Duty done! Again ! Simon will be proud of me. But then the thunderbolt is flung, no less devast
ating from its anticipation. ‘Look, I’m awfully sorry, but I have to leave you,’ Simon declares, bathing all three in the brilliance of his smile. He glances at his gold wristwatch to back up his words. ‘Offices are just closing in Europe. There’s some vital business I really have to get through – I can’t put it off, or leave it to anyone else. You know how it is, Auguste,’ he appeals. ‘I’ll be on iPhone and laptop all damned night, I expect. Do forgive me.’
Auguste is already nodding, glasses twinkling, as Simon stands, bends over and puts his hands on our bare shoulders, left on mine, right on Wanda’s. They stay there, in tender possession, and the fingers tighten until they press imperiously, to stamp his ownership in the red brand of their imprint – appropriately deeper on my paler skin. ‘The girls will take care of you, my friend. As I told you, your every need will be taken care of. Isn’t that right, my darlings?’
‘Ndio, bwana !’ Yes, sir. Wanda’s teasing impersonation of a local maid draws laughs from the men, and with a great effort I crack a smile. ‘We aim to please!’
Striving desperately to hide the deep pain inside, I add, ‘Whatever you want, monsieur ,’ and Simon ruffles my carefully groomed blonde hair. A gesture full of affection, like a master with his favourite hound.
‘That’s my girl!’ Well done, Rover.
Undressed, M. Auguste is a round, brown, roly-poly barrel of man, with not a vestige of hair except that black brush on top of his head. His skin gleams as though oiled, and gives off a light spicy fragrance that is pleasing and still quite masculine. His hairlessness includes, rather startlingly at first glance, the pubic area, which is totally devoid of the slightest curl or bristle, and is, on closer inspection and contact, as silky smooth as the proverbial baby’s posterior. It is clear that the depilatory technique favoured is more than mere razor and shaving foam, and he nods with that habitual grin when Wanda says with admirable lack of snigger, ‘A Hollywood, monsieur ?’