Whatever You Want

by Nicole Dere

  Mattius is not outside the hotel entrance, nor is he anywhere in sight on the stretch of private beach. But there at the lapping water’s edge is a small, bright orange inflatable, and it is towards this that M. Auguste leads me, his right hand clamped around my left arm, just above the elbow, almost painfully tightly, as though he fears I might try to run. A local man, closely bearded, in shorts and a brightly patterned loose shirt made from the cheap and popular kitenge cloth, is squatting in the dinghy, beside the small outboard engine, and springs upright as we approach. ‘Jambo, bwana, jambo memsa’ab !’ I wonder where I’ve seen him before, then remember he was one of the group attending Simon and M. Auguste on the terrace the previous evening, when Wanda and I joined them.

  I am wearing my bikini beneath the matching blue sundress with its brief frilled skirt, which Auguste assures me will be just fine for our trip – a trip I am even less enthusiastic about when I see the inflatable at the sea’s edge. He has already mentioned that our destination is several miles to the north, and my enthusiasm for journeys on the water is as lukewarm as my pleasure in it. However, I strive to hide my dismay and paddle out into the warm shallows where the local has manoeuvred his craft. Auguste paddles gallantly at my side, and nods ahead of us at the sparkling ocean. ‘There’s our boat, my dear. It can’t get in any closer.’

  I gaze with deep relief at the white cabin cruiser, very smart and rakish, with gleaming silver and brass about its sleek upperworks, which is riding at the end of a stout rope no more than 30 yards offshore. It looks very much at home in the elegant surroundings of the resort hotel, and the few other craft there for the pleasure of the rich clientele. It does not belong to the hotel however, as Auguste makes plain during the few seconds it takes for our low dinghy to skim across to the launch, where I recognise three more of the faces I had seen in the company of our steersman last evening. They each wear identical grins of approving lust as they eagerly stretch their arms to assist me aboard. I manage nimbly enough, with far less help than is needed by M. Auguste, who is dragged and scrambled onto the white deck with some effort. The beaming grin is intact on his sweating face, and the glasses still twinkle merrily as we relax on the blue cushions beneath the awning rigged up in the stern and head out towards the reef and the open sea.

  ‘Is this your boat?’ I ask, with the right amount of respect and admiration, and he gives a deprecating little shrug.

  ‘I don’t often get the chance to use it,’ he answers. ‘That’s why I was so pleased when Simon invited me to come out here to the island. I was hoping we’d all get the chance to make a trip.’

  He leans forward and puts his brown hand on my paler knee, squeezes hard, and leaves it resting there. I am suddenly deeply stirred by the vivid recall of Simon’s hand resting in exactly the same spot as we sat on the terrace of the Club in the old port on the mainland. I delete the mental picture rapidly.

  He goes on. ‘And why I am so pleased to have you all to myself for our trip today. I could not be happier.’

  Even as I am simpering my agreement, the hand slides up my thigh, under the frill of my tiny skirt, and the fingers rub against the tight line of the bikini briefs, which lies in the crease of my thigh and pubis. Instinctively the long thigh muscle tightens and I give a swift half glance forward towards the small control cabin and the opening leading down to the space below the deck, where our crew are busying themselves. My specious display of demureness is largely (but not entirely) false. I am a little inhibited at the presence of the local men. A little bit of “Ooh, la, milord, I am but a simple maid!” won’t go amiss. A cynical voice mocks me, and another vivid mental picture conjures itself, of my clinging onto Wanda’s lovely back as I rode his stubby little cock to crisis point less than 24 hours ago.

  ‘Don’t worry about my chaps. They know their place. They do not look where they are forbidden.’

  No chance of a gangbang then! I mock myself with humorous relief, but then I experience a sudden quiver of alarm, in spite of his reassuring words. The disturbing memory of Mattius shagging me in the warm water while Simon’s arms held me so accommodatingly returns. It seems very likely that the incident will have been recounted, probably with possessive pride, to this individual to whom Simon has also put me. And I know just how much pleasure M. Auguste derives from merely observing. Perhaps he intends to take such pleasure to excess by watching his entire crew have their wicked way with me. And no one within miles to hear my maidenly shrieks. They would probably add a great deal to the entertainment value.

  ‘Stand up, my dear.’ Just like that. The imperative. Not a request but a straightforward command. I obey, and he turns me, reaches between my shoulders and drags down the zip and, with a little tug, sends the sundress dropping around my bare feet. Suddenly my heart is thudding once more, and I wait for his stubby fingers to continue stripping me, but I am wrong. Secure in my insubstantial blue triangles over tits and pudenda, I embark on a brief guided tour of the launch. The crew are smilingly and obsequiously silent, but M. Auguste is wrong in his assumption nevertheless. They speak not, except when spoken to, but their eyes are everywhere, eight of them, crawling over every inch of me, especially those few covered by the strips of blue material.

  But why not? What was that proverb Miss Challis told us in her spiels about figurative language? If wishes were horses, beggars would ride . Well, I don’t mind them looking, or even stripping me naked in their mind’s eye. After all, apart from a few vital inches they don’t have to use their imagination. And if poor Mrs Servis (née Challis) only knew what I did to her and she to me in my sex fantasies she’d have wet her pretty pants with fright or frenzy. I don’t mind his motley crew looking, and even wishing, but I hope fervently that riding is not on the agenda for today’s entertainment.

  Chapter Ten

  I PLEAD THE SENSITIVITY of my fair skin to avoid direct exposure to the now fierce sun, and don’t need to remind him of his stated preference for pale Nordics, in order to seek the shade provided by the canvas awning rigged up in the stern sheets of the elegant craft, named Malaika , which means “Angel”. ‘Named in honour of you, my dear,’ he chortles gallantly, ‘though we didn’t know it at the time.’ We could of course seek the even shadier and cooler sanctuary of the small cabin, with its gleaming fittings, including a chintz-covered cushioned banquette down either side of the compartment which, he assures me, with a smile as subtle as a sledgehammer, pull out to form two singles or “a surprisingly spacious” double bed. Does he expect his gallant crew to be deaf as well as blind?

  But M. Auguste contents himself with the cushioned loungers that take up most of the limited space in the stern, and with playing handmaid to me as he slathers an expensive, aromatic sun barrier over the skin he admires so much, from the base of my blonde hair down my shoulders and arms, then my back, not forgetting to snap open the catch of my bra-top, to avoid the possibility of missing the centimetre or less covered by material. I am forced, bashful maiden that I am, to lie prone on my front while he takes his time, enjoying the long sweep from shoulders down my spine to the clenching little buttock cheeks, which are virtually exposed, for the tiny briefs have all but disappeared into the crack of my bottom. In any case, his stubby, greasy palms probe under the narrow strip across my hips to ensure not even a postage stamp sized area of flesh remains unprotected by the fragrant lotion. I take particular note of the head of the man at the wheel in the small shelter ahead of us, and those of his comrades. They remain facing front, with a fixed intensity that is admirable if somewhat unnatural.

  ‘Turn over.’ He slaps me lightly on my bum.

  ‘Aye aye, sir!’ I roll over, delicately holding the cups of blue over the points of my tits, and he clicks his teeth in a smiling expression of gentle reproof before he lifts my wrists away, and the bra from my small white breasts.

  ‘Don’t be coy, Crissie!’ he chides. ‘I have told you. My boys know how to behave.’

  I try to keep still as he begins the task of an
ointing my body from neck and prominent shoulder bones all the way down to my painted toes. He takes a long, long time, clearly happy, absorbed in his work, and I close my eyes, thinking that the other four men will surely have terribly stiff necks if they remain staring steadfastly to the fore while M. Auguste completes his duty. Especially as he seems to be distracted when he arrives at my modest little tits. His fingers and cupping palms are stuck on my little mounds like iron filings on a magnet. They smooth and squeeze and twiddle the pale nipples, which rise in tingling erection in response to these rousing caresses. And thinking of erections, I surmise that if there are any surreptitious peeks, it won’t only be the crew’s necks that are stiff.

  Just for a few seconds it’s a relief when the hands glide down, lower, under the ribcage to my flat and sucked-in tummy, but then those fingers probe under the cache-sex of the briefs, until his stubby digits are running through my pubic curls, which I guess (without raising my head to confirm) are now on view. The hands roam with equally titillating intimacy over the crease where my thighs meet my belly, and then on to the satin smooth inner surfaces where begins the swell of the sexual mound. I can’t keep still. My buttocks flex hard on the thin cushions, my thighs and belly lift automatically, begging for further arousal, and I feel my vaginal muscles throbbing too, and the undeniable lubricious film spreading along the fissure of my labia. I bite my lower lip hard, try to suppress the whimper of hunger I can feel rising in my throat. I stretch the muscles of my limbs until they harden. I keep my rigid arms and legs still, imagine the steel clamps about wrists and ankles pinning me mercilessly, holding me prisoner, and now my spinning head doesn’t know whether I am excruciatingly embarrassed or wildly begging for fulfilment even if the whole damned world is watching.

  M. Auguste finally takes mercy on me (or torments me mercilessly?) and the hands deal quite quickly with my lower limbs, and I can move again. Quickly I ease the tiny pouch over my genitals, hide the stray little fuzz which has peeped over its top, and place the warm cups over my still tingling breasts. He is breathing heavily, his smooth, bare chest and thrusting belly are gleaming with oil and sweat. The sun bounces blindingly off his shaded lenses as he wipes his hands on his plump thighs. ‘There now, my little chicken. Ready for roasting!’

  Show’s over folks! I raise myself a little shakily and gaze forward, at the stolid brown backs of the crew. Until one of them, older looking than his companions, his short beard sprinkled with grey, appears up the steps of the small cabin, with a tray of tall beaded glasses and a large jug of the most delicious fruit cocktail, ice-cold, that I have ever tasted. ‘Ah! Abdul! Good man! You save our lives!’

  It lasts us the remaining 45 minutes of the voyage, before the knife-like bows of Malaika swing sharply towards the land on our left, and head for a low-lying small island that seems at first only yards from the dazzling white-fringed beach of the mainland beyond. This islet is covered in thick undergrowth and taller coconut palms to the very edge of the sea, until, to my surprise, after we cruise carefully close to its shore, we discover a narrow gap in the vegetation, and there is a sturdy wooden jetty, to which we are soon moored.

  It is only when preparations are being made for what is clearly meant to be a land expedition that I realise how inadequately I am equipped to venture forth in the thick foliage, with its buzzing, humming, chirruping – and no doubt biting – insect population. Even if I put on my dinky little sundress again, it won’t afford me much protection. But M. Auguste is prepared for every circumstance. With much chortling, the crew gather round as Abdul appears once more from the cabin below, bearing an overall suit, in the vivid orange colour favoured by many public bodies and construction firms for their rank and file. My audience watch with great interest and amusement as I step into and pull up the voluminous garment. It is clearly intended for someone of much more generous proportions than myself, and both the leg cuffs and the wrists have to be turned up several times before I can achieve even an approximate fit. Even so, when the zip is drawn up, the crotch is still closer to my knees than my loins, and there’s room for at least one more person of my size to fit in there with me. All I need is a pair of those enormous flipper shoes and I could make a good stand-in for a circus clown. For a second, I suspect that that’s what they’re aiming for, when Abdul produces a pair of pristine white woollen ankle sock and a pair of equally dazzling white trainers, but as these are only a size or so larger than my normal fit, they don’t feel or look so bad. The outfit is set off by a wide- brimmed straw sunhat, complete with its muslin veil, rolled back to the brim but ready to be dropped down to protect face and neck from marauding bugs if necessary.

  ‘Enchanting!’ M. Auguste declares, amid supporting growls of approval from his minions.

  ‘Mzuri sana, memsa’ab !’ they lie gallantly. Or maybe they’re remembering what lies well hidden beneath the enveloping orange folds.

  Actually, our safari through the bush isn’t as difficult as it looked from the launch, for once we’re away from the shore, I find there’s a path almost the width of a country road that has been hacked through the vegetation. In any case we are hardly walking for five minutes before we reach a substantial clearing, where several grass-roofed native huts are standing, some in ruinous condition, with roofs gaping and mud walls crumbling to reveal the framework of wooden poles beneath. Two of them appear in surprisingly good repair, fit for occupation, and with what look like well-tended shambas , or native gardens, around them. But the most eye-catching spectacle, dominating this compound, standing squarely in its centre, is a much larger building of solid stone blocks, with pitched roof of tiles – though there are gaps, jagged holes through which the solid, cut timbers can be seen. There is a clinging mantle of closely woven green, some sort of vine, with large white funnel-shaped flowers, covering most of it, and hanging down in a rich curtain over the eaves. There is a platform running along the front of the building, also of stone slabs, and a wide, crumbling stairway at its centre.

  There is no sign of life here, only a brooding stillness. Even the noises of the birds and insects seem hushed, and I find my skin puckering beneath the capacious folds of my clothing. This must be the old slave post M. Auguste had told me of. I shiver suddenly, caught up in the atmosphere of terror and misery which must have hung over this deserted spot.

  ‘Mji ya Kusanyika ,’ he announces. ‘This is the slave market, where they were brought before being shipped down the coast. Come. Let me show you.’ He speaks swiftly to the others, who turn away immediately, dismissed like a squad of soldiers. M. Auguste takes my right arm, above the elbow, and carefully holds on as we mount the stone steps. There are several large iron hoops, bolted to the wall on this side of the building and crumbling holes where others have been. The metal is badly rusted, and looks as though a bit of determined heaving and hacking with a crowbar would soon dislodge those that still remain. The wide doorway is framed by thick wooden posts, but only one of the double doors survives, swung back and leaning drunkenly inward. It is about one-and-a-half times my height, and though its panels are split in a few places, it is beautifully carved, like the splendid old Arab doors I have seen in the capital on the mainland. I wonder why it still survives, when there is no sign of its companion.

  ‘You’d get a fortune for that back home,’ I remark, as we step from the bright sunlight into the gloom of the interior. It is pierced by columns of the sun’s rays, which fall in solid cathedral-like pillars onto the tiled floor. Pools of black water stand here and there on its uneven surface. They add to the atmosphere of dank, dark despair which must have soaked into the very fabric of this ruin. It’s catching. Again I feel my skin pucker; the cold seems to strike up through my new white shoes.

  Auguste is holding my hand now. He leads me like he would a child through the spacious dimness, carefully avoiding the puddles, and shows me a row of small openings in the farther of the two longer walls, like cells, except there are no front walls, let alone doors. ‘This is where th
ey kept the goods ready to be auctioned out on the veranda there.’

  Goods ! The word shrieks in my brain. Men and women, children, babies. Husbands, wives, mothers, sons and daughters. I draw back instinctively and he tugs me with a hint of impatience towards the last opening, in the far corner. ‘Come! There is something I have to show you.’ I am shocked by the sight of the great baulk of wood lying on the floor, from which extend six pairs of manacles, whose chains are secured by stout rings to the scarred piece of timber. Like all the other metal objects they are badly corroded, but it is clear what their sinister purpose was.

  M. Auguste seems proud, like the curator of a museum showing a privileged visitor a prize exhibit. ‘Come, Crissie! Try it! Let me take your picture.’ He produces a slim silver pod from his pocket. At first I’m too shocked to move, and he steers me over to the obscene lump of wood and actually pushes me down to sit on it. He selects a pair of the revolting bands of iron, and forces them around my wrists, then pushes the capacious trouser legs of the overalls up my calves, and then fits a pair of slightly larger irons round my exposed ankles. ‘Stand up!’ He helps me to my feet, and I stand there awkwardly, the chains stretched, manacled like the slaves of old. Except of course that the irons are not closed about my limbs. The brilliant white flash envelops and blinds me, and I’m sure my staring, wide-eyed expression must be suitably solemn for this strange pose.

  ‘Of course, it would be more authentic if you were naked.’ He beams, and my heart rate accelerates.