Whatever You Want

by Nicole Dere

  ‘Please ... Auguste!’ I glance towards the bright light of the doorway, across the long room. ‘The others – they might come!’ The twinkling glasses are fixed on me. I feel trapped and helpless, as though I am actually tethered by my shackles. There is a pause, when my heartbeat is loud in my ears, and I think he really is going to make me strip. He takes another picture and I blink, my vision lost for a second, by which time he is beside me. I feel his hand go to the neck of the overalls and draw the zip fastener down to my waist. Oh God! He’s going to do it himself. The others are bound to come, see me ...

  His hands are inside the gaping front of the orange garment and he is covering my neck and shoulder with slobbering kisses. His fingers push the cups of my bikini top up off my breasts, then his hands clutch greedily at my small mounds. They are still slippery with the fragrant lotion he anointed them with on board the launch. The fingers slide over the yielding smooth rounds, pluck painfully at the hard little knobs of the nipples. He bends his face and I feel his hot breath, the rub of his sweating face against my skin before his mouth closes over the pink little circle of my tits and he sucks vigorously, like an infant greedy for its mother’s milk. I stifle a scream, try to lift my hands to clutch his dark, gleaming head to me, and feel the restraining tug of the shackles, trapping my hands between my thighs.

  ‘Someone will come!’ I whimper softly now, shamefully aroused by his slobbering attention to my breasts, leaning weakly against him, hampered by the chains that restrain my limbs. At last he lifts his sweating, panting face from my bosom, and seeks my mouth, which opens wide to receive his thrusting tongue. But his hands are still busy, thrusting down now inside my overalls, pushing against my oiled belly, the shallow eye of my navel, then the hard fingers seek the tiny strip of material over my hips and mound. They squirm inside, ferreting through the curls of body hair. His wrist turns, the tiny briefs are stretched so tight I feel the narrow band deep in the crevice of my behind biting into my flesh, as he manoeuvres his fingers so that they caress and explore the fissure of my labia, slide into the greasily responsive tightness, which opens to this thrilling invasion. He searches, finds the upper peaks, the throbbing clitoral area, and the tunnel of my now palpitating pussy. Fiercely excited, I feel the juice flowing, lubricating, enfolding his finger, beating and enclosing him. I weep helplessly.

  ‘Bwana! Chacoula tayari! ’ Food is ready! The cry comes from the blazing opening, and I smother a small scream, my chains chink as I try to pull M. Auguste’s shielding bulk even closer to me. But the invasive finger continues to work inside me. Only his mouth is freed as he calls out heartily, ‘Ndio! Mzuri. Na cuja !’ Yes, good. I’m coming!

  So am I! I think hysterically, ready to cry and laugh, then not knowing which to do as the hand is withdrawn from within my disarranged clothing. I make to turn away, to collapse onto the log of wood to which I am fastened, to hide my gaping exposure. But Auguste’s left arm firmly grips me by my waist. Suddenly he pushes the finger of the hand which was groping me against my startled lips. ‘Clean me, my angel.’ In spite of my shock, my lips part automatically and, as his finger slides into my mouth, I suck and lick obediently, tasting the distinctive flavour of my sex juice and replacing it with my saliva, as my tongue works to his command.

  He wipes his wet hand on the backside of my voluminous outer garment, which he zips up to my neck once more before helping me to free myself from my shackles. ‘Unfinished business, eh, Crissie?’ He smiles, holding the hand I have just cleaned under his nose and sniffing appreciatively. I smile and blush, fetchingly, I hope, and surreptitiously squirm my bra and briefs back into position as we head out to the sunshine and the appetizing picnic which has been prepared while we were engaged in our little exploration of social history.

  We move back to the moored launch to eat. A table has been set out in the space formerly occupied by our sun-loungers. The attractiveness of the cold meal, the white tablecloth, the shining cutlery, china crockery, sparkling glasses, the bottle misted with beaded bubbles and, most impressive of all, the variety and excellence of the food itself, astonishes me, considering that the providers of the feast were the grizzled Abdul and his three cohorts. ‘Congratulations to the chef!’ I grin, aiming my remark at the obsequious Abdul, but M. Auguste’s podgy hand waves in casual dismissal.

  ‘All he had to do was serve it out, my dear. It was all prepared by the hotel.’

  ‘But still,’ I answer, ‘it all looks splendid. Well done. Mzuri sana, Abdul!’ He nods and grins, and his hard, unprepossessing features are transformed by his beaming grin. Almost ready to roll over and have his tummy tickled. M. Auguste says something that is beyond my ten words of the local language, but I guess from the tone that he is not echoing my fulsome praise and Abdul cringes, his head gives a quick bow, and he hurries forward to fill our glasses, then replaces the bottle in its cooler. He pads away barefoot, out of sight forrard. There is no sight or sound of his comrades.

  I fill my plate and eat heartily, for me, washing down the excellent collation with several brimming glasses of the superb cold white wine. My efforts at eating are far surpassed by my partner, though I pride myself on keeping pace in the drinking, so that I am soon feeling pleasantly lightheaded, and even a little pissed. In spite of the awning, which protects us from the fierce direct rays of the sun now high overhead, the enervating heat is oppressive. Partly because of my silly mood, but mostly because I am all too aware of the role I am supposed to play for M. Auguste, I go into my best giggling girlie mode and slide off my chair to kneel between his chubby legs. ‘Please, master! I’m very hot. Will we be going ashore again, or can I get rid of this orange suit?’

  I see how hooked he is by my use of the term “master”, and decide there’s no fear of overdoing my act. The hammier the better! ‘Well,’ I go on, pouting like Lolita, and letting my hands slide teasingly up his plump thighs. ‘You’ve got me aboard your ship and you’ve already had me in irons, so I guess that makes me your slave for today, yes?’

  His eyes light up behind those lenses, his shining face crinkles and beams. ‘But no! Au contraire ! You must allow me to be your slave, ma’m’selle Crissie. Permit me.’

  His hand is already reaching out to my throat and he tugs the zip down vigorously. The orange cloth falls apart to its full extent, which is all the way down to my crotch, and I feel the caress of the warm air circulating about my bare skin. He pushes me quite vigorously down on my behind on the deck and, seizing my right leg, tugs off the trainer and the white sock. He does the same to my other foot, before clutching the baggy pants legs and heaving the overalls down over my limbs as I swiftly wriggle my arms free of the sleeves, to assist in their removal.

  ‘Phew! That’s better!’ I breathe, a little nervously, as I see his eyes fix on my minimally covered breasts. I glance around rather obviously over my shoulder. ‘But monsieur–’

  ‘That is not in your vocabulary, the word “but”! My little slave!’

  Shit! My little fantasy has worked all too well. ‘I’ve told you, angel. My boys do not see anything I do not want them to!’ But I’m less than convinced as he abruptly, and roughly, claws the tiny cups off my breasts and drags the flimsy garment round until he can undo the clasp. My arms cross over my chest, though as I do so an inner voice in my whirling brain laughs savagely at such coy pretence. It offers no resistance at all to those eager hands, which now paw at the tiny scrap of cloth at my loins, and a second later I am sitting back, my bare bum on the warm deck, naked as Eve in this steaming tropic paradise.

  Chapter Eleven

  I’M STILL REELING FROM the shock of Abdul’s inspection of my naked back view as Auguste peremptorily summons him and rattles off a stream of instructions in Kiswahili. I hear his bare feet pattering down the steps into the cabin, and try to comfort myself with the thought that maybe Abdul hasn’t ogled me after all, but kept his eyes respectfully down on the deck. In any case I must have presented an almost prim spectacle, in spite of my nakedne
ss, sitting absolutely motionless, my back straight as a guardsman, my buttocks flat to the wooden flooring: one of the “naked yoga” poses that used to make up quite a sensational routine in the days back home when I worked in Jo’s troupe of exotic artistes. Just as well Abdul didn’t get the front view offered to M. Auguste, with my ankles crossed and my knees jutting outward and upward – and my blonde fleece-capped vulva on show for his especial delight.

  I daren’t move until Abdul re-emerges scarcely a minute later, mutters something in menial respect before hurrying away forrard again. My head is still swimming from the effect of the wine, so that I’m quite glad of Auguste’s supporting hands as he guides me down the five rubber-covered steps into the shade and comparative cool of the small cabin, its limited space almost entirely occupied by the double bed which has been magically conjured up by Abdul’s dexterity. Embarrassment is still strong as I remember the proximity of the four crew members, but I can’t deny the strong stirrings of excitement at the sensation of my nudity. I picture myself moving thus about the small craft, back on deck, lying on the cabin roof or the foredeck ahead of the screened-off controls, those four pairs of eyes devouring me, to say nothing of M. Auguste, who right now employs far more than his eyes as we both fall onto the expanse of clean linen. He’s wearing nothing but those voluminous, bright checked shorts, but not for long. He wriggles and kicks them free with remarkable agility, and then his slippery brown flesh is all over me, his hands and tongue too, as he explores every available inch.

  For just a second, liberated by the wine and my mounting sexual arousal, I just lie there, spreading my limbs, offering myself to him, rejoicing in that hungry mouth, those exploring fingers. But then I remember, this passive acceptance of such stimulation is not my allotted place in the scheme of things and, with a little shake of my hazy head, I force myself to go on the attack and assume my aggressive love play. He surrenders willingly and soon I am lying across those smooth thighs, his thick little cock is firmly gripped in my right hand, and I pass it back and forth in rapid little movements across my lips and my wickedly flickering tongue, until I see the helm swell and darken, and taste the sticky emission oozing from its narrow mouth.

  Emboldened by alcohol, and sensing that he is caught up in the same desire for swift fulfilment, my hand works rapidly, and I feel the thick column grow and stiffen, and I fling my leg madly over the bulk of his belly, turning him fully onto his back as I do so. Sitting astride him, I put his penis to my eager sex and capture his throbbing unimpressive length inside my pulsing vagina, feel its thrilling penetration as my pubis slams down on that smooth and hairless expanse at the root of his prick. He grunts, with pain and gasping pleasure, and my buttocks jounce and flex on his pumping thighs, and gallop him to his gushing climax in a matter of seconds. I feel his flooding juice fill me and trickle out upon us. His hardness wilts immediately. I shiver, half thrilled and half repulsed, at his swift dying, and the feel of his limp slithering from me.

  For just an instant, I have a crazy urge to keep on rutting in spite of his involuntary withdrawal, ride him madly, battering him beneath my beating desire for orgasm, or even to rear up and mash my streaming sex wildly against that smooth shining face, but then I return to my reality and transform my cry into a lie of ecstasy and fulfilment, and fall weakly at his sweating side. ‘Oh God! That was go-o-o-d!’ I groan, with a death-like shudder. And the nominees for best actress award are ...

  Another minute of stillness, and I am up and about, seeking a cool wet face-cloth and towel, which are close at hand, and picking up his limp and slippery prick, clean it delicately, gently elongating its diminutive length to make sure my sanitary efforts are adequate, then those wrinkled tight little balls, and that smooth bare pubis. Then I deal with my own ablutions, as discreetly and swiftly as possible, before I curl up at his side again, my arms around him, as though no girl had ever been so thoroughly screwed and pleasured in the history of thriving copulation.

  I’ve had plenty of practice at fooling the customers in my so far misspent youth. Except where Simon is concerned. With and around him, I can be seen through as clearly as daylight. Beauty is truth, and truth beauty , where he is concerned. Another literary gem Miss Challis introduced me to, John Keats and his odes. But let’s face it, I don’t need to be an Oscar winner for M. Auguste. He wouldn’t notice, however bad my acting, because he simply couldn’t care less. Someone like me, who he buys or gets given, doesn’t rate enough to matter, despite all his bullshit about Nordic girls and blonde fuzz.

  Thoughts of Simon and Mandy Servis (née Challis) distract me enough to take my mind off the problem of my sexual non-satisfaction, and enable me to fall asleep beside my stertorously snoring partner. However, their effect on my subconscious responses is very different:

  I start awake, blinking in the dim light of the cell, and groan with despair at the stifling heat and the pungent melange of odours that bring me back to awareness of my captivity. The agonising chafing at wrists and ankles are yet another reminder, as is the chink of the short lengths of chain by which I am fastened to the heavy timber slab, and beside which I have lain in brief unconsciousness on the earth floor, alongside my fellow slaves. The rough blows and kicks of the guard send us jostling and scrambling to our feet, as he parts us to make room for the weeping figure which he is leading. She is wearing a few rags of torn clothing. They do nothing to hide the long limbs and slender form beneath their inadequate cover. In spite of the filth, the cuts and bruises that mar her young flesh, and the lankness of her long dark hair, it is clear that she is a beautiful young woman. When her wrists and ankles have been shackled she is chained to the same bolt to which my irons are attached, in such close proximity that when she slumps to the floor among us, our limbs, shoulders and hips rub in unavoidable intimacy.

  Most are too lost in their own discomfort and misery for the stranger’s arrival to make an impact on them. They remain isolated in their own apathetic despair. But, stirred deeply by her beauty and her tears, I find myself reaching for her trembling frame and soon we are lying in each other’s arms, our legs intertwined, our matted fair and dark locks mingling as I press my face to hers. Despite her initial shock at such physical contact, the solace derived from my caresses, discreet enough in these extreme circumstances, overcomes her shyness, and she responds to my kisses with increasing gratitude and even fervour. Our thighs lock together, we squirm ever closer on the beaten earth, our bodies stirred. Our hands stir secretly, seeking out the rounds of our palpitating breasts, beneath the few rags of cloth that only half conceal them. I feel her nipples hardening to my strokes, and my throat aches with my desire to taste them. Perhaps later, when full darkness has come, and the guards disappear until morning.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Amanda,’ she whispers, her breath warm against my face, her lips, wetted now, resting against mine.

  ‘I’m Lorna,’ I whisper, my hands moving over her bare, lovely, dirt-encrusted flesh.

  She shivers, her breathing becomes faster, noisier, those enchanting breasts move more violently as my hands tenderly trace their contours. She groans. ‘I’ve never ... done this ... with a girl.’

  ‘Nor me,’ I lie, moving my mouth against her slim throat, my tongue lapping at the salty flesh of her neck. ‘We have to look out for each other. I’ll be your friend.’

  She doesn’t answer. I imagine her blushing beneath that dirt and my heart surges with love. She moves, slips a thigh between mine, and I squeeze myself against her, feeling my beating sex dampen with my arousal. Her hands are copying mine now, those fingers tracing the shape of my breasts, the fingers teasing my small teats to throbbing hardness …

  ‘Oh, Simon ... what ...?’ I surface through the fog of alcohol-induced sleep to the reality of aching head, parched throat and foul-tasting mouth, to find M. Auguste’s stubby fingers twiddling at my tits like an enthusiastic Game Boy addict. The tiny cabin is hot and stuffy, redolent with sex and with our combined co
smetic fragrances – an evocative mixture. We are both still nude, on top of the crumpled sheet, damp with our sweat and other emissions, though I guess M. Auguste must take first prize for the latter. The tingling of my erect nipples confirms how incomplete my own sexual satisfaction has been. Blearily, I realise my sleeping dreams have contributed far more to arousal than any effort on my lover’s part, witness his fiddling with my breasts, which is simply adding to my sense of awakening frustration: If you’re doing that for your own amusement that’s fine, but if it’s for mine, would you mind putting a damned sight more effort into it? I long to say, but of course don’t.

  I roll over to face him with a smile and a sigh like I’m coming down from my tenth orgasm at least. I glance down between us, and see the fat little slug of his prick coiled on the side of his fat little thigh, its nose peeping through the thick gathered collar of foreskin and the tiny bud of its mouth agleam with its smear of fresh clear juice. It looks about as ready for action as a marathon runner collapsing over the finishing line, and with (I hope) well-hidden distaste, I contemplate the arduous task of resurrecting the squat appendage to life once more.

  Fortunately, he has other more urgent ideas and, croaking of his desperate need for a drink, he presses a button somewhere beside him, and within seconds I squeal in genuine dismay as the dark shape of Abdul appears in the brightness of the open hatchway at the top of the stairs. I jack-knife to draw up my legs and curl my back, crossing my arms to hug my knees to my now released tits, having found it impossible in the brief time available to grab up the sheet we are lying on to cover me. I also roll over to plaster myself against Auguste’s bulk, but then hesitate, afraid that this intimate gesture might be open to something other than my desire for modesty.

  M. Auguste shakes with laughter. ‘I’ve told you, my dear! Poor old Abdul is practically blind, especially when I tell him to be so. Isn’t that true, Abdul?’