Whatever You Want

by Nicole Dere

  ‘Ndio, bwana.’

  ‘My mouth is ... what is it you say? Like the wrestler’s jockstrap! We need a drink. Bring us two Jambosalas, Abdul. Mara moja , eh? Quick as you can!’

  Abdul rushes off like a dog after a ball. I smile as I uncurl, and snuggle close to Auguste’s unthreatening bulk. I reflect wryly on the way I am not even consulted, my drink chosen and ordered for me. I should be used to it, after all. Simon is just the same, always making decisions for me, not even offering me a choice. Why not, when I belong to him? Just as I belong for the moment to this little brown man, because Simon has gifted me to him. It seems I’ve always belonged to someone. Someone has always held dominance over me. Simon says it’s my nature, the way I wish to be. ‘It gives you a tremendous freedom, Crissie,’ he told me early in our association. ‘You don’t have to think about anything, don’t have to make a single decision. It’s all done for you. I’ll even tell you what to wear, what colour knickers to put on! When you belong completely to someone, that’s it. All problems, life itself – all solved! All you have to do is please me – and obey!’

  I shivered when he told me this. And I also felt my secret flesh spasm, the thrill of it dampening those very garments dictated by his will. He was so right. But if only he could realise that since he came along and captured me, there’s only one man in the whole world I want to possess me. I want to be his alone, to be told by him alone what to do, what to say, what to think, when to breathe! Yes! And what colour knickers to wear, and when to take them off or put them on!

  And again, like a tolling knell, that solemn word: obey. My heart aches as I cry out to him in my mind: I am obeying you, my love, look at me! Stretched out naked beside your fat M. Ramazin, still sore, and smelling of his sweat and his love juice, and making him as happy as if he had just purchased me from the chains of that hellhole he thinks has been such a treat for me to see. While you , my darling, my lord ...

  I picture him vividly, with beautiful Wanda, enjoying all the hectic pleasures of love – recall, all too rousingly and clearly, the sight of them, his splendid body bent over her, thrusting deep into her as she bent between my own surrendered thighs and brought me to such a fierce climax, even as she reached the ultimate heights herself, lost to the glory of my Simon’s glorious prick rammed deep inside her! How disappointed would he be to hear me use such blasphemous language, even in my head, as that possessive adjective? Mine? How many times has he told, and shown, me, there can never be such a thing. I own nothing, least of all him. I belong to him, I am his, and that must be my greatest joy.

  I’m trying, my love, trying to belong to you as you wish – I wince again at yet another use of that wicked label: my love. And I wish fiercely, with all this possessed and obsessed heart, that he was here now, to punish me for my wickedness, as harshly as any of those merciless slavers back there in the jungle, to beat me black and blue and crimson – and let me kiss the lash with which he scourged me.

  Instead, I hide in the miniscule toilet compartment M. Auguste calls “the heads”, in order to avoid the indignity of having Abdul observe my nude state, seeing that Auguste smilingly declines to allow me to dress, while refusing to shift so that I can use the sheet we lie on as cover. However, my efforts at modesty are totally destroyed in hilarious low comedy (for everyone but me) when, having relieved myself, I foolishly push the metal button of the flush system before standing up. To my consternation, instead of the gentle trickle I anticipated from the pygmy-size pedestal and its compartment, there is an almighty thunderous roar, and a geyser of water erupts in a spout like Moby Dick under my startled, soaking bum. I shoot out of the loo like a bullet from a gun, clutching my icy backside, convinced we’re about to dive like the Titanic , to the enormous enjoyment of the two spectators, along with a pop-eyed stare from Abdul that convinces me, if he was blind before, his sight has been miraculously restored. Like Good Queen Vic before me, I guess I’m the only one who is not amused.

  Chapter Twelve

  I HAVE TO WAIT almost three more eternal days and two nights before Simon returns to me, during which time I hide my despair and sickening jealousy with what I hope is consummate success if not ease. My “client” never ceases to smile, except for those brief seconds of emotion during the five further instances of his erupting crises, three of which are induced by my masterly use of mouth and hands. ‘You fellate like a fury, my angel!’ he groans, after I’ve swiftly but surely dealt with the messy aftermath and lie in exhausted triumph by his side again.

  What can a girl say to such an accolade? ‘I aim to please, monsieur ,’ I manage modestly. I try not to jerk away violently from his sweaty bulk as a podgy hand toys for a full second at my blonde pubes and the crevice they fringe before the fingers fall away and he rests in weary satiation. Be still, my beating twat!

  He is proudly determined to make the most of his shiny new launch – like a kid at bath time with his favourite toy. It has to go back to wherever it comes from, he tells me, which is why we spend the next two days cruising up and down the coast – though not, mercifully, to the tiny island with those terrible ruins. This time, we spend most of the time offshore, and when we do drop anchor, it’s in the shallows of a long stretch of white sandy beach, fringed with coconut palms – a fantastic spot which could grace the pages of the glossiest travel brochures, but which is totally deserted, except for us. The four-man crew is sent off in the dinghy, back to the “mother ship”, and before they are ten yards out into the lapping wavelets, my bikini is off too, and by the time they have reached Malaika no more than two-and-a-half minutes later, at M. Auguste’s urging I have straddled his bulk, manipulated his penis to what passes for erection, fitted it into my frantic, starved vagina and reaped the gushing reward. I do my little whinny to accompany his gasp of gratification, and slide off again. I stare bleakly at the low craft, whose occupants are just now clambering back aboard the launch. I recall ironically how, a mere couple of days before, I was worrying myself with visions of their more-than-ready and rough possession of my defenceless body on the boat. Right at this minute I toy with the powerful notion of leaping up, racing down to the sea and flinging myself madly into the warm water to thresh after them with wild shouts: Wait for me, mateys! I want to COME too!

  And then, lo! On the third day, my temporary owner says the most beautiful thing he has ever said in all our lovemaking. ‘My little Crissie! I fear that tonight I might lose you. Mister Simon is returning on the ferry this afternoon. And I must leave myself, early in the morning. I’ll be going back on Malaika . God knows when I’ll see you again, mon ange ! I can’t bear to lose you, my little beauty!’

  With something of a shock, I realise I am literally grovelling at his feet, kissing those broad appendages, lapping at his cute, curling toes. ‘I’ll miss you so much, Monsieur Auguste!’ I whine like a puppy, twisting myself up his short, fleshy limbs. My hand slides under the voluminous leg of his jazzy, baggy shorts, searches out its familiar, flexing, damp little worm of the prick, which swiftly fattens under my practised touch. Better go out with a bang! I tell myself, my fingers toying with the foreskin, rapidly stretching as his column throbs and swells. My Simon – sorry! Simon – is coming home.

  The football anthem swells to its crescendo inside my spinning head: Comin’ home, we’re comin’ home! But then, M. Auguste’s next words suddenly send a shiver, like a lump of ice down the cleavage, right through me. ‘Unless I can persuade him to part with you. For a worthy price, of course!’

  My hand, curled around his beating penis, stops its caress. Until his own seizes my wrist in a grip like those rusted iron shackles back on the secret island, and all at once the image of those chains of slavery are all too apposite. Distractedly, I begin my massage again at his urgent instigation, while my mind is whirling with new fear. But of course, M. Auguste is joking! Of course he is! He knows I am Simon’s. (No, no! I swear I will not even think for an instant of Simon as mine. But I am his. I am his! For ever! Please!) I am startl
ed by the sudden shrill yelp, like a dog who has accidentally been trodden on, from M. Auguste. ‘Careful, Crissie! Doucement, eh? You’ll yank my prick clean off!’

  For the rest of the long morning and afternoon, I am in an agony of frantic thoughts and emotions, in spite of my fervent efforts to reassure myself that Simon would never part with me, not with such casual callousness, for a pot, or even several, of gold. And not to such a man as Auguste Mazarin! By the time the white ferry chugs fussily alongside the simple pier of the island’s only miniature township, my insides are churning faster than the boat’s propellor, with excitement and nervousness and a new terrible uncertainty, after M. Auguste’s disturbing words. Please, please, Simon! Be pleased to see me! I try to steel myself to welcome Wanda, to hide my greatest fear of all: that of her beauty and her passion, which I am convinced Simon will have tasted to the full – I’ve been haunted by the visions of their splendid bodies coiling and writhing and fitting together virtually without pause. How can he possibly care anything for me, after a feast of such magnificence?

  I stare longingly at the small group of well-heeled passengers and spot him at the very instant he sees me, and his smile goes clean through my heart. And he is alone!

  I can’t decide whether I’m high, drunk or dreaming. Rushing down the short gangplank, Simon grabs hold of me, in the midst of all those jostling, staring, disembarking passengers, before he has even greeted M. Auguste, and crushes me in his arms, lifting me off my feet. His mouth clamps over mine, his tongue drives possessively deep inside. Gladly, I feel my head spinning, my heart bursting as the breath is literally sucked out of me, and I’m ready to settle for death itself, smothered by love. A sandal drops from my foot, his left hand clutches my bottom, clasping me so tightly to his throbbing loins I can feel the cooler evening air on my buttocks. It probably looks to the casual observer as if I’m not wearing knickers at all, they are driven so far up the crack of my bum cheeks, and the tiny skirt of my dress must be caught up to my waist. But I don’t give a damn. I wish I was stark naked for all to see, plastered to him like this.

  Eventually, after an age, he drags his mouth away from mine, and I suck in a great gasping lungful of air, and feel him do the same. ‘God! I’ve missed you, my darling!’ His voice, his lips warm at my ear, thrill me down to my curling toes. Maybe I have died after all, and this is Heaven!

  At long last he manages to put me down, though he keeps his left arm tightly round my waist, holding me to him as he turns with an apologetic little laugh towards the smiling M. Auguste, and in my head I sing triumphantly to the round little brown man: Does this look like Simon would ever part with me, for all the gold in Fort Knox ?

  ‘Sorry, old man. But I’ve been waiting so long to do that! Forgive me.’

  ‘D’accord ! The first things first, oui ? But where is la belle Wanda?’ M. Auguste has asked the very question which was on my lips, until Simon had taken such hectic possession of them. And every other throbbing part of me.

  ‘Ah! I’m afraid she has other fish to fry. I haven’t seen that much of her, to be honest. Her affairs seem to be a hell of a lot more complicated than we thought. I don’t know when, or if , we’ll see her again. Sorry to disappoint you, mon ami .’

  ‘No, no! Ca ne fait rien ! Besides, your delightful Miss Crissie has been absolutely merveilleuse ! First class, eh? I shall never forget these past three days. Heavenly!’

  He turns to me, gives a little nod of his shining head, with an incongruously old world, courteous little bow. And I react in similar fashion. A crimson blush sweeps up from my once more squirming toes, right to the fringe of my blonde curls, and I almost simper like a schoolgirl. Disturbingly, I suddenly recall the feel and the taste of his squat cock filling my mouth. Don’t overdo the praise, monsieur . What will Simon think of me? That I’ve been just a bit too happy in my work, like the good little slag I’ve always been. Then I comfort myself with the strength of that embrace, which I can still feel, as I savour the rawness of my lips and struggle to calm my breathing.

  And the miracle continues, until I am truly convinced this is all a fantastic dream, and all I’m afraid of is the waking up. When M. Auguste announces ruefully his early departure in the morning, Simon, far from doing what I have been dreading all day and handing me over for one last night – a sort of droit de seigneur in reverse – leads us to the bar for a “farewell drink”, then turns to me with the tenderest, most wonderful smile I have ever seen, that makes my eyes misty with grateful tears, and says, ‘Darling. Monsieur Auguste and I have a lot of boring but important business to discuss. I didn’t realise he’d be leaving so soon. Listen. You go up to the room, Crissie. Order a snack if you’re hungry, then relax. Take a nice, leisurely bath. Ring down for a massage, if you like. We’ll probably be some time. Get as much rest as you can.’ He says this with such a direct look and smile that I find myself blushing again, this time much more driven by my own excitement and anticipation. ‘We may have to take quite a long time to sort things out. But I’ll order a late dinner for when I come up – and plenty of champagne on ice. Tonight is just for you and me, Crissie. My love.’

  I thought he would grab me and lift me off my feet once more, in the crowded bar, but instead he leans close and kisses me very softly on my forehead. His hand crunches my own in a discreet grip which squeezes my delicate bones in exquisite agony. His next words thrill me almost as much. ‘You’d better say goodbye to M. Auguste now, Crissie. I’m sure you won’t be up early enough in the morning to catch him before he goes.’ And at the smile that accompanies these words, I have to fight the urge to fling myself at his divine feet and grovel all over them.

  To my immense relief, and just a little shame, M. Auguste’s last kiss is almost decorous. It is lip to lip, and there’s just a hint of flickering tongue, but it’s brief enough to suggest a discreetly incestuous uncle parting with his niece, and in a rush of generous sympathy and general wellbeing I allow my upper thigh to brush teasingly against the hang of his rotund belly. And so, rapturously, to bed!

  I have to force myself really hard not to seek some measure of temporary relief from the exquisite agony of anticipation. I just can’t help the brush of my fingers’ feathery lightness against the hard little tips of my nipples, and the slow trail over my belly and upper thighs, the pads stirring my pubes before one traces the wrinkled fissures of my labia, which are beating with the desire to flower open and receive the blessed gift of Simon’s rampant penetration. Instead of the long, dreamy soak in the foam-filled tub, I have to drag myself out of the clinging bubbles. I stand staring at my nakedness in the long mirrors, my fists clenched by my sides, my arms rigid with the effort of not pleasuring myself.

  Perhaps foolishly, I follow Simon’s suggestion of a massage to fill in these torturous few hours at the very gates of my private paradise. All it means is that someone else’s hands do the teasing, and the stirring of those inner fires. Miriamu is a very pretty, very skilled local girl, who is disturbingly reminiscent of Wanda in appearance, with the same dark, dancing eyes and brilliant smile. She is also excellent at her job, well qualified to work at a first-class establishment like the island’s hotel. We have met before, and she gives me a friendly smile as she swiftly spreads a sheet across the wide bed and prepares her neat case of tricks. She is wearing a pristine white overall, buttoned down the front, which she quickly discards, to reveal an equally immaculate white sleeveless vest and crisp white shorts, brief enough to display her splendid brown limbs almost to the full extent of her thighs, and which hug the prominent hemispheres of her superb ass as tight as a glove.

  I slip off my robe at her invitation. I am in white too: a pair of thin cotton briefs. I know she would be more than happy to have me completely nude, but in view of my aching anticipation of the joys to come, I have decided to retain this minimal cover. I could gain much needed relief at her hands – that is one of the questions she regularly asks those clients she thinks might wish for it. In fact, she uses that v
ery word. ‘Would you like relief, memsa’ab ?’ she asks, at the appropriately intimate moment, when the sighs and twists of her victim make the question almost a necessity. She carries several discreet instruments with her to assist her in her task. She is seldom reprimanded or refused.

  She works on me, from my pink heels and wriggling toes, and narrow instep, up over my calves and the backs of my thighs, then my spine, and the cheeks of my bum. Her firm fingers, their nails clipped short to avoid any unfortunate scraping of pampered soft skin, knead each buttock, which is only minimally concealed by the thin knickers. I am distinctly roused once again. Desire flares as I feel the tips of those fingers ease under the elastic around my hips, and trace the edges of the material in the crevice of my thighs and belly. She knuckles her way up my vertebrae from coccyx right to the base of my neck, exerting just enough pressure to cause delicious shivers of pain, which make me groan. Thumbs press behind my ears, tugging slightly painfully at the stray hairs, her fingers digging hard into my clavicles, and I squirm just a little. I feel desire flaming with increased need right through me. One of my sexual fantasies flashes vividly in my consciousness.

  I am forced by my dom lesbian partner to become a professional wrestler, and endure a long and extremely punishing public humiliation in the ring, picked up, spun aloft, flung down, pinned in all kinds of agonising holds, while I kick helplessly and beg for mercy. I rarely get to carry the action as far as the end of the fight, which concludes with my costume being stripped from me, and my supine body, naked except for my high-laced boots, borne out over my mistress’s shoulder.

  When Miriamu neatly flips me over onto my back, and begins to work in that discreet but highly erotic manner on my breasts, I am already afraid that my excitement might well be all too visible at my damp crotch, and curse my foolishness for choosing white knickers. Then those wicked fingers tease their way under the low slung elastic of the tiny garment, sliding it down my belly a little as though by accident, to expose the upper fringe of my pubes. Her question comes in a breathy, knowing intimacy, her fingers poise, ready to slip my fragile briefs down over my thighs. ‘Would you like relief, memsa’ab ?’