by Nicole Dere
EVERY SEXUAL MARATHON COMES to an end, even ours, and when we stand together under the tepid shower, and then climb naked between the crisp clean sheets of our luxurious bed, our embraces are as gentle and unprovocative as any Darby and Joan. I feel as though I have, indeed, run the killing length of that famous endurance test. Every one of my unimpressive muscles aches, and my sore and swollen pudenda might well cause a physician to diagnose vulvitis. (If you’re bowled over by my medical knowledge, just remember my background subsequent to the innocent days of my lesbian fantasizing over Miss Challis. Once Jo got hold of me, she made damned certain I, and all her other girls, had a sound knowledge of all that could go wrong with what she not so jokingly referred to as our “working parts”).
But any amount of physical discomfort is very small beer indeed compared with my mental state of euphoria as I settle with weary bliss beside Simon, and feel his lips searching to bestow the first of a number of tender kisses on my grateful mouth. ‘I love you, Crissie.’ There! Again he has said it. I’ve lost count of how many times he has told me in this past magical 24 hours. I feel so utterly contented and confident that, as we drift towards sleep, I am able to mention for the first time the name that has remained unspoken between us for all of this enchanted interlude. Though even as I pronounce it, I feel it like a tiny blip upon the perfect screen of my contentment.
‘What happened with Wanda? Why hasn’t she come back with you? What’s she doing?’
I can feel instantly that tiny pause, another blip of unease, an extra stillness in his relaxed frame.
‘Ah!’ Another longer, measurable pause. ‘Do you miss her? Do you wish she was here, sharing the bed with us again?’
‘No!’ I cry out, remembering vividly the picture of her long back, her busy face buried between my slack thighs, the rise of her buttocks, and Simon’s beautiful body rearing above, thrusting against her, his face reddened, transported in the excitement of his fucking. ‘No, I don’t – I didn’t want – I never wanted to share you, with anybody!’ I choke, my throat closes with threatening tears, and my helpless anger at my own stupidity for bringing up her name and now her presence.
Suddenly he moves, sits up, turns and seizes me tightly by my upper arms, which are already reaching out to him beseechingly. ‘Do you truly love me, Crissie? Do you really mean it when you tell me you belong to me completely, that you’d do anything for me?’
And now I relive another time when he held me just as tight, his hands under my shoulders, holding me against the canoe while at his behest Mattius shagged me in the warm waters of the ocean. And the luminous tears fill my eyes and my heart aches with the need for him to understand. I fight against my sobs as I answer desperately, ‘Yes, Simon. Yes! I love you! Yes! I belong to you! Only to you! I don’t want anything, anyone else! I wish I could make you see that. I let Mattius fuck me, I made love with Wanda, because you wanted it! I swear – that’s the only reason. Whatever you think of me, Simon, I’ve always done everything for you – and whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it, only because you want it.’
I’m crying now, the tears rolling down my cheeks, my breasts shaking with my grief, which suddenly wells up chokingly so that I can’t go on. I shake my tangled head dumbly, full of hopelessness at the impossibility of convincing him of the truth of my declaration.
Tenderly he sits, draws me onto his lap, cradles me like I’m a little girl in his arms, and I weep, my tears wetting his chest as he gently nurses and rocks me back and forth, kissing and soothing me until the violence of my weeping eases. It takes a while, for his gentleness, that feeling of protection enfolding me, causes the tears to flow faster at first. But these are tears of heartfelt release and thankfulness. At last I think, he truly does understand how much I love him, and am his to do whatever he wants with me. As he begins to talk, holding me all the while, cradling me, holding my blonde head to his breast, the shocking tale he discloses makes my whirling mind realise just how profoundly he is to put my love and my loyalty to the test.
‘I’ve kept things from you, Crissie, things hardly anyone knows, about my past, about my true circumstances. I’ve got to trust you now – I don’t know who else I can turn to, who else would help me. I love you, my darling, but if you want to leave, just walk away from me, I won’t stop you. Just please listen to me, hear me out, and then I’ll answer all your questions, everything you want to know – or let you walk out to wherever you want to go.’
Carefully, he eases me from his knee, and walks across the room, through to the bar, to fix us both a drink. I sit there, my knees drawn up, shivering in the coolly circulating air, suddenly wildly alarmed, and feeling as though our exclusively magic world has been stood on its head. I stare at his upright, slim frame, the deep brown tone of his flesh, the tight, paler little globes of his buttocks, the long muscled legs, and my heart is knocking wildly in my ribs, I can scarcely breathe in my tension and fear. I keep silent as he returns, carrying two glasses of wine, and climbs into bed beside me once more.
‘I’m not going to hide anything from you, Crissie, or wrap anything up to disguise the truth – even if it means I lose you after all. The reason I brought Auguste Mazarin here, gave you to him (the word is a dart, fired into my sensitivity and shame) was because he has a hold on me I can’t break. He’s a bad man, and I mean bad , Crissie, one of the worst around this area, and that’s saying a lot. You’ve heard of all the trouble that’s been caused by the pirates along this coast – and elsewhere. And the dope and drugs running that’s become such a big racket here. East Africa’s taking over from South America as the main distribution point for getting stuff into Europe. Our friend Auguste is into all of it – he’s also in big with the new mafia, or the mob that’s taken over, whatever they call themselves.
‘I got into hock with him – I won’t go into all the yeas and nays, I don’t want you to think I’m trying to wriggle out of things – but let’s just say I was taken for a number one mug. I thought I could make some fast and easy bucks, didn’t realise what I was getting hooked into, until it was too late. Now I’ve got a whole heap of money tied up with him and his crooks – and could end up losing the lot – and a lot more besides, including spending a lengthy spell behind bars, if I live that long!’
‘Oh God! Simon!’ I feel myself shaking violently, his words echoing around my reeling brain, my unclothed body icy with fear. He takes the practically untouched drink from my trembling hand, and once more we curl up together, this time lying with the sheet drawn over us, our limbs entwined in an intimacy that seeks comfort rather than excitement. ‘Can’t you – can’t we just slip away? Go back to England? Or somewhere – any where else?’
‘I’m afraid not, my love. It’s too late for that. I’ve got myself even deeper in. That’s what I need to tell you about. In any case, there isn’t anywhere safe to hide. Not for long. I’m not kidding, he’s big. He’d find us, sooner than later.’
I can’t stop shivering and I cling all the more tightly to him, limpet-like in my need to be close. ‘What can we do?’
In response he presses the length of his body against mine, his mouth searches out mine, my lips part to feel his passion rekindling mine, incredible in the midst of all this stunning fear. ‘I’ll never leave you, Simon!’ I pant, when at last the kiss ends. ‘Never! Whatever happens!’ I falter for just an instant, all too aware of the enormity of what I am saying, the sacrifice I am prepared to make. ‘Could I ... can I go to him? Talk to him? Maybe ...’
My head is whirling, my heart hammering. Am I really offering myself up, my body as payment, an exchange for Simon’s life? Give myself to Mazarin, to save Simon? All at once I am terrified, filled with dread, that this is indeed what Simon is about to ask of me, why he has been so strenuously testing my love and my loyalty, with Mattius, and with Wanda. But his answer reassures me. And then as he continues, stirs me with dread once again.
‘I could never bear to lose you, Crissie. I love you. But there is one way out
– in fact I’ve already set it in motion, with Mazarin’s help. But I need you too – if you don’t want anything to do with it, just say so. I’ll have you safely back to England in a day–’
‘What is it? What do you want me to do? Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything, you know that!’
‘As a matter of fact, it does involve Mazarin, and Wanda. I swear I had no idea of involving her when we met her. It was only when Mazarin got in touch that I thought of it. And he agreed – if we do this, it’ll settle everything between us. It’ll all be over between him and me. Please, darling. Don’t hate me. It’s my only chance of getting clear of them.’
‘What is it?’ I almost scream.
‘You know how wealthy Wanda’s family are? The Sharifs? They really are one of the richest families in the entire country – I might even say the continent. Of course Wanda has fallen out with them – as far as they’re concerned, she’s disgraced them, for obvious reasons – whoring around the way she has.’
I try not to show it as I lie in his arms, but I feel my body shrivel inside with shame at the careless, condemnatory way he speaks of Wanda’s way of life, for I’ve been living the same way, practically from the day I took off my school uniform for the last time, at 16 – certainly from the day I first slipped into Jo’s bed, and thus joined her select little band of tarts.
‘They don’t know she’s come back to this country, living practically under their noses. But even if she’s a whore, she’s still a Sharif. Suppose she’s kidnapped? Her way of life to be exposed, even her life threatened ? They’ll pay handsomely to save her – and above all, to protect their precious reputation! That’s what I’m going to do – with Mazarin’s approval – and his help!’
‘But – you can’t! She won’t ... what if she refuses to go along with it? Or the family refuse?’
‘It’s already happened!’ I can feel the tension, but also the repressed excitement in his voice. ‘I’ve got her! With Mazarin’s help. We’re holding her. I’ve just got to make the approach to her folks, make it the right way. Three million dollars! That will settle everything between Mazarin and me. We’ll be free and clear, my love! But I need you. I don’t think it will happen without your help.’
I stare in alarm. ‘Oh no! Please, Simon. I’d be hopeless, dealing with important people like the Sharifs! I couldn’t–’
He stares back at me in genuine astonishment, then gives a little laugh, shakes his head. ‘No, sweetheart. Nothing like that! Leave all that to me, I can deal with all that. No. It’s Wanda herself I’m worried about. We’ve already got her. But we need someone we can trust to look after her. Stay with her – keep her from behaving stupidly, make her cooperate. You know how headstrong she is. I’m scared she’ll push Mazarin’s thugs too far with her defiance. That’s where you come in, my love. I know how much she likes you – she’s crazy about you! I want you to go to her, stay with her, make sure she behaves herself. You’ll be her gaoler!’
I recognise at once the gleaming white cabin cruiser, and the grinning faces of the crew that are manning it. With one addition, whom I also recognise immediately: the beaming features of Mattius, the ex-fisherman of the island. ‘I work for Mr Simon now!’ he tells me eagerly. ‘All time! I’m his man! I take care for you good, Miss Crissie!’
His smile does nothing to reassure me. I parted from Simon less than two hours ago, after one last tender night of love, spent in a luxurious suite of the Oceanic Hotel, on the mainland of the capital. My heartfelt promises of loyalty and love return powerfully as I stare back at those thin brown features, and, behind him, those of the rest of the crew, including the grizzled grey-flecked beard of Abdul, and I shiver with fear that closes my throat.
‘Put this on!’
I stare in disbelief at the narrow strip of dark leather he is holding out to me. Seeing the large metal buckle and the tapered end, I mistake it for a belt at first, then I realise that it is far too small. My brain reels as the truth hits me, that it is a collar, and he means me to fit it round my neck! I gape back at him, my mouth stupidly hanging open and, with a gesture of impatience, he begins to fix it in place himself, grabbing my hair roughly, when I jerk back from his grasp. Dumbly I put my trembling hands up and clumsily complete the degrading task, slotting the tongue of the leather through the buckle and drawing it tight. Mattius’s rough finger inserts itself between the leather and my skin to make sure it is tight enough. Only now, I realise there is also a metal ring attached to it, and that it is indeed a dog collar. Greater humiliation follows as he produces a leash, which he clips to the ring, and tethers me just like a beast. His grin broadens as he seizes the loop that serves as a handle at the far end, and gives it a sharp jerk, enough to make me stumble and cry out involuntarily at the painful rasp of the leather across my tender skin. I have no option but to follow as he leads me the two steps across the short plank onto the launch and round the cabin to the stern.
‘Welcome aboard, memsa’ab !’ one of the others calls out, and there is a hoot of laughter. The engine roars into life, and within seconds we move away from the dock, swing round and head at speed past the boats in the marina, and out into the ocean.
‘I bet you can’t wait to meet up with your girlfriend again, eh?’ Mattius leers. ‘This one like girls too much!’ he tells the others. ‘But she like men, too, yeah! She like both together, yah?’
He roars with laughter, while I stand there blinded by my tears and burning with shame at my recall of that scene in his canoe, while Simon was away on the mainland. I can feel again the coffin-narrowness of the rocking craft, even the smell of the fish and the water slopping on the rough boards beneath me; the long exquisite back of Wanda, the tight grip of her arms about my sprawled thighs, the feel of her mouth busying at my throbbing sex, while above her, Mattius’s lean brown body soared as he drove into her from behind.
Another painful tug sends me stumbling as he leads me towards the small cabin in the stern. ‘Better get you ready to meet your sweetheart! Make you comfortable. You too damn hot in all those clothes, Miss Crissie! Wanda like you better without.’
He is pulling me down those three steps into the small compartment, where I remember M. Auguste had enjoyed himself with me. The fact that the chintzy settees have not been converted into that wide bed is little consolation, and I reflect bitterly on the assertions of devotion and obedience I had made so fervently in Simon’s arms as he lay sated between my thighs just hours ago.
‘They know you’re my girl, Crissie,’ Simon told me, ‘but they mustn’t know how special you are. They think you’re part of the deal – a hostage, just like Wanda – and that I’m forcing you to play nursemaid to her. Can you do this for me?’
‘Of course!’ I clung to him, willing him to understand just how completely I’m his, to do with as he wishes.
Now, I wonder, do I understand it, can I obey him in everything? Mattius’s hard fingers rip at the front of my light cotton dress, tear it free of my shoulders. In two swift further moves he removes my bra and my cotton pants, and I stand before him naked except for the light slip-on sandals. But it’s too late for such philosophical abstractions, I also realise, as my keeper thrusts me down on the narrow cushioned bench, hooks my right leg up on its high back, and leaves my left foot on the floor. Nothing is left to his imagination as he stares at my spreadeagled frame before he swiftly dispenses with his yellow shorts, and sprawls with urgent awkwardness on me and I feel for the second time his rampant prick take possession of my all too available sex.
Chapter Fifteen
THE FEARED “GANGBANG” WHICH I anticipate will follow Mattius’s use of me does not. Maybe Simon’s name, or that of their own Mr Big, Auguste Mazarin, is enough to deter Abdul and his mates from screwing me after Mattius has so quickly finished with me; maybe they just don’t know what he is up to during the fast and furious two or three minutes he takes to satisfy himself. I don’t really have time to speculate. My self-preservation mode slips instinct
ively into gear, while Mattius so furiously seeks relief, for himself if not for me.
As you have undoubtedly gathered, I’ve long passed the stage of shrinking virginal violet – the tally of customers or even lovers who’ve hopped aboard my accommodating thighs would equal the crew list of a much larger vessel than Malaika . Mattius is the guy on the other end of this dog lead, and that means he is definitely the guy who at the moment is calling the shots. Far from shrieking the dreaded “R” word, or trying to claw out his eyeballs, I assist him all I can in his objective. Unlike the only other time we have shagged, he is concerned only with his own selfish pleasure, so it doesn’t take long. When it’s achieved, he even gives a little smile, partly of acknowledgement, perhaps, though probably he’s thinking I’m feeling pretty satisfied myself at being the recipient of all his rampant potency. Whatever, I have time to restore some sort of order to myself in the tiny lavatory compartment, trailing the leash after me like a tail as I do so, before we hear sound or see sight of the other four, one of whom shouts out the local equivalent of “Land ho!” and Mattius leads me back up on deck. I’m almost decently clothed in my dress and briefs once more. Only the bra didn’t survive my keeper’s enthusiastic handling when he stripped me before our romantic interlude.
My heart sinks as I immediately recognise the shore and the small, dilapidated wooden jetty of the tiny island: the old slaving post where M. Auguste brought me for our picnic. It astonishes me to recall that it is no more than a week since our expedition. So much good, and bad, has happened to me in that short interval. I have to remind myself that I am here by my own will, because of my love for Simon – and his for me. I must cling to the wonder of those three days we have just spent together, and the protestations of his love for me, and my vow to help him with this desperate scheme to save him. I could have turned my back, walked away from him. He did not command or beg my help. Only my own love for him did that.