by Nicole Dere
‘Monsieur Auguste!’ I squeak and Wanda croaks, in unison, and, in what might seem a grotesque denial of our way of life and character, also simultaneously grab and clutch the sheets over our bosoms. Keeping up this remarkable synchronicity, we scramble to our feet and wrap our colourful sarongs about us to clothe our nakedness. Although I can’t confirm this, I guess our hearts are thumping in identical double-quick time too.
Sitting at our accustomed places outside, we make a poor pretence of nibbling at our simple breakfast, while M. Auguste partakes of the strong, aromatic Arab-style coffee from the tall pot with the long curved spout. Even my feisty partner has learned some painful lessons from our confinement. Though visibly trembling with impatience and anxiety, Wanda manages to keep quiet and to wait for our visitor to speak. He is clearly well aware of our tension, and enjoys prolonging it by making small talk, to which we contribute absolutely nothing, our gaze riveted on his smiling frog’s face. Until Wanda finally snaps.
‘Please, monsieur ! Is there any word? Am I going to be released?’
She knows she has broken, and her question ends on a smothered sob, the dark head drops and I can see the glint of a tear on one cheek. M. Auguste is well aware of it. His chubby frame gives a tiny shiver, a little gesture of physical response which I recognise from the times I have spent with him and Wanda, and then alone with him. He is clearly delighted, and thrilled, to see her thus.
‘Surely, my dear, you are not anxious to see this little heaven you have here come to an end?’ He gestures at the scene around us: the sunshine, the palm trees, Mattius and Abdul, hovering in the background, our dumb waiters.
You bastard! I am filled with loathing. He is so evidently enjoying tormenting her, seeing her humbled like this. As though tuning in to my feelings, he half turns towards me, leans forward, and puts his podgy hand on my knee, which is showing beneath the stretched hem of my kikoi . The fingers spread out, dig into the softer flesh of my thigh, and stay there, like a spider, heavy, pressing until I can feel the edge of the wooden seat cutting painfully into the back of my leg. I force myself to keep still, my eyes fixed on his shining face, though I am sure he can feel the trembling I cannot prevent. ‘Your beautiful little lover here!’
I stare at the pouched slits of his black eyes, feel their power pinning me to my chair. The hand moves up my leg, under the thin cloth, taking possession of me, and now it’s my turn to shiver, as I remember how intimately and completely he has known me, and I’m even more ashamed at the excitement pulsing deep inside me, along with my revulsion.
His slightly breathy voice goes on, quietly goading. ‘Or are you tiring of your little blonde’s charms, Miss Wanda? Are you missing what, in spite of her exquisite tongue and cute fingers, she cannot give you? Perhaps, now that I am here, I can arrange something different for you? I understand my men have been behaving most gallantly. Perfect gentlemen! Too perfect, oui ?’
Wanda draws a great, gulping breath, and the black little slits of M. Auguste’s eyes flicker to the edge of the thin cotton, which lifts spectacularly over her half-covered breasts. ‘Look!’ she says urgently. ‘I just want to get out of here! What do my family say? Are they going to pay up? Please! It must be – what? More than three weeks now.’ There is a slight hesitation, before she goes on. ‘Do you want me to do something? A message, a video or something! They’ll pay! I know they will!’
He laughs, pulls his hand away from my leg, so that the flimsy material parts almost to my crotch and I hastily grab it together. ‘A good idea, cherie . I shall think about it. But these things take time.’ He waves a hand airily. ‘We have to show patience. I have just come to see how you are doing. Both of you.’ He turns again to include me, his lips widening, and again I feel that frisson stir me, as I remember their touch, on my breasts, my thighs, between my legs. The excitement and the shame swell inside, and my face grows hot. I can’t hold his gaze; I lower my eyes in defeat.
‘But you have been naughty girls, I hear! You behave very badly.’ His head moves back, to indicate the infamous long stone shed across the compound. ‘And since then you have been living like queens, yes? With everyone dancing to your song, as they say.’
‘Tune !’ Wanda corrects, and I tense yet again with fear at the challenge of her tone. I am right to be afraid.
‘Your men kept us chained like animals. We ate off the floor, disgusting food. Never allowed out – one bowl of water a day for both of us to wash in – a bucket for us to use as a toilet!’
‘And now you have this,’ he answers reasonably, waving his hand in the air again. ‘Beds, showers, choo . Servants to wait on you. Surely you can’t complain? You don’t want to go back over there again, do you?’ Again he points across the compound to that ruinous building.
‘No, monsieur !’ I cry in alarm. ‘We appreciate–’
‘We’re still fucking prisoners!’ Wanda’s voice is harsh, cracking, and my heart sinks as I see M. Auguste shiver yet again. I know he is getting off on her rage, and I know it bodes no good.
My fears are justified in the mellow sunlight of the late afternoon, when the strong warm ocean breeze is at its most pleasant, after the sun has lost its fierce intensity. Until then M. Auguste takes himself off with a suddenness that takes us by surprise, and with no explanation other than a terse ‘I shall see you ladies later.’ Only the grinning, grizzled Abdul is left in the compound.
‘Now’s our chance!’ Wanda says, her dark eyebrows lifting. ‘We should make a break for it.’
As always, my glance is tinged with uncertainty. I’m hardly ever sure whether she is serious when she comes out with such wild statements. ‘Where to?’ I ask, striving to keep my tone light, to disguise my apprehension.
She shrugs impatiently. ‘Any-fucking-where! We could run round the whole island in five minutes! Maybe we can steal a canoe.’ She nods across the sandy earth of the compound towards the other huts, where a group of the natives can be seen. ‘They must be stashed on the beach somewhere.’ She gives a bitter laugh. ‘Or maybe we can steal M. Auguste’s pretty little launch, yeah? Anything would be better than just sitting about on our arses all day. Like turkeys being fattened for fucking Christmas!’
‘Don’t talk like that!’ My voice is low and urgent. ‘You know it wouldn’t do any good. They never let us out of their sight – except at night. When we’re in the hut.’
Momentarily diverted, she gives a mocking smile. ‘How do you know? That we’re out of sight? We might have an audience peeping through the spy holes.’
‘Well, I hope they enjoy the show!’ I manage, ashamed, and just a little wickedly titillated by the thought. But anxiety at Wanda’s dangerously rebellious mood swiftly dispels other reflections. ‘Come on! You know there’s nothing we can do except wait.’ I nod towards the distant old building where we were formerly housed. ‘We don’t want to be put back in that place, do we? Chained up again, never let out.’ I gesture around us. ‘Just be thankful for all this, eh? I couldn’t face going back to that hell!’
‘Little Miss Goody Two Shoes! Prissy Crissie! Tame little slave as ever! I bet if your Master Simon turned up here right now you’d be down there, grovelling in the dirt, kissing his feet – or something!’
I blink back the sting of tears at her cruel taunt. It doesn’t help that she is right.
We spend the hottest hours lying in the stifling shade of the hut, in a silence that simmers like the atmosphere. We sprawl naked on our beds, our bodies wet with perspiration despite constant mopping with our limp towels, careless of the glances of anyone passing by the wide entrance. It’s a blessed relief to stand at last under the tepid, meagre flow of the shower, and to dust ourselves with the luxury of the baby powder we have been supplied with, and to appreciate the comparative balm of early evening. But it brings with it the awaited return of M. Auguste and his decidedly merry and unusually animated men.
His face shines as usual, despite the coolness, but his eyes behind the thick lenses gleam with an
anticipation we have not seen since we sported with him in the luxury of the hotel bedroom many moons ago (it seems now). ‘Now. I told you this morning how naughty you girls have been, and how displeased I am to find you have been given all these rewards for your naughtiness.’
There is a faint flavour of spirits, and wolfish grins on the faces of his gallant crew, including our own Mattius, whom I had always hoped would, as Simon’s intermediary, show a partiality towards us that would offer us some protection. (That and the fact that he had shagged both of us, with obvious pleasure, in earlier, happier times!) Alas, he looks as lecherously eager as any of them, as M. Auguste invites us, newly bathed and perfumed as we are, and dressed in our fresh, bright if skimpy kikois , to cross the compound to our former prison.
‘Oh no, please, monsieur !’ I all but whisper, the tears starting. I ignore the fierce hiss of disapproval from Wanda. I’m ready to beg, grovel and do whatever else it might take to prevent us from being chained up in there again.
‘Do not be alarmed , little one!’ M. Auguste chuckles, clearly delighted at my fear and my subservience.
I don’t care for Wanda’s scorn or fury. After all, she put as much effort and expertise as I did in trying to satisfy this froglike little man. I just hope he remembers how good we were at it, and that his fat little prick is twitching with joy at the thought of repeating it.
‘Just a little taste of retribution for your former naughtiness, that’s all!’ He barks out some orders in rapid Kiswahili, and his crew hasten to obey, still grinning eagerly.
My heart sinks as I see them emerge from the dim ruin bearing the dreaded rust coated irons, with the short linking chains, and I give a muted cry of alarm. Even Wanda is silenced, her lovely face blanched.
‘A mere divertissement ! A token punishment for the naughtiness.’ He grins merrily, his specs gleaming. ‘Who knows? You might enjoy it.’
But Wanda struggles fiercely as soon as two of M. Auguste’s men seize her. Her long legs kick out, her black hair whips back and forth and her shapely body writhes furiously, displacing the sarong, which falls in a wisp at her threshing feet. She puts up quite a fight, sobbing and cursing, but even so she is quickly pinioned by her wrists to one of the stout posts on the veranda, at the top of the worn shallow steps. The chains chink, she struggles still, but she is trapped, facing the timber post, her beautiful back view fully displayed to the appreciative onlookers, who have been swelled by the chattering and softly giggling native men and women.
No one has made a move towards me, and now M. Auguste slips his arm around my waist, then lets his hand slide down to feel my bottom, appreciatively tracing the contours of both cheeks through the thin cotton of the kikoi . In spite of my efforts to relax, I tighten, and he chuckles in response. ‘You know how much I like your little derriere , my dear. But for certain things, the fuller buttocks can be more satisfying. Regard, ma cherie .’
He leaves my side, climbs the three steps up to the veranda and stands beside Wanda. He reaches out, and hefts her bum just as he has felt mine. Her hips jerk violently away, and her leg flicks out behind her in a vicious kick. I see the paler pink of her heel and the lifted sole, compared with the olive brown of her limb, and she connects briefly with his knee as M. Auguste jumps clumsily back. He almost stumbles down the crumbling steps as one of his men grabs at him, while the others manhandle the twisting, cursing girl and force her to stand still. The rusted chains rattle, she fights against the tethers that hold her firmly to the post.
M. Auguste looks a little flustered. A lock of his greased hair falls like a dark line down his shining brow, his laugh is a little forced. ‘You really are a formidable girl, my love! You need taming a little.’
To my horror, I see our ever-grinning Mattius handing him a thin bundle of tightly bound twigs, a smaller version of the homemade brooms the native girls use to sweep the floor. M. Auguste grips it in his right hand and makes a few experimental cuts through the air, making its purpose obvious. He nods at his men, who, with grins as wide as Mattius’s, release their hold and step smartly back.
Wanda, unable to turn fully around because of the way she has been chained to the post, fails to see the first swingeing blow. I can hear the faint swish of displaced air, then the sharp slap against the splendid pale cream curves. The black hair swings across the shoulders as she stiffens, rising on her toes in shock and outrage at the sudden sting and flare of pain across her buttocks. Her legs lift high in an ugly, involuntary little dance of pain. By which time the second strike, delivered with more force and accuracy, descends and she yelps, her hips thresh and she tries to drag herself out of reach of the fiery bite of the twigs. Her arms are stretched out taut, the short length of chain quivering. The shape of the shoulderblades stands out dramatically on the flawless back.
She can’t stop herself from crying out. The yelps become screams, and she sobs, begs for mercy. ‘Oh no! Please! Stop! Stop! Ow-w-w!’ That creamy yellow is marred now by a growing mass of angry red lines. M. Auguste is panting noisily, and dark patches of sweat begin to appear under the arms of his smart safari shirt at the energy with which he delivers the rapid tattoo of blows, some of which are landing on the back of the thighs and hips of the contorting figure. Wanda suddenly slumps, as though trying to lower herself to the ground in an attempt to evade the beating, but Auguste leans forward, continues to strike, and now the angry red scratches begin to mark her lower spine and back. She is wracked with sobs now, begging for him to cease the punishment. Her arms are stretched taut above her; I can see the dark long hollows of her armpits, the little cluster of hairs, damp now with perspiration, which have grown because of the impossibility of depilation since she was brought here.
The sweat is flying too from M. Auguste’s streaming brow, and he is wheezing audibly as he gulps for breath. The whipping has lasted no more than two or three minutes, but seems much longer, before his arm falls for the last time and he stands there, staring down at the sobbing figure, who is on her knees on the hard stone, her arms stretched wide apart, every muscle delineated by the agonising position.
The violence of the weeping ceases as Wanda realises the ordeal is over. She whimpers now as she struggles and, with difficulty, climbs back to her feet. Her bottom and the area around it, above and below, is vividly marked with those thin red lines, as though she has been clawed by a vicious cat. M. Auguste is still gasping for breath. Darkening patches are showing through the pale khaki of the shirt, his face and neck lathered with sweat. Wanda hangs there limply, as he moves round to stand in front of her. She hangs rather than stands, her head down, her face hidden by the curtain of her hair, until he reaches for her, moves it aside and lifts her soaking face, holding her by the chin, his fat thumb and fingers digging into her cheeks. ‘Now!’ He struggles to control his breathing. ‘Are you sorry for being a bad girl?’
She makes no reply. But the thumb and fingers press relentlessly, give her a little shake, force her to stare into his shining face, only inches from hers. He is still holding the switch in his left hand, and he brings it up, lets the ends trail across her heaving breasts, then down to her stomach, her belly, the dark patch of her pubic hair and the insides of her thighs.
She can’t look away from him, held by the clamping grip of his hand on her jaw. Her lips are pursed, as though she is offering them for a kiss, by the pressure of his fingers. ‘Yes, sir,’ she mutters softly. ‘I’m sorry. Very sorry.’
Chapter Eighteen
I DAB GINGERLY WITH the piece of cloth dipped in the bowl of water and antiseptic fluid at the thin angry red lines across Wanda’s backside, the cheeks of which clench and hollow exquisitely as they tighten in response. She draws in a hissing breath at the sting of even my light touch. ‘The marks will go soon enough.’ M. Auguste’s voice comes from above my bending shoulder. ‘Mere scratches, my dear. I’m sure you’ve endured far more painful episodes of love play from your clients, oui ?’
‘I only hope they enjoyed it as much as y
ou did, m’sieur !’ The words are muffled, for she is lying face down, naked on her bed, while I treat her. M. Auguste is standing behind me, close enough for his hand to slide up beneath my flimsy kikoi , and enjoy a lingering exploration of my inner thighs, the cleft of my bottom, and then settle over the soft tissue of my labial divide and the small cap of fair curls adorning my pubis. The light touch of his fingers makes my breath hiss like Wanda’s, though for a different reason.
‘It was very pleasant, indeed,’ he answers, quite undeterred by the waspish tone of the prostrate figure. ‘As I was telling Crissie here, the fuller buttocks make a fine display for corporal punishment.’
‘So, you think I’ve got a fat arse, do you, m’sieur ? You prefer her skinny butt for the shagging, eh? You should try some of the young boys round here, then. You’d find them divine, I’m sure!’
I feel myself tensing up, and not just from Auguste’s exploring fingers. I want to beg her to shut up, mostly for her sake rather than fear for myself. It seems to me foolish in the extreme to go on defying this portly little man who controls every aspect of our comfort and even our lives. The scratches criss-crossing Wanda’s bum might be painful, but things could have been far worse – and might still be, if she doesn’t stop goading him like this.
‘You really are such a stubborn little cow, aren’t you?’ At least there is still a measure of equable humour in his tone, but in spite of my sympathy for her condition I could shake her for her intransigence. I’m terrified she’ll bring down much more severe retribution for both of us, especially as he snatches his hand brutally from under my kikoi and drags the thin cloth from my body. ‘You think I like to play with little boys, eh? Like you play with your lesbian friend!’
He thrusts me brutally down on the bed, across the prone figure. ‘Sit on her!’ he commands me. His voice is suddenly loud, harsh with threat, and I scramble to obey, even as Wanda twists under me, crying out with pain and with dismay. ‘Do as I say! Sit on her face! That’s the way you like to pleasure one another, yes?’ He seizes me by the shoulders, turns me so that I am facing the dark head on the pillow, my thighs spread, my light fringed crotch pressing against her throat. I can feel her exhaled breath on my vulva, which is still tingling from Auguste’s ministrations. Wanda has twisted round onto her back, and yelps at the sting of the loud slap M. Auguste delivers on her right flank with his palm.