by Nicole Dere
I inch forward, and my sex presses against her mouth, cutting off the stream of profanity she is attempting to let loose. Even as her chest rears, lifting me from the narrow mattress in an effort to dislodge me, M. Auguste has ripped open his shorts, and has joined us on the bed. It creaks alarmingly, as though about to collapse any second. He gathers up Wanda’s thighs as she heaves her belly up in a further frantic effort to dislodge both of us now. He forces them up and back, so that her knees are bent, her feet swing helplessly in the air either side of me, while the whole area of her genitals and her abused bottom is lifted literally beneath his nose. Partly involuntarily, and partly in a shameful desire to prevent her tide of abuse and her furious struggles, I inch forward, press the soft curve of my vulva full against her writhing features. Even in my distress I shudder at the rousing sensation of her lips moving against my most secret flesh, and the touch of the cartilage of that cute nose on the upper folds of my labia. The screams and curses are indeed muffled, and the violence of her threshing resistance ebbs.
Meanwhile, in close proximity behind me, M. Auguste has freed that squat but ready prick of his. With cruel deliberation, he allows the pink helm to explore the groove of Wanda’s exposed pink vaginal cleft, but without penetration. In a move whose unexpectedness is revealed in the sudden muffled squeal and convulsion of the streaming face trapped so effectively between my thighs, his rampant organ dips lower still towards the little knob of her spine to seek that posterior, far less accessible and tinier hole, whose penetration M. Auguste’s thick column finds a much more difficult task. But not impossible, hence Wanda’s shrill scream of pain, which I feel, literally, in my most sensitive region, along with M. Auguste’s sudden jerk forward until his round belly is jammed against her lifted buttocks.
His thrusts are repeated with increasing frenzy. I feel them translated in the corresponding movements of the spluttering girl underneath me, and the frequency of her half-smothered cries. Shamefully, my own excitement mounts at the violence of her writhing efforts. But, mercifully for poor Wanda, it takes even less time for M. Auguste to reach fulfilment than by his more normal route, and his mad ride judders to a grinding halt no more than a couple of minutes after its inception, bringing great relief to Wanda, for whom I feel genuine sympathy, in spite of my own arousal. I have, on just a few occasions, endured such acts, and as they say, bugger me, it hurts!
By the time I extricate myself from my position astride Wanda’s neck, M. Auguste has dismounted too and restored decency to his dishevelled clothing. Wanda, weeping with quiet bitterness, turns away from us, onto her side, and draws her knees up to her breasts, presenting to us even more prominently her now twice abused bottom, towards which I make renewed tentative gestures of comfort with the cloth I used to dab at her original wounds. But without turning, she reaches back a hand and swipes my own away. ‘Fuck off!’
‘Leave her, my dear.’ M. Auguste smiles with his habitual urbanity, reaches down and picks up my kikoi . ‘Here you are, cherie . Slip it on. I think our friend wishes to be alone. Come along. Let’s take a little walk.’
‘Fuck off!’ We are sent on our way with Wanda’s repeated heartfelt curse. What it lacks in originality, it more than makes up for in its intensity.
‘She doesn’t really mean to be rude,’ I offer, somewhat inadequately, as we walk side by side through the now brief period of gloom that passes for twilight in these tropical regions. Already we can see our steps only dimly as M. Auguste, holding my hand like any young lover, steers me away from the compound and along the well-defined path leading to the jetty and the moored launch. Malaika’s whiteness gleams through what is left of the day. Light shows welcomingly through the windows of the small cabin in the stern, and the shape of Abdul appears on deck as we approach.
‘Everything ready, bwana ,’ he observes, with a cringing little bow. It helps to remind me (not that I need it, really) of the importance of this fat, froglike little man who holds on to me, and courteously helps me to step aboard.
‘Thank you, Abdul. We’ll be fine. You go and join the others. We might be some time.’
I feel, rather than see, his broad smile as Abdul bows again and hurries away.
A cold, appetising buffet has been set out on a small table on the tiny afterdeck, which is enclosed in a gauzy but secure, lamp-lit tent of white netting, which keeps both food and diners safe from the fluttering, humming and chirruping wildlife that hovers about the lighted space. ‘The night is extremely warm, Crissie. Why not make yourself confortable, oui ?’ Once more, he removes my wrap, but this time with less haste and considerably more finesse. Automatically, my arms move to cover my breasts and my thighs press tightly together – even slags can respond to an innate modesty, though after only an instant, and before M. Auguste’s thick lips have stretched to their fullest extent in amusement, I relax and drop my arms again.
He is already pouring a drink from the chilled wine into my glass. ‘Excuse me, Crissie, ma belle . Sit. Begin the meal. I must go and shower.’ He gestures towards his loins, with no trace of embarrassment. ‘I need to freshen myself once more. I shall not be long.’
I actually feel the beginnings of a blush as I nod an acknowledgement, remembering his most recent activity. Poor Wanda! I think of her lying there, in the dark, curled up, alone, sore and weeping. I’m conscious of my nakedness too, as I sit, feel the sag of the canvas, and its roughness on my bare, unmarked bum. Poor Wanda. But then she brought it on herself, didn’t she? I tell myself with shameful spite. My nipples harden in the gentle stir of the warm breeze, and my inner muscles tighten as I reach out to fill my plate. I hope you scrub yourself well, m’sieur , because I think I know what you’ll be having for dessert!
But he proves to be in no undue haste to satisfy his carnal appetite when he returns some time later, clad in a polka-dotted silk dressing gown and a pair of embroidered oriental looking slippers. A waft of subtle, expensive fragrance surrounds him, and his glossy black head gleams with pomade. Instead, he sets out to play the urbane host, while I sit there a little self-consciously, naked in the sagging chair. I am reminded of those first few days back at the island hotel, which I spent alone with him while Simon was away on the mainland with Wanda. I had no idea then just how deeply Simon was involved with M. Auguste, or the scheme which they were planning. I remind myself once again of Simon’s urgent need of me to play my part in helping him to extricate himself from the web of deceit and intrigue he has become embroiled in with the sweet-smelling, sinister little man beside me. He is playing his role of sophisticated host again, and I do my best to live up to my part, of simpering little slag who hangs on his every word and is lubricious with a desire to satisfy his every lecherous whim. Which is not too difficult when I’m sitting there without a stitch on, wining and dining in such unexpected splendour.
Even the piggy eyes behind the thick glasses remain focused on mine as we eat and chat – actually, he chats while I listen – rather than roaming over my all too available flesh. It isn’t until the meal is finished and the bottle of wine almost empty, which necessitates my intended trip to the tiny loo below in the cabin, that his gaze, and his hands, linger on my body. I rise with some difficulty, partly because of the alcohol but mainly because of the difficulties of getting out of the damned chair. The material feels slightly damp and clings to my skin as I struggle free of its grip. I wonder if it has left a pattern on the soft flesh of my behind, and my conscience whispers wickedly, Not as bad as the pattern mine host left on poor Wanda’s arse !
Like boy’s bum or not, M. Auguste reaches out as I squeeze past and helps himself to a leisurely exploration of its slight curves, letting his right hand slide round my hip to allow the fingers to brush over my pubis and tweak the tiny curls. After the feast comes ... not the washing-up, but the fucking!
The couches have been already transformed into the double bed down below. Abdul’s last act? I wonder,en passant and en pissant. But still M. Auguste is in no hurry – his sod
omising of Wanda must have proved satisfying in the extreme – and it is only after several brandies and a big cigar (for him! I’ll get my cigar later, if you’ll pardon the metaphor) that we finally adjourn to the cabin, and so to bed.
I can’t help thinking, with a great deal of guilt after my rich meal and abundance of liquor, of poor lonely Wanda in her camp bed, with her sore on two counts bum. But the portly little man and his stubby prick have recovered their appetite for the flesh, and he lies back like a beached whale, and I begin to earn my keep. Men must wallow and girls must wank, which I do, with all the skill and enthusiasm I have learnt to devote to such causes, until his freshly laundered penis is upright as a Buckingham Palace guardsman, and I mount him and skewer myself on his rod in best kamikaze fashion. It’s a bumpy but comparatively short ride, though the pleasure is not all his. My knees jutting outward, my heels digging in to his ample thighs, I let myself go, yelping in conjunction with my master’s grunts, until he gushes forth, exploding inside me, already passing the winning post which, for me, lies still in the far distance. I can’t stop galloping, in a frenetic attempt to get there, but my mount collapses, he wilts within me, and I stifle my howl of frustration under his squeal of ecstasy and brief agony. For a wild second, as he slides out of me, I have a mad urge to thrust myself forward and smother my gaping, oozing sex over that sweating, gleaming flat face, on a last wild race for victory. But sanity prevails.
When I follow him into that dripping miniscule shower compartment – its dimensions are so small not even the most amorously entwined couple could bathe simultaneously – I have an irresistible urge to bring myself release, and linger with the fragrant tablet of soap, tracing the contours of my vaginal lips and my pubic hair, until my vulva disappears under a frothy beard of bubbles. The small oval bar slips from my fingers even more easily than M. Auguste’s slippery cock releasing itself from our congress, and I lean dreamily against the shiny plastic of the stall to allow my fingers, as they say, to do the walking, or, rather, the ferreting, but M. Auguste’s voice shatters the brief escapist dream.
‘Don’t be long, cherie . I have something very important to tell you.’
In a second, I am out of there, the droplets still streaming from my plastered hair and my body, drying myself with the fleecy towel. His goggles shine as he gazes at me from the bed, with due appreciation. He pats the sheet beside him. ‘Vite ! Dry yourself and come to bed. I must tell you about your future. Things must change for you, and for your naughty girlfriend. You are to be moved, Crissie.’
I drop the towel on the floor and fling myself down on the bed beside him. Any sexual frustration I was feeling has been so quickly forgotten that the touch of his wandering hands over my flesh actually shocks me, and makes me shiver with distaste. ‘What do you mean, m’sieur ? Moved? Where to? Why?’
‘You’ve been here too long. It’s becoming dangerous. Too many people know about you, especially among the locals. I’ve made arrangements. We leave tomorrow morning.’
In my distress I catch hold of his hand as it wanders up the inside of my thigh towards the still damp fuzz of my pubes. ‘But what about Simon? What does he say ... about me? It’s Wanda who’s ... she’s the one you’re keeping.’ I just avoid the word “kidnap”. My head’s spinning. How much does M. Auguste know about Simon and me? Does he know the truth? That I am here purely voluntarily, because Simon has asked me to stay at Wanda’s side, to make sure she does as she is told, and doesn’t get into any trouble?
‘Yes, of course. Don’t worry, my dear. Simon wishes for you to stay with Wanda. The family are proving rather difficult over payment. And it is essential we hold on to her. The police must not find her. That is why we must move her. We know how good you are with her. Simon appreciates that, just as I do. We are counting on you.’
His hands are moving once more, over my cool skin. In spite of my concern, I know only too well what my status is, and what my role must be. I force myself to relax, tell myself I should be flattered that Auguste is endeavouring to bring me some pleasure, as well as merely satisfying himself. Though, of course, playing with my sprawled, proffered body is part of his pleasure too. And I find that, though my physical hunger was so suddenly driven away by his startling announcement, it is soon rekindled, with all its undeniable power.
As though he can somehow tune in to my very thoughts, he begins to play the active, dominant role of my lover. He pushes me back with remorseless gentleness, and pushes my legs wide apart, kneeling as though in obeisance between my spreadeagled feet. His head dips. I stare down at that gleaming black stubble bowed over my crotch, as his head bends yet farther, and his mouth gently nuzzles at my belly. His tongue flickers into the shallow dish of my navel, his fingers caress the blonde curls of my mons, then the broad thumbs press against the swelling labia, and part them to expose the gleaming pink of their inner surface. The tip of that tongue flicks once more, like a serpent, and laps feathery strokes along the fissure of my pulsing cunt. Thought – and fear – melt away, my fingers curl in his dark mat of hair as erotic pleasure floods me and the now bold strokes of his eager tongue take me spinning into the realms of pure need and bodily desire.
Chapter Nineteen
WANDA SITS IN THE narrow stern of the Malaika , her face firmly turned into the stiff warm breeze, and away from me. The black hair streams out, lifted from her bare shoulders, her eyes are screwed up against the force of the wind. She stares at the buffeting waves, ignoring the drift of foam that sprays back in fine droplets over us from the boat’s sharp bow cutting through the swell. She looks like some proud figurehead, and once more I feel tormented with guilt, and with hurt at her implacable refusal to acknowledge me.
She has been like that since my return to the hut at the first light of dawn, when I faced the forbidding curve of that back and shoulder as she lay in her bed. I was sure she was awake, but she made no move, gave no sign that she was aware of my presence. I could not hear her breathe. But my anxiety was too great to keep me silent for long. ‘Wanda! Wake up! They’re going to move us! Right now! Today!’ To my dismay, and considerable surprise, she still did not move, or make a sound, for several long seconds. Even then, she turned deliberately, betraying nothing of the alarm which she must surely be feeling. The bed creaked as she turned, and sat up slowly.
She stared at me, and still there was a further long pause before she spoke. ‘So! Your lord and master has sent his little slave to deliver his message, yes? What is it, then? Are they going to release us? They’ve squeezed the money out of my folks, at last! And are they letting you go too? For whatever price you’re prepared to pay – or have you done that already?’
I could feel myself crimsoning. Her words stung me, and also made me afraid that somehow she had discovered the truth of my treachery – or my loyalty to Simon. She could take her pick. But I pleaded with her not to attack me. ‘I can’t help it that he didn’t beat me too!’ The tears came easily to me, my nerves were so taut. ‘I’m not ... I know I’m not as brave as you,’ I admitted. I knew I was crawling, begging for a return to our former closeness, but I didn’t care. I still needed her. But she was adamant.
‘My word!’ she said scornfully. ‘Didn’t m’sieur confide in you? You’re losing your touch, little toad!’
And now here we are. Still clad in nothing but our kikois , which the breeze flattens against our bodies so that the outline of every pimple and crevice is exposed, as we sit and stare out into the blinding brilliance of the ocean or back towards the rapidly diminishing shape of the tiny islet that has been our home and prison for the past four weeks – or more. M. Auguste sits beside us, looking as inscrutable as ever and offering no explanation of where we are bound. As for me, my fingers play constantly with the edge of my kikoi , plucking and twisting at it, the action mirroring my tightly knotted stomach. I’m anxious about where we are going and what is to happen to us, but I’m also keenly aware of Wanda’s stiff, silent figure, and terrified of some outburst from her th
at will bring down fresh wrath upon her head – and mine too, dragged along in the wake of her fury.
M. Auguste has shown remarkable patience with her attitude so far this new day, which has been nothing but blatantly hostile, in spite of her punishment yesterday. I know she is reminded of it every time she moves. Not for the first time I am ashamed to find myself harbouring reproach towards Simon for putting me in this increasingly intolerable situation. And then as I sense M. Auguste’s eyes behind those dark glasses moving with proprietary pleasure over my scantily hidden frame, I wonder, with increasing dread, whether indeed Simon has any control over what is happening to me now. And to Wanda, of course! I remind myself, with shameful tardiness.
And why are we heading out into the ocean? The cabin cruiser is pitching more and more noticeably in the long swell, the spray flying high even in the stern sheets. I’m ashamed of the extent of my geographical ignorance. Are there other islands lying further out from the coast? Our own temporary abode has already disappeared over the horizon behind us. Surely the Seychelles, the only island group I can recall in this region, apart from those clustered about the coast, are hundreds of miles away? Simon has promised that we will visit them one day, but he said they were a long flight from the mainland. We can’t travel such a distance in this pretty little boat! My unease heightens, and is not helped by the increasing queasiness affecting my stomach. All in all, life could hardly be worse, and I can only hope that the tears which begin to fall, and to dry almost immediately on my cheeks in the stiff sea breeze, cannot be detected.