Whatever You Want

by Nicole Dere

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ I ask humbly, encouraged so far by his humane manner and treatment. ‘Now that Wanda’s gone ...’ The power of my sadness almost catches me by surprise. I choke again, the tears roll as the awful significance of her fate hits me full force.

  He leans closer, takes both my hands in his firm grip. ‘You’ll stay with us. You’ll be quite safe – as long as you are a good girl – and I’ve been told you’re very good.’ I glance up quickly, at the double meaning of the last remark. He carries on smoothly. ‘It won’t seem so bad. Think of it as a sea cruise. Relax, make the most of it. After all, you have no choice.’

  True, I think, though I remain silent. How long is it since I have had any real measure of choice over my life? As far back as I can remember, someone else has always exerted control over me, right up to that fateful night when I met Simon. And since then, he, more than any other, has ruled my destiny. And I pray with all my heart that he will continue to do so.

  My alarm clock rings. Still not fully awake, I reach out in the familiar blackness, grope and press, and restore blessed silence. To do so, I have had to withdraw my hand from the warm, damp cave between my legs where it has been nestling trapped in my baggy old knickers, assisting me in my dream of passionate lovemaking with my beloved mistress, Amanda. Alas, our loving has remained only in the realms of my feverish dreams, and no doubt in my mistress’s too, since the unexpected return of the master, hers and mine, from the war. I know she constantly asks herself the same question that echoes in my brain. Why, oh, why did she have to agree to marry such a dreadful brute?

  I’m the only servant left – there were two others here before, but they were glad to escape from his tyranny. I couldn’t – not after the love I had shared for so long with my lovely Miss Amanda. Mrs Servis now. I curse the very name as I crawl out into the gripping winter dark, from the bed made up on the kitchen floor. He won’t even allow me to sleep in one of the attic rooms where we domestics used to be quartered in former happier times. Even the dog is better accommodated than I am, but that’s the price I have to pay to remain with Amanda – and I swore on my life I would never leave her.

  I fold my old blankets and patched sheets, drag the mattress into the pantry and stack the bedding under the bottom shelf. I’m already wearing my old flannel vest and the pink knickers, which are well worn, the elastic showing in places at both waist and legs despite my efforts at repairs. Quickly I pull on the grey woollen stockings – a mass of darns at toes and heels – and draw the ugly garters up to hold them at my thighs, then fit my freezing feet into the ancient but serviceable boots. I don’t bother lacing them, or rather tying the strings that have replaced the original black laces. What is the point? It wouldn’t take anything from the extreme shabbiness of my appearance in my venerable blouse and dark serge skirt, which are both so stained that covering them with a pinafore would be quite superfluous.

  I begin to prepare the breakfast tray, then to clean the dishes and the pans which have been soaking overnight. As I stand at the sink, I stare at my unsavoury reflection in the blackness of the window, and feel the tears rising at the thought of how happy we had been after the master’s departure – the rapture of the long nights we spent loving in the snowy comfort of the wide bed, or in the fragrance of the bath we shared. All gone now! Snatched from us by the brute who claims her, night after night, ploughing mercilessly into the sweet yielding softness of that exquisite flesh, ravishing, over and over ...

  My reverie is shattered, with appalling suddenness, by his appearance over my shoulder, an instant before his hand falls like a clamp on the back of my neck, his fingers digging excruciatingly into my flesh. ‘Please! Mr Joseph!’ Already I’m begging, the tears starting to my eyes, even as I loathe myself for my weakness and subservience.

  ‘Slut! You haven’t put the towels out in the bathroom yet, have you?’

  ‘No, sir, sorry, sir, forgive me, sir!’ I gabble, cringing, trying to turn from my position facing the sink. His hold makes it impossible for me to turn around.

  ‘And look at all this filthy grease! These dishes should have been cleaned last night before you went to bed, you lazy cow!’

  ‘They were – I was leaving them to soak. They’re nearly done, sir. It’s only–’

  ‘Stop your snivelling, girl! You make me puke! Mrs Servis is far too soft on you, I’m always telling her so. You’re an idle little bitch, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ I sniff, try to wipe at my wet face.

  ‘Time for another lesson, I think.’

  I stand there, trying not to move, though my limbs are trembling, as I feel his hands dragging up my skirt at the back, rolling the thick cloth in folds, until it hangs about my hips, exposing my pink knickers and the ugly, gartered stockings. I feel his nails grazing my sensitive skin as he pulls down the elastic at the back of the shabby undergarment. It hangs across the back of my thighs and my already clenching bottom is bared.

  ‘Pass me that spoon. The big one.’

  I hand him the long wooden implement and place my hands on the hard rim of the sink, feel it pressing against my lower belly, ashamed at the physical thrill it gives me, in spite of my anticipation of pain. An anticipation which is fully justified as he begins to strike deliberately, each blow a sharp, distinct crack, first on one buttock then on the other, the pain flaring at each contact, so that I have to steel myself not to move, except for the involuntary clenching of my bottom and the quiver at each strike. My backside burns, the strokes merging into a steady agony, and I cannot muffle my cries any longer. I lean forward further, over the greasy dishes, and beg for mercy, hating myself, yet deeply, somewhere in my most shameful, secret self acknowledging a wicked, sick excitement, a spasming and tightening in my pussy, spreading through my lower belly, my quivering thighs, along with the growing burn of the ordeal ...

  I wake from my vivid dream, with its mix of degradation and pain, and a shameful sexual arousal, to find the latter emotion shatteringly displacing all others, as Captain Abdi’s long, expert fingers caress and teasingly penetrate my beating cunt, which lifts automatically, begging for further exquisite attention. I feel the tickle of that tuft of beard at his chin, the scratch of the thin moustache above his upper lip, and his lips against mine, which I yield gladly, and accept with a rapturous shiver the plunge of that long, sensitive, curling tongue into my mouth, sucking, demanding every nuance of response. It traps the whimper within my throat as I both fear and long for the climax I can feel starting deep inside my belly. My hips jerk, as I struggle to impale myself deeper on those exploring fingers, yet longing for the ultimate sensation of that long brown prick entering, possessing me and taking me to that explosive summit of sensation. Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me! I scream it inside my whirling, fragmenting mind – my mouth is too completely captured to frame the words, as my brain is about to lose the power to think, yielding instead to pure sensation.

  I am whimpering, frantically my hands search, scrabble and, at last, his mouth releases me and I draw a deep, shuddering, transported breath at the velvet caress of his glans on the melting fissure begging for its immolation. The helm nudges, rubs, eases its way into the narrowness, the yielding soft wetness that surrenders so gladly. With desperate joy, I lift my belly, lost in the thrill of that potent column driving, drilling, sliding into me, to my very depths, and I howl – I burn with blushes in memory of it, but that is exactly the sound I make, a bitch on heat, consumed by the fire of fucking and being fucked.

  I drift slowly, through pale, fluffy, unthinking clouds of post-orgasmic bliss, to an awareness of his magnificence still inside me, nestled in my sensitised, wet sheath, relaxed, but still splendidly potent, possessive, ready to begin again. It’s not possible! I can’t! Not yet! My God! I begin to cry out as his column moves, infinitely slowly, gently, and my cry turns to a moan, a whimper, as deliciously torturous sensations stir once more, spreading from our joined bellies and thighs, right through me to the tips of my t
oes and fingers. Infinitely slowly he moves, minutely at first, and I cling to him, feel the smoothness of his brown body against my thighs. Again I thrust forward, my belly, my sweat-damp pubis against his tight little scrub of black curls, the velvet smoothness of his leanness against my paleness. My breasts are mashed against his hairless chest, our skin shares the running sheen of our sweat as intimately as we share our other, hidden body fluids, and our necks writhe, our mouths open as we gnaw and wrestle at each other, like coiling serpents locked in mortal combat.

  I can’t get close enough; I want him, more and more of him, I want to be devoured by him. Incredibly, as the rocking rhythm intensifies, and we lie half on our sides, my left hip trapped under him, my fingers digging in the oily splendour of the moving muscles of his long back, the tight flexing muscles of his moving buttocks, I am shocked at the resurrection of my physical excitement, in spite of the soreness from our sexual climax only minutes before. But it’s true, and undeniable, and I begin to ride, to spear myself on his magically rejuvenated manhood. I hear a strange mewing, an alley cat howling, and in some corner of my spinning consciousness I am shocked and ashamed to acknowledge that it’s me. All at once he increases the speed and power of his thrusts, like the last frantic pace of the athlete straining towards the tape. This time I know nothing – who comes first, in the flashing photo-finish of our consummation – only the wildly magnificent, almost-terror of it, my coming and his pumping on and on deep into me; THE END, the thundering music of its climax filling the screen of my being.

  I can’t dream of anything, either waking or sleeping. No more vivid scenarios of Mandy and her rapacious, brutal Joe. When I sleep, it is the sleep of utter exhaustion, and when I’m conscious, during the long periods of day and night when I’m left alone, I lie in that narrow bed, exhausted still, and so battered and sore with pain that I’m sure I’ll die if the captain, or anyone, ever comes near me again. What was that Shakespeare thing Mandy Challis taught me? Something from Antony and Cleopatra , about that randy super-whore describing herself as being “with Phoebus’ amorous pinches black”. Well, I’m black and blue, purple and yellow – and the rest!

  But I find I’m made of sterner stuff than my original modest assessment of my endurance or my capabilities. For three days and nights I scarcely leave the narrow bunk, though Captain Abdi frequently comes and goes (forgive the pun!), day and night, as duty calls. In his absences, I lie in recuperating somnolence or refresh myself in the shower. I don’t linger in the spacious day cabin, even though he always locks it behind him. Keeping me in, or others out? I don’t know, and at the moment, hardly care. The dramatic change in my circumstances – the tragic loss of Wanda, the fear and uncertainty of what lies ahead and, as shocking as either of those, the enthralling sexuality of the compelling figure who has taken me over so completely – seem to deprive my mind of its ability to think ahead, to conjecture what my fate will be. Or perhaps it’s just too frightening to dwell on – and the captain’s wonderful skill as a lover is too powerful a distraction, which I embrace like an addict. It seems most of my life so far, my fortune has depended on my body and the pleasure men – and women – can draw from it. Give and take. I’ve lived pretty much by doing both since as far back as I care to remember. So what’s new?

  But of course, however desperately you embrace the dictum of living for the moment, the next one, and all the others after it inexorably roll around. And on the fourth day, my exclusive little world is invaded – and shattered, when, just as I am drying off after my shower, and hearing the door between the outer cabin and the bridge opening, I emerge still rubbing at my blonde locks, which have grown considerably since I was captured, an age ago now. I don’t hide my nakedness, not even in a coquettish display of false prudery. Things have progressed far beyond such arch titillations between me and my new lover – and master.

  Then the towel is discarded altogether. I drop it, in surprise and alarm. I stand, feet apart, arms at my side, not even capable of the instinctive if late reflex to cover my breasts or the still damp little beard of my pubis, and gape with dropped jaw.

  ‘Well well! No wonder the skipper’s been keeping you safely under lock and key! He’s a dark horse, all right! Which is more than can be said for you, my lovely! You really are a blonde, aren’t you?’ And now my hands, spurred on by the words, the broad smile, and the pointed glance, belatedly spring into action and clamp over my pubis.

  My mouth still hanging open, I stare back at the figure. She is the most gorgeous looking female: taller than Wanda, but a lot slimmer. Her figure is more that of a fashion model than the voluptuous glossy sex mag type. Her complexion is a lot darker too, more the burnished coppery brown of Captain Abdi. The graceful slenderness of the hips and the small, high breasts are exhibited to perfection by the simple clothes: denim jeans moulded to her slimness, cut away to trendy raggedness at the knees; her pointed breasts, clearly unsupported by anything but nature as they jut cutely, nipples and all, in a tight, pale blue top with tiny sleeves. Between its lower hem and the dip of her jeans across the belly there is a gap of velvet smooth chocolate brown skin. At the shallow dish of the navel a small metal ring glints.

  Although my brain is still whirling in confusion, my other senses are much quicker in making up their mind. I feel my own nipples tingle as they harden and, lower, at my belly and thighs, I feel the spasming response of those inner muscles which have been receiving such vigorous exercise so recently. And now that pseudo primness I have just moments ago been denigrating kicks in – except that there’s nothing false about the deep blush which invades neck and face and makes my toes dig into the floor, as I bend and quickly snatch up the towel and try to hide myself behind it.

  The girl chuckles and moves closer. ‘Hi. Welcome aboard. Though I guess you’ve already been welcomed a few times already! My name’s Amina, by the way. I work here. Sorry I missed you when you came aboard. But we’re going to get to know each other pretty well, I guess. What’s your name, sugar?’

  ‘Crissie.’ I hug the towel self-consciously to me. ‘Nice to meet you, Amina,’ and wince at my trite opener, and Amina’s bubbling laugh in response. ‘What is it ... I mean, what exactly do you do?’

  Another laugh, the dark liquid eyes hold mine teasingly until I glance away in confusion. ‘Well – you could call me a jack-of-all-trades. Though on the ship’s papers, I guess they call me steward. I’ll be looking after you, I expect.’ I was aware of that amused, penetrating look even though I couldn’t quite meet it. ‘So we’ll get to know each other pretty well, Crissie. It could be quite a long voyage, I reckon.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  AMINA’S PREDICTION PROVES TO be accurate. After being confined to Captain Abdi’s cabin (and bed) I suddenly find myself virtually given the freedom of the ship – a rusting old bucket long past its sell-by date, named the Ocean Star . ‘It wouldn’t get its seaworthiness certificate, that’s for sure!’ Amina tells me, with that deep chuckle that soon becomes a familiar sound. I am wary and afraid of her at first. Surely a beauty like her must be the captain’s favourite companion, in bed at least, and in the first uneasy hours of our acquaintance I am constantly tensed, awaiting a display of her vindictive anger at my usurping her position since I was dumped on board. To my amazement and relief, it doesn’t come.

  When my nerves become so stretched that I can’t keep quiet, I mention it apprehensively. ‘The captain ... you and he? You must be ... very close?’

  She chuckles again. Those dark, limpid eyes give me such a level stare I feel myself colouring hotly and avoiding her gaze. ‘He’s quite a stud, yeah? I guess you two have got to know each other pretty well. I’m amazed you can still walk after the last three days!’

  ‘Please! I didn’t ... I couldn’t ... I have no choice. I’m a prisoner.’

  ‘Yes, you poor little thing. It must have been so rough for you! I bet you screamed the place down!’

  Now my face is burning with shame, while my body tightens
in expectation of an assault, either verbal or physical. But then I see the dark eyes dancing with amusement, and I relax, even manage a shamefaced smile in return, while my brain whispers maliciously, Yeah, you didscream a few times, didn’t you? But it wasn’t exactly in protest, was it?

  For the first time since I was brought up to the bridge, I leave the captain’s cabin, but this time I am dressed in jeans which fit me snugly enough, but which I have to turn up in wide cuffs at my ankles, making it clear that they are the long-legged Amina’s. I’m also wearing a white T-shirt, beneath which I am braless. But at least I have knickers; a pair of white cotton briefs, nothing very alluring, but to me they are as welcome as the finest lace-edged silk. It’s more weeks than I can remember since I enjoyed such luxury. A pair of rubber flipflops adorns my feet. Simple enough, but again any footwear is a refinement that’s been missing since I became a captive.

  Captain Abdi is sitting on a high cushioned swivel chair at the centre of the long row of windows, through which the already-hot sun blazes, and he turns as I emerge self-consciously behind Amina. There are two others with him, and I blush, feeling their stares. ‘Well, well! I hardly recognised you. Make yourself at home. Welcome to the Ocean Star . You’re one of the crew now.’

  And I begin a tour of at least the accommodation areas of the ship – we content ourselves with no more than a quick glance down into the stifling, noisy engine room, from the top of the greasy iron ladder that leads to it, where only two gleaming, dirty figures appear to be on duty – dark skinned under the sheen of sweat and oil, and wearing filthy underpants and heavy boots. I’m amazed at how few crew there are – no more than 15, including the “skipper”, Amina tells me. We end up in the galley. This is in the lowest section of the block at the stern of the ship, which houses the bridge and captain’s cabin at the top.