by Nicole Dere
I’m still intrigued by my new guide and mentor – and warder, I suspect, though she tells me easily, ‘You can wander about where you like. I know you won’t run away!’ The deep chuckle, as she points at the sparkling, deserted ocean. ‘Where would you go?’ Then the smile is cut off and she smacks her forehead as she sees the stricken look that comes over me. Wanda looms like a spectre. ‘I’m sorry. Your friend. You were very close, yeah?’
It’s not really a question and I find myself wondering uncomfortably just how much she knows about our relationship.
‘Come and meet the other girls. This is where you’ll spend most of your time, I guess.’ I gawp in amazement as I follow her through the door from the open deck into the galley, where I find two diminutive figures – a chubby girl dressed in sleeveless vest and voluminous, grubby white shorts that come down to her knees, and a much slimmer girl, dressed in what at first seems to be vest only, her thin brown legs displayed to upper thighs, but then as she turns with a beaming grin, I notice that she is sporting a pair of tiny black briefs, which preserve a kind of decency, hugging her crotch and the crack of her slim bottom.
Their cheerful, shining features have an oriental stamp, their gleaming black hair is pulled back on top and bound in a thick plaited pigtail at the back, reaching down to waist level. Their stubby brown feet are bare. The chubby one is introduced as Cara, the slim one as Lochi. Their shrill laughter reminds me of the twittering of exotic birds. They step forward, with quick jerking bows from the waist; simultaneously they wipe right hands on their flanks, then offer it to me in a formal handshake. I find myself nodding in return at their warbled greetings. They are clearly preparing food for the crew, and Amina speaks swiftly to them in a language I can’t identify before ushering me through a curtained-off doorway, where I find myself in a surprisingly large room, with a long table at the near end, with chairs tucked in neatly: clearly the communal dining space. The rest of the room is taken up with a couple of battered sofas and armchairs, some small, low tables – there is even a small TV set fixed high up on a shelf.
‘This is the crew’s mess,’ Amina explains. ‘You’ll take your meals here – unless the skipper wants you to eat with him, up in his cabin. Which he will do, I guess.’ She grins. I blush. ‘The two girls – Cara and Lochi – are from Manila.’ She pauses slightly. ‘In case you haven’t guessed, I’m Somali – like Captain Abdi.’
I nod. I had guessed as much. They, and the Ethiopians, are among the most beautiful girls of the African continent. As we sit over a cup of excellent coffee, Amina fills me in on some of her history. ‘Ocean Star was on the way to Mumbai – to be scrapped, I guess – a few years ago. One of the gangs grabbed her and she finished up in Abdi’s hands. I was in a little dump up on the Somali coast called Borgal. I was taken from my family when I was just a kid – I can hardly remember them. An old trader bought me. He was good to me, really. That’s how I learnt English. One of his women spoke it like a native and she took a shine to me – until I grew old enough to know what was what and what goes where! That’s when he decided there was money to be made. They sent me to Berbera. That’s where my education really began!’ She grimaces eloquently. ‘I was up there in the Gulf of Aden, ready to be sold off to some prince in Saudi Arabia – that’s where I ran into Captain Abdi. He was part of the set-up, transporting girls to the Arabian Gulf, but he’d just heard about the Ocean Star needing a skipper, so he did a bunk – and took me with him! My lucky day!’
I stare at her. She grins at me. ‘Oh sure! I’ve been with him ever since. I could have cleared off, made a break for it, any time.’ Those long lashes flicker with disconcerting eloquence. ‘But he’s been good to me. He has a way with him – I guess I don’t need to tell you.’ Her chuckle ripples forth and, despite my embarrassment, I can’t prevent a sheepish smile of acknowledgement, and she leans close, punches me lightly on the upper arm. ‘Don’t worry, Crissie, you’ll be OK, I swear. Just go along for the ride – and do whatever it takes. Just like you’ve been doing, I hear.’
Within a few days, time rolls by as timelessly as it did when Wanda and I were imprisoned on the tiny island, but with some great differences. Ocean Star is a lot bigger than our grass hut and the compound. Amina is right. There doesn’t seem to be any restriction to my wanderings about the shabby old vessel, and I don’t get the feeling that she or anyone else is dogging my footsteps or keeping a check on me in any way. I really am one of the crew. I start to help out, working with the two Philippino girls, preparing food in the galley, cleaning the mess room and the crew cabins, as well as the captain’s quarters. For a bunch of pirates, things seem to be pretty well organised.
Abdi’s word is law in this lawless little community. I was scared on venturing out from under (literally) the skipper’s protection to face the rest of the inhabitants of our isolated little world, first and foremost of the formidably beautiful Amina, who has proved to be the most easygoing, charming shipmate I could hope for. Then there are the dozen male members (the very word makes my inner muscles clench) of the crew. I honestly assumed that only the gallant captain’s pleasure in me up in his lofty height was protecting me from non-stop gangbanging from these jolly unsavoury tars. Yet despite their looking like extras for deckhands of the notorious Captain Hook, and the fact that I am the only white-skinned blonde bimbo in this set of dusky rogues of all shades, no one has laid so much as a finger on me. True, their eyes are all over me and stripping me bare-ass naked in their doubtless vivid imaginations, but fingers – or any other protuberances – have there been none. So far!
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or even more alarmed to discover the two Philippino girls were part of the set-up, making the female complement four – one to every two-and-a-half men, not counting the skipper. Not such a daunting task, you might think – I’ve handled and been handled by a considerably higher number during one of my former boss Jo’s “special” weekends.
‘Sure, it happens,’ Amina tells me, with a mischievous grin. ‘Lochi and Cara service the guys regularly. But nobody forces you to drop your knickers round here. The girls can nearly double their wages if they give out – and they do, most nights, or when guys are off-watch. They’re happy to do it. But nobody’s going to leap on you and rape you, sugar. For one thing, the skipper would probably have them tossed overboard with a bullet through the head, and maybe a few other nasty injuries as well!’
She chuckles again, and I suddenly feel extremely uncomfortable as those wonderful eyes hold me. ‘And the girls can take care of not only the guys – if you’re that way inclined.’ The blushes mount hotly and my toes curl. How much does this girl know about me? ‘And we’ve heard you are !’
What can I say? I shrug, and mumble vague nothings, which Amina interrupts with a careless wave of her hand.
‘Hey! It’s no big deal. I fancy you myself, except ... I don’t think I’d be much use to you.’ Now it’s actually her turn to look embarrassed. ‘You see ... there’s a problem with me. I’m not much of a dyke. I’m not butch. I’m afraid I like to take, but I don’t like to dish out. I just lie back and let it all happen. Not much fun for a partner – but I can’t help it. That’s just the crazy way I am.’
My heart is thumping, suddenly my tongue feels too big for my mouth, and my mouth feels dry. ‘That suits me fine!’ I croak. Tears sting behind my eyes as I suddenly recall Wanda, her beautiful, voluptuous flesh moving against mine, our limbs entwined, mouths clamped in passionate kisses, hands exploring, possessing every curve and yielding crevice. You callous bitch! I chastise myself. But helplessly I am pulled into the steady deep pools of Amina’s black-eyed stare, allow my pale hand to be captured in her larger, darker one, and she leads me out into a narrow alleyway, and to a small cabin, with a porthole open to the bright sea and sky. There is a two-tier bunk fixed to the steel wall, and in what seems a single fluid movement, she climbs up onto the upper berth, then catches hold of my hand again.
‘I told you. You�
��ll have to do everything,’ she murmurs, lying on her back, with her knees raised, her head turned towards me. ‘Climb aboard.’
I do so, and kneel above her. The bunk is no wider than three feet, so we are already in close contact. The only move she makes is to raise her arms over her head, those long hands lying either side of the pillow, framing her lovely face. Her mouth twitches, inviting my response, and I bend close, breathe in the exciting scent of her warmth, musky perfume and alluring heat. Then my mouth settles over those inviting, cushioned lips, gently at first, then presses harder, my tongue emerges, inserts itself into her warm wetness, driving, her own tongue curling upward, yielding to my advance. My left hand cups her face, exploring the fine, pronounced jawline, my fingers feeling the damp warmth of her neck and shoulder, teasing beneath the T-shirt’s rounded top. My right ecstatically explores the rounded softness of her breasts through the cotton of the shirt, the surprisingly large nipples hardening under the material.
We’re both panting when I release her and I feel the shiver right through her long frame. She stretches her legs down now, pressed close against my own bent limbs as I kneel between her knees. I dip my head worshipfully. Another shiver as I let my fine blonde hair trail lightly over the velvet dark smoothness of that bare expanse of midriff and belly. I love the heady scent of her as my nose inhales the flavour of her skin, rubs against the tiny ring through her belly. I let the tip of my tongue gently lift it from the shallow little eye, taste the tanginess of the metal before I burrow my face deep in that smooth warmth, which yields then tightens beneath me. I feel the tensing of those muscles, savour the slimness of her, then I lift my head and my fingers work at the fastening of her jeans, fighting to open the metal button. It takes several seconds to succeed, then I am drawing the silver zipper down, slowly, deliberately, aware of the erotic web which is being woven about us.
My own excitement is intense. I can feel the heat, the tightness of my loins, the swelling of my mons, the wetness of my briefs against that budding hunger. I have to fight the jeans down off her slim hips, then down the long brown thighs, all the way against their cling, inch by inch revealing more of her delightful flesh, at long last wrestling the obstinate tightness clear of her ankles, the long, narrow feet. I lift one leg, hold it reverently at the back of the knee, press my kisses against the little swell of the inside surface, then let my mouth trail down the slender calf to the exquisite delicacy of ankle, the high bridge of foot, those long, thin painted toes. I lap and nibble, taste the nectar of soap and that heady faint aroma of perspiration that makes me giddy with excitement and desperate for more. But I must not rush. I want desire to last for ever, even as my contrary flesh floods with its need for consummation.
She’s wearing a pair of pale blue briefs; pretty but not spectacular, with a thin white waistband and similar edging along the high legs, which curve steeply up to her prominent hipbones. I can see the uppermost tips of her black pubic curls peeping over the white elastic. My fingers tingle with the need to slip into the small garment, to drag it down, expose the pungent, flowing beauty of what it hides, but I force myself not to. Instead I bury my nose deep into the soft swell of her mound, and feel the wetness of her sex through the thin cloth, smell all that steamy heat of love, trace the fissure between those soft swollen sex lips.
Now she gasps, gives a small whimper, an appeal for mercy, for relief, signalled by the urgent lift of that dark belly, the thrust of her mons into my soaking buried face, as though saying, Here! Please! Have me! Take me!
I’m soaking myself; I can feel my knickers clinging to my own throbbing vulva. Any minute now, I swear, I shall come. But somehow I force myself not to hurry, in spite of our urgency, for I know she too is close to the climax – but not yet, please! Still, there is an unsteady haste about my fingers as I seize her pants and tug them down, watch that heavenly secret flesh appear, drowning me in its sight and smell, and touch. I can’t keep my face from dipping, from burying worshipfully, my forehead and nose scratched by that tight little triangle of kinked curls, the soft full swelling embrace of the labia, its glistening pungency meeting my own eager mouth, which descends rapturously, madly, burying itself. My tongue stretches, curls, laps like a thirst-maddened soul at all that slippery, pungent openness. I slobber, face soaked in her sex fluid, sucking at its nectar, gasping for air yet burying myself deeper and deeper, my fingers beside my puffed cheeks now, peeling back her sex lips. I want more; more of their gleaming inner pinkness, the funnel which draws me into her cunt, the very nub of our loving.
My tongue is defeated, my hand moves, fingers extended, sliding easily through the fleshy opening deep into the furrow, the quick of her, feeling the beat and locking embrace of the muscles. Then, unable to delay any longer, my fingers search through the folds, find that upper peak, draw it towards my straining tongue. The flaps of tissue slither and beneath I taste the tiny bud of the clitoris, and she erupts, thighs clamp about my head, drowning out sound, fingers twist mercilessly in my hair, and she flings herself upward, proffers the very core of herself into my buffeted face, and the world is all rushing, screaming, sobbing completeness. She’s jerking, flailing her sex against me, pinning my face to her, fingers holding me remorselessly to her, and dimly my own cunt spasms, the releasing flow soaks my briefs; I judder in my coming, before I collapse.
Somehow my soaking, stinging face is released, I feel the cold air, the running sweat, the lard of sex juice, and I lie, my sore lips flubbering on the wetness of her inner thigh, as I gasp in air, and she sobs convulsively in the aftershocks of her orgasm.
Chapter Twenty-two
AMINA PROVES AS GOOD as her word, in every sense. After that first passionate session in her bunk, she eventually murmurs a drugged, ‘Thank you, sugar,’ and turning towards the porthole and drawing back the scrap of fluttering chintzy curtain she had pulled across it, gives a little wriggle and settles down to contented sleep, her lovely, relaxed face towards the sunlit opening. I have to move, out of necessity. There is no room for me in that narrow space, and I am left to stand there, leaning with arms folded on the edge of the bunk and contemplating the splendid rear view of her reclining nude figure. Despite the sticky evidence of my own gratification, I can’t help a keen sense of frustration and rejection at the spectacle of her dismissive oblivion.
When we next meet, in the evening, she accepts the homage of my light kiss upon her lips, but makes no effort at initiating or reciprocating such gestures of affection. I’m hurt, I must admit, by her indifference. However, I also have to acknowledge her undeniable lack of any hint of jealousy or vindictiveness when Captain Abdi singles me out after the evening meal, in which all the crew except the four on watch participate, in the communal mess. The skipper sits at the head of the table, and the whole affair is comparatively civilised. Cara and Lochi serve the food, but join us to eat it, and though I do catch a few surreptitious glances at me from some of the men, every effort is made to help me feel “one of the boys – and girls”, as Abdi smilingly puts it.
I still flush up like a beetroot, though, when soon after the table has been cleared, he rises and holds out his hand. ‘Come on, Crissie,’ he says easily. ‘We’ll be coming up to Borgal around dawn. That’s almost at the southern point of the Gulf of Aden,’ he explains for my benefit. ‘You Brits are becoming very active again around that area with your naval patrols. Bloody shame, after you were kicked out more than 40 years ago! But I’d better be up and about first thing. Need an early night.’
His arm goes around my shoulder, the pressure minimum as he escorts me to the door, and ignores the one or two restrained cheers which again bring the crimson tide flooding from flipflops to blonde locks.
There’s no sign of fatigue, however, in his display once we are safely behind the closed door of his day cabin. I can’t help thinking of the two men I have seen at their posts on the dimly lit bridge now that the tropic night has fallen. Only a thin steel wall (or “bulkhead”, Abdi informs me – ‘you’
ll have to learn sailors’ talk now’) separates us when the skipper grabs me and, with eager roughness, opens and removes the loose cotton shirt I am wearing outside my jeans. The next second I am tipped back onto his unused dining table – its coldness on my bare back makes me gasp – and my jeans are tugged down and off my feet with equally scant ceremony. My knickers – clean, thank God, after my session with Amina – follow suit, and there I am, naked, sprawled over his dining table, and definitely on the menu, judging by the way he is shedding his own clothes as though he’s been attacked by a plague of safari ants.
‘Damned bunk’s too small!’ he grunts, already seizing me by the hips and positioning me at the edge of the polished surface. ‘Besides, different scenery does you good. At least a different deckhead – ceiling – to look at!’ He positions himself between my raised knees. My legs are tucked in his arms, and I can feel the sharp edge of the table digging across my behind. My feet wave, my toes curl, and I feel the spasming of my pussy which indicates all is ready for boarding. My head lies on the hard polished wood, my eyes are closed and my breasts rise with anticipation – then there is a pause, and he speaks. I stare up at that long, distinguished face, the sad little smile that transforms the rather demonic quality to that of a boy caught in a minor misdemeanour.
‘Oh dear, my dear! I think you’ll have to come to the aid of an old man.’
He glances down eloquently, and I understand immediately. He still has my feet tucked under each arm like the handles of a wheelbarrow, and I give them a little wiggle. ‘Sorry!’ He releases me immediately, and I roll over on to my tummy and stare down between his thighs, to see his member, gorgeously enlarged, but pointing straight to the floor (sorry – deck!), with the long, hanging bag of his testicles behind it.
‘It’s OK. I don’t think I’m quite ready either,’ I lie, my gaze still fixed modestly on his testicles. (My juices are emphatically running, and my cunt is as greased as an oven-ready chick, but it always pays to be diplomatic in these situations.) My hands reach out to his hard, slim buttocks and draw him in even closer. Because of his height, his genitals are a good few inches above the height of the table top, against which the front of his thighs rest, and convenient for some gentle but arousing foreplay with my busy hands and fingers. I let my brow rest just above the fuzzy scrub of his pubes. My left hand cups his hanging balls. The scrotum feels like warm velvet in my palm, and sends another shiver of beating desire through me, especially when I feel it tighten and lift, puckering into a series of hard little ridges, at the same time as that resplendent cock swells and stiffens, lifts its great head, fully emergent now from that ruff of loose foreskin. It’s not yet completely erect, but it is curving towards me, like a dog’s sniffing snout, investigating me, stirring in the warmth of my breath which flows over it as my lips approach the pink dome, and I breathe in the rapturous scent of his masculinity.