by Nicole Dere
‘I’m still waiting to hear from M. Mazarin,’ Abdi answers calmly. His reasoned tone is in great contrast to my semi-hysterical outburst, choked by the tears I can’t keep back. ‘I wouldn’t be hanging about in these waters otherwise, believe me. Every day we spend up here pushes our luck a bit further. He must show up soon.’
‘Why here? Why not down off the Kenya coast, where we started?’ My heart begins to thump most unpleasantly at the skipper’s supposedly lighthearted reply.
‘Perhaps he intends to sell you to one of the Arab sheikhs, up in the Gulf. Or Yemen.’
My eyes are wide; I know I am betraying all too clearly my rising fear. ‘Look! You know – you must know – I wasn’t – I’m not like poor Wanda. Not a prisoner, I mean. Simon asked me – I came voluntarily. So that Wanda wouldn’t feel so bad ... about being taken hostage. Now it’s all gone wrong. I don’t know what’s happening.’
‘You didn’t do a very good job then, did you?’ Abdi says deliberately, and I recoil, flinching. His observation is worse than any smack on my backside with the ruler. I stare at him, my mouth opening and shutting like a goldfish, while I blink back the tears.
I reach out my hands to touch him, but he remains standing impassively, makes no move to reciprocate. ‘Look! Please! Can’t you just take me back down south? Put me ashore somewhere. Anywhere ! Simon will pay you. He’s rich. I’ll make my own way, once I’m ashore. I’ll say anything you want – that I escaped or something. Please , captain!’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t wait any longer. Maybe I will just sell you, up here. Slip into Berbera.’ Now he does reach out, a hand brushing through my untidy blonde hair, the other tugging at my grubby T-shirt. ‘Clean you up a bit. I’m sure there’ll be plenty of takers. You’d like it, Crissie, I promise. It’s a nice life, especially for a mzungu like you, in the harem.’
Any shred of courage or dignity is forgotten. I drop to my knees – it’s not difficult, the strength seems to drain from my limbs. I hold up my clasped hands like a beggar. I see the curl of disgust on his handsome face. I can even understand it, but I can’t do anything about my craven terror. The tears pour down my face and I whimper some broken phrases, scarcely intelligible through my weeping.
He grabs me by my upper arms and hauls me roughly to my feet, giving me a vigorous shake as he does so. ‘Get a grip of yourself! Stop your snivelling, girl! If I don’t hear from Mazarin in the next few days, I’m heading back south. I’ll do as you ask. I’ll drop you on that damned island, and to hell with all of you!’
I can’t stop shaking, or crying, but I feel like dropping again, this time to kiss his canvas-covered feet with gratitude. Yes, all right. Grovelling wimp is about right, but so what? It works for me !
And suddenly it’s all happening, just as Captain Abdi promised, except that it takes perhaps a day or two longer than he surmised. But Ocean Star does indeed head back south – I even get the chance to show my appreciation, and spend a final night in the skipper’s arms and his bunk, where he is once again the skilful, considerate lover I had formerly known. That’s where we say our private and tender farewells. When I leave the next morning, he stands, a remote, authoritarian figure, despite his dirty white cap and vest, on the wing of the bridge and gives a final salute. I respond with a shy wave from the bobbing launch. The tall and beautiful Amina stands too at the rail, staring down at me, but there is no wave, no smile, though I guess she must be sighing with a relief as great as mine.
It’s a long ride back to the little island of the old slaving post, and Ocean Star is well down over the horizon when we reach our destination – Abdi was evidently taking no risks, refusing to approach any nearer before dropping us in the launch. Familiar faces are waiting to receive me – not the one I am longing to see, but still reassuring: Mattius’s dazzling grin and confidently lecherous survey of me in my T-shirt and cutaway jeans, clean but not my most alluring outfit. Not that it matters. Mattius – and the attendant Mazarin quartet – have eyes that would pierce a suit of armour and cause their sinews, and other bits, to stiffen. And even more beautiful to my way of thinking, the bright white lines of Malaika , waiting to speed me over the last miles of my sea odyssey, to the mainland seaport, with its towering hotels, bogs with bidets, and hot and cold everything.
Still no Simon – nor word of him. But there, waiting with a suite at the Oceanic, is the froggy Frog prince, M. Auguste, spectacles twinkling, brown face wreathed in smiles, and within minutes of our touching reunion, thick little floppy prick rising to my lavish attentions as I lie between the short, smooth, widespread limbs, fondling and tonguing, and gazing up at the vista of tight balls, sparse pubic fuzz, and beyond, the round, smooth dome of belly. Matters are swiftly critical, witness the clawing of those stubby fingers in my newly washed but as yet unpampered yellow locks, and I raise my body along with his newly stiffened penis and clamber aboard, mounting him and guiding the prick to my ready sheath. Off we go, on a gallop or, rather, a sprint that makes Usain Bolt’s record seem like a leisurely stroll. It takes longer to cry ‘Geronimo!’ than it does to complete the circuit. But he collapses and gurgles in what sounds like total satisfaction. For me, it’s over before I’m out of the starting block, but monsieur is happy. That’s all that counts.
Now only dare I make my timorous overtures, my heart in my recently hectically and, hopefully, gainfully employed mouth. ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ I and the universe stop breathing.
‘You’re going home, Crissie,’ he sighs. ‘Unless I can persuade you to stay. Mr Simon refuses to part with you, even for a fortune.’
I have to struggle hard to concentrate over the hysterical joy which is singing through every atom of me. He explains that the mighty Sharif family paid the vast ransom, and are still ignorant of the fate of their unfortunate daughter, though they are gradually beginning to accept the painful truth that they might well never see her again. ‘Unfortunately, it means that Simon must regretfully forfeit the pleasures of remaining in this part of the world – though the family knows nothing of who her kidnappers were, even now.’
He grins as his hands play over my flesh like a sleepy child with its teddy bear. I shudder visibly at the callousness with which he contemplates Wanda’s death. Fortunately, because of the sticky region where his fingers are stroking, he misinterprets my movement and I don’t disillusion him. I’m even more consumed with anxiety now until I can make my escape.
I can hardly believe my luck when, only two days and one long night later, I find myself sitting in a first-class seat on a jumbo jet heading for Heathrow, my lips still wet and my mouth still full of the taste of M. Auguste’s last tonsil-probing kiss. I’m wearing a new designer dress and new silk underwear beneath it and, best of all, a wallet bulging with banknotes, and a fashionable London address only a lengthy taxi ride away from the airport. I am assured my beloved Simon will be awaiting me there with open arms.
Dreaming! Dreaming! I’m truly terrified it will prove to be so, for I am as fearfully aroused as in one of my steamiest Mandy Challis/Joe Servis extravaganzas. I’m dreading the second when I awake to find myself shatteringly conscious on the floor of Captain Abdi’s day cabin, or frog-legged on that greasy leather banquette with Hassan’s smothering, oily bulk on top of me. But then I catch the eye of the reassuringly solid cabbie’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. ‘Bet you didn’t get that at Southend, eh, miss?’ he leers. ‘All-over tan, is it?’
‘That’s for me to know and you to get hard over!’ I grin, and hitch my hem just another inch or two up my thigh, out of sheer good will.
At last I’m there, standing at the door of the discreet luxury apartment, someone is handling my case, the door swings open, a beaming flunkey steps aside and – there he is, my best loved beloved, and I’m sobbing, shaking like a leaf, unbelievably in his arms, his mouth on mine, my body straining to get every inch in contact with him and longing for more – and I still haven’t woken up, never want to, for the rest of my heavenly life. �
�Oh God! I love you, Simon! Never, never leave me again, not for a second, my love!’
‘That’s entirely up to you, my sweet. It will always be your choice, I promise. From this moment on, you can stay or go – whenever and wherever you choose.’
‘I’ll never leave your side again, Simon, I swear it, no matter what!’ I cling sobbing to him, wanting only the bliss of feeling our naked flesh truly together again, after this desolate age of separation. ‘Take me to bed, my darling. Make me yours again, the way I’ve been longing for.’
‘Just one more thing, darling. One last surprise. I know you’ll be overjoyed.’
I stare at him in wonder. What more could I possibly need or want to complete my happiness? He has led me to the open door of a large, exquisitely appointed bedroom, the centrepiece of which is a satin expanse of snowy invitation, the very centre of my new, eagerly dreamed of world, just waiting for heaven to be complete. ‘Fuck me, darling,’ I murmur, weeping quietly, trembling with the desperate need to feel him undressing me, entering me, possessing ...
A door opposite opens, and I catch a glimpse of a superbly fitted bathroom, behind a tall, slim figure, whose beauty is unashamedly displayed, through a mere dusky mist of a negligee, tied only at the waist, showing those splendid long legs.
‘Fuck me!’ The words are repeated, this time in breathless disbelief. My real world crumbles, fantasy swoops in and consciousness fades, as Wanda steps forward, and I crumple in a faint at her feet.
I’m vaguely aware of competent fingers undressing me, peeling the sheer stockings from my legs, easing the silk knickers down over my bum and my hips, then off my feet, and I realise as full consciousness returns that I am naked, and that it is an all too lifelike Wanda who has stripped me on this silken football field of a bed.
‘You’re not dead!’ I croak, a little superfluously. I’d know that wickedly mischievous grin anywhere.
‘Can’t fool you, can we, genius?’ She seizes me vigorously by the wrists and hauls me upright, then flings a companionable arm over my shoulders as we sit side by side on the edge of the bed. ‘Got it in one. Mazarin picked me up under the stern of the ship and whipped me down below. It all went like clockwork. We asked M. Auguste not to say anything. Didn’t want to spoil the surprise!’
Sickened, I realise that I and my shipmates on Ocean Star have been colossally duped. Worse, as Wanda laughingly continues to explain, I have been deceived from the very beginning. The whole scheme of the kidnap was a joint venture set up by Simon, Wanda and Mazarin.
I’m too stunned to take in anything much. I’m not even sure what my own feelings are inside my whirling head, except that I’m dimly then increasingly aware that, as she is speaking, Wanda is tenderly but firmly spreading my naked frame out on the satin cover, parting my legs and caressing me, and both my body and my senses are totally unable to resist. There are tears blurring my sight and I feel their wetness on my cheeks, but my breasts and belly lift in response to her attention. The hypnotic voice continues.
‘Just one more thing, my darling. I know it won’t make any difference. But I’m now Mrs Simon Kent. For various complicated financial and legal reasons we don’t need to bother your pretty head with. Eh, Simon?’
And staring up, I see over her shoulder that Simon has now joined us, kneeling close behind her, between my outspread feet, his arms enclosing her, the long brown fingers spanning her superb breasts. ‘We want you to stay, Crissie.’ The deep, gentle tones stir me every bit as powerfully as Wanda’s lips and fingers. His smile widens. ‘Our little love slave. Our own treasure. But it’s entirely up to you. Voluntary.’
The smile is cut off; those grey eyes look deep into the very soul of me. My mind flashes back to that blazing day of brilliant sun, the canoe bobbing, as Simon bent over me, held my arms while Mattius thrust himself into me. I clear my throat, let out a little gasp as Wanda suddenly bends, and her rich, thick hair spreads, trailing over my belly, and her tongue laps possessively the length of my labial cleft. ‘Whatever you want, Simon!’ I whisper. I feel the tiny expulsion of her breath on my sex as he drives his rigid prick into her uplifted haunch and our three-way ride begins. I am home.
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