‘Please,’ I said again.
My eyes glazed in tears. The sun on my head made me giddy. I thought I was going to faint. Why had I swum away from the beach at La Gomera? It was madness. What was I doing sunbathing in the raw? I had always hated that sort of thing. The girls at school who wandered around after the showers without anything on were show-offs. That wasn’t me. I was embarrassed by my ripe breasts, my wild hair, the salt and sand sticky on my bare skin. I must have appeared like a girl eager for some raunchy action, but I wasn’t, I really wasn’t. I was petrified being there on the dunes with this stranger leering at me, and didn’t know why my nipples were so blatantly, shamefully erect, why standing there bound and naked my body had turned into a landscape of unfamiliar and inexplicable sensations.
The man didn’t seem to notice my tears. He waved a warning finger that said don’t move. I obeyed. I didn’t move. I remained motionless while he ran his hands over me, down my sides, my hips, my thighs. He felt my breasts, pressing down as you would test the flesh of a chicken at the butcher’s. He then squeezed my nipples so hard I squealed in pain. Still I didn’t move as he ran his hands down my back and I thought I might die of shame when his dark fingers slipped between the cheeks of my bottom into my moist cleft.
‘Please,’ I said, my voice faint.
He looked at my lips as I was speaking, as if he were trying to understand or was sympathetic to what I was saying. Then it dawned on me: perhaps he was mute, or deaf, a poor beachcomber who had never seen a naked girl before. I wanted to touch his arm, his shoulder, reassure him that it was all right. I wasn’t angry. I just wanted to go home.
‘It’s all right,’ I said in a calm voice. I spoke slowly. ‘Let’s go and get some help.’
He nodded as if he had understood and, when I smiled, he smiled back through a mouthful of broken brown teeth. Again, in one swift motion, he swung me around and I couldn’t believe it as he laid the flat of his hand across the mounds of my bottom, the slap so fierce and shocking, I thought for a moment I was having a heart attack.
‘No, no, no,’ I cried, and he struck me again, much harder.
Tears spurted from my eyes. I tried to move away, but he seized me around the waist, bent me double and held me tight as he spanked me as hard as he could, one slap after another, over and over again, the beat of those slaps so loud they blocked out the sound of the sea. A tide of pain radiated out from my bottom, down my legs and over my back. But the pain wasn’t as hard to bear as the humiliation, the unimaginable indignity of this stranger with bad teeth in a dirty blue smock bending me over and beating me like a child, like an animal, like … I don’t know what. I had thought he was going to give me that pendant and then insist on having sex. Being thrashed in this way was almost worse.
‘Ouch, ouch, ouch,’ I cried.
And still his hand came down again and again, scolding the mounds of my delicate rear, one side, then the other, his leathery palm clapping like thunder against the burning plump cheeks as systematically he beat the soft surprised skin like a drum for some primitive dance. I was shaking and trembling, my feet scraping at the sand, my hands behind my back trying in vain to shield those fierce relentless blows.
He spanked my bottom for all he was worth. He spanked me until sweat poured down my back and between my breasts that hung heavily below me. He spanked me until the pain was so unbearable, so shocking, so beyond my imagination or vocabulary that the pain almost ceased and it felt under the hot sun that I was being sacrificed in some strange ritual.
Now that I was able to tolerate the pain, I began to get the feeling that this beating would last for ever, through the whole of eternity, that he was going to spank me until the flesh peeled from my skin, that I as a naked white girl on this tiny nothing of an island was being punished for all the centuries of abuse and torment suffered by all the peoples on the forgotten continent through the long history of forever. Whatever was wrong with the world, it was my fault. I had to pay.
The power in his blows diminished and he only stopped beating me when he was too tired to continue. He forced me down on my knees.
‘Please. Please. Please. Please. Please,’ I cried.
I looked up at him. ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ I said, and he responded by taking a grip of the back of my hair.
With his free hand, he pulled his cock from his tunic and pushed at my closed mouth. He spoke now for the first time. He said something in a deep, gruff, bullying voice and it didn’t matter that I didn’t know what it was he had said. I was on my knees, naked, beaten, the man’s cock pressing against my lips and nose. It smelled like an exotic food from some far away place, ripe and fruity. The head was mauve and bulbous with a gaping eye like a piercing.
It occurred to me that I had never been so close to a man’s cock before, not like this, in broad daylight, in the sweltering midday sun. With my hands tied by the thong, I felt like an actress in a porn film. With my burning bottom and tear-streaked face, nothing seemed real. I was afraid, I was terrified, but I felt protected, too, by this sense of unreality.
He squeezed my cheeks and I opened my mouth to allow this exotic fruit to slide between my open lips. He took a tighter grip on the back of my hair, pushing and pulling my head, jerking his cock further and further down into my gullet. I felt as if I was going to gag, and almost did gag, but I breathed through my nose, opened my mouth wider and sucked harder and harder, wrapping the length of his cock in my tongue, giving all of my effort just to get it over with. I closed my eyes. The sun beat down on my back. My bottom was stinging.
Three days ago I was working in the PR department at a publishing house in the centre of London. I caught the 14 bus along the Fulham Road to go to work every morning. I had a drink in the West End before making plans to go out for the evening. I wore a denim skirt an inch or so too short and red heels with black tights, blouses that revealed a coy few inches of my breasts, short jackets nipped in at the waist. Bobby, the boyfriend, was a celebrity journalist on one of the evening papers. We went to bars, clubs, movies, gigs. We had friends, lives, futures, uncertain yet predictable, understood, safe. I was living the London life and was bored to distraction. I felt like a clone among clones. A sheep among sheep. A party girl among party girls. I had wanted so desperately to do something different and would never have imagined in a million years being naked on my knees in an unnamed place with a stranger’s cock down my throat.
Be careful for what you wish for, my mother liked to say, you might just get it.
With my eyes closed, with that hard cylinder of hot flesh slipping in and out of my throat, I almost forgot my disgust, my fear. It’s like gardening, I mused. Backbreaking and tedious when you begin, but the physical action of pulling weeds and trimming bushes becomes an end in itself, an ephemeral pleasure. It wasn’t that, of course, far from it, but the pure mechanics of sucking that man’s cock had become unconsciously no different from sucking Bobby’s cock, something he couldn’t get enough of, and something I had control over, as I had control over Bobby.
Was that why I had grown bored with him? Was that why I had set off for the most remote part of the Canary Islands on my own? I had wanted an adventure and got more than I’d bargained for.
Perhaps I had been spanked for trespassing and giving head in this way was payment for my being helped to get back to La Gomera?
I comforted myself with this thought and did that thing I know men like: I rimmed the eye of his penis, the tip of my tongue nursing and nudging all the nerve endings on the bulging head. He stiffened and relaxed again. He was in no hurry. He pushed his cock back into the depths of my throat, gripped the scruff of my hair and forced my head back and forth in slow even strokes. Just as it had felt as if my arms were a machine as I swam to the island, now my whole body was a machine focused on the turbine of my stretched mouth slipping and sliding and slurping and sucking at his engorged penis.
The man started to groan and grunt. He was about to come, but at that moment, he
removed his cock and sprayed his seed over my face, into my eyes, my nose, the sticky hot goo running down my cheeks, dripping from my chin and landing on my breasts. After overcoming my fears and trying my best to be a good sport sucking his cock, I felt dirty, sullied, dumbfounded. No man had ever done this to me before. It was so degrading, so decadent, so alien to who I was. Who I thought I was.
The man let out a long sigh and pushed his cock back into my open mouth. I started sucking him off again, the flesh greasy and moist with his semen, and I kept on draining that length of flesh, drawing out every last speck of sperm until his cock grew flaccid and he withdrew.
If I thought it was over, it wasn’t. He shook his penis a couple of times, let out another sigh, and pissed over me. It was hard at first to comprehend what was happening as the yellow arc of hot pee struck my face and I sat there on my knees as the liquid ran over my neck, my breasts, my waist, into my pubic hair and down over my thighs. I wanted to move away, but I was paralysed in shock, with horror. I closed my eyes and squeezed my nails into my palms. I couldn’t imagine anything more degrading, more perverted, more beastly. Being pissed over made sucking the man off and even being spanked seem normal.
He shook the drips from the tip and tossed his cock back into the folds of his tunic. As he did this, he looked back at me and I saw in his inscrutable expression a trace of condescension. I felt debased and demoralised, but at least I hadn’t antagonised him. He was a man and I was a naked young girl. I had made a mistake setting off for the island without wearing my costume and he had taken advantage of me. It was unforgivable. It was totally unacceptable. It was probably illegal. But it was natural, too, and more terrible imagining what had happened there on the beach than what had actually happened.
Deep down in a secret place I would rather not have peeped into, I felt an inexpressible sense of incredulity that I had been able to perform fellatio on a stranger and, dare I admit it, a sense of strange obscene pleasure. Girls have fantasies of being alone on desert islands, of being naked and having sex with men who appear from the sea. I had lived the dream, the fantasy. Being spanked and sucking his cock had been terrible, yet not so terrible.
But why had he pissed over me when he could have turned away and pissed on the beach? What did this mean? Was I marked as his property as dogs mark trees and doorways? Was it to show that I was nothing, less than nothing, that to him I meant no more than the patch of sand where he could have aimed his urine? I had a million questions and I was still on my knees with a stranger who didn’t speak my language.
He squeezed my lips again and made me smile. He then said something I didn’t understand and laughed. He leaned forward and took my bottom lip between his thumb and finger and pressed down so hard I squealed in pain. He laughed again, even louder. I didn’t know what this meant: was this a love ploy? Was this how people kissed on this strange island? I didn’t know. Everything was alien and terrifying. It was as if my past had vanished and I had at that second been born, hatched from an egg, naked, nameless, bound at the wrists and, paradoxically, free of all those things I had wanted to leave behind. Freedom isn’t free at all. It comes at the highest cost.
I glanced up and the man pulled at my arm to help me stand, not easy from a kneeling position with your hands tied behind your back. He motioned, raising his chin towards the hill behind us. He lifted the bag with the conch shell on to his shoulder and I could do nothing but follow, my feet burning on the hot sand, the cactus spines spearing my ankles and calves, the man’s urine drying pungently on my bare skin. My flesh prickled with heat and my face felt parched as the sperm dried in a fine invisible layer trapping strands of my hair. The taste of his seed in my mouth was like a stale olive.
I turned and peered back across the sea. There was a faint mist now. The coast of La Gomera had disappeared as if it had never existed. I had told my parents that I wanted to spend a few weeks on my own; to find myself, I said. It all sounded so corny, so silly. Far from having found myself, I was more lost than ever. Someone would come across the towel held by four stones on the beach, my sunglasses, my dry costume, my purse with credit cards, 400 euros and my passport. Would they hand them to the police or keep them?
Keep them, probably, I thought. That’s the way people are. That’s the way we have become. I had left my backpack still stuffed with clothes on the floor in my room in the pension where no one spoke English, where no one had bothered to register my name. They would think I had travelled on and would return later for my things. They wouldn’t want to go to the police, make a fuss, waste time. Girls are always wandering off these days. That’s what they’ll say to themselves. She was a foreigner. You know what they’re like. She’ll turn up. And if she doesn’t, it’s nothing to do with us. They will put my backpack in the storeroom and forget that I had ever existed.
The man lit a cigarette, the harsh-smelling smoke an intrusion on the clean sweet air. We had left the sand and were walking on coarse grass thick as reeds. I could see the tower more clearly, but no other people, no buildings, no sign of life. The sun was stoking up the fires of early afternoon, but at least there was a cool breeze rising off the sea.
We entered a twisted maze of low, windswept pines sharing the hillside with giant cactuses and bushes with brilliant yellow flowers. It was all perfect, pure, untouched, and I couldn’t understand why one of the hotel chains had not come along and ruined it all with a resort complex, a yachting marina, a spa.
My situation with each step I took became more surreal, more difficult to get my head around, those steps as I climbed the hill taking me further from the certainty of who I was, who I had once been. It was beyond absurd. I was naked, sweaty, my face coated in dried sperm, my bottom glowing after the man had bent me over and thrashed me, something I could not have imagined ever happening to me, to anyone, and something that had certainly never happened before. I mean, a girl, me, in modern times being beaten in this way, not so much to inflict pain, I realised, but to show exactly what our roles were, to show who was the master and who was the slave.
Slave.
The very word made a lump form in my throat. I had been spanked to instil in me a sense of discipline. I had rashly, stupidly, set out swimming naked to the island and destiny had punished me for it.
Did I deserve to be spanked?
Certainly not. But having survived the ordeal, it wasn’t as terrible as the upsurge of fear when that hand came down across my bottom the first time. As the pain passed, transmuted as if my some piece of alchemical wizardry, there was a brief mad moment when I experienced a grotesque satisfaction in being bent over in this way without rights or choices, past or future. In pain you are living in the present and as the pain passes there is pleasure from having endured the pain.
What was even more astonishing, and something else I couldn’t fully grasp, was that the beating had contained a distinctly sensual element. I had known even as that hand came down again and again on my bottom, I had felt intuitively, instinctively, subconsciously, I’m not sure how, but I had known the man was beating me in this way to prepare me for all that was to follow. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. He was breaking my will.
When I went down on my knees to let his cock slip into my open throat, it was such a relief from being spanked, not only did it provide pleasure for the man, there was in me a contradictory gratification made preposterous as his semen burst from his cock and exploded over my face. Bobby had never done anything like that and perhaps if he had we would still have been together.
I felt ashamed to have these thoughts and wondered where they could have come from. Being naked strips away more than your clothes, it reveals unknown facets of your true nature. I had thought of myself as a career girl, independent, a climber on the slippery pole of achievement and success. But really, I was just as happy to let others make the decisions, to follow where the road of life led rather than trying to hack out my own individual path. Had the stranger seen something in me I had not known existed? Did h
e look at me and see a girl who wanted to be pissed on?
The suggestion was mortifying. I pushed such thoughts from my mind and concentrated as we climbed to the top of the hill. I glanced back again. The mist was thicker. La Gomera had gone, vanished from the landscape. It struck me that no one in the world had any idea where I was. I had heard of girls disappearing and now I knew how it happened. They did something stupid. One wrong turn leads as if by the law of cause and effect to the next. And once you stray from the path, it is all but impossible to ever find your way back.
The man changed the bag from one shoulder to the other and turned occasionally to nod. I found myself nodding and smiling back at him. It is inexcusable, I know. I had been used in the most outrageous way. I was totally vulnerable, humiliated, in grave danger and grateful like a beaten dog for this jot of human connection.
Two
The Boat
WHEN WE REACHED THE tower the man stopped, put his bag down and the way he shaded his eyes and looked out over the sea could have been a caricature of me on La Gomera peering out towards the island, an imitation of everyone who stares at the horizon and wishes they were some place else.
He kept looking, but there was nothing to see but the unending waves of the ocean, the great vastness of it all making the island appear transient and exposed, one giant swelling tide and it would be gone, wiped from the map, perhaps the tower remaining to remind seafarers of the impermanence of all things, even those we hold as true and dear.
I looked back the way we had come as if at the past and knew that, even when I returned, I would not be the same, that my life had already changed, each step that I took invisibly unpicking and remaking the fabric of my being. When I set out for the island with nothing, not even my clothes, it was as if I had thrown myself on fate. It was fate that would now deliver me into the reality of who I was, not who I pretended to be, that multiple persona who changed for Bobby, my parents, for old friends, my colleagues at work, for celebrities I met through my job.
Girl Trade - full length erotic adventure novel (Xcite Erotic Romance Novels) Page 2