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  Chapter Five

  ‘STRIP HER!’ JOE SERVIS orders, when Mandy returns from the bathroom. Joe has already taken his own brief bathroom break, and is lying stretched out, quite unselfconsciously naked, with ankles crossed and head propped against the light wood headboard, gazing at me, as I sit there snivelling quietly, head bowed, still tied to the chair to which he had bound me by my school tie, which is painfully chafing my wrists. It adds to the misery and discomfort I feel from my bum, still throbbing from the blistering spanking he had administered, and which now rests against the unforgiving hardness of the wooden seat. ‘You want some of what your pervy little friend got, do you?’ he snaps, as she hesitates, and she hastens to obey. She avoids my gaze as she loosens with some difficulty the striped band of material knotted about my wrists. ‘Maybe you’d like that, though, eh? That part of the dirty little games you play with your little slag, is it?’

  ‘Stand up!’ Mandy’s whispered words are more plea than command. I obey, and instantly aid her in her task by stepping out of the knickers and tights that lie coiled around my ankles. I remain perfectly still and unresisting, while she unfastens and unzips my grey skirt. Again I step out of the folds that collapse around my feet, though now I have to make a conscious effort not to fold my hands over my pubis whose sandy curls peek below the hem of my mauve blouse. It takes only seconds for Mandy’s fingers to complete its unbuttoning and slip it off my shoulders and arms. The plain white cotton bra is swiftly unhooked, its straps drawn off my thin arms. This time I can’t prevent their instinctive crossing and folding to hide my breasts, before, at Joe’s cruel, sneering laugh, I force my arms to my sides, my fists clench, and I stand there, naked as the lovely figure beside me.

  ‘Well! We’ve had our fun, babe!’ Joe Servis tells his wife, and pats the rumpled bed. ‘Guess your kinky partner is dying to get in on it. After all, it’s not just a spectator sport! So come on, Mandy. Time to show your hidden talents and give her some of what she came for. And who knows – when you’ve demonstrated what it is you girlies love to do to each other, maybe I’llhave a little go at showing our schoolgirl here what she’s been missing out on – what you can’t ever give her, Mandy, however many sets of batteries you go through!’

  I move like an automaton, acutely aware of the light touch of her hand on my arm. Her smiling husband moves accommodatingly over to one side of the bed. He pats the space he has made, grins wolfishly, and again I obey Mandy’s gentle tugs as she stretches me on my back beside him and crouches over me. She leans close, her breath is warm on me as our lips approach, and she murmurs, ‘Do as he says, Lorna.’ She kisses me, turns me on my back, opening my legs. Her shoulders dip; I see the curve of her back, the ridge of her spine standing out. Then her breasts graze very lightly on my thighs and, all at once, the pain of my stinging backside, my embarrassment and fear are superseded by the flash of pure sexuality that arcs through me, centres in my tightening vagina, hungry only for us to make love. The presence of the naked man beside us only adds to my shocking physical desire ...

  ‘Crissie! Get up, you lazy little slut! I promised Wanda you’d go out in the canoe with her!’

  Simon’s voice jerks me from my half-waking reverie, and my slippery fingers away from the softly lubricated wrinkles of my labia. I pull my knees together and drag the discarded sheet about my lower body, as the door opens and Simon bursts in, with Wanda on his heels. I feel the crimson blush sweep up my neck and face. I’m sure they must smell the aroma of my roused sex juices caused by my lengthy solitary pleasure. I can’t help folding my arms across my bare breasts as I sit up, pantomiming my bleary return from sleep. ‘I must have dropped off.’ I give what I hope is a convincing performance of surfacing to consciousness. I grab at the sheet, which has fallen to reveal my breasts. My modesty is a genuine reaction despite my awareness of the irony of my coyness, in view of what took place last night between the three of us. Private pain too at the sharp remembrance that, in all the wild combinations of our eager flesh, somehow Simon had omitted (or avoided) actually fucking me as part of the prolonged entertainment. It was an oversight not extended to our exotic guest. They had shagged at least twice as far as I could recall: the second time after my valiant and successful efforts to rekindle his ardour by lying squeezed between and under and through their extended legs. They lay stroking and kissing and petting like turtle doves, mouth practically welded to mouth. All the while my own lips were stretched to encircle his enlarged but match-weary prick, until my well-honed, magical powers of resuscitation had revived it to former bone-hard glory. Whereupon I was almost trampled to death, kicked aside as it disappeared to the hilt inside Wanda’s ever-ready scabbard.

  Of course, I was not left out of our sexual triathlon. Far from it. Wanda had played with me, and I had toyed with her – in one hectic combination, we had enjoyed our lesbian version of soixante-neuf , much to Simon’s voyeuristic delight. He had even at one point taken over Wanda’s role to bring me to the edge, and then sweep me over into the cataract of orgasm – but not by fucking me! He has not done that, I am all too painfully aware, since the day before he took me out in Mattius’s canoe and put me to the virile young fisherman like a mare to stud – or, perhaps more appropriately, like a cow to a servicing bull.

  And now, to my dismay, I learn that he is to abandon both of us. ‘I’ve got to go back to the mainland,’ Simon announces. I am certain he takes extra pleasure in seeing the look of dawning disappointment on my face. ‘I thought I’d sorted things the other day, but some problems have cropped up. I’m taking a boat over this afternoon. I hope I can get things settled in time to return tomorrow night, but if not I’m sure you ladies can find ways to divert yourselves a while longer. There’s no point in dragging you away with me – especially when I know just how much fun you can have without me! Just don’t wear each other out, OK?’ He grins, and those light grey eyes seem to bore right through into my mind. ‘Mattius is entirely at your service, for anything you might require. Just in case there’s something you can’t quite manage for yourselves, eh, Crissie?’

  My face is the colour of a ripe tomato, and now I can feel Wanda’s dark orbs fixed on me too, with a gaze of amused but less than innocent enquiry. ‘You don’t need to worry, Simon,’ she responds cockily. ‘We’ll look after each other, won’t we, Crissie?’ Another wicked grin, as she gives me a smouldering look. She advances upon the bed and whips off the sheet which half covers my nakedness and stretches out beside me. She kicks off her heeled sandals and takes me in her arms, her tongue flickering teasingly at my ear and neck, brushing back my tangled fair locks. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage perfectly well on our own – as long as you’re not away too long!’ she adds suggestively.

  Simon moves over to say his goodbyes and, embarrassed as I am, I rise from the bed and from Wanda’s embrace, to demonstrate my love for him. I fling my body against him, feel the teasing brush of his clothing against my nakedness and lift up my open mouth for his possession. The embrace is long and I am breathless with its passion when he gently disengages. There! I think, with childish pettiness. Take note, Wanda! But then I am immediately devastated by the equally steamy clinch he is locked into with Wanda, and tears prick behind my eyes as I watch the slow hypnotic sway of her magnificent bottom at the libidinous bump and grind of belly to belly.

  ‘Bwana Simon go leave you and Memsaab Wanda all alone, yes?’ Mattius flashes those dazzling teeth at me in his usual ear-to-ear grin. He is sitting opposite me in the canoe, lazily controlling our slow, bobbing drift in the clear water by occasionally dipping in the short, broad bladed paddle and giving a lazy stroke or two. I cannot help seeing the bulge of his cock against the yellow satin of his short shorts, the impressive length of the shaft lying diagonally across his upper thigh, and the round acorn shape of the glans. He makes no attempt to hide it by closing his parted legs and my already heated face glows even more beneath the shade of my battered, wide-brimmed straw hat at the look on his glistening brown f
eatures. It seems to suggest an all too intimate awareness of my thoughts as I remember the feel of it thrusting up into my tight but receptive cunt, and the cataclysmic effect of its driving force. I tear my gaze away from it and glance at the shape of Wanda cutting effortlessly through the water 20 yards or so away from the canoe. Even so, I feel his eyes upon me, and I reflect that the few inches of bright cloth that cover my breasts and pudenda have never seemed so inadequate. But then again, he knows damned well what they are hiding. After all, he himself removed them before shagging me while Simon held me in position to assist him.

  ‘Memsaab Wanda very fine swimmer,’ Mattius says teasingly. ‘You should let me teach you – me and Miss Wanda, we teach you. Take you snorkelling at reef. Very good. Bwana Simon be very pleased, if you learn.’

  ‘I can swim!’

  ‘Not good. You afraid. You let me teach you, I do it good.’ He laughs softly. ‘Bwana Simon tell me, look after you and Missy Wanda. Take care – give you what you want.’

  We don’t want that ! I think, reviewing the exhausting night Wanda and I have just passed without Simon’s presence. At least I don’t! I amend quickly, unable to prevent my thoughts from moving on to the remembrance of the lengthy and rousing spectacle of Simon coupling with her the night before last: the vision of my lover’s beautiful clenching buttocks pumping up and down ever more rapidly between her devouring thighs returns to haunt me with disturbing clarity. Why should it upset me so? Why can’t I be like him, and look on it with equanimity, the way he did from his ringside seat while Mattius shafted me? Why do I allow it to hurt me so, to eat away at me like acid burning my insides, when he can watch another guy fucking me without turning a hair – with obvious pleasure even, getting some deep kick out of it? As he clearly must have done, seeing as he arranged it, gave me to the fisherman.

  Mattius was just like me, doing what he was told by the bwana, the master. Except that he was enjoying it a damned sight more than me! But now I’m really getting into the philosophical murk of uncharted waters. My conscience pricks with real pain as I recall my body’s response, the savage mindless ecstasy of orgasm at Mattius’s hammering hard into me, my convulsions and arching cry of bliss before my return to awareness, to the tight grip of Simon’s hands under my shoulders, and the gaze of those grey eyes so deeply and knowledgably penetrating me. Which brings me slap bang against the stone wall which I do recognise and can do nothing about. I belong to Simon, I am his: one of his many possessions, treasured, I can only hope. It’s not a two-way thing. I’m his, he’s not mine, except as my master. Get used to it, girl. He can give me to Mattius – and anyone else he chooses, even the beautiful Wanda. He can watch us making love or make me watch him making love. Either way I’m still his.

  Until he tires of me. The thought is there, a shadow on my mind, like the memory of a nightmare ... unless and until I can learn absolute obedience to his will. Can I learn that depth of obeisance, to accept even final rejection?

  Wanda’s sudden laughing reappearance at the side of the boat is a welcome distraction and I watch with pleasure the long, wet strands of her black hair, the brown shoulders and arms sleek with water, the drops on her face, sparkling on her long lashes, the plump invitation of those red lips, peeping tongue, the white perfection of her teeth, then the magnificence of her body as she lithely hauls herself up and slithers into the rocking canoe. She sprawls, her feet and legs carelessly tangled with Mattius’s darker limbs, her upper body draped with cold wetness against mine, her hair clinging like thick seaweed strands over my thighs and bare belly.

  She’s wearing a black one-piece swimsuit, with thin shoulder straps, plunging between her breasts, and cut so high on the hip that most of her full buttocks are exposed in their smoky pale yellow splendour. Mattius’s glinting eyes and smiling features indicate his deep appreciation of the feast spread literally at his feet.

  ‘Wet your mask, that’s it. Now, just slip the mouthpiece into your mouth.’ Wanda grins. ‘Come on! You’ve taken in bigger things than that in your time.’

  Mattius sniggers appreciatively and, not for the first time, I regret his fluency in both speaking and understanding English, which is far above the standard necessary for him to pursue his calling. And that’s not all I’m regretting. I detest my weakness of will which allowed Wanda, ably abetted by our fisherman friend, to persuade me to give in and agree to let the pair of them teach me the fundamentals of goggling. That’s why I’m standing in a rock pool, chest deep in water the temperature of my normal bath, about to have my first lesson, with my two teachers in close attendance. Talk about a hands-on approach! Mattius in particular understands the phrase in its most literal sense. His hands have already roved comprehensively from shoulders to thighs as part of what he evidently considers to be an essential check of equipment and my general “fitness of purpose” for what lies ahead. And, to my embarrassment, Wanda seems to be quite comfortable with his liberal approach. Suddenly, I am certain that either Mattius, or, more likely, Simon himself, has told her just how far the degree of physical intimacy between Mattius and myself has progressed.

  I concentrate instead on the lesson, and soon, despite my nervousness, I am dog paddling about in our natural pool, with my face under the surface and blowing trilling little bubbling farts of air through the snorkel, amazed even in this shallow little basin of rock and waving fronds at the vivid colours of the tiny fish which dart and waver through the weeds and the shell-dotted white sand of the bottom. I’m so intrigued with this mini-world beneath the surface and my own growing confidence at exploring it that it’s some time before I become aware that, as part of his devoted tuition and attention to my needs, Mattius’s right hand has been holding my firm, horizontal belly and has now almost imperceptibly allowed his grip to ease down just a few vital inches, so that he is now cradling, not my bare bellybutton and its immediate surrounds, but my minimally covered crotch. In fact his second finger, his “Tommy Tall” in the words of the old rhyme, has discovered the groove of my sex and, like an archaeologist at an ancient treasure trove, is very gently delineating and accenting the furrow between my outer labia, which have treacherously responded all too positively to his caressing exploration.

  Enough! I give a violent wiggle of my hips and splutter on a mouthful of salt Indian Ocean as I lower my feet to stand on the soft sludge of the bottom. I cough a little and wipe at my lips, shuddering at the taste of rubber as I spit out the little flange, and push the goggles up onto my forehead. My knees bump against Wanda’s, who grins encouragingly. ‘You’re doing just great, honey!’

  I cough again, blinking in the newly dazzling sun, and spit delicately into the water. ‘Yes, sure. It’s just I feel a bit like a glove puppet, with our friend’s hand stuck firmly up my fanny.’ I recall Wanda’s mellifluous accent, which has just a hint of trans-Atlantic in it, and I wonder if she is perhaps more familiar with the American version of our language. ‘And I don’t mean my arse!’ I add in further explication.

  Chapter Six

  BACK AT THE HOTEL, Wanda and I share a shower, without the presence of our canoeist and assistant water-sports instructor. As we help each other to get rid of those tiny grains of sand from various intimate crevices of our persons, we enjoy an equally free exchange of personal communication. I find that with Simon absent there is a sense of closeness and confidentiality that is not there when he is with us, no matter how much sexual activity the three of us share. I welcome it, and I am determined to push away the pain and jealousy I have suffered watching her and Simon in action, and from taking part in our triangular diversions. I need a friend . And I realise that I’ve never had a male as a friend, can’t even contemplate it. Lovers, sexual partners, but never friends. Not even Simon, who I worship.

  Girls are different. Girls can be lovers and friends. Not all of them, of course. They can be slags and tarts and bitches from hell. But some of them can be wonderful, and get really close to you, true lovers – and the sex can be shit-hot too! I�
�m not saying Wanda and I are quite as intimate as that yet, but I feel I have to try. I need more than a little tenderness, need to feel some of it coming back, as well as handing it out.

  When we’re dried and blow-dried and powdered and perfumed, we lounge across the king-sized bed, silk robes carelessly open to our nakedness, and talk. As a start, I give Wanda a fairly brief outline of my chequered background so far, and I’m touched and considerably surprised by the warmth of sympathy she displays, especially when she fills in some detail of the privileged and very different lifestyle she was brought up to. Her family is every bit as wealthy and high-powered as her carelessly dropped bits of information have led me to believe.

  ‘We’re one of the big families on the coast, and I mean big !’ she tells me matter-of-factly, without any deliberate intention to impress – which she does, mightily! ‘We go way back. Our family name is Sharif, which is Arabic – we settled here centuries ago, soon after the Portuguese.’ She giggles, and leans forward until our heads touch, and she places her hand on my wrist. ‘My real name is Mumtaz. The family were furious when I started calling myself Wanda. But look at me.’ All at once, she kneels up, and shrugs off the silk robe. She gestures at her nude body. ‘Do I look like this should be hidden in a burkha ?’