Girl Trade - full length erotic adventure novel (Xcite Erotic Romance Novels) (4 page)

What fight there was in me had gone. I lay slumped on the black rubber hull of the boat, tears falling from my eyes, snot falling from my nose, my body trembling involuntarily. I had to take this, I had to take everything and, when the moment was right, when fate was on my side, I would flee. If it took the whole of my life, I would escape.

The bamboo cane rose up again, the air split like ripping fabric, and two lightning stripes of sheer agony carved their cruel message into my flesh. It felt as if the first four pairs of smarting wounds were kindling and the last two twins of evil lit a forest fire that burned up my spine and down over my thighs. My body was coated in sweat and I could smell the pungent whiff of the beachcomber’s piss coming back to life on my clammy skin. Somewhere at the back of my mind was the fleeting thought that having my bottom spanked and sucking off the man who had found me on the beach hadn’t been so bad after all; that there had been a perverse pleasure in the obscenity of being defiled in this way.

I was aware that the man behind me was lifting the cane one more time, but before it came down across my bottom, the beachcomber shouted at him. There was a moment’s pause, the earth stood still, and the man in black tossed the instrument of torture back on the sand.

A wave of gratitude went through me as my cheeks were prised apart and the man’s cock entered my pussy as a shark glides through the sea. I should have been dry and tense. I wasn’t. I was an ocean. I don’t know why. I was drenched with sweat and fruity discharge. The man’s erection slid into the depths of my vaginal passage, he drew back and pushed in again, the springy side of the Zodiac making the action effortless, even graceful.

Something had happened to me. Some wires had crossed. The pain from being beaten with that cane was beyond words, but the pain immediately began to diminish. It was as if my mind and body had drifted apart. I hated the man. I felt abused, ashamed, hysterical. And yet, and yet, my body felt a relief, from the pain, yes, but also from all the pent up fears and anxieties and uncertainties of life.

This man, this stranger, was fucking me. Fucking me. Fucking me. In and out. In and out.

Fucking me.

Fucking me.

It wasn’t a word I ever used for the act of making love. But we weren’t making love. I was being fucked. And I realised that I had never been fucked before. This was a first. I had lost my virginity before I left school. There had been several boys since then, not that many, not compared with most of my friends. But that was the problem. They were boys. They didn’t know what foreplay was. They didn’t know how a girl’s body reacts to different stimulus. And I didn’t know either. Not until now.

I had been terrified, beaten, despoiled and now I was being well and truly fucked. The pressure from his thrusting penis was nursing and nudging my clitoris and I realised with horror that I was pushing back, I was spreading my thighs wider and drawing him in deeper. I wanted more. I wanted his hard cock to tease and tickle all those nerve endings and pleasure points that had never been reached before.

Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

I heard the words echo round the little bay and over the sea and couldn’t believe it was my voice coming back to me.

Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

The man in black gripped my hip bone in one hand and began to slap the side of my bottom with the other hand like he was clutching a riding crop and driving a horse to the finishing line, the beat of those slaps keeping pace with the pumping thrust of his cock and the pounding rhythm of my heart.

Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

My voice was a whisper now. My mind had gone to mush. My body didn’t belong to me. It belonged to that driving hard length of oiled cock drilling into the depths of my soul. My eyes were closed. I was biting my bottom lip. This was the fuck of my life.

He started to come and, at that precise moment, I had my first real climax. My body shook and went into spasm. My breath came in short, sharp gasps and, to my eternal shame, I screamed not in pain but in pleasure as that cruel cock ignited my orgasm.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I was quivering, wiggling my ass, my vagina muscles holding on to that cock like it was a hand reaching out in the darkness. He took hold of my hipbones, he pushed into me as hard as he could, and I had a sense that while thrashing me with the cane and fucking me from behind had only been for his own bestial pleasure, he was now allowing me to ride the last fading ripples of my orgasm before he withdrew.

He fell across my back, satisfied and exhausted. I lay beneath his weight, shuddering and ashamed. What the hell was happening to me? A man beats my backside with a stick and then I start coming in a tidal wave, the little aftershocks still running through my trembling body. His cock was still stiff inside me and I felt our juices trickle down my thighs. He said something and there was laughter in his voice as he pushed himself up from me. He slapped me, not that hard, but enough to awaken the pain in those ten razor welts scored across my bottom and the contractions from my orgasm let go with another little rumble like the last seismic shifts from an earthquake.

The beachcomber had come to his feet. He looked impressed, with me or the man in black, I wasn’t sure. I closed my eyes and lowered my head. I had done something depraved and wicked. Surely beaten girls don’t have orgasms when they are violated by strangers. Was I a freak? Was I a fallen woman fit for nothing but fucking? What had happened to me since I scrambled ashore on this degenerate little island?

My stomach was wet with sweat and I slipped down over the black rubber hull of the boat on to my knees. I remained there, panting for breath, and then stood defiantly to face the man who had thrashed me.

‘Satisfied?’ I said.

He must have guessed what it meant and shouted something to the other man.

Best fifty euros I’ll ever spend?

That’s what I imagined he remarked, but of course he could just as well have said, not worth the money, you old crook!

He looked back at me, grabbed his own crotch, said something open to myriad interpretations and laughed.

It occurred to me that, had the men been English, or even spoken English, what they had done to me would have been even more of an indignity, that the absence of any other mode of communication made using me in this brutish manner the only logical form of communication when two lone men on a deserted island come unexpectedly upon a naked girl. Would two Englishmen or two Americans on an island with an African or Oriental girl have behaved the same way? I think they probably would.

As I had already construed, my nudity was an open invitation few men would have turned down, my breasts with prominent nipples, my saucy bottom that had been slapped by strangers in night clubs on more than one occasion, much to my annoyance and Bobby’s amusement. My own craven, immodest display was bound to get me into trouble, and I must have known that when I threw my sunglasses back on my towel and set off like Christopher Columbus into the unknown.

Why did the men both beat me before sticking their dicks into my body? Was it to make me more receptive, more submissive to their demands? I knew that there was an erotic side to spanking and corporal punishment, like with anal sex and threesomes, and all girls think about those things. But I would never in a million years have thought it would happen to me. It was weird and worrying that I had been so wet before the man in black released in me that astonishing orgasm. And why now did I feel so energised; so contented?

The questions ran without answers in a continuous loop through my thoughts. My body hummed like a recharged battery. Sperm trickled down the insides of my legs. The bird that had flown out from the undergrowth returned to its former position as if to show that the world was once more in balance. The man who had fucked me made his way towards one of the fishing boats where he pissed over the flaking paint of the hull. At least he’s well-mannered, I thought. The beachcomber was making his way towards the sheds, each step taking him further away from me.

I watched the beachcomber. I looked back at the man pissing. This was my chance.

I turned and ran across the sand into the sea, striking out and swimming in a fast crawl, legs kicking, my body filled with strange energy. I must have been about a hundred yards from shore when it occurred to me that I had crossed the island. I wasn’t swimming back to La Gomera, but out into the empty ocean. Next stop the Statue of Liberty. I paused, treading water, and looked back.

The men were standing on the beach, eyes shaded like two figures in a still life. I could see tendrils of grey smoke drifting from their mouths. If they were concerned as they smoked their cigarettes, they didn’t show it. They must have known that I would see the futility of this attempt at escape and turn back. If I had tried to circle the island, they would put to sea in the Zodiac that obviously had a functioning outboard.

My flight had been useless, but I enjoyed it anyway. I had made a show of courage and independence. The salt water washed the old beachcomber’s piss from my body and douched the other man’s sperm from my vagina. The sting was fading from the welts across my bottom. I felt clean and revitalised. They were stronger than me. They could hurt me, abuse me, fuck me. But they hadn’t broken me. My time would come, I thought, as I swam lazily back to shore.

They watched, expressionless, unconcerned. Unless I could steal one of those boats, there was no escape from the island.

The man in black went back to repairing the outboard on the Zodiac and I followed the other man towards the shed above the dunes. He paused at the entrance and, as he scanned the horizon, I couldn’t help wondering if, when I had been swimming out to sea, the two men hadn’t been observing me at all, but were watching the horizon for the same illusive something the man who’d captured me seemed to have been looking for when we paused earlier at the tower. That illusive something on the sea could only be a boat and again I felt confident that help was on the way.

I looked up at the sky. The sun was still immobile. It had seemed as if a lifetime had passed since I swam away from La Gomera, but it was probably no more than a few hours, three at the most. It must have been a little after midday when I first saw that speck of rock out in the sea. Now, I was getting hungry and would have adored a late lunch, some grilled prawns and fresh bread with olive oil, a cold glass of white wine, a siesta.

Inside the shed the smell of fish lingered on the dry air but it was clearly long ago when that shed had last been used by fishermen to sort their catch. Along one wall, supported by posts, was a wide shelf at table height. Below the shelf, flat wooden crates were stacked up, the sides stamped with the curlicue lettering of an alphabet I had never seen before; Arabic, perhaps, although it could have been from the language of the people who must once have lived in the black stone huts beyond the bay.

All along the shelf, like a display in a museum, were hundreds of objects that had washed ashore, wooden chests, some ancient with engraved brass stays and locks; porcelain cups, aluminium candlesticks, oil lamps; a painting I was sure was the work of Picasso; plastic and alabaster figures, toy soldiers; a spear, a bow, a quiver of arrows. There was a big copper kettle ornamented in brass – Russian, I thought; some small barrels marked
Jerez
and bottles like strange works of art in various shapes and shades, the glass glistening in the light angling through the plastic sheeting. Above the display on a narrow shelf where knives and gutting tools would no doubt have once been kept, was a line of china dolls and rubber dolls, mostly naked, their blue and green and brown unblinking eyes following me as I moved along the exhibit.

At the far end of the shelf was an arrangement of sea shells, judiciously chosen and displayed, each with its own colouring and contours, unique like fingerprints. The beachcomber unpacked the conch from his bag and the way he set it down and moved it fractionally for best effect showed a sensitivity that was all the more surprising seeing how after sucking his cock he had pissed on me.

He turned back from the display with a look of pride and for some reason I smiled. He said something, his expression like a painter at a gallery opening, and seemed to appreciate my nod of approval.

‘You’re a genius,’ I said, and he revealed his row of brown broken teeth as he grinned.

From the shelf above the display, he found a length of leather thong and removed the pendant from his tunic. As he fastened the pendant around his neck, I noticed that it was a gold coin with the raised head of what looked like a conquistador. He saw that I was studying the medallion and repeated that gesture with his thumb and fingers to show that it was worth a lot more than 50 euros.

On the other side of the shed, some stone blocks taken, I suspected, from the abandoned huts, had been set up to create a hearth. On the wall, among a heap of blackened pots and wooden spoons, was a calendar from the year 2000 showing, of all things, a photograph of the Twin Towers in New York, and I remembered being 13 and starting at senior school, the new millennium arriving with its uncertainty and symbolism. The picture of the towers seemed prophetic in that shed somewhere off the coast of Africa and I wondered if in being there – hanging from a rusty nail – there was some significance other than expressing for the beachcomber an enduring idea of home.

As he broke kindling to light a fire, he noticed there was insufficient wood and, fluttering his hand, sent me out to collect more. As I made my way towards the exit, he called and pointed at the sacking bag. His body language as he spoke reminded me of my mother and seemed to say
think before you act
, or
look before you leap
, as she was always telling me.

After being inside the shed, the light outside was brilliant and I missed my sunglasses; I missed my sunglasses more than I missed my clothes. The bay was littered with wood and, as I filled the bag, I was overwhelmed once more by conflicting emotions. I should have been neurotic and trembling with fear, but my fear appeared to have gone. I wasn’t exactly happy, that would be an exaggeration, but neither was I downcast being there on the beach stretching my limbs, breathing the clean air, the tide receding behind a ring of seaweed humming with tiny flies. That other girl, the one in the denim skirt and red heels, was a million miles away and from out of those cute little costumes of the chrysalis a butterfly had emerged in a suit of new colours; a wild creature being slowly tamed, a naked girl with perspiration glistening on her skin and an inexplicable feeling of contentment in her belly.