The Liberation of Kate Pt. 05

She was in the shower a long time, scrubbing off the sweat, grease and grime. Lingering outside the bathroom, listening to the steamy water streaming down over her gorgeous body, I had wanted to join her, and it was somewhat troubling how she had waggled her finger and pushed me back into the hallway. When she came out, she had, purely from old habit, wrapped the towel around her torso. I enjoyed wagging my finger in turn, and she blushed and dropped the towel onto the floor.

"What did they teach you at that camp?" I demanded, but before she could respond I ordered her to the bed. I tied her wrists and ankles to the corner posts. She looked gaunt, frayed and bone-weary from her three days of hard training, but unbearably sexy, spreadeagled on her back, open and available for our mutual pleasure. But I had suffered also, deprived by her absence. I unloaded my nervous energy into her, and with the tension eased I could sleep, on top of and inside her.

When I come around it was almost dark. Kate was awake. Her gentle breath on the back of my neck the slow heaving of her breasts under me, the yielding of the soft flesh of her belly, the press of her thighs against mine, had a strangely hypnotic effect. I wanted to stay there, with her, within her, making love to her, keeping her all to myself. When I have those feelings, the desire to share her with the rest of the world goes away. But it always returns.

***

A few days later, Kate revisited the Calliope Bay training camp. She went with me, Adèle and Élise, Philip and Lynda, and another woman, Olivia.

Rachel and Lucy had left that very morning, heading for one of the other Caribbean Islands — Barbados, I think. They departed quietly, and I later lamented not making more of a fuss. I did ask them how much they had enjoyed their vacation on Syrena.

"Interesting," they said as one, looked at each other and giggled.

"I've forgotten what it's like to wear clothes," Rachel declared (and I never thought to ask how long their stay had actually been).

For our excursion to Calliope Bay, Regina had booked for us one of the open-air taxies, and Harry was the driver. Before we embarked, he insisted on lining up the women with arms and legs spread for a detailed inspection. Naturally they rebuffed his demand, and for a moment it appeared he would refuse to let them on; but he laughed heartily — genuinely — and bade them to board with a wave of his hand, which of course turned into a mild slap on the rump for each as they climbed in. Kate, who followed Lynda, saw what was coming and balked.

"Take it like a man," I chided her, and she replied with a withering glance as she accepted her bottom smack. Adèle growled but did not even flinch. I studied Regina's face, recalling Syrena's strict hands-off policy. Her expression was inscrutable, but I noticed tight lips.

Harry was so gregarious that I was afraid he would want me to sit with him up front. But he gestured with his hand and as I climbed into the compartment with the women I made an exaggerated move to swivel my butt away from him. The women laughed. Harry didn't even notice. But then I discovered another of his shenanigans. He pointed to where we were to seat ourselves, but he had removed all the cushions except Philip's and mine. The women had to sit with their bare backsides on the bare metal. The bench surface was ridged, so it would not be a particularly comfortable ride. As they attached their collars which secured them to the side railings, they shook their heads and rolled their eyes. (I recalled that I had done similar to Rachel and Lucy on the balcony, and their reactions were the same.)

The journey to Calliope Bay took half an hour because the road was not much more than a dirt track. It cannot have been pleasant for the women. It was early afternoon and we passed several taxis returning from the tour. Harry yelled a running commentary on the sights along the way, through the sliding glass rear window of his cabin, but there was not much to see or talk about. Away from the manicured lawns and decorative gardens, the island is rather barren. Throughout its history, settlement has been confined almost entirely to the immediate vicinity of the three largest bays — Regatta, Grandin and Calliope. However, when we came across a cultivated field Kate, who had been blithely chattering, suddenly went quiet.

At the far end, strung out in a line, were at least two dozen females, naked of course except for gloves, sandals straw hats, and heavy iron collars chain-linked at about an arm's length apart. They were tilling the parched soil with hoes, supervised by two young women wearing grass necklaces and belts and wielding canes which they used liberally on their toiling slaves. Nearby, relaxing under a tree and watching the proceedings, was a young man in buccaneer regalia.

I glanced at Kate as we passed three more of these old-world tableaux. She had not said much about her experience at Calliope Bay, but I caught the glint of recognition in her eyes. Harry, meanwhile, explained that these are the farms which provide the island with some of its fresh fruit and vegetables — the rest must be imported.

"So all agricultural work is performed by slave labour?" Philip asked.

Kate answered. "It was part of our training regime."

"See," Philip said, turning to his wife, "when we get home, we should start a garden."

The woman glowered.

Harry continued expounding on the local history (albeit in a less concise and coherent form than this translation). Slavery, and in particular female servitude, was a mainstay of the island's economy long before the arrival of European settlers. The original inhabitants were the Caribs, a warrior people who successfully resisted attempts at colonization by the Spanish and the French until the end of the seventeenth century. They had traded in slaves, mainly captive women taken from more peaceful tribes in the region, who were put to work in the fields. Later on, in the heyday of the pirate state, the women and girls provided the farm labour, toiling abjectly under the supervision of sons and brothers while the men were away at sea.

It is this version of history which has inspired the theme of Syrena's modern-day tourism. Obviously it runs counter to the folklore you glean from other sources, which tells of tough, resilient pioneer women no less formidable and self-reliant than their men. Some females took to the sea and even commanded their own crews. But as Napoleon is supposed to have said, history is fable that we agree to believe.

Nevertheless, I find it amusing that the islanders use female tourists as unpaid labour — in fact, the women pay for this privilege of being exploited. I guess this is an example of the renowned enterprise of the Syrene people. But when I thought of Kate out there in that field, sweating under the hot sun, learning how become more submissive and obedient, and how to embrace her womanhood even without me there to guide her, I considered it a fine investment.

We parked outside the Calliope Bay compound, which was a cluster of dilapidated barracks arranged in a rough semicircle about a dusty parade ground. The place appeared deserted, except at the edge of the open side where a scaffold had been set up and to which two women were bound in spreadeagle position — the penalty for some infraction or infringement, no doubt — watched by two more young men in buccaneer costume. Harry got out of his cab, ordered the girls to disembark and invited Philip and me to join him. His brow wrinkled for a second, and he motioned for Kate to come along as well. He took the three of us to a neat, whitewashed hut while behind us the four other women were being ordered by the playacting pirates to form a queue, their hands behind their heads and squeezed together so that bosoms touched backs.

Our driver Harry ushered us into the building where a pot of coffee awaited us. He, Philip and I sipped a very strong and very bitter brew, chatting while Kate crouched silently on the floor beside my seat, for an hour or so. Harry spent much of the time complimenting Philip and me on our lovely ladies. He seemed to think that I owned Adèle and Élise; I did not disabuse him. When we eventually returned to the taxi, the four women were already seated, sweating and puffing, their faces flushed, their hands bound behind their backs. They'd had a sixty-minute taste of slave training. It was hard to tell, from the looks on their faces, if they were ready to endure three days, as had my wonderful Kate. I bound her hands as well, so she wouldn't feel left out.

When we reached the hotel, Philip and I took our five ladies into the lounge area and had them kneel in a tight circle on the carpet, shoulder-to-shoulder (with their hands still tied behind their backs). When allowed to rest on their heels they had a little distance between them, which made it a tad less awkward for them when given permission to speak. Philip and I drank beers as we listened to their conversation.

Olivia was very interested in Adèle's story, wanting to know what it was like to be a female dominant in a place where all women are enslaved. The French girl was cagey with her answers. I suspect she would have felt freer to talk without Élise present. Or maybe she was still enervated from the sampling of slavery at Calliope Bay. But in turn we heard Olivia's story. She'd been on the island for three months. A hydrological engineer, she was working as a consultant with the local government on ways of improving Syrena's water storage and delivery systems. The other women were intrigued to learn that she could have taken up residence at Grandin Bay, where nudity, slavery and bondage were not de rigueur.

"I much prefer a nice hotel," she laughed. Something in her voice told me it was not the full story.

Eventually Adèle announced that she needed to use the bathroom, so all the women were released, except for Lynda, who was led off by her man to what was sure to be an evening of strenuous pleasure. Since no one else was interested, Kate and I went downtown without extra company. She was in a lively mood and led the way on a grand tour of the cabarets and nightclubs. She danced like a dervish, her hair twirling, her breasts swinging, her body spinning, twisting and writhing in a shameless ecstasy of wanton sensual and sexual self-indulgence. She paraded on the Promenade and strutted along the Boardwalk, in her triumphant, free-spirited, uninhibited nudity. We passed the bride bazaar; she was fascinated, went in and booked a pole for the next day. That impulsive act startled and bothered me. When we got back to our suite around midnight, she insisted on being tied up before going to bed. When I showed her the stash of new toys and appliances from the Chain Store, she giggled like a schoolgirl.

The next morning, I woke to find her once again on the balcony talking to a neighbour, a different man this time. She was brazenly flaunting her body. When I called her inside, she grumbled something.

"What was that, woman?" I demanded.

"Nothing, my dear... my lord and master," she chirped.

"Do I have to punish you?" I snarled.

She smiled...

After breakfast we made our way back to Patrick's Emporium. To my concern, Kate had already booked a place at the slave market cum bride bazaar. She must have done so earlier that morning, as I slept. She was beginning to show initiative.

By the time we arrived there, about half of the thirty poles were taken. Young women were bound to them in various ways; and Kate again shocked me by nodding at the two attendants while striding past them, up to one of the posts. It had about the same girth as her slender waist. She stood with her back pressed against it, her body stiffly erect, and raised her hands above her head until her arms were straight. Iron bracelets dangled from a ring embedded near the top of the pillar. Because she is small, the male custodian could reach up without effort to lock them on her wrists. The female assistant clamped manacles around Kate's ankles in such a way that her feet were secured on either side of but a bit behind the pole, forcing her into a somewhat ungainly and stressful stance, which parted her knees and pushed forward her naked torso in a rather inviting (and slightly obscene) way.

Kate and I had not exchanged a word, and hardly so much as a glance, since she entered the enclosure. Now, as I stood before my angel shackled to her stake, her moist lips trembled and the lids of her sparkling eyes fluttered, rapidly at first but more languidly as the torpor of immobility set in. I brushed an errant strand of hair from her brow, ran my hand lightly along her cheeks, across her throat, over her breasts and nipples. Her little body, stretched taut against the post, trembled at my touch; sweat glimmered on her quivering skin, and dribbled down her belly into the soft, pink crevice between her thighs. My fingers followed the tiny stream, and when they entered her she moaned and her head drooped.

"Excuse me, sir," said the young woman attendant. She spoke with a mellifluous Caribbean cadence. She was brawny but in a not unattractive way, with dark almond eyes, hazelnut-brown skin and raven hair. She wore several adornments — a narrow floral girdle which sat on the hips, a beaded necklace, armlets and garters of brightly coloured woven cloth. Nothing, of course, covered those parts of her which are the glory of the female form. As I stepped back, she made a cordon with red tape tied to knee-high stakes about the two dozen women bound to their posts.

After that, I and a sizeable audience, both men and women, stood beyond the boundary to gaze in silence at this marvellous tableau. Of course, I seriously doubt that this was how prospective brides were really displayed in Syrena's good old days; but I wasn't complaining about the lack of authenticity.

From her serene smile I could see that Kate was already drifting into a blissful detachment from her surroundings. I wondered if this was a coping mechanism she learned during her three days of training at Calliope Bay, or if it was a natural reaction. Most of the women appeared to be slipping into a sort of trancelike state. But even as they did so, the attendant whipped them with a flogger made of brushwood — not much more than a sting but enough to keep them grounded in the reality of their ordeal.

In a way I envied them. As a mere spectator, I could only observe what Kate and the others were experiencing. Because of the whipping and how stringently they were tied, it was impossible for them to zone out completely. As a result they felt every moment of their bittersweet adversity with an undiminished intensity. Every so often one would twitch or groan, and a second female custodian would check on her. This woman was older, and I could tell that she was either a doctor or a nurse from the way she monitored and tended her clients. ("Client" is apt; it was easy to forget that these suffering women were paying customers.) Drinking water was available, delivered from a bucket by means of a sponge.

Standing and watching even this became tiresome, after a while. I went for a walk which took me around the entire perimeter of the town. Kate never acknowledged my return, and I wonder if she'd even been aware of my absence. Her angelic face was locked in a grimace; her tiny fists were clenched and her thighs were quaking. The strain imposed by her peculiar stance must have been close to agonizing. Already some of the women were beginning to wilt, especially those whose hands were bound behind their backs rather than overhead, because it was more difficult to hold themselves upright. They had to brace their backs against their posts, and when their bodies began to sag they were revitalized by a couple of lashes across the torso and thighs.

Nearby I heard a woman whisper to her partner. "What are they trying to prove?" I sensed curiosity, not disapproval, but was surprised to hear such sentiment from one of the women who come to Syrena knowing what they're in for. I guess each has her own reasons, and I can only speak for my Kate...

On that thought, my musings were disturbed... pleasantly so.

"Good morning, sir." It was Élise's honey tone.

"Kate told us we would find you here," Adèle explained. She then signalled to the male attendant, left me to hold her girlfriend's leash, and went to speak to him. She returned grinning. Élise let out a quiet sigh.

Once the girl had been affixed to her pole, Adèle proceeded to ignore her. She suggested we go for coffee. As we turned to leave I paused; and after just an instant's consideration, Adèle buckled Élise's collar about her own neck and handed me the other end of the leash. To see how willingly she would comply, I asked her to fold her arms behind her back and keep her eyes downcast during the stroll down the Boardwalk. Upon entering one of the espresso bars, I ordered her to remove her sandals and sunglasses, the only things she wore besides the collar, so that she would feel as well as be completely nude.

"Do you mind?" I asked.

"Bien sûr que non... of course not," she replied with a shrug of her slim bare shoulders. The fact that she lapsed into her native tongue, and that she blushed, belied her studied nonchalance; but that only added to her charm. I found it easy to be captivated by Adèle's haughty vulnerability.

The frail-looking French fille ordered a café Cubano as dark as her eyes and as sweet as her petite tits, which wobbled delightfully as she lectured me with exuberant Gallic gestures. I had ventured to inquire if she was lesbian or bisexual, and she was going on about the irrelevance of conventional dualities. All that stuff soared over my head, so I focused my attention on a more tangible expression of her sexuality, the little roseate tips of her breasts which — I don't think she even realized — were softening as she spoke. It was odd. The sight of nipples aroused was so familiar by now that I only noticed when they weren't.

That's when it really occurred to me what it must be like for all the women on this island — what the tourists feel during their visit and the locals are feeling all the time. It must be exquisite agony for a woman such as Kate, or Élise or Valerie or Sarah or Monique or Jennifer, to be in such a constant state of arousal, when every aspect of her life, every part of her day, every perception, every thought, every sensation, everything she experiences is shaped, defined and proscribed by her womanhood, by what she is never able, or allowed, to overlook or ignore or overcome — what she is and what she's not.

(I wondered if it was like having a permanent erection because you cannot stop thinking about sex, are never allowed to stop thinking about it... and to be naked so you cannot hide the fact; indeed, being naked arouses you even more. Just contemplating that while studying Adèle's pert breasts made me glad that I was wearing trousers.)

It was appropriate that it was Adèle's reactions which brought about my enlightenment, since she knew what it was to be both mistress and slave. For a few minutes she was lost in her exposition; she relaxed and so did her nipples. So I reached out for the braided leather strap which hung down from her collar. (The end disappeared between her thighs, which were slightly parted in the unconsciously provocative way that most women sat. During my three weeks on Syrena, I never saw a female cross her legs except as a reflex that she quickly corrected; and only the occasional one would even press her knees demurely together.) I gave the leash a tug, and that was all it took to remind her. Although her words did not falter, her papillae began to once again stiffen.