The Island

How can he be ignoring her?

Yesterday — last night… He — Carl — had seemed fascinated, feverish even, in his avidity to possess her; stroking her, mauling her, biting her, caressing her intimately, having her straddle him to share deep, wild kisses, his hardness confirming the strength of his desire.

And she — for the first time in the weeks she has been in this strange place, with its increasingly dreamlike quality — she had given herself over — offered herself, accepted — even in the presence of his laughing friends with their crude jokes — had not held anything back from him, allowing him to open her thighs to show them just how wet she was, how her hips kept thrusting with fierce little jerks; her arousal, her need unmistakeable. Her cheeks hot, her voice soft and throaty with desire, facing them, she had begged him to make use of her as if she were his slave.

And he had used her — right there, in front of them — just as if she were one of those other girls — the ones she has been despising, the willing, eager sluts, who offer themselves indiscriminately, prettily eager, to anyone who beckons with a lazy finger.

She had thought that she would freeze at some point — she had never intended for him to fuck her in the common areas — had expected him to carry her off to his suite.

But even her immense shock at being suddenly, forcefully entered, right there, to the shouted delight of his friends, had not prevented her from responding. Her eagerness, her urgent neediness had surprised her; the heat of her response to this greedy, careless penetration had been wild, and she had at last abandoned herself to the depravity of it, needing only a hand in her hair to persuade her, after he had spent inside her, to go to her knees and clean his cock of their mingled juices — almost worshipping him, astonished at her own wanton-ness, but unable to deny her deeply felt gratitude toward him for choosing her, for wanting her, and — yes — for showing his friends that he wanted her — for fucking her in front of them.

He had kept her with him then, for the rest of the night, naked, on her knees, by his side, idly toying with her breasts, pushing his fingers into her mouth, or her sex, she prettily accommodating even his crudest moves, smiling when she could have frowned, moaning when she could have yelled, opening when she wanted to close.

The hardest test came when, having proved to all of them that she was capable of bringing him to another spurting orgasm in her mouth, he had bet Ronald, the one with whom he seemed to have an awkwardly competitive vibe, that she could do the same for him, despite his having already used two different sluts that evening (the pretty Russian girl with the extraordinarily sexy tattoos and the slim but incredibly buxom dutch one).

She had whimpered then, desperately unwilling to offer herself in public to another man in such a demeaning fashion, but found herself unable to resist.

Ronald had been nasty with her; forceful, demanding, pushing deep into her throat even when she made it clear she could take no more — again, to the laughter of the group; her, on her knees, elbows tied with her own bikini, Ronald’s hands in her hair, kicking and struggling her desperation, tears on her cheeks, watched by them all, shouting and laughing, offering side bets.

But she had not done what she well could have done — used her teeth to get him to pull out; instead, she had fought with her own body to suppress her urgent need to fight him off — and in the end she had worked to excite him, and he had come in her mouth, and Carl had seemed pleased.

There was no requirement at all for her to perform. She was a free agent; unlike the sluts who had taken indenture here, she was simply being paid to take a holiday in paradise, to wear a bikini in the daytime and pretty dresses in the evening, to be friendly to the other guests. No more was required of her than this.

Of course, she was unlikely to be invited again if she offered nothing more — but there was no problem here either. She had no intention of coming again — the place was a constant debauch; an obscenity; rich and powerful men engineering a situation where through simple pressure of numbers (10 women at least for each member) and the morally corrosive atmosphere, lovely young women whored themselves willingly — desperately even; sweetly and beautifully offering themselves up for every kind of debauchery — she had witnessed some shockingly degrading treatment meted out to girls who had seemed elegant, reserved beauties - seen them reduced to slime smeared, tear-streaked, quivering messes, and yet still holding themselves open for more, making themselves smile, asking to be used without restraint.

Only … only, it had become increasingly intolerable to her that, despite her figure, and the daringness of her bikinis, despite her carefully sexy walk, the artful way she disposed her limbs while sunbathing, she received so little attention from any of the members.

Why did they go for these silly whores? She wasn’t just pretty, she was of the same class as them (albeit poor as a church mouse), had good conversation, could speak intelligently about politics, about art…

So when Carl had called out to her, she had found it impossible to react as she normally would to a crude and boorish comment about her breasts, but had found herself smiling foolishly, and blushing, turning to him, and doing as he asked — removing her top — right there in the beach bar! — and doing a little shimmy for him, to set her nipples moving.

She had nearly cried, then, when he had grinned, and said something demeaning but approving to his friends (to be so pathetically grateful for such degrading attentions!), but had made herself laugh, and gone to him — accepting his hand between her thighs with only a small shriek — and it had begun.

But now — the next day, here she was — nude (it no longer made any sense to retain her bikini in this sea of naked girl-flesh, having been so vigorously fucked in front of so many strangers the night before), posing as obviously as she dared, playing all the games a girl could to attract a man’s attention, all without result.

Carl hadn’t looked at her once — more interested in some silly game with Ronald at the edge of the pool, and occasionally staring at the two blondes who were slowly, teasingly fucking each other with a double-ended rubber cock, pleasuring each other’s clits with languid fingers and alternating between giggles and moans. One of them was now helping the fat old german guy to inch his hard-on into her arse, and was moaning louder, wriggling more sensuously than ever, despite the tears that glistened in her eyes, and Carl seemed transfixed.

Her world was turning to ashes. What had she done last night? Acting like the easiest of these whores! What had come over her? He didn’t like her particularly, of course he didn’t — what sort of a fool was she? She was just another pair of tits, another collection of willing holes to fuck…

She wanted to cry, wanted to run to her room, throw herself on the bed and curl into a howling, wailing ball. How long? Three days! Three days now before she could leave without incurring much of a penalty. She needed this money!

Her nakedness is suddenly burning her. To have exposed herself so, and yet to be ignored!

She is wondering if she might go mad before then when there is a polite cough at her elbow.

A manservant, in old fashioned uniform, bearing a tray, on which is a fresh and elaborate cocktail and a pretty arrangement of an elegant set comprising collar, chains and cuffs, all monogrammed with an ornate ‘D’.

“Lord D’s compliments, Miss. He invites you to wear these for him until midnight, on the usual terms.”

Lord D! One of the three original founders — in his late fifties now, grey haired, but in good shape. She has been fascinated and terrified by him in equal measure since arriving — watching him and sometimes catching him watching her (nothing odd in that — he is there to take advantage of girls — and as founder he has his pick — eager slutty girls all but throwing themselves at him: he is notoriously choosy).

Her heart seems to be beating right up inside her throat. She can hardly speak. She is aware that there is no mistake in the timing of this — at the point of her maximum vulnerability (she is far from stupid), but the knowledge of this manipulation can’t seem to take the edge off the ridiculous idea that submitting to this rich old sadist will be some sort of triumph over Carl’s indifference.

The footman is looking at her breasts. Tears are in her eyes. Of course he can look at her breasts; she is voluntarily naked; naked — advertising her sexual availability, her willingness to be used — posing as hard as she can, for strange and horrible men, on an island of whores.

Trying to steel herself to resist what is coming over her, she tells herself that, should she give herself to Lord D, it is entirely possible that this footman will be permitted to take her in the rear, take her virginity there, in front of everyone; hurt her, degrade her, force her, have her scream out her debasement (as she has heard other girls scream). She has seen worse humiliations imposed on pretty girls as they beg and sob their shame and pain for an audience of casually laughing men, discussing amongst themselves which of them will use which holes, how they will enjoy looking into her helpless eyes as they hurt her themselves, once the current incumbent releases her (other girls will be watching, too, some as heartless and cruel as the men, some fixated, appalled, others still round-eyed, wailing in shock as some man, inflamed by the spectacle, throws them down to be ravaged in turn).

She tells herself this as she attempts to build her resolve to walk away. To leave the island, leave this madness (Now — right now! Forget the money! This will ruin you! Save yourself! screams a voice in her head).

But somehow she is taking the cocktail, forcing herself to take a big gulp, then to smile, shakily, at the footman, saying;

“I’m … th … thank you! I mean … I … Yes! Pl … please — could … could you help me p-put them on?”

Calmly and efficiently, perfectly respectfully, but equally without any opportunity to reconsider, she is rendered controllable; her elbows cuffed behind her, tightly constrained to the heavy collar with a chain. She realises, then, with a lurch, that she has not asked, does not have the faintest clue, as to what is implied by ‘the usual terms’ — has no idea what she has just consented to.

As the flunkey affixes a leash to her collar, and takes the opportunity to casually caress her breasts, pinching at her nipples as of right, she realises that she is trembling visibly; too overcome by apprehension, too weak, now, to ask any questions — so that she has effectively become Lord D’s creature already, given herself over to abuse and debauchery, in a matter of less than a minute; that from this moment she will have no option but to comply with whatever he might want from her.

Dimly, she realises that this is some sort of anticipated event. That it is likely she will be put through some sort of showcase ordeal — and by the most cynical and powerful abuser on the Island.

Stunned by her own foolishness (shamefully aware, too, of the twisting, churning sensation in her gut that she recognises from last night as a hunger, from deep inside her, for the catharsis that being fucked will bring), horribly aware of her helplessness, she meekly allows herself to be led across the terrace, forcing herself to walk elegantly, with no choice but to accept from the crowd the smattering of applause and the obscene, shameful speculations about how she might be used (wondering to herself why she should make this effort, she realises that this is all she has, now. She is to be degraded in public, horribly shamed; her only choice is as to how she comports herself through it. She knows, suddenly, that she is going to try — try her hardest, not to break; not to become hysterical, not to scream and thrash like a landed fish, as she has seen other girls do — no, she will try — try to open herself, offer herself, lean in to whatever is demanded of her. If she is to be a whore, a public slut, then — perhaps — she can be a remarkable one — one who inspires desire and envy from the watchers. These thoughts terrify and exalt her in equal measure, inspiring her to greater efforts to walk as beautifully as she can - to get her hips switching and her breasts swaying, attempting a soft and open smile, in spite of the tears which threaten to fall).

Along with the sensation of being about to faint, there is also, impossible to deny, a strong flutter of satisfaction — you see, Carl, I am desired - and by Lord D himself! — excitement and expectation — and sexual heat, too.