Chapter Two

 

 

The service over, the island women had quickly doffed their Sunday best and clad once more in nothing but their scanty grass skirts, began to stroll with their families from house to house visiting their neighbours. Several bare-breasted unmarried girl friends came to join Ben’s wife in attending to Isobel, some seeking to apply more ointment and the others solicitously wiping away her tears. They freed her gag but there was little further comfort they could offer. Though some of the men chased them away, they continued to hover at a little distance as if to ensure that Isobel suffered no further abuse. Presently she heard Oonea greeting her husband’s return. A quick glance revealed, to Isobel’s horror, that he was accompanied by another European, a black-whiskered stranger in a blue peaked seaman’s cap and ill-fitting jacket. Isobel cast down her eyes in confusion as they drew near, the involuntary contraction of her exposed bottom cheeks only serving to remind her of the painful evidence of the cane weals. She was sure he must have been staring at such a sight. In shame she kept her eyes upon his boots where they stood before her, alongside Ben’s bare feet.

“Madame! Parlez vous Francaise?”

“He’s a froggie.” Ben said unnecessarily. Despite her overwhelming shame at being found by a civilised European male in this condition, Isobel made an effort to concentrate her mind to frame a plea, “M’aidez, pour merci!” her voice trembled.

“Pardon?” Forced to raise her voice she felt a little rush of fury, repeating her plea. The Frenchman only grunted. She told herself she must remember that such rough low-bred people as made their living at sea in such out of the way parts, would not have the reactions to a lady in distress that she might expect of a gentleman. His next question was to ask if she wished a passage to Sydney Cove.

“She ain’t got any choice!” Ben said brutally, catching the name and the tone of inquiry. “He’s bin trading for sea slugs,” he added to Isobel. “Put in here expecting to get all he wants for a few iron nails. He’ll have to take you with him if he wants the king to allow him food and water!” Then to the French captain, “All happy eh, monsewer? We’ll put her on board when you leave. Let’s go and tell his majesty the good news.”

The sun had descended with only the brief twilight of the equatorial regions, before Ben returned to join Oonea in releasing the exhibited captive. Isobel was far too stiff to move. She was lifted by the hips and propped up momentarily upright, then hoisted into the air and slung bodily over Ben’s naked shoulder, his muscular forearm coming across the back of her thighs. He smelt strongly of sweat and wood smoke and Isobel nervously felt his muscled flesh warm under her belly and across her thighs even through the thin covering of her dress. Only feebly protesting, she was carried in this way, slung over Ben’s shoulder all the way back to the young couple’s home among the coconut palms. Later that night, while Ben snored in the background, his young wife crept to Isobel’s side where she lay, feeling the effects of sweet coconut milk mixed with a strong draught from Ben’s secret rum bottle which the couple assured her truthfully would dull the pain. Producing the ointment jar and caressing the wounded flesh with skilful fingers, the island girl cooed dovelike between gentle kisses.

Isobel recalled the nights when she had watched Oonea work upon her husband’s body in just such a gently skilful way and offered no obstacle when the hands strayed wider and more intimately. The throbbing warmth of her bottom reminded her that she had no status to lose, here among these unsophisticated savages, nothing to gain by maintaining exclusivity. She was far away from the constraints of European civilisation. Gliding down, Oonea’s small hands, which had been so gently caressing Isobel’s wounded bottom, slid round into the deep furrow between the seared rounds, fingers exploring deeper still between Isobel’s trembling thighs. Cupping the furry mound in her hand, Oonea rubbed the ball of her thumb gently but insistently about the little fleshy nub. Isobel could feel it stiffen and lengthen until she nearly cried out, but recalling where she was, managed to keep the outburst muted to little gasps. Her swinging breasts brushing the rough surface of the bed tingled as if it had imparted electric qualities. She lowered herself a little to savour the effect, hollowing her back, tautening and relaxing her throbbing bottom cheeks and grinding her mons veneris into Oonea’s palm until the lower section of her belly seemed to be melting into the condition of hot jelly.

Suddenly there was another brawnier, more massive body sharing and intervening in their embrace, coming from behind and creating strange reactions as it brushed the throbbing weals across her bottom. Isobel knew it was Ben and fully intended to protest, but somehow all her attention was absorbed by her reactions to Oonea’s caresses. The island girl soothed her with sweet words, urging her not to worry; no harm would come of it. Persuaded by now that these people knew more of such things than she, Isobel got no further but gave herself up guiltily to animal enjoyment. The hard male body was pressed between the softness of her thighs and against her quivering belly lay a stiff hot truncheon that slid and thrust, adding a quite different effect to those of Oonea’s lips and fingertips. Isobel gurgled and panted, convinced that the pleasures she was suddenly experiencing could not be construed as a violation. Gasping for breath, head down and bottom up, bathed in perspiration, she waited seemingly ages after she herself had reached the height of ecstasy and come down again, reluctant to be the cause of disappointment. Then she heard the kind of valedictory male grunt she recognised from her spying and Oonea’s delighted giggle in response. An imposition that Isobel had hardly been aware of lifted away from her back and rump, leaving behind a trace of wet stickiness. The girl’s small tongue began at once to lick this carefully away, following a trail from Isobel’s bottom cleft upwards as far as her the middle of her back, while Ben, having blundered heavily away, was shortly to be heard drinking thirstily next door.

“Your last night!” Oonea said sorrowfully, sitting back and licking her lips. “Tomorrow Father says you must go!”