Sommer Storms Ch. 01

I nodded to the laptop, "I told you it was a rough draft." I watched her eyes drift down to the words on the screen. "But you're probably right. I can just get you to email me some info and I'll take a look at it when I'm back home." I chuckled as good naturedly as possible, "Thanks for putting up with my silliness, I'll just get your email address, if that's OK."

"Is it still there?" she asked, standing, reaching a hand up between her shoulder blades and turning away from me.

"Is what still there?"

"The sign someone obviously taped to my back that says Please fuck with me, I'm a complete moron."

Oh shit.

"Look, Sommer, I--"

"Save it, I know what you're trying to pull. People lie to my face all the time, Mr By the Way; you think I haven't learned to spot the signs? I honestly thought you were going to be different from all the other suits who think they can get me to behave the way they want with a bit of flattery and a few false promises." She shrugged, "I guess I am a moron."

In one motion, she scooped up the remaining star fruit slices off the plate, hurled them at my face, with a suggestion for where I could shove them, and beelined for the sliding door. What could I say that wouldn't sound lame or desperate? Nothing.

She whipped her head around to face me, blue eyes on full, "You should have stuck with weird, I like weird."

With a silent slide of the door, she was gone. For the second time in two days, I watched that

woman storm away from me as I cleaned up the mess she'd made. My own fault, entirely. I'd overdone it. Too impatient.

The problem was, she did inspire me, in the worst way.

#

The…

After watching the cursor flash for a minute, I deleted the word. Why couldn't I focus? Stupid, this was stupid. All writers do is complain about lack of time and privacy and here I was, alone on my own island, staring at the blank screen of my laptop, without a single idea in my cranium.

Looking at the clock on the wall, I sighed. Five hours of nothing. No, I wasn't going to fall into this pit. Cracking my knuckles, I lowered my fingers to the keyboard and typed.

It was…

It was what? And what was it? The cursor blinked its impatience as I lowered my forehead to the desk and let out a noise like air leaking from a tire. Without looking up, I closed the cover. Maybe a walk would help.

From the raised porch, I could see out over a large expanse of the lagoon. Can anyone really capture this in words? I wondered, a thought that didn't lift my spirits. The beauty of the vista was so overwhelming that it felt fake, like a Disney-fied version of a tropical paradise. Blue sky and blue water competed as is if they were the two prettiest girls at the prom, trying to outshine each other to become queen. Sky had chosen white accessories -- puffy clouds and graceful pilot birds. Water went with the striking contrast of green vegetation and pale, beige sand. Not to mention, a red kayak to top it all off. Sure, I thought as I ambled down the wooden steps, on most bodies of water the red kayak would be garish but the lagoon pulls it off with …

A kayak?

Some maniac had paddled all the way from the main island. What were they thinking? It was already four o'clock; they'd never make it back before sunset.

Something tickled the base of my spine.

No way.

Still, the tickle persisted.

Jogging back up the stairs, I grabbed the set of binoculars my hosts had left for me. As soon as they were focused, and I'd found my subject, the tickle climbed all the way up to my neck. The golden highlights in her hair caught the light; Sommer was paddling to my beach. Paddling hard.

I've suffocated some urges in my time but the one I strangled that day, (my desire to run to the water's edge, jump up and down, and wave my arms like I was flagging down a rescue boat), was probably the most difficult. What to do? Climb into the hammock and pretend to be asleep? Go inside, close the door and pretend to be working? I laughed. How about honesty for a change, asshole?

When the kayak was close enough, I made my way down the stairs. I didn't run, I walked. Not fast, either. My toes hit the warm water the same moment her boat skidded onto the sand. Without offering to help, I watched her slip out of the kayak, grab a yellow dry bag out of the cockpit and plant her paddle in the sand.

Like gunfighters, we sized each other up.

"I want a chapter," she said, between laboured breaths. Her eyes hid behind sunglasses but I didn't have to see them to know how brightly they burned.

"I want a slave," I answered. She'd asked for honesty.

"One full chapter, in your new book, devoted to the environmental problems in the Cook Islands." Sweat glistened on her body - a body on display, covered by a bikini no bigger than four large bandages.

"Three days. You do whatever I say. We set ground rules together but after that you obey. No questions, no throwing of food or beverages." I crossed my arms and dared her to object.

"I need a swim first," she said, tossing her bag on the shore and dragging her boat far enough out of the water that it wouldn't float away.

"Fine. I'll be inside when you're ready," I nodded toward the cottage.

As she removed her sunglasses and strolled into the lagoon, she called out over her shoulder, "I'm still angry", then ran and dove into the blue.

Now it was her turn to lie.

#

You'll never catch me wearing leather and wielding a cat-o-nine tails. My brand of sadism is organic, inspired in the moment, nourished by circumstance. At this moment, though, it was rusty.

Sommer and I worked out a list of rules as if we were warring political leaders negotiating a peace treaty. We each wanted something, we each feared losing something, we were both too stubborn to give much and too proud to show our weaknesses. We picked a safe word and signal -- a concept new to my future slave -- and agreed on some protocols. In return, I put my promise of a full chapter in writing, with a signature.

When we shook hands, she was trembling. Good. I'd have worried if she wasn't nervous.

Her freedom ended, not with a bang but with a sizzle. Her first order was to make dinner, (an order I silently vowed, as I gnawed on a piece of leathery steak, never to repeat). Next was to clear up and do the dishes. When done, I told her I'd be working and she could read a book or whatever she liked.

A better torture, I could not have devised. Her nerves and expectations were doing my work for me. Visions of shackles and ball gags, were dancing in her head. At any moment, she probably thought I'd pounce, demand she crawl on the floor and lick my feet. For the first time, I thanked all those stereotypes I hated.

Subtlety, how much joy you bring.

I was typing furiously when I felt her standing in the doorway of my bedroom. With a suggestion of a smile, I turned, "Yes?"

She shifted her weight from foot to bare foot in a way that made my throat dry. "Um, it's almost ten o'clock and I'm tired from my paddle so…um…"

This was killing her, asking permission. No way I was going to let her out of it, "So…?"

"So," she sighed, (what a beautiful noise), "is it OK if I go to bed…?" A gap at the end of her question. What was she to call me? I'd never told her.

"Oh," I let my face be friendly, "certainly."

"Thanks," she said and turned to go.

"Thank you, Master."

Stopped in her tracks. Her fists clenched and unclenched. "Thank you…Master."

Ouch.

"Goodnight." I turned back to my screen, with a smile as big as the moon hanging on the water.

#

Evidence of my slave's sleepless night was everywhere. The puffiness of her eyes, the clumsiness of her movements, her yawns every time she thought I wasn't looking.

"Sleep well?" I asked, as I stirred my coffee.

"Like a baby."

"And we all know how well they sleep."

The next time she thought I wasn't looking, she stuck out her tongue at me. If she'd been trained, that would have meant swift and merciless punishment, but I chose to keep my knowledge of her mini-rebellion as ammunition for later.

I'd listened to her toss and turn for hours, as her bedroom adjoined mine. With each squeak of the bedsprings, the need in my loins grew. Awakenings can be so painful for some people.

Sommer was fighting hers with as much determination as she fought the crab killers. The difference was she actually had a chance of stopping the killers.

"There's a bag on your bed. After you finish your breakfast and have a shower, put on the items you find in the bag and meet me on the beach."

She saluted as she bit a chunk out of the top of a mango. "Sho thing, Boss."

So many infractions already. What a delightful challenge.

July is about the most perfect month in the South Pacific. As always, the sun shows up each morning and punches his time card but the trade winds keep everything cool and, most importantly, dry. Tropical humidity can take down even the Energizer bunny. Walking along the edge of the water, letting the sand massage my toes, I wondered that more European sailors didn't mutiny when they arrived on these shores. Especially if they were greeted by native women as scantily clad as the lovely creature headed in my direction.

Smart-ass comments were backed up in her mouth like cars during an LA rush hour. If I flinched now, it'd be over.

"Well done," I said, taking a long, steady look. "My inspiration made flesh."

The coconut shell bra had been displayed on a shelf in the sitting area -- it didn't really fit but that wasn't the point. An early riser, I'd gathered enough palm leaves to fashion a crude skirt. Inside the dresser drawer in my bedroom I'd found some shell necklaces, all chipped and the worse for wear but somehow that added to the authenticity.

"You make a beautiful native," I reassured her. She did. Even though she looked as happy as a lion on a skating rink, she was custom made for this role.

"Is there something you--"

"Ah!" I raised a finger to halt her, "Today you are an ignorant savage. I need to feel like I've traveled back in time, that I'm visiting this island before the white man inflicted his Puritanism on the natives and ruined everything worthwhile. You don't speak my language. You may grunt or make up a tongue of your own but no English. Understood."

She nodded with a slight smirk. Infraction number three.

"Of course, I'll need to give you orders so let's just pretend that you can understand English, even though you can't speak it. Poetic license, if you will."

She fiddled with the bra. It did look unyielding. Soft, breast flesh spilled out around the hard edges of the shells. For a second I forgot what I wanted to say.

"And the safe word can always be spoken, naturally." I hoped not to hear it but she could never know that. "You're going to go about your day, gathering coconuts, wood for a fire, weaving palm leaves to eat off of, resting if you're tired, swimming if you're hot, whatever you like. I'll just observe until I want something."

As much as I wanted her to suffer, I didn't want her to go through the day miserable. The sooner she got into the spirit of things, the better.

"Sommer…no, you're a native now, I'll call you Girl, that's the kind of thing a superior, civilized man would call someone like you. Girl, you are free from society, free from social codes and manners and restraint. You're feral. Wild. Enjoy it. Fart, pick your nose, eat bugs, I don't care." Ah, a smile at last. "This is your island, you do what you want."

All she could do for a few minutes was stare out at the water. I'd have given anything to climb inside her brain, what a battleground it must have been. Absolute freedom delivered through slavery. Holy mind fuck, Batman.

Inertia eventually succumbed to her natural restlessness. She walked away from me, away from the cottage, like someone who had never walked on a beach in her life. In a sense, I think she never had.

Feeling part stalker, part field researcher, I followed at a respectful distance. It was like watching one of those nature documentaries where they release an animal into the wild when it's only known captivity all its life. She picked up and examined shells, drew designs in the sand with her fingers, squatted down to watch hermit crabs, played with the palm leaves that dangled from her waist.

For maybe twenty minutes, this was her shtick. Then she turned and looked at me, all question. I willed an answer onto my face. Go. She sniffed the air, let out a burst of laughter and took off running. Yes!

I let her go, humming the theme song to Born Free as I made my way to the hammock.

After burning off her nervous tension, the savage returned. From the comfort of the porch, I watched her collect and husk coconuts. She was surprisingly good at it, using a rusted machete she'd found to split the hard nut in half, with well placed taps.

"Ungh?" she grunted, as she appeared at my side, offering me half.

"Thank you, girl," I said, tilting the sweet liquid into my mouth.

As she drank from her half, trickles of juice ran down the sides of the nut, down her chin, dripped onto her chest. All of her body was coated in a light sheen of sweat. Too much wetness too soon.

Adjusting the coconut bra again, she finished her drink and skipped off down the stairs. I let her play for all of the morning, content to watch from afar and push ideas around. Sometimes I'd close my eyes and listen to the rustle of her grass skirt, imagining my hands parting those leaves, reaching between her thighs.

When she wanted to start a fire, there was a moment of frustration, as she struggled to communicate her need for a means to light it. Once it was blazing, however, and the pieces of fish I'd given her were cooking inside the banana leaves she'd used as wrappers, her smile became a permanent fixture.

Where she'd been all sinew and stress, now I saw hints of calm emerging. The only hindrance was the damn bra. Like most of my plans, I'd never really thought about the long-term implications. Either she was scratching underneath it or shifting the cups around, she couldn't relax, this was a problem.

She needed help, and I was prepared to give it, but she had to ask.

An hour after she finished eating her fish, she flopped down on the porch, in front of me. By then she was using a mock Maori language to express her thoughts. She pointed at the bra and frowned, "Atu etka."

"Yes, that's a lovely garment you have on."

"Etka!" she scowled and made scratching motions with her fingers.

"Oh, it's itchy?" I asked.

She nodded vigorously. "Atu," she repeated, lifting the edge of one of the cups to show me a red mark where it had been digging into her tender skin.

"Ow." I inhaled through clenched teeth as I examined the abrasion. "You know, most of the native women I've seen, just go topless. This is a deserted island. I won't tell anyone if you won't."

I expected resistance. I expected war, protests, more smirking. I didn't expect her face to melt into a puddle of relief a nano-second before she ripped the cursed nut bra off her body.

Damn.

Now I was the one who couldn't speak. Luckily she was so busy itching and massaging her irritated breasts that she didn't notice my mouth fall open. Her nipples stood pink and flawless as frangipani flowers.

I closed my mouth. I blinked three or four times. When she finally looked at me again, I was the picture of composure. But I felt the madman taking over again.

Give it a minute.

"Better?" I asked, congenially.

Self-consciousness was absent from her nod. Good.

Down the stairs she bounced, raising her hands over her head, stretching and giggling. Gazelle legs took confident strides to the water's edge and she splashed her way to the deep water. I'd been plenty patient. Time to begin training in earnest.

#

Where there are boats, there's usually rope. Under the raised cottage, I'd found a good length of soft poly. My slave splashed around for ages, leaving me ample time to find a suitable palm tree, one hanging almost horizontal over the beach. With a few tosses, I had the rope around the trunk. All I needed was my girl.

When she finally returned to dry land and rinsed herself in the outdoor shower, I waved her over to where I was standing -- dangling rope hidden behind me.

"I need to make an offering to Tangaroa, god of the sea. Do you trust me?"

"Ika," she said, nodding.

"Hold out your arms."

She did. I wrapped my hands around her wrists and pulled her toward me, sidestepping half a second before our bodies touched. I let go with one hand, grabbed one end of rope and looped it over her right wrist.

"This won't hurt," I said, to ease the muscles in her neck, which were tensing.

Pulling her left wrist on top of her right one, I made another loop. When everything was snug, without being tight, I grabbed the loose end of the rope and hoisted her arms over her head. The remaining length of rope, I tied to the trunk of the palm.

"Are you in any pain?"

Folding her lips inward, to contain her apprehension, she shook her head from side to side.

"Good."

I stepped back to admire the tableau. Stretched like a late afternoon shadow, vulnerable, half naked, water from her wet hair forming winding streams down her bronze body, eyes unsure where to focus, the girl was enchanting. There were so many bad things I wanted to do to her.

"You know about Tangaroa, don't you?"

She shook her head. I had a feeling she wasn't going to speak anymore.

"Ancient Islanders worshipped him as their most powerful god. He controls the sea, controls the weather, controls the fish. When you want something from Tangaroa, you have to say a prayer and make an offering. Today I'm offering you to him."

A smile moved into the corners of her mouth.

I stared in silence until uncertainty evicted her pleasure. Something was still missing; I needed my power to be absolute.

"No, this won't do."

I followed the trunk of the palm to the end, plucking off a long, green frond. Returning to the girl, I gestured for her to open her mouth. She licked her lips once and obeyed. Those blue eyes widened fully as I slipped the frond into her mouth and cinched it tight around her head, gagging my prey.

A sliver of fear pierced her eyes. Better.

Even though I was making everything up, I began to slide out of reality. How would a human sacrifice be prepared? Paint. Yes, she should be painted. Looking around, my eyes fell on the remains of the fire the girl had made. Walking over, I took my time, letting her growing fear simmer.

With a small piece of charcoaled wood in my hand, I returned to find her breathing faster than normal, eyes fixated on what I was carrying.

"You're too pretty," the madman said.

First, I drew designs similar to the traditional Maori symbols. Starting high on the inside of her left wrist, I dragged the stick down her arm, and back up, around, across, defiling her luminous skin with black smudges. Her chest rose and fell and I imagined the beat of her heart to be the escalating rhythm of native war drums.

The other arm was the same but her discomfort was inspiring me. When I moved to her back, I traced the word, slut, across it in large, clumsy letters. She began to sweat, which made it harder for me to write. Annoyed, my movements became brusquer. When I moved around to her front, standing as close as possible while still allowing myself room to paint, she wriggled, trying to step away from me.