Sommer Storms Ch. 01

"Girl, behave," I said, pressing the charcoal against one side of her collarbone and writing slave with enough force to demonstrate my displeasure. She looked down at the word, deciphered it and whimpered into her palm gag.

I traced circles around her breasts, not quite accidentally brushing against a few of the tender, red spots left by the bra. Each time this happened, she inhaled sharply and moaned.

Whore came out in a diagonal line, beginning under her right breast and ending on the far side, just at her hipbone. I didn't like the skirt anymore, it was in my way. Reaching my hands around her waist, I untied the string at the back and tossed the thing to the side. The girl was down to her tiny bikini bottom and those gazelle legs were free for me to explore.

My property, cum deposit, fuck toy, I wrote in a semi-trance, delighted at how I could make her moan or struggle by varying the pressure of the stick.

"Wider," I ordered, tapping the inside of her knee.

She moved her legs apart slightly.

"I said wider!" I gave the other knee a firmer tap and she obeyed. As I pressed the black tip of the stick against the inside of her left thigh, I pinned my eyes to hers. I moved my hand upward, and she panted. Up and up and up the stick went, her eyes widening as I approached the notch of the V between her legs.

I listened for finger snapping and heard none. She was scared but not scared enough to stop.

Pausing at the threshold, I contemplated my next move.

No, not yet.

Pulling the stick away from her thigh, I grabbed her chin in my left hand and tilted her head to one side. On her cheekbone, I drew more swirls. I tilted her head in the other direction and did the same thing. Her eyes closed as a thin stream of saliva fell from her mouth. I dropped the stick, caught some of the drool on my thumb and brushed it across her lips.

Eyes still closed, she moaned. More drool. This time I wet my thumb and lowered it to her nipple. Like a predator circling nervous prey, my thumb worked around the very perimeter of the warm, pink aereola, never putting so much as a paw over the line.

The rope tightened as the girl lowered her weight into her restraints.

"Am I your Master, girl?" I asked, my lips pressed to her ear.

She nodded, pushing her body toward my hand as best she could. Now she let her saliva flow for my benefit. I knew what she wanted and had every intention of denying it.

"Good," I said, stroking my way along the outskirts of her other nipple. "If I am your Master, you must obey me and never disrespect me. Is that correct?" I whispered.

Again a nod, this time accompanied by a moan.

I stepped away, quietly, bent down and picked up a thin Toa branch I'd stashed by the base of the palm tree. Her eyes remained closed and now she was undulating and pulling at the rope. This dance of hers and the weapon clutched in my hand made my cock stiffen. I moved in close again, tucking her hair behind her ear, for effect.

"So if you did something like…" I slid the weapon between her legs, bringing it up just to the edge of her bikini, and pressing against her skin hard enough to make her groan and grind her hips, "…oh, I don't know, let's say you stuck your tongue out at me behind my back or sassed me by calling me 'boss' or smirked at me when I gave an order, you'd have to be punished, right?"

Eyes open. Wide open. She spied the slender stick as I pulled it away from between her legs. I ignored the muffled protests and the squirming and strolled behind her.

The first strike, against her ass, was no more than a playful flick, a warm up, but the girl was so panicked she let out a scream into her gag and jumped around like she'd walked onto hot coals. I suspected she was more embarrassed than anything and gave a few more light taps to let her work through her angst. When I'd had enough of the dramatics, I halted and came around in front of her once more.

"Are you quite through with your tantrum?" I asked.

The blowtorch eyes fired up, then sputtered out.

"You have no power here. Accept your punishment." She was still fighting it but I could feel her desire to submit winning.

The next volley of strikes was more serious. How much I wanted that ass of hers naked, how much I wanted to see the border between bronze and alabaster skin and watch my stick endow each with lovely, red stripes.

Her dangling dance stopped but she still flinched at every blow. I was careful to position each lash in a slightly different spot. Working across her ass and down the backs of her thighs. Each time the wood connected with her skin I was torn between the urge to stop and soothe her and the desire to flail even more mercilessly.

From her, I felt a softening. The weapon was reshaping something inside of her. Muscles that were cinched and tight, grew long and languorous. Then it happened. Almost audibly, I felt her yield, give way. Her body hung heavy on the rope, her head lolled to one side, her breathing slowed.

Cocking my arm back, I let go with a solid strike. I heard the whack and her long, guttural moan as a single noise. She inhaled but it wasn't the sharp inhale of fear.

I needed to watch her.

Moving to her front, I saw my slave, blackened by charcoal and beaded with sweat, looking at me with an expression of pure gratitude. As I raised the stick, her eyes followed and kept following through the arc, to her thigh. I swear she smiled.

Oh god I needed to fuck her but we'd agreed, last night, that wasn't part of the deal.

Frustrated, I smacked her thigh again. Her head dropped backward, exposing her long throat. Such a chokable throat. My attack on the front of her thighs began in earnest. Between my legs, and in my gut, a bonfire raged. Only a thread of humanity kept me from tearing off her bikini bottom and sinking myself into her. So engorged with my fantasy was I, it took a few moments to hear the finger snapping.

In fact, it wasn't until I saw her head rocket up, perfectly straight, that I realized there was a problem. I tossed the stick to the side, feeling like an ass, but she started flailing and thrashing, yelling into her gag and yanking on the rope around her wrists.

What had happened? Was I that out of it? I thought she'd been enjoying it.

"OK, OK, hold on," I said, trying to calm her as I worked to free her hands. "Hold still, you're not helping."

I could feel the effort it took her to stop struggling and I could hear her yelling, "Urry! Urry!" into the gag.

Damn it. Every time I think I get this girl, she throws me a curve.

The second her hands were free, she ripped the gag out of her mouth. "Fuck!" she yelled, then turned and ran, full speed, down the beach, away from the sight of her punishment, and me.

"Sommer, what's wrong?" I yelled, jogging behind her.

"The ra'ui! They're fishing in the ra'ui, those motherfuckers!" she answered, the second before she charged into the water.

Sure enough, when I looked across the deep-water channel separating Motu Moana from the neighbouring motu, I could see two dark figures obviously setting a gill net right in the area that was a protected, marine reserve.

Perfect timing. Thanks guys.

Sommer was swimming the channel as if she was Michael Phelps's twin sister. No use trying to call her back and I certainly didn't feel like battling the current, especially with the needy ache in my groin.

Kicking the sand and cursing, I turned and headed in the direction of my so-called slave's kayak. At least I could stop someone from getting hurt, though I didn't know who I was more concerned about, Sommer or the fish poachers.

I took one last look at the empty rope, hanging from the palm like a broken promise. Damn.

#

There are brick walls less imposing than the native men of Aitutaki; two such behemoths stood slack jawed on the shore of Motu Tekupua with a small, white woman tearing a verbal strip off them.

"Morons! You'd kill every last fish in this lagoon if they let you, wouldn't you? Don't give me that look, I know you've seen the posters, you know damn well you're not allowed to fish here."

To be fair, she'd caught them off guard. I doubt anyone could have been prepared for a topless papa'a woman, covered in black war paint, emerging from the water, wild eyed and screaming. But when she made a grab for their gill net, they snapped out of it.

"You have no right!" the taller of the black haired monoliths shouted. He yanked the net out of Sommer's hands.

"Neither do you, asshole!" She scooped up another section of net, lying in the water, and pulled.

As I climbed out of the kayak, the tug-of-war was in full swing.

"Nunevit!" the shorter man said to the other.

"No, you're the idiots. Yeah, I understand what you said, jackass," Sommer snapped back.

"Let go, this is not your island!"

"Well it should be. I'd take better care of it."

"Stupid papa'a, go home."

"Make me!"

The men gave the net a hard tug, sending Sommer stumbling forward until she was inches away from her foes.

"OK, let's all calm down." Three sets of eyes glared at me. I raised my palms in a gesture of peace. "Sommer, these very large men are not going to let you take their net away."

"They're fishing illegally and they know it," she said.

"Yes but that's a matter for the authorities to handle, not you." I walked forward as if I were a member of a bomb squad, called in to defuse a nuclear warhead.

"Get her off our motu," Taller barked.

"I intend on it," I assured him, conscious of the fishing knife strapped to his calf.

"Sommer, let's go," I was close enough to grab her.

She turned her face to mine and that's when I saw what was really going on. This was not misplaced aggression or first world arrogance. Those eyes were not the blue flame of a blowtorch, they were the blue of the lagoon, of the ocean, of her home. She was Tangaroa's daughter, fighting for her father and his creation. Terrified, sad, and frustrated, she would face down a hundred island warriors if she had to.

I rested my hand on her blackened shoulder and said softly, "Come on, you can't win today."

Slapping my hand away, she gave her enemies one last angry stare, turned and marched back to the water. I watched her stomping into the blue, feeling like a traitor.

"Fellows, I'm sorry about this. She won't bother you anymore but you really should--"

Before I could tell them what they really should do, a scream ripped open the tranquil, island air. I whipped around and saw Sommer lying in the shallow water, convulsing and clutching at her leg. What the hell…? I ran to her, so did Taller and Shorter.

By the time we reached her, she was white as the clouds and hyperventilating.

"What happened?" I asked, but she was beyond answering.

"No'o" Taller said, as he unsheathed the knife at his calf and grabbed her foot. Shorter ran back up the beach and into the bushes. Sommer thrashed and screamed.

"Hold her!" Taller said, as he fought to hold her ankle steady with one hand. I did my best, trying to pin her shoulders with my knees while I grabbed for her flailing hands.

"What the hell is going on?" I demanded to know.

Shorter was running back in our direction, with a fist full of green leaves.

"No'o," said Taller, again, "Stonefish."

"Oh shit."

I'm no marine biologist but I knew one fact from my travels in the South Pacific: Stonefish venom kills. Sommer was in a lot of trouble.