Escape from Dominatrix Island

They didn't remove my handcuffs and instead began to cut my clothing away from my body with medical scissors. They were not gentle about it and forced me down on a cold metal table. One of them began ripping the improvised bandages from my feet. I struggled and cried out.

"Be still. Medical check," the women who spoke English explained. One of the women in black leather took large wads of cotton in long stainless steel clamps. Soaking the cotton in a stinky orange fluid that I assumed was antiseptic, she roughly scrubbed at the cuts on my feet and limbs. It burned so badly that I screamed out loud, and when I tried to get up, the women surrounded me and restrained me to the table with wide leather straps.

One of them was shining a flashlight in my teary eyes and another was looking in one of my ears when the door to the infirmary opened. The women abruptly stood at attention as another lady walked into the room.

She was a tall, older woman, with long blonde hair in elaborate braids. Dressed in what looked like a military jumpsuit of form fitting silver leather, with matching thigh high boots that laced up the front and had tall spike heels that clicked loudly on the stone floor as she walked into the room with calm authority. One sleeve of her jumpsuit was decorated with numerous wide black stripes and an elaborate crest or insignia at the top. The women stepped back as she walked slowly around the table where I was bound.

While she was clearly in charge, I noticed that she only had a radio on her belt and was not carrying a pistol. Smoothly reaching into one of her pockets, she pulled out a cigarette case, and lit a smoke with a small chrome lighter.

She spoke for a while in a foreign language with the woman in the silver jacket, which was apparently the only one that spoke English. There were long, awkward pauses, when she just stood there smoking her cigarette, looking me over.

The tall blonde picked up one of my hands and examined it closely, and then checked the other, softly making comments to the other women. Then she poked at my belly and squeezed my soft biceps, and made some comment that the other women laughed at. As she was lightly tugging at my hair, I asked the women who spoke English what was being said.

"She says it is unlikely you are operator," I was told.

"Operator? What do you mean?" I asked, but the woman who appeared to be in charge calmly held up one hand as if for the others to be silent. She talked softly with the group for a few moments, and then left the room, high heels echoing off down the corridor. "What's going on?" I asked, my voice wavering nervously.

"We finish medical," the woman in the silver jacket told me. "Then we have many questions for you."

Once they were done with the painful first aid treatment, I was secured to the table with more straps. The group of women left the room. Only two of the ladies dressed in black leather stayed outside the door, presumably standing guard. When the others had been gone for a while, they no longer stood at attention and started smoking cigarettes while talking casually, paying no attention to me. It seemed I was left strapped down on that table for most of the morning.

Later in the day I was released from the table but put in heavy chains and shackles. I was allowed to wash and use the toilet, but was not given any clothes. Then I was escorted by a large group of female guards in black leather. They had changed into knee high black leather boots with high heels that clattered loudly as they took me to a large room with windows overlooking the ocean. A sturdy wooden table was in the center of the room with what looked like a comfortable office chair behind it. I was roughly sat down on a low, cold, metal stool, on the other side of the table.

The woman who spoke English walked into the room. She had also changed her boots and now wore a thigh high pair, black leather, with tall spiky heels. The pistol and two-way radio were no longer on her belt. She carried several old looking binder notebooks in olive drab, and a fountain pen, along with a bottle of ink.

"I am Anastasia," she said and extended one hand. "We were not properly introduced." Her handshake was firm and I told her my name.

"I have many questions for you. I ask nicely, so you answer. Sometimes we take breaks. You want cigarette, then you smoke," she said, removing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from a pocket of her jacket and setting them on the table. "All very friendly."

The door to the room had been left open, I was pretty sure a few guards were standing outside, and then I heard the sound of high heels approaching slowly. I turned around to see the tall blonde woman all dressed in silver, with what must be a high rank displayed on the sleeve of her jumpsuit. Leaning against the door frame, she calmly blew a puff of smoke from her cigarette, and nodded towards Anastasia.

"You look to me," Anastasia said firmly. "I will ask questions.

Anastasia first asked me how I had come to be here, at this place they called the citadel. She took plenty of notes in one of the binder books, witting surprisingly fast despite having to repeatedly dip her fountain pen in the bottle of ink. After I told her my story I said,

"Listen, I just want to get to an airport, get some money wired, and fly back home. I can pay you for the inconvenience." Then as if an afterthought, I asked, "Could I please at least have some clothes or a robe?"

"You stay naked. Ensures truth," Anastasia explained. "We are on private island. No airport or regular transport by sea."

"There has to be some way to contact the outside world. You must have a radio, or maybe a satellite phone?" I asked.

"You know how to use satellite telephone?" she asked, her interest suddenly peaked. "Not normal communications device like cellular telephone. Have you served in military force of any kind?"

I told her that hadn't, but that only made her suspicious and she pointed out how I had improvised bandages from my robe after making it to shore.

"Perhaps you spent time with informal militia, armed religious group, or scouting?" she asked with suspicion. I let out a huff of laughter when she mentioned scouts and Anastasia abruptly cut me off.

"Scouts teach honor and other good skills. Firearms training for those who want it," she said with emphasis. "Many grow up to be fine men. No, you were not scout," she said. "Grown scout would have checked gasolina and put on float vest before leaving private vessel for island. Departure delay yes, but increase chance of mission success."

Someone loudly cleared their throat from behind me. It was the tall blonde. She spoke softly to Anastasia in their language.

"We do not judge," Anastasia told me flatly, with a scowl.

Then she turned to some other section in her binder and asked me a bunch of technical questions about electronics that I couldn't answer. Anastasia also wanted to know what sort of communications gear was on the yacht that I'd been traveling on, and I didn't know, other than that cell phones worked most of the time.

"You did not go to wheelhouse?" she asked with disbelief. "On private vessel is common practice. Men like to see helm station and radar screens. Crew like to brag about electronics but you have no interest."

She then opened one of the binders and showed me a drawing with a bunch of colored lines and symbols and said,

"This is wiring diagram of simple time delay detonator. You have ten seconds before explosion so what wire do you cut to save your life?"

"I don't know," I said. "The red one?" When she asked me why I chose red, I admitted it was a guess.

"Life or death situation and you take guess," she said with disgust. That was when the tall woman who seemed to be in charge again cleared her throat behind me.

She approached the table and spoke softly to Anastasia, picking up one of my shackled wrists and showing my hand to her. Then she pointed roughly at my body and made what sounded like condescending remarks in their foreign language.

The two women then seemed to argue, although they kept it civil, Anastasia's tone of voice always respectful but defiant.

"Did private vessel have surface drives or normal propulsion?" Anastasia suddenly asked, and I told her I didn't know. Once again she was annoyed. "Did not ask to see engine room? The way man that does not use spanner will ask to look under bonnet of sports car because it is interesting or maybe pleasing to see?"

The women in charge had some final words for her and then walked back to the doorway, where I heard her light a cigarette. Anastasia took several sheets of blank paper from one of the binders, set them in front of me along with the fountain pen.

"Draw picture of private vessel and small craft you wreck on island. As much detail as possible," she instructed, then got up from the table and walked out of the room. Looking over my shoulder, the woman in the silver jumpsuit still stood in the doorway. The expression on her face was difficult to read. I could also see that there were guards in black leather jackets standing on either side of the doorway.

The fountain pen was awkward to use and my shackles didn't help. My sketches of the yacht and jet ski were crude and sloppy with blotches of ink. Anastasia returned and looked at them intently.

"Large open deck at rear of vessel. Was there large circle on deck with letter H?" she asked, pointing at my drawing.

"A chopper pad? No," I said. Anastasia seemed to be intrigued that I knew what a landing pad for a helicopter looked like, but I think that's a pretty common thing to know.

"Was there equipment for diving, scuba tanks on board?" she asked, and I told her I didn't see any, but it was really large boat. It seemed to annoy her that I used the word boat.

Once again she was taking a bunch of notes, and asked about weapons on board the yacht. I had only seen a few guys with pistols, but that was a normal thing with my coworkers.

"Who makes better assault rifle? Kalashnikov or Colt?" she demanded to know.

"I've never heard of Kalash, whatever," I said with frustration.

"You know of AK-47 and M16?" she asked, and of course I had, but those are popular guns.

"AK-47 made by Kalashnikov. M16 is Colt," she said as if making an important point. I heard the woman behind me loudly clear her throat, and thought I saw Anastasia glare at her for a moment. Then she began to take a large group of papers from one of the binders and set them in front of me.

"You will complete battery of tests. Skip question if you do not understand. Food and water will soon be brought, as well as adding machine for mathematics test. You need toilet, it is there," she pointed to a wooden bucket in the corner with a lid on it. On top of the lid was what looked like a stack of toilet paper sheets, instead of a normal roll. Anastasia picked up her binders and notes, and left the room.

She walked off down the hallway with the tall woman who seemed to be in charge, but now several other women in black leather stood outside the door. A few were standing at attention while others leaned against the wall and smoked cigarettes.

I didn't know if I'd accidentally wound up at some secret cold war era military base or what. Looking through the test material, it looked like it had been printed on an old ditto machine, like tests I had taken in grade school. Thankfully it was all printed in English, but it looked difficult.

A short time later two guards in black leather walked in. One carried a metal tray with compartments, like what you see in prison movies. There was a large helping of gruel, and a small loaf of dense, dark bread. They left a tall glass of water, along with a mug that contained some type of steaming hot broth. Then one guard came back to the table with a large old calculator. The kind that had a big green LED display.

The food was bland, but the broth was amazing. It warmed my body, which was chilled from having sat naked on the metal stool for what seemed like hours. I was only briefly interrupted by Anastasia, who came into the room and placed several more blank sheets of paper on the table.

"You draw picture of private vessel and small scooter craft again," she ordered. "Show more detail on private vessel, and list color of hull and topside. Show all radio aerials, radar scanners, any other thing you remember, even if not know what it is."

My mind was worn down at that point and I lost my cool. I told her it was just some big generic yacht like you see at some large marina or on TV shows. Standing up, rattling my chains I said she couldn't keep me as a prisoner and that I just wanted to go home.

My raised tone of voice got the attention of the guards outside the room, and they quickly came in and roughly forced me back down onto the stool. Anastasia had remained calm through my outburst.

"You are not prisoner here," she said calmly. "You are detained because you arrive without invitation, under suspicious circumstance. I ask you nicely, so you draw picture. Your people are criminals. They know you are missing as well as agua scooter. Maybe turn around and come look for you," she explained.

"If large vessel spotted on horizon we want to know if it is your people. If they try to make landing here, we will turn them away, by force if needed, which is why I ask about weapons. Not make, hostage ransom game with you, because their intentions bad. If all is as you say," Anastasia added with a note of suspicion.

Before leaving the room, Anastasia told me they still hadn't found any wreckage of the jet ski, so she needed more detailed drawings. An overhead view, front, back, and sides. Showing all stripes and stuff, labeling colors. I told her it was probably smashed to bits and washed out to sea and would never be found.

"You are not first man to crash here on rocks. We always find wreckage," she said, and walked out of the room.

The battery of tests, as Anastasia called it, started out as what you'd probably find on college entrance exams. None of it was multiple choices and I had to write in the answers as neatly as I could with that old fountain pen. I might have done okay on some of it, but there was a ton of advanced stuff that I just had to skip over. Other sections of the test were probably psychological and maybe some of it was to determine my I.Q.

Oddly enough there was a large section that had a lot of questions about my sexual experiences and fantasies. There were extensive questions about sadomasochism and if I liked to be flogged or paddled, and I answered no to all of that stuff. Anastasia periodically walked in and collected portions I had completed.

The testing was mentally draining and also demoralizing. There were so many questions I couldn't answer. As far as all the kinky sex stuff, I'm just a regular guy that likes to get laid and have his cock sucked, and not much more than that. When at last I was completed, Anastasia sat down across the table from me, her written notes in hand.

"So you are, Mr. Van. For many years you are employed to do office work for criminals. Several days ago you board large private vessel capable of crossing ocean but you do not pay attention to name of vessel. You only have interest in liquor and whores, and do not ask destination or length of voyage. Spend most time in cabina, drunk, in bed with whore," she said with a strong tone of disapproval.

"Crew member confide with you that life in danger. You see island and make escape on this, jet ski, as you call small scooter-like craft. You do not bring whore with you. Do not bring comrade who warns you, just try to save self. Crash into rocks near island, make bandages because you say is obvious thing to do, and are found by patrol in morning," she slammed her notes down on the table. "Is that all to story? You leave out anything we need to know? Best to tell me now."

"That's the story," I told her, and I know my tone sounded apologetic. "You don't have to make it sound so bad."

"We are finished with questions today," Anastasia told me. "You have been much inconvenience to us, so before you are taken to night quarters, you will be given task.

A group of guards in black leather roughly escorted me to a chamber located near the large set of doors where I had been led into the citadel. Several walls of this chamber were covered with mostly empty racks containing the flat heeled riding style boots that the women seemed to wear when patrolling the grounds and narrow coastline.

A large pile of those boots was in the middle of the stone floor. Some were relatively clean, but others were coated in mud. It seems their search for jet ski wreckage or maybe other intruders had been pretty thorough. Perhaps it would continue through the night.

Only two of the female guards stayed in the room with me, although I was pretty sure the others were outside and close by. They adjusted the chain lengths between my shackles so I had more freedom of my arms.

One of the ladies took a boot from off the floor over to a trough with a faucet on the wall. She spoke to me in her foreign language as she scrubbed the boot under the faucet with an old fashioned style brush, that looked like a small wooden paddle with coarse bristles attached on one side.

She then curiously made this licking motion towards the clean boot, as if I was to lick the boot after I washed it. Then it was placed on the rack. The guard pointed to the pile of boots on the floor, handed me the scrub brush, and they both laughed.

As I washed the first boot, the two guards just seemed to ignore me, lighting cigarettes and chatting away like good friends. It really didn't take too long to scrub off the grime but as I did, I noticed the size number on the sole, and realized there would be some sorting to be done as I put them on the rack. A better look at the racks showed me that certain areas were labeled for different sizes. I also assumed that some boots were more heavily worn than others, and since they had no distinguishing marks other than size, I would just need to pair them up the best I could based on their condition.

"No, no, no," one of the guards scolded me as I walked away from the boot rack. She stuck out her tongue with a licking motion and pointed to the boot I had just put away. The two women were sitting on tall wooden stools by a work bench of some kind. It looked like there was a small pile of boots there, spike heels broken off, waiting to be repaired. I then saw the guard had a riding crop and she whipped it through the air threateningly. I had thought she was joking about licking the boot before putting it away, but that was not the case. She didn't seem to be satisfied until I had ran my tongue over the entire boot, including the sole.

As the pile of boots on the floor dwindled down, and my mouth got dry from all the licking, I had to cup my hands under the faucet several times to drink some water. The guards had become preoccupied in conversation with another pair that stopped in to toss their gritty boots on the pile.

While at first I was surprised that the second pair didn't pay any attention to me, I thought that the rumor and gossip mill here had to run quickly. No doubt every woman knew I was here and what I was doing. All four of the women only had a single silver stripe on the sleeves of their jackets. Perhaps the gossip flowed quicker among the lower ranks. That worked out well for me with them being preoccupied, I didn't have to be as thorough with the boot licking.

After the other women had left and I'd licked the last boot and put it on the rack, a guard pointed to a broom that was leaning in a corner. That would be the first of many sweeping assignments at the citadel. As I swept up the grit, dried mud, and numerous crushed cigarette butts, the two guards looked over the racks of boots. I assumed they were checking to make sure I had sorted them properly.