Letters from Blackwell Island Pt. 03

"He would be branded," Marea explained grimly. "On his penis. Needless to say many of the poor men subjected to it ended up committing suicide some time later as they could not live with the shame of being permanently marked as a failure."

"Naofa cac!" Patrick exclaimed in Gaelic.

Holy shit!

"Branded?" I gasped in shock. "You mean, with a white-hot branding iron, like they do with cattle?"

"Mm-hmm," Marea confirmed. "Anyway, that was centuries ago now. Henry Blackwell and his fellow mutineers gradually put an end to such practices. These days if a couple don't conceive they do what any other couple would do - go and get tested and if necessary look into IVF or surrogacy or adopting."

"I thought there wasn't a facility for IVF here on Blackwell?" I asked, and then immediately wished I hadn't - after all, I hadn't yet mentioned to Patrick my conversation with Marea's sister at the immigration office and what would be required of him should we pursue permanent residency on the island. Fortunately, he seemed not to have noticed.

"They'd have to go up to Hawaii for that," Marea explained.

"They keep the branding iron in the museum in Malmesbury," Lisa chimed in, with a hint of gleeful malice in her voice.

"Pã'ele mothers still threaten their sons with threats of branding their penis whenever they misbehave!" Jackson chuckled. "My mother regularly threatened to use it on me when I was a lad!"

"It took me to bring him in line!" Marea said mirthfully.

"So, should I dare to ask what Aiden and Merryanne will be up to right now?" I enquired.

"I don't think you do, Allie," Patrick said. "I think we can all work it out for ourselves."

"How many times was it for us that first night, Marea?" Jackson asked his wife. "I was so knackered by the end of it all that I rather lost count!"

"Eight, I think," Marea responded. "And another eight times the next day. And at least that many again on the third day."

"Eww!" Lisa exclaimed in revulsion at the image of her parents going at it. "Too much information!"

"I was lucky I wasn't hospitalised from exhaustion," Jackson chuckled, clearly revelling in teasing his daughter. "Your mum rode me so hard she nearly broke my penis!"

"All right, you two, that's enough of that!" Marea chided them. "Your father's just being silly now - I didn't nearly injure him."

"Thank goodness for that!" Lisa responded.

"Besides, your father's cock damned nearly rubbed my insides raw!" Marea chuckled.

"Mu-umm!" Lisa groaned, clearly ill at ease with being teased by her parents about the early days of their marriage.

At which all of us couldn't help but find it funny.

* * * * * *

The day's events, coupled with the knowledge of what Aiden and Merryanne would be up to, had resulted in me feeling seriously frisky - I just wanted to get Patrick home and into our bed. However, was he clearly wasn't in the mood for any bedroom gymnastics that night.

"Jaysus, sure I'm glad to finally get this thing off!" he said as I untied his Kani.

"It's not that bad wearing it, is it?" I asked him as I carefully placed it back into its box.

"Just feels a bit uncomfortable after a few hours," Patrick explained. "No wonder men only wear 'em for ceremonial purposes nowadays. Anyway, I'm away to bed."

Which meant in no uncertain terms that sex was most definitely not on the menu. Which of course left me feeling somewhat with an itch that needed to be scratched. I pouted as he retired to the bathroom to brush his teeth, feeling horny and just a little disappointed. I could of course have tried to persuade him, or even to assert my matriarchal power over him and command him to service me, but I knew that his heart wouldn't have been in it and that he would just be going through the motions just to satisfy me, and I never enjoyed that kind of sex, ever.

I'm a bit ashamed to admit it now, but once, not long after we married, I rather took advantage of Patrick. It had been a tough day - an article I'd written for a local newspaper's weekend supplement had been rejected as being "too derivative" and my mood was at an especially low ebb. It was just the latest in a succession of rejections that month and I felt like I was in a creative rut, and I needed my husband to make love to me like never before. But when Patrick returned from his shift behind the bar at the pub he was working in at the time, he came in looking stressed and exhausted. He just kissed me and then headed straight to bed. I of course was feeling much too down to notice however, and I was also exceptionally horny - and so against my better judgment I came and stood before our bed, stripped naked, and before Patrick knew what was going on I was straddling him.

"Ohh, Patrick, I need you," I pleaded. "I'm so sad and horny! Please, my big and handsome Irish stud, I want you inside me!"

"Agh, away wi' ye, wo'an!" he responded gruffly, like an annoyed bear. "Sure can ye not see I'm frigged!"

"Please, Patrick!" I implored him, batting my eyelashes and using everything in my arsenal of womanly ways to try and persuade him.

Much to my relief that seemed to work.

"Agh, sure, if it'll stop you looking at me like that," he capitulated as he pulled his boxers down to reveal his penis to me. "Just do me a favour, would you?"

"Sure," I responded as I eagerly took his manhood in my hands and started stroking it to coax it towards an erection upon which I could sate my needs.

"Pull me pants back up when you're done," he said.

I was much too horny at the time to fully process what he'd said and what I was doing, and my own desires and needs fogged my reasoning. I'm ashamed to say that I ignored the fact that he clearly didn't really want to have sex at that particular time, but I went on and rode him anyway. It was only once I'd had my way with him and after I had enjoyed a wonderful and much-needed orgasm that I began to feel an almighty sense of guilt. It didn't escape my attention that he hadn't come, even though I'd been pretty vigorous in my riding of him. Of course I offered to finish him off with my hand but he declined, and he just reiterated his request for me to pull his pants back up and let him get some sleep. God, I've never felt more awful than I did at that moment. I did as he'd asked, and pulled his underwear back into place and just turned away from him and tried to get some sleep.

The next day I apologised to him and told him how awful I felt for being so selfish and ignoring his plainly evident unwillingness for sex. I promised him there would never be a next time. I even bought him a gift of his favourite Danish pastries from our favourite bakers in town. Fortunately for me, he told me he understood, and that he ought to have noticed how much I needed him to be there for me. We simply drew a line under the whole incident and never to mention it again. Although, he still sometimes tells me that I owe him one.

So as Patrick simply turned in for the night, clearly not in the mood for any sexual shenanigans, I knew there was only one way I could sate my continuing niggling arousal.

I don't masturbate very often. It's not because I disapprove of it, nor is it something I feel ashamed of, it's just that normally it's not something I ever need to resort to - usually Patrick is only too happy to help me out. Back in the days before we first got together, I would masturbate almost every night, bringing myself to at least three orgasms before finally feeling sated. Once we married Patrick kind of took care of my needs for me, though there were rare occasions such as now when he was simply too tired or just not in the right mood. One never forgets how to do it though, and so with Patrick in bed I sat back on the settee in the living room and with my legs akimbo and my feet resting on the edge of the coffee table, I began to rub my moist folds.

I was so pent up and turned on that my juices were steadily oozing from within me, and as I worked my fingers around my vulva I could hear a slight squelching sound that would normally be drowned out by the ambient sounds of everyday life.

"Uhhh..." I sighed as I felt my fingers work their magic. "Mmm... ohhh..."

Recalling images of Aiden and Merryanne on the beach earlier that day helped to provide a visual accompaniment to my fingering, setting my arousal on a collision course with what would hopefully be a satisfying enough orgasm. After a little while the image of the loving couple on the beach was replaced by another couple - Patrick and I - and as I looked down at him below me, lying prostrate and submissively upon the mattress of pandanus leaves, with all our friends around us holding hands in a circle as we made love.

With my eyes closed I dipped my fingers into myself as far as I could get them, imagining that they were Patrick's penis. Already I could feel myself getting close, something that only ever happens when I am at my horniest - if only my husband were in the mood to share it with me. I swirled my thumb around my clitoris in a rapid circular motion, which caused me to start panting and gasping.

"Uhh... hahh... ohhh... hmmm..."

In my mind at that moment I was looking right into Patrick's eyes, so blue and soulful and intelligent - I've not mentioned it before, but he is one of the cleverest people I know. I mean, he's fluent in two languages, and that's just for starters!

"Aa-ahh! Oh yes! Ahh, f-f-fu-u-u..."

I was moments away now, and almost within touching distance. The eyes of Marea and Jackson, Aiden and Lisa, our friends Toby and Angela and handsome young Morton, Jenni the policewoman, Mrs. Laukea and her husband, old Thomas, Mrs. Opuni - I could see them all in the circle around us, willing us on. Oh, if only this could be for real and not confined to my imagination!

"Ah! Hah! Hmmff! Oh, fu-u-uck! Hah-h-h!"

My orgasm consumed me with the suddenness of a nuclear chain reaction going off deep inside my body and rapidly radiated outwards. Every follicle on my naked body stood to attention, covering me in goosebumps, and my nipples stood prominently and erect atop my breasts. Not wanting to disturb my husband too much I covered my mouth with my free hand as I came. Yes, I can get pretty loud sometimes!

I felt like I was like surfing on a wave of sexual arousal, with my fingers a blur rapidly working between my legs as more and more of my juices oozed from deep inside me -- it was a good job I'd remembered to lay a towel under me! My whole body shuddered and stiffened and I screamed a muffled scream of ecstasy with my hand over my mouth.

But as any surfer will tell you, it's inevitable that the wave crashes and you wipeout into the surf, and of course that's exactly what happened once the energy of my arousal was exhausted. As my orgasm ran out of steam I released my fingers and removed my other hand from my mouth, and with panting breaths I gazed up at the ceiling as I came down from my orgasmic high. Even though it had felt good, it still wasn't as good as it could have been if I'd had Patrick to share it with.

After several minutes to catch my breath I got up and put the towel into the laundry basket (yes, even though we're naked all the time, one still has laundry to do - towels and bedsheets still have to be washed regularly!) I took a much needed glass of water to quench the thirst I'd acquired through my exertions and then went to use the bathroom.

I joined my husband in bed, and as soon as our bodies touched he wrapped me up in his arms.

"Jaysus, wo'an," he murmured with his sexy deep Irish voice. "You weren't kidding when you said you were horny!"

"Sorry if I woke you," I whispered in reply.

"S'okay," he mumbled, adding a kiss on the top of my head. "Sorry for being too tired for sharing it with you."

I sighed with contentment as I slowly drifted off in his strong masculine arms, truly grateful for having such a wonderful man in my life - a man who, I could never allow myself to forget, had come halfway around the world and sacrificed all his clothes in order to support me and my career.

And then I looked into the mirror beside our bed, and for a few moments I just gazed at our reflection. Patrick's eyes were closed, with an expression on his face of total peace and eternal love. And then I felt his body vibrate behind me, and heard him humming an old Irish song.

"O gairim gairim í, agus gairim í, mo stór. Míle grá le m'anam í 'Si Allie Wilkins..."

It was a song he often sang to me as a kind of "love lullaby" called "Peigín Leitir Móir", often Anglicised to "Peggy Lettermore". Only in his version he substituted my name for that of the song's titular heroine. Out of curiosity one day, I'd looked up the words and my heart melted when I read the approximate English translation: "O welcome and acclaimed is she, my love. Dear to my soul, a thousand told, is Allie Wilkins."

I guess my name doesn't quite fit the song quite as well as the original subject's name, but knowing that Patrick thought of me in such a romantic way meant more to me than he could ever know.

Return to the World of the Textiles

The past ten months on Blackwell Island had passed in what felt like a complete blur, and yet weirdly I could remember every single detail of it in near crystal clarity. But it was now December, and it was time to fulfill a promise Patrick and I had made to our respective families - to come home for Christmas.

Which meant that for the first time since we both arrived on Blackwell Island all those months ago, we'd be reunited with the clothing we'd surrendered in the customs hall at the airport. After almost a year in the nude I had mixed emotions about being clothed once more. Would it feel depressingly too normal to be wearing clothes again? Or in contrast, would it feel maddeningly uncomfortable and constricting? The only way I'd find out was to just go along and see what happened. The mental image of me sitting uncomfortably in a long-haul airliner seat and having to just stand up in the middle of the aisle and tear off all my clothes in front of all the other passengers refused to go away - although, it did rather make me smile at the ridiculousness of it.

Patrick, I was sure, would take it in his stride - if anything, he was probably looking forward to wearing clothes again.

Despite the clothing issue, we were both excited about seeing our families again. The planned itinerary was the exact reverse of our outward journey - to fly back to Hawaii, then on to L.A. and finally back to the U.K. Then we'd take a train back to Guildford to spend Christmas with my mum and dad and the rest of my folks. After a couple of days with them, we'd then fly to Ireland to spend New Year with Patrick's family.

It was pretty much a reversal of the previous year, when we'd spent Christmas with Patrick's folks and New Year with mine. As you can imagine, it didn't take us very long to pack for our trip back home - on an island where everyone over the age of eighteen is totally naked all the time, one doesn't need much in the way of luggage!

Marea had of course offered to drive us to the airport, an offer we keenly accepted. Even though one can walk from one end of the island to the other in less than a day, the often steep topography of the island, coupled with temperatures that rarely went lower than 28°C, meant that it would be a pretty arduous slog.

"How long will you both be away?" Marea asked us as she drove us out through Malmesbury towards the island's recently opened airport.

"Three weeks," I replied. "That's the plan, at least."

"Have you ever left the island, Marea?" Patrick asked our friend and host.

"I went to England once, with Jackson and the twins," she replied. "We did all the usual touristy stuff. Y'know, sightseeing in London, then out to Stonehenge and Bath and Oxford - we had a wonderful time. And of course, we had to visit the original Malmesbury and see where Henry Blackwell came from before he went to sea."

"What did you do for clothes?" Patrick asked her out of genuine curiosity. "I mean, you don't have any here and I doubt that immigration in Hawaii would've let you all in naked!"

It was a question I was just about to ask her myself, before Patrick beat me to it.

"Well, we didn't have the airport back then, so the only way off the island was by ship," Marea replied. "Just before docking in Honolulu, everyone was issued with a set of clothes to wear. The ship was, and still is, owned by the island's government, you see, and the clothes we were issued were pretty plain and basic, so as soon as we came ashore the first thing we did was hit the nearest mall to get us all a couple of outfits each.

"Aiden and Lisa were both still kids of course, so they already had clothes to wear, so it was mainly for Jackson and myself. Even so, we spent quite a bit of cash between us. When you don't have any reason to buy clothes for yourself you become aware of a few things that "textiles" might not be aware of. The cost, for starters - for the amount of money it takes to make an item of clothing, the stores and suppliers charge way more than the cost of producing them. Secondly, choice - especially for us women. One of Jackson's biggest grumbles was how long it took for me to decide on what to buy."

"Believe me, that's nothing unusual at all," Patrick griped. "Herself there used to take hours just to decide which pair of knickers she preferred over another. And then after much deliberation she'd just end up getting 'em both!"

"Ignore him," I said to Marea. "He always gets like this! The truth is, he used to take just as long as me to shop for clothes as I did."

Patrick was always one of those guys who, contrary to the typical male stereotype, actually loved shopping for clothes and dressing fashionably. I guess that was another of the reasons why having to surrender our clothing to live on Blackwell had been initially so hard for him, as it meant that he no longer had clothes to express his individual personality. Perhaps the past ten months of nudity had changed his outlook on clothing - it had definitely changed mine.

We bade our friend and landlady a fond goodbye at the entrance to the airport's small but very modern terminal building, and headed inside. The first thing we did was to reclaim the clothes we had surrendered all those months ago. As we had notified the airport of our imminent departure (which Marea recommended we do) our clothes had been taken from storage and had even been laundered, so when we were reunited with them they didn't smell musty or anything to suggest that they'd been on a shelf in a box for the past ten months.

Finally in possession of our clothes once more, we got dressed in readiness for checking in to our flight. Now came the moment of truth - how would it feel wearing clothes again after spending so long completely nude? I soon had an answer.

It felt odd. Not unpleasant, but not entirely pleasant either. I definitely felt constricted by them, even though all I was wearing over my underwear was a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. What I noticed most of all was how my breasts felt now that I was wearing a bra again. Now, that did feel rather unpleasant to begin with -- it felt as though my breasts were being held prisoner inside a fortress made of itchy material that made breathing just a little harder than it was before. It also felt rather uncomfortably warm too, though once we would be back in the U.K. we'd definitely be grateful for the additional layers.

We were both sad to leaving Blackwell Island behind, but it was only for a few weeks and so at least we had the assurance that we'd be back before too long. Besides, once we returned we had at least another five years to spend on our little jewel in the Pacific.