The Liberation of Kate Pt. 01

There's an old saying — Be careful what you wish for.

From Syrena Exposed — A Traveller's Guide

Welcome to Syrena. As you begin your visit, please keep in mind the two basic rules of our society. Here all adult females must be naked, and only females may be nude in public. All women are enslaved, and only women can be slaves. If you find these rules disagreeable, this may not be the place for you. In any case, we offer you our hospitality and the bountiful pleasures of our island paradise.

Part One

Kate and I had heard enough about the exotic isle of Syrena that I was determined to get us there for a vacation.

My wife is three years older than me, a petite and pretty brunette with sparkling hazel eyes and a cutely crooked smile. She is slim but shapely, with perfect legs and a trim, supple derrière. Her breasts are modest in size but firm and flawless. Her lips have the colour and sweetness of pink champagne, her voice the delicate chime of a crystal chandelier.

For both of us this is our second marriage, and we have each tried hard to avoid the mistakes of our first. I was a possessive husband, and Kate was neglected (although I cannot imagine why any man in his right mind would ignore such a treasure). As a result, we have sought constantly to rediscover and renew our love and our desire for each other. And yet I have always felt the urge to share my beautiful wife with the world, to show her off. It excites me to see how she excites other men. It gives me an intense feeling of pride and — I readily admit — of potency, knowing that this precious little jewel belongs to me.

Kate is very intelligent. In her professional life and in social situations, she is self-confident and assertive. However, the experience of her first marriage has left her unsure of herself. She also must cope with the day-to-day stresses of a successful career. Since, happily, I don't have to deal with that sort of pressure, I have encouraged her to take a more laid-back role in our relationship, leaving to me the guidance and control. She is not passive or submissive in any conventional sense; but the impulse to do something different or daring has always come from me. So I have been moving her towards a greater awareness of her potential. I have challenged her to do the sorts of things she could not bring herself to do, to be the sort of woman she might be if only she could free herself from her inhibitions.

After reading about Syrena, I saw the opportunity to continue this process. For a long time she looked at me, with uncertainty in those lustrous eyes; but after some coaxing and a little prodding, she eventually came around. This gave us both hope for her complete liberation.

I reserved a suite at the most exclusive hotel on the island. At first Kate balked at the expense and the three-week stay; but we had been celebrating her recent promotion and salary increase when I revealed our plans, and I convinced her that this was just the break from her responsibilities that she needed. All then seemed fine. However, on the morning of our departure I awoke to discover that she had endured a sleepless night. It saddened me that I felt so excited while my gorgeous girl was so nervous. I sensed that the source of her unease was the fear that she might disappoint me. I kissed and caressed her. I told her how proud I was of her, that she did not have to prove anything to me, that her needs should come first. I said we ought to cancel the trip.

"If you really think you're going to back out of this now..." She laughed, and sprang upon me. I wrestled her onto her back and we made love. And for a while, everything else was forgotten. When I am inside her, the desire to share her with the rest of the world goes away. But it always returns.

While we were packing, I noticed Kate furtively slipping something into the suitcase, underneath my clothes. Curious, I looked in, to find one of her dresses and some underwear. I gently mocked her, but immediately regretted it when I saw her expression. She started to explain, but I tenderly pressed my fingers against her sweet lips. I understood straight away her need for some sense of security. I let her know, in no uncertain terms, that I would be there to guide and protect her, as outside our house the taxi driver sounded his horn.

Our flight did not proceed directly to Syrena, because the island's airport cannot handle the big jets. Instead, we connected with a charter plane at Kingston, Jamaica. The check-in area was located at one end of the terminal, and a queue had already begun to form when we arrived. I felt so very proud standing under the destination sign with my lovely wife as passers-by, en route to other places, turned to stare — some with expressions of doubt and even disapproval, but others with looks of envy.

There were about fifty passengers altogether. Most were, like us, in couples, and generally of about our own age. There was an all-girl group in their early twenties, about half a dozen solo women but no single males. Most the females were dressed skimpily, although really no less than if we'd been on our way to any tropical island resort. At the rear of the cabin, a woman and two younger men in crisp, dark business suits were hunched over open briefcases and laptops.

I was not so naïve as to expect the booking clerk in Kingston to be naked, but was nonetheless somewhat let down to discover that our crew were smartly attired in spick-and-span uniforms. The flight attendants wore short blue dresses. The captain, who came back to introduce herself, was an attractive woman with bright green eyes and close-cropped sandy-blonde hair. She had the friendly, no-nonsense manner of a veteran and spoke with a Canadian accent mellowed by several years of living and working in the West Indies. She had on a snugly fitting white blouse and a short blue skirt, without stockings. It was a more sensual outfit than you would expect on an airline pilot, but I could not help but feel a twinge of disappointment that it was there at all.

As we boarded, the mood was cheerful, if rather subdued. The females were quiet and thoughtful. Those with male partners clung to their men, who extended protective and supportive arms around them. Once we were in the air, however, the atmosphere lightened. Kate and I made light conversation with two eye-catching ladies in their mid-twenties wearing pertly colourful sundresses. Like us they were on their first visit and showed the unsurprising signs of both apprehension and exhilaration. From across the aisle, a married couple offered reassurances, since it was their third trip. The wife tendered other advice, but I wasn't listening. My attention was focused more on a pair of girls seated directly in front of us. Their sartorial style was a sort of punk-goth fusion. They'd started out cuddling and giggling but were now embracing each other in brooding silence.

The flight to Syrena, which took just under three hours, was uneventful, but as we descended for the final approach, a buzz of excitement filled the cabin. Then, as we filed out onto the tarmac, everyone went quiet once more.

As in any airport, there were the inevitable formalities and protocols, the passport inspections and customs declarations. There was just one man on duty, but the procedures were handled quickly and professionally. It was not until we headed towards the baggage collection area that we saw the first nude women. Beyond the glass partition, airport staff could be seen going about their business. The females were without exception stunning to look at, their bare skin glistening a variety of hues from ivory to ebony. Most were moving briskly and busily, but underneath a sign announcing "ARRIVALS" a dozen young women were standing, carrying boards inscribed with the names of hotels and tour operators. Each held her placard above her head or out to one side, so as not to obscure any portion of her torso.

As I took in this charming scene, Kate squeezed my arm. She was wide-eyed and open-mouthed. I looked around at the other women in our group. All (except those who'd seen it before) were staring, none uttering a sound. They appeared quite shaken by this first encounter with the raw, unadorned, full-frontal reality of Syrena.

Distracted by the bare flesh, it took me a moment to notice the collars and bracelets, some of leather and others crafted in shiny metal. An occasional female was gagged, and many another had a ball of coloured rubber or plastic hanging on a strap about her neck, at the ready for insertion. Some were shuffling past with chains on their ankles. None was acting in a way to indicate that her nudity and restraints should be anything but normal or might interfere with her work duties.

At that moment, our crew overtook us, towing their trolley-cases. The pilot and two flight attendants had taken off their uniforms. The first officer, who was the only male, scrutinized the bodies of all the women he passed, but he seemed completely oblivious to the delightfully unclad forms of his colleagues. He waved to us, and all three women's heads were suddenly jolted forward. I realized why none of them had waved. Their arms were pinioned behind their backs, and they were pulling their roll-along suitcases with bound hands. They also wore leather collars, fixed to each of which was a cable of about an arm's length attached at the other end to a loop around the man's wrist. When he raised or lowered his arm, or yanked on their tethers just for the fun of it, his naked crewmates stooped or stretched or jerked or twitched. They maintained stoical expressions as he continued to play his little game until they were out of sight.

"Welcome to Syrena," I head one of the ladies near me whisper.

While the rest of us gathered at the baggage conveyor, the three people from the rear of the plane were ushered past the customs inspection area. They were greeted by two officials, a male in uniform and a female au naturel. The two young men discarded their jackets and ties, while the woman quickly stripped off all her clothing. She neatly folded each item before handing it to the attending girl. She even removed her shoes, earrings and wristwatch.

I was already willing to believe the folklore that Syrena is home to the world's most beautiful women. This one looked familiar. I recognized her from a photo I'd seen in the guidebook, but hadn't taken much notice then so I couldn't put a name to the face and didn't know why she was famous or important — perhaps a politician, a showbiz celebrity, a sports star. She was middle-aged but well-preserved, with a gracefully athletic figure, glistening golden-brown skin and glossy black, ornately braided hair.

She seemed completely at ease, holding herself erect, her arms at her sides with elbows and shoulders drawn subtly rearwards, accentuating her breasts. These lacked the heroic stature of some in the vicinity, but they were well-formed, the nipples pink and pointed. One of her legs was poised just forward of the other, bent slightly at the knee. Her overall posture was a most intriguing blend of coy, modest and provocative, although she made no attempt to conceal any part of herself. The soft folds between her thighs were like rose petals veiled by silken wisps, and I glimpsed the glint of a small gold ring.

Between giving instructions to her travelling companions, she was nodding silent, friendly greetings to the assembling customs and immigration officials. I was as impressed by the lack of pomp and ceremony attending the arrival of a VIP as by her casual, comfortable nudity.

Then it got more interesting. One of the young men summoned the attending girl who, with head bowed, proffered a matching set of leather collar and bracelets. The woman stood placidly, staring straight ahead, as one of her associates secured the collar about her throat and the other fastened the cuffs on her wrists. They waited a moment as she flexed her arms and slowly rolled her head, smiling faintly as if reacquainting herself with the feel of the leather around her wrists and throat. They then each took hold of an arm and clamped them behind her back, locking her hands together with a forcefulness that made her grimace. A slim silver chain was clipped onto the ring which pierced her labia. She flinched, ever so slightly, as the man's fingers nudged her most sensitive parts, and again as the tender pleats of flesh were tugged slightly upwards when he drew the chain up her belly and between her breasts and attached it to her collar. A leash was then hitched to this and she was led through a side doorway and out of view. This was all done without fuss; but as they departed I could not help but suspect that it had been a show put on for our benefit.

"Here comes our suitcase," Kate declared, in a low, hoarse voice.

"Are you excited?" I asked softly.

"Oh yes." She did not sound very convincing. "Definitely." Her lower lip trembled.

"It will be good," I promised, and I put my arm around her. "We'll have an amazing holiday, you'll see."

I took our baggage from the conveyor and we proceeded to the customs checkpoint. We were among the last to go through. The officer, who greeted us with a curt apology for the inconvenience, was a middle-aged, ruddy-complexioned, weather-beaten man in dark trousers, a white shirt and a navy-blue tie. At the adjacent counter, attending to another couple, was a young woman whose only accoutrements were a blue armband and collar. As she leaned forward to examine the contents of the suitcase, her sumptuous breasts swung over it in a most evocative manner.

"Madam," the man said, as he sifted through our bag and discovered my wife's things, "you do know you will not be needing these?"

Kate allowed herself a thin smile and nodded sheepishly. Beginning to blush, she lowered her head to stare at the floor.

I was annoyed at this entirely gratuitous question, barely resisting the urge to complain. Fortunately, at that moment another woman entered the room. She was small in size but conveyed a distinct air of authority. A dark leather strap encircled her neck, blue-and-red bands her upper arms. She perused the paperwork with ill-concealed impatience and spoke briefly to the man, who offered her a blasé salute. Neither seemed mindful of the eloquent symbolism of this gesture, a man in uniform saluting a completely nude female.

With a terse flip of one hand, the woman dismissed her subordinates and smiled. "Everything is in order, sir, madam. We apologize for your delay, and hope you have a wonderful stay."

She beckoned in the direction of the arrivals lounge, and followed us to it.

By this time, the other people from our flight were already experiencing, at first hand, life on the island of Syrena. The females were in various stages of undress. Although there were a few — no doubt those not first-time visitors — who appeared relaxed, most of the women were feeling the embarrassment of their situation. Some giggled nervously, and others bore what I would describe as petulant expressions, although none seemed overly distressed. Many tried to hide behind their partners, or turned sideways, or crouched to minimise their exposure. Some displayed bravado; the all-girl group used teasing and playful banter to overcome their discomfiture. The only ones in the room who seemed to be revelling in their striptease were the goth-punk pair, laughing and larking as they peeled the clothes off each other's bodies.

Some of the men assisted their ladies, but most just stood back and watched, sympathetic and solicitous but loving the show.

I noticed that half a dozen of the people from the plane were missing, most likely Syrene citizens heading directly to the island's nude-free zone. As for the tourists, I had expected the women's disrobing debut to be intimate, more private. Yet this way was probably better, since they were going to be exposed in public anyway. Nevertheless, to maintain some degree of dignity, there was a sign on the wall that decreed "NO CAMERAS".

Kate turned to face me, and for a moment I thought she was going to give in to her apprehension. I hoped she might take inspiration from the couple we had conversed with on the plane. The woman was by now naked, and while she was not prancing about, she did not seem distressed, ashamed or particularly self-conscious. Her husband was wrapping a cord about her arms (which were folded behind her back) and around her chest. They were engaged in a bizarrely mundane conversation and she was doing most of the talking — "Don't forget the duty-free... I wonder what the kids are up to right now... Are you sure you cancelled the newspapers?" — until he jerked too vigorously on the rope. She muttered a curse under her breath, and he responded by pulling her bonds even tighter. She gasped and twisted around to confront him, pressing her bare breasts firmly against his gaudy Hawaiian shirt and shoving her face up to his.

"Not so hard,' she growled. "There's no hurry."

"Don't be such a... Take it like a..." He spoke with a reedy tremor in his voice, and it was weird how he swallowed the ends of his sentences.

"Easy for you to... ugh!" Her own words were cut off, as he ran the rope between her legs and drew it taut.

As difficult as it was to divert my attention from Kate, I was fascinated by this pair. The woman was tall and curvaceous, rather glamorous with ash-blonde hair tied back severely in a ponytail. Her bronze-toned body showed no tan-lines. The man was almost half a head shorter than his statuesque wife, and dressed in dapper, neatly pressed white trousers, that florid shirt and a red neckerchief. Despite his glower of grim determination, etched into his face was that harassed, docile expression you see on the domestically downtrodden. I had no doubt who, back home at least, wore the pants.

I returned my attention to Kate. She whispered "I love you" and reached for the buttons of her silk blouse. The corners of the room were already occupied, so we were in view of everyone. She maneuvered to put me between herself and her audience. Then, with no more indecision, she undid the buttons, drew the blouse off her shoulders and let it slip down her arms behind her back. She raised it up in front of her and considered it for a second, before handing it to me. She tried to unfasten the clasp on the side of her skirt, but her trembling fingers fumbled and it took her several attempts.

I felt sorry for my sweetheart, but also elated, as a number of the men in the room turned to look. Aware that she was being watched, Kate gripped my sleeve and buried her face in the front of my shirt. I caressed the cool, bare skin of her back. As my fingers ran over the tiny hook on her brassiere, I felt the urge to release it. Yet I resisted. She must do this herself.

I said, "You're beautiful, you have a perfect body. Trust me, you can do this." I hugged her, and kissed her affectionately on each cheek. She looked into my eyes, and with a bittersweet smile she said, "I'm doing it for you."

"For us," I said, loving her, feeling the guilt, relishing the moment.

She fondled her bra straps pensively, then changed her mind and reached down once more to her skirt which clung loosely to her hips. She slowly pushed it down her thighs, and when it reached her knees it fell into a crumpled heap about her ankles. She daintily stepped out of it and squatted to pick it up. She carefully folded it and gave it to me. I tried to catch her eye, but her gaze was fixed on something far away.

The woman customs officer and several of the passengers were still watching. I was proud that my Kate was the centre of attention. She was the best-looking woman in the room, and now down to her white lace bra and panties. Suddenly, she drew in a sharp breath and reached behind her back. In a rapid and graceful motion, she plucked the brassiere from her chest. Her breasts wobbled playfully, welcoming their freedom. The sensation must have been stimulating, because for the first time she permitted herself a hint of a smile; and yet her eyes remained bashfully downcast. Awed by her beauty and her courage, I looked upon the delectable body of my darling wife, clad in just her briefs.