Castaways of New Purgatory Ch. 01

Karen Solomon stumbled through the shin-high surf, squinting against the brutal sun. She shook her head to clear it and felt the damp ends of her hair slap against her bare shoulders. The rising tide had awakened her, and she spit sand from her lips; why had she been sleeping on a beach? She looked down at the sand working its way between her toes, and then realized when she saw her bare breasts that not only was she lost and disoriented, but she was also naked. Completely naked.

Her heart began to pound. What the fuck?

The beach stretched off in both directions until its trailing ends vanished into the thick palm trees. A breeze tickled the sweat rolling down her back. Seagulls hovered in the wind, but when she looked back at the ocean she saw its flat, uninterrupted horizon. No boats, no smoke, no airplane traces in the sky. The only footprints were her own, trailing from imprint of her body disappearing with each wash of surf. How had she gotten here?

The beach ran unbroken to the edge of a tropical jungle. Immense palm trees bent low, and around them grew smaller plants and tangled vines. She heard nothing over the noise of the surf, but there were no signs indicating trails, or the direction to any resort. Where the hell was she?

She took several long breaths to calm herself. She had to pick a direction, so she chose the right, east according to the sun, and began to jog through the sand. Her unsupported breasts rippled with each step, making her wince, and the sand tugged at her with every step. Finally she stopped, hands on her knees, gasping. Running in this heat and humidity across thick sand was exhausting, and now she was thirsty. She should've searched first for fresh water.

Karen stood up and again shook her head, trying to organize her still-muddied thoughts. Her last clear memory was of confronting Monsignor Gillespie about what she'd discovered. What had she told him? "Your church has been systematically eliminating any women who pose any idealistic threat, especially at your universities. I have the proof, and now all I want to know is where the hell are they? Where is Sister Agnes Cheever?"

The monsignor, smooth as ever, offered her some wine and promised an explanation. She'd accepted the drink, secure in the knowledge that the information she'd discovered was safe, and that the Church wouldn't dare do anything to her. She was a respected private investigator, known to the Boston district attorney and friends with many high-ranking police officers. The drink had tasted funny, she remembered, and she grew nauseous and looked around for a chair . . .then nothing.

And now she stood stark naked on a deserted beach.

No, the monsignor's office wasn't the last thing she remembered.

She recalled a room...on a ship. It had not been a passenger cabin, but a dark narrow space, smelling of mildew and bilge, with only an old, damp mattress on the hard metal floor. She'd been naked there, too, just like here. She shivered as she recalled how sexually aroused she'd been, and how agonizingly long it had lasted. Days? Weeks?

The ship's rumbling engines had acted as white noise, and Karen slept in ragged fits. With no windows and only the dimmest of light, she had no idea of the passage of time. She alternately sprawled, arms and legs wide, or curled tight, arms wrapped around her knees. The mattress smelled of sweat and other things she didn't want to think about; the air, when she awoke enough to be aware of it, was hot, damp and reeked of mechanical odors.

Her dreams were frustratingly sensual. In them she was being caressed, fondled, undressed, covered with soap and oil and saliva, and responded eagerly to each ministration. Frustratingly, her subconscious failed to follow through, so even though she imagined strong, handsome men poised over her, penises erect and positioned to penetrate her, she could never experience the moment she so achingly wanted. Instead she lay on her belly, her right hand pinned beneath her, wantonly stroking and pinching her delicate clitoris until another climax rushed up from inside her, spread through her body and left her limp. It was something she seldom did in her normal life, but the sensual haze in her mind made it now seem like the only thing that mattered.

And nothing seemed to make it abate, not orgasm after orgasm, and if they'd wanted to rape her she would've welcomed them eagerly, fallen onto her back and spread her legs for anyone willing to fill her aching body. But no one came to her. She'd pleaded and begged, then raged and demanded, and finally screamed her helpless fury at the greasy metal walls. Why would no one fuck her? Why make her feel this way, and then not take her?

But her captors, whoever they were, simply left her to her own devices to deal with it. She vividly remembered lying on her back, slamming her bare feet against the bulkhead and arching her back as she climaxed harder than she could ever recall. She didn't even know she was capable of feeling anything like that. It certainly prevented any thoughts of escape, and finally she passed out from exhaustion. And woke up here.

Naked. Alone. Stranded.

She began to tremble. She had never felt more vulnerable. And maddeningly, she realized that under her fear, she was still horny. What had they done to her?

Then a new voice said, "Do you speak English?"

(to be continued)