Blue Hornbill InnbyAllyourbase©
Dear Literotica readers, here's another experiment. I wasn't sure which category to choose: while kink is the most important ingredient, gender play is a factor as well, so wherever the site editors have let this end up, content warning for the other half. :) Also: no quick fixes here, slow story, more erotic mindplay, not a lot of explicit wank fodder. And I'd like to thank proofreader Kurokami: thanks for the neverending support and inspiration, dude! Now that you are well informed, or so I hope: enjoy yourself! Please let me know what you think, I love to hear it. – Allyourbase
The waves crash on the beach roughly, smoothly, like a flogger on skin. I am waiting for her as the sun sets. I come from a city, it still surprises me how the sun sets here. No skyline, just a horizon. Sometimes, like right now, when my mind wanders, looking out over the surf in the evening, I can still feel it again, that intense thrill when we first met.
It was when I arrived at the Blue Hornbill Inn, a slightly camp wooden building with christmas lights wrapped around the sign outside, with a big monochrome line drawing of a bird on it. It had cheap but clean rooms and not too expensive small chalets in the back. As I struggled to get my backpack off, sweating grotesque patterns on my shirt, she checked me in.
Just another girl, like there are so many here, but she looked at me in an all too familiar way, just a bit too long, too interested, and averted her eyes with a smile. I don't know exactly what she saw, but she saw something. It left me with a jittery knot in the stomach: surprise, arousal, but above all, fear.
The women on this island are beautiful, you see, but veiled. Ever since I arrived it had felt like walking on eggshells. I had known it was a predominantly muslim population, and it had worried me a bit, but I hadn't expected to be so drawn to those pretty faces, with their large, dark, almond shaped eyes, a cute flat nose, and those full lips with a natural pout, framed tightly by colorful scarves. And the weirdest thing was, I knew from the few women who wore no scarves what the hair under those covers might look like, but I wasn't that interested really.
Some of these women must be queer, right? That was what I had thought at first, quickly dismissing it again. Sure, some would be, but how would they know? How can you own an identity that doesn't exist in your world? They'd end up married anyway, most of them. Oh, how they'd be missing out. I shouldn't be thinking these dangerous thoughts. Then again, telling yourself that is like telling yourself not to think of blue billed hornbills when the tree outside your chalet is full of yellow billed hornbills every morning. Really, trust me, you'll be scanning every tree.
I had spotted the few veiled girls who rode motorbikes with the boys. Yes, everyone rides motorbikes here, men, women, young people, old people, people who want to transport huge objects from one place to another. It's a cheap and easy way to get around. But at night, the local boys ride their bikes up and down the busy part of the boulevard. For show. If they're lucky, with a girl on the back. An inventive way of overt flirting with close body contact that is apparently entirely acceptable and condoned. Some of the bikers with girlfriends on the back are girls, though, and I wondered whether they were the island's version of butches. Even calling them that felt off. I felt oddly privileged. For me life was so much easier, in a way. I couldn't expect things to be like that for them. What on earth must it be like to be queer here, or, Allah forbid, kinky...
But I was going to find that out exactly for myself, wasn't I? Since I had booked myself accomodation here for long enough to write that wretched book I had a contract for. No drinking, no fucking, healthy food and far away, far enough so I wouldn't call my ex for some unhealthy after-breakup play, or at least I hope. Going here to write seemed like the thing to do, even though I was using some of the money for the book to get here in the first place.
So I had been here, writing, going for walks in the mornings and evenings, sometimes a hike, eating rice, vegetables and seafood. And not much else. Besides trying not to think about sex. The daily rhythm started to drown out my libido, fortunately. Quietly, softly, like the incoming tide swallowing the beach, my urges became less and less and ordinary life moved to the forefront. This island gave me exactly what was good for me: no more meaningless sex. What I got instead was... unexpected.
I don't think she ever called me ma'am, really, but she picked the moment to call me 'sir' carefully. As the tourists left in batches, taken off to the ferry in the island's pink taxi vans, I stayed. The locals started to see what I had meant when I had told them I would be here for a while to write. At the end of the season, the friendly but reserved shopkeepers and hawker stall cooks warmed up to me, told me their stories, gave me some discounts. And then she told me I had to change rooms. ("Same price, no worries, ok?")
She walked me there, with me trailing behind like a shy teenager, with my hastily gathered things in a backpack. It turned out, she was moving me to one of the cabins, a quiet, private spot, back from the road, well hidden from neighbours. She unlocked the door and showed me the hut. It was way better than the small single bed option I had booked. It was roomy, quiet, it had it's own bathroom and a large double bed. She seemed pleased by my gratefulness. As she handed me the key, she looked at me intently and said:
"I hope you enjoy your new room, and if there's anything I can do for you... I am at your service. Sir."
My heart skipped a beat as I looked into those dark eyes, just before she cast them down. Those words... They made me hard and wet instantly. That look... The women were submissive here, but in an entirely unfamiliar way. That look though, I knew. It reminded me of alcohol fueled nights far away, so different, except for this. This yearning look I'd seen before so many times, in the eyes of subbie boys in leatherbars. 'Sir'...
She left me, smiling, seemingly very aware of what she just did, while I stammered another thank-you. All I could think of that night, with my hand in my shorts, were her soft, pink lips, whispering 'thank you Sir' as I...
But that couldn't be, could it! My mind was playing tricks on me. Ockham's razor tells me she was most likely mocking me, permitting herself a little joke at my expense while nobody was around to hear it, accidentally hitting a red hot spot in my brain, because I'd locked myself on an island full of beautiful, submissive women. She couldn't have known. I was wrong, in several ways. Except for that I wasn't.
"We keep these things for ourselves, usually," she said in an apologetic way. "We look, but we don't speak. We are respectful, you understand, yes? That is the muslim way."
She had joined me for an evening walk, which meant she had just shown up; my ways were predictable. She stared into the purple distance, the ever present sea dark and rhythmic.
"You are a man, yes?"
I was silent. Was I?
"I mean, inside. The way you talk and do. It is not like a woman. When you look at me, I think to myself: this is how men look at me."
She glanced at me, hoping she made sense. Her english is very good, but she's self conscious about it.
"I think I know what you mean," I said.
I didn't know what else to say. I couldn't think of words to explain this in a way she could understand. I wasn't sure I understood it myself. Then she gave me her version of what she thought was going on. We were worlds apart, but it touched me.
"I think... Allah has given you the soul of a man."
Soul? She nodded with the determination of someone who is dead sure she's on to something.
"So... if Allah has put a man's soul into your body, your body is that of a man. Because it is yours. You are a man. Body and soul."
I had a hard time fighting back some tears. My heart wanted to jump out of my chest. We walked along the shore silently. I casually took her hand, as the only response I could manage. After a while I said:
"Other people will not think the same way."
"I do not question Allah," she replied.
She put her hand on her heart. Her voice whispering by now. Her almond eyes glistening, looking at me with such emotion.
"I know this is true. I feel it. My... my heart feels for you... like a woman feels for a man."
I squeeze her hand, swallow hard. Oh my...
That night, in bed, a million thoughts fought for attention in my head. This... is this her way to deny she is queer? Maybe... she isn't? Maybe her version is the right one. It is true for her. Which is the only thing I can say for my version as well. Echoing in my mind was that phrase that showed me her world was so upside down from everything else, the one she repeated when we parted ways that night. The phrase she loved me with. "I do not question Allah."
"Have you been with other women?" She asked during another evening walk.
"I have been..." I started, but what was I going to say?
The faces of the people I had slept and played with danced before my mind's eye. Women, about half of them, but not the kind she'd recognize as women, even though some really looked like it. I decided on:
"I have been with people like me."
She nodded in a way that showed she was still processing this.
"We look for each other," I continued. "To form communities. That way we are not alone."
It hung in the air, but I didn't need to say it. I hadn't been with a girl like her. A straight woman.
"Have you ever been married?" She asked.
I sighed. So, so many reasons why not, but one in particular that I needed to say out loud.
"In most places, people like me are not allowed to marry."
A pained expression slid over her face. Apparently, her honest, simple way of seeing me had made her forget how complicated this thing really was.
"You know this, right?" I carefully tried. "No marriage, no matter what Allah thinks."
She nodded. It was one of our sadder walks.
"Women are very different where you're from, yes?" She asked on another one of our walks.
I agreed. Very.
"They are very... independent, yes?"
I nodded. She looked for words.
"Here, a good woman is... obedient to her man. She wants to serve him."
There it was again, that little twitch, that familiar arousal in such an unfamiliar place. It was so wrong to be aroused by this cultural obscenity, but it pushed my buttons. I wanted to tell her, but I had no idea where to start, and it would be a bad idea anyways. Still, I had the urge to try.
"In my culture, not a lot of people enjoy obedience. We do not like it when people are expected to obey without choice. But there are some people who choose it," I tried. "For them, the feeling is very strong. They... need it in their lives."
She listened, trying to understand what I was saying.
"Some obey voluntarily. Others..." I was trying to bring this gracefully, "...cannot obey just like that, but they do want to. So they ask others to make them."
"Make them what?"
"Force them, I mean."
"Force them? A woman asks a man to force her to obey...?"
"Yes," I say.
My mind protested. Yeah, it said, or the other way around, often the other way around. Often there's no woman at all, even, or no man.
I looked at her, her face didn't show much yet in the faint glow of the village. I added:
"And they ask them to punish them when they get things wrong."
Her eyes flickered to mine.
Oh man, what had I started.
"You say they ask for these things. Being forced and punished. They do not dislike getting punished?"
"No, they need it."
"And the persons that... who... force them and... do the punishment..." her brain was trying to wrap itself around it, asking questions, messing up her english. "Do they like doing that?"
"Yes. They... are opposite, but the same. They need it too. They do it because..." Yeah, tell her why you do this, you perv. "... because they love giving others what they need."
Right. That is an elegant way to talk about the burning in your crotch. And classy to leave out the leather.
She was letting things sink in. Finally she asked:
"What do you think about people like that?"
I lowered my head. I started this, I knew where it would end. There was no escaping now.
"I am one of them," I said.
I almost didn't dare look at her, but unexpectedly she smiled that lovely, sexy smile of hers.
"Then you would make a very good husband here."
The twinkle in her eyes before she cast them down went straight to my crotch.
Husband... This was more than that, different. Different from anything else I had done as well. No marriage, she knew this. Not that I was in any way sure I'd want that if it were possible. Being here, with her, had seriously uprooted my feelings about the subject though. I would not stay forever, still. And there were things she wouldn't do, because we were not married and would never be. But there was one thing she craved for. She said intimate things to me, things nobody else could hear, and nobody else would understand. One day she had a request.
"I did not listen well, when I was a child. I would not do what my father told me. My mother and father complained. 'You will not make a good wife', they said. They were worried for my future. Because I was not obedient, you see?"
I nodded. This could be a problem here, yes, I saw that.
"With you... I don't know what is different, but something is different. I want to... do... I mean, I want to listen and do what you say."
She looked at me, was I getting what she was saying? Yes, oh man, yes I was... Incredible, just incredible. She went on to blow my mind.
"I want to obey. And I want you to punish me when I am not doing my best." She sighed. "Help me... become a better wife." She looked at me with an intense, beautiful sadness in her eyes. "For a future husband."
This was her final confession, and it sealed the deal. I doubted that she'd ever marry a man she would want to serve the way she craved serving me, but I could prepare her for it. I, of all people. Life is full of irony.
Every day she'd show up at my door and asked me what I wanted. What I wanted was her on her knees, naked, with my hand in her neck and her soft, full lips around my clit, sucking me off. Instead I showed her how I wanted my bed made, clothes folded, things cleaned. I built in little quirks, so I could check up on how well she'd been paying attention; a special way to fold my shirts, a particular order to leave my things in the bathroom. Often, she did them while I watched. The room was filled with electricity every time. During the day she let me into her life bit by bit. She let me watch her cook, shop, do laundry. She let me order her to change things I didn't like, allowing me to control her more and more.
It was arousing, unreal, a parallel reality where I'd become a respectable citizen instead of the queer perv I had been my entire life until now. At night, that other dimension crept up on me. I got off, time and again, thinking of her beautiful face, her slender, tiny body and how it would react to the things I would want to do to it. I thought of how soft her skin must feel, judging by how her hands felt. It was so much darker than mine, creamy, and she smelled so good. I thought of how her nipples would feel in my mouth, how she'd squirm when I'd bite them, hurt them.
I thought of her pussy, probably as pink and soft and full as her lips. Never been fucked before. I... got off so many times thinking of her, trembling, naked, under me. I could almost taste the tears streaming down her face in beautiful, twisted agony and lust, her hands grabbing my back, as her pussy twitched and bled around my strap-on.
"Please Sir, it hurts..."
"I know baby... It's supposed to hurt. You can take it though, can't you? You're a good girl, you can take it for me."
In my head, she always wore the scarf though.
So guilty I felt about that, especially while her submission during the day was - for lack of a better word - pure. She was diligent, worked hard, almost never slipped up or just in small ways that could be dealt with in a stern voice. But nothing more, I wouldn't. While I made her a better woman, she made me a better man.
I lived in this rhythm of being cared for in daily life that allowed me to write, forced me to write, with its order. One day was different. She had been cooking my food for me ever since we started this thing and this time she had ignored my request to be moderate with the sambal. The spices and chillies here, they're delicious but there's only so much this westerner can take. This dish was too hot to eat, seriously too spicy, and I wondered how she could've forgotten. Was she testing me? I had to punish her, but, strangely, where I'd gladly punished squirming queer bois until they begged me for mercy, now I didn't want to. She was a good submissive woman, she didn't deserve what I could dish out. She might've asked for it, but she had no idea.
I called her to my room and confronted her.
"The food was too spicy."
"Sorry, Sir." She cast her eyes down.
"I don't want to punish you, but I think I need to."
"I know, Sir." I felt a question hang in the air. "I... thought you enjoyed punishing, Sir."
I put my hand under her chin to raise her face to mine.
"You're doing this on purpose."
She couldn't reply, she looked like a deer in headlights.
"Come on, answer me." I grabbed her face.
"Yes! Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."
"You have no idea what you ask for, girl," I growled.
My cheek caressed her cheek, my lips whispered against her ear, under her scarf. Her breath trembled. I told her how she could stop me if she really needed me to. And then I slapped her face. Not very hard, but hard enough to shock her. I slapped her again, and again, until she was on her knees and tears were flowing from her eyes. She didn't fend me off once, not even accidentally. For some reason, those instincts everybody has and many have to fight to allow this to happen, didn't kick in with her. She must really want this.
This was so different from what I was used to. No pleading 'please fuck me, Sir'. No 'I'm your cumslut' or 'use this slave'. Things that seemed so silly and theatrical and fake all of a sudden. This was not like that at all. Except for her eyes. She just looked at me with those big, almond shaped eyes, her gaze ever more far away, more dreamy. As I pushed and pulled on her, hit her body, hit her breasts through her clothes, she moaned. Oh yes, she was made for this. I could only imagine what was going on under that dress of hers, in that body she was hiding so well.
I didn't want to give her what I normally would. I couldn't, not with her. This was hard enough as it was already. But I couldn't stop either. All that effort me and my friends put into convincing others, and especially ourselves, that this was not like domestic violence, not like that at all... and here I was, trying to make this look as much as domestic violence as possible. A husband punishing his wife. It was part of our agreement, it was what she wanted, what she asked from me, and I was crazy enough about her to want to give it to her. I really wanted to. That was the hardest part.
We ended with her, bent over the bed, her head firmly pushed into the blankets, her scarf blending with the fresh sheets she had put on it this morning herself.