I had hands and arms and about half use of my feet. But even though almost physically free, my mind was a turmoil of confusion. Not so much over who had set me free, but why? And what to do now? I was still a prisoner on the island, and any exploration I was to do would have to be done with short steps. Chained feet prevented me swimming and the obvious thing to do was to make my way back to the lovely old house, which for me had not been lovely at all. Whenever I thought of it, I saw only that damned dungeon and those beastly chains. I might be driven there eventually by the need for food, but until that time I would explore the shoreline in the hope of finding some sort of boat, even a rowboat. Or perhaps waving at any vessel that should venture close enough to see. If someone on the island was watching and laughing at my plight, they were welcome to look. I had little doubt I was the focus of an experiment, but with a tremendous sense of adventure, I rose and kicked angrily at my chain.
It was not the first time I had walked with shackled feet, but I had ever become used to it. At least I did not fall on my face. Resigned to my metallic handicap, I clinked my way towards the sea.
It was very beautiful but very hopeless. I actually discovered a small jetty to which was attached a motorboat. Unfortunately the boat was attached to the dock with heavy chains and padlocks, no doubt placed there for the express purpose of preventing just what I was planning.
I may not have been able to use the boat to escape, but exploring the cabin brought to me a small fridge in which I found a couple of sandwiches and a chunk of cake. I devoured them hungrily. Feeling better, I continued on my search.
It was quite useless. I found no rowboat, nor were there any craft out on the ocean. When night came I still feared a return to the big house and consigned myself to sleep beneath a bush. In the morning, while I was still rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the awfulness happened. Something was thrown over my head and shoulders by an unseen hand. It’s drawstring was drawn tight while someone thrust me to the ground, knelt on my back, and proceeded to bind my hands and arms. My wrists were crossed and corded tight in a manner I knew all too well. This done, and with me floundering helplessly, swift fingers unlocked the fetters from my feet. I was hauled erect and strong hands propelled me forward toward a blind destination I could not guess.
The whole thing had been done in silence. Now, as I was forced to walk to an unknown fate, I pleaded and questioned to no avail. By the sound of the ocean I assumed I was being taken to a boat. Hot sand under my feet told me we were walking over a sandy beach. We stopped within the sound of surf while hard male hands positioned me to some sort of male pleasure. Suddenly my ankles were looped with rope.
I couldn’t do a thing except complain and question and twist against bound wrists. The cording of my ankles had been swift and deadly. They were tied to something that was solid and unmoving, about a foot apart. Hands steadied me as I teetered in this new bondage. Then, with me standing helpless, those hands explored my breasts, finally moving down to take possession of my defenseless sex. This male mauling was of short duration in what I had to suppose was carnal enjoyment of my charms. Suddenly the hands were gone and I heard the sounds of feet running back towards the island. I stood alone.
It was strange and frightening to stand as I now stood and wonder what came next. It was almost a minute before I realized the drawstring of the blindfold was loose and it took me another couple of minutes of tossing and twisting my head to get rid of the bag. Blinking in the brilliance of a sunlit stretch of sand, I looked down to where my ankles were tied tight to an ancient rusted anchor no one had found interesting enough to haul away. It weighed a ton and held me as firmly as it might once have held a ship. I twisted tied wrists but soon gave that up as hopeless and took a wider view of my surrounding.
I was tethered on one of several such beaches on San Jancith.
No human being was in sight, and I scanned the tree line in a certain conviction that someone was watching. No doubt my behavior in this bound solitude would prove of interest to a watcher I could not see. Since I was evidently here to stay for a while, I gauged the possibilities of sitting down but was frightened to take the chance for fear of breaking an ankle or being unable to get back on my feet. The safest thing was to stand and become a well behaved but tired little girl. I guessed that was the purpose of the exercise, but my guess was wrong.
The sea was the sea, and I had no reason to hope for a rescue from the wave. I had stood in blatant bare exposure for an hour before realizing the import of the tide, the lapping and receding wavelets were now far closer than before. My heart contracted in fear as I read the message in the contours of the beach, mostly the line marking the highest intrusion of water upon the sand. The sharp slope on which I stood bound would insure my becoming victim to the rising tide. I screamed for help.
Reason told me I would not be left to drown, but right then I wasn’t much concerned with reason but only with the surge of surf as each wave thrust its dark water and foam higher on the sand. Now, with me all too conscious of my fate, the water’s advance was more rapid. Soon the first wavelet lapped my toes and I knew myself fastened thus to drown. Again and again I screamed for help, my voice lost in the vast ocean and long beach. None heard my cry.
I was alone.
10
Lost Liberty
It was not long before my roped feet and the rope itself were below water, making the binding doubly terrifying as though my feet were in the grip of a marine monster. Bound wrists forced me to stand while the water rose higher along my legs with each new surge. I searched around but found no one.
It seems useless to recount the agonies I endured as saltwater engulfed my knees, crept relentlessly up my thighs. By the time it took possession of my sex, I was a sorry girl indeed and could feel, or imagine, numerous small sea creatures exploring my flesh. I tore constantly at the binding on my wrist to no use. I stood there, a jerking, naked offering to Neptune, fearfully conscious that some beastly undersea creature would insert itself within my pussy lips. I had never felt more female!
Soon my belly and bound hands were taken by the tide, and almost instantly the cords upon my wrists seemed to shrink and bit in an ever-tightening embrace. As an extra strong surge of surf wet my breasts, I screamed and screamed without ceasing until a cheerful West Indian voice reassured, “Don’t take on so, Missy Durrant. You is in good hands, and I soon get you back them pretty feet.”
There was a splash as Jacob dived and then a knife was busy at my bounds. In a moment I was able to step back from the iron anchor to face my grinning rescuer who led me to dry ground but made no effort to free my hands. I did not care. I was so damned thankful I could have cried.
You can imagine my feeling as I beheld Uncle Andrew comfortably seated in a deck chair high up on the beach, viewing me through binoculars through which he must have viewed my whole ordeal. Jacob brought me to stand before the Master like a wet felon before a judge.
The tone of Andrew Everleigh’s voice was conversational enough for an English rose garden. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever forgive me, Diane,” he said gently. “But I simply could not give up the opportunity to watch you cope with the Caribbean. You put on a marvelous show.”
Suddenly I was on my knees, head bowed, weeping bitterly and uncaring of the words fighting for expression within my lips. The whole thing was involuntary to leave me without shame but knowledge of being possessed by this man with his power to sit quietly and survey a poor, wet, broken female as she though she was about to die. My relief and gratitude was beyond expression. But I had no doubt another ordeal was already planned.
After allowing me to sob myself out. Uncle Andrew wiped my cheek and raised my chin to plant a warm kiss upon my forehead. Thus encouraged. I asked meekly, “Could I have my hands, please? I feel an awful mess.”