THE LIBERATION OF KATE

Postby sarobah » Sun Jul 05, 2015 10:02 pm

This story features female nudity and bondage.
(Unlike a couple of my previous efforts, it is complete — to be posted in several instalments.)


THE LIBERATION OF KATE

From Sirèna Exposed — A Traveller’s Guide

Sirèna is one of the most picturesque islands of the West Indies. In addition to the idyllic tropical setting — glittering white-sand beaches, gleaming blue-green bays, dramatic rocky headlands, stunning reefs, scenic nature trails with spectacular views of the sea and surrounding isles, and safe anchorages for pleasure yachts, dive boats and ocean liners — the exotic history and unique lifestyle have made Sirèna a popular destination for adventurers and romantics, thrill-seekers and pleasure-seekers.

Most of the population lives in the town of Régate, which features colonial-era architecture alongside modern commercial construction, quiet boulevards, luxurious resort complexes and a vibrant downtown district. An airport services the island with a direct daily connection to Jamaica and regular flights from most other parts of the Caribbean.

The main source of income is, of course, tourism. Off-shore banking is a growing albeit controversial source of income. With no rivers or natural lakes, the island is completely reliant upon rainfall storage for its water supply, so farming is limited and nearly all foodstuffs must be imported. Sirèna does not issue its own money, but most internationally accepted currencies are legal tender.

The trickle of tourists which began early last century became a steady flow by the 1970s, and today visitors heavily outnumber residents. Consequently, limits have had to be placed on the intake, in particular from cruise ship stopovers. To further cope with demand, expatriate workers have been brought in from other parts of the Caribbean, from North and South America and Europe. As a result, three-quarters of all permanent residents are foreign-born, and nearly two-thirds are female.

The municipality of Grandin Bay on the west coast is a special administrative district, with its own by-laws. Here reside the island’s families, and while this area is not out-of-bounds for tourists, visitors are reminded that it is off-limits to the rules and customs that have made Sirèna famous.

The Liberation of Kate — Part One

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

My wife is a petite, 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 has 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 the 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 highly 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 Sirèna, 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, and made bookings for the most intriguing activities and venues featured in the brochures. 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 girl was still 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 sort of security blanket. 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 Sirèna, 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 “SIRÈNA” sign with my beautiful wife, as passers-by en route to other destinations turned to stare — some with expressions of disapproval, but most 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 nevertheless somewhat let down to discover that our crew were 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 copper-red hair. She had the friendly, no-nonsense manner of a veteran and spoke with a faint 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 women were quiet and thoughtful. Those with partners clung to their men, who extended protective and supportive arms around them. Seated directly in front of us were two girls, whose sartorial style was a sort of punk-goth fusion. They had been cuddling and giggling but now clung to each other in a wordless, brooding embrace. Once we were in the air, however, the atmosphere lightened. The flight itself 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, the passport inspections and customs declarations. These duties were performed 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 glistening skin shading 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 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 were staring, none uttering a sound. Some appeared quite shaken by this first encounter with the raw, unadorned, full-frontal reality of Sirèna.

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 woman had, in addition, a ball of coloured rubber or plastic hanging on a strap about her neck. 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.

At that moment, our crew overtook us, towing their trolley-cases. The pilot and three 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 four 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 Sirèna,” I head one of the members of the all-girl group whisper.

While the rest of us gathered at the baggage conveyor, the three people from the rear of the plane were ushered directly into 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 and earrings and wristwatch.

I was ready to believe the folklore that Sirèna is home to the world’s most beautiful women. This one looked familiar. I recognized her from a photo in the guidebook but hadn’t taken much notice, 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 backwards, 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 her splendid body. Her labia were like rose petals framed in mahogany, and pieced by a small gold ring.

Between giving instructions to her travelling companions, she was nodding silent, friendly greetings to the assembled 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 assistants summoned the girl who, with head bowed, proffered a matching set of leather collar and bracelets. The woman stood placidly, staring straight ahead, as one of the young men secured the collar about her neck 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 took hold of her arms and drew them behind her back, locking her hands together with a forcefulness that made her grimace. A leash was hitched to her collar and she was led by this through a side doorway and out of view.

“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 ruddy-complexioned, middle-aged 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 the 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 the gratuitous question, barely resisting the urge to complain. Fortunately, at that moment the side door reopened and another woman entered the room. She was small in size but conveyed a distinct air of authority. A dark leather strap encircled her neck and 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 nonchalant 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 Sirèna. The females were in various stages of undress. Although there were a few — very likely those who were 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. The all-girl group used bravado to cover up, with teasing and playful banter. 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 obviously loving the show.

I noticed that half a dozen of the people from the plane were missing; these were most likely Sirène citizens heading directly to the island’s nude-free zone. As for the women tourists, I had expected their disrobing debut to be more private. Yet this was probably better, since they were going to be exposed in public anyway, and a sign on the wall that decreed “NO CAMERAS” put their undressing into perspective. Stripping naked is, for a woman, an expression of intimacy and sensuality, and in these circumstances one that is best shared. (At least, that’s my theory.)

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 next to us. This woman was by now naked and did not seem distressed or ashamed. 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 papers?” — 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…” He spoke with a reedy tremor in his voice, and swallowed the end of his sentence so quickly he could have choked.

“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 peculiar pair. The woman was tall and curvaceous, good-looking with ash-blonde hair tied in a severe 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, florid shirt and 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 unrestricted view of everyone. She tried to put herself between me 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 stroked 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 stroked 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 so proud that 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 newfound freedom. The sensation must have stimulated her, 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.

It did not surprise me that again she paused. This final piece of clothing, small as it was, attached her to the world beyond the shores of Sirèna. When that was gone, she would be giving up a part of herself. For the next twenty-one days, men would gaze upon her naked body, invading her most intimate places and sharing my greatest treasure.

She was breathing heavy and shallow. Her face was flushed. Her exposed nipples were erect. She was pressing her thighs together. I realized she was experiencing the beginning of an orgasm, and that must have been humiliating. I started to reach out. Yet a look of determination came over her, as she abruptly pitched forward, grabbing the sides of her panties and sliding them down over her knees. She stood erect and stepped out of them, one leg at a time; she kneaded them into a ball. For the first time, she raised her head and turned about, her expression one of triumph and relief. That only lasted a second, but it was done.

She smiled at me and around at those in the room who’d been watching her. Yet her transformation was only half-complete. She looked about again and saw what was happening to the other women. Without waiting to be asked or told, she held out her hands, wrists together, and gazed once more into my eyes. But I slowly shook my head and she turned to face away from me, glancing over her shoulder for as long as she could, and then staring straight ahead as she put her arms behind her, the backs of her hands resting lightly on her delicious derrière.

I took from my pocket the strip of white ribbon I had been keeping for this purpose. I wrapped it three times around her wrists, and then looped it at a right angle to cinch the knot. Her fingers sought out mine and for a second they intertwined; when I pulled away, her fists curled and clenched. The ribbon was slightly elastic, so she could part her wrists and bend them, just a little. I decided not to add anything more… not yet, anyway.

The odd couple nearby were going a lot farther, and in fact some of the others in the room were following their lead. After weaving an elaborate web around her torso, he tied a yoke about her neck and shoulders, and from this he passed a strap over the cord that ran down her belly, between her legs and up her back to reconnect with the harness. When he tugged hard, she groaned and raised herself onto her tiptoes, with leather and twine embedded deeply in her crevices front and rear. Most of the women and some of the men observing this winced. Kate saw me taking note, and sighed.

In addition to ropes, straps and ribbons, several of the couples had brought collars and cuffs and chains. The goth-punk pair were already wearing studded leather chokers and buckled bracelets. They were both, of course, naked, but the one with jet-black hair, lipstick and fingernails was taking charge. She clamped her girlfriend’s bracelets not behind her back but to a clasp on her collar so her hands were locked in a prayer position under her chin. This girl, with green spiky hair and purple eyeliner, had, besides numerous other piercings, rings through her nipples and labia, and to these her mistress attached chains, which joined into a single strand by which she could be led about, as on a leash. After that, the punkette’s mouth was stuffed with a bulbous black ball-gag; the goth girl then, with an expression of distaste, inserted an identical one into her own mouth.

By this time, people were beginning to depart the lounge. Some necessarily made slow progress — half a dozen women were blindfolded and had to be guided towards the exit; those with crotch-ropes, like the tall blonde, shuffled and wobbled. But not all the females had been bound, the all-girl group in particular. They tarried in the doorway, laughing and mocking and daring each other to be the first one out. I also counted five unaccompanied women. After they had packed away their clothing, they moved off as well.

Kate and I were among the last to leave. As we walked through the near-empty terminal, trussed behind her back Kate’s hands fidgeted. She desperately wanted to use them to cover that which was no longer hers to conceal. My guilt returned, in spite of my excitement, and I put my arm around her slim, bare shoulders. I could feel her body shaking. She looked up at me, with glistening eyes and quavering lips.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m doing this for you,” she repeated.

“For us,” I said again.

“Yes… for us…”

There was a croakiness in her voice, but also sturdiness and resolve. Kate is a very strong woman; in some ways she’s tougher than me. So in a sense I envied her for the ordeal she was about to face, forced to confront her fears, test her limits and push her boundaries. For during our marriage I have done my best to remind her constantly of — to borrow a phrase from the Sirène tourist handbook — what a woman is and what she is not. When she has faltered, as she must when confronted by her true nature, I have stepped up, as the one with the clarity of vision, the strength of will and the purity of purpose.

I slid my hand down her arms, over the ribbon which bound her wrists, over the soft, quivering flesh of her bare backside; I grasped her hip and pulled her in close. Above the doorway, a sign in huge lettering declared…

“NO CLOTHED FEMALES MAY PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT.”

Underneath was added, in a different script, what was probably someone’s idea of humour…

OWNERS ARE ADVISED TO KEEP THEIR PROPERTY RESTRAINED AT ALL TIMES

We exited the terminal, emerging into brilliant sunlight.


To be continued…

Re: THE LIBERATION OF KATE

Postby xtc » Mon Jul 06, 2015 3:13 am

Welcome back. Nice to read something so well written even if it is not from my usual field of interest.
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

More by the same author: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=22729

Re: THE LIBERATION OF KATE

Postby sarobah » Mon Jul 06, 2015 3:34 am

***

Sirèna’s airport commands stunning views, in one direction a cerulean ocean of startling clarity, in the other verdant hillsides dotted with neat, whitewashed houses. Lining the roadside that abuts the landing strip are the low weatherboard buildings which accommodate the travel agencies, vehicle hire operators, duty-free shops, souvenir stores and refreshment kiosks.

According to the brochure, our objective was about halfway along the block. In contrast to the calm of the terminal, the street was vibrant with exotic sights, sounds and smells. It was early afternoon, and a fresh breeze wafted off the bay, the salt air mixing with aromas from the coffee shops and fragrances from the gardens. Tourists and locals mingled noisily, haggling, socializing, loitering and relaxing. It could have been any Caribbean resort, with perspiring men in billowing shorts and flamboyant shirts, young men in straw hats peddling knick-knacks, red-faced salesmen in white suits touting their trade, jaded tour guides shepherding their groups and organizing buses and taxis.

But then there were the women. Single, arm in arm or hanging onto husbands and boyfriends; visitors, vendors, agents, guides; sightseeing, shopping and strolling or plying the crowds outside the storefronts; dark, pale, black, brown, pink. All were stark naked. Some wore hats and footwear, but in between was nothing but bare skin. Most were collared, many were being led on leashes, about half were, as well, bound or chained or hobbled or otherwise restrained. Here and there was a blindfolded woman being steered along the boulevard.

Amongst the tourists, it was easy to spot the new arrivals. Their bodies were slightly hunched, as if against the cold, although it was sunny and hot. They clung to their partners and avoided eye contact with all who passed. Those with at least a few days’ experience of public nudity and bondage held themselves with more ease and confidence, but they nevertheless stood out from the locals in the way they moved and how they looked about, not yet accustomed to the extraordinary scenery, and less so to being part of it.

The midday sun was beating down with a fierce intensity, and before we had proceeded very far Kate’s skin glistened with a film of perspiration. Tiny beads stippled her skin, and a shimmering trickle dribbled between her breasts and down her belly, disappearing into the silky fleece between her legs. Since she could not do so for herself, her hands being bound, I dabbed the moisture from her cheeks and brow.

I had hoped that the anonymity of the street might soothe my sweet girl’s anxiety; but her panting breaths and tentative steps gave her away. I couldn’t blame her for being shy and uncertain, but I also couldn’t help feeling that she was being just a little bit self-centred, since hers was just one of hundreds of naked bodies on view. What she was exposing was just as much mine as hers, and I was proud of this public display of her beauty. So in a moment of weakness, I almost barked at her to “Snap out of it!” I caught myself in time. If one of us had to be strong, it should be the man.

At the entrance to the travel agent’s office, a young woman greeted us by name. That surprised me, until I saw that she was holding a checklist with all other names crossed off. She was tall and dark and slim, with a pleasant face and curling, shoulder-length hair. Her breasts were not large but they were in perfect proportion to her streamlined body, immaculately smooth and impeccably rounded. Between her legs, a luxuriant growth proclaimed her marital status. According to the traveller’s guide, it is the local custom for married women to go unshaven down there, whereas the single ladies prefer to keep the entrance clear. A broad metal band tightly sheathed her slender throat.

Introducing herself as Catriona, she spoke with a rich West Indian accent. “May I please welcome you to our island? We guarantee you will enjoy your vacation.” She raised her hands skywards. “The weather has been perfect lately.”

As she spoke, she gestured copiously with her hands, causing her breasts to bob and sway. I wondered if this might be deliberate, but she seemed fully innocent of the effect it was having on me. She explained our hotel arrangements, concisely and efficiently, and handed me a portfolio containing the tickets and the documentation we would need. She gave us her phone number and a map of the island showing the locations of her agency, our hotel and various landmarks. She then turned to my wife.

“Madam, naturally you are familiar with our laws, but if you have any questions or problems we are always at your service. The staff at your hotel are trained to give you whatever assistance you may require. It is normal that for a few days you will have some anxiety, and you may even feel a little scared. But those feelings will pass quickly, I promise you. In just a few days it will seem perfectly natural being nude, having men admire your body. Accept their attention as a compliment. They are surrounded by naked women, and if they take an interest in you, it means they think you are something special. Enjoy it.”

The speech sounded somewhat stilted, like a much-recited delivery, but Kate nodded at all the right places. I took note that Catriona did not mention bondage. Sirène law imposes nudity on females, but whatever other than clothing is put on their bodies is a private and personal matter.

For the trip to our hotel, we were booked for a ride in an open-air taxi. This was a customized utility, or pickup, with a canvas roof and bench seating along the sides of the truck bed, facing inwards. The vehicle was polished spotless, although the driver was rather shabby, unshaven and wearing a frayed sweatshirt and threadbare trousers. He acknowledged Catriona’s terse greeting with a sullen stare. She was clearly displeased with his attitude and quietly berated him. He reacted in a surly way that just made her more animated. She began gesticulating, with the same effect on her chest (and on me) as before. The driver turned away in defeat. He sulkily offered Kate a boost as she climbed into the back of the taxi. He took hold of her pinioned arms, and as she stepped up his hands slid down over her backside. When he gave her a finishing nudge, his fingertips dug into the raw flesh. Kate did not react, but he left four crescent-shaped imprints in each butt cheek.

I don’t know if she saw that, but our hostess apologized for the brief verbal exchange. Still, I must confess that I enjoyed the little drama. It was really quite a show, to see a beautiful naked woman upbraiding a fully clothed man, waggling her bare boobs at him as he shrank from the onslaught. I wondered, at the time, whether it even registered with him that she wore not a stitch on her body. He seemed to show no awareness of the fact — it was something they both lived with every day — but I doubt that any red-blooded male could have been totally indifferent to so sublime an exhibition.

We took our seats, and Kate squirmed as her bottom touched the cool, slick upholstery. There were two couples already on board, and we sat across from them. One of the women, in her late thirties, was obviously comfortable with her nudity, although the way she was pointing out the attractions to her husband made me think she was a first-time visitor. She either did not realize that I was studying her, or she was pretending not to notice, or she just didn’t care. Her knees were set apart, giving me an unrestricted view of the luscious velvet creases of her womanhood.

Next to her was a young lady in her early twenties. She was beautiful (if not quite as ravishing as my Kate) with long honey-blonde hair, luminous blue eyes and a cutely upturned nose. Her breasts were perfect, tipped with succulent, rosy nipples. Her thighs were pressed together, and even though her head was tilted downward, she was timidly looking up at me as I savoured her delectable nudity. She flashed me a shy smile, then turned away. Her arms were bound behind her back, like Kate’s. Both she and the other woman wore metal collars, linked to which were chains secured to the middle canopy strut.

There was another collar on the bench where Kate was to sit. I held it up for her to study its form, running my fingers over the smooth, shiny surface. She closed her eyes and emitted a soft sigh as I gently brushed back her hair and fastened the band about her neck. It was hinged with a clasp where the chain joined, was loose-fitting and did not lock so it could be easily and quickly removed (in the event of an accident). Her tether was not long enough for her to touch the floor; but in any case Kate was sitting up straight, staring directly ahead. Both of the other men were examining her, as closely as I did their partners.

We all kept to ourselves during the journey. Occasionally, I shifted my gaze from the women opposite me to take in the sights. Everything was clean and tidy. The streets were congested but the traffic was orderly. Elegant, colonial-style buildings and neat, well-kept houses lined broad, leafy avenues. People were everywhere, and already the sight of naked women was becoming familiar, if no less gratifying. At one point another taxi, packed with boisterous wenches, drew up beside us. The girls were laughing and cavorting and waving to passers-by, revelling in their nudity. They were the group of six from our flight, and they called out a greeting, which we returned.

The ride was pleasant and relaxing at first; but once we left the bayside flats and climbed into the hills, we were jolted and jostled. The women got the worst of it, since their sweaty bare buttocks provided little traction on the slippery benches; and their unencumbered breasts suffered a good deal of jerking and bouncing. This part lasted only about five minutes, but I enjoyed every second of it.

We left the other two couples at the Seaview Apartments, located a short distance down the road from our own destination. The young woman whose hands were tied had to alight without assistance from her partner, who was preoccupied with their luggage. She very nearly lost her balance as she stepped down onto the cobbled pavement, and it didn’t help that the only thing she wore was a pair of stiletto-heeled shoes.

Our hotel was located on a hill overlooking the capital, Régate, a long way from the water but with a superb, panoramic view of the town and bay. The Hôtel Bonaire Tropicale is a genteel establishment, graceful in design, set amidst carefully tended gardens and groves of palms and pines, comfortable rather than opulent. The faux-Renaissance façade might at first appear a little pretentious, but it is not overdone, and the interior’s fine stucco decoration and period furniture do set the Bonaire above the norm.

We were met by a doorman attired in a crimson uniform with copious braid, befitting the old-world charm. He politely cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, sir.” He pointed tactfully towards Kate’s feet.

She was uncomprehending at first, then rather shocked. For the first time since our arrival in Sirèna, she laughed. “Good lord,” she exclaimed, “this place really is posh!” She pushed off her sandals and I put them in the bag with the rest of her clothing. We approached the reception desk across a gleaming marble floor. In her bare feet, Kate tiptoed charily over the hard, cold surface.

The young woman behind the counter was coloured a rich coppery brown and spoke with a pronounced upper class English accent. Like most of the females we had encountered, she was extremely attractive. She wore her hair in a well-kept dreadlock style that brushed the tops of exquisite breasts. She was so beautiful that I wonder if nudity has given rise to a natural selection process that has made all Sirène females this way, or whether the authorities give preference to the most attractive immigrants. Or maybe it is just an illusion. In the end, it doesn’t really matter.

Instead of a collar, the receptionist had about her neck a braided leather noose. To it was clipped a heavy chain that was bolted to the counter, confining her movements to her limited workspace. As I signed in and she handed over the keys and more brochures, she reminded us of the hotel’s many fine amenities, and bade us to have an enjoyable stay. I assured her we would and nodded towards her naked torso. She responded with a flirtatious grin (although she’s probably endured that not very funny comeback a thousand times) and winked at Kate.

As I reached for my suitcase, a delicate hand respectfully brushed mine aside with a politely insistent “Please allow me, sir.”

I had seen the willowy figure with short shaggy blonde hair standing near the lift facing away from us, and if she had been wearing clothes she could have been mistaken for a boy. When she turned around there was no uncertainty. She was aged in her twenties but tiny, with a waiflike visage, azure eyes and a peach complexion. Her breasts were small but well-proportioned. She had a tiny waist and narrow hips, and a light but jagged scar ran down her belly. Farther along, the delicate folds of her sex were wedded by a miniature golden lock. I wondered who held the key.

“Sir, madam,” she said in a somewhat squeaky voice, “I’m Sarah. If you need anything, I will be on duty until midnight. Please call the front desk.”

She spoke with an Australian accent. Sirèna’s workforce is remarkably cosmopolitan. Since we had just the one bag, I didn’t feel too awkward about the diminutive maid carrying our luggage. She deposited it and left us at the door of our fourth-floor suite. There is no tipping, as such, in any of the island’s hotels and restaurants, at least not with regards to female staff, since technically the women are slaves. Of course, if you choose to leave a gratuity at the end of your visit, it’s not discouraged.

I opened the suitcase on the bed, took out my things and stowed them in the closet. I carefully replaced Kate’s. She watched me do so with a wistful expression, and even though we were alone she cringed, just a little, as she stood naked before me. She had never looked more vulnerable, nor more inviting. But she broke the spell by asking to have her hands untied, and then heading for the bathroom. I stepped out onto the balcony to take it in the view. When she returned, I beckoned for her to join me. I embraced her marvellously sexy body. Her skin was smooth and cool, and I could feel her nipples hard and sensual through the fabric of my shirt. I wanted her, so I tied her hands behind her back once more, took her inside and had my way with her.

We showered together — Kate’s hands remained bound so I did the scrubbing for both of us — and then I changed into fresh clothes. I suggested that we go down to the bar. Kate was hesitant, but we both knew she couldn’t hide in our room forever. Anyway, she’d already been seen by dozens of people. Still, I wasn’t at all irritated by her mood. In fact, I found her reticence both endearing and — yes, I do confess — arousing.

“We will just stay inside the hotel today, take things easy for now,” I told her.

So we went down to the bar. The place was almost empty. It was quiet and cosy, with half a dozen tables. Kate eased herself into one of the big lounge chairs. She gasped as the flesh of her back and bottom came into contact with the leather. At that she giggled, and in a way I envied her for what she was feeling. Every action, every experience, even something as prosaic as sitting down, was a new and thrilling sensation.

Our waitress was tall, streamlined and creamy-skinned. Her eyes were a striking violet. She spoke in a husky, Lauren Bacall voice. Her nipples were cherry-coloured, as if rouged.

I wedged myself into the chair beside Kate (whose hands were still bound) so I could hold up the glass for her to sip her wine. As we were ordering a second drink, another couple entered the bar. They were in their mid-to-late forties. He was bespectacled and somewhat paunchy, with a ruddy face and double chin. His gaudy shirt and voluminous Bermuda shorts were a caricature of the stereotypical tourist. He greeted the barman with a broad American accent — possibly Texan. She was well-built and well-toned, with platinum-blonde hair and a pleasant face, keen eyes and a wry smile. She had a large but nicely proportioned bosom and an even tan. Her pubes were clean-shaven, her labia ruby-red. Just above the cleft was a small tattoo, the Venus symbol or possibly the Egyptian ankh — it was hard to tell from how she was standing and where I was sitting (without me staring too closely for comfort). She wore a leather collar; from it was suspended a strap which ended in a loop handle, but it was now coiled around her right breast. Also hanging about her neck on a black strap was a large red-ball gag, glistening with saliva.

The man asked if he and his wife might join us. I turned towards Kate, but she just beamed and said, “Of course, we’re delighted to have company.”

“I’m Ted, this is Valerie.”

Kate introduced us.

We shook hands and they sat down, Valerie in her husband’s lap. The waitress came over to take their order, and Ted paused to inspect her body from one end to the other, his gaze lingering at the most interesting places along the way. He did so unabashed, and the young woman just smiled good-naturedly, completely relaxed at having her every nook and cranny examined so thoroughly. He then turned to Kate, giving her the same treatment. She must have blushed, because Valerie leaned across and patted her gently on the knee.

“First time, honey?” she asked indulgently. “It takes some getting used to at first, but it’s the best feeling in the world, you’ll see.”

“This is our third trip,” Ted explained. “We’ll keep coming back, too. Can’t get enough of it.”

Valerie punched him playfully in the arm. “No, you can’t.”

“Your wife...” Ted raised a quizzical eyebrow, until I nodded. “...is very pretty.”

“As is yours,” I answered, feeling proud.

“We’re both very lucky men.”

“Yes, you are, and don’t you forget it!” his wife laughed.

Ted’s enthusiasm and Valerie’s self-confidence were infectious. Kate sat back, more at ease than I had seen her since we’d arrived. I noticed that, although she was squeezed into the chair with me, her knees had drifted apart. I adjusted my position in the chair to nudge them back together, but she just wiggled into a new position.

“First time we came,” Valerie was saying, “I hid in our room for two days. By the time we left, I had almost forgotten what it was like to wear clothes. You get so into it.”

She continued after a long sip of her cocktail. “There are basically two types of men here, and believe it or not they don’t divide cleanly into locals and visitors. Some will look at you out of the corners of their eyes. They’re self-conscious about it, but they can’t keep their eyes off you. The other kind will stand there and take a good long look, and when they’re satisfied they will go about their business.”

“A naked woman is as natural as the sunrise and glorious like the sunset,” Ted cut in.

“He gets poetic around pretty girls,” Valerie scoffed, good-naturedly, “but he’s right, you know. Take some advice, Kate. Don’t be ashamed or embarrassed. If they’re looking at you, it’s because they like what they see. Treat it as a compliment. So don’t try to hide anything. Let them see what you have, what nature has given you.”

“God make the man first…” Ted began.

“… and left the best for last,” Valerie went on. “But the island has lots of things to offer besides... you know. Some very good restaurants. Wonderful scenery, especially when you get out of the town. Lots to do. Snorkelling and scuba diving — that’s our hobby. One last piece of advice though. Sun protection is a must, particularly on your pussy.”

Kate audibly sucked in a breadth.

“You don’t want him sticking it in when you’ve got a bad case of sunburn.”

Ted and Valerie were an interesting couple.

After some time and more drinks, I managed to extricate us from the T-V show. I admired their forthright and comfortable manner, but they were the sort of people whose joie de vivre will quickly exhaust you. Their natural habitat is the large gathering where they can pass, or be passed, from one audience to the next. Nevertheless, they extracted a promise from us that tomorrow we would let them be our guides in shopping for Kate’s bondage gear.

Just as we reached the lobby the elevator’s doors closed, so instead of waiting I decided we would use the stairs. As we climbed I walked directly behind Kate. Her hands were alarmingly red and I was worried that I had tied them too tightly. But her arms were flushed as well, and I was reassured that this was merely the effect of sitting with them bound behind her. So I devoted my attention to her pert, bare backside, jiggling and wiggling as she climbed the steps.

We retired to our room to prepare for dinner; and it did not surprise me that a woman takes just as long to get ready when she has literally nothing to wear. But as she was sitting at the dresser putting on her lipstick, she paused for a moment, studied her image in the mirror and then stood up and reached down to her belly. She was leaning forward and I had to get up close to see what she was doing.

“A beauty tip from Valerie?” I asked.

She just smiled, focusing on her task. She was carefully applying blush from her cosmetic kit to the crease between her thighs.

As we were about to head down to the restaurant, I walked into the corridor and turned back to see my wife in the doorway, her glorious naked figure in silhouette, illuminated from behind by the dim orange glow of the security light. She was surrounded by a faint aura that gave her an ethereal quality. The gentle curves of her body were softly muted, as if a gossamer veil had been drawn across them. It was a vision of transcendent beauty. I offered her my arm, and we went downstairs.

With some relief, when I scanned the hotel dining room there was no sign of Ted and Valerie. Three or four tables were occupied. As we waited to be seated, I was proud that my Kate was so quickly coming to terms with her nudity. She no longer made any effort to conceal herself, standing with her hands behind her back or at her side. When someone glanced her way, she appeared to draw back her shoulders, as if to accentuate her breasts.

The dining room was a fancy one, with white starched tablecloths, crisp napkins, silver candleholders — all the accoutrements of a high-class establishment. The serving staff consisted of a waiter and four waitresses. He wore an elegant uniform of black pants and ruffled white shirt, with a spruce-green tie and a vest trimmed with cord of golden braid. The girls were, of course, naked, but for leather neck-loops like that on the receptionist, plus bracelets and anklets linked together by silver chains. They were marshalled by a small, intense-looking woman, the maîtresse d’hotel, whose only accessory to what nature and a vigorous daily workout had endowed upon her was a thin silver neckband.

The waitresses’ shackles allowed them just enough freedom of movement to shuffle about the room serving dishes, pouring drinks and clearing tables. The maîtresse welcomed us and summoned the waiter who showed us to a table. He held Kate’s chair and paused until I was in my place before seating her.

“Will the lady be dining sans vue?” he inquired.

I looked at him blankly.

“Blindfolded,” Kate whispered.

I nodded, and he snapped his fingers. One of the waitresses promptly appeared bearing a platter. On it was a neat stack of satin sashes, of various hues.

“Black,” I said.

“May I?” the waiter asked.

“Be my guest,” I replied, and he tied the sash about Kate’s head. As he did so, with slow deliberation (as if to let her feel the descending darkness), his hands brushed against her bare shoulders and she flinched a couple of times; but he seemed oblivious, or not caring.

I did not assist Kate with her meal, except when at one point she almost knocked over her glass while feeling for it. She did not eat much. The dining room quickly filled. Ted and Valerie showed up, but after a cheery hello they mercifully moved on. Kate had a little too much wine, although I could hardly blame her. It had been a strange day. She kept her blindfold on as I helped her upstairs and carried her into the bedroom.


To be continued…

Re: THE LIBERATION OF KATE

Postby sarobah » Mon Jul 06, 2015 5:35 pm

From Sirèna Exposed — A Traveller’s Guide

The origin of the name “Sirèna” is a matter for conjecture. It obviously refers to the Sirens, the beautiful mermaids of ancient Greek legend who lured unwary sailors to their deaths. A recently discovered Spanish map shows “Sirenusa” already in use in the early 1600s. The current spelling preserves the legacy of French rule during the formative period of colonization in the eighteenth century.

The earliest Europeans arrived in 1692, fugitives from the destruction by earthquake of Port Royal, Jamaica’s notorious haven for buccaneers, smugglers and other desperadoes. As well as refuge, the island offered good anchorages and an ideal base for attacks on shipping and settlements throughout the Caribbean. Colonial rivalries at the time provided a bonanza for the freebooting fraternity, and the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 which brought an end to the War of the Spanish Succession unleashed upon the region thousands of unemployed seamen and soldiers. This was to be a new golden age of piracy, when rogues such as Blackbeard and Black Bart terrorized the seas. They became so emboldened as to attack towns and plantations on the American continent, as far north as the Carolinas and even Virginia. As well as material plunder, the pirates took hostages for ransom.

In the egalitarian spirit of their profession, a source of profit which they did not generally exploit was the African slave trade. When taking over a slave ship, it was common practice to liberate the human cargo, who would then join the raider’s crew. As a result, many of the pirates were themselves freed or runaway slaves, and any man who knew the ropes — was proficient in sailing skills — was held in higher esteem than the landlubber of any race or creed who did not.

On the other hand, one of the means employed by Sirèna’s chieftains to keep their men in line was to provide them with women. Prostitutes were imported from the slums of Europe and African slavegirls from neighbouring colonies. To replenish the stock, females were kidnapped from passing ships and from distant settlements. Those who could not bring in a decent ransom, and the occasional woman of class who caught the eye of the captain, were taken back to Sirèna as booty. They endured the hardships of day-to-day existence and adapted to their new lives, and as conditions gradually improved, families were raised and a community was built. Their children were fully immersed in the swashbuckling culture. Sons followed in the profession of their fathers, and even some girls took to the sea in ships. And although few modern Sirènes can authentically trace their heritage back so far, almost every native claims one of these hardy females as an ancestor.

Under French rule from 1720 to 1763, and thereafter a British colony, the island eventually lost its fearsome reputation as an outlaw sanctuary. Although smuggling continued, the inhabitants turned to legal occupations — commercial seafaring, fishing and boat-building. In the twentieth century, by the time tourism had emerged as the major source of revenue, the population was in decline, from a peak of 2000 in the 1850s to no more than two or three hundred a century later. However, the acquisition of a leasehold by the Cimarrón Corporation in 1954 meant a new lease of life. Spearheading this revival were the returning descendants of the pirate pioneers. They brought with them the old spirit of buccaneering brotherhood… and inspired the unique attributes of modern Sirène tourism.

The Liberation of Kate — Part Two

On our first morning in Sirèna, we woke to a chorus of songbirds. Kate seemed in an equally chirpy mood. But I must have dozed off again, because when my eyes opened once more, she was not in the room. I could hear her talking to someone. Still drowsy, it took me a while to focus. I could make out her words only indistinctly, but a baritone voice answered. I didn’t get up. However, the bedroom door was wide open, and I could see out onto the balcony. The outline of Kate’s naked figure was fuzzy through the billowing curtains.

She was talking to a man who was on the next balcony. I could discern only a few words, but they certainly spiked my curiosity, in particular “so beautiful.”

After a few minutes Kate came in, looking very pleased with herself.

“Getting acquainted with the neighbours?” I inquired.

“Ah, you’re awake,” she said.

“Obviously,” I replied, unable to hide my irritation.

“What’s up, dearest?” she asked, without even trying to hide her amusement. “Bad mood?”

“Me? No. Why?”

“Well, you seem to be in a grumpy.”

I told myself that I was still tired. Unlike Kate, I have never been a morning person. But she knew what was making me so testy.

“Yes, I was talking to our neighbours.”

“I didn’t hear a woman’s voice.”

With a mischievous glint in her eye, and in an ever so slightly superior tone, she continued. “Well, him anyway. Actually, we met them last night, in the restaurant.”

“What? I don’t remember that.”

“Well, not exactly met them... they were sitting at the next table.”

“Oh yeah.” It was hard to forget that couple, the woman at least. She was a dazzling, buxom redhead. Like Kate she wore a blindfold (and, of course, nothing else). She was seated in her chair at an angle, so that her legs were not hidden under the table, but instead splayed out to the side. Nothing was concealed. I didn’t recall much about her husband.

“I can see you do remember.” Kate was looking at the bed sheet covering the lower half of my body. I quickly checked. The cover was smooth, but my reaction had betrayed me.

“He seems nice.” She twirled a strand of hair around her finger.

“Yeah, and I bet he found you very nice as well.”

She smiled wickedly. “Jealous?”

“Of course not.”

I wasn’t lying. I had no problem with other men seeing my Kate. Still, it hadn’t occurred to me that she would be enjoying herself so much so soon.

“I heard him calling you beautiful.”

“Actually, what he said was, ‘It’s a beautiful day.’ But I suppose he may have found me beautiful. Could you blame him?”

“Not at all.” She had come close to the bed, so I seized her arm and pulled her down on top of me. I rolled on top and plunged into her. She squealed but did not resist.

***

The day was already heating up. The sky was a cloudless, iridescent blue. A shaft of sunlight cast a golden sheen across Kate’s gorgeous naked body, as she lay upon the bed watching me dress.

“What shall I wear today?” she asked.

“Same as yesterday,” I replied. “Now, stand up and put your hands behind your back.”

As she rose from the bed, her shoulders drooped and I heard a sigh, but she obeyed.

“I will have to get you a collar,” I said as I tied her wrists. “Until then…” I took the black satin sash she had brought up from the restaurant and knotted it about her neck.

We went down to the lobby squeezed into the elevator with two other female guests and one of the hotel maids. In the confined space, the four bodies pressed against each other and against my shirt and trousers. I sniffed subtle fragrances and studied the smooth undulations of bare skin. Kate’s eyes caught my own.

“Enjoying yourself?” they were asking.

I wondered aloud if all elevators on the island were like this, built to be so cramped. The women laughed dutifully and all but the maid blushed.

I decided we should forego breakfast in the restaurant and instead walk down to the city centre, to take in the sights and get a bite to eat there. I had brought Kate’s sandals and allowed her to put them on once we had left the hotel grounds.

The road is steep and winding. At various points along the way can still be seen remnants of the serriform ramparts that once snaked up the hillside towards the fort overlooking the bay, testifying to the sometimes violent history of this island paradise. It was mid-morning, but the air was already shimmering above the bitumen. The view was exhilarating. The harbour was crowded with fishing and pleasure boats; cruise ships lay offshore in the deeper water. Directly below us, the town sprawled along the curve of Regatta Bay and up into the surrounding low hills. Sirèna has eschewed the high-rise development which has tarnished the glamour of other resort communities, but there are nevertheless the unmistakable signs of progress and prosperity. The houses are neat and well-maintained. The overall tone is affluent but egalitarian, with no ornate villas or oversized mansions.

The commercial district is busy, noisy, in places gaudy but rarely tacky or seedy. It is trisected by the two major thoroughfares. The Boardwalk closely follows the arc of the shore and is lined with bars, restaurants and nightclubs. The broader Promenade runs further inland, roughly parallel to the Boardwalk, until the curvature of the bay brings them together. Along it are located the department stores and specialty shops, offices and banks. The roads converge at Patrick’s Emporium, the tourist marketplace.

Nobody seems to know who the original Patrick was, but there is a colourful tale. Around the year 1720, a beautiful Anglo-Irish noblewoman, Lydia Beresford, was abducted en route to the colonies and brought to Sirèna. Her brother Patrick — or in another version, her betrothed — arrived to pay her ransom but instead fell in with the pirates, and Lydia stayed on, as the wife of her captor. While there are less romantic legends about the eponymous Patrick, the brochures tell us that this was for two centuries the site of the local bride bazaar. Today the merchandise is more mundane. There are art-and-craft stalls and even women’s clothing shops selling everything from bikinis to ball gowns. What interested me most, however, were the bondage boutiques. We had arranged to meet Ted and Valerie at one called, aptly enough, the Chain Store.

The pedestrian traffic was heavy, with people sightseeing or coming into town for breakfast or heading off to work. The endless pageant of unclad females was a splendid sight. As they passed by, most acted as if they were innocent of the effect they were having on me. But I could tell by the way they carried themselves, by their quick glances and coy smiles, their flushed faces and raised nipples, that they took as much pleasure in their display as their audience. For it was not just their bodies that were exposed, but their thoughts and feelings as well. And what they revealed is the essence of Sirèna. The women are not all beauty queens, by no means supermodel-slim or triathlete-trim. Furthermore, the nudity and bondage are not necessarily about submission to male domination. We encountered several female couples, and then there were the all-girl group and the goth-punk pair on the plane. They had come to Sirèna for their own liberating experience.

This is what I had wanted Kate to understand before we left home; and it was gratifying to see her gaining in confidence. She seemed to be enjoying the attention she received, but didn’t flaunt herself. She didn’t need to. I’m sure she got more looks than most women, and we were both proud of that.

I chose one of the outdoor cafeterias at random. I untied Kate long enough for her to have her coffee and croissants without my assistance. At a neighbouring table, a couple were finishing up. From the evidence of their laptops and briefcases, I deduced that they were residents, possibly working for one of the banks which have set up their headquarters on the island. The man was dressed in an expensive, tropical-style business suit. Preoccupied with a conversation on his phone, he seemed indifferent to his companion. She had a delicate, porcelain complexion, which indicated that she had not been on the island for very long. (Even the fairest of the fair sex tan quickly on Sirèna.) Elegant curls of russet hair with golden highlights cascaded over her shoulders but swept clear of her breasts. As she rose to leave, she turned away from us, and I saw that the grid pattern of the wicker seat was imprinted in reddish weals on the flesh of her buttocks. Like most women she wore a collar, with a leash held by the man, who tugged down on it as they departed, forcing her to bend at the waist, as if bowing to her master.

I wondered what her story was. I’d heard her speaking with a refined English accent and pictured her as a junior executive making a name for herself in the City of London, and learning that she had been transferred to the sunny West Indies.

My reverie was interrupted when another charming tableau caught my eye. Across the street, in a similar sidewalk café, sat two couples, aged in their early twenties. The women looked enough alike to be sisters; and I could tell that they were recently arrived because their bosoms bore pink stripes where pale skin was becoming sunburnt. They wore matching broad-brimmed straw chapeaux, as well as collars that were linked by a chain. One had a bracelet on her right wrist, the other an identical band on her left, and these were clamped together — but on opposite sides of their bodies, so they had to reach across each other’s front with their cuffed arms and were thus locked in a sort of half-embrace. It created some interesting dilemmas as they ate their breakfast and when the four got up to leave. I could have watched them until they disappeared in the crowd, but Kate was getting restless. It was time to head for our rendezvous.

As I took hold of her wrists, she said in a plaintive voice, “Do I have to be?”

I laughed and said “Of course” and she shrugged and smiled. But I decided that her problem was that she needed something different, more challenging. So I bound her hands in front, wrists crossed, and instructed her to place them behind her head; and I then tied her wrists to the sash looped around her neck. She grimaced when it was done because I made it a little bit more severe than I had meant to, so she had to pull back her elbows and shoulders to prevent the satin tightening about her throat. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed and her fists clenched.

“Only until we get to the shop,” I promised. She started walking before I had paid for our meal, so I had to catch up. With her arms pinned the way they were, her chest was in full display mode, and she received more than her fair share of attention from passers-by. That made me very happy. And from behind, I saw that the skin of her back and butt had been marked by the chair, like the girl’s at the nearby table. In a funny way, that made her even sexier… if that was possible.

Our friends were waiting outside the Chain Store, which was not hard to find. Valerie’s arms were shackled behind her back and she was wearing an elaborate harness of leather straps linking four metal rings, one about her neck, one around each breast and a smaller one over her pubic region. Ted prodded his wife and she performed a dainty pirouette to show us the rear of the rig; the strap which ran up her back connecting the crotch and neck rings deeply sundered her buttocks (which, I noticed, were criss-crossed with faint purple streaks). Oozing out of the corners of the woman’s mouth, which was filled with the red ball-gag, a light froth of saliva dribbled from her chin, through the fleshy vale of her cleavage and down her belly.

I untied Kate as pledged. Inside the shop, Ted chatted up the proprietress while gagged Valerie used her head and eyes and gargled sounds to advise Kate and assist the salesgirl. She ignored me until I appeased her by pointing out a harness similar to the one she wore. Kate’s fitting took an interminable time, but the result was spectacular. Her ensemble also had stainless steel rings for the neck and breasts, but an open crotch, and it included a chrome-plated belt which tightly encircled her waist. At its rear were two more rings so Kate’s hands could be locked behind her back. She walked around to try it out and looked at me with a dubious expression; but I nodded and told the girl “She can leave it on.”

I purchased some nylon cord, a folding leg-spreader bar, two collars and two pairs of cuffs, leather and metal, all of which the girl put in a bag. She measured Kate’s mouth and I selected a steel-and-vinyl ring-gag and a black ball-gag. Given the option, Kate chose to wear the latter. Her eyes rolled as the silicone orb was pushed between her teeth and bulged as I pulled hard on the straps to buckle it in place. The salesgirl explained that if a ball-gag is loose-fitting, with just a little effort the wearer can dislodge it.

“We don’t want that, do we?” she said.

Kate shook her head mumbled something I couldn’t understand.

There was plenty of other interesting and intriguing merchandise, but we would have plenty more shopping opportunities. We had been in the store for at least a couple of hours, and now it was almost lunch-time. Ted began to speak but his wife cut him off with a loud grunt through her gag and he changed course in mid-breath.

“Well, you folks will have things to do, so hopefully we’ll see you back at the hotel.”

I saw the twinkle in Valerie’s eye as she nodded. She’s a smart lady. She knew how easy it is to wear out a welcome.

“Five o’clock for drinks?” I said.

“Five it is,” Ted grinned, and slapped his wife so hard on the backside that she jumped.

On our way out of the store I also bought a leash, which I clipped to Kate’s neck ring. We had only progressed a short distance down the street when she moaned and I saw that the straps of her harness had already begun to chafe the insides of her thighs. We halted and I ran my fingers along the edges to make sure the soft lining was in contact with her skin all the way from belly to backside. I was satisfied that she would get used to the discomfort in no time.

Not yet ready for lunch, we toured the town for a couple of hours. On the Boardwalk we passed two police constables on patrol, a man and a woman. His uniform was a blue shirt and trousers and a broad-brimmed hat. Hers consisted of a blue choker and blue armbands. She wore shoes at one end of her and a sun visor at the other with nothing in between except a belt, from which were slung a baton and a radio. They paused to assist a couple who appeared lost. The man wanted to take a photo. They affably obliged. Farther along the street, two young women were eating ice-cream at a sidewalk café. Luxuriant hair splayed across the chest of one. The officers stopped and the policewoman helped the girl tie back her hair. It is not an offence for a female to cover her breasts in public, but it’s considered a breach of good manners. Nothing should conceal what nature has bestowed.

It was only just after noon but the taverns and clubs were already busy. Two inebriated male patrons stumbled out of one of the bars, scattering pedestrians as they meandered boisterously along the street. Our intrepid peace officers were quickly on the scene, deftly stepping in to separate the drunks from passers-by. One attempted to remonstrate with the woman, but she set him back with a menacing flourish of her baton. Meanwhile, a commotion could be heard inside the bar, and her colleague went to investigate.

More carousers spilt out of the building. They clamoured about the naked policewoman, loud and intimidating. Unfazed, she ordered them to disperse. There was, for a moment, tension in the air; but first one, then another peeled off and staggered away. The rest quickly followed. The plucky cop’s nudity did not diminish her power or deter her from confronting the men. It may even have helped defuse the situation. But I had not expected to witness a scene like this. For all its uniqueness, Sirèna has its raw elements. It is not a utopia. You wouldn’t want it to be.

Nevertheless, everywhere you go, you are reminded that it is not like other places. We returned to the Bonaire and I allowed Kate to remove her harness and gag. Then we went back downstairs. I ordered drinks and a snack and we relaxed by the pool. A man and woman emerged from the water. I recognized her as the maîtresse d’hôtel and she smiled a cordial greeting. The man took his bag to the men’s changing room and I saw that there was no private facility for females — they didn’t need one. I watched intrigued as she dried herself with a small towel. Because she was in public, she never permitted it to linger over her bosom and her lower parts. A quick dab ensured that they were kept exposed to view.

Nearby, a petite Asian woman was waiting patiently for her man to come out of the dressing room. She was very pretty, with small, taut breasts and a smooth, tight backside. Her compact body sparkled with the pool water that she had not bothered to towel off. With nothing to put over it, she allowed her skin to dry naturally in the sunlight; but she shivered a little. Her partner turned out to be a middle-aged, balding Caucasian man with a paunch that overwhelmed his beltline and stretched to near fail-point the most garishly fluorescent floral shirt I had yet seen. As he flung a massive arm around his diminutive consort, she flopped, wincing, in his bearish embrace, and her little naked body all but disappeared inside his vast, dank armpit. I felt sorry for her, but their business was not mine.

When the two couples had departed, Kate and I were alone. She selected a sun lounge beside the rock garden and settled into it. I moved another seat beside hers but facing in the opposite direction, so I could gaze upon her. As she drifted into sleep, her breasts rose and fell to the gentle rhythm of her breathing. Her nipples softened in the tranquillity of her slumber, but hardened again suddenly as she dreamed something that caused her to moan faintly. I wanted to touch her, hold her, caress her, but I did not want to wake her.

I could have sat there, contemplating my lovely, for all time. Except that already I was feeling it once more, the urge to share my treasure with the world.

***

At five o’clock we had our scheduled drinks with Ted and Valerie. She was sitting oddly and I saw that the purple welts which covered her backside now spread along her thighs. She noted my staring but turned to Kate.

“We like to spice things up with games,” she explained.

They introduced us to Adèle and Élise, who were in their mid-twenties, both rather too skinny for my taste. They spoke with French accents. They were of course nude, but like the goth-punk couple were in a dominant-submissive relationship. Élise was collared and leashed and knelt on the floor, at Adèle’s feet. She had a black garter embroidered with the name of her mistress encircling each breast.

We got on well and arranged to have dinner at a fancy restaurant downtown. It was a dress-up venue, so we went back to our suite for me to put on my jacket and tie. Kate was beginning to enjoy la différence — as Adèle and Élise would say — between us, because she made a special point of brushing my jacket and straightening my tie, pressing herself against me as she did so. She purred as she fondled my tie and stroked it between her breasts. Her nipples were hard, and she wrapped a leg around mine, caressing my trousers with her naked thigh. I regretted having to go back down to the lobby straight away.

The French girls informed us with sad faces that Ted and Valerie would not be joining us. There was no explanation, and we never saw our effervescent friends again. When they didn’t show up the next morning I worried that something bad had happened, and it didn’t occur to me, until Kate suggested it, to inquire at the reception desk. It turned out that they’d taken up a last-minute offer of a place on a dive-boat (Valerie had told us they were into snorkelling and scuba diving) and had actually left a note of apology.

Anyway, we kept our dinner appointment. On our walk down the hill and through the town, Kate and Élise weren’t bound except for their collars and leashes. But we discovered that, as hot as it gets during the daytime, as soon as the sun sets, if the wind blows briskly off the bay the temperature plummets; so I felt guilty pangs, snug in my trousers and jacket, as the three women began to feel the chill. By the time we reached the coastal flats where there was some shelter from the breeze, their bodies were covered in sexy goosebumps. That sight made up for my guilt.

As we approached the restaurant, Adèle took out of her handbag a steel collar and clamped it about her throat. She then gave her wallet to me. When we were shown to our table, the females waited for me to be seated. Both the waitress and the wine waiter addressed only me, and while Adèle chose from the menu for Élise, she had to order through me. At the end of the meal I wanted to pay but Adèle insisted, so I took the plastic from her purse to hand it over.

I had to smile when I saw that the tabletops were made of clear glass. The lifestyle of Sirèna meant that nothing was left to the imagination. Kate’s eyes rolled, before she put on her blindfold, and I suppose it must be a weird feeling, having male dinner companions stare straight down at your naked genitalia as they eat. Adèle and Élise didn’t seem to notice, or care. They were probably used to it. They were also more adept at dining dans le noir; but I had to help them a couple of times and I wondered how they managed without a man present. Blindfolds are de rigueur for women in this establishment, and it’s nice how they made the ladies dependent on their gentlemen.

The meal was superb. The conversation was enlivening and enlightening. It was an agreeable experience engaging in intelligent discourse over dinner with three naked, blindfolded females. Our companions proved to be, as well as seamlessly fluent in English, erudite and articulate. So I wasn’t surprised to learn that back home both teach at the Université. Indeed, I found myself lost in some of the discussion. Kate took up the slack. For a while I indulged them; but I had forgotten that she is — among her many talents — multilingual. When she said something in French and the two girls turned their heads in my direction and giggled, I insisted that the table talk continue in my vernacular.

Afterwards, Adèle invited us to join them at their favourite nightclub. Here on the Boardwalk, despite the proximity of the beach, it was quite warm. The street blazed with lights and roared with noise from the bars, clubs and discotheques. Although they are open day and night, it is after sunset and all the way till dawn that they come alive — loud and crowded, bursting with that quintessentially Caribbean blend of glitz, glamour and vulgarity.

Inside, females heavily outnumbered males — hardly surprising, given that nearly two-thirds of visitors to Sirèna don’t wear clothes, according to official statistics. On the dance floor were a dozen man-woman couples. Nude bodies writhed to the throbbing beat and pulsating light show, brushing with precise carelessness against the fabric of their partners’ clothing. Naked skin glistened with sweat, unfettered breasts swayed to the rhythm of the music, bare bosoms and thighs rubbed sensually against shirts and trousers. There were also women dancing together, their bodies bumping and grinding against each other, as the erotic energy surged to a climax. Adèle led her girlfriend by her tether out onto the floor.

We managed to find a table. Actually, I had a recurrence of my guilt because it was occupied by three young women. One of the nightclub staff said something to them and beckoned towards us. The three girls vacated the table without a second’s hesitation or a disgruntled look. I could have declined their sacrifice but decided that it would be impolite and disrespectful of local custom.

I looked at Kate, as lurid beams flashed across her face. Her eyes bulged. She cringed, more aware of her exposure than she had been since leaving the airport. She was jittery, stroking her breasts and pressing her knees together. She smiled.

“I feel like I should be on the pill for just sitting here.”

She blushed at having said that, and I decided we should adjourn to a more placid venue. Adèle and Élise would not miss us. After we finished our drinks, we strolled down to the water’s edge. The wind had picked up and Kate was starting to shiver. I resisted the urge to take off my jacket and wrap it around her slim, bare shoulders. Instead, I put a protective arm around her; and I didn’t feel at all guilty this time as she snuggled in to my side. Back in our room, a quick warm shower and a brandy restored her to full vigour, which was expended in bed to my satisfaction and hers.

***

In the morning I woke to find Kate again on the balcony. There was no neighbour this time, but I resolved to punish her anyway. I ordered her to stand up against the latticework screen, facing it with her arms and legs extended. As she obeyed, she twisted her head to peer at me over her shoulder.

“What are you going to do?”

“What do you think?”

“Is this payback for yesterday morning?”

“Of course it is.”

I used the rope I had bought at the Chain Store to secure her wrists to the lattice, and strapped the leg-spreader to her ankles, so her limbs were stretched out in an X.

“Up on your toes,” I instructed.

“How long am I going to be like this?” she asked.

“We’ll see,” I replied.

I concede that I was a little disappointed when she didn’t complain. It’s not that I want my beloved to suffer, but I didn’t expect her to be so calm and accepting of her punishment. When I stepped back to view her beautiful naked body spreadeagled and pressed against the frame, she said nothing more but just stared to one side, out over the edge of the balcony. When I ordered her to open her mouth so I could insert the ring-gag, she whimpered but did not resist.

“Yell when you’ve had enough,” I told her. “Can you make a noise?”

She responded with a “Ga-ga-ga” sound, which would work well enough. I went inside to have my toast and coffee and read the newspaper. I took a shower and got dressed. An hour later Kate still had not given up. Yet I knew the strain of being on her toes was having an effect. Her legs were starting to shake and buckle, and her buttocks had begun to quiver. I ran my fingernails down her back and slid my hands around her hips to play between her thighs. She groaned softly.

“Had enough now?” I whispered in her ear.

She shook her head and sucked in a deep breath through the ring that spread her jaws.

I was proud of my honey’s endurance, as I have always been of her strength; but there is a point where stamina becomes just plain stubbornness, and I could not help but be frustrated. I knew she would quit eventually and beg for release, but in the meantime I felt as if I were the helpless one. And I knew also that she was fully aware of what she was doing. Kate likes to be in control. That bothers me, I must confess. While I have encouraged her to be strong and independent, she must sometimes be reminded that our marriage is an equal partnership. So I took off my belt and gave her a few light whacks across her bottom, barely enough to raise little pink ridges on the sleek, trembling flesh.

However, when at last I freed her from the latticework, and she slumped into my arms, panting and sweating, and she gasped “I just want to please you,” I was not sure that Kate had learnt the right lesson.

“No, my love,” I told her. “We’re here for you.”

She blinked as she looked up at me, and I don’t think she understood. But I had plans that I was certain would empower her to achieve complete liberation.

That required another trip downtown. Because she was still a bit sore, I decided not to put Kate in her harness from the Chain Store, just her collar and leash, and I tied her hands behind her back. In the lobby we found the French girls. Adèle was seated in one of the big leather armchairs and Élise was kneeling beside her. With them were two more girls, Rachel and Lucinda. Unlike Adèle and Élise they were not a couple, just friends wanting a taste of the exotic lifestyle. They were Australians, university students on a break for a year-long, round-the-world surfing safari, who had decided to take a detour to Sirèna. Rachel was gregarious and funny; she had the classic beach-girl looks — very pretty, sandy-haired, blue-eyed and freckled-faced, slim but sturdy, with an all-over tan and a leaping dolphin tattoo which arced around the contours of her mons pubis. Lucy was more introverted, but with a mischievous sense of humour, small, olive-skinned and dark-haired with large brown eyes. I asked about the long scar which ran up the inside of her left leg, and she said it was the result of a surfing mishap.

Since they were also heading downtown, and it had started to rain, we decided to take one of the open-air taxis. They are provided free-of-charge for tourists (gratis from the hotels). The cabbie this time was a young female, who was more businesslike — and more picturesque — than our previous driver. The rain had blown in under the canopy, and she used a cloth to wipe down the upholstery at the left rear for my benefit. My fellow passengers were not accorded this courtesy, but they would not have ended up having to wear damp clothes. Once the six of us were seated, our chauffeuse gestured politely to the metal collars, each suspended on its chain to the rail behind the seats. I put Kate into her yoke, and three of the other women dutifully put theirs on as well, but Adèle hesitated. When, however, the chauffeuse showed no sign of moving, she sighed and donned her collar.

We set off down the hill, but came to an abrupt halt after just a couple of minutes, outside the Seaview Apartments. There was another taxi parked beside the roadway with its engine bonnet raised. The driver was standing under an umbrella while six women, who could have been sitting in the relatively dry back of the vehicle, were standing next to it, hair dripping and skin slick from the drizzle. The two drivers conferred and Harry — a small, wiry man with coffee-coloured, leathery skin, permanently bloodshot eyes and a perpetually broad, toothy grin — asked me to disembark and sit in the front cabin. Kate and the others were told to bunch up; their chains could slide along the rail. The six women were summoned. Each carried a small bag, not much bigger than a purse, which probably contained all their possessions. They were shivering and bedraggled, and I have to say that there is something extraordinarily sexy about a wet female body covered in nothing but goosebumps. As each climbed up to take her seat, Harry gave her a slap on the backside. I was sorry that there wasn’t sufficient room for me, because being crammed in with eleven nude women would have made for an interesting ride.

There were not enough collars for the new passengers, but they were ordered to sit in silence with their arms folded behind their backs. Naturally this lasted only until we had resumed our journey leaving Harry to await a mechanic. My driver, Rosalie, was more sociable once we got moving, and I learned that she was from Dominica, one of the islands to the north of Sirèna. She told me her owner worked downtown. This was the first time I heard a female referring to herself as property. Technically all women on the island are slaves, both residents and visitors, but it was still rather odd to hear it expressed so unequivocally.

Adèle and Élise, Rachel and Lucy, Kate and I were dropped off downtown. I asked Rosalie where the other women were going. She explained that one of the more popular activities for unattached women is to sign on as a playmate-servant-stewardess aboard a yacht or cruise ship. In return for providing unpaid labour, they get to enjoy the slavegirl experience. I thought that this might be good for Kate, but I had other plans.

We split up when we reached the Boardwalk, Adèle and Élise moving off towards the entertainment precinct, Rachel and Lucy heading for the beach (because the rain had stopped), Kate and I returning to Catriona’s travel agency. She greeted us like long-lost friends, and after a brief discussion she booked Kate in for three days at the Calliope Bay training camp, to start the next morning. Kate was warned that the curriculum is rigorous, so she should get plenty of sleep beforehand and would need a couple of days afterwards to recover. She just smiled at me and nodded. Yet almost as soon as we left the office I began to have misgivings. What would I do for three days without my Kate?

The unexpected answer came a few hours later. We had spent the morning and early afternoon sightseeing. We walked back to the hotel and found Rachel and Lucy sitting in the bar. Both seemed dejected and explained that they could only afford to stay one more night at the Bonaire. This was almost too perfect a coincidence, certainly a splendid opportunity. I offered them the second bedroom in our suite, for the five days remaining of their vacation on Sirèna. Kate gave me an odd look but agreed. After all, what was the point of staying in such expensive accommodation if we couldn’t have two gorgeous guests?

With that settled we had drinks and dinner, joined again by the French girls, of whom I was becoming quite fond. Kate and I had an early night so we could be up at sunrise. As we showered the next morning, we made love one last time before our separation. I wanted her to wear her straps-and-rings and the ball-gag, and decided to blindfold her for the trek down the hill.

Rachel and Lucy arrived on time to deposit their bags in our suite. I was astonished that they had so much luggage, until I remembered that they were not just holidaying on Sirèna (where, according to the tourist brochure, if you’re female “all you will need is a toothbrush”), but travelling around the world. Both stared at Kate’s harness, and I realized that they had not had much of a taste of bondage. What a waste, I said to myself, but that could be remedied. As they were stark naked, with not even collars or footwear, I told them to put on shoes since they would be walking with us. They looked at each other and at me and grinned. I don’t think it had occurred to them that I would be in charge for the next five days. But they complied. Lucy had sandals and Rachel a pair of scruffy flip-flops.

“Do you have your own collars?” I asked.

They nodded. These turned out to be of cheap plastic, and I resolved to get them proper leather ones. I clipped Kate’s leash to Rachel’s collar and for Lucy I made a second lead from a length of cord. I detected just a twinge as I tethered them. I instructed them to each take one of Kate’s arms so they could guide her (in her sightless state) while I led them. And so we began our journey. Out of the hotel, down the hill, into the town, I felt proud and privileged, attracting admiring and envious glances (from both sexes) as I paraded my three exquisite slavegirls.

On a patch of open ground at the rear of Patrick’s Emporium, a hundred women had been assembled. There was a registration tent where I signed in Kate, and she was allocated to one of three columns which were forming. I removed her harness, gag and blindfold, and she was shackled into the line, her arms behind her back, with heavy chains around her neck, wrists, elbows and ankles. Commanded to look directly ahead but with eyes downcast, she risked reprimand to steal a couple of quick glances in my direction, and even managed to mouth a few words, which I didn’t understand. By the time they were ready to begin marching, weighed down by their fetters, she was about halfway down the line of fifty or so women. The three columns shuffled off on parallel paths, and quite a large crowd had gathered to watch. Many of the spectators followed them, but I monitored the proceedings only until Kate had disappeared over a low ridge.

Rachel and Lucy were waiting expectantly. I asked what their plans were. They appeared a little embarrassed. They were not the sort to make sophisticated plans, it seemed.

“Oh, just hit the beach, have some lunch…”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“Please join us,” Lucy replied.

Maybe I’m wrong, but I got the impression that it came as a relief to have someone to break up their routine. Perhaps they had come to Sirèna expecting more than what they found. And this seemed like a good time to educate them. I said that one could wear Kate’s harness. They turned to each other frowning, but Rachel volunteered with a saucy grin. She was slightly taller than Kate, but their breasts were about the same size, so the rings slid over them snugly. The straps and belt could be adjusted to suit her waist and hips. As a result it was a good fit, and when I’d locked her wrists in the rings behind her back she looked so incredibly sexy that I think Lucy was a little jealous. So I bound her hands behind her as well, using the rope lead, while applying the leather leash to link their collars. I wished I’d brought gags to complete the ensemble.

I took my pets back to the Boardwalk, to the Chain Store where I bought them their new collars.

“Thank you, master,” said Lucy.

Rachel stared at her friend for a second or two before muttering, “Yes, thank you, master.”

“Good girls,” I said. “You deserve a treat.”

I took them to the nearest ice-cream kiosk. Then we went to the beach. This is one place on Sirèna where male and female bodies approach any degree of symmetry. Yet even on the sand the difference remains. You are warned in the literature, and by shorefront signage, that male nudity is prohibited; indeed, Sirènes are rather prudish about this. Exiting the beach, men are expected to at least put on a shirt, while trousers or dress shorts are mandatory downtown.

At the base of the headland at the north-eastern end of the beach you can hire surfboards. Rachel and Lucy naturally gravitated to this point. They really were good surfers, and I was content to sit and watch them. Rachel was amazing at aerials, Lucy at carving and trimming. (That was my education — nothing as exciting as what Kate would be learning at Calliope Bay.) I was quite flattered that during their rest periods the girls came and sat with me. Emerging from the water and scampering up the shingle, their sleek naked bodies glistening with water and suntan oil, their perky breasts bouncing and their silken hair flouncing, their deliciously bare backsides and delicate crevices encrusted with gritty wet sand when they set themselves down next to me, they almost made me forget my gorgeous wife.


To be continued…

Re: THE LIBERATION OF KATE

Postby sarobah » Mon Jul 06, 2015 11:35 pm

From Sirèna Exposed — A Traveller’s Guide

ADVICE FOR WOMEN

There are myths and misconceptions about nudity, bondage and slavery on Sirèna.

So what does the nudity law entail? Adult females are not permitted to wear clothing of any kind in public outside the Grandin Bay administrative district. Offenders are rarely prosecuted, but you will be asked to remove anything you may be wearing. No one will forcibly strip you, although wilful and persistent violators of the law may be deported. You have the right to apply for an exemption, but this is rarely granted to visitors.

The law does allow headwear, footwear, gloves, garters, armbands, bracelets and anklets, jewellery, collars and chokers, feminine hygiene products, bandages and other medical dressings, and — in exceptional circumstances — safety coverings. It is not strictly illegal but is considered a breach of social etiquette to cover or conceal any part of your body. For instance, if you have long hair, it should not cover your breasts. Bed linen, towels and blankets must be used only for their specified purpose. You should not carry or hold any object in a way that hides your nakedness.

Male nudity, on the other hand, is prohibited. The nude law celebrates the natural beauty of the female form.

If you think these rules are onerous or unfair, remember that nature gave us this wonderful body, for both women and men to enjoy. Be proud of it. Show it off and enjoy the attention.

As for bondage and slavery, keep in mind that Sirèna is a place for vacationers and adventurers to live out a fantasy or experiment with a lifestyle. The main requirement is that our guests exercise common sense and good taste and not interfere with other people’s appreciation of our island’s unique attributes. Most of our laws are the same as those anywhere else, so the number one rule is — Have a great time!

The Liberation of Kate — Part Three

Kate’s absence left a void in my schedule, although it was nice to have three days when I didn’t have to worry about pleasing her. I took the opportunity to learn more about Sirèna’s history, government and culture.

Getting bored with watching Rachel and Lucy, I left them at the beach and returned to Catriona’s office to hire a guide. She took me to a vacant lot nearby where several taxis were parked, with their drivers slouching, chatting and smoking. There were half a dozen males and one female. Apart from her nudity, the girl was acting no differently to her co-workers. But nearby, being ignored, were half a dozen young women, silently standing rigidly at attention and chained to a post. The drivers stopped talking, discarded their cigarettes and stood up straight when they saw Catriona, and once again I was impressed by how a nude woman in a slave collar can command such attention and respect from men. She asked me to choose one of the slaves. I demurred so she selected one herself — tall and athletic with short-cropped strawberry-blonde hair.

“This is Monique,” Catriona revealed as she freed the girl and handed me her leash.

“Hello, Sir.” Monique greeted me in a cheery voice, though keeping her gaze lowered. She had an American accent, and I subsequently learned that she is — like Rachel and Lucy — a college student taking time off. She came to Sirèna four months ago with her boyfriend for what was intended as a short visit, and he sold her to a nightclub. That’s not as bad as it sounds. It just means that she took a waitressing job to pay for the next leg of their Caribbean expedition, but here women are chattels. When he managed to get himself deported for some minor offence, she stayed on and eventually got this present job. She’s due to return home in eight weeks, she told me glumly.

Monique proved to be an excellent tour guide. Most of the sites and sights were rather banal (discounting the presence of denuded females), and she was chuffed when I expressed interest in the Sirène government. It turns out that back home she’s studying political science, for her doctorate no less. From her I learned that the island has a unique status as a condominium of Britain and France, while held in perpetual leasehold by the Cimarrón Corporation, a consortium of mostly locally-based investors and shareholders. Sirèna is virtually self-governing, with its own fourteen-seat parliament. Although women achieved the right to vote only recently, the current chief minister, Charlotte Hewes, leads a female majority in the Legislative Assembly.

Government House is located on the outskirts of Régate and not in the Grandin Bay district as I had assumed. I asked Monique if we could go inside and she said “Of course; things are very informal here.” The parliament was in session, and as we sat in the gallery I was not shocked to see that the eight women members — including the presiding officer and the chief minister — were naked. Perhaps the air conditioning was out of order, because their male colleagues, in jackets and ties, appeared much less at ease. The debate was about something humdrum, so we left after a few minutes.

As we strolled along the shore, Monique informed me that women only got the right to vote in 1987, and to stand for election as recently as 2000. But since females make up sixty per cent of the voters, it was only a matter of time before they controlled the process. How is this reconciled with the fact that women are slaves?

“It’s Sirèna!” was her answer. Less than a week ago that would not have made sense. Now it did.

It was early afternoon when we met with Rachel and Lucy. The girls hit it off with Monique, because they had a lot in common. They were fascinated, and a little mystified, by Monique’s decision to stay here for six months. In fact, she told us, many female “guest workers” apply for permanent residence.

I was still carrying Kate’s harness and informed Lucy that it was her turn to wear it. Her brow furrowed and her lips pouted, but she submitted. I had Rachel stand behind her and wrap her arms around her friend’s body, and I tied her wrists to the front of the belt. By slightly adjusting the rings at the rear, I repositioned Lucy’s hands behind her back so that they were nested in Rachel’s crotch. The girls shuffled in this embrace all the way back to the hotel. By the time we reached it, they were exhausted; Rachel in particular was red-faced and puffing.

I had rented Monique for several more hours. Would she be bothered if instead of using her services as a guide I practised some bondage techniques with her, for later use on Kate? She said that this was not unusual. So the four of us went up to our suite and I told Rachel and Lucy that they would be taking part as well. They seemed amenable, so I started with Rachel, putting her in a very strict hog-tie under the directions of Monique. The sporty blonde looked so sexy lying on the carpet, helpless and squirming, that I left her that way for the next hour or so while I worked on the other two.

I locked the spreader bar on Lucy’s ankles and then tied her and Monique in an elaborate pose with their arms and legs entangled. I gagged them with the ring and ball gags (and Rachel with the black satin sash). When I got bored with watching them wriggling and writhing — Monique had suffered a painful cramp in her left thigh but bravely didn’t let on until afterwards — I suspended them in strappado, a very mild version, and tried out some other positions and techniques. At the end of the session, which went for about three hours altogether, Rachel and Lucy admitted that they had never been tied up like this before.

“Get used to it,” I joked; and when they didn’t react except with blushes and giggles, I felt my heart skip a beat. Perhaps Kate’s absence would not be such a loss.

When it was time to take Monique back downtown, I told Rachel and Lucy that they would be coming too. In the hotel foyer we came across Adèle and Élise, who were with two other (man-woman) couples, and we decided we would walk together. All the females except Adèle were collared and leashed, and when I instructed her that she would have to play her part as well, she glowered darkly but acquiesced. I think that secretly, just as she was proud to display herself as a woman, she enjoyed taking orders from a man, if only because it was so far out of her comfort zone.

The receptionist helpfully produced a collar and leash. “Have fun,” she said.

As we descended the hill, I and the two other men, Philip and Vader (really his name — Dutch, I believe), took turns to lead all seven females on their tethers. Philip instructed them that they were not permitted to speak; but when I heard whispering I did not intervene. I could not help but think what a bizarre scene this would have appeared to me just a week ago. I wondered what was going through the minds of the women for whom this was the first trip to Sirèna. Is this what they were expecting? And that made me think of Kate, and what she was doing — or having done to her — at that moment.

Vader and Philip told me their stories. Vader and his fiancée Teresa had arrived the previous day and it was their first visit. It had been Teresa’s idea, so he said as he took the seven sets of reins from my hand and gave them all a sharp tug. Philip and wife Lynda were on their second visit; their first had been their honeymoon. Back home, he explained, she was “the boss” and this was their way of “getting squared” — whatever that meant.

I did not feel myself to be on the same wavelength with Vader and Philip. I would rather have talked to Teresa and Lynda; their stories would have been much more interesting. So I was glad that we parted company when we reached the Boardwalk. I offered to release my four girls and was pleased when they chose to accompany me as I escorted Monique all the way back to her quarters. It was interesting that of them, Adèle seemed the most curious about where and how female itinerant workers lived. The barracks was not far from the place where I had hired Monique. It was a large but unimposing wooden structure which, Monique informed us, housed two hundred girls. She offered a tour but apologized that men were not allowed inside. I consented to wait. As I did so, young women were coming and going, but one emerged with a frosted bottle of beer for me. She introduced herself as Jennifer, the matron.

She spoke with what I could by now identify as the native accent. I recognized her as one of the members of parliament — in fact, the minister for health and social services. I felt flattered that she would take time out from her responsibilities to stand with me outside the barracks, and she responded by telling me that she was pleased to do so because few tourists make the effort to look behind the scenes. Aged in her forties, she was a large woman, though well-proportioned, with a graceful, almost regal bearing. Not beautiful but sensual, she had short, chestnut brown hair and lustrous tawny skin. She wore a heavy iron collar. She was born in Jamaica but her ancestors were Sirène. When she brought her new husband here shortly after they married, he was “pleasantly surprised” to discover that according to local custom she was now his property.

When my girls emerged, as we parted Jennifer thanked me for the conversation. Feeling masterly, I took up the four leashes and instructed the girls to fold their arms behind their backs and form a line facing the sea, to pull back their shoulders and push out their chests and pelvises so I could study their delectable bodies in the golden-red rays of the setting sun. Even Adèle obeyed without questioning her orders. I then marched them the short distance to the Boardwalk and released them.

“Be back in the suite by midnight,” I said to Rachel and Lucy.

“Yes, dad,” they replied in unison.

“Or be locked out,” I growled.

“Message received,” Rachel answered with a smirk.

I wandered around aimlessly for a couple of hours, stopping at several bars and nightclubs. Nothing held my attention until I entered an arcade where I encountered a very odd scene. Thirty or so tall posts about the width of telegraph poles had been set up in rows an arm’s distance apart. To each a woman was bound standing upright, her hands either behind her back or above her head. They all looked haggard, so they likely had been this way for hours. Their skin sparkled with perspiration, but as evening fell and so did the temperature, the naked bodies were starting to tremble. Among them was the group of six girls from our flight. There was a large group of onlookers, men and women. Every so often, someone called out words of encouragement.

I returned to the arcade entrance to read the sign. This was the site of the old bride bazaar — a euphemism of sorts for the slave market where pirates had once sold their booty and purchased their wives, and where until recently women were put on sale alongside crops and livestock. Jennifer had told me that generations of women in her own family had “met” their future husbands here.

To be honest, I suspect that most of these folktales are if not invented outright then embellished for the tourists. Maybe the locals have come to believe them. But the myth endures, to the extent that women want to experience what it was like to be a slavegirl in old Sirèna. I suppose the liberated female of our own time has an innate curiosity about how she would have lived in a less enlightened age.

I moved on. The street was congested, and since most of the pedestrians were members of the sexier sex, it was pleasant to have to push my way through knots of bodies. Many of the women were bound and so vulnerable, but I never witnessed any pestering or groping or fondling (except by partners). Sirèna has a strictly enforced hands-off policy, with anti-harassment and anti-paparazzi laws as well. It was difficult to know where people were going to or coming from; much of the traffic appeared to be aimless. I spotted Adèle and Élise in the distance, but since they did not see me I continued on my way.

Returning to the hotel, I found Philip and Lynda in the bar and they beckoned for me to join them. They were sitting with two women, a schoolteacher and a nurse, and we chatted for perhaps an hour. I don’t recall what we spoke about. Rachel came in, exclaimed “There you are!” and yelled towards the lobby “He’s in here!” As I took my leave and the two girls followed, Philip smiled and winked. I pretended not to notice. There was no hanky-panky that night.

***

The time without Kate passed slowly. I followed essentially the same routine each day. On the second morning, when I awoke Rachel and Lucy were already up and had prepared breakfast for the three of us. I told them they were not obligated just because they were using the spare bedroom, but they replied that they were happy to.

We ate our breakfast on the balcony. There was a table and chairs with wrought iron frames. Before they sat, I asked the girls to remove the cushions from their seats. They did so, but I was disappointed that it did not have the desired effect. There was no “Ooh!” or “Ah!” as warm, soft flesh came into contact with cold, hard metal. Perhaps they’d become accustomed to the piquant perils of everyday nudity; but I like to think that Rachel’s wry smile concealed gritted teeth.

Once more I took all four girls downtown, again trussing their hands behind their backs and putting them on their leashes. Because Adèle and Rachel were the more headstrong, I decided to test their resolve with gags. Rachel submitted without a struggle, but the French girl was defiant, and I had to remind her that while she might be the domme in her relationship with Élise, she was nonetheless female and therefore, on Sirèna, subject to me. I really did not think she would swallow that, but I guess she didn’t want to get into an argument in front of her lover.

I tethered them in a single file, so close that each one’s breasts nudged the back of the girl in front and her hands were lodged against the pubes of the one behind. I told them they must pleasure each other on the way down the hill, and that gave Adèle, at the rear, something to enjoy. Rachel was at the front with me holding her leash, so she got the breast massage but not the crotch treatment. But when I left my surfer girls at the beach, even before I was out of sight I spied them hitching up with a couple of young men, so I was confident that Rachel’s loins would get a workout before the day was over.

I contemplated again hiring Monique but decided against it. I contented myself with alternatively sitting at the front window of one of the bars or at a table in a sidewalk coffee shop. And something very interesting occurred to me. Watching the women going by revelling in their nudity and toiling in their bondage, I realized how they were experiencing each moment so much more intensely than I, who could be no more than a spectator. I don’t just mean a spectator there and then, but for the whole time I was on the island. Here every woman can be an exhibitionist without the shame, a slave without the humiliation, because every woman is both and has no option to be otherwise. Coming to Sirèna is her choice, so she has not relinquished her free will; but once here she resigns her right to choose. In so doing, she asserts and celebrates her womanhood, proclaims and flaunts her natural, feminine beauty. Being owned, freed from having to make choices and decisions, she can surrender herself to sensual and sexual delights without guilt or disgrace.

Adèle in particular was having the best of both worlds, as mistress and slave, and that is why I was determined to push and provoke her — to see, when she fell, on which side of the line she would come down. It was the same, I realized, with Kate. She’s lucky — a smart, strong, enterprising, independent woman, with a husband who understands her limits and knows when to take control. I thought again of how happy and proud she must be, training to become a better slave as I whiled away my time in bars and cafés. In a way, I envied her. I was determined that, for the rest of our three-week stay, I would make sure that Kate put her hard-learned lessons into practice.

The day was hot, the sky was clear and the ocean breeze, when it picked up in mid-afternoon, came as a welcome respite. I returned to the hotel and sat by the pool watching a couple of girls playing in the water, then went back to the lobby. Sarah was on duty. There were quite a few people about and she was being kept busy responding to requests and demands, looking flustered. She saw me and managed a tight-lipped smile. I took a seat in one of the armchairs and when eventually she was free I called her over.

“When do you go off duty?” I enquired.

She gave me a funny stare.

“Don’t panic,” I laughed. “It’s just that you look exhausted.”

Her expression lightened and she nodded, but she said nothing.

“How long have you been here?” I asked.

“On Sirèna, sir? Almost a year; working here, about half that time.” Her normally high-pitched voice was now croaky.

“So you obviously love it.”

“Of course,” she laughed. She puffed out her little chest, and her nipples bloomed like delicate rosebuds.

“And you have a partner?” I pointed to the golden lock which clasped the entrance to her elfin body.

“Yes, my boy… my master, Robert.”

Obviously she had caught herself before finishing “boyfriend.” I was somewhat disillusioned that she felt she had to carry on the tourist talk. In any case, I was hoping she could spare more time, but I heard the receptionist call her name. She apologized and left me alone again. I went into the barroom and settled in for the rest of the afternoon and the evening.

***

Sirèna with its unique customs and lifestyle continued to fascinate and tantalize. Still, I was missing my Kate, and it was with great eagerness that I waited, with a large crowd, in the paddock behind Patrick’s Emporium, for the return of the slave trainees.

By now it was easy to spot the local men — permanent residents, be they native-born or expatriates. They affect a nonchalance about their own womenfolk’s nudity while showing a robust interest in that of the tourists; because supposedly familiarity breeds... well, if not contempt, then at least a degree of indifference. Yet when you observe closely enough, you see this is not true. I saw enough interactions to be aware that whenever he meets or passes or encounters a female, the local man invariably gives her at the very least a brief visual frisking. On the other hand, he will show little interest in bondage. If a local woman is tied or chained or leashed, it will almost always be by a tourist.

As we waited, a large party of backpackers passed by. There must have been two dozen of them and had probably just come off one of the boats anchored in the bay. The males were attired in the usual manner — jeans, chinos, cargo shorts, t-shirts, polo shirts, drill shirts and so on. The females were, of course, naked except for hats and boots and sunglasses. Because they carried bulky packs, the hands of each were bound in front, secured at belly button level to a strip of leather tied around her waist. Most girls also wore snugly fitting crotch-ropes and were red-faced from the stimulation these gave as they trudged alongside the road. Against my baser instincts, I found myself hoping for their sake that they would not be hiking too far.

Finally, over the crest of the ridge to the east came the returning women. Kate was near the front in the middle column. Their skin was tanned though not burnt, and gleamed with the slick sheen of sunscreen oil where it was not covered by dirt, all of which indicated that they had spent a lot of time outdoors. They wore the same heavy chains they had set out with, but were more bent under the weight than they had been three days before. Their heads were bowed, their faces were pallid and drawn, but most including Kate were smiling — either happy to be back with their loved ones or relieved that their ordeal was over or proud that they had come through their trial. I guessed it might be all three.

The women stood patiently in their lines as their chains were removed by half a dozen slavegirls who had accompanied them from the training camp. These wore elaborate feathered headdresses and necklaces, armbands and belts of woven grass with glass beads, and their faces, breasts and bellies bore streaks of coloured paint. When their job was done, they formed their own line and were marched back to Calliope Bay under the direction of a young man dressed in a kitschy costume that I can only describe as buccaneer à la Hollywood.

Kate slumped into my arms but quickly recovered her balance and composure. Seeing my expression, she laughed and took the collar from my fingers, buckled it about her throat and handed me the end of her leash. Then she turned to face away from me and put her arms behind her back, wrists together touching and elbows pulled together to draw back her shoulders and push out her chest. So I bound her hands and led her back through the town and up the hill to our hotel. Along the way, my lady seemed different, more relaxed and cheerful. Maybe she was just glad to be back with me; but she basked in the attention of passers-by. It was hard to believe that this was the same woman who had squirmed with embarrassment as she stripped in the airport terminal less than a week ago.

She was in the shower a long time, scrubbing off the grease and grime. Lingering outside the bathroom, listening to the steamy water streaming down over her gorgeous body, I had wanted to join her, and it was somewhat troubling how she wagged her finger and pushed me back into the hallway. When she came out, she had, purely from old habit, wrapped the towel around her torso. I enjoyed wagging my finger in turn, and she blushed and dropped the towel onto the floor.

“What did they teach you at that camp?” I demanded, but before she could respond I ordered her to the bed. I tied her wrists and ankles to the corner posts. She looked gaunt and exhausted and dishevelled from her three days of training, but unbearably sexy, spreadeagled on her back, open and available for my pleasure. But I had suffered too, deprived by her absence. I unloaded my nervous energy into her, and with the tension eased I could sleep, on top of and inside her.

When I come around it was almost dark. Kate was awake. Her gentle breath on the back of my neck the slow heaving of her breasts under me, the yielding of the soft flesh of her belly, the press of her thighs against mine, had a strangely hypnotic effect. I wanted to stay there, with her, making love to her, keeping her all to myself. When I have those feelings, the desire to share her with the rest of the world goes away. But it always returns.

***

A few days later, Kate revisited the Calliope Bay training camp. She went with me, Adèle and Élise, Philip and Lynda. Sarah came along as well, since she had the day off and her boyfriend/master was working.

Rachel and Lucy had left that very morning, heading for one of the other Caribbean Islands — Barbados, I think. I asked them how much they had enjoyed their vacation on Sirèna.

“Interesting,” they said as one, looked at each other and giggled.

“I’ve forgotten what it’s like to wear clothes,” Rachel declared (and I never thought to ask how long their stay had been).

Sarah had booked one of the open-air taxies, and Harry was the driver. Before we boarded, he insisted on lining up the women with arms and legs spread for a detailed inspection. Naturally they rebuffed his demand, and for a moment it appeared he would refuse to let them on; but he laughed heartily — and genuinely — and bade them to board with a wave of his hand, which of course turned into a mild slap on the rump for each as they climbed in. Kate, who followed Lynda, saw what was coming and balked.

“Take it like a man,” I chided her, and she replied with a withering glance as she accepted her punishment. Adèle growled but did not even flinch. I studied Sarah’s face, recalling the island’s strict hands-off policy. Her expression was inscrutable, but I noticed the tight lips.

Harry was so gregarious that I was afraid he would want me to sit with him up front. But he gestured with his hand and as I climbed into the compartment with the women I made an exaggerated move to swivel my back away from him. The girls all laughed. Harry didn’t even notice. But then I discovered another of his shenanigans. He had removed the upholstered cushions from the seats, and put down pads for Philip and me, so the women had to sit with their bare backsides on the bare metal. The bench was ridged, so it would not be a particularly comfortable ride. As they attached their collars which secured them to the side railings, they shook their heads and rolled their eyes.

The journey to Calliope Bay took half an hour because the road was not much more than a dirt track. It cannot have been pleasant for the women. It was early afternoon and we passed several taxis returning from the tour. Sarah gave a running commentary on the sights along the way, but there was not much to see or talk about. Away from the manicured lawns and decorative gardens, Sirèna is rather barren. Throughout its history, settlement has been confined almost entirely to the immediate vicinity of the three largest bays — Regatta, Grandin and Calliope. However, when we came across a cultivated field, Sarah suddenly went quiet.

At the far end, strung out in a line, were at least two dozen woman, naked of course except for gloves and sandals and straw hats and heavy iron collars, chain-linked at about an arm’s length apart.They were tilling the parched soil with hoes, supervised by two young women wearing grass necklaces and belts and wielding canes which they used liberally on their toiling slaves. Nearby, relaxing under a tree and watching the proceedings, was a young man in that ersatz pirate costume.

I glanced at Kate as we passed three more of these old-world tableaux. She had not said much about her experience at Calliope Bay, but I caught the glint of recognition in her eyes. Sarah, meanwhile, was explaining that these are the farms which provide the island with some of its fresh fruit and vegetables — the rest must be imported.

“So all agricultural work is performed by slave labour?” Philip asked.

“Yes; it’s part of the training regime.”

“See,” he said, turning to his wife, “when we get home, we should start a garden.”

The woman glowered.

Sarah continued expounding on the local history. Slavery, and in particular female servitude, was a mainstay of the island’s economy long before the arrival of European settlers. The original inhabitants were the warlike Caribs, who successfully resisted attempts at colonization by the Spanish and the French until the end of the seventeenth century. They had traded in slaves, mainly captive women taken from the peaceful Arawak tribes of the region. These were put to work growing cassava, to produce bread in times when grain was scarce. Later on, in the heyday of the male-dominated buccaneer state, the women and girls worked the fields, supervised by their sons and brothers while the men were away at sea.

It is obviously this history which has inspired the theme of modern-day Sirène tourism. I found it rather amusing that the locals use female tourists as unpaid labour — in fact, the women pay for the privilege. But when I thought of Kate out there in that field, sweating under the hot sun, learning how become more submissive and obedient, and how to embrace her womanhood without me to guide her, I considered it a fine investment.

We parked outside the compound, which was a wooden-fenced enclosure with a cluster of barracks and a dusty parade ground. At the edge of this open space was a line of scaffolds, to which two women were bound in spreadeagle position — the penalty for some infraction or infringement, no doubt. Harry got out of his cab, ordered the girls to disembark and invited Philip and me to join him. Sarah said something to him, and he motioned for Kate to come along as well. He took the three of us to a neat, whitewashed building while behind us the four other women were being ordered by two more young men in pirate regalia to form a queue, their hands behind their heads and squeezed together so that breasts touched backs.

Harry, Philip and I sat and sipped coffee (very strong and bitter) and chatted, while Kate knelt silently on the floor beside my seat, for an hour. Our driver spent most of the time complimenting Philip and me on our lovely ladies. He seemed to think that I owned Adèle and Élise. I did not disabuse him. When we eventually returned to the taxi, the four women were already seated, their hands bound behind their backs, still sweating and puffing. They’d had a sixty-minute taste of slave training. It was hard to tell, from the looks on their faces, if they were ready to endure three days, as had my wonderful Kate.

Sarah recovered first. She had probably been through the program several times before. She seemed very interested in Adèle’s story, wanting to know what it was like to be a female dominant in a place where all women are slaves. The French girl was cagey with her answers. I suspect she would have felt freer to talk without Élise present. Or maybe she was still enervated from the demonstration.

When we reached the hotel, Kate was in a lively mood. Since no one else was interested, we went without extra company downtown, and she led the way on a grand tour of the cabarets and nightclubs. She danced like a dervish, her hair twirling, her breasts swinging, her body spinning, twisting and writhing in a shameless ecstasy of wanton sensual and sexual self-indulgence. She paraded on the Promenade and strutted along the Boardwalk, in triumphant, free-spirited, uninhibited nudity. We passed the bride bazaar; she was fascinated and went in and booked a pole for the next day. That surprised and bothered me. When we got back to our suite around midnight, she insisted on being tied up before going to bed.

The next morning, I woke to find her once again on the balcony talking to a neighbour, a different guy this time. She was brazenly flaunting her body. When I called her inside, she grumbled something.

“What was that, woman?” I demanded.

“Nothing, dear,” she chirped.

“Do I have to punish you?” I snarled.

She smiled.

***

On the homebound flight, we suffered several unconscionable delays. By the time we arrived at our house, I was in an ugly mood. Kate was laughing and bouncy… much too effervescent.

“Why are you in such a good mood?” I barked.

“It’s lovely to be home again,” she said as, in the middle of the living room, she stripped off all her clothes.

“What are you doing?” I exclaimed. “We haven’t even unpacked.”

She knelt beside our single suitcase, opened it and took out the ropes, the gags, the blindfolds, the leg-spreader and her leather-and-rings harness, and laid them neatly on the carpet.

“Done,” she said.

“Good grief,” I growled. “What’s gotten into you?”

She smiled.


THE END

Re: THE LIBERATION OF KATE

Postby xtc » Tue Jul 07, 2015 5:45 am

Thanks for sharing.
It's good to have you back.
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

More by the same author: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=22729

Re: THE LIBERATION OF KATE

Postby OldTUGger » Wed Jul 08, 2015 6:10 pm

Delightful. You truly are a gifted writer.

Re: THE LIBERATION OF KATE

Postby bound-black-girl lover » Sat Jul 25, 2015 7:07 am

LOVE how you identify the racial backgrounds of the women~
(Something MOST authors/authoresses OMIT)!

Re: THE LIBERATION OF KATE

Postby freyjaceleste862 » Tue Aug 25, 2015 9:44 pm

Lovely story though i wont go nude.
love cooking, panty/knicker gags, nappies, handicapped.

Re: THE LIBERATION OF KATE

Postby Lake Lover » Thu Jul 14, 2016 10:06 am

***BUMPITY***
I was angry. More than that, I was crazy MAD! Mad at myself that I never saw this story until this day, which was dull and non-productive for me until I fell quite by accident upon this masterful expression of imagination and creativity. This story brought a curl to my lips and, I imagine, a twinkle to my eyes. ALas, what a wonderful day of happy reflection Sarobah has gifted to me!