(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…