Flickering sunlight seeped around the edges of her eyelids. The rays energized a phantom drummer who had trespassed into her skull overnight. Dark percussion squalls throbbed against her temples, ebbing and flowing with every twitch of her waking body.
Unmoored, she focused on motionlessness, cocooning herself in a bed more luxurious than her usual. A floral-infused breeze—frangipani, seemingly—delicately caressed her bare skin.
Naked!
An ethereal bass drum reverberated in her head. She winced. Pursed her lips. Tried recalling the meditation classes she thought she’d taken yonks ago. Failed.
Looking inwards, she sought clarity. But recollections had gone walkabout. All that remained were a parched mouth and traces of alcohol permeating her breath. While memories of hedonism had abandoned her, excess’s remnants had lingered to torment her mind.
She opened her eyes. A lace curtain billowed in an open full-length sliding door. Stunningly, beyond the balcony, a turquoise lagoon shimmered, and a craggy peak dotted with palm trees rose defiantly from placid waters. Just so postcard-pretty, just so unfamiliar.
Unexpected movement caught her eye. She winced, following until realization dawned. The bungalow’s bed sat on a glass floor, beneath which colorful fish zig-zagged through crystal-clear water. She’d succeeded in finding Nemo but had no idea what that fucker called this home of his.
A shard of insight illuminated a memory. The ghostly bass drum pounded her temples again.
Momma was fastidious about language: good girls don’t cuss, sweetie pie. She locked onto that recollection; lemon-squeezed for drips of insight. No dice: her mind had woken a dried-out husk.
A chill ran through her. Closing her eyes, she scrabbled for control. Not knowing where and why was one thing, but try as she might, she couldn’t remember her fucking name.
Her stomach churned, a whirlpool of nausea straddling that uneasy boundary between discomfort and purging. Fearing a bathroom run, her hand sought her mouth. But her arm just jerked and snapped back into place. She anxiously glanced from side to side and then down the bed. Understanding dawned when she failured to move any limbs. Knotted ropes had been tied by someone well-versed in Shibari’s artistry.
She refocused, recalling her eyes had flicked over lipstick smudges capitalized on her taut abdomen. Staring hurt, but the reward was working out five upside-down red letters: E, R, O, H, W. Which made as much sense as the rest of the surreal world she’d woken up to.
With a sigh, she again sought the bed’s comfort and security. But her eyes snapped open: WHORE.
Dear God, bound to the bed with whore scribbled on her stomach. Surely drugged. Another wave of nausea hit hard: probably carnal fucking relations, what would Peter think?
She clung to the name her desiccated mind had volunteered. Stoically Peter remained a will-of-the-wisp memory fragment.
On hearing voices and splashes nearby in the lagoon, her heart missed a beat. She cried out for help. Relief coursed through her when footsteps echoed across the balcony. A dripping woman—tall, bronzed and pierced—purposefully swept aside the billowing curtain.
Naked!
The woman smiled, squeezing sea water from her hair. “You’re finally awake, baby.”
Baby: what the fuck? “I’m trussed up. Where am I?”
“Bora Bora of course: the planet’s most beautiful honeymoon island.”
“Tahiti. But, how, why?”
“We’re newlyweds, silly. We’ll be going easy on the molly from here on in.”
“Feel gross. Got to untie me, need the bathroom.”
While carefully loosening the ropes, the woman offered a sliver of clarity. “You were desperate to try Shibari, honey. Having roped you, we embarked on a long edging session. But Mistress overengineered the leather touches; your needy cunt has become so hair-triggered. You came hard, gushed all over my crop and passed out. I let you sleep; the last few days have been an emotional roller coaster.”
Mistress!
Her head throbbed insistently. Her stomach lurched again. Neither was eased by a Polynesian Venus—petite, graceful, flawless—who’d emerged from the lagoon and casually slipped through the lace curtain into the room. Seemingly neither surprised nor concerned to see her bound to the bed.
Naked too!
Mistress’s supportive smile didn’t quite nail reassurance. “Mareva is such a lovely maid. Willing, but not even she can make a bed with you in it. So, we swam and got to know each other. You’ll like her. Go freshen up and then we’ll talk.”
She stared into the bathroom mirror. Her eyes, strained and bloodshot, struggled with focus. Through a blurred and surreal miasma, it seemed like she’d borne the weight of the world.
A knock on the bathroom door interrupted that introspection.
Mareva handed her a bittersweet-smelling beaker, but one look at the green liquid turned her stomach. “Hold your nose and drink. Like the durian fruit, it smells rotten but it’s our kava tonic. I promise it’ll soothe your hangover. Good for the libido too.”
She held her nose and tossed it back. Heaved after it slid down her throat. Her head still throbbed, but she kept it down. Waited and waited, tightly gripping the hand basin until realizing she craved a shower.
The water cascading down her gym-taut frame cleansed and refreshed. Eased the ache in her head. Even had tingles flowing through her on splattering against sensitive nipples. Despite reviving her body, the shower couldn’t extinguish her mind’s molly madness. Adrift in the present, the past remained a landfall beyond reach.
But, drying herself, she felt on the mend. Just okay was an improvement. Stepping out of her honeymoon bathroom she was confronted by Mareva on her knees. Hands on Mistress’s thighs. Agile tongue deep in Mistress’s cunt.
Good girls don’t eat pussy, sounded like a mama rule. But instinctively she knew her mother wouldn’t have pontificated about that. Way too uptight to have imagined lesbian shenanigans. A fragmentary recollection of Peter in their bed leached into her mind. That had to mean she wasn’t one of them.
Or hadn’t been.
Evidently, that was her wife. Evidently on their honeymoon. Evidently screaming in ecstasy, as her hands pressed the hotel maid’s pretty face against her spasming cunt. An orgasm which left Mareva’s mouth glistening in the hazy tropical sunshine as she rose from her knees, smirked, and busied herself by making the bed.
She was so far down the rabbit hole she pondered if her name was Alice. Marooned in an idyllic tropical wonderland with no fucking clue. A glance at the glass floor, left her a tad envious of the colorful fish gamboling about without a care in the world.
Her wife’s smile was sweet, yet still devoid of the certainties she craved. “Sit on my knee, baby. You’re looking shell-shocked.”
She sat and instinctively leaned her fragile head against Mistress’s soft plump breast. “Can’t even remember my name.”
Her wife smirked knowingly and reached for a passport on the side table. “Well, you’ve only had a couple of days to get used to it. But we won’t be combining molly and Krug any time soon, sweetheart.”
She opened the passport: Patricia Hearst, Australian. Neither rang any bells. Then, weirdly, an apparition of a tropical airport’s signage appeared in her mind’s eye. “Darwin?”
“Yeah, we flew to Darwin from Thailand; got new Australian passports in the dodgiest part of town before flying to Tahiti.”
“You can get fake passports there?”
“Low lives earn a pretty penny from people smuggling in every country, baby. They’re so much more attentive when you’ve struck big at the casino.”
A dam burst. Her heart raced. Her mind flooded with a torrent of snapshots. A casino-hotel in Vegas: “The Bellagio?”
Her wife nodded.
She recalled walking past the poker machines heading for the Bellagio’s lobby. Her slinky red dress and heels had been a favorite going-out outfit. Her iPhone—Peter’s ringtone—had stopped her in her tracks.
He’d been terse, very terse. “Chippendales! No place for my bride to be.”
“Just a fun night out my bridesmaid-to-be organized. The male review should be an absolute hoot.”
“That strip club advertises a special surprise for the guest of honor.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, this is upmarket risqué not cheap porno.”
“No, Amy. High-status people aren’t seen in places like that.”
“You’re forbidding me?”
“My expectation is you’ll make the correct decision.” Her iPhone had gone dead.
Amy: like re-discovering her childhood teddy bear, finally something felt familiar and comforting. Again, she instinctively rested her head on Mistress’s soft breast, her fingers idly twisted the bar piercing the other nipple. “My fiancé can be a jerk.”
“Ex-fiancé.”
She sat up, startled. “Seriously?”
“Remember texting from the cliched palace that is Elvis’s wedding chapel?”
“I did?”
“Kept him in the loop. Your man Elvis was about to officiate as we tied the knot.”
A penny dropped. “The burning love package, right?”
“The burning love ceremony had you over the moon but sure burnt a hole in my bank account. Your fiancé was underwhelmed. Called you a fucking lesbian whore if memory serves me right.”
“That’s not nice.”
“Surprisingly accurate, to be fair, given your behavior later that evening. Your father was worse, whining about disinheriting you.”
“Did he?”
“Not yet, the courts back east closed early on Friday for the long weekend. Maybe that’ll be on Tuesday’s agenda.”
So much shit had clearly hit the fan. She sighed, suddenly not so needy for any more details. Rather she snuggled against Mistress, who soothingly petted her hair. What did feel totally weird though, was being oblivious to ever having entertained feelings for Peter or her parents.
She watched Mareva, who’d finished making the bed and redressed in her maid’s outfit, softly kiss her wife. Was startled by the sultry smirks left on their pretty faces. But came to understand when the maid locked lips with hers.
That soft kiss suggested a lush tropical rainforest, one redolent with hints of the freedoms and pleasures a new island day could bring. That, plus the musky remains of a pungent orgasmic cunt.
Mistress’s!
Her memory jogged, her mind flooded with images of how she’d come by her familiarity with that tasty treat.
The Bellagio bar she retreated after her friends left for Chippendales. The elegant, vivacious woman who simply signaled the barman and took the time to listen empathetically.
Apparently, someone who realized the best cocktail wasn’t to be found at Chippendales.
Clearly, that someone also knew the concierge. They’d been seated on the Terrazza at Le Cirque, the promise of a once-in-a-lifetime view of the world-famous dancing fountains was spot on. Surprisingly her effervescent companion wasn’t big on consultation. She’d ordered for them: escargots, caviar Dover sole, mille-feuille.
Each dish was exquisite, accompanied by the delicate malolactic tastes of the Rhone. But every few minutes she just laid down her cutlery, captivated by the arcs and waves of water which danced in harmony with the toe-tapping music. She was in awe; as the water jets leapt and twirled, lights magically appeared and bathed each droplet in a dazzling spectrum of colors.
Apparently, fish not chicken made for a perfect hen’s night.
Then, as she was flirtatiously informed, O didn’t always stand for orgasms. But how front-row seats at Cirque du Soleil had been obtained remained shrouded in mystery. The O acrobats, swimmers, and divers pirouetted perfectly in an aquatic tapestry of artistry, surrealism and theatrical romance.
Her hand was gently held, their fingers immediately entwined tightly. It was exactly how she’d imagined sophisticated theatre should be. Though better in reality, given the giggling that broke out whenever water splashed onto them.
Apparently, a good girl’s defenses dissolve when subtleness is weaved into a seductress’s sensual virtuosity.
So, it had felt totally spontaneous to continue her evening in the woman’s top-floor suite. But once the door clicked behind them, subtly was shredded. Along with her red dress and lace undies, torn from her body in lust’s opening volley.
A swirling tongue took her mouth. A hand pawed her breast. A panther had laid claim to her prey.
Her cunny a quiver, she’d ventured into the unknown. Hand pressure on her shoulders indicated the way. She knelt and inhaled the scents of her first musky cunt. The aroma was a church bell’s clarion calling her to worship. It seemed so right, adoringly licking and sucking the slippery folds until an orgasm had crashed over her and baptized her with Mistress’s feral scent.
Soon after she found herself face down. Shibari-tied to the four-poster bed with her bubble butt high in the air. The lingering taste of Mistress’s cum-honey had incited her cunt which drooled in anticipation of God knows what.
God’s revelation wasn’t all that biblical, rather a strappy that lewdly jutted from Mistress’s seductive sex. She felt her hips roughly grabbed. Her cunt repeatedly impaled and deliciously stretched. Plastic fantastic, the fucking stamina put Peter’s pecker to shame. Magical Mistress’s rutting conjured orgasmic multiples from her freshly converted Pavlovian pussy.
She opened her eyes, gazed outside at the island’s gently swaying palms, and took time to cement those delectable memories in her mind.
“Now you’re smirking,” Mistress finally observed.
“That first night in Vegas became clearer in my mind.”
“That explains your pussy perspiring onto my thighs.”
“Moi?”
“Yes you, my little whore. The best part?”
“Everything. The dinner. The show. The strappy too. Most importantly, you opened my eyes to a new me.”
“More like the first time you had permission to actually be you.”
“It’s odd, I’m only starting to recall the good. Withdrawal from the molly madness has left the drama behind.”
“That’s no bad thing. Safe to say, I protected you as best I could.”
A mischievous smile dimpled her face. “So, tell me again.”
Mistress smirked. “So, you do remember what I said on leaving the Bellagio. Okay then. There’s been oodles of lust and the occasional love match in my past. But, in a first for me, you’re the embodiment of lusty love.”
“Still?”
“We’re still married, you idiot.”
“Fair point. You really love me …”
“One hundred per cent.”
“Yet Mareva was licking your pretty pussy?”
“La Salon du Putains has clearly slipped your mind.”
“La what?”
“Woman-only, French-themed. A ye-olde knocking shop an Uber ride from Vegas. Three orgasms or your money back. Your idea for a post-nuptial celebration, kitten.”
She felt her cheeks burn. Her voice was suddenly raspy. “Oh my God, I really got married in just a black leather catsuit?”
“What was saved on undies and heels went towards a vibrating kitten tail butt-plug to prepare your ass. No expense spared for my bride.”
The drummer in her head had clearly packed up their kit. Mareva’s magical potion had her giggling pain-free when a random memory materialized. The substantial deposit paid for a chaste-white gown to wear upon becoming Peter’s bride. “Seems you rescued me from what my upbringing taught me I was.”
“Just loosened the constraints they had bound you in. I suspect you discovered more about yourself in that lesbian whorehouse than in all your single straight days put together.”
“Jog my memory.”
“Corsets and pets. Leather and lace. French cancan, sans knickers of course. Well, French as imagined by a Harley-riding Texan dominatrix with the world’s most extensive catalogue of kinks.”
A sliver of sartorial inelegance leached into her mind. “That ten-gallon hat!”
“You seriously remember only that?”
“Talk about weird; that hat accessorized with French lingerie.”
“You’re adorable. Remembered her dodgy fashion sense. Forgot her thick strappy drilling your virgin ass?”
“Fuck!”
“Indeed. Realization has dawned.”
“Dear God, on stage. Dominatrix double-penetrated. Madame with her butch friend. The putains studious. Their guests agog. On my fucking wedding day.”
“No refund either. Discovering you’re a multi-orgasmic tart was well worth the pretty penny I paid.”
“You didn’t mind?”
“Of course not, silly. I’m totally into you being you.”
“Even when I was the naughtiest of little whores?”
“Especially then. For that turned out to be the real you.”
“Then I’d best follow suit and get into my naughty Mistress using the likes of Mareva?”
“Remember she’s just a delicious fucktoy. Love-cums remain yours alone.”
“Fair. And yes please.”
“In our suitcase, baby. Restocked in Darwin’s adult shop.”
She fossicked in the luggage. Giggled while sorting through rope, ball gag, crop, paddle, nipple clamps, plugs in three sizes and a purple Feeldoe in its original wrapping. “How the hell did these get through customs?”
“Everyone is so ‘je ne sais quoi’ on a French Polynesian island. So, I smiled coquettishly. The customs woman glanced at you. Licked her lips. Stamped our Australian passports.”
She got to choose from the toy box. Having unwrapped the purple toy, she found Mistress reclining on a chaise lounge on the balcony. Following instructions, she slid the smaller, pony end of the Feeldoe into Mistress’s slippery cunt, nestling it hard against her g-spot.
Mistress looked so inviting with the toy jutting licentiously from her sex. But inopportunely Mareva knocked and opened the door, delivering a tray smelling of delectable seafood.
She caught the maid’s eye. “Hasn’t Mistress already had room service?”
They giggled conspiratorially. Mistress just rolled her eyes.
As Mareva bent at the waist to place the tray on the balcony table, her black skirt rode up. Flashed a glimpse of a pretty, pantie-free pussy. From which a strand of arousal hung.
With the maid’s sly smirk, they knew they’d been busted, voyeurs both.
Mareva took that as permission. “Room service can come more than once a day.” The maid knelt and encircled the doe with perfectly O-shaped lips. Bobbing deeper and deeper soon had the toy wet with glistening saliva, accompanied by Mistress’s guttural whimpers as her g-spot was teased.
The maid stood, that lascivious smirk spot on. “I’m such a good fluffer. If you’re not using that luscious girl-cock, I will.”
She shook her head. “This wife always gets first dibs.” Then swung a leg over Mistress, so she stood astride the longue with her pussy hovering over the toy. Her eyes misted on seeing deep pools of emotion in her wife’s gaze.
Mareva helpfully grasped the toy and pressed the tip against her oozing cunt. She sunk down, embracing the delicious stretch as the girlcock violated her pussy. Adored her whimper being echoed by Mistress whose spot she’d rasped on impaling herself.
Bouncing, sliding her dripping cunt down the toy, she focused on slowly pleasuring Mistress. Then plunged deeper and harder. Fucking herself with hawk-like concentration on building her wife’s orgasm step by delicious step.
She felt Mareva step behind her. One hand cupped her breast and teased her nipple. The other reached for her clit. Was surprised when Mistress slapped the maid’s hand away.
Her heart swelled when Mistress growled, “This is my time,” and bucked the girlcock firmly and deeply into her squelching cunt. She ground down on the toy, reciprocating by slamming the pony against Mistress’s spot.
But her plans to ensure Mistress came first were wrecked the moment her wife whispered, “I love you.” Tossed violently over the edge, she lost it and exploded in turbocharged waves of pleasure. And, when she came back to earth, was overjoyed by the sultry smirk on Mistress’s face which spoke of having cum just as hard.
Afterwards they relaxed. Snuggled together and watched Mareva, who’d recovered from being reduced to self-pleasuring her cunt, serve them delicious prawns and oysters. And a glass of Pinot Gris.
They whispered sweet nothings as they ate. But when the door closed behind the maid, another rationale for Mistress slapping away Mareva’s hand knocked the breath out of her. “Our honeymoon wasn’t the reason for leaving Vegas?”
Mistress’s smile was wan. “I came by a truckload of cash that afternoon you were pampered in the spa.”
“On the roulette table?”
“More like Ocean’s Eleven. Though their cleverness was too risky for me.”
“How could you nick Bellagio’s cash?”
“Best you don’t know the how of my subtle thievery. Suffice to say: a submissive lesbian as head of security was a DEI bridge too far.”
“Oh! Who’s the honeymoon whore now, Mistress?”
“Worth it. But I hid our tracks. Destroyed everything including phones and passports in Thailand. Then our new gear got chucked in Darwin. Now our only interaction with the real world is a burner phone we picked up in Aussie.”
“You’re nervous though. Dark clouds on the horizon.”
“You’re intuitive. Yeah, as expected the FBI was distracted by politics. Being less integrated into the world had convinced me Interpol wouldn’t know they needed to find me.”
“But …”
“I’d not anticipated your dad being a total prick. Yesterday, his religious hired guns, the gay-conversion cowboys, turned up in the Darwin sex shop. He doesn’t give a fuck about the money. Just corralling the dutiful daughter he’s misplaced. So very Handmaid’s Tale.”
“An escape plan?”
“Yeah. Not one you can use. Too much training goes into preparing for what I’ll likely going to do. And I’m yet to give you a dad-proof disappearance plan.”
“What about me now?”
“I hoped we’d never have to talk about a plan B. But we must.”
It took an hour’s total concentration for her to understand the options. Mistress then handed her a couple of sheets of paper that had been printed off in an internet cafe in Darwin. She sat on the sunny balcony, reading a summary of Patty Hearst’s biography. Captured by the Symbionese Liberation Army then joined in on their crimes. Apparently, Stockholm syndrome was a thing. Earned her a pardon.
She closed her heavy eyelids, deep in contemplation.
Slowly drifting awake, she delighted in her memory returning to being sharp-as. The sun had started to set; the lagoon was turning a burnt orangy-red. A brightly lit cruise ship slowly navigated a small gap in the reef. Followed by a dozen squid fishing boats with even more dazzling firefly lights. The pages on Patty had floated away on the swell.
In dusk’s quietness, she understood that Mistress had gone. She made soothing chamomile tea, and watched the sun descend into the ocean. Loved the terracotta reflection in the island’s tranquil lagoon.
Finishing the tea she calmly accepted the path she’d take at this fork in her road. She fetched rope and ball gag from the luggage. Then read Mistress’s final words, written in lipstick on the bathroom mirror. Santorini, by the famous archaeological site on our first wedding anniversary. I love you.
She slurped down two tumblers of water. Erased the words from the mirror with damp toilet paper, then flushed that evidence away. Watched herself fix the ball gag onto her mouth. Then left the bathroom and, as Mistress had demonstrated, albeit less elegantly, Shibari-tied her legs and left arm to the frame of a canvas chair.
Focused on drooling until she felt saliva dribble onto her tits. Then re-focused until her warm pee soaked into the canvas. Held the rope’s final Shibari knot loose in her right hand; for safety’s sake so Mistress had advised. She grinned, watching the lights of Keystone Kops police boats bob across the lagoon.
On hearing voices approach, she accepted this was now her time to shine. A tug on the loose rope locked the final knot. Now inescapably trussed, clearly, she hoped, by another’s hand.
It didn’t take long for Mareva to unlock the door. “They’re in here.”
She wondered if forty pieces of silver had greased the maid’s palm. Not that she blamed Mareva, even Judas was obliged to look out for family. Cleansing her mind of that distraction, she focused on looking suitably wretched, conscious of the bigger fish she was about to fry.
Whatever was going to happen, would happen. She’d channel Patty Hearst’s Stockholm syndrome, play along with her fucking family’s reprogramming game. Reborn as the dutiful daughter saved, Stepford Amy would be getting a rerun.
But no matter the indignities they’d corset her in, she’d always be remembering whose light now burnt brightly on the hill. Her lodestar. Her Mistress. Her future.
All in, Santorini or bust. She’d no more patience for a traditional plan B.
