It was a warm day. It had been raining steadily for the past five weeks, but
today a break had shown in the clouds as the deeply blue sky pushed itself
forward. The sun flared in yellow streaks over the plantation like a
benevolent ruler liberally scattering gold to his subjects.
Catherine Stodgebury was one of these. Fair-skinned, with a mass of brown
hair that was piled on her head in a fashionable bun, she was the bride of
Colonel John Stodgebury, the owner and master of the plantation. Forced to
remain in the plantation manor for the last five weeks, she had spent most of
her time sleeping and reading, until she had been bored almost to tears. She
was used to an active life, having grown up on a country estate in
Hamptonshire, and the combination of unfavorable weather and her new
husband’s bad temper had left her feeling alternately caged and listless.
With no horses, gardens, or even a decent road on this tiny island, Catherine
was feeling everything she had hoped and dreamed for her life slowly fading
away. As a girl, she remembered (as she walked down the manor steps into the moist,
humid yard), she had dreamed of adventure in far-away climes, with a dashing,
roguish man to protect her and love her. A corner of her mouth, too early
creased, raised in a bitter smile. Far-away climes she had found, but hardly
the ideal man. Col. Stodgebury was thirty years her senior, and acted his age. Except for
the bed they shared (and rarely at that), he might as well have been her
father, or even a distant uncle. Consumed with the business of running the
plantation, he had little time for his newly-acquired wife, and certainly no
patience to indulge her caprices. She was there to run the household (which
didn’t need her; the African slaves were perfectly capable on their own, and
had been long before she came, but it was no good telling him that), and to
rear children, when and if they had any (she knew perfectly well the reason
for their lack of success, but he refused to believe, or didn’t know, that
fertility was linked to any monthly pattern). Most often, she was left to her
own devices while he rode out over the plantation to make sure that the
slaves were doing their work, or argued with the suppliers from England who
came every month over rates, and taxes. “The mainland colonies aren’t taxed,”
he would fume. “George is going to regret this someday.” And the slaves avoided her as though she were disease-ridden. They lived in
perpetual fear of their master (and with good reason; he worked them like
cattle and treated them with less dignity), but since she was unable to
communicate with them beyond a few words of command, she couldn’t tell them
that she hated him just as much as they did. She paused suddenly, her foot dangling over the last step as she stared into
space. Hated. She had said it, if only to herself. It was a bitter word, but there
was a tang to it that she liked, a tang of — at last — honesty.
Yes, she hated the colonel. She had ever since their wedding night four
months ago, when, deaf to her virgin’s screams, he had taken her with the
same meticulous fury with which he would have attacked a Prussian regiment,
and then retired as quickly as if he were leaving the battlefield for home
and wife. But he was home, and she was his wife. A cold feeling had settled
into the pit of her stomach then, a feeling that she still felt, even with
the sun warming her body deliciously on the steps of the plantation manor in
the West Indies. An icy knot of fear and loneliness and regret and shame and
hatred that would, she feared, never thaw. She shook herself. These were not the sort of thoughts to begin the day with,
no matter how true. She pushed them aside and stepped out onto the cool, dewy
grass. It was nearly an hour before she looked up again. Lost in introspection (a
bad habit she had never suffered from before, but after four months of
solitude practically unavoidable), she had wandered from every well-trod path
on the island, moving unconsciously out toward the ocean. The hot, briny air
of the shore, never totally escapable on this speck of an island, washed over
her in a wave. A slight smile, one that made years fall from her as though
she had discovered the fountain of youth, curved her thin lips. Only once had
she seen the shore, and then it had been a drizzling, foggy night, as she was
rowed to land from the ship in the harbor, then hustled into a rickety
carriage for the ride to the plantation manor. She breathed in, and felt salt
on her tongue and heat rise in her veins. In a moment she was scrambling down
the slope to the beach, fighting through thick ferns and the tall grass that
grew everywhere on San Maricha. When she reached the sand (beautifully hot, and thick with the weight of
never having been disturbed), she paused and surveyed herself. Her dress had
been torn and was rimmed at the bottom with mud. There was a scratch on her
right arm, growing pink from the sun. Strings of brown hair had come loose
from the bun and trailed behind her wildly, shot through with auburn as they
caught the sun. Catherine did not consider herself beautiful. She had not been an attractive
child (she was always far too active for the demure perfection of her
sisters), and though she had grown into the appealing body of a woman, still
felt awkward and ungainly. She had married Captain Stodgebury, if truth were
told, because she feared being left an old maiden. She quite honestly had no
idea that the looks men gave her were looks of appreciation and not disgust.
And no idea that just now, she was indeed very beautiful. Her cheeks and lips
colored with exertion (though her skin remained ivory white) and the heat,
her breast heaving, her hair falling down in a delicate frame for her face:
she would have made any man stop in his tracks, and many a woman green with
envy at her natural coloration. But at this moment there was no one to see her. She moved forward onto the
beach, lips parting as she stared at the ocean, fifty yards before her. Deep
blue at the horizon, it melted into a brilliant aquamarine at the land’s edge,
spotted with white curlers and top-heavy waves that smashed themselves
impotently on the sand, then retreated for another attack in a lazy, seductive
rhythm. A sudden giggle made her jump, and she withdrew instinctively into the ferns
again. Not that she was afraid, precisely; but she was not sure what her
husband might say if he saw her out this far from the manor. In a moment, she
saw what the giggle had come from as one of the African slaves, a woman that
she half-recognized from the household, stepped out from behind a large
boulder that sat on the beach. She was smiling daringly, smiling at something
that remained behind the boulder, and her hair and clothes were disheveled. Catherine frowned, in both irritation and puzzlement. She resented this
intrusion on her little foray, but was also mystified by the woman’s behavior. Suddenly, a long dark arm reached out from the boulder. It was strongly
muscled, and it glistened in the hot sun. It grabbed the slave woman by the
arm, and she gave a cry, one that pretended to be hurt but really dared the
arm to do more. Then Catherine gasped. The owner of the arm had stepped out from behind the
boulder. It was another African slave, a man this time, most likely a worker in the
fields. He was extremely tall, and his shirtless body rippled with
musculature as he moved to the woman. Catherine felt a buzzing in her ears
suddenly, and a heat she had not been aware of before. She pressed a hand
into the skirt of her dress and continued staring. The man had the woman by her wrists now, and she was struggling, but it was
plain from her brilliant smile that the struggle was only part of some
mysterious game. Her skirt swished around her as she fought against his grip,
and Catherine realized that it was coming loose around the waist, and was
about to fall off. Then, suddenly, the man pushed her down. She fell, with a look of genuine
surprise, onto the beach, and then gave a sudden scream as he fell on top of
her too. But he caught himself with his arms several inches above her, and
grinned. She giggled, and said something Catherine didn’t understand, then
pecked at his mouth with her lips. The man remained hovering over the woman on the beach, as one of his hands
reached under him and touched her stomach. She giggled again. His hand worked
about, then began to move upwards. Catherine stared in fascination as he
pushed the woman’s loose shirt upwards, bunching it up as he went. Her large
ebony breast was uncovered, and her nipple thrust straight out, engorged and
stiff. Catherine shuddered as the man opened his mouth and placed it full on
her nipple, sucking a large portion of her breast into his mouth. The woman
squealed, and pressed her head back into the sand. She closed her eyes and
began breathing deeply as a wavering smile worked her lips.
Catherine’s face flushed a deep red as she watched, and she realized her own
nipples were rising against the fabric of her bodice. She moved slightly to
let her weight rest on an elbow; she was growing stiff from holding so still.
On the beach, the slaves moved in time against each others’ bodies; the woman
was pushing with her hips, pushing herself into the man’s legs as he suckled
her breast. Her hands were moving rapidly over his back, in light
indecipherable patterns, and her toes clenched and unclenched. Catherine felt
a trickle of perspiration run down her chest and into her bodice, down her
cleavage. He took his mouth from her nipple, and Catherine stared intently at the wet
spot he had left, at the string of saliva still glistening from his mouth. He
moved up the African woman’s body, and kissed her full on the mouth, pressing
his chest to hers. She responded by twining her legs around his, grabbing his
head with one hand, and slipping her other hand into the back of his rough,
dusty trousers. They kissed passionately for some time, during which Catherine caught her
breath and looked around her. She could not remember seeing the cloud-specked
sky, the sea, or the grasses around her for some time. She noticed a hard
throb between her legs, and realized she had been pressing her hand there.
She quickly removed it and looked back at the slaves. Fornicating like animals, she thought. John will whip them soundly. Breaking
God’s law and every natural law, the heathen … heathen … demigods. The
word slipped by her unawares, and the shrill voice in her mind cut off
shortly. She stared at the dusky Apollo, the ebony Diana, on the beach, and
felt only envy. And a swollen sensitivity in her loins. Then the man raised himself up off the woman, and knelt between her legs. She
propped herself up on her elbows, her lower back and arms yellow with the
grainy gold of the sand. She had a breathless smile on her face, an eager
light in her eyes. He reached solemnly for her skirt and pulled it down to
her thighs. Catherine jumped as the hairy mass, black even against the
woman’s dark skin, came into view. The man put two fingers in his mouth and
wetted them, then put them to the woman’s mound and touched her (ever so
delicately). She jumped at the touch, put her head back and gloried in the
pleasure. Slowly, smoothly, he began to push forward. Catherine’s eyes burned
with the strain of watching every detail: the pink of her lips, the
glistening wet of his saliva, the blackness of her bush. The woman’s eyes
began to roll back in her head, and her arms, propping her up, quivered until
they could not hold her. She let herself fall to the sand, and began to
thoughtfully rub her nipples as he worked his way into her. The heat between Catherine’s legs was growing unbearable. She began
unconsciously mimicking the motions of the man, pressing her fingers into her
skirt and rubbing slowly. As he began to slide his fingers in and out of the
woman (as she moaned in appreciation), Catherine rubbed harder. Then, suddenly, he withdrew them. The woman gasped, choking, as her hips
bucked against a resistance that was no longer there. Catherine drew suddenly
still, showered with sweat. The man was fumbling with his trousers, releasing the drawstring, undoing the
button…. Catherine felt the blood drain from her face, and her hands were
suddenly quite cold, as she looked on his curved sickle of manhood. It sprang
from the trousers as they fell to his knees, a truly massive instrument. The
woman stared and licked her lips slowly, smiling with eager anticipation. He
spread her legs farther apart, placed the head of his great stiffness to her
shivering, wet lower lips, and pushed. The woman cried out, a sound that mingled gasp, scream, and whimper, as he
forced his way into her. Her legs quivered, her entire body convulsed, and
her nipples stood out from her chest like tiny watchtowers. Her hands groped
and kneaded the sand as he pushed into her and out of her, breathing hard. He
bent and kissed her face, her neck, her breasts, her shoulders. Her lips were
pulled back from her teeth as she pushed her hips to meet him. Sand flecked
their bodies, writhing in conjugal motion. Catherine’s entire body was on
fire, and covered with a cold, clammy dew. She pressed her fingers to her
body furiously, pushing and stroking her skirts with a passion surpassed only
by the pair on the beach. The woman screamed, rearing up on an arched back, as her hips convulsed and
her breasts shook wildly. The man slammed two more firm strokes into her, and
then groaned deeply, shuddered, and fell over her. At that moment, Catherine experienced her first orgasm. A great noise burst
in her ears, and it seemed as though the world was turned upside down. She
whimpered intensely as it shook her body, her fingers still moving as though
of their own will. Then a sudden limpness overcame her, and she was as still
as a doll. Liquid fire flowed out of her and soaked her fingers; suddenly she
felt very cold. She heard shouting. Explosions. Screams. She sat up, suddenly feeling very
frightened and vulnerable. The noise she had heard — it had been a cannon.
The slaves on the beach were already gathering their clothes up and running.
There was a ship on the ocean, insanely close to the land. English ships
couldn’t come that close, she knew. They were too heavy. Unless they were — “Pirates! Don’t let a one live!” Her husband was shouting. She saw him, about a quarter-mile down the beach, on
his white horse. A sword was in his hand, and he was waving. A mass of slaves
were dragging something down to the beach. Another cannon. They were being
attacked. She attempted to stand up, but her legs collapsed under her. There was
another great roar, and an explosion on the beach. Down where her husband
was. Sand and smoke filled the air. “Dear God,” she whispered. “Who’s there?” She froze. The voice was hard, grating, uncouth. “What are you playing at?” Another voice, not so rough. “I heard something.”
“Oh, shut up, man. It’s tricky enough sneaking up from the bay without you
making up phantom noises to
jump at.” Catherine bit her finger. There were more pirates, and they had heard her. She
had to keep absolutely still. But how would she warn Captain Stodgebury? A shadow fell over her then, and she screamed, finger or no finger. “A wench.” “That it is.” “Take her?” “Let me see.” A shape bent over her, and then she was hauled to her feet. She
stared at the face that loomed before her: bearded, burned a deep crimson
brown, tattered with gold and feathers. “Aye. Looks like one of the manor
folks. She’ll bring something. Take her back to the boat.” The other man, a giant by the feel of him (but Catherine was in no condition
to judge heights) grabbed her by the waist and swung her up. She retched at
the sudden motion, but her stomach held. “Hoy, captain.” “What’s that?” “She’s all wet. Like she fell into the bay.” The captain paused, then sniffed. A crooked grin appeared on his face. “That’s not seawater, lad. Aye, take her to the boat by all means. We’ll have
us some fun tonight.” The last thing Catherine saw, as she looked up from the shoulder of the giant
striding back across the beach, was the pirate captain charging into battle.
Captain Stodgebury was riding to meet him, out of the smoke and fire of the
main attack. Their swords crossed.