F Campbell - Golden Wrists

The sea was the sea, and I had no reason to hope for a rescue from the wave. I had stood in blatant bare exposure for an hour before realizing the import of the tide, the lapping and receding wavelets were now far closer than before. My heart contracted in fear as I read the message in the contours of the beach, mostly the line marking the highest intrusion of water upon the sand. The sharp slope on which I stood bound would insure my becoming victim to the rising tide. I screamed for help.

Reason told me I would not be left to drown, but right then I wasn’t much concerned with reason but only with the surge of surf as each wave thrust its dark water and foam higher on the sand. Now, with me all too conscious of my fate, the water’s advance was more rapid. Soon the first wavelet lapped my toes and I knew myself fastened thus to drown. Again and again I screamed for help, my voice lost in the vast ocean and long beach. None heard my cry.

I was alone.

It was not long before my roped feet and the rope itself were below water, making the binding doubly terrifying as though my feet were in the grip of a marine monster. Bound wrists forced me to stand while the water rose higher along my legs with each new surge. I searched around but found no one.

It seems useless to recount the agonies I endured as saltwater engulfed my knees, crept relentlessly up my thighs. By the time it took possession of my sex, I was a sorry girl indeed and could feel, or imagine, numerous small sea creatures exploring my flesh. I tore constantly at the binding on my wrist to no use. I stood there, a jerking, naked offering to Neptune, fearfully conscious that some beastly undersea creature would insert itself within my pussy lips. I had never felt more female!

Soon my belly and bound hands were taken by the tide, and almost instantly the cords upon my wrists seemed to shrink and bit in an ever-tightening embrace. As an extra strong surge of surf wet my breasts, I screamed and screamed without ceasing until a cheerful West Indian voice reassured, “Don’t take on so, Missy Durrant. You is in good hands, and I soon get you back them pretty feet.”

There was a splash as Jacob dived and then a knife was busy at my bounds. In a moment I was able to step back from the iron anchor to face my grinning rescuer who led me to dry ground but made no effort to free my hands. I did not care. I was so damned thankful I could have cried.

You can imagine my feeling as I beheld Uncle Andrew comfortably seated in a deck chair high up on the beach, viewing me through binoculars through which he must have viewed my whole ordeal. Jacob brought me to stand before the Master like a wet felon before a judge.

The tone of Andrew Everleigh’s voice was conversational enough for an English rose garden. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever forgive me, Diane,” he said gently. “But I simply could not give up the opportunity to watch you cope with the Caribbean. You put on a marvelous show.”

Suddenly I was on my knees, head bowed, weeping bitterly and uncaring of the words fighting for expression within my lips. The whole thing was involuntary to leave me without shame but knowledge of being possessed by this man with his power to sit quietly and survey a poor, wet, broken female as she though she was about to die. My relief and gratitude was beyond expression. But I had no doubt another ordeal was already planned.

After allowing me to sob myself out. Uncle Andrew wiped my cheek and raised my chin to plant a warm kiss upon my forehead. Thus encouraged. I asked meekly, “Could I have my hands, please? I feel an awful mess.”

“No hands for you, my girl. You make a beautiful picture the way you are. Right now you’d be a glorious subject for a camera. Don’t you dare get up.”

I didn’t want to get up, I didn’t want to move at all, but was content to kneel as if in homage to the man who’s eyes, less fierce than usual, was devouring my nakedness, the nakedness which I could not hide, and which, no doubt, belonged to Andrew Everleigh. I asked weakly, “Please don’t have me punished anymore. I’ve had enough.” Once more I bowed my head.

A silence grew, a silence in which I could feel Andrew Everleigh’s satisfaction with my condition but saw within my own mind a vision of my nakedness stretched tautly for the whip and several other assorted horrors. At that moment I would have found the solitude of the dungeon and chains a merciful blessing. I never wanted to see a man again.

“I intend to marry you, Diane,” said Andrew Everleigh.

I was jolted! I heard a voice from far away say, hopelessly, “You can’t marry me, I’m going to marry Hugo Markham.”

“Like hell you are!” Andrew Everleigh did not even raise his voice.

“Hugo and I have had an understanding for a long time. I thought you knew.”

“Understand, my arse!” Everleigh said coarsely. “That boy has never owned you the way I own you. Don’t tell me you’ve failed to guess why I bothered with such a contentious bitch?” He eyed me. “I’m not sure I understand why myself. You need your ass whipped at least once a week to keep you from reverting to torts, and statements of claim. But that can easily be arranged, along with any other disciplines you earn. I hope you’re flattered.”

Damn this impossible man! I actually did feel flattered in the way he took for granted. Married to Andrew Everleigh, I’d become one of the richest women in the world. I could well believe a multitude of young women would gladly suffer the permanent pains of sitting down as a small price to pay for the privilege of being rich. In evasion, I demanded, “Do you have to keep staring at my pubic hair?”

“It’s not your pubic hair, my gal, it belongs to me, and I’ll look at it as often as I like. I’ll keep you naked after our wedding long enough to get you properly adjusted to me looking at any bit of you I want. Is that clear?”

“I don’t believe any of this, it can’t be happening. If you ever did get me to the altar, you’d have to tie me tight and whip me into saying yes. I’m sure that won’t happen.”

“It can be easily arranged, if thats the way you want it.” Uncle Andrew chuckled. Then his voice became less stern, “But that’s not going to happen tomorrow. I’ve got several jobs for you to do first.”

Any bit of euphoria I felt vanished right there. Uncle Andrew’s ‘little jobs’ would almost certainly be painful, and the last thing I wanted at that moment was any more of the outrageous notions men have about what they want to do to females. When I was much younger I used to suppose a girl’s ultimate joy or degradation lay up inside the soft spot between her thighs. But Hugo and Uncle Andrew had shown me this was but a prelude to the main events, the last of which had placed me here upon my knees in shameful humility. I asked. “I don’t see why you bother with me. You’ve got a great big cage filled with girls much younger and more beautiful than I, and there’s those other girls on Plessious I expect Naomi would allow you to play with, should you chose. Compared to those little tricks at Rockley. I’m ancient.”

Andrew Everleigh heard me out, his voice became more reflective and tolerant. “You sell yourself short, Diane. When I first met that lady lawyer, all I wanted to do was cane her rump. Every action you took on Hugo’s behalf made me want to do it more and more.” He laughed down at the anxiety my face betrayed. “But the Estate got you involved in things you never dreamed of. You got yourself involved in all things which benefit a wench like you. You’ve been punished, imprisoned, shamed, and broken, and the effect of it all has been to put beauty in your face, and finely hone that lovely body into a man’s desire. Diane Durrant, you’re a beauty!”