Page 40 of Their Cruel Love

“Welcome to Fantasy Island, though maybe this is Survivor,” Razor drawls from beside me, just loud enough to be heard above the rumble of the waves creaming up the white sand beach.

“Let’s go find her.”And a bathroom.After that we can worry about survival, and about fucking Miss Phoebe Bartholemew.

Another helicopter hovers, waiting to bring in more guests. Our chopper rises after we’ve cleared the pad then whirls away, kicking up spray from the water in a wide circle.

Razor points at a huddle of five or six people already partway along the jetty and shouts over the noise of the blades, “She’s in the yellow dress!”

“I know.” I’ve been concentrating on my own ass, which is probably a crime, seeing how the wind is flicking at the edges of that dress. She’s removed the leggings. Every so often, the wind gusts and reveals where her gorgeous leg joins the sweet swell of her rear, and a hint of black panties. “Fuck.” I let out a sigh. “I, we, can do things to her now. I’m going to need a list.” My imagination is sitting up and sniffing, ready to go on the hunt. “I think she’s giving us a reason to chase her.”

“Tally-ho then,” he suggests. The timber of the jetty echoes dully underfoot.

“Instead of chasing, let’s see what sort of leverage we have.” I approach one of the greeting staff returning with us, a man with a tablet in hand and a stern, square face. “Could you, or one of the staff, run after that girl in the yellow dress and get her to wait for us, there, on the jetty?”

He nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell her she will wait there, or there will be an early, and very public punishment.”

“Of course.” The man jogs away.

“Think she will obey?” Razor asks.

“If she runs, we can keep her on a leash the whole time? I’m sure she will love that.”

“I heard some of the others talking. They recognized her. And the ones who don’t know her, soon will. The prospect of watching the stepdaughter of Queen O be degraded, flogged, and fucked in public apparently excites some of them? Who knew?”

I laugh. “Fucking dirty bastards.” Then I shove my hands in my pants pockets and resolve to get into something more tropical soon. I’m already sweating in this heat.

“Indeed. And she is waiting. I get dibs on the first BJ. I think I canfeelher mouth on my cock, that tongue?—”

“Shut up. Asshole.”

Now, Razor laughs. The man is messing with me.

She’s let the others go on ahead but is not looking at us. Alone, in that bright dress, with sunshine flaring around her…I swear she might be from a painting. Which makes this seem unreal, dreamlike.

Yet I’m seconds from doing something I’ve wanted for years. Spain was an entrée, with an unsatisfactory denouement.

This is the real shit.

I kept the collar in my pocket for this first day, this first minute, this first second of our possession of Phoebe. And now my dick is aching.

Then the phone reminds me of where it is. I curse mentally. This was such a stupid idea. This place is probably just going to be a week of kinky mindfucks and bacchanalian orgies. And sadism. Do not forget the sadism.

I can’t help but devour her as we close in. My eyes are paying homage to her curves, but she is deliberately not looking at us. This really needs something special, some words said, some ritual but…I’m gritting my teeth because of the phone.

The fucking phone. If no one is getting murdered here, I’ve tortured myself for no reason.

There is a restroom or shower block ahead, at the start of the jetty.

Halleh-fucking-lujah.

I grab my wheeled suitcase off a porter, then snap, “Bring her to the end of the jetty and have her kneel there,” to Razor, then I go on, past her, marching toward that shower block. That was far too abrupt, and Razor must be wondering why. Let him wonder.

I finally emerge, relieved, having taken the phone from my ass and showered. I buried the waterproof case the phone was inside deep in the trash. Thank god the retrieval cord with that small flared end was still in place. Going to the ER for this would be a hell no.

Phoebe is waiting, kneeling in the sand with her dress demurely tucked close to her thighs, and she’s fuming. This, I like. Razor stands over her like some security guard who’s caught a petty thief nicking stuff at a concert.

Wearing a pair of surfer-style black shorts I packed and aT-shirt, I stroll to them, having calmed myself. The black collar hangs from my fingers; the gemstones on her new tag glint as it twists. The sunlight bounces off the sand, off the sea, and the fucking sky.

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