Chapter 15: Weekend With Omari and His Friends

Omari

Omari gazed down at the woman curled up in front of him. The white woman, completely naked, had drawn her body into a fetal position, her wide hips and lovely buttocks trembling as she cried and sobbed into her hands. Her long, dark brunette hair was matted against her tear-streaked face, partially hidden as she tried to bury herself in the dirt beneath her. Her pale skin, usually so flawless, was now flushed with the humiliation she had endured. Between her upper thighs, just below her buttocks, he could see the aftermath of the vulva whipping—her tender, swollen flesh tinged with a painful pink hue. Her outer labia, naturally plump and wide, appeared even more swollen, a stark reminder of the punishment she had suffered.

A strange pang of pity stirred within Omari, but it was fleeting, easily overshadowed by the thrill of power he now held. He never imagined there would be a time on Aprico Island where he, an African boy, could dominate a white person, let alone a woman as stunning as this. The Anti-foreigner Government Decree had turned the world upside down, stripping foreigners of all human rights and protections. Now, he could do as he pleased, without fear of consequence.

The irony wasn’t lost on him—this woman, already publicly shamed and accused of a sexual crime (one he suspected she hadn’t committed), was so terrified that she didn’t even resist his absurd, childish narrative. He had convinced her it was all a playdate, and whether out of sheer fear or simple-mindedness, she complied, playing along with whatever he and his friends demanded. It was all a game to him, a cruel, twisted game that was fun for him and his friends, but anything but for her.

Despite his enjoyment, a part of him was afraid of going too far, of breaking her completely. She was a grown woman, beautiful beyond words, with a voluptuous body that had likely never had experienced anything that were even remotely close to what she had experienced last few days in Aprico Island. Just a week ago, she wouldn’t have given him a second glance, but now, here she was at his feet, naked, vulnerable, and sobbing. The power was intoxicating, but so was the fear—fear of what might happen if he pushed her beyond the point of no return – a mental breakdown.

Omari had heard stories about Matumbo, the notorious bully whose name was spoken with a mix of fear and disdain across Aprico Island. From a young age, Matumbo had terrorized his friends, neighbors, and anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. His cruelty knew no bounds, and no one dared to stand up to him. After all, his father was one of the wealthiest men on the island, and his uncle held the powerful position of chief of police. Together, they shielded Matumbo from any consequences, allowing him to reign over the island unchecked.

Matumbo’s cruelty reached new heights when he crossed paths with Miss Aprico Island, a beautiful girl from a poor family. At first, their relationship seemed innocent enough—they were friends, or so it appeared. But it didn’t take long for Matumbo’s true nature to emerge. He began to bully her, and what started as small acts of torment quickly escalated into a nightmare of daily torture and relentless public shaming. For six long months, Miss Aprico Island endured unspeakable torment, her spirit gradually eroding under the weight of Matumbo’s sadistic games. Eventually, she broke. The once-proud beauty lost her sanity, and now, she wandered the town naked and with a crazed expression, a tragic shadow of her former self. The island’s residents whispered about her in hushed tones, a living reminder of Matumbo’s destructive power.

Eventually, Matumbo’s sadistic reign caught up with him, and he was sent to the Aprico Island Reform Institute. But his legacy of terror lingered, a dark cloud over the island.

So when Omari saw this white woman—Sylvia—being whipped publicly by Matumbo and his gang, he knew exactly what was happening. It was sanctioned punishment, a spectacle of humiliation presided over by Principal Tuwme. Sylvia had been accused of sexually assaulting Matumbo and his two friends, a charge so absurd it was almost laughable. Omari didn’t need much insight to see the truth—this woman, so timid, so shy, so submissive, could never have assaulted Matumbo, let alone his friends. The notion was beyond absurd, but in the twisted reality of Aprico Island, it didn’t matter. The accusation was enough to strip Sylvia of her dignity and subject her to unspeakable horrors.

Omari watched as the punishment unfolded, feeling a strange mixture of emotions. On one hand, he knew deep down that this was wrong, that this woman was innocent and undeserving of such cruelty. But he was just a boy, powerless in the grand scheme of things. And besides, a part of him was intrigued, even excited, by the spectacle. Here was a white woman, beautiful Humanitarian Aid Worker, so defenseless, so utterly helpless, that he could have his way with her without consequence. It was an opportunity that Omari had never imagined would come his way—a chance to dominate a beautiful white woman who, under any other circumstances, would have never even acknowledged his existence.

As he put this woman through his ‘playdate games’ as he called it, Omari felt a thrill of power coursing through him. This woman, this beautiful, voluptuous woman who didn’t even remember meeting him as he was so insignificant to her, was now at his mercy. He knew he wasn’t the only one who felt this way—his friends shared the same dark excitement. But amid the thrill, there was a sliver of fear. He had heard the stories about what happened to Miss Aprico Island, how she had been pushed beyond the brink of sanity. And now, looking down at Sylvia, naked, vulnerable, and sobbing uncontrollably nearly fainting, Omari couldn’t shake the fear that he might have pushed things too far, too quick.

Omari had more plans for Sylvia—twisted ideas and games he had concocted in his mind. He had envisioned a full day of torment for her, a continuation of their “date game” that he and his friends had been enjoying so much. But as he looked at her now, sprawled out and exhausted, he decided that perhaps today had been enough. After all, he had already forced her to orgasm so many times—three, four, maybe even five. He had lost track of the count somewhere in the midst of her trembling cries and desperate gasps. It was only 3 p.m., a little too early to end the fun, but there was no need to rush. He still had tomorrow, an entire day with her, two full days of playdate that he had negotiated with Abuba.

He didn’t feel like walking her back to her cabin, a 30 minute walk. Right now, he was eager to join his friends for a game of soccer. But he also did not want to risk the possibility of someone else taking notice of her in her current state, stark naked, and take advantage of ‘his date’.

On Aprico Island, when it comes to a public indecency, there existed a cultural contradiction. It was legal and culturally acceptable for criminals to be publicly stripped naked and beaten on their genitals. Even in private disputes, it wasn’t unusual for a fight to escalate to the point where one person’s clothes were torn off, often leaving the weaker individual completely naked in public. However, outside of these situations, the islanders placed great importance on proper clothing and modesty. People dressed conservatively and were critical of Western culture’s clothing which they considered too revealing.

With a casual shrug, Omari peeled off his shirt, a simple, worn piece of clothing, and tossed it to Sylvia. “Put it on, Auntie” he ordered, watching with interest as she obediently picked up the shirt. The fabric was dark and slightly rough, its edges frayed from wear, but the boy’s shirt was far too small for Sylvia’s voluptuous frame. As she tried to pull it over her head, her hands trembled slightly, her movements hesitant, as if she were afraid of what might happen if she failed to comply.

The shirt stretched tightly over her large, melon-sized breasts, the fabric straining against the ample curves that it was never designed to contain. Her pale skin contrasted starkly with the dark material, which clung to her like a second skin. The shirt barely covered her, stopping just above her belly button, leaving her midriff and the soft curve of her waist and her lower body totally exposed. Her cleavage spilled out of the top, the neckline pulled taut across her chest, creating a deep, shadowed valley between her breasts. It was a sight that sent a thrill through Omari, his eyes lingering on the way the fabric hugged her body, emphasizing every curve and dip.

Sylvia’s face was flushed, whether from shame or the exertion of trying to make the shirt fit, Omari couldn’t tell. Her brunette hair, damp with sweat, clung to her forehead and neck in messy strands, further emphasizing the vulnerability of her expression. Her lips, slightly parted, quivered as if she were on the verge of saying something, but no words came out. Instead, she just stood there, shoulders slumped, her eyes downcast, as if hoping that her compliance would earn her some small mercy.

Omari wasn’t done enjoying himself, though. The sight of her in that too-tight shirt, her full breasts straining against the fabric, totally naked below it, her hairy crotch, her curvy hips, her beautifully athletic thighs ... The sight was enough to spark new ideas in his mind. The thought of forced clothing, of public humiliation, of making her parade around in outfits that barely covered her body—just as Matumbo had done with his victims—began to take shape in Omari’s thoughts. He would have to explore this idea further, perhaps even tomorrow when their “date” continued.

For now, though, he decided it was time to send her on her way. He looked at her, a smirk playing on his lips as he said, “Run back home.” Sylvia hesitated, her eyes flickering with a mix of desperation and confusion, as if she wanted to ask something. She glanced down at her exposed lower half, her legs trembling slightly, the pink hue of her tender, swollen vulva barely hidden between her thighs. Her outer labia, naturally plump and wide, were visible even as she tried to press her legs together. Omari could tell she was pleading silently for something to cover herself.

But when he teased, “Auntie, you want to stay and play some more?” the fear in her eyes flared, and she quickly abandoned whatever she had been about to ask. Without another word, she turned and began to run down the dirt road toward her cabin. Omari’s gaze followed her, his eyes locked on the sight of her plump, soft buttocks jiggling with every step. Her bare cheeks, perfectly round and smooth, bounced and swayed hypnotically as she ran. The sight was mesmerizing, her flesh quivering with the impact of her feet on the ground, each step sending a ripple through her ample curves.

As she ran, the dust from the road clung to her legs, creating a fine layer of grime on her pale skin. Her feet, bare and delicate, kicked up small clouds of dirt as she sped away, her pace frantic, almost desperate, as if she couldn’t get away fast enough. Omari watched her go, the corners of his mouth curling into a satisfied grin. His friends grumbled, disappointed that the fun had ended early, but Omari just shrugged, dismissing their complaints with a wave of his hand.

“Hey ya, tomorrow is another day-ya,” he said, his voice laced with anticipation. There was still plenty of time for more games, and tomorrow, he would make sure to push the boundaries even further.

Sylvia sprinted down the familiar dirt road, her heart pounding in her chest as she fled from her tormentors. This was the same path she had jogged almost every morning since arriving on Aprico Island as a Humanitarian Aid Worker. But now, instead of enjoying the cool morning breeze and the peaceful scenery, she was running in desperation, trying to escape the nightmare she had been thrust into. The only thing she wore was a tight, ill-fitting T-shirt, barely covering her body.

The T-shirt clung to her like a second skin, stretched taut across her chest, barely reaching down to her midriff. Her large, melon-sized breasts bounced with each hurried step, the shirt unable to contain them, leaving the lower curves of her bust exposed to the open air. Below the shirt, her pale skin was completely bare, her wide hips and plump buttocks fully exposed, quivering with every stride. The cool air brushed against her sensitive, swollen vulva, which was still tender from the earlier torment, making each step a fresh reminder of her vulnerability.

She ran as fast as her legs could carry her, the soft thud of her bare feet against the dirt road echoing in her ears. But the exhaustion soon caught up with her, forcing her to slow down, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She realized, with a sinking feeling, that she would have to pass through town like this—her most private areas exposed for all to see. The thought filled her with dread, but she couldn’t stop. She had to keep moving.

As she neared the outskirts of town, Sylvia’s eyes darted around frantically, searching for anything that could offer even a semblance of cover. Then she spotted it: a discarded newspaper lying in a ditch. Desperation spurred her on as she quickly snatched it up, tearing the flimsy pages in half. With trembling hands, she pressed one half of the newspaper against her crotch, trying to cover her exposed vulva. The other half she awkwardly held to cover buttocks, attempting to shield herself from behind. The makeshift covering was laughable, barely staying in place as she continued to run, but it was all she had.

And so, with the tattered remnants of the newspaper fluttering around her, Sylvia ran into town, her movements a bizarre mix of haste and shame. The absurdity of the situation would have been almost comical if it weren’t for the sheer horror of it all. Each step was a battle to keep the flimsy paper in place, her fear of being seen warring with the overwhelming need to reach the safety of her cabin.

As she entered the town, her pace slowed to a desperate shuffle, her face flushed with a mix of exertion and humiliation. The stares of the townspeople burned into her, their murmurs and laughter like a chorus of judgment. But she kept moving, clinging to the small shred of dignity she had left, even as it felt like the world was collapsing around her.

Sylvia pushed herself to keep running, ignoring the jeers, laughter, and murmurs of the townspeople. It was a Saturday afternoon, and the streets were filled with people, all of them watching the spectacle she had become. She was the only white woman in town, and now she was on full display, her large breasts squeezed into a tightly stretched shirt that was clearly not hers. The shirt was way too small, barely containing her melon-sized breasts. She clutched one piece of newspaper against her crotch and used her other hand to hold another piece over her buttock crack. It was painfully obvious to everyone that she was wearing nothing else, and the humiliation weighed heavily on her.

With each step, her big breasts jiggled, the tight shirt riding up further until it no longer covered her chest. Her nipples were exposed, and the shirt was now just draped over her shoulders, useless as any sort of covering. Sylvia was mortified, but she knew that if she tried to adjust her shirt, she would have to let go of the newspapers, exposing her lower body completely. So, she kept running, her breath hitching with a mix of exertion and fear.

More laughter erupted from the crowd. A man shouted, “Hey, where’s your clothes, Snow White?” Another voice jeered, “You enjoying showing off, huh? Flashing those big tits and that ass?” Sylvia’s eyes welled up with tears. She couldn’t take it anymore. She started to cry as she ran, her vision blurring with tears, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t stop.

Someone else in the crowd asked, “Why is she naked?” Another sneered, “Bet she likes it, parading around like that.”

The words stung, but they were nothing compared to the memory that flashed in her mind as she passed the marketplace. Just two days earlier, this was the place where Omari and his friends had tied her up and violated her, raping and sodomizing her with two large cucumbers while the townspeople watched. The memory brought a fresh wave of humiliation and shame, her cheeks burning red as she recalled the leering faces and the helplessness she had felt.

Finally, Sylvia reached her cabin. Ignoring the jeering greetings from her neighbors—one man shouted, “Back already, Snow White? Enjoy your little jog?”—she bolted inside, slamming the door behind her. She didn’t stop until she collapsed onto her bed, burying herself under the sheets. There, in the safety of her own space, she let the tears flow freely, crying herself to sleep as the afternoon gave way to Saturday evening.

Sylvia woke up very early the next morning, her body aching from the previous day’s ordeal. She dragged herself to the shower, letting the warm water wash away the grime and the remnants of her humiliation. As the water cascaded over her, she tried to clear her mind, focusing on the simple act of cleaning herself, trying to feel normal again.

After her shower, Sylvia dressed in her usual clothes, starting with her white panties and a sports bra. She slipped into her jeans shorts and then pulled on her own T-shirt. The shirt, like all her others, stretched tightly over her chest, the fabric straining to accommodate her large, melon-sized breasts. No T-shirt was truly designed for a woman with her figure, but at least this one didn’t feel obscene like the boy’s shirt she had been forced to wear the day before. Dressed in her familiar clothes, she felt a small sense of comfort, a hint of normalcy.

In the kitchen, Sylvia prepared breakfast. Her stomach growled in anticipation; she hadn’t eaten anything all day yesterday, and the hunger gnawed at her. She made herself a hearty meal: three eggs, toast, and a banana. As she ate, she allowed herself to savor the food, trying to push away the lingering fear that gnawed at the edges of her mind.

Always hopeful, Sylvia dared to think that perhaps yesterday had been the end of it. Omari had let her go early, maybe that was a sign that he and his friends had had their fill of tormenting her. Maybe, just maybe, it was over. But there was a persistent doubt that refused to leave her. A part of her knew that Omari and his friends might not be done with her. The thought made her chest tighten with anxiety.

She told herself to be strong, rehearsing in her mind what she would say if they came over again. She would tell them no. She would stand her ground and refuse to be their playdate, refuse to participate in their twisted games. But even as she resolved to be firm, a shadow of doubt lingered, and the fear of what might happen if they didn’t accept her refusal weighed heavily on her mind.