Chapter 17: Omari vs. Matumbo

“Let’s see ... what shall we do next?” Omari mused aloud, his voice casual, as if he were pondering nothing more than an ordinary decision. He ignored the tears streaming down Sylvia’s face, the soft, pitiful sounds of her sobbing distorted by the horn gag in her mouth. “Boooo ... booooo ... booooo...” The humiliating noise continued, low and constant, the only sound she was allowed to make. Sylvia remained obediently on her hands and feet, her body trembling with the shame that washed over her in waves. Her gloved hands pressed into the dirt, her sneakered feet dug into the ground for stability, and her buttocks—full, soft, perfectly rounded—were humiliatingly thrust upward in the air.

From where the families sat, they could see everything between those pale, plump cheeks. The thick rubber dildo, large and obscenely shaped, stretched her anus wide, fully visible to the crowd as it jutted out from her body. Her sphincter was taut, painfully stretched around the rubber invader, while just beneath her anus, her hairy vulva remained visible, still glistening and dripping from her earlier squirt. Her legs were spread wide, and between them, the evidence of her humiliation lay in plain view—a spreading puddle of fluids, her own squirt and urine mingled together in the dirt, stretching toward the crowd like a shameful beacon of what had just happened.

“Boooo ... boooo...” Sylvia cried softly, her tears falling to the ground as she bent helplessly before them, her body nothing more than an object of their ridicule.

“How about a dog show?” one of the boys shouted suddenly, his voice loud and filled with malicious glee. He looked at his parents for approval, and as he saw them laughing, he continued, “I heard she had a dog eat a cucumber right out of her ass and pussy, and she loved it! She pooped them out herself for the dog to eat!” More laughter followed, onlookers snickering as they exchanged amused glances.

The crowd murmured, some of them chuckling in dark amusement at the suggestion. The shame pierced Sylvia’s heart like a blade, the cruel accusation hanging in the air as if it were some sordid truth. “Boooo ... booooo...” she sobbed, the sound now trembling as her body shook with the intensity of her emotions. She felt so exposed, so vulnerable, her every movement on display for their entertainment.

“Or how about a shit show?” a woman chimed in, his voice laced with cruelty. “I heard she shit herself in public that day, ass up just like now. Everyone got a real surprise, didn’t they? Maybe that white whore likes that kind of play!” She grinned, her words dripping with mockery, while the others roared with laughter at the degrading suggestion. “That’s disgusting!” a boyish voice was heard, followed by a deeper voice, “Na, boy, some folks like that stuff. We call them perverts!” His casual remark triggered several others to chime in. “Ya, look at that white bitch, she isa pavert!”, another said, “I heard that’s usual among white whores, they go for extreme stuff like that!”

Sylvia’s face burned with humiliation, her entire body screaming with the intensity of her shame. She felt like she was going to die from it—her heart hammering in her chest, her mind filled with horror at what they were saying. The idea that they saw her as nothing more than some depraved creature who enjoyed such things, that they believed she was complicit in her own abuse, was unbearable. The words cut deep into her soul, making her feel filthy, degraded beyond repair.

“Boooo ... boooo...” The horn moaned on, her cries muffled and distorted as she knelt there, helpless to defend herself from their taunts. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with the dirt below her, and all she could think was how she wanted to disappear, to sink into the earth and never be seen again.

The crowd’s jeers and laughter grew louder, the families laughing at the crude jokes made at her expense, their eyes filled with derision as they watched her suffer. Sylvia felt utterly defeated, her heart breaking under the weight of the shame they heaped upon her. It was too much—too cruel, too degrading—and all she could do was endure it, helpless and broken, her body still quivering in that humiliating position as they mocked her relentlessly.

“What the fuck is going on here? What are you doing with my teacha?” Matumbo’s booming voice cut through the air like a knife, instantly halting the jeers and laughter. Heads turned as he strode toward the scene. Behind him trailed his father, mother, and sister, all watching with wary eyes. Matumbo, a well-known troublemaker, street fighter, sexual bully, his presence was commanding, and even in the chaotic atmosphere, his arrival brought a sudden tension, as if the crowd collectively held its breath.

Matumbo’s eyes swept over the scene—Sylvia’s trembling, humiliated form; the leering faces of Omari and his friends; the families laughing and mocking nearby. His gaze darkened with anger, and without hesitation, he reached down and grabbed two wooden sticks from a nearby pile next to the food area. The long, hardened wood felt familiar in his grip—an extension of his strength, honed from years of practice. Mosi’s eyes flickered with uncertainty as Matumbo approached, a fear evident on his face.

Though Matumbo was only half a head taller than Mosi, his reputation loomed far larger. He was the junior stick-fighting champion of Aprico Island for two years running. Stick fighting was not just a sport on Aprico Island; it was a rite of passage, a tradition rooted in their goat-herding culture, and Matumbo was a master. He was also a champion in target whipping, a skill that made him feared and respected by even the most reckless of young men. Mosi knew this all too well, but he also knew something else—Matumbo was alone. Omari had three of his friends by his side: Tumba, Akil, and Mosi himself. Matumbo’s family, like all families on the island, would not interfere. It was an unspoken rule: young men, boys, even children, settled their own disputes, and the elders never intervened in a fight.

Mosi’s heart raced, but he didn’t back down. He exchanged a quick glance with Tumba and Akil, who had already armed themselves with wooden rods from nearby. The tension was thick enough to cut as they stood ready, facing Matumbo. Omari was unfazed by the approaching storm. He took the rod that Mosi handed him, gripping it tightly in his hand. His cocky smirk never wavered as he faced Matumbo, who stood just a few steps away now, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and possessiveness over Sylvia.

“Bratha, get lost,” Omari spat, his voice dripping with disdain. He twirled the stick lazily in his hand as though it were all just a game to him. “Auntie Snow here wanted to have a playdate with me, and that’s it. None of your business.”

Matumbo’s jaw clenched, his grip tightening on his sticks as he stepped closer, now towering over the group. His eyes flicked briefly toward Sylvia, who remained in her degrading position, crying softly through her gag, her body still trembling in shame. His expression hardened further as he turned back to Omari, his voice cold and dangerous. “She’s my teacha,” Matumbo growled. “She is my toy. You need my permission to play with my toy.”

The words hung in the air like a crack of thunder. Omari’s grin faltered for the briefest of moments, but he quickly recovered, his bravado still intact. The tension between the two boys was palpable, and the crowd grew silent, watching intently as the confrontation escalated.

Mosi shifted his weight, readying himself for what was about to happen. He knew the fight was coming—it was inevitable now. Matumbo was a force to be reckoned with, but Mosi and his friends had earned their own reputation as a rambunctious and fearless bunch. They had been in countless street fights, and they weren’t afraid to throw down when necessary. He could sense Tumba and Akil tensing beside him, their grips tightening on their sticks as they prepared for the clash.

For a moment, it felt like the entire world had stopped, everything hanging on the knife’s edge of this single moment. The crowd, the families, even Sylvia seemed frozen in time, all eyes locked on the brewing storm between Matumbo and Omari’s group.

Mosi let go of the wooden dildo stick protruding from Sylvia’s anus. She gasped as the dildo tilted sharply upward inside her rectum, shifting painfully deep as the wooden rod attached to the rubber dildo dropped to the ground. The abrupt movement forced her body to respond, and the awkward tilt of the dildo made her instinctively lift her upper body. Her back arched unnaturally as she tried to accommodate the new angle, the rubber dildo now pointing sharply upward at a 45-degree angle, the other end pressing against the ground.

“Oh, Sorry, Auntie. You can stand up now.” Omari said with a cruel smirk, watching her struggle.

Sylvia stood on shaky legs, her body trembling from both the physical discomfort and the overwhelming shame. Her hands flew up immediately, instinctively covering her breasts and crotch. Despite everything she had endured—despite the degrading public display of her body—her modesty still flared, an unconscious reaction to the crowd’s eyes upon her. It was almost absurd, the way she clung to the remnants of her dignity, trying to cover herself when everyone had already seen everything. Her modesty and shyness were palpable, a stark contrast to the exposure and humiliation she had just suffered.

The dildo inside her rectum forced her hips into an awkward position. She stood there with her hips pushed backward, her buttocks jutting out as if they were involuntarily pressing against the stick. The absurdity of it all added another layer of degradation. Her belly jutted forward, her back arched like she was trying to pose seductively. But it wasn’t by choice—the angle of the dildo dictated her posture. It left her standing in a grotesque, humiliating pose, one that made it appear as though she was offering herself to the crowd, even though her every instinct screamed for her to hide, to disappear.

The crowd’s eyes were glued to her—some laughing, others whispering among themselves. Sylvia’s face burned with shame, tears still glistening in her eyes as she fought to maintain her composure. She wanted to scream, to cry, to run, but she was trapped in that degrading posture, forced to stand there, fully exposed, with her body twisted into a posture that looked both awkward and perversely sexual.

“Auntie, give me my gloves,” Omari commanded with an air of superiority. Sylvia, trembling, slowly removed her gloves and handed them to him, her hands shaking. She kept her gaze low, avoiding the eyes of the crowd, her humiliation deepening with each passing moment.

Omari, triumphant, took the gloves and slipped them on, feeling a sense of ownership over her. He smirked and turned to Matumbo. “See, Bratha? Snowflake here obeys my every command. She’s my play-toy.”

Matumbo’s eyes flashed with anger, his grip tightening on his wooden rod. His gaze locked on Sylvia, and despite the heat of the confrontation, there was a subtle shift in his expression—one that signaled more than just a fight for dominance. There was a possessive protectiveness in his stare, a reminder of the power he had held over her.

“Raise your hands, teacha,” Matumbo suddenly ordered, his voice low but firm. “Above your head. Straight. Just the way I taught ya.”

Sylvia hesitated, wanting to keep her hands covering her exposed breasts and crotch, a symbolic modesty. Her body tensed at the command, unsure whether to comply, but Matumbo’s gaze bore into her, leaving her no choice. Slowly, reluctantly, she obeyed. Her hands moved away from her chest, her fingers uncurled from the tight hold they had on her breasts and the other cupping her wet hairy vulva, shielding from the view, and she raised her arms above her head, her heavy, large breasts bouncing slightly as they were freed from her grip.

“Boooo ... booooo...” The horn-gag’s sound escaped her lips in a pathetic, trembling moan, filled with shame and anguish. Her face flushed deeply, her cheeks wet with tears as she stood exposed once again before them, her arms raised high, her vulnerability on full display. She wanted to shrink, to disappear, but she remained rooted to the spot, her humiliation intensifying with every second that passed.

Matumbo said nothing more, but his silence spoke volumes. Sylvia’s compliance, even in her reluctance, proved something to everyone watching. Though Omari claimed her as his playdate, she was still deeply afraid of Matumbo. In the end, she was still his toy, his possession.

The crowd watched with rapt attention, understanding the subtle power dynamic that played out before them. Matumbo’s silent victory rippled through the air, and though Sylvia wept, her tears and her soft “booooo” only served to deepen the shame.

Sylvia stood next to Omari, her body stiff and trembling, every inch of her protesting the humiliating posture she was forced to hold. Her hands were raised high above her head, but her fingers were tightly clenched into fists, a natural reaction to the overwhelming shame and fear coursing through her.

Her chest heaved with each breath, making her large, heavy breasts sway slightly as they hung free, completely exposed. Her belly jutted out in a way that accentuated her sensual curves, her large breasts hung above her soft white belly. Her hips, forced backward by the thick rubber dildo still deeply embedded in her rectum, gave her the appearance of pushing her buttocks out, as if she were displaying herself.

The dildo, with its attached wooden stick now its end planted on the ground, pressed her into this degrading position, the angle forcing her to tilt her hips back, making the position both physically painful and mortifyingly suggestive. Her buttocks, plump and soft, were pushed outward, with the thick dildo fully visible between them, stretching her anus painfully wide. Beneath it, her vulva was exposed, still glistening from the moisture of her earlier degradation, the sticky wetness clinging to her inner thighs.

Her legs were slightly spread, the soles of her worn running shoes planted awkwardly on the ground. The position made her seem off-balance, her toes turned inward slightly as if she were trying to steady herself against the relentless pull of the dildo lodged inside her. The puddle of her own squirt and urine still glistened between her legs, stretching toward the families gathered around, an obscene reminder of her earlier violation. She felt each humiliating drop that continued to fall from her, but there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Her brunette hair, usually kept so neat, was now disheveled, sticking to her damp forehead and neck in messy clumps. The horn-gag pried her mouth open wide, stretching her lips painfully apart. The sound of her weeping was reduced to pitiful, horn-like moans—”booo ... booooo...”—escaping her throat in soft, broken sobs that only deepened her shame. Her face was flushed bright red, her tears flowing freely down her cheeks as she stood frozen in the degrading pose, her body betraying her with each involuntary twitch.

Around her, the crowd gathered tighter. Families that had been eating nearby had now circled around, their eyes drawn to the spectacle. Men, women, and even children stared, their faces filled with a mixture of curiosity, amusement, and disbelief. Some whispered among themselves, laughing at the sight of Sylvia’s naked body forced into such a vulgar pose, while others pointed and gossiped, their eyes darting between her exposed form and the tension between Omari and Matumbo.

Sylvia’s heart raced with dread. She could feel the weight of every gaze on her skin, each laugh and murmur a dagger to her pride. The shame was almost unbearable, the heat of her humiliation making her face burn brighter with each passing moment. Her legs quivered under the strain of maintaining her balance, and her arms ached from holding them up, but she dared not lower them. Even in this humiliating state, she was terrified of disobeying Matumbo.

The puddle of moisture between her legs remained, stretching toward the families like a damning scar, a mark of her degradation. She wanted to collapse, to curl up and disappear, but she stood there, trapped in that torturous, hypersexualized pose, every muscle straining against the overwhelming shame that consumed her.

The crowd waited, the air thick with anticipation, but Sylvia was frozen—obedient, humiliated, and trembling—her fists clenched above her head, her body twisted into a pose of utter degradation for all to see.

Matumbo moved with deliberate steps, slowly side-stepping to his right, his muscles coiled like a predator waiting to strike. He understood the dynamics of stick fighting all too well—space was key, and the closer they were to the tables and seating, the more constrained his movements would be. Omari and the other three boys mirrored his movements, adjusting their distance, watching for any sign of weakness or an opportunity to strike. The tension in the air was palpable, the crowd now hushed in anticipation, eyes glued to the standoff.

Without warning, Matumbo lunged. His stick moved with incredible speed, aiming for Mosi’s midsection, but Mosi was quick, sidestepping and bringing his stick up in time to block the strike. The clash of wood against wood echoed sharply in the air. Matumbo pressed forward with a flurry of strikes—rapid, precise, but his opponents were not unskilled. Omari and his friends circled him like wolves, coordinating their movements, keeping Matumbo on the defensive. Their sticks lashed out at him from multiple angles, forcing him to dodge, parry, and weave his body with fluid, calculated grace.

Despite his skill, Matumbo was outnumbered and initially overwhelmed by the sheer number of attacks. Mosi, Tumba, and Akil struck at him in quick succession—Mosi aiming high, Akil targeting his legs, while Tumba moved in for a body shot. Matumbo blocked one, dodged another, but a swift strike from Tumba’s stick grazed his temple, momentarily stunning him. He staggered back, blinking to clear his vision, and the crowd gasped as they saw the champion falter.

Sensing their advantage, Omari and the boys pressed forward with renewed aggression. Matumbo’s movements were quick but strained, his footing unsteady as he deflected their blows. Tumba saw an opening and raised his stick high, preparing to strike a decisive blow, but Matumbo’s instincts kicked in. He ducked low, twisting his body with a burst of energy, and in one fluid motion, his stick came up like a lightning strike. The sharp crack of wood echoed as Matumbo’s stick connected squarely with Tumba’s head.

Tumba’s eyes widened in shock as the force of the blow sent him crumpling to the ground, unconscious before his body even hit the dirt. The crowd gasped audibly, a collective inhale of astonishment. Now it was three against one.

Mosi’s face contorted in fury as he rushed forward, his stick raised high, but Matumbo was ready. With a deft sidestep, Matumbo avoided Mosi’s downward strike and countered with a sharp, precise blow to Mosi’s wrist. There was a sickening crack as the wood made contact with bone. Mosi howled in pain, his stick flying from his hand as he clutched his wrist, his face contorted in agony. He crumpled to the ground, rolling in the dirt, writhing from the likely fractured wrist.

Now it was two.

Akil’s eyes darted nervously between Matumbo and Omari, clearly shaken by the sudden shift in the fight. He hesitated for a moment, his grip on the stick faltering. The fear was evident in his eyes, and in a split-second decision, Akil turned and hurled his stick aside. Without a word, he sprinted away from the fight, pushing through the crowd in a desperate bid for safety.

And then, it was just Omari.

Omari tightened his grip on his stick, his knuckles turning white, determination etched across his face. He stepped forward, resolute, knowing he couldn’t back down now. He moved with skill, trading blows with Matumbo, their sticks clashing with brutal force. Omari fought valiantly, his strikes powerful and quick, but Matumbo was relentless. The champion ducked and weaved, sidestepping Omari’s attempts to land a decisive blow.

Then, with lightning speed, Matumbo saw his opening. He feinted high, drawing Omari’s stick upward to block, but in a split-second, Matumbo shifted his weight and struck low. His stick whipped through the air, crashing into the side of Omari’s knee with a bone-crunching thud.

Omari let out a sharp cry of pain as his leg buckled beneath him. His stick slipped from his hand, clattering uselessly to the ground as he collapsed, clutching his knee in agony. The fight was over. Matumbo stood victorious, his chest heaving from exertion, his eyes cold and focused on Omari’s crumpled form on the ground.

Matumbo stood over Omari, stick in hand, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins. His grin was fierce, eyes locked on Omari’s crumpled form, fully intending to deliver one final blow to teach him a lesson—a crack to the head that would send him unconscious. He lifted his stick, ready to strike, when a voice cut through the air.

“Matumbo!” It was his mother’s voice. He froze, mid-motion. Her words echoed in his mind. “You know I’m friends with that boy’s mother.”

Matumbo hesitated, taking a deep breath as he considered her words. His eyes flickered over Omari, still lying on the ground, clutching his knee, tears of pain and fear streaming down his face. Matumbo stepped back, his grip on the stick loosening. The tension eased from his body as he allowed himself to soften. After all, he wasn’t just fighting some random boy. Omari’s mother was a friend of his own mother, and in a community as tight-knit as theirs, those relationships mattered.

Matumbo’s voice dropped to a calm, almost benevolent tone. “Omari, don’t forget that white woman is my toy, my bitch, my dog. You got that?”

Omari, relieved that Matumbo had decided not to hit him, nodded fervently, his tears now flowing freely as he sobbed like a child.

Matumbo looked down at the boy, contemplating his next move. He decided to be magnanimous, knowing he held all the power. “Tell you what,” he said after a pause. “In the account of your mom and my mom being friends, I’ll let you have playdates with Sylvia. On weekends, sometimes evenings—just short playdates.” He let the words sink in before adding, “But when I need my toy, for whatever reason, she comes to me. You understand?”

Omari, still crying, nodded, feeling a mixture of relief and gratitude. The thought of never being able to touch Sylvia again had terrified him more than the beating. Now, Matumbo was offering him something—a chance to continue playing with Sylvia, even if on limited terms.

“You have a mobile phone, right?” Matumbo asked, his tone suddenly practical.

Omari shook his head from side to side, still trembling. Mobile phones were rare in Aprico Island, a luxury only the wealthiest could afford. Matumbo’s father was one of the richest men on the island, but Omari’s family, still affluent in Aprico Island standard, was far from that.

“Okay,” Matumbo said, nodding as if coming to a decision. “I’ll buy you one.”

Omari’s heart skipped a beat. A mobile phone? That was a big deal, something he had longed for but his mother couldn’t afford to. She had one, but not for her son. And here was Matumbo offering to buy him one. For a moment, the shame of the fight was forgotten, replaced by genuine gratitude.

“Since Sylvia here isn’t allowed to have a phone by law,” Matumbo continued, “her being a foreigner and all, you’ll act as the messenger. When I call you, you bring her to me. Or when I have a message, you relay it to her. You live two huts down from hers, right?”

Omari nodded eagerly, his face lighting up with hope and appreciation.

“For that,” Matumbo said with a smirk, “you can play with my toy when I’m not playing with her. Deal?”

Omari’s gratitude was overwhelming. He scrambled to his feet despite the pain in his knee, nodding vigorously. “Thank you so much, big brotha!” he shouted. “You know what, I’ll record my playdates and send ya videos for your approval, big brotha! Thank you so much!”

Matumbo laughed, pleased with the suggestion. “I like that idea, my little bratha!” he replied, slapping Omari’s shoulder playfully. The fight was over, and the dynamic had shifted—Omari, once cowering in fear, now stood grinning like a child who had just been given a prized gift. Matumbo’s grin lingered as he looked around at the crowd, satisfied with how things had turned out.

Meanwhile, Sylvia stood to the side, unnoticed by the men as they spoke, yet she was painfully aware of everything happening around her. Her posture was tense, hands still clenched above her head as Matumbo had ordered earlier. Her wrists ached from holding the position for so long, but she didn’t dare lower them. Her naked body was on full display, her only protection being the ragged pair of sneakers on her feet. Her chest heaved with the effort of breathing, her heavy breasts swaying slightly with each ragged breath, her nipples tight from the cool dry breeze and the tension in her muscles.

Her belly protruded slightly as she stood with her back arched, hips involuntarily tilted back due to the thick rubber dildo still lodged deeply in her rectum. The angle of the wooden stick that had been attached to it forced her to maintain this humiliating posture, her buttocks pushed outward as though offering herself for further degradation. Drops of her earlier squirt and urine had streaked her inner thighs, glistening in the sunlight, while more dribbled occasionally from between her legs, pooling on the ground below her. The smell of sweat and shame clung to her skin, and her face was flushed deep red beneath her disheveled hair.

Sylvia’s mouth was held open by the horn-gag, and the occasional soft “boooo” sound escaped her lips involuntarily, a reminder to everyone there; a few dozen African men, women, boys and girls all in their fanciest Sunday clothes, colorful against their dark skin, of her complete subjugation. Her lips were cracked and dry from the gag, her eyes wide and filled with a mixture of fear, confusion, and deep humiliation. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving trails of salt on her pale skin. Every eye was on her—families who had gathered to watch, children peeking curiously from behind their parents, men and women jeering and laughing at her utter disgrace.

But worst of all was the conversation she had just overheard. Matumbo and Omari, negotiating over her as if she were nothing more than an object—a toy to be shared and passed between them. The words stung, each syllable searing into her mind like a brand, deepening the sense of powerlessness that had settled over her ever since she’d set foot on this island.

Matumbo called her his “toy,” his “bitch,” his “dog.” And then, to her horror, he offered Omari the right to “play” with her. Sylvia’s heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts swirling in disbelief. Was this her future? A life where she would be passed around like some object of amusement, with no say in her own fate? She was already fighting to suppress her sobs, the sheer indignity of it all overwhelming her. The shame was like a physical weight, pressing down on her shoulders, making it hard to even stand.

The notion of Omari having regular “playdates” with her filled her with dread. The way he had ‘played’ with her earlier, in public, in daylight, the cruel way he manipulated her body, forcing her to orgasm repeatedly until she lost control of herself—it had been terrifying, degrading. And now, hearing him agree so enthusiastically to this arrangement with Matumbo, offering to record his playtime and send it to Matumbo for approval, was too much for her to bear.

Her knees trembled, barely able to support her weight. Sylvia’s whole body felt weak and exhausted, her mind a fog of despair. She felt detached from her own body, as though she were a spectator in someone else’s nightmare. It was as if her soul had retreated inward, trying to escape the reality that was unfolding around her. But there was no escape, no waking from this nightmare.

She could hear the crowd murmuring around her, families now beginning to gather to watch the aftermath of the fight, but she was too emotionally drained to acknowledge them. The humiliation of standing there, naked and exposed, with the dildo still protruding from her rectum, was consuming her. Her stomach churned with nausea, but she remained frozen in place, afraid to move or make a sound, lest she provoke more jeers or commands from the men.

Matumbo’s laugh rang in her ears as he bantered with Omari, and Sylvia wanted to disappear, to sink into the ground and vanish from sight. But there was no escape, no reprieve from the hellish ordeal. Instead, she remained there, clenching her hands in a desperate attempt to retain some semblance of dignity, her tears falling silently as she stood like a statue, a broken woman trapped in a degrading spectacle.