Chapter 18: Monday - Back to School

Sylvia ran back to her cabin, her hands still tightly clutching her buttocks to hold the humiliating dildo in place. Each step felt agonizing, but she kept pushing forward, desperate to escape the eyes of the townspeople, their laughter still ringing in her ears. It had been only about two hours since she had left the cabin, crawling behind Omari like a dog, but the ordeal had felt like years. Every moment stretched out in her mind, the humiliation clinging to her like a second skin.

Finally, she reached the familiar door of her small cabin. Panting heavily, her body covered in sweat, she stumbled inside and slammed the door shut behind her. She exhaled shakily, her chest heaving as she leaned against the door, desperate for a moment of relief from the nightmare she had endured. Her jaw ached terribly from the horn gag she had been forced to wear for so long, and with shaking hands, she pried it out of her mouth. She spat it onto the floor, gasping for fresh air as her jaw throbbed in pain. The sensation of freedom, however small, felt like a tiny victory.

Her hands moved instinctively to her rear, fingers gingerly gripping the dildo that had been wedged inside her anus for what felt like an eternity. She hesitated for a moment, feeling the discomfort and the shame flood back into her mind. With a firm tug, she began to pull it out, stunned by how long the object was as it slowly slid free. The sensation left her feeling both empty and relieved. She stared at the dildo in disbelief, her face flushed with humiliation as she realized just how deep it had been inside her.

As the final inch slipped out, she could feel her body react to its absence. A strange tightening sensation filled her anus and rectum, almost as if her muscles were instinctively trying to close the void the object had left behind. Omari had coated the dildo with that magic oil before forcing it inside her, and now, at least, it seemed to be working to restore the anal muscle back to its normalcy. Despite everything, she was grateful for that small mercy—the thought of her anus remaining loose, and gaping was more than she could bear.

Exhausted, Sylvia sank down to the floor, her body trembling as she hugged her knees to her chest. She let out a long, shaky breath, her mind racing with everything that had happened. The relief of being back in her cabin was quickly replaced by a tidal wave of emotion, and soon she was crying, her sobs echoing through the quiet room. She cried her heart out, the weight of shame and despair pressing down on her until she felt utterly hollow.

After what felt like an eternity, she slowly forced herself to get up, wiping her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand. She cast a disgusted glance toward the horn gag and the dildo stick still lying on the floor. Every fiber of her being screamed to destroy them—break them, burn them, anything to erase their existence. But fear held her back. What if Omari comes back? she thought. What if he asks for them?

The fear of what Omari might do if she got rid of the objects stopped her cold. So, instead of destroying them, Sylvia picked up the dildo and gag with shaking hands and placed them carefully in the corner of the room. She stared at them for a moment, her stomach churning with a mixture of hatred and dread.

A sinking feeling gnawed at her gut, an instinct she couldn’t shake—the thought that these terrible instruments of humiliation might be used on her again. She even wondered if she should clean them, the thought making her nauseous, but the knowledge that her ordeal might not be over made her consider it.

Sylvia resigned herself to the harsh reality that this was her life now—the torment, the public humiliation, it was all a part of her existence on Aprico Island. There was no escaping it. She had made the terrible mistake of not leaving when she had the chance, and now there was no one to blame but herself.

But Sylvia was always an optimist, even in the darkest of times. She told herself that the worst part was over. She had endured the public whipping, the brutal humiliation, and somehow, she had survived it. She believed if she was really nice—if she remained submissive, compliant, and good to the boys who bullied her—Matumbo and his gang, Omari and the neighborhood boys, would eventually be nice to her in return.

It just started off on the wrong foot, she reasoned, her mind grasping for some hope. ‘I was accused of a crime I didn’t commit, but that’s all behind me now.’

The worst was over, she kept repeating to herself. Soon enough, when the foreigner travel ban was lifted, she would leave the island behind for good. Until then, she had to survive. She would continue working at the Aprico Island Reform School, saving as much money as she could. This will end, she thought, but until then, I just need to endure.

It was her only way to cope—to survive.

Sylvia stepped into the shower, letting the warm water cascade over her sore and exhausted body. She stood there for a long time, as if hoping the water could wash away all the shame, fear, and humiliation she had endured. After some time, she checked her body, relieved to find that her anus had already tightened back to its normal state. The magic oil had worked exceptionally well—physically, at least, her body seemed completely fine. There were no lasting signs of the torment she had suffered earlier in the day. She was at least thankful for that small mercy—no brutal whipping, no unbearable pain as part of Omari’s play-date game this time.

She stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in a towel, and took a moment to breathe in the scent of soap and clean water. After drying off, she slipped into her usual clothing: a simple knee-length skirt and a light, loose blouse that covered her modestly. The fabric felt comforting against her skin, a small reminder of normalcy in her otherwise chaotic life. She took her time combing her brunette hair, letting it fall softly around her shoulders before tying it back.

Once dressed, she moved to the kitchen and prepared a small, simple lunch: a slice of bread with butter and a few pieces of fruit, along with a cup of weak tea. She ate slowly, trying to calm her nerves. The familiar tastes of home helped soothe her, even if only a little.

By the time she finished her meal, it was around 4 p.m. She wiped her hands, cleared the table, and reached for her teaching book. Sylvia still had work to do—she needed to prepare for tomorrow’s classes at the Aprico Island Reform Institute. Despite everything that had happened, she still had a job, and she buried herself in her notes, trying to focus on anything but the events of the day.

The things Sylvia had endured would have shattered the souls of many women—humiliation beyond what most could even comprehend. Stripped naked and whipped on her most intimate parts, publicly bullied and degraded by her students, neighborhood boys, her body violated with cucumbers and dildos, all while half a dozen families looked on, mocking her suffering. They watched as her body betrayed her, as she orgasmed, squirted, and even urinated in front of them, the sheer shame of it enough to crush anyone’s spirit.

Yet here she was, trying her best to push it all aside, to forget the horror and prepare for the next day. She dreaded facing those same people again, knowing she would have to pretend that everything was normal. But deep down, Sylvia knew the truth, though she couldn’t fully grasp or acknowledge it. There was something inside her, something she didn’t entirely understand, that complicated her suffering.

Besides her Hyper-Libido Disorder, Sylvia had always had a deeply buried aspect of her sexuality that she had never fully confronted: she was a true masochist and a true submissive. Even in her life back home in Australia, she had noticed how much certain “damsel-in-distress” scenes in movies would turn her on. When her late husband made love to her, she would never fully embrace him in return; instead, she would keep her hands behind her back or above her head, pretending she was being raped. Her husband had even remarked on it, but she was too shy to admit it, and share what she was thinking during their intercourse.

Back home, once she was walking pass a construction site, when men jeered at her, mocked her large breasts. It made her feel more than just shame. Her face turned red, her body trembling in embarrassment, but somewhere deep inside, that embarrassment had stirred something primal in her, making her wet between her legs. She almost collapsed right there, just from their jeers and lewd remarks because her body started to experience orgasm. She barely made to her car, and as soon as she got in, sat down on the driver’s seat, she squirted and urinated in her pants, panting and moaning loudly in her car, in an empty car park. She was so embarrassed she had never told anyone about that incident, not even her husband.

What was happening to her on the island was nothing short of terrifying. She was scared, suffering in ways she had never imagined, and yet, in the darkest, most complex recesses of her subconscious, she was sexually stimulated by it all. It was a part of her sexuality that she couldn’t fully comprehend, a complexity that went beyond her own understanding. She didn’t enjoy the cruelty, nor did she ask for any of it, but her body responded in ways that bewildered her.

It was a tangled mess of fear and arousal, pain and pleasure, all bound together in a way that Sylvia couldn’t untangle. But there it was—how her sexuality worked for a submissive masochist like her. It was too complex for her to fully process, but it lingered in the depths of her mind, ever present, like some forbidden gift.

And now, on this cursed island, she was surrounded by dark-skinned young men who were all too eager to exploit it. It was a twisted fate, one she didn’t understand and never asked for, but one that had become her reality.

(Photo: Sylvia’s vulva was still swollen with pinkish hue from previous days’ vulva whacking game.)

That evening, Sylvia ate a simple dinner and prepared for bed. She slipped into her underpants and a comfortable running shirt, ready to finally seek some rest after the turmoil of the day. She had barely settled in when there was a knock on the door. Her heart skipped a beat, her mind racing with fear, but she quickly felt a wave of relief wash over her when she saw who it was: Abuba.

The sight of the old African man instantly put her at ease. Abuba had just returned from tending to his goats and monkeys in his mountain home, back in town now to prepare for his work at the Aprico Island Reform Institution the next day. He was small and skinny but strong from years of hard work, his frame weathered yet dependable. Abuba had been her former local assistant at the Humanitarian Aid Center and now worked as a janitor at the institution, the very place where Sylvia now worked through his introduction.

Seeing him standing there, Sylvia felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Abuba was the first person she had met when she arrived on the island, the only one who had stood by her side through the worst of it all. He had protected her as much as he could even though he couldn’t stop the horrific events that followed. When she was subjected to the torture of the public whipping, it was Abuba who had stood near her, told her how to endure the pain by swinging her hips back and forth, helped her afterward, gently showering her, applying magic oil to heal her wounds. He had offered her advice, comfort, and a rare sense of safety in a world that had become so cruel to her.

In that moment, Sylvia realized just how much she needed him. She hadn’t thought about him throughout the day, but now, seeing him standing there, she understood how desperately she needed this man—this one person who wasn’t hurting her, who wasn’t taking pleasure in her suffering. Abuba was her only friend, the one person who seemed to care for her in a genuine way.

Sylvia’s eyes filled with tears as she stepped toward him, feeling the deep comfort of his presence. It was a small ray of light in her otherwise dark and harrowing existence on the island.

Sylvia moved forward and wrapped her arms around Abuba, his short stature bringing his head just above her large chest. She didn’t care about the smell of sweat and animals clinging to him; she just needed to feel the comfort of someone who didn’t want to hurt her. She buried her face in the top of his head, her tears soaking into his rough, gray hair.

“They did terrible things to me,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Yesterday ... and today...”

Abuba’s small, wiry hands rubbed her back gently, trying to soothe her. “I know, Sylvia,” he said softly. “I heard from the townsfolk on my way here. They said you put on quite a show for them.”

Sylvia’s face flushed hot with embarrassment at the implication, her grip tightening on him as she fought back the wave of shame. The idea that she had put on a show felt like a mockery of her pain. She tried to explain, her voice trembling. “Omari and those boys ... they forced me to do things. I was so ashamed...”

Sylvia’s body tensed as she felt Abuba’s hand gently cup her crotch over her thin underwear. The gesture was soft, almost tender, but it sent an uneasy jolt through her. “Baby, don’t worry,” he murmured in his quiet, comforting voice. “I know...”

The full weight of their strange relationship came crashing back to her. She didn’t doubt for a second that Abuba truly cared for her—he had been there for her through some of her darkest moments. But this ... this was something she had tried to ignore. His way of expressing care was distorted, warped by the loss of his daughter years ago. Sylvia realized that in Abuba’s mind, his touches were innocent, an expression of love and concern. But to her, they were unsettling, undeniably sexual, even if he didn’t see them that way.

She had been thinking about it just that morning, wondering how she could stop this inappropriate touching without losing him as a friend. He was the only person who offered her any comfort, but now, as he gently squeezed her, it was clear that she couldn’t keep brushing this aside.

Slowly, carefully, Sylvia let go of the tight hug and stepped back just a little, keeping her arm loosely around him as if not wanting to break the fragile bond between them. Their eyes met—Sylvia looking slightly down at him, and Abuba gazing up at her with that same gentle, almost paternal warmth. Yet his hand remained on her crotch, continuing that soft, squeezing motion.

Sylvia’s heart pounded in her chest as she stood frozen, trying to make sense of the tangled emotions swirling inside her. She knew she needed to establish boundaries with Abuba, but the words just wouldn’t come. The memories of Thursday night haunted her—the last time she had tried to tell him to stop. He had been hurt, accusing her of treating him like just another “negro,” saying that she was perverted if she interpreted his parental care as something sexual. His reaction had scared her because, in his anger and hurt, he threatened to leave. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. He was the only one who had been kind to her on this forsaken island.

Her mind raced as she tried to think of what to say, how to let him down gently without making him feel rejected or, worse, driving him away entirely. But before she could form any words, Abuba’s hands had left her crotch and he was squatting down in front of her. Her eyes widened as she realized what he was doing. “It feels like you got some pussy whacking from Omari and the boys? It seems swollen. Let’s see,” he said with an almost casual tone, as if he were merely continuing their conversation.

Before Sylvia could react, he had tugged down her panties, leaving her naked from the waist down, her curly pubic hair exposed just inches from his face. She gasped and instinctively pulled her hips back, startled by the sudden intimacy of the act. But then, almost as quickly, she found herself pushing her hips forward again, closer to his face. It wasn’t because she wanted him to touch her like that, but because she knew from experience that if she recoiled or acted uncomfortable, he would see it as rejection—rejection of him as an ‘ugly old negro’, rejection of his care, and rejection of their friendship. And she couldn’t risk losing the one person who had shown her any kindness on this cruel island.

Her mind was in turmoil. She felt a wave of disgust, guilt, and shame as she stood there, her nakedness so exposed, her vulva vulnerable and swollen from the previous day’s abuse. Abuba’s face was just inches away, his breath warm against her skin. She bit her lip, trying to suppress the shameful tears that were threatening to fall. She didn’t want to hurt him, didn’t want to make him feel like she saw him as just another man trying to use her. He was more than that—he was her only friend, the only person who had taken care of her when she needed it most.

As Abuba leaned in, Sylvia’s breath caught in her throat. His face was so close now, his lips brushing the soft curls of her pubic hair, and then his mouth met her tender vulva. His lips gently kissed her, like someone soothing a wound, and Sylvia’s body stiffened at the unexpected intimacy. The sight was surreal—this short, wiry man, his dark skin contrasting starkly against her pale, exposed flesh. His face, just below her navel, was nestled between her wide hips, lips softly kissing her most private area, with her thighs trembling on either side of him.

She fought hard to remain still, telling herself not to pull away, not to react. The situation was absurd, a grotesque mix of comfort and violation. “Oh, my poor baby, you let them whack your pussy again, didn’t ya?” His voice was low and soothing, his words spoken with the same paternal affection he always used, though the act he was performing was anything but fatherly. He kissed her again, his lips grazing her sensitive skin, and Sylvia felt the shameful heat rising in her cheeks as her body responded despite her inner turmoil.

And then, his fingers found their way to her. With a gentleness that stood in stark contrast to the violence she had endured earlier, his fingertips slid along the crevice of her vulva, exploring the folds of her labia. He found the wet, sensitive flesh hidden beneath, brushing over her clitoris before slipping just inside her entrance. Sylvia bit her lip, horrified to feel the familiar warmth pooling in her core. Her Hyper-Libido Disorder made it impossible for her to remain unaffected. Just a touch, and she could feel the floodgates opening, wetness seeping out of her, dripping down her inner thighs. It was like a dam had burst; the moisture flowed freely, a humiliating physical response that she couldn’t control.

Within seconds, she was wet, embarrassingly so. It was as if her body betrayed her, going from completely dry to soaked, her arousal slick and glistening. She could feel it—warm and sticky—trickling down her legs, dripping onto the floor beneath her feet. Abuba’s fingers, still exploring her, were coated in her arousal, sliding easily as they stroked her. The moisture was so abundant that it wasn’t just on his fingers; it was spreading, warming her thighs, and making her painfully aware of how her body was reacting against her will.

Sylvia was mortified. She could feel the wetness pooling at her feet, could hear the slight squelch of his fingers moving against her, and it made her want to crawl out of her own skin. Her body was betraying her in the worst possible way—responding to a touch she didn’t want but couldn’t stop.

It all came back to Sylvia in a rush, those moments that blurred the lines between care and violation. Abuba had told her to call him “Daddy,” just like his late daughter had, and to use that ridiculous babytalk that felt so wrong yet was somehow impossible to refuse. The memory of it burned with shame, but she’d done it before, and now, here she was, feeling the same pull.

“Oh, my little baby is so wet again,” Abuba murmured, his hand still resting between her legs, making her hyper-aware of every humiliating detail. “Daddy’s girl take everything so sexually ... what can I do with you?” His tone wasn’t mocking—more like confused and almost gentle, but that only made it worse.

Sylvia was paralyzed with discomfort, her thoughts spinning. She hated that he made her feel this way, treated her like this, yet she couldn’t completely push him away. He was the only person who seemed to care for her, and even though this strange dynamic made her skin crawl, it was tangled up with the kindness he had shown her before.

“Come on, babydoll,” he coaxed, “tell Daddy everything, do the babytalk ... how did you make those boys pussy-whack you?”

Her chest tightened as the shame built inside her, but she found herself slipping into the role again. It was easier than fighting back, easier than risking losing him altogether, even though the humiliation was overwhelming. She forced her voice into that babyish tone, her words stumbling out, each one like a tiny knife in her chest.

“Daddy ... ya ya ... they tied me up ... tied me to the chin-up bar,” she whimpered, her voice small and childish. The embarrassment flushed through her, hot and suffocating. “And, and they spread my legs ... like a split...”

The words came out haltingly, each one more painful than the last. “Then ... they hit me down there, Daddy ... with a rubber stick...” Her voice broke, but she continued through gritted teeth, barely holding back tears. “Omari ... he said it was just a game ... but it hurt so much ... Daddy.”

The shame was unbearable, like an anchor dragging her down into an abyss she couldn’t escape. Every breath felt heavier than the last, her chest tight with the weight of what she had said. The words had slipped out, and now they hung in the air between them, trapping her in a moment she couldn’t undo. Sylvia’s heart raced in her chest as emotions surged and tangled inside her—a maelstrom of shame, guilt, and an aching need for comfort. Part of her wanted to run, to flee from the humiliation that had marked her existence ever since she arrived on this island. Yet another part, desperate and broken, craved solace, even if it came from this old and lonely, African man, a mentally damaged man. In her mind, it was the only solace left in this place that had taken everything from her.

When Abuba’s voice broke the silence, it was like a cruel echo of the moments she had endured before. His words were simple, almost gentle: “Why don’t you, my baby-girl, lay down here, take off the top.”

Sylvia froze, caught between the instinct to refuse and the dull resignation that had become her survival mechanism. She hesitated, torn apart inside. She had been through so much—unimaginable pain, humiliation, and degradation that even the strongest person might not have survived intact. And now, as Abuba’s words hung in the air, she felt as if she were trapped aboard a moving carriage that she couldn’t escape from. Weak-minded, broken, and alone, Sylvia had nothing left to fight with. She wasn’t herself anymore; the Australian housewife, a young widow, a woman she had once been felt distant, almost forgotten.

With trembling hands, she reached for the hem of the shirt Omari had given her, her only piece of clothing, already so small it barely covered anything. Slowly, she peeled it off, every inch of her skin exposed once more to the unforgiving air. Her mind screamed at her to stop, but her body moved automatically, obeying the command she didn’t have the strength to resist. Now naked, she felt the rush of cold air on her skin, a different kind of shame enveloping her—not the violent, forced kind that came with beatings and public humiliation, but the quiet, internal shame of obedience. She then slipped off the panties that Abuba had already pulled down to her knees.

She moved to the kitchen table, her legs trembling as she climbed onto it. The hard surface felt rough beneath her, her legs dangling off one side of the small table. Sylvia was painfully aware of every inch of her exposed body, each part of her feeling like a beacon of vulnerability. She could almost hear her own heart beating in the silence, the sound loud in her ears as she laid there, helpless and bare. She wanted to cover herself, to shield her breasts, her body, from Abuba’s eyes, but her hands seemed unsure of where to go, fumbling awkwardly as she settled into the shame of her position.

This was different—so vastly different from the horrors she had survived. There was no threat of violence here, no force being applied to her body, no onlookers ready to jeer or laugh. This was Abuba, the old African man who had shown her a shred of care in a place that had stripped her of everything. The fear of his rejection, of his disappointment, weighed on her just as heavily as any whip or lash. The thought of him leaving, abandoning her, was as terrifying as the violence she had endured. Here, in this moment of quiet submission, Sylvia found herself paralyzed by the prospect of losing the one person who had cared, however flawed that care might be.

She covered her large breasts, her hands moving instinctively to shield her nudity, but even that felt awkward and futile. Her mind churned with the quiet agony of the decision she had made—one that felt voluntary but was in truth born of desperation. The shame that engulfed her now was softer, but no less suffocating. Sylvia lay there, completely naked on the kitchen table, unsure of what to do next, her body betraying her even as her mind screamed for her to get up, to fight, to be free. But that part of her had long since died, replaced by the fear of being completely, utterly alone in a place that had already stolen everything from her.

Sylvia’s heart raced as she lay there, naked and vulnerable on the kitchen table. The words Abuba spoke echoed in her mind: “Can you pull your legs up, pull your legs all the way behind your shoulders, arms out, and feet behind your head, you know that yoga pose.” Of course she knew it. She had practiced yoga for years, mastering advanced poses with ease. But this was different. She wasn’t in a yoga class; she wasn’t dressed in comfortable athletic wear. She was utterly exposed, her body naked, laying on her kitchen table in front of Abuba, her most intimate areas on full display.

The thought of doing that pose, here, now, was mortifying. Sylvia hesitated, her whole body resisting the command. She could feel the heat of embarrassment rising in her cheeks, her mind screaming at her not to move.

Abuba’s voice broke through her thoughts. “I know you can do it. Aren’t you an expert yoga practitioner? Come on, legs up.”

Before she could protest, Abuba grabbed her legs and started lifting them for her. Sylvia squirmed, panic flashing in her eyes. “No ... just a minute, please...” she pleaded, her voice trembling with desperation.

But Abuba paused, his eyes fixed on her with a calm, almost detached expression. “You think this is sexual?” he asked, his tone sharp but calm. “It isn’t. So, if you think this is sexual, then you would be insulting me once again, treating me like those bad boys who assaulted you. To you, am I the same as them?”

Sylvia’s heart sank, her shame now mixed with a painful sense of guilt. “No ... no, Abuba, not that,” she stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

Abuba continued, his voice quiet but cutting. “I see. But if this was sexual, so you’re saying you don’t want this old African negro to touch you or even look at you. I’m so below you, right?”

The words hit Sylvia like a slap. She could feel Abuba’s disappointment, his hurt, and it terrified her. She had no one else in this forsaken place. If Abuba left her, she would be truly alone, abandoned to the cruelty of the island without even his flawed version of care.

Abuba began to turn as if to leave, and panic surged through Sylvia’s chest. “No ... daddy, no ... please,” she cried out, her voice thick with desperation. “You’re my daddy, my only friend, my daddy ... please, don’t leave.”

Her words tumbled out, raw and pleading, and with a smooth, almost automatic motion, she brought her legs up. Her lower leg behind her arm, shins pressing against back of her shoulders as her feet moved behind her head. She lay there, her body bent in half, her vulva and anus exposed in the most vulnerable and humiliating way possible. The shame washed over her like a wave, but her fear of losing Abuba was stronger.

“Please, daddy ... see, here, please come here,” she begged, her voice trembling with the weight of her desperation. “Please...”

Sylvia’s heart pounded in her chest as she lay there, her body laid bare for Abuba to see, her soul aching with the shame of her submission. She had become something she never imagined—broken, desperate, and willing to do anything to keep the only person who still cared about her in this dark, twisted place.