Chapter 27: After the Gym Session

Sylvia stood there, completely naked, her body trembling with exhaustion and pain. Her alabaster skin was slick with sweat, her muscles aching from the relentless torture she had endured. Every inch of her was exposed—her voluptuous figure, her wide hips, her plump buttocks, and her swollen breasts, still tightly bound at their bases by the cruel puppy collars. Her pubic area was smooth and shaven, the skin glistening from the fluids that had trickled down her thighs during her humiliating climax.

For a moment, she hesitated, her mind swimming in a fog of exhaustion and shame. Finally ... I can leave, she thought, a flicker of relief sparking in her chest. The ordeal was over, at least for now. She had been given permission to go, to walk away from the place that had seen her stripped of her dignity and reduced to nothing but an object of ridicule.

But even in her relief, there was hesitation. Sylvia’s large breasts, still grotesquely swollen from the tight collars, throbbed painfully. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, trying to shield herself from the prying eyes of the students and the inspectors who had watched her degradation. Her arms pressed against her sore breasts, but the slight pressure was almost comforting compared to the strain they had been under. She winced as she gently soothed them with her hands, hoping to relieve some of the lingering pain. The skin around the base of her breasts was raw and sensitive, and she could feel the tightness of the collars biting into her flesh.

She longed to unbuckle them, to free her swollen breasts from the painful restraints. The pressure was unbearable, and every step she took caused them to sway slightly, sending jolts of discomfort through her chest. But fear held her back. She didn’t know if they would punish her for daring to unbuckle them in front of the others, for trying to ease her own suffering before she was completely out of sight.

I’ll do it as soon as I’m alone, she promised herself, as soon as they can’t see me.

With that thought, she turned and started to walk, her legs weak beneath her, each step slow and unsteady. Her bare feet pressed into the dirt as she moved away from the yard, away from the laughter and the eyes that had witnessed her ultimate humiliation. Her hands remained crossed over her chest, her fingers gently rubbing her aching breasts, as she tried to shield herself from the gaze of anyone still watching her.

The air felt cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the heat of her body. She was painfully aware of how exposed she was—completely naked, her breasts still bound, her pubic area bare for all to see. Each step made her breasts ache more, the tight collars tugging at her swollen flesh, making her wince with every movement. She could feel the slickness between her legs, the remnants of her arousal and urination clinging to her inner thighs, a constant reminder of her shame.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing with the desire to get away—to leave the humiliation behind her, to escape from the eyes of her tormentors. She walked faster, her hands gripping her breasts more tightly, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as she struggled to keep her composure. The further she got from the school, the more her sense of relief grew. She just needed to get away, to be alone, to find a moment of peace where she could finally unbuckle the collars and let her breasts breathe.

But even as she walked, she couldn’t shake the feeling of shame that clung to her like a second skin. Every part of her body felt tainted, used, and exposed. The weight of her humiliation bore down on her, a constant reminder that she had been reduced to nothing more than a plaything in their eyes. The thought of it made her stomach churn, her legs trembling with both physical and emotional exhaustion.

Just a little further, she told herself, her eyes focused on the road ahead. Just a few more steps, and I’ll be out of sight. Then I can finally be free of these damn collars.

Her hands continued to rub her aching breasts as she walked, each touch a mix of soothing relief and painful reminder of the torture she had endured. Her nipples, swollen and sensitive, pressed against her forearms as she held herself, every brush of skin sending sharp pangs of discomfort through her body.

Finally, as she neared the edge of the yard and the figures behind her began to fade into the distance, Sylvia let out a shaky breath, her chest heaving as she tried to steady herself. The relief of leaving the scene of her torment behind washed over her, but the tightness around her breasts reminded her that she wasn’t free yet. She glanced over her shoulder, her heart pounding, making sure no one was watching.

When she was certain she was alone, she allowed her trembling hands to move toward the cruel puppy collars that had been binding her swollen breasts for so long. The tight leather straps were biting into her sensitive skin, and the thought of releasing the pressure, of finally freeing herself from this last piece of her humiliation, drove her forward. Her fingers fumbled with the buckle on her left breast, shaking from the pain and fear, her nails scratching against the leather as she struggled to unfasten it. But her need for relief, the desperate desire to feel her breasts unbound, overpowered her hesitation.

With a soft click, the buckle came loose, and the collar fell away from her left breast. Sylvia gasped as the sudden rush of blood flooded into her swollen, purple flesh. The sensation was overwhelming—sharp, prickling pain radiated from her chest as the circulation returned, her breast feeling like it was on fire. She had to bite down hard on her lip to keep from screaming, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth as she held back the cry of agony that threatened to escape.

Her left breast, now free of its cruel restraint, ached and throbbed painfully. The skin, stretched taut and marked by the deep indentations of the collar, was an angry shade of red and purple. She gently cupped her breast with both hands, massaging it in slow, careful circles, trying to soothe the agonizing sensation of blood returning to the tissue. Her fingers trembled as she kneaded the sore flesh, her breath coming in short, pained gasps. She could feel the heat radiating from her skin, the delicate nerves screaming in protest as she tried to ease the pain.

She bit her lip harder, a small whimper escaping as the pain intensified. But she forced herself to continue, knowing she had to endure this, that she had to free her right breast as well. With her left breast now throbbing but unbound, she turned her attention to the other collar. Her fingers, slick with sweat and trembling uncontrollably, struggled with the buckle on her right breast.

She fumbled, her vision blurring with tears of frustration and pain, but finally, she managed to undo the clasp. The collar fell away, and just like before, a wave of pain and relief hit her as blood surged back into her right breast. This time, the pain was even sharper, more intense, as the nerves awakened, the skin tingling and burning as the circulation returned.

Sylvia’s knees buckled, and she nearly fell to the ground, her hands flying up to grasp her freed breasts, cupping them gently as she tried to steady herself. Her lips were clamped shut, a low, guttural moan vibrating through her as she massaged the aching flesh, her thumbs brushing over the swollen, distended nipples that were so sensitive, they felt like they might burst.

She could feel every inch of her skin, every pulsing throb as the blood flow returned, and it was unbearable. The pain and relief were intertwined, a twisted combination that made her head spin. She squeezed her eyes shut, her hands working slowly over her tender breasts, trying to ease the discomfort, her breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the pain began to subside, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache. Her breasts, free from their bindings, hung heavy and sore, the skin still marked with the cruel evidence of her ordeal. She took a few deep breaths, wiping the tears from her eyes with trembling fingers. But now, another challenge lay before her: she was still completely naked, her large, purple-tinged breasts and shaven vulva fully exposed. She needed to get home.

Sylvia looked around, her heart still racing, and decided to take the long way back, circling behind the town to avoid being seen. Her legs were weak and shaky, each step sending a fresh wave of discomfort through her tender breasts. She cradled them with her arms as she walked, trying her best to shield them from further pain, but every movement caused them to sway and ache.

The dirt path behind the town was uneven and rough, and Sylvia moved as quickly as she could, the fear of being spotted pushing her forward despite her exhaustion. She was painfully aware of how she looked—completely exposed, her body marked by the humiliation she had just endured. Her pubic area, smooth and bare, felt vulnerable in the open air, every step reminding her of her total nakedness.

As she rounded a corner, she suddenly came face to face with two men walking in the opposite direction. Sylvia’s heart leapt into her throat, panic seizing her. She instinctively covered herself as best she could, one arm crossing over her chest, the other hand trying to shield her shaven vulva. The men stared at her, their eyes widening in shock, but thankfully, they didn’t move toward her. They simply watched, their expressions a mixture of confusion and disbelief as she stumbled past them.

“Did you see that?” one of them muttered, his voice carrying disbelief. “She’s completely naked...”

Sylvia didn’t wait to hear more. She quickened her pace, her face burning with shame as she hurried down the path, her feet kicking up dust as she half-ran, half-walked. She came across another person, an elderly woman, who simply gawked at her, her mouth agape as Sylvia rushed by, trying her best to cover herself. The woman didn’t say anything, just shook her head as if in disbelief.

The path seemed endless, every step sending fresh jolts of pain through her body, but finally, she saw the familiar outline of her small cabin in the distance. Relief flooded her, and she pushed herself harder, ignoring the pain in her legs, the throbbing in her chest. She just needed to get home.

But as she approached, a few of her neighbors were outside, and they turned to look at her, their eyes widening as they took in the sight of her naked, disheveled state. One of them, an older woman with a scowl permanently etched on her face, yelled out, “Stop running around naked, you whore!”

Sylvia’s heart sank, shame washing over her like a wave, but she ignored them. She kept moving, her eyes focused on her door, her breath coming in desperate, panicked gasps. She reached her cabin, her hands fumbling with the doorknob as she flung it open and stumbled inside. She slammed the door shut behind her, her body trembling as she leaned against it, her legs giving out beneath her.

She collapsed onto her bed, her body finally giving in to the exhaustion and pain. Her breasts, still aching and tender, pressed against the sheets as she lay there, her breath hitching as sobs wracked her body. The weight of everything she had endured pressed down on her, the humiliation, the pain, the shame of being seen in such a vulnerable state.

She buried her face in the pillow, her body shaking as she let out the tears she had been holding back. She had made it home, but the torment, the humiliation—it would take much longer to leave that behind.

*** Matumbo ***

Matumbo was furious that he had to interrupt his game and cut it short. He had been the one to set everything in motion, the one with the guts to target their white teacher, defy the rules, and risk imprisonment. After all, Aprico Island Reform School was essentially a halfway house for minor offenders—any criminal activity while enrolled could lead to immediate imprisonment. It had been his boldness, his defiance, that made Sylvia their plaything in the first place.

But then came the mainland trip which he was asked to accompany his father, three long days away. In his absence, Omari and his friends had taken over, treating Sylvia as their own. They didn’t just stop at using her; they flaunted it, making a public spectacle of his “property.” People saw. They laughed. They enjoyed his toy, his possession, as if she belonged to everyone. The thought made his blood boil. To Matumbo, Sylvia was more than just a victim—she was his, his personal conquest. The idea that she had been with others, even against her will, felt like a betrayal, almost as if she had cheated on him.

It was twisted, irrational, but that was the way Matumbo’s mind operated. Today was all about reclaiming his territory, reasserting his dominance, and making her pay for her betrayal. That’s what the bondage gear and the brutal gym session were leading up to.

After the gym session, he planned to take things further. He would fasten a collar around her neck, attach a dog leash, and parade her through town on all fours like an animal. And that wouldn’t be the end of her degradation—he would force a dildo into her, ensuring it stayed lodged humiliatingly in place. His two cronies, Gambe and Marimba, would flank her, mocking and jeering, solidifying their shared ownership of the white woman. And Omari, the one who dared to step into Matumbo’s territory, would be relegated to a humiliating role himself—following them like a butler, ensuring everyone knew that he had only borrowed Sylvia, never truly owned her.

This sick display wasn’t just about punishing Sylvia. It was about sending a message to anyone who might doubt Matumbo’s dominance: Sylvia was his, and anyone who touched her would pay. Today was about reclaiming his “property” and putting everyone back in their place.

But then, just as he was about to continue, something in Sylvia’s eyes stopped him. She hung there by her breasts, her body contorting, her legs kicking the air in futile attempt. Her eyes rolled back from the pain, and suddenly, he was taken back to a memory that haunted him—Miss Aprico Island, the woman he once called his girlfriend.

She had been a rare beauty, admired and desired by everyone on the island. He still remembered the way she laughed at him when he first asked her out, dismissing him with a cold, mocking smile. It was only his father’s wealth that eventually swayed her, convincing her to give him a chance. At first, he was infatuated with her, completely captivated. Even when he started to subject her to his twisted games, his sadistic pleasures, he still thought he loved her.

But he didn’t see the signs, didn’t realize he was pushing her too far, crossing lines that shouldn’t be crossed. His obsession with inflicting pain, with asserting control, consumed him to the point where he failed to notice her breaking. By the time he realized, it was too late. She was gone, lost to madness. Now, she wandered the island streets naked, smeared with her own feces, a shell of the beautiful, intelligent woman she once was.

Her behavior was incomprehensible to him—defecating in public, smearing herself with filth, unrecognizable from the proud woman she had been. It wasn’t rational, nothing she did made sense anymore. She couldn’t even hold a coherent conversation, lost in her own world of insanity. Yet, somehow, deep down, there lied a truth. In that madness, she had found the only way to protect herself from him. Covered in filth, she was so revolting, so utterly disgusting, that even he, with all his cruelty, couldn’t bring himself to touch her anymore.

She without awareness, had learned that it was the only way to keep herself safe from the worst of his torments. No more being tied up, no more whips tearing into her vagina in front of his friends, no more dildos forced into her anus, no more dancing naked and humiliated in front of her own family who were all scared of Matumbo. Her madness was a shield, and it worked. She was broken, but in that brokenness, she found a way to survive.

All Matumbo could think at the time was that he had broken his toy. He didn’t feel guilt, just regret. Regret that she was no longer any fun to play with. And now, looking at Sylvia, seeing her eyes roll back in pain, he was struck by the same thought. It wasn’t the same—Sylvia wasn’t losing her mind, she was still aware, still conscious of every humiliating, degrading act he subjected her to. But that vacant, defeated look in her eyes reminded him too much of Miss Aprico Island, of the moment he realized his game had gone too far.

He paused, his anger giving way to a rare moment of clarity. He didn’t want to break this one. Not yet. There was still so much fun to be had, so much more suffering to inflict. He would give her a break, let her recover. He didn’t want to lose another toy to his own excesses. So, he decided to stop, for today. He’d ease up, give her time to recover, because this time, he was determined not to break her. Not yet.

Matumbo came home, his mind still burning with frustration and pent-up rage. His sister was lounging on the sofa, watching TV, unaware of the storm about to hit her. Without a word, he lunged at her, beating her and ripping her clothes off. She didn’t resist. She never did. She had learned long ago that fighting back only led to worse punishments. The only people who could stop him—their parents—weren’t home. And even if they were, telling them would only bring more pain later. Matumbo’s retribution was always more brutal.

So, she obeyed, doing what she knew he demanded. She began to masturbate in the way he liked—one finger in her vagina, the other up her anus. She didn’t even cry. Her face showed nothing, no shame, no emotion. It had become routine, a task to complete and survive. All she thought about was the retribution she would exact on her friend later, the only way she could reclaim some small sense of power.

Matumbo watched for a couple of minutes, disgust gnawing at him. She wasn’t what he wanted. She was chubby, with small breasts and no hips to speak of. “What the hell am I doing?” he thought, feeling repulsed. His mind wandered to the women he truly desired—Miss Aprico Island, with her rare beauty, and now the white woman, Sylvia, the most sensuous, beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. This? This wasn’t worth his time. He screamed at his sister to get lost, and she quickly fled to her room, grateful for the sudden end.

Still seething, Matumbo stormed out of the house and walked a few blocks into the poorer part of town, where the streets were lined with crumbling houses and hungry faces. He spotted a boy playing in the dirt and, without hesitation, kicked him hard in the side. The boy ran off crying, and his mother rushed out to see what had happened. Matumbo didn’t give her a chance to speak. He punched her in the face, sending her reeling. Her husband came out next, but Matumbo was ready. He grabbed a stick and, with just a few strikes, had the man crumpled on the ground, writhing in pain.

He turned to the woman, yelling at her to strip. Terrified, she quickly obeyed. Then he told her to masturbate. Her hands trembled as she did what he demanded, her eyes darting to her husband lying helpless on the ground. Matumbo watched for a moment, then stepped back, throwing a wad of Aprico Island cash at her feet—120 pounds, more money than this family saw in a month, maybe more.

“If you report me,” he sneered, “I’ll come back for the money and kill you both. Or you can keep your mouths shut and keep the money.” He turned and walked away, still boiling with frustration.

It wasn’t enough. No matter how much he lashed out, it never satisfied him. All he could think about was Sylvia, the white woman, the one he truly wanted to dominate, to break. But he knew he had to wait. His time would come. For now, all he could do was bide his time, knowing the moment he got his hands on her again, it would be worth every agonizing second of waiting.

He walked toward Gambe’s house. They were going to go out drinking that night. Maybe afterwards, they would go hunting for some poor woman, walking alone at night. Pretty, ugly, thin, fat, it didn’t really matter. They would be too drunk to care at that point, as long as they can beat her up and hear her scream and cry, beg for mercy. It was just after-drink ritual they had. Someday, Matumbo thought, maybe, soon, we’ll take that white woman with us, and we don’t have to go hunting for some random woman walking alone. He smiled thinking about it. He felt better.

Sylvia woke up from a long, fitful sleep. She had collapsed in exhaustion earlier in the afternoon and didn’t wake again until around 9 p.m. The dim light from the setting sun filtered through the small window, casting long shadows across the room. Her body ached, every movement sending ripples of pain through her battered form, and the memories of the past days weighed heavily on her mind. She forced herself up, her muscles stiff and sore, each bruise and welt a testament to the torment she had endured.

Desperation drove her search for the one thing that could bring her a semblance of relief—the magic massage oil. This oil was more than just a remedy; it was a lifeline, a testament to the resilience and ingenuity of the people of Aprico Island. The oil’s origins were deeply rooted in the island’s dark history, a bitter response to 200 years of brutal colonial rule. The locals had faced relentless oppression—constant whippings, sexual abuses, and public humiliations. Their torment had forged a cruel ingenuity, and out of that pain, they had discovered a powerful concoction.

The magic oil, derived from rare herbs and plants found only on Aprico Island, was a product of necessity and survival. It had been created to heal wounds that were inflicted almost daily on their bodies. It worked miracles, soothing the deep cuts and lacerations from whips, erasing scars, and tightening muscles that had been forced to endure unspeakable abuse. It could even restore the elasticity of internal muscles, repairing damage to the vagina and anus, which were often violated in public displays of power and control. The oil had become a closely guarded secret, passed down through generations, a small solace in a world of relentless pain.

Sylvia’s fingers trembled as she opened the cupboard, praying she would find even a small bottle left. Her body needed it desperately. Her breasts, still discolored with shades of pink and purple, were tender and swollen from being tightly bound for half a day, the blood flow restricted to the point of agony. Red, angry handprints marred the skin of her perfectly shaped large breasts, each a stark reminder of the brutal slaps she had endured. Her plump, freshly shaved vulva was painfully swollen, and the soft tissue was raw and inflamed. And her anus, stretched and gaping from the thick rubber dildo that had been forced inside her, ached with a relentless, throbbing pain.

Finally she found the bottle, but it was empty; every last drop was gone. Abuba had brought it to her before, the only one who seemed to care enough to provide some small comfort. But now it was all used up. Sylvia leaned against the cupboard door, feeling the despair rise up like a wave. All she could do was wait. Wait for Abuba to return, to bring her the precious oil that was her only hope for relief.

Sylvia realized, with a jolt of embarrassment, that she was still completely naked. She had collapsed into bed in exhaustion after the ordeal. The memory of running back to her room naked, her body aching and exposed, sent a shiver of humiliation down her spine. Even now, alone in the small, dimly lit room, she felt a sharp pang of self-consciousness.

Hastily, she reached for her clothes, finding a pair of white nylon underpants and a sports bra. She slipped them on quickly, the thin fabric clinging to her skin. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for a hot summer night like this, and it gave her a small sense of security. The bra supported her swollen, tender breasts, while the underwear provided at least a semblance of modesty. Taking a deep breath, she tried to steady herself, to push the memories away and focus on what needed to be done.

She was still sore, every movement reminding her of the bruises and welts that covered her body, but at least she was somewhat covered now. She felt a little more like herself, or at least what remained of herself after everything she had endured. And then, with a gnawing hunger in her stomach, she made her way to the small kitchen area and grabbed some fruit from the bowl on the counter.

The sweet taste of the ripe mango brought a brief moment of comfort. She loved fruit, and on Aprico Island, it was one of the few things that were plentiful and affordable. For a few precious moments, she allowed herself to savor the flavors, the simple joy of eating something fresh and sweet, before her thoughts began to spiral back to the grim reality she faced.

She had to prepare for the next day. It seemed almost surreal—after everything that had happened, after the sheer brutality of it all, she was expected to go back and teach as if nothing had happened. As she pieced together her memories of the day, it finally dawned on her. It wasn’t just harsh discipline she had suffered; it was torture. She had been hung naked, publicly whipped, her breasts tied off like grotesque balloons. The thought made her stomach churn. Yes, it was framed as part of the “gym session,” but by any measure from the world she came from, it was undeniably torture.

And yet, despite everything, she had to carry on. She needed to prepare her lecture for the next day. But then, she remembered something—Matumbo and Principal Tuwme’s exchange from earlier. She had been too overwhelmed at the time, too consumed by pain and humiliation to process it. But now, the words came back to her with surprising clarity: no more bullying-game until after the English exam on Friday. Principal Tuwme had insisted that she be left alone, that she be given time to teach.

Relief flooded through her, almost making her dizzy. She had at least four days of peace, four days where she could live somewhat of a normal life without the constant fear of what the bullies would do to her next. If anyone tried to break that promise, she could go to Principal Tuwme. He had said she would be left alone. It was a small reprieve, but it was enough to give her hope.

With renewed determination, she took out her book and began to review the English lessons she needed to cover. The test was important, not just for her students but for her too. Maybe if they did well, Principal Tuwme would see the value in protecting her. Maybe the students would see it too, appreciate having a native English speaking teacher and stop their torment.

Naïve as it might be, she held on to that hope, pouring herself into her work. For the first time in what felt like forever, she felt a flicker of purpose, a reason to keep going. She knew it was fragile, that it could be shattered at any moment, but she held on to it with everything she had, diving into her preparations for the next day, clinging desperately to the possibility of something better.

The door creaked open, and Sylvia instinctively looked up, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Abuba?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. But it wasn’t Abuba standing in the doorway. It was Omari. Her heart sank, a wave of fear and dread washing over her as she tensed, knowing that this boy’s presence couldn’t have meant anything good.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Didn’t you hear?” he said, his tone mocking. “Abuba fell from a ladder and broke his legs—both of them. He’s in the hospital downtown. He’ll be there for a while, I assume.” Sylvia’s heart shattered at his words, and the realization hit her hard. That explained why Abuba had been absent throughout her ordeal. Even though he couldn’t have stopped what was happening, just having him there would have made her torment a little more bearable. She remembered how he had stood by her during her public punishment the previous week, his presence a bizarre comfort as he whispered to her, giving her advice on how to withstand the pain, reminding swing her hips back and force, pump the dildo in and out of her, focus on arousal instead of pain. His strange but genuine concern had been a lifeline in the midst of her humiliation.

Now it all made sense—why he hadn’t come to her cabin earlier, why she had faced the torment alone. A wave of sadness and worry washed over her. She hoped he was okay. Yes, Abuba was sexually strange, his behavior often bizarre and unsettling, but she knew it stemmed from his own suffering, his mind shattered by the tragedies he had endured on this brutal island. Despite his deranged state, he had shown her a semblance of care, a kind of fractured, twisted friendship. He was the only one who did. And now, he was lying in a hospital bed, injured and alone, while she was left to fend for herself. She hugged her arms around her body, feeling the cold emptiness of the room closing in on her.