Chapter 29: Market of Humiliation: Part 1

It had been an unforgettable week—one that stretched slightly longer than seven days, but felt like an eternity to Sylvia Elsworth, the lone white woman on Guga Island. From the moment the Anti-Foreigner decree came into effect, Sylvia’s world had crumbled around her. Her humanitarian aid group had fled in haste, leaving her behind by mistake. In their rush, they assumed she had left the island the day before...

But the nightmare began when she found a job at Guga Island Reform School—a position she thought might offer her stability in the madness. Instead, it was the gateway to a living hell.

The reform school wasn’t an ordinary institution. It was more like a prison—a place where delinquent young men, hardened by a lifetime of poverty and violence, were sent instead of prison. From the first moment she met Matumbo and his gang, she felt the thin veneer of control she hoped to maintain slip through her fingers. They were predatory in their stares, their words dripping with malice and thinly veiled threats. They quickly sized her up, not just as a teacher but as prey.

Her attempts to report the boys’ heinous assaults and abuses fell on deaf ears. When she approached Principal Tuwme, she felt a moment of hope, naively believing the head of the institution would help her. Instead, Tuwme turned the tables on her, twisting her words and the situation beyond recognition. He accused her of assaulting the boys, turning her into the villain of her own story. It was absurd—completely unbelievable. She was accused of sexually abusing three of the young men.

No matter how ridiculous the allegations were, Sylvia was found guilty without a chance to defend herself. An impromptu court was held right there in the school, with Principal Tuwme himself presiding over the proceedings. There was no fairness, no justice, just a humiliating farce that culminated in her being publicly shamed and beaten. She remembered the moment the verdict was delivered as if in slow motion—the laughter of the crowd, the mocking gazes of the boys who had turned her life into a nightmare. Her stomach had twisted with dread, her heart hammering in her chest.

The punishment that followed was nothing short of a horror show. She stood stark naked in front of everyone, her pale skin glowing under the harsh light as she was forced to her knees. Her body, already trembling with shame and fear, was then subjected to a public beating so brutal she thought she might pass out from the pain. Each crack of the whip felt like it split her very soul apart. And the sodomy—an unimaginable, degrading assault that left her gasping, humiliated beyond words. The crowd watched as her body was violated, their jeers and laughter echoing in her ears.

Sylvia’s skin burned, her flesh swollen and raw, her mind trapped in a storm of despair. But the deepest shame, the most unbearable part, was what happened next. Her body, cursed with a hyper libido disorder, betrayed her in the worst possible way. Despite the pain, despite the humiliation, her body responded in a way she could never control. As the abuse continued, she could feel it—the rising wave of arousal, unstoppable, inevitable. Her mind screamed against it, trying to shut down the feelings of pleasure building inside her, but it was useless.

In the end, the final blow came not from the beating but from her own body. She climaxed. In front of everyone, she came, her body convulsing in a humiliating, wet release. She squirted—a messy, undeniable spray that sent the onlookers into a frenzy of laughter and jeers. It was a secret shame no one else knew, hidden behind the mocking eyes of those who couldn’t imagine the torment she was enduring both physically and emotionally. To them, it was just another grotesque display of their power over her. But to Sylvia, it was the most painful betrayal she had ever experienced—her own body turning against her at the worst possible moment.

She stood there afterward, trembling, barely able to hold herself up. Tears of humiliation streaked down her face, mingling with the sweat and filth that coated her skin. She could hear the boys laughing, their cruel comments piercing through the haze of pain and despair. They didn’t know the full extent of her shame, but they didn’t need to. Her dignity had been shattered, her spirit broken.

And all she could think was that no one knew she had been left behind. No one knew she was still on this island, trapped in a hell that was only just beginning to unfold.

As Sylvia trudged back from the humiliating public punishment, her body aching from the brutal beating and her spirit shattered, she could barely keep herself upright. The sun was beginning to set over Guga Island, casting long shadows across the dirt roads she walked. Her once alabaster skin was now covered in dirt and bruises, the marks of her torment still fresh. She winced with each step, the pain from the harsh caning and the sodomy still radiating through her limbs. Her breasts and her vulva, painfully swollen, still throbbed, a constant reminder of her degradation.

She wore two-piece nylon bands that Marimba made as her ‘traditional-dress’, but the fabric did little to cover her nakedness. The memory of being exposed in front of the crowd haunted her with every step. Each sneer and laugh, every pair of eyes that had watched her suffering, replayed in her mind like a broken record. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into a dark corner and disappear, to hide from the world that had stripped her of every last shred of dignity.

But the nightmare was far from over.

As she passed through the crowded store street block, Sylvia kept her head down, hoping to disappear into the background. The sting of her earlier punishment still pulsed through her body, her torn clothes barely covering her bruised skin. People milled about, going on with their daily lives, and for a fleeting moment, Sylvia thought she could blend in. But then, without warning, she felt a hand grab her roughly. Omari and his friends were suddenly upon her, their faces alight with cruel amusement.

They attacked her right there, in front of everyone.

Sylvia’s heart pounded in her chest as she glanced around, desperately searching for help. But the people on the street merely glanced her way before looking back at their business, indifferent to her plight. Some even chuckled quietly, entertained by the spectacle unfolding before them. It was in that moment that Sylvia understood a cold, brutal truth—no one would help her. No one would intervene. Here, she was utterly alone, completely at the mercy of these boys who saw her not as a person, but as something they could use, torment, and discard as they pleased.

What followed was a blur of humiliation and pain. The boys dragged her away, tearing at her clothes, their hands rough and unrelenting. They treated her body like a toy, forcing her through one degrading act after another, their laughter ringing in her ears as they violated her in full view of anyone who cared to watch. And all the while, Sylvia’s heart sank deeper into despair, knowing she had no one to turn to.

This was the beginning of her weekend with them—days spent in a haze of abuse and degradation. They led her to the seedy sex shop, where she was forced to perform oral pleasure on strangers to earn money for Omari to buy the very sex toys he would later use on her. The cruel irony of it wasn’t lost on her—every humiliating act only served to further their twisted control over her. To them, it was all a game, a way to exercise the power their upbringing had taught them to crave.

By the time Monday came, Sylvia had barely recovered, but the worst was yet to come. Matumbo was waiting for her at the Reform School, ready to resume his brutal torment. What happened next was a repeat of the cruel punishments she had endured before, but with a new, sharper intensity. She was once again humiliated in front of everyone, stripped, beaten, and sodomized, her body betraying her as she climaxed in front of the crowd. And just like before, Omari and his friends visited her in the evening, ensuring that her suffering continued.

In a span of just ten days, Sylvia had gone from a humanitarian aid worker full of hope to a woman trapped in a living nightmare, with no escape in sight.

The only small blessing in Sylvia’s hell was Matumbo’s self-imposed rule. He had learned through bitter experience that his victims, if pushed too far, either went mad or took their own lives. His fiancée had been the worst casualty—driven to insanity from his relentless abuse. It was this grim history that led Matumbo to establish a rule for himself: he would give his victims days of rest in between their torments, allowing them to recover just enough before breaking them again. It wasn’t out of kindness, of course, but a calculated decision to prolong their suffering—and with Sylvia, this “god-given gift,” his treasured white toy, he disciplined himself to follow that rule strictly.

Matumbo’s reputation on the island wasn’t just built on cruelty. He was also a feared stick-fighting champion, and his strength commanded respect. When he told everyone to leave Sylvia alone during these rest periods, no one dared touch her. His word was law. Even Omari, despite his earlier audacity, only managed to sneak in one assault, but after realizing the weight of Matumbo’s authority, he kept his distance, too afraid to defy the champion again.

For Sylvia, these breaks were a mixed blessing. On the one hand, they offered her body a chance to heal, but on the other, the mental toll of waiting, of knowing the torment would inevitably return, gnawed at her constantly. During these reprieves, her physical wounds would heal, and she would almost feel normal again, thanks in part to her naturally athletic and healthy body. The real miracle, however, came from the Magic Healing Oil, a native concoction invented long ago to heal the tortures and whip marks from the colonial era. Its effects were, as the name suggested, practically magical—by morning, the bruises and welts that had marred her pale skin would be gone, her body fully recovered.

In a matter of days, her skin would be smooth again, the raw agony of the beatings vanishing overnight. The oil soothed her, mending the physical pain as if it had never existed. But her mind was a different story. Her fear was constant. With each passing day, Sylvia’s anxiety grew, a dark cloud hanging over her every moment. She knew the next torment was coming, but she never knew when. The anticipation was torture in itself.

And yet, despite everything—despite the abuse, the fear, the humiliation—Sylvia’s natural optimism always crept back in. She was intelligent, yes, but her hopefulness bordered on foolishness, always allowing her to believe, however briefly, that maybe the worst was over, that maybe she could survive without being broken completely. But it was a cruel cycle—just when she began to feel a flicker of hope, the torments would return, and with them, a new wave of unimaginable pain and degradation.

Her body may have healed, but her mind was trapped in a never-ending spiral of dread. Each moment of reprieve was tinged with the knowledge that it was temporary, that Matumbo would come for her again, his sadistic games resuming the moment she allowed herself to think she was safe.

Several days passed, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Sylvia was left alone. Matumbo and the others hadn’t come near her. The relief was palpable, though a gnawing fear still lingered in the back of her mind. As Principal Tuwme had instructed, Sylvia threw herself into her teaching, desperate to focus on something other than the dread that hovered over her. Her students—if they could be called that—were preparing for the nationwide English exam, a test critical not only for the institution’s funding but also for Tuwme’s salary. He had made it clear to Sylvia what the consequences would be if she failed to properly prepare them.

The hours spent teaching were a strange reprieve, even though it was hard for Sylvia to forget the faces of her tormentors as they sat before her, barely interested in the lessons. She pushed through, carefully avoiding eye contact, trying to keep her voice steady despite the tension in the air. She could feel Matumbo’s presence even in his absence, a looming shadow that never quite left her.

Unbeknownst to Sylvia, Matumbo had planned to resume his torment soon. He had marked Friday evening, just after the exam, as the perfect time to pick up where he left off. But fate intervened in the form of his father—a wealthy man with significant influence, the one person Matumbo feared. His father had called on him to accompany him to the mainland for business, and when his father gave an order, Matumbo didn’t dare refuse. It was his father’s power and wealth that had kept Matumbo out of jail, placing him instead in the reform institution. The last thing Matumbo wanted was to anger him.

Reluctantly, Matumbo postponed his plans. His torment of Sylvia would have to wait, and though he was frustrated, he wasn’t about to let anyone else touch what he considered his toy. He issued a strict order that Sylvia was to remain untouched in his absence. No one else was allowed to “play” with her unless he gave explicit permission.

But Omari—young, reckless, and impatient—couldn’t wait. Omari had pledged his loyalty to Matumbo, swearing to be his apprentice, and Matumbo had come to view him as a little brother. But Omari was eager, restless, and the thought of waiting until Matumbo returned was unbearable.

So, Omari begged. He approached Matumbo before he left, pleading to be allowed to “play” with Sylvia over the weekend. He promised not to go too far, swearing that he only wanted to embarrass her a little, to have some fun. Matumbo, though protective of what he considered his possession, finally relented with a stern warning: “No extreme pain, understand? That’s for me.”

Omari, grinning with excitement, eagerly agreed. “Just a bit of a game. Embarrass her a little, that’s all.”

With a dismissive nod, Matumbo okayed it, allowing Omari to carry out his plan while he was away. It would be a weekend of humiliation for Sylvia, though the deeper pain—the torment Matumbo was known for—would have to wait until his return.

On Friday night, Omari lay sprawled across the sagging couch in his mother’s small, cluttered living room, his mind racing with thoughts of the weekend ahead. His excitement was palpable. After begging Matumbo for permission to “play” with Sylvia, he was finally granted the opportunity. He could already picture the ways he would torment her, how she would squirm under his control, her pale skin flushing with shame and yes, some pain. It was a game he had been waiting for.

But as he sat there, his plans were suddenly interrupted when his mother’s friend walked in, carrying a basket of produce from the market. She operated a small food stall in the market square and was in a bit of a bind. “Omari,” she said, her voice carrying the kind of casual authority that came from being a close family friend, “I need some help tomorrow. The woman who usually cleans the tables can’t come in, and I’m desperate for someone to fill in.”

Omari barely glanced at her, his attention still on the images dancing in his mind of what he intended to do to Sylvia. He had no interest in spending his Saturday wiping down greasy tables and hauling trash in the hot sun. “I don’t want to do that,” he muttered, waving her off dismissively. “I’ve got other plans.”

But the wheels in his head suddenly started turning. As much as he wanted to brush off his mother’s friend, an idea began to form, and a slow, sly grin spread across his face. He turned back to the woman. “I know someone who can work,” he said, his voice laced with a mischievous undertone. “She’s a grown woman, too, a strong woman.”

The woman’s face lit up. “That’s perfect!” she exclaimed. “Thank you, Omari. I didn’t know you had someone like that in mind.”

Omari nodded, barely containing his excitement as his plan started to take shape. He knew exactly who he was going to offer to the woman—the very woman he had been plotting to humiliate all weekend. Sylvia.

Saturday morning arrived quietly, the soft golden light of dawn slipping through the cracks in Sylvia’s small cabin. She woke slowly, blinking against the warm rays that touched her face. For a moment, she lay still, letting the peace of the early morning linger just a bit longer. It was a rare, quiet moment, and she wanted to savor it. The anxiety that usually gripped her seemed distant, though it never completely vanished.

Her body ached, but not from recent torment—this ache was more a reminder of her fatigue, the exhaustion of living in constant fear. She pushed herself out of bed and shuffled toward the corner of the room where a simple shower stood. The cold water hit her skin, shocking her awake. She gasped, but let it run over her, washing away the remnants of sleep and allowing her muscles to relax under the chill.

Once dry, Sylvia put on her yoga pants and sports bra, then, grabbed her yoga mat from the corner and laid it out across the worn wooden floor. This was her ritual, her attempt to reclaim her body, her mind. Yoga had always been her sanctuary, the one place she could feel in control. It was a routine she clung to, even here, even now.

She began slowly, easing into the standing forward bend. Her long legs were perfectly straight as she folded herself in half, her palms flat against the floor. The stretch was deep, her spine elongating as her head hung heavy, the familiar tension of the stretch grounding her. She held it, breathing deeply, the pull on her hamstrings a reminder that she was still capable of control, of discipline.

From there, she gracefully transitioned into the Dancer Pose. Balancing on her right leg, she reached back and grasped her left ankle, lifting her leg high behind her while her chest arched forward. Her body formed a beautiful, curving line, her balance perfect, her breath steady. The stretch was challenging, but familiar. Her flexibility was remarkable, the result of years of practice, and she reveled in the control she had over her own body in that moment.

She lowered herself back to the mat and flowed into the One-Legged King Pigeon Pose. Her hips opened wide as she stretched forward, her chest lowering to rest against her front thigh, her arms reaching back to grasp her extended leg. She pulled her foot toward her head, her spine arching into a deep curve. The pose was one of her most advanced, requiring both flexibility and strength, and she held it with a calm grace. The tension in her hips released as she exhaled, the stretch reaching deep into her muscles.

After a few more poses, she sat cross-legged on the mat, her breathing steady and controlled. Her mind, for the briefest moment, felt clear. Yoga was the only time she could focus solely on herself—her movements, her breath, her body. It was an escape, albeit temporary, from the constant dread that hung over her life.

She stood up, feeling the familiar lightness that always came after her practice, and headed to the small table where she had set aside some fruit and bread for breakfast. As she ate, she planned her day. The one thing she had been looking forward to was visiting Abuba. The old man had been a source of quiet comfort in her otherwise terrifying world, the only person who hadn’t hurt her. He was recovering in the hospital after falling from a ladder and breaking both legs, and Sylvia had wanted to bring him something small to cheer him up. He was the only one who had shown her any kindness since she had been abandoned on Guga Island.

She was just finishing her meal, mentally preparing for the walk to the hospital, when she heard the sound of footsteps. She froze, her heart instantly leaping into her throat. The door to her cabin didn’t have a lock—none of the doors here did. It was customary, the locals seeing little need for such a thing. Privacy wasn’t something that existed in the same way it did where she was from.

Her heart sank as the door swung open without so much as a knock, and Omari walked in, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He strolled in casually, his eyes immediately locking onto hers, that familiar smirk curling his lips. His presence filled the small cabin with a suffocating tension. Sylvia’s stomach twisted in knots, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t need to ask why he was here. The look in his eyes told her everything. The plans she had made for her quiet morning, her visit to Abuba, evaporated in an instant.

Her voice caught in her throat, but all she could manage was a faint whisper, her hands trembling slightly at her sides.

“Omari...”

But she knew there was nothing she could say that would change what was about to happen.

Omari sauntered into the room with the same easy confidence he always had, his eyes narrowing slightly as they scanned Sylvia from head to toe. He wasted no time. “You’re working at the food court today,” he said casually, as if this had already been decided.

Sylvia blinked, her mind still racing from the abrupt intrusion. “What?” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I ... I had plans. I was going to visit Abuba at the hospital.” Her words were soft, but her intent was clear. Abuba was the one person on this island who had shown her any semblance of care, and visiting him was the only thing she had to look forward to.

Omari’s smirk deepened, his amusement barely contained. “Plans?” he repeated mockingly. “And what do you think Matumbo would say about your ‘plans’ if I told him you disobeyed me? He left me in charge, you know.” His voice dropped slightly, an edge creeping into it that sent a cold shiver down Sylvia’s spine.

The weight of his words hit her like a punch to the gut. Disobeying Omari meant more than just a scolding. She knew exactly what that would lead to—what Matumbo would do if he returned to find out she had defied Omari’s orders. Her stomach twisted in knots as the memory of past punishments flashed through her mind, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. The thought of facing Matumbo’s wrath again was more than she could bear.

Reluctantly, her shoulders sagged in defeat, and she gave a small, barely perceptible nod. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll go.”

“Good girl,” Omari said with a grin, clearly enjoying the way she folded so easily under the threat of Matumbo. He turned to the side, leaning against the doorframe with an air of satisfaction. He glanced back at her, still standing in her yoga pants and sports bra. “Hurry up, then.”

Sylvia shifted uncomfortably, her face flushing with embarrassment. She still wore her workout clothes, the tight fabric clinging to her body. The thought of changing in front of Omari made her skin crawl, despite everything she had already endured. “Can you ... step outside for a minute?” she asked softly, averting her eyes. “I need to change.”

Omari raised an eyebrow, genuinely perplexed by her modesty. He had seen her naked before, more times than she could count. In fact, just a few days ago, right here in this very cabin, she had stood before him, spreading her buttocks apart with her own hands on his command. He had humiliated her in ways she could never have imagined. So now, her reluctance to change in front of him seemed almost absurd to him.

He scoffed, shaking his head slightly. “Really?” he asked, the disbelief clear in his voice. “After everything I’ve seen, you’re too shy to change in front of me now?”

But this was Sylvia’s nature—shy to the core. No matter how many times she had been stripped, violated, or humiliated, her modesty always seemed to cling to her like a second skin. It was a part of who she was, something that Omari, for all his cruelty, couldn’t quite understand.

Before Sylvia could respond, Omari waved off her request with a dismissive gesture. “No need to change to your clothes,” he said, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. “I brought your clothing.”

Sylvia’s heart sank as she glanced at the small bundle of fabric in his hand. Her mind raced, trying to figure out what exactly he had brought. Omari’s grin widened as he held up what looked like an old, tattered skirt, or rather, what was left of it. The skirt was barely a skirt at all—just the waistband with a small strip of fabric hanging down.

Omari’s mother had given him an old skirt, one that had long been repurposed into a rag. Most of the fabric had already been torn away, leaving just the waistband and a small scrap of cloth dangling from it. Her friend had needed something for her stall, a replacement rag for the one worn out, and had instructed Omari or whoever helped him to bring one along. But as Omari looked at the tattered remains of the skirt, an idea formed in his mind. Why not make Sylvia wear it?

“I brought this for you to wear today,” Omari said, chuckling as he tossed the pathetic piece of fabric onto the bed.”

Sylvia stared at the rag in horror, her breath catching in her throat as the realization of what she was being asked to do hit her.

Sylvia’s heart sank as she understood Omari’s cruel intent. The ragged piece of fabric he handed her wasn’t just clothing—it was a mockery, something barely worth calling a skirt. A memory flashed in her mind, unbidden, of the last time she had been forced to wear something so degrading. It had been nothing more than a nylon band, a pathetic excuse for a skirt, so short and narrow that it didn’t even hide her pubic hair. She had stood there, humiliated beyond words, her entire body exposed. At the time, she hadn’t been shaven, and the band was so small that her pubic hair spilled over the waistband, unable to be concealed. Now, though she was clean-shaven, the memory of that humiliation was just as sharp.

But it wasn’t just the skirt that haunted her—it was the fact that even in those moments, she had still managed to keep her nipples covered. It had been a small, pitiful comfort, but to Sylvia, it had been symbolically important. To be forced to walk outside fully topless, to have her breasts completely bare, was something she couldn’t bear to think about.

She looked at Omari, pleading with her eyes as she clutched the pitiful scrap of fabric to her chest. “I can’t go outside like this,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Not without a top ... please.”

Omari’s eyes flashed with amusement, and he shook his head, his grin widening. “In our old ways, women walked around topless all the time. It’s normal here. If a white woman argues against it, that’s just disrespectful to our culture,” he said, his tone carrying a mocking edge.

Sylvia knew that was a lie. No woman on Guga Island walked around topless these days—those customs had died out over a hundred years ago. But her words failed her, caught in her throat as fear took over. She opened her mouth to protest, but the words wouldn’t come. Omari’s casual authority, his ability to command her without question, left her powerless. She stood frozen in place, her hands trembling as she held the fabric against her body, trying to shield herself from the inevitable shame.

Omari watched her expectantly, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he sensed her crumbling resolve. “Come on,” he said, his voice almost playful. “You wouldn’t want Matumbo hearing that you disobeyed me, would you?” His threat was thinly veiled, but it carried enough weight to make her stomach drop.

Sylvia lowered her eyes in defeat. She knew she couldn’t win. She was always timid, always scared, and any argument she tried to make would crumble beneath the fear that had become her constant companion. Slowly, with a heavy heart, she turned her back to him, feeling his eyes on her as she prepared to change.

Her hands shook as she unclasped her sports bra, letting it fall to the floor. The cool air immediately hit her bare skin, and she could feel the warmth of her blush spreading across her chest and neck. Her breasts, large and full, were now completely exposed. She tried not to think about Omari standing behind her, watching her every move, but the shame was overwhelming.

Next, she slid off her yoga pants, letting them pool around her ankles. Her body felt unbearably exposed as she stood naked in front of Omari, the young African boy’s presence suffocating her with embarrassment. She hurriedly grabbed the makeshift skirt, the small band of fabric barely offering any coverage. With trembling hands, she pulled it up around her hips, tugging it as low as she could, hoping desperately that it might cover more than it actually did.

The waistband rested at the top of her thighs, leaving most of her lower body bare. The tiny scrap of fabric barely covered her shaven pubic area, and even then, she had to keep adjusting it to ensure that her most intimate parts remained hidden. Her large, voluptuous breasts were left completely exposed, her nipples hardening in the cool air, adding to her acute sense of shame. She could feel her back completely uncovered, her plump buttocks on full display, only the thin waistband sitting below them, offering no protection from the gaze that followed her every move.