Chapter 31: Bound By Law: Part 1

(This chapter is told from Sergeant Mwanga’s perspective)

Sergeant Mwanga and Officer Emeka moved through the bustling market, their footsteps steady as they navigated the familiar stalls. It was a typical day on Guga Island, where their patrols meant keeping an eye out for petty thieves or drunks. Their duty was clear—handle the offenders quickly, whether through a beating in the streets or taking them back to the station for a more brutal interrogation. Everyone knew the system, and fear kept most in line.

In his 40s, Mwanga was seasoned and sharp-eyed, his expression hard under the weight of his years in law enforcement. Emeka, a decade younger, followed alongside, both men slim and serious in their dark blue uniforms. Their presence in the market was enough to make people straighten up or quickly step aside, though today, they were met with the usual nods and greetings. Guga’s people were used to this kind of authority, harsh but unquestioned.

As they walked, their thoughts turned to grabbing something to eat. They approached one of the food stalls, a place they often stopped by to pick up a meal—free of charge, of course. Usually, the place was quiet this time of day, with only a few early birds eating before the lunch rush. The stall had two dozen tables, but most were empty until noon, as vendors and buyers were busy making their money.

Today, however, the stall was packed, a surprising sight given that it was only 11 a.m. At this early hour, the food stalls were usually empty, but now every table was occupied. Mwanga and Emeka noticed that everyone was watching one particular table at the center of the stall, their attention fixed on whatever was happening there.

As the two officers approached, their eyes locked on the cause of the commotion. A white woman stood on a table in the center of the gathering. She was completely naked, her alabaster skin catching the sunlight as she bent over deeply, exposing herself fully to the growing crowd. The market buzzed with quiet murmurs, but no one moved to stop the spectacle. To Mwanga and Emeka, it was a strange sight, but they stood there, watching, their faces unreadable as they took it in.

What the two policemen saw stopped them in their tracks. It was a sight both shocking and bewildering. At the center of the packed food stall, atop one of the tables, stood a white woman—completely naked. But it wasn’t just her nudity that caught their attention. She was bent over at an extreme angle, her back arched unnaturally. Her hands, stretched behind her, gripped the soft flesh of her own buttocks, spreading them wide for all to see.

The crowd was fully absorbed in the spectacle before them. Lewd remarks and jeers filled the air, adding to the vulgar atmosphere. The woman, despite her exposed and vulnerable state, continued to turn slowly in place, her body swaying and gyrating in a strange rhythm. Her hips moved in small, jerky motions—up, down, side to side—almost like a grotesque form of dance, though her posture remained bent, her hands never leaving their humiliating task of exposing herself.

It was then that Sergeant Mwanga and Officer Emeka noticed something even more bizarre. Emanating from the woman’s exposed anus was a series of colorful lights, like those from a small flashlight, blinking and flashing in bright hues. The lights pulsed, casting strange patterns in the dim midday shade of the market, drawing even more attention from the onlookers.

She cried openly, tears streaking down her face as her moans echoed louder through the crowd. Her voice cracked with each moan, a sound that was a mix of pain and something else, though neither Mwanga nor Emeka could quite understand it. Her hips moved more vigorously as her gyrations intensified, her sobs interspersed with louder cries. And still, she turned, albeit slowly, almost as if each movement was a struggle. But through it all, her hands remained fixed, spreading her buttocks wide, revealing the flashing lights from her most intimate area, never breaking the obscene display.

The crowd’s crude remarks and jeering didn’t stop, oblivious to the arrival of the two policemen. All eyes were fixed on the woman, completely engrossed in the disturbing scene unfolding before them.

Sergeant Mwanga and Officer Emeka had never witnessed anything remotely like this before. They stood frozen for a moment, their minds trying to make sense of the bizarre scene in front of them. Was she deranged? The thought crossed both of their minds as they watched the naked woman, bent over on the table, her hands gripping her own buttocks, spreading them wide in a humiliating display.

Her sounds were a haunting mixture of sobs and unsettling, guttural noises that seemed to rise from deep within her. Each cry was broken, as though she was fighting something inside her, a bizarre blend of desperation and something disturbingly close to arousal. “Ahhh ... huhhh ... ooooo ... eeee...” The strange, breathless moans escaped her lips, raw and jagged, almost animalistic in their intensity. It wasn’t the kind of crying people expected; there was something else woven into it, something confusing to both the crowd and the officers watching.

The rhythm of her sounds grew more erratic, like gasps for air between her sobbing. Her moans mixed with the sounds of her crying, creating a disjointed, unsettling melody. Each “uhhhh” and “aaaaah” seemed to push the volume louder, reverberating through the market as her moans turned into louder, more frantic cries. The rhythm of her voice became hypnotic, a strange cadence of sorrow and some twisted form of pleasure, rising and falling in waves.

Her voice cracked with each sob, yet it continued, louder and louder, until it seemed to drown out the usual market noise around her. The strange, repetitive pattern of “uhhh ... aaaa ... ooo...” filled the air, the unnatural sounds blending with her sobs, creating a bizarre, chaotic harmony that captivated everyone’s attention.

Then, suddenly, she stopped. Her body seemed to seize, as if overtaken by a convulsion, her muscles tightening. But even in this strange spasm, she remained in that grotesque bent position, her hands still spreading her buttocks apart, revealing the bizarre flashing lights. The crowd fell into a brief silence, watching intently.

And then it happened.

Something shot out from between her legs—a liquid. For a brief moment, and even the two officers, were uncertain of what they were seeing. Was that what they thought it was? Had she just climaxed in front of the crowd? Their eyes were drawn to the liquid that spurted from her, a jet of fluid shooting out, splashing onto the ground beneath her. It wasn’t just one stream but several, spraying as her body convulsed again, a grotesque display of uncontrolled physical release.

But it didn’t stop there. The moment of confusion shifted into something more vivid, more shocking. From her exposed position, a pale yellow stream began to flow—urine. It started slowly at first, a trickle slipping down her inner thighs, but then it intensified, a steady stream of urine pouring from her as she continued to hold that bent-over position, her hands still gripping her buttocks. The liquid pooled on the table beneath her, spilling over the edges and onto the dirt floor of the market.

The crowd erupted in a mix of jeers and mocking laughter, pointing at the sight of the woman urinating in full view of everyone. The yellow stream sparkled under the daylight, catching the attention of those around her, as the humiliating display continued. She was powerless to stop it, her body betraying her in the most degrading way possible.

From the jeers and crude remarks coming from the crowd, it became clear to Sergeant Mwanga and Officer Emeka that what they were witnessing wasn’t even the first time the woman had climaxed. One of the bystanders, an older man with a smirk on his face, leaned toward another and muttered loud enough for the officers to overhear, ““Wow, again? She just had a squirting and urinating orgasm three minutes ago, and now she’s going again?”

Mwanga and Emeka exchanged a look of disbelief. This wasn’t just a strange display—this woman, whoever she was, had apparently just experienced an orgasm in full view of the crowd, and now they were watching her go through it again. Shocked, both men stood there trying to comprehend what kind of madness they were witnessing.

“This must be one heck of a crazy white woman,” Mwanga muttered under his breath, still unable to make sense of the scene unfolding before him.

Emeka, still staring at the spectacle, finally spoke up. “I’ve heard rumors,” he said, voice low and thoughtful. “There was talk of a white woman, a former humanitarian aid worker, who stayed behind even after the Foreigner Ban. This must be her.”

Mwanga’s brow furrowed. “I’ve heard about her too,” he admitted. “People said she was beautiful. But this? This is a crazy woman. She might be good looking, but it’s hard to tell from here with ... all this.” His words trailed off, unsure how to fully express his confusion and surprise.

Emeka nodded slowly, watching as the woman now remained still, yet bent over, her hands still spreading her buttocks, with light still emanating from her asshole. “Yeah, she was a good-looking woman, but I also heard she’s been accused of sexual assaults already. People say she walks around naked with her students from the reform school she teaches at.”

This revelation hit Mwanga harder than he expected. “She teaches students? Naked?” he asked, his surprise clear. His mind began piecing together the information, slowly forming a picture of what was happening.

“This is a crazed woman,” Mwanga said, his voice low. “Sex crazed.”

Sergeant Mwanga stepped closer, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the market as he yelled, “What’s going on here?” The effect was immediate. People, realizing they didn’t want to be seen as part of the spectacle, hurriedly returned to their meals, pretending they hadn’t been watching the humiliating display.

But Mwanga and Officer Emeka had no interest in the crowd; their attention was fixed on the white woman and the scene unfolding before them.

Sylvia’s heart raced as the officers approached the table. Omari, realizing the situation was spiraling out of control, hurriedly fumbled with his remote, turning off the vibrator lodged inside her. But in his panic, he failed to switch off the flashing light. He shoved the remote into his pocket, but it was too late—the damage was done, and the scene remained as humiliating as ever.

From where the officers now stood, just to the side of Omari’s table, everything became horribly clear. Sylvia, still bent over, had widened her stance, her legs spread as far as they could go, while her hands continued to grip her buttocks, pulling them apart. Her body was on full display, every inch of her exposed to the gathering crowd, the flashing light still emanating from the plug in her anus.

Sylvia’s face, normally so composed and modest, was now a mask of panic and desperation. She stared at Omari, her lips trembling, mouthing the word “please” over and over again, silently begging him to stop this nightmare. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her dark lashes heavy with moisture. She could feel the officers’ eyes on her, but she didn’t dare move. She didn’t know what to do. Should she release her grip and climb down from the table? What if Omari took it as disobedience and caned her vulva right there in front of the police? Would they stop him? Logic might have told her this was her chance to break free, but she was too terrified to think straight. The humiliation of the moment and the sheer panic had clouded her mind completely.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Mwanga and Officer Emeka were transfixed by what they saw. As they took in her face, despite the clear distress, they couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was. Her features, delicate and soft, were framed by her long, dark lashes, still glistening with tears. Even in this grotesque display, there was something undeniably striking about her. Her vulnerability only seemed to enhance her beauty, creating a disturbing contrast between the shameful position she was in and her stunning appearance.

Their gazes drifted downward, and the sight of her fully exposed body only deepened their astonishment. Her large, pale breasts hung heavily as she remained bent over, her nipples slightly reddened from the strain of her position. Despite the degrading nature of the scene, her body was gorgeous—her curves perfectly accentuated by the awkward posture, her smooth alabaster skin gleaming under the harsh daylight. Every inch of her seemed crafted to draw attention, yet the shame and terror on her face told a different story. She was trapped in this moment, unable to free herself from the overwhelming fear of what might happen next.

Emeka murmured under his breath, almost to himself, “This is one good-looking crazy bitch.” His voice was barely audible, laced with a mix of bewilderment and disgust.

Mwanga, still grappling with what he was seeing, replied quietly, his mind trying to piece together the chaotic and disturbing scene in front of them. “Why is she asking the boy? What’s ‘please’ for?” His words trailed off, the confusion heavy in his tone as he attempted to make sense of it all.

Sylvia, bent over in a deeply humiliating position, strained to hear the officers’ words. She could see their lips moving, their expressions shifting between confusion and disgust, but they were speaking too softly for her to catch anything. She was left alone in her mind, a swirling mess of shame, panic, and fear. Every part of her felt exposed—not just physically but emotionally, as if her very soul was laid bare in this degrading display.

She was all too aware of the shameful position she was in. Her legs were spread wide in a bow-legged stance, her knees bent deeply as she leaned forward to glance between her legs, alternating her gaze between Omari and the policemen. She knew exactly how ridiculous and obscene she looked. Her dark hair hung low like a veil, strands sticking to her tear-streaked face as it brushed against the table beneath her. Her cheeks were flushed a deep, mortified red, standing out against the pale white of her skin.

Her hands, still gripping her buttocks tightly, forced them apart, keeping her most intimate areas on full display. The flashing light from the anal plug pulsed in rhythmic, colorful bursts, casting an eerie glow on the ground and table around her. She felt every flicker of the light as if it were a beacon announcing her shame to the entire market.

The scene was filthy—there was no escaping that. A pool of her own urine had collected on the table beneath her, glistening as it slowly dripped onto the ground in thin streams. The sharp, acrid smell mixed with the stale odors of the bustling market, heightening the revolting nature of the spectacle. Sylvia could feel the degradation weighing on her, knowing that her body, twisted into such an obscene position, was on display for all to see.

What Sylvia didn’t realize, however, was the impact her face had on those watching, particularly the two policemen. While she was aware of the physical display, her tear-filled eyes, wide with raw panic, were what haunted them most. Her lips trembled as she silently mouthed “please” over and over again, begging Omari—begging for anything to make it stop. Her entire body shook as if trapped, helpless in her own humiliation, unable to break free. Her fear and desperation were palpable, shining through the layers of shame she felt in her posture.

Her hands remained locked on her buttocks, prying them apart, exposing every inch of her most intimate areas. From where Mwanga and Emeka stood, they could see every detail. The flashing anal plug, small but steady in its colorful, pulsing light, was clearly lodged in her anus. Her vulva, too, was now fully visible to them, and they noticed that it had been recently shaved. Small patches of hair had begun to grow back, the stubble adding to the stark contrast of her exposed flesh.

The details of her body, once somewhat obscured by the chaos of the moment, were now painfully clear to the officers. They took in the smoothness of her skin, the undeniable beauty of her curves, and the shameful display that she was forced into. But it wasn’t just the physical exposure—it was her vulnerability, the haunting look of terror on her face, that made the scene all the more disturbing.

Mwanga and Emeka both stood silently for a moment, their eyes fixed on the strange and unsettling scene before them. The woman’s expression had shifted to one of wide-eyed alarm, but still, she didn’t move. It was as if she were frozen in that degrading position, bound by some invisible force. Her hands remained firmly gripping her own buttocks, holding herself open for all to see, her legs spread in a wide, obscene stance. While the crowd around them pretended to avert their gaze, going back to their business as though nothing were happening, the woman stayed trapped in place, her eyes flicking back and forth between the boy and the two policemen. The panic on her face was unmistakable, but still, she did not move, as if terrified of what might happen if she dared break from her humiliating pose.

Sylvia’s mind was a whirlwind of fear and confusion. Her body ached from holding the bent position for so long, her hands trembling as they continued to spread her buttocks. She didn’t know why she couldn’t move. It was as if her body was betraying her, keeping her locked in this position of utter submission and shame. She could feel the weight of everyone’s gaze on her, even though they pretended to look away, and yet, she couldn’t bring herself to run, to free herself from the humiliating display.

Mwanga’s eyes flickered toward Omari, seated directly below the woman. The boy’s face was as pale as Sylvia’s, his eyes wide with fear. He was clearly panicking, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table, frozen in place just like the woman. He kept darting looks between the woman and the officers, his mouth slightly open as if trying to find words, but none came. His youthful face was a picture of terror, too frightened to even speak.

The silence was thick, heavy with tension, before Emeka finally broke it, his voice carrying a strange mix of realization and disgust. “Oh, I get it,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. “This is some kind of master-slave game. They must be in a master-slave relationship. This young boy is her master, and she’s his slave. Some deviant women are into that sort of thing ... but asking a boy like him to be her master? She’s a pervert.”

Sylvia didn’t immediately register what Emeka had said, the words lost in the haze of her fear and humiliation. Her mind was too overwhelmed by the shame coursing through her to process the accusation fully. Similarly, Omari’s face remained blank for a moment, his mind slowly catching up with the officer’s words.

Mwanga, still silent, watched the woman closely. Emeka’s suggestion lingered in the air, unsettling in its implications. The scene before them, though deeply disturbing, was beginning to make a kind of warped sense. The woman—beautiful, panicked, and utterly degrading herself in front of them—was clearly pleading for something, but it wasn’t clear what. And, more importantly, why wasn’t she moving? The idea that this was all part of a twisted role-playing game seemed to fit the bizarre circumstances they had walked into.

As Mwanga’s gaze returned to the woman, Emeka’s theory began to solidify in his mind. There was no way Omari, this young, frightened boy, could physically dominate a grown woman like her. He was smaller, younger, and clearly not in control. The power dynamic was all wrong. If this woman were truly being forced into such a degrading position, she would have tried to escape, run to them for help. But she hadn’t moved—she was still there, exposing herself fully, tears streaming down her face, but still obediently holding her humiliating pose.

No, Mwanga thought. She wasn’t the victim here. She was playing a role. A willing slave.

The boy’s face, etched with panic, confirmed it for him. Omari wasn’t the one in control; if anything, he was the one being coerced, dragged into this perverted display by the grown woman. The fear in the boy’s eyes, the way he sat frozen at the table, unable to speak or move, spoke volumes. Mwanga began to piece the twisted puzzle together in his mind—this boy was likely the real victim here, forced into some deviant game by the older woman.

The whole situation reeked of perversion, and the more Mwanga thought about it, the more disgusted he became. He had seen enough to know what was going on, and it was far worse than he had first imagined.

Mwanga raised his hand, a signal of control, and spoke to Sylvia in a firm, commanding tone, “Stay put. Don’t move a muscle.” His voice left no room for disobedience. He then turned his attention to Omari, the boy who sat pale and trembling at the table, needing to understand the full scope of what was happening. His voice softened slightly as he tried to coax the truth from the clearly frightened young man.

“What is your name?” Mwanga asked, his gaze sharp but steady.

“Omari, sir,” the boy answered, his voice small and uncertain, the fear evident in his tone.

“Omari,” Mwanga continued, leaning in slightly, “did this woman force you to play a master-slave game with her?”

Omari blinked, his confusion apparent. His brows furrowed as he struggled to process the question. What was Mwanga asking him exactly? Omari’s mind raced. Should he say yes? If he admitted to being the master, wouldn’t that make him responsible? Wouldn’t it imply he was the one in control? But surely, that couldn’t be a good thing either. His mind spun in circles, trying to find the right answer in a situation that made no sense to him.

Mwanga, seeing the boy’s confusion, let out a sigh. His tone grew more patient but remained direct. “Did she tell you to pretend to be her master, so she could pretend to be your slave? Did she make it seem like you were forcing her to do this?” He pointed toward Sylvia, whose body remained bent over, hands still gripping her buttocks, exposing herself for all to see. Mwanga noticed the sudden shift in Sylvia’s expression, her eyes widening in alarm. A flicker of panic crossed her face as she realized where the conversation was heading.

Sylvia’s lips parted as though she wanted to say something, to defend herself, but before she could speak, Mwanga shot her a look that silenced her. Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind scrambling for any way to fix this, but she was powerless to act. She knew the situation was quickly spiraling out of her control, and fear clenched at her, freezing her in place.

Mwanga’s focus remained on Omari, his voice turning slightly more uncomfortable as he continued. “Don’t be scared, young man. Some women do that. They like pretending to be forced, pretending to be slaves. It’s a form of sexual perversion,” he added, his tone slightly hesitant as he explained something the boy might not fully understand. “You might be too young to know about all that.”

Omari hesitated, the wheels in his mind turning. Then, in an instant, the answer clicked in his head, and a smile spread across his face, wide and eager. “Yes, sir,” he said confidently, his voice now stronger, as if he had found his footing in the lie.

Mwanga nodded, feeling as though the puzzle pieces were finally falling into place. “Okay,” he said, his voice steady. “So she forced you?”

“Yes, sir,” Omari repeated, now fully committed to his answer. He glanced toward Sylvia, her bent body still on display, and continued with his tale, fabricating the story as he went along. “She made me play,” he added, his voice trembling slightly, pretending to recall the details. “I told her I needed to stay home and study, but she made me come here. She made me act like ... like some kind of pervert. She forced me to put that...” he gestured vaguely toward the flashing light still lodged in Sylvia’s exposed body, “that thing ... I don’t even know what it is ... but she gave it to me and told me to put it in her ... in her bumhole. And if I refused, she said she would spank my ... my penis.” His voice cracked slightly, his performance growing more dramatic. “Oh God, I was so scared ... I didn’t know what to do.”

Omari’s eyes welled up with fake tears, his lower lip trembling as if he were on the verge of breaking down entirely. His performance was convincing enough that Mwanga glanced at him with what could have been mistaken for sympathy, his mind now firmly convinced that the boy had been the victim in this twisted game.

Sylvia’s heart pounded as she listened to Omari’s fabricated story, her mind reeling. Her throat felt dry, her mouth heavy as she tried to force words out. “P ... pl ... ease...” she stammered weakly, her eyes wide with panic, pleading with the officers, hoping to break through the fog of lies that was quickly suffocating her.

But before she could finish, Emeka’s sharp voice cut through the air. “Shut up, woman!” His words struck like a whip, and Sylvia flinched as though she had been hit. “You wait until it’s your turn!” His hand twitched toward his baton, a clear threat of violence if she dared speak again. Sylvia’s body went rigid, the fear tightening her chest, and she quickly silenced herself, her lips trembling as she bit back the words she so desperately wanted to say.

Sergeant Mwanga, his patience wearing thin, turned his full attention toward her. His gaze was cold, hardening as he prepared to confront her directly. He had heard enough, and the truth, or at least what he believed to be the truth, was beginning to take shape in his mind—and none of it favored her.

“Stand still,” he commanded, his voice low but sharp. Sylvia, still bent over, her hands gripping her buttocks, felt the weight of his authority, each word cutting deeper into her fragile state of mind. Her body trembled, the overwhelming humiliation and fear keeping her locked in place, unable to act, unable to think clearly.

“What is your name, white woman?” Mwanga barked, his tone filled with disdain.

Sylvia’s voice was barely a whisper as she answered, “Sylvia...”

“You call me sir,” Mwanga interrupted her, his voice commanding and harsh.

“Sylvia, sir,” she quickly corrected, her voice shaky, her eyes still locked on the ground beneath her.

Mwanga’s eyes narrowed. “What is your last name? You foreigners all have last names, don’t you?”

“Elsworth, sir,” she stammered again, feeling as if her identity was crumbling under the weight of her situation. The name that had once held meaning now seemed like an anchor pulling her down into the depths of this nightmare.

Mwanga’s voice remained hard. “How old are you? I know you foolish foreigners always know your exact ages.” His tone was mocking, laced with contempt for the very concept of tracking something as mundane as age. In Guga, age was rarely marked; time flowed differently here. The islanders didn’t dwell on numbers—growing older carried a different meaning, one tied more to life experience and survival than to years.

“T ... twenty-six ... sir...” Sylvia managed to choke out, her voice wavering under the strain.

Mwanga’s eyes flashed with satisfaction. “So, you are twenty-six. Clearly an adult. A grown person.”

Sylvia nodded weakly, unsure if she was supposed to respond verbally or not. Her mind raced, but no coherent thoughts formed, only the endless loop of fear that kept her frozen.

“Why did you force this boy to play a perverted master-slave game with you?” Mwanga’s question came out like a hammer, direct and accusatory, cutting through any remaining pretense.

Sylvia’s whole body shook as she tried to respond. “N ... no ... I ... didn’t ... belie—” she stammered, her words faltering, each syllable more broken than the last. Her fear and humiliation weighed down on her like an unbearable force. She couldn’t make sense of the question, couldn’t find the right words to explain herself. How could she explain what had truly happened when the situation was already so far out of her control?

Mwanga wasn’t having any of it. He stepped forward, his face stern and unyielding, his voice booming as he cut her off. “I didn’t ask you whether you did or did not! I asked you why you did it!” His words were sharp and final, leaving no room for protest, no room for defense.

Sylvia’s mind scrambled for an answer, but she had none. Her lips trembled as she hesitated, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to explain. The shame, the fear, the overwhelming sense of powerlessness—all of it kept her frozen in place, her body trembling as she remained trapped in her degrading pose, too terrified to act or speak.

Mwanga’s eyes narrowed, his gaze cold and unrelenting as he continued his interrogation. His voice, low and forceful, cut through the tense air like a blade. “Didn’t you think this boy, Omari, was too young to be dragged into this kind of deviant game with you, Sylvia?”