Chapter 4: Traditional Dress, Walking to School

Sylvia opened her eyes, finding herself still lying on the wooden floor, naked. Her back ached slightly, but overall, her body felt okay. Despite the discomfort of the hard floor, the warm African night had allowed her to sleep deeply. She had dreamt of being back home, cooking and waiting for her husband, feeling an immense happiness that now seemed cruelly distant. Panic suddenly surged through her as she looked at the clock, but relief washed over her when she saw it was 7 a.m. She still had time to get ready and make it to the school by 8 a.m.

As she got up, the evidence of the previous night’s ordeal confronted her: two stains on the floor, now almost dry but still smelling faintly of urine. The memory of her head being dunked in the toilet, her hair and face washed in filthy water, Matumbo’s tongue invading her anus, and the intense, humiliating orgasm she had experienced, all came flooding back. Tears streamed down her face as she remembered the degrading scene of being forced to bend over, presenting her most private areas, and masturbating anally with a wine bottle.

She steeled herself, knowing she had no choice but to continue with her day. Sylvia grabbed a wet rag and cleaned the floor, erasing the physical traces of her humiliation. Then, she headed to the shower. The hot water poured over her, washing away the grime and the tears, but not the shame or the trauma. She scrubbed her skin vigorously, trying to rid herself of the feeling of Matumbo’s hands and tongue.

After her shower, Sylvia took a deep breath and looked at herself in the mirror. She had to pull herself together, at least outwardly, to face the day. She dried herself and turned around to see her backside. The welts from the first assault had almost disappeared, barely visible. The healing oil indeed worked magic. Sylvia remembered what Matumbo said about 200 years of whipping. She felt terrible about the suffering Aprico Island people went through. It was unusual even for African standards, or any standard, to have rulers for four generations who were all sexual perverts, instilling fear.

How much whipping they must have endured, generation after generation, to come up with such magical healing oil, how much shame and suffering. So much so that they got used to it, almost every criminal offense here included whipping as punishment, and even neighborly disputes ended in whipping. Just a few weeks on Aprico Island, and Sylvia had already witnessed someone being whipped or beaten up on the street three times. All men, but she heard women were no exception. Although she hadn’t seen it, she had heard of genital whipping for more serious offenses, for both men and women. How much these people went through to make that a normal custom, and legal.

She was lost in thought, then hit with the realization that she was now not an exception. She had never heard of a white person being subjected to this, but she feared it was a different time now. She shuddered at the thought, remembering how the customs agent ordered her to strip, only to be countered by Abuba, who mentioned there was a repercussion for doing that to a white person, a humanitarian worker. She knew there was no such protection, no white privilege anymore. She had to make sure she didn’t do anything to justify punishment. She must be good, she must not be offensive, she must be extra nice to everyone, respectful, so she never has to face that.

She was lost in those thoughts, then realized she didn’t have time. She needed to get dressed and leave. She remembered and looked for the traditional dress that Matumbo said she must wear today. She noticed a small paper bag on the dining table. A note was stapled to the bag. She detached it and read it. It said:

Wear these: crop top and skirt, but nothing else, not even shoes.

If anyone asks, you tell people you made the dress, you designed it as a traditional African dress combined with the sexy styles of Western clothing.

If you violate the above two, there will be punishments.

Sylvia’s heart pounded as she opened the bag.

Inside, Sylvia found no conventional clothing, only two spandex loops resembling belts. Sylvia didn’t know it, but they were simply cut off from two of Marimba’s mother’s old spandex pants, each one just the elastic waistband, the rest of the pants were cut away. Each was about an inch wide. There was no African aspect about them, perhaps, except for the leopard pattern. These were just two plain elastic bands. Initially, she wondered if there was more to the dress in the bag. Then, it dawned on her that these were the crop top and skirt referred to in the note.

Her hands trembled as she held the pieces of fabric. She felt a wave of humiliation wash over her. She had to wear these and present herself to the world in them, all the while pretending that she had designed them herself. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She had no choice but to comply.

The notion of defiantly going to school in her own clothing, rejecting the demands of those three bullies, lingered in the recesses of her thoughts. Yet, a haunting query cast its shadow—should they choose to assail her again, who would come to her defense? No one.

First, Sylvia put on the so-called crop top. As she pulled the strip of spandex down over her head and shoulders, slid her arms through, and placed it across her chest, an audacious revelation unfolded. The one-inch-wide fabric barely concealed her nipples, crossing horizontally and leaving the entirety of her generously endowed triple D-sized breasts exposed. Moreover, the old band had lost most of its elasticity, and it loosely clung to her ample bosom, with her nipples subtly protruding through the fabric, forming small dimples. Its precarious perch, perilously close to slipping off with every motion, heightened Sylvia’s acute awareness of her newfound and unwarranted exposure.

Sylvia picked up the second strip of spandex and stared at it in disbelief. The term “skirt” felt like a cruel joke. She pulled the elastic band up her legs, positioning it on her crotch, but it did nothing to hide her modesty. The inch-wide strip didn’t even cover her pubic area, with tufts of her pubic hair visible on either side. It offered no coverage for her buttocks, leaving them entirely exposed.

Looking at herself in the mirror, Sylvia realized the absurdity of her predicament. The makeshift skirt, a mere one-inch elastic band, was positioned precariously across her pubic region. Nestled in the middle of her dense, dark pubic hair, the thin strip of fabric did little to conceal her intimate areas. Her vulva crevice, clearly visible beneath the band, added to her deep sense of shame.

Sylvia’s body was a mix of feminine curves and natural beauty. Her wide and plump outer labia created a noticeable and seductive thigh gap, drawing attention to the very area she wished to hide. She wrestled with the choice of either lifting the band to cover the triangle of pubic hair on her mounds, which would expose the wide and plump labia and vulva crevice, or pulling it down to cover her outer labia, leaving her pubic hair starkly visible above the fabric. The one-inch band teetered between these two extremes of immodesty, a delicate balancing act that vividly underscored the absurdity of her situation.

As Sylvia grappled with the clothing challenge, the thought of shaving briefly crossed her mind. However, the absence of a razor and her deeply ingrained modesty, developed over a lifetime, stopped her from considering it.

Her late mother had always taught her that only women of ill repute would shave their pubic hair. According to her mother, if a bikini couldn’t properly cover natural pubic hair, then the bikini was too small. Fortunately for Sylvia, her natural pubic hair formed a tidy, perfect triangle on her pubic mounds, disappearing from her labia. Her wide, plump labia resembled tiny buttocks, perfectly filling her thigh gap. The rest of her body, with its alabaster skin, looked pure and clean, entirely hairless except for a small amount under her armpits. As a result, Sylvia had never felt the need to shave.

It seemed ironic that with this small piece of cloth masquerading as a skirt, the unshaven areas, typically considered a symbol of her modesty, unintentionally became a focal point.

In the end, Sylvia chose to cover her vulva crevice and outer labia while revealing her unshaven pubic mounds almost entirely. She pulled the band downward as much as possible, positioning it where her upper thighs met her hips, covering the vulva crevice nestled between the two plump mounds. She felt acutely self-conscious about exposing most of the triangle of her pubic hair above the fabric, but she had no other option.

Then, she turned around and looked at her backside in the mirror. Her wide thigh gap was clearly visible, revealing her outer labia from behind. She remembered how her friends in the school showers admired and told her how sexy that was. Even her late husband had said he liked that view the best. She never liked it in public, always conscious when she wore leggings or tight jeans, but now, without pants, even without underwear, showing the rear view of her crevice was the last thing she wanted to do.

The notion also occurred to her that if she were to bend over, her buttocks would naturally part, exposing her anus to anyone nearby. Fortunately, the placement of the band, right on her upper thighs to cover her pubic crevice from the front, meant it was positioned at the bottom portion of her plump, round buttocks. She adjusted it, watching herself in the mirror to place it right at the level of her anus and vulva crevice.

Unfortunately, that meant from behind, the band rested below her buttocks, leaving almost the entirety of her white, round buttocks exposed. The band stretched across the bottom where it met her thighs, barely covering anything. The sight of her bare, exposed buttocks was humiliating.

As Sylvia painstakingly navigated through the challenging task of putting on—or, to be more precise, struggling to put on—her outfit, the harsh reality of the situation started to dawn on her. She was now compelled to venture outside her cabin in a state of almost complete nudity.

Sylvia, a strikingly beautiful woman with alabaster skin, with a voluptuous body and generously endowed with large breasts, cautiously stepped out of her cabin, adorned in those scandalous two pieces of elastic band as her clothing. The streets, already abuzz with vibrant activity and adorned with the rich hues of the local culture, served as a bustling backdrop to her silent ordeal. The atmosphere was alive with the animated chatter of dark-skinned locals, their colorful clothing creating a vivid tapestry against the backdrop of the earthy surroundings.

Aware of the gaze of the locals, Sylvia felt a rising blush on her cheeks, her fair skin standing out amidst the rich diversity of dark complexions. Each step was a battle, the spandex bands barely clinging to her body, a constant reminder of her exposure. The band across her chest was a narrow strip, leaving her ample breasts almost entirely exposed, the fabric barely covering her nipples. Her breath hitched with each movement, the top slipping precariously, threatening to reveal even more.

The skirt, a mere one-inch band, was no better. Positioned low on her hips, it did little to cover her pubic area. Sylvia’s unshaven pubic hair, usually a symbol of her modesty, now seemed like a focal point of her humiliation. She felt acutely aware of every whisper, every gaze that followed her. Her wide, plump outer labia and the crevice of her vulva were barely concealed, the band a fragile barrier between the semblance of modesty and complete exposure.

The ground was rough beneath her bare feet, each step a painful reminder of her vulnerability. The cacophony of the lively street intensified her sense of helplessness. She could feel the eyes of those she passed, their curious and judgmental gazes adding to her distress. The vibrant colors of their clothing stood in stark contrast to her own meager attire, making her feel even more exposed.

As Sylvia walked, she could feel the humid African air cling to her exposed skin, the morning sun casting long shadows on the dusty path ahead. The locals, accustomed to a modesty that Sylvia’s “clothing” blatantly violated, reacted with a mix of curiosity, disbelief, and judgment. Whispers rippled through the crowd like a wave, heads turning, eyes widening.

“Look at her!” an elderly woman hissed to her friend, her wrinkled face contorted in disapproval. “What is she wearing? She’s shameless!”

A group of children, their faces smeared with curiosity and confusion, pointed and giggled. “Mama, why is that lady naked?” one of them asked, tugging at his mother’s skirt. The mother quickly shushed him, her own eyes filled with a mix of pity and contempt as she glanced at Sylvia.

Young men lounging by a vendor’s stall nudged each other, their laughter barely concealed. “Are you trying to start a new fashion?” one of them joked, his eyes lingering on Sylvia’s exposed body. “She looks like she lost a bet,” another added, their laughter louder now.