Chapter 8: Abuba, the Only Friend in Aprico Island

Abuba couldn’t shake the guilt he felt for testifying against Sylvia. She had been one of the kindest people he had ever worked with, always treating him with respect and genuine warmth. But two days ago, he had found her in a compromising situation—naked and surrounded by three of her students. When the principal had questioned him, and though he hesitated, he ultimately told the truth. Now, he regretted it deeply. The punishment she received was brutal, too much for anyone to endure, let alone a woman like Sylvia.

He thought back to his brother, who had suffered similar torments years ago for being gay. The memories were painful, but what puzzled him was how differently Sylvia had reacted. His brother, despite the relentless torture, had never experienced any form of sexual release during his punishment. Yet, Sylvia, who seemed so shy and modest most of the time, had experienced multiple orgasms during her whipping—publicly, no less.

Abuba was deeply puzzled. He had seen the anal dildo they used on Sylvia, a cruel device meant to inflict both pain and humiliation. He knew that for some, like his brother, who was gay, the anal stimulation might have been sexually charged, but it had never led to the kind of response he witnessed in Sylvia. His brother had endured similar tortures, and though his penis had sometimes become erect from the stimulation, the overwhelming pain had always prevented him from reaching orgasm.

But Sylvia ... how could she, a woman, experience such intense climaxes, and not just once, but three or four times, during what was clearly an excruciating and degrading punishment? It defied his understanding. The contrast between his brother’s experience and Sylvia’s was stark and bewildering. He couldn’t comprehend how the same act that had only brought agony to his brother could drive Sylvia to such powerful orgasms, despite the brutality of the situation.

The image of her, standing naked, her body marked with the deep, angry welts from the whip, kept replaying in his mind. He had witnessed her writhing, moaning, and eventually succumbing to wave after wave of sexual release. It was so out of character for her—this was the same woman who had always been so shy, so modest in her interactions. How could she behave in such a way, especially in public?

Abuba’s thoughts swirled with conflicting emotions. On one hand, he couldn’t shake the conclusion he had reached about Sylvia—that she was a sexual pervert, driven by an insatiable need for sex. The intensity of her responses during the punishment, her ability to reach orgasm even under such brutal circumstances, had convinced him that her sexual desires were beyond what he considered normal. He’d heard stories of women like that, women who became whores or porn actresses because they needed sex constantly. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if Sylvia’s shy demeanor was just a façade to hide a past filled with sexual escapades.

Yet, despite these conclusions, Abuba couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of pity for Sylvia. She was the only white humanitarian worker who had ever treated him and the other local guides as equals, as friends. She was kind, polite, and genuine in her interactions, something he rarely encountered from outsiders. And then there was the painful memory of his daughter, who had died so tragically and unjustly, accused of stealing and beaten by police. She died of heart-attack during the beating. Sylvia reminded him of her, though they looked nothing alike. His daughter had been skinny, dark-skinned, and fragile, whereas Sylvia was voluptuous, pale, and seemingly strong. But the connection in his heart was undeniable.

He blamed himself for his daughter’s death, always wondering if he could have done something differently, something to prevent it. That guilt now transferred to Sylvia. He couldn’t let another young woman, especially one who had shown him such kindness, suffer without trying to protect her. It didn’t matter that she was different, that she might have a perverse sexual desires. He promised himself that he would take care of her, protect her as if she were his own daughter. In his mind, it was a way to atone for the loss he couldn’t prevent before. Sylvia had become more than just another foreigner; she had become a surrogate for the daughter he had lost, a person he was determined not to fail again.

Abuba finished his work at the building with urgency, his mind preoccupied with Sylvia’s condition. The memory of her punishment haunted him—75 brutal strokes across her buttocks, breasts, and crotch. It was a torment that not even his late brother had endured without breaking. He couldn’t shake the image of her standing there, naked and humiliated, her skin marred with red welts that seemed to sear into her soul.

He made his way to the house where the magic healing oil was sold, a remedy renowned for its ability to soothe and heal even the most severe wounds. The price was steep, but Abuba didn’t hesitate. He purchased the largest bottle they had, his heart heavy with a mix of guilt and compassion. Sylvia would need every drop to recover from the ordeal she had been put through.

As he walked briskly toward Sylvia’s cabin, the bottle tucked under his arm, he felt a surge of determination. He knew the way well, having driven the aid organization’s van to pick her up many times before. The thought of her lying in that small cabin, alone and in pain, spurred him to quicken his pace.

As Abuba approached Sylvia’s cabin, his heart sank as he spotted a scene that was almost too surreal to comprehend. Just a block away from Sylvia’s cabin, at the edge of the marketplace, he saw Sylvia—naked, lying on her belly, her hips raised high, her legs spread wide. Her ankles appeared to be tied to a goat-stick, forcing her legs apart, and her wrists were bound behind her back. Surrounding her were five neighborhood boys he knew, squatting down around her, while a small crowd of onlookers—shopkeepers and passersby—stood nearby, watching with a mix of fascination and amusement.

Abuba’s eyes widened in shock as he got closer, his mind struggling to process the depravity before him. Sylvia’s hips were raised, her back arched unnaturally, and to his horror, he saw a large cucumber lodged in her anus. It looked as though she was deliberately presenting herself to the dog that stood between her spread legs, as if enticing the animal to eat the cucumber from her body. Abuba’s disbelief grew as he watched Sylvia strain and push, trying to expel the cucumber. He could hear her muffled grunts—”MMMMMMmmm”—coming from behind the apple that had been shoved into her mouth, serving as a crude gag.

The scene was grotesque beyond words. Abuba stood frozen, unable to reconcile the image of the woman he had known—polite, kind, shy—with the sight before him. Sylvia, in front of the leering crowd, was literally pooping out the cucumber, offering it up for the dog to eat. He saw her face contorted in concentration, her body shaking with the effort. Then, with a final push, the cucumber popped out, followed by a large mass of feces that fell to the ground with a sickening thud.

The crowd erupted in laughter, a sound that seemed to pierce through Abuba’s very soul. It was a cacophony of mockery and derision, the kind of laughter that strips away any remaining shred of dignity. Abuba was repulsed, but not by these onlookers’ reaction, but by this woman’s depravity. His stomach turned at the sight of Sylvia lowering her hips, and belly-flopping onto her own excrement. The feces squashed beneath her lower belly, spreading across her pristine skin, a final indignity in this display of ultimate humiliation.

Abuba shook his head in disbelief. How could someone so physically beautiful be so utterly depraved? Yes, she was bound and gagged, but what he had witnessed—the deliberate pushing out of the cucumber, the act of defecating in front of an audience—seemed to be done willingly, as if she derived some perverse pleasure from it. He couldn’t understand it. To him, it was as though she had shed all pretense of shame or decency, embracing a level of depravity that he had never imagined possible.

He sighed heavily, feeling a deep sense of disillusionment. The woman he had pitied, the one he had promised to protect, now seemed to be nothing more than a shameless pervert, lost in her own twisted desires. And yet, despite his revulsion, a part of him still felt sorry for her—felt responsible for her. He couldn’t just walk away, not now. But the image of her lying there, covered in her own filth, laughing men all around, would haunt him for a long time to come.

Abuba took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he had to do. He walked with purpose towards Sylvia, who lay helplessly on the ground, and addressed the five boys squatting around her. He recognized Omari, the son of Sylvia’s landlord. Abuba had been the one to find Sylvia’s cabin before her arrival and had contracted it for the aid organization. He had met the lady owner and Omari that day and remembered their concerns about the cabin being too noisy for a foreigner with the raucous group, these boys, always running around in front of the cabin he was about to rent.

Now, those very boys were surrounding the aid worker he had helped find shelter—a beautiful white woman, now naked, degraded, and tied up in a humiliating position. Abuba’s heart pounded in his chest as he stepped forward. “Hey!” he called out, trying to inject as much authority into his voice as he could muster. “She is a court-punished individual. No one is supposed to bother her. The court-punished criminals are guaranteed safe passage to their homes, by law!”

His voice, though strong, carried a note of desperation. He wasn’t just worried about the five boys—Omari and his rambunctious friends—but also about the reaction of the other onlookers. The shopkeepers and passersby who stood watching, some laughing, some looking on with morbid curiosity. He knew he needed to invoke the law to have any chance of protecting Sylvia from further humiliation and abuse.

Omari looked up at Abuba, his expression a mix of surprise and defiance. “Mr. Abuba, this is what she wanted. She asked to have a playdate, and we’re just playing.” Sylvia, her cheek pressed against the ground, managed a timid “Mmmmmm” and shook her head slightly in denial, though the movement was so faint it was barely noticeable.

Abuba’s face tightened with concern. “You still can’t play with her like this. You were there during her punishment—don’t you think she’s had enough?”

Omari shrugged, his tone casual. “Yes, that’s why we haven’t whipped her or done anything that would cause pain. We just tied her up because she wanted to play a bondage game. She wanted to play an animal game, too. I mean, the pooping thing was a surprise. I wouldn’t have agreed to that if she’d asked—it’s so gross! But she surprised us with it.”

The crowd erupted into laughter again, as if Omari’s words were part of some stand-up comedy routine. Omari seemed to puff up with pride at the reaction, clearly enjoying the attention. He continued, “And as proof that she wanted this game, look at this.” He pointed to Sylvia’s wet vulva, exposed between her spread legs, and then gestured to the ground where a puddle of fluid had gathered—Sylvia’s arousal mixed with urine.

Abuba’s eyes followed Omari’s pointing finger, landing on the glistening wetness between Sylvia’s thighs. The realization hit him hard. “Oh, Sylvia,” he thought, “how could you...?”

He struggled to reconcile the image before him with the Sylvia he thought he knew. Her vulva was drenched, evidence of yet another orgasm—how many had she had in one day? And with these neighborhood boys? In front of all these people whom she saw daily, near her home? The sheer public nature of it, the exposure, the humiliation—it was almost too much for him to comprehend.

Abuba felt a wave of disbelief and pity. He had seen women subjected to degrading situations before, but Sylvia’s response was something else entirely. She seemed utterly consumed by her own sexual drive, her libido overriding all sense of shame or self-preservation. The sight of her lying there, naked and exposed, with the fluids of her own arousal staining the ground, filled him with a mixture of sorrow and disgust.

Abuba took a deep breath, his chest heavy with the weight of what he was witnessing. His eyes locked onto Omari’s, a mixture of frustration and deep sadness clouding his usually kind expression. “This isn’t right, Omari,” he said, his voice softening to a near whisper, almost pleading. “Just because she’s like this, doesn’t make it right. She needs to go home and rest. I’m afraid she will get sick—very sick—if she doesn’t go home and rest. Look at her!”

Omari’s response was immediate, his tone defiant. “No, she wanted to play, and we will play.” His eyes held a stubborn glint, the playful cruelty that had spurred this whole scene still dancing on the edges of his lips.

Abuba, his mind racing, knew he needed to find a way to reason with Omari, to protect Sylvia from further degradation. He paused, a thought forming in his mind—a way to appeal to Omari’s sense of legality, if not morality. “Okay, Omari,” Abuba began, his voice steady, “let’s ask her if she wants to go back to her cabin or if she wants to keep playing with you boys. If she wants to go home, by law, you have to let her. Safe passage home for publicly punished criminals—that’s the law.”

Omari hesitated, clearly torn. He glanced at Sylvia, then back at Abuba, the weight of the situation slowly pressing down on him. Reluctantly, he nodded. “Alright,” he muttered, conceding to Abuba’s logic.

“Let’s remove that apple so she can speak,” Abuba suggested, taking a step closer to Sylvia, who lay bound and trembling.

But Omari shook his head, his stubbornness flaring once more. “No, we’re still playing, so the apple stays in her mouth!”

Abuba sighed. He turned his attention to Sylvia, who was still helplessly bound and gagged. “Okay then, Sylvia,” he called gently, “if you want to go back to your cabin, nod your head.”

Sylvia’s response was immediate and desperate. She nodded vigorously, her beautiful brown eyes spilling over with tears that streamed down her cheeks. “Mmmmmm,” she tried to say, the muffled sound filled with pleading as she desperately attempted to communicate her desire to leave. The gag in her mouth silenced her words, but not her intent. She kept nodding, over and over, making sure her message was clear.

Abuba’s heart ached at the sight of her. He turned back to the boys, his voice firm now, almost commanding. “You saw that. This woman—this punished criminal—has a right to safe passage to her home. Now, untie her, boys.”