Chapter 9: Abuba, the Only Friend in Aprico Island 2

Abuba followed Sylvia into her cabin, where she lay asleep, naked and exposed on her bed, without even a blanket for modesty. Her body was splayed out, a testament to her exhaustion from the day’s traumatic events. Abuba approached her quietly, his voice soft but insistent as he gently woke her. He touched her bare buttocks, his hand warm and surprisingly tender against her skin.

Sylvia, still groggy and disoriented, turned her head and blinked up at him. She felt a confusing mix of relief and apprehension. As she became more aware, she realized that Abuba was now gently cupping and massaging her vulva. The touch was unexpected, but it wasn’t aggressive. It felt strange, almost surreal, as if he was performing a normal, everyday act. There was a peculiar tenderness in his touch, one that didn’t feel entirely appropriate but also didn’t feel malicious.

Despite the oddity of the situation, Sylvia felt a small measure of gratitude. Having someone with her, someone who seemed to care in his own way, was comforting, even if the circumstances were unsettling. The vulnerability of the moment made her uneasy, but she was too exhausted to protest, too weary to resist.

“Let’s take a shower, so we can apply the healing oil,” Abuba suggested, his voice steady as he looked at Sylvia’s weary form.

“I feel so weak, I can’t even stand,” Sylvia replied, her voice barely above a whisper, laden with exhaustion and the remnants of the day’s horrors.

“Let me help you,” Abuba said, moving closer. He gently pulled her up, supporting her as she struggled to stand. Sylvia felt a deep sense of shame as he guided her, her nakedness a constant reminder of her vulnerability. But she didn’t stop him. She was too tired to protest, too afraid of losing the only friend she had left on the island.

As they reached the bathroom, Sylvia’s legs wobbled, and she admitted, “I’m too tired to stand.”

Abuba paused, then had an idea. He let her hold on to the shower handle for a minute, then went to the kitchen and retrieved a length of rope used for hanging clothes to dry. Returning to the bathroom, he tied her wrists to the cloth-hanging hook on the ceiling. Now, Sylvia stood almost straight, her arms tied above her head, her body completely exposed.

The position was uncomfortable. Although it helped her stand, it felt like bondage. The unease gnawed at her—this wasn’t right. She was standing there, arms tied to the ceiling, completely naked before her 60-year-old African man, former coworker. Yet, Abuba was so nonchalant, his demeanor unchanging, as if nothing about the situation was unusual. It seemed he genuinely just wanted to help her stand.

He turned on the shower, and warm water cascaded over Sylvia’s curvy body. Abuba washed her gently, his hands moving over areas that made her cringe inwardly with embarrassment. When his hands reached her large breasts, he soaped them with slow, deliberate movements, squeezing and kneading as if simply ensuring they were clean. Sylvia’s cheeks burned with shame, her body reacting despite her mind’s desperate pleas for control.

As Abuba’s hands moved to Sylvia’s buttocks, her muscles involuntarily tensed, her sphincter tightening reflexively in response. The sensation of his fingers brushing against her anus sent a sharp jolt of awareness through her body, a mixture of shame and arousal that she couldn’t control. As his finger slipped inside, her sphincter instinctively clenched around the intrusion, and a wave of mortification washed over her. The earlier humiliation of defecating herself resurfaced, making her stomach churn with embarrassment.

Her body, however, betrayed her. Despite the discomfort and her desperate desire to suppress any reaction, the physical stimulation triggered an involuntary response. Her rectal muscles contracted rhythmically, and a subtle, unwanted arousal began to build in her core. She could feel the heat rising from deep within, spreading through her abdomen and down to her thighs, making her legs weak and causing her to tremble slightly.

Her arms, tied above her head, made her feel even more vulnerable, as she was completely exposed to Abuba’s touch. Each movement he made sent ripples of sensation through her sensitive flesh, heightening the tension in her body. The tight grip of the rope on her wrists anchored her in place, leaving her no choice but to endure the intimate cleansing. She bit her lip, trying to suppress a moan that threatened to escape as the stimulation of her sphincter combined with the warmth of the shower water, the humiliating memory of her earlier accident, and the helplessness of her current situation. The combination was overwhelming, creating a confusing blend of emotions—shame, humiliation, and a forbidden arousal that made her want to curl into herself and disappear.

Abuba paused, his hands stilled as he felt Sylvia’s body tense beneath his touch. It was undeniable now—the way her muscles clenched, the faint tremor that coursed through her. This wasn’t normal, he thought.

His gaze traveled up to her face, her eyes tightly shut, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. It dawned on him with a heavy sense of disbelief. This woman, this 32-year-old aid worker who looked barely 18 with her flawless skin and voluptuous body, was responding sexually to his touch.

“Do you like this, Sylvia?” Abuba asked quietly, his voice edged with a mixture of curiosity and something close to pity. “Do you like this 60-year-old man touching your anus that much?”

The question hung in the air, heavy and laden with implications. Sylvia’s eyes flew open, panic and shame flashing across her face. Her cheeks flushed crimson, the mortification flooding her senses as she realized what he was asking, what he had noticed.

“No!” Sylvia gasped, her voice trembling as she tried to twist away from him, but her arms were still tied above her head, rendering her completely vulnerable. The denial burst from her lips with desperation, but even to her, it sounded unconvincing, hollow.

Abuba’s expression softened, but his hands remained where they were, his finger still resting inside her anus. “Then why are you reacting this way?” he asked, his tone gentle but probing. “Your body ... it’s telling me something different.”

Sylvia wanted to so much to tell him the truth, truth about her hormonal disorder. She had Hyper-Libido Disorder—a condition that had tormented her for years, making her body respond in ways she couldn’t control. But for some reason, the words stuck in her throat, heavy with shame. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Abuba, or anyone else for that matter. The mere thought of revealing that part of herself filled her with a deep-seated dread.

She had learned the truth about her condition when she was first diagnosed, her senior year in high school, a moment that had initially brought a sense of relief. Finally, there was an explanation for why her body reacted the way it did, why she couldn’t control the overwhelming arousal that surged through her at the slightest touch. In her naivety, she had shared this discovery with few of her closest friends, to explain that she wasn’t a sex-crazed person that they thought she was. In fact, she was a virgin at the time. But that trust had been shattered when word spread, and soon, all the boys in school began to approach her, touching her against her will, eager to see if the rumors were true.

It had been a nightmare—a violation that scarred her deeply. They had laughed as they prodded and groped, taking pleasure in her body’s involuntary responses. Sylvia had tried to fight back, to protest, but her own body had betrayed her, responding to their unwanted advances with the same uncontrollable arousal she had come to despise. The humiliation had been unbearable, being groped in her own school in front of many of her friends. Then, one day it escalated to a gang rape. She was raped by more than a dozen boys in her high school. That night, she told her parents. And they decided to move to a new town, and start all over again, all because she didn’t keep her illness secret like her mother told her to. From that moment on, she had vowed never to speak of her condition again. The shame was too great, the memories too painful.

Now, standing in the shower with Abuba’s hands on her, those memories came flooding back, bringing with them a fresh wave of shame and fear. She was trapped in her own body, a prisoner of her uncontrollable desires. The same desires that had ruined her life, that had turned her into a spectacle for others to gawk at, were now betraying her once again. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell Abuba. She couldn’t bear to see the look of disgust or pity in his eyes, to have him see her as the others had—as nothing more than a body to be used and discarded.

So instead, she stammered out a weak denial. “I’m not ... I didn’t mean...” But even to her own ears, the words sounded hollow, a feeble attempt to distance herself from the truth.

Abuba’s finger moved slightly, a simple shift that sent a jolt through Sylvia’s body, her sphincter involuntarily tightening around the long thin finger of this old man. She bit down hard on her lower lip, trying to suppress the moan that threatened to escape, but a soft whimper still slipped out, betraying her. The humiliation was overwhelming, wrapping around her like a suffocating blanket. How could she explain that this wasn’t her fault? That her body was acting on its own, out of her control?

Sylvia’s voice trembled as she whispered, barely audible over the sound of the running water. “Please, stop ... I ... you ... you’re fi ... finger-fucking me there, tha ... that’s why ... you’re...”

Her words trailed off as she saw the hurt flash across Abuba’s face. He immediately withdrew his finger, pulling both of his soaped hands away from her as if burned. The warmth and tenderness of the moment dissolved into a tense silence, heavy with misunderstanding and unspoken emotions.

“You think I’m a sexual pervert like those boys, or like you?” Abuba’s voice was low, a mix of disappointment and pain. “After everything I’ve done to help you?”

“Please, I’m sorry,” Sylvia stammered, her heart sinking. “I ... I really appreciate you helping me, rescuing me, and now washing me like this. I ... I should be thankful to you. No, no, I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m so wrong to feel sexual when you’re just washing me. I’m so sorry.”

Desperation laced her words as she realized she might have offended the only person who seemed to be on her side in this godforsaken place. She couldn’t afford to lose him, not now, not when she was so vulnerable. “P ... please continue, c ... could you wash me? I’m so dirty down there ... P ... please, Abuba, please...”

Abuba hesitated for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he finally responded. “Okay. But call me daddy then.”

“Wh ... what?” Sylvia blinked, confused, her mind struggling to keep up.

“Call me daddy,” he repeated, his tone firm.

“O ... okay, daddy,” she agreed, though a faint sense of unease began to stir in her chest. It felt wrong, but she didn’t have the energy to resist. She was too tired, too broken.

“D ... daddy, please wash me,” she repeated, her voice trembling with uncertainty.

“Make it sound like babytalk,” Abuba instructed, his eyes narrowing as he watched her.

Sylvia hesitated but complied, her voice taking on a childish lilt as she stammered, “D ... daddy, wash me down there.”

“Where?” he asked, his voice sharp and demanding.

“Down th...” she started, but he cut her off.

“Be specific.”

“M ... my anus...” Sylvia forced out, her cheeks burning with shame.

“You mean your dirty asshole?” he corrected, his tone hard.

“Y ... yes, my dirty asshole, daddy ... please wash my dirty asshole...” Her voice was barely a whisper now, thick with humiliation and confusion.

“And how about your pussy?” Abuba pressed. “You peed in front of many people today, don’t you think it’s even dirtier?”

Sylvia’s heart raced, a cold dread settling in her stomach. Something was wrong, deeply wrong. But she was too disoriented, too scared to identify what it was. She was caught in a daze, her mind foggy and her body trembling. But even in her confusion, a tiny voice in the back of her mind screamed that this wasn’t right, that something was terribly, terribly off.

“Y ... yes, please ... daddy, please wash my pu ... pussy also...” The words felt foreign and degrading on her tongue, but she forced them out, desperate to appease him.

If there had been another person in the room, someone to witness the exchange, they might have seen what Sylvia couldn’t—that Abuba, seemingly kind and caring, harbored a dark fetish. A different kind of sexual perversion that he was now indulging at her expense. But Sylvia was alone, trapped in her own disoriented mind, unable to see the truth of what was happening to her. And Abuba, ever the manipulator, continued to guide her down a path that she was too broken to resist.

Abuba soaped his hands again, the rich lather covering his palms as he moved with deliberate care. He placed his hands firmly on Sylvia’s hips, guiding her to stand more securely, the warm water continuing to cascade down her body, mingling with the suds that slid over her pale skin. The room filled with the scent of soap and the sound of water splashing against the tiles, a deceptive sense of normalcy enveloping the scene.

Starting with her buttocks, Abuba’s hands moved methodically, spreading the soap across her skin in slow, circular motions. He massaged the flesh with practiced ease, his fingers pressing into the softness of her cheeks, spreading them apart as he worked the lather deeper into her skin. The soap slid into every crevice, the slippery texture accentuating the contours of her body as he cleaned her thoroughly, almost reverently. His touch was firm but careful, making sure to cover every inch of her exposed flesh, his thumbs brushing close to the sensitive area between her cheeks, just grazing the puckered skin of her anus.

As his fingers lingered near her most intimate area, Sylvia felt her muscles clench involuntarily, her sphincter tightening at the unexpected contact. A wave of shame washed over her, mingling with the confusion and fatigue that had settled deep within her. She wanted to cry out, to tell him to stop, but the words stuck in her throat, strangled by the fear of losing the only ally she had left.

Without a word, Abuba moved his soaped hands to the front, sliding them around her waist and down towards her crotch. He parted her legs slightly, his fingers working their way through the dark, coarse hair that covered her pubic area. The soap created a frothy barrier, easing his movements as he began to clean her there as well. His hands slipped over the mound of her pubis, fingers pushing through the hair, seeking out the folds of her vulva. He washed her outer lips first, the large, plump labia majora slick with soap as he gently pulled them apart, his fingers sliding into the delicate crevice where the suds gathered.

Abuba’s touch became more intimate as he cleaned her thoroughly, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of her inner labia. The slickness of the soap allowed his hands to glide effortlessly over her most private parts, and Sylvia felt her body react against her will. Her muscles tensed, her hips shifting involuntarily as a faint tingle of arousal started to build in her lower abdomen. She bit down on her lip, trying to stifle any sound that might escape, knowing that any reaction from her would only further complicate the already twisted dynamic between them.

He pressed his fingers against her clitoris, not as a lover might, but in a clinical, almost detached manner, rubbing the area clean with a steady motion. But even this utilitarian touch sent shockwaves through Sylvia’s body, her Hyper-Libido Disorder making her hypersensitive to every sensation. Her knees wobbled, and she felt a warm flush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck, the water mixing with the sweat of her humiliation.

Abuba’s hands continued to work between her legs, moving back and forth, the friction of the soap stimulating her despite the shame that clouded her mind. He pushed his fingers lower, down towards her perineum and back to her anus, rubbing the area clean with the same methodical care. The soap slid effortlessly between her cheeks, his fingers once again brushing against her tightly clenched sphincter.

Sylvia’s body responded with a sharp intake of breath, her sphincter muscles reflexively tightening around the invading touch. The sensation was both intrusive and stimulating, her body betraying her in the most humiliating way. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could block out the reality of what was happening, but the sensations were too overwhelming to ignore.

As Abuba’s fingers lingered there, cleaning her thoroughly, Sylvia felt a growing pressure deep within her pelvis, an all-too-familiar sign of impending arousal. She fought against it, trying to push the feeling down, but her body refused to cooperate. The combination of shame, exhaustion, and unwanted stimulation created a confusing storm of emotions, leaving her teetering on the edge of a response she desperately didn’t want to give.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Abuba pulled his hands away, the soap rinsing clean from her body as the warm water continued to pour over her. Sylvia’s legs felt weak, her body trembling from the effort of holding back the arousal that had built up during the intimate washing. She sagged against the restraints, her arms still tied above her head, her breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps as she struggled to regain control over her emotions.

But even as the water washed away the soap, the memory of Abuba’s touch lingered, a stark reminder of her vulnerability and the twisted nature of the relationship she now found herself trapped in.

Abuba turned off the shower, the sudden silence amplifying the thudding of Sylvia’s heart in her ears. The warmth of the water was quickly replaced by the coolness of the air, causing a shiver to run through her body. Her skin, still slick and flushed from the washing, felt exposed and vulnerable as she stood there, hands tied above her head, water dripping down her trembling limbs.

He reached for a towel, a large, rough piece of fabric that seemed oversized in his hands. Without a word, he began to dry her, starting at her shoulders and working his way down, the towel absorbing the droplets of water clinging to her skin. The texture of the fabric was coarse against her delicate skin, adding an extra layer of sensation to the already overwhelming experience.

Abuba moved slowly, deliberately, his hands pressing the towel against her body with a firm but gentle touch. He dried her arms first, running the towel along the length of her outstretched limbs, the motion almost tender as he worked from her wrists down to her elbows, then up to her shoulders. Each movement felt deliberate, as though he was taking his time to ensure she was completely dry, but there was also an unsettling intimacy in the way he handled her, a closeness that went beyond mere caretaking.

Next, he moved to her chest, the towel brushing over her collarbones and down to her large breasts. He pressed the towel against her, cupping each breast in turn, his hands molding to her shape as he dried the sensitive skin. The rough texture of the towel grazed over her nipples, causing them to harden involuntarily, sending another unwanted ripple of sensation through her. Sylvia’s breath hitched, her chest rising and falling as she struggled to maintain her composure, her body reacting to the intimate contact despite her best efforts to remain detached.

Abuba’s hands lingered on her breasts longer than necessary, the towel moving in slow, circular motions, as if he was savoring the act of drying her. He squeezed gently, ensuring that no moisture remained, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh, the roughness of the towel adding to the intensity of the sensation. Sylvia’s face burned with embarrassment, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson as she realized how thoroughly he was handling her, his actions blurring the line between care and something more.

He moved the towel down to her abdomen, his hands rubbing the fabric against her stomach in broad strokes, his touch uncomfortably close to her still-sensitive vulva. Sylvia tensed, her muscles tightening as the towel brushed lower, down towards her pubic area. She felt a knot of anxiety form in her chest, knowing that he would soon be drying her most private parts, and dreading the sensations that would follow.

When Abuba finally reached her crotch, he hesitated for a moment, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. There was an unspoken understanding between them, a silent acknowledgment of the awkwardness of the situation, but he didn’t pull back. Instead, he pressed the towel against her pubic mound, rubbing the fabric over the coarse hair and the still-tender skin beneath. He worked the towel between her legs, his movements firm but methodical, the friction of the towel against her inner thighs sending sparks of sensation up her spine.

Sylvia clenched her teeth, biting back a moan as the rough fabric grazed over her clitoris, the overstimulated nub throbbing in response. Her body was betraying her again, responding to the touch in ways she desperately wished it wouldn’t. She squeezed her legs together, trying to suppress the rising tide of arousal, but Abuba’s hands persisted, the towel rubbing between her legs, over her vulva, and back to her anus, drying her thoroughly with a detached precision.

When he reached her buttocks, he spread them apart once more, the towel slipping into the crevice, rubbing over her anus with a deliberate motion. The roughness of the fabric was almost too much to bear, the sensation sending a jolt through her body, her sphincter clenching in response. Abuba dried her there as thoroughly as he had the rest of her, his hands moving with a clinical detachment that contrasted sharply with the intimacy of the act.

Sylvia could hardly comprehend what was happening. The thought that this 60-year-old man, the one person she thought she could trust on this forsaken island, was now squatting down behind her, his face mere inches from her most private area, made her stomach churn with a mix of emotions. She felt a deep sense of shame and confusion, her mind trying to reconcile the care he had shown her with the deeply intimate act he was now performing.

Abuba spread her buttocks with one hand, exposing her in a way that made her want to disappear. His other hand held the towel, pressing it firmly against her anus, drying her with a focus that felt almost clinical, yet the closeness of it all was impossible to ignore. Sylvia’s breath hitched as she felt the rough fabric graze over her sensitive skin, her body involuntarily tensing under his touch.

She could feel the familiar stirrings of arousal building within her, her body responding in ways that she wished it wouldn’t. Her muscles tightened, and for a moment, she thought she might lose control again. But somehow, she managed to hold back, clenching her jaw, focusing all her willpower on suppressing the wave of pleasure that threatened to overtake her. It was a small victory, but one that felt monumental in the midst of her torment.