Chapter 3: The Cruise Missile

"Oh my God," Donna muttered, pulling herself from her daydream. She found herself lost in a tunnel - or perhaps it was a well and she was rising to the surface. She was swimming. Floating. She opened her eyes and saw through a series of mists that Elizabeth was peering down at her from a mountainous height.

Her friend was mouthing words that floated through the air like bubbles rising through the sea. "You don't want to do it, do you?" Elizabeth was asking, accusing, her face and boobs appearing over the top of a sun lounger. Her face was stern, an angry sun and her breasts were its moons: golden, round. Her nipples were swollen, hard and erect. They were long thick bullets. It seemed that sunbathing nude was making her hot.

Elizabeth's mouth continued moving while her words lagged behind, only eventually finding their way to Donna's ear. "What is it that you want to say, Donna?" she demanded. "Admit that you don't want to run. You want out. I can see it in your expression. I'm right. Aren't I right?"

Donna squirmed uncomfortably, knowing that Elizabeth was right. "I'm sorry, Liz. I guess ... I know I'm letting you down and that you're counting on me. I'm letting Derek down too because he wants me to do it - but I can't. I daren't run in Girl Hunt because – well, to be honest - it gives me the shits ... It frightens me."

She could feel Elizabeth's accusatory finger and sensed that this confession was a mistake, that it would have been wiser if she'd been less honest because Elizabeth was upset. Angry. Annoyed. Had their positions been reversed, Elizabeth would have run. Elizabeth would have made the supreme sacrifice for her friend. She'd have known that Girl Hunt was fantasy and not real and that Donna was making a fool of herself. She'd have supported Donna, and so Donna felt a terrible guilt, and yet she knew she could do nothing to right the wrong because she was trapped by her fear and her past.

There was no way in her current state of mind that she could run. She was scared: petrified, and what was particularly frightening was that despite the constant barrage of gossip and innuendo, no one on Korpius was prepared to be open and state the facts about what Girl Hunt was. Everything was hush hush. Despite all Donna's reading and research, Girl Hunt was more of a mystery now than when she'd first noticed that awful poster in the window at the Travel Emporium.

There were too many unanswered questions.

For instance - an obvious one: assuming that Donna was right in her hypothesis that the hunt was an adult fantasy - how far were men allowed to go with the women that they caught? The photographs in Donna's book suggested some considerable way - but how far was that? Who decided the rules?

Were men allowed to strip their victims forcibly? Tear off their swimming costumes, humiliate them and leave them with nothing to wear there up in the mountains? And if so, what else?

What about touching? Was a hunter permitted to touch a woman's breasts without her consent? Could he caress her? Could he pinch her nipples? Tease and arouse them?

And what about her pussy? Could he put his fingers there? Could he tie her to a tree, slide his fingers into her hole and explore inside?

Eh?

And while she was tied to the tree with her arms bound high above her head and her legs uncomfortably parted, could he remove his belt and use it to whip her, aiming for her exposed, quivering breasts? Or her thighs? Her back? Her buttocks? Or between her legs?

Eh?

Donna hesitated, her lips trembling and fearful at the idea of it. In her haze she imagined that a group of men were pinning her to some rocks and were holding her arms. They were strangers – foreigners. They yanked down her panties and tickled between her legs, testing to see how wet she was.

One of them drove a bamboo cane into the earth and wedged a dildo over its tip while the others lifted her up, parted her legs and dropped her down so that the artificial phallus sank deep into her cunt and she couldn't climb off. Her legs were stretched and her weight was compressed onto the ends of her toes. They sat down in front of her, cross-legged, and watched her discomfort and embarrassment as she battled mentally against the aching of her strained muscles. She shifted her weight. There was cramp in her calves, pain in her feet, but involuntarily she couldn't help but bring herself off as her pussy rubbed along the big slippery dildo – and they watched open mouthed. She winced at the thought and wiggled her hips. What about that? Was it allowed?

And if they could do that, what else? What if they could go further? Imagine that those men could unzip their trousers and aim their cocks at her belly and then fuck her mouth, her pussy, her ass ... lots of them, one after another...

Imagine they could carry her across and bind her to the back of a Jessica 3000 ... secure it's rod across the back of her ankles, buckle the restraining straps to her back ... and then as her tits hung loosely beneath her like udders...

Imagine...

No.

That was too far. That was impossible. She took a swig of water from a plastic bottle, except that she hadn't filled the bottle with water, but with something else, stronger, alcoholic, distilled.

"I'm sorry that you've decided not to run. That's just too bad," Elizabeth returned. "My parents thought it was a wonderful idea. Daddy was particularly amused. He laughed and said he'd like a piece of me. He came out with it while we were at Gauchos eating dinner. Daddy was tucking into a big juicy sirloin when he said that he would happily pay a big handsome wad for the privilege. I had no idea where to look, but he knew – and he looked - and he meant it as a sincere, genuine compliment! So, if you don't choose to run and I get caught, then maybe you could look out for him, be nice to him, given that I won't be around?"

"Your father? You're joking!"

Elizabeth laughed. "No. I'm not joking."

"You mean he's coming to Korpius?"

"Who knows? Why shouldn't he come? He may be my father but he's still a man and men do get turned on by these things. He'll get the standard phone call to say I've been caught - and Korpius is only eleven hours from London."

"But Lizzy!"

Elizabeth was taunting her, teasing her, hiding her smile. "If he does come here, he'll be alone," she added. "Mummy would be too embarrassed to accompany him because he has this habit of ogling the girls, chatting them up - so would you help me out, you know, by making sure he has a nice time? He likes you - always has – he comments whenever you come over; he asks if I'll put in a word - so think of it as a favor to me."

"Lizzy. You're not being serious! You can't expect me to fuck your ... your father ... He's old!"

"No. He's middle-aged. Some say he's in his prime. He has three or four mistresses and none of them complain. Look, Dee, stop being disingenuous. Fucking guys is our job. We're whores, so what do we care for his age? Be straight for once. What bothers you is that he's my father, not that he's old."

Donna played self-consciously with the sand, and she felt herself blushing. The grains ran slowly through her fingers. It was the whole situation that was making her uneasy, because according to the book she'd read, "Women as Game on the Island of Korpius", men were shown a diagram showing the outline of a naked woman from the front, rear and in profile. Lines were drawn showing how the meat would be cut, who was bidding for each piece and how much had been offered. These diagrams were called "jointing plans" and Donna's book had contained a double page fold out of one such plan, already completed, for a 27 year old Australian girl called Tanya Bronson who'd run and been caught in the Spring Hunt of 1976. Opening it up and seeing the various bids had been disturbing and macabre, especially when Donna had been confronted with Tanya's smiling photograph sitting on the page opposite, arm in arm with her boyfriend, who, apparently, was "London fireman, Ian Poulson". Donna had studied the section at the bottom containing Tanya's vital statistics: her height, weight, shoe size, bust, waist and hip measurements, thigh circumference, inside leg, inside arm. She'd then looked at the jointing plan and she'd seen Mr. Ian Poulson's name against several of the bids, three of which had been successful.

She ran the scene through her mind several times, visualizing a dark smoky room and cups of bitter Greek coffee. She pictured men sat huddled around a wooden table, including the fireman boyfriend, and that these participants were intent on bidding for the parts they wanted. Negotiations were fierce and bruising, but at the end, the men shook hands and closed their disreputable deals. They paid their monies and went their way into the sun where the prize lay cuffed and bound on the tailgate of a jeep; an appropriately sized black cotton sack pulled over Tanya's head with its draw strings tied securely around her neck, and her swimsuit intact.

"You agreed to this?" Donna stuttered awkwardly. "You approved of your father coming here and bidding?"

"Why not? It means nothing to me. Honestly. We both know that men are fearful lechers and just because he's my dad, he's still of the breed, so why shouldn't he have a piece of me? His well-heeled and can afford it, and if I get caught, it has to be someone..."

"But Lizzy, he's your dad ... It's gross!"

Elizabeth sighed. "I'll be dead, Dee. I'll know nothing. I'll feel nothing. Stop being emotional! Why shouldn't I let him have what he wants? All through these years he's paid for my education. He's paid for my car and my clothes. He's paid for everything in one way or another. Why shouldn't he have the part that he wants?"

Donna couldn't believe this last fact she'd just heard. Her mouth gaped open and her face became a picture as she grappled with that final sentence. "Lizzy? You don't mean that? What you just said? You're joking!"

"Oh, I mean it. I'm serious, Donna. As I've said, it means nothing. Why should I joke or lie?"

"And the part that he wants ... I mean ... we both know what that is ... I mean, it's that part ... isn't it? I mean, the part?"

Elizabeth smirked. She had to control her laughter and mirth so as to keep a straight face. "I don't know. Which part are you referring to, Donna? Am I supposed to guess?"

"You can't expect me to name it? Please, Liz!"

"Yes, why not? Call a spade a spade..."

Donna wasn't sure that she dared put a word to the part she was thinking of, and indeed she didn't, because when she tried to point to the place that she suspected, instead of her fingers moving obediently to that spot, they moved elsewhere of their own volition. She found them drawn to her chest, touching there delicately and with no real conviction. Elizabeth shook her head mockingly. "Not there, stupid. He's a man! Think like the bastards! Try again!"

Donna frowned, feeling increasingly uncomfortable, but her fingers dropped involuntarily, slowly at first, but questioningly, across her belly in the direction of her womanhood. The movement of her hand became slower, almost static as it drew closer. She dreaded the answer because she knew it instinctively, yet she didn't want to hear Elizabeth admit it, but the closer her fingers came to their final destination, the greater became Elizabeth's grin.

"Bingo!" Elizabeth exclaimed merrily. "Can you believe that the bastard wants my fillet? The damn mother fucker! My prime fillet, no less! And he's got so much money in the bank that he's bound to overbid. Honestly, who else will bid high on a fatty slut like me? Honestly, in my view, he's got it."

Donna felt sick, empty, violated and disgusted at the thought that Lizzy's father would want to eat his own daughter's pussy. "That's awful, Lizzy," she exclaimed. "It's gross. I mean ... your father wanting to ... God! It's horrible! Doesn't it repulse you?"

"It's certainly odd," Elizabeth agreed readily. "And to be truthful, I'm not sure that I'm comfortable with the idea of it yet, or that I fully understand it, so yes, technically it gives me the willies. But let's face it, it's not illegal. I'm a grown woman. It's not like I'm a kid."

Her grin broadened as she saw Donna's face, because she enjoyed that she could shock and dismay her best friend. Both girls were prostitutes, but whereas Donna had got there thanks to a dysfunction family; Elizabeth, on the other hand had achieved the same end through a series of lazy, pragmatic indiscretions. The effect of this contextual difference in their backgrounds was that despite years of whoring, there was still a shy vulnerability in Donna that was absent in Elizabeth, and so Elizabeth could quite happily lean forward, allowing her mammoth tits to dangle across the sun lounger.

"I'll tell you a secret," she whispered. "It was mum who told me. Can you believe that? I was there over Easter and she told me then that my dad was after my pussy. You'd think she'd be jealous or freaked out, or too embarrassed to admit it, but she was calm and relaxed, even hopeful that he'd get it. I admit I was dumbfounded at her attitude because if it had been my husband I'd have cut his dick off with garden shears and given it to the dog. Anyway - we sat together drinking coffee in Starbucks like we were sisters. There were people fooling around us and any one of them could have been listening – mum didn't care. There was nothing she could do so why should she get angry? And that's how she said it: matter-of-fact. Apparently Richard had mailed her to say he was taking me to Korpius to run in the Hunt, and so mum asked whether it was true. I told her that since I'm Richard's sub I have to do everything that he tells me, and so if he wanted me to run, I'd have to run, and – you know - I expected her to lose her rag, but instead, she asked me – calmly - if I understood that I might get caught. I said that I knew it was possible, and so she asked me about what would happen if I were caught – did I know what a Jessica was? I said yes. I know about Jessicas, and that's when she sighed, and said that since it was possible I could get caught and be eaten, it should be Daddy who did the eating, because I've been irresponsible and ill-disciplined and I've caused him lasting stress. I should repay him. So I listened to this and said, wow! Are you sure, mum? And that's when she smiled at me and said that it wasn't like it would be anything to me because I'd be dead, but on the other hand it would be life changing for daddy, and she wanted him to be happy."

Elizabeth's eyes twinkled as she narrated this story because she could see that Donna was fidgety and nauseous. This wasn't ordinary talk. It was tittle-tattle that was forcing Donna to visit demons that had been long-locked up.

"So I need you to look after him, Dee. I'll ask Derek to move to my room for a few days and share with Richard while you give daddy a good shagging. Oh, and I'd like to pay for him to go the Mudawana Farm while he's here. He'll love to let loose with the whips. That's always been one of his fantasies. He wanted to do it to me once, but I wouldn't allow it." Donna was hyperventilating. She'd had a difficult – some would say abusive - relationship with her own father and this was fragile, unpleasant territory. She'd long since placed all evidence of that relationship into a sealed black box. She'd isolated those painful thoughts by locking them away to prevent them from hurting her. And now this foolish talk was bringing them back, and she didn't care to remember.

For instance, in one of the memories, she saw flashes of herself as a girl, fourteen years old. The flashes made her giddy. She was sweating, because in her mind, she couldn't help but glimpse her father holding her across a Jessica while fussing irritably and fumbling with a pair of stainless steel police regulation handcuffs, his cock standing erect as he strapped her to the machine and told her to be good and behave. There were two other men in the room: mafiosa types, and they were there, they said, to make sure that things were being done properly.

Donna's dad tested the buckles and tightened them around Donna's ankles, reminding her that she only had herself to blame because she'd been the one to complain and resist. He pushed the spit into its channel and moved it along towards her anus, telling her that she must stretch and allow it to slide in. "Stretch a little more," he said, and then he poured a few drops of oil along her crack and touched her delicate parts with his fingers. He touched her lips and then her asshole, spreading the oil throughout and then he reminded her that she shouldn't fuss or cry because she'd done it before.

"Keep still, my dear. You mustn't move. We mustn't spoil the effect."

The memory was false. It wasn't real. The scene with her father placing her on the Jessica had never happened: not like that. It was a phantom recollection which was a known feature of Death Mode. Donna was being fed new information from back in the real world, and Donna's mind, was trying to explain how it got hold of this new knowledge had invented a memory to contain it.

Donna reminded herself again that the incident with her father hadn't happened, and yet despite this she could still clearly remember the spit tunneling its way through her body. She remembered the cold hard and brutally sharp sensation of it tearing and rupturing her flesh and inflating her torso. She remembered the panic and pain and unendurable agony as the long, thick pole had propelled itself through her intestines and chest and into her neck. She remembered not being able to swallow or breathe or talk, of her mouth being full.

The memory was fake, invented, but despite the repeated reminders, she still felt the icy steel spit deep inside ... and she remembered the mafiosa sitting in front of her taking pictures and enjoying her misery and tears. Soon, they said, she would be their meat: dead, an object to be eaten. They were joking about her body, about cooking and eating it, wondering how it might taste. She could remember them sitting in front of her stroking their cocks and deliberately controlling the speed and direction of the spit so as to create the greatest anxiety and waiting the moment it would emerge alien-line from her mouth.

She reminded herself that if she'd actually been spitted as a fourteen year old adolescent she couldn't also be here on Korpius nine years later, alive and lying thoughtful and scared in the hot Greek sunshine. She reminded herself that she'd not even heard of a Jessica when she'd arrived on the island, and so she mustn't trust these treacherous thoughts.

They were false, deceitful, and yet, even as she rebuked herself, from out of the depths of her pain and psychosis, from the umbrellas and the sun loungers and the sepia days of long ago, she saw Derek frolicking in the sea with his brother, and the sight of him brought a momentary lightness and a welcome relief.

She tried to forget the phantom memory of the spit and of herself rotating round and around and slowly turning golden and crisp as she roasted and basted over a crackling fire.

Instead, she peered down the beach and saw the two brothers demonstrating their supposed prowess with a Frisbee. They were diving, splashing and causing general mayhem to everyone around them. Donna watched without seeing, while in her head her father was intruding and dominating her thoughts. He was touching her. She remembered clearly that he'd slowly rubbed salt into her tits and he'd pushed his thumb and finger deep into her pussy. He'd broken her skin and he'd pushed sprigs of fresh rosemary beneath it.

How could these thoughts be false? How could that not have happened when she remembered so unmistakably? Again, she tried to dismiss the memory and convince herself that none of these things had happened. She sobbed, still subconsciously trying to run from these images in her head.

She buried them: and him. Her father. She stamped on them: and him. Her father. She did this again and again, and when that didn't work she took a long deep swig of her water because she could taste her own putrid shit and bile and vomit and blood because it was coating the spit as it drove its unerring path through her throat and her mouth.

Jesus. It hadn't happened. The memories were false. The water was strong and it made her cough.

What was it?

She was turning, rotating, one moment the sun was above her shining down on the back, the next it was below her shining up at her front.

It hadn't happened. None of it.

She replaced the top back on the bottle and wiped her lips, repudiating the bad thoughts and at the same time noticing that there was a brunette in front of her, full figured and wading into the sea. Her skin was brown and there weren't any tan lines. Nothing. Like Elizabeth she was going for the "all over" effect; every curve was perfection and every muscle rippled as she moved. Her breasts were dark and they bobbed as she inched hesitantly into the water. From the back, she had a firm unblemished ass, and it seemed to Donna that she was golden and perfect.

The boys gave this woman the benefit of their scrutiny. They were naturally interested in the assets of a naked woman, and for some reason they'd picked this one out and they were pointing and laughing and making rude gestures. Then they decided to swim a little closer in order to attempt conversation with this woman, although unfortunately for them, she didn't speak English.

Maybe it was German she understood. She obviously wasn't British and she certainly wasn't Greek, for nude bathing wasn't part of the Korpian culture.

She might be Scandinavian, French or Russian, Donna thought, but she regarded the most likely possibility as being that she was German, for she had a suitable brashness and arrogance.

She also had a boyfriend. Donna watched from the sanctuary of her towel as this bearded cruise missile - five foot nine inches in height and as naked as his girlfriend, flew across the beach aimed at Derek and Richard. He was built like a sledge hammer and when the boys saw him they beat a hasty retreat.

"It isn't about running," Donna confessed awkwardly, returning to the thread of her conversation while enjoying the sight of the circumcised boyfriend as he stood with his thick virile cock partly extended. He gesticulated rudely at the fleeing Englishmen. He waved his fist. He raised his finger.

Donna paused, biting her lip. "It's the possibility of being tied up and helpless that frightens me, Lizzy, because, you see, there were men who did that to me once. It was a long time ago. I was on a job and I went to a punter's home. He was a regular and I thought he was okay ... I trusted him ... but this time when I walked in there he was having a party..." She sighed, turning aside from the pain. "Look. Lizzy. I know this cannibalistic stuff is a lure for the tourists - but even excluding that, the rest of it - being caught by a load of blokes on a deserted mountain, that would be intimidating – don't you think? - especially if we're only wearing a swimsuit and they're fully dressed, because they might choose to, you know ... take advantage..." She squirmed, remembering the party she'd attended and how she'd been tied across a kitchen table and abused.

She attempted to smile as she said this, but the smile didn't work because she was remembering one particular man who'd fastened a noose round her neck while the others had watched. The rope had extended to the far end of the table where it had looped back underneath, and then, as he'd held Donna down and he'd fucked her, he'd pulled on the rope thus tightening the noose. Pretty soon, Donna hadn't been able to breathe. She'd been choking, gagging, and that had brought lust and excitement to the guy's eyes. He was into this, asphyxiating women, and he'd pulled tighter, his cock ramming her pussy and stretching and filling it. Donna had felt faint, the lights going out in her mind.

All she'd been able to think of was the huge cock going deeper and deeper inside her.

No. Such thoughts were designed to make her uneasy. She stood up, stretched her arms and hobbled back to her towel. It was a clutter, and so she straightened it and sat down, watched by a dubious Elizabeth who took thirsty gulps of her Amstel. "Take advantage? What are we talking about, Dee? Anyone would think you were a virgin, not a professional hooker..."

"I'm not a hooker. I never have been. You know that."

"You're a pro, Dee. Accept it. You may like to kid yourself but we're the same. We take money. We're pros. But so what? Who cares? You've got to loosen your inhibitions." Elizabeth leaned back and turned her front to the sun. "What does it matter if one of us gets caught and they take a few 'liberties'? Isn't that part of the adventure? We're not virgins, Dee. We're hookers, with nothing to lose. So why shouldn't we take a few risks and have a good time?"

Donna remained unconvinced. Her skeptical gaze shifted to the sea and the couple she'd seen there. In truth, her gaze had never completely left them.

She was thoughtful.

The brunette's protector had turned his anger on her and he was accusing her of encouraging the boys, stabbing his reproving finger at the air and voicing his displeasure. While Donna couldn't hear his words or understand his language she felt his irritation and dominance - and she shivered at the force of it.

Imagine if this man were part of the Hunt! How awful it would be to be caught by a brute like him, a man who would publically humiliate her. How unbearable it would be to face his kind of rage and be forced to do as he bid.

What would he ask her to do? Donna began to reflect on what such a man would say if she were in that position. What would he order? As she idled on this thought in the sunshine, she spun a fantasy for her personal amusement. It was wild, raw and poignant. She imagined that he'd tell her to remove her swimming costume, initially her top but then afterwards her panties. It pleased her to think that her figure was good enough that she could hold the stranger's attention and harden his cock. She'd be too scared to resist and she'd reluctantly obey his demands. He'd expect her to stand exposed in front of him with her hands at her sides while he took the two parts of her bikini and cut them into scraps no bigger than a postage stamp – and she would be forced to watch him. After that, he'd make her pose while he and friends took their souvenir photos of the kind that had been so prevalent in Donna's book. He'd make her open her legs and spread her pussy. He'd force her to play with her clit and humiliate herself; and then...

She took another swig of her water that brought a heat to her mouth and throat, a sense of abandon.

She imagined an image of the man returning from his jeep with several loops of rope. She imagined him in front of her, striding towards her, purposeful, stern, unsympathetic. She imagined his stern eyes and chiseled face, his strong arms that manipulated each of her arms and legs in turn, pulling and bending them as he wanted so that he could tie them. It didn't take more than a few seconds before he had her positioned spread-eagled across the hood of his jeep, her arms and legs apart, and he was fucking her, not once, but four or five times. He did it roughly, aggressively, with all his German friends watching and jeering. He didn't care that she didn't cum. He didn't care what she thought. She was a possession to be used, to be toyed with and then discarded. When the job was done, he cut the rope from her legs and tied her to the rear of his truck, and like that, he set off. Like that, he made her walk naked six or seven paces behind the truck, with her arms tied at her wrists. He drove along the hot mountain roads, sometimes at a considerate pace, sometimes faster. Sometimes he forced her to gambol to keep up with the truck, her bosoms bouncing uncomfortably and slapping against her rib cage. He led her through the narrow, conservative villages, blowing his horn and calling the villagers to come out of their houses to look. He waved to them and threw pieces of Donna's bikini into the air as confetti. It was a tickertape parade and this was his victory. Young boys ten years of age ran along the road throwing olive pits at her ass and breasts. They poked her with sticks and they whipped her with nettles and with sticks and they jeered her. Young girls entering adolescence watched with big doleful eyes from their gardens. They examined her nakedness and they stayed out coyly of the way. Old men and old women alike paid their respects, and as for Donna, the German man's cum dripped from her pussy and stained her torso and it ran down her thighs, and everyone saw it.

No one doubted who she belonged to. No one doubted that she was a possession to be abused and enjoyed.

What then?

He was hot. Oh God! Once this German man had fucked her and had led her along as a humiliated trophy behind his truck - what then?

What were the rules? How far would it go?

Where did it end?

Donna wriggled about nervously on the sand, pressing her crotch against the formless surface, and in her mind she saw herself taken to a barbecue area on the beach. She saw the truck braking amidst a large group of Germans, male and female, and including the brunette. There was a spit. Donna saw it and despite the ropes, she fought. She bucked. She was being tipped up. She was upside down. Someone was holding her by the legs and feet. Her legs were parted.