I'm still not sure why Shiann said yes when I asked her to marry me. I was smitten, entranced, head-over-heels. She was cool, emotionally distant, self-absorbed. I thought she was hiding her true emotions from me, masking vulnerabilities. She enjoyed the things we did together during our three-month courtship, at least she seemed to enjoy them.
After all, my inheritance and my family connections got us into the most exclusive clubs, got us reservations at the restaurants with the longest waiting lists, took us on weekend getaways to exotic locations on a moment's notice.
I clothed her gorgeous body in Versace, Manolo Blahnik, Hermes ... and scented her with Guerlain, and bejeweled her with Tiffany's. But all that was nothing new to her. She had been born into comfort. Not wealth, like my family, but her parents had been able to afford private schools and in their social circles, she had always been at the top of the food chain. She wanted to climb still higher, though, and for that she thought she had to act even more elitist than the truly elite.
I guess I took her enjoyment of our whirlwind courtship as a proxy for her feelings for me. As we approached our fifth anniversary, and we unpacked our bags at the exclusive Jamaican resort, I wondered if she really ever loved me. I wonder if she really even knew me.
As she stood in front of the big mirror and appreciated her gorgeous figure--5'2" beautiful, natural 36D breasts on a trim, well-shaped 114 pound body. The pornstar Natasha Nice could be my wife's body double, a fact I have enjoyed on many an evening when my wife has denied me marital rights. I would imagine the men in the videos were violating my wife's ass and mouth, and pumping her pussy full of their cum, and furiously stroke myself to a spattering climax.
My own wife never allowed me to penetrate her unless I wore a condom, and never in any way except vaginally in the standard missionary position. Again, she thought it was part of the deal for a woman of her status. She thought that was the way that high society women had sex.
As I stared at her, I thought again as I had so many times before that she is every man's dream, and in many ways she was still just a dream to me.
The bellboy, a local boy of about 16 years, six feet tall with a nervous skinniness that made him seem smaller in stature, was still bringing in the bags and helping me unpack when my beautiful auburn haired wife started to prepare for our first beach excursion. She had worn a plain dark blue shift dress on the flight down from New York; paired with leather, summer low-heeled sandals it was an unusually practical outfit for her. She usually dressed to impress.
Don't get me wrong, she paired it with make-up done to perfection, hair pulled back in a ponytail that was carefully engineered to look carelessly gorgeous, "casual" jewelry that cost more than most people's dress jewelry, and a spritz of $800-a-bottle perfume. But still, for her, the overall effect was very laid-back.
The deferential young man was still helping me to hang her selection of evening dresses, sundresses and beach cover-ups—enough to last a month even though we only planned to stay a week—in the spacious walk-in closet when my wife, admiring herself in the large mirror over the dresser, took off all her spangley casual bracelets and necklaces, slipped off her shoes and untied her hair. She stood there combing out the flowing locks, where she could have easily seen us both in the reflection, standing in silent attention behind her. Instead all the while she managed to avoid even the briefest eye contact or provide the slightest acknowledgement of the presence of her audience.
When she seemed satisfied with her hair she reached behind her back to try to grab the zipper at the nick of the short dress. "Honey?" she called in my direction, again, without looking at me.
I stepped out of the closet and helped her start the zipper. "You sure you don't want to wait a bit to change, at least until we are alone?" I whispered in her ear.
"It's getting late, honey. We need to get ready if we're getting any beach time today before dinner." She finished drawing the zipper down to the center of her back and shrugged off one armless shoulder of the dress, then the other.
Still without having acknowledged either of us she let the discarded garment drop to the floor, exposing her matching "Winnie" bra and brief from Agent Provocateur. The sheer navy tulle with silk embroidered dots did nothing to hide her dark, erect nipples or the cleft of her perfect ass. She repositioned her breasts in the soft fabric of the cups, and ran her fingertips inside the leg openings to smooth the panties over her ass.
If I didn't know better, I would have thought she was oblivious to the effect she was having on the young bellman and me. But I did know better. Her remote affect, seemingly unaware, was really judiciously planned and rehearsed to wrap every man in her presence tightly and permanently around her carefully manicured fingers. She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, happy with the crackling sexual power she had released into the room, and fully conscious of my own weakness as she toyed with my jealousy and affection yet again.
She turned and breezed into the walk-in closet right next to the tall, flustered boy, with a quick "pick that up" cast over her shoulder instructing me to collect her dress from the floor. Her collection of swimwear hung on clip hangars directly behind him.
She walked right through him, brazenly brushing her firm breasts against the rough canvas of his shirt, as he nearly tripped over himself and her open travel trunk trying to avoid contact. Flipping through the collection of Eres, Parah, Agent Provocateur (her favorite brand) and La Perla, she finally settled on the V-i-X "Betsey," a black and white bandeau and a side tie bikini bottom.
The boy had just finished hanging the last of her evening wear, and closed her trunk as she completed her selection. He was trying to chart a course past her and the trunk to the closet door when she reached up and without a moment's consideration of her surroundings or her audience, unsnapped the clasp of her sheer bra. She brushed the straps casually off her shoulders and the expensive lingerie dropped to the floor right at his feet. I could see a bead of sweat form on his forehead as he contemplated her exquisite, topless form. I could also see a bulge developing in the front of his shorts.
His eyes darted to me, almost pleading for a way out. She, on the other hand, was utterly in control. She blocked his path without acknowledging that he was even in the increasingly confined spaced with her. Before he could react, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her panties and unceremoniously dropped them to the floor, kicking them of with her foot so that they landed on his brown leather loafers. The practically weightless garment had glued him solidly in his place. He couldn't move without disturbing it, and he hardly dared to breathe for fear he would break the spell she had him under.
She reached back and rested her hands on the shelf of her naked ass, just below the dimples, and jiggled the firm globes of tanned flesh saucily as she reconsidered her bikini selection. Her breasts bobbed with the motion of her arms, and in the only hint she gave of self-awareness, her nipples hardened to pert little points.
She murmured acceptance of her own decision and picked the tiny swimsuit off the hangar, turning to place it on the trunk behind her, and right next to the hyperventilating bellman. Now he had a perfect full frontal view of my wife's shaved pussy, her crinkled, dark, inner lips pendant and visible between her smooth thighs as she slid one foot, then the other into the leg openings of the tiny bikini.
And just like that, my wife's sex was no longer visible to the boy. She bent forward and rested her round breasts into the cups of the bandeau top, wiggling to settle herself comfortably into the garment. She brought the ends of the tie together and put a bow in them as she stood. She tossed her auburn locks over her shoulder and stepped out of the closet toward me, grabbing a long, white, fringed beach wrap from a hook on the closet door and tying it around her waist as she slipped her sandals back onto her beautiful feet.
I could hear the bellman finally take a deep breath as she strode toward the door of our hotel suite. "Get your trunks on quick; I'll meet you at the pool bar and we'll find a beach."
I watched her swaying hips as she exited and left the two of us, flustered and jittery, unable to believe the amazing vision we had just witnessed. My heart was thumping. No matter how many times my wife twisted my matrimonial emotions—and it happened in various ways, usually far more subtly, over the course of our marriage—it still left me feeling enervated and helpless every time.
"Sorry," I apologized to the bellman, stepping into the closet and handing him a crisp $50. I bent down to collect my wife's discarded lingerie and placed it gently into the hanging "delicates" laundry bag. The scent of her arousal was subtle, mixed with the exotic, perfume, but it was clear to me by the scent and dampness of the silk paned at the crotch of the sheer panties that her show was purely a ploy to satisfy Shiann's personal need for attention.
"No problem, mon." With my tiny wife out of the way, he now had no difficulty making it past me to get out of the closet to step out into the suite. "By the way, are you the guest who called Mr. Ron about the exclusive 'Jamaican Liberation' package?" Without my wife in the room, he seemed more self-confident, mature, and strangely, taller and more physically imposing. I wondered if he was putting on an act just for her.
"I did." The fog that Shiann had left me in started to lift, and my energy started to return as I contemplated the details I had arranged with the owner of the exclusive resort. 'Mr. Ron' was a cousin of one of my dad's old business partners, and a member of our collegiate Sphinx Head society. His credentials and discretion were beyond question, and I entrusted him with the details of the plan I had been plotting since the end of my first year with Shiann, when it became apparent to me that her behavior wasn't about to change without some intentional and significant intervention.
"They will tell her about the secret beach. Go ahead and follow her there. Ignore the warnings. Trust me, it's part of the package."
"What about you? Are you part of the package?" I looked down at the log that lifted the leg of his shorts, threatening to peek out under the hem.
He laughed deeply, "Mon, leave some surprises for yourself!" He was still chuckling as he left the room, repositioning himself to hide his persistent erection.
I stripped and tried to hide my own throbbing cock in my board shorts, tossing on a 'wife-beater' t-shirt and chuckling to myself about the irony. They should call it a 'pussy-whipped' t-shirt. That would be more accurate.
By the time I reached the pool bar my wife was almost done with her Cosmo, and speaking seriously with the burly, dark-skinned concierge, who stood attentively at her side. The warm, humid air of the late autumn Jamaican afternoon felt soft and smelled mysterious. I took a seat next to my wife, who briefly recognized my presence as she continued her conversation.
She turned to me finally, after draining the last of her Cosmo. "Toby here told me about an exclusive beach ... a place the regular guests can't go. He said we can spend our whole week there if we want. They'll bring us whatever we need." Shiann was excited. She really liked to get special attention, access to VIP accommodations, complementary gifts, 'members'-only' access. Even in the most exclusive of locations like this resort, she adored being treated like a cut above the rest.
Everything was working wonderfully.
In a few moments we had a couple of covered tumblers with drink refills for both of us, though mine were secretly prepared alcohol-free and hers were made undetectably extra-strong with flavorless, powerful spirits. I carried a care package of fruit and suntan lotion to hold us over until our planned beachfront dinner for two was to be delivered and served on our 'secret' beach.
We walked for fifteen minutes to the very edge of the property where the beach turned rocky with lava formations, and the jungle crept to the edge of the crashing blue Caribbean.
"Warning!" "Private Property!" "Absolutely No Trespassing!" The stamped metal signs marked the edge of our resort's property, and even though I was prepared for them, they gave me a sense of foreboding as we stood for a moment, trying to peer through the trees to what lay beyond.
"Are you sure? Maybe we should just stay here. We haven't seen any other guests for about ten minutes, honey." If she had been wavering at all, my trepidation would only strengthen her resolve.
"You really are a more than a bit of a pussy, aren't you? I'm going. You can stay here." I smiled inwardly as I pretended to contemplate the option, and as she searched for a path through the broken terrain.
"Okay," I called as I stepped forward, "okay, baby-doll, no need to get mean." For a moment I wondered what would happen if I did hold back and she went on alone. That might be really interesting, but it also risked unraveling the whole plan since I had the tumblers of alcohol, and if anything could make my wife turn around it was the stretching of her liquor umbilical.
I enjoyed the way her ass jiggled in the skimpy suit as she navigated through the rough path. The beach turned sharply away from the sea and just through a thick stand of trees was a beautiful, secluded cove. It really was quite breathtaking, complete with a small but luxurious cabana, a palm frond shelter with ornate iron patio chairs covered with overstuffed white cushions. There was a stone fire pit, and an array of beach chairs and hammocks around the arc of the cove. Between the cabana and the beach was a flagstone patio, an outdoor shower, and an 8 person soaking tub. The whole encampment was surrounded by a loose picket of citronella Tiki torches.
We had found paradise. I was impressed by Ron's attention to detail, and wondered how much of this location was custom built for my special requests.
Shiann quickly surveyed the location. The cabana held a lavatory, a twin bed, a refrigerator empty except for a bottle of vodka and bag of ice in the freezer, and a small but complete gas kitchen. She emptied her bladder in the bathroom as I started warming the hot tub. When she emerged from the cabana she had abandoned her sandals, and her bandeau bra and wrap. Without so much as a look in my direction my gorgeous vision of a wife waded topless into the warm, calm waters of the sheltered lagoon.
I caught my breath. She really was excruciatingly beautiful. Her firm breasts swayed gently as she dragged her feet through the clear water. For a moment, just a moment, I thought there might be a chance for us. But the past five years of our history came rushing back and roughly pushed aside my ephemeral vision of bliss.
I checked the rest of the campsite and positioned two of the heavy chaise lounges on the patio. I poured my wife a Cosmo, having located appropriate stemware in the cabana kitchen, and poured myself a fruit juice as I watch her cavorting in the water.
After a while she came wading back. Neither of us had broached the idea of my joining her in the water. We both knew that her preferred mode of recreation was as a soloist. She flopped down on her back onto the comfortable chair, hoisted her glass toward the lagoon, and said "To Jamaica!" After a couple of deep gulps of the powerful drink, she turned to me and said, "Any chance we could stay an extra week?"
"I'll look into it, at the end of this week, if you still want me to, Shiann." I smiled inwardly. We'll see, I thought, we'll see.
She sipped her drink and tanned topless for a while, after applying the barest minimum level of lotion. She didn't burn easily, so it was okay. I asked if she wanted me to apply the lotion, but she said preferred to do it herself, as she didn't want me to get my hopes up, because she really wasn't in the mood.
I'd been obviously hard for her in my swim trunks ever since she stepped out of the cabana, and had been thinking about taking off my shorts and attempting to seduce my wife on our anniversary trip, but while her chilly demeanor failed to diminish my ardor, it left me with little hope for satisfaction. For a moment I wished I had brought my porn supply.
As the sun started to slip behind the jungle tree line, Shiann decided to go for another dip in the lagoon. She stood at the foot of her chair and stretched her curvy body. Without a glance back at me (she knew I was riveted by her every move) she reached down to the black string bowties at her hips and pulled them loose, tossing the tiny triangle of cloth onto the chair behind her. Gloriously naked, she stepped back into the crystal waters, this time wading out nearly to the rocky jetty that muted the waves of the sea before they entered our secluded slice of Eden. When she reached the drop-off where the water deepened quickly, she arced below, displaying the crack of her ass and just a brief glimpse of her bare pussy before disappearing beneath the glinting surface.
Arising from the water a few moments later, she brought her hands to her face and smoothed back her wet hair and wiped off the water. After taking a breath, she dove in again, this time making sure that her legs were slightly spread and that she was facing directly away from me, to emphasize the teasing view I had of her sex.
This time when she came up out of the water, hip deep, the droplets dangling from her full breasts before splashing back to rejoin the sea, there was a commotion behind the shelter, back in the woods.
"Halloo!" The call came out from the trees. I turned to look and Shiann shaded her eyes from the lowering sun to study the treeline. She didn't bother to cover her exposed breasts from the view of whoever called to us. "It's Toby. I have brought your dinner!"
The concierge emerged from the trees. He took a quick look in my direction then a long gaze at my wife. She waved to him and he waved back, smiling broadly. In fact, he did not seem to have anything with him at all. The mystery of the missing dinner was quickly solved when Joseph, our bellman, emerged from the woods toting a heavy cooler.
"Are you ready to eat?" He stared right at my wife as he said it, and in his sly tone it sounded nothing like an innocent question about dinner. I looked immediately back at her to see that her hips were emerging from the water, giving the concierge and the bellman a perfect view of her naked, dangling pussy lips silhouetted against the lapping waters of the lagoon.
In her typical, distant manner, she did not deign to reply to his question, or even acknowledge his presence, as she stepped out of the lagoon and walked up the beach to the paved patio in front of the cabana where we had been sitting. My wife made no effort to conceal her nudity as she briskly toweled her hair, her womanly shape jiggling lewdly in front of the two hotel employees.
Toby took a position standing guard by the door of the cabana keeping a close eye on my wife, his growing appreciation on display in the outline of his thickening member in his linen pants. Joseph, in the meantime, had to go into the cabana to prepare the evening's feast, and had only a short opportunity to admire Shiann's elegant form as she used the towel to smooth her body dry.
"Freshen my drink," she glanced in my direction as she turned away from the cabana and put one knee on the lounge chair. The curves of her ass parted to reveal her private parts as she leaned over to adjust the angle of the flat chair to turn it into a recliner. Toby was standing a few feet away and the rays of the sun illuminated her winking brown pucker and the slightly parted slit of her moist pink flower beneath as she unhurriedly reconfigured her chaise.
I stood next to her and poured her a fresh drink, the last of the tumbler, as she positioned herself with her back to the lagoon and her dainty toes pointed toward our helpful servant. She lay on her back, with her knees bent and her feet slightly apart on the top of the chair.
Shiann was intentionally teasing him by putting her sexuality on full, arrogant display, within a few feet of his hungry gaze, knowing full well that a man in his subservient position could say or do nothing other than visually appreciate her in mannerly, silent frustration. She did this all without once looking him in the eye, as if he didn't exist.
I sat back on my chaise, still facing the lagoon, and now with a perfect view of my aloof, naked wife. She turned to me and, nearly looking me in the eye, said "Have them serve us dinner here." She could just as easily have said that to Toby, but she was increasing the distance between herself and the hotel staff by channeling her demands through me.
Still, I had to go along with the charade, and propped myself up and looked over my shoulder at the burly concierge, now having a hard time remaining neutral about my wife's brash indifference, and asked him nicely, "Could you and Joseph arrange a way for us to eat here on the patio, please?" He nodded, so I added, "Thanks so much."
In a short time the two men had arranged a feast of lobster, shrimp and oysters on a low table they had placed between our chairs. My wife has put on her sunglasses and her hat, hiding her eyes and most of her face, but those coverings only exaggerated the absolute nakedness of the rest of her body. She knew that she was causing immense discomfort and frustration, evidences by their increasing difficulty in hiding their obvious hard-ons.
The whole bawdy scene—a beautiful naked woman exposed before three clothed men—was exciting her too, though she would never admit it out loud. I noticed her sexual juices had joined the mix of fragrances in the seafront hideaway, and thought I could spot a moistening and parting of her thick, dark pussy lips. Her erect nipples might still be accounted for by the gentling breezes as twilight approached, but to my experienced eye, they were yet another signal that she was increasingly stimulated by the fact that she now had three men completely under her control.
As she turned onto her side, and drew her legs closer to her chest, absently ensuring that her pudenda were still visible to all of us as she reached over to pluck a shrimp from the carefully prepared display, I wondered when the scene would begin to unfold according to my plan, with these men forcing my wife to pleasure them, and with me interceding to 'rescue' her
At that very moment, by a coincidence I really would never be able to, I heard the hoof beats approaching. Literal hoof beats of real horses that ushered in the figurative hoof beats of the impending erotic drama.
She appeared from the jungle trail first, on a sturdy brown quarter horse. It may have been the bright backdrop of the sunset behind the trees, but it seemed to me that she was a dark, imposing figure surrounded by an electrical aura of light. "Well, well, well! What do we have here? Trespassers? But not just any trespassers ... bold, conceited trespassers on my father's private land!" The rider had an elegant, upper-class British accent that lent her stern words even more weight.
She led her horse to the edge of the patio, between the cabana and the shelter. Behind her came two larger men on yet larger horses. One flanked on the far side of the shelter, the other on the far side of the cabana. And just that fast, we were surrounded by the cavalry.
I wondered what was going on since this wasn't part of my original plan with Mr. Ron. It wasn't unusual for members of our secret society to layer or plots with twists upon twists, so I smiled inwardly and waited for the performance to unfold.
I had always wondered how the conquistadors had oppressed so many thousands of brave native warriors. The looming presence of the three riders and the sheer, massive physicality of their horses made it viscerally obvious. Despite our slight numerical advantage, we were utterly intimidated. It happened so fast that Shiann was unable to formulate a reaction, glancing around for her towel or robe or something to cover herself from the intruders.
She didn't mind the exposure; it was the lack of control that unbalanced her carefully structured tableau. Finally she covered herself as best she could by sitting up astride the chaise and obscuring her breasts and pussy with her wide-brimmed hat. This left her naked backside visible to the mounted guards, but there was only so much she could accomplish with a single hat, not matter how large.
Toby spoke up first. He seemed familiar with the woman, who I still couldn't see clearly because of the backlighting. "I'm sorry, ma'am." He approached her horse. "We thought..." He saw the riding crop coming fast and aimed directly at the side of his face, and ducked just enough so that it was a grazing blow. The woman quickly recovered and brought the flat leather tip to rest on his lips.
"I'll tell you when to talk, and I'll tell you when to think," she said cooly. "This is my family property after all." She looked us over. We all waited for her to speak again.
"Toby, isn't it?" she asked without moving the crop. He nodded. "You work at the resort, but you're not in charge here, this isn't your party ... who's in charge?"
I stood up, "I am."
The rider snorted derisively. "No sir," she laughed. "No, it's quite obvious you are not." She turned to my wife and for the first time the light was at the right angle for me to glimpse of her beautiful Nubian features and smooth, light-mahogany skin. She used the crop to move Toby out of her way, clearing a direct line of sight between her and my naked wife. Was Shiann trembling? If she was, it was the first time I had ever seen her tremble from anything but cold.
She pointed the crop at Shiann. "This was your idea, wasn't it?" She spoke in the form of a question, but her tone admitted no interest in an answer, and none was offered. "What an impudent, little woman you are ... how many warning signs did you ignore just to get here? How selfish do you have to be to believe that you can use another's property as your own?"
She dismounted, and stepped to the foot of Shiann's lounge. She was tall, with a hard, angular leanness. The traditional English riding gear, white cotton show shirt, black belt and tight khaki breeches, complete with shiny, tall boots and soft, tight black leather gloves, only accentuated her regal, commanding bearing.
My wife was still speechless. I was expecting her to meet the affront in her traditional fiery manner. But something about this situation gripped her normally fluent, demeaning tongue. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.
The black goddess brought her riding crop swiftly and expertly underneath my wife's chin, without striking her, and used it to lift her face into the dappled sunlight. "Pretty, pretty. Take off your sunglasses."
My wife used her free hand to comply, blinking into the horizontal rays of the sun, searching out the eyes of the woman who had suddenly taken control but unable to see them in the contrast of light and shadow.
"What's your name, my pretty little tourist?"
"Shiann," my wife mumbled. I was amazed at the inexplicable control this woman wielded. Had they drugged my bride's drink back at the resort?
"Cheyenne, like the Indian tribe?"
"No, miss. It's pronounced that way, but my mother was Irish and she preferred a Gaelic spelling, S-H-I-A-N-N." There was a little spark of life to her as she went through the familiar speech about her name. The same one she had told me, exactly the same way, when we first met. "If you let me get my clothes, we'll go back to our hotel. I'm sure my husband can pay for any damages." A bit more backbone now, but still more subdued than I had ever seen her.
"It's not 'miss' anything. To you, it's 'Lady Morris' and it is best for you that you get that right, Shy-Anne!" She toyed the edge of the leather tip of her crop along my wife's cheek, menacingly.
"Yes, Lady Morris. I apologize. Please let me get my clothes and we'll take our things and go." My wife tried to sound humble, but it was apparent that she was getting annoyed. I feared for what would happen if that showed through in her voice.
"Hmmm. Lady Morris sounds too formal, not submissive enough. I prefer 'm'lady, ' I think." She looked at Shiann expectantly.
"Yes, m'lady. May we please take our things and go?"
"Oh, I do quite like that better. You really don't understand, do you, Shy-Anne? They aren't your things anymore. They are my things now. And you..." She brought the tip of the crop down onto my wife's bare shoulder. " ... and you are mine now, too."
I saw the sparkle of resistance in my wife's eyes. She looked up and sought out Lady Morris's eyes, but still the shadows revealed no target. That edge of vulnerability was all that was needed, and she pounced on the opportunity.
"You see, you have committed a crime ... a serious crime here in my country. My father is the magistrate, and I am the District Constable. You have broken the law and we ... are ... the law." Her voice was icy steel, and whatever resolve was left in Shiann was broken by her words by the time Lady Morris reached the last clear, crisp syllable.
"So, you have only two choices," the tip of the crop glided gently down my wife's neck, to her shoulder "and you will make these choices again and again as long as I decide to keep you here." The tip of the crop slid down my wife's arm, coming to rest on her bare hip.
"Choice one, you obey everything I tell you to do, without question, without resistance, and keep doing so until I believe you have paid back your debt to my family." The tip of the crop travelled down the outside of my wife's thigh, stopping at the top of her bended knee.
"Choice two, you disobey me, only once, and you spend the next three weeks in our local jail awaiting trial." The tip of the crop circled my wife's kneecap.
"Our local jail is the most terrible place you can imagine, that is until you are sentenced to spend a year, perhaps two, in one of our Jamaican prisons." The tip of the crop started to creep slowly, ever so slowly, up the inside of Shiann's thigh.
Lady Morris whispered, "You spend every day in a cramped cell with a dozen other women, wearing the same clothes you wore the day you arrived. There is no place to clean them. You defecate in a hole in the same cell where you sleep. There is no drainage. Once a week you are allowed to use the water pipe in the yard to bathe, if the pipe is working. There is no privacy. If you do not pay extra for food you will eat boiled rice and drink sugar water for every meal. You have no money, so if you want better food, or a toothbrush all your own, or a cot with a bug-infested straw mattress instead of a piece of cardboard on the ground, you had better be prepared to give your body freely to the guards in exchange." The tip of the crop disappeared under the brim of the hat, between my wife's thighs. The shaft of the crop bent as Lady Morris applied pressure to the point where it rested.
"If you are especially good to the guards ... at least once per eight-hour shift, perhaps they will protect you from being raped by the other prisoners. At least until they start to tire of your diminishing charms or until a prettier, fresher piece of female meat arrives to take your place. If you are not very good to them, perhaps not showing adequate enthusiasm when they violate your ass, perhaps they will still protect you from being raped by the diseased prisoners, and the sadistic ones who obtain their pleasure from beating and burning and cutting you. If you anger the guards, and they anger so very easily, they will personally escort you to the cells of the most loathsome prisoners every night and ignore you as you scream."
My wife's eyes were half-closed and her mouth partly open. I couldn't tell whether it was the graphic description of abuse, or the pain of the tip of the crop pressed hard against her sex, or the pleasure of Lady Morris trembling the crop ever so slightly, but her breath was ragged and punctuated by little gasps as the dominant woman clearly articulated the unspeakable.
"So, you and your husband," she removed the crop and gestured toward me with the tip, and my wife's body slumped, "have a choice to make every time I give you a command. You can work obediently to make restitution for your trespass, or you can disobey. If you make the wrong choice only once, defy me just one time by inaction or insolence, there will be no second chance."
One might expect a speech like that to end with a "do I make myself clear?" but Lady Morris was apparently a woman used to getting what she wanted without asking redundant questions.
She sat on the edge of my wife's chaise, facing away from Shiann, and toward Toby and Joseph. "Gentlemen, you also have a choice to make. You can continue to foolishly defend this couple, this woman especially, from the consequences of her actions, or you can freely choose to assist me in her punishment." She paused as she thought through the larger context of her question. They waited in the manner of one who is trained in hospitality not to accidentally interrupt a guest impertinently.
"Of course, I will protect you against any repercussions from Mr. Ron if you choose to help me. Which will it be? I know I don't have to explain to either of you the far worse fate that awaits a man in Jamaican prison."
Their replies stumbled over each other trying to be the fastest to agree to help. It was harder to tell, from my position, which one was more enthusiastically anticipating giving my wife what she deserved.
"Excellent!" Lady Morris's face brightened with enthusiasm for the task at hand. She stood up and handed the crop to Toby, then called out instructions for her bodyguards, Rolf and Sven, to prepare the camp for the evening's festivities before the sun fully set.
In a few moments the two tall, blonde Nordic men had lit the torches, supplemented their weak light with indirect electrical lamps that were hidden strategically across the hideaway, and secured the horses in a clearing adjacent to the site. Their coordination and speed indicated that this was a well-practiced activity.
Lady Morris explained to Toby and Joseph as she took the bands out of her hair, transforming the sleek, pulled-back look into an exotic, wild mane of tight black curls. "I came down here tonight to enjoy a nice evening soak and some fleshly delights with my favorite manservants. This will be far more enjoyable. I love breaking wild horses. I'm looking forward to seeing what it takes to break this little filly." She reclaimed her crop from Toby and lifted the tip to her face to smell the scent of my wife's sex.
The transformation from sleek and commanding to wild and vibrant had affected more than just Lady Morris's hair. As she crossed the distance between the cabana and my wife's chaise this time she no longer moved with the elegant gait of a society lady, this time she prowled sinuously like a predator, her teeth bared in a carnivorous smile. She sat on the edge of my wife's chair.
"Let's see what we have here. Stand up." Shiann stood, keeping the hat positioned to cover from her nipples to her crotch. She was indeed trembling, and it wasn't from the temperature, since the air was warm.
Lady Morris placed the crop on the chaise and removed her leather gloves slowly as she spoke. "When I rode in, you were prominently naked, showing your little, pink hairless cunt to these poor frustrated men. You were torturing them by showing them something they could never have, weren't you?"
My wife wasn't used to being interrogated. She remained mute as Lady Morris waited for an answer. In an instant the crop was in the black woman's hand and the tip came arcing down on the outside of my wife's thigh. She squealed in pain and surprise.
"You were torturing them with your nudity, weren't you?"
"It excites you, doesn't it, Shy-anne, to show off your sex to strange men and then crush their feeble hopes?"
"No, m'lady. I just feel more relaxed when I'm naked."
"Lying little bitch." She put her bare hand under the brim of the hat, between my wife's legs, her fingers clenched to a point, and jabbed upward forcefully. Shiann grunted as the Lady penetrated her. "Your cunt is soaking wet. Now tell me truthfully, Shy-Anne, and note that I am holding your clit between my sharp fingernails as you answer. Do you go off into a private place and frig yourself after you tease men like this?"
My wife choked out the words, afraid the punishment would come no matter what she said. "Yes, m'lady, I do."
"Tell me about it. Tell all of us about the last time you did it."
"Today, when we got to the hotel. I took off all my clothes and showed my tits and pussy to that bellboy. He couldn't do anything about it, and I saw his dick get big from looking at me. When I left the suite I went right to the ladies room. It made me feel so powerful; I was so hot from showing off that I came almost as soon as I touched myself."
"That's much better ... you see, it's good to be honest with me." I could see the tendons in Lady Morris's wrist moving, and I could see Shiann squirming, this time in pleasure as her pussy was fingered.
"Now, let's train you in humility. Give your hat to Joseph." My wife complied, and was now standing naked before the five men encircling her, while a beautiful dark-skinned woman slid three long fingers in and out of her dripping, shaved pussy. Lady Morris made my wife moan and squirm as we all watched. Just as Shiann was ready to reach orgasm, her mistress removed her hand and left her standing, panting. Her pussy muscles clenched, seeking again to be filled, but there was nothing to clench against.
My cock was hard as steel and threatening to tear a hole through the thin fabric of my swim trunks. I had seen my wife naked in front of other men before, but she had always exposed herself, and kept the men away with a rehearsed indifference and inherited air of superiority. When she showed herself it was a nude display that clearly said 'look but don't touch' to any lucky enough to observe. Now, at Lady Morris's command, my wife was naked, and vulnerable, and deliciously powerless.
Lady Morris stood up, close to my wife, facing her. At least half a foot taller, she loomed over her prey. "Do you want me to let you cum?"
"From now on you only get pleasure if you are giving pleasure. Do you still want to cum?"