All she knows about her captor is that he is an experienced mariner who is accustomed to getting his own way and he has a very firm way of dealing with any question or dissent.
Littlebere Cove is one of those places where you don’t go in July and August because it is choked with tourists but, out of season, it is a haven of peace and beauty. I loved to go there to sit on the sand and soak up the view and watch the fishermen or to stroll along the clean, sandy beach. There are always a few yachts moored out in the cove and I just took them as part of the scenery; it was only later that I knew about the man on one yacht watching me through his binoculars.
I did notice a bearded man on one of the yachts climbing down into his dingy and untying from the yacht. Watching him as he rowed for the shore and brought his tiny boat up onto the sand gave me some entertainment. He was not tall for a man but certainly not so short that one would remark on the fact. The beard was grey and the grey hair escaped around the band of his white sailor cap. I noticed the healthy tan as he strode up the beach and I realised that he was coming towards me.
“HI there.”
An American.
“Is there anywhere here I can get a drink?”
I took in the weathered look about his hands and face. This was a man of the sea used to hauling on ropes and handling wet sails in gales. There was a confidence about him. Somehow the way he moved broadcast, “I am at ease with myself and if you don’t like it, well fuck you”.
I told him that The Fisher’s Arms was just up the hill and his next line seemed entirely natural.
“It would be great if you could come with me. I would love to buy you a drink….if you don’t have a boyfriend or someone waiting for you.”
Well, I was my own mistress and it would have seemed churlish to refuse him especially as the pub is a public place and not some scary dark alley.
It was only a three-minute stroll up the hill and I learned that he sailed alone and had helmed his boat from USA which really impressed me. The pub was not crowded, just busy enough for there to be a good atmosphere. We sat at one of the small, round tables next to a window where we could watch people outside going about their business. He asked my name and I told him; his name was Alec. In answer to his casual questions, I said that I lived in the village and was a student; he had that genuine interest in people which some folks have. I felt a connection with this man who, like me, was not into trivial talk – what a nice day, what a pretty village...you know the sort of thing.
He asked if I was hungry and we ordered a baguette each with more drinks. After the meal, we seemed to have so much more to talk about so he bought some more drinks; it always seems rude to take up space in a bar and not actually give them any custom.
When our lovely interlude seemed to have reached a natural conclusion, we both stood up and I nearly fell into the table.
“Whoa there, let me help you with that.”
He reached out an arm which I took gratefully rather than send the empty glasses crashing to the floor. We were both laughing as he assisted me out into the street and we went back down the hill. I was feeling very swimmy and my eyes would not focus – how much had I had to drink? I didn’t know about the little pill dissolved in my drink until later.
Before I knew what was happening, we were at the shoreline and he was helping me into his dingy.
“You just focus on keeping upright and I’ll handle the oars.”
It never occurred to me to ask why I was getting into the boat with him; I was just following his lead. I did sit pretty much upright and I enjoyed watching the confident way that he rowed to his yacht. He moored us alongside and made a sort of slapstick comedy of manhandling me onto the deck. I don’t remember much after that.
There were a series of disjointed impressions which I think my mind somehow pushed together into an overall picture. I was in a metal tube a bit like a sewer pipe or a submarine and there was a huge man. He filled the entire space and he was the only thing which would fit into my field of vision; he had a long beard right down to the ground and he spoke like something out of a black and white film.
“Howdy Ma’am.”
And then the man was helping me to get free from my clothes. For some reason I could not move but, if I could just get out of my clothes all would be OK. He was freeing me from my shorts and my top and my undies; it would be easier if I could get free.
Then I think some time passed but this is all very hazy. I was lying in the dark and I could hear water splashing; I thought someone was running a bath but no-one takes that long to run a bath and a shower doesn’t make that much noise. I listened for what seemed like a very long time and then I opened my eyes – why did I not think of that before?
I wasn’t in a tube, it was some sort of small cabin and I was on a narrow bed along one side. Two shocks hit me more or less simultaneously – I couldn’t move and I seemed to be naked. Suddenly, I was very alert indeed. I struggled to move and I felt the ropes digging into my legs and arms. It was narrow, white rope and it refused to budge. I don’t know if he had been watching me the whole time or if he just came into the cabin but suddenly, he was staring down at me and a whole new level of terror took hold of me.
“I see you’re back with us. Welcome aboard, shipmate.”
Things were starting to come back to me and, scared or not, I refused to be the helpless damsel in distress.
“You must know that people saw us in the pub. People on the beach will have seen you put me on the boat.”
I was aiming for threatening but I had failed completely. His grin widened.
“People in the pub saw me helping my girlfriend after she had a bit too much to drink and so did the folks on the beach. There weren’t any cameras in the bar; I looked and I paid cash. In a little cove like that there was no Customs man to check me in or out so I was never even in England. I would have been logged out of USA but, after that, I could be anywhere.”
I didn’t really have an answer to that apart from some more struggling against the ropes which I suspect gave him a whole new level of hard on. He asked if I would like to be untied and I, icily, said, “Yes please”.
I really didn’t like the way that his large, hot hands touched my body as he untied his knots and, as soon as I could, I curled into a ball trying to cover myself.
“You could at least give me my clothes back.”
“Sorry Sweetie, lost overboard.”
WHAT? He had simply thrown every stitch over the side?
He sounded so damned reasonable.
“We have quite a long way to go and I don’t think you can spend the whole trip rolled up like that can you? Why not come up on deck?”
I glared at him and stood up with hands in the conventional position over boobs and pussy.
“You must have a towel or a blanket.”
“Yes, but I like it this way.”
He stood by the narrow door flattened back against the wall (bulkhead?) for me to pass but I was not going to squeeze past him in that narrow space and I stopped so that he got the idea that he would have to go first which he did. I had now identified the splashing sound as the sea against the hull. We were racing along quite fast leaning slightly over to one side and there was nothing to see but sea in every direction.
I asked where we were.
“About seventy miles off France headed South West.”
The only way that I could stand up was by hanging onto a rope so he was getting a full eyeful of my boobs and his tongue was pretty much hanging out. I was trying to minimise the situation in my head. Girls go topless on the beach all the time and I had nothing to be ashamed of; size isn’t everything and I knew that my frontage was attractive but attractive is not good in the presence of a mad kidnapper.
“What are you going to do to me?” OK, so now I was sounding like a damsel in distress.
“Fuck you senseless any way I choose.”
Despite having to hang onto the rope, I backed away a little. He was really enjoying himself.
“You have two options, my Sweet. You can just be a good girl or you can swim for it. I’ll help you over the side myself if you like.”
He did not rush but he came towards me and his arm went around my waist pulling me against his body. He wore blue denim shorts and a white pullover smelling of weed. His face was against mine and he gave me a long, wet lick down my left cheek which I hated. His hand grabbed the back of my hair and pushed me face down over the curved bulge of the cabin roof. He must have used his free hand to unzip himself and I could feel his hard prick between my legs. I called him some rude names but he just pulled my hips up so that my vulva came up to meet him and he was ramming against my muscles which surrendered.
He was now on top of me over the top of the cabin and his mouth and tongue were at my ears and the back of my neck. I had not been prepared for his assault so it hurt and I howled in pain. He did not get the satisfaction of my orgasm because, for me, there was no arousal at all.
Somehow, he manoeuvred us flat on the deck behind the metal rail with the sea rushing past just a few feet from my head. He was binding rope round and round my ankles and whatever I could do gave him no problem at all. He was making clear how helpless I was.
When he had me bound, he used the rope like a lead and dragged me over the deck and down into the cockpit (how appropriate). To my horror, he manhandled me so that I was over the transom with my head inches from the salt water.
In full damsel mode, I screamed for him to pull me back but he allowed me to slip further forward and my hair was in the sea with spray covering my face as I inhaled salt water. And then, like a fish being landed, I was on my back on the floor of the cockpit twisting sideways and exhaling ocean from my nose and mouth.
“So now do we understand each other? Once over the side it is a very long way down and you can’t tread water for very long at all. Or the cold could get you.”
I was just so grateful for air that I nodded agreement. He picked me up as if I weighed nothing and he deposited me on my back on the bed where I had been previously then he stood over me shedding shorts and underwear. He had my ankles untied in seconds and he eased himself on top of me covering me completely. His hands found my slit and began to work on me while I tried to zone out. Of course, Nature does what it does and he had me juiced up irrespective of what I wanted. Then he was ramming into me again and again as I bucked beneath him and my face was soaked in my sweat and his saliva.
When he had finished, I was exhausted and a bit achy. He had been very “enthusiastic” but I guess I would have to (grudgingly) give him full marks for staying power.
After he r@ped me, he tied my ankles and then set about preparing a meal for us both which we ate in a difficult silence until I tried to find out what was going on.
“Have you thought this through? Do you even know where we are going?”
I don’t think he was in the mood for questions because he told me very firmly that I was not to question him. Then he grabbed me around the waist and dragged me back up on deck. I was getting quite fed up of being treated like a cuddly toy which could be moved around at will. I guess it is a “mariner” thing that he had coils of rope secured at various places around the deck and he took me right down to the pointy end and threw me back against the front of the cabin. I automatically tried to fight him but he left my ankles bound together and then bound my wrists to silver hooks on either side of the cabin so that I was laid back across the front of the cabin looking up at the darkening sky. Then he freed my ankles and bound them separately to strongpoints so that my legs were wide apart and the spray was lashing up right against my pussy lips.
“You can scream if you like but it won’t do you much good.”
“Wait...you can’t just...”
But he was gone leaving me spread out and hoping that seagulls aren’t drawn to hot girlflesh. The boat was ploughing into the waves and rising and falling as it did so with its living figurehead feeling as if she were riding some sort of bucking bronco. A body automatically tries to brace itself against that sort of throwing around so it was not long before every single muscle (including a few in very intimate places) was screaming in protest. He left me out there until it was pitch dark apart from the bright stars far above me.
By the time that he came back to drag me below, I was actually grateful to him for rescuing me. I think that was the point of the mind game which he was playing. Every inch of me was soaked in salt water and I was shivering. He actually produced a towel and let me stand in the cabin and rub myself down and he didn’t object when I tied the towel around myself.
A tiny hatch led forward and downwards into a cramped compartment with boxes (probably food) on the floor and there were beds on both sides. He said that he couldn’t have me interfering with his stores so he tied me hand and foot and left me under a blanket on one of the beds. I asked what would happen if we struck a rock or something and he replied that we would both drown together.
Over the following days a strange sort of routine developed. He would ensure that I was always bound in some way so that he was safe to move around doing sailor-type things and he was definitely good at knots; there was never a millimetre of give in my bonds. He would cook and we would eat together although I had to be careful because the slightest infringement was not tolerated. Just as my questioning what his plan was had led to my being used as a figurehead, he made a point of, “keeping me in order”. I got fucked all the time. It seemed that whenever he did not have to do boaty things, he was on me and I was so damned helpless; I detested the fact that my captor could just do what he liked whenever he liked. And, despite knowing that I was powerless, I couldn’t help trying to fight him off. My body would spontaneously twist around and my arms and legs would flail all over the place while he shouted at me to behave and sometimes followed it up with slaps to my face or across my sensitive boobs. I am certain that he enjoyed the fight in the same way as an angler likes playing a fish before he, inevitably, lands it in his keep net. Certainly, he always landed me and I would be underneath him with tears running down my face and feeling worn out by the fight even before he got started on what he had in mind for me.
On one occasion, I asked how much farther we had to travel. It seemed a natural question but, without a word, he dragged me out to the cockpit and bound me with my face pointing down over the blunt end and my behind facing the sky. And then the rope struck my bare bum cheeks. Of course, I screamed but it was lost in the sound of the wake washing up behind the boat. I couldn’t see exactly what he was using; he might have made a cat o nine tails or perhaps it was just the end of some rope but it really hurt and it went on for a very long time. By the time that he decided I had taken enough I was a mess of snot, tears and seawater and he put me on the bed where I had first been in the main cabin without a blanket. Actually, I was naked pretty much all the time. Sometimes, I would look at a blanket or a towel and he would be very firm.
“Don’t even think about it.”
He did allow me on deck but he insisted that I be tied to some securing point mainly, I think, so that I did not fall overboard. We were both on deck early one morning when I saw him looking through a brass telescope towards the horizon. I followed his gaze and fancied that I could see a faint blob out there right off our 12.
My first thought was that surely, he couldn’t leave me bound on deck. What if someone from the island saw me? But I knew better than to ask any questions and our routine did not seem to change.
As the scrap of land drew closer, he became more “hands on” with the boat instead of leaving it to the auto-pilot. Most of the time he was either in the cockpit or working the winches on the sails and I was tied extra securely so that I could not interfere. My hands were often behind my back now and that same rope went around a strongpoint so that I had my back to the outside of the cabin. Obviously, I would have liked to know where we were but asking was to invite a painful reprisal. I can tell you, from the temperature, that we were much farther south than Littlebere. Actually I now had quite a sun tan from being naked on deck for so long.
The land proved to be a small volcanic atoll with the typical curving harbour which marked out the circular summit of a long dormant submarine crater. The sand was golden and was backed by dense vegetation. The air rang with birdsong and, thankfully, was not marred by a breathless BBC commentary. “Here, in this tropical paradise, the birdlife shelters from the interference of man as it has done for many centuries producing a unique ecosystem which…” Shut the fuck up.”
He dropped anchor when we were as close to the beach as we could go and we had arrived. He did some “yachty” things and then he released me from my mounting point and wound a rope several times around my waist leaving a long “lead” trailing behind.
Keeping hold of my lead, he jumped off the stern into the water and it was obvious that I was intended to follow; what choice did I have? The sand felt good beneath my bare feet but the fear, which had faded slightly during our voyage, was now back in all its dreadful force. It was plain that I had been brought here for a purpose and I had no idea what the purpose was. My imagination began to fill with savages and cooking pots or, even worse, virgin sacrifice. Yes, I know they were a bit late for that but what if they didn’t know that? Was he going to sell me to the local chief for a handful of rubies so that I could service the whole tribe and twice on Sundays?
The beach didn’t go very far inland and then we were in amongst the trees and lower greenery. He advised me to watch my step lest I step on some stinging creature.
And then I saw it. Set back far enough from the beach to be out of sight was a long, low hut made of natural materials. Women were sitting on the ground stirring cooking pots and small children were running around playing happily. The women were attired in minimal clothing woven from vines. When they saw him, every single person ran towards us and then went down on their knees in a semi-circle around us.
He wore that huge grin again and he raised his arms like some minor deity.
“Welcome to my tribe, Sweetie.”
So, he wasn’t a pirate, he was a collector. For years he had been collecting any girl he fancied and bringing them here where there was no electricity, no wireless and no internet. Once they were here, they had to get into tribal life or perish. All the children were his progeny.
The eldest woman was in her early forties. He explained over the following days that there was no modern medicine here so nature was in control. The diet was primitive which meant that no-one ever died of heart disease as they did in the modern world but there were infections and parasites and a lot of women died in childbirth. Of course, some of the surviving children were male but there should never be a young buck to challenge the alpha male as it was a female dominated society (apart from The Big Man Master). Any boys were deliberately kept down with any attempt at traditional male dominance firmly trodden upon.
Sailor Man was the total and final authority and his discipline was strict and severe. He knew that with this many women, he could not afford to allow the slightest dissent so floggings and canings were commonplace as were women being forced into makeshift cages or left bound between two trees for hours at a stretch. All of these women had once been independent, western girls and he excelled at breaking them. If anyone did not like his regime, she was free to walk off into the jungle or to try to swim for it but not one had ever tried it as it was obvious that neither was a survival strategy. He had now added another specimen to his collection and I faced exactly the same lack of choice as the others.