Odett Peters

The Island

Chapter 1

The pleading was done. Hope had been set aside. Dorinda sat in the little seat in the prow of the dingy, tense, angry and very much afraid.

"We’ll pick you up in a week," Mike assured her grudgingly.

She did not answer, but instead watched the phosphorescence as the oars disturbed the quiet water and the small craft cut its way towards the dark bulk of the island that had suddenly and frighteningly close in the silver darkness of the Aegean night.

"Have it all to yourself. Not a man anywhere. Ought to make you happy." Make’s tone was sardonic. It bit and hurt.

Dorinda refused to be baited. She did not want him to sense the tears in her voice. But, instinctively, her arms tugged rebelliously at the cold metal of the handcuffs that joined her wrists behind her back.

He saw the motion and jibed:" You don’t need hands, honey. No nasty man to save your honour from."

She turned and gazed at him with a cold hatred that touched his impregnability.

"You won’t starve," he complained defensively. "You can save the martyred look for the goats. There’s a few around." He guffawed coarsely, "Don’t suppose the old billy will want to make love…"

Her disdainful stare cut short his half hearted attempt at humor. His voice became acidly businesslike: "There’s berries and some fruit. You’ll manage. Besides there’s the house. It’s a quiet place. No one living there right now. But no telling what you might find if you can get in. Probably a few cans of this and that."

Dorinda’s only answer was to deliberately clink the chain that joined her hands.

"You can rattle those handcuffs all you like, honey. But you are going to wear them." Mike’s voice became grim. "Just a nice little bit of jewelry to remember me by. They’ll make things difficult for you. Bet hell, you’ve got all the time there is. You’ll surprise yourself with all the things you can do with your hands behind your back."

Driven by one last powerful stroke of the oars the keel of the dingy bit into the sand of the beach. The man sat, watching. His lips curled in a grin of bitter satisfaction. He made no move to help.

As though following a predetermined drill, Dorinda paused for the little craft to steady, then carefully rose to her feet and stepped out on to the sand, still warm from the day’s sun. It felt good between her bare toes. She took a couple of paces before she turned to face the man who was making good his threat to maroon her, naked, on a Grecian island. She knew what in doing so she conceded weakness. There would be no last minute reprieve. She should have trudged manfully up to the beach without this last meeting of their eyes.

"You’re a silly bitch," Mike assured her cheerfully. "Have fun with yourself." Already he was yards away from the shore.

Dorinda choked back the vitriol. He would only laugh. She stood impotently watching the dingy speed back to the yacht. A tense white statue in the night.

What does a girl do when she finds herself alone, sans clothes, sans hands, on an uninhabited island in the Aegean Sea! Dorinda considered her plight. She had never felt more vulnerable. Mike had shrewdly computed her hazards of survival and reduced her resources to the minimum by which she could sustain herself. Even if she lived on berries she would have to pluck them with her mouth. Her hands were lost.

Petulantly she tugged at the steel bands upon her wrists. They were snug. If she kept pulling them they would chafe. If only he had been content to tie her she might eventually have managed to free herself by some expedient or other. But Mike had laughingly explained that, without the key, neither she or anyone else could free her hands from their imprisonment behind her back. They would stay like that until he chose to return.

He had similarly, despite her pleas, imposed nudity upon her. It, too, was impediment. Bare feet must tread with care, bare skin must shun the wounds of bramble and brush. A naked girl must eye with dubiety any other human an unlikely chance might trust her way. Clothes are a form or armor. Without them a girl might find herself eyed with both doubt and desire. Dorinda knew that should a man come into view her first instinct would be to hide.

The rattle of an anchor and the muffled purr of a motor came clearly across the water. The yacht was under way. Dorinda watched it merge into the night. She cherished no belief that this was a joke, so that it would soon return to retrieve a frightened girl now amenable to its owner’s whims. Mike had said a week. So a week it would be. She wondered miserably if that which she now faced would indeed break her resolve. But thrust the thought aside. Yet it returned. The seven days could scare be other than a frightening ordeal. But what then! Mike could so easily leave her as she was and go away and forget her. He was capable of such an act. Dejectedly she turned her back upon the calm water and trod carefully toward the higher slope where she would find warm dry sand on which to spend the night. She would not explore Kyrexos in the dark.

Morning brought hunger and a disquieting confrontation with helplessness. She needed food. But what could she do to obtain it? Sand clung to her skin but she could not brush it off. Her captive hands could not reach her hair, so that she was forced to toss her head wildly to dislodge the particles and, hopefully, soothe the tangles. Angrily she made her way towards the trees.

The thought of berries was nauseating. Dorinda wanted food, real food! She decided to search for the house. Even with her hands fastened as they were she could probably contrive to open a can should she be lucky enough to find one. Kyrexos was little more than forty acres in extent. A mixture of uneven surface, bare rock and sparse woods of cypress and pine.

There were paths! Perhaps the goats had made them. Most were barely discernible. But the one she chose bore evidence of the work of human hands and the tread of human feet. She stepped out hopefully and soon found herself on a cleared road, a double track that vehicles had used. Dorinda followed it up an incline in the expectation of wider reconnaissance.

The vista was delightful. She paused to admire. A shallow wooded valley swept down to a wide sandy beach and the sea. To one side the house had been set upon the upper slope. Even from a distance it was evident that the mellow stone structure had been built by someone with both an aesthetic appreciation and a great deal of money. Its terraces and balconies had been contoured to make it a part of the landscape into which it blended. The chained girl gave a small sigh of relief. If she could find an open door or window, at least she would have shelter. Scanning the panorama she found no sign of life.

"Lovely view, don’t you think?"

Dorinda froze. The cheerful male voice had come form one side and slightly to the rear. She was shocked into inaction. It was too late to run, too late to hide. Whoever it was, he had already seen all there was to see. Why be coy? Besides, she had liked the sound of the voice, it was educated and English. She found herself with the feminine wish that when she turned around to face him neither of them would be disappointed.

He sat among the rocks, his sun colored skin merging with them so that she had been unaware of his presence. He wore only the briefs of a swimmer. He was looking at her with amusement but no surprise. Dorinda saw that he was just the right age and just the right build and just the right height. In spite of feeling all breasts and pubic hair she hoped he found her as beautiful as she found him.

"Good morning," she managed inadequately and blushed.

He quite frankly appraised her body. His eyes roving in search of defects, assessing her attributes. Piqued by the impersonal quality of his examination to her features, she demanded bravely: "Do you want to feel as well as look?"

His laugh was pure good humor. His words made no sense: "Good old Dave! Comes up trumps every time."

Dorinda was hungry and very unsure. If he decided to rape her there was nothing effectual she could do to stop him. At least he might feed her afterwards. If he was a gentleman the sooner the preliminaries were dealt with, the better.

"Who is good old Dave?" She inquired politely. "I don’t know him."

He was still amused. "Bet the blight’s used another name. What did he call himself?"

"I was put here by a man named Michael Sandos. He’s never been called Dave that I know of. I’m afraid you have mistaken me for someone else."

"Why the handcuffs then?" Obviously he thought he had scored a point.

"Do all your female guests arrive suitably retrained?"

Dorinda felt she could afford to make her voice appropriately tart.

"If you buy one from good old Dave they certainly do."

Evidently he expected her to understand the cryptic reference.

"Well, I haven’t been bought from good old Dave!" Dorinda said with finality. "And, in case you might be interested, I’m hungry. And I’d be grateful if you could get these damn things off my wrists. After that, d’you think you could manage something for me to wear?" Her words surged against an intangible barrier she could sense but not define.

He said it with an emphasis that consigned her other requests into limbo.

"But I can’t eat with my hands like this," Dorinda wanted to come to grips with whatever was floating in the air.

"Don’t worry, we’ll feed you, dear girl."

"We?" She looked at him quizzically.

"Terry and me. She is my sister. Proper little baggage. Bought the place a week ago. Just moved in. Of course there’s Hislop and Amity." He chuckled. Hislop’s the butler cum handy man and Amity is the housekeeper. They probably sleep together. But then, Terry and I do too, so who are we to complain? Delightful menage. You’ll love it."

He was probably joking. But either way it sounded better than Mike had planned for her. She fluttered her shoulders and rattled the single link between her wrists. She knew she made a pretty picture of impotence. "They’ll all accept me like this?"

"Of course my dear girl" Matter of fact, young Terry is in a bit of a bind herself at just this moment." He grinned apologetically as though he shared some amusing knowledge. "Had to keep my hand in y’know, until you showed up. And Terry’s dying to get her hands on you

… When she can, of course!"

He gave her a broad, boyish wink of shared understanding.

Dorinda understood nothing accept a mistaken identity which her companion refused to recognise. It all sounded a bit risque but probably harmless. "My name is Dorinda Matson," she offered tentatively.

He advanced beaming, hand outstretched. "Mark Edmond," he announced brightly. Then, looking at his inappropriate member, "sorry and all that." A moment later, with complete naturalness, he took her in his arms and kissed her. It was quite a long kiss. Dorinda enjoyed it. She knew that if she had not been handcuffed she would have returned the embrace. When it was done she stood breathless and aware of another blush, his skin had felt warm and alive against her nipples. Mark took her arm in a brotherly clasp. "Breakfast ahead," he announced heartily. "Young Terry’s going to get the surprise of her life…"

It was Dorinda who was surprised. Terry seemed unaffectionately happy and unaware of anything untoward. She was very young and very beautiful and very naked. She stood against the fluted pillar on the terrace, a picture of grace and insouciance in no way marred by the silver chains that lifted her arms and held her wrists on each side of the column. Her nipples and the lips of her sex had been painted bright scarlet. Her pubic hair had been shaved into a perfect Cupid’s heart: the effect both startling and delightful. Her smile of greeting was as radiant as her voice: "Darling, I’m so glad. Now poor little me can shed her shackles again. Look at what Mark’s done to me. Isn’t he awful…!"

There was a delightful simplicity about brother and sister. A sort of puppy-dog exuberance that gathered others to the fold as though a shared enthusiasm in eccentricity was to be expected. Dorinda was far from naive, and not without knowledge of things outre. If the Edmonds played fun and games she was prepared to be tolerant. But she was demandingly aware of her handcuffs, her nudity and her appetite.

"I think Mark is very nice," she said evenly. "I’m just hoping he can get these handcuffs off me and give me something to eat. I’m hungry."

Terry surveyed her with curiosity. Dorinda had the feeling she had said something odd and out of place.

"Oh, I’ll feed you, darling," the happy captive assured her cheerfully. "But of course, you’re joking about the handcuffs…."

Dorinda had had a bad day and an uncomfortable night. Now she was confronted with what appeared to be light-hearted lunacy in which there was an undercurrent of the inexplicable. She was unsure weather to be pleased or frightened. She allowed herself to drift with the tide. Handcuffed as she was it became an easy decision.

She allowed herself to be daintily fed by a solicitous Terry. A Terry freed from captivity, but still innocently naked. All eager moppet deliciously enjoying a situation she seemed to understand. Dorinda strove to find comfort In the knowledge that, without a key, handcuffs posed a problem. It was not until the meal was done, that she had interrupted hew companion’s constant flow of chatter to try, once more, for a return to reality. But it was to Mark she turned. He had sat watching the two girls with a detached amusement, allowing his pert sister to take the floor.

"Perhaps you have some tools. Hacksaws or something," she inquired diffidently. "And I’ve heard that oil or grease might make them slip

…" She looked at them both appealingly. "I sure would like to get them off and get some clothes on." Even as she uttered them her words sounded lost.

"But darling, I’m sure we have a key!" Terry sounded surprised.

It was on the tip of Dorinda’s tongue to irritably demand: "For Pete’s sake use them!" But instinct curbed her waspishness. So far they had been kind. She tried again: "My hand must have been behind my back for fifteen hours…" She gave them both an expectant smile.

"Oh pouf! That’s nothing," Terry declaimed. "This awful monster kept me handcuffed for a week once."

"You had been a bad girl!" Dorinda hoped she had struck the right note.

"She’s always a bad girl." Mark contributed fortably. I sounded like a commendation.

"Well, I’m not a bad girl."

Her hint was broad. They ignored it.

"He doesn’t really mean I’m bad. He’s just sort of generalising. I’m not bad at all. I just like bad things." Terry giggled as though she had told all.

They were illusive as shadows. Dorinda was tired of their game. Best come to grips with whatever she must face. She caught Mark’s gaze. "Please unlock these handcuffs," she requested pleasantly but very firmly.

The silence made her feel like a child who had asked for a prohibited slice of cake. She could have sworn the glance exchanged between brother and sister was one of puzzlement. It was Terry who responded in a mildly reproachful voice.

"But darling, you don’t really expect to run around free, do you?"

"And why not?" This time the wasp was buzzing.

"Well… wouldn’t be right, would it?" Terry fluttered her hands as though dealing with an obstinately obtuse child.

"What on earth is wrong with wanting to use my hands and wear some clothes!" Dorinda demanded angrily.

The response shattered whatever equanimity she still possessed.

"I think the poor dear wants to be whipped." Terry offered her observation to her brother as though in explanation of an anomaly. "She’s probably shy," she added kindly.

"Now see here…! Dorinda sat up straight pulling futilely at her imprisoned wrists in instinctive anger. The motion thrust her breasts into a flattering prominence. She bore Mark’s appreciative scrutiny with flushed cheeks and an inward tremor. "I do not wish to be whipped," she assured them with flat finality. "Or anything else either," she added without being quite sure what she referred to. Having enjoyed her breasts, Mark’s eyes raised to meet her own angry stare. He was obviously puzzled. "Do you mean to tell us that absolute clod never briefed you on the drill?"

"I’m not who you think I am."

They were full of surprises.

"Over to the column," Mark tersely ordered his sister.

"Oh no darling! Please…!" Terry wailed.

Mark rose to his feet. He had suddenly ceased to be a boy. Terry gave him a penitent grimace, shrugged her shoulders and resumed the pose in which Dorinda had first beheld her. She offered her wrists for the fetters. When the metal bands circled them she pulled as though to assure herself that she was indeed securely chained. "I hate you," she said to her brother without conviction. She turned her mischievous eyes toward Dorinda.

"You watch your P’s and Q’s," she warned. "He’s quite merciless."

Dorinda yearned to run. But what was the use! There was still hope that she was involved in no more than a mild behavioural oddity. But she viewed brother and sister with new and startled eyes.

"I wanted to be in on it," Terry complained petulantly to her brother. "You’re an absolute beast, darling." Suddenly, perkily, she thrust her tongue out at him in a provocative gesture of defiance.

Quietly, without haste and without anger, Mark lifted his sister’s left foot off the floor and fastened it to the side of the marble by a shackle, already provided. Terry must now perforce stand on one foot. I a little while it would become a real punishment. "Little girls should be seen and not heard," he admonished without anger.

"Oh, Mark! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… Oh, no, not on one foot

… Please!" Her captive ankle struggled against the metal that held it a foot from the floor.

Mark laughingly bent and kissed the pouting lips. "You asked for it, darling. You know you did."

"Oh, all right! So I asked for it!" Terry admitted.

The siblings smiled at each other in pure love and perfect understanding.