Chapter 11
Juniper
The engines of our catamaran ferry, the Wallaroo, surge into a bellow then throb lower, and the boat slows and curves more to the left of the distant island jetty.
To stop myself lurching sideways, I grip the edge of the bench seat I’m sitting on. The tension in my arms seems a perfect reflection of my fidgety mood.
With this palm-covered island floating before me, the past few days at Mr. Loxland’s house seem long ago and dreamlike.
I was repeatedly caged and stripped, and tied up for them, the target of possibly every sexual fantasy ever devised by mankind, minus any really damaging sadism since they are sparing me for this kinky party.
Nevertheless I’m aching in places I’ve never ached before. Which is, I guess, both good and bad?
What woman doesn’t want to be obsessed over and given a gazillion orgasms? Sighing, I shift my butt into a better position on the seat. I don’t know enough about this party, and it worries me.
Yesterday they toned down the sex and let me walk around the house with some clothes on.
I smile, remembering how Lucy followed me, carrying her ball or a stick, unaware of my status as a sex toy and wanting me to play with her.
The boat jolts into a wave and spray dashes across the bow, with the cool breeze whipping my hair across my face.
I tuck it back, for the fifth or sixth time.
Out here is cleansing my brain of my nightmares of the ominous endings I might suffer, like being buried in Mr. Loxland’s basement.
Not that I’ve seen anything from him that makes me think he would do that.
But I have nothing new from him about the video. No clues. He’s withholding them—he must be. Yet how do I make him tell me?
I spent last night wedged between the two men on the super king-size bed, and I’m unsure who was the most uncomfortable. Apart from wearing the collar, I was naked. Were they as hyperaware of me as I was of them? I hope so.
I touch the collar that’s become a permanent fixture, running my fingertips over the leather’s raw edge. I know what it signifies—ownership. Touching it, as if to reassure myself that it’s still there, is a habit I’ve developed.
How callous am I to be going to a sex party with two men who aim to fuck me stupid, and give me a thousand more orgasms, after I killed a man with a shovel?
He’s barely cold in his… No. He’s not in the dirt.
According to Loxland and Tomás, he’s been incinerated.
I must find out where the ashes were scattered so I can go there and spit on them, one day, when I’m free.
Because this is not freedom.
However, it feels like I’m being rewarded. Unless their threat of sewing bits of me is real, then it’ll turn into punishment.
I should’ve given myself up. I grimace and squint into the wind. Riley would smack me for thinking that.
“Hey.”
I jump as someone lands a hand on my arm and squeezes. I look over my shoulder to find Tomás behind me. “Hi.”
“Something is wrong?”
I can’t help shaking my head at that. I shrug. “Everything.”
“Tell me?”
“This is just wrong. Going to your party to have an orgy or whatever after I killed a man?” I seriously hope the boat captain hasn’t bugged this area. “I’m a disgusting person, aren’t I?” I don’t expect anything except a yes to that.
“No.” He squeezes me again. “You are normal. Killing affects people. You need to remember to live life. You choose joy and happiness and everything that comes with it, or you can choose misery. Why choose misery? Hey?”
Then he returns to Loxland.
Blinking, I sort through his words. Killing affects people makes it sound like he knows the feeling in a personal kind of way. I am not surprised.
Live life has to be a worn-out slogan from somewhere. Probably a TV show.
It’s a thought though. I’m not the only person who has ever murdered.
Can I do that, keep searching for the others, with blood on my hands, while also being centered enough to enjoy my life? Is it selfish? He’s made me think and, I guess, made me feel better about being happy and vengeful.
Today, Tomás is a philosopher and a therapist.
Tomás
I rejoin Aaron, leaning on the ferry’s steel rail and squinting into the morning sun with occasional dots of spray wetting my face. We’ll be docking soon. The deck sways underfoot, the wind blusters, and the curves of the island’s rocky shores hug us closer as we approach.
“Why all of the insistence on her obeying, when she already agreed to do anything we ask of her?” I look across at Juniper, where she stands on the other side of the bow with her blue dress flapping at her thighs.
The collar on her neck is black because Aaron felt it was less noticeable than red, but he wanted her to wear one. Since I spoke to her, she seems happier, with the hint of a smile curving her lips.
“This does not feel right.” He grimaces. “I know. I know. This isn’t normal or right because blackmail isn’t consent.”
“Perhaps not. Other women they say yes, sir, no sir, because they know it is what they want. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Transactional,” I muse. “You all get what you want, and then you toss them away. Is not this almost the same?”
He grunts, casts a glance at her then around the empty bow section. Everyone else has gone inside to organize their luggage and their families, ready to disembark. “Doesn’t feel it. This is messy, and I like order. You know that. We can’t ignore what she’s done, or what I’ve done.”
“True.” This is a unique kind of power and sex relationship. He excuses himself by saying we help her and that she was at fault to start with. So did I.
I turn it over in my mind and am not sure who wins with this.
Us, because we get a cute submissive for a while who will do anything for us, or else we make her pay a devious penalty.
Her, if we help her get away with a justified murder or three?
And if the police catch up to her, we may all lose our freedom.
“Is it the killing or the blackmail that bugs you, chamos?”
He frowns. “I wish I knew. Just messy,” he mutters.
I only give him a smile and a shrug. Not as messy as murdering someone yourself.
Murders eat away at your soul, and I don’t believe we ever grow that part back.
You grieve forever, for yourself, if not for the dead.
Then there are those who have lost their humanity and become animals.
They are different. They can kill a thousand then sleep like a baby.
Not our Juniper though. I can see she feels the wound in herself. It is better to do that. To never forget but also to live, to enjoy life, and be happy. Why waste another life?
Our catamaran ferry slides toward the jetty with a surging arrow of foam rolling away from the white hulls knifing the crystal blue of the sea.
This one ahead is the public jetty. The resort the fraternity is using is on the other side of the island.
The other guests will be arriving on a privately arranged yacht.
We are the last of the passengers to leave, rolling our two large suitcases with all the gear Aaron needs onto the ramp then the jetty, while Juniper watches with an almost wary expression. As if she still cannot believe what she is doing.
Aaron has booked us a room in a small hotel, a hundred yards to the right along the narrow street that parallels the beach, and so we are walking there.
My suitcase complains loudly on the tarred road surface until we reach the pavement.
He’s renting this room just to house his equipment, so we can duck out and come here to use it without CNC security restricting our research.
I had assumed he was simply giving Juniper facts.
Developing profiles on the CNC Frat members is more than that.
The men and women of the fraternity are all moderately corrupt, from what dealings I’ve had with them.
They’re also rich, apart from a few oddities such as me, who were lucky enough to be sponsored.
Great corruption comes with great wealth. Mid-rich, I am, at best.
If Aaron upsets any of them, I will be ready to step between him and them.
My new life is partly owed to him. I study the man where he rolls a suitcase ahead of me, the wheels rattling on uneven pavement.
The sub-tropical sun has made his expensive yellow linen shirt stick to his back.
Aaron is a closed-off puzzle, sometimes, but I like him.
Juniper strolls beside me, looking feminine in tan beach sandals and a flouncy blue dress that tangles with her legs. A better description than female fails me. Her clothes are hers, taken from her house, when we supervised her cancelling her dog walking and cam-girl jobs.
“Keep up,” I tell her as she drops back a pace.
She speeds up. “I’m not leaving you. You know that.”
“If I thought you would”—Aaron takes her hand—“I’d put the leash back on your collar and use my belt on your ass.”
“In public?” she says, quietly shocked. An elderly couple pass us, walking on the road. I check behind to ensure no cars are coming.
Aaron slows, waits for them to be out of earshot. “Definitely. I’d even spank you in public, if you needed it.” That was said with zero humor.
He’s teasing her, but she’s not sure, so I join in. “I remember that girl you fucked from behind. She had trouble staying quiet when told to at that concert.”
“I made her squeal. Got a cheer from everyone around us, and an O from her, I think?”
I nod and try to look wise.
Juniper turns to us and scoffs. “You’re both being dickheads. You couldn’t have, not at a concert.”
We’re passing a bus stop, and there’s no one nearby—the couple having gone into a shop, a few yards ahead.
I release the suitcase handle and crowd her.
“Dickhead is a great Aussie insult but not one I like being called.” She backs away until her knees hit the bench at the rear of the shelter. “Give me an excuse?”
“An excuse?” Flustered, she overbalances, wobbles, and barely stops herself from sitting on the seat.
“To do something to you.” I let a strand of her hair feather through my fingers. I smile but inject it with threat. “That spanking?”
“Shush.” She darts her eyes left and right, but there are no pedestrians or sounds of traffic.
Aaron has climbed onto the seat behind her and sits down, dragging her onto his lap and trapping her hands behind her.
The menacing rumble in his voice is clear.
“Try us. We know you’d love to be fucked in front of everyone passing.
” He pushes up her dress, exposing her thigh then the side of her white lace panties.
Her face is flushed, and though she’s nervous, maybe slightly panicked, her nipples are poking at the dress fabric. “You’ll get us arrested!”
“We know your kinks.” My legs touch her knees, and I place my feet to either side of hers. She’s sandwiched between us.
“Don’t. Please?”
I rearrange her hair, cupping her face in my hands as I lean over to whisper, “We won’t, if you admit you’re turned on.
Because you are…” I thumb her mouth, dip my thumb tip inside, and feel her tongue move on me.
My dick grows an inch or two as I imagine it in there, choking her, thrusting. “Aren’t you? We need you honest.”
Behind her Aaron is actually looking gleeful.
“Fuck.” One eyebrow sneaks upward, and she closes her eyes, opens them to meet mine. “I hate you, you are bastards, but yes, it does. This…” Her mouth twists, and she clears her throat. “I mean, I am.”
“Horny?” Aaron kisses her neck and sways into her from behind.
“Mmm.” Her eyelids dip, and she drops her head backward onto his shoulder. The pleading look in her eyes might even be interpreted as please fuck me.
I swear quietly then cup her breasts, stepping between her legs as I massage them, making her see that I own that part of her, for a long stifling moment. Then I exhale and step away.
We reassemble on the sidewalk, though I’m badly needing to rearrange my pants around my cock.
“That was easy.” Aaron briskly renews our walk. “Fuck, though, I’m hard. I need to use your mouth when we get there.”
“I second that.” I grab our toy’s hand.
“But we won’t,” he adds.
“What?” I whip my head around.
He calmly adds. “We are all waiting until the party starts.”
“Fuck.” When I say that, Juniper chuckles. “Your ass will be hurting later.”
“For sure.” Aaron beckons to her as he sets off. The hotel sign is three shops further along.
She’s fallen silent apart from a groan then she meekly follows him. A fresh wind starts blowing and scurries leaves past us in tune with the suitcase wheels. I bring up the rear, so I can watch hers twitch from side to side in a dress that the wind is making dance about her.