6.
And then I heard footsteps.
It wasn’t Richard.
These footsteps were light. Bare feet on the hardwood outside the bathroom.
The bathroom door swung open softly and two women walked in. They were local islanders, the villa staff I hadn't seen since we arrived. They were older, mid-thirties, wearing simple white uniforms.
They didn't look shocked to find me lying naked in a puddle of my own fluids. And some that weren’t my own.
They weren’t disgusted. They looked at me with a bizarre, unsettling mixture of clinical efficiency and something that felt a little like reverence.
Neither of them spoke.
One woman walked over to the massive, free-standing soaking tub and turned the chrome handles.
The sound of rushing water filled the room.
She poured a thick, milky liquid from a heavy glass bottle into the stream.
The scent of coconut, hibiscus, and something sharp and medicinal bloomed in the air.
The other woman knelt beside me on the tile.
I flinched as she reached for me, expecting pain, but her hands were incredibly gentle. She slid her arms under my shoulders and knees, lifting me with surprising strength. I hung limp in her arms, my head lolling back against her shoulder, too exhausted to fight or question.
She carried me to the tub and slowly lowered me into the water.
The heat was a shock to my system. I hissed as the scalding water bit into my scorched skin and stung my ruined, gaping holes. But the medicinal oil in the water went to work instantly, a soothing, numbing balm that began to melt the sharpest edges of the pain away.
The two women knelt on either side of the tub. They didn't ask permission. They took soft sea sponges and began to wash me.
They scrubbed the dried sweat and sand from my back.
They washed the crust of cum and makeup from my face, cleaning the dried tear tracks from my cheeks.
It was so intimate that it broke through the thick fog I had wrapped around myself to survive the last forty-eight hours of being dicked down.
The sheer gentleness of their touch, after the contempt and brutality of the three athletes, overwhelmed me.
I started to cry. A slow, silent release of absolute exhaustion. My tears slide down my face, to mingle with the bathwater.
Then, one of the women reached between my legs.
I tensed instinctively, squeezing my thighs together. She paused, her dark eyes meeting mine. She offered a small, reassuring nod, pressing gently against my knee until I let my legs fall open under the water.
She used a soft cloth to clean the outside of my swollen, bruised labia. Then, she slid two fingers inside my pussy.
It hurt, a sharp sting of tender flesh being prodded, but she moved with agonizing slowness.
She hooked her fingers and pulled, drawing out a thick, stringy glob of the athletes' combined load that had been rotting inside me.
She rinsed her hand and went back in, repeating the process, flushing out my cunt, scraping the walls clean.
She did the same to my ass, cleaning the rim, reaching inside to remove the heavy, syrupy residue of DeMarcus's climax.
When I was finally, thoroughly empty, they helped me stand. The water running off my body was cloudy and grey.
They dried me with massive, warm towels, patting the sunburned skin on my back gently.
They guided me into the adjoining bedroom, laying me down on fresh, cool white sheets.
One woman produced a small jar of ointment and began to massage it into my back and shoulders, the cool gel extinguishing the fire in my skin.
I closed my eyes, sinking into the mattress, but they didn't leave.
I felt a shift in the mattress. The woman who had cleaned my pussy and my ass was kneeling between my spread legs.
I opened my eyes, confused.
She leaned down. I felt the soft, wet heat of her mouth press against my bruised pussy.
I gasped, my hands gripping the sheets. "What ..." I croaked, my throat raw.
Her tongue was incredibly soft, tracing the swollen line of my slit, avoiding the most tender spots.
The other woman moved up to my side. She began to kiss my neck, her hands gently cupping my breasts, her thumbs tracing circles around my sensitive nipples without pinching or pulling.
My brain scrambled to understand what was happening. Why were they doing this?
Were they testing me? Making sure my body wasn’t broken?
I thought maybe they were. Coaxing my body to see if my nervous system, completely fried by days of pain and degradation, could still respond to gentle pleasure.
Were they doing this for Richard?
Of course they fucking were.
That thought sent a slow warmth radiating through me.
I let my head fall back onto the pillows and let my body surrender to their soft and gentle stimulation.
This orgasm built slowly like a distant rolling wave. When it finally drew close, when it crested, I gave a long, shuddering sigh. My pussy contracted softly against the woman's tongue, a sweet, melancholic release that brought fresh tears to my eyes.
The women pulled back. They looked at each other, nodding silently, satisfied with the results.
They pulled a light sheet over my naked, trembling body. They didn't say a word. They turned and walked out of the room, leaving me alone in the cool, silent villa.
I closed my eyes, the faint taste of the medicinal bath oil and the lingering tingle of my soft climax fading, and finally, mercifully, plummeted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
**
I slept for twenty hours.
When I finally opened my eyes, the quality of light in the room told me it was mid-morning. The villa was silent, save for the rhythmic, distant crash of the ocean.
I lay perfectly still for a moment, taking inventory of my body.
The sharp, stabbing pains were gone, replaced by a deep, pervasive soreness. My muscles felt heavy, like I had run a marathon, but the acute trauma to my holes had subsided to a deep dull ache. The maids' salves and the long sleep had worked a miracle.
I climbed out of bed and went to shower. My arms and legs seemed to be working perfectly.
I was drying off when the door to the bedroom clicked open and the two women from yesterday came in. They carried a tray with a pot of coffee, a glass of water, and a wooden hanger draped with a garment bag.
They waited patiently while I finished toweling myself off. I didn’t see any point in false modesty. I perched, stark naked, on the edge of the bed.
They moved with the same silent efficiency. One poured me coffee, pressing the warm mug into my hands. The other unzipped the garment bag.
It was a dress. White lace. Incredibly delicate, hand-woven lace that looked like spun sugar. A simple slip design, held up by impossibly thin spaghetti straps, falling to mid-thigh.
"Stand, please," the woman holding the dress gestured.
I set the coffee down and stood.
They didn't offer me underwear. They simply held the dress open, and I stepped into it.
The lace settled against my skin. It was shockingly light.
It offered absolutely no warmth and zero modesty.
The intricate patterns of the lace obscured the exact details of my body, but the dark circles of my nipples and the shadow of my shaved pussy were clearly visible through gaps in the fabric.
It felt almost bridal, but deeply, inherently corrupted given what I had endured.
They sat me down at the vanity to brush and apply a touch of lip balm. I looked raw, clean, and vulnerable.
When they were finished, they stepped back. One of them pointed toward the sliding glass doors leading out to the main terrace.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to walk outside. My legs felt like lead, my thighs trembling so badly I had to keep my stance slightly wide just to stay upright. Every step sent a deep, hollow ache shooting up through me, seeming to hit every bruise and nick they had left in me.
The sunlight on the terrace was blindingly bright.
The teak dining table where I had been tied and gagged and endlessly fucked only two days ago had been cleared.
And cleaned, hopefully. A smaller, elegant round table was set near the edge of the deck, overlooking the infinity pool and the pristine white beach below.
It was covered with a crisp linen cloth, set with heavy crystal and polished silver.
Richard was sitting there.
He looked immaculate. He was wearing a light linen shirt, the sleeves rolled up, and tailored shorts. He was reading a physical newspaper, a pair of expensive sunglasses resting on the table next to a silver ice bucket chilling a bottle of Dom Pérignon.
He looked up as I stepped onto the deck.
He didn't look like a man who had spent forty-eight hours orchestrating the absolute, brutal degradation of the woman now standing in front of him. He looked powerful, well-rested, and completely in control.
He lowered the newspaper, his eyes tracking my slow, hesitant walk across the teak deck. He took in the white lace, the clear visibility of my nipples, the lack of underwear. He saw the faint, fading bruises on my collarbone where Jackson had grabbed me.
"Sit," Richard said, gesturing to the empty chair across from him.
I pulled the chair out and braced my hands on the armrests, lowering myself with agonizing slowness.
I couldn't sit flat. I had to shift my weight awkwardly onto my left thigh.
The woven rattan of the seat bit into the deep, burning bruises on my bare ass through the thin lace of my dress.
Richard watched me struggle with a satisfied gleam in his eye.
He knew exactly why I couldn't sit straight.
He didn't ask how I slept. He didn't ask if I was in pain. He reached across the table, picked up the heavy champagne bottle, and poured two flutes, the bubbles hissing softly in the quiet morning air.
He slid a glass toward me. "Drink."
I picked up the crystal flute. My hand was remarkably steady. I took a sip, the cold, crisp champagne cutting through the lingering dryness in my throat.
A waiter—a young local man I hadn't seen before—appeared from the kitchen. He set two delicate porcelain bowls in front of us.
"Kokoda," Richard explained, picking up his silver fork. "Fresh mahi-mahi, marinated in lime juice, with coconut milk and chilies. A local specialty."
I looked down at the raw fish swimming in the thick, white coconut milk.
It was a beautiful dish. The normalcy of this whole situation was jarring beyond belief, almost hallucinatory.
This man had whored me out to three cruel men for two days.
And he was feeding me a delicate ceviche out of fine porcelain.
I took a bite. It was bright, acidic, and perfectly balanced. I ate slowly, savoring the flavors, the cold champagne dulling the lingering ache in my body.
We ate in silence.
I waited for Richard to speak.
He finished his meal. He set his fork down, wiped his mouth with the linen napkin, and picked up his champagne flute.
He leaned back in his chair, looking at me over the rim of the glass.
His dark eyes locked onto mine, stripping away the white lace, stripping away the luxury of the morning, boring straight into the core of my mind.
"So," he began. "Tell me. How do you feel?"