Amber's throat was sore from how Lance had used her that morning. He had tied her on her back to the table then forced his cock down her mouth and throat repeatedly. He told her he was training her how to be face-fucked; she doubted that his abuse was actually training her for anything. She had choked, almost passed out, and had thrown up once. When he was finished with her and had untied her from the table, she went to the kitchenette and began to nurse her throat with water and juice. Before she could drink more than a glass or two, he sent her from the bungalow. She had only a couple of cans of soda she had hidden under the bungalow to nurse her throat -- part of her stash for when she was unable to get into the bungalow.
She had nothing else to do that afternoon than to sunbathe. She grabbed one of the sodas from her stash and with her towel wrapped around her waist and the sunglasses on her head she walked barefoot through the wooded grounds of the resort. She passed the trails to the main beach where the other guests were and came to a section of the beach that was more secluded than the others. There she laid out the towel, buried three quarters of the can of soda in the wet sand, took off the embarrassingly tiny bikini top and laid herself out in the sun.
She wasn't certain if she was actually acquiring a decent tan or simply becoming sunburnt, but she enjoyed the quiet. She let herself think she was on a luxury vacation at an exclusive resort for a while, but too soon it grew boring and she contented herself with simply lying on a tropical beach. She had to return to their bungalow in a few hours so he could tie her up while he went off to dinner, and if she didn't return in time he would punish her -- but he might punish her anyway, so she figured it didn't matter and she might as well enjoy living for the moment.
Every so often she would take a sip from the can to soothe her throat. She was over half way through the can when she heard a man's voice.
"Hey there, girlie!"
She looked up from the water, shading her eyes. A bald, middle-aged man stood at the edge of the palm trees, leering at her. He was the man she saw outside the resort offices with his wife the day she and Lance arrived at the resort, Trevinnick; they had given her the cold shoulder. He wore the same faux bowling shirt and shorts he had worn that day. A blob of his hairy belly poked out between his shirt and shorts.
"Hello," Amber said.
"Are you enjoying the beach here, girlie?"
"Yes." She sat up and put on the bikini top without looking at the man.
"Hey, want me to join you?"
"No." She stood up, grabbing her soda can and towel.
"C'mon little girl. I know very well why you're here and why you're showing off the merchandise."
She might be a sex slave, but she was definitely not this guy's sex slave. She lost her temper. "I was here sunbathing and having a nice time until you came along. Either you leave, or I will, Fatso."
The bald man in the bowling shirt lost his leer, called her a cunt and stalked off.
Amber stood in the same spot, trembling; the moment was lost. She was close to crying. She felt helpless. There were times she had felt helpless, and some of those times she had enjoyed being helpless, but now alone and without resources being helpless was horrible. The embarrassing bikini top and the uncomfortably short denim skirt were all the rules allowed her to say she had. According to these rules, she had to obey every command Lance gave her or he could abandon her here with only the clothes on her back, nothing more. She would not even have any shoes; the soles of her feet were soft, and walking very far even on sand hurt her feet.
She wished Lance was there to protect her, and for the first time she wished Lance had not entered her life. She wished she wasn't at this beach, and she wished she wasn't at this resort any more. Amber could do nothing about any of those, so she took the towel and the can of soda and walked back to the bungalow.
Lance was enjoying himself somewhere else, and the rule was if he was not there the bungalow was locked. She sat on the verandah. She had spent many hours sitting there waiting for Lance, staring at the flora around her. The rule was that a sex slave should not go everywhere her owner went, which she thought was a stupid rule. Many of the rules he had come up with now seemed stupid to her, not only for this trip but since she came to live with him. He had told her while she lived under his roof she had to follow rules, and if she broke any she would be punished. And he had punished her many times with delight. Amber sipped her warm soda, and stared towards the Caribbean, glimpsing its blue between the restless leaves of the trees and bushes. Whenever the breeze came from inland, she smelled the unfamiliar sweet and spicy odors simmering in the darkness of the dense foliage.
Some time had passed before Amber noticed a girl with long blonde hair, maybe five years younger than her, idly walking along the access road. The blonde first caught her attention because she recognized her blouse as an expensive designer design in need of washing; when the blonde walked past again, she immediately recognized her. The blonde looked at her, then glanced away and hurried on. Amber finished her soda and tossed the can into the brush, then resumed gazing at the blue flashes of the ocean through gaps in the branches and leaves. When the blonde passed by yet again a few minutes later, Amber turned from the Caribbean to look at her.
"Hey there," the blonde called.
It had been a long time since Amber had anyone except Lance to talk to. The blonde looked harmless. Amber surprised herself by replying, "Hey yourself."
"Mind some company?"
"No. Come share my porch."
The blonde sat down next to her. "My name's Daisy," she said.
"I'm Amber." They shook hands. The gesture felt pretentious for the moment, but some gesture was needed. As Daisy smoothed out her flowing skirt and sat down next to her, Amber found herself fascinated with the blonde girl's body: her lean but muscular legs, the slight swell of her breasts, her hair bleached from months of tropica sun, the hint of freckles on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Amber had always studied the appearance of the women around her -- an instinctual compulsion to rate her competition, she told herself -- but her interest in the blonde somehow felt different.
"I'd invite you in, but I'm locked out," she said. "I'm waiting for my, my boyfriend to come back and let me in."
Something about Daisy's smile made her think she knew Amber was lying. "Yes, I'm locked out too. My boyfriend has the only key, and I don't know when he will be back."
Amber found the coincidence of their fortunes unusual, but instead asked, "Been here at Trevinnick long?" Trevinnick was the name of the resort.
"A while. I took a break from college to travel, and came to the Caribbean with some friends. We caught the ferry a few weeks back, and have been staying with friends since. Eventually I'll return and finish my last semester so I can graduate."
"Staying with friends? That sounds like a nice way to travel." Amber hoped that sounded correct. Although in college she had crashed at friend's apartments the occasional night, and had spent nights with various dates at their homes, she had never stayed with friends or family when she travelled.
"It can be nice. It depends on who you stay with. But getting to know people is always a good thing. I'm an easy-going sort of girl, always willing to be friendly."
Amber had the feeling Daisy implied something in how she said "friendly". Between her rough treatment that morning and talking with someone who was not Lance, Amber lacked the energy to parse subtleties. She had to turn from Daisy and stare at the water through the swaying branches to settle her mind. Daisy must have sensed her confusion, for she started talking about the places she had been. She had drifted between a number of the islands over the previous months, from Grenada to the Bahamas and back. Amber was fascinated with how the girl had travelled between the islands and asked many questions, but Daisy revealed none of her secrets. Amber figured if the girl had paid her way, she would have mentioned prices.
Their conversation had drifted to how each wanted to see New York -- for different reasons, and good-naturedly arguing whose reasons were the best -- when they heard shoes on the verandah approach them. Both looked up.
"I see you've made a friend," Lance said.
Despite Lance's smile, Amber's heart skipped a beat. For a moment she was surprised to see he looked smaller, more human than she remembered him to be. She said, "Lance, this is Daisy."
Daisy said hello to Lance. She flashed a smile Amber felt was a touch too ingratiating. Amber looked away from them at the water, and listened to Daisy and Lance talk. Daisy flirted with Lance and he laughed the same way he laughed that day they had gone snorkeling together; the way he had laughed that day was a special gift he had given to Amber, and only her. She brushed a strand of hair from her face to behind her ear, wished again that she could get her hair cut, and tried not to worry that Daisy would seduce him from her, that Lance would abandon her here and take a spoiled child of privilege home with him. Lance treated Daisy like a human being; since they arrived here Lance repeatedly reminded Amber she was only a fucktoy.
"I have two attractive women sitting on my porch," Lance announced. "I need to celebrate this happy event. How about we go inside and have some drinks?"
Then she thought about why Lance took such a sudden interest in Daisy; he hardly knew Daisy. Amber suspected that Lance was playing another of his games. He was fond of games and pranks. He liked to encourage her to believe things or act in ways she would not have otherwise. And it was not wise to call his bluffs, as Amber learned to her misfortune.
Daisy paused before agreeing, and stood up. Lance opened the door and waved Daisy in before him. Amber followed behind the others.
"Do you have any wine coolers?" Daisy asked.
"Sorry, no," Lance answered. "If you will drink pinot blanc, though, I know Amber will share some of hers with you." He pulled from a cabinet a bottle of pinot Amber did not know was there.
Amber glanced at Lance before looking down again. His generosity surprised her, and she wondered what his game was. But when Daisy agreed to his offer, Amber took down two glasses, opened the bottle and filled both.
They sat in the living room and talked of such things casual acquaintances talk about. Amber was surprised that Lance not only allowed her to sit on the furniture, he encouraged her to sit next to Daisy on the couch. He took the arm chair, a bottle of water in hand, and proceeded to question them about their discussion of New York. Daisy shared her enthusiasm to visit Tribeca and Soho. Amber said nothing. The rule was that a slave should not speak unless spoken to, and she was uncertain how she could participate in the conversation.
Daisy quickly drained her glass, and she reached for the wine bottle to refill it. Amber, without thinking, also reached for the bottle to fill Daisy's glass. The two women's hands brushed, which caused them to sit upright and squirm into the opposite corners of the couch. They looked at each other and laughed with embarrassment.
At one point Amber looked at the wall across from her. As in the other rooms of the bungalow this one had a painting on the wall, portraying a pirate ship in full sail racing before a sky full of clouds. The resort was named for a village in Cornwall because a pirate from that part of the world had made his base here. Or so Amber was told; she wondered why people were not satisfied with a good thing and had to make it better and ruin it.
