The Liberation of Ate

From

Syrena Exposed — A Traveller's Guide

Syrena is one of the most picturesque islands of the West Indies. In addition to the idyllic tropical setting — glittering white-sand beaches, gleaming blue-green bays, dramatic rocky headlands, stunning reefs, scenic nature trails with spectacular views of the sea and surrounding isles, and safe anchorages for pleasure yachts, dive boats and ocean liners — the exotic history and unique lifestyle have made Syrena a popular destination for adventurers and romantics, thrill-seekers and pleasure-seekers.

Most of the population lives in the town of Régate, our picture-postcard capital which features colonial-era architecture alongside modern commercial construction, quiet boulevards, luxurious resort complexes and a vibrant downtown district. The airport services the island with a direct daily connection to Jamaica and regular flights from most other parts of the Caribbean.

With no rivers or natural lakes, our island is completely reliant upon rainfall storage for its water supply, so farming is virtually non-existent and almost all foodstuffs must be imported. Syrena does not issue its own money, but most internationally accepted currencies are legal tender, and our banks will exchange cash free of charge.

The main income base is, of course, tourism. Off-shore banking is a growing source of revenue which takes some of the pressure off the local infrastructure. The trickle of travellers which began early last century had become a steady flow by the 1970s, and today visitors heavily outnumber residents. Consequently, limits have had to be placed on the intake, in particular from cruise ship stopovers. To further cope with the demand, expatriate workers have been brought in from other parts of the Caribbean, from North and South America and Europe. As a result, more than three-quarters of all permanent residents are foreign-born, and nearly two-thirds are female.

The municipality of Grandin Bay on the west coast is a special administrative district, with its own by-laws. Here Syrena's families have their homes, and while this area is not out-of-bounds for tourists, visitors are reminded that it is off-limits to the rules and customs that have made our island famous.

Part Two

Syrena's airport commands stunning views, in one direction a cerulean ocean of startling clarity, in the other verdant hillsides dotted with neat, whitewashed houses. Lining the roadside that abuts the landing strip are the low weatherboard buildings which accommodate the travel agencies, vehicle hire operators, duty-free shops, souvenir stores and refreshment kiosks.

According to the brochure, our objective was about halfway along the block. In contrast to the quiet calm of the terminal, the street was bustling, filled with exotic sights, sounds and smells. It was early afternoon, and a fresh breeze wafted off the bay, the salt air mixing with aromas from the coffee shops and fragrances from the gardens. Tourists and locals mingled noisily, haggling, arguing, chumming, relaxing. It could have been any Caribbean resort, with perspiring men in billowing shorts and flamboyant shirts, young men in straw hats peddling knick-knacks, red-faced salesmen in white suits hawking and touting, jaded tour guides shepherding their groups and organizing buses and taxis.

But then there were the women. Single, arm in arm, hanging onto husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends; visitors, vendors, agents, guides; strolling, sightseeing, shopping or plying the crowds outside the storefronts. Dark, pale, black, brown, pink, all were stark naked. Some wore hats and footwear, but in between was nothing but bare skin. Most were collared, many were being led on leashes; about half were, as well, bound or chained or hobbled or otherwise restrained. Here and there was a blindfolded woman being steered along the boulevard.

The local females, unlike what seemed like most of their menfolk, did not spend time lingering, loitering or socializing. They hurried to and fro, focused on their duties. It was easy to distinguish them from the tourists, amongst whom it was also a simple matter to spot the recent arrivals. The newcomers' bodies were slightly hunched, as if against the cold, although it was sunny and hot. They clung to their partners and avoided eye contact with all who passed. Those with at least a few days' experience of public nudity and bondage held themselves with more ease and confidence, but they nevertheless stood out from the locals in the way they moved and how they looked about, not yet accustomed to the extraordinary scenery, and less so to being part of it.

My attention was drawn to a group coming towards us, a dozen women moving in single file. As they approached, I saw that they were linked by chains about their necks and on their ankles. The arms of the first in line were pinioned behind her back and secured to the wrists of the second, whose hands were shackled in front. This pairing pattern was repeated down the column. The chains were heavy, the women were sweating and appeared fatigued. They shuffled languidly along the avenue, escorted by two young men carrying rattan canes, which they used to encourage their captives with light taps on the legs and backsides.

It was impossible to tell if this was a tour group, like the girls on the plane, or a work party of local women; but some of the bodies showed traces of fading tan lines, a sign that they were not yet familiar with open-air nudity. So I guessed they were visitors. Their escorts may have been fellow tourists but were more likely hired guides. Indeed, I had seen such services — "for the complete Syrene experience" — featured in the advertising material.

There were other strange sights and exotic tableaux. Two girls were attempting to make their way through the crowd. One was blindfolded, her companion gagged. The latter's hands were locked behind her head, so they each had to assist the other, one navigating a path, the other clearing it. Nearby three women, their arms pinned to their sides with rope, were being led on a triple-strand leash by a fresh-faced and very self-satisfied young man. I also noticed that many stores had, near the entrance, a hitching post or rail; and I saw several women tethered and patiently waiting for their owners to finish whatever business they had inside.

The midday sun was beating down with a fierce intensity, and before we had proceeded very far Kate's curves glistened with a thin film of perspiration. Tiny beads stippled her skin, and a trickle shimmered between her breasts and down her belly, disappearing into the silky fleece between her legs. Since she could not do it herself, her hands being bound, I dabbed the moisture from her cheeks and brow.

I had hoped that the anonymity of the street might soothe my sweet girl's anxiety; but her panting breaths and tentative steps gave her away. I couldn't blame her for being shy and uncertain, but I also couldn't help feeling that she was just a little bit overwrought — even self-centred, since hers was just one of hundreds of naked bodies on view. What she was exposing was just as much mine as hers, and I was proud of this public display of her beauty. So in a moment of weakness, I almost barked at her to "Snap out of it!" I caught myself in time. If one of us had to be strong, I should be the one.

At the entrance to the travel agent's office, a young woman greeted us by name. That surprised me, until I saw that she was holding a checklist with all other names crossed off. She was tall and slim and dusky, with a pleasant face and dark, curling, shoulder-length hair. Her breasts were not large but they were in perfect proportion to her overall form, immaculately smooth and impeccably rounded. Between her legs, a luxuriant growth proclaimed her marital status. (According to the traveller's guide, it is the local custom for married women to go unshaven down there, whereas the single ladies prefer to keep the entrance clear.) A broad metal band tightly sheathed her slender throat.

Introducing herself as Catriona, she spoke with a rich Caribbean accent. "May I please welcome you to our island? We guarantee you will enjoy your vacation." She raised her hands skywards. "The weather has been perfect lately."

As she spoke, she gestured copiously with her hands, causing her breasts to bob and sway. I wondered if this might be deliberate, but she seemed fully innocent of the effect it was having on me. She explained our hotel arrangements, concisely and efficiently, and handed me a portfolio containing the tickets and the documentation we would need. She gave us her phone number and a map of the island showing the locations of her agency, our hotel and various landmarks. She then turned to my wife.

"Madam, naturally you are familiar with our laws, but if you have any questions or problems we are always at your service. The staff at your hotel are trained to give you whatever assistance you may require. It is normal that for a few days you will have some anxiety, and you may even feel a little scared. But those feelings will pass quickly, I promise you. In just a few days it will seem perfectly natural being nude, having men admire your body. Accept their attention as a compliment. They are surrounded by naked women, and if they take an interest in you, it means they think you are something special. Enjoy it."

The speech sounded somewhat stilted, as if much-recited; but Kate nodded at all the right places. I took note that Catriona did not mention bondage. Syrene by-laws impose nudity on females, but whatever other than clothing is put on their bodies is a private and personal matter.

For the trip to our hotel, we were booked for a ride in an open-air taxi. This was a customized utility, or pickup, with a canvas roof and bench seating along the sides of the truck bed, facing inwards. The vehicle was polished spotless, although the driver was rather shabby, unshaven and wearing a frayed sweatshirt and threadbare trousers. He looked oddly out of place in the spruce environs of Régate. He acknowledged Catriona's terse greeting with a sullen stare. She was clearly displeased with his attitude and quietly berated him. He reacted in a surly way that just made her more animated. She began gesticulating, with the same effect on her chest (and on me) as before. The driver turned away in defeat. He sulkily offered Kate a boost as she climbed into the back of the taxi. He took hold of her pinioned arms, and as she stepped up his hands slid down over her backside. When he gave her a finishing-up nudge, his fingertips dug into the raw flesh. Kate did not react, but he left four crescent-shaped imprints in each butt cheek.

I don't know if she saw that, but our hostess apologized for the brief verbal exchange. Still, I must confess that I enjoyed the little drama. It was really quite a show, to see a beautiful nude woman upbraiding a fully clothed man, waggling her bare boobs at him as he shrank from the onslaught. I wondered, at the time, whether it even registered with him that she wore not a stitch on her body. He seemed to show no awareness of the fact — it was something they both lived with every day — but I doubt that any red-blooded male could have been totally indifferent to so sublime an exhibition.

We took our seats, and Kate squirmed as her bottom touched the cool, slick upholstery. There were two couples already on board, and we sat across from them. One of the women, in her late thirties, was obviously comfortable with her nudity, although the way she was pointing out the attractions to her husband made me think they were first-time visitors. She either did not realize that I was studying her, or she was pretending not to notice, or she just didn't care. Her knees were set apart, giving me an unrestricted view of the luscious velvet creases of her womanhood.

Next to her was a young lady in her early twenties. She was good-looking (if not quite as ravishing as my Kate) with long honey-blonde hair, luminous blue eyes and a cutely upturned nose. Her breasts were perfect, tipped with succulent, rosy nipples. Her thighs were pressed together, and even though her head was tilted downward, she was timidly looking up at me as I savoured her delectable nakedness. She flashed me a shy smile, then turned away. Her arms were bound behind her back, like Kate's. Both she and the other woman wore metal collars, linked to which were chains secured to the middle strut of the canopy.

There was another collar on the bench where Kate was to sit. I held it up for her to study its form, running my fingers over the smooth, shiny surface. She closed her eyes and emitted a soft sigh as I gently brushed back her hair and fastened the band about her neck. It was hinged with a clasp where the chain joined, was loose-fitting and did not lock so it could be easily and quickly removed (in the event of an accident). Kate was sitting up perfectly straight, staring directly ahead. Both the other men were examining her, as closely as I did their partners.

We all kept to ourselves during the journey. Occasionally, I shifted my gaze from the women opposite me to take in the sights. Everything was clean and tidy. The streets were congested but the traffic was orderly. Elegant, colonial-style buildings and neat, well-kept houses lined broad, leafy avenues. People were everywhere, and already the sight of naked women was becoming familiar, if no less gratifying. At one point another taxi, packed with boisterous wenches, drew up beside us. The girls were laughing and cavorting and waving to passers-by, revelling in their exposure. They were the group from our flight, and they called out a greeting, which we returned.

The ride was pleasant and relaxing at first; but once we left the bayside flats and climbed into the hills, we were jolted and jostled. The women got the worst of it, since their sweaty bare buttocks provided little traction on the slippery benches; and their unencumbered breasts suffered a good deal of jerking and bouncing. This part lasted only about five minutes, but I enjoyed every second of it.

We left the other two couples at the Seaview Apartments, located a short distance down the road from our own destination. The young woman whose hands were tied had to alight without assistance from her partner, who was preoccupied with their luggage. She very nearly lost her balance as she stepped down onto the cobbled pavement, and it didn't help that the only thing she wore was a pair of stiletto-heeled shoes.

Our hotel was located on the hillside overlooking Régate, a long way from the water but with a superb, panoramic view of the town and bay. The Hôtel Bonaire Tropicale is a genteel establishment, graceful in design, set amidst carefully tended gardens and groves of palms and pines, comfortable rather than opulent. The faux-Renaissance façade might at first appear a little pretentious, but it is not overdone, and the interior's fine stucco decoration and period furniture do set the Bonaire above the norm.

We were met by a doorman attired in a crimson uniform with copious braid, befitting the old-world charm. He politely cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, sir, madam." He pointed tactfully towards Kate's feet.

She was uncomprehending at first, then rather shocked. For the first time since our arrival in Syrena, she laughed. "Good grief," she exclaimed, "this place really is posh!" She pushed off her sandals and I put them in the bag with the rest of her clothing. We approached the reception desk across a gleaming marble floor. In her bare feet, Kate tiptoed charily over the hard, cold surface.

The young woman behind the counter was a rich coppery brown. She had what I'd describe as a patrician deportment, and spoke with a rather refined accent. A small plaque on the desk top identified her as Regina. She wore her hair in a well-kept dreadlock style that brushed the tops of exquisite breasts. Like most of the local women we had encountered, she was extremely attractive. (I imagine that three centuries of nudity and slavery have given rise to a natural selection process which has blessed all Syrene females, and suspect that immigration policies have a similar skew.) Instead of a collar, she had about her neck a halter of braided leather. To it was clipped a heavy chain that was bolted to the counter, confining her movements to her limited workspace. As I signed in and she handed over the keys and more brochures, she reminded us of the hotel's many fine amenities, and bade us to have an enjoyable stay. I assured her we would and nodded towards her naked torso. She responded with a flirtatious grin (although she's probably endured that not very funny comeback a thousand times) and winked at Kate.

As I reached for our suitcase, a delicate hand respectfully brushed mine aside with a politely insistent "Please allow me, sir."

I had seen the diminutive figure with short shaggy blonde hair standing near the lift facing away from us, and if she had been wearing clothes she might have been mistaken for a boy. When she turned around there was no uncertainty. She was aged in mid-twenties, with azure eyes and a peach complexion. Her breasts were small but well-proportioned; she was a little on the skinny side for my personal taste. She had a tiny waist and narrow hips, and a light but jagged scar ran down her belly. Farther along, the delicate folds of her sex were wedded by a miniature golden lock. I wondered who held the key.

"Sir, madam," she said in a somewhat squeaky voice, "I'm Sarah. If you need anything, I will be on duty until midnight. Please call the front desk."

She spoke with an Australian accent. Syrena's workforce is remarkably cosmopolitan. Since our luggage was just the one bag, I didn't feel too awkward about the minuscule maid carrying it. She left us at the door of our fourth-floor suite. There is no tipping, as such, in any of the island's hotels and restaurants, at least not with regards to female staff, since technically the women are slaves. Of course, if you want to leave a gratuity at the end of your visit, it's not discouraged.

I opened the suitcase on the bed, took out our things and stowed mine in the closet. I carefully replaced Kate's. She watched me do so with a wistful expression, and even though we were alone she cringed, just a little, as she stood naked before me. She had never looked more vulnerable, nor more inviting. Then she broke the spell by asking to have her hands untied, and heading for the bathroom. I stepped out onto the balcony to take it in the view. When she returned, I beckoned for her to join me. I embraced her marvellously sexy body. Her skin was smooth and cool, and I could feel her nipples hard and sensual through the fabric of my shirt. I wanted her, so I tied her hands behind her back once more, took her inside and had my way with her.

We showered together — Kate's hands remained bound so I did the scrubbing for both of us — and then I changed into fresh clothes. I suggested that we go down to the bar. Kate was hesitant, but we both knew she couldn't hide in our room forever. Anyway, she'd already been seen by dozens of people. Still, I wasn't at all irritated by her mood. In fact, I found her reticence both endearing and — yes, I do confess — arousing.

"We will just stay inside the hotel today, take things easy for now," I told her.

So we went downstairs. The saloon was almost empty. It was brightly lit but quiet and cosy, with soft music playing (what I would call café jazz). There were half a dozen tables. Kate eased herself into one of the big lounge chairs. She gasped as the flesh of her back and bottom came into contact with the leather. At that she giggled, and in a way I envied her for what she was feeling. Every action, every experience, even something as prosaic as sitting down, was a new and thrilling sensation.