Meanwhile, one of the flight attendants had spoken quietly to Rachel, and the four of us held back as the rest of the passengers disembarked. By the time we stepped onto the tarmac, the others were already being ushered into the terminal. It was just on mid-day, and a blazing sun was blasting its way through a haze of high cloud. We were greeted by a young lady in her late twenties, slim and tanned, with auburn, caramel-streaked hair and expressive hazel eyes. She introduced herself as Kate, "your hostess." She had a crisp, professional style, not at all compromised by what she was wearing, a flimsy floral sarong secured by a knot nestled perilously low in her cleavage. Encircling her throat was a black leather collar, buckled at the rear, with a ring in front -- looking for all the world like an elegant dog collar. In addition, she wore lavender-coloured leather bracelets and anklets. Attached to the band around her left wrist was a miniature padlock.
Kate recited the standard "I hope you enjoyed your flight" and "Don't hesitate to ask" formalities, and as we followed her to the building she gave us a concise rundown on the resort's highlights, information about our short-term accommodation and an update of our agenda for the next few days. My aunt and uncle listened dutifully, although there wasn't anything really new being said. My cousin's attention was focused more on Kate's sleek legs and décolletage. I was distracted by her bondage accoutrements but managed to heed most of her words. She led us past the terminal. Inside, our fellow passengers awaiting the unloading of their luggage gave us curious looks, no doubt wondering who we were and why we were getting the VIP treatment. I felt a sudden surge of self-importance. However, our hostess quickly and slickly deflated my
amour-propre
with an indulgent smile, the kind that says: "Welcome to the team, but remember, you're the newbie."
To convey everyone to Resort Village, which is about three kilometres from the airfield, parked outside the terminal was a small convoy of taxis. These are golf-cart type buggies which Kate explained serve as the principal form of transport on the island. There are almost no conventional automobiles, the exceptions being emergency vehicles, a handful of electric-powered shuttle buses, a few delivery vans and some heavier trucks for construction and maintenance. We piled into the cart at the end of the queue. It was the only one without an assigned driver and Kate took the wheel. We drove at a sedate pace along a winding, single-lane road, skirting ridges and gullies and grazing the edge of some scarily precipitous coastal cliffs. Kate calmly negotiated the twists and turns, and any misgivings I had about her driving skills were quickly dispelled. All the while she acted as tour guide, with commentary on all the notable features of the landscape -- the imposing charcoal grey monolith of Granite Peak off to our left, Pirates' Cove on the right, the aptly named Razorback Ridge, and so on.
Near the end of our journey, on the western edge of the town, we pulled into a tree-lined cul-de-sac in the midst of a cluster of low, salmon-pink and cream-coloured buildings. They were of stark design, softened somewhat by trimmings of tidy gardens and neat hedges.
"This is the staff residential district," Kate informed us. "We call it the Oasis. After your orientation this will be your home."
It appeared a lot smaller than I would have expected for a self-contained community with amenities and services for five hundred employees. It's far from luxurious, although no worse than some of the places where my family have stayed and paid. However, today's destination lay beyond, so we drove on into Resort Village. This is a compact, fully functioning town, nestled within the great southern bay, flanked by craggy headlands and hemmed in by steep, forest-shrouded hillsides. Most of the buildings in the centre are high-rise, but on the periphery are picturesque, white-washed cottages and bungalows. The beach is wide and its sands are almost unnaturally white, like they've been bleached, with here and there the sprinkled pink hue of crushed coral. Lying some distance off the eastern cape is barren, dune-capped Frigate Island, which shelters Resort Bay from the winds and waves of the open sea.
The streets shimmered in the early afternoon heat; the beach was deserted; the footpaths were almost empty and the cafeterias we passed seemed abandoned. Kate assured us that appearances can be deceiving. At the peak of the holiday period the resort accommodates up to two thousand guests, and even now, towards the end of the tourist season, there are at least half that number. Indeed, as we turned onto a broad avenue in its very heart, the traffic increased dramatically. But the streets of the Village are used by pedestrians as well as vehicles, and the former have right-of-way, so we meandered through the throng at a pace slower than walking.
It might be a beach resort like any other, with women in pert sundresses and barely-there bikinis, men in loud shirts and silly hats. Yet two differences are immediately obvious. The first is the range of ages. I saw no children. Aranea is, of course, an adult-themed resort. And yet the oldest guests appear to be in their forties, maybe early fifties. So it's not your usual demographics.
The second difference is, of course, the number one attraction of Aranea Island. Almost all the women were bound in some way, with hands in front or hands behind the back, or arms pinioned at the side. Some shuffled past us with shackles around their ankles or hobbles on their knees. Many wore collars, of metal or leather, and a few were being led about on leashes. A lot were gagged. Some were blindfolded, but not many (because that would be too extreme, since to deprive a woman of her sight in such a bountiful shopping precinct is akin to torture).
Although most people were in couples, there were a few larger groups. One which drew my attention was a party of seven swimsuit-clad young women, shambling along in single file with a lone male in the lead. The girls were bound, gagged and blindfolded, tethered close up to one another with a rope looped around their necks. The young man was carefully guiding his captives down the street, using what looked like a coded sequence of tugs on the front girl's halter to steer them around and past obstacles, albeit not with complete success. Every so often as I watched, I winced as one of his prisoners collided with sidewalk café furniture or a potted plant or something, and she protested with a muffled whimper through her gag.
"Sorry about that," he would respond with unconvincing sincerity; but they were moving too slowly for any real damage to be done.
Kate noticed that we were staring and explained that the women were medical students celebrating their recent graduation. Since their arrival a few days ago, they have made quite an impression, memorable even by the singular standards of Aranea Island. The sole male leading the pack was wearing the uniform of a resort employee.
"Lucky guy," Daniel said.
"Lucky gals," I said to myself. But I must have made some noise, because both Kate and Rachel looked at me with eloquent grins.
Further along the avenue, two girls were attempting to make their way through the crowd unaccompanied. 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. They were naked but for microscopic g-strings. Kate informed us that nudity is not forbidden (for females, anyway), and bare breasts are not infrequent, although such displays are normally confined to the beaches and parks.
Naturally Daniel proclaimed that bare boobs should be compulsory. We all ignored him so he was forced to continue.
