~ISLA PARAÍSO~ fiction by Van ©2005 art by Dea ©2005
			Chapter 8

To see the actresses I would cast in an ISLA PARAÍSO motion picture, follow the link below, and use your browser's "Back" feature to return.  (Please ignore characters who have not yet appeared.)

That was a looong night, Chrissy.  Ulrika was insatiable!  I lost count of the number of times I made her cum after about... twelve?  Talk about stamina!  I think Ulrika does Ironman Triathalons for warm-ups!  Anyway, she sure as hell wore me out.

She was nice enough to let me rest a little between tongue-lashings.  We'd cuddle for a while... (Half cuddle.  My wrists were manacled to the back of my chastity belt, you might recall, so all the snuggling was rather one-sided.) ...we'd suck some face, she'd do things (nice things) to my nipples; I'd return the favor with my tongue, lips, and teeth; then she'd guide my face to her crotch, and it would be time for Ulrika-orgasm number infinity-plus-one.

I got spanked a couple of times, when she decided I was slacking off.  It wasn't really punishment, more wake-up call than pain, and clearly, she wasn't angry.  She'd flip me across her lap, use one hand to keep my hands out of the way, and paddle my butt-cheeks with the other.  And once, she wrapped her legs around my waist and slapped my boobs several times, 'til they were all pink and tingly.  And then there was the toe sucking and foot tickling incident.  {Shudder!}  Anyway, I'd whine and pout and act all pathetic and contrite, promise to do better, and then it was back to the salt mines.

The ball-gag remained loosely buckled around my throat, but she never used it.  Apparently, my amazon mistress wasn't worried about disturbing the nocturnal peace of the resort.  She told me to keep things quiet, and I did my best, but it was moot, anyway, 'cause, you see—Ulrika's a screamer.  I could tell when my tongue had done its job, 'cause she'd clench her fingers in my hair, her thighs and tummy would tense, and she'd let loose this full-throated, warbling yowl you wouldn't believe!  Either the guest and staff quarters were on the far side of the resort, they all slept with their windows closed and the air conditioning running, or nobody got much sleep that night.

Anyway... eventually... she wore me out.  My last memory of that night is Ulrika holding me close, kissing my lips, running her hands over my breasts and tummy, and then, finally—sweet oblivion.

The next thing I knew, it was mid-morning.  I took a cautious look around.  Ulrika was gone, and both the mystery celebrity and the elaborate "da Vinci frame" that had held her prisoner were missing as well.  The Gulf was lapping at the beach, the sun was almost painfully bright, the sky was blue and cloudless, a gentle breeze was stirring the fronds of the palms and the dangling thatch on the edge of the roof... and I was alone.

I attempted a stretch, and realized I was no longer bound as I had been during the night.  I'd made some significant gains in the hardware department.  The chastity belt was still locked around my waist and through my crotch; the manacles were still around my wrists; but now, instead of being directly connected to the back of the belt, my wrists were in front, and separated by links of heavy steel chain.  The ball-gag was still dangling around my throat, but now I was wearing a steel collar; and my ankles were locked in shackles.  They were connected by chains, like the manacles.  Finally, more chain dangled from the front of the collar and seemed to be connected to everything.

I sat up in the bed and sorted things out.  The collar chain had two big rings, one in the middle and one down at the end.  Each of the cuffs were connected by a few links, separately, to one of the rings— the shackles to the bottom ring, and the manacles to the middle ring.

I blinked in surprise.  I know I'd been out of it... but they came and took away the celeb and her frame, added all this extra weight... and I slept right through it?  I clinked and slithered to the edge of the bed, 'til I could plant my feet on the floor, then examined my bonds in detail.  The manacles and shackles were heavy and strong, and essentially identical in style and form.  They were thick-walled and wide, gleaming steel, smooth and well-polished, and shaped to fit the contours of my wrists and ankles, closely and without discomfort.  There were hairline seams and tiny keyholes, and each manacle and shackle had similar little socket-balljoint-ring-thingies connecting them to their part of the chain.  It was a sure bet the collar was similar, that I was wearing a matched set, parts of a system made by a single manufacturer.

I climbed to my feet.  Standing upright, the center chain lifted the hobble chains off the floor, and the manacles were held at my waist.  I couldn't touch my face or my feet unless I crouched down, sat, or bent at the waist.  I sure as hell couldn't mount any sort of rebellion or make anything like a speedy escape (or climb a fence, or swim... sigh).

So... I wouldn't be going anywhere fast, but at least I wasn't chained or tied to anything.  Here was my chance!  Okay, like I said, an actual escape was out of the question, but what was to prevent me from looking around? ...find some breakfast?  ...a bathroom?   My hair was still in the French braid Ulrika had given me, and it seemed to be in good order.  I could use a shower, as I was rather funky after my night of servicing Ulrika.

And I definitely needed to pee!

And what would Ulrika do to me if she found me wandering her domain in search of the Little Slavegirl's Room?  There was sure to be some sort of horrific punishment for curiosity, but my bladder needed emptying, and there was probably a punishment for demonstrating a lack of house-training, too.  So...

I clinked, clattered, and pattered to the edge of the pavilion.  The shackles slowed me down, enforcing short, mincing steps, but at least they didn't hurt.  The nearest resort buildings were all away from the beach.  They looked huge, and vaguely institutional— dining rooms, lounges, etc.  I couldn't tell exactly what they were, but they sure as hell weren't intimate little bungalows for the celebs.  Then, I noticed a much smaller building down at the far end of the beach.  It had beach showers against one wall, and that meant plumbing, which meant there might be a toilet.  My bladder concurred, so I shuffled in that direction.  I figured I was less likely to run into anybody down there than up in one of the bigger buildings.  I was wrong.

The sun was hot on my bare skin, but the ocean breeze helped.  I shuffled down the path towards the beach building, acutely aware that I was in plain sight from the big buildings on the far side of the lawn.  I kept waiting for one of the Asian Women, or even Ulrika herself, to emerge from one of the doorways and start shouting dire threats in my direction... but it didn't happen.

The beach showers hadn't been used, not recently.  The tiles under the row of showerheads were all bone dry.  They operated by way of pull chains attached to big rings.  A convenient arrangement, unless your wrists are tethered at the level of your waist by slave chains.  No shower?  No problem.  Finding a toilet was a higher priority, anyway.

There was a door around the corner from the showers, on the side facing the main buildings.  I minced over and grabbed the handle.  It was rustic bronze, and was of the "L" type, like the door handles that gave the Raptors free rein of Jurassic Park.  I worked the handle and could feel it draw the bolt, but the door was heavy, and it opened outwards.  With my chains, I had an awkward time actually getting it open.  It would open a little, but as soon as I let go of the handle to grab the edge, it would slam shut.  This happened twice, then I managed to get one of my shackles wedged between the door and the jam—but at the same time, one of my wrist chains got caught in the handle.  {Dammit!}  I fumbled 'til it slid free, then took a step and grabbed the edge of the door, pulled it far enough open to let me inside—did a pirouette and stepped across the threshold—and the door slammed closed, bumping me in the ass. {Ow!}

Not exactly my shining moment of grace.  I looked up—and froze.

I was not alone.

No less than twelve, uh, girls were watching my entrance.  I hasten to add that by "girls" I mean adult people of the female persuasion; and by "adult" I mean 18-or-maybe-19; and by "twelve" I mean thirteen-minus-one of the most gorgeous little things you've ever seen.  They were a regular United Nations of feminine pulchritude, of every race, hair color, and skin tone.  (Well, most of them, anyway... race and hair and skin, I mean.)  And cute?  I tell ya, Chrissy, they were every cheerleader, tennis star, surfer-girl, African super-model, Chinese kung-fu cutie, and starlet-on-the-edge-of-breakthrough you've ever seen—the best of—all rolled up into... twelve.  They were dressed in skimpy little uniforms of white cotton: wrap-around sports kilts and bikini tops.  Their feet were bare and their hair pulled back in tight ponytails, those whose hair wasn't cropped short or in pageboys.

Ten of them were sprawled around on cushions in front of a raised stage, and on the stage itself, a cute blonde with a deep tan and pale blue eyes was using several yards of hemp rope to bind a girl with a Mediterranean complexion and curly black hair.  I'd barged into the middle of a... bondage classroom??

"Uh... hi!" I said, swallowed nervously, backed against the door, and fumbled for the inside handle.

One of them said something in Spanish (the local Spanish, I think), and the others laughed.  Then they swarmed me.

"Speak English," one of them said, as the crowd of nubile femininity converged.

"Yes, she's the one who made Head Mistress scream all night," another added.  "I think she only speaks the English."

Their hands were all over me!  "Hey!—M'mmpfh!"

One guess, Chrissy.  Hand-gag followed by my no-longer-dangling ball-gag, right?  Right.

I was hustled into the main room.

"Let's take care of her."

"Let's play with her."

"There's a difference?"

More laughter.  I couldn't keep track of who was saying what.  I was sort of... distracted.  They had me on my back in the middle of their nest of cushions, running their hands over me, using their arms and legs hooked through my chains and/or limbs to hold me down, playing with my breasts and nipples, kissing my neck and ears, running their hands over my thighs and around the margins of my chastity belt... distracted.

"She probably has to go," one of them said.

"Let's do a 'full control'," another added.

I could hear the quotes around "full control", but didn't know what it meant, of course.  They showed me.

I was dragged by several (most) of the girls into a tiled room.  I was plunked down over a toilet, and the crotch panel of my chastity belt was unlocked and pulled back.

"You piss, now," one of them whispered in my left ear.

But I couldn't.  You try relieving yourself with a crowd of giggling girls holding you down and continuing to slide their hands over your body and stick their tongues in your ears and suck on your nipples, etc., etc.  I just couldn't!

Then one of them started tickling me in just the right (meaning wrong) place... and I could.  I blushed in shame as I tinkled 'til my bladder was empty.

I looked up, and noticed one of the girls (an African with dark, smooth skin, and close-cropped hair), coming towards me with what I recognized as an enema bottle!

Uh... I'll spare you the details, Chrissy.  Suffice it to say that more than my bladder got emptied.  I was swabbed clean, my chastity belt secured, and then I was hustled back into the main room.

They pulled, pushed, and dragged me back down onto the cushions; then, continuing to hold me down, unlocked my connecting chains.  The manacles, shackles, collar, and chastity belt remained.  Only the links and rings were removed.

I was still totally helpless.  Two or more of the nymphs held each of my limbs.  One, the blonde who had been binding the Mediterranean beauty, cradled my head in her lap.  She unbuckled my gag and pulled it from my mouth.

"Who are you?" I gasped.  "What is this place?"

They all laughed, and the blonde put one of her fingers to my lips.  "Hush, slavegirl.  My name is... Mistress."

"Mine too!" another laughed

"And mine!"

"I am Mistress!"

"And I!"

They all claimed the title, giggling, laughing, and continuing to explore my body with their hands.

"You will address all of us as 'Mistress'," the blonde intoned.  She kept her finger over my lips.  "You have stumbled upon Ulrika's School of Dominance, and we are her current class.  This was my first chance to lead a Shibari workshop, and you've spoiled it, silly slavegirl.  Have you had breakfast?"

Her finger left my lips.  "Uh, no,—Ow!  No, no Mistress!"   I'd earned myself a nipple tweak, for not addressing the young blonde with the proper respect.

"Mistress Gianna," the blonde said, "please get some breakfast for our new friend."

Apparently, she'd been addressing the beauty she'd been tying up when I entered, 'cause she was the one that answered.  "And how do I do that, Mistress Katarina?"  She shook her shoulders for emphasis.  Her upper body was a cat's cradle of hemp bondage, with a long, dangling length of untied rope trailing behind.  Alone among the "Mistresses", Gianna had not been caressing me with her hands, her wrists being bound behind her back; but she had been sliding her bare feet over my thighs and torso.

One of the other Mistress-girls climbed to her feet and made short work of Gianna's bonds.  Meanwhile, the rest started giving me a sponge bath with washcloths and bowls of warm, scented water.

Those girls were good, Chrissy!  Not only were they beautiful, but they knew exactly how to handle a slavegirl, even an old lady of twenty-something like myself.  I felt like a pampered pet; a pampered, helpless pet.  They continued holding me down, controlling my half-hearted attempts to wiggle free with ease.  The warm, wet cloths scrubbed and rinsed my skin, towels followed, and in a few minutes (endless... sensual... wonderful minutes), I was clean.

All the while, the little nymphs continued playing with my body.  I felt like a kitten at a slumber party, or like the new girl in the Sultan's harem... on Massage Night.  I sort of drifted in this sea of young, athletic, beautiful, female bodies and hands.  Someone, somewhere, was doing a lot of whining and moaning, and I think it was me... then someone popped a ripe strawberry in my mouth.

Yum!  I opened my eyes to find Gianna, I mean Mistress Gianna, had returned with a platter of food.  Scrambled eggs, tortillas, spicy sausage, roasted peppers, more fruit, some sort of pastry with a strong cinnamon and brown sugar flavor... all delivered in small, bite-sized morsels by a half-dozen hands.  The remaining hands continued holding me down and caressing my skin... not that I was trying to squirm away, not anymore.

I was still just a little hungry when the feeding stopped.  I relaxed in my Mistress' grip as my face, neck, and breasts were scrubbed clean.  Next, a glass was held to my mouth.  I drank, then one of the nymphs produced a dental spreader!  This took me completely by surprise, of course, but they were ready for my reaction: more futile struggling.  The device was forced into my mouth, its little flange thingies snapped between my teeth, the ratchets on either side were engaged, and my jaws were pried open and clamped into an involuntary, wide-mouth grimace of a grin!

My head pinned and held on Mistress Katarina's lap, my arms, legs, and torso firmly under the control of various and sundry nymphs, others used toothbrushes and rubber-tipped picks to clean my teeth.  It wasn't a full-blown visit to the dentist, mind you, just another demonstration of "full control"; that they could do anything they wanted to me, whenever they wanted to do it (as if I needed another demonstration).  The paste they used was mildly yucky, but they didn't use much of it, and after removing the spreader, they let me rinse and spit.

And there I was, naked (except for the steel locked around my wrists, ankles, crotch, and throat), and flat on my back in a pig-pile of Mistresses-in-training.  I just lay there, letting them pet and pamper me, content and safe (and only a little scared).

Oh... by the way... did I mention I was horny?  And I don't mean ready-to-play horny.  I was nipples hard as rocks, sex swimming in girlie-juice, touch me and I'll explode, HORNY!!  After a night servicing a Teutonic goddess, followed by extended pampering and "full control" in the highly educated hands of a covey of "Mistresses"—who wouldn't be??

So why didn't I? ...explode, I mean. They were touching me, a lot—but all I was getting was throbbing nips and this horrible-delicious ache under the steel crotch strap of my belt.   Like I said before, they were good—good and evil!  They were playing me like a damn piano, Chrissy... Claude Debussy's Claire de Sexually Frustrated Lune.

Eventually, their burgeoning powers might have slipped, and I might have gotten some form of relief, but it wasn't to be.

"We have orders," Mistress Gianna announced.  The others sighed and made regretful, very girlish little cooing noises.

"What are they?" Mistress Katarina inquired.

"We're to box her and send her to the castle," Gianna said.

"So soon?" one of the others asked.

The African leaned forward and kissed my right nipple.  "We have only begun to play with her," she pouted.

A redhead with green eyes and a super-abundance of freckles kissed my left nipple.  "Can we not delay, even a little?"

Mistress Gianna shook her head.  "Direct orders from Head Mistress," she sighed.

I was looking from face to young, beautiful face.  Box??  Castle?  I opened my mouth to say something—and got a mouthful of rubber ball.  A broad strap tightened at the nape of my neck, and I could hear additional buckles rattling on either side of my mouth.  The strap piercing the ball was off-center, so most of the rubber was inside my mouth.

A leather flap padded with foam appeared.  It had two short straps and one very long, narrow strap, on either side of a semicircular cutout.  The cutout was a notch for my nose.  The center of the padding was pressed against my mouth, and the two pair of short straps were buckled to either side of my face, over my cheeks.  Finally, the long straps were crossed under my chin, and buckled at the nape of my neck.  It wasn't the worst gag I'd ever worn, but it may have been one of the most effective.

Next, I was rolled over onto my stomach, and my manacles were reattached to the back of my chastity belt.  Then, my ankles were pulled close, and my shackles locked together into one unit.

There followed an interval of several minutes during which all of the Mistress-nymphs visited me, one-by-one, to kiss my forehead, or breasts, or thighs, or all-of-the-above, and to whisper some sort of farewell...  "Sorry we can't play more."  "Maybe later."  "Wish I could make you do for me what you did for Head Mistress." ...that sort of thing.

There appeared a box, or more properly, a trunk.  It was heavy plastic, with steel hardware and reinforced corners.  It was like one of those big equipment cases, you know?  Anyway, they opened the lid, and I could see thick padding on the underside.  I was lifted to my bound feet, and dragged to the box.  I expected to see more padding inside, but instead, the interior was a big... net-pocket.  It was woven from rope, and suspended by steel rings at the four corners.

The box was like a big trashcan with a net liner.  Wonderful.

I considered struggling, but the Mistress-nymphs had been as much hostesses as captors, and I was kind of fond of them (in a resentful, frightened, horny sort of way).  Anyway, that's my excuse for not putting up a fight, and I'm sticking to it.

I went into the box, was "helped" into a fetal tuck, and the lid was closed.  The "rope" net turned out to be a bungee cord net, elastic cords sheathed in woven fabric.  I was suspended and held in the middle of the box.  Any squirming or writhing I attempted got me exactly nowhere.  I could lift my head and touch the thick padding on the underside of the lid; but everywhere else it was just... bungee.  I tried extending my legs, and all I accomplished was poking some of my toes through the net and touching the rather thin padding on the inner wall of the box.  The box was big enough and the bungee cocoon loose enough to make limited comfort movements possible.  I could roll around like a chick in an egg, if so inclined, but the compression of the net defeated any attempts on my part to stretch and test the strength of the box itself.

Clever design.

It was totally black inside the box, but there must have been vents of some sort, somewhere.  Seems logical, since I'm not dead.   J

Anyway, the box (and yours truly) were carried outside and placed on what I surmise was an electric cart.  I could hear the girls giggling and talking—then the door to the classroom slammed, and the noise was gone.  An electric motor started, and we (whoever "we" were) rolled away.

We crunched the gravel of a path and went... somewhere.  And then we got there, and my box and I were off-loaded from the cart.  I rode a short distance upward, on a lift of some sort, then was rolled against something hard.  I heard a strap whip around the box and snap taut.  Then, I heard some clattering, and a door slammed.  My best guess was that I had become stowed cargo in the back of a truck or van or—how do I know?  I was bound, gagged, and suspended in a bungee cord cocoon, trying to guess what people were doing to me from the inside of a damn box!

It was infuriating! ...and terrifying! ...and I was going back to the castle—which meant... Rosa!!  C'mon!  Let's get this rig on the road!

No such luck.  The truck/van/whatever sat there, for several minutes... several long... dark... minutes.  I lay in my bonds, squirmed a little, now and then, and simmered in the residual horniness of recent events.  And if you're thinking rubbing my thighs together, rolling my hips, and/or trying to thrust my sex against the crotch of the chastity belt was getting me nowhere... you'd be right.  {sigh}

Then a door opened and slammed, a motor purred to life, and we were off!

Lucky I don't get motion sickness, Chrissy, or maybe Ulrika and her staff have transported helpless damsels a zillion times before and know exactly what they're doing.  Anyway, the trip was long and boring, to the point that I eventually dozed off.

When I woke, my transport was lurching and making a tight turn, and then it came to a halt.  The engine stopped, and I heard the sound of people moving around.  The lift noise started and stopped, several times, and things were being dragged around.  Cargo was getting unloaded.  (Brilliant, Holmes!!)

Eventually, they got to the shipment of Lori-in-a-Box.  I was dragged to the tailgate (I surmise), got a ride down on the lift, and was carried away.  The stevedores were male, and were chatting in the local Spanish.  The only thing I could understand was the repeated use of the words "sirena" and "Marquesa".  They were excited about something, that much I could understand.

My box and I were carried... someplace... (It took a while.) ...and then gently deposited on the floor... a floor... some horizontal surface.  I heard some metallic snicking and snapping noises around the edge of the lid.  And then... silence.

I lay there for a while.  More silence.  Finally, I lifted my head and pushed against the lid padding.  It moved!  At least, it moved a little, then fell back into place.  I pushed harder.  This time I got a glimpse of light before it fell closed.  The bungee net was making it difficult to apply any real force, even though I'd squirmed around 'til my feet were under me.  (Now I know how a chick trying to peck its way out of an egg feels.)  I pushed even harder, and this time put my back and shoulders into it—and I got the lid all the way open!  It fell back with a snap of the hinge and the rattle of several dangling clamps.

I was back in the castle!  In fact, I recognized the exact venue.  I was in a small courtyard, midway between the main kitchens and the storerooms under one of the lower towers.  There were other boxes stacked around, but none of them were like mine.  That is, I was the only human cargo that had been off-loaded and staged to this location.  There were crates of fruits and vegetables, and a couple of small, insulated lockers that probably held meat and/or poultry.  (I'd seen deliveries of meat from the village in similar coolers.)

I tried to stand, but the bungee-bag made this difficult.  A lot of wiggling, flopping, box-tipping, crashing, and slithering later, and I was out of the box and onto the tiles.  I lay on my side and looked around.  I could hear activity in the kitchens, female voices, clattering pots and pans, etc.  Other people were moving around as well, although none were in sight.  I was used to sharing the castle almost exclusively with Rosa, so I immediately noticed the echoing noise of multiple occupants.

This particular courtyard opens onto a little balcony that overlooks the Gulf.  Most of the noise seemed to be from down in that general direction, so I rolled and writhed and struggled until I got my feet under me, carefully stood, and hopped that way.

Two dozen boob-bouncing kangaroo hops later, I was at the balcony railing and staring down at the vista below—in wide-eyed wonder!

There was a ship putting into the little harbor directly beneath the castle!  It was white, mostly, and unlike anything I'd ever seen before.  It was bigger than your average millionaire yacht, but smaller than a destroyer.  (I toured a Navy destroyer once, with my fifth grade class.)  It was also a sailing ship, but again, unlike any I'd ever seen before.  It had three big masts, and a bowsprit.  The sails were big triangular things, and as I watched, they were being reeled into slots in the masts, stowing themselves.  The hull design was very modern, a contemporary take on a tall ship.  That's the best I can do, Chrissy.  I know almost nothing about boats and ships and stuff like that.  It was big and beautiful—and "SIRENA" was painted on the bow in gold letters.

There were people on the deck, male and female, some in bathing suits, and some in shorts and striped T-shirts.  Before I could absorb more, the ship's horn gave a loud blast—HONK!!—and I mean loud, Chrissy, especially bouncing off the cliffs and the castle walls and towers.  By the time the last of the echoes faded, the ship's anchor was rattling out of a hole-thingie in the bow, and was splashing into the water.  At the same time, one of the crew (one of the guys and gals in the striped shirts) was hoisting a big black ball shape halfway up the forward mast.  Another crew member was raising the Mexican flag to the top of the center mast.  A third crew member was hoisting a flag on a short pole at the stern, but I couldn't see what flag it was.  The angle was wrong.  Anyway, it was all nautical courtesy stuff, I guess.

There was shouting and cheering.  People on the ship's deck and on the little stone wharf at the base of the cliff were waving and jumping up and down.  There was a scattering of excited people on some of the other castle balconies, as well, villagers and people in uniforms who may have been from the resort.

"Está aquí!" a female voice shouted behind me.

I was caught!  I looked over my shoulder to see who my new captors/handlers would be.  It was four women from the village, all in their thirties or forties, and all dressed in brightly colored skirts and blouses.  They rushed towards me... then around me... and gathered at the balcony rail.

I was more or less ignored.  I didn't know whether to be relieved, or miffed.  Anyway, their attention was on the ship.  We watched as a boat was lowered from the Sirena and it puttered and splashed to a set of folding stairs near the stern.

A woman appeared at the top of the stairs.  It was too far away for me to see much, but she was tall, with long brown hair, and was dressed in a long, flowing, diaphanous gown.  Even at that distance I could tell she was very beautiful.  Ashore and afloat, the crowd broke into renewed cheers, and the woman waved back.

"La Marquesa!" the woman on my right shouted, a happy smile on her face.  She put her arm around my shoulders and gave my naked, bound, and gagged self a friendly hug.   "La Marquesa está aquí!"