StripSearch

The Affair

They stepped onto the dusty path. The sunset painted the sky in gradients of orange. Juma glanced sideways.

“Nice evening, isn’t it?” he said, almost cheerful. “You can smell the frangipani when the wind comes off the water.”

Carla had no idea what a ‘frangipani’ was, and didn’t care. She gave a tiny, strangled “Mmm.” She was naked, cuffed, leashed, villagers staring. Juma noticed the silence, cleared his throat.

Juma tugged the leash gently, leading her through the edge of the market square. He paused at a vendor’s stall, handing over a few coins for a woven basket of steaming plantain fritters wrapped in banana leaves. The aroma of spice and fried dough cut through the evening air.

Juma tried to break the ice, “New places always feel off at first. How’s the settling in going for you? Tribal Dispatch is not the worst spot to land, huh?”

Oh, it’s paradise. Cells, electro shocks, leashes. What’s not to love? she thought. But she only replied, “Mhmmm.”

Carla kept her eyes on the ground. She glanced back once. The office’s barred window showed in the distance. Lisha stood there. Their eyes met for a moment before the leash tugged, and she turned to see where she was going.

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Juma’s hut sat at the village’s edge. It was a squat mud structure with a sagging roof. Inside, a sparse living room with a kitchen area, a sagging couch facing a knee-high wooden table, and a large bed in the corner. Cricket chirps slipped through a cracked window. He unlocked her cuffs, and tossed them onto the table. Juma pointed to the floor beside the table.

“Kneel there,” he said, his voice firm but softer than at the office.

Carla frowned but sank to her knees. The rough mat pricked her thighs. Juma let go of her leash, and it dropped beside her. She looked around the bare hut, then at the leash, then at him.

“So… do you bring all your office equipment home for dinner,” she asked, “or am I special?”

Juma actually laughed, surprised. “Uh… you looked hungry.”

Carla’s mouth twitched. “Starving. Nothing whets the appetite like a leash.”

Juma settled onto the couch. He loomed above her. His movements were stiff as he set the woven basket of plantain fritters on the table. Their golden crusts steamed. The sweet-spicy aroma curled through the humid air.

“Eat,” he said. His fingers brushed hers as he passed a fritter.

Carla took it. The crisp edge crumbled under her bite. Spice stung her lips. She ate slowly. Juma took one for himself. He bit into it. They ate in silence for a moment. The fritters were good. Warm. Filling. Carla took another. Juma did the same.

Juma set his half-eaten fritter down. He stood. He crossed the room to a small clay pot in the corner. He lifted the lid. He carried a glass bowl back to the table. The bowl held tiramisu. He set it down beside the basket.

“The guy at the Blue Door Bakery said white girls love this coffee cake,” he said, his voice a bit proud. He nudged the bowl closer. “Tourist stuff, but I figured you might enjoy it.”

“Lucky me,” she said, voice dry. “First time I’ve been bribed with pudding.”

Juma actually laughed, surprised. “Better than the stuff they feed you at the office, huh?”

“Marginally.”

The tiramisu’s cream coated her tongue. Its sweetness felt rich and foreign in the jungle hut. She felt his eyes on her, not with the cold stare from the office but warmer, hungrier. He was trying to win her over. Tiramisu wasn’t a staple here. She realized he had bought this specifically for her. Was this some kind of date? Well, if he was going to rape her, buttering her up with nice food was the least he could do.

Besides, she was horny from being naked all day, all the sun on her skin, and not to mention the extended period sitting on that stupid sybian.

She realized he was probably lonely, and had brought her here for company. Maybe that was why he was so nice to her. She didn’t care about him particularly. But if she was right, she might be able to use it to her advantage. After all, he had chosen her. Back then, at the market. He could have taken any of the other slaves, but he had chosen her. The one white girl. So maybe she was more to him than just another female slave to do their errands? Her situation was terrible. Melissa and the others were back at the Academy, too far to do anything for her now. Here at Tribal Dispatch, she had no allies. She could use someone to whom she was more than just a slave.

Her body softened. Her resentment faded into curiosity.

The flavors of the food weren’t so bad, she realized. It wasn’t terrible, this warmth, this taste.

Juma ate in silence. His gaze darted to her then back to his plate. He seemed unsure how to break the quiet.

“So… how are you settling in?” he tried.

Carla gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, fantastic. Nothing says ‘welcome to the team’ like a steel collar and electroshocks for not being fast enough.”

Juma’s mouth twitched. “Could be worse. Some slaves get the coffee plantation. Twelve-hour sun, no shade.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when I’m picking my dream job.”

Juma pulled his phone out of his pocket and started tapping. Carla was alarmed she may have gone too far.

“Hhhey?” she stammered, her thighs clenching instinctively, braced for a painful shock.

“Don’t worry,” Juma said, smiling. He pressed another button.

The IUD buzzed softly in her. Just as it had done to reward her earlier today. Carla eased up. She wasn’t being punished. But she hated that he could so easily reach into her intimate area like this.

Juma stood. He picked up the leash and tugged it gently. He led her to the wooden bed in the corner.

“Get on the bed,” he said. He locked the leash to the middle bar of the headboard with a click, anchoring her firmly in place.

The IUD’s vibrations had done their job. Her body was slick now, ready despite herself. Juma’s finger slipped inside easily, no resistance at all. His smile widened as he felt it, and Carla’s cheeks burned hot. Outrage surged through her—this was his doing, the device forcing her wetness, turning her body on against her will.

“Why bring me here?” she asked. “You could have just used the storage room.”



Juma hesitated. “Storage room smells like bleach. And… I don’t know. You looked at me like I was a person, not just the guy with the phone.”

Carla gave a bitter laugh. “Congratulations. You’re still the guy with the phone.”

Juma chuckled, low and surprised. “Oh right, I can switch that off now. You’re clearly ready.” He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and the vibrations in her core faded to nothing. The sudden quiet left her feeling strangely empty, her body still humming from the echo.

He stripped off his shirt and shorts, his lean frame settling between her thighs. The chain at her collar clinked softly against the headboard. His erection pressed hot against the inside of her leg.

Carla’s breath caught. In Dublin this would be rape. Here, it was Tuesday. But maybe she could use this. Make him have feelings for her. Turn him into some kind of an ally.

She forced her hips to relax, forced her face to soften, forced her voice into something that sounded like welcome. Juma’s eyes searched hers. He waited a heartbeat, as if asking permission he knew he didn’t need. She answered by parting her knees a fraction wider.

He slid in with one slow push. The IUD’s earlier vibrations had left her slick and swollen; he met no resistance. The stretch was sudden, thick, perfect. A low moan escaped her before she could stop it.

Juma stilled, buried to the hilt, watching her face like he’d never seen a woman come undone before. Carla let the moan happen again, louder, deliberate.

His breath hitched. He started to move. Long, unhurried strokes that drew sparks from every nerve in her vagina.

The first climax took her by surprise. It started low in her belly, curled tight, then snapped open. Her back arched off the bed, the chain rattled, and she cried out, wordless, shameless, eyes squeezing shut as the world narrowed to white heat.

When she opened them, Juma’s gaze locked on hers. He had watched her face the whole time, drinking in every twitch, every gasp, like it was the only thing that mattered. The realization hit her mid-moan, a fresh wave of exposure that twisted the pleasure sharper.

He didn’t stop. He shifted angle, deeper, and the second orgasm rolled through her harder than the first. Her thighs shook. Her toes curled against the coarse sheet.

The third one broke her open. It was huge, blinding, a white-hot wave that started where he filled her and crashed outward until she couldn’t tell where her body ended and the pleasure began.

Juma groaned, low and ragged. His rhythm stuttered. He buried himself deep and came, pulsing inside her, forehead pressed to hers, breath mingling. For a long moment neither moved. Then he kissed her: soft, stunned kisses on her mouth, her neck, the corner of her eye where a tear had slipped free without permission.

He collapsed beside her, one arm flung across her waist, the chain still linking her collar to the bed. Carla lay staring at the cracked ceiling, heart hammering, body humming. She had meant to fake it. She hadn’t faked a single second.

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Carla felt his semen leak out. Her skin prickled. “I need the bathroom,” she said, tugging the chain to underscore her need.

Juma unlocked her. She cleaned up, feeling like a naked chess piece in a game where the players had thrown away the board and were busy fucking the pieces instead. He locked the chain back to her collar when she returned.

They slept. Her naked body pressed against his. She realized how this had been the first time she had felt good since she had been enslaved. Not just good, but great. But now the fireworks were over, and the chain running from her collar to the bed reminded her that she was not his girlfriend.

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Sometime past midnight Carla woke again. Her stomach growled so loudly it startled her in the quiet hut. All that running under the sun, the sex, the endless day, she had burned through the fritters hours ago and the hunger clawed at her now.

Moonlight spilled through the cracked window and painted the low table silver. Half a plantain fritter sat on the banana leaf, edges curled, still smelling of chili and sweetness. She could almost taste it.

Carla tugged the chain. It answered with a flat metallic clink, bedpost to collar, no give at all. She tugged harder, felt the steel bite her neck, and stopped. Juma slept on his back beside her, one arm flung across the pillow, breathing slow and even. She stared at the food, so near and yet so far. One hand gripped the hated chain where it locked her to the bed, the other close to her collar. She tugged both ends again in incredulity at how the leftovers were out of reach for her. She let herself sink back onto the bed. Exhausted from the day, she felt her legs prickle as they relaxed and soon fell asleep again.

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Carla woke to sunlight slicing through the cracked window. She lay alone on the bed. For one moment she forgot where she was. She was naked in a stranger’s hut. Then the memories came rushing back. Juma. Tiramisu. Sex. Her intention to win him over.

She felt around her neck for her collar. She hated this thing. She had hated it ever since the jail guard had locked this bit of steel to her neck. The chain was still attached. She pulled at it and felt the tug of the collar on her neck. She pushed herself up and pulled the other end. She heard the clanging of the chain against the metal headboard.

She was still chained to the bed.

She silently cursed Tara for getting her into this situation. And herself for not following her instincts and leaving the company when she had found out who they really were.

She looked around. There was silence. Juma was not to be heard. The door to the bathroom was open. If he was in there, she would have heard him by now. He had left her here like this.

Carla thought back to their encounter the previous evening. She had not expected she would enjoy it so much. She didn’t even like Juma. So why had it been so good?



The door creaked open. Juma stepped in. He carried two steaming parcels wrapped in green leaves. The smell of fried egg and chili drifted across the room.

Carla was hungry. She couldn’t leave the bed while she was chained to it, so she sat up, curious about the breakfast Juma had brought in.

He set the parcels on the low table, then crouched to unlock the chain from the bedpost. “Best roti john in Ngalawa Bay. One for you, one for me.”

Carla looked up at him.

“Come,” Juma said, smiled at her, took the leash in one fist and guided her to the low table. He handed her a warm parcel. “This is great stuff.”

The leaf unfolded to reveal a thick roti stuffed with egg and spicy fish.

“Five-star service,” she said. “Room service and my very own leash. All I need now is the mint on the pillow.”

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Carla finished the last bite of roti john, licked chili from her thumb, and felt the pressure low in her belly.

“I need the bathroom,” she said, already standing.

Juma pointed to a narrow door. Carla padded across the cool tiles, the leash swaying from her collar and brushing her thighs as she walked. The toilet was simple but clean. When she stepped out, Juma was naked, skin gleaming in the morning light. His erection jutted proud and ready.

“Shower time,” he said with a grin on his face.

He guided her back into the bathroom. Warm water burst from the showerhead, drumming on her shoulders. Juma poured liquid soap into his palms and worked it over her breasts, down her stomach, between her legs. His fingers were thorough, slippery, shameless. Carla’s breath hitched as the soap slid over her clitoris, over and over again, until her knees softened.

He turned her to face the wall and bent her over. The chain clinked as it hit the tiles beneath her. Juma pressed against her back, guided himself in, and filled her in one slick thrust. The leash hung down before her face, swaying with every push, the links chiming softly against the floor.

Water streamed over them both. Carla lifted her head so the water wouldn’t get into her nose. The rhythm built fast, as Juma thrust into her. She felt the orgasm coil tight, then fizzle out as he pulled out of her.

Juma spun her around and lowered her gently to the wet tiles. Carla moved the chain from laying on her body to the tile floor next to her. He settled over her, shielding her face from the spray. Warm water rained on his shoulders, ran in rivulets down his chest, and dripped onto her.

He entered her again, slow this time, eyes locked on hers. The tiles were hard beneath her, the water nice and warm, and the chain made soft clinking noises against the tiles as Juma moved her body. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper. This time her lust unravelled in a long rolling wave that washed over her like the warm water as he groaned against her neck as he spilled inside her.

For a moment they stayed like that, water drumming, chain quiet, two bodies breathing the same steam.

Juma kissed her once, soft, then reached up, killed the tap and the bathroom was silent.

Carla stood dripping on the tiles, hair plastered to her shoulders, skin prickling in the cooler air.

Juma dried himself briskly with the only cloth in the room, while she waited for a towel that never came. Juma tossed his over a nail.

He took the leash in one fist and tugged gently.

“Come.”

Carla followed, water still streaming down her legs.

“Can I at least get a towel?” she asked, half-laughing, half-pleading.

Juma shook his head. “You’ll air-dry. Heat outside will do the job in five minutes.”

He stepped into shorts and a loose shirt, slipped on worn sandals. Carla stood naked, dripping, nothing to do except watch him dress.

She tried for the tone they’d shared a few minutes ago when he was still inside her.

“Any chance today’s an easy one?” she asked, forcing lightness into her voice. “My feet were killing me yesterday.”

Juma spun her around and snapped the cuffs.

“Yesterday was nothing,” Juma said, almost proud. “This week we take it slow so your feet toughen up. Starting Monday, we push you further out — every week a little more.”

Carla’s half-smile died.

She stepped barefoot into the morning heat, water already evaporating from her skin, the village waking around her naked form.

“Rafiki thinks we should go easy on you because you’re a white girl. But I told him we’ll turn you into our best runner.”

The Ratchet

The rest of that week she stayed inside the settlement, hauling sacks of rice to market stalls, crates of beer to the little bars, bags of charcoal to the guesthouses. Carla learned to place her feet carefully to avoid wearing them out.

In the mornings her legs ached from the day before, a deep, dull throb that made her wince with every first step. But once the cart was moving, the pain faded into the background.

One old woman complained the beer was too expensive and Carla had felt shocks within her shortly afterward that left her gasping in pain on the path. It wasn’t fair. She only made the deliveries; she didn’t set the prices. The rating was supposed to be only for the delivery.

By late afternoon, the tracker started its intermittent low, nagging buzzes. She knew now that these little buzzes had a meaning. They were warnings that she was cutting it close. If she didn’t get back soon, the tracker would shock her for dawdling. Carla sighed, but she forced her tired legs to hurry so she could be back faster.

When the office yard finally appeared, Carla parked the rattling cart, wiped the sweat from her eyes, and stepped inside. Rafiki was sitting at the desk, filling out some paperwork. She had to mount the sybian now, let the tracker register she was back, or soon the buzzes in her wouldn’t be warnings anymore.

Carla hated that Rafiki was there. She wanted to be alone during this procedure, without eyes on her. But slaves didn’t get alone. At least he was buried in his forms; if she stayed quiet, maybe they could both pretend the other wasn’t in the room.

She picked up the lube, coated the charging rod, and lowered herself onto the sybian. She felt the mild tug, as the magnet from the charger made contact with the tracker, and sighed with relief, as the tracker went still in her. The light on the charger began to glow in orange, and the charging rod began to vibrate mildly to keep her pacified. Her legs began to relax from the stress of the day, and she felt her blood rush into her aching feet. She let her head fall forward and waited for the familiar vibrations to wash the day away.

She was drifting, half-lost in the rhythm, when his chair scraped. Her eyes snapped open.

Rafiki stood in front of her holding a small clay jar. The sharp, medicinal smell hit her first.

Rafiki unscrewed the lid and scooped out a thick dollop of the sharp-smelling grease.

“From today you use this every morning,” he said, already reaching for her. He spread the cool oil across her shoulders and chest with quick, rough strokes, working it in like he was oiling a piece of furniture. Then his hands moved lower, coating her breasts. When his thumbs circled her nipples he paused and gave each one a deliberate pinch-rub.

“Your nipples are especially sensitive,” Rafiki explained while he applied the oil to them with his large fingers. “They are less protected than the surrounding skin, so make sure to pay extra attention to them. A sunburn here would be especially uncomfortable.” The vibrator kept humming inside her, relentless, while his hands kept moving over her skin.

“Mhmmm, yes, Sir,” Carla whispered. She really wished she didn’t have to go through this right now. Rafiki could have waited until she was done charging. It was as if he was trying to have a conversation with her while she was masturbating. And she couldn’t stop these vibrations. Or get off this damn charger either.

He finished, wiped his hands on a rag, and screwed the lid back on. “I want you to do this every morning, Carla. Before you come to me for inspection. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” Carla whispered again, hoping he would leave her alone now.

He set the jar on the corner of the desk and went back to his paperwork.

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Monday morning came too soon.

The air outside was already hot when Carla rolled the cart out of the yard for the first full week of the new route.

Six sealed twenty-litre jerrycans of drinking water were lashed to the bed, along with a crate of lamp oil. The load felt heavier than anything she had pulled the week before. The water sloshed with every step.

It was her first time delivering beyond the settlement, so Lisha came with her to help.

They followed a narrow path that left the road at the edge of the settlement.

Soon the last houses fell away. The path narrowed, and the trees closed in, thick trunks and hanging vines on both sides, leaves brushing their shoulders. Big palms and tangled vines closed in overhead and on both sides, turning the bright morning into green shade. The ground changed from hard dirt to soft sand and roots.

Rays of sunlight slipped between the palms and highlighted their naked skin. On Carla, they seemed to find her breasts first, where she felt the warmth of the rays before the trees closed over again.

The cart lurched. A thick root had caught the front wheel. Together they lifted, thighs straining, sweat starting to bead. The root gave way with a jerk, and they moved forward again.

Eventually, the trees parted. Dazzling white sand appeared. A single thatched hut stood on short stilts, a painted canoe pulled up beside it. Beyond the hut the sea glittered, flat and blue and endless.

After delivering the goods, they moved on. The path dipped back into the trees, then opened again on another small clearing, another hut, another strip of white sanded beach. It was as if each family had its own pocket, shielded by walls of green jungle, no vehicle could pass through.

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Halfway through the deliveries they stopped in the shade of a leaning palm tree. Lisha untied a small cloth bundle Juma had added at the last moment: cold grilled fish wrapped in banana leaf, two sweet bananas, and bottle of coconut water.

They sat on the warm sand, legs stretched out, backs against the trunk. The sea rolled in and out a few metres away. A fishing boat bobbed far out, its sail a white triangle against the sky.



The fish tasted smoky and salty. She hadn’t realised how hungry she was until the first mouthful.

She let her gaze drift over the blue water, the palms, the little hut with washing flapping on the line. Somewhere a baby cried and was hushed.

Letting her legs flop forward, she sank onto the sand. The bottle was sun-warm, but the water inside was still cool. She drank half in one go.

“Are we almost done?” she croaked.

Lisha passed her a piece of grilled fish. “Two more huts.”

She shut her eyes, relief flooding in. “Are they far?”

“Not far, but there’s a little hill coming up. We need to get the cart over it. That is why I usually eat here. It gives me strength for that part.”

She nodded, too tired to speak, and tore into the fish. She couldn’t wait until the last jerrycan would be delivered, so the cart would finally feel lighter on the way home.

Staring at the white patches, she asked, “Those square things on the sand… what are they?”

Lisha, with her mouth full of banana, replied, “Salt pans. They dry seawater to keep the fish from going bad before market.”

The bottle passed between them until it was empty.

When they were done, Lisha stood, brushed the sand from her thighs, and took the left handle again. Carla rose beside her. The shade was already shorter; the sun had climbed.

Two more huts to go.

Carla gripped her handle. The cart creaked forward, water sloshing, wheels finding the path between the palms once more. The sea flashed beside them, bright and indifferent, as they disappeared back into the green.

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The Water Run wasn’t every day. Small mercies.

Monday had been brutal with Lisha, but Tuesday and Wednesday she was back inside the settlement: sacks of rice to the market stalls, crates of beer to the little bars, the same short loops she had done her first week.

Those days she still had to kneel and wait at every doorway to hand over the bags. And while she hated having to kneel before the ‘free’ people, it felt like rest to her compared to pulling the heavy cart with jerrycans through the jungle.

Thursday morning Juma handed her the same six jerrycans, the same crate of lamp oil, and waved her off, this time on her own, without Lisha.

Carla stared at the loaded cart and felt her stomach sink. She set off while the sun was still low, but the moment the path gave way to soft white sand, the wheels sank deep.

She leaned forward and pushed the handlebar with her thighs and shoulders straining. Her red hair was soon plastered to her sweat-slick breasts and back.

The turquoise water glittered a few metres away, palms leaned over the curve of the beach, and the warm golden light poured down on her naked skin with nothing to stop it.

Every step was a fight against the sand that sucked at the wheels.

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Hours later she rolled the empty cart into the yard, legs shaking, tracker already buzzing its low warning inside her, a warning that she was running late. She parked the cart, wiped sweat from her eyes, and stepped into the office.

She parked the cart, stumbled to the shower, rinsed off in thirty seconds, then lowered herself onto the sybian with nothing left to give. The magnetic tug locked home. The orange light blinked on.

After the recharge finished, she rose and headed off to the storage room. Sleep. Finally.

“Carla,” Juma’s voice stopped her at the doorway. He was leaning against his desk, arms folded, a lazy smile on his face. He held up the cuffs and the short chain leash.

Her stomach dipped, but she walked over without a word. She knew what this meant and she tilted her head up so he could attach he leash to her collar. Then, she turned around and offered her hands on her back for the handcuffs.

After they had tightened around her wrists, she heard Juma’s friendly voice, “Come.”

The walk to his house felt endless, barefoot on the cooling dirt, the chain tugging gently with every exhausted step. Carla could barely put one foot in front of the other as Juma tugged her leash along the path to his house. He was in a good mood, humming, asking how the Water Run had gone, whether the fishermen had given her any trouble, but she only managed single-word answers. Her whole body felt like it had been wrung out and left in the sun.

As soon as they arrived at his hut, he pushed her forward over the back of the couch, bending her over at the waist. He didn’t bother uncuffing her. He just kicked her feet wider and pressed forward. She felt him sliding along her slit once, twice, missing the spot.

With a low, impatient sound he reached down, hooked both thumbs just below her entrance, and pulled upward and apart. The sudden tug on tender skin made her groan — half surprise, half discomfort — but it opened her perfectly. He pushed in on the next try, slow and deliberate, a satisfied sigh leaving his throat as he sank all the way home.

Carla’s breath caught. He hadn’t even bothered using the tracker to vibrate her first. He hadn’t done anything to arouse her. Yet her body had opened for him without hesitation. She felt how she was quickly getting moist and expanding. She realized that this was because she had just spent an entire recharge cycle being vibrated on the sybian. Her body was still ready from that.

At the same time, the daily ritual on the sybian had trained her to be comfortable displaying her sexuality before these men. The idea of being used sexually no longer made her clench or resist.

And as she felt the handcuffs tugging at her wrists, she realized that she had her body trusted him. He had leashed her, cuffed her, locked her away, and controlled the device implanted inside her. Yet, apart from that single demonstration shock on the day of implantation, he had never inflicted deliberate pain. Her body trusted him because it knew he could make her suffer with impunity if he wanted to, but he never did. On some deep, involuntary level, her body had registered that restraint as safety, and it was that unspoken trust that made it open to him so readily.

Juma took her hard and fast, while Carla rested her cheek on the cushion, red hair spilling everywhere, and relaxed into a half-daze as she felt the steady pulse of his thrusts deep within her.

When he finished, he pulled out, zipped up, and unlocked her handcuffs.

“Get yourself cleaned up,” he said, dismissing her with a friendly slap on her butt.

Carla stumbled to the little shower, washed herself on autopilot, and came back to find the table set with takeaway containers of coconut rice and roasted fish.

Juma waved her over.

She sank to her knees beside the couch. In her mind, she grumbled that even after all the sex, she still wasn’t worthy of sitting on the couch. She started eating from the plate he slid toward her.

But she was appeased when Jum brought a plastic tub of tiramisu from his little fridge, and placed it before her on the table with a shy smile.

He nudged the spoon closer, “You liked this last time.”

The first cold, creamy spoonful melted on her tongue and the resentment shrank, just a little. She ate the rest straight from the tub while he started the movie.

Carla was yawning and sleepy, so he chained her to the bedframe again for the night, sat on the couch, and started a movie. She was asleep before the opening credits ended.

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Sometime in the night, Carla stirred from her heavy sleep when a sudden tug at her neck woke her up.

Her hands drowsily moved to the steel band around her throat, where she adjusted the collar, and gave the chain a gentle pull. The chain clinked softly against the far side of Juma’s headboard, the sound sharp in the quiet darkness. The chain connected to her collar had gone taut, pulled tight, and this is what had awoken her.

Juma had fastened it closer to his side, leaving her with even less room to maneuver.

The aching feet, the endless path, the jerrycans, the knowledge that tomorrow would be the same crept back into her mind.

“I can’t believe I’ll be doing two years of this,” she whispered into the dark.

Juma stirred behind her. He made a low, sleepy sound and slid his arm around her waist, pulling her back against him for cuddling. His breath was warm on the back of her neck, right above the collar.

Carla was already drifting into sleep again when she felt his penis harden against her. He didn’t say anything. He just shifted and began to press a lazy kiss to the skin just above her collar, then another, next to it.

Then, he rolled her gently onto her stomach, and himself atop her, and slowly pushed inside her.

Carla let her face sink into the pillow. She stayed half-asleep, limbs heavy, barely aware of anything except the steady rhythm of him moving in her. The pleasure came anyway, dull and distant. He kept going until he finished with a quiet groan, then settled back down, arm draped over her again.

Carla never fully woke up. She was already gone before he even caught his breath.

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Morning light was already bright when she opened her eyes. Fourteen hours she had slept, Juma told her later, grinning from the couch where he watched some old action movie on his laptop.

Cold fish and rice still sat on the table; he came over to unlock her collar from the chain, so she could leave the bed to have breakfast. She knelt on the floor beside the couch, and ate while explosions flashed across the screen.

Halfway through the movie he pulled her up beside him. She curled against his side, drowsy again, and let him take her a second time—slow, lazy, the laptop still playing in the background. When it was over, she dozed off on the couch.

She woke to the credits rolling. Juma was already stacking plates. She stood, legs stiff, and started helping him clear the table.

“Juma,” she said quietly, scraping rice into a bowl, “the water routes… the roots, the sand… it’s too much. My feet, my legs—could I maybe have some easier days? Just sometimes?”

He didn’t even look up from the sink, but his mouth curved into a small, pleased smile.

“Don’t worry. Nia will do the water runs next week. You’ll get nice, smooth roads.”

She nodded, relief flooding her tired body.

“Thank you.”

He dried his hands, dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head. “Long smooth roads.”

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The next week the post-it notes already directed her further out. The paths were smoother than Salt-Cove, but the distances were longer. Carla hauled sacks of seed and fertiliser down smooth roads to farms and plantations.

Yes, the paths were ‘smoother’ than Salt-Cove, as Juma had promised, but they were still just dirt roads. Carla had not seen a single paved stretch since she arrived on the mainland. Juma had told her once that only the capital had paved roads.

Carla had two plastic bottles with water on her cart, one still half-full from the well near the office.

When they were empty, she refilled them from the clear streams where she saw women and children filling their own pots.

As she passed by the fields, she saw slaves, naked men and women working the rows. She remembered how she had seen many of these farms when she had been taken here on the cattle carrier. Now she was working among them.

Every night she fell onto her mat certain her body had finally reached its limit. Every morning she had recovered just enough to go on.

──────────────────────────────

On Friday Juma handed her a light load: a few crates of cold beer for Coconut Grove Farm, nothing urgent, just their weekly order. The air was still cool, and her legs were fresh from a good night’s sleep, so Carla made good headway. Because the crates were small and the road smooth, she reached the farm gate an hour earlier than expected.

The farmhands descended on the crates like children on birthday presents, laughing and helping her unload before she could even catch her breath.

One pressed a cold bottle into her hand. Carla was so grateful for this kindness. She didn’t normally drink beer, but she was thirsty and had run out of water a while ago.

She drank it eagerly in the shade of a mango tree, bottle fizzing against her lips, and a few gulps later, the world already felt softer around the edges.

Carla let her eyes wander around. All the female slaves had their hair in tight, neat braids, the kind that kept their hair together no matter how much you sweated or bent over. Practical, she supposed.

The sun began to feel kinder, the collar lighter, and the naked men working the rows looked… selectable. Some of the men were built like bears, others cut and lean, abs catching the light every time they bent or lifted.

In another life, she decided, she would pick the ones with abs. She took another gulp from the bottle. Yes, abs were non-negotiable. As for the rest… girth over length, definitely.



She imagined herself as some tribal queen on a shopping spree for her new harem of man-servants, picking out the good ones. She almost laughed out loud imagining herself, pointing imperiously: ‘You — fetch me the man-candy with the girthy one.’

Oh, she would be a good queen. She would treat her man-slaves well, she decided. If some men were less well-endowed, she would not hold that against them. They could feed her grapes, fan her with fresh air or massage the feet of their beloved queen. There was a place for everyone at Queen Carla’s court.

Carla couldn’t suppress a giggle.

Some of the female slaves turned to look at her. They were all fit, and their bodies well toned. She looked at their triangles of pubic hair.

She was jealous that they didn’t have to shave like she did. Of course, she had to end up in the one place where she had to stand at attention every morning for a pubic hair inspection as if having red hair was a crime or something. Typical Carla luck. Just like ending up at a company that flushed their inconvenient employees into slavery.

Lisha had mentioned that farm slaves were kept in barns. Did they really lock the slaves in there at night, like livestock?

Her curiosity took her toward the nearest barn. And she saw another slave kneeling, but this one was different. She was white, a young woman with long golden hair kneeling toward a wall of the barn.

Carla stepped closer, until the woman straightened and turned.

Carla froze. Her voice came out a cracked whisper.

“…Melissa?”

Hey everyone,

Chapters 12 & 13 are up!

Carla discovers what an “affair” looks like when one person holds all the power, gets a bit more exercise with the Water Run, and finally comes face-to-face with someone from her past.

What did you think of:

• The Juma night(s) and Carla’s confused feelings,
• Carla getting more exercise,
• The Salt-Cove atmosphere, and
• The cliff-hanger reunion?

Don’t forget to hit the poll and drop your thoughts below!

Wonderfully done. So wish I was in her place.

Also,
Thank you again so much for repairing this website. You are the best
Yours truly,
Belinda

Hoggle: Great chapters I picked up on the oil for sun burns. I may have missed something but is Carla and all the other sex slaves on some kind of long term birth control, or is that the dual purpose of the rechargeable IUD device? Love that Melissa is in the picture. I was curious is Melissa still working at the milk bar along with her duties on the farm? Keep up the great work and I look forward to upcoming chapters.

Hey Lovethissite,

lovethissite wrote: Sat Dec 06, 2025 12:02 pm Hoggle: Great chapters I picked up on the oil for sun burns. I may have missed something but is Carla and all the other sex slaves on some kind of long term birth control, or is that the dual purpose of the rechargeable IUD device? Love that Melissa is in the picture. I was curious is Melissa still working at the milk bar along with her duties on the farm? Keep up the great work and I look forward to upcoming chapters.

Glad the sunburn oil scene landed well, your comment was spot-on, and it gave me two nice awkward scenes. I also updated the end of chapter 11 to foreshadow the one in chapter 13. Rafiki does an inspection there, notices the redness, and blames Juma for going for a discounted slave instead of buying locally to foreshadow the sun oil scene.

On birth control: Carla has the tracker IUD (copper + electronics = no babies).
Melissa has the lactation hormone implant, which usually stops ovulation, it is not 100% effective, but between that and the farmhands being more into beer than sex on most days… she’s probably safe.

And yep, Melissa is still splitting her time between the yam fields and the milk bar, exactly like in her own story. The timelines line up perfectly (if I didn’t mess it up somewhere ).

Hoggle: Congratulations on making the established authors section, well deserved. Maybe you will start a new trend by completing a story. Good luck.