This is a story I started more than a year ago, but never posted. Got back to it late last night. Never too late I guess.
The weather hasn't cooperated much. Gale force winds and torrential rain; nothing but dreariness day after day. Forced to stay indoors; going stir-crazy.
But today, my very last day before packing it back to Heathrow, is going to be different. The week-long gale has finally blown itself out. The sun shines brightly and reflects, as I look out my cottage window, in dazzling little sparkles on the becalmed waters of the Irish Sea.
I resolve to make the best of it. I toss my book, a radio, a hastily made sandwich, a beach towel and plenty of sunscreen in an over the shoulder bag, grab my designer shades, and head out on foot along the coastal road.
I leave the road and follow a footpath along the edge of the headlands, searching for a nice secluded cove with a stretch of sandy beach. Before too long I find exactly what I am looking for. Excited …I half walk, half slide, down a steep gravelly path to the beckoning beach below.
I look around. Perfect! Not a soul in sight … just me and the sounds of waves lapping gently at the shore, a couple of gulls soaring across a cloudless blue sky.
I spread my beach towel, turn on the radio and monkey with the tuning dial, searching for something to suit my mood. There it is! I turn up the volume. The quick paced, throbbing sounds of Steppenwolf's "Born to be Wild" fills the air.
I smile happily to myself, reach down, cross my arms and pull my tie-died kaleidoscope-colored tee over my head. Working in time with the music, I wiggle out of my very short and raggedy cut-off jeans and kick my Keds from my feet.
I pause to adjust the little black string bikini I had worn underneath … the daring little thing I had picked up in a Carnaby Street shop in London. I tug and pull fussily at the edges to better cover the cheeks of my tight little ass and straighten the top.
Satisfied, I sit down on the beach towel and begin slathering sunscreen all over my body, admiring the look of the glistening sheen on my long legs and flat tummy. I am determined not to burn this time. Twisting around awkwardly I manage to get a sufficient amount of the stuff on my back.
It's nearly noon now. The day is heating up nicely. McCartney, on the piano, begins to croon the opening verses of "Hey Jude". And as the song swells to chorus, I sing along ... content in the fact that no one is around to hear my off-key rendition.
Stretching out on my tummy, I prop myself on my elbows, sandwich in one hand and book in the other. I cross my ankles behind me, lazily flexing my knees and raising and lowering my feet in time with the music. I put the sandwich and book down to fuss with my long brown hair, arranging it over my right shoulder. Hey Jude comes to an end and is replaced by the lilting voice of Merrilee Rush singing "Angel of the Morning".
"There'll be no strings to bind your hands," I warble, wondering why that line always sticks with me so. Shrugging I open my book again and begin to read.
The warmth of the sun on my back feels good after so many cold and dreary days. After a while, I put my book down and reach behind to undo the string of my bikini top. I shift my position once or twice until I am comfortable, cradle my head in my arms and close my eyes.
The gentle wash of the waves on the edge of the beach and the incessant cries of the gulls soothe my senses. I feel drowsy. Perhaps a little nap? I look about… still all alone? Yes. Why not?
I doze off and then wake with a start. I sense something has changed. The sun is still shining brightly but I am in shadow. Someone is standing over me!
Clutching the two small black-fabric triangles of my bikini top to my chest, I roll to one side and look up. Two young guys, perhaps in their twenties, bearded and rather rough and scroungy looking, are staring intently down at me.
"Who are you? What do you want?" I stammer, starting to sit up. I flash them an uncertain smile as I fumble unsuccessfully to re-tie the string to my top behind my back.
They exchange looks. The taller of the two says something unintelligible, perhaps Cockney sounding, to the other, who silently but menacingly produces a couple of short lengths of rope from behind his back.
Frightened now, and thinking of escape, I try to gain my feet, but moving quickly the tall one kicks them out from under me and I tumble backwards onto the sand, letting go of my loose top as I throw my hands back to break my fall.
"Now see here!" I sputter. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but you had better stop. I'm not some local girl you can mess around with. I will report you to the police."
The tall one cuffs me hard across the mouth, the force of the blow driving me back, leaving me sprawled on the sand, head turned to one side. He quickly straddles my body, knees planted in the sand on either side of me, takes me by the hair, turns my head toward him and presses a length of sticky duct tape across my mouth.
I taste blood. I try to hit him with clenched fists and kick wildly with my feet, but he calmly grabs hold of my wrists, presses them together and holds them in place above my head while his companion ties them together with a length of rope. Then he sits on me, pinning me down. My flailing feet are soon corralled and bound tightly together.
Only then does he rise slowly, looking down with interest at my bare heaving chest. I look back with wide teary eyes, embarrassed and scared, bikini top wrapped uselessly around my neck.
Reaching down, he grabs me by the hair and pulls me into a sitting position. I draw my knees up close to my chin, still trying to cover up, and now very much regretting my decision to look for a secluded beach.
His pal rummages through the pile of things he has dumped from my shoulder bag. He finds some cash, pockets it, then rifles through my passport before tossing it to the tall one, who opens it and thoughtfully compares my passport photo to my face.
"So, you're a Yank!" he says. "Barbara Moore, 31 years old, five feet seven inches, 119 pounds, it says here. Bloody Hell, we got ourselves a nice little Yank!"
He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his filthy jeans. "Look at them Bristols! I think she’ll bring a good price," he chuckles, grinning lewdly at his pal, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag.
Turning to me he adds, "Just make yourself comfortable now sweetheart; it's gonna be a bit of a wait before our buyers come along."
TO BE CONTINUED
And the waters ran red
1
Summer of '68. My long awaited UK holiday. A whole week in a sea-view cottage, all to myself. A chance to relax, unwind a bit after a grueling first term as a university lecturer.1
The weather hasn't cooperated much. Gale force winds and torrential rain; nothing but dreariness day after day. Forced to stay indoors; going stir-crazy.
But today, my very last day before packing it back to Heathrow, is going to be different. The week-long gale has finally blown itself out. The sun shines brightly and reflects, as I look out my cottage window, in dazzling little sparkles on the becalmed waters of the Irish Sea.
I resolve to make the best of it. I toss my book, a radio, a hastily made sandwich, a beach towel and plenty of sunscreen in an over the shoulder bag, grab my designer shades, and head out on foot along the coastal road.
I leave the road and follow a footpath along the edge of the headlands, searching for a nice secluded cove with a stretch of sandy beach. Before too long I find exactly what I am looking for. Excited …I half walk, half slide, down a steep gravelly path to the beckoning beach below.
I look around. Perfect! Not a soul in sight … just me and the sounds of waves lapping gently at the shore, a couple of gulls soaring across a cloudless blue sky.
I spread my beach towel, turn on the radio and monkey with the tuning dial, searching for something to suit my mood. There it is! I turn up the volume. The quick paced, throbbing sounds of Steppenwolf's "Born to be Wild" fills the air.
I smile happily to myself, reach down, cross my arms and pull my tie-died kaleidoscope-colored tee over my head. Working in time with the music, I wiggle out of my very short and raggedy cut-off jeans and kick my Keds from my feet.
I pause to adjust the little black string bikini I had worn underneath … the daring little thing I had picked up in a Carnaby Street shop in London. I tug and pull fussily at the edges to better cover the cheeks of my tight little ass and straighten the top.
Satisfied, I sit down on the beach towel and begin slathering sunscreen all over my body, admiring the look of the glistening sheen on my long legs and flat tummy. I am determined not to burn this time. Twisting around awkwardly I manage to get a sufficient amount of the stuff on my back.
It's nearly noon now. The day is heating up nicely. McCartney, on the piano, begins to croon the opening verses of "Hey Jude". And as the song swells to chorus, I sing along ... content in the fact that no one is around to hear my off-key rendition.
Stretching out on my tummy, I prop myself on my elbows, sandwich in one hand and book in the other. I cross my ankles behind me, lazily flexing my knees and raising and lowering my feet in time with the music. I put the sandwich and book down to fuss with my long brown hair, arranging it over my right shoulder. Hey Jude comes to an end and is replaced by the lilting voice of Merrilee Rush singing "Angel of the Morning".
"There'll be no strings to bind your hands," I warble, wondering why that line always sticks with me so. Shrugging I open my book again and begin to read.
The warmth of the sun on my back feels good after so many cold and dreary days. After a while, I put my book down and reach behind to undo the string of my bikini top. I shift my position once or twice until I am comfortable, cradle my head in my arms and close my eyes.
The gentle wash of the waves on the edge of the beach and the incessant cries of the gulls soothe my senses. I feel drowsy. Perhaps a little nap? I look about… still all alone? Yes. Why not?
I doze off and then wake with a start. I sense something has changed. The sun is still shining brightly but I am in shadow. Someone is standing over me!
Clutching the two small black-fabric triangles of my bikini top to my chest, I roll to one side and look up. Two young guys, perhaps in their twenties, bearded and rather rough and scroungy looking, are staring intently down at me.
"Who are you? What do you want?" I stammer, starting to sit up. I flash them an uncertain smile as I fumble unsuccessfully to re-tie the string to my top behind my back.
They exchange looks. The taller of the two says something unintelligible, perhaps Cockney sounding, to the other, who silently but menacingly produces a couple of short lengths of rope from behind his back.
Frightened now, and thinking of escape, I try to gain my feet, but moving quickly the tall one kicks them out from under me and I tumble backwards onto the sand, letting go of my loose top as I throw my hands back to break my fall.
"Now see here!" I sputter. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but you had better stop. I'm not some local girl you can mess around with. I will report you to the police."
The tall one cuffs me hard across the mouth, the force of the blow driving me back, leaving me sprawled on the sand, head turned to one side. He quickly straddles my body, knees planted in the sand on either side of me, takes me by the hair, turns my head toward him and presses a length of sticky duct tape across my mouth.
I taste blood. I try to hit him with clenched fists and kick wildly with my feet, but he calmly grabs hold of my wrists, presses them together and holds them in place above my head while his companion ties them together with a length of rope. Then he sits on me, pinning me down. My flailing feet are soon corralled and bound tightly together.
Only then does he rise slowly, looking down with interest at my bare heaving chest. I look back with wide teary eyes, embarrassed and scared, bikini top wrapped uselessly around my neck.
Reaching down, he grabs me by the hair and pulls me into a sitting position. I draw my knees up close to my chin, still trying to cover up, and now very much regretting my decision to look for a secluded beach.
His pal rummages through the pile of things he has dumped from my shoulder bag. He finds some cash, pockets it, then rifles through my passport before tossing it to the tall one, who opens it and thoughtfully compares my passport photo to my face.
"So, you're a Yank!" he says. "Barbara Moore, 31 years old, five feet seven inches, 119 pounds, it says here. Bloody Hell, we got ourselves a nice little Yank!"
He pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his filthy jeans. "Look at them Bristols! I think she’ll bring a good price," he chuckles, grinning lewdly at his pal, lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag.
Turning to me he adds, "Just make yourself comfortable now sweetheart; it's gonna be a bit of a wait before our buyers come along."
TO BE CONTINUED
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