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The first time we encountered, I never even saw him.
It was out of season, and the only way onto the islands was by ferry or helicopter. No more than a dozen affluent houses could claim residence along the languid inlet. As luck would have it, one of those habitations was the chateau my family had employed as both retreat and ancestral penal colony for four generations. Depending upon how one viewed the rather hush-hush utilization of the house, it could be regarded as a dungeon to rival Alcatraz, or the best gilded cage a nightingale could hope to feather a nest within.
There were two other islands nestled close to ours in the private little stretch of archipelago that catered to the opulent and infamous sect my last name gave me card-carrying membership in. In the right tide and weather, it was a healthy hour-long canoe haul, or a few minutes by powerboat between them. Still, it wasn't the sort of community that welcomed neighborly visits.
That night I had taken the powerboat because I didn't know if I'd have the energy to row home. Of the two islands flanking mine, the one belonging to the prehistoric musician was my favorite trespass. It had a freshwater gully deep in its lush core that played out over a splendid waterfall. A pebble-lined trail had even been established leading through the underbrush, and it was an otherworldly journey to take by moonlight.
After my first manic month of seclusion, I had begun to reflect inwardly and open myself up to a bit of spiritual illumination. Meditation. Reading. Exercise. I still entertained fantasies of murdering my tyrannical grandmother and feasting upon her shriveled old gizzard with some fava beans and a nice Chianti, but that grisly flight of the imagination was no longer part of my daily regimen.
It wasn’t as though I hadn’t earned my Ishmaelite status. The publicity over my last little bout of legal trouble had been rather gruesome thanks to a few amateur photographers who had sold tawdry snapshots of my indiscretions to their bloodthirsty tabloids. Hefty sums were paid just to catch little old me in flagrante delicto. It was sort of flattering, really, if you discounted the reactions of my politician uncle, actress cousin, and philanthropic, high-profile grandparents.
Lectures had followed; threats of rehab, of institutionalization, and of excommunication from the family coffers were alternatives bartered gravely between the elders who considered themselves my puppet masters. My poor, careworn father alone had played public defender against that choir of voracious executioners.
Poor Daddy. He had been banished to the island in his youth, as well.
And he was the one who piloted me over from the mainland via helicopter to my prison. He'd arranged for my weekly pampering of maid staff and supplies - of gourmet goodies and the European cigarettes I craved more than food. There wasn't a real risk of security. The cove had its own private sort of coast guard which consisted of a bunch of burly men who spoke little English - all of whom possessed cold, calculating eyes that suggested they knew how to dispose of the bodies of anyone who crossed them.
I had wept, screamed, cursed, spat, and begged not to be left alone; the dear suffering soul had endured the pathetic contempt of his own offspring with heartbreak tattooed across his face as plainly as the black-inked silhouette of Bettie Page that decorated the small of my back.
The visit he'd dared to make a month later had been much more civil, and the one following that had been almost warm. We both still cried when he departed on each occasion, but there was no bitterness in our tears. It wouldn't be too long until the day of my parole would come and he'd bear me back to civilization. To Big Macs and Starbucks. Until then, I got very comfortable with the surrounding subtropical clime and the private property that neighbored mine.
I trod the footpath of the musician's island in sandals and a sundress, enjoying the temperate midnight breeze. Small, harmless animals scurried as I trespassed into their nocturnal habitat; I'd always been a tomboy comfortable with things like mud-pies and bullfrogs. The chirpings and rustlings of nearby hedges didn't affect me in the least.
The path opened up to a clearing beside a crystal-clear lagoon swollen from the feeding waterfall. Primeval formations glittered in the rocks and fine sediment that framed the idyllic oasis. The small haven had doubtless been carved from some volcanic temper tantrum millions of years prior to The National Enquirer ever sporting a censored copy of my bare ass. There was a bizarre comfort in that.
I slipped the sundress off over my head and wiggled out of my cotton panties, draping them haphazardly on one of the many deck chairs that spotted the little nook of paradise. Those chairs and tables were the only proof mankind had ever interfered with the surroundings - otherwise the island's belly might have been a raw alcove of rapture.
My sandals flopped after my clothing, and I made a running dive.
Sublime ecstasy of sensation. The milk-warm water swathed me like some neonatal marsupial babe in its mother's pouch. I inclined back to float and gaze upon the stars, paddling lightly with my feet and allowing my arms to hang limp at my sides. I scissored for a while - mimicking a snow-angel motion in the wet blanket beneath me, listening to amphibian mating calls and owlish territorial declarations.
My fingers inevitably drifted down my body, tweaking my pert breasts to pouty awareness, and then hovering along my concave belly to my pierced navel. I tickled myself gently by tugging on the platinum hoop and its dangling amethyst, giggling aloud from the strange titillation. Almost of their own volition, my hands eased between my parted thighs and I felt my fingers leisurely coax my coy clit to sexual lucidity.
It was a delicate balancing act, and one ripe with luscious anticipation. I couldn't make too many bold movements, or else I'd lose my tenuous buoyancy. At the same time, I moaned out in throaty pleasure while I caressed and courted the sensualistic pith of my feminine seity.
I could only eke the very tip of my index finger along the moistened rim of my puckering slit; if I dared to achieve anything more penetrating, I risked losing my stability in the water. Instead, I bade my fingers to pluck in tandem, teasing and provoking my already quivering clit.
The lazy, laborious ritual lasted for over an hour while I tight-roped my body between remaining afloat and achieving that first orgasm. Like most other nights when I re-christened my own carnality in those prodigal waters, the apex I found was exquisitely powerful. I garbled out incoherently to myself, playing the role of both lover and loved in my abstract fantasies. The two orgasms I indulged in afterward were much less excruciatingly wrought, but their swift arrival also meant they were far less gratifying. The last took place underwater while I panted and tread, straining my fingers deep inside to curl against my swollen g-spot.
Sated for the evening, I emerged from the water like some Pre-Raphaelite Birth of Venus and padded leisurely back toward my clothes. I splayed across a deck chair on my belly, intending to indulge in a post-orgasmic smoke while I dripped dry. My imaginary quilt of self-bliss grew a little threadbare when I realized I hadn't shoved my lighter into the pack.
"Oh just fuck me over thorns," I swore with a heavy growl. Nicotine fits sparked along my spine, and I began experiencing that grating, acute level of craving every ex-addict endures when they realize their personal methadone is not readily available.
Something cool and metallic landed softly on my exposed rear, and I yelped while scurrying to my feet. On the sandy ground, a Zippo winked at me in the moonlight.
My eyes darted about in confusion, until I spotted the tiny red glow about five yards away. Lurking in the shadows of a tall, droopy, old tree, someone took a deep drag and then expelled a nicotine-scented cloud. Too covetous of that smoke to bother with modesty, I fumbled for the Zippo and lit my own stick.
"Thanks," I muttered, under-handing the lighter back in the direction of my secluded Promethean benefactor.
"Think nothing of it," a smooth, softly-accented voice offered back. It was the musician, I realized. His music had been the milk of my father's generation, and the rather arrogant tenor had a distinctive lilt.
"You're that old man who plays guitar," I informed him, shaking the sand out of my dress, but in no great rush to cover myself.
"And you're that rebellious American brat who can't keep her fanny out of the gossip papers," he tossed back, pausing a moment to add, "or off my property either, it would appear."
I shrugged indifferently and sucked in another breath of heady tobacco. He countered my detachment with silence. With a shrug, I clenched my cigarette between my lips and gathered up my clothes. Feeling his eyes on me, I slinked provocatively into my dress and inserted my feet into my sandals. At that moment, I realized my panties were missing, and somewhat bewildered, casually scouted the immediate area.
"I've got them," he finally confessed, lighting another smoke. "And I'm keeping them. Consider it the penalty for trespassing onto private property."
"Aren't you a little old to be pilfering panties?" I chided with a scowl, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring in his general direction.
He didn't miss a beat. "Aren't you a little young to be a Bettie Page fan?"
Just how much had he seen? Incredulously, I remembered how to blush.
"It's nice the way you kids today pick and choose what gets to be retro-cool. I myself have many fond memories of Bettie. You pretty much eclipsed those fantasies in one fireball of a performance, though." His voice was so sardonically edged, you could taste the sarcasm like tart meringue. "And with you a bloke doesn't have to worry about getting the pages of his magazine soggy."
"Thanks for that mental picture. You can definitely keep the panties," I responded dryly. "I guess Viagra really has begun to offer your generation a whole new set of panty-sniffing options. I can't imagine how the programmers at VH-1 contain their excitement."
He smoked in silence for a few minutes and I prematurely smirked over what I thought was a victory.
"Why don't you lift up that skirt and let me have a better view of your sweet little pussy?" he suggested, his tone cavalier but tinged with cruelty. When I flushed bright pink in outrage, he even had the nerve to chuckle at me.
Crushing out my cig in the gravel below my feet, I suddenly felt a mocking gust of imaginary wind blow past me. It was my self-confidence hoofing a hasty exit. Edgy, I scoured my mind for a cutting retort, but none came, and soon I was just a stupid young girl shivering at the manipulation of a cunning and more weathered adversary.
"Don't be upset," he sighed quietly. "Your parents should have taught you not to run with sharp objects." He couldn't possibly have realized what he was saying until it was out, but my head snapped up in shock anyway. My lips fell open and I heard him curse. "I didn't mean it like that, Kid."
It didn't matter what he meant; I turned without any sense of decorum and took off at a full run down the path back to my boat. It wasn't until I was halfway home, gulping down diesel fumes that I allowed myself the luxury of tears.
Sharp objects. Yes. Of all the things my parents had taught me, the use of sharp objects was foremost. Mom and I even had matching bracelets to prove it. Except she wore hers six feet under Massachusetts soil and I wore mine inside a dinky little outboard with its throttle shoved into full retreat.
I resolved to masturbate on my own island for the rest of my imprisonment.
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