1. The resort.

 

I woke to the sound of waves gently striking the shore, not more than 100 yards from where I lay. The glare of bright sunshine streaming through the open patio doors, reminded me that I was on holiday in paradise. Well, we were staying at the Wild Palm Resort. in northwest Cameroon, which was as near to utopia, I was ever going to get.

The digital clock read 07-20, which was about three hours earlier than I normally rolled out of bed. I reached out and finding the bed empty, sat up.

“Peter?” I looked around the messy bedroom and rubbed my eyes. “God, my head hurts,” I muttered to myself. “Peter, are you there?”

Silence… and I felt alone.

The en-suite bathroom door was open, as was the door to the lounge, I was sure the rooms were empty, which probably meant that Peter had gone for a dip before breakfast. Naked and still half asleep, I slid out of bed and picked up a bright red kimono jacket from the floor. I couldn’t find the belt, but the short wrap would do.

I must have returned to the chalet in the early hours of the morning, after partying with the other guests on the beach. I was surprised I had the wherewithal to disrobe before collapsing on the bed. I would have been as high as a kite and couldn’t remember much beyond the meal that the hotel staff had delivered on large silver trays, just before midnight.

It was a bathing suit beach party, but there was no sign of my bikini. Memories of frolicking on the beach with strangers flitted through my mind, but they were confused thoughts. When I absentmindedly dropped my hand to my pussy, I discovered my lips were sore and extremely sticky. Did Peter fuck me on the beach, or when we arrived back in the chalet?

Ugh! I needed a shower, but first things first… I opened the centre drawer of the dressing table and removed the round silver pot containing our stash.

The crystals sparkled in the sunshine, as I prepared a line on the glass surface. I was about to snort, using a glass straw, when I glanced at myself in the mirror. I paused in mid bend and straightened up.

“What the hell…?” My right cheek was bruised, while flecks of a semen-like substance covered the other side of my face. I scraped some off and after examining it, decided it was cum.

I even had jiz in my long, dark hair. As I ran my fingers through the bedraggled strands, I noticed the other bruises. There were three love bites on my neck and bite marks on my breasts and stomach. My smooth mons sported another love bite and my pussy lips were swollen and red raw.

I turned and was horrified to see that my ass cheeks were badly bruised and there was more semen between my cheeks. I touched my anus gingerly and wished I hadn’t – it was sore and tender.

In the words of the locals, sometime during the night, I had been well and truly jack-rolled! Disgust welled up in my breast, as well as confusion and hurt. I looked at the glass straw and if I ever needed a hit, it was right there and then. I bent forward and snorted the entire line in one go.

Ahhhhh!” I gasped, when the bright sunlight intensified and dazzled my senses for a few seconds.

I wanted to return to the bed and enjoy the kaleidoscope of sensations, but the revulsion and disgust of what had happened to me, hadn’t left my thoughts. I staggered into the bathroom and stepped under the showerhead. After fumbling with the controls for a while, I couldn’t get it to work.

“Shit! What a nightmare…” I desperately tried again, but there was something wrong with the fitting. I tried the basin taps, but only a few drips emerged from the cold tap, before it dried up.

“Fucking hell! This is not happening to me!” I shouted.

Heroin and rage flowed through my system and saved me from collapsing and breaking down. ‘Peter, where the fuck are you?’ I had to find him, but I needed a shower more.

The sound of the waves impinged on my consciousness once more, so I put the kimono back on and went to the patio doors. The beach was deserted, as far as the eye could see, in both directions. However, the remnants of the party, including the silver trays, were still strewn along the golden sand.

Our chalet was one of ten, with deluxe status, that stood in a line, on stilts, facing the sand dunes and sea. It was an absolutely idyllic location and after six days I was still pinching myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming the whole experience. Unfortunately, the dream had turned into a nightmare situation that was only just beginning to unravel in my mind.

I had been shafted without my permission, but could Peter be responsible for the state I was in? The answer was an emphatic no! There was evidence of multiple penetrations and besides, he wasn’t a violent young man.

I had to wash away the filth that tainted my body and the sparkling, turquoise blue sea was the solution to my problem. Having made my mind up, I delved in my undies drawer for my back-up bikini. Unlike the red conservative costume I had mislaid, the white one I balled in my fist was risqué in the extreme. Peter had bought it for me prior to leaving London, along with a bunch of other scanty, inappropriate items.

He was born in England, but his parents were from southeast Nigeria, not far from the Cameroon border. Knowing a man who knows a man, enabled Peter to get a great deal on a two-week vacation for both of us. He wasn’t the only black guest with a white partner. There were three more, along with six other couples, five of which were white and one black.

The Gulf of New Guinea had a good reputation for calm seas. Only a few degrees from the equator, the weather was spectacular all year round. It was extremely remote and just what I needed after the hustle and bustle of working in the City of London.

While everyone at home was suffering a bitterly cold December, I had planned to spend the whole two weeks roasting under the blazing sun. The Wild Palm Resort was situated at the end of a long coastal road, about 80 km from the nearest town, Dovala. There were no attractions, or traders selling deckchairs on the beach, just sand, sea and solitude.

I descended the wooden stairs carefully and jogged the well-trodden path. It led over and down through the dunes and rocky formation that formed a natural sea wall from any extreme weather that might blow in from the Gulf of Guinea.  After placing the towel and kimono between two rocks, I decided I’d get cleaner without the suit, so I left it with the other things. I headed for the sea, naked and determined to wash the stigma of forced sex from my bruised body.

The tide was going out, so I had a little way to run on the wet sand before entering the rolling waves. The water was cold at first, but I soon got used to the temperature. As I swam out, beyond my depth, I studied the horizon and noticed two small ships, which appeared to be stationery, not far from the coast.

I did a left turn and began to swim parallel with the shoreline. I was a strong breast-stroke swimmer and could stay out for an hour if I wanted, but I needed to get back and grill Peter about the events of the previous night. I had swum about a quarter of a mile, when I noticed, in the distance, a vehicle on the beach.

I swam a little further until I could identify it as a dark jeep-like vehicle, painted with white military markings. I trod water for a few minutes and watched the two uniformed men remove an object from the jeep and carry it to the rocks. Then, another soldier emerged higher, from the dunes, and followed a path down to where the other two were setting up their equipment.

The coastal road was just out of sight, so I couldn’t see if there were any more soldiers, or vehicles, but what I had seen was enough to unsettle me. I turned and swam back, roughly to where I had started; and was just about to return to the shore when I noticed a figure sitting on a rock near my clothes. The suited man got to his feet and started waving for me to return to shore.

A multitude of angry thoughts were spinning around in my head, not helped by the dulling effect of the heroin. I covered my breasts and waded until the water was as deep as my waist, then I tried to wave him aside.

“I’m naked. Turn around for a minute…” I shouted. He either couldn’t hear, or didn’t want to. “Turn around.”

The stranger was a middle-aged native African and was dressed in a grey suit – unusual and odd, under the circumstances. He was holding a clipboard and waved it at me.

“Get a move on!” he shouted.

Several guys must have seen me naked the previous night, so what difference would one more letch make? I waded out of the water and attempted to cover myself as best I could, as I approached the officious looking character.

He was wearing a pristine white shirt beneath the lightweight suit that contrasted starkly with the deep mahogany colour of his skin. I caught my breath, when I noticed he was wearing a shoulder holster and gun; and deliberately letting me see it.

He consulted his clipboard. “Emi Ishimoto?”

I scowled at him, as I wrapped the towel around my body. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m Lun Uthman, the new manager of the camp.”

“Camp? Don’t you mean resort?”

He ignored my question. “Are you a Jap?”

“My father is. I’m British.”

“Emi, where’s your boyfriend, Peter Mounet?”

“Peter? What do you want him for?”

He tapped the clipboard against his leg. “Answer my question. Where is your boyfriend.”

I was getting seriously narked by his blunt tone, but I managed to hold my temper. I was having a bad day and if Peter was avoiding me, he was guilty of something. Did he know what happened to me and was he involved? I was desperate to find out.