Page 8 of Redemption Island

After pinching each nipple, my hands skated down my sides, dipping below the water line that covered the tip of curly, black hairs. I left him no doubt where those fingers traveled, and I focused on him as I stroked over tenderly bruised skin. I’d worked my own flesh too often lately, but I couldn’t give up the strength I felt watching him, watching me.

The pressure built slowly as each finger took a turn combing over deep folds. The cold water was a new sensation as I concentrated on it, like a refreshing breeze between my thighs or a soft rush of breath from a lover. I’d never experienced love before, but I imagined gentle touches would be part of it. I didn’t want to look away from him, but the intensity of the green eyes narrowed on me forced my eyes to close. The spell wasn’t broken. Circular brushes and the ripple of water between my thighs increased the slow build-up. The crawl of pleasure took its time, fluttering down my belly and licking up my legs before releasing from me. One hand reached forward for the rocky backing to this natural ledge. Steadying myself, my fingers continued to separate me as I took sharp, short breaths with each clench. Finally subsiding, a sense of peace came over me. My legs quaked. Slowly, I lifted my head.

He sat in a relaxed position, perched on one hand, looking down at me. His expression stoic, his eyes danced, sparkling in the reflection of the sunshine. I bit the corner of my lip, refusing to give him the smile fighting to curve my mouth and hint at my satisfaction. Empowerment reigned over me. My fingers retreated from between my thighs, and I turned for the water’s edge opposite him. Climbing out of the pond, I did nothing to hide my naked body. I bent at the waist, giving him a full view of my backside as I picked up my clothing. Then, I walked away from him.

9

Day 20 - Tack

Mother of all things holy and more, that was the sexiest thing I’d ever witnessed. If I considered her a water nymph on our first meeting, this performance proved she was the goddess of temptation. If I thought I dreamed her coming into my tent and taking what she wanted from me, the look of her in broad daylight proved she was more than a fantasy. Rock hard and gripping the real rocks under my palms, I watched her display, taking pleasure in the show without touching myself for the release I craved. I worried the slightest movement might interrupt her, and I wanted to allow her this moment. She stood like a mythical creature, ensnaring me in her game of show not tell. The rapture on her face made me ache and I was thirsty for a taste. I wanted to drink in her expression and witness it again and again. But then she walked away.

I should have followed her, but I didn’t trust my legs. My body vibrated with the need to expel the pent-up orgasm, but I relished the tremble. She had me, and I didn’t suppress the smile as she stalked away. I’d never wanted anyone as much as I wanted her. Physical. Raw. Aggressive. Her body would fulfill mine in a hundred ways and more, but I didn’t want to take her that way. The steady strength exposed as she took her time to please herself, the way she slowed her pace, filled me with a strange desire to fill her repeatedly in a manner that would reproduce the peaceful rapture I witnessed moments ago. Her lips parting. Her eyes closing. Her body causing slow ripples in the water. Sensual and innocent, I wanted a piece of it.

My eyes followed her path, but I knew I’d lose her again. I assumed she wasn’t much farther than the pond, and I wanted to make this a regular stop in my daily discovery of the island. If she was all I saw each day, I would consider myself a fortunate man. As my heart rate lowered, and my erection subsided, I found the strength to stand. This day was the day to track her, and I crossed the upper edge of the rocky cliff to trace her retreat.

+ +

Unfortunately, I found nothing. For three days, I came to the pond and found it empty. And for three days, I took all manner of directions on the opposite side in search of her. I wandered through foliage so thick it suffocated me, triggering a claustrophobia I hadn’t had prior. One day I reached an open space of sparsely situated trees. I stood a moment, feeling lost both literally and figuratively, even though I sensed I’d been in this spot before. I’d tried to journal again and had only gotten as far as writing—she is a wonder to me. Three days without her orgasmic display, and I’d come to terms with wanting to learn more about her as a person, not just physically.

I paced in a small circle, placing my hands on top of my head. My eyes focused on the soft, black dirt under my feet. That’s when I saw it. A subtle imprint of a fire circle, the ashes scattered to cover the evidence. My neck twisted, spinning me right and left as I searched through the trees.

“Come on,” I groaned, looking up to the barely visible blue sky. Two fists gripped my shaggy, unkempt hair and then I saw it. A platform part way up a tree. I stepped back to take a better look. There, in the middle of the tree line, a platform of sorts circled a trunk, highlighting it as the center. A square in one spot suggested a ladder might descend to the ground to allow occupants. Otherwise, there was no other visible way to get to that height than the proximity of other trees and some thick vines hanging between them. How very Tarzanish, I thought as a smirk graced my face. I’d walked this place a few times before and never noticed that she’d been above me all this time.

10

Day 23 - Juliet

A strip of vibrant blue, star-shaped flowers lay at the threshold of my door. For a moment, I thought they’d fallen there or possibly been blown onto the landing, but the flowers lay too perfectly posed. Bending, I picked up the ribbon of blue blooms and rubbed the stem between my fingers. I couldn’t recall the image of this particular flower from the list of poisonous ones Lillian had given me. The beautiful cascade of five petals spun in my fingers—simple, brilliant, unique—and I inhaled a sweet fragrance, having no other word to describe it than tropical.

The thought gave me pause, and I looked over the low railing of my abode. Searching the ground below, I suddenly questioned how he’d found me and how he’d climbed my tree. The ladder was pulled each time I entered for security. More so for safety, since I knew of his presence. I thought back to the other day, his eyes on me as I touched myself. He was a predator, and I was still his prey. Was he enjoying the chase, or did he no longer hunt me? His gaze seemed intrigued as well as appraising, but that could have been my imagination. Just like I imagined he wanted to protect me that terrible night in the club.

I re-entered my tree house and dropped back on the bed. I’d drawn up the mosquito netting, allowing the air to circulate easily over me. I’d been writing for days, collecting my thoughts on the surroundings of the island and the concept of living a solitary life. Without a computer, the writing was painstakingly slow. Handwritten journals were tiring, yet strangely refreshing. Growing up electronics-free, I didn’t have a cell phone until high school. I never owned a computer until after I applied for my Master’s degree. I wanted to be a scientist of people—an anthropologist. How quickly life changed.

In my journal, I wrote about my fear of others, although I hadn’t been attacked by a gang, just a small group of surly, drugged men who wanted a plaything for one night. My fear was something that Lillian promoted in order to secure my placement—she refused to call the island a punishment.

“We recommend Juliet for this experiment. She’s the perfect candidate. She has no prior felonies or convictions. Jail time would be a detriment to her. If this process is to reflect and renew, we believe she has the intellect and compassion to follow through.” The ‘we’ Lillian mentioned was herself, as my mentor, my uncle was the sole family member, and my probation officer. Jared Michaels had been the one to bring the restorative justice experiment to Lillian’s attention.

“It’s a program of rehabilitation. It’s not a punishment, but a reformation. Not punitive but restitution. A person must buy into the process, like AA or drug rehab, and Juliet has the commitment. This is her consequence. She made a poor decision. How will she make whole on that choice?” Jared was a Native American descendant of the Algonquin First Nation, and proud supporter of the Native heritage in modern times. As a public defender, he’d been known to bring Native practices into courtrooms as a way to give retribution to both victim and offender.

I was the offender.

After I’d been a victim.

“You made a choice, Juliet. A poor one, albeit understandable. Restorative justice will question the anger that drove you to make the decision you made,” Jared stated.

The decision, as Jared casually called it, was the result of additional harassment. I’d promised not to tell anyone what happened. I didn’t have anyone to tell anyway. Who would believe me? I worked at a club notorious for dealings in dominance and submission, although only a select group knew of such happenings on the third floor. Chellie reminded me I wanted to work that level. When I discovered the third floor, I should have turned the other way. I should have never offered to serve up there, but I wanted the financial raise. And my curiosity was piqued. This was another culture of people, and the scientist in me wanted to know more without coming off like a creep.

It was over my head, as I too quickly learned. Despite my assurances that I’d never speak of what happened, Rick sought me. He wanted me to come back to the club after I quit.

“Did you like it?”

I thought ignoring his question would prompt him to walk away from me as I stood near the bar, waiting to collect my final paycheck.

“Would you like to do it again?”

The tease to his voice raked on my nerves. Blood boiled inside me as my body pulsed with fear. I grabbed the closest thing—a paring knife used to slice up lemons and limes. Stepping closer to the enemy, as I’d read on a self-defense website, I looked up at him, holding my emotions at bay as best I could, surprised that I fooled him. For a brief second, he looked as if he believed I might agree to another round. As if I’d ever want a second chance at how he treated me. As if I’d let other men do the same thing to me, in that position, in that manner. My clenched fist rose, and drawing on strength I didn’t know I had, I stabbed him in the neck, cutting through his jugular.

Yes, I’d made a choice—swift and rash—but so had Rick Fontaine.