Rape's Progress 17

The Dawn Trader was a solidly built wooden gaff-rigged ketch. She measured 72 foot on the waterline. The boat was the oldest of my half-brother's fleet. Conrad's inter-island trading business was legitimate. It was also a cover for a wide variety of criminal activity independent of - but frequently supporting - my sister-in-law's Kim's white slaving activities.

My presence on board was ostensibly to recover from a very nasty night in Bangkok. I suspected the real reason was to keep me away from Kim, who I had come within a fore-skin's breadth of rooting during said night. An unnecessary precaution but Conrad had a jealous nature.

I was told to rest, recuperate and practice my navigation, a subject I had studied in night school. There was, in fact, no real need for me to used the sextant and sight-reduction tables, stored above the chart table, just inside the wheel house. Dawn Trader was equipped with all the latest satellite navigation equipment and her twin diesel engines (plus auxiliary generator) ensured that there would always be power enough to make use of the electronic marvels. The skipper, Mavis MacGregor, however, took a sly pleasure in making me go through the motions. By her presence, she made sure that I couldn't cheat by sneaking a look at the computer. She was a large masculine woman of about forty years and much attached to the second mate, Cordelia,  a spiteful, fluffy-haired, blonde of similar age. 

The first mate, who answered to "Popeye", stood six-foot-six and could have passed as an Iranian weight-lifter. He shared his cabin with his boy-friend the cook, who was a slim, nervous, Filipino. Once it became clear that I was not inclined that way the quality, and quantity, of my meals improved no end.

The rest of the crew, four men who lived in the forward part of the ship, had been recruited from Port Moresby. I was told they were a bunch of rascals. They looked like  a tight knit gang of cut-throats. I didn't know then a "rascal" from Papua New Guinea was a member of a gang of cut-throats..

At first I did not feel deprived of female company. Once rested, however, I missed the ready availability of nookie which had been a regular part of my life for the past few months. Shipboard life was comfortable enough but once the wonder of being borne on Neptune's heaving bosom under more stars than ever were seen ashore wore off, sexual-frustration set in. To compensate I threw myself into becoming a useful sailor and by the time we reached our first port of call, Labuan, I could hand, reef and steer with the best of them.

I helped unload our legitimate cargo of bales of Thai silk and Japanese scotch and load a quantity of wooden furniture and several crates of well-drilling equipment for a remote New Hebrides venture before sprucing myself up for a run ashore. The skipper had other plans. I was appointed watch-on-board for the duration of our brief stay and got no further inland than the foot of the gangplank.

The rascals told me I hadn't missed much and I believed them. We sailed on, into the Sulu Sea, where we ran into a sudden squally storm. When the excitement had passed, I was told to help the hands re-stow the cargo which had shifted during the blow. One of the crates had broken open to reveal the description "well-drilling equipment" covered World War Two small arms, including Bren guns and a quantity of .303 inch ammunition. I took one of these antiques on deck. There was a weapon-training pamphlet in the crate and, with the skipper's grudging approval, I taught myself to operate the Bren gun. Target practice was a poor substitute for sex, but the light machine gun proved remarkably accurate - both firing single shots and in short two or three round bursts - and I became quite proficient in sinking beer cans and other garbage tossed off the stern.

About a week later, in the vicinity of Helen Reef, we came across cruising yacht at anchor in  the lee of a small island. Mavis decided to meet and greet our fellow seafarers. We dropped anchor nearby and she sent me in our dinghy, bearing gifts, and to see if the yacht needed assistance. I was under orders to invite the crew to a barbeque on the beach that very evening. The crew was a family on a voyage around the world. Mum could have graced the cover of Sports Illustrated. She was an athletic thirty six or seven, blonde, bronzed and small bosomed, but her daughter was a Penthouse Special, a bouncy, cuddly eighteen year-old with tits to die for. A juicy chick, just aching to be backed up to a palm tree by a lusty lad like me and shown some hairy-husked nuts. Dad was good-looking too, as I reported to Popeye on my return, with the family's thanks for the fresh bread and an acceptance of the invitation to a beach barbeque. 

I didn't get to attend the party. Mavis again confined me to the Dawn Trader by appointing me anchor watch. At the time I was very close to mutiny. From the deck I could see the beach and, while daylight lasted, the band of dark shade beneath the canopy of coconut palms that formed the backdrop to the celebrations. Through the ship's binoculars I could see Mavis and Cordelia making much of Mum while Popeye and the cook plied Dad with overproof rum. The bouncy blonde daughter was holding court with the rascals. It all seemed very jolly and yet I had a sneaking suspicion that something very bad was about to happen. As night fell someone ashore switched on a CD player and soft music filled the tropical darkness. Some time later someone, I guess it was mum, let rip a most terrible scream.

I had been dozing on deck and came awake in an instant. Using the binoculars I could see only what the bonfire illuminated. Popeye was using his massive fists to pound something white draped over a fallen tree-trunk. It could have been a torso. Mavis and Cordelia were close by. They were kneeling on a  writhing, naked, female body. Mum, I guessed from the size of her tits. There was no sign of the rascals nor of the young woman. As the fire died down little could be discerned on shore.

When the dinghy returned Popeye was led below by the cook. Both were covered in blood. Popeye looked stoned. "One-tot terror!" muttered Mavis. "There's been an accident." She followed him below. Two of the rascals, Ernie and Ben, grinned at me and went forward to their bunks without saying a word. Cordelia was left with me by the wheelhouse.

"Where are the other two?" I asked, nodding after the crewmen.

"Helping with the yacht," said Cordelia. She looked smug and self-satisfied like a cat who has just eaten a canary. She noticed the binoculars. Her eyes narrowed. "How much did you see, Sebastian?"she asked.

I shook my head. "It was dark," I said truthfully and shrugged.

"Good lad," she said. "Sensible lad! You can go below now I'll stand deck watch."

When we set sail the following morning we were accompanied by the yacht. One of the rascals, Toby, I think, was at the yacht's wheel and Bruno, his mate, was on deck. There was no sign of the family.

Twenty six hours later, we met with another bunch of blood-thirsty pirates.

The meeting happened about two hours after sunrise. A sea mist had reduced visibility to about 100 metres. The yacht astern was a ghostly shadow. We were reaching along, our sails hardly drawing, at about two knots when the unmistakable rattle of gunfire was heard from dead ahead. Mavis quietly mustered all hands on deck and issued weapons. Machetes and .38 revolvers for the two rascals. Uzis for the officers. The cook had a cleaver.  We lowered the main without a squeak from the gaff and crept towards the noise under jib and mizzen. I was sent to the bows with my Bren gun and a box of filled magazines. Popeye, the rascals, and the cook crouched down amidships. The noise ahead reached a crescendo as the mist parted and we slid silently into view.

The pirate vessel was an island fishing boat, their prize a big, glossy, black-hulled motor yacht. The glass and chrome pleasure boat was about 25 metres long. A rich man's toy. The wooden hulled pirate boat lay alongside, and was dwarfed by, the gin palace. From the occasional sound of a shot and the noise of yells of triumph and screams of pain, it seemed that most of the pirates were on board the larger vessel. The attack was over. The looting and pillaging had begun. There were several bodies in the water. 

The two boats were lying head to wind. Mavis decided to come up on the unoccupied side of the motor yacht, to let Popeye and his gang board the vessel. Then we would fall back and engaged the pirate boat with the machine gun. The plan had the merit of keeping pirates off the ketch if Popeye's surprise raid failed. The plan worked well and, boarders away, Dawn Trader drifted backwards.

As the stern of the pirate vessel came into view I began firing the Bren gun in short bursts, as recommended by the pamphlet. The noise of the machine gun firing from behind them brought the pirates, who were looting the gin palace, tumbling on deck, where they were ambushed by Popeye and his gang. It was a massacre. The slaughter was made worse when the pirate vessel cut all lines to its prize and attempted to run. A tracer round from the Bren gun must have ignited fuel on board the wooden boat as it tried to escape. The pirate vessel started to burn and after travelling only a few boat's lengths exploded violently and within minutes, sank.

Mavis brought the Dawn Trader alongside the black hulled pleasure craft and made fast. The yacht tied up outside the ketch. I left my Bren gun where it was and boarded the power boat we now knew was called the Black Swan. On my way below I collected an automatic pistol dropped by one of the dead pirates. I cocked it, ejecting the round already in the chamber.

Popeye's ambush had wiped out most of the pirates. The few who survived escaped by ducking back the way they had come.. The big First Mate led Ernie, Ben, and the Filipino cook below to mop up. I followed. There were bodies everywhere. The ship's crew were identifiable by their uniform t-shirts, the passengers by their white skins. The pirates had smashed all of the electronics in the wheelhouse. There was no radio, satnav, radar, depth- sounder, just a mess of broken screens and a tangle of ripped out cable.

We suffered only one fatality. The cook stepped over a pirate who was shamming dead and took a blast, at close range, from a home made shotgun. Popeye went mad with grief. He beat the shooter to death with his fists. He told me to carry on searching the Black Swan while he looked after his boyfriend's body. 

My team found no survivors until I reached the forward part of the ship. In one cabin a distraught red-head in a bikini top sobbed as she nursed the body of an sun tanned, well-muscled, young man. The rascals took the body away from her and, to her horror, tossed her onto the bunk with the clear intention of finishing what the pirates had started. I told them, "Later, when we have cleared the vessel!" I was pleased that they obeyed me without argument. The red-head just lay there, weeping.

One of the forward cabins was locked. I shot out the lock and burst in. There were three occupants. Two very attractive women, one in a tattered night-dress and one in nothing at all, and one rampant pirate with a big cock and a bigger machete.  Night-dress was holding  no-dress' arms behind her back as they sprawled on the bunk. It looked as if she was offering the naked woman to the pirate.

I shot him. It was noisy and messy. The noise brought my rascals running. I sent them searching for other survivors while I questioned the two women. Ernie appeared minutes later with a pale faced, balding, young man who claimed to be Basil Bundy, the famous pop star (of whom I had never heard) and owner of the Black Swan. I told him to take the singer to the skipper and asked where his mate, Ben, had got to. He grinned at me and said, "Ben helping red-head forget boy friend." He made an obscene gesture as he departed with Bundy, indicating what sort of help Ben was rendering.

"What was going on in here?" I asked, putting my foot on the machete blade before the naked woman could wrest it from the dead hand of her erstwhile attacker.

They both started to shout at once. 

"Silence!" I bellowed. It worked. I pointed to the younger woman. "You first. Tell me who you are and what the Hell was happening when I came in," I said.

"I'm Cleo Nightingale. I'm a singer with the Boojums. They're Basil's backing group. This bitch," she spat, "is Basil's 'secretary'. She did a deal with that ..." Cleo kicked the corpse.

"He was their leader. Their chief. I was trying to save all our lives!"said Marsha.

"She's a lying, conniving, low-grade, bitch! She said she'd show him where the others are hiding if he'd give her his protection. To prove her word, the evil cow offered to help him screw me and me here and now and then prepare me for his mates' use ... tied to the bunk and all greased up!"

"Don't believe a word she says," interrupted the slightly older, bigger, blonde. "I'm Marsha Madrigal and I was trying to stop the little idiot from getting herself chopped up for shark-bait. The pirates had taken the Black Swan before your fortunate intervention. It was a case of making the most of our assets while planning for the fu ..."

"Bitch! Lying, scheming, devious bitch!" screamed Cleo, launching herself at Marsha. She knocked the bigger woman down, knelt astride her middle and began ripping strips off the already torn night-dress.

I dragged Cleo off her fallen opponent, shook her, slapped her twice, thought about tossing her on to the bed and fucking some sense into her, but didn't, and eventually managed to calm both her and Marsha so they could  listen to me.

"You are not yet out of the woods," I said. "The crew of the Dawn Trader, the rescue vessel, of which, I regret to say, I am a member, are a bunch of murdering thieving cut-throats. Less than three days ago we took a yacht, killed the skipper and I believe raped and maybe killed his wife and daughter."

This little speech had a sobering effect on the two women.

"What do you mean, 'you believe'?" asked Marsha.

"I didn't see the bodies. I saw one of the rapes. I saw more blood than there should be after a barbeque. I'm not a particularly nice guy but murder..."

"You'll help us?" asked Cleo. I nodded.

"I'll try. You said something about others hiding. Who? Where? How many? You've got to tell me. I'll try and keep you all safe."

Cleo decided I had a trustworthy face. This time, maybe, but oh, how wrong would she have been on many an earlier occasion.

"The owner's stateroom has a hidden cabin, more like a big wardrobe, it's steel lined. There's air, water and an emergency radio of some sort. He called it his 'funk-hole. I'd say he was hiding in there with some of the girls, soon after the fighting started. I don't know who or how many," reported Cleo.

"Good," I said. "Don't say anything about the funk hole to anyone else just yet." I paused. "There's another problem," I said.

They looked concerned.

"Two of the crew saw me in here with you."

"Yes?" said Marsha.

"The skipper, a suspicious old dyke called Mavis MacGregor, will wonder what I have been doing all this time. She will come looking. If she doesn't find what she expects to find, she will wonder what we've been up to. So ..."

"Her!" yelled Cleo, who was quick to understand the problem, "Fuck her!" She ripped the remains of the nightdress off the older woman and pinned Marsha's hands behind her. "Fuck her, first!"

I did. After my forced celibacy of the past few weeks I was unusually quick to come and, I'm pleased to say, recover. Both women were remarkably responsive. Marsha thrust back at me with enthusiastic energy and Cleo was keen to reward the heroic Sebastian. I was leisurely stoking Marsha for the second time, as Cleo watched with a satisfied grin on her cum stained chops, when Mavis stormed in.

"Randy little bastard, aren't you," commented the skipper. "When you've finished, mister, get back on board the Trader. We have some tough decisions to make. Your two whores can stay aboard. It looks like they need to clean up."
 
The tough decisions concerned who would crew what vessels. All would be short handed.
 
Dawn Trader had to go on to her rendevous with the representatives of the so-called, "mining company" in the New Hebrides. Mavis had already decided to send both the yacht, Wanderer, and the Black Swan to "Fiddlers' Green". This was her codeword for a port somewhere in the China Sea where such prizes could be sold. The docks there, said Mavis, were thick with agents of boatyards who were happy to change the names and appearance of stolen vessels. 

The surviving women - Cleo,  Marsha and the redhead -  from the Black Swan, were to stay on board. There was a market for them, too, on Fiddler's Green. No one had heard of Basil Bundy. Popeye, red-eyed with weeping over his lost playmate, thought the alleged pop star must be worth a bit of money and, if so, could be ransomed. Bundy was led back on board the Black Swan and confined to one of the smaller cabins with no porthole.

In the end it was decided that Popeye and I would drive the Black Swan, Cordelia and two hands would sail the Wanderer and Mavis and the other two rascals would take the Dawn Trader to the rendevous.

Later, with the diesel engines pushing the Swan in a northerly direction, I asked Popeye where, exactly, was Fiddler's Green. He grunted that our destination was a secret and I had no need to know.

How wrong he was.




		