Two days after my first audience, the call came again, for me to go with Fatima and Carla, who was the chosen one this time.

Everything was the same, except on the terrace, Carla was the one who needed to be aroused. I stroked her body and slipped a hand under her dress, pushing my fingers into her slit while our tongues flicked together.

Inside the royal apartment, we prostrated our bodies on the floor, Carla in the middle. This time, I had to slither across the floor with Fatima and kiss his feet, then sit to one side as Carla crawled to Sire and opened her mouth to let him thrust deep inside.

I held Carla down as she lay on the bed, her head hanging back, ready for Sire. I watched as he pounded her mouth and saw the impression of his cock bulging inside her stretched throat. I heard her gasping and wretching, saw the tears flowing from her eyes and was jealous. I knew exactly what she was experiencing, and I wanted it.

When Sire mounted her and thrust deep inside, I kissed her lips and pushed my tongue far into her mouth as she groaned and whimpered just as I had done. When he was done, I helped to dress and bring her, exhausted, to our place.

Afterwards, in my room, I undressed and lay on the bed with my legs spread wide and rubbed my juices over my bud until I spent, rolling around in ecstasy, dreaming of Sire’s member in my mouth, my throat and my cunny.

._.

In hindsight, those first few audiences marked the pinnacle of my time at the palace. Each visit unfolded with the same ritual—prostration, then mouth and cunny. Days blurred into weeks. When summoned, I went longing for him and returned, momentarily sated.

But slowly, the truth crept in: Sire was no different from the others. I was a vessel for his pleasure, never my own. A hollow space inside me ached for something more—something tender. Omer had given me that once, a love that cared.

And so the question grew, quiet but insistent—why couldn’t I have both?

No answer ever came.

._.

One morning, an explosion shattered the silence and dragged me from sleep. I sat and rubbed my eyes, peering through the window toward the ocean. Nothing seemed amiss—just a gentle swell on the pre-dawn sea, its blue-grey surface glassy and still. But the deep, raw, and unrelenting sounds did not belong in this peaceful little town.

I opened my room’s heavy door, stepped onto the terrace, enjoying the cool morning air, and looked up. High above, the mountain bled smoke—billows of dense grey clouds pouring from the summit and unfurling across the sky like a shroud.

The four wives joined me, their faces tilted upward in mute horror.

“Get dressed,” I ordered. “Plain clothes. Nothing expensive. Quickly now.”

They obeyed, rushing to their rooms. I did the same, my heart pounding. These simple women hadn’t been given the same education I had. But I could read the signs and felt the weight of what was coming. We had to flee now while we still could.

Minutes later, I herded them onto the street. As we walked along the esplanade, people stood rooted to the ground, staring open-mouthed at the mountain. Not one lifted a hand to flee or help another.

At the quayside, I scanned the bobbing boats. One stood out—a small fishing craft with space for six, with fishing nets piled, oars resting on the thwarts, and a neatly furled sail bundled by the mast.

“This one,” I said. “Get in.”

They clambered aboard without protest, grateful that someone was giving orders.

“Mafalda—untie the bow line.”

She scrambled forward, fingers fumbling with the knot. I loosened the stern line, then gave us a firm push-off. The boat slid away from the quay.

They might have lacked schooling, but they were daughters of fishermen and knew how to handle a boat. While Daisha held the steering oar, the others rowed hard past the breakwater and into open water.

I kept one eye on the cloud, gauging the wind and its drift. Then I pointed in a direction. Daisha followed without question.

We skirted the coastline, sheer cliffs rising beside us—remote, barren stretches where the land fell straight into the sea. The mountain’s roar never ceased, a fury trailing us across the water.

By mid-morning, I judged we had gone far enough and told them to rest their oars. They slumped, drenched in sweat, their lips parched.

“We should go back,” Daisha said softly. “Nothing’s happened. We’re so thirsty.”

“No,” I said. “It’s dangerous to go back. Here—thirsty as we are—we are safe.”

But patience wore thin. By noon, their obedience cracked.

“We’re going,” one declared. The others followed suit, dipping oars into the sea.

They had rowed barely five strokes when the roar ceased. A silence, eerie and absolute, settled over the water.

“Stop rowing,” I said, “It is done.”

They looked at me in confusion until they followed my gaze.

Down the mountainside rolled death: a wall of ash and fire and force, descending fast. It swallowed the town whole—buildings, people, memories—all vanished beneath a boiling cloud that surged outward and lapped hungrily over the sea.

A terrible keening rose from our boat. All four knew everything, and everyone was gone.

“Come,” I said softly. “We have to find another harbour.”

Eventually, grief gave way to survival. They raised the sail and we rode the wind, hugging the coastline and searching. But the island’s far side was desolate, empty save for sheer cliffs and eroded rocks. Then, just before dusk, a shimmer on the horizon—low hills, pale in the waning light.

“Does anyone know that island?” I asked.

Daisha shielded her eyes. “Yes, Moira. São Miguel. We have family there.”

Twenty-four hours after we had fled the eruption, we reached the harbour of São Miguel. Weakened by thirst, we tumbled ashore. Mafalda spotted a standpipe, and we rushed to it, gulping the cold water as if it were salvation.

The four wives peeled away, vanishing into alleys and doorways to search for kin who would shelter them.

And I remained alone on the dockside—still standing but unsure how to endure in a place without family, money or anchor. Nothing other than the clothes I was wearing and my memories.

After a while, I sat in the boat again and lay back on the pile of fishing nets. I was there all day, dozing and trying to forget my awful situation. My only sustenance was the occasional gulp of water from the standpipe.

Around me, the port’s business went on, boats coming and going and landing their catch. No one noticed a plain European woman in scruffy clothes sitting alone miserably in a fishing boat. I had no idea of time, and the hours just floated by.

In the evening, I heard the sounds of drunkenness coming from the road outside the port. Later, the fishermen returned to sleep on their boats, yelling and singing as they strolled along the quay, and one of these groups spied me.

Four gathered on the coping, pointing and jabbering in their Creole. I learnt a few words, but the dialect here changed from Ngumba. But when one of them resorted to sign language, I knew what they thought of me. He made a circle between his thumb and first finger, then jabbed his other index finger through the hole.

“Jiggy, jiggy, senhora?”

The four of them burst into raucous laughter.

Jiggy, Jiggy, dez escudos.”

I needed money desperately, but shook my head; ten was far too cheap.

“Cem, por quatro.”

One hundred to let all four have me. Perhaps this was my destiny, to be a cheap dockside whore; a long, long way from being the middle-class banker’s wife.

They went into a huddle, and I could see cash changing hands. One of them came forward and handed me five twenty-escudo notes.

I smiled and patted the bundle of nets beside me.

“Primeiro?”

I looked at them, four rough, tough fishermen. Black and bulky. Back home, I would have drooled if my master had given them to me. Here, I was distinctly nervous.

No one wanted to be first, so I lay back on the nets, opened my legs, pulled my skirt up to my waist, then pushed my hand between my thighs, and rubbed my sex as an invitation. I realised I was dry, moved my hand to my mouth, and licked my fingers before going back and trying to rouse myself enough to take the first one in me.

The fisherman exchanged glances, and then the one I thought to be their leader stepped forward. I looked at him, thick-set with a wiry beard, as he bent down, stretched out an arm and touched my cheek. His calloused fingers traced my jawline before he grabbed me and forced my head back. I knew then my survival was not guaranteed, and an ice-cold dread took hold of me.

I dubbed him Beardy and watched him turn to the other three and say something that made one of the others step forward. A much younger, leaner man with a scar across his cheek unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers. He stood before me with his manhood standing at attention.

Scarface climbed into my boat, then knelt over me and pushed his erection into my mouth, pulsing against my tongue. His hand went behind my head and pulled me up, forcing himself deep into my mouth. The taste of salt on his cock, and the smell of the sea on his body aroused me, and I felt a familiar pleasure race through my sex.

I shifted my eyes to peer at the group as Scarface started to pound my throat. I could see another naked man, heavyset with rings dangling from his ears. As he boarded my boat, I felt it rock dangerously from his weight before he settled down between my legs. Rough hands pulled my fingers away from my sex, then slipped between my lips and pushed deep into my cunny. There was nothing gentle or subtle about his action, but my fingering had worked some magic, and my juices were running free. When his fist entered me, I cried out in pain, but my cries were muffled by the cock deep in my mouth.

Scarface was reaching his peak, grunting in pleasure. I was using all my skills to milk him, tongue, teeth and lips doing their work. Suddenly, with a strangled cry, he pulled back and spayed his seed across my face. Panting, he rolled away and climbed back on the quay.

I looked up at Ringman, his face drawn into a sneer as his hand and fingers explored my insides. Then I felt a plop as he came out, only to lift me and roll me over onto my stomach. The hard knots of the net pressed into my flesh as he pushed down on my back and pulled my legs apart.

I felt his breath on my neck as he lined up with my entrance, then entered me with a single powerful thrust. I gasped; his size filled me, stretching me to my limit. He started to move, his thick member pumping in and out of me. Each thrust sent a jolt of pleasure mixed with pain through my body.

The man grunted, his thrusts growing more erratic as he neared climax. I braced myself, knowing that my ordeal was not over yet. With a final, brutal thrust, he filled me, his grip on my hips tightening with his spasms. He pulled out, leaving me feeling used and empty, and his essence flowed down the space between my thighs.

I was only halfway through.

Ringman climbed out of my boat, and the fourth man gingerly stepped down to replace him. I rolled onto my back and looked up, watching him sway unsteadily. I thought he must have been very drunk until I realised he only had one arm, and this made balancing difficult.

One-Arm carefully lowered himself beside me and lay on his armless side. He laid his single arm across my chest, squeezed my breast and then touched my cheek and turned my head so that we were face to face, close together.

Then he shifted closer and kissed me tenderly on the lips. I was taken aback by the stark contrast from the rough handling of the first two and felt myself respond, opening my lips to let him in. His tongue slid in, a taste of the rum he had been drinking, and I realised that I was enjoying his attention.

His hand slipped down my body, over my mound, into my slit, instantly finding my hardness and then rubbing it in a slow, circular motion. I moaned into his mouth, the sensations unexpected and overwhelming. His touch was so tender, almost loving, and I felt my body starting to flex despite the trauma of my descent and being used so harshly before.

His strokes became more insistent, and his kisses grew deeper, more passionate. The tension was building in my body, and I was beginning to lose control when he rolled my body on top of him. The strength in his one arm was enough to treat me as if I were a doll, and he entered me from below.

I felt the need to pleasure myself and please him; after all, he had paid twenty-five Escudos for this. So I rode him vigorously, deliberately pressing my sex against his shaft on every stroke. I watched his face like a hawk, looking for the signs of completion. When they came, I pushed him over the edge, and as his fluids hit my walls, I felt the bliss of orgasm sweep over me.

I remained seated on him until I felt him slip out of me, and then I stroked his face tenderly for a moment before rolling off to lie beside him. His hand lifted, and then he placed two fingers across my lips before pulling himself upright and clambering back on the quay.

And then there was one.

I lay on my bed of nets in a calm frame of mind as number three had been kind and sensitive, and his touch had left a lingering warmth. The memory of that moment offered some precious comfort.

Beardy, whom I thought of as their leader, had moved aside to allow the others to take me as they wanted. Then I noticed him. He stood apart from his companions, further back on the quay, naked from the waist down, stroking himself and growling words I did not understand that somehow felt directed at me. An unsettling tremor ran through my body.

He stepped forward, stood on the coping, fixed his gaze on me, and my heart sank. His member was huge in girth and length, and I was sure I would struggle to accommodate him inside.

There was no gentle boarding; he jumped onto the boat, landing heavily beside my legs. The sudden shift threw me violently, cool water stinging my face. A sickening lurch sent a jolt of panic through me – the small craft felt dangerously unstable, poised to overturn and plunge us into the churning water. I looked up, frozen, and found myself dwarfed by his looming figure, the dim light catching the slick sheen of his member.

A tremor ran through me, leaving me paralysed. I felt exposed and vulnerable, like prey caught in the gaze of a predator. His presence radiated a possessive dominance that stole my breath.

He crouched, his grip tightening on my ankles as he lifted them, separating my legs with a deliberate force. My teeth chattered uncontrollably, a frantic vibration against the rising fear that wracked my body. He seemed to revel in my terror, his expression hardening with a cruel satisfaction, an assertion of power that felt deeply predatory.

Then he dropped to his knees, leaving my legs perched over his shoulders as he thrust into me. I remember screaming as he pressed through my tunnel until his head crashed into my cervix.

Beardy’s face was above mine, his breath stank of stale beer, and the stench of his body revolted my senses. His eyes drilled into mine as he started to pound me, but my thighs acted as a buffer between us, keeping his face away from mine.

I tried to focus further away, watching my lower legs flapping behind his head each time he drove into me, and then I closed my eyes tight, trying to shut him out. I felt eviscerated, my innards damaged and abused by his needs. But there was something else: my body had been aroused to orgasm by One-Arm, and my most sensitive places could not help responding to my violation.

His breath came in ragged gasps as he neared completion, and when I felt his seed hit, my body reacted. I felt a warm gush between my legs, then fireworks in my head. I don’t think he knew because he was in a similar place, enjoying the spending of his life inside me.

Once his pleasure was satisfied, he pulled out of me and left me lying like a discarded rag doll. I felt him get up and then jump ashore, the force of his departure rocking the boat just as his arrival did.

I opened my eyes and watched the four men almost skipping as they walked off to find their boat. I felt used and dirty, but I had weathered the storm and had a hundred Escudos, enough to buy food in the morning.

Sleep came easily. I had done what was necessary to survive.