I understood no one was coming to rescue me. If I wanted to survive, I had to think. And the first clear thought was a simple imperative—walk. So I left the boat and my life on Ngumba behind.
Outside the harbour gates, the streets teemed with life. Pavement hawkers called out beneath patchwork awnings, porters hefted sacks over their shoulders, and the air buzzed with the sounds of the local Creole. I followed the avenue away from the harbour, past rust-streaked warehouses and rows of shops. I found a small grocery shop and used it to buy some bananas and a bottle of fruit juice, food I needed desperately - it had been two and a half days since my last meal. After the clatter of commerce faded, I found myself among tidy bungalows. Fruit trees leaned over whitewashed walls with neat vegetable plots sprawled behind. It was far more orderly and hopeful than anything I had seen since leaving the harbour.
Then I spotted it across the road: a church spire, chalk-white against the vivid blue sky. I could find sanctuary there. For the first time that day, a flicker of optimism took hold.
But before I reached it, something on my side of the street pulled me up short—a modest building, half hidden behind an open yard. I froze, eyes fixed not on the structure but on a circular window inset high in the gable. A Star of David set within it, soft and radiant in the midday light.
My feet moved before I made the decision. I crossed the yard, grasped the door handle, and walked into a narrow corridor. The air was cool and still.
A few paces on, the walls fell away, and I found myself in the modest sanctuary, the Ark a few paces ahead. I turned to see the ladies’ section above the entrance and quietly ascended the shallow platform steps to sit in the front pew, my body easing into stillness.
It was small, like a chapel. The Philadelphia temple of my old life was palatial by comparison. Here, the painted walls and ceiling bloomed with faded geometric patterns, more evocative of a mosque than any synagogue I had known. But something in it felt right.
I was deep in reverie when the door below creaked open, and heavy footsteps clumped along the passage. A man appeared—his shoulders and on his head a yarmulke perched at a tilt.
“Rabbi,” I called softly, rising, “Please. I need your charity.”
He turned fully toward me, and I saw it then—the kindness in his eyes, the quiet strength in his face.
“Come,” he said. “My home is yours.”
._.
I arrived in São Miguel as a lonely, frightened woman with nothing but the clothes on her back and a heart full of fear. By chance, or perhaps quiet providence, I found refuge under the care of Rabbi Samuel Benveniste.
He never questioned me, never pried. He offered shelter and kindness, accepting me as a woman adrift. He spoke some English from his work as a ship chandler and helping the mission to seamen on ships in the harbour. His position as Rabbi was honorific, one he took seriously.
Once I found my footing, I began helping around the house. It was typical of a bachelor—neatly arranged but woefully neglected in matters of dust and cleanliness.
Samual taught me more Portuguese and tried valiantly to get me to open up. But I was scared of telling him about my moral turpitude.
After a month, the weight of silence became too heavy. I owed Samuel the truth. I told him everything about my past, about the shame I had carried across the sea. I confessed the humiliations and pleasures I had endured during the voyage, on Ngumba and here on my first night. The most difficult to explain was the sexual hunger in me that I had never fully understood.
Nothing was held back. When I finally stopped speaking, tears streamed down my face. It was cathartic—but also harrowing.
Samuel listened without judgment. Then, gently, he said, “Moira, you must write to your husband. Tell him you were abducted. Tell him you are safe with me now.”
I agreed immediately. But as the hours passed, I reconsidered. One letter felt inadequate. I decided to send two: one addressed to our lawyers, outlining the bare facts of my abduction, and a second—personal and heartfelt—to Omer. The firm could forward it in case he had moved since I vanished.
The next morning, I took the envelope to the post office and asked the clerk behind the counter, “Do you know how long it will take to be delivered?”
“Minha Senhora,” he said kindly, “a mail steamer sails next week. Ten days across the ocean, and perhaps another week to reach its destination. I would say—three weeks, give or take.”
And so, I waited.
I continued caring for Samuel and his home. I grew genuinely fond of him. He was two years younger than I, unattached, gentle in his beliefs, and devoid of piety or pretence. And, though I tried not to dwell on it, he was tall and beautiful—his skin deep as mahogany and his spirit quietly commanding. I lusted for him if I was honest with myself. But I also knew that acting on that desire would fracture the precious friendship we had found. I was still married. And he, as far as I could tell, was simply beyond reach.
Nearly eight weeks after I had posted the letters, Samuel burst into the house, a letter in hand, joy lighting his face.
“It’s for you!” he exclaimed, holding it out. My name and the address were typed across the envelope. It had to be from the lawyers.
I took it and hurried to my bedroom. With trembling fingers, I slit it open and unfolded the contents. Something fluttered to the floor. I stooped to pick it up—and felt my stomach drop.
It was the letter I had written to Omer.
With dread curling in my chest, I started reading the words from the firm.
=
Dear Mrs Adelman,
We have received your letter of 5th inst. I regret to inform you that your husband, Mr. Omer Adelman, passed from this world by his own hand shortly after your abduction.
I have since acted as his representative to settle his estate. Unfortunately, Mr Adeleman’s portfolio had little worth due to the stock market situation, and he had borrowed heavily to invest.
The matrimonial home was in his sole name and was sold to meet his debts and our costs. This means all his assets have been accounted for.
I am sorry about your difficult situation. Should you have sufficient funds in your name, I would be pleased to assist with repatriation.
Your humble servant,
=
My wailing brought Samuel running. Without a word, he understood. He gathered me into his arms, holding me tightly against his chest as if he could shield me from the heartbreak clawing through me. I buried my face in his shirt and sobbed—raw, unrestrained, utterly undone.
“Come,” he murmured, “lie down.”
He guided me to the bed, and I let him ease me down. Dazed, I sat on the edge, and he gently lifted my legs, swinging them onto the mattress. Then he lay beside me, not touching at first, just present, solid, unwavering. I rolled toward him instinctively, laying my head against his chest, my arm draped across him like a lifeline.
His breathing was steady. Mine, eventually, began to mirror it.
The storm inside me dulled, slowly, to silence.
Somewhere in that warm quietness, I slipped into a deep sleep.
._.
We slipped into a rhythm, a companionship formed from shared routines. Samuel took me to the local shops and purchased clothes and toiletries. I returned his generosity by caring for and tending to his daily needs.
Then, one afternoon in his living room, I asked the question that would change everything.
“Samuel, you visit the Temple daily, yet you’ve never held a service. Why?”
He hesitated, a nervous flick of his mouth betraying his composure.
“Because I am the last. The community has gone—absorbed into local families, converted and forgotten. My ancestors came from Morocco two centuries ago, as part of a small migration. They built the Synagogue, though even then, the congregation was too small to last. A few families tried to carry on, but I am all that remains.”
The weight of his words settled into the air. For the first time, I understood the enormity of his solitude.
“So, you are the last practising Jew. Is that why you never married?”
He nodded, the gesture tinged with wistfulness. “Yes.”
I took a breath, my heart fluttering. “Samuel, I am a free woman. A widowed Jewess. Childless, but still fertile. Would you be able to forgive my past?”
A heavy silence followed. I dropped my gaze, letting a veil of humility fall over my features.
“If you want forgiveness,” he said quietly, “then cross the road and confess to Father Fernandez.”
Then his fingers found mine, warm and trembling. He brought my hands to his lips, his eyes soft with something almost tender.
“There’s more,” I confessed. “My marriage was arranged. Omer was gentle and kind, but he never touched me in other ways. We never consummated it. I had unmet desires, so I sought to satisfy them elsewhere.”
He didn’t recoil. He listened.
“I never meant to find a black master—it happened by chance. I confided in Destiny, our housemaid, and she led me to him. He awakened something in me. Something I didn’t know I needed.”
When Samuel spoke, it was barely a breath.
“I’ve never been with a woman. I wouldn’t even know how to begin, let alone be someone’s, err master.”
It was a crossroads for both of us. A door had cracked open to a shared future.
“Then let me guide you,” I said gently. “Let me show you the way. I will teach you what I need.”
He hung onto my hand, his breath a warm draught on my flesh, “Yes.”
My reply was a mix of relief and excitement. “We’ll move forward one step at a time.”
Samuel nodded gently, keeping his eyes locked on mine.
“You need to understand that this is about trust, respect, and knowing my boundaries. Are you ready for this journey with me?”
“Yes, I am,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine. The weight of his commitment was palpable as he awaited my instructions.
“There is a wooden ruler on your study desk. Go, bring it here.”
When he left the room, I knelt on the floor, lay my upper body on the sofa and lifted my skirts about my waist, leaving my knicker-clad backside open for his use.
I listened for his footsteps, and on his return, I instructed, “Strike me hard.”
I hardly felt the blow, “Harder, Samuel, harder.”
I guided him by telling him the proper places to wield the ruler without causing harm. I showed him how to gauge the force of his strikes and the importance of reading my reactions to find the perfect balance between pleasure and pain.
With practice, he grew more confident and his movements more assured.
I could see power shifting, a transformation from uncertainty to nascent authority. Samuel listened intently, asking questions when he needed to, and I enjoyed the role of submissive mentor.
Practice makes perfect, and my sore bottom had prepared me. I was ready for my act.
“Please, Samuel, no more.” The beating stopped immediately, though I could hear his rasping breath, a sign, I hoped, of arousal.
I rolled over, and the pressure of the hard floor against my swollen buttocks was painful but delicious.
I lifted the front of my skirt up and opened my legs. Samuel towered over me like a colossus. I stared into his eyes, then plunged my hand under the waistband of my knickers, slipping over my mound and down between my thighs. My bud was hard, and I rubbed myself in a gentle circle, gradually increasing pressure and speed.
My breathing became harsh and rapid, but I never let go of his eyes until my release came, and then I threw my head back and let my body melt in pleasure. Every jolt resounded through my painful buttocks, feeding back into more intense waves of pleasure.
When I came down from my crisis, I smiled at Samuel, then dropped my gaze to look at his groin. There was an unmistakable bulge in the front of his trousers.
I was ecstatic and crawled across the floor to him, my sweaty palms enjoying the cool of the wooden floor. My fingertips brushed the fabric of his trousers, and then I laid my hand on the bulge and pressed down on it. Samuel groaned a deeply wanton sound, and I felt a sudden surge of desire. This was new for him, and his anticipation hung in the air, waiting for my move.
“Samuel,” I whispered. My voice was barely audible, but he heard me mouth his name.
He understood the invitation in my touch, and his hand reached down to thread through my hair, gently guiding my face closer.
His voice was low, a rumble that sent a shiver down my spine.
“Are you sure about this?”
With a sudden surge of bravado, I unbuttoned Samuel’s fly and pulled down his trousers, revealing the prize beneath. His shaft was solid, straining against his underpants. I could hardly believe it was happening, but the proof was right there, in the way his body responded to my nearness.
I peeled back the fabric, and he was fully exposed to me. My first view of his near-black shmekel filled me with excitement and nerves, but I didn’t let it show. Instead, I leaned in and pressed my lips on the tip, feeling it jump in response.
Samuel’s grip on my hair tightened, and his hips bucked upward. “Ah,” he murmured, his eyes closing as a look of pure pleasure washed over his face.
Encouraged, I wrapped my hand around the base of his shaft, feeling his heat and smooth skin in my grasp. I gave it a gentle tug, then another, and watched as a bead of fluid ran down from his slit.
My movements grew bolder as I found the rhythm that made him groan. His hand was still in my hair, guiding me, but I needed no instruction. My mouth opened, and I took him inside until he filled my mouth.
Something about the moment felt incredibly right.
Samuel’s taste was intoxicating, and the feel of him sliding along my tongue was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I explored him with a hunger I didn’t know I had, savouring every gasp and shiver that I elicited from his body.
Samuel’s eyes flew open, staring down at me in disbelief and lust, his voice strained. “Keep going.”
And I did, eager to satisfy him, to explore the boundaries of what we were both willing to do. My hand pumped in time with my mouth, the sound of wet suction and his ragged breathing the only noises in the room.
I felt his thighs tense, and I knew he was close. The thought of making him spend sent a thrill through me, and I redoubled my efforts, my own arousal building once more as I felt the power of what I was doing.
His hips bucked, and he let out a strangled moan.
My eyes never left Samuel’s as I sucked and stroked him, watching as his pleasure built. His breathing became ragged, his chest rose and fell with each heavy exhale. His hand in my hair tightened to the point of pain, but I didn’t care.
I wanted this, needed it, and the pain made me content.
The air was thick with sexual tension. My arousal was running between my legs, soaking my underwear, and I knew I could not ignore it for much longer.
Finally, he came and spent himself in my mouth. No man had ever flooded me with so much, and I swallowed it all greedily. When the shudders wracking his body finally ceased, I looked up at his face, looking down at me.
Then I pushed my hand down into my dripping sex and used my fingers a second time, and pushed my body over the edge, writhing around on my knees, whispering up at him, “Thank you, Master.”
._.
In the months following, Samuel has become adept in his new role as my master. Dark skinned, but not quite black, he is my salvation and my love.
