Girl Trade - full length erotic adventure novel (Xcite Erotic Romance Novels) by Chloe Thurlow Page A
Authors: Chloe Thurlow
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boat, they appeared as silhouettes, one indistinguishable from the next, but as they drew closer I saw that the people coming ashore were weary Africans, black as ebony, some with tribal marks scarred into their cheeks and foreheads, the whites of their eyes vivid in the fading light.
Behind the men were four women in bright dresses and headscarfs. The first moved nimbly down the rope ladder. One of the men on board leaned over the deck and dropped an infant into her outstretched arms in the same casual way that his two companions were lowering sacks to the man in the dinghy. The other three women were having difficulty negotiating the rope ladder and the same man climbed down, either to help or hurry them along.
Once they were off the boat, the women moved towards us with the slow rhythm of buoys bobbing on the tide. When they were closer, I realised that the three women were pregnant, their great bellies swollen to the point that I thought one or all of them might at any moment have given birth right there in the sea.
As the men waded ashore, my first thought was that I was the only white person among those dark-skinned people. Then it struck me like a revelation, like the sudden lash from a bamboo cane, that I alone was without clothes. Since the beachcomber had found me, I had been defiled, flogged, fucked and pissed on. I had been treated abominably, yet the fact that I was naked had gone clean out of my mind until those tired people in their modest finery wandered across the sand and flopped exhausted against the dunes.
Most of the men scarcely gave me a glance although others, the younger ones, the boys, gazed at me as children gaze at television with amazement and wonder. Was this a glimpse of their dream? Of the future? Did the girls in Europe really bare their bodies for the newspapers and magazines and parade in the gold-paved streets half naked? That was the question in their eyes and it made me ask myself if I, if we, if all of us were lost in surface desires and pleasures, in materialism and individualism, in the lust for instant reward and gratification. Was I with my tabloid breasts and blonde curls the symbol of a world gone wrong? That’s how it seemed to me at that moment with the eyes of those black women sweeping over my body. That it was all my fault, the fault of PR and advertising and fashion and greed and celebrity gossip, that I, a naked blonde, was the root of all evil.
I followed the progress of the three pregnant women. They had joined arms and, as they caught sight of me, they slowed to a standstill and stared in the way of people confronted by something shocking and inexplicable, a village in flames; dry river beds; boy soldiers. They studied my hair, my breasts, my long legs, and they looked into my eyes, their gaze switching from shock to disappointment and foreboding. If they were going to find naked savages in the lands of the north, it was hardly the best place to rear their unborn children.
That’s what I read in their long pause for reflection. I wanted to explain, to apologise, to move my uncovered self from their path, but my feet had grown roots into the sand; I was a hare in headlights mesmerized by their gleaming eyes. As they finally continued up the beach, I had a vision of the three witches in Macbeth and recalled their terrible curse.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
I was cursed. I was lost. I was going nowhere. I wanted to be like those people with a mission and hope. Those women would have saved every precious penny over a very long time, years probably, and were leaving Africa in this precarious way to start a new life. They had timed their journey precisely and, should they give birth once they arrived in Tenerife or Cadiz or Almeria, their new babies would be entitled to Spanish citizenship. They would have passports, a future, all the things we take for granted and I
Behind the men were four women in bright dresses and headscarfs. The first moved nimbly down the rope ladder. One of the men on board leaned over the deck and dropped an infant into her outstretched arms in the same casual way that his two companions were lowering sacks to the man in the dinghy. The other three women were having difficulty negotiating the rope ladder and the same man climbed down, either to help or hurry them along.
Once they were off the boat, the women moved towards us with the slow rhythm of buoys bobbing on the tide. When they were closer, I realised that the three women were pregnant, their great bellies swollen to the point that I thought one or all of them might at any moment have given birth right there in the sea.
As the men waded ashore, my first thought was that I was the only white person among those dark-skinned people. Then it struck me like a revelation, like the sudden lash from a bamboo cane, that I alone was without clothes. Since the beachcomber had found me, I had been defiled, flogged, fucked and pissed on. I had been treated abominably, yet the fact that I was naked had gone clean out of my mind until those tired people in their modest finery wandered across the sand and flopped exhausted against the dunes.
Most of the men scarcely gave me a glance although others, the younger ones, the boys, gazed at me as children gaze at television with amazement and wonder. Was this a glimpse of their dream? Of the future? Did the girls in Europe really bare their bodies for the newspapers and magazines and parade in the gold-paved streets half naked? That was the question in their eyes and it made me ask myself if I, if we, if all of us were lost in surface desires and pleasures, in materialism and individualism, in the lust for instant reward and gratification. Was I with my tabloid breasts and blonde curls the symbol of a world gone wrong? That’s how it seemed to me at that moment with the eyes of those black women sweeping over my body. That it was all my fault, the fault of PR and advertising and fashion and greed and celebrity gossip, that I, a naked blonde, was the root of all evil.
I followed the progress of the three pregnant women. They had joined arms and, as they caught sight of me, they slowed to a standstill and stared in the way of people confronted by something shocking and inexplicable, a village in flames; dry river beds; boy soldiers. They studied my hair, my breasts, my long legs, and they looked into my eyes, their gaze switching from shock to disappointment and foreboding. If they were going to find naked savages in the lands of the north, it was hardly the best place to rear their unborn children.
That’s what I read in their long pause for reflection. I wanted to explain, to apologise, to move my uncovered self from their path, but my feet had grown roots into the sand; I was a hare in headlights mesmerized by their gleaming eyes. As they finally continued up the beach, I had a vision of the three witches in Macbeth and recalled their terrible curse.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good.
I was cursed. I was lost. I was going nowhere. I wanted to be like those people with a mission and hope. Those women would have saved every precious penny over a very long time, years probably, and were leaving Africa in this precarious way to start a new life. They had timed their journey precisely and, should they give birth once they arrived in Tenerife or Cadiz or Almeria, their new babies would be entitled to Spanish citizenship. They would have passports, a future, all the things we take for granted and I
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