Outer Island

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Armand: They told me I would have five minutes to converse with Delila after the flogging, that this would be the last time I’d be with her privately until our first conjugal visit four months in the future. I wanted to desire her enough to take her in my arms and hold her. I knew that the punishment she’d just received was hurting her badly, but for all my better desires, I could feel nothing but a raw and vicious anger. That she would bring us to this unhappy hour with her unbridled lust made me rage in a way I never had before.

***

“They won’t let me touch you,” Armand said.

“I know.” She looked up at him from behind a bar that separated them.

“You must be in great pain.”

“Most of that is over now.” She spoke the truth, not just trying to make her husband feel better. What was arising in her body was akin to s****l satisfaction in a crude sort of way, just heat, terrific heat flooding through her everywhere, though centering in her loins, adjacent to her punished bottom.

“That’s good,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Armand.”

He sighed as he fought for some words that seemed appropriate. “I know.”

“It’ll be months now.”

“Oh, no, Delila, not months, just a week.” There was sarcasm rising in his voice. “I’ll be expected here to witness your flogging next week and then the next, until this is all over.”

“I’m so sorry.” She was crying again.

“And I am too. I love you, Delila. I know that beyond all the fury in me, there’s a place where my love still resides. Please understand if I’m having trouble finding it.”

“Thank you for waiting for me. I can’t believe you’re doing that.”

“Did you love him?” Armand asked.

“No,” she answered truthfully.

“But you were lonely?”

“Missing you. I never deserved you,” she said.

“You never believed you did,” he agreed. “Perhaps that was our downfall.”

“Time’s up!” a voice shouted, and the matron Briel walked through the door.

“Please!” Delila let the tears spill from her eyes.

“I’m sorry, but the rules prevent it,” Briel told her. She pulled Delila to her feet and away from any breach of regulations on the prisoner’s mind that might have found her embracing Armand. “You don’t want to violate your re-training before it’s begun.”

As she was led away, her eyes gazed at Armand’s sorry face, wishing that for just an instant, his dour countenance might lift, but it did not.

***

Delila was in her prison cell, lying down, staring into the gray space in front of her. There was sunshine now outside, she could get just a small peek of it from the high window on the wall. It had seemed like weeks, though it had only been days since she had the gift of sunshine on her face—when she was a free woman in the midst of a love affair that had taken her from the gloom of Armand’s disappearance. She should hate Rafferty, but she didn’t.

“They proscribe cream for your backside,” she heard the matron’s voice, as Briel arrived with a large white jar. She unlocked the heavy metal door, moved to Delila’s side, and with the motions of her hand scooted Delila to the inner edge of her cot. The hefty woman sat down at her side, and unscrewed the lid on the jar.

“On your stomach,” she ordered.

Briel began spreading cream on the bare ass cheeks, and places on her back where it was obvious that the lash had struck hard.

“That stings the most there,” Delila acknowledged as the woman’s large hands rubbed the thick substance into her thighs.

“Yes, it would,” the woman replied.

There was such raw energy generated under the woman’s tender touch, Delila found it difficult not to squirm against her soft fingers, especially when they were intent on massaging her buttocks with such spirited energy.

Delila found herself groaning once.

“It’s all right to feel the pleasure after what you’ve been through,” the matron told her. Briel’s massage slowed into a more sensuous fondling, and her fingers slipped deeply into Delila’s rear crack. “It does feel good to you, doesn’t it?”

Delila was flustered by the question, not knowing how to answer, though Briel was requiring one. In fact, she chose that moment to stop the rubdown, return the lid to the jar and then rise to her feet.

Delila nodded to her. “Was the flogging as bad as you thought it would be?” she asked looking down, as Delila, having turned over, was gazing up at the severe woman’s face.

“No,” she admitted. “The pain was difficult to take, but . . .” She stopped.

“But what?” Briel asked.

“But perhaps it has its purpose.”

“And what is that, Delila Armand?” the woman inquired.

She thought for a moment. “Assuage my guilt.”

“Then you’ll be sure to have more to alleviate that state. Remember, it’s all right to feel the pleasure,” she said again. The matron was about to walk out of the cell when she turned back. “I’ll bring you a dress in the morning,” she said. “For now you’ll have to cover yourself with the blanket if you get cold.”

The cell door clanked shut and Delila was alone again.

***

In the anteroom, outside Delila’s cell, the matron sat in a chair behind a desk. She didn’t have to take up such a vigilant place so close to the prisoner, but she had her reasons.

About a half hour into her quiet solitude, Briel heard what she was waiting for, the sounds unmistakable, ones she’d heard a hundred times in her tenure at the prison. Delila’s moans were soft, her breathing heavy. The matron imagined that she had climbed under the blanket on her cot, her hand quickly finding the centerpiece of a woman’s luxury, her fingers exploring the vast valleys and soft tissue surrounding the wet center. The moans went on for several minutes climaxing in a heavy sigh and a heavier gasp. Delila Armand climaxed with Briel listening, and the matron smiled.

Getting up from her seat in the anteroom, she left to make a phone call.