They stepped onto the dusty path. The sunset painted the sky in gradients of orange. Juma glanced sideways.
“Nice evening, isn’t it?” he said, almost cheerful. “You can smell the frangipani when the wind comes off the water.”
Carla had no idea what a ‘frangipani’ was, and didn’t care. She gave a tiny, strangled “Mmm.” She was naked, cuffed, leashed, villagers staring. Juma noticed the silence, cleared his throat.
Juma tugged the leash gently, leading her through the edge of the market square. He paused at a vendor’s stall, handing over a few coins for a woven basket of steaming plantain fritters wrapped in banana leaves. The aroma of spice and fried dough cut through the evening air.
Juma tried to break the ice, “New places always feel off at first. How’s the settling in going for you? Tribal Dispatch is not the worst spot to land, huh?”
Oh, it’s paradise. Cells, electro shocks, leashes. What’s not to love? she thought. But she only replied, “Mhmmm.”
Carla kept her eyes on the ground. She glanced back once. The office’s barred window showed in the distance. Lisha stood there. Their eyes met for a moment before the leash tugged, and she turned to see where she was going.
Juma’s hut sat at the village’s edge. It was a squat mud structure with a sagging roof. Inside, a sparse living room with a kitchen area, a sagging couch facing a knee-high wooden table, and a large bed in the corner. Cricket chirps slipped through a cracked window. He unlocked her cuffs, and tossed them onto the table. Juma pointed to the floor beside the table.
“Kneel there,” he said, his voice firm but softer than at the office.
Carla frowned but sank to her knees. The rough mat pricked her thighs. Juma let go of her leash, and it dropped beside her. She looked around the bare hut, then at the leash, then at him.
“So… do you bring all your office equipment home for dinner,” she asked, “or am I special?”
Juma actually laughed, surprised. “Uh… you looked hungry.”
Carla’s mouth twitched. “Starving. Nothing whets the appetite like a leash.”
Juma settled onto the couch. He loomed above her. His movements were stiff as he set the woven basket of plantain fritters on the table. Their golden crusts steamed. The sweet-spicy aroma curled through the humid air.
“Eat,” he said. His fingers brushed hers as he passed a fritter.
Carla took it. The crisp edge crumbled under her bite. Spice stung her lips. She ate slowly. Juma took one for himself. He bit into it. They ate in silence for a moment. The fritters were good. Warm. Filling. Carla took another. Juma did the same.
Juma set his half-eaten fritter down. He stood. He crossed the room to a small clay pot in the corner. He lifted the lid. He carried a glass bowl back to the table. The bowl held tiramisu. He set it down beside the basket.
“The guy at the Blue Door Bakery said white girls love this coffee cake,” he said, his voice a bit proud. He nudged the bowl closer. “Tourist stuff, but I figured you might enjoy it.”
“Lucky me,” she said, voice dry. “First time I’ve been bribed with pudding.”
Juma actually laughed, surprised. “Better than the stuff they feed you at the office, huh?”
“Marginally.”
The tiramisu’s cream coated her tongue. Its sweetness felt rich and foreign in the jungle hut. She felt his eyes on her, not with the cold stare from the office but warmer, hungrier. He was trying to win her over. Tiramisu wasn’t a staple here. She realized he had bought this specifically for her. Was this some kind of date? Well, if he was going to rape her, buttering her up with nice food was the least he could do.
Besides, she was horny from being naked all day, all the sun on her skin, and not to mention the extended period sitting on that stupid sybian.
She realized he was probably lonely, and had brought her here for company. Maybe that was why he was so nice to her. She didn’t care about him particularly. But if she was right, she might be able to use it to her advantage. After all, he had chosen her. Back then, at the market. He could have taken any of the other slaves, but he had chosen her. The one white girl. So maybe she was more to him than just another female slave to do their errands? Her situation was terrible. Melissa and the others were back at the Academy, too far to do anything for her now. Here at Tribal Dispatch, she had no allies. She could use someone to whom she was more than just a slave.
Her body softened. Her resentment faded into curiosity.
The flavors of the food weren’t so bad, she realized. It wasn’t terrible, this warmth, this taste.
Juma ate in silence. His gaze darted to her then back to his plate. He seemed unsure how to break the quiet.
“So… how are you settling in?” he tried.
Carla gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, fantastic. Nothing says ‘welcome to the team’ like a steel collar and electroshocks for not being fast enough.”
Juma’s mouth twitched. “Could be worse. Some slaves get the coffee plantation. Twelve-hour sun, no shade.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when I’m picking my dream job.”
Juma pulled his phone out of his pocket and started tapping. Carla was alarmed she may have gone too far.
“Hhhey?” she stammered, her thighs clenching instinctively, braced for a painful shock.
“Don’t worry,” Juma said, smiling. He pressed another button.
The IUD buzzed softly in her. Just as it had done to reward her earlier today. Carla eased up. She wasn’t being punished. But she hated that he could so easily reach into her intimate area like this.
Juma stood. He picked up the leash and tugged it gently. He led her to the wooden bed in the corner.
“Get on the bed,” he said. He locked the leash to the middle bar of the headboard with a click, anchoring her firmly in place.
The IUD’s vibrations had done their job. Her body was slick now, ready despite herself. Juma’s finger slipped inside easily, no resistance at all. His smile widened as he felt it, and Carla’s cheeks burned hot. Outrage surged through her—this was his doing, the device forcing her wetness, turning her body on against her will.
“Why bring me here?” she asked. “You could have just used the storage room.”
Juma hesitated. “Storage room smells like bleach. And… I don’t know. You looked at me like I was a person, not just the guy with the phone.”
Carla gave a bitter laugh. “Congratulations. You’re still the guy with the phone.”
Juma chuckled, low and surprised. “Oh right, I can switch that off now. You’re clearly ready.” He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, and the vibrations in her core faded to nothing. The sudden quiet left her feeling strangely empty, her body still humming from the echo.
He stripped off his shirt and shorts, his lean frame settling between her thighs. The chain at her collar clinked softly against the headboard. His erection pressed hot against the inside of her leg.
Carla’s breath caught. In Dublin this would be rape. Here, it was Tuesday. But maybe she could use this. Make him have feelings for her. Turn him into some kind of an ally.
She forced her hips to relax, forced her face to soften, forced her voice into something that sounded like welcome. Juma’s eyes searched hers. He waited a heartbeat, as if asking permission he knew he didn’t need. She answered by parting her knees a fraction wider.
He slid in with one slow push. The IUD’s earlier vibrations had left her slick and swollen; he met no resistance. The stretch was sudden, thick, perfect. A low moan escaped her before she could stop it.
Juma stilled, buried to the hilt, watching her face like he’d never seen a woman come undone before. Carla let the moan happen again, louder, deliberate.
His breath hitched. He started to move. Long, unhurried strokes that drew sparks from every nerve in her vagina.
The first climax took her by surprise. It started low in her belly, curled tight, then snapped open. Her back arched off the bed, the chain rattled, and she cried out, wordless, shameless, eyes squeezing shut as the world narrowed to white heat.
When she opened them, Juma’s gaze locked on hers. He had watched her face the whole time, drinking in every twitch, every gasp, like it was the only thing that mattered. The realization hit her mid-moan, a fresh wave of exposure that twisted the pleasure sharper.
He didn’t stop. He shifted angle, deeper, and the second orgasm rolled through her harder than the first. Her thighs shook. Her toes curled against the coarse sheet.
The third one broke her open. It was huge, blinding, a white-hot wave that started where he filled her and crashed outward until she couldn’t tell where her body ended and the pleasure began.
Juma groaned, low and ragged. His rhythm stuttered. He buried himself deep and came, pulsing inside her, forehead pressed to hers, breath mingling. For a long moment neither moved. Then he kissed her: soft, stunned kisses on her mouth, her neck, the corner of her eye where a tear had slipped free without permission.
He collapsed beside her, one arm flung across her waist, the chain still linking her collar to the bed. Carla lay staring at the cracked ceiling, heart hammering, body humming. She had meant to fake it. She hadn’t faked a single second.
Carla felt his semen leak out. Her skin prickled. “I need the bathroom,” she said, tugging the chain to underscore her need.
Juma unlocked her. She cleaned up, feeling like a naked chess piece in a game where the players had thrown away the board and were busy fucking the pieces instead. He locked the chain back to her collar when she returned.
They slept. Her naked body pressed against his. She realized how this had been the first time she had felt good since she had been enslaved. Not just good, but great. But now the fireworks were over, and the chain running from her collar to the bed reminded her that she was not his girlfriend.
Sometime past midnight Carla woke again. Her stomach growled so loudly it startled her in the quiet hut. All that running under the sun, the sex, the endless day, she had burned through the fritters hours ago and the hunger clawed at her now.
Moonlight spilled through the cracked window and painted the low table silver. Half a plantain fritter sat on the banana leaf, edges curled, still smelling of chili and sweetness. She could almost taste it.
Carla tugged the chain. It answered with a flat metallic clink, bedpost to collar, no give at all. She tugged harder, felt the steel bite her neck, and stopped. Juma slept on his back beside her, one arm flung across the pillow, breathing slow and even. She stared at the food, so near and yet so far. One hand gripped the hated chain where it locked her to the bed, the other close to her collar. She tugged both ends again in incredulity at how the leftovers were out of reach for her. She let herself sink back onto the bed. Exhausted from the day, she felt her legs prickle as they relaxed and soon fell asleep again.
Carla woke to sunlight slicing through the cracked window. She lay alone on the bed. For one moment she forgot where she was. She was naked in a stranger’s hut. Then the memories came rushing back. Juma. Tiramisu. Sex. Her intention to win him over.
She felt around her neck for her collar. She hated this thing. She had hated it ever since the jail guard had locked this bit of steel to her neck. The chain was still attached. She pulled at it and felt the tug of the collar on her neck. She pushed herself up and pulled the other end. She heard the clanging of the chain against the metal headboard.
She was still chained to the bed.
She silently cursed Tara for getting her into this situation. And herself for not following her instincts and leaving the company when she had found out who they really were.
She looked around. There was silence. Juma was not to be heard. The door to the bathroom was open. If he was in there, she would have heard him by now. He had left her here like this.
Carla thought back to their encounter the previous evening. She had not expected she would enjoy it so much. She didn’t even like Juma. So why had it been so good?
The door creaked open. Juma stepped in. He carried two steaming parcels wrapped in green leaves. The smell of fried egg and chili drifted across the room.
Carla was hungry. She couldn’t leave the bed while she was chained to it, so she sat up, curious about the breakfast Juma had brought in.
He set the parcels on the low table, then crouched to unlock the chain from the bedpost. “Best roti john in Ngalawa Bay. One for you, one for me.”
Carla looked up at him.
“Come,” Juma said, smiled at her, took the leash in one fist and guided her to the low table. He handed her a warm parcel. “This is great stuff.”
The leaf unfolded to reveal a thick roti stuffed with egg and spicy fish.
“Five-star service,” she said. “Room service and my very own leash. All I need now is the mint on the pillow.”
Carla finished the last bite of roti john, licked chili from her thumb, and felt the pressure low in her belly.
“I need the bathroom,” she said, already standing.
Juma pointed to a narrow door. Carla padded across the cool tiles, the leash swaying from her collar and brushing her thighs as she walked. The toilet was simple but clean. When she stepped out, Juma was naked, skin gleaming in the morning light. His erection jutted proud and ready.
“Shower time,” he said with a grin on his face.
He guided her back into the bathroom. Warm water burst from the showerhead, drumming on her shoulders. Juma poured liquid soap into his palms and worked it over her breasts, down her stomach, between her legs. His fingers were thorough, slippery, shameless. Carla’s breath hitched as the soap slid over her clitoris, over and over again, until her knees softened.
He turned her to face the wall and bent her over. The chain clinked as it hit the tiles beneath her. Juma pressed against her back, guided himself in, and filled her in one slick thrust. The leash hung down before her face, swaying with every push, the links chiming softly against the floor.
Water streamed over them both. Carla lifted her head so the water wouldn’t get into her nose. The rhythm built fast, as Juma thrust into her. She felt the orgasm coil tight, then fizzle out as he pulled out of her.
Juma spun her around and lowered her gently to the wet tiles. Carla moved the chain from laying on her body to the tile floor next to her. He settled over her, shielding her face from the spray. Warm water rained on his shoulders, ran in rivulets down his chest, and dripped onto her.
He entered her again, slow this time, eyes locked on hers. The tiles were hard beneath her, the water nice and warm, and the chain made soft clinking noises against the tiles as Juma moved her body. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him deeper. This time her lust unravelled in a long rolling wave that washed over her like the warm water as he groaned against her neck as he spilled inside her.
For a moment they stayed like that, water drumming, chain quiet, two bodies breathing the same steam.
Juma kissed her once, soft, then reached up, killed the tap and the bathroom was silent.
Carla stood dripping on the tiles, hair plastered to her shoulders, skin prickling in the cooler air.
Juma dried himself briskly with the only cloth in the room, while she waited for a towel that never came. Juma tossed his over a nail.
He took the leash in one fist and tugged gently.
“Come.”
Carla followed, water still streaming down her legs.
“Can I at least get a towel?” she asked, half-laughing, half-pleading.
Juma shook his head. “You’ll air-dry. Heat outside will do the job in five minutes.”
He stepped into shorts and a loose shirt, slipped on worn sandals. Carla stood naked, dripping, nothing to do except watch him dress.
She tried for the tone they’d shared a few minutes ago when he was still inside her.
“Any chance today’s an easy one?” she asked, forcing lightness into her voice. “My feet were killing me yesterday.”
Juma spun her around and snapped the cuffs.
“Yesterday was nothing,” Juma said, almost proud. “This week we take it slow so your feet toughen up. Starting Monday, we push you further out — every week a little more.”
Carla’s half-smile died.
She stepped barefoot into the morning heat, water already evaporating from her skin, the village waking around her naked form.
“Rafiki thinks we should go easy on you because you’re a white girl. But I told him we’ll turn you into our best runner.”
I also updated the end of chapter 11 to foreshadow the one in chapter 13. Rafiki does an inspection there, notices the redness, and blames Juma for going for a discounted slave instead of buying locally to foreshadow the sun oil scene.
).