I wake up to the feeling of some small animal crawling on my dress. I SCREAM -- I am disgusted -- I try to quick brush it off.

Only to discover that my hands are tightly bound above me, one to each side. What? Who has done this to me? I try to kick the animal off with my legs . . .

Only to discover that my legs are also bound, just as tightly. This is horrible beyond description. I am laid out on this sandy beach, helpless and vulnerable. Any man could come by and do with me as he pleases.

The animal slithers up to my groin. I panic, but thrashing about in panic does not release me. My hair, which is long and thick, is also tied down, and I feel several slender but strong ligatures across my body, from above my breasts to my calves.

And now my memories come back to me, filling me with dread and hopelessness. Last night was impossibly horrible. The shipwreck, being thrown into the cold sea, barely struggling to reach land. Knowing that my new husband, Lord Hammond, and all men aboard the ship are surely dead. Crawling up to the sand, exhasted and miserable with wet clothes and grief.

I waited – alone, defenseless, worried, and heartbroken – for others to join me, but none did. I had been standing on deck; all of the men had been down below. So I am the only survivor. A woman, all alone, with no protection or defense.

Eventually I cried myself to sleep.

And during the night, while I slept, someone has firmly bound me, spread-eagled, on this god-forsaken beach. I cannot even stop this animal from crawling on me.

It crawls between my breasts and walks up my chest to my collarbone, where I can finally see it.

It is a small man, about six inches high. Leaning back against my breast, staring at me. I do not see how this is possible.

I again panic and thrash about wildly in terror. But I cannot escape, and my thrashing hurts me greatly, for the ropes which bind are strong and sharp, and they cut into me as I struggle against them.

When I look again, nothing is on my chest. I had somehow imagined a tiny man on my chest. But once again I feel something small climbing my leg and moving up my thigh. That is no imagination. It crosses my groin, then my stomach, then again moves between my breasts and appears in my view.

It is the same small man. I remain motionless, partly with fright and partly with a desire not to feel that same pain again from thrashing against my bindings.

No man can be that small. But he looks so real and moves so naturally. I can hardly believe that our ship was wrecked, my husband is dead, and that I am bound helpless in the sand of this far away island, but it is far harder to believe that a six-inch man is standing on my chest.

He shouts at me, "Hekinah degul," or words similar to that; his language is unfamiliar to me and impossible to understand. I wonder if he is asking my name.

But he withdraws an arrow from his quiver, and I see the anger in his small face and body. He notches the arrow in his bow; then, with another cry, he shoots the arrow into my neck.

It is as if a sewing pin was stabbed into my neck. The pain is very sharp and nearly unbearable. I again scream, though I am careful not to thrash my body.

As I endure this pain and his angry glare, two aspects of my situation become apparent. Had the arrow pierced an artery in my neck, I would be dying, my young life also ended. So my first realization is that, even though he is small, I am completely at this mercy. I must not make him angry.

Second, even though my appearance matches these small beings, they do not perceive me as a civilized human being worthy of respect. Instead, they treat me as if I am an animal, to be punished if it does not behave as they wish.

Very well. I will try to do as they wish.

And now I can guess at the likely meaning of his words – he did not like me throwing him to the ground; he wants me to lie still and let him do as he pleases. That was often my husband's desire, so this request is familiar to me.

So I lay still, bound by ropes and threats. Other men join the first and climb about my body. It feels as if large spiders are crawling me; I must lay still and let them crawl where they want.

I explain that they may release me, I will not hurt them. That I am a female, trained in etiquette and bred to be pleasing. So I am no danger to them. But they do not understand my language any more than I understood theirs.

I plead with them, telling them I am the wife of a Lord. That there will be a reward for my safe return. That I should be released. The man who first appeared to me, no doubt their leader, shouts to other men.

Instead of releasing me, they go running off. I perceive their predicament – I am large, and in their eyes, dangerous. They cannot risk letting me go.

After a while, I feel the bond upon my hair being loosened. I slowly turn my head to view the world around me. Their entire small village is here to observe this spectacle.

I also see carts of meat and barrels. They took my entreaties as requests for food and water. That is of course what an animal would have asked for. I open my mouth, and they feed me the meat, then pour several barrels of water into my mouth. I will not starve, though this is only a small meal for me.

The men, after apparently satisfying whatever curiosity they might have had, climb down from my body and presumably go to their work for the day. A few men stay to guard me, all with bow and arrow. Whether they are accurate aim with those arrows I do not know. But it does not matter – I am a large target they are sure to hit, should I give them any reason to punish me.

The mothers stay to watch, and the children . . .

First it is one small boy climbing upon me, his mother shouting something with both anger and fear; she no doubt wants him to return to the safety of the ground. But like boys everywhere, he does not listen. His mother's request is proper – it would be unsafe to climb on me, except I would never hurt him and I am terrified of being shot with another arrow.

When he suffers no harm, he is joined by another child, and then another. When nothing happens, all of the children are allowed to climb upon me.

Their favorite game quickly becomes to climb to the top of a hill, sit on the protuberance on top of the hill, and then push off and slide down the soft material covering the hill.

The hill – or hills I should say – are my breasts. And the protuberances at the top, which they sit on and sometimes jump on, are my nipples. So the feeling is as if a hundred small spiders are crawling across my body while a lover prods my nipples. It is a confusing mix of revulsion and desire.

And it seems so strange to be helpless to such small creatures.

The men were careful not to walk on my female parts. The children, being innocent, show no such concern. They walk on my labia, or inside them at the entrance to my vagina. They showed no concern for what they were doing, as they are simply walking from one place to another while playing or exploring. But their physical prodding down there again adds to my sexual stimulation and confusion.

With regret, I feel a boy, about 12, climbing under my dress. He was just exploring. At this I did think to thrash, but a quick look to the men with arrows reminded me I should not. He was joined by others, as I knew would happen, and then the children were exploring under my clothes. Having their shoes and hands and bodies directly on my skin made my helpless arousal all the worse.

Other men returned with more food and drink for me, at the time I believe is lunch. They apparently do not want to kill me, as they could have done so immediately. But I cannot imagine they want to keep feeding me. I resolve to be on my best behavior, in hopes of gaining their trust.

I wonder at these mothers letting their children explore my most private places. Perhaps they cannot see their children doing this, as the mothers remain on the ground. Or perhaps they do not see me as a woman, who would want privacy and both resent and be excited by their children's explorations. To them, I am an inhuman giant. Or just a very large hill for their children to play on.

In the late afternoon, a gang of older boys comes to see me. There are about 12 of them, led by a tall boy with a scar across his chest. He climbs me, walks to my chin where the first man had stood, and then nimbly climbs my face. He stands above me, on my cheek looking me in the eye. He looks to be about 16 years old.

I fear him, as a woman would fear any man, even a young man, who looked at her with cruel intent. There are men who would happily rape a woman except that they fear the consequences. For them, a woman is not someone to love and cherish; a woman is a body to covet and use. They resent a woman for giving them strong desires for her, and they feel it is their right to use that same woman to satisfy those desires.

I feel a chill in my soul, though I am afraid to move a muscle.

After studying me for a few minutes, he bends down and kisses between my lips. It has no feeling for me, he is too small and his actions too unkind – he does not mean it as a sign of love, he means it as a sexual act. He does not see me as a sexless giant; he knows I am a female and have the same desires and fears any other female would have.

I could deny his kiss. Yes, I could shake my head and throw him to the ground. But then he and his gang would take their revenge on me with arrows.

He stands and again looks me in the eye. I think he is inviting my resistance. I think he would like giving me pain. But I will give him no reason to punish me.

He walks to the top of my head and climbs down my hair. He starts walking away from he, his gang joining him, leaving my body to be a playground for the remaining children.

That Night

I am again fed at the time of supper, then everyone departs soon after when it becomes dark.

I am fearful of the dark. I am lonely. I fear what will happen to me. I must face the loss of my husband. I do not know how well I can sleep with my arms and legs stretched out and bound. My problems are too many to face at once, and each one scares me so.

Then I see torches walking along the beach. I hear much shouting and chanting in their strange language.

When they are closer,I can see it is a group of older boys, ages 13 to 18. When they are even closer, I can see it is same group as before. Led by the same cruel boy with a scar across his chest.

There are worse things than being alone.

They are boys, not-quite men, pretending to be brave. They climb me, and walk on my legs, and then grab the hem of my dress and pull it towards my head, exposing my netherparts.

The leader, who has been directing all of this, now begins climbing my vagina, holding on to my pubic hairs, much as one might climb a vine-covered wall.

I burn with shame. My husband has, of course, seen this part of my body. But he did not put his eye up to my vagina as if he might look in. This tiny boy is now being intimate with me in a way my husband never was. Of course my husband, although he saw me as a woman, also saw me as deserving respect.

I can feel him trying to push my labia apart. Then he begins shouting and directing the other boys. Suddenly they are again swarming over my body, but this time with a different purpose in mind. One boy begins pounding on my clitoris, which is oddly effective in exciting me. Another boy starts pounding near my clitoris, then there is an argument with pointing to my anatomy, as they no doubt try to identify the parts of me. Then one boy resumes his pounding on my clitoris, while the other pushes against it. The effect is deliciously exciting, though I am embarrassed to be excited in this way, by these mere boys.

It is difficult for me not to feel like an animal.

Other boys have meanwhile scaled my breasts and are prodding at my nipples. The effect is gentle, yet pointed. I have not felt anything like it, but it contributes to my excitement.

Another boy apparently has been assigned to my lips. He does not know what to do, then he decides to take off his shirt and rub it on my lips. This too is arousing. It contributes to the general confusion in my mind as I am assaulted by too many pleasant sensations to keep track of. I must instead just accept them for what they are.

And then I feel a squirming in my vagina.

At first I naturally expect rape. But that cannot be what is happening, for no boy's penis is large enough for me to feel or to reach more than a meager amount inside my vagina.

I think he may be inserting his hands, but even his legs are not large enough to produce this distinct squirming feeling.

Then I realize, he is climbing inside me – his whole body is inside me! This feeling is disturbing – like a salamander has climbed into my vagina – but it also is arousing, contributing to my general confusion.

Then the squirming is gone. I think the other boys have pulled him out – it felt like Lord Hammond's penis sliding out of me after sex, except his penis did not have arms and hands. But perhaps he climbed out. I see the other boys approving of him and what he has done.

And then the leader points to another boy. And he begins climbing my pubic hairs.

I realized what I am being used for. One year the boys back in England decided that each should climb a nearby mountain at night. Alone and naked. The boys who were unwilling to do this were teased and tormented until they did. The one boy who did not climb the mountain was ostracized and treated miserably for the remainder of the school year.

It was a rite of passage. A female has a flow of blood to tell her she is now a woman instead of a child. Boys apparently need some other sign to convince themselves they are men.

Now I am a rite of passage. I wish the rite was to climb me, but that was too easy. The task must be something difficult, something frightening. Something to change them, something to make them more like men when they have finished. And these boys are climbing inside my vagina.

To them, it is like climbing a cave. No, I must look more fearsome than a cave. Oils coming out of me. Pink flesh pulsating.

My last year of school, the rite was to collect a petticoat from each girl in my school. Some girls gave up a petticoat willingly, excited to be a part of this mischief and apparently not feeling any shame, or perhaps even enjoying their shame.

I, like many other girls, refused. Some girls could not easily afford to give up a petticoat. I could afford this, but the thought of a boy's hands on my petticoat disgusted me. And of course, the notion that we should have to go along with their silly game was offensive. Surely we were all expected to be more civilized.

Civilization did not protect me. As one of the last holdouts, I was tormented endlessly. At first it was whistles and jeers. When I still did not give up my petticoat, hands would knock against my head, feet would accidentally trip me, and another girl might be pushed into me or me into her.

My life was miserable. I did not want to go to school. But I went to school. This became a rite of passage for me too – I was a strong woman who did not need to bend to the demands of these boys.

And then one day a hand felt my bottom. The next day a hand pressed against my bosom. I could see the future -- hands violating my personal space, violating my body -- and that resisting them was impossible. While they no doubt wanted my petticoat, it was even more important for them simply to win, and they would stop at nothing.

I gave them my best petticoat. I am still embarrassed by my vanity. And when I handed it over, I was secretly excited even as I showed a haughty face of disgust.

All of the girls eventually gave up a petticoat. The boys learned a lesson about conquering women; we learned a lesson about trying to resist. And these boys climbing into my vagina are learning the same lesson, about conquering a woman. I do not have to do anything to help teach this lesson, and they do not want a woman's guidance, I just am a body.

So he is building an army of brave, loyal soldiers.

When they are finished, they again scale the hairs on my vagina. Then they walk up to my breasts, lower their pants, and energetically pull on their tiny penises. They are masturbating. Eventually, each one ejaculates on my clothing over my breasts. It will smell in the morning to anyone who should climb upon me.

Or their semen will dry and leave stains. A rain would make me cold, and my wet clothes would be miserable, but I find myself wishing for a rain to wash away the physical evidence of my shame.

But no amount of happiness in my life could wash away my memory of this night; that shame will always be with me. The only man to ever enter my vagina was Lord Hammond; now 12 more boys have. I would kill myself if there was any way to have a quick death. But I am bound and helpless.

I begin to cry and cannot stop. Eventually I fall into a restless sleep filled with troubling thoughts and memories.

The Next Morning

I am not fed. No one comes to visit me. It would be good if they have forgotten me, for I have grown weary of being their careless pleasure. But they would not forget me. And leaving me here would not be kind.

Could this have possibly ended well? In fact, I now see a large band of men walking towards me. There are no women or children, suggesting that I will be raped or killed. From the serious look on their small faces, I am thinking I will be killed. Everly man from the village is here. That again suggests some serious activity that they wish everyone to be responsible for.

A man comes out from the crowd. No doubt he is the leader. He says something unintelligible to me. I try to say that I will not hurt him. Or anyone. But I know my language is unintelligible to him, and I begin to whimper in fear.

He shoots an arrow into my arm. It is a sharp pain and I moan. He waits, as if I am going to die from this tiny arrow, but there is only a few drops of blood seeping out of my wound and past the arrow. When I do not die, he shoots another arrow into my arm. I moan again, and I would thrash if it did not make the ropes cut into me so painfully. I would accept the cuts if I could thrash my body onto his and kill him, but he is too far away and I am too tightly bound. Another arrow goes into my arm.

When I still do not die, he calls out again, and other men solemnly walk up to me and begin shooting their arrows into my arms and legs. The pain is horrible. A slow painful death is my fate.

Then there is a cry, someone points to the sea, everyone is alarmed, and they all run off.

I twist my neck as much as I can, and I see a small boat has landed, and men my size are waling towards me, dressed in the colors of the Royal Navy.

I am rescued! Just in time. I am saved.

Ten normal-sized men come into my view and are standing above me, looking at me with interest. I see their looks. Any woman would fear being looked at in that manner.

They seem delighted to find me already tied down and easily available to their desires, and one-by-one they have their way with me. Then I am finally unbound. They hold me tight and take me aboard their ship, which I realize is really a pirate ship. There, I must serve them in all the ways a woman can. But that is a different story.