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 Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgements
Opening
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Ray
Chapter One
About the Author
Also By Raisa Greywood
Raisa Greywood
Copyright © 2020 by Raisa Greywood LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any
electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except
for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Ebook edition: 978-1-952596-01-8
Print edition: 978-1-952596-02-5

Editor: Amy Briggs

Cover Design: Eris Adderly
Photographer: FuriousFotog / Golden Czermak
Model: Kevin R. Davis
Formatting: Cynthia Starrett
 Acknowledgements

Special thanks go out to Golden Angel for coming up with such an

amazing fun idea to write. I’d also like to thank Shane Starrett and
Maren Smith for joining the party, along with Addison Cain for
loaning us Shane’s soul for a few months. Without them, the Dad
Bod Doms wouldn’t be a thing.
I also want to thank Martine M. for her insights into mental health,
AJ Renard for helping me understand the fluidity of a power-
exchange relationship, and EJ Frost for her assistance with the
mysteries of criminal law.
As always, Engineer Hubby, Mr. Greywood, deserves the outest of
shouts for his unwavering support and faith in me, and for being my
own beloved Dad Bod Dom. Love you to the moon and back, baby.

Want to see what I’m up to next? Join my Raunchy Renegades.

You can also sign up for my Newsletter. As a bonus, everyone who
signs up will receive a FREE exclusive short story following up with
Henry and Natalie.
 When four old friends arrive for their annual
camping trip stressed out and defeated, they
discover each of them is going through a rough
patch in his relationship and his life.
Unwilling to give in to the inevitable, they decide to
make a pact: by next year's camping trip, they'll have
reclaimed their confidence and their submissives.

Desperate times call for Dad Bod Doms.

 Prologue

Henry
“The Dad Bod Doms,” we chorused, doing a male fist bump thing
as we prepared to leave for our respective homes after our yearly
camping trip. Our cars were packed, and I was itching to get on the
road.
It was a pact. An agreement between four old friends. Maybe
more a challenge to recapture the lost spark that used to make our
marriages so successful. At least Ray, Faris, and Logan were talking
to their wives. After years of failed fertility treatments and
demanding careers, my relationship with Natalie needed some help.
Whole days went by without a word from either of us. We didn’t
fight—at least not like what appeared to be happening between Faris
and Leyla—but things weren’t right and the distance between us was
almost painful.
Although I thought it was stupid at first, the more I considered
the idea, the better I liked it. Instead of stopping for the night
halfway through the sixteen-hour trip back to Minneapolis, I drove
straight home. I couldn’t wait to start making things right with
Natalie.
By the time I pulled into our driveway, I was so tired I could
barely see straight and didn’t bother unpacking my car. After taking
a shower in the guest bathroom, I crept into our bedroom. Natalie
was already asleep, which was no great surprise. She never stayed
up much past ten, and it was already almost two in the morning.
Sprawled on her stomach with the sheet kicked away, she looked
like an angel. Her pale skin shimmered in the moonlight, gleaming
like alabaster. The ceiling fan whirring lazily overhead stirred a few
strands of her silvery hair and I resisted the urge to brush it away to
reveal the curve of her shoulder.
 There was no time like the present to get started on the Dad Bod
Dom Challenge. It had been awhile since we’d last made love.
Actually, it had been close to a year because I was an idiot. My
dissatisfaction with my job shouldn’t have spilled over into our
relationship.
What I wouldn’t give for a do-over. I’d have never let us drift so
far apart. Between our respective jobs and the heartbreak of
realizing we’d never have a child together, I’d let our marriage
flounder. No more. I was the dominant in this relationship, and it
was past time I acted like it.
Thankfully, I remembered how to wake a sleeping wife and make
her happy about it. Settling in bed next to her, I drew the scent of
her floral perfume deep into my lungs. It was criminally expensive,
but I loved it.
She grunted irritably, making me smile. I kept it up, brushing soft
kisses over her shoulders until she rolled over. I circled a dark peach
nipple with a fingertip, remembering how she used to love having
them clamped.
No. Bad Dad Bod Dom.
Tonight was for reconnecting with each other. I needed to tell her
how much I loved her, and I wanted to hear her say it back. Our
playroom in the basement could wait. Lowering my head, I pulled
her nipple into my mouth and sucked gently, then teased the other
to ripe turgidity with my fingers.
She moaned and arched her back, her head falling to the side as
her hips shifted upwards. Her slim hand drifted between her legs
and I let her play with herself for a few minutes before covering her
fingers with mine.
Waking with a jerk, she let out a frightened squeak and tried to
pull her hand free. “Henry? What—”
I kissed my way up her chest to her lips, my cock throbbing at the
wetness coating my fingers. “Shh, baby girl. Just relax and let me
love you.”
Circling her clit with my thumb, I pressed a finger inside her and
she bucked against my hand, letting out a soft whimper of pleasure.
It was good for a start, but I wanted to give her more. I kissed her
again, relishing her passionate whine, then moved slowly down her
body to lay between her legs.
The soft fragrance of her heated passion wafted over me as I
lowered my face to her core and licked the sweetness from her
swollen flesh. I missed the platinum ring she used to have in her clit
hood, but she’d taken it out when we started fertility treatments.
Deciding not to go there, I got back to work.
Fresh arousal coated my lips and chin as I devoured her, learning
her body all over again. A finger pressed against her g-spot still
made her spasm and cry out with delight. I sucked her clit into my
mouth, teasing the sensitive nub with the tip of my tongue.
She pushed her pussy into my face and tangled her hands in my
hair. “Henry! Oh, God, please! I need to come!”
I almost lost control and nutted right there. She remembered.
After all this time, Natalie didn’t forget to ask for permission. Giving
her clit one last suck, I crawled up and settled between her thighs,
then positioned myself at her entrance.
“You can come with me, baby.” I eased my cock into her tight
channel, gritting my teeth against the urge to pound her into the
mattress. “Just a little longer.”
“Feels so good.”
“I love you, Natalie Mercer.”
Instead of answering, she kissed me, her lips hard and desperate,
frantic with need. The taste of her consumed me as I reached
between our straining bodies to thumb her clit. I wasn’t going to last
much longer, and I needed her ready. Balls aching, I slid an arm
behind her thigh, opening her to my possession. Her inner walls
rippled around me, heralding her orgasm.
“Come for me, baby. Let go.”
Crying out, she exploded, her hips bucking wildly as she chased
her pleasure. Unable to hold back, I had no choice but to follow her
into bliss.
Panting softly, she let her head fall back to the pillow. Wetness
glistened on her lashes, but I didn’t worry. Natalie sometimes cried
after climaxing. Kissing her eyelids, I brushed the tears away and
rolled to my side before I crushed her.
 “Hi, honey. I’m home,” I murmured, nuzzling the soft skin under
her ear.
“I didn’t expect you until tomorrow.” Her voice steadied, and she
turned to let me spoon her.
“I missed you.” I kissed the back of her neck. “We have a lot of
catching up to do, but tomorrow after we’ve both had a good night’s
sleep.”
My eyes drifted shut. After too little sleep and monumentally good
sex with the love of my life, there was no way I’d be able to stay
awake. It was enough to have her in my arms again.

Natalie
Shit, shit, shit!
My pussy dripping, I eased out of Henry’s arms and scuttled away
as carefully as I could. Thankfully, he was out cold, his snoring a
familiar nighttime melody.
Had he seen anything? The letter I’d left, or the empty closets?
Grabbing a T-shirt and some jeans, I crept out and dressed in the
hallway, praying he’d stay asleep. There wasn’t time to clean out the
last of my stuff from the spare room I used as a studio.
What the hell was wrong with me? Why hadn’t I said no? And why
on earth had he decided he wanted sex? He hadn’t so much as
spoken more than a few words at a time to me in months. I
grimaced and hopped on one foot to put my sock on. I might not
have been the best at communication, but at least I’d tried.
Henry hadn’t changed a bit. He still knew how to make me go off
like fireworks. Worse, for my libido and my ability to say no, he still
had that damned Prince Albert piercing that felt so, so good sliding
into me.
I’d been so stupid. I wanted one more night in the house we
shared. Like a swan song for our marriage, it was supposed to be
my chance to say goodbye to everything. Martine, my therapist, said
it would be good for me, but neither of us expected him to come
home early. I made a mental note to yell at her during our next
session. She was big on personal reminders like that.
 Henry didn’t scare me physically. He might be a deviously
imaginative sadist, but it would be anathema to him to cause me
bodily harm.
But there were all kinds of hurt, and not all of them were physical.
I took one last tour of the house, making sure I hadn’t forgotten
anything. The door to the room Henry used as his man cave
remained steadfastly closed. I never went in there, not even to
clean. My feet were silent on the hardwood floor I’d once found so
charming, and I wondered if Henry would sell the place once I was
gone.
Maybe he’d get another sub. The thought made me
unaccountably jealous and sad, and I wondered why I cared.
Moving into the kitchen, I straightened the folder containing the
documents Henry would need, but my fist clenched around the
house key I meant to leave behind. I forced myself to let it go,
flinching at the metallic jingle when it fell to the wood surface of the
dining room table Henry bought at an estate auction just before our
second anniversary. The thick Queen Anne legs still had rope marks
from our first play session in our new home, and…
Stop it.
My body buzzed from his lovemaking and I forced myself to focus.
Grabbing my purse, I set the alarm and walked out, steadfastly
keeping my gaze fixed on my car. For once, I was going to focus on
me. Not on the happy house full of laughing children I’d always
wanted but would never have, or on the man who, until tonight and
his unprecedented intimacy, was more roommate than husband.
How had my life gone so sideways? I wished I had the nerve to
confront him and tell him I was leaving. I wasn’t putting the entire
blame for our failed relationship on Henry. It took two people to
make a marriage work. Maybe I should have been more insistent
about talking, or done something else to make things better. I
grimaced, remembering the last time I tried.
Knowing his work schedule was a clusterfuck, I made an
appointment with my own damned husband to make sure he got
home at a reasonable hour. I ordered a steak and lobster supper
from what used to be our favorite restaurant, dolled myself up in a
slinky dress, and…sat at the table for almost three hours while he
worked late. It was the last time I asked him to do something.
A part of me still loved Henry. He was my first in so many ways.
First lover, first husband…first dom. Only dom, I corrected myself. I
willingly gave up control to him and loved every single moment.
Husband, lover, sexy sadistic bastard sometimes. Henry was all those
things, and at one time I’d counted him as my best friend.
Then he’d set me adrift without a lifeline, and left nothing to hold
me together. To say I was terrified was a monumental fucking
understatement, but I had to go. I needed to find the Natalie that
used to be. The brave one who wasn’t afraid to take a train across
Europe, or walk up to a handsome man and ask him out. The old
Natalie—because the new one sucked.
“Fake it until you make it, hooker,” I muttered. When my phone
connected with the dash display, I turned up Nine Inch Nails as loud
as I could stand it. Henry always hated my choice of music, but he
wasn’t going to be around to complain anymore. Brushing away my
tears, I drove away.
Fuck Henry Mercer and the horse he rode in on.
 Chapter One

Henry
Rolling over, I stretched out an arm, expecting Natalie’s warm
body still in bed next to me. When I found nothing but cold sheets, I
opened my eyes and grunted sourly. She had a standing date with
an elliptical at the gym every morning at six. I respected her
dedication to fitness, but I wished I’d asked her to skip it this
morning.
I rubbed my flabby gut, knowing I should have gotten my ass out
of bed and joined her. She used to love tracing the ridges of the six-
pack I’d sported back in the day, and watching her cute ass bounce
while she worked out was definitely worth waking up for.
Deciding to be productive, I got dressed and headed into the
kitchen to start a pot of coffee, then swore softly, remembering it
was a school day. Natalie wouldn’t be home until late afternoon.
Worse, I had to be at work the next day too.
Fortunately, it gave me time to clean up my camping gear. I sent
her a quick text to wish her a good day at work, belatedly adding
that I loved her. An answering text came back almost immediately.
Natalie: Look on the kitchen table.
I picked up the manilla folder, noting the key next to it. Sitting
down, I opened it and my gut roiled as I read the top page.
Henry,
I’m not sure what happened last night. I don’t know why you
came home early, or why you wanted sex. I also don’t know why I
didn’t say no. Maybe I just wanted to think you cared for a little
while.
Aside from last night, which I think we can agree was just weird
and out of character for both of us, I don't remember the last time
we had sex, the last time you touched me, or had a meaningful
conversation with me.
 I know you hate your boss, and the only time you talk about the
future is to ask me when we'll have enough saved so you can retire.
You don't know that I hated mine too, or that I died a little inside
every day I went to work. If you make it home while I’m still awake,
you yell, drink a few beers, complain about supper (and I admit I'm
not the greatest cook), then play in that stupid game room until you
pass out.
Speaking of which, I retired from teaching at the end of the last
school year to follow my dreams of painting professionally. I tried to
tell you, but you put on headphones and blew me off.
If your job is so bad, maybe you should find another instead of
bitching about it. I realized recently that our lives don’t change just
because we want them to be different. We have to want them to be
different badly enough to do something about it.
The banking passwords are on the attached page, along with the
household bills.
If you have any questions, you can email my attorney. I'm not
going to ask for alimony or any stupid shit like that. We'll split
everything 60/40. You earned more, so you'll get the sixty percent
and we'll each keep our own retirement accounts. The house is
yours. Sell it and split the proceeds, or keep it and buy me out.
There’s nothing I want in it, but I’m sure we can be adult enough to
behave until we get our assets separated.
Anyway, that's all I wanted to tell you.
Best wishes,
Natalie
The paper crackled as I squeezed my fist around it.
“Fuck!” I let the letter fall and rubbed my face, scowling at the
divorce paperwork in the folder. “Natalie, what are you thinking?”
Jumping up, I took the stairs two at a time to our bedroom and
yanked the closet door open. All her clothes were gone. Her dresser
drawers were also empty, along with everything from her bathroom.
Spinning on my heel, I strode down the hall to the room she used as
an office slash studio. Nothing remained except the watercolor she’d
done of Lake Tahoe where we’d gotten married and the faint odor of
turpentine.
Natalie wasn’t stupid, but damn it, she did some dumbass stuff
sometimes. How the hell did she expect to support herself with a
bunch of paint and canvas? Had she found another job? Where?
I went downstairs and got a beer, then drained nearly half of it in
one swallow. Reaching for my phone, I tapped her contact to call
her, but it went immediately to voicemail. Maybe she’d answer a
text.
Me: Come home, Natalie. I’m ready to talk now.
Natalie: I can’t. Don’t call me again, please.
With a roar of anger, I threw the phone across the room, the
impact shattering the screen. I stalked to the cupboard, and grabbed
a bottle of scotch. How the fuck was I supposed to fix our
relationship if she was already leaving me?
***
Dragging myself into work the following morning had one benefit.
Despite the pounding in my head from a raging hangover, it kept my
mind off losing Natalie. The coffee I was swilling like water, plus a
handful of aspirin would cure me eventually.
“Henry, see me in my office in five minutes, please,” Bethany
Thompson, my boss, snapped, speed walking past my cubicle. The
hem of her skirt flared around toned legs, and her heels sounded
like gunshots on the tile floor. Fuck’s sake, did she have to wear
those damned power suits every day? She had to change whenever
she went out on the production floor, costing us time we didn’t
always have.
“Why yes, I had a wonderful vacation, thanks for asking,” I
muttered, grimly sipping my cooling coffee. Taking my time, I
brought up the designs I’d been working on and emptied my coffee
cup before crossing the cubicle farm to Bethany’s office overlooking
the floor. Tapping on the door frame, I walked in, scowling when she
didn’t look up.
“Have a seat, please,” she ordered, shuffling papers on her desk.
I settled into the uncomfortable chair. “What can I do for you?”
 “I’ll be asking Sara Lyons to join us shortly. We’re handing over
the S-79 robotics project to her. You’ll be spending the next few
months getting her up to speed, then we’re transferring you to a
team lead position on the production floor.”
“Excuse me? I’ve spent the last two years on that project, and
you’re promoting a kid over me?”
Bethany looked up, her blue eyes expressionless. “Yes. I felt Sara
would be the best fit for the position.”
“May I ask why?”
“Sara is personable and a team player. She dresses the part, while
you haven’t shown up to work in anything but jeans and a T-shirt in
the whole time I’ve worked here. She can develop a rapport with
both our customer and suppliers, and frankly, she has more
management potential than you do.”
Natalie was right. Things didn’t change because I wanted them to.
Bethany’s position had originally been offered to me, but I wanted to
go into project management instead of administration. She
apparently saw that as a threat, and never made a secret of the fact
she didn’t like me. I hadn’t realized she’d be petty enough to yank
two years of my life out from under me—the same two years I could
have used to reconnect with my wife. That irritated me more than
anything else.
I stood and nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay?” Her brow arching, she smirked.
“Yep. Okay. May I?” I asked, reaching for a notepad on her desk.
“Sure.” She pushed the pad and a pen toward me.
It took surprisingly little time to get rid of years of stress and
dissatisfaction with just a few words scrawled on paper. I turned to
walk out, but stopped when she spoke.
“You can’t quit!” she blustered. “What is Sara supposed to do
without—”
I gave her a smile that always used to work on Natalie. It was the
one that said, be quiet now before something bad happens.
Bethany’s eyes widened and she pressed her lips together, her hands
trembling. Huh. Maybe if I’d turned on the sadist’s charm when she
first started working here, I might have gotten something useful out
of her instead of bullshit.
“Bethany, I don’t care. I can’t count the number of overtime hours
I put into this project. I did everything you asked without complaint,
and gave you more than you had any business expecting from a
person you had no intention of rewarding. I don’t give a damn what
Sara does, or how far your department sinks. You said she had
management potential, so now she gets to prove it. Have a nice life.
I’ll stop in HR on my way out.”
I returned to my desk, unsurprised when a security guard joined
me while I was boxing my personal belongings. Still beaming a feral
smile, I packed Natalie’s picture and my coffee cup, then said,
“Thanks for the escort.”
Whistling, I crossed the production floor, nodding at friends and
coworkers. Although there were a few people I’d miss, I wasn’t
about to change my mind. I should have done this a long time ago.
When I reached HR, my friend George Anderson met me at the
door. “I just heard,” he said softly, ushering me into his office. “Are
you sure about this? We have an opening in the South Carolina
facility. You’d be a good fit for it, and it comes with a pretty healthy
salary increase.”
Although the offer was tempting, I shook my head and sat across
the desk from him. “No. I’m going to take the twenty and out
retirement option. That covers my insurance and pension, plus I
have six weeks of accrued vacation.”
George sighed and pushed a hand through his thinning hair. “That
takes about a month to process.”
“Use my vacation time.”
“How would you feel about us moving Bethany? Quite frankly, I
can find a department manager anywhere, but a good engineer is a
bigger challenge. Would you stay if we put her in another
department and gave you her job?”
“No.”
Thankfully, he didn’t ask for my reasons. “Okay. You got it. Hell,
as long as you’ve been here, your stock options alone will fund a
very comfortable retirement. Can we at least put you on the list as a
private contractor?”
“No, at least not anytime soon.” I’d intended to save that stock
fund for a rainy day, but I supposed it was raining hard enough now
to break into it.
I signed the forms George gave me, then sat through the exit
video reminding me of my benefits and the NDA I’d signed. An hour
later, I walked out, feeling like an inmate released after a lifetime in
prison. For a brief moment, I wondered if Natalie felt that way when
she left her teaching position. I had to admit she had a point on a
few things, but would it have killed her to try one last time?
To my surprise, Bethany chased me across the parking lot,
breathing hard when she caught up. “You fucking loser,” she hissed,
her face pale with fury. “How dare you?”
Man, what I wouldn’t give to strap my ex-boss to a St. Andrew’s
cross and practice my single-tail work. Cocking my head, I
entertained the notion of taking her into my basement playroom for
a lesson in manners. I wouldn’t, of course. She’d probably have me
arrested for assault. Worse, she might like it. I shuddered, making
no effort to hide my distaste. “You’re entitled to your opinion,” I
murmured.
The thought gave me an idea, and a smile twitched my lips
upward. The playroom was intact, although it hadn’t been used in
years. Maybe I should visit a club and…no. I didn’t want anyone else
in my playroom but Natalie, and the thought of some strange sub in
our space made me nauseous. That didn’t mean I couldn’t find some
refresher courses.
Bethany flushed and snapped her mouth shut, making me wonder
what she saw on my face. Still smirking, I watched her attempt to
gather her composure.
“Asshole,” she muttered. “Good riddance.”
“Indeed.” I drove away, the seeds of a plan blooming in my mind.

Natalie
 “Are you sure this is going to work?” I asked, still trying to get my
thoughts off Henry and focus on what I was supposed to be doing.
Thankfully, he hadn’t tried to call again. I felt like shit for leaving
while he was asleep, but it would take another two-hour session
with Martine before I could muster up the lady balls for a
confrontation.
My canvases were arrayed around the gallery, a few still
unframed, but in position for my first exhibit in less than two days.
Although I’d been dreaming of this for most of my adult life, it made
me queasy with nerves and excitement.
“Yes, darling!” Chloe Benson kissed my cheek, pulling me into a
one-armed hug smelling of Chanel number five. Well into her
seventies, Chloe was wealthy, connected, and had zero social filter. I
wanted to be just like her when I grew up.
“I’m not sure about it though. I mean, isn’t the whole Fifty Shades
thing cliché?”
“Well, yes, but we’re not doing that.” Chloe’s six-foot five body
moved gracefully across the floor and she straightened an acrylic
over wood of Persephone bound in rose vines on its easel.
“You’re throwing a black-tie masquerade for an unsold artist,” I
replied, trying to hide a smile. “I think people are going to connect
the dots.”
“Smarty pants.” Chloe patted my cheeks with white-gloved hands
and peered at me over cat-eye spectacles. “Your art is rich,
decadent, tasteful erotica and will command thousands. I promise. It
isn’t anything as pedestrian as those claptrap novels.”
“Those claptrap novels made millions. Besides, isn’t tasteful
erotica an oxymoron?”
Chloe laughed, tossing her head back. “Maybe you won’t make
millions, but you won’t have any trouble feeding yourself while you
create the next series.”
“I already started it.” I moved toward the rose painting, lifting a
gentle finger to trace a ridge of red paint across Persephone’s belly.
“Beauty in pain,” I whispered.
Chloe pulled me into a hug and stroked my back. “Aw, sweetie,
come here and let Uncle Charles take care of everything.”
 I laughed and sniffed back tears. “You’re in a dress and pearls
today. That means you’re Chloe.”
“Hush and let me play uncle for a few minutes.” Giving me one
last squeeze, she let me go. “I know it hurts now, but you’re going
to be okay. Maybe you’ll meet a nice guy at your show and your next
exhibit will be hot enough to make me wish I still had a dick that
worked.”
Laughing, I shook my head. “I haven’t gotten rid of the old one
yet. A new dick is the last thing I need.”
Talk about fake it until you make it. Every time I thought about
Henry, I wanted to curl into a ball and sob my heart out, but I’d
already spent enough time doing that. After almost twenty years of
marriage, it was time for big girl panties.
Chloe chuckled and took my arm, then walked me into her office.
Pulling out a bottle of wine, she poured two glasses. “Here’s to my
newest star, Natalie Kane.” She drained her glass, then added, “Now
to the most important question of all.”
“What’s that?”
“What are you going to wear?”
I blinked and nearly dropped my glass. “Um… I—”
“Shit, girl!” Chloe pulled out a slim phone and drummed her nails
on the desk while it rang. When it was answered, she said, “Ladies,
we have a fashion emergency. Get everyone to my gallery now with
all the size eight cocktail dresses you have. The sexier the better.”
How the hell did she guess my dress size so accurately? “Wait! I
have a black dress I wore to a company party once. It’s fine.”
“Natalie, so help me, I will turn you over my knee,” Chloe warned.
“You are not wearing some middle-class white chick dress to my
event.”
“I am a middle-class white chick.”
“Don’t worry. We won’t hold it against you.” Turning her attention
back to her call, Chloe said, “Bring lunch from that Indian place on
Fourth, and a case of champagne. We’ll have an early showing of
Natalie’s work.”
Thirty minutes later, drag queens from all over the city arrived en
masse, bearing food, booze, and dozens of rolling racks full of
sumptuous frocks. They stripped me down to my panties and made
me into their own personal Barbie while getting me drunk off my
ass.
I couldn’t remember having so much fun. Like, ever. I opened my
mouth, accepting a bite of butter chicken from Tyler. No, Tallulah.
No, Tyler. He wasn’t dressed.
“Let’s try this one,” Chloe said, holding up a black river of lacy
fabric. “I’m thinking it’s a definite maybe.”
I held up my arms obediently, allowing Chloe to slip the dress
over my head, then closed my eyes and let my worries go. They’d
make me gorgeous, no matter what I wore, and I was drunk enough
not to care what it took.
“Damn, girl. I think I’m gonna turn straight.”
The crowd went silent, then burst into uproarious laughter. I
opened my eyes and stared into the portable three-way mirror. I
hadn’t worn anything so revealing since the last time Henry took me
to a club, but I loved it immediately.
Made of sheer black lace embroidered with flowers, the bodice
split to my navel, revealing a pale swath of skin before falling to my
ankles. Boning in the sides pushed my ample breasts up into
luxurious cleavage. My pink panties showed through, incongruous
with the decadent fabric.
“Fuck me sideways. I need so much Spanx, but yes to the dress!”
“No Spanx, little girl. You need a Brazilian and a black thong,”
Tyler replied.
“And shoes. Sexy, kinky shoes,” Chloe added.
I heard one grumble above the noise of approval. Turning, I
looked at Eric. Standing with his arms crossed, he scowled at me. “I
hate how you look better in that than I do,” he muttered.
I rushed to him, my bare feet slipping on the tile. “Except I can’t
make it nearly as fabulous as you can.”
“Brat.” He gave me a smile and a brief hug, then handed me a
glass of champagne.
Knowing I needed to cut myself off, and maybe eat more than a
few bites of food, I sipped slowly. “Thanks, you guys… I… Thanks.”
 “Oh, my mascara,” Chloe moaned, waving at her eyes. “Somebody
slap her ass and make her smile.”
Eric obliged, popping my butt hard enough to sting, but it broke
the tension. I dredged up a smile, trying not to remember the last
time Henry spanked me.
This was my new normal. I had wonderful friends and a bright
future doing something I loved. My personal modified serenity
prayer came to mind.
“God grant me the serenity to tell everything I can’t change to
fuck right off,” I announced, holding my glass high to the cheers of
my fans.
 Chapter Two

Henry
Feeling freer than I had in a long time, I stopped to grab
something to eat and a fresh bottle of scotch as a reward for myself.
I might not have my wife, but today was going to be a goddamned
celebration. At least for part of it. I also bought a new phone, along
with a case durable enough to be thrown against a wall, then drove
home.
Pushing the papers aside, I sat down at the kitchen table and
devoured the breakfast burrito, washing it down with a few swallows
from the bottle of scotch. Given what Natalie said in her note, I
wondered how she might have reacted to what I’d done. Hell, she
might have celebrated with me, but I didn’t fool myself into thinking
it would solve our relationship woes.
The first problem would be finding her. I pulled up Ray’s contact,
but my finger hovered over the touchscreen. Did I really want to air
my dirty laundry to my friends? No, but if I wanted to find Natalie, I
needed help. Gritting my teeth, I hit the call icon, then waited until it
rang through.
“Hey, dude!” Ray said. “How are things going?”
“It’s going great. Natalie and I are just starting to work on pulling
our relationship back together,” I lied smoothly. “Got a question. Do
you still have contacts in the service? I need to find the location of a
cell phone. Natalie lost hers, and we haven’t been able to find it.”
“Sorry to hear that. Could she just pull her stuff off the cloud and
buy a new one?”
“I asked, but she says she saved everything to her SD card and
we never got one of those tracking apps.” I paused a moment,
knowing I was asking one of my closest friends to do something
illegal. “I just hate to disappoint her when we’re trying to get things
back on track, you know?”
 “Yeah, I get it. I’ll make some calls and let you know what I find
out. Oh, while I have you on the phone, congratulate Natalie for her
gallery show. Ally saw it on Facebook the other day, but we won’t be
able to make it. You must be incredibly proud of her.”
I tightened my hand around the bottle of scotch, my fury welling.
A fucking gallery show? The last thing I remembered seeing of hers
was that watercolor landscape. It was pretty, but I could buy shit
just like it in discount store poster bins. Did Natalie understand how
hard it could be for an artist to make a living? She wasn’t one to
make snap decisions like that, and I didn’t understand what she
could have been thinking. Hell, I didn’t know art from my ass. Maybe
I was wrong, but I was worried sick on top of being furious with her.
“Still there, buddy?”
“Yeah, sorry. I guess I walked through a dead spot. I’ll give her
the message, and thanks for the help finding her phone.”
Ending the call, I went upstairs to the game room, still holding the
bottle. I brought up a browser on my computer, then typed her
name into the search bar. Nothing came up, except her social media
profiles. Although I’d never seen much point in it, I made an account
on Facebook, hoping to figure out where she’d gone. Unfortunately,
her profile was locked, and I doubted she’d accept a friend request
from me.
There wasn’t anything about an art show though. On a whim, I
tried her maiden name and hit paydirt with the local newspaper and
a gallery website.
“Best new artist of the year, huh?” I muttered to myself, ordering
the laughably overpriced ticket to the black-tie masquerade party
about forty-five minutes away. Stupid gimmicks. But if going to that
gallery was what it took to get my wife back, I’d put on a
goddamned tux and do it.
First, I needed to make some plans, and I had less than four days
to do it. By the end of the week, Natalie would be a very sorry little
girl.
After shooting Ray a quick text to call him off, I threw open the
basement door and scowled at the musty smell. Turning the lights
on, I stomped down the stairs. Everything was just as we’d left it,
but covered in a thick coating of dust. Swearing under my breath, I
started cleaning up.
Two hours later, the basement was as good as it was going to get,
which was certainly good enough for Natalie. Belatedly, I wished I’d
left it the way it was. Having her clean the playroom naked on her
hands and knees after I beat her ass would have been entertaining.
Smirking, I started a list of all the fun things I could do to my wife,
adding the chore to the top.
As an afterthought, I mounted a digital video camera on a tripod
facing the play area, sending the feed to my computer. I wasn’t
about to share the footage of Natalie’s come to Jesus moments, but
it might be useful.
After hurrying through another shower, I considered stopping at
the bank to have her name removed from our accounts, but decided
against it. I’d have her home and kneeling at my feet soon enough.
Instead, I drove to the mall and got fitted for a tuxedo, then
detoured to the hair place. When the stylist finished, I blinked at my
reflection.
Maybe Bethany had a point about my appearance. The unkempt
gray beard hadn’t done me any favors, and the new haircut took
years off my face. Instead of looking like Jerry Garcia on a bender, I
looked… Well, not like an aging rock star after a three-day drunk-
fest. If I still had abs, I might even be able to pass for a model on
one of Natalie’s romance novels.
It didn’t mean I’d be showing up to work in a suit anytime soon.
Hell, I wasn’t going to be showing up to work at all. Grinning, I paid
my bill, giving the stylist a generous tip, then stopped for supper
before going home to plot. I still had to go to the supermarket too.
Once I had her, I had no intention of leaving the house until she
agreed to stay where she belonged.
The thought raised a very important question. How was I going to
get Natalie home without getting arrested? Ray or Faris might have
some ideas, but I wasn’t about to involve them, nor could I exactly
ask Google how to kidnap my wife.
Shit. Maybe I’d just wing it and see what happened. My biggest
problem was that I couldn’t think of anything I might have left to
use for blackmail, aside from our shared bank accounts. Her lawyer
would have that straightened out in no time.
I finally fell asleep, visions of dragon tongues and butt plugs
coated with warming lube dancing in my head. Merry fucking
Christmas and ho ho ho.
***
The house was as secure as I could make it, including plywood
nailed over the basement windows, plus a brand-new deadbolt on
the door. The downstairs bathroom was stocked with towels and
personal care products. The basement refrigerator was filled with
prepackaged food, and I even set up a spare coffee pot along with a
microwave. We were going to stay down there until Natalie came to
her senses.
Best of all, everything I planned would be on Natalie’s list of
favorite things. Chase, capture, confinement, struggle-fucking. She
loved it all.
Thankfully, my rush order of all sorts of wicked e-stim toys arrived
just in time for the fun. I’d never tried electroshock with her, and
there was no time like the present for the experiment.
I straightened the bow tie on my rented tux, cocking my head at
my reflection. I didn’t look too bad for an old dude, and the mask
made me unrecognizable.
I’d eventually tell her who I was, but not right away. She needed
to pay for her mistakes first. To that end, I packed a makeshift
kidnapping kit in a small laptop bag, including duct tape, a voice
synthesizer I used for a Halloween costume once, and an unopened
bag of zip ties. As an afterthought, I tossed in a bondage hood
Natalie had hated. It locked around her neck and covered her face
completely aside from an opening for her nose and a zipper over her
mouth.
When my Uber dropped me at the gallery, I blinked at the line of
people standing outside. Other people dressed in formalwear
bypassed the line, entering between velvet ropes guarded by two
men in black suits. I hoped the ferociously expensive ticket would
gain me entrance that way. If not, I’d burn that bridge later.
 “May I see your ticket, sir?” one of the guards asked, holding out
his hand.
I fished the sheet of paper from my coat pocket and handed it
over.
“Thank you, sir. Enjoy the exhibit.”
“Thanks.” At the guard’s pointed nod, I put on the mask and
made my way inside. It was crowded, but not as badly as I expected
it to be, judging by the line outside the door. Playing softly in a
corner, a string quartet provided background music, adding elegance
to the event. A server walked by and offered me champagne.
Taking a glass, I scanned the room for Natalie, but couldn’t find
her. Grumbling under my breath, I decided to see what all the fuss
was about and actually look at her work.
Angry slashes of red and black covered the first canvas, the paint
thick enough to appear almost three-dimensional. It was a nude
cradling an empty blanket, silvery shards of ice binding her throat
and wrists. Stark and visceral, it took my breath away. A discreet
blue tag on the frame marked it sold, and I blinked in shock at the
price.
What happened to the Natalie I remembered who painted
watercolor landscapes? Judging by the number of canvases, all
bearing blue tags, she’d been gone for some time. I walked to the
last one, swallowing hard at the woman entwined in thorny vines,
blood red paint seeming to trickle from wounds. Next to her, a
shadowy male figure held out a surprisingly realistic pomegranate.
They must have been Hades and Persephone, and the one bound
in ice was Demeter.
“Natalie is very talented, isn’t she,” a man said, gliding up to stand
next to me. He was several inches taller than me and seemed almost
ageless in his thirties-era tuxedo.
“Yes, she is,” I murmured.
“I’m sorry all her sale pieces are gone, but we’ll show her again
next year. She’s already planning another series.”
“I’m afraid they’re out of my budget, but they’re very compelling.”
“Have you had a chance to meet her? She’s in the corner next to
Aphrodite. This is the Bound Goddess series.” Pointing at the woman
bound in ice, he added, “I’m particularly fond of Demeter over
there.”
Surrounded by people, Natalie laughed and lifted her glass. What
the fuck was she wearing? I wouldn’t have taken her to a club
dressed like that, and she was out in public? God, she was gorgeous.
Her lacy black dress concealed nothing, yet seemed to hide
everything important. It was like a red flag to a bull, and I resisted
the urge to cover her with my jacket.
Her silvery hair had streaks of blue and purple, and was twisted
into a complicated spiral decorated with feathers. Dark shadow
highlighted her eyes, the paint drawn to resemble a harlequin mask.
Vivid red lips pursed into a bowed smile as she chatted with her
fans. Sultry and seductive in that sinful dress, I’d never seen Natalie
look more beautiful.
“No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”
Holding out a hand, the man said, “Charles Benson.”
Accepting the offered handshake, I said, “A pleasure to meet you.
Are you the owner of the gallery?”
“Yes,” Charles pulled a business card from a holder. “Call me
tomorrow and we’ll put you on the mailing list for Natalie’s next
show.”
“Thanks. How did you discover her?”
Charles directed a warm smile toward her. “She came to one of
my shows about six months ago asking if I’d take a few of her
paintings on consignment. The rest is history.” He inclined his head,
then turned. “I have to mingle, but please avail yourself of the buffet
and enjoy the gallery.”
I moved closer to Natalie, but stayed in the background. She was
engaged in conversation with a tall, bald man and a tiny woman with
black spiky hair. The woman pulled her into a hug, squealing
gleefully. Letting out a soft laugh, the man gently pried her away
from Natalie and turned slightly, a grin tugging at the edges of a
very familiar scar.
Holy fuck. I didn’t know the woman, but that was Patrick Murphy
from Stronghold. I touched my mask to make sure it was in place.
Him recognizing me was the last thing I needed.
 “Thank you for letting us have the whole collection,” the woman
said. “It’s going to be perfect for the dungeon.”
“No, Lexie. These are going to Marquis,” Patrick replied.
“Stronghold already has art above the bar.”
I’d met Ray, Faris, and Logan at Stronghold years ago. Hell, they’d
hooked up with their wives there, and Natalie and I had made
several trips to visit. On one memorable weeklong vacation, all four
of us had even taken our wives to The Castle in Ohio.
The Castle wasn’t just a club. It was a complete immersion into
kink located in a real castle brought over stone by stone from
Europe. I had to smile at the memory. Natalie first admitted to being
a masochist in the dungeon while under the care of their whip
master.
I was a relative newbie back then, but the things he could do with
that single-tail pushed me into learning everything I could about
impact play just to please her.
“Good idea. We should invite Natalie to DC and let her do the
installation.”
“If I’d realized you two were the buyers, I’d have given you mate’s
rates,” Natalie said, grinning at them. “You might like my next series
better for a dungeon though. It’s going to be called Beauty in Pain,
and will include actual bondage furniture.”
Patrick handed her a business card, then wrapped a thick arm
around his woman. “I’d like to discuss commissioning a few pieces.
My accountant is going to have a coronary if I buy another
collection, but I’m very interested in what you’re planning.”
Natalie beamed and typed her number into the phone Patrick
handed her. Leaving them to their conversation, I grunted and went
to the buffet, blinking at the massive bowl of iced caviar surrounded
by crackers and toast points. Cutting off her finances wasn’t going to
get me what I wanted, not when she’d surpassed six months’ worth
of my earnings in one evening. I couldn’t decide whether to be
jealous or so proud I could burst. It was a sickening mixture of both.
Against the odds, she’d made her life’s dream into a marketable
success.
Another random document with
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were too shallow for steamers or men-of-war to approach, that these
two settlements had to be reached through intricate channels leading
through a mangrove swamp, and that the houses were completely
hidden by the trees.
A mangrove swamp is one of the most unpleasant things to cross,
and, therefore, affords great protection to settlements built within its
mazes. The mangrove tree always grows in salt or very brackish
water, and its roots lift it several feet above the soil, allowing the
tides to flow freely between them: at high water canoes can be
pulled among the trees, but at low tide it presents a tangled but open
bunch of roots to each separate tree, and it can only be passed by
springing from one slippery root to another, and by the assistance of
the branches. The mangrove trees at a distance look to an
unpractised eye much like other jungle, only they are of a more
uniform height and appearance; yet the colour of their leaves can
never be mistaken.
The fact that these Balignini have settled on the island itself,
shows either that the sultan is indifferent to the spread of piracy, or is
unable to check his subjects. But the fact is, probably, that as piracy
is not looked upon as a dishonourable pursuit, native princes only
discountenance it when they are under the dread of its drawing on
them the vengeance of an European power. The principal other
positions held by the Balignini, as I have elsewhere observed, are
Binadan and Tawee Tawee.
The system pursued by the Balignini is admirably adapted for their
purpose; although they cruise in large prahus, yet to each they have
three or four attendant fast boats, and when they wish to surprise
unwary fishermen, they anchor their large vessels out of sight of
land, and send in the others to make captures; the most curious
instrument they employ is a kind of huge double-pronged fork, with
barbed ends, which they push over the neck of a flying enemy, and
effectually stop his movements.
A few years ago, some followers of Amba de Rajah, a Bornean,
residing in Sarawak, were pulling along the shore, when they
suddenly came upon a Balignini fast boat; they immediately turned
and fled, and were followed by the pirates, who shouted to them to
surrender, but the Borneans took no notice. The chief of the Balignini
kept up a fire from his rifle at the fugitives, and at last hit the
steersman in the side, who took no notice, but continued to urge on
the others to renewed exertions: again and again he was struck, but
did not drop his paddle, but continued the flight; at last a large
trading boat coming in sight, the pirates gave up the pursuit, and the
Borneans escaped. The brave fellow, who received the three
wounds without flinching, though he suffered much, yet eventually
recovered, and I afterwards saw him in Sarawak.
The Lanuns, though fiercer and more warlike pirates, have
ceased for several years to infest the north-west coast, but have
more confined their cruises to the neighbourhood of the Spanish and
Dutch settlements.
I was once very much interested by hearing a Dayak converse of
the times when he went out with the Lanun pirates. We had just
returned to Sarawak from a mission to the Court of Siam, and were
visiting the Sibuyau Dayaks of Meradang, when the chief asked us
where we had been. The rajah answered, To Siam. Immediately an
intelligent-looking Dayak said, “I know Siam, and the country of
Annam as well, for I in former years used to go there in the pirate
boats.”
On inquiry we found that when the Lanun fleets came down this
coast, they had numerous places where they received a hearty
welcome, among others at Sadong: the Sibuyaus were employed by
them to row their boats under a promise of receiving the heads of all
the slain, and a very small share of the plunder. Many of those
present had been out with the pirates along the coasts of Cochin
China, Cambodia, Siam, and down the Malay Peninsula as far as
Singapore. But the tables were subsequently turned, and the Lanuns
preyed on their former allies. After our attack on Tungku, a man
came off to us, and proved to be a captive taken at Sadong, but he
evidently did not dislike his present position, as he went ashore
again under the pretence of collecting other fugitives, and we saw no
more of him; most probably he had married in the country. I have
often heard the natives speak of a captain of an English man-of-war,
named Morris, who committed suicide after an unsuccessful attack
on the Lanun pirates at Sambas, about the year 1812, but I have
never been able to verify the story.
Steamers, however, are beginning to disgust them with the life,
and if a little combined and active effort were made by our steam
gunboats, in conjunction with those of the Dutch and Spaniards,
piracy might be effectually suppressed. Traders who were
accustomed to the Sulu seas used to speak of the little island of
Sarañgani, off the coast of Magindanau, as a mart where the pirates
assembled to sell the captured slaves to those traders who
frequented that port, and the latter were generally from Sulu, though
occasionally a few Bagis prahus came in to purchase the women
and children, but it is possible that many changes have since taken
place.
I have before observed that Sulu was a great slave mart, and that
pirates and slave-dealers of every kind were accustomed to resort
there: it is not surprising, therefore, that the Spaniards should
organize an attack upon it, but it was unfortunate that this attack
should take place immediately after the sultan of Sulu had signed a
treaty with the English, and I have little doubt that the object could
have been better effected by a regular surveillance. But the Spanish
authorities thought differently, and early in 1851 they sent to make
demands on the sultan, and on these not being immediately
complied with, the men-of-war opened fire upon the town, which was
promptly replied to by the shore batteries. I saw a letter from the
sultan of Sulu, recounting this engagement. He said that after “an
awful cannonading, by the blessing of God we disabled two of their
vessels, and they retired.”
But this was only a preliminary attack. In the following month a
large naval force came down from Manilla, with seventeen hundred
troops, and landing near the great tree at the watering-place,
marched upon the town while the ships shelled it from the harbour.
The Sulus behaved with great courage, and though opposed to
regular soldiers, and defending a comparatively unprotected part of
the town, as they had reckoned on an attack by sea, and not by land;
they held their own for several hours, and it cost their enemy one
hundred and fifty killed and wounded before they abandoned their
houses and retired to the hills.
Datu Daniel and his brothers defended their stockade to the last,
and it was here that the Spanish suffered their severest loss; several
of the young Sulu nobles were killed, and the stockade carried by
assault. The Spanish troops behaved very well. The town was then
garrisoned, but it would have taken an army to subdue the whole
island, as on losing Sugh, the sultan and his ministers retired to the
mountains, where the Spanish forces found it impracticable to follow
them. A kind of truce was patched up, but they have refused to
acknowledge the supremacy of Spain, and have removed the seat of
government beyond the reach of ships’ artillery, and I saw a letter
from the sultan, in which he said he would rather die than hoist the
Castilian flag. Last year I heard the sultan was most anxious to send
his sons to England to be educated, but had no means of
accomplishing his wish. The Spaniards soon found their conquest a
very unprofitable one, as they only held those spots which were
actually in the possession of their troops; they soon, therefore,
abandoned the island, though they for some years had a garrison, I
heard, on the little island of Tulyan.
I pitied the sultan and his nobles, as with all their faults they were
capable of much better things, and had a little judicious influence
been used to guide them well, and a little power exercised to destroy
the actual pirate haunts, there would have been no occasion to
destroy the pretty town of Sugh.
I do not think I have mentioned elsewhere, that when I first saw
this picturesque island, there was a forest, dead in appearance, on
the right hand of the town, covering the slopes of one of the high
hills. This was an extensive wood of fine teak trees. A long drought
had rendered everything as dry as touchwood, when an incautious
islander lit a fire among the trees, and the dead leaves and twigs
around being perfectly dry soon ignited, and the flames spread in
every direction, and charred and burnt the trees, stripping them of
their luxuriant foliage; but five months after, I again visited this spot,
and found that many of the apparently dead trees were now putting
forth buds and young leaves, as the fire had not completely
destroyed all.
It is a very singular circumstance that the teak is not found in any
of the forests of Borneo, although in former days it was said to exist
on the north-east coast, but I made very particular inquiries of the
Sulus whom I found there, and they said they had never seen it
except on their own island. It is a matter of regret, as although
Borneo possesses some very fine woods, yet none equal to the teak.
Remembering Forest’s statement that elephants were found in his
time in the forests which clothed so much of the soil of the island, I
asked Datu Daniel about it; his answer was, that even within the
remembrance of the oldest men then alive, there were still a few
elephants left in the woods, but that, finding they committed so much
damage to the plantations, the villagers had combined and hunted
the beasts till they were all killed; I was pleased to find the old
traveller’s account confirmed.
 CHAPTER X.
THE KINGDOM OF BORNEO PROPER.

Its Nominal Extent—Its Government—The Sultan—The Viziers—The

Shabandar—The inferior Officers—Their Influence—“The Abode
of Peace”—Poverty-stricken Gentlemen—Possessions of the
Nobles—The Country parcelled out among them—Distant
Dependencies becoming independent—Oppression of the
surrounding Districts—Divisions among the Nobles—Poverty of
the Nobles—Population of Brunei—System of Plunder—Sale of
Children—Handsome Brass Guns—Their Fate—No Justice—
Crime nominally Punished—No Possibility of Improvement—
Anecdotes—System of Local Self-government—The Parishes—
Their Names, and the Occupation of their Inhabitants—Fishing—
Shell Heaps—Asylum—Treatment of a Slave Girl—Political
Parties—Religious Schism—An attempted Explanation—
Followers of each Party—Difference of Length of Fast Month—
Visiting the Graves of Ancestors—A pretty Custom—Search after
Excitement—Story Tellers—Conjurors—Their Arts—Practice of
Abortion—The Egg-cooking Trick—The Sultan’s Palace—Its
Inhabitants—His Wife and his Concubines—Their Treatment—
Bold Lovers—Anecdote—Tragical Termination—The Women
deceive their Lords—The Inverted Language—Education
neglected—Sight of a Harim—Mutual Disappointment—Rajahs
pleasant Companions—Their Customs—Tenacious of Rank—
Decay of Brunei—Exactions suffered by the Aborigines—The
Kadayans—Tradition—Hill Men united—Commotion—Kadayans
have great Influence—Lovely Country—Kadayans removed to
Labuan—Short Description of that Colony—Excellent Position—
Coal—Telegraphic Communication—Good Effect of our Colony—
Trade Increasing—Pepper—Exports—Cotton—Fine Jungle—
Method of Collecting the Camphor and the Gamboge in Siam—
The Coal-fields—Revenue of the Sultan—Brunei Government no
Power—Crime unpunished—A Bold Thief—Makota and the Fire
—Nominal Punishments—Cutting off the Hand—The Fail of
Ashes—Singing Fish—Curious Method of Catching Prawns—
Tuba Fishing—Superstition—Money—Coinage of the Capital—
Cloth—Iron—Gun-metal—Good Manufacturers of Brass
Ordnance—A 12-pounder—Similarity of Customs—The Sultan—
The Heir to his Subjects—Makota and his Gold.
 Borneo Proper is one of the few Malay kingdoms that remain in
the Archipelago possessing the semblance of independent
government; and as a type of what was, and what we may hope is
passing away, it is worth a short description.
Nominally, this kingdom extends from Sarawak to Maludu Bay and
the islands to the north of it; but, in reality, it possesses no power,
and exercises little influence over its dependencies.
The government consists of a sultan, now dignified by the higher
title of Iang de per Tuan, freely to be translated by “He who governs.”
The office is at present held by one who has no claim by descent,
but was chosen to avoid a threatened struggle between the popular,
but illegitimate, sons of the late sultan and the more legal aspirant to
the throne. He is in general a well-meaning man, but tainted by a
grasping avarice. Neither in theory nor practice is the sultan
despotic: he must consult on all great occasions with his chief
officers, and all important documents should bear at least two of their
seals.
The four principal officers of state are: the bandhara, for home
affairs; the de gadong, for revenue and government stores; the
pamancha, for home affairs likewise, and who on certain occasions
may supply the place of the bandhara, and transact business for
him; and the tumanggong, who is supposed to protect the coast and
lead all warlike expeditions.
There is a fifth officer, of lower rank, the shabandar, to look after
the affairs of commerce, and regulate the intercourse with strangers
frequenting the port.
Each of the four great officers is entitled to eight assistants of
noble blood, besides others of inferior rank; but, as the sultan
feelingly observed, the glory of Brunei, called by themselves
Dar’u’salam, the Abode of Peace, has departed, and he can only
find a few who care to be promoted to these offices, which bring
neither profit nor consideration. The names are there, but the reality
is gone.
 There is a class of officers who possess very great influence in
Borneo; they are the ministers chosen from the ranks of the people,
the chief of whom is called the orang kaya de gadong. Seldom is
anything of importance undertaken without consulting them, as they
are known to have a powerful following, and greatly to influence the
minds of the people. At the demise of a sovereign, their influence is
especially felt, and if they were united, I believe they would carry out
their views in spite of any opposition.
The present orang kaya de gadong is now very old, but all his life
he has been a consistent opponent of any intercourse with Christian
nations; and when forced by business to sit and converse with
Europeans, the expression of his face is most offensive, and he
looks as if he loathed the duty in which he was engaged, and he is
one of the few natives I have met who appeared to long to insult you.
He was one of the most active of those engaged in the conspiracy to
assassinate the rajah Muda Hasim, partly on account of his
supposed attachment to the English alliance.
Every descendant of a noble family, whether legitimate or
illegitimate, is entitled to call himself pañgeran, or ampuan, which
causes the country to swarm with these poverty-stricken gentlemen,
who are a curse to the industrious classes.
Nearly every district belongs to some particular family, which by
usage possesses an almost unchallenged power over the people,
and is thus removed from the control of the government. Many
districts are divided among various families, who have each certain
villages, and live on the amount they can obtain by taxes or forced
trade. The sultan possesses a large number, and each of the
principal nobles has several, while many, formerly wealthy, have
dissipated their property, and sold their rights to others. Those who
do not possess any particular districts, endeavour to obtain a living
by pressing from the aborigines all that their Malay chiefs have left
them.
As, however, the central government is gradually falling into
decay, the more distant dependencies are throwing off the yoke of
the absent nobles, and asserting an amount of independence which
is measured by distance and their own power. Agents of the nobles
still visit them, but the produce collected is but small. This, however,
tells heavily on the districts nearer the capital, and the unfortunate
Muruts and Bisayas are ground to the dust to support a useless and
idle population. I have given some anecdotes of this state of things in
my journal up the Limbang.
The divisions among the nobles themselves prevent them ever
uniting to regain an influence over their distant provinces, which one
by one are falling from them. There is a poverty among these men
which is almost inconceivable in a rich country, as whatever the
amount obtained from the neighbouring villages, it can but support
the idlers who throng round the chiefs.
Brunei contains at least 25,000 inhabitants, half of whom depend,
directly or indirectly, on the nobles, and in their name carry on a
system of plunder unintelligible in other countries. If the followers be
sent to make a demand on a certain village, they will obtain double
the amount for their own shares. If the inhabitants refuse to pay, their
children are seized; and if their means are really exhausted, the little
ones are carried off into slavery.[12]
I knew a man, named Sirudin, who at one time brought over
seventeen children obtained in that way from the people of Tutong,
and this occurred during the spring of 1857. The parents laid their
complaints before the sultan; but Sirudin had sold them off to the
principal nobles, and no redress was to be had. The sultan
pretended to be very angry with the man, but put the chief blame on
the pañgeran de gadong, who, he said, was beyond his power. The
aborigines have often risen in insurrection; but being disunited, they
have not thereby improved their condition: the Bornean Government
always threatening them with calling in the Kayans to subdue any
opposition. The Muruts and Bisayas of Limbang are the most
impoverished people I have ever met, excessively dirty, both in their
persons and their houses, covered with scurfy skin diseases, and
their children much troubled with ulcers.
Before the Kayans commenced their inroads into the districts
situated on the banks of the Limbang river, the Muruts and Bisayas
were much more independent than they now are, were more wealthy
and better armed. I have heard my old friend the chief of Blimbing
describe with great minuteness three beautiful brass guns his father
had inherited from his ancestors, which had silver vent holes, were
covered with scrolls and inscriptions which the most learned haji
could not read. These arms were the pride of the village, but on an
evil day, the late sultan thought of them, though with all his faults he
was not a gross oppressor of the aborigines; so he sent for the orang
kaya of Blimbing, and tried to cajole him out of the guns. For months
the chief was firm and would not part with them, but at last, ceding to
his sovereign’s entreaties, and to the offer of double their value, he
gave way and delivered them up. As soon as the sultan had secured
them, full payment was found to be inconvenient, so the chief was
never able to get even their original cost, though if he dunned long
enough, the sultan would pay him an instalment, and with many
flattering words dismiss him; very different treatment from what a
chief who dunned would get from the present race of rulers. In fact
no country could have existed half a century under the existing
system. The three guns were doubtless of Spanish make, and were
among those which were taken from the late sultan, after the capture
of Brunei by Sir Thomas Cochrane, and were sent to England; there
I heard they were melted up during the late war, and helped to
construct some of the cannon which were sent to the Crimea. The
present orang kaya of Blimbing said, it reconciled him to the loss of
the guns to know how well the English had thrashed the Borneans.
Even in the capital itself justice is not to be obtained. The
instances which came to my knowledge were innumerable. I will
mention a few to illustrate my meaning. In 1859, I was one day
standing near my wharf, when my attention was called to a boat
passing, in which there were one dead and one wounded man. I
inquired the cause: it appeared that a Bornean, named Abdullah,
pulling by a canoe in which two men were fishing, stopped on seeing
them, and accused one of attempting to escape to our colony of
Labuan, affirming that he was a slave. The man denied both
statements; upon which, Abdullah began beating him with a paddle.
His father, the other man, interfered to protect his son, when
Abdullah seized a spear, and drove it through the old man’s body,
and then severely wounded the son. There was much excitement
among the relatives of both parties, and they assembled in great
numbers, but the sultan and ministers interfered and promised
inquiry. The result was, they inflicted a fine of 120l. on Abdullah, at
which he laughed contemptuously, and never paid a farthing. He was
considered to be under the protection of the de gadong, and no one
would interfere to punish him.
All attempts at improving the neighbourhood of the capital are
stopped by such cases as the following. Another man, also named
Abdullah, made a small plantation of cocoa-nut palms, and carefully
tended them for seven years. Just as they were about to bear fruit,
he was visited by a relative of the de gadong who claimed the
plantation on account of its being made on his land. Abdullah
appealed to the sultan: it was apparent on the face of it, he had used
waste land, to which he had a right, but the case was decided
against him. He asked permission to visit his property to remove his
goods, and next day called on the pañgeran to say the ground was
at his service. He went to take possession, but found only the land,
every tree had been deprived of its cabbage, and consequently died,
and jungle soon grew up there again. Abdullah placed himself under
the protection of the tumanggong, who quietly chuckled at the joke.
The same thing would have occurred to one of my own servants had
I not remonstrated.
I will only mention another. A Chinese boy robbed his Chinese
master of a large amount of goods, and carried them off to the house
of the head Mahomedan priest, whose son he asked to secrete them
for him. The boy was subsequently seized, but escaped punishment
by turning Mahomedan, and the imám’s son was considered far too
respectable to be punished, or even to be compelled to restore the
goods.
When such cases are of common occurrence it is not to be
expected that the city should be otherwise than in confusion, being
without a government able or willing to do justice. It is only kept
together by the sort of local self-government which obtains in all the
kampongs or sections of the city, and by the strong feeling which
unites all the branches of a family, and often prevents crimes from
the fear of vengeance. I may here notice that Brunei is divided into
kampongs (sections or parishes).
Ascending the river and entering the city, the first kampong on the
left is called Pablat, and is the residence of some of the most sturdy
of the inhabitants; they are the fishermen, who have their fixed nets
on the banks of the rivers, and on the extensive sandbanks which
stretch across the bay, inside Muara Island. Although they are
constantly at work, they are not very enterprising, as they never
place their nets in water deeper than two fathoms. Haji Saman, an
intelligent man, but notorious for his piratical connections, once tried
the experiment in five fathom waters, and his great success should
have tempted others, but as yet they have not followed his example.
Their nets are made of split bamboo, and are of various heights: the
lower are fixed near the bank, and the longer are added on as they
enter into deeper water, so that the summits are of uniform height.
The fish ascending or descending the river, and meeting with this
obstruction, follow it to the end, and enter a very simple trap, being
simply open spaces with narrow passages leading into them; and
their prolonged sides prevent the fish easily discovering the way out.
As soon as it is low water, a basket which fits the bottom of the inner
trap is raised, and the fish are put into baskets, and the men start for
the capital in the fastest canoes I have almost ever seen, and never
appear to draw breath till they have reached the town, eight to
seventeen miles’ distance from their nets. Their wives and daughters
are waiting their arrival, and immediately pull off to the floating
market to dispose of the day’s capture. There is much rivalry as to
the arrival of the first boat, as the profit realized is greater, and for
that reason they will seldom stop to sell their fish during the transit. I
imagine that it is on account of their being constantly in the water
that their skins are so scurfy.
The next kampong is Perambat, from rambat, a casting-net, and
constant practice has given these men wonderful proficiency, as
standing on the bows of a small canoe, they will throw a net that has
a spread of thirty feet, with such perfect accuracy that its outer edges
fall in a circle on the water at the same time, and they thus catch a
large amount of small fish and prawns.
 Then follows a large parish, Membakut Pañgeran Mahomed,
which contains the houses of many of the principal nobles, as well as
the residence of the late sultan’s widow, all very tumble-down looking
structures; but above them and at their back is a kampong of
blacksmiths and kris-makers, called Pemproanan. Then follows
Membakut, raised on firm ground, and here are a few Chinese and
Kling houses, which have been raised since the fire of 1856, to
which reference is made in a subsequent paragraph. Kampong
Saudagar, or the merchant’s parish, derives its name, it is said, from
a Portuguese trader from Makau having resided on that spot about
sixty years ago, but is now the residence of two nobles, Maharajah
Lela and Sura. Kampong Padaun, from daun, a leaf, employed in
converting the leaf of the nipa palm into roofing mats; Pasir, rice
cleaners, and makers of rice mortars; Sungei Kuyuk, wood-workers
and prawn fishers, but more for themselves than the market;
Pemriuk, workers in brass, from priuk, a brass cooking-pot;
Menjaling and Pemukat, occupied by fishermen, as the names imply
—jaling, a fishing-net, pukat, a kind of seine or drag-net. Burong
Piñgé is the name of the last kampong on the left side in ascending,
and is inhabited by the principal traders and wealthiest men in the
town.
In ascending the river the first kampong on the right hand is called
Terkoyong, from koyong, a shell; and its inhabitants were the
principal collectors of the pearl oyster, which was at one time so
plentiful near the entrance of the Brunei river. I may remark that
when the collection was very paying, the heaps of shells which were
thrown from the houses, after extracting the pearl, rose several feet
above the level of the floor, although, originally the houses were built
on posts in the water; now, however, they appear to have sunk in the
soft mud, and are completely concealed by the deposits of the river;
but the level of the bank is greatly raised. I have heard surprise
expressed at the natives taking the trouble to bring home such
cumbersome articles as heaps of shells, when the products they
seek might be all contained in a small paper packet; they, however,
not only seek the pearl, but eat its contents the oyster, and a Malay
does not much care for bad smells. And this holds especially with the
aborigines; they positively appear to have no olfactory sense at all. I
have seen them collecting shell-fish on the beach which they
intended to transport in their boats to their villages, perhaps fifty
miles up a river, and in the warm tropical sun. The flesh by that time
would be nearly decomposed, yet they appear to enjoy it the more
keenly; in fact, any man who can eat with relish an egg, black with
rottenness, can have little sense of smell. I think all the shell heaps
which are found in these parts of the world may be accounted for in
this way, though as the aborigines of Borneo keep pigs, no high shell
heaps are raised, as these indefatigable routers spread them about
in every direction.
Labuan Kapal, or the ship’s anchorage, is the next kampong, and
opposite to the houses there is deep water up to the wharves, so
that ships can load without boats. The inhabitants are much
employed making the kejangs, or mats of the inner nipa leaf, used to
cover boats, and make the walls of houses. Kampongs Jawatan
Jeludin and Khatib Bakir, traders and blacksmiths. Peminiak, from
miniak, oil, manufacturers of that article; and it is also the residence
of the two viziers, pañgerans de gadong and pamancha. Kampongs
Pañgeran Ajak, and Ujong Tajong, general traders; Sungei Kadayan,
right-hand bank ascending, is the residence of the pañgeran
tumanggong, and the orang kaya de gadong, and various other
government officers; many of the people are employed casting brass
guns, or are goldsmiths or general traders, and latterly their women
have commenced the manufacture of expensive and handsome gold
brocade. In this parish the heterodox haji Mahomed lived, and his
mosque is situated; while on the opposite side of the little Kadayan
river is the orthodox musjid, which, though built on firm ground, and
of brick, is a mean-looking building. Then follows the palace, with its
attendant houses, the bandhara and his people, and a kampong
sometimes called Pasar, or the bazaar.
The remaining parishes are small, and consist of Tamui, Panchur
Brasur, Kandang Batu or Prandang, Alañgan, Blanak and Tamasik,
and are inhabited by traders, gardeners, and a few blacksmiths, with
a small section called Pañgeran Daud’s kampong, who are entirely
engaged in making mats. Some of these kampongs occasionally
vary their names, particularly when they depend on those of the
principal people who reside there.
I am afraid this is a dry enumeration, but it gives an idea of their
mode of life, and the sort of corporations into which they are divided,
and who support the cause of their individual members, whether
right or wrong, and often take the part of a fugitive criminal who may
cast himself at the feet of a chief man and ask his protection. Ten
years ago a man committed a murder in Membakut Pañgeran
Mahomed, and fled to the Burong Piñgé kampong, whose people
refused to deliver him up; several times the two parishes mustered
their forces, but never came to blows, particularly as they belonged
to the same political parties. In 1859, after seven years escaping all
traps, he fell into the hands of pañgeran Suleyman, whose follower
he had murdered, and with the consent of the sultan he was
immediately executed.
I was one day walking in the grounds near the consulate, when I
was annoyed by a most offensive effluvia rising from a line of low
trees which skirted the river’s bank. I found that some one had
placed there the body of a young girl of thirteen. I reported the case
to the sultan, and heard that two women had agreed to exchange
slaves, a boy for a girl, but had not yet carried out the arrangement.
The owner of the female slave noticing she was ailing, sent her to
the owner of the boy, who refused to receive her in that state. The
unfortunate child was bandied about between the two in an open
canoe during a whole day, exposed to sun and rain, and at night a
mat was thrown over her, and the canoe tied to the wharf of the
owner of the boy. In the morning it was discovered she was dead,
and her mistress, to save the trouble of burying her, threw her corpse
where I found it. The woman was nominally fined—not for her
cruelty, but for neglecting to inter it.
The capital is divided among the partisans of the sons of the late
sultan, who hold the offices of tumanggong and pamancha, and are
supported by their uncle the de gadong; leaving the bandhara, the
highest minister in rank, though not in power, as the mainstay of the
opposing faction, who support the sons of the late Muda Hassim,
whose death is described in Captain Mundy’s volumes on Borneo.
The tumanggong is the popular candidate, and he, or one of his
family, may succeed to the throne without bloodshed, as the
opposing candidate is daily losing ground. I liked both of them, but
the former is more likely to keep things together than the latter. It is a
government, however, beyond all hope of improvement.
To add to the difficulties of the country, a religious schism has
appeared. It is curious, though very difficult to be understood. I will
endeavour to give a clear account of my view of the case. About
twenty years ago, a Bornean haji, named Mahomed, taught that God
had no personality; to say he had, was to acknowledge oneself an
infidel. Being pressed for an explanation, he said, the personality
might be allowed in the thoughts, but to express it in words was to
compare the Deity to a human being, which was a gross impiety. The
religious world, shocked at this heresy, sent a deputation to Mecca,
who returned denouncing haji Mahomed as a false teacher. He
replied by accusing the hajis of deceiving the people; that his was
the true doctrine, as taught by the elders of the Church, and that he
would go and inquire for himself. After an absence of two years, he
arrived full of Arabic and learning to uphold his former opinion. The
controversy waxed hotter and hotter, deputation and counter-
deputation went off to Mecca; but each party always asserted that
the learned doctors had decided for them. Rival mosques were built,
with their rival imams and preachers. The people of the capital, not
understanding the question, ranged themselves under their chosen
leaders, and added to their political differences their religious
quarrels.
The present sultan, and the family of the late rajah Muda Hassim,
with about a tenth of the city, but nearly all the hajis, support the
orthodox or personality theory; while the pañgeran tumanggong, the
rest of the family of the late sultan, and most of the sections of
Brunei, are followers of haji Mahomed’s doctrine. This controversial
haji died about four years ago, and the present sultan was very loth
to permit him to be buried in the usual cemetery; but his friends
mustered too strongly to be resisted, and all opposition was
withdrawn. The two parties have a difference in the length of the fast
month: one reckons it at twenty-nine days, the other at thirty; and
both are ready to apply the term infidel to their opponents.
I may mention, whilst speaking of the fast month, that on its
termination the sultan and rajahs proceed in gay procession to visit
and have cleaned the graves of their ancestors. It is a pretty sight:
some fifty long prahus, urged on by from ten to fifty paddles, gliding
over the waters, with gay flags, bright-coloured umbrellas, in which
the royal yellow, and the white, black, green, and red of the viziers
are conspicuous. Gongs and drums are beaten, and the crews
shout, to give life to the scene.
There is a very pretty custom among the Malays, to visit their
friends on the great feast-day that terminates the fast, and to
endeavour to do away with any ill-feeling, jealousy, or animosity, that
may have arisen during the past year, by asking pardon of all their
friends for any shortcomings. They do this to all, as they thus avoid
any peculiar notice of the offence, and seek forgiveness also for any
unintentional annoyance they may have given.
Anything that varies the monotonous life led by the people of the
capital is seized upon with avidity. They, therefore, delight in story-
tellers, conjurors, and dancers. There are several female
professional story-tellers, who go from one harim to another, relating,
in a sort of chant, metrical tales of former days. They are supposed
to improvise, and may occasionally vary the tale and embellish it with
fresh incidents, but they generally rely on the Malay versions of
Indian poems. These women are eagerly sought after by the court
ladies, as they not only thus amuse them, but are the collectors of
the news and scandal of the day. I have occasionally listened to
them, but not with much interest.
There are also women who pretend to be possessed with a spirit,
and whilst under its influence are supposed to speak in an unknown
tongue—uttering unearthly sounds, and making violent contortions of
their faces. They likewise pretend to be able to discover stolen
goods, and to cure diseases; they will even assist a jealous woman
to destroy the life of another by incantations, making a little wax
image, and as that melts away so does the woman fade whom she
endeavours to destroy. She compounds charms and philtres for the
love-sick, and will make some mysterious marks on a bit of paper,
which, placed near the sleeping-mat of man or woman, will suffice to
change the affections of the occupant of that bed.
Many are also adepts in the art of procuring abortions, and
practice has given them so much perfection that, by mechanical
means, they succeed in their designs without injuring the patient.
They drive a thriving trade in the capital, and prevent the necessity of
infanticide, which therefore very rarely occurs. When it is considered
that the rajahs part with their concubines after the birth of one or two
children, it is not surprising that a favourite should take any means to
uphold her influence. They are never taught morality when young,
and they follow eagerly in the footsteps of their elders.
More than half the daughters of the nobility cannot procure
husbands, as they are not allowed to marry a person of inferior rank,
and must receive a large marriage portion. There is very little
restraint on the conduct of these girls, none but such as they place
upon themselves, as it is quite impossible, with their slight houses, to
prevent nocturnal visits of lovers; but should they prove with child, it
is considered a great scandal. I believe Brunei to be the most
immoral city of which I have heard.
But to return to the conjurors. When they give notice that it is their
intention to receive visitors, as the spirits will most probably enter
into them, their houses are crowded by young men and such women
as can get there, but they often confine their performances to some
sleight of hand. I watched one do a trick, and she did it cleverly. She
began by telling me she knew I disbelieved in her power, but she
would convince me, by cooking one of my own eggs from simply
breathing on it. I sent for one, and taking it in her hands, she
appeared suddenly to be possessed by the spirit: she uttered
unearthly sounds, pretended to desire to attack some one who
laughed at her, so as to require two women to hold her back, until
the indignant comments of the bystanders caused the scoffer to hide
her face; she then commenced putting her features through such
contortions as effectually to prevent my watching her countenance,
but I kept my eyes upon her hands; presently she became quiet, and
began breaking the egg; it was certainly cooked; she carefully
collected the shell, and then eat its contents. She then breathed on
the fragments of shell, and almost immediately opened her hand with
my uncooked egg untouched.
Though it is not my object to give an account of the Malays, I will
enter slightly into the condition of the women. In Brunei, the wives
and daughters of the sultan and of the nobles are much more
concealed than holds with the Malays in other parts of Borneo, and
one can only describe a harim from hearsay. It is nothing like the
gorgeous palaces of Western Asia; the sultan’s house consists of a
long building like a rough barn, raised on posts in the water, and is
perhaps seventy feet long by thirty in breadth. It is one story high,
though in the roof are some rough attics: in this residence he keeps
his wives, his concubines, and his female slaves; so jealous is he
that no one shall see them, that when the house requires repairs, he
will work with his own hands rather than permit the labourers to enter
the inner rooms: the only man in whom he has confidence is a very
old decrepit pañgeran, who assists him in the work. He has seventy
women confined in this small space: his principal wife has a large
room, elegantly hung with silk hangings, and well matted; she is
permitted luxuries denied to all but three or four favourite
concubines. The other unfortunates are allowed a little rice, salt,
firewood, and water, and once a year a cheap suit of clothes; for
everything extra they must depend on their families or their lovers.
The palace is, as I have said, like a rough barn, but the flooring is
simply slips of a palm stem, tied together with rattans, and can be
opened with facility; through the interstices every kind of refuse is
thrown, to be carried away by the current.
This offers temptation to the bold lover, who comes in the dead of
night, and by the signal of a white rag hung through the floor, knows
the coast is clear: sometimes the girls get bold, and as they are all in
league to deceive the sultan, they can occasionally leave the house
without being discovered. The daughters of the late Muda Hassim, in
1859, absented themselves for three weeks and were not found out.
Sometimes it causes a tragedy. I will mention one which occurred
during my residence in the capital (1858).