Tonight, the fire burns low and the wind whispers through the palms. It makes a woman think. We have survived. We have hunted. We have bled for this island. But the nights are long when you are only women.

I, Abeba, lead the hunt. I carry the spear. I decide who eats first. But when I lie on my mat of leaves, I feel the weight of the tribe on my chest. My pride is heavy, but my hips are heavier with a need to submit. To drop the spear and let a man take my throat in his teeth. To be forced onto my back and bred until I forget my own name.

Binta is weaving a new garland. She hums a tune about a flower waiting for the bee. She touches the petals with such tenderness, imagining a man’s hands on her waist, her breasts, her soaking wet cunt. She wants to be the flower.

Eshe is drawing pictures in the sand again. Stick figures of a big man with his cock standing tall, and a small woman beneath him. She erased it when she saw me watching, her face red. But her eyes were hungry. She doesn't just want to be taken; she wants to be owned. She wants to learn every way a man can use a girl's body.

Layla is braiding my hair. Her fingers are slow and wise. She says, "Patience, daughter. A storm brings good things." She smiles, and I know she is thinking of the taste of a man's skin, the salt and the musk. She says we are a family of cunts and tits, but we are thirsty for the milk of a man's seed.

We are a house built on sand, waiting for a foundation. We are four hungry mouths, waiting to be fed. If you are watching this... if you are a man with strength and a hard cock... do not make us wait for the next storm. Come ashore. Claim your prize. We are ready to break for you.