by Paul Blades
But Margie’s struggles were to no avail. Her hands were still fastened securely above her when the heavyset, blood stained man returned. His appearance was grotesque with the mangled straw hat on his head and her oversized, round sunglasses on. He was holding a machete in his one hand and the bottle of brandy in the other. He smiled an evil grin at her and took another long drink from the bottle and then placed it on the ground.
The poor woman was beside herself. Was he going to chop her up, torture her with the long, wide, sharp blade? Was he some kind of sadistic bastard that would get off on cutting and sawing at her body while she screamed and cried in mortal agony? A large hole opened in her belly and she started to beg and plead with the man, dancing frantically in place. Her breasts jerked and heaved at her motions. “….eeeeeeease! eeeeeeease!’ she yelled at the top of her voice through the stifling cloth across her mouth. “….on’t ill eeeee! ….ooooooon’t, eeeeeeeeease!”
Diego looked at the terrorized woman with satisfaction. She had a beautiful body and, as he knew, a delicious cunt. Her legs were long and graceful, her skin pale and soft. Her breasts flopped around appealingly as she struggled to pull her hands free of their tie and her lovely, blue eyes were widened with fright. He played with the razor sharp machete in his hand for just a moment, extending the woman’s terror for just a little while longer. Some day, when he was finished with her, unless he sold her off to some whorehouse or something, he knew that he would have to slice her throat. But, God willing, that was a long way off. He wanted to have a lot of fun first with the beautiful, shapely, blond gringa, especially now that he knew how hot her pussy was.
Diego knew all about ransom and stuff like that. He often stole women from the villages and remote haciendas far outside the city and returned them, slightly used, in exchange for money or money’s worth. But there was no way he was going back to Cotabaya for a long time. The only reason to do so now was to cut the throat of that pinga Chief of Police and to fuck his daughters. But that could wait and, when he got around to it, he would slip in and out of the city before anyone knew that he was there. But kidnapping involved ransom and picking up the loot even if you dumped the body somewhere. No, urban kidnapping was for the professionals who had ties to the police who would look the other way in exchange for a cut. He was a bandit, a marauder of the river and its environs, and that he would remain.
He decided that the frantic girl, now slumping miserably in her bonds and weeping disconsolately, had had enough of this particular worry at least. “Don’t be afraid, putita,” he told her soothingly. “I’m not going to cut you up today. You’re too much of a delicious morsel for that. But you do need to learn a lesson. You scratched me and drew blood. That was not very ladylike. I’m going to break you of that bad habit right here and now.”
Margie, joyful at the news that she would not be sliced open like a ripe mango, watched as the man stepped into the nearby jungle and out of sight. She heard the sound of the machete at work and then he returned a moment later holding a long, thin branch in his hand. He was slicing off the leaves and subsidiary twigs and branches from it with the machete. Her heart sunk as she realized that her first guess had been correct. He was going to whip her, tear into her defenseless body with the instrument he was peeling. It would slash and cut at her body until she bled. And she would scream and cry, beg for surcease uselessly while she suffered its torment.
Her moment of happiness at the news that she was going to live died away and her body began to tremble in anticipation of the pain that the man was going to bring her. She wanted to say that she was sorry for scratching him, that she would never do it again, that she would obey him in all things, suck his cock, fuck him, and his friends too if that was what he wanted. She would do anything rather than be whipped. But it was not her choice. Her voice was effectively silenced. And what good would it do anyway? She doubted that the man had an ounce of mercy in his body. But she couldn’t help whining and moaning in fear. Her mind reeled at the impossibility of her circumstances, unimaginable not less than three or four hours ago. Her little dance started all over again. “Oh, God, help me! Help me!” she thought frantically. “Please! Please! Please!”
But God wasn’t present, or, if he was, he had decided that this should be the poor woman’s fate. Her body was shaking uncontrollably as the man swished the lash through the air, testing its resilience. She saw him give her an evil, broad toothed smile, his gold teeth gleaming in his mouth, the midday sun sparkling off of the incongruous sunglasses on his face. When she saw his right hand rear back, trailing the cruel switch behind it, she closed her eyes and tried to steel her trembling body from the blow.
She heard the fierce, buzzing sound of torn air and then fire erupted across her breasts. She had vowed to stay silent, to not give her assailant the pleasure of her screams, but the sound just poured out of her. “Ayeeeeeeeeee! Ohhhhhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhhhhhh!” she called out. Even the presence of the stifling, orange gag wrapped around her face did not suppress the sound of her dismay. She opened her eyes widely only to see the terrible instrument coming forwards once more at her defenseless body. It struck her breasts again, this time a little higher up. “Ayeeeeeee! Ohhhhhh! Ohhhhhhh! Ohhhhhhhh!” she screamed again as the burning sensation coursed through her. The pain was larger than life, pushed all other sensations away, demanded her mind’s undiluted attention. Her thighs pumped up and down frantically and she tugged forcefully at the bindings that held her so extended and defenseless. “...oooo!…oooooooop!...eeeeease….ooooooop!…eeeease!….eease!” she yelled. She turned her body away from her assailant, hoping to evade the insults to her delicate, pale, tender mounds, but the man shifted with her. A third blow landed across them, this time striking her directly on her thick, flat nipples. She screamed again loudly and issued a heart rendering sob.
Diego took his time. He wanted the girl’s suffering to last until dinner was ready at least. He let her absorb the effects of the lashings to her breasts while admiring the long, angry red lines of insulted skin that had emerged where the whip had kissed her. He then struck her about the thighs and then the rear and then the back, raising cruel, thin lacerations wherever his improvised switch landed. He took his time, pausing between each one. The defenseless woman wailed and screamed in misery, lifting her pretty legs up and down, writhing delectably each time the cruel switch found purchase on her soft, pale skin. Here and there, thin lines of blood were seeping from her wounds. He laid a few lashes across her taut, smooth belly and then up to her breasts again. Her heavy orbs danced and bounced as the whip struck them as if they themselves had determined to try and dodge the blows.
It was only after the woman’s body was criss-crossed with long, angry red lines and her body was sagging from exhaustion and despair that he stopped. He tossed the whip aside and approached her. His cock was hard from the vision of the defenseless woman dancing and jerking to his tune. Pepe and Manuelo had wandered over from the campsite to watch. Their eagerness to have access to the woman’s delightful but now marred flesh was evident in their faces. Diego stroked the damaged melons that hung from her chest and then ran his hands over her hips and her ass. She barely reacted to his touch. Maybe he would let them fuck her tomorrow, he thought. But maybe not. She was his. He had captured her. And if he couldn’t keep a cunt to himself, then what was the sense of being the jefe!
“Is the food ready?” he asked the men. Manuelo nodded foolishly, his eyes still fixated at the sight of the wounded, but beautiful, naked woman dangling from the tree branch.
“Then let’s eat,” he said commandingly.
While the bandits sat around the fire eating beans that had come from one of the cans, Margie swayed in her bonds trying to regain some control of herself. She could not, despite her efforts, stop crying. She had never imagined herself in hell before, but she knew that was where she was now. How long would the cruel, evil man hold her as his prisoner? How long would he let her live? Was it better to get it over with now, to defy
him, to make him punish and abuse her until he killed her either out of frustration at her disobedience or from anger? But if this whipping was any measure of the man’s inner corruption, she was sure that he could devise unbearable tortures to make her comply with his desires. He could burn her over a slow fire, strip her skin from her body piece by piece with his machete, bury her alive, do anything that could be imagined.
Her body burned all over from the terrible effects of the lash, a lingering reminder of how excruciating the pain of being whipped had been. She knew that she could not voluntarily face it again. She would do anything the man demanded. Anything! She felt ashamed at her cowardice, ashamed of the pleasure that the man’s cock had given her. For she knew that he would fuck her again and again. And, each time, she would squirm and wriggle with enforced pleasure, come involuntarily as he plied her with his remorseless, thick cock.
“Maybe I am a whore, a cunt, like he keeps calling me,” Margie thought miserably. “Maybe I deserve my fate. Maybe it was waiting for me out there all along until it was unleashed by a man strong enough and brutal enough to drag it out of me.” Margie cried and sobbed when she thought of Tom. He was sure to know that she was kidnapped by now. How would she ever face him again? How could she ever lie with him and make love to him knowing about herself what she knew now? She tried to imagine what it would be like to be reunited with him and she knew that it would never be the same between them. It was better that the bandit killed her. What kind of a life could she have now anyway? Her whole self image had been destroyed. She was a cunt, a puta, a crica, everything the man had called her. What else could she be after this?
Diego waited until he and his men had had their fill before he came over and released Marjorie from her bonds. He tied her hands back behind her and marched her over to the fire. The white cloth dangled behind her like a long tail. It was an hour or two after noon and there was plenty of daylight left. She was hungry and tired and thirsty. Would they let her eat?
The bandit shoved the girl to her knees and released the gag around her face. Manuelo handed him a plate of beans and he put it down on the ground in front of her. “Eat, puta,” was all he said.
The forlorn woman bent over and pushed her face into the mush of food, careful not to dip her long, blond hair into the unappealing mixture. Despite her hunger she had thought for a moment of refusing, but she feared the large man’s anger. Although the beans were salty and coarse, she ate them with relish. The men all sat round the fire drinking the brandy and watching her degrade herself by eating from the dish like a dog. Her breasts dangled below her chest as she curved her back to get access to the food. She could feel that her face was smeared with the tart sauce and knew that she would look like some kind of wild animal when she was finished, but she didn’t care.
When she had licked up the last of the beans, she felt the bandit’s hand take hold of her hair at the back of her head and lean her back. “Did you like your dinner, conchita?” he asked her tauntingly. Not waiting for an answer he added, “But you need something to wash it down with.” He took the bottle that he was holding in his free hand and brought it to her lips. He forced it between her teeth and, after tilting her head back, began to pour its hot, fierce contents into her mouth. It burned on the way down her throat and she coughed and sputtered as it entered her throat. After she had swallowed a few mouthfuls, he pulled the bottle back to give her a chance to deal with the rawness of the liquor and then brought it back and forced her to drink some more. Her head was spinning and her body felt full and energized when he released her. He was smiling broadly at her. “Good stuff, eh?” he said. “Le leche tu madre,” he added. Your mother’s milk. Far from it. But Margie welcomed the swimming of her senses that the high proof liquor produced.
The men sat around laughing and talking, drinking and smoking cigarettes for some while. Diego had wiped her face with the former, orange tube top and then returned her gag to her mouth. Margie watched the men sullenly. Their eyes kept wandering back and forth over her naked flesh. The thought that the other men would probably fuck her as well sooner or later made her skin crawl. But the effects of the strong liquor made her mind dull and she soon put those thoughts out of her head.
After a while, her tormentor rose to his feet, stretched his body and arms and announced to his friends that he was going to fuck his bitch some more. He grabbed Margie by her hair and brought her to her feet and then led her to one of the two man tents that Pepe and Manuelo had set up while she was being whipped. Her stomach churned at the thought that the man was about to invade her body again. He dragged her to the edge of the clearing and motioned for her to crouch down. “If you have to pee, puta, you’d better do it now. It’s the only chance you’ll get for a while,” he told her.
Unhappy at exhibiting this private function in front of the coarse bandit, but relieved at the opportunity to empty her bladder, Margie spread her thighs and let a strong, yellow stream flow out. She tried not to look up at her captor, but couldn’t help it. He was smiling, enjoying the show.
When she was done, he wiped off her pussy with the end of the white cloth that dangled from her bound hands and then brought her back to her feet. About thirty feet away was a small, bright red, nylon tent. He led her to it and made her crawl inside. He followed her and then loosened her hands behind her back. He retied them in front and made her lie down on her back on a sleeping bag that had been laid on the floor. There was a stake that had been pounded into the ground through the nylon bottom of the tent at the head of the sleeping bag and the bandit tied her wrists off to it.
“Wait here, conchita,” he told her churlishly. “I’m going to wash up. This is like our wedding night and I want to be nice and clean and smelling good when I fuck you.” He gave a laugh and crawled back out of the small, low ceilinged tent.
Diego walked down to the river and stripped off his clothes. He took from the pocket of his tattered pants one of the bars of hotel soap that he had found in Margie’s pocketbook. He stepped gingerly into the slowly moving water, keeping an eye out for snakes and alligators. Then, with a sigh, he lowered himself into the water and began to wash.
People think that bandits like being all dirty and grimy. They don’t. It’s just that they spend so much time in the bush that they have to get used to it. But most of them were brought up in homes where their mothers made them wash behind the ears and looked at their fingernails to see if they were clean. Diego was no different. He had hoped for a wash when they brought him to the jail in Cotabaya, but had been disappointed. It was another thing to add to the ledger of the Police Chief. Now, he took time to wash off the almost month long layers of dirt, sweat and grime. He washed his long, black unruly hair and stroked it out with the woman’s hair brush. He even washed his face and moustache. When he was done, still dripping wet, he splashed some of the woman’s sweet smelling perfume around his body. Now he was ready to do some serious fucking.
Marjorie had lain helpless in the tent awaiting her fate, laid out, naked and bound like some offering. Her pussy had begun to tingle all on its own at the thought of her prospective ravishment. Her breasts had grown taut and her nipples stiff. She cursed herself for her body’s whorish reactions.
The reappearance of her lord and master took her by surprise. He had approached the tent silently and when he poked his head in the woman gave a little startled jerk. She smelled the odor of her perfume immediately. Part of her revolted at the man’s confiscation of her property, but then, when she gave it a little more thought, was thankful that he would not smell as bad as he had earlier in the day when their bodies had been intermingled. It was kind of comic, actually, the big strong man anointing himself with her dainty, floral smelling perfume. But all thoughts of comic relief passed as the naked man slid himself in place beside her and drew his strong thighs up next to hers.
The light in the tent was dim, but she could see that he had finally cast aside her sunglasses and hat. His hair was jet black and shiny from wetne
ss. Even his moustache gleamed. In the faint light his face had lost some of its meanness. His body was strong and hard and hot next to her. She could feel her juices starting to flow and she cursed herself for it. The liquor that she had drunk made her mind soft and cloudy. Maybe it was better to, what was the saying, lie back and enjoy it? If she had to be fucked, wasn’t it better with this scarred, coarse Dionysus, then the two scumbags outside? And after her whipping, didn’t she deserve some pleasure, some delight, to strike out her body’s memory of its torment.
“Ahhhhhhh, putita,” the man moaned as he ran his hand over her taut belly. She flinched when he touched her, but the feel of his hand was warm and welcome to her flesh. He slid his large, meaty hand over her belly and then her hips. Electricity followed it as it went along. He caressed the tops of her thighs and then brought his hand up and took possession of first one breast and then the other, squeezing them softly, caressing them just like a lover would. When he placed his broad, fat lips on her teat and began sucking at it soothingly, Margie gave out a small moan and her hands twisted in their tie above her head. She could feel the pull on her nipple right down to her cunt. When he shifted to the other breast, his hand still wandering along her belly and thighs, she gave another, louder deeper moan of pleasure.
Diego didn’t have to tell the now lusting woman to spread her thighs. When his hand reached between them, she drew them apart willingly. He cupped her sex like it was a rare bird, rubbing his rough, calloused palm against it before dragging his thick finger along its length. She was disappointed when the hand left her and the hungry lips abandoned her breasts. But then she felt the man loosening the bright orange gag that she wore around her face and removing it. When the hand had floated again across her taut, tingling mounds and relocated itself between her trembling thighs the bandit leaned over and took possession of her lips with his.
