by K. Walker
“You are like the bag of gold, with potential to drive the men crazy, split us up and make violence. Living the way we do, it’s hard to have a girlfriend. Visiting one is a good way to get killed. We move a lot. If we stay too long, we become a danger to our friends. The men could go to town for a prostitute but they talk, it’s another way to get killed. And if you fuck an Indian’s daughter, he is not your friend any more. It’s been months since I was with a woman. So,” he concluded calmly, “While you are with us, we all fuck you whenever we want. That way, there is no rivalry, no violence. And I will try to make sure you are not hurt much. Pussy,” he smiled cynically, “Doesn’t wear out with fucking. A good woman can tire out ten men.” Ten! I was appalled.
“Easy for you to say. You are trying to justify what cannot be justified.”
“I am a realist. No more talk! Good night,” and he waved me to silence as he went to his bed. Taking the good with the bad, I felt I had learned useful things. I should get out alive. It seemed like good sense, not to try to fight about the sex. It’s not as though I didn’t enjoy sex. If he kept his word, if they didn’t hurt me, if it was just sex and more sex — well, I could do that. Maybe they would treat me better if they had a good time.
Don’t mistake me, I resented the hell out of the insult of it. I was nobody’s plaything and nobody’s whore. But things were what they were, and I am a practical person. I wondered what the backup ransom plan was, when my Mom couldn’t pay? Before I could make much progress on that, exhaustion took me to deep sleep.
I awoke just before dawn. The sky to the east had a suggestion of pink. I needed to relieve myself. I stood up, and went two or three steps before the chain brought me up short. I would have to go on the ground there, which was gross, or wait until released. Nature would not be denied — I pulled down my shorts and squatted to water the grass. Let them smell it! It was their fault.
Finished, I stood and pulled up my shorts, and sat on my pine bed. Without thought, I tugged at the handcuff on my ankle – and it came loose.
Tomas had not clicked it home properly. I was free. I sat thinking what I should do about that. Grab a gun? What if the person woke up before I had it? Was I really willing to shoot them all sleeping? I wasn’t. I knew I could never do that. Run? If I got a mile or two of head start down the path, they would never catch me. I climbed quietly to my feet, stepped to the edge of the clearing and, as I joined the path where we had come in, began to jog – smash! Directly into the arms of Carlos, who was zipping up his pants after an errand much like my own previously. No time for judo, no time to think, he grabbed me and flipped me around in an instant, holding my elbows together in the small of my back.
“The girl,” he yelled. “The girl was trying to escape! To betray us! To the police!” The other three were on their feet in seconds. They must be light sleepers. Tomas rushed to where we stood, his face rigid with anger. His fist, nearly as big as my head, waved under my nose.
“I was a prisoner. I was running away. What do you expect?” I stiffened my back, expecting to be hit, maybe killed, determined not to cry. Tomas picked me up and shook me in midair like a rag doll, until my teeth chattered. He set me down and looked long and hard. At last he smiled at the others.
“She is still worth keeping. But I know a better way. Strip her, strip her bare.”
They ripped off my bikini top in an instant. The cargo shorts and bikini bottom took just seconds longer, pulling off over my hiking boots (nobody bothered about them). I was naked from the ankles up. Tomas grabbed my arms painfully and hustled me toward a tree that had a branch at about waist height. He threw me over it. Someone produced a rope, and I was efficiently tied head down, ankles to wrists, my ass in the air. It was uncomfortable and utterly humiliating.
“You behave like a silly child. You know what happens to silly children? They get spanked!” This, with a big grin to the others. They cheered gleefully. Tomas leaned over me and whispered English into my ear.
“If Juan was alone here, you would die. So, take your medicine like a good girl.”
Whap! A broad hand slapped my right ass cheek hard. It hurt like fire. I gasped but didn’t cry. Whap! The other cheek. Whap, whap, whap, too many to count. I struggled, I screamed.
“Bastard! Bastard! I’m a prisoner, I have a right to try and escape.”
“You have no rights that matter. Get over that!” Whap! Whap. His callused hand reached between my legs to cup my sex, and his fingers played gently with me between blows. Whap! Stroke. Whap! Stroke. My treacherous body began to react. I was wet. His middle finger probed inside me.
“Bastard!” I grit my teeth. Tears of humiliation cascaded down. Finally, he stepped away.
“She’s ready. Teach her to be a good little nina. Fuck her hard if you are men,” he snarled at the other three, and walked away.
They were not slow to accept the offer. They did not bother to strip as they had in the mountain cabin, just opened the front of their pants. I could feel the snaps and button of their military web gear against my ravaged ass. At least I didn’t come. I was too uncomfortable, head down and tied. It was all just hard uncomfortable pounding. I wept some more. Tomas did not taka a turn. When the others all had, they left me hanging there and went over to the fires. My mind went away to another place, to a cloud that was soft and white. I thought of nothing. Tomas came back and cut me loose.
“Eat, you have a long day ahead.” I staggered toward where they had dropped my pitiful bits of clothing. He pulled me back.
“No, you don’t need those. You eat naked.” He walked me toward the fire, and pushed me to a kneeling position. Fatty handed me a small loaf of hard bread with a fried sausage inside. The thought of eating it was nauseating.
“Eat, or I’ll beat you again.” I ate. Tomas gave me a drink from his canteen. Then he began to feed me by hand, small morsels of something crunchy but sweet. I saw a wrapper. It was a Quaker granola bar. I’m naked in the jungle eating a granola bar. Somehow, the irony got through and made me feel a little better. Tomas gave me another drink.
“Now kneel there and stay out of trouble,” he said quietly. Who was this guy? What the hell?
I listened as they discussed the morning’s march, the need to avoid a village. Fatty cleaned up the meal while the others packed and broke camp. Tomas looked at me.
“Stand up, we are ready to go.” I looked again for my clothes, he followed my eyes and shook his head. He held me by the neck, his big hand under my chin, looking down sternly.
“No clothes for you. You march naked.”
“Why?” I began .. and he stopped me with a light squeeze on my throat.
“I have told the others that this is our security, because you will never try to run away naked. So, you stay naked until I give you clothes. You walk naked, you meet the Indians naked, you kneel naked by my side, you sleep naked, you do everything naked. Understood? Because this will save you life.” Stunned, I nodded acceptance
“And besides,” he added with a tight smile, “We will enjoy it. And it will impress the Indians.” Moments later, we were off down the forest path, Carlos way in front, then me with Tomas just behind, and Fatty and Juan bringing up the rear guard. The only spot on me with any protection probably needed it least; the middle of my back was covered by my small school backpack, which carried nothing but a few toilet items, extra socks, a water bottle, and a couple of pieces of fruit.
Maybe if I had been raised on a nudist beach in France or Germany, it wouldn’t feel so weird, I told myself. I kept reaching instinctively to cover my sex, and then realizing there wasn’t any point, they had not just seen it, they had fucked it. The day before, I had been in shorts and a bikini top. Not much protection, but it had felt ok. Now, I thought that every tree branch was destined to slap against my bare breasts or my sex. None did, the path was wide enough, but I kept expecting it to happen.
That first day set the pattern for the next ten. We walked eastward, following a chain of low roc
ky hills that rose above the forest. There was always some sort of path, sometimes so faint it might have been made by animals, sometimes showing hoof prints from horses or mules. After the first two days, we no longer saw hamlets of mestizo farmers. The soil was thin and rocky. It never rained. Fatty told me it was the dry season. But the country was well-watered, with frequent streams and fresh springs, especially near the base of the hills. The forest was unbroken, but not very thick. From time to time, sunlight would break though where a tree had fallen. There were even open grassy glades, made by fires from lightening. Sometimes the trail left the trees and followed the ridgeline of the hills; then, we marched in the sunlight. My skin rapidly took on its familiar summer color of cinnamon, and my hair bleached a brighter gold. My legs ached the first two days, then I found my strength.
Carlos was on point. If he saw anything on the path, he would give the alarm of a harsh bird call and the others would rapidly hustle me off the trail so we all could hide. Usually, it was a pack train of four or five mules, one man leading, another at the end. Once, it was three German bird watchers all alone; Tomas told me long after they had passed. I felt a moment’s sense of loss, but, really, that use were they to me, harmless bird watchers without weapons? If I had known who they were, if I had called out to them, it would just have made a mess and maybe gotten somebody killed. After the second day, there were no more mule trains.
We got up at dawn, ate, and were on the trail by maybe 6:30. We broke for brief rests every two hours, for lunch, and to set up camp and prepare dinner an hour before sundown. So, we were actually walking maybe nine hours a day, at a pace of close to three miles an hour. I had no clue where we were on any map, or even if we were still in Venezuela, but we clearly covered a long way, maybe 250 miles total. Every night but one, we managed to stop near a stream or spring. I would bath twice a day, once after dinner and once before breakfast. Tomas sometimes joined me, the others less often. Since we had no lamps, they (and I) had nothing much to do after eating dinner, except bath, wash out my spare socks, and set them out to dry.
And fuck, of course. Nobody was likely to forget that.
I had never lived with a guy, so I didn’t have any first-hand knowledge of how much sex the average young guy can do, day in and day out. Let alone the above-average guy. Some girls boast about how horny they make their guys, but maybe they lie. The night after junior prom, the quarterback and I spread a blanket in the desert and he had me three times in two hours. Then we unfortunately fell asleep. He insisted on doing it again when we woke up. I was grounded for staying out all night, and while I was out of action, he moved on to another girl, so I never learned if he could keep up that pace. Probably not.
My four robbers were not good for three times a night, but even Fatty (who had a bit less energy) was good for once every night, and the others often twice. When they made camp, they made a big soft pile of leafy branches, and covered it with a nylon poncho, and that was my bed. The others got by with a poncho spread on the grass. After the meal, after Fatty cleaned up, after a bath, after cigarettes all around — Tomas would give me a look and a thumb toward the bed. He would follow me over, strip if he had not already to bath, and lie down beside me, while the others smoked and talked a few yards away.
Tomas made love, he was totally in charge but he wasn’t just fucking a blow-up doll, I was a human to him. He would begin by running his hard callused fingers over my whole body, rubbing my nipples until it was just not painful, then suck and tease them with his lips, while his fingers were gently busy on my sex.
One night he whispered, “I could make this last longer. I could help you come even before we fuck. But there are friends waiting!” I could feel his grin as his lips tugged hard on a nipple.
“Bastard,” I replied, it became almost a term of endearment. He preferred the missionary position and would fold me backwards with my ankles on his shoulders, slide inside, settle in with a few gentle strokes, then pick up the pace rapidly – as soon as my reactions showed him that I was getting into it.
I had a struggle with myself, that first night on the trail, whether I wanted to orgasm. I would feel better. I would sleep better. But it seemed somehow like giving in. I argued with myself as Tomas was inside me. My mind and my body concluded about the same time, that it was foolish to stand on dignity. Let it go! I came hard, and Tomas did soon thereafter, then quickly rolled away from me and stood up. I almost regretted yielding, when I heard the others’ coarse laughter.
“The little cunt likes it,” said Juan, as he ran to take Tomas’s place. Juan didn’t like to face me, he insisted on doggy style. And, while he was well-hung, he didn’t last long. He just pounded away for a few minutes, came with a curse, and squeezed the last drops onto the small of my back. Like a bad porno.
Carlos did sex like a farmer plowing – slow, rhythmic pumps, a twist of agony to his face to tell he was near the end, and a shudder as he spent himself. He always said thanks, with what sincerity I don’t know.
Fatty approached me with a touch of hesitation. In that crowd, it would have drawn mockery to show weakness. He wanted the sex, there was nothing maricon about him, but he had a kindly nature and never quite adjusted to where accidents had placed him. He would speak to me when his turn came.
“Oh, Katie, you are so beautiful and so sexy. You are the best thing in my life.”
Then he would slip his average-sized dick inside my messy wetness, settled himself with a happy sigh, and pound away missionary, kissing my lips and nuzzling my neck, until he came in maybe five minutes. After thanking me, he would go off to sleep. The first night, Juan wanted another round, so he took it. Then Tomas returned. It was a lot of sex, and Juan was absolutely not fun at all. I was crying, but Tomas comforted me wordlessly, rocking me in his arms, then light feathery kisses down my neck and over my breasts until after a long while I was back in the mood, and he took me again for a steady, gentle, very long ride, shifting his weight so his cock pressed more directly against my clit. He knew how to do it, and I came at last happily, shattered in a good way, and briefly passed out. When I woke up he was gone, and I was handcuffed to the chain again. A reminder of my true status, but not one I wasted much time thinking about.
They were country boys, not sophisticated city perv’s, so they never got fancy about double-teaming or stuff like that. The second night, as Carlos was pumping away, Juan knelt beside us and demanded that I suck him. Carlos batted him away with one strong arm. It looked for a moment like there might be a fight, but Tomas dragged Juan away and settled him down. It made me think of what Tomas had said, that I was the bag of gold that could drive them to violence. Even unlimited access was not enough for Juan, he wanted it without waiting a turn.
On the third day, Tomas sent Juan away. But not for the sex thing. It was for my ransom.
We were on a ridgeline, in the sun, just before noon, at a point where a trail leading north joined ours. Tomas pointed to the horizon, to the shining far-off tin roofs of a small town. Beyond it was a river leading (they said) to a larger town. They discussed quietly among themselves what to do, while I sat on a big rock in the sunshine and brushed my hair. Suddenly they agreed and turned toward me.
“Masks,” I heard Tomas say. Juan and Carlos pulled up the bandanas they all wore, and pulled their hats down to where only a slit of face showed, not even a mother would know them. I was taken by surprise, not thinking about much except maybe how well Tomas fucked. Juan and Carlos grabbed me by an arm each and stood me up.
“Flip her hair in front so it shows,” ordered Tomas, and they did that with their free hands, so my hair cascaded over my shoulders but left my breasts bare.
“Smile,” said Tomas, and pulled a small digital camera out of a pocket. Damn! I didn’t understand what it was about, but it mad me furious to be photographed naked. I jumped, and their arms held me helpless a foot in the air, my mouth open in a wordless cry of rage. Click! That was the picture.
“What the hell? What
the hell?” I sputtered.
“Relax, Katie,” said Tomas with a grin. “This is the plan to get your ransom. I have heard that if there is a great picture of some unfortunate person, often the public will send donations, so the sick child can have his operation, or whatever. This picture will drive them crazy. A beautiful blonde gringa, naked in the jungle, in the hands of evil kidnappers! The donations will pour in to you mother. So you see, the ransom will be paid after all.”
He carefully wrote out the note that would go with the ransom, in both Spanish and English. He even showed it to me.
Katie Sornsen (with my passport number), a beautiful girl from Arizona, has been kidnapped and taken to the Amazon, where she is kept naked, the slave of her captors. Terrible things are happening to her, and it will get worse until the ransom is paid. $500,000 is the price of her life and liberty. Publish a statement in the major newspapers of the region when you have raised the money and
You will receive word of where and how to pay.
Someone would take this to a town, upload the photo onto a public computer at an Internet cafe and email it, with the note, to a bunch of newspapers and to the international press. That would get attention. Tomas seemed to know a lot about American culture. I was sure he had spent time there.
“Remember,” he laughed, “What the press wants is a great blonde victim. Black and brown girls die or disappear and nobody cares. That pretty blonde disappears in Curacao, and the whole world wants to know for months. The victim is you !”
Fatty didn’t want to go, he was sure the secret police had his photo and would shoot him on sight. Carlos didn’t have the computer skills. So Juan had to be the one. It would take him at least two days to reach a town with Internet, at least five days roundtrip. We didn’t have enough food to wait in place, so Juan would travel separately to the Indian village and meet us there. Tomas gave him money and the camera and he set off northward, alone. I was not sorry to see him go. As for Tomas’s plan, it might work. Somehow, this business needed to end well. I couldn’t yet see a way, except by somebody paying, so I was totally alright with the plan, even if it involved me being seen naked.
