by Don Winslow
Chapter Eleven
Now, for the first time, the captive women laid eyes on the military compound that was to be their new home. The place the soldiers jokingly called “La Montana de Amor,” was a smooth plateau of flattened earth that seemed to have been sheered off of the very top of the mountain. A low rock wall with an impressive wooden gate, currently opened to admit their bizarre little parade defined the area before them.
Once past the gate the entranceway widened into an open, sun-baked square fronted by buildings on three sides, stone-built and sturdy, if crude in their construction. Mallory took in the details quickly, partly a result of her training to constantly assess her situation, partly because she was trying to ignore the noisy bunch of soldiers that crowded around just inside the gate. There must have been 40 or 50 of them in the same dirty, dung-colored uniforms, pushing and jostling, frantically eager to study the new prisoners up close. They were calling out, whistling and hooting, trying to get the girls’ attention, shouting lewd comments in Spanish, making obscene gestures, and roaring with laughter. Three officers kept a sort of loose order, with arms folded, their backs to the excited crowd, dark eyes sparkling under their high peaked caps. They were captivated by the delicious gringas that would soon be theirs - once El Commadante had tired of these fresh whores, which, as they knew from experience, would be soon enough.
As the parade of naked women was led into the public square, the crowd parted for them, then immediately closed in along the sides. Excited men moved in eagerly, close enough to reach out and touch the Commandante’s latest prizes, although of course, none dared to do so. General Hernandez had very strict rules about his women, even for his officers. Enlisted men had to content themselves with the local girls taken on the occasional raids of nearby villages when captive wives and their daughters, some very young indeed, were taken away, kicking and screaming, to the mountain stronghold, there to be shamelessly used — forced to serve the men as common barracks whores. It was the Commandante’s way of keeping his troops content in this remote outpost. But while the local women had to satisfy the common appetites of the peons in his army, it was his officers who were granted the privilege of sampling the tasty treats El Commandante imported at such great costs; then, only by his grace — and with his explicit permission. Violations of the fraternization rules resulted in a quick and violent death in this isolated place where the only law was the ruthless Commandante’s word. There was no such thing as an appeal. Bogata was very, very far away.
Meghan Dillon was the first to see the sight that brought all the prisoners up short. She stopped so abruptly that Kip, following close behind with her eyes to the ground, tumbled into the big blonde. They all followed her gaze: ahead and to the right, a young woman with a short crop of yellow hair, her long-limbed, lean, oiled, and evenly-tanned body, bent over a wooden trestle. Like the new prisoners she was naked, but for the high leather slave’s collar around her neck. Folded at the hips over a padded crossbar, she was kept in place, bent over, by tethering lines which held her cuffed wrists to tent pegs embedded in the earth in front of her. Similar ankle cuffs kept her legs open, her ankles being secured about a yard apart.
An abrupt command in Spanish, accompanied with prodding rifles, started the little parade off again; the girls couldn’t take their eyes off the pinioned blond girl as they marched past. Her head rose as they passed by, and she looked at the new girls wordlessly, with startling blue eyes, then dropped her head again. Just behind the poor woman stood a wooden placard with a crude letters in Spanish, and from the sign a large flat-bladed paddle hung by a thin chain, falling to within inches of the girl’s jutting butt. As they passed by, the captives saw the rosy blush of those naked hind cheeks, the angry ruddiness still visible even through the summertime tan, suggesting those vulnerable buttocks had been well, and repeatedly, spanked. Mallory was appalled. A public spanking! It was outrageous! How could such a thing happen? This was, after all, the 21st century!
Each step into their new prison brought fresh horrors. Behind the stretched-out girl, stood a large wooden cage, a set of bars completely open to view, which might hold a large animal — or a human captive. And to one side, along the square, there stood two X-shaped wooden frames, standing on end, side by side, the function of which became evident once one saw the stocks beside them. These were low, sturdy wooden structures, right from the history books. These were structures that had been outlawed long ago in every civilized country; designed to hold culprits, standing or sitting. Once such device had been used to hold prisoners for public humiliation and punishment. Mallory shuddered.
The numb captives was herded past the more official-looking buildings that formed the square, and between rows of what must be low-slung buildings that looked liked army barracks. By now the rowdy crowd of soldiers had been ordered to disburse, but the naked prisoners had a new set of observers. Glancing to the sides they could see that they were being watched by curious women who peered out at them, twittering and jostling for the few prized places at the windows from which they could get a glimpse of the Officers’ new whores.
The bizarre parade made its sorry way straight towards an impressive structure that grew to fill one entire end of the walled compound. There they stopped, below the broad front steps. It was a hacienda style dwelling, painted pink, complete with potted ferns, classical pillars, and a wide front porch — big and imposing, such as the mansions the planters had built for their families back in the days when it was possible to make a lot of money from raising cash crops other than poppies. They later learned that that was exactly what the big house had been, a planter’s mansion, before El Commandante commandeered it for his personal use.
The strutting Major resettled his floppy hat, and dusted off his uniform, while the girls were drawn up to form a row in front of the steps, their guards behind them. The little party waited, staring at the Major’s back for what seemed like a long time. No one spoke. No one moved. To all sides, the captive could feel the curious eyes that silently regarded them from the cluster of buildings.
Then the door opened, and out stepped a bulky figure in a gaudy uniform replete with colorful medals, a shiny wide belt that strapped in his considerable girth, garish epaulets and a tall, impressive cap. El Commandante was a big man but he carried his weight well. He was not exactly fat, but fleshy, with a chunky face, small, deep-set eyes, and a luxuriant mustache. He sauntered out to the center of the porch, in one hand a riding crop, which he idly slapped against a highly polished boot, once he had positioned himself at center stage, looking down on his newest acquisitions, regarding them with pig-like eyes embedded in rolls of fat.
The captives saw the back of the Major stiffen as he brought up a hand in salute, while the corpulent figure regarded him with an air of remote disdain. The martinet held the rigid salute until the warlord of the hills acknowledged him by bringing the tip of the riding crop up to the peak of his gleaming Commandante’s hat.
For a long moment, Mallory and the others had to endure the close scrutiny of their new master who looked over each of them in turn, his gaze slowly, critically sweeping up and down every inch of each naked and exposed body. Finally, the big man seemed satisfied, nodding to himself as if contemplating the possibilities the new girls presented. And he seemed to decide that he was very pleased indeed with those possibilities. He might consider a bonus for Capitan Thompson, he thought; the trace of a smile curling this thick lips. An imperious flick of the riding crop summoned the Major to him. That martinet bounded up the steps to lend an ear to the whispered inquiry of his chief. The Major murmured something back and pointed directly at Mallory; the Commandante nodding his head in shrewd understanding.
“Prostituta Numero Nueve, step forward!” the Major snapped, in the sharp voice he unusually reserved for the parade grounds.
Mallory didn’t move. The Major gave just the slightest nod, and two soldiers, who had quietly stepped up behind her grabbed the naked girl under her cuffed arms and
dragged her limp body up the steps, to deposit her before the fascinated Commandante.
The General was grinning at her in such a way that Mallory had to turn aside in revulsion. She stood with eyes shut while the tip of the riding crop touched her cheek. The big man gurgled from deep in his throat, as though crooning his appreciation of this latest prized addition to become part of his stable. The tip of the crop trailed down her crisp features, over her lips, her chin, down her throat and onto her sternum. Proceeding downward, it branched out to follow the smiling under curves of the slight rises on her bare chest.
Mallory stood stock still as her new master used the ridging crop to explore every curve and crevice of her exposed body. The tickling tip meandered its way lower to press softly at the flinching bellybutton, and then to trace a line straight down to the darkly furred vulva. He lightly scratched at her pubis through the haze of pussy fur, muttering an aside to his aide who laughed in appreciation of his superior’s obviously witty remark. The tip pressed softly into the fleshy pad of the cunt of General Hernandez’s newest acquisition; Mallory’s hips twitched in involuntary response. Suddenly, the crop slapped her on the haunches with a smart flick of the wrist, so that the girl’s eyes flow open, and she jerked back in startled reaction. Again he flicked the switch to whap her on the side of the buttocks, exchanging asides with the little Major out of the corner of his mouth, while observing the magnificent gringa’s reaction to the whip.
Now the gaudily dressed Commandante stepped right up to the tall brunette, until he stood just inches away from the naked girl, his face close to hers. Mallory turned her head to one side.
The General grumbled something in Spanish, which the Major obligingly translated.
“You must look at El Commandante, Prostituta Numero Nueve.”
But with a surge of obstinacy, Mallory kept her head rigidly averted.
The Commandante sneered. A beefy hand grabbed her by the chin, lifted her head easily, forcing her to look into his evil eyes. A thumb pushed back her lips, and he was checking her teeth and mouth, as though she were a prized mare he was considering purchasing.
“Open up, gringa.”
But the defiant agent gritted her clenched teeth even more tightly.
The vise-like fingers tightened, forcing her mouth open, and the coarse warlord of the hills stuck a fat finger into Agent Mallory’s mouth, pressing on her tongue. Mallory wretched, made a mighty effort, and was able to wrench free of his grasp, turning away in disgust.
El Commandante said something in rapid-fire Spanish to his aide, who in turn, relayed the orders to the guards.
Instantly, Mallory was grabbed from behind, and struggling and kicking, was dragged back down the steps and onto the parade ground. Other soldiers joined in to subdue the handcuffed girl who could do very little to resist them in any case, but was nevertheless determined not to passively accept any further indignities. Special Agent Channing was seething with rage as she screamed her defiance at her captors, twisting and turning beneath the clump of soldiers who held her down on her back. Her handcuffs were removed, but only so that her arms could be drawn up over her head. One soldier sat on her belly, another on her legs, while over her head, they worked to secure her wrists to two tent pegs that had been pounded into the hard earth. They were taking off her shoes and socks, while other soldiers with pegs and hammers, finished the job of pounding stakes into the hard ground so that her ankles could be secured. In a moment she lay before them, spread-eagled and totally naked on the sun-drenched parade ground.
The irate woman glared up at the portly figure in the fancy dress uniform that now stood over her, regarding her with a sneer of disdain on lips that curled under his thick mustache. She vowed to bring down upon him all the power of the US government, but the threat only brought an uproarious laugh, which was soon joined in by the obsequious Major, and then by all his other minions.
The booted Commandante stepped up between his beautiful prisoner’s splayed legs. She was beautiful, he mused, that pretty, aristocratic face framed in thick dark hair, that long lightly-tanned body, deliciously naked and stretched out tautly, those flattened mounds of tittie-flesh, heaving slightly with barely suppressed indignation, the richly-furred pussy, so plump and inviting, and those splendid thighs, the sleek muscles straining against the leather cords that held her, open for him; just for him, Humberto Hernandez, son of a peasant, and now, a feared and respected General of the army, Commandante…and master of all he surveyed!
With his eyes on this, his newest concubine spread out naked before him, he quite nonchalantly undid the fly on his pants, reached in and took out a piss-swollen penis. No one moved. No one spoke a word. The soldiers watched with knowing nods and filthy grins. The other two captives looked on, wide-eyed in increasing horror, as the sneering Commandante proceeded to relieve himself on their helpless leader.
Mallory hollered her indignant protest as the General took up a wide-booted stance and, with a heave of his shoulders, let loose a stream of hot urine, sending it in a wide arc to rain down on the naked, and thoroughly outraged, Ms Mallory Channing. He took his time, letting his hot yellow piss hose her body, as she sputtered and shrieked her indignant protest. She could do nothing but clamp her lips shut and twist helplessly under the depraved shower she was forced to endure, while the crowing man laughed, directing the dwindling stream to her sex, before playing it over her tits. Even her face and hair were subjected to this vile abuse, and through it all she had no choice but to accept this horrid indignity with eyes clenched shut, and curled lips pressed tightly together.
The fast stream slowed to a trickle. The arc collapsed. And after making sure the last few drops dribbled on that squirming, urine-splattered body, El Commandante, moving in the same calm, deliberate manner, casually tucked away his depleted manhood, zippered up, and straightened his clothes before stepping back. With hands on hips, he thoroughly enjoyed the pleasing sight of the once-proud gringa, her elegant features dripping with his piss.
Signaling an end to the humiliating performance, General Humberto Emilio Hernandez simply turned his back on them, and stomped back into his grand house. Then the girls were led away to the low barracks that the soldiers called “El Commandante’s stable”.
But Mallory was not allowed to go with them. She was to stay tied in place, spread-eagled on the hard parade ground, publicly displayed for all to see, the depraved Commandante’s piss drying on her face and body, and in her hair. The rank smell of urine invaded her nostrils, as the young woman lay with eyes closed, determined to endure even this humiliation, and whatever other indignities her degenerate captors could dish out. She would survive!
Chapter Twelve
In time, the recent arrivals became accustomed to their new quarters. After the humiliating public display of being forced to strip and parade through the compound in their birthday suits, the girls were immensely relieved to gain shelter in the cool, adobe barracks. Their spirits were raised even further when they found they had been given reasonable clothing to wear. When they opened their lockers next to each bunk, they found sets of identical short-sleeved linen dresses hung on hangers: prison uniforms in slate blue or gray, that buttoned down the front, with short sleeves, and loose flaring skirts that fell modestly below the knee. These were plain, serviceable dresses, the sort of work uniform a waitress might wear. Each locker also held sandals for their bare feet, the same type of rope sandals as worn by the local peasants.
What they lacked was a supply of underwear, for under the summer-weight linen dresses, the captives would be naked because it was desired that female prisoners should always be readily available. Still, the smooth, opaque linen was sufficient to provide modest cover; only if a prisoner was made to hike up her skirt by one of the officers would her lack of panties become evident to any curious onlooker. Of course, the ubiquitous slave collars remained: 4-inch high collars, softly padded and made of soft, buttery leather, each with its own shiny numbered tag dangling on promin
ent display.
Even as they quickly slipped into their new uniforms, the girls were meeting their fellow captives who crowded around to greet the new arrivals. Greta was warm, gracious, and welcoming. A wiry and hard-bodied blonde with short straight hair: her tawny, small-breasted body had acquired a deep, all-over tan from months of exposure on the sunny mountaintop. Her small, rounded face, especially when she smiled and showed her strong white teeth, seemed eternally youthful. Greta, in her mid-forties, they learned, had been confined in the camp the longest, well over a year now.
She had been a German anthropologist, a Ph.D., doing fieldwork in Africa, when she had been taken. It seemed so long ago. She remembered the thrill the day she had been told that she would be privileged — the first white woman ever allowed to witness the secret initiation ceremony. She remembered the chanting and tribal dances, that went on and on into the small hours of the night; the strange brew she had been made to drink. After that, her memory came back only in disjointed fragments. She had a restless night that seemed to go on forever, tossing and turning in a mild delirium, until she finally woke up — and found herself a concubine in an army brothel on the Mountain of Love! The tawny blonde had been stripped, and collared with tag number “1” — Numero Uno. Somehow, it seemed appropriate for her, the first among many; she wore it well. Greta had become a sort of mother hen, looking after each new girl added to El Commandante’s growing collection. As the oldest, most experienced prisoner, the others naturally looked to her. Greta was someone who knew the ropes; a girlfriend and confidante — a woman to be trusted.
Linda was another girl who had strayed a bit too far while blithely embarked on a boat excursion, and had turned up in police records as a missing person. She was a plain, ordinary girl, with caramel-colored hair which she wore parted in the middle and swept back along each sides to be pinned behind her ears in a neat, youthful style. Though her face was unremarkable, she had nice legs and her breasts, softly rounded, ample handfuls, hung loose under the thin bodice, their plump and delectable weight causing them to have just the slightest sag. Quiet and introverted, Linda could easily have been a suburban housewife, which in fact she had been, before the divorce, and that ill-fated trip. Linda wore tag number “3”.
