by Paul Blades
“So what’s this got to do with me,” I asked, lighting another cigarette.
“You see Harry, your Uncle Sam is really interested in this guy Klitzman. Not too much is known about him, but we do know that he’s been able to, let’s say, ‘influence’ U.S. policy in rather strange ways. The State Department has called Klitzman’s little island hideaway off the coast of Africa, forbidden territory. And there are certain activities that he engages in in this country and around the world that go pretty far beyond the pale.”
“Okay, so,” I interjected.
“So, we want you to become friends with Mr. Klitzman.”
“How the fuck am I supposed to do that?” I asked incredulously.
“Have faith, Harry, we can arrange it.”
“So the FBI’s going to get me out of here, send me to Africa so I can buddy up with some guy who would probably smell a rat from about a hundred miles away. You gotta be nuts.” I stubbed out my cigarette. “You’re wasting my time.” I started to get up to leave. Bederson put a hand on my shoulder.
“Harry, we’re not from the FBI,” he said.
“What?”
“We’re not from the FBI,” Bederson repeated.
I looked over at Mulattieri and he just shook his head.
“Right now I can’t say who we work for, but let’s just say we have a lot of juice. We can make things happen for you Harry. How’d you like to get back in the saddle, get outside, get back to work?”
“You want me to go out and commit crimes?” I was really flabbergasted now.
“If it’s in the national interest Harry, we can justify almost anything.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, “let’s suppose I agree to this. First of all, I’d be risking my neck every day. If this guy Klitzman is as big as you say, he’d have my skin up on his wall if he even had a suspicion that I was a rat. Second of all, I’d like to get out, yeah, but where is this all going to lead? How would I know that you have the juice to get me off any beefs I get into for this guy Klitzman? And how long would I have to do it?” I paused. “Jeeze, I’m talking like this thing could actually really happen.”
“Harry, listen to me,” Bederson said.
And he explained to me that Klitzman loved to recruit from Federal prisons, that he liked tough guys who were doing life bids. He had the juice to spring them on some fake pardon or something, and then he set them to work for him. The guys he picked tended to be very grateful and eager to do just about anything Klitzman asked. Bederson said that his people knew of this guy who was on the inside, who scouted for Klitzman. Bederson wouldn’t tell me who he was. But this guy had been looking at my records. Bederson’s people believed that he was going to recruit me.
I gave the scenario that had been painted to me some thought. I had nothing to look forward to in the joint other than either someday getting a shiv in my ribs for some real or imagined slight to some other con, or breathing my last staring at the ceiling of the hospital ward after another thirty or forty years of excruciatingly repetitive days.
But if I took Bederson’s offer, I could get out, breathe some real air, maybe put on some moves. If I got away with ratting out Klitzman, good. If I didn’t and ended up as shark bait, well I would still have had some fun. And there was a third possibility, one that I was sure had occurred to by erstwhile benefactors. I could meet up with Klitzman and ‘go native’, that is, really become one of his boys. I might not last long, but I would be living on my feet and not on my knees.
As I saw it, there was really nothing to lose. I agreed.
Bederson told me that, when Klitzman’s man contacted me, I was to alert him by sending a letter to this lawyer. They would work out a means for me to stay in contact. He also reminded me again that they were not the FBI and that they were not limited to purely lawful remedies. I caught his drift.
Two weeks went by when I was approached by one of the ‘tough’ guys from the white power gang at the prison. Prison life revolved around gangs and protection. I was kind of protected through my relationship to Bianco, but that was fading fast as time went on. To make a long story short, this guy thought it would be a good idea if I did a hit for his group. My benefit would be protection from the other gangs. They didn’t want to have the hit done by someone already known as a member because they would immediately be identified as suspects.
The guy they wanted me to hit was well known as a snitch, so I had little qualms about doing the job. It was not getting caught that was the trick. Friday night was movie night and everyone would be in the mess hall. I knew that that was when this snitch would take a ‘tour’ of certain work areas that were well known as hiding places for contraband. I knew that he would be searching the kitchen area of the mess hall, and so I quietly slipped into the kitchen and waited. I was armed with a sharply honed knife made from a part from somebody’s bed frame and covered with tape at the handle. As the snitch passed by, I jumped behind him, held his mouth closed, and drew my knife across his throat. In 15 seconds I was back in the mess hall watching the movie.
There was a big hubbub about the death of the snitch, but it all died down after a week or two. After a while, the tough guy let it be known that he wanted to talk to me. I met him in the prison yard. We walked out of hearing of the other cons. He congratulated me on my success and told me that he had another proposition for me.
“How’d ya like to get outta here,” he said.
I knew what was coming but had to play dumb. “Fuck you,” is all I said.
He insisted that he was on the level and explained to me roughly what Bederson had told me. He left out his benefactor’s name and where I would be going. All he stressed was that I would be out of the country, given a new identity and would be rolling in clover. I told him that if he could pull it off, I would jump at the chance.
Another two weeks went by and I was advised that I was being transferred to a medium joint near Huntsville, Alabama. I had sent the letter to the lawyer who was supposed to be my contact, but had received no word back. I packed my stuff, what little there was of it, said so long to my cellmate and followed the guard to the sally port. My stuff was checked; I was bedecked in chains and then led out to a waiting van.
It was a normal prison van, basically a minivan with reinforced windows, double locks and a heavy steel screen across the rear of the front compartment. Two green uniformed Federal prison guards were waiting for me. They loaded me up and we were on our way.
About five miles outside of Atlanta, the van suddenly veered off of the expressway, went about three miles down a small two lane road and then turned into a gravel driveway that snaked deep into the woods. We stopped in front of an old, apparently abandoned, garage. The guard on the passenger side hopped out and opened the side door of the van. “Get out,” he said in a gruff voice. It was the perfect place for a hit and I assumed that somehow this guy Klitzman had smelt a rat and was having me put in a hole. But when I got out, to my surprise, the guard freed my cuffs and ankle chains. The other guard threw me some civilian clothes and told me to change. I didn’t know what was up, but I didn’t need to be told twice. I changed quickly. While I changed, the first guard drove the van up to the garage. He opened the double bay door and then drove the van in. On the other side of the van was a brand new looking black Lincoln. He tore off his uniform and put on some clothes he found in the front seat. The other guy ran up and did the same from the passenger’s side. I was stunned, and stood in the middle of the driveway in my new clothes ogling the two men. One yelled back at me.
“For Christ’s sake, get in the fucking car!”
I ran over and got into the back seat. My prison garb was thrown into the van along with the guard uniforms. The Lincoln pulled out, the door was closed and we were out of there. It all took less than three minutes.
Three hours later, we pulled into the parking lot of a small commuter airport near Columbus. A small plane was waiting for me. I was hustled over and climbed in. In two minutes I was in the a
ir.
The pilot didn’t tell me to shut the fuck up, but he made it clear he had nothing to say. He handed me a bag that had a sandwich and a Coke in it, and just kept his eyes on the sky and clouds ahead of us.
It was almost dark when we flew into Miami International Airport. When the plane stopped, the pilot handed me a 9” x 12” brown envelope. In it was a slightly worn black wallet, about $250 in cash and, a driver’s license and passport, both with my picture on it, and both in the name of Robert Cox. There was also a plane ticket to Caracas, Venezuela. The pilot spoke to me.
“Now, don’t fuck this up. Go into the terminal. Go to gate 12. Check in and wait. Don’t go anywhere, don’t do anything, don’t talk to anyone, got it?”
“Sure,” I said.
“You’ll probably be watched. You’ll be met in Caracas. Just do what you’re told.”
“Okay, okay,” I said.
I got out of the plane and walked over to the terminal. The pilot had handed me a small suitcase, which, I supposed, contained some clothes and other travel stuff. I did what I was told. I stopped only to buy a paper and a cup of coffee. I was spooked when I saw the metal detector. I had no idea what was really in the suitcase. But I had gotten this far without a hitch and figured that Klitzman’s boys would make sure that the bag and its contents would pass muster.
In fact, I sailed through the checkpoint. I then walked down to gate 12, checked in and waited. My flight was in an hour.
About forty minutes later I boarded the plane and found my seat. Business class. There was some shitty film and crap food. I wiled my time away listening to jazz on the earphones. I must have nodded off because the next thing I knew the plane was landing. I breezed through customs. When I entered the airport proper, I saw a man holding a cardboard sign with the words “Mr. Cox” written on it. I walked up to him. “I’m Cox,” I said.
“Please to come with me,” was his only reply. He took me to a taxi and then drove me, again without a word being spoken, for about an hour. We stopped at yet another airport, a small one, with, again, a plane waiting for me. In a minute I was back in the air.
Now this guy was talkative. In fact I couldn’t get him to shut up. He told me all about this tourist he fucked the night before, his car, how much he loved flying, how the weather sucked down here and on and on and on. When I asked him where we were going, he said only, “You’ll see.”
This flight was about another four hours. The only food the pilot had was a bag of peanuts. He let me have half.
I could see that we were flying mostly southeast over a long expanse of jungle. I thought to myself that it would be a rotten place to have to land, when suddenly the plane took a dive. For a moment I visualized myself as crocodile meat. But as I looked ahead, I saw a small clearing. Gabby circled the plane and prepared to descend.
CHAPTER THREE
THE FRENCH GIRL GETS FUCKED
The men release the hands of the softly moaning, barely conscious girl from the chain and drag her over to a wooden apparatus standing not far from the dais. It has four legs spread about four feet apart, and stands about waist high. The legs support a small padded platform about three feet square. There are two round cuts on one side. The limp girl is draped stomach down onto the platform. Her ankles and wrists are affixed to rings in the legs. Her breasts fit neatly into the two holes.
The placement of the girl leaves her head at waist level and her legs spread wide, exposing her secret places. The bulky black man, who answers to the name of Rukimo, waives a small, pungent smelling vial under the girl’s nose. She shakes her head, seeking to avoid the piercing odor. Rukimo grabs her hair and forces her to inhale the sharp scent. When he is sure that she is fully awake, he withdraws it and releases the girl’s hair.
The girl is startled by her changed confinements. She pulls futilely at the fixtures to her wrists and tries to kick her ankles free. The apparatus, constructed of a heavy wood, is stained a dark mahogany and is anchored to the floor. There are heavy scratch marks on the legs where the young woman’s hands are affixed, the claw marks of other desperate young women anxious to avoid their fates. The poor woman’s exertions barely make the apparatus sway.
The Latino man is gently stroking the girl’s ass. His name is Luis Santana, but everybody calls him “Cholo”. The girl tries to see who is touching her and twists her neck around. She sees Cholo smiling at her. He is naked, as are the other two men. All the girl can do is attempt to wriggle her hips to shed the unwanted caresses, but the effort is wasted. She turns her head forwards and sees Rukimo holding his thick, jet-black cock in his hand. She knows better than to beg. These men are going to fuck her and there is no way to stop or dissuade them. She can’t help but emit a tiny whine as she grimaces and tries to withhold her tears.
Rukimo has in his other hand what appears to the girl to be a strange instrument. Her mostly chaste upbringing has not familiarized her with the idea of a ring gag. But she sees the round ring of rubberized plastic and the straps affixed to it and knows that, whatever it is, it is meant for her. Rukimo momentarily pauses in his caresses of his cock to grab the girl’s cheeks. His massive hand presses hard, and the girl’s mouth opens. He pushes the ring gag into her mouth. She needs to open wide to admit the large ring. Rukimo jams the ring in forcibly. The girl is crying and kicking as she resists. But Rukimo is an expert. He has applied many a ring gag into an unwilling mouth. He presses the girl’s cheeks harder causing her to squeal in pain. Ultimately, she surrenders by stretching her lips widely apart and admitting the heinous instrument.
It is obvious to her what is going to happen. Rukimo is going to shove his thick, black cock into her mouth. It has hardened now and Rukimo steps nearer. He says something to the other men that she does not understand, but they all laugh. The girl is determined not to give these brutal and callous men the satisfaction of seeing her fight and protest against their use of her mouth. She holds her head still, not struggling, as Rukimo holds her hair with one hand and, with the other, aims his steely rod at the nice, round hole.
But Rukimo wants to play first. He rubs his cock across her outstretched lips, against her cheeks. She is disgusted by his antics. She has closed her eyes to shut out what is happening, and Rukimo rubs his cock there too, pushing against her eyelids with its tip. Her body is taut with tension. She feels someone stroking her exposed sex. She cannot turn to see who it is.
It is the tall, thin man, who is called Thorndike. He uses no first name and no one has ever asked him what it is. The name Thorndike is probably fictional anyway. He has been stroking the lips to the girl’s pussy, watching it slowly respond. The girl tries to clench her thighs, but that is impossible. A small glistening of moisture appears and Thorndike makes a joke. There is more laughter.
Rukimo has decided that the time has come to push his cock past the ring of hard rubber inside the girl’s mouth. He feels her tongue retreating from this harsh invasion. The girl’s face registers her displeasure and a small moan escapes her lips. Rukimo presses forward, seeking entrance to the girl’s throat. As she realizes what is happening, the girl panics. Her airway is obstructed by the huge, hard tube of meat. Her eyes open. Rukimo is staring down at her, amused. He is gently rubbing his cock back and forth across the opening to the girl’s throat, just enough into it to prevent the passage of air.
The girl now is coughing and sputtering. Despite her earlier resolution to remain passive in the face of the invasions of her body to come, she is now jerking her body frantically, trying to twist and turn her head to expel Rukimo’s member. From her throat comes plaintive wails.
Ultimately, the point comes where the girl is afraid she will die from lack of oxygen. Her head becomes woozy and her eyelids flutter. But Rukimo is experienced in these things and pulls his cock back just enough to permit the flow of air. The girl breathes in deeply, or as deeply as she can with Rukimo’s cock in her mouth. Rukimo now presses forward again.
Having experienced the sensation of Rukimo’s
big, black cock down her throat once, the girl is ill disposed to receive it again. But the choice is not hers. This time, Rukimo glides his piece in slowly, relishing the widening eyes of the helpless female. He presses firmly on the back of her mouth, seeking entry to her throat. With a little pressure, it slides in, the bulging head blocking the entire passageway.
The helpless girl is gagging and choking. Her body convulses with panic. She believes that she will die, that she will be choked to death by a cock. The girl has not eaten or drunk for many hours. Otherwise, the heaving of her stomach could lead to disastrous results. Even so, the bile from her digestive tract leaps up and coats her esophagus, irritating the tender membranes.
Rukimo pulls out once more. He allows the girl to choke and moan. Tears are flowing down her face. She tries to speak, to beg the black man to cease his torture of her. But that is not in the black man’s mind. He needs to discharge his seed first and he intends to discharge it down her throat.
Four more times the girl is forced to swallow Rukimo’s hard tube of meat. Each time, she chokes and coughs and whines and gurgles. Finally, Rukimo gives in to the pleasure of the constricting muscles around his cock. His eyes roll back as his cock throbs and jerks within the girl’s throat. She can feel the convulsions of the flesh within, feel the warm jet of his spunk. As Rukimo pulls his now softening cock from her mouth he pats her on the cheek. “Good girl,” he says, smiling.
It is now Thorndike’s turn. He has been fondling the lips of the girl’s vagina all along and she is unwillingly wet. He gives his cock a few tugs to stiffen it and presses it between her legs. The girl is no virgin, but she is young and her pussy is tight and hot. She had barely recovered from her ordeal at Rukimo’s hands when she feels the lips of her crevasse being spread open and the unmistakable pressure of a prick in her tight sheath.