by Unknown
‘Can’t you wait till she’s gone?’ I hissed, embarrassed. Exhibitionism has its place and frankly before a middle-aged female servant just wasn’t it in my book.
‘She doesn’t understand English,’ he assured me, though as she had returned with the coffee just at the moment where I was describing rather loudly and thickly that Ulla was fondling my arse, cunt and clit I felt myself blush. Even I knew the Spanish for the first two. Apart from anything, my voice sounded exactly like the voice of someone on the verge of an orgasm. However she seemed completely oblivious to the sound effects, her lined face bent in concentration over the tray.
My embarrassment deepened for different reasons when I heard myself describing sex with Carlos and even worse with Red and Robbie. He was obviously taken aback by my enthusiastic description of the size of Red’s cock. Jorge had left out his questions about the guys and ended the tape with me coming. You know I would have sworn I either shut up or shouted but I was groaning and moaning just like, well, like the American girlies. I wondered if I was always like that or whether I’d put it on a bit to avoid Jorge’s spytrap, but I could hardly ask Carlos.
I liked it better when he replayed it later after he’d dismissed Maria. He took the part of Ulla, touching me when she did, and as you can imagine also tying me to the table. As he brought me to orgasm in sync with the voiceover I self-consciously gritted my teeth and came in silence. But though listening had turned me on it didn’t seem to affect Carlos; after he had made me come he untied me and said he wanted to wait for me. It wasn’t the first time, so I shrugged and went to bed.
We had our own rooms, which was fine by me. Bed was usually the only place that lent itself to sex when you’re camping, but in a big house with a secluded garden and swimming pool, the next week was going to present plenty of opportunities
So I thought on night one. However the ensuing two-day tour of the island gave us little time to ourselves at all, never mind time to indulge in a relaxed screw. Carlos drove all over the island; he genuinely seemed interested in my reaction to the place as a potential holiday destination. He explained that parts of the island had been spoiled by logging operations, so it could only be improved. Some of the beaches on the populated east coast were good; the towns were attractive and the people were friendly. We ate superb seafood in quaint wooden restaurants set on stilts over the sea and picnicked in the national park on the west coast, on the longest, whitest, sandiest beach I’ve seen in my life.
Red and Robbie often went on about deforestation and for the life of me I couldn’t see why a holiday park would be worse than a neglected forest. I had to point out to Carlos, however, that I myself hate formula holiday resorts and wouldn’t have visited the island if there was any danger of being forced to go on tours with jolly bus drivers handing out bingo cards.
‘This isn’t going to be that tacky, Bliss. But you know millions of people do want organised tours and on-site entertainment. Look at the Caribbean. Most people who go there are in tourist complexes. That’s what people like.’
Well, I couldn’t argue. Even friends of mine who used to rough it in India and Morocco had taken up packages to new resorts in Salvador or the Dominican Republic. It was so nice, they said, to have everything laid on and not have to spend all your time with your nose in guidebooks deciding which were the best places to go and the cheapest hotels to stay in. But it made me realise that Red and Robbie were right; those Caribbean compounds surely weren’t owned by local businesses, but by multinational corporations. I even wondered if maybe the dangers of travelling freely in the Caribbean islands hadn’t been exaggerated by those same corporations to frighten people into staying in the compounds, buying their food and drink and souvenirs there. And what had the boys said about importing the food and drink as well?
I decided not to run that one by Carlos. After all I was supposed to be gathering information, not trying to dissuade him from getting on with the job.
He promised we would spend the next day relaxing by the pool, though my first encounter made me anything but relaxed. The gardener was trimming a hedge – not too surprising, as I didn’t see Carlos brandishing a pair of shears, though I bet he’d pounce on a roll of garden twine – and greeted me with a ‘Buenas días, señora’. Then he added in English, ‘My name is Franco, as in General.’
‘Oh, good. I mean, hello, Franco.’ Was I supposed to say anything else?
He smiled and moved to the other side of the hedge. I quickly figured that there was no point having a code unless you suspected someone might overhear or maybe even that the garden would be bugged – can you bug a garden? Well, I suppose if you can bug the president of the United States, there’s no limit. I feared I was being a hopeless spy and stopped peering at the hedge for a hidden microphone and sat by the pool.
I guess I was supposed to be comforted by the presence of Franco/Moneypenny/Steve but, although I had dismissed the idea of Carlos doing me any harm during the last two days, I was uneasily aware that unless both the guys and F/M/S were nuts, there was obviously some danger involved here. But as Carlos joined me dressed in nothing but blue swimming shorts I rationalised my reawakened fear. F/M/S was also intelligence gathering, just like me. Just because I had his number in case of emergency didn’t mean that they thought Carlos was out to harm me, but that they were taking unnecessary if rather sweet precautions. It was a bit like my dad’s insurance policy, a well-meaning but extravagant safety net put in place just to show they cared.
Carlos and I had fun racing each other – his crawl was better but my breaststroke is quite honestly superb – and rubbing each other with suntan lotion while we talked non-stop. Maria appeared with a salad lunch and a couple of beers and then Carlos said he had to work but he could do it at the poolside. It was fine by me because I had neglected my postcard duties for weeks so I settled down to the ones I’d bought in Castro the previous day.
G’day Kippo!
Carlos – sorry, Charlie – and I are having a week’s holiday on lovely Chiloe. Weather is great, no restraints so far – geddit??! – but after two days touring the island and today relaxing by the pool I have great hopes that we’ll be tied up later, if you get my drift. You’ll see from the greeting I’m also still getting into my Australians, or rather vice versa . . . hope your end holding up too. Blisso.
Carlos looked up from his laptop as Maria came out to ask if we wanted coffee. We didn’t, but I seized the interruption to ask him what seemed to me to be a key question.
‘I thought we were going to be relaxing in other ways here,’ I said with a raised eyebrow to illustrate the sort of ways I meant. ‘There’s this terrific garden, the pool, a great big house; but there’s also Maria and the gardener.’
‘Franco,’ said Carlos automatically. I nodded. I hadn’t known whether he would know that I knew his name. ‘So? You want to involve them?’
‘Very funny. Just the opposite. What I mean is, as long as they’re around, we’re hardly free to take advantage of this nice private garden, are we?’
‘Oh, I see. Well, Franco’s only here twice a week for a few hours; I think you’ll find he’s gone now. As for Maria, I’ve got quite a bit of entertaining to do while I’m here and it seemed a bit presumptuous to expect you to do the cooking and cleaning.’
‘Sure. But couldn’t she just come in the evening to do the cooking? She’s in and out all day.’
The chair scraped harshly on the concrete as he pushed it back and came round to stand behind me. He pulled my bikini top down and fondled my breasts with both hands. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in his attention, fantasising about where it was leading.
‘Maria!’ he shouted.
Oh, shit. He laughed and I realised I’d spoken out loud. Maria bustled out through the French doors and stood in front of the table. I saw her eyes flicker over my breasts, where Carlos was busy teasing the nipples into hard points, her coarse face impassive.
‘Si, señor?’
He spoke to h
er quickly in Spanish while I lowered my eyes. It was far too quick and informal for me to pick up on. She answered him, her voice giving no clue as to what she might be saying or thinking, but I could guess. What a shameless tart, so far sunk in depravity she didn’t think anything of being groped semi-naked in front of the staff.
I could hardly tell her how wrong that was. For a start, my Spanish wasn’t good enough to explain that although I may be a tart, I was an unpaid one. And it would have been difficult to convey that I did indeed feel shame, and in fact I was feeling it keenly right now. But what I would have had most trouble communicating was the fact that it was precisely because of the shame that I had a pulse throbbing hard between my legs.
Carlos said something else and she turned and went back into the house. He raised me out of the chair and undid my bikini top.
‘I explained your “fear” of exhibitionism,’ he said almost contemptuously, still idly toying with my breasts, ‘and that I hadn’t got round to telling you that the terms of her contract are that she may see many things of a sexual nature while she works for me. She’s indifferent and unshockable and she won’t talk.’ He smiled cynically. ‘Not as long as I keep paying her twice the going rate.’
‘So what did she say?’
‘That it’s none of her business and it doesn’t offend her in the slightest. You know, Bliss –’ he sounded thoughtful ‘– I think she rather enjoyed that little display, don’t you? I bet you did.’
His hand darted down my bikini bottoms before I had a chance to guess what he was going to do and he laughed as my wetness proved he had won his bet. His dark eyes mocked me, glinting with mischief. Then he lifted his face from mine.
‘Gracias, Maria. Momento, por favor.’
She was back. Holding a coil of rope, the kind we used to hang washing on when I was a kid. Standing patiently with it in one hand, a knife and bottle in the other, her narrow, glittering eyes watching Carlos’s hand moving in my pants. Watching Carlos pull them down to my knees and watching his hand move back to my blatant, wanton sex.
Her eyes didn’t move from that spot. As he rubbed my clitoris she stood there as though she was studying it until she raised her eyes to mine. Something glinted in there – insolence? jealousy? excitement? – and I think she almost smiled. I came without remembering not to make a noise, my legs buckling slightly.
‘Then I asked her to fetch the rope and knife and sunblock,’ he continued, as though there had been no gap in his explanation of their earlier conversation. He took the sunblock from her hand and rubbed it over my breasts and back, then pulled my bikini pants right off and rubbed it over my buttocks and bikini area. ‘I don’t want you to get burned.’
He sat me down on the chair and took the rope and knife. Maria went back inside and he turned back to me.
‘She was so impassive at the interview I knew she’d be perfect,’ he said conversationally as he wrapped the rope around me twice, just above my breasts, knotting it firmly at the back. My arms and body were tied tight together round the chair. Then he crossed the rope diagonally down and in between my breasts in both directions like a crossover bra, and pulled it around again underneath, winding it right down to my waist. Picking up the knife he cut the rope and knotted it once more. Then he pulled my legs slightly apart so he could lash each ankle to the chair leg.
This was different from corsets and chains and smooth black leather restraints. I’d thought he’d taught me everything I would need to know about bondage, but I realised that so far I’d only dabbled in the softcore stuff. This was the hardcore.
In black leather I’d felt sexy and desirable, which had been emphasised by the tightness of the belt or lacings. Naked and bound with washing line didn’t make me feel an object of lust, though as long as Carlos thought it did it was fine by me. At least the rope didn’t feel as rough as it looked, but he’d tied it tight enough to bite into my skin. I wondered if it would leave red marks and if that was what he wanted.
‘I hope you enjoy this as much as our previous little games,’ he said equably, sitting down at the table again and adjusting his chair for a better view of me. ‘It’s not quite as soft focus, but it’s to my taste. What do you think?’
‘I think I should have waited before I wrote my postcard to Kip,’ I said faintly. ‘Apart from that, I’ll let you know later. I’m used to thinking on my feet, not tied to a garden chair.’
He chuckled. ‘Lovely, Bliss. I’ve been dreaming about this, sitting here working with you at my side, beautifully bound. The rope is so much more real, isn’t it? Not so elegant, of course. But we’ll save elegance for the evening.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘As long as this is only my daywear and I’m still to be dressed for dinner, I’ll survive.’
‘Talking of which, we’re entertaining some important contacts tonight,’ he added casually. ‘So you’ll definitely be dressed to impress.’
‘Let’s just get one thing straight here,’ I said warily. Being tied naked to a chair meant I didn’t have much bargaining power but I had to make sure from the start there were no misunderstandings. I wasn’t going to be gangbanged by half of Chiloe just because Carlos assumed I’d like it. ‘I didn’t come here to screw your contacts, or whatever you call them, either willingly or unwillingly. If you thought I’d be up for it you’re wrong and I’ll go now. And if you don’t give a toss and you’re going to have me raped, I’ll scream. Until I’m sick.’
He laughed. ‘I sincerely hope you don’t seriously think I’m a rapist, either in person or by proxy. And no, I’m not expecting you to screw my contacts. What I would like, if it doesn’t outrage your sense of propriety too much, is for you to be well dressed, flash a tantalising glimpse of cleavage and stocking, be as charming to my guests as your appalling Spanish will allow and generally just let them see what lovely companions can be bought if they’ll only hitch their wagon to my star. Capisce?’
‘That’s Italian,’ I said sulkily. ‘OK, I didn’t really see you as a rapist, but a girl has to make sure we’re all in the same ballpark. How many men have I got to flash my tits at?’
‘Only three,’ he replied. ‘Three very important men, however, as far as my project’s concerned. Two are government officials and one’s a landowner. But don’t worry, you won’t be the only girl. A friend of mine from Lima is coming as well. She can speak Spanish, so she’ll be more use than you.’ He looked at his watch. ‘She’ll be here pretty soon, actually.’
I had a glimmer of an idea as to who that was. ‘Susie, I presume.’
‘Jorge told me you’d seen the pictures,’ he teased. ‘Attractive, isn’t she?’
‘Stunning,’ I admitted. ‘So does that mean she’ll be the recipient of your attentions tonight?’
‘Maybe,’ he said consideringly. ‘Maybe you will. Or neither of you. Or both. Although –’ he leaned towards me ‘– if I spend the afternoon watching you motionless and helpless, that delicious juice trickling out between your parted thighs, then I don’t think I’ll be able to resist you.’
His eyes were on my pussy, displayed for him. He got off on watching me, helpless. I had an inkling of why this turned him on, and shivered myself.
Carlos came towards me again and softly fingered my wetness. I sighed. Helpless and displayed. Motionless, defenceless. I could buy into this.
‘Then again, sometimes after dinner I don’t feel very . . . active. Sometimes I like to watch. Maybe you and Susie? I know she’d like to – if you wanted?’
Not only was I not required to sell myself in the cause of mass tourism, not only was I being instructed in the finer, or rather rougher, points of bondage, but also I was being promised a luscious redhead and an audience. Didn’t I do well?
It seemed forever since I’d left Gabi and while I tried to picture myself turning down the chance of a scene with Susie I had to admit that I’d have more chance of having a shit in the Queen’s handbag, as Kip would so succinctly put it.
Six sophisticated
adults sat round an elegant dinner table, laughing, eating and drinking. The women were glamorously attired and the men wore smart dark suits; the conversation was in two languages. The food was good and the wine the best Chile had to offer. On the surface it was a civilised evening.
But the guests were strangers, invited in order to assess how easily they could be bribed. The women were there to inspire lust in the guests, if only for the money that could buy them. And, as far as I was concerned, it was a prelude to lazy and luscious, or fast and furious, sex with Susie. I didn’t care which way she wanted to play it. The various undercurrents lent the evening a surreal air.
It amused me to flirt with the ‘contacts’. When Carlos had mentioned local politicians I instantly thought they’d be like some of the borough councillors I’d met through Vicki – the loud-mouthed, thick as two short planks, only elected because no one else wanted to stand variety. Mind you, if you knew the borough she works in. . .
These men were charming. I found myself thinking that I’d really been too precipitate with Carlos and I wouldn’t have minded flashing more than cleavage at Señor Riviera, or was it Ribera? I ought to find out for Red and Robbie. But I immediately erased that thought from my mind; I was turning into a really bad girl.
Señor R, or Miguel, as we were on first name terms, was the junior of the local government guys, slim and dark – well of course they were all dark, being Chilean – with thick eyebrows, an elegant nose and sensuous lips. Maybe I liked him best because he could manage a few words of English and seemed to understand my Spanish better than the others. His boss, Fernando, was the only tall man at the table, cadaverously thin with a wolfish face. I reckoned Carlos would be all right there; he would definitely be the type to take backhanders.