by Paul Blades
“…oooooooo! …eeeease!” she yelled. She shook her head and tried to pull away from the man. But he held the lead that confined her neck firmly in his grasp. It was about three feet long and he slowly pulled her within arms reach with his left hand and then swung his right brutally and cruelly across her face.
The sound of the man’s large, flat hand colliding with the rebellious woman’s face echoed through the now nearly empty tavern. A couple that had been romancing in a chair in the corner, the woman draped across the man’s lap and their faces melded together, both looked up, startled. The bartender, used to nightly scenes of brutality in the place, stopped restocking the bar with bottles of the locally brewed beer and brandy and took note.
Fire broke out across Margie’s right cheek as the blow sent her stumbling. She was only able to keep her balance due to the rope that led from her neck to the man’s left hand which, being taut, stabilized her. Margie let out a wail behind the soaked, balled up fabric in her mouth.
He struck her again. This time, she lost her footing, her knees gave out and she fell to the floor at the man’s stylishly clad feet. With her hands bound behind her back, she had nothing to break her fall and she moaned as she landed hard on her shoulder and hip. The man was wearing shiny, pointed, hand sewn, black shoes. His black, cotton slacks had a crease that would slice butter. The floor was dirty and dusty and, here and there, there were puddles of spilled beer, spit and blood. Margie sobbed as the shock and pain from the second blow ran through her. She sensed the man leaning over her, felt his hand grab the knot to her leash under her neck and pull her face again towards him. A third, vicious blow crossed her face, causing her to see stars.
The man, Armando, as the old whore had called him, let the miserable woman lie befouled by the scrofulous floor for a few moments to gather herself and recover from his assault. Margie just hung her head and cried inconsolably. Her bound hands behind her were balled into little fists as an expression of her helplessness and misery. Why had fate determined this future for her? she asked herself unhappily as her body heaved with her sobs. What had she ever done to deserve this? Abject and miserable, she longed for death. Anything would be better than this, she thought. Anything.
“She’s not going to last very long that way,” Esquella opined, her eyes on the naked and bound, pitiful woman on the floor.
“That’s my business,” Armando replied icily. Having given the girl what he considered sufficient respite, he hauled her to her feet by the rope around her neck. Her knees were weak and her body limp and he had to hold her by the rope firmly under her chin to help her stand. His face was inches from hers. He spoke calmly and coldly to her. “You understand?” he asked her.
Margie looked back at the stony face of her new owner. When Diego had punished her, his face had been full of fury, or at least enjoyment, of the pain that he inflicted. But this man’s face showed nothing other than a grim determination to enforce his will on her. She may have preferred death, but she didn’t want the excruciating pain that she knew that the man was capable of inflicting on her. Her face glowed hotly with the aftereffects of the man’s cruel assault on it. She could taste blood from her lip. Frowning dismally, her face contorted with sorrow and fear, she nodded to the man.
“Bueno,” was all he said.
In her fear and pain, Margie’s need to evacuate her fluids had become acute. She whined and crossed her naked, pretty, pale thighs. She wanted to tell the man of her need before she embarrassed herself or committed another sin in front of him warranting punishment, but was afraid of another blow from his strong, right hand.
Esquella noted her distress. “She has to pee, Armando,” the whore said matter of factly. “Just don’t let her do it all over my floor, okay?” Having divorced herself from the lovely, but unfortunate, gringa’s future, she turned to go back to her office and count the night’s receipts. On the way in, she instructed the bartender to have someone throw Pepe’s body in the river.
Armando gave Margie’s leash a tug and escorted her quickly from the tavern. His fist was still gathered under the poor woman’s chin and she had to walk with her head tilted backwards as she stumbled after him. There were no streetlights in the town of Porto Vaca, and it was very late. But the moon was still shining down on the outlaw town and it was fairly easy for the tall, aristocratic man to make his way. The streets were narrow and had been paved with slabs of shale that the people who had built the ramshackle, primitive stores and houses had brought in from a quarry not far to the west. The walking was uneven and Margie stumbled often as she struggled to keep up with the man’s long, determined strides. When they had gotten a few blocks away, he suddenly turned as if remembering something, and, after loosening his grip on the rope around Margie’s neck, snapped his fingers and pointed to the ground.
Margie knew what she was being told to do. Humiliated at her need to display this function before the well dressed, sophisticated man, she nonetheless crouched, her legs spread wide, and began to empty herself.
There was not much foot traffic on the streets of the town at this hour, but there was some. Two drunken men passed by going the other direction and she heard them laugh and make some comments to each other about her. A whore, returning from her night’s obligations, dressed gaudily, her face painted brightly, passed by and called out to her mockingly. She looked at Margie with ironic humor in her eyes. “Don’t mind me, sweetie,” she said and laughed. Others passed with no note or comment, but they all cast their eyes on her naked flesh, her swaying, bare breasts, her lewdly outstretched thighs and the bonds that were holding her a dismal, unfortunate prisoner.
It took a long time for Margie to release the built up fluids. Her owner stood by her patiently. When she was done he gave a yank to her leash and they continued on their way.
Stumbling along after the cruel man, Marjorie had time to consider her pitiable plight. She was clearly outside the reach of any lawful authority. She had no idea even where she was. Her only worldly possessions were the sandals on her feet and she was naked, gagged and bound heading to an uncertain future. The man was holding the end of the rope that was around her neck and there were a few feet between them now as she helplessly followed him along. He had a long, straight back and his black hair was neatly cut just above his collar. His walk was graceful, erect. She wondered what miseries he had in store for her. Why hadn’t he sold her? 20,000 American dollars was a lot of money, especially way out here in the jungle. She would have preferred, at second thought, life in a whorehouse better than being subject to this man’s depredations. At least there she would be considered valuable and treated in a way that would preserve her ability to attract customers. But what restraints would limit this man’s treatment of her? He had a frightening, ice-like demeanor. She sensed that his passions were dark and well hidden, but that they would burst forth in the privacy of wherever he was taking her. Her stomach was in knots and she started to cry again. “Oh, God, help me,” she pleaded silently.
The man led her on for some time. The streets wound their way this way and that. It was incongruous to the unhappy woman to be so naked and bound in the midst of what looked like, at night at least, an ordinary town. The contrast between her primitive nudity and the culture that had built the buildings and houses that they passed was disconcerting. It was like a bad dream where something happened in circumstances totally out of place, like going shopping without your pants on, or wearing a bikini in church.
The man’s footsteps ahead of her were silent, but she could hear the clip clop of her sandals on the stones as they went along. A fog had descended on the town making everything seem threatening and strange. Their progress seemed steadily up hill. Her legs were getting tired and her face still ached where the man had struck her. They came upon a series of wooden steps that had been hacked into a hillside and they began to ascend them. Margie looked up and she saw a small, castle like building looming at the top of the stairs. It was two stories high and the top had a cove
red veranda on it. She could see the flickering lights of candles or kerosene lamps inside. After a long, tiring climb, they finally reached the house. The man stopped at a simple, wooden, windowless door. He took out a set of keys, unlocked it and pulled the trembling woman inside it behind him.
Margie was shaking with fear as they ascended a dark, narrow set of stairs. They passed closed doors on two landings and then stopped at the top. There was another door and the man opened it with his keys. The door swung open and they entered.
Bright, burning lanterns sat at each corner of the large, covered veranda. The light was reflected on a finely polished, wooden floor surrounding a plush, soft, maroon carpet. The roof was vaulted with thick, heavy beams crossing under it. A four foot high, wooden wall surrounded the space with a four or five foot wide gap between it and the sloping roof above, which extended another four or five feet beyond the edge of the wall. Armando brought his captive to the center of the open space and then pointed to the floor and snapped his fingers. Margie took this as an order to kneel and she sank to her knees obediently.
A young, brown skinned woman was kneeling in the corner. She had long, straight, black hair, thick, black, arching eyebrows and was wearing a dark, reddish brown dress. The garment had a loose skirt that was draped over her knees, short, puffy sleeves and a modest, curved neckline that exhibited just the upper portions of her modest breasts. She had plump, soft lips and a pleasant face. Her eyes looked startlingly at Margie and then to the tall, thin man who was apparently her master. The man issued an order to the young woman in a language that Margie did not understand, but sounded like Portuguese. The young woman leapt to her feet and went over to a cabinet and returned with a long, white rope. She knelt in front of Armando and proffered it to him. He gave her another order and she rushed off again.
When Margie saw the man loop an end of the rope over one of the beams, her heart sank. There could be only one purpose for his actions and that was so that she could be tied to it. And there was only one reason she could think of for tying her to the beam, a beating. She was going to be whipped again.
When the man untied her hands behind her back, Margie was already whining and crying. He had one end of the rope in his hands and he tied it quickly and efficiently around her wrists in front of her. Margie looked up at his face disconsolately, her face framed by her long, strawberry blond hair, her breasts shimmering with her fear. She knew better to beg for pity. She knew that she would get none.
Taking hold of her arm, the man brought her to her feet. Her body was shaking uncontrollably and despite her efforts to remain silent, she was whining miserably. She felt her hands being tugged upwards and they rose until she was standing on her tip toes. The man then tied the other end of the rope around her upstretched hands and looped the two feet or so of rope left over in a knot above her. When Margie looked down, she saw the brown skinned woman kneeling a few feet away from the man respectfully, holding in her proffering palms a long, leather encased rising crop.
Armando did not take up the cruel instrument at once. He gave the girl another instruction and she placed the riding crop on the rug before her and made another run to the side of the veranda. While she was gone, the tall, lean man removed his finely tailored jacket and draped it over the wall behind him.
The veranda was about twenty feet long and wide. There were heavy posts at each corner where the lanterns hung. The light from the kerosene powered lamps flickered and burned a slight yellow. They were bright enough so that the details of the area could be seen, and yet dim so that it was covered by a soft, eerie illumination. The ambience made Margie think of some ancient demonic ritual that was about to take place. Certainly the man’s aspect was devilish. His face was long and bony. He had cruel eyes. And the young woman, acting the role of some kind of familiar, fit right in.
When the girl returned she was carrying a snifter of cognac. When the man took it from her, she picked up the riding crop that she had put down before and resumed her almost ceremonial posture, palms up and out and the nefarious instrument laying atop of them.
Armando took his time in examining the flesh that he had won. “What a stupid fool that bandit was,” he thought as he perused the curvaceous form of the beautiful, young woman. Of course, he hadn’t gone down to the tavern with the idea that he was going to come back with a lovely, big breasted, blond gringa as his property. He had gone there on a whim, as he occasionally did. Sometimes he was able to make deals there, for gems, cocaine, documents, anything that came along. People came there looking for money to finance their unlawful schemes and, if the idea suited him, sometimes he made an investment. He had very good connections both back in Brazil, where he was from, and in Venezuela, and few people ever crossed him and lived. On occasion, he would use one of the young whores that Esquella kept around, but he had Carmelita here for those purposes. He had bought her last spring when a Brazilian trader had brought a bevy of the young, peasant beauties over the mountain. She was properly obsequious, well trained and had a supple, youthful body and a now fully liberated sexuality.
But now the gringa was his, delivered by a hand of fate. It was too bad for the stupid bandit that he had not seen him exchange the house deck for a specially marked one. He could have pulled all four queens from the deck a hundred times out of a hundred if he had wanted too. Or an ace, if that’s what was needed.
He took a sip of the smooth, burnt tasting liquor from his snifter. Armando liked the finer things in life. It was too bad that he could not return to the more populated and less remote parts of Brazil. Living in this crude, primitive community made obtaining the good things of life difficult. But now one had been dropped right in his lap.
Taking his free hand, he placed it under the well formed, heavy right breast of his new property. He measured and weighed the soft, pleasing mound, running his thumb over the fat nipple at its end until it began to stiffen. The girl’s eyes were wide and watery. “She’s pretty,” he thought as he appreciated the firm, resilient flesh of her bosom. He stepped around her, admiring her svelte hips, her long, pale thighs, her round, pleasant rear. Taking another sip of his strong, flavorful drink, he rubbed his hand along the curve of her rear mounds appreciatively, relishing in the smoothness and firmness he found there. It was good that he saved her from the depredations of the coarse bandit. He would have ruined the bitch. While he, Armando, did not care whether the Americano slut lived or died, if she was going to be used all up, it should be at the hands of someone like him who would prolong and appreciate her suffering, not cut her throat and dump her in the river.
Fifty thousand dollars was a lot of money, even to him, but, in the back of his mind, he had an idea which might prove much more profitable. He would have to give it some thought. In the meantime, the cunt needed to learn some discipline.
Armando shot back the rest of his cognac and placed the glass on the ledge of the wall next to his jacket. He lowered his hand and retrieved the riding crop from his servant girl, Carmelita. The crop was about an inch and a half around, good enough for serious, painful blows to the muscles. It would not tear her flesh like the whip the bandit had used. But she would feel its pain acutely and learn to obey his every whim and desire without question or hesitation.
Marjorie had been watching the man intently as he circled her, wondering, in anguish when the first blow would land and where he would strike her. She saw his hand rear back and gave a plaintive “…ooooooooooh!” of futile protest from within her stuffed mouth. He struck her on the side of her right thigh, midway between her waist and the knee. It felt like someone had punched her there and she groaned in pain. He swung the heavy instrument again, this time landing it on the front of her right leg. If she had been standing, she would have collapsed from the agony as all of her muscle’s strength gave out. She moaned loudly as the deep hurt reverberated throughout her body.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmm!” she called out miserably, her eyes pouring out tears. “Why is he hurting me?” she pond
ered in her agony. “Why? What have I done?”
Her eyes had shut when she suffered the first blows, but she opened them to try and communicate her supplication for mercy to the cruel, emotionless man. He didn’t smile, his features did not convey anger or enjoyment of his task. His dark eyes pierced hers for just one moment and then he proceeded with his work.
The poor girl’s body writhed and swayed as she reacted to the man’s abuse. He struck her breasts twice, causing a deep, mind numbing agony to go through her. He belabored both of her thighs equally, along the sides, fronts and backs, her ribs, the lower part of her belly, the upper portions of her back, just below and to the sides of her shoulder blades. He saved his mightiest blows for her soft, round ass, and even the thick, but graceful layers of fat there did not prevent a sickening flow of pain to travel throughout her flesh.
When the man paused from his efforts, Margie thought that he was done. Her whole body seemed like one large bruise. Her muscles throbbed and ached. Her throat was hoarse from screaming, screams that even the large ball of cloth in her mouth did not suppress. He gave a command to the girl who was dutifully kneeling nearby, her sympathetic eyes taking in the beautiful blond woman’s plight, and she dashed off back to the cabinet and returned with another length of rope. Armando knelt at Margie’s feet and removed first one, then the other of her imported Italian sandals and cast them aside. The loss of the additional height that the inch high soles of the footwear had given her put more pressure on the poor girl’s bound arms above her. It became worse when the man tied off one end of the rope around her ankle, threw the loose end over the rafter and pulled her right leg high into the air. Only the two longest toes of her left foot could make contact with the soft carpet below her.
Margie realized the vulnerability that was created by her new pose and she blubbered desperate entreaties to the man. He stood next to her and caressed the smooth, pale interior of her distended thighs and cupped the delicate folds of her pudenda. When she saw the girl deliver a new instrument of torture to the man, Margie began to shake and tremor violently, uttering desperately, “…oh! …eeeeease! …oh!”