by K. Walker
“Sit down,” Tomas said. “Sit on the bed.” He was quiet for a moment. My heart was thumping. Suddenly the whole atmosphere had changed. It wasn’t about food, or even about my ransom money. It was charged with sex. Maybe pheromones are real. Maybe we can smell them if conditions are right.
“I don’t suppose you are a virgin or anything foolish like that?” he asked. “After all, you must be a college girl by now.”
“No, I’m not and what does that have to do with anything.” But I knew.
“While you are here, you will fuck for your dinner.” And he reached for me.
I didn’t think about anything, instinct took over. I jumped to my feet, planted my left foot, and lashed out hard with my right, a Jodan mawashi kick just as I had been taught. If it had connected, it would have messed up his guts but good. And then I suppose the men outside would have killed me.
But it didn’t land. Maybe I hadn’t trained enough with this move, which is too dangerous to use in competition. Maybe I was stiff and a little slow. Also, he was very fast. He, slipped to the side, and snatched my ankle in an iron grip, holding it high in the air. I was helpless, hopped ineffectually on the left foot.
“So, you’re not a coward. That’s interesting to know,” he said, and flipped me easily onto my stomach, grabbing my other arm as he did so and tumbling me forward half onto the bed.
“Show some common sense,” he whispered into my ear. “You’re not an innocent. This doesn’t have to hurt you. If not for me, Carlos or Juan would probably have killed you back on the road. They are afraid of the police, and you are a witness. Give in, and live. You are not likely to hurt me whatever you do – but if you did, think about what would follow for you.” I did think, and slumped in defeat. He released me and stepped back.
“Strip,” he said. I took of my jacket, my sweat-stained Polo shirt, my jeans, my hiking boots and socks. I had a sudden ridiculous thought and spoke it before thinking.
“I’m dirty.”
“We are not fussy here. Step aside.” I did so, and he pulled the mattress partly off the bed onto the floor nearby. “Lie down on it.” I did, and in one swift movement he removed my panties and left me completely naked.
“Hold out your arms to each side!” I did so, and from a pocket he produced a roll of strong twine. He began tying my left arm to the upright of the bed, wrapping the wrist many times. To do that, he leaned across my body. I could have punched him. But, truthfully, what was the point? Three men were on the porch, I was naked in the Andes in a valley filled with his friends. He moved to the other wrist and tied it likewise. My head was slightly propped up on the mattress, leaning against the side of the bed. I could see everything.
“Afraid of a girl?” I mocked him.
“Not even a little bit”, he replied. He began to strip. “But I respect that you are a little brave and a little foolish, and I don’t want you to be harmed.” Uniform, olive drab boxer short, boots, socks, he stripped totally bare. By the lantern light, his stomach was a washboard and the muscles on his shoulders made lumps. He knelt beside me on the mattress and took my mouth with a deep kiss. I tried to ignore it, tried to be passive, but his tongue probed ruthlessly. He bent over my breasts and began to tease the nipples. His big calloused hand spread my legs and with feathery strokes began to caress my sex. I still had a small bit of defiance.
“Why are you working so hard? This is not a seduction.”
“Don’t make things worse than they need to be. One way or the other you are mine tonight. I will use you however I like. But I am not cruel. Let your body capture you. Relax.” For a time there was no sound but our breathing. His stroking began to have an effect. My sex opened like a flower. I knew I was wet. I began to cry, but my hips thrust upward.
“You bastard,” I said as he entered me. “If you had asked me nice, I might have given it to you.”
“You can give and I will accept gladly. But I don’t ask,” he said, moving slowly at first. “While you are here, you are my slave. Perhaps you can learn to enjoy that. But a slave, come what may,” and he began a punishing pounding pace.
The first time, I didn’t come. I was a little proud of that, as though I had won a victory over him. But he was hard again within minutes, and this time my body would not be denied. I cried out and kicked and shook with a feeling beyond pleasure, something primeval, something wired into the genes, given to us women to compensate for so much else.
His seed filled me and ran down my leg onto the mattress. He began to dress.
“Aren’t you going to untie me?”
“No, “he said. “For your own sake. You see, I share everything with my men.” And he left me. Outside, I heard him say to the others…
“Fuck her until your pricks fall off, but don’t hurt her. No biting. No hitting. Or you answer to me. She is worth money and I don’t want her damaged.”
They were on me like a wolf pack, young Juan the student going first while each of the others sucked a breast. His dick was as big around as his wrist, but he didn’t last long. Then they traded off. It went on and on, hours. I thrashed, I howled, nobody cared. My senses overloaded. I came again and then again, they wrung it out of me. Three healthy young men who had not had a woman in weeks, all on me. I passed out finally, I don’t know if they stopped then or continued. Next morning, I awoke stiff at dawn, splashed with come from hips to knees like a frosted donut, one wrist handcuffed to the bed, a blanket thrown over me, naked, helpless, in the Andes. I turned my face from the open door and went back to sleep.
Chapter Three: Life on the Run, Naked
When I awakened again, it was to find Tomas seated on the mattress, holding me sprawled against his chest. He was as naked as I. I felt a great weariness and passivity. He had a bottle of water in his right hand, and was gently trying to feed me sips. I took them little by little until the bottle was empty and I began to feel better — sore and dirty, but awake. I was no longer handcuffed. Tomas helped me to my feet and led me stumbling to a door that I had not noticed before. There was a small bathroom, a tile floor with a drain, a big tin tub and a water pipe coming out of the wall with a lever on it.
“Sit down in the tub, and don’t move” he said. I slumped. There was about six inches of warm water already in the tub
Tomas stepped away, returning in seconds with a large pot of water steaming from the fire. He tempered it with water from the pipe, then began ladling the warm water over my body with a dipper. Little by little the grime and dried sweat and come transferred itself to the tub. My hair was soaked.
“Stand up,” he ordered, and this time I raised myself unaided. He stood close to me and wrapped a strong arm tightly around my waste, pulling me tight.
“The water will be cold. Rinse off and don’t complain.” He flipped the lever open wide, and a stream of chilly water hit my face and chest and cascaded down. I yelled and tried to move, but he held me fast.
“Bastard!” I snarled, but after a minute it didn’t feel so shocking.
“Last night you said you were dirty, which is even more true this morning. You must be clean to stay healthy. Don’t be a baby,” and he ruthlessly scrubbed my front and back and legs in the stream of water, and incidentally himself. At last he turned it off.
“There is no towel. Stand there until you dry.” My pack was in a corner, he opened it and tossed me my hairbrush, then stalked naked from the room, closing the door to the kitchen as he went. I heard laughter outside, damn them! The room was dark, no windows, but enough light seeped under the door. No towel, no sheets on the bed. I thought about drying off on a blanket, but they were coarse wool, so I did stand there for maybe fifteen minutes, thinking the whole time, my mind gradually getting clearer, brushing my hair over and over, hundreds of strokes, until it was somewhat dry and the rest of me air dried.
I blamed myself. For letting things start with Angelo, then for not managing that better, and for buying into his crooked plan about a purchased degree. I had been dishonest,
and a fool when I thought I was smart, and now I was in a hell of a mess. I thought about Mom, how she would feel when she learned that I had disappeared. I shed a tear, but shook off the mood. Somehow, I would get out. I would look for chances, and not be stupid, and I would get home.
My clothes were gone. In my pack, I found the one pair of shorts and the bikini he had left me, and put them on for lack of anything else, also clean socks and my boots. There was a squeeze bottle of body lotion in the pack, I slathered my sex with that, which helped the soreness. As I was finishing, the door opened. Tomas was back, in his cop suit.
“There is food. Come out.” Breakfast was coffee, eggs and bacon, and fresh fruits. Fatty was the cook as before. We ate around a small table in the kitchen. Ignoring me, they talked among themselves about what to do next. It seemed they had been operating from this village for a month, and it was time to move. Nobody looked at me.
“Please, where are the clothes I wore yesterday,’ I asked Tomas. I made my voice soft and deferential.
“An Indian woman washed them, they are drying on a line. We will take them with us when we go. Watch her,“ he added to the others as he went outside. He was gone about half an hour. They let me sit on the porch. By the sun, it was about ten o’clock. Fatty cleaned up and put the cooking gear in his pack. Everything seemed ready for departure. Tomas strode back up the hill, a bundle of my clothing under his arm.
“These are nearly dry, pack them anyway, you can spread them out the next time we stop.” Like he was the Scoutmaster or something. Last night rape, this morning concerned I not get moldy?
Fatty brought my pack from inside. He looked embarrassed as he handed it to me. I put the clothes away and, without further discussion or and any goodbye to the Indians, we set off down the valley single file.
We walked for an hour, to a road. Tomas shackled me to a tree behind a bump of hill, out of sight of the road. The four of them gathered branches to block the road. I could hear them talking. Minutes later, a car engine was heard in the distance. The noise stopped moving just the other side of the hill. I heard angry voices, then a burst of gunfire. Not pistols, automatic rifle fire. I’m a western girl, I know the difference. Carlos came running, and unlocked my handcuffs.
“Move, move quick,” he ordered, and hustled me to the road.
Lying on the ground were two men in uniform, close to a big Toyota land cruiser with police markings, its engine still running. Fatty and Carlos grabbed the bodies and began dragging them off the road and into a convenient ditch. Tomas was wiping up the blood, using a cut branch heavy with leaves as his broom. A deadfall tree was rolled onto the men, and additional branches and dirt. I just stood there. They seemed awfully quick to kill people. I wondered what that said about my own chances.
Tomas stuffed the policemen’s pistols into his pack, and all the packs went in the rear. At his curt order, I climbed into the back seat along with Juan and Carlos, Fatty sat up front, Tomas drove. Two, three minutes maybe, we were off down the dirt road at a good pace.
“Do you kill everybody you rob?” I asked Tomas. He glanced over his shoulder to give me an enigmatic look.
“Of course not, we’re not animals. But we needed a car. We would have taken anything, but those cops came first and they showed fight. If they had been quiet, I would have left them tied to a tree a good distance from the road. For us, of course, this is probably better. Now shut up, you talk too much.”
We rolled down that road and a succession of others, some paved, mostly not, for many hours. We never stopped for lunch. Fatty gave me a piece of bread and cheese and we ate as we drove. They seemed to know the way; we never passed through a town, and only a couple of small hamlets. Tomas kept the radio on the police band until we got out of range, then juggled between other stations looking for news. There was no mention of a missing car or officers. Fatty asked him to find some music, and Tomas told him not to be stupid. Sure enough, late in the afternoon we heard a broadcast that the bodies of two police had been found. Tomas immediately looked for a side road leading into the jungle, drive a half mile, we climbed out with all the gear and they pushed the car over a cliff into a ravine. We were on foot again, but a long way from where they stole the car. We stuck to dirt paths. For a time, we followed a ridgeline looking down onto forest and occasional hamlets.
As the sun was setting, we entered a small notch cut out of a hillside. A spring gushed from the rocks and made a pool before spilling down hill. There was a fairly flat grassy spot near some pine trees.
“This will do,” said Thomas. I collapsed in a heap, as tired as I have ever been. They swiftly set up camp. They cut branches to make five soft beds of pine. They strung a rope between two trees, and put a poncho over it to make a refuge in case it rained. Thomas tossed me a box of wooden matches.
“See if you can get two fires going.”
It seemed smart to obey. If I was useful, maybe they would treat me better. There was a double fire ring already, the nearby grass was blackened and dead. In the center of each ring, three big stones made a foundation for a pot. I gathered kindling, made two teepees, and in a few minutes had fires blazing amid the stones. Fatty removed some bags and cans from his pack, added material from the others, put a medium pot over one fire and a skillet over the other. Dinner was rice and sausages. The water from the spring was cool and good. I drank my fill, and they all filled their canteens. The other three retired to their beds. Tomas and I remained sprawled by the dying fires.
“We will have another long walk tomorrow,” he said. “You need to sleep.”
“You almost seem to care sometimes,” I sad quietly. “When you’re not raping me.” He gave me a sour look.
“You have no idea what this country is like. There are so many people much much worse than I. Even my own men, they are not bad by nature but they have been through too much. Carlos and Juan take few chances. Fatty is more merciful. You should accept, that I will treat you as well as I can afford, but no more.”
“What have they been through?” He shrugged.
“No harm in telling you. Carlos helped deliver stuff to a coke lab. He didn’t handle the drugs, just brought them food and other supplies. One day the police came. They had paid protection, but another gang of narco’s wanted the territory and they paid the police more to eliminate them. The police killed everybody and, as they were leaving, they shot up the little nearby hamlet where Carlos lived. They killed his wife and his only child. He was harvesting potatoes a mile away. He hates police like fire. He will never be taken alive.”
“And Juan? He seems very young to be so hardened.” Tomas looked grim.
“He was a colegio student who wanted to go to university, but dropped out from poverty. He took to snatching purses in the street. The police caught him and threw him into a jail, where the older inmates…” He hesitated, “Let’s just say they treated him badly. He got out when a riot broke down the doors. Don’t ever mention this. He is deeply ashamed of what they did to him, it makes him hate the whole world, and he also will never be taken alive.”
“What about Fatty?”
“He was a university student, got involved in politics, and accidentally killed a policeman who was trying to arrest him at a demonstration. His family are all anti-Chavez. He feels guilty about the cop. Fatty doesn’t know his own strength sometimes. He is on the regime hit list now, they will kill him if he is ever taken. He’s not the sort who usually ends up an outlaw. If Chavez ever falls, Fatty will probably be pardoned. That is his hope. Meanwhile, he tried to be merciful.” I took all this on board.
“Will you tell me what happens next?”
“We are making for an Indian village, where I was a year ago. It is a long walk, at least a week, very isolated and safe once we get there. We will send word to your family that you are kidnapped, and how they can pay the ransom. The village will be our refuge while we wait. When that is paid, we will release you somewhere near a town. You see, not so bad. An adventure.”
“Why should I kill a good fuck,” he replied with equal calmness. “But, it will be better for us all if the money is paid. If you are telling the truth, I still think somebody will pay.”
“Will you sell me to somebody? Somebody like Pablito?”
“No, that’s not the sort of thing I do. And I wouldn’t sell a dead dog to Pablito.” Suddenly stern, he added, “Time to sleep.” He got up and began rummaging in his pack, then stepped toward me with some things in his hands.
“I can’t leave you unrestrained. You might try to escape. And I have to isolate you from the weapons. This is not optional. I am not a safe person to defy. Understood? Stretch out your leg."
His tone was gentle. I reminded myself that he was a dirty rapist. But I was well fed, tired, sleepy and didn’t want a pointless fight. I held out my left leg without hesitation, and he clicked a handcuff onto the ankle. He clicked the other handcuff of the set through a link of narrow but strong steel chain. Then he walked me to my bed, which (I now noticed) was close to a substantial tree. He wrapped the chain around that tree, and attached it to itself with a padlock. I could lie comfortably on my pine bed. I could even stand up. But I could move only a few feet in any directions. He went to his pack, returned with a mosquito net and a thin nylon sheet, and tossed them to me. He looked down where I lay.
“I never raped anybody before you. I never killed anybody before I came to this shit hole,” he added. His voice was full of regret. I was astonished.
“You’re not Venezuelan?”
“You talk too much and so do I.”
“So, why did you do that last night?” I felt as through suddenly this was a field trip to another civilization, and I was the anthropologist.
“Have you ever seen “Treasure of the Sierra Madre?” This, with a mocking tone.
“Now we are discussing movies?”