Los Zetas Cartel Collection (3 book series)

by AJ Adams

  Just thinking about Him gave me the shivers, so I leaned into the muscled body beside me and put my hand next to his. I really wanted to hold it, just for comfort, but I was scared of waking him. I lay there, thinking frightened thoughts of the future. I knew I was kidding myself that I was safe here. I knew He’d find me eventually. The thought scared me witless.

  “Can’t sleep?” His voice was soft and clear in my ear. He sounded like he’d been awake all the time.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you, Master. Please forgive me.” I ran my face over his hand apologetically as I spoke. It was a reflex I’d totally forgotten about. It’s what I used to do to placate Him. All those years and it was still there, hiding just beneath the surface. I write in my dream book that I am free but the truth is that I will never be free of Him. I shouldn’t kid myself.

  The hulk wasn’t moving or saying anything but his stillness told me he was thinking. I wondered if I’d messed up. Was he angry? Did he like what I’d just done? Maybe he thought I’d gone barmy. I didn’t have a clue, and I was too depressed to care very much.

  It gets me that way sometimes. Life’s a bitch, ‘cause if it was a slut, it’d be easy. No matter what you do, you end up neck-deep in shit. There’s no point in fighting. There really isn’t. Sometimes I get so tired that I just roll with the punches. But for some reason, I can’t give up completely. I can’t just let myself drift and die. I want to live.

  So I lay there and waited to see what he’d do. For a long minute he didn’t move. Then there was a kiss on my shoulder and a telltale bulge against my bum. “A workout will help.”

  What can I say about what happened next? In a word, it was magic.

  He started by putting one arm under my shoulders, curling his hand round to stroke my hair and face. He didn’t ask me to touch him; he didn’t say anything at all. He just lay there, holding me warm in the curve of his body as his other hand explored gently, massaging my arms, my breasts, my stomach, my hips and my thighs.

  He took his time, rubbing, running the tips of his fingers over tickly spots like my nipples and chuckling softly when I began to relax and then to moan with pleasure. I became intensely aware of his muscles flexing against my skin as his hands roamed over me. He was seriously built, but his skin, or the bits that weren’t scarred, was super soft.

  When he started murmuring how wonderful I was and fingering that sweet spot between my legs, I almost came on the spot. I hadn’t a clue what he was saying most of the time, but I do know that ti takaya krasIvaya means that I’m gorgeous in Russian, and that suay is me being beautiful in Thai.

  I should have been one big bruise, all things considered, but between the painkillers that were still working away inside me and the whispering in my ear, I was ready to please him. Or to be more honest, me. I knew he wanted me. His cock was rubbing up against me, swollen to the size of a policeman’s truncheon and so ready for me that I could practically feel it throbbing.

  I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to speak, so I hinted that I wouldn’t mind a bit of how’s your father by accidentally-on-purpose wriggling my arse so that his erection was sliding between my cheeks. When he groaned, I licked the hand that was stroking my forehead. He liked that, so I took another liberty and began running my tongue over his knuckles before slowly going down on his thumb in a very meaningful way. The way his hips juddered against mine, I knew he was just delaying getting inside me because he was enjoying himself.

  I flexed my body slowly. It was something He had taught me, but I wasn’t thinking of that. I wanted to make this man happy, and I was pretty sure he’d enjoy feeling my tits jiggling in his hands as my arse massaged his knob.

  I was spot on because he gave a groan, rolled on a condom and settled himself between my legs. I was hoping he’d put it in and go for it, but he held back. Normally I’m much bigger on frottage than fucking, but as I was practically creaming on the spot, I was dying for him to have me. I demonstrated the fact by going down on his pinkie and a little more undulation.

  It worked. He pulled back a bit, set the tip of his cock against my pussy, and then plunged into me with one strong thrust. As he kept a finger on my clit and rubbed at the same time, everything went a little bit hazy as I drowned in bliss. He was all around me as he drove in and out of me. I was surrounded by his scent, enveloped by his body. As the pounding consumed me, sending me pulsing to his rhythm, I became suspended in time. I listened to the sound of his gasping breath in my ear as my body pooled like lava and began to peak.

  “Little beauty. Angel. Sweet pitufa.”

  The words sent me tumbling over the edge into shattering orgasm. I totally lost control over myself. I remember bucking like a mad thing and screaming with pleasure as he slammed in and out of me. All that mattered was riding that explosion of sensation. I burned and died, and as he kept pounding, I burned and died again. I don’t remember him coming. All I know is that the quakes shattered me into a million pieces.

  I think it was about a year later when I came back to earth. He was laying half on top of me, gasping for air, his breath ragged. His sweat was rolling off him in waves and dripping down my body. My skin was supercharged, each little hair standing on end. Each droplet rolling across my skin gave me tickly shivers of pleasure. The sun was filtering in through a gap in the curtains. I could see my body in its bright yellow unforgiving light.

  You know, ever since He set me free I’ve slept in jammies, unable to stand the sight of those little burn marks that dot my thighs, my breasts and my stomach. Now I lay in the hulk’s arms and examined them with new eyes. This was my body. Mine. Those weren’t reminders of what I was, or even what I had been; they were symbols of survival.

  As the implications of this flooded over me, it was as if the world shimmered and reformed around me. I felt like I’d been forged in fire and born again. Like a phoenix. Or maybe I was an entirely new thing altogether.

  I stretched luxuriously, feeling good all over. Then I saw the hulk looking at me, his slate coloured eyes inches from mine. I couldn’t see what he was thinking. He was staring straight at me, as if he was looking to see inside me.

  For a moment my feeling of freedom faltered, my new-found confidence threatened to vanish like ice in the sun, but then he smiled. It was a big happy beaming cheeky grin that lit up his eyes and made the little wrinkles around them dance. It was like seeing a statue come to life. Cold stone was replaced with warm humanity. Warm, sweet, friendly humanity. Like toast with butter and honey.

  “Feeling good?” he asked.

  I couldn’t think of what to say. Thanks seemed a bit odd. I felt for the words and came out with, “Best workout ever!”

  It wasn’t exactly Pulitzer material, but he seemed to like it. He settled me against him, pulled the sheets over us to cut out the morning light, and nuzzled my neck. “I’m sleeping another hour. You can get up if you like, but don’t wander off.”

  “Okay.”

  He breathed deeply and was asleep instantly. He beat me by two seconds. I was feeling so good that for once, I didn’t dream at all.

  Chapter 5: Kyle

  After enjoying my bonus, I slept till late afternoon and woke up feeling pretty good. She was lying in a small ball in the middle of the bed, one arm over her head, the other tucked around her middle. It was a defensive pose, as if she expected to be attacked in her sleep. Considering her past, I wasn’t surprised. She’d been through some heavy shit.

  From the look of her, she was going to be stiff and sore when she woke up. I could see her neck was raw with rope burn, and her body was streaked with black and blue finger bruises. Some of those might have been mine; I’d really have to be more careful handling her. Even if she was so fucking good during rack time that I lost my mind every time I was inside her, I should have more self control.

  Lying there, I was thinking that you’d never guess this little, slightly scrawny girl was such a wild ride. She really was something. And then I took another look, a close one, and I
wasn’t happy. While the bruises were new, the little white scars were old. I’d noted them while I was having her earlier, but I’d been too busy enjoying myself to really think about them. A quick mental review revealed they were sprinkled over the underside of her arms and breasts as well as over her pubic bone and the inside of her thighs. Her shoulder blades were dotted with them, too. The bastard who’d tortured her had used her as an ashtray more than once. I hadn’t gotten to that bit in the dream book yet.

  There was also a scar on her hip. It was clearly visible in the afternoon sun. I didn’t touch her, but from what I could see, it was an R shaped burn. The R had a long sweep to it; I concluded her Him, the man whose name she couldn’t bring herself to say out loud, wore a signet ring.

  From that moment he was Rimjob to me, but it was probably Rupert, Roger or some other upper-class English asshole. Those famous private schools of theirs turn out generation after generation of perverts.

  Looking at that long red scar and remembering the way she’d gone all out to make me happy, I decided I’d make sure this particular pervert stayed clear of her from now on. I’d have a few days of R&R and then set her working for Arturo. A gifted, experienced courier is worth a good bit of money, and the bonus would make a nice addition to his stable. I’d set her up in her own place in town, and she could come and keep me company from time to time. Better for her, good for Arturo, and a nice set-up for me. Win-win-win, in fact.

  Having settled that, I became aware that my stomach was growling. Was it time for American style eggs with side orders of bacon, toast, and honey, or should I toss in chorizo and some chillies – jalapeños and habañeros – I’d found the other day at the market? At the thought of habañeros, my mouth began to water. Decision made.

  The bonus didn’t wake up when I ran the shower or when I turned on the radio in the kitchen, but the smell of the chorizo frying in a pan with tomatoes, chilli and onions brought her straight to the kitchen door. I could see her shadow as she hovered indecisively out of my sight, uncertain of what kind of a welcome she’d get. That shows you how timid she is in some ways. I’d finally read her note, and it was pathetic how grateful she was that I’d not hurt her. Actually, I still have that. It’s in my wallet. Somehow I keep forgetting to throw it away.

  So anyway, seeing the bonus hanging about like a stray dog at a cantina door, I called out to her. “Wash. Dress. Breakfast in five!”

  She was in and out of that shower like lightning. I had just divided the eggs onto two plates and poured orange juice and coffee when I caught a waft of that sweet flowery scent. The bonus entered the kitchen and danced swiftly to my side, her eyes on her feet, her arms curved in front of her, with her fingertips touching each other. I’ve seen something like that before, when I went to Moscow and spent an evening watching the Bolshoi do ‘Peter and the Wolf’. I was bored to screaming point with their prancing about that night, but the way she did it was sexy as hell.

  Then, quite suddenly, she seemed to collapse. Luckily I’ve quick reflexes; I caught her just before her knees hit the floor. It wasn’t till I saw her eyes that I realised what was going on. This was something else she’d learned from Rimjob. Suddenly it wasn’t so cute. I decided to put an end to it.

  “No kneeling or crawling, and look me in the eye – not at your feet – when I’m talking to you,” I told her firmly. “No more master and slave shit.”

  She nodded, but she had that whipped look again. “Sorry. It won’t happen again. I apologise.”

  From the hurried, scared way she spoke I knew she thought I was looking for an excuse to whip her ass. Time to put an end to that, too.

  “Hey,” I patted her fanny as I spoke to her. “I’m not going to beat the hell out of you, so relax.”

  Another nod, but this time she lifted her head and looked right at me. She had a bruise on her jaw, probably from running into that wall the day before, and her neck was black, blue and red from rope burn, but when she smiled at me her eyes sparkled, and she looked like a million dollars.

  For a moment my breath caught, and I had the urge to tote her back for some more rack time. Then her stomach rumbled. She looked scared for a moment, but when I laughed, she grinned.

  “Good timing, pitufa. Sit down and eat.”

  “Thanks.”

  She sat down, peeked sideways at me, and then, after a tiny pause, began to eat. I’m not Iron Chef material, but from the way she attacked her plate, it was clear she was enjoying herself. She wolfed down the eggs, making small noises of pleasure at the pieces of habañeros and chorizo she found tucked inside. I recognised those moans and whimpers: they came straight from the heart.

  I told her to help herself to a bag of corn bread my cousin Dolores had sent over, and while she devoured it, slathering each slice with apricot jelly, I caught up on the news.

  I’m a news junkie, so I’ve got subscriptions to a dozen news wires. As expected, my handiwork had made the front page of El Universal and The Miami Herald, the two most popular national dailies, but El Diario and El Mañana, both local papers, confined themselves to discussing the pros and cons of building a new school.

  That didn’t surprise me. When the turf war between us Zetas and the Gulf broke out big time a few years ago, the local press learned the hard way that it’s too dangerous to report on our business. Anyone who tried it got one warning, and sometimes none. It was the one thing both cartels agreed on.

  It had been rough, but we Zetas had won, and I like to think that my work played a big part in that, but there was constant trouble. Most of the time it was some kid like that Ricardo trying it on, or one of our own thinking he’d do better with the opposition. Occasionally we faced incursions from rival organisations. It didn’t matter. However we dealt with it, the local press turned a blind eye. I blew up a building three months ago, taking out a dozen Sinaloa who were trying to set up in town, and all El Diario and El Mañana reported was that we might be getting a new sewage system. Come to think of it, they were kind of reporting on my work. I had used the waste pipes to deliver the message, and by the time I was finished, they were totally fucked.

  Anyway, although the local papers were silent, the pictures were splashed all over the local blogs and social media. From the comments, I reckoned I’d done a good job. Crucifixion is a very effective way of telling people, ‘don’t fuck with us’.

  I’m not up for fun and games immediately after a big breakfast, so I decided to hang out and chill for a while. I figured that Rimjob had trained the bonus as a house mouse, so I told her to fix the place up and find me on the deck after. And to make sure she didn’t freak, thinking it was some sort of set-up that would end up in her being caned, I told her I wasn’t the type for white glove inspections. That made her smile. A real smile. One that set her eyes sparkling.

  I wanted to know more about her, so I fetched her dream book and took it outside. Rimjob really had a fertile imagination. A lot of it wasn’t to my taste, but there were a few things that sounded interesting. I decided I was going to be a fun few days checking out some new moves – but without the whipping, caning and flogging. That shit just doesn’t turn me on at all. Rimjob evidently lived for it: he even waterboarded her for Christ’s sake!

  After about an hour, I realised she was taking a long time to wash a couple of plates. When I went inside to check on her, I found her on her knees, cleaning the kitchen floor grouting with a nailbrush. So much for telling her to take it easy. I toted her outside and made her rest in the shade. I also gave her another Soma. She didn’t say a word, but I knew she was suffering the after-effects of jumping about at the end of a rope. The bonus is pretty tough. I like that.

  She was also easy to have around. Surprisingly easy. I’d tried getting in a girl for a couple of days’ entertainment a few times before, but it always proved too much hassle. The constant chatter drove me crazy, so now I go into town if I want to party.

  The bonus was unlike any other girl I’d ever had. She just faded out. Whil
e I read her dream book, I forgot she was there. The weird thing is that she served me three beers while I was reading, and I never even noticed.

  It was about five o’clock when I finally finished reading. It was an interesting read, and it told me a lot about the bonus. The sweet shy girl who looked at her feet instead of in my eyes, and who curled against me at every opportunity as if she were a fluffy cat, was quite different from the sassy girl in the book. It was like she was two people, a split personality. The fuckbot had been beaten into her, and it was the side she’d shown me most of the time, but I decided I liked the real girl better.

  The real girl was interesting. She’d started writing her dream book about two months ago, just recording her nightmares at first, but then it had morphed into a general journal. From all accounts, she was a busy girl.

  In the last eight weeks ago she’d flown from London to Lima, picked up a consignment and made her delivery in Rome. She’d been handed a package, stolen paintings from what I could gather, and had bussed to Krakow. The man there had given her diamonds to take to a dealer in Amsterdam. She took a train, stopping briefly in Munich to pick up another package, also destined for Holland but to a place called Hilversum. She’d then travelled to Rabat, where she hooked up with a group of mules, all of them body-packing in the old-fashioned style. She got them overland to Tangiers, and smuggled them by speedboat to Spain. Stopping briefly at Madrid, she was poised to go back to London when she was told to get her tail over here for a pickup.

  We don’t get many tourists flying into our city, and certainly not any “travel writers”, so she took a plane from Madrid to Dallas and travelled by bus across the border.

  She was supposed to get in and out on the same day and find her way back to London, but she got a message that the meet had been delayed. At this point she hadn’t slept for days, not because of jetlag, but because she’d been so freaked out by a dream she had in Tangiers that she was too frightened to close her eyes. That’s why she’d looked to score. She wanted some reefer to help her get some shuteye.