Klitzman's Isle (The Klitzman Stories Book 1) Read online

  Logically, she should be resigned to being fucked. After all, she has just experienced a most savage use of her mouth. But logic is rare when desperate times are at hand.

  Although she can form no words, the girl wails loudly. Only two boys had had her there. One she loved and the other loved her. Their use of her had been tender, sweet. Her whole body had tingled with pleasure as she was entered, that is, after the initial tearing of her virginal wall.

  But now she is being entered by a hostile cock. She can’t even tell which of the men it is. She tries to rock herself free, strains mightily to close her legs. It is useless. The device has been well tested.

  Thorndike pushes himself into the girl all the way to the hilt. He sighs with enjoyment as its warm moisture and tender pressure causes his cock to transmit signals of pleasure to his brain. He has his hands on the girl’s slender hips as he rocks back and forth. The girl’s moans have subsided now as she has surrendered to the inevitable. But as Thorndike’s hot tool agitates her nub of pleasure and caresses the tender walls of her vagina, she feels something that she wishes to deny. Her loins are starting to burn with passion. Her rocking and jerking on the wooden platform has begun to excite her.

  Thorndike senses this shift in the girl. His hands now rub her fleshy rear orbs and the outside of her thighs. Leaning into her, he is able to reach around and grab her breasts, cupping and squeezing them. The girl feels this and, unwillingly, abandons herself to the rising urges inside her. She knows that she will soon come and she hates herself for it. Yet, she cannot ignore the pressure on the apex to her sex, the piercing of her loins by Thorndike’s flesh, the rubbing on her nipples. She makes a futile effort to hold back her climax. Then the orgasm is upon her, her whole body shudders, she is moaning loudly through the gag. Her hands are tightly clenched and her toes curl.

  It is the moment that Thorndike has been waiting for. He explodes as she does, calling out loudly words that she cannot understand. When his ejaculation is finished, he sighs deeply and presses his chest against the girl’s back. Her sex is still twitching with small waves of pleasure and he can feel its contractions as they slowly subside.

  Cholo is anxious for his turn. There is one more hole to explore. The girl feels Cholo’s hands on the cheeks of her ass. She is exhausted and it slowly registers on her that another assault is about to begin. She is too forlorn and abject to protest. But her face perks up when she feels Cholo’s finger trace the outlines of her pursed rear hole. The men are watching her face and laugh when it dawns on the girl that she is to suffer what she has only read about in books. Cholo has leaned around the girl to see her expression as he pushes his finger slowly inside. She can see him as she is able to turn her head slightly. He smiles at her. He says something in Spanish that sounds soothing, friendly. But the pressure of his finger on her anus belies the tone of his voice.

  The girl begins to sob softly. She makes no effort to avoid the inevitable. Her eyes are crammed shut, her body limp. Cholo penetrates her ass to his knuckle and then inserts another finger. The feeling has gone from a strange and annoying sensation to a modicum of discomfort. Cholo stretches his fingers wide, preparing the entrance for the insertion of a thicker object.

  The fact that the girl has let herself go limp, has surrendered to the inevitable, lessens the resistance to the entry of Cholo’s third finger. The sensation of Cholo’s fingers in her ass is mildly stimulating. A strange tingle flows from the tender tissue of her anus to her vagina. Maybe if she just relaxes and lets him have his way, the girl thinks, this will not be so bad.

  But what she does not know is that Cholo’s tool is the thickest and widest of the three. And the flexible width of three fingers does not approximate what she will soon feel.

  Cholo speaks to Rukimo. It is a question. Rukimo assents and Cholo grins. He withdraws his fingers from the still virgin portal and retrieves the whip that had been used on the girl a short while before. She cannot see it and is not prepared for the slash of the whip against her upturned buttocks. It is as if a trail of fire has been lit across her skin. The girl shrieks with pain. Cholo wants to rape this girl, not fuck her. He wants her screaming and begging, not supine and abject. Again he strikes her haunches with the whip. The girl’s cries emerge from her gag, rounded and deep, almost like the mooing of a cow. Thorndike points this out to the others and they laugh again.

  Three more times Cholo strikes the poor girl’s behind. The whip is many tasseled and so the pain is spread across her now reddened rear cheeks. She is still screaming when Cholo presents his cock to her smallest opening. Now she is protesting, her cries of “no, no, no,” are distorted by the ring of leather in her mouth and emerge sounding more like “oh, oh, oh!”

  Cholo wastes no time in pressing hard into the girl’s bowels. He is tearing her delicate skin, but that’s okay. She will have to get used to ass fucking anyway and the rear hole will have to be widened. The Hispanic continues to rock back and forth in the girl’s ass while she continues with her frantic complaints. He is building to a crescendo as his thighs tighten and his eyes close. He cries out some words in Spanish as he pumps his sperm deep into the girl’s bowels. He withdraws only when he has felt his cock diminish to its ordinary size.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HARRY MEETS TWO LADIES

  The pilot descended quickly to the tiny field. As we got closer, I could see that it was not quite as tiny as it first seemed. The plane easily rolled to a stop, well within the limits of the hard baked clay runway. After the plane landed, I was hustled off by the pilot.

  “Got to make it back to civilization,” he said.

  I was left standing by the dirt runway by myself, my little suitcase at my feet. I watched the plane disappear over the treetops with some dismay. Where I was and what I was supposed to do here was totally beyond me. The landing strip was surrounded by jungle. A small road led off to the south. There was a small hut in the middle. After waiting a requisite time, and seeing no one else around, I walked over to the hut. The weather was sweltering and by the time I had walked the several hundred yards, I was drenched with sweat.

  The hut was locked. It had no windows. I tossed my bag aside, frustrated. “What the fuck is going on?” I thought. First I had been hustled thousands of miles from the U.S. and then nothing. I didn’t expect a welcoming committee and a band, but I did expect someone to at least meet me. I had no idea where I was, how I was going to get food or, more importantly, water, and where I was going to sleep.

  Darkness fell swiftly. I was weighing the thought of taking a chance and walking down the dirt road to see what I could find when I saw what could only be the headlights of a car coming up in the distance. I heard the rumble of an overtaxed engine. Then I saw it, a battered, old style jeep rumbling and tumbling over the rough dirt road. There was only the driver in the jeep and I hoped that it was meant for me.

  The jeep pulled up to the hut with a roar and screeched to a halt. The driver was a small, dark haired kid, no more than 14. He was smiling at me and he spat out words that were incomprehensible. I got the gist though; he was telling me to get in. Having seen his driving skills first hand, I hesitated at first to hazard life and limb with him at the wheel. “Americano, Americano,” he yelled gleefully. “Come een, come een!”

  I had no other choice. Well, I did have one. I could have tossed this kid out of the jeep and driven the thing myself. But, it was dark, I didn’t know where I was going, and someone, probably with a little weight around here, would miss the kid.

  And so I climbed aboard with my little bag and off we went. It was a twenty minute journey of hair-raising proportions. As we bounced and swerved along the road, the kid was having the time of his life. I held onto the crash bar that someone had considerately affixed to the top of the vehicle. I had my bag tight between my knees.

  We finally reached a small village. There did not seem to be any electric lights as candlelight flickered through the windows of some of the huts. There was a large wood
en house at the end of the street, torches burning in holders affixed to the columns of the porch. It was here that the kid pulled up. “Go een, Go een,” he said. I stumbled out of the Jeep and the kid rapidly sped away, kicking up dirt and stones as he spun the tires. I hopped out of the way of the effluvia from the Jeep’s wheels and stepped up onto the porch. It was broad and wide, running the length of the house. There were bags of some vegetative product strewn about, benches and a dilapidated easy chair. A dim light could be seen through a screen door. I knocked.

  A loud scratchy voice called something hostile in Spanish or Portuguese. I didn’t know the difference. I yelled back, stupidly, “Hello!”

  I heard a low muttering and then heavy footsteps as from booted feet. A swarthy, black haired man appeared at the door. He was dressed in a brown and red floral patterned shirt that was open to reveal a taut, hairy chest and a flat stomach. He wore a dark beard along his chin and a thick, black mustache. He was slender, but carried himself in a way that you would want him to be on your side in a tussle. He wore faded jeans and, as I had surmised, cowboy boots.

  “Oh,” he said, “the Norte Americano. The boy pick you up, yes?”

  “Yes,” I replied, exasperated. “The boy pick me up.”

  “Come in, come in.”

  I opened the screen door and stepped into the dimly lit room. It was a small foyer, lit only by the reflected light of the room beyond. The man led me into this room. I was startled by what I saw.

  Lying on the floor, her hands tied behind and hogtied to her ankles was a young, brown haired woman. I could tell that she was not a native by her pale complexion and the American style clothing that she wore. She had a cotton knit polo shirt on top and a pair of khaki shorts. On her feet were a pair of Rebocks and frilly white socks. She looked up at me forlornly as I entered. Her mouth was pulled into a tight grimace by a red bandana that had been tied around her head.

  As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw another woman, her hands tied to a rope that was thrown over one of the rafters. She was also gagged. She also had brown hair, but hers was much longer, reaching down to the middle of her body. Her flowery cotton blouse was unbuttoned and her bra had been pulled beneath her breasts. Her shorts were around her ankles. Her pussy was still covered by the white vee of a pair of thong panties. She looked at me too.

  The contents of two backpacks lay scattered around the room. Two cameras, two wallets and two passports lay in one pile. A tangle of women’s clothing was jumbled into semblances of piles. There were some books, two canteens and two cell phones.

  The thin Hispanic man nodded at the two forlorn girls. “They were snooping around. Now they will snoop no more.” The man chuckled sneeringly.

  “My name is Morianos,” he said. “You are the guy for the plane tomorrow. Come in and have a seat.” He shouted something loudly in what sounded like Spanish ending in the words “dos cervesos!”

  A small, heavy set, gray haired woman came running in with two bottles of tepid local beer. Morianos grabbed one and nodded towards me to the peasant woman. She slid over to me and handed me the other beer. It was only slightly cooler than the tropical heat.

  Morianos must have known what I was thinking. “Generator’s out. Fix tomorrow. Tonight we use lamps.”

  There were two oil lanterns on small tables in the room. The flickering, pale yellow light they threw off gave the room a movie set quality.

  “What are you doing,” I asked Morianos as I sat down in a rattan rocking chair.

  “Looking for stuff, what else,” he replied. He dangled a gold plated watch in the air. “Rolex,” he said with a grin. A gold tooth glistened from his mouth. Two other teeth seemed to be missing.

  “Not much cash,” he commented. “These fucking cunts were carrying traveler’s checks.”

  “How disappointing,” I replied.

  “Yeah, it pisses me the fuck off. Where the fuck did they expect to cash traveler’s checks around here? Gringas estúpidas!”

  I sipped at the lukewarm beer. My stomach growled. “Is there any food?” I asked.

  Morianos yelled out in Spanish again. About thirty seconds later the woman returned, this time with a bowl of steaming chili and a swath of bread. I knew that it was probably as spicy as hell, but I was famished, and I did have the beer.

  With the combination of the bread and the beer, I was able to eat about half of the bowlful. Morianos had given up searching through the contents of the back-packs and stood up from the floor.

  “Amigo, help me with this one. The other one almost broke my back.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. He stepped away for a moment and came back with a rope, one end of which he flung over the rafter.

  “Come on, buddy, we’ve got to string her up.” He pointed to the woman on the floor.

  “What the fuck for?” I asked.

  “To search her, man. You know, strip her.”

  The girl on the floor attempted to make a remonstrance at this idea. Her voice came out as a garbled whine. I looked at her pleading eyes. Well, I thought, if stripping was the worst thing that happened to her, she would be lucky.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

  Morianos stepped over and released the girl’s ankles from her wrists. He looked over to me and smiled. “This is the tricky part,” he said.

  He pulled a thick hunting knife, about 8 or 10 inches long from a scabbard at his waist. He spoke to the girl. “If you give me any trouble, I cut you up with this. Understand, you piece of shit?” His voice was menacing. I certainly didn’t doubt his words. I was sure the forlorn girl didn’t either.

  Morianos motioned to me. “Help me get her up.”

  We each grabbed an arm and lifted the girl to her feet. Once she was in a standing position, Morianos said to me, “Untie the bitch’s hands and tie them in front. Do it good!”

  I complied with Morianos’ instructions. The girl’s wrists had been tied tightly. That and the added pressure of the hogtie had left harsh red marks. She was whimpering as I retied her hands in front of her. I was a novice where tying women up was concerned, but I figured I could handle this.

  Once her wrists were tied to each other, Morianos put his hunting blade away and stepped over to the girl with the end of the rope that hung from the rafter. He pulled her arms up swiftly, causing the girl to cry in surprise. Once she was dangling on her toes, he crossed the other end between her ankles and tied it off. The girl’s own weight was keeping her hands aloft.

  The sneakers came off first, then the dainty socks. Nothing there. Stripping the other girl was a little bit easier because of her blouse. But this one wore a polo shirt. Morianos pushed it up past her breasts, but it kept falling down. The girl wore a lacey white bra that covered small, but firm tits. I could see the tops, almost to the nipples, pushed up over the upper edge of the bra.

  Morianos swore and pulled out his knife. Without further ado, he sliced the shirt from the neck down. At this impetuous act, the girl stiffened in fright. A small line of blood appeared at her stomach. Morianos took no notice. Putting the knife away, he pushed the bra up over the girl’s tits. Now all was revealed. Her short, pert, nipples were hard with fear. A pale areola surrounded each of them. Her eyes were clenched shut and her whimpering increased.

  Morianos, having satisfied himself that the girl hid nothing in her bra, took notice of the whimpering. He grabbed a nipple and squeezed hard. “Shut the fuck up!” he yelled.

  The girl’s eyes lit up. She cringed woefully. Her whining subsided, replaced with a mere sniffling. I tossed back the rest of my beer.

  “Any chance of a refill?” I asked Morianos.

  He yelled in Spanish to the back room and two more cervesos came out. He took a swig and peered into the eyes of the captive girl. “Any little surprises in your pants, gringa? Anything besides your precious pussy?”

  Sweat was dripping down the face of the girl, more than could be accounted for by the heat. Maybe Morianos was on to something
.

  He unbuckled her shorts slowly, his eyes on the girl’s face. She stared back, as if mesmerized. The room was silent except for the sound of a zipper being lowered. Lacey white panties appeared. Suddenly Morianos gave a shout of glee. “I knew it! I knew there had to be something!” He stepped back to show me.

  There was a thin pouch taped to the inside of the right pocket of the young woman’s shorts. Morianos tore it off and, checking the left pocket, pulled another packet free. He then pulled the shorts down to the woman’s ankles. Quickly, he opened the first package. Several sheaths of dark green paper emerged. They were 100 dollar bills, at least ten of them. Morianos stuffed them into his pocket. The he tore opened the other. Another four or five hundred-dollar bills emerged, along with a small, embossed card.

  Why would a young girl, ostensively a tourist, carry an official looking card secreted in her shorts? This was obviously the source of the woman’s fear. Morianos gave a hoot when he read it. He showed it to me. It was an official press pass issued by the Republic of Brazil. “So that’s where we are,” I thought.

  Morianos spit in the girl’s face. “A journalista!” he cried. He spat again.

  He pulled his blade from his hip. “I should cut you up, you fucking whore!” he yelled. He brandished it in her face. He ran some words at her in Spanish. The only word I caught was “puta”.

  Now he commenced cutting the remnants of the girl’s shirt from her body along with the bra. She struggled and whimpered as every last shred of clothing was stripped from her. She was curvaceous and a delight to see, especially for someone who had been locked up for as long as me. I stood there watching the show. When he was done stripping the girl, Morianos commenced slapping her tits repeatedly. The helpless woman let out little squeals of pain every time he struck her. All the time he kept yelling at her in Spanish. The girl swayed on her rope at the force of each blow. Morianos timed the blows perfectly so that her tits felt the full force of his hands. I had never seen a girl’s tits slapped around like that and I was mesmerized as they rocked to and fro.