The finger that slid smoothly up her damp pussy was immediately joined by a second; two hooked fingers were insinuated up her vagina; the electric stab of lust caused her to arc back, while emitting a tight-lipped grunt.
“Look at me, Cunt 9.” His quiet words came out in an oily purr.
The intruding fingers were kept in place, buried to the hilt, as he slowly palmed her vulva; she turned to look down at him, once more captivated by the cool determination she saw in those icy blue eyes.
He looked into her eyes as he moved his fingers deep inside her, jiggling his wrist, diddling the woman’s hot, juicy pussy until a whimpered moan escaped her lips.
“Nooo, please,” she gasped, sucking in a sharp hiss of breath as the pleasuring hand pressed deeper into her.
With two fingers well up inside the young woman, his cupped hand pressed solidly against her ragged pussylips, grinding against the slick folds. The fleshy heel of his palm found her swollen clitoris, rubbing over the hard nubbin, sending an electric jolt of pure delight through his helpless victim. Her eyes fluttered shut and she wriggled her hips; a guttural moan tumbled off her lips. As the hand continued its slow, inexorable massage of her pubis, the girl’s legs weakened, and she threw back her thick mane. Mallory’s lean, lithe body swayed like a reed in the wind; she clenched her fists, determined to hold on against the sweeping onrush of all-consuming pleasure.
Part of her brain knew her captor wouldn’t stop until he had manipulated her to orgasm, right in front of the others; she was determined to resist, to deny him the gleeful satisfaction he would get from her humiliating, public breakdown. Still the growing sense of arousal stirred her powerfully, weakening her resolve as the lusty feelings gained their terrible strength. Warm waves of pleasure generated by the incessant fondling of that male hand soon had reduced the young woman to a whimpering mass.
He began to deliberately finger-fuck using both fingers; she grunted with each thrust he made.
Eyes tightly shut, her hips bucked mightily: two, three times, her body reacting in instinctual pelvic thrusts beyond her control. Panting, breathing heavily, the girl quivered, trembling on the brink, struggling to keep her balance on the high heels. A low, earthy groan rumbled up from deep in her throat at each stab of pleasure.
At that moment the Captain snickered and withdrew his teasing hand, leaving the swaying girl tottering on her heels, hot and flushed, panting for air, and suddenly...abandoned.
***
In a rare display of democracy, the Captain called for “the hat.” As they all knew, he could just have easily exercised his rights to have first choice among the captives for the night. But the man was feeling generous, and so the straw sombrero would be passed around; inside five metal disks, identical to the ones affixed to the girls’ collars. Of the five, three had numbers — 8, 9, and 10, inscribed on them; the other two were blanks. The unlucky guys who drew blanks would go off muttering and cursing, disgruntled, forced to content themselves with whatever solo pleasures they could find for the evening.
The pairings were announced to the cheers of the winners, and groans of the losers: Number 8, to the Captain; Number 9, Dewayne; and Number 10, Merc. The last caused a round of crude jokes. Everyone in the room knew that Merc was fascinated with Kip’s small, rounded butt; couldn’t keep his hands off it. And before the night was over the girl would feel the big man’s ragging prick well ensconced up that tight little ass of hers. Dewayne stood before Mallory with that shit-eatin’ grin she detested — and knew so well. He placed a hand on her naked shoulder, spun her around, and shoved her forward. And when she stumbled to a halt, a swift slap on the skirted behind sent her scurrying down the carpeted passageway. And so the hapless prisoners were led off by the lottery winners, each to be taken off to the crew’s private quarters for yet another night of drunken debauchery.
***
High on the bridge, totally oblivious to whatever wild sexual orgies might be taking place below deck, the one “crew member” who never slept — the NAVSTAR satellite navigation system, made still another minute correction in the southerly course. The unfolding nautical chart, recording each meter of their progress, obediently inched across the lighted display table. Had a human sailor been on the bridge that night, he would have seen their destination edge into view for the first time — the west coast of Colombia. NAVSTAR confidently estimated that at present speed, they would be at their destination – Tomocolo, in 76 hours: 23 minutes.
Chapter Nine
Although the prisoners were strictly forbidden to talk to one another, it was a rule that wasn’t rigidly enforced and at each day spent at sea, the crew, if not the Captain, became more relaxed regarding contact among the female prisoners. Mallory was determined to learn as much a possible about their captors; one never knew when such information might prove useful. Meghan was a great source of information. In hurried, whispered talks, Mallory learned about how the blonde girl had been taken. Once, when her kidnappers thought she was still asleep, she had overheard two of them talking about what a nice price she would bring, once “El Commandante” got a look at her. This Commandante seemed to particularly favor gringas — especially the blonde ones with large, floppy breasts.
It was also Meghan who showed the senior agent that female “passengers” were not unknown on board the Big Wizz. To Mallory’s surprise Meghan led her to bins and racks of female clothing in an array of sizes. The boat was equipped with casual clothing: shorts and jeans and tops; underwear and lingerie; pantyhose and stockings, shoes, and a variety of kinky leather outfits. It was like a small department store, the agent marveled. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that other women may well have passed through the Captain’s greedy hands, and the words “white slaver” came to her with a ripple of fear.
She had to get a grip on herself. This was absurd! It was the 21st century; men simply couldn’t get away with that sort of thing anymore! Somehow, her reassurances rang hollow.
For some time now Mallory had been convinced they were heading south, and at times they caught sight of a coast on their port side, undoubtedly Mexico, she reasoned. But the ship stayed well away from that coast, and each day they headed further south. It time, the girl speculated that they must be going to South America, a guess confirmed when Kip managed to get a glimpse of a navigation chart which showed the western coast of Colombia.
***
Once they were well at sea, life aboard the yacht quickly fell into a routine. The Captain declared that all aboard had to pull their own weight on his ship. That included their “passengers.” The three women, lightly clad in the shorts and work shirts worn by the crew, were to keep the yacht neat and tidy to the Captain’s exacting standards. Daily chores were assigned to them, often the dirtiest work on the boat: cleaning the galley and the latrines, and scrubbing the deck and fittings, work that often had to be done on hands and knees, under close supervision of a male crewmember. Meghan Dillon worked alongside them, and sometimes the three women had the chance for whispered conversation outside the earshot of the lurking crewmen.
If their chores took them on deck in the heat of the tropical day, the girls, like the bare-chested crewmen, worked in nothing but a pair of shorts. ‘No false modesty here,’ the Captain assured them with his usual bland smile. Since, by that time, every inch of their bodies had been well scrutinized, as well as used, by the over-sexed crew, it seemed silly to insist on covering oneself up, especially when it was so much more pleasant to work outdoors bare-breasted, freely exposed to the gentle warmth of the breeze. Only the ubiquitous strip of ribbon at their throats told of their special status among the crew.
Of course, once the sun went down, there were other duties to perform, duties of a more personal sort. Then they would shed their sweaty work clothes, and after cleaning up and “dressing,” they were expected to appear at the Captain’s table, transformed into their role of pleasure toys for the men of the Big Wizz, forced to serve the men who supervised every aspe
ct of their shipboard life.
At first, they continued to eat in the crowded galley with the cook, but in time they were invited to sit at the table — once the men had been served. There they served at the Captain’s pleasure, taking seats at his table, if it pleased him. The topless girls were allowed to eat with the crew, and by now all trace of embarrassment at being nude in this rough male company had long vanished.
***
Mallory was busy scrubbing the galley floor on hands and knees when something caused her to freeze, scrub brush suspended in mid-air. Her head shot up, cocked to one side to listen — but it was not a noise that startled her, but the sudden, all-encompassing silence. For the first time in weeks, the constant throb of the engines was no more. During the last few days they had been tantalized by the sight of lush green land, but rather then head inward, the yacht had slowed its pace and kept a measured distance, trolling along on a southerly course, cautiously feeling its way down the jagged coast. In the eerie silence, Mallory tossed the scrub brush into the bucket, jumped up, and rushed to the nearest porthole just in time to see a small boat detaching itself from a makeshift pier that jutted out towards them.
She could make out three men in the boat: All three wore khaki uniforms; two of them, muscular men with thick mustaches, and tousled mops of hair under their soft military caps; the third figure, smaller, more compact was seated in the rear of the boat, clutching a brief case with both hands, and sitting erect with an air of overweening self-importance. He wore some kind of officer’s uniform, complete with peaked hat pulled down low over his eyes.
Now a commotion broke out topside; hurried feet pounded along the deck overhead; and there was the sound of a crowd thumping down the ladder. Suddenly the door behind her burst open, and Kip and Meghan were propelled into the galley by Sego, who, after roughly shoving them in, slammed the door behind them. The lock was thrown with an audible, and fateful, click.
The three prisoners in their work shirts and shorts, huddled around the porthole to watch as the small boat cut its engine and undulated up to the side of the yacht. The uniformed man stood up in the boat, flashing white teeth beneath a thin mustache and waving his hand at the yacht in a jerky greeting.
Soon the men were climbing aboard. For the longest time, the girls waited. They could do nothing else. They speculated as to what these latest developments might mean; Mallory seemed hopeful since they appeared to have made their destination, and once on land, they surely had a better chance of escaping than they did in the confines of the boat.
After about an hour, Sego and Yasir showed up with orders to take the prisoners to their cabins. The girls were to wash up, apply fresh lipstick and makeup to make themselves presentable for the Captain’s "guests". They were ordered to wear the skimpy skirts they wore when serving at the table; detailed instructions were further given. They were to ready in twenty minutes. Mallory felt her hopes slipping away. She asked what was going on, but Yasir only gave her a lopsided grin and looked dumb — not so hard for the big gorilla, Mallory remarked to Kip, once they were felt alone to dress.
***
Their first meeting with Major Augusto Guzmann did nothing to allay Mallory's growing apprehension. The prisoners appeared before him all but naked, wearing the numbered tags on their collars, their heels, and the sexy abbreviated skirts that fell to mid-thigh. For this occasion, they were to forgo the usual pantyhose for long, smooth, thigh-high stockings. Of course they were naked from the hips up; panties were not worn with this outfit, leaving the woman always available. The prisoners also had their hands cuffed behind them. This precaution was, of course, entirely unnecessary; it simply served as another reminder to the women of their status at the hands of their captors.
Sego led them to the Captain’s door, and knocked quietly. No one ever entered the Captain’s cabin without his expressed permission. They waited tensely. The clear, authoritative “Enter” rang out.
Sego opened the door to find the Captain seated at his desk, Merc standing at his side, and to the other side, the seated figure of the man in the boat — a policeman perhaps, although the beribboned tunic looked much more like a soldier’s. Mallory thought. Was this man, the “Commandante” that the crew talked about?
If so, he was not very impressive, thought Mallory. A small precise man in a sweat stained, open collared uniform. He was seated with his high-crowned hat perched on the briefcase he held on his lap. His skin was sallow and pulled tight over a skull carpeted with oily black coils, while his eyes were narrow, giving him a slightly oriental look. Those shifty eyes widened with delight at the entrance of the half-naked Yankee women. Under his thin mustache, his lips split into a evil grin, and he practically smacked his lips — making Mallory feel like a piece of meat, about to be served.
As the scantily dressed women were led into the room, the Captain’s guest eagerly sat up, uncrossing his booted legs. His black eyes flashed with pleasure as he took in the sight of the beautiful gringas the highly reliable Capitan Thompson had delivered to him, on time, and as promised. The Capitan was nothing if not a man of his word.
“Ahhh, Capitan Thompson, you have outdone yourself! El Commandante will be pleased….very, very pleased.” The words came out in oily, thickly accented English. The thin man beamed and nodded rhythmically, like a bobbing marionette.
“I’m glad you’re satisfied Major. Perhaps you’d like to inspect the consignment?” the Captain added, ever the gracious host.
Mallory watching the show out of the corner of her eye, couldn’t help but suppress a smile at this comic-opera General moving with such self-important grandeur. She saw the ‘shit-eatin’ grin split his lips. This was taking on all the trappings of a bad Hollywood movie: some screenwriter’s idea of a Latin-American Commandant, complete with high crowned hat, epaulettes and boots. It would have been funny, if there wasn’t this feeling of very definite danger that seemed to emanate from the man.
“Si, Capitan! But of course. With your permission,” he responded, with deep courtesy.
The Captain graciously nodded his consent; both men seeming to outdo each other with their exaggerated politeness.
“Line up now! Stand at attention!” The order was crisp; one they knew well.
The girls fell in, automatically arranged themselves in their familiar side-by-side formation — a row of bare breasted maidens. Shoulders were pulled back, eyes locked forward and they stared straight ahead, as they had been taught.
The Major secured the briefcase under his chair, jumped to his feet, jammed the cap on his head, pulled on a tightly fitted pair of riding gloves, and began to troupe the line of half-naked women
The little Major stopped directly in front of the big blonde and eyed her up and down. He looked up into those big blue eyes, and he was pleased. He saw the fear there, and when he went to reach for her, she cringed, delighting him even further. ‘Bueno, she fears me,’ he noted with considerable satisfaction.
Meghan stood with shoulders back, offering him her lush breasts. He began by taking her blond hair in his gloved hand and sifting it through his fingers. The girl gasped with a quick intake of breath. A small shiver ran though her.
“This blonde one will please El Commandante. You know how he loves the big blondes. Eh, Capitan?”
The gloved fingers trailed down those smoothly white, naked shoulders. ‘So lovely’ he thought as he played with a strand of hair. He relished the smell of her fear as his gloved fingers slipped under a conveniently placed tit. The cupped fingers under Meghan Dillon’s left breast flipped it up, causing a floppy bounce and a delightful wobble that he kept up with his fingertips, all the while smiling with delight. His extended thumb rubbed over the nascent nipple, and the blonde girl’s shoulders squirmed as he coaxed that puffy bud into full blossom. Moving in on her, both gloved hands now encompassed that considerable bosom and the Major felt her up freely, before moving his hands down to follow her hourglass figure, and end up clamping her solid hips.
&n
bsp; “Major, if you’ll allow me,” the Captain intervened, stepping forward. “Lift up your skirt Number 8.”
Obediently, the girl raised the front of her skirt, revealing a blonde softly furred pussy that caused the Latin officer to let out a low appreciative whistle.
He reached out and gave the plump, velvety vulva a friendly pat. “Si, Numero Ocho, you’ll find this little pussy of yours will get a lot of use where you’re going.”
“You may lower your skirt now,” the host continued once he was sure that their guest had had, at least for now, his fill of that promising golden pussy.
The Major stepped sideways and now directly confronted young Kip who held herself stiff as a board. Here was a woman more his size. A dark-haired woman, with perhaps a bit of Latin blood? He could see the fire in her eyes. He brought his face close to hers and saw her close her eyes and shudder. She looked like a scared kitten. He liked that.
He reached for the curving mounds of Kip’s young tits, and she flinched back from his touch.
“Number 9!” The Captain growled a warning.
But the Major took no offense. He merely seemed amused. His gloved fingers took hold of her, cupped the small, taut breast and squeezed it lightly, while he grinned into the girl’s eyes.