And then too, there was something about Kip — a cute, frisky kid who looked up at her with big eyes filled with devotion. The girl brought out a protective feeling in her, a sense of possessiveness that warmed her. To hold the younger girl in her arms, clasping that small-breasted body to hers, caressing the firm, tightly knit body, making the other girl moan with pleasure — these things awoke strong, lusty stirrings in her.
Kip, who had always admired Mallory from afar, had grown closer to her since they had been thrown together in adversity. So much so that, far from being repelled when they were forced into intimacy, she found herself hopelessly in love. She yearned to pleasure the older woman, to surrender to her, body and soul. And so it was only a matter of time until the night Kip slipped into Mallory’s bunk, seeking the comfort they increasingly found in each other’s arms. The love they made that night was warmly genuine, yet driven with all the lust of a healthy young woman pent up in this unreal, hot house atmosphere, where even the air seemed charged with sexual electricity.
Now, Mallory as the peon, and Kip as the whore, they sought each others lips, kissed, open mouthed, in a long and soulful kiss, as slow hands moved feeling their way down tightly-clasped bodies. Mallory pulled back to look into Kip’s big brown eyes and got a smile from the girl who stifled a giggle at the sight of the absurd mustache. Grinning back, Mallory laid her hands on the small girl’s bare shoulders, and guided her towards the side of the bed. Then she reached around and ran the zipper down the back of the dress, while Kip stood perfectly still, hands at her sides, simply letting herself be undressed.
The audience watched, mesmerized, as Mallory drew down the thin loops of each shoulder strap, freeing the sagging bodice so that it fell away to uncover that thin, callow chest, adorned with a wispy brassiere — a lacy black demi-bra, the delicate half cups of which nicely served up two precious little titties. Mallory went down on one knee before the half-dressed girl, and worked the snugly fitted dress down Kip’s narrow hips, and on down those youthful nyloned legs. Kip steadied herself with a hand on the kneeling woman’s shoulder, as she lifted each high-heeled foot in turn, stepping free of the fallen dress.
The audience grew quieter, more alert, as the deliberate stripping continued. Mallory slid behind the girl, worked open the tiny catch on the brassiere, and deftly removed the flimsy holster, to let those perky tits settle with a soft gelatinous wobble. Once freed, Kip’s breasts stuck out proudly, firm and high-set; two neatly curved handfuls that sat uptilted and expectant. Mallory stepped aside, like a proud parent, showing off her daughter to the world. Kip, topless now, in just her sexy panties, garter belt and stockings, was an awe-inspiring sight; one that drew immediate, appreciative applause. But it was when the “peasant boy” was stripped that the audience went wild.
As the two performers stood facing each other, Kip reached down to gather up Mallory’s voluminous shirt, lifting the billowy garment up, while her partner helpfully raised her hands high, so that the loose shirt might be pulled off over her head. The smooth, flattened chest that was revealed might, from the distance of the audience anyway, well be that of a young man or a boy. The lithe torso was devoid of all hair, smoothly sculpted, with just the hint of flat-mounded tits. As a murmur went through the audience, the rope belt around the peon’s waist was untied; the loose, baggy pants allowed to drop straight down to ring the ankles — revealing the peon’s surprise: A hard rubber phallus, strapped to Mallory’s waist, bobbed up and down in obscene display, as the girl leaned over to remove her crumpled pants!
It had been El Commandante’s crowning achievement, his ultimate, crude, perverse joke. Having pronounced that the elegant federal agent was a secret lesbian, he would have her fuck her little partner for the amusement of them all. The audience roared as “the whore” pantomimed surprise at the size of her lover’s prick. She took the swaying appendage between thumb and forefinger to test it, squeezing it, and smiling at the audience, as she had been taught. Then she quickly moved to slip off her panties, turning her hard, tight ass to the public as the two of them climbed into the waiting bed.
His generosity was legendary. The General saw to it that his women, as well as his guests, had the best of everything: food and drink. And for desert, small silver plates were passed around, each holding a neat pile of the soft, white powder, upon which was built his unbelievable wealth
All the women who served him, but especially those who would perform in the sex show, partook freely of what was offered, so that by now, both Mallory and her little partner were sky high. Mallory looked down on the flesh-colored dildo that sprouted from her hairy crotch, and couldn’t help giggling like a schoolgirl. Beneath her, legs sprawled open, her junior partner joined in, laughing mindlessly.
Abruptly, Mallory stopped laughing. Her eyes narrowed, and her lips were drawn into a single taut line. She reached down to delve between those loosely sprawled, nylon-clad limbs, and opened her partner up. On a whim of the Commandante’s, Kip had been shaved down there, between her legs; her bald vulva was now smoothly pristine — hairless, as the small tight pubes of a girl-child; incongruously tucked between the framing straps of the lacy garter belt. A surge of lust rose up in Mallory as she scuttled unsteadily on her knees, shifting to straddle her partner’s waist. She looked down on the shy smile on Kip’s small, upturned face. The girl was studying her from under that fringe of loose bangs.
Taking in hand the new appendage she sported, Mallory guided the knobbed head to the modest cleft of Kip’s pussy, probed, and then slowly pushed, until the head nudged open the pussylips and found its way slowly inside. Once having gained entrance, Mallory let her weight fall forward, smoothly driving the rubber cock, inch by inch, into her gal pal’s tight little cunt. Kip didn’t move, but lay there with eyes clamped shut, emitting tiny whimpers with each inch that the intruder penetrated into her depths. Her eyes flew open when Mallory pulled back her hips, withdrawing the smooth, wet piston that linked them in so intimate a way, until just the head remained lodged in the girl’s opening. Then she lunged forward, savagely thrusting her way into the writhing pussy, while the cheers of the excited audience filled her ears.
She was actually fucking a girl! The realization sent a perverse thrill through Mallory, rousing her, goading her onward. Her hips were bucking in slow undulations, pumping the sleek, glistening phallus deep into her little friend, while her butt tightened and flexed like a man’s with each measured stroke. Kip was wiggling now. Like a skewered fish, she flopped around, arching up to meet each fresh penetration, as the fucking gained momentum.
Mallory reached down; lifted a slack leg in each hand, prying her friend open even further. Her hips were bucking furiously now; the girl, highly responsive, was snapping her head from side to side, openly moaning beneath the driving fuck. Mallory hunched over. From somewhere far away, the roar of the crowd came to her, but she was oblivious to them all. She could do nothing but fuck. Like some fucking machine, she pumped her hips with single-minded determination. She drove the dildo in and out of that flopping, pneumatic body beneath her, intent on pleasuring the girl, in wringing out the orgasm she sensed was rising up and ready to burst, as the spasm of ecstatic rapture tore through the girl’s body.
Chapter Sixteen
It was a square, windowless room, formed by thick adobe walls, braced with wooden rafters. Along one side stood a metal bed frame; along the other, crudely built shelves kept an arsenal of sinister implements readily available for use in disciplining recalcitrant prisoners. From the main rafter, hung a chained chandelier of rusted iron, the kind found in the haciendas of a hundred years ago — a simple ring of metal, fashioned to hold a wreath of candles.
And from beneath the swaying chandelier, hung a beautiful nude — Special Agent Mallory Channing, her pale blue eyes wide with fright. Her gaping mouth had been gagged, stoppered with a hard rubber ball, while her cuffed wrists were held fastened to the ring of iron that hung just over her head. Suspended from the ceiling as
she was, the naked prisoner was forced up on her toes; her tautly stretched body, sheened with a light patina of sweat.
The uniformed man’s cold eyes appraised his captive from head to toe as he widened his booted stance, and reached out a gloved hand. She shrank back from the appreciative touch of Capitan Hernando Alvarez. The shudder that passed through that stretched out body, caused him to smile and lean even closer so that he looked into those terrified eyes over the mouth-distending ballgag.
Mallory recoiled before the touch of this hated man who even the guards called “loco” — the psychotic sadist who had watched her for days, plotting his move, waiting for his chance to get his hands on her. Her “offense” was inevitable. The strutting Capitan has his own rules. He demanded that, whenever he passed by a group of prisoners, all should turn and bow in his direction, bending from the waist in due deference to his exalted personage. Mallory’s “offense” was that she had not bowed with the proper respect to please the arrogant Capitan. This gringa, he decided, was altogether too proud! She must be taught a lesson.
So Mallory, having fallen into the cruel hands of this cold, calculating sadist, now faced the moment she dreaded since she had arrived in the camp. His emotionless eyes held her in the hypnotic stare of a dangerous snake, while his fingers traced a line down her cheek, her chin, over her collar, down the front of her neck.
“So, gringa, it becomes the duty of Capitan Alvarez to teach you proper manners?”
The gloved hand stroked her breast, found Mallory’s left nipple, took the wide plump cap between thumb and forefinger, all the while savoring the fear he saw in her eyes. He plucked the nipple, held it delicately, and then tightened his pincer grip, until he saw the lines of pain shoot across her brow. He pulled her to him by her pliant breast, stretching the fleshy nipple and getting a muffled grunt as the girl twisted her shoulders in a vain attempt to pull herself free.
Alvarez laughed, released the throbbing nipple and turned his back on the swaying woman who slumped forward in her chains. Mallory watched him with increasing alarm, straining to see over her shoulder, as her captor busied himself with a small brazier, an iron pot of red-hot coals that had been conveniently placed on a nearby table. As the girl watched in growing horror, he inspected a set of needles, long metal slivers set in delicate wooden handles. He selected one, and carefully inserted the tip into the hot coals. It took only a moment.
Then, he slowly approached the hanging woman, letting her see the wicked needle — the 5” shaft with its pointed tip, heated now to a rosy glow. The crazed sadist held the needle up before her widened eyes, smiling that cat-like smile at his helpless victim. Mallory went wild with terror, mewing a desperate plea, thrashing about, rattling her chains, and shrinking back as far as her restraints would allow. The Capitan’s evil smile widened, as he brought the needle towards Mallory Channing’s cowering body.
The frantic scream that brayed from the prisoner’s stoppered mouth was never heard, for just as the glowing tip came within inches of the straining body, an earthy-shattering roar shook the building, drowning out everything else. The stunned participants both froze, instinctively looked to the skies as the deafening clatter descended from the heavens, smoothing out into a more recognizable sound — whompa, whompa, whompa — the measured beat of a helicopter’s thudding blades, as it began a rapid downward spiral.
Alvarez, his face working to comprehend what was happening, went for his holstered pistol, even as the crackle of gunfire could be heard over the racket made by a swarm of choppers descending to envelope the mountaintop camp. Cautiously, Alvarez eased the door open, gun in hand. Mallory was amazed to see the man fly backwards, lifted off his feet and flung back like a rag doll under the impact of a burst from an automatic rifle. Alvarez collapsed in a heap; botches of bright red blossoming across the back of his tattered uniform.
Stunned by disbelief, Mallory could only watch as the door was slowly nudged open by the poking barrel of a rifle. The rest of the rifle appeared, as the man holding it cautiously edged into the doorframe — a tall, lean soldier in a uniform that seemed vaguely familiar. A flash of recognition came over the girl — remembrance of the camp at Quantico where once, long ago, as an agent trainee she had been issued a pair of combat fatigues, courtesy of the U.S. Marine Corps — the same kind of speckled fatigues as those worn by the rangy figure who stood framed in the doorway. A look of amazement came over his tanned, combat-hardened face at the astonishing sight before him – a beautiful woman, hanging from the rafters, without a stitch of clothing on!
The marine quickly checked over his shoulder; then cautiously pressed the reinforced toe of his combat boot into the dead body of the camp sadist. The intense clatter of gunfire was dying down. Only sporadic shots were ringing out now, interspersed with shouts in Spanish and English. That could be heard over the sound of the idling choppers. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he crossed the room and immediately began to untie her.
Mallory was trembling. Overcome by a flood of emotions, she broke down, sobbing uncontrollably, desperately clinging to her rescuer.
“Hush. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m Will Kane; we’re here to take you home,” he reassured her, as he worked loose the detested ballgag. His calm, confident voice was mellowed by the slightest southern drawl, as he soothed her, held her to him, smoothening, and stroking her hair.
Suddenly weak-kneed, Mallory collapsed into his arms. He swept her off her feet, easily lifting her to cradle the sobbing woman in his arms while Mallory turned toward the coarse cloth of his sweat-soaked uniform, burying her face in his chest, snuggling into the man’s smell and warmth, surrendering to his aura of male competence.
Something deeply feminine stirred within her, and for the first time in months, or maybe years…in oh, such a long time — Mallory Channing felt safe and warm in the arms of a real man.
THE END
Don Winslow, Agents in Harm's Way
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