Irene flinched and she realized she was staring. Her eyes flashed, like the flick of a tail and she looked to discover that all of them were staring; mesmerized at the sight of Sissy and where she held her finger. Irene grabbed Erin and Melissa by the shoulders and steered them to the bare framework of poles. “Everyone back to work,” she ordered and watched the remaining girls come to heel. “Start to bring pine-boughs. I want to sleep in this thing tonight.”
The girls quickly got into the rhythm of the project, dragging the boughs to where Irene could overlap them and wire the stalks to the overhead. Irene wasn’t satisfied until the roof was over two-feet thick, enough to keep out the rain, she thought. And the heat inside. Okay, so it looked like a heap of garden refuse from the outside, but it was getting cozy inside and Better Homes & Gardens wouldn’t be dropping by to take a photo. She started working on the floor.
By late afternoon, Irene and the girls stood around the new shelter and congratulated themselves. They were sweaty, their body’s streaked with dirt, their hair sprouted pine-needles and pine-gum stuck to their fingers. But it was a happy, boisterous group who gathered up their towels and headed for the river.
As soon as they had disappeared around the curve in the path, Ashwin got up from his chair and walked across the compound. He looked at the girl’s work with distaste and turned to his men. “Rip it down,” he said, “and fuckin’ burn it.” He spat on the ground.
Sissy was the first to smell the fire and pointed to the smoke that wafted like morning mist in the pine-trees. The girls, dreading what they would find, hurried back but before they made the final turn, Irene could hear the crackling flames and smell the pine tar bubbling. They rounded the curve and came to a staggering halt at the sight of their newly completed shelter; now just a heap of cinders with Ashwin’s stew-pot boiling in the coals.
Irene stood flat-footed, watching the smoke swirl.
The men were grinning at them from across the compound. Something hardened in Irene’s chest; coiled tighter and tighter.
“If you girls wanted a shelter,” Ashwin called out, “you should have asked. No one’s stopping you from sleeping with us.” And he laughed.
Irene trembled with outrage. In a sane moment she would have wondered if she was actually capable of killing Ashwin Franks, but not now. Gun or no gun, she blindly thought, it would be worth the risk: Stride across the compound and beat him to death with his own club. But a dangerous calm descended. Yes, she reasoned, she would have her moment. But it wasn’t now. Helen’s words again: wait ’til he’s sleeping, or has his back turned…
Irene felt the air re-enter her lungs. Okay. The moment wasn’t now, but it was coming. She could wait and ponder. It would be so much sweeter that way.
Ashwin stooped to stir the stew-pot. The one who controlled the food, he had discovered, controlled everything and he delighted in the power he lauded over the women; fourteen leggy girls, to do with as he pleased. And of course, there was Alex.
By humiliating Tracy, he had thrust a blade into Alex’s gut but he wondered how deep her feelings for Tracy actually ran. To what lengths would Alex go to protect Tracy. It would be interesting to find out, he decided.
He tried to remember what it had been like to fuck Alex. In the heat of the moment, with eight naked girls down on the pine-needles, their knees up and legs open, it was hard to remember. He did remember the screams of dismay clearly enough; the sobbing and the tears of outrage. Everywhere he looked, men’s asses were bobbing between stretched thighs. It was a gang-rape a man could only wish for. And each girl got a christening.
He remembered Alex on the ground, naked for him and, realizing it was pointless to resist, she had relented and opened her knees. She lay trembling as she watched him pull his pecker out of his pants. He would remember the look on her face for the rest of his life but the details of the actual fucking had become fuzzy. She was good, he remembered that much, the best in fact. And when he had finished with her he had stood over Alex and watched the body-fluids, their body-fluids, leak from between her legs and he had laughed. He had won. And now he felt like winning once more.
Alex? You are about to get your face washed!
Tracy was refusing to eat, with the hopes of avoiding a visit to the latrine that would dislodge the glass she carried inside. “Could someone get me some water?” she implored. “Alex was going for some but I guess she forgot.”
Irene felt icy fingers grip her heart. Alex would never forget. She looked about the circle of hungry girls, their bowls empty. “Has anyone seen Alex?”
There was murmured surprise and then the feeling of impotency and denial as everyone realized that the lanky head flight-attendant was missing. Irene spun on Ashwin and found him grinning at her, his eyes glassy. He had been waiting for the girls to realize that one of their own was missing and now he happily snapped his fingers.
The two trainers stepped from around the end of the lean-to. Alex stumbled between them, her mouth bound in electrical wire. Alex caught her step and rose above the men: Tall, beautiful, superior. She was better than Ashwin Franks and no matter what happened, always would be. It was the one thing about the blasted woman that infuriated Ashwin. Well, he thought with disdain, we’ll see how superior she is with my dick stuck up her ass.
Alex stepped forward, long arms drifting at her sides, her smallish breasts cupped in the French-styled bikini she always wore with bottom strings tied below boney hips.
“Remove the wire,” Ashwin ordered his men and used the toe of his boot to heap a mound of coals from the cooking fire. He pulled the revolver from his belt and jammed the muzzle into the softness under her jaw. “Kneel down.”
Once he had Alex positioned on the ground he turned to the others. “The rest of you flight-attendants, get over here. I want you to get a good look at what I’m going to do to your boss.” And under the threat of the gun barrel, the girls reluctantly moved forward and got seated.
Ashwin knelt down in front of Alex, the small heap of coals between them. “You know what this is?”
Alex lifted her eyes. “You offering me a cocktail?” she scoffed. “Looks like vodka.”
Ashwin had produced a whiskey glass filled with a colorless liquid.
“Oh no my dear. Something much more potent.” And Ashwin passed the glass under Alex’s nose.
She got a whiff. The acute vapors penetrated her sinuses. “No…”
“Oh yes. Aviation fuel.” And to illustrate the point, Ashwin dipped his fingers into the glass and flicked droplets onto the burning embers. Flames danced up and Alex turned her face away to avoid the swirl of acidy smoke. “Hold her,” Ashwin ordered his men.
Each man, sitting either side, took a wrist and stretched Alex out across the fire. Her face was inches above the cinders and she felt the heat on her cheeks.
“There, that’s better.” Ashwin’s voice was cloying. “I want you remain very still. Steady now…” And he carefully balanced the whiskey glass on the back of Alex’s head. “One mistaken move, the slightest jerk, and the glass falls into the fire and your head goes up in flames,” Ashwin laughed as Alex wavered with uncertainty. “Your grilled face will look like burnt hamburger meat.”
Alex didn’t do or say anything. The glass of aviation fuel tottered on the back of her skull just above the burning coals and she focused her attention on remaining absolutely still. If the glass fell, she might die in the smoke and flame, or at the very least, be horribly disfigured.
Ashwin scooted behind to where Alex’s bum was resting on her heels and looked to where the girls were seated, their faces pale with fear. “Your boss sure has a nice ass. Any of you ever had a look at it? Up close, I mean?”
There was a murmur of dissension, girls shaking their heads.
Ashwin plucked at one of the strings. The skimpy bottoms sagged and Ashwin gleefully pealed the fabric down to expose a tiny round bottom. “Son of a bitch…” Ashwin muttered to himself. The buttocks were as smooth as eggs and the crack so shallow, it unabashedly presented the innocent pucker of muscle, quivering with hopelessness.
Ashwin was awed by the sight.
He tugged at the opposite string and pulled the fabric from Alex’s crotch. A lock of thick pubic hair hung between narrow thighs.
He dragged his penis from his pants. “You girls watch, now. If anyone of you turns away, you will be beaten.” Ashwin tore open a tinfoil packet of mayonnaise, smeared the creamy dressing on his penis and worked the foreskin back and forth. With a hand on each of Alex’s hips he lifted himself into position. “Steady now,” he warned Alex and with the glass shimmering on the back of her head, he took her in one long painful slide.
With a swoop, Alex felt her insides open up. She bit down hard and tried to concentrate on the glass. It was as if her anus had been pulled down over a fist. And now that knot was distorting and grinding at the walls of her rectum. She closed her eyes and fought tears of frustration. She tried to forget how disgusting she must look in front of her crew. She forced the wretched burning in her rectum away, imagining she was holding it at arm’s length. That the pain and humiliation belonged to someone else. That it wasn’t her anus that was being torn and bloodied.
All she knew were the trembling movements of the glass. It wobbled, and she had to be quick to steady it. Keep it balanced. God Ashwin! Please! Her body began to weaken under the strain. Her muscles cramped. How much longer could she remain absolutely still with this madman hovered over her backside? She felt the glass slip. God no! The sound of Ashwin laughing. The final thrust. The flood inside. The glass going over. God no!
There was a hiss. Alex jolted, preparing to have the flames roast the flesh from her face. A flare of heat. Ashwin’s laughter ringing in her ears. And the burst of steam that scorched her cheeks.
It was water.
Alex broke down and sobbed. Ashwin had switch glasses. It was water that had run down the sides of her face and trickled onto the hissing coals. Ashwin pulled out and the men released her wrists. Alex fell back and lay sobbing. Ashwin got up and toed her with his boot. It felt good to laud it over her. “Get up woman,” he scowled. “Get yourself to the river and wash the cum outta your ass. Make yourself pretty. You sleep with me tonight.”
In a darkened office at Langley Field, a man sat idly watching seventeen computer displays. He fiddled with the mouse, his attention attracted to a truck convoy crossing the Pakistani desert. Probably vegetables, he reassured himself and moved on to a satellite shot of a Serb militant stronghold. All quiet for once.
His phone rang.
“Barkley,” he announced.
“Commander Jeff Barkley?” the voice inquired on the other end of the line.
“Yes. Of course,” Barkley bellowed. “Who’d you think?”
“Working late tonight, Jeff?” The voice was tinged in sarcasm.
Commander Barkley was suddenly incensed. “Who the hell is this,” he demanded. “This is a secure line. How did you get the number?”
The voice on the other end of the line was soothing. “Ahh Jeff, a truly secure phone line? You’re kidding yourself. It doesn’t exist. You should know that. Nothing’s secure anymore, not even your daughter’s future.”
“My daughter? What does my daughter have to do with this?”
And the voice, smooth as a woman’s undergarment came back with the words every parent fears the most: “I have your daughter, Jeff.”
Barkley felt his scrotum twist. “I… I beg your pardon?” The phone was suddenly sweaty in his palm.
“Your daughter, Jeff,” the voice replied. “Pretty little muppet. Blonde curls with a sexy overbite. She’s with me; right here. Pink training bra and panties. Quite lovely. I was thinking about how she would feel, straddling my lap.”
“Don’t. You wouldn’t,” Barkley fought for control. “You know who you’re speaking to?”
“Sure,” the voice came back like a demented dream, “the father of a bit of unblemished pussy. I was thinking of a way we might solve our dilemma.”
Barkley felt the sweat building in his arm pits, the room inexplicably sweltering. “What dilemma?”
“Well I’ll tell you. Six days ago, a plane lifted off from Cartagena. Its destination was Miami but it flew a circuitous route toward Caracas, Venezuela. Went southeast across the Andes to avoid Hurricane Amelia. You following me?”
“I’m listening.”
“Excellent.” The voice was calm, consoling. “Somewhere between Cartagena and Caracas, the plane went down, Jeff. Now you have a spy-satellite that follows a track along the eighth parallel and, correct me if I’m wrong, Jeff, if you shifted your search pattern, adjusted your field of view to the north, you might find the crash-site.”
“Oh Jesus. Do you know what you’re asking?”
The voice was still controlled and nonthreatening. “Well sure. I’m asking you to save a young girl’s life. Your daughter’s life, Jeff. Now be a good boy and find me that downed plane.”
The man hung up and immediately placed a call to Chicago. “He’ll play ball,” he said. “I’ll have your information within the next twenty-four hours. Shall I assemble a team?”
“Yes, and thank you,” the crime-boss said. “Cash as usual.”