The man placed his strong, fat hand on her head and pushed her forwards. “Bend over, whore,” he told her churlishly. “You got me stiff as a steel pole and I need some relief.”
Margie dolefully placed her forehead on the deck and spread her knees. The man’s heavy, pointed toed boot jabbed her thighs rudely as he instructed her callously, “Wider, cunt.”
She heard the thud of the man’s knees hitting the deck and then felt the rub of the man’s coarse, canvas pants against the back of her thighs and his cock press against the entrance to her womb. Unlike the last time that he fucked her, her pussy was dilated and wet and his passage was easy as he thrust his meat deep inside her. Her still enflamed canal welcomed his cock eagerly as he began a series of hard, punishing thrusts into her. His cruel hands seized her hips to better control and regulate the traverse of his hardened weapon along her pussy’s energized walls. She could feel the rumble of the boat’s engines on her forehead and her knees, and her heavy breasts scraped along the deck stinging her damaged nipples, as her body recorded each powerful thrust of the man’s thighs against hers. By the time that his cock had begun shooting his hot fluids inside her, she was again moaning and crying out with pleasure.
During the next four days, the two men savagely misused her. While they were not fucking her fore and aft, or using her mouth, they kept her bound to the bunk in the captain’s quarters below decks. They would make her lay down on her belly, her arms confined cruelly to the ring in her collar behind her and then affix the ring in the front to a hook they had installed in the headboard. Her ankles were tied together. She lay there for many hours each day listening to the monotonous drone of the engines and dreading the tell tale sound of one of the men coming down from the deck above to abuse her.
At night, she was allowed to come up and kneel on the deck in the somewhat cooler night air and service the men with her mouth. They never spoke to her, but made jokes to each other about her breasts and her eager cunt. Her meals were served to her in the very same bowl that the bandit had used when she had first journeyed in the old, beat up craft. When, at first, she had declined to eat, the blond haired man had beaten her with a leather strap until she tearfully succumbed.
It was strange to be a prisoner again on the boat that had brought her up river in the first place. She thought of the brave, dark haired girl who had been made prisoner here and how she cursed the bandit and spat in his face, a thing that she paid dearly for. Margie wondered what cruelties the girl had suffered since then and whether, if she were to go back to the tavern, she might see the forlorn, young woman sitting on one of the petit chairs at the top of the landing, dressed in scanty intimacies, awaiting her next drunken and loutish customer. She thought of the bandit himself, his broad, toothy grin, his strong, knowledgeable hands as they caressed her into passion. Even of Pepe, who had died with a little red mark on his forehead, but who had never touched her. Their presence on the small boat was palpable, as if their ghosts haunted it. The vision of the poor man her captor had killed made her shiver, his body bobbing momentarily on the surface of the river, before it sank into the dark, muddy water forever with a single, pitiful moan.
Margie’s mind struggled with the experience of living a nightmare that could not be, but yet, was. How could she have ended up a dismal prisoner, a sexual slave, the use of her hands seemingly permanently deprived of her, unable to speak, to regulate her bodily needs, to deny admission to her private places to anyone who wanted them. She had had so much to live for. A life well planned out, a marriage seemingly made in heaven. She had been at the brink of success professionally. Her planned field trip next spring would have catapulted her into the forefront of her profession.
The poor woman tried to keep such thoughts from her mind, as they brought on heart rendering tears and intense, disabling depression. She tried to lose herself in the never ceasing drone of the boat’s engines, the gentle rocking of the water and the occasional screech of a jungle creature as they passed along. But the thoughts kept returning as did the foreboding that she felt when she thought about what her future would soon bring.
It would not be an exaggeration to say that by the morning of the fourth day, Margie did not care whether she lived or died. She continuously looked for an opportunity to throw herself into the river, but the men kept her either anchored in some way to the boat through one of the rings in her collar, or held firmly onto the leash that Armando had first placed on her.
The river had gotten narrower and slower the further they traveled up it. The boat was forced to progress carefully as dense vegetation on either side provided a canopy that blocked out much of the light and caused dawn to come late and dusk early. They men did not travel at night for fear of bottoming out the boat on a rock or becoming irretrievably stuck on some sand bar. This far up the river, that would have been a death sentence for them all as there was no way to get back to
Porto Vaca
through the jungle and the river was too treacherous to get down it on a raft.
Margie was surprised when she felt the boat slowing to a halt midmorning on the fourth day. She heard the engine cut out and the sound of the anchor being dropped in the water. She had been speculating wildly as to where the men were taking her, maybe to sell her to drug dealers on some remote plantation, or maybe to a mine owner or even some secret laboratory deep in the jungle for perverse medical experimentations. And then she asked herself, who else lives this deep in the jungle and the solution hit her like a brick. Indians lived in the jungle. Sometimes they traded jewels or the furs of leopards or pumas to the white men for food or utensils such as axes or knives. What would they pay to own a white woman? A wave of dread passed through her as she realized that this was her most likely destination. While she had been in the town where Armando had held her as his bondwoman, she had been in a place with at least a veneer of civilization, where word of his blond captive might make it back to her lover, Tom, and people who could save her. The Indian tribes lived in remote, virtually unexplored areas of the jungle. There would be no way that she would ever be found. And the remoteness of their villages were such that she would never be able to find her way back, even if she were somehow able to get free.
The American anthropology professor had, ironically, studied South American native tribes for many years. She had read all of the literature on the subject that she had found, much of it in primary sources. She knew that they had a long tradition of hostility to outsiders and cruelty to captives. They sometimes raided remote outposts of settlers and hauled their prisoners deep into the jungle to visit ancient, horrifying tortures on them so as to placate the spirits which they believed ruled their lives. She shuddered as she envisioned herself tied to a spit and being roasted slowly over a hot fire. Or her skin peeled back layer by layer, her screams piercing the demon filled night. Or of tortures that she could not even imagine, her cries of agony sailing off into the dark jungle to the satisfaction of some soul greedy, primitive god.
Lying helpless on the bunk, Margie could hear the men talking and shuffling cargo around on the deck above her. The quitting of the engines made the silence ominous. She shook with surprise when she heard the horn of the boat give out three, long, intense blasts as a signal to whoever the men were supposed to meet. Margie quivered in her bunk with the knowledge that her future would soon be revealed to her, hoping desperately that she was wrong.
It was about an hour later that the fat, blond haired man came for her. He unfastened her ties to the bunk and, reaffixing her leash, led her up to the deck. The bank was high where they had stopped and the woman was able to step onto the land easily without having to immerse herself in the water. The blond man crossed over first, holding her leash and then gave the long, steel chain a tug and Margie obediently, but with deep, heartbreaking trepidation, leaped over the small gap of water between the shore and the boat and touched the land with her sandaled feet.
The other man, the tall, lean one, who had been almost as cruel and callous to the young woman as the fat one, was setting up camp in the large clearing. He already had three one man tents set up and was assembling a fire in front of them. Several boxes had been unloaded and were piled not far from the tents with a brown tarp pulled over them. The fat blond man led Margie to a tree that sat near the middle of the otherwise clear patch of land and stood her next to it. Taking hold of her elbows, he turned her to face it and unlocked her wrists from behind her back.
Margie gave out a sigh of relief as she felt the pressure on her shoulders relax. She was surprised when she felt the locks on her wrist bracelets undone. She had been wearing them for over a month and had almost gotten used to the idea that they were a part of her. For a moment, she considered the thought of breaking out into a run into the nearby rain forest. She had hands now, a decided advantage over her prior state. Maybe the man would catch her, maybe he wouldn’t. She would take her chances. But then she remembered the fierce beating the man had given her on her last attempt and the fact that while the blond man was fat and decidedly out of shape, the other man was lean and trim and would almost certainly catch her. Her legs were tired and unsteady from her long confinements and she would probably not be able to get up much of a head of steam. And there was the fact that her mouth was still gagged and she would have had to breathe through her nose. Her oxygen intake would become anaerobic quickly. Even if she got free, she would not be able to get it off and would die of thirst or starve to death. No, it was not worth it. Whatever was going to happen, was going to happen. She could only pray that, if it was what she supposed, that her death would come quickly.
The man spun the passive, disconsolate woman around again and tied her wrists together in front of her with a rope. He tossed the other end up over a branch and then pulled the unhappy woman’s hands up high over her head. Margie realized that any chance of escape had now passed. She shivered with fear as the man’s gross body pressed against her while he tied off the end of the rope to her outstretched hands.
He smiled at her in his evil way and, taking her heavy mounds in his hands, massaged them forcefully, not to bring her pleasure, but for his own. He licked and sucked at her fat nipples until they were stiff and, in spite of his callous indifference to the woman’s enjoyment, brought a sigh of unwanted pleasure from her.
“You are a lusty cunt,” the man said to her laughing. He walked away, leaving Margie panting and frightened. She saw him enter the bush and then return with a six foot long, narrow log. When he tossed it to her feet, she knew what it was for.
The man lashed first Margie’s right and then her left ankle to the log, as wide apart as he could force her legs. The spreading of her legs had lowered Margie’s height and her arms were now stretched out tautly above her. They began to ache immediately as did her delicate, pale thighs, which were already burning with the strain. She moaned and bit unhappily into the heinous wad of leather that filled her mouth so cruelly. “Make yourself comfy,” the man said, laughing as he teased her distended, hairless quim. “We’ll be here a while.”
While Margie stood painfully stretched in the humid, sweltering, jungle heat, the men sat on the ground in front of the tents drinking and smoking cigarettes. One of their passions, besides tormenting helpless women, was dominos and they set up a game on one of the cartons they had brought over from the boat. Every once in a while, they would look up at their captive and Margie would issue a forlorn, silent plea to them with her eyes, begging for release from her cruel bindings. The men would just look away again indifferently.
About every two hours, one of the men would return to the boat and issue three long, blaring blasts from the boat’s horn. At one point an argument ensued between the two men and the blond one got up and began beating the lean one with his fists. The men tumbled through the tropical grass cursing and swearing at each other until the blond man finally got in the blow that concluded the argument. While he went back to the fire and started to drink again, the lean man laid in the grass moaning. It took a little while, but he eventually returned to where the fat man sat and, apparently having made his peace, they resumed their seemingly interminable game of dominos.
It was just past dark when they finally freed the tired and aching woman from her perch. The blond man refastened her hands behind her back and dragged her over to the fire where he let her eat from a bowl on the ground and then let her have a long, soothing drink of tepid water. Afterwards, she was led a little distance away from the camping area and allowed to void herself while crouching in the grass. She was then taken to her tent where the men fucked her, one after the other, and, when they were finished with her, left her hogtied for the night.
The next morning it was the same thing. The men let her eat a small breakfast from her bowl and then, after extracting blow jobs from her, the lean man, Margie thought that she had heard the other man had called him Estaban, took her to the bank of the river where he washed and brushed her unruly, tangled, dirty hair and shaved the small bristles of hair that had appeared on her pudenda and lower belly, something that he had done every day since she had been the men’s prisoner. He then tied her back off to her tree while the blond man went back to the boat and issued the three long blasts from its horn.