Agents In Harms Way (11 page)

***

The veterans among the girls were full of tales about General Hernandez. Although he expected absolute obedience, and could show a terrible temper if crossed, he was said to be a man who treated his women well, relishing the role of grand seignior — a magnanimous, even generous host. The women who were called upon to service him, were allowed to fully enjoy the luxury of the big house: the oversized tub in which they could be treated to a real bath, even though he sometimes waded in to join them, his considerable bulk sending the water overflowing; the fine food, and the best of wine that the General had somehow managed to stash away in the mountain fortress. All in all, a few, not terribly unpleasant, hours. A smart girl would know how to use those hours to ingratiate herself with the supreme commander of the mountaintop, and in the process, suffer nothing more painful than the man’s thick, rutting cock up…up her ass, more than likely. For El Commandante was a devoted connoisseur of backdoor love. If a girl submitted with a smile to his perverse desires, he was content. And although his threats were taken seriously, his personal discipline was mild, provided the prisoner was careful not to provoke him. Once in the general’s beefy hands, the worst discipline would be one he would personally impose: an almost playful, over-the-knee spanking. Those familiar with the General’s ways readily agreed that this was a trivial price to pay, when compared to the sort of harsh treatment they might expect from the camp’s sadistic Captain.

It was Guzman who came for them — promptly at 12:55. The three anxious women waited for him, sitting side by side on Mallory’s bunk, collared, and dressed as ordered: their simple prison dresses augmented by black, thigh-high stockings, and high-heeled pumps, accessories the General dearly loved. In a short while, those shoes and stockings would be all the girls would be wearing. Each woman had been given time to attend to her hair and makeup. Lipstick and blush, eye shadow and liner, were strategically applied. All three wore the expensive Parisian scent the General favored.

Mallory, who, except for her trademark purple lipstick, tended to forgo the cosmetics of a well-dressed woman, now found herself taking a greater interest in those feminine arts since being confined to the mountaintop. She watched her little friend carefully applying lipstick, as if for the first time. Meghan, she decided, overdid it, thickening her lashes and painting herself up to excess so that she looked like some garish whore, although Mallory had to admit that the lovely mane of soft blonde hair framing her pretty face made quite an impression. Then too, Meghan’s richly curved figure nicely filled out her prison uniform: the first few buttons, always left undone, revealed the top slopes of those fulsome breasts, slightly drooping with that deep, generous cleavage, with weightiness that was seductive and inviting. Unlike Mallory’s thick pink nipples, Meghan’s were dark and large; excessive nipples with oversized aureolae. Those nipples could clearly be seen through the thin bodice when the big blonde smoothened it down with both hands as she stood and stretched. Mallory casually glanced down to check her own front. Her dress hung more loosely from her rangy shoulders, billowing slightly when she leaned forward. She brought up a hand to surreptitiously undo a further button down the front of her uniform.

Guzman, with brisk, business-like moves, attached the leashes to their collars and ordered the prisoners to their feet. Then the little parade set off for the long walk to the mansion, watched from behind shuttered windows by the always curious citizens of General Hernandez’s little kingdom.

The women were led through the carved door, and into the cool darkness of a long hallway. The sudden shelter from the glaring afternoon sun was most welcome. Gradually, Mallory’s eyes adapted to the heavily shaded interior. And she could make out the paneled walls and rich mahogany woodwork that lavishly adorned the pale stucco walls. She was led through rooms ornately appointed in a style that was hopelessly dated, feeling as though she had stepped back into the 19
^th
century, complete with polished, ornate, Victorian furnishings and potted palms that seemed to sprout everywhere.

The Major led the three tethered women down the hallway, their heels clicking on the hardwood floors as they were brought to a set of huge double doors. The doors were half-heartedly “guarded” by a pair of slovenly sentries, who came to life with evil grins when they saw the party of women prisoners approach. Mallory, just behind Guzman walked tall with her usual elegant sway, cool and poised like a model on a runway, with shoulders squared and chin held high. The soldiers giggled, joked, and poked one another, as they drank in the long and delicious body of the chief gringa with longing eyes. Behind her, the blonde girl with the long hair pranced in her high heels, her voluptuous body moving seductively, unsupported tits jiggling with a titillating wobble with each step she took. Bringing up the rear, Kip shot the two grinning guards a defiant stare, as though daring them to look — which they did, with pleasure, whistling as they admired the girl’s skirted butt as she passed by, and playfully grabbing at her skirt to get a peek once the Major’s back was turned. The fiery girl cursed and swatted behind her at the offending hand that held her by the upraised skirt, briefly exposing her agile, nyloned legs and small, tight-cheeked bottom to the delight of the grinning apes. The Major turned to look over his shoulder, clearly annoyed; snapped an order. And the two buffoons sprang to attention, and made an elaborate ceremony of opening the doors to admit the little party into a large, gaudy, and brightly-lit room.

The room was meant to be sumptuous, to awe the visitor with baroque splendor; a receiving room where the monarch of all he surveyed might impress visitors. There were elaborate arches, and ornate, gilded mirrors. Miles of rich crimson velvet draped the paneled walls, and golden candelabra from another era, brought up now to the electric age, sparkled from the high ceilings. Along each side, a series of niches for statuary had been carved out of the walls. Mallory had heard all about these now-vacant alcoves.

The others told of how, from time to time, the General would stage an lavish entertainment for his cronies, a disreputable gang of smugglers, dealers, and drug lords, along with the corrupt police and local officials who profited from their dealings, the whole elaborate operation controlled by the master of the mountain. On such occasions, a female prisoner was assigned to each alcove, there to serve as a “living statue”. Their naked figures adorning the walls, they provided amusing decorations, enhancing the pleasant ambiance the General created for his esteemed guests. The last time such a party had been given, the women had been forced to shave all the hair from their bodies, though thankfully, not from their heads. They were ordered to step up into the alcoves to take their places, standing at attention, nude bodies well oiled and displayed, so that they gleamed as they stood poised under the bright lights, while the General’s guests freely walked the line, admiring those taut-muscled, shiny bodies with appreciative eyes, and fond, lingering hands.

At the far end of the room, seated in an ornate chair on a raised carpeted platform, (the resemblance to a throne, absurdly obvious to Mallory), sat their smirking captor, the warlord of the Mountains, General Humberto Emilio Hernandez. His naked bulk was wrapped in nothing but a short silk robe, loosely belted, and open at the front. The big man was corpulent, yet not grossly fat. His features told of his humble origins — the coarse, vulgar face and thick mustache of a common peasant. He repelled Mallory; yet there was something almost magnetic about the man. She couldn’t help being intrigued by his massive presence, the bare chest, broad and thickly furred, and the commanding sense of power the man so casually carried on those large, muscular shoulders.

In keeping with his imperial delusions, the short robe, that barely covered the would-be king’s fleshy hips, was a shiny royal purple. He sat with thighs widespread, bare feet planted firmly on the thick pile of the rug before him. Mallory couldn’t help sneaking a glance between those hairy thighs where, partially shadowed, a thick, somnolent penis hung limp and languid. Her eyes flickered up to find the man grinning at her. It had not escaped his notice that the woman’s curious gaze had fallen to the place between his opened legs. And when he caught her taking in his manhood, he positively preened, easing back in his chair, letting his thighs fall lazily open just a few inches wider, grandly inviting the gringa’s inspection.

“So…
Senorita Federale
,” the General purred, looking straight at Mallory, “come closer. It is time we got better acquainted, no?”

An off-handed gesture energized the leering Major who drew the girls up by their necks, to stand within inches of the platform, and with an air of propriety, arranged his charges in a row, side by side. A further nod to the always-attentive aide had the leashes unhitched from their collars; gathered up in one gloved hand. Now Guzman bowed curtly, stepped back behind the prisoners, careful not to block El Commandante’s view. They could feel him standing just behind them: the leashes bunched up in his left hand, while his right hand held a sturdy riding crop that he lightly tapped against his booted calve.

“You know, Guzman, these Yankees, they have some strange ideas, no? My good friend, Capitan Thompson, he swears that these two are Yankee
Federales! Federales
! Can you believe that? We, of course, don’t understand how that can be! But then, we are only ignorant soldiers, far away from that great-enlightened country. How can such a poor son of a peasant understand the great Yankees at all: how such weak and miserable men can allow their women to get out of control. These gringos are pathetic, no? And their women! What kind of women are they, these ‘
Federales
’”?, he spat the last word contemptuously. “I have never met one before. Are they like other women, I wonder, Guzman,” the general went on in a speculative tone, lazily, luxuriously scratching his crotch. “Are they even
made
like other women? Do they get wet between the legs? Or do they have the
cajones;
the balls they’ve taken from their men?”

Mallory stood with eyes on the thickly carpeted floor, clenching her fists at her sides, hating this preening bastard, this male pig — and all he stood for! She could barely control the helpless rage seething up in her.

“Come, Guzman, let us see if these
Federales
have the
testiculo
that their men have lost.”

Mallory sensed the slight movement behind her, felt the hot breath on the back of her neck. “Get undressed,” the whispered command was meant only for the captives’ ears.

There was no choice. On the Mountain of Love, one simply obeyed. And so, reluctantly, the female prisoners began to strip, working open the buttons down the front of the simple frocks they wore, while their captor watched the three women undress before him — an insolent sneer plastered on his lips. Meghan’s own lips, brightly painted, rich and full, held the trace of a seductive smile as though just for him. She had quickly taken the measure of the man called El Commandante. That smile stayed carefully in place as she freed herself from the dress, letting it fall down her shoulders in such a way that her magnificent breasts seemed to bounce free, spilling over the sliding bodice and then wobbling liquidly as she bent to shove the loosened dress down her hips, and let it drop straight down her black-stockinged legs to ring her ankles in a crumpled heap.

Young Kip kept her head down, staring at adept fingers that made their way down her modest front, exposing more of her perky, small-sized breasts with each button they undid. She brushed the loose dress back off her shoulders, and worked it down her hips with a girlish shimmy, to reveal her slight, hipless form, that tight-knit, wiry body — excitingly nude, but for shoes and stockings.

Mallory’s movements were slow and deliberate. She undressed with the casual indifference of a woman disrobing in the privacy of her bedroom, paying not the slightest bit of attention to the grinning lout who watched her every move. She twisted each rounded shoulder free and peeled the dress down to uncover her bare chest, the taut, slightly-raised disks that formed her understated breasts; those fleshy pink nipples that men found so succulent. A brief tug sent the displaced dress sliding down sleek, naked haunches; she raised each high-heeled pump, in turn, to gracefully free herself of the collapsed prison uniform.

“Hands behind your heads!” The hissed command came from behind them.

The naked women obliged, doing as they were told, standing erect with heels together, fingers interlinked behind their necks; it was a pose they had been taught to assume on command, one that forced each prisoner to arch her back as though presenting her chest for approval. The grinning General motioned them closer to him. A few steps took them to the edge of the platform, close enough so that he might reach out for them. But he did not reach for them. Instead he leaned forward, to do no more than examine their nude bodies from his improved vantage point. He took his time, scrutinizing each woman in turn, silently letting his eyes inspect their undressed bodies, leisurely inspecting the bare breasts they displayed for him, before turning to admire the three pairs of nylon-clad legs: Mallory’s tall, slender, tapering lengths, straight and splendid; Meghan’s curvaceous, fully-fleshed thighs, magnificent; Kip's straight, coltish limbs, hard-muscled, like those of a spry, girl gymnast. Mallory saw the man lick his lips; she shuddered in distaste.

The warlord’s big head finally nodded his silent approval.

“Bueno
, Major. We can see they look like women, no? But we must be careful. We are dealing here with some very dangerous
Federales.
We must be sure they hide no secrets. I think it is best that they show themselves,” he said as if deciding after having given the matter considerable thought. “
Si,
Major, have the prisoners show us that they hold no secrets.”

The General’s aide moved up behind the three tense women: “Get down…squat”. The voice of command was dry, a hushed voice, barely audible, yet effective. Like the other two, Mallory lowered herself while managing to keep her back straight, until she settled into a frog-squat, with knees spread and most of her weight resting on the balls of her feet. This was another familiar position, one the prisoners were often required to assume.

But the next command had them doing something they had never done before. “The General wishes to see your pudenda. Open your legs. Show yourself to him!”

By this time, Mallory had been forced to endure repeated humiliation at the hands of her captors, and she thought that nothing could embarrass her further. She had even been pissed on in public while she lay helpless under the yellow rain! But this lewd command, left her thoroughly mortified, flushed with embarrassment at having to reach down and press open her labia to show the glistening inner pink of her womanhood to her smug, seated captor.

“Look at me,” he spat to the three women who squatted naked before him, their eyes downcast. And he made them look at him while they held their sex lewdly open, as he had commanded. He kept them squatting before him, though mercifully not for two long; just until the strain of the squat began to show in their trembling calve muscles. His greedy eyes flitted from Meghan’s lush, thick petals, to Mallory’s dusky rose, its pliant lips splayed open and held back, to the small delicate flower Kip showed him as she spread her tawny, young thighs.

“
Bueno
!” He at last pronounced himself satisfied. “That’s enough. You may kneel now. The prisoners gratefully gave up the lascivious pose and got to their knees, in yet another familiar pose
-
kneeling erect before their master.

“I told you to look at me,” he reminded them.

Three pair of eyes rose up to meet his in mute obedience.

First, he studied Meghan; saw the ready welcome in those big blue eyes. El Commandante knew her kind of woman. He would take her, enjoy her body, lavishly maul those bounteous tits, suck on those big ripe nipples, fuck her cunt, and of course, that large, shapely behind. He would offer his upright cock to those soft full, seductive lips and have her suck him until his cock exploded to decorate her gringa’s face with his cum. She would make a willing pleasure toy, a charming bauble to take when he wanted her, and offer to his friends when he became bored with her. He dismissed the big blonde from his thoughts and turned his attention to Mallory, standing next in the row of pretty maidens. He saw the hard glitter in those cold steel blue eyes, and knew this was the woman he had to have! His Latin blood stirred; his prick hardened. This was a magnificent women, strong and willful; this was one El Commandante would have to conquer! These thoughts went through his head, while the slightly amused smile on his face never wavered. His eyes flitted over to study Kip. Under that mop of dusky hair, the little girl look he found in those large dark eyes moved something deep inside him.

His gaze went back to Mallory; he paused to consider what he saw there

“
Ocho! Diez
! Come to me.”

The girls started to get to their feet.

“No, not like that! Crawl… here!” he pointed to places at either aide of his ornate chair. Meghan and Kip, both veteran visitors to the Casa, knew what El Commandante wanted. On all fours, they obediently crawled up the two carpeted steps to arrange themselves flanking their seated lord, kneeling up, then settling back on folded legs. The pose brought them close enough to be played with, and El Commandante took advantage of their new proximity by dropping a hand to idly finger Mehgan’s plump, left nipple while he kept his contemplative gaze on the superb, dark-haired gringa kneeling so prettily below him.