Pandoras hideaway, p.15
Pandora's Hideaway, page 15
When Carlos returned, everyone in the Hideaway was instantly roused, excited and scared. Muriel’s heart leapt to her throat. She could feel him, the pulse of his body, his groin throbbing as though he was ready for her, and would come for her at any moment. Hours passed and he didn’t appear while Muriel’s longing for him grew voracious and desperate.
Late in the afternoon, she was in the kitchen working on the dinner meal.
“You’ll serve, tonight,” Ancha told her. “Watch me carefully, keep your head bowed and don’t say a word unless you’re spoken to—which you won’t be.”
Mariel vowed to follow Ancha’s orders to the letter—this would be a next step in her training, and it gave her some purpose other than the sexual. Even she had to admit that after the night on the beach, her body and mind needed a breather from the crazed frenzy of fucking. But serving this meal also meant seeing Carlos again. Her loins hungered anxiously for him, filled with expectation.
During dinner, Mariel carried trays of food, poured water, and stood respectfully, submissively at the door to the dining room waiting for more instructions, obeying every order perfectly, just as she’d seen the other slaves do. All the while, her heart longed for the man at the head of the table. Her groin beat strong, spasms ground inside her belly, and she was almost orgasmic from the first moment she saw Carlos’ expressive face. She longed for his touch, the twinkle in his eye, a smile, even a look of reproof, or a flash of dominant rage. But none was given her.
Yes, Carlos was consumed with lust, but his lust was not focused on Mariel. A petite, young slave sat with him that night, completely naked except for a collar that encircled her throat tightly and a ring that pierced her nose, running through her septum as if she were a beast. She was hardly that. Mira, as Carlos referred to her, was as demure as any of his trained slaves, looking almost penitent as she stared at her master. Their brief conversation was hushed, and she hardly ate. Nervous, Mariel surmised. After dinner, the two retired to Carlos’ bedroom and didn’t reappear for the rest of the night.
Mariel spent the night as she had the last six, in her cell, alone; alone like the other house slaves who were content with their station. But she was not content. Restless, her body clawed for completion, and she took liberties, masturbating to the memories of her nights in bed with Carlos. It was a bittersweet remembrance, the time fleeting. Surely this dalliance with Mira was only a brief escapade away from her and she’d return to his bed, amusing him again.
For six days, Mira remained Carlos’ lover, treated to the same ruthless, intensely loving behavior Mariel had experienced. Not once in that time did he even look Muriel’s way, let alone speak to her. She functioned as a house slave only. On the seventh day, there was another gathering of Carlos’ tribe of friends. Mariel was called on then, given to a familiar pair of hands, used briskly and cast off to go back to her tasks. Mira was the center of the tribe’s attention that afternoon, while Mariel and the other slaves were called on only when another cunt or ass was needed for the sport of fucking. That night, Mariel cried herself to sleep from loneliness, while Jack’s words came back to haunt her, and the seed of rebellion planted in their last conversation grew rapidly in her fast awakening consciousness.
Days later, nothing had changed. Mariel watched the other slaves go about their master’s business, happily giving in to his whims, seeking nothing more than what they received, what paltry little that was. Perhaps, once a week, he’d give the others some attention, though it was not always physical and rarely sexual. Occasionally, he’d run an affectionate hand through a slave’s hair, or when he was in a very good mood pat them on the rear in a pleasing way. These gestures brought smiles, expressions of hopefulness, but almost never led to anything more. The desire that drove the man seemed serially monogamous, focused now solely on his latest whim, his slave, Mira.
Mariel ached in the woman’s presence. She was beautiful, exotic, her skin dark and sumptuous, her black eyes bright and bold, her long, ebony hair glistened in the light. Naked, she gleamed head to toe, her breasts full and undulating, her hips wide and shapely. She wore her submissiveness like a permanent mantle, and by her easy familiarity with the man, seemed to know Carlos much longer than these few days.
“He did you well,” Mariel heard Carlos tell her. The comment made no sense, but Mira received the compliment with a winsome smile on her downcast face. He’d pleased her.
In a household ruled by a strict cast system, it would be natural to hear gossip among the slaves, but there was little, perhaps because no one but Mariel seemed disaffected by Mira’s hold on Carlos’ affections.
After two weeks watching the pair together, seeing the sexual extremes and the love that seemed to bind them displayed overtly before her, Mariel had no more desire to stay in the Hideaway. Acute, painful desire, mixed with indignation welled up in her until she couldn’t avoid the feelings. There were no justifications for Carlos’ behavior. Jack had seen the truth and she had been too blind then to listen to him. Not a day after he left, her new life had unraveled, day by day, piece by piece until she had become nothing but an ordinary house slave.
“I want to leave,” she boldly announced to Carlos after dinner one evening, once Mira was dismissed and she had the opportunity to speak with Carlos alone. It was a forbidden act, but she didn’t care.
“What was that?” he looked at her, annoyed.
“I want to leave.”
“Yes, I hear you.” He looked at her strangely, “Apparently, you didn’t hear me. Could that be? You are mine and you do not leave. I own you, just as I own this fork.” He raised the gleaming silver item in mockery.
“You may believe that is true, but you don’t want me here thinking the thoughts I think.”
He chuckled. “Yes, yes, yes. This was just a game for you, as long as you were in the spotlight, center of my attention, glued to my crotch.”
Her face burned, flushed with indignation, her mind recognizing the truth that spilled out so simply from the man’s own lips. Her lust was embarrassingly transparent and misguided. “Yes, you’re right,” she replied. “It was you I wanted, and I was taken in by your charm…, if you can call it that. For whatever reason, it seems you kept me between your legs just long enough for Jack to leave, knowing I would never have stayed without the attention I was getting. He wanted me to leave with him and I would have gone.”
He shook his head in amazement. “You still don’t get it. Whether you wanted to leave or not was not an issue—just as it is not an issue now. As long as I have you here, you won’t be leaving unless I want you to.”
Her head spun. She felt dizzy, disoriented, scared.
“Yes, that is the truth, slave. This is not your sane and civilized world. This is mine. My game, my rules.”
“But you are not alone in this world. I am an American citizen. I have rights.”
“As far as I’m concerned, you relinquished all that nonsense when you agreed to stay here. Look for the embassy, slut,” he snarled laughingly contemptuous, staring around, “you won’t find it. There is no one who will rise up against me. I’m a trivial entity, almost non-existent. No government recognizes Pandora’s Hideaway. We’re outcast in the community of man, the whole world turns their head as if we don’t really exist, just as I want it to be. And you are here, in my realm, my property, if you will, my prisoner.”
She still could not speak.
“You thought this was just a game, didn’t you? That I’d finally say, ‘Time’s up, go on your merry way’. Well, bitch, you were wrong. I gave you all of my passion for two weeks, you should be happy with that. If you’re not, I’m so sorry. Get used to your misery. I’ll do nothing to abate it. In fact, I’ll see that it increases. Ancha!” he called loudly toward the kitchen. “A gag,” he said when she arrived, “and manacles.”
He stared her down until she felt like a mere inch tall, she very mortal, he her God. Seeing his expression, she collapsed back into a submissive repose while he gagged her and manacled her hands behind her, even then, finding a fantastic thrill course her body as she reacted to the touch of his hands.
“Your adventure is hardly over,” he wryly retorted. There was something on his mind, a scheme working in his head that scared her; but it was so like her first days at Pandora’s Hideaway that she succumbed again. Was that all she needed: to be abused, even scorned? How easy she had been, and easy she was now.
***
Mariel remained bound and gagged in her cell for two days—ignored. She was able to use the chamber pot, and was once given some water to drink by a compassionate Ancha. Otherwise, she remained forgotten, hungry, even cold, as if a wintry blast of venom was being sent her way.
On the third day, she was taken from her cell, hosed in the yard by one of the native men who served the Hideaway. Her hair was washed and combed, her body dried and the gag removed. “Carlos will kill you if you say a word,” the man told her.
By then, she wasn’t sure if the threat was hollow and she wouldn’t dare test it.
Taken naked into the jungle room, she knelt at Carlos’ feet, bowing her head as penitently as she knew how. Her emotions ranged from fright to anger to letting go, while still hoping that her master might give her what she desired. What a ridiculous thought that was!
“I have a fix for slaves who don’t know how to play my game. This is one I think you’ll like, at least I hope so.” He was calm, patronizing, oozing his natural charm, which would only make this moment more painful as she lived it in memory. “These are a traveling collar and manacles we use for transport of female slaves in this region. You wear this, and no one will bother to ask why you’re so attired.”
Lifting a hefty metal collar from the table beside him—a collar reminiscent of the one Mira wore her first day—Carlos placed it around Muriel’s throat and clamped it shut. “Turn around,” he ordered. She obeyed, realizing that he was locking the collar with a padlock and key. Her body ache soared ruthlessly; her excitement and its accompanying fear mixing like demons to arouse but then paralyze her. Traveling… traveling where? Even with its wicked underlying purpose, Pandora’s Hideaway was safe for her. “Now turn back,” Carlos ordered again.
“Mira, please assist,” he ordered his constant companion.
“Slaves leaving my Hideaway wear my insignia.” He held up a ring, which Mariel could see was inscribed with some hieroglyphic scratches on the side, not unlike the one Mira wore through her nose. Carlos nodded to someone else in the room, and a warm, firm, masculine body was suddenly behind Mariel, holding her, clutching her so tightly that she couldn’t move—not hands, or arms, or shoulders or feet. Just as suddenly, Carlos was leaning forward in his chair, his fingers reaching to her nose, pulling down on the flesh separating her nostrils. A needle swiftly pierced the narrow spot between the thick cartilage, and the ring was immediately treaded through the hole.
Mariel gasped in one great instant of pain, fear and humiliation. Her crotch was liquid, its nectar seeping out on her calves as if she’d come in the act of being pierced. Perhaps she made some squalling, screaming sound, but her ears were deaf to everything around her. Her mind was blank, seemingly frozen, and her body still commandeered by the powerful muscle behind her tensed once, and finally collapsed as if she’d fainted.
“The worst is over, slave,” Carlos said, as if that should comfort her. She knew he was merely mocking her. “Stand up.”
The man behind her had loosened his grasp, but it took his strength to help her rise to her feet. Even then, she was wobbly and needed his assistance. Without comment, the slave Simone dressed her in a sarong that covered her body from her breasts past her knees. Yes, she’d be traveling, perhaps a woman’s nakedness was not acceptable outside Pandora’s Hideaway. That was briefly reassuring, but only until a metal band much like her collar, only larger, was placed around her waist and locked with a similar padlock and key. Her wrists were then locked in metal cuffs and attached with chains to the waistband. What kind of bondage was this, what kind of humiliation, what kind of torture? Where would she be going in the world that this kind of public presentation of a woman would be acceptable? Her mind was rife with questions, but she was given no answers.
“I should gag you,” Carlos said, looking up at her. He scrutinized her carefully, thoroughly, his gaze so penetrating that she shuddered, reacting instantly with sexual heat. How could this bastard still claim her so? “It is, however, customary to assume that a woman in your position will not open their mouth. Let’s hope you’ll obey that order. If you don’t, you can be sure that you’ll be muzzled, not gagged, but muzzled—it’s a strange looking device on a woman, but most effective. Your attendant will carry one with him on your trip, just in case.”
Though Muriel’s lips were bursting with questions, she remained mute.
“I know you’re confused, scared, angry even, maybe desperate.” Carlos stood to face her. “But you have brought this on yourself. For the crime of rebellion in Pandora’s Hideaway you have been sentenced to prison for an indeterminate period of time, assigned to a facility run by my friend, Percy. Your outbursts, your mood and sullenness don’t set well with me. If he can knock that rebellious streak out of you, you’ll return here, where you’ll live until I pawn you off. If you can’t be redeemed, you’ll become Percy’s property—and I think in short order, you’ll understand that living in Pandora’s Hideaway is a far fairer bliss that Percy’s prison.”
As she was led from the house, her heart sank and her loins grew cold. She was shoved into the Jeep and taken to the airstrip where she and Jack had landed her first day in the tropics. With the help of the same native man who’d held her while she was pierced, she boarded a twin-engine prop plane. The pilot hardly took notice of her unusual attire, as if he regularly shuffled prisoners like Mariel to and from these remote locations. Airborne, she gazed down at the jungle below unable to find a trace of Pandora’s Hideaway amid the infinite expanse of emerald green that covered the earth below. The flight was short, perhaps twenty minutes in the air before the pilot was circling another span of green, dotted with gold. Her numb body shuddered deeply as the plane landed on the grassy runway, and she stepped from the aircraft. Instantly, her bare feet were stung by the pebbly ground, and walking was difficult.
There was no Jeep to meet them. Instead, Mariel and her attendant walked from the runway to a road, which lead into a village not more than two hundred yards away. A few dozen huts were scattered about an open clearing where some commerce was taking place, and the faces of the old and young looked up at her, staring cruelly into Muriel’s shocked face.
“A white one this time,” a woman spit out.
“Better learn your lessons, whore!” a bitter man stepped in her path, meeting her face to face with a scowl.
Soon, the villagers’ epithets started a war of scowls and words, followed by hands that mauled her body as if her flesh were produce to inspect. Twice, someone reached under her sarong and pushed fingers into her pussy, bringing out natural juices that were smeared over her face.
Her attendant, slowly, steadily moved her through the commotion, though he did little to fend off the advances of the crowd surrounding them. The sarong was tugged at and torn, the pretty turquoise soiled by their dirty hands. Her clean blonde hair was jerked, pulled, knotted and covered with the dusty sand. Tears streamed down her cheeks as the harrowing ordeal continued, seeming to have no end. Sticks made of bamboo whacked her legs and ass, her thighs and belly until the barrage seemed to cover every inch of her body. The only kindness came from the man who insistently required she move forward to her unknown destination. Moving from the open, into the brush, to the forest and finally deeper into the jungle, her assailants slowly disappeared one by one. Finally alone, the pair broke out into a smaller clearing where a stone fortress was nestled in the trees.
“How, odd,” she found herself saying, though she wasn’t sure if she spoke aloud. Apparently not, since her attendant had no response. Her lapse was fair warning, however, she couldn’t allow another breach like that one.
The stone structure before them was a single story high, meandering some distance to the left and right and then deeper into the trees. Mariel suspected that much of the structure was a wall, surrounding empty ground. Moving forward through a gate confirmed her suspicions. The gate was a narrow passageway that opened into a small courtyard completely surrounded by stone. Along one side of the structure was a bank of cells with iron barred doors. Along the other three sides, iron doors were interspersed, embedded in the stone walls. Except for the new arrivals, the courtyard was empty.
Without hesitation, Muriel’s attendant pushed her forward as he had before, to a bamboo pillar not unlike the ones in Pandora’s Hideaway. Attaching her to the tall post, he took a length of chain dangling from the top of the bamboo and secured her nose ring to the end. There he left her, with nothing but the sound of the jungle swooshing through her ears, ominously, hauntingly. Was this Pandora’s Hideaway’s evil twin?
Mariel remained in the courtyard long enough for the ring in her nose to become heavy and uncomfortable attached to the thick chain. Insects buzzed her head and her attempts to shoo them away turned painful with every jerk and tug.
“So, how do you like my home, slave?” a voice suddenly rattled her discontented, tattered brain. Mariel jerked again, turning to see a ghostly looking man standing in the courtyard observing her. She was wise not to speak. “Carlos thinks you’re useless,” the man continued as he moved forward, “but perhaps redeemable. You’re lucky. There are a few defunct slaves he immediately discards, sends them off to Third World whorehouses—nasty places. Life span in those ugly brothels is about two years. Slaves die of dysentery or sexual diseases. You can be glad you’re here,” he smiled. “I kill no one.” He paused, circling her, even as she turned with him, keeping an eye on the curious man. “I am Percy,” he finally announced. She was unused to white men after so many days in the jungle with dark skinned men—even Jack looked as though he belonged in the Tropics with his deeply tanned skin. Percy was a striking contrast, a gentlemanly looking fellow with a husky build, white hair and beard, and skin brushed with only a slight darkening on his arms and chest. He wore a loin cloth and beads as if he were a native, and though his physical appearance was odd, he didn’t seem altogether out of place—perhaps a latter-day cast away from society, now perfectly attuned to his jungle surroundings.
