"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!"
The water was cold, damned cold. Had Jeannie forgotten it was early June when she jumped into the bone-aching liquid that was thigh high when she hopped out of the boat to drag it closer to the deserted shore? "Oh my friggin' GAAAAAAAAAD." She shouted as she wrapped her arms around herself and watched as the goose-flesh took over her almost completely naked body.
Rachel giggled as she pulled up the outboard motor. "Cold enough for you?" she asked in a mocking tone.
"You jump into this water and let's see how you like it, smartass," Jeannie answered.
"I'll get out," said Rachel. "Give me a chance." Rachel left the boat gingerly, swinging one leg over the side and dangling the toes of her right foot into the frigid water. She steadied herself with one hand and leaped off the boat and into the brine.
"YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH. OH GOD THAT'S COLD!!!!!" Rachel made a dash for the sand, the sand that at 8 in the morning was none too warm, either.
"You only got your feet wet, you wimp," Jeannie shouted.
"Just put in the anchor, OK." was Rachel's only answer.
Jeannie shoved the anchor deep into the sand. Rachel pulled out the cooler bag with their provisions -- lobster salad and linguica, on chewy Portugese rolls, potato chips, bottles of cranberry juice -- for what was to be an all-day exercise in relaxing on an empty stretch of sand on the south end of their finger-shaped island, some 12 miles away from their mainland homes.
This was the far tip of the island. The fishermen, if there were any that early, would be at the north end where the bluefish and striped bass could be found. The sailboats rarely ventured so far from their safe harbors. It was Monday. Most everyone would be at work. When Rachel and Jeannie pulled back into the cove in the evening their olive complexions would become dark mocha, maybe with a touch of redness that would soon turn to a brown that would make the males of the species stop in the street and walk backwards for a while in stunned admiration. It was the cusp of another summer in a place where summer meant business, and the two native girls were getting ready.
Rachel set the cooler bag on a spot in the soft part of the sand, where the high tides don't reach even on a full moon. She returned to the boat to get the blankets and towels when, just as she hit the water, Jeannie flew in like a blitzing lineman and tackled her good friend. The two fell into the icy water, nearly knocking the string bikinis, excuses for bathing suits, off themselves.
"YOU BITCH," Rachel shouted as Jeannie kneeled in the water laughing like a drunkard at a comedy club. "I'll kill you one of the these days."
"C'mon Rach' lighten up." Rachel and Jeannie walked back to their designated spot in the sand, laid out the blankets and stretched out their barely covered bodies to drink in the sun like mother's milk. The heat of the bright sun waged a war on their skin with the cool morning breeze. They hardly noticed. Hell, they were tired. Those two had been up since 6, after a night of little sleep thanks to Jeannie's younger brother and his friends spinning the new Dropkick Murphys CD until what seemed like all night.
"That was nice of your mom to make us that big breakfast," Rachel said of the eggs, linguica and baked beans Ms. Ortega had prepared for the girls.
"I was nice of your dad to bring around that stuff from the bakery," Jeannie said. Mr. Cuellar had returned from checking his lobster pots with a bag of the best blueberry muffins anyone in the village ever tasted.
Rachel: "He's a sucker for the bakery's blueberry muffins."
Jeannie: "Most people in this town are suckers for everything from the bakery."
Rachel: "Yeah, you're right."
Small talk -- guys, jobs, the college Rachel was going to attend in the fall after taking a year off following high school graduation, the art college that Jeannie was thinking of attending -- soon degenerated into yawns. The girls fell asleep on their blankets, almost on cue.
Jeannie was the first to wake up. It was a sudden, startled wake-up, though she couldn't figure out why in a place so peaceful, with only a gently lapping surf and a few seabirds making any sort of sounds. Rachel squirmed a bit, a groggy squirm. Jeannie leaned over and tickled her toes. It took a few seconds before Rachel bolted upright.
"I told you never to do that!!" Rachel shouted.
"Sorry," Jeannie answered with a sly smile. "I forgot."
Bullshit, thought Rachel. How could she forget? Rachel was as ticklish as snow is white. Even playful tickles from her closest friend sent shockwaves over her body. Growing up with two older brothers who delighted in pinning Rachel down on the family's living room sofa, or her old wooden bed, or just the floor, and tickling the soles of her feet until tears would soak her pudgy cheeks was a childhood memory she could have lived without.
Jeannie knew about Rachel's ticklishness. She knew her friends brothers just loved to torture their little sister. But they never pulled that act on Jeannie. They never even did it to Rachel when Jeannie was around. She wouldn't have let them, even if they tried. Even at an early age, boys acted diffrerently when Jeannie was around.
Jeannie: "Hey, I'm starved. Let's eat."
Rachel: "Don't mind if I do. Then let's take a walk and work off the calories."
Jeannie: "Amen, sister."
A sandwich each, half a bag of chips and two bottles of juice later, Jeannie and Rachel set off into the middle of the island. The noon sun now made the sand more than a little hot on their naked feet. That 85-degree forecast seemed to have been conservative. The big nine-oh was on its way.
The two cut through some beachgrass, then inspected their legs to make sure they hadn't picked up any ticks. No hitchhikers, please. They strolled by circles of charred wood -- the remains of beach parties past -- a seagull carcass, piles of wood for a structure that never got built. Off in the distance stood an ancient beach shack, it's weathered wood speaking of some 80 winters and countless nor'easters that had battered the helpless but resilient island. The girls walked closer to it.
Jeannie: "What was that?"
Rachel: "What was what?"
Jeannie: "Don't you hear that? It sounds like screaming."
Rachel: "You sure it's not just birds?"
Jeannie: "No, it sounds like a person screaming."
Rachel: "Yeah?"
Jeannie: "Come on, let's check it out."
Rachel: "NO!"
Jeannie: "What? You afraid? Don't be a wimp, all right?"
Rachel: "We should mind our own business."
Jeannie: "Rachel, someone could be hurt. Come on. We have to see."
Rachel couldn't argue. The screams were now louder, more definite. Yet they didn't really sound like cries of pain, or even calls for help. It was a sound neither young woman had ever heard before. But it was definitely coming from the shack.
The closer they got, the more the screams seemed mixed with hysterical laughter. What was in that shack? Rachel was terrified. Even Jeannie was visibly nervous. She just felt they had to see what was going on, and, as always, Rachel had to follow her gutsy friend.
They climbed onto the front porch, slowly so as to make no noise. Their bare feet were silent, but boards creeked under the weight of the visitors. They crouched and tiptoed along the outside wall to an open window. Slowly they raised their heads and looked inside.
What they saw knocked them into virtual apoplexy. Their jaws dropped. Their flesh quivered. Their blood veins ran as cold as the bay from which they had emerged some five hours earlier.
There, inside the shack, was a woman in her 40s. A naked woman. A woman sitting on a table, back against the wall and legs stretched out in front of her. A woman bound tightly with thick ropes.
Her arms were trussed up behind her back in what appeared to be a rather uncomfortable position, although with her hands not visibile Jeannie and Rachel could not see exactly how her upper body was restrained. Ropes wound tightly around the woman's ankles, with another rope binding her ankles to a hook somewhere underneath the table, making it impossible for her to move her legs in any direction. Her big toes were tied together with what looked like a shoelace. There was even a rope around her knees. The intruders stared at the woman, unable to look away and unable to move a muscle. A woman stripped naked. A woman old enough to be their mother. A woman tied up in a hideously painful manner. A woman staring at a shirtless man in his 20s who stared angrily back at her as he walked slowly around the table.
A woman being tortured.
CHAPTER III -- Captured!
The water was cold, damned cold. Had Jeannie forgotten it was early June when she jumped into the bone-aching liquid that was thigh high when she hopped out of the boat to drag it closer to the deserted shore? "Oh my friggin' GAAAAAAAAAD." She shouted as she wrapped her arms around herself and watched as the goose-flesh took over her almost completely naked body.
Rachel giggled as she pulled up the outboard motor. "Cold enough for you?" she asked in a mocking tone.
"You jump into this water and let's see how you like it, smartass," Jeannie answered.
"I'll get out," said Rachel. "Give me a chance." Rachel left the boat gingerly, swinging one leg over the side and dangling the toes of her right foot into the frigid water. She steadied herself with one hand and leaped off the boat and into the brine.
"YEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH. OH GOD THAT'S COLD!!!!!" Rachel made a dash for the sand, the sand that at 8 in the morning was none too warm, either.
"You only got your feet wet, you wimp," Jeannie shouted.
"Just put in the anchor, OK." was Rachel's only answer.
Jeannie shoved the anchor deep into the sand. Rachel pulled out the cooler bag with their provisions -- lobster salad and linguica, on chewy Portugese rolls, potato chips, bottles of cranberry juice -- for what was to be an all-day exercise in relaxing on an empty stretch of sand on the south end of their finger-shaped island, some 12 miles away from their mainland homes.
This was the far tip of the island. The fishermen, if there were any that early, would be at the north end where the bluefish and striped bass could be found. The sailboats rarely ventured so far from their safe harbors. It was Monday. Most everyone would be at work. When Rachel and Jeannie pulled back into the cove in the evening their olive complexions would become dark mocha, maybe with a touch of redness that would soon turn to a brown that would make the males of the species stop in the street and walk backwards for a while in stunned admiration. It was the cusp of another summer in a place where summer meant business, and the two native girls were getting ready.
Rachel set the cooler bag on a spot in the soft part of the sand, where the high tides don't reach even on a full moon. She returned to the boat to get the blankets and towels when, just as she hit the water, Jeannie flew in like a blitzing lineman and tackled her good friend. The two fell into the icy water, nearly knocking the string bikinis, excuses for bathing suits, off themselves.
"YOU BITCH," Rachel shouted as Jeannie kneeled in the water laughing like a drunkard at a comedy club. "I'll kill you one of the these days."
"C'mon Rach' lighten up." Rachel and Jeannie walked back to their designated spot in the sand, laid out the blankets and stretched out their barely covered bodies to drink in the sun like mother's milk. The heat of the bright sun waged a war on their skin with the cool morning breeze. They hardly noticed. Hell, they were tired. Those two had been up since 6, after a night of little sleep thanks to Jeannie's younger brother and his friends spinning the new Dropkick Murphys CD until what seemed like all night.
"That was nice of your mom to make us that big breakfast," Rachel said of the eggs, linguica and baked beans Ms. Ortega had prepared for the girls.
"I was nice of your dad to bring around that stuff from the bakery," Jeannie said. Mr. Cuellar had returned from checking his lobster pots with a bag of the best blueberry muffins anyone in the village ever tasted.
Rachel: "He's a sucker for the bakery's blueberry muffins."
Jeannie: "Most people in this town are suckers for everything from the bakery."
Rachel: "Yeah, you're right."
Small talk -- guys, jobs, the college Rachel was going to attend in the fall after taking a year off following high school graduation, the art college that Jeannie was thinking of attending -- soon degenerated into yawns. The girls fell asleep on their blankets, almost on cue.
Jeannie was the first to wake up. It was a sudden, startled wake-up, though she couldn't figure out why in a place so peaceful, with only a gently lapping surf and a few seabirds making any sort of sounds. Rachel squirmed a bit, a groggy squirm. Jeannie leaned over and tickled her toes. It took a few seconds before Rachel bolted upright.
"I told you never to do that!!" Rachel shouted.
"Sorry," Jeannie answered with a sly smile. "I forgot."
Bullshit, thought Rachel. How could she forget? Rachel was as ticklish as snow is white. Even playful tickles from her closest friend sent shockwaves over her body. Growing up with two older brothers who delighted in pinning Rachel down on the family's living room sofa, or her old wooden bed, or just the floor, and tickling the soles of her feet until tears would soak her pudgy cheeks was a childhood memory she could have lived without.
Jeannie knew about Rachel's ticklishness. She knew her friends brothers just loved to torture their little sister. But they never pulled that act on Jeannie. They never even did it to Rachel when Jeannie was around. She wouldn't have let them, even if they tried. Even at an early age, boys acted diffrerently when Jeannie was around.
Jeannie: "Hey, I'm starved. Let's eat."
Rachel: "Don't mind if I do. Then let's take a walk and work off the calories."
Jeannie: "Amen, sister."
A sandwich each, half a bag of chips and two bottles of juice later, Jeannie and Rachel set off into the middle of the island. The noon sun now made the sand more than a little hot on their naked feet. That 85-degree forecast seemed to have been conservative. The big nine-oh was on its way.
The two cut through some beachgrass, then inspected their legs to make sure they hadn't picked up any ticks. No hitchhikers, please. They strolled by circles of charred wood -- the remains of beach parties past -- a seagull carcass, piles of wood for a structure that never got built. Off in the distance stood an ancient beach shack, it's weathered wood speaking of some 80 winters and countless nor'easters that had battered the helpless but resilient island. The girls walked closer to it.
Jeannie: "What was that?"
Rachel: "What was what?"
Jeannie: "Don't you hear that? It sounds like screaming."
Rachel: "You sure it's not just birds?"
Jeannie: "No, it sounds like a person screaming."
Rachel: "Yeah?"
Jeannie: "Come on, let's check it out."
Rachel: "NO!"
Jeannie: "What? You afraid? Don't be a wimp, all right?"
Rachel: "We should mind our own business."
Jeannie: "Rachel, someone could be hurt. Come on. We have to see."
Rachel couldn't argue. The screams were now louder, more definite. Yet they didn't really sound like cries of pain, or even calls for help. It was a sound neither young woman had ever heard before. But it was definitely coming from the shack.
The closer they got, the more the screams seemed mixed with hysterical laughter. What was in that shack? Rachel was terrified. Even Jeannie was visibly nervous. She just felt they had to see what was going on, and, as always, Rachel had to follow her gutsy friend.
They climbed onto the front porch, slowly so as to make no noise. Their bare feet were silent, but boards creeked under the weight of the visitors. They crouched and tiptoed along the outside wall to an open window. Slowly they raised their heads and looked inside.
What they saw knocked them into virtual apoplexy. Their jaws dropped. Their flesh quivered. Their blood veins ran as cold as the bay from which they had emerged some five hours earlier.
There, inside the shack, was a woman in her 40s. A naked woman. A woman sitting on a table, back against the wall and legs stretched out in front of her. A woman bound tightly with thick ropes.
Her arms were trussed up behind her back in what appeared to be a rather uncomfortable position, although with her hands not visibile Jeannie and Rachel could not see exactly how her upper body was restrained. Ropes wound tightly around the woman's ankles, with another rope binding her ankles to a hook somewhere underneath the table, making it impossible for her to move her legs in any direction. Her big toes were tied together with what looked like a shoelace. There was even a rope around her knees. The intruders stared at the woman, unable to look away and unable to move a muscle. A woman stripped naked. A woman old enough to be their mother. A woman tied up in a hideously painful manner. A woman staring at a shirtless man in his 20s who stared angrily back at her as he walked slowly around the table.
A woman being tortured.
CHAPTER III -- Captured!