C.A.B.
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C.A.B.'s Nightstand Companion ~ II
A tiny tome of tickle torture titillation treasures by C.A.B.
The Moment
The reasons are immaterial. The emotions are visceral. It has all come down to this; a fleeting moment that speaks to the turning of tides. The very instant of absolute sexual submission, slowed to the smooth glide of thick honey which both lovers savor in ravenous intent.
She is a coworker in a large electronics retailer. He is the fellow employee she spied from across the great yawn of the store. When boredom held sway between gibbering customers, she would eye him secretly, noting how he held himself, very unlike the other blue-shirt denizens of minimum wage. And he, ever simmering in hot anxious youth, seeks her out between the long aisles; her silhouette, even in the frumpy sales-wear of knit shirt and slacks, is tight and firm with the burgeoning summer of her life.
Ignorant of each other's eye, they nevertheless entwine their fate. Notice becomes sought; sought becomes fancy; fancy becomes covet. Like dancers in ritual they display and receive. She, her charms and sly smile. He, an aloof yet cunning eye. They draw nearer in excruciating measure over days and months. All is silent but for the screaming sexual tension. All is demure but for the throbbing pulse of attraction. One day they pass each other in mute denial, but each catches the other's sweet pheromones on the the ensuing trail of air. Nostrils flare unconsciously; and they are condemned to eventual intercourse.
She, with coy increments, signals her availability without culpable admission. He in return, removes any doubt she is being eyed with predation. She can feel his muscles tensing in impatient want, like the pacing of a caged thing. He, with careful calculation, tests the reliability of her intentions. Then with noticeable clarity, she rebuffs in quiet repose. He dismisses the interest as folly and rejoins the pack of single males.
She waits for pursuit but there is none. She questions her own allure and tests again. Now, she approaches and is overt in pantomime suggestion. He, confused yet delighted, willingly reengages without loss of beat. She again rebuffs, satisfied that her skills are still intact. His frustration grows, sex mingles with anger. He pursues.
They find common ground in polite conversation, and in the months following, ritual dating and pleasantries. She wants to feel him badly, but protocol must prove him worthy. He wants to feel her in turn, but protocol demands his hellish patience. She tasks him no end with wicked lure and rebuff. He grits his teeth beyond her notice and searches for resolve. She rules their encounters with unquestionable moral authority. He seethes in a limbo of stoppered desire.
At long, an evening arrives, costumed in the guise of casual play. She escalates with petting and tickling; pushing him as to find his edge. He reciprocates, only to find her refusal as an insurmountable wall. But on his discouragement, she lets down her steely gates yet again. A see-saw of provocation that builds to the point of breaking.
His tolerance finds an end, and his fortitude turns another face. She sees it in his eyes, there is no more room for feminine importune. Mental parry gives way to the physical. He wrestles her, low to the ground with determined dominance; the queen of protocol to be violently overthrown. She rallies to fight with the waning strength of her thin guise of modesty. Yet she thrills to to the burn of her own muscles as they fail. His strength is worthy. His resolve is worthy. He tears at her clothing, filled with primordial need to seek the treasures within. She finds a dream-state of fantasy become reality and melts to it. He finds her languishing hands and binds them; tickling her weak and disoriented; straddling her like a human cage.
And the moment arrives.
Her hand remodels from bludgeon to sensual caress. Her pupils, large and black with euphoric rapture, she relinquishes. She gives herself as a gift wrapped in a glistening ardor of sweat. She revels in the collapse of her own unwanted forbearance; a frangible petal opening to rough iron heated in a forge she herself had stoked.
Her inner damsel squirming in endorphin flooded pleasure as he ties her down. The moment thrums of bodily fluids engorging flesh. Nerves rise to attention and waves of sensation crash as the sea upon rocks. His methods are retribution, and she laughs and screams in the throes of his adoring revenge. His mastery now holds sway and she lusts for it.
The keen edge of submission has passed, but it continues into the night where, perhaps, the next sharp edge of lust and love meet.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Slave of 10,000 Laments
It was the era of Suleiman the Magnificent, and The Sublime Ottoman Dynasty held sway over half the known world. When the wealth and power of Constantinople and its vassal states went hand-in-hand with treachery and corruption. When the clockwork protocols of the caliphate courts in their grand and garish opulence hid the wicked face of avarice.
And so it was in the harem of Ali ibn Abu Haffan the Chaste, Caliph of Thessaloniki, Macedonia. Here amid vulcan heated baths of inlaid gold, precious stone, and peacock feather, were to be found some of the most beautiful and viperous women in the world, even rivaling that of His Imperial Majesty, the Grand Sultan himself.
The Caliph was a weak-willed man, prone to folly and habitual hedonism, who spent his days satisfying primal urges with any denizen of his palace that caught his imperial eye. There was little ceremony as the Caliph would bend a slave-girl over an urn and slap his ample, hairy belly repeatedly against her delicate, imported European ass. And this, more often than not, in the open halls between one extravagant feast on the way to the next.
But it was his favorite wife, the breathtakingly beautiful and sly Kadin Kashekar, that ruled his vassal state with unspoken supreme authority whilst the Caliph played like an overindulged child. A fiery tempered woman with shimmering red hair as bright as flame that held all strings to the backstabbing court. Like a beautiful spider of sexual power, the slightest twinge in her web was felt, pounced upon, and dealt with in extreme measure, male or female. It was an open secret that, while she rarely shared the Caliph's bed chamber, she would often indulge herself in the perverse practice of breaking new slaves with sex or torture or both. The kalfas and ustas of the harem, new and old, made every effort to avoid her sadistic eye.
And so it was that one young slave, a fair and blonde creature captured in the Balkans, rose quickly in the favoritism of harem ranks, largely avoiding the notice of the auburn-tressed Kashekar. From new slave girl to G 'f6zde (the Lucky) in a very short time, and then even more quickly on the verge of being selected Ikbal, the Caliph's personal favorite. This was not so unusual, as the Caliph often named several 'favorites' throughout the year. But what caught the notice of his domineering wife, Kashekar, was the young beauty's nefarious plans hidden beneath her submissive and averted eyes. She planned to poison Kashekar and take her place as Kadin, a Caliph's formal wife.
However the political workings and machinations of the Caliph's court are a delicate dance, and there is much face to be saved and embarrassments to be avoided, lest one find one's head mounted on a pole. Thus Kashekar begins the carefully choreographed construction of her web-like snare. For while the ambitious young slave's intentions are ignorant, clumsy, and obvious, she undoubtedly has the help of someone within the court. Someone with many years and experience. This is the real danger to Kashekar, and she must out the entrenched conspirator.
A day arrives when the Caliph and a personal entourage of 500 guards, concubines, and eunuchs, embark on a holiday campaign to hunt boar in the wilds of his lands. The palace is left to the unbridled hand of Kashekar, and with no danger of breaching protocol with his highness, the young slave girl is sent for and brought before the Caliph's wife in the dead of night. Far removed from the wings of the harem and in he depths of Kashekar's personal chamber of woe, the young slave is bathed, and all hair is ritually shaven from her body; a forced reaffirmation of her low station, she is brought in golden chains before the presence of the concubine queen.
When it is apparent that, in spite of her submissiveness, she will not confess herself nor her accomplice, Kashekar reclines upon her silk pillows and divan with a curling, wicked smile. There is a slight twinge and moistness in her loins when she verbally condemns the slave to be 'put to question' as she watches. Kashekar's personal torturer is a beastly creature, a last descendant of the Caste of Gargareans which served the Amazonian queens of Scythia. He binds the young slave in silken cords, ever careful not to damage her valuable skin. She is trussed and laid supine upon her arms as her tormentor pillories each delicate ankle in the hoary jaws of heavy chain-locked stocks.
Her bath-softened feet are elevated for victimhood. Her positioning leaves her face turned up to the under-soles of her Mistress, who takes sadistic delight in prodding her cheeks, nose, and lips with her painted toes in indignant dominance. All the while, the bestial servant begins the slow torment. Callous fingers and rough masculine nails begin to rake the milky arches and the pinked-up balls of her pinioned feet. The slave girl has no choice but to endure excruciating punitive tickling with no hope of reprieve or mercy. As she screams and laughs, Kashekar is no longer is interested in her confession, but has moved on to new demands. That her torment might teach her humility, and to learn to suck and lick the feet of her Mistress without error. That her Mistress might pleasure herself to the sound of her suffering. So pleasurable is the sight of her castigation and desperation to obey amid the torment of her tickling, Kashekar climaxes with a triumphant cry...
"Oh, sweet sister in chains, I will not discharge you. For you will pleasure me with your anguish come every evening. From your thrashing toes will I draw laugh-filled agony from your usurpers lips. For the Caliph is perfidious and will forget you in kind. Your accomplice will cower and declare in fear upon hearing of your languishing nightly torment. Hereon, I am your lustful queen, and you are my personal slave of 10,000 laments."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
La Jaguara Negra
The photograph skittered across the large war-room table and spun to an askew stop before the haggard man. Agent Krevich does not need expertise to see Omar is telling the truth. He knew her. And he knew what happened to her. It was in the man's glassy eyes, lost in painful memory. "That is her."
"Who?" Krevich confirms deeper. He doesn't stir when he speaks. His lips barely move, and neither do his eyes. He is as stony as the CIA can make, and unnerving to be interviewed by.
"Are you sure. Look again."
"Of course. I am fucking 'sure', man. I took the fucking picture. I was there. ...Conjo!"
"You are Omar Botero?"
"You ask me this 10 minutes ago."
"Are you still in Medell 'edn."
"No. I no live there for years. I live... I hide in Puerto Nari 'f1o. Among the Ticuna."
Agent Krevich considers Omar with all the cold calculation of an airport scanner, "You don't need to be afraid, Omar. They can't get you here."
"What? You think because I live in the jungle I am idiota? Pfft. Understand this, mister agent man, They have their fantasmas, you have yours. What they call them? 'Spooks?' It is just that I fear theirs more than yours. You know?"
"Look at the photo, Omar. Tell me what happened."
"You know what happened, cabron. They torture her to death. What do you think they do to See Ahy Ey? Hmm?" Omar hastily lights a cigarette. Krevich is unmoved, a stoic stare demands more, "I went to work for Capo Juan in 1977. A runner at first. Then a mule. After that they trust me with a camp... because I know the jungle good. Three years I sweat and die in the heat and rain... so your Hollywood can party, eh? It was not unusual to see or shoot a spook when we found them or they came to close. But then Juan Carlos he gets smart and wants to catch them... alive. "Know your enemies' mind," yes?
But your people came to me in 1979. Cornered me in my own fucking hotel room in Bogot 'e1. Like I have choice. So I work for you while working for them. I am a dead man from this time on. Yes?" Omar lights another cigarette before the other is done. So now everyday I hear someone behind me that never comes. I am sure they will find out. What they do to rats is worse than your nightmares, mister agent. But they never find out, and I take pictures of the compounds, all with the small camera your people gave me. The one that took that picture, Senior Krevich. The last one I ever took. That was 15 years ago. How did you come to have it, eh?"
"I'll ask the questions, Omar." Krevich creaks in his chair. The only movement he makes in two hours, "Tell me what happened there. The photo. Names."
"Ay g 'fcev 'f3n! Do you not know who you have in that photo? Yes. THAT is your woman, your spook. The one being tortured...."
"Yes. Agent Adrea Argenta."
"No, no. The other woman. The tormentadora. You have no idea who that is, do you? Perhaps you are the idiota, senior."
"Tell me." Krevich, only his pupils widen.
"THAT, my friend is "La Jaguara Negra." The one and only. And that is the only photo of her in the flesh, I think. She is one of their 'ghosts'. The most evil of them all. She eats CIA."
"Paola Espantoso. Yes. We know her."
"Than you know she is not Colombian. She is Munduruc 'fa... headhunter from the basin. Juan Carlos paid a fortune for her services. The best. 'A' number one," Omar chains another cigarette. The dark under his arms has grown, "She bunks with us at the camp for a time. She sleeps naked right before us like a man. The guaricha, she knows we are more afraid of loosing our bicho than to bother her. Maybe lose our lives. One day she comes back from the jungle. She has Emberas carrying your agent on spit like a monkey for diner, eh?"
"Go on."
"This I know is not good. In the past, maybe we just hear the report of a rifle early in the morning. And then we don't think on such things the rest of the day. It is not like the city, where people are butchered and no one blinks. We just cook coca. We never see blood. And... anyway, this is long ago. Why you need to worry this now?"
Krevich stares. The stare of 'if I don't hear what I want, maybe I just let you go on the street and maybe someone is told, quite by accident, where you are.' Omar can see this at a glance, and continues, unprompted, "So La Jaguara, she orders the men to bind your agent in the courtyard. She says she wants her feets. She wants her feets bare so she can smell them. I am now thinking the bruja is arepera... a fucking lesbian, you know, man? They tie her tight. I am thinking they are going to question her... but they never do. The bitch negra is only interested in torture. And I think she is getting sexed by it. She is crazy, you know. Your woman does not have a chance. La Jaguara pulls off her boots and begins to talk all crazy about how soft and pretty this feets are and she rubs herself. The men begin to pull at your agents clothes. They like her tits and chocha. But the negra she is only interested in the tied feet. She tortures your agent with tickling. At first the men laugh at it, but after an hour of hearing your agent cry and scream for mercy, most of them leave in shame. It is too much to bear. You know, I read somewhere the chinamen do these kinds of tortures. They really work. All the time, La Jaguara is smiling and moaning, rubbing herself on the leg of your agent as she tickles the soles of her feet and is sucking her toes. Another hour of pitiful tears and forced laughter like a hoarse donkey and even I cannot bear to listen any longer, but I want to document it. So I try sneak a picture. The bitch she looks up just as I going to and scares me... that's why it is blurred. I quickly left. I never went back to the camp. I know, to this day, that **** is hunting me. Juan Carlos does not like loose ends."
Krevich staring. Omar stubs his cigarette. He has no more.
"So. Cabron. That is all I know. Yes, that is your agent. Yes, I took that picture long ago. And, yes, that woman is La Jaguara Negra... and she will probably kill me here, in Langley, America, tomorrow... Carajo!"
"I told you Omar. You need not be concerned." Krevich finally stands erect.
"Moj 'f3n."
"I can not say with any certainty that Juan Carlos will not eventually catch up with you. But I can tell you that it won't be Paola Espantoso. You see, we have her. She almost got you," Krevich offers his hand to Omar mechanically like a toll booth arm, "And coincidentally, I can assure you, we are having the last laugh, as it were. Three days so far. She's a tough cookie. Good luck, Omar. They sell cigarettes in the gift shop."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Enjoy more short stories of tickle torture in C.A.B.'s Nightstand Companion ~ I
A tiny tome of tickle torture titillation treasures by C.A.B.
The Moment
The reasons are immaterial. The emotions are visceral. It has all come down to this; a fleeting moment that speaks to the turning of tides. The very instant of absolute sexual submission, slowed to the smooth glide of thick honey which both lovers savor in ravenous intent.
She is a coworker in a large electronics retailer. He is the fellow employee she spied from across the great yawn of the store. When boredom held sway between gibbering customers, she would eye him secretly, noting how he held himself, very unlike the other blue-shirt denizens of minimum wage. And he, ever simmering in hot anxious youth, seeks her out between the long aisles; her silhouette, even in the frumpy sales-wear of knit shirt and slacks, is tight and firm with the burgeoning summer of her life.
Ignorant of each other's eye, they nevertheless entwine their fate. Notice becomes sought; sought becomes fancy; fancy becomes covet. Like dancers in ritual they display and receive. She, her charms and sly smile. He, an aloof yet cunning eye. They draw nearer in excruciating measure over days and months. All is silent but for the screaming sexual tension. All is demure but for the throbbing pulse of attraction. One day they pass each other in mute denial, but each catches the other's sweet pheromones on the the ensuing trail of air. Nostrils flare unconsciously; and they are condemned to eventual intercourse.
She, with coy increments, signals her availability without culpable admission. He in return, removes any doubt she is being eyed with predation. She can feel his muscles tensing in impatient want, like the pacing of a caged thing. He, with careful calculation, tests the reliability of her intentions. Then with noticeable clarity, she rebuffs in quiet repose. He dismisses the interest as folly and rejoins the pack of single males.
She waits for pursuit but there is none. She questions her own allure and tests again. Now, she approaches and is overt in pantomime suggestion. He, confused yet delighted, willingly reengages without loss of beat. She again rebuffs, satisfied that her skills are still intact. His frustration grows, sex mingles with anger. He pursues.
They find common ground in polite conversation, and in the months following, ritual dating and pleasantries. She wants to feel him badly, but protocol must prove him worthy. He wants to feel her in turn, but protocol demands his hellish patience. She tasks him no end with wicked lure and rebuff. He grits his teeth beyond her notice and searches for resolve. She rules their encounters with unquestionable moral authority. He seethes in a limbo of stoppered desire.
At long, an evening arrives, costumed in the guise of casual play. She escalates with petting and tickling; pushing him as to find his edge. He reciprocates, only to find her refusal as an insurmountable wall. But on his discouragement, she lets down her steely gates yet again. A see-saw of provocation that builds to the point of breaking.
His tolerance finds an end, and his fortitude turns another face. She sees it in his eyes, there is no more room for feminine importune. Mental parry gives way to the physical. He wrestles her, low to the ground with determined dominance; the queen of protocol to be violently overthrown. She rallies to fight with the waning strength of her thin guise of modesty. Yet she thrills to to the burn of her own muscles as they fail. His strength is worthy. His resolve is worthy. He tears at her clothing, filled with primordial need to seek the treasures within. She finds a dream-state of fantasy become reality and melts to it. He finds her languishing hands and binds them; tickling her weak and disoriented; straddling her like a human cage.
And the moment arrives.
Her hand remodels from bludgeon to sensual caress. Her pupils, large and black with euphoric rapture, she relinquishes. She gives herself as a gift wrapped in a glistening ardor of sweat. She revels in the collapse of her own unwanted forbearance; a frangible petal opening to rough iron heated in a forge she herself had stoked.
Her inner damsel squirming in endorphin flooded pleasure as he ties her down. The moment thrums of bodily fluids engorging flesh. Nerves rise to attention and waves of sensation crash as the sea upon rocks. His methods are retribution, and she laughs and screams in the throes of his adoring revenge. His mastery now holds sway and she lusts for it.
The keen edge of submission has passed, but it continues into the night where, perhaps, the next sharp edge of lust and love meet.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Slave of 10,000 Laments
It was the era of Suleiman the Magnificent, and The Sublime Ottoman Dynasty held sway over half the known world. When the wealth and power of Constantinople and its vassal states went hand-in-hand with treachery and corruption. When the clockwork protocols of the caliphate courts in their grand and garish opulence hid the wicked face of avarice.
And so it was in the harem of Ali ibn Abu Haffan the Chaste, Caliph of Thessaloniki, Macedonia. Here amid vulcan heated baths of inlaid gold, precious stone, and peacock feather, were to be found some of the most beautiful and viperous women in the world, even rivaling that of His Imperial Majesty, the Grand Sultan himself.
The Caliph was a weak-willed man, prone to folly and habitual hedonism, who spent his days satisfying primal urges with any denizen of his palace that caught his imperial eye. There was little ceremony as the Caliph would bend a slave-girl over an urn and slap his ample, hairy belly repeatedly against her delicate, imported European ass. And this, more often than not, in the open halls between one extravagant feast on the way to the next.
But it was his favorite wife, the breathtakingly beautiful and sly Kadin Kashekar, that ruled his vassal state with unspoken supreme authority whilst the Caliph played like an overindulged child. A fiery tempered woman with shimmering red hair as bright as flame that held all strings to the backstabbing court. Like a beautiful spider of sexual power, the slightest twinge in her web was felt, pounced upon, and dealt with in extreme measure, male or female. It was an open secret that, while she rarely shared the Caliph's bed chamber, she would often indulge herself in the perverse practice of breaking new slaves with sex or torture or both. The kalfas and ustas of the harem, new and old, made every effort to avoid her sadistic eye.
And so it was that one young slave, a fair and blonde creature captured in the Balkans, rose quickly in the favoritism of harem ranks, largely avoiding the notice of the auburn-tressed Kashekar. From new slave girl to G 'f6zde (the Lucky) in a very short time, and then even more quickly on the verge of being selected Ikbal, the Caliph's personal favorite. This was not so unusual, as the Caliph often named several 'favorites' throughout the year. But what caught the notice of his domineering wife, Kashekar, was the young beauty's nefarious plans hidden beneath her submissive and averted eyes. She planned to poison Kashekar and take her place as Kadin, a Caliph's formal wife.
However the political workings and machinations of the Caliph's court are a delicate dance, and there is much face to be saved and embarrassments to be avoided, lest one find one's head mounted on a pole. Thus Kashekar begins the carefully choreographed construction of her web-like snare. For while the ambitious young slave's intentions are ignorant, clumsy, and obvious, she undoubtedly has the help of someone within the court. Someone with many years and experience. This is the real danger to Kashekar, and she must out the entrenched conspirator.
A day arrives when the Caliph and a personal entourage of 500 guards, concubines, and eunuchs, embark on a holiday campaign to hunt boar in the wilds of his lands. The palace is left to the unbridled hand of Kashekar, and with no danger of breaching protocol with his highness, the young slave girl is sent for and brought before the Caliph's wife in the dead of night. Far removed from the wings of the harem and in he depths of Kashekar's personal chamber of woe, the young slave is bathed, and all hair is ritually shaven from her body; a forced reaffirmation of her low station, she is brought in golden chains before the presence of the concubine queen.
When it is apparent that, in spite of her submissiveness, she will not confess herself nor her accomplice, Kashekar reclines upon her silk pillows and divan with a curling, wicked smile. There is a slight twinge and moistness in her loins when she verbally condemns the slave to be 'put to question' as she watches. Kashekar's personal torturer is a beastly creature, a last descendant of the Caste of Gargareans which served the Amazonian queens of Scythia. He binds the young slave in silken cords, ever careful not to damage her valuable skin. She is trussed and laid supine upon her arms as her tormentor pillories each delicate ankle in the hoary jaws of heavy chain-locked stocks.
Her bath-softened feet are elevated for victimhood. Her positioning leaves her face turned up to the under-soles of her Mistress, who takes sadistic delight in prodding her cheeks, nose, and lips with her painted toes in indignant dominance. All the while, the bestial servant begins the slow torment. Callous fingers and rough masculine nails begin to rake the milky arches and the pinked-up balls of her pinioned feet. The slave girl has no choice but to endure excruciating punitive tickling with no hope of reprieve or mercy. As she screams and laughs, Kashekar is no longer is interested in her confession, but has moved on to new demands. That her torment might teach her humility, and to learn to suck and lick the feet of her Mistress without error. That her Mistress might pleasure herself to the sound of her suffering. So pleasurable is the sight of her castigation and desperation to obey amid the torment of her tickling, Kashekar climaxes with a triumphant cry...
"Oh, sweet sister in chains, I will not discharge you. For you will pleasure me with your anguish come every evening. From your thrashing toes will I draw laugh-filled agony from your usurpers lips. For the Caliph is perfidious and will forget you in kind. Your accomplice will cower and declare in fear upon hearing of your languishing nightly torment. Hereon, I am your lustful queen, and you are my personal slave of 10,000 laments."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
La Jaguara Negra
The photograph skittered across the large war-room table and spun to an askew stop before the haggard man. Agent Krevich does not need expertise to see Omar is telling the truth. He knew her. And he knew what happened to her. It was in the man's glassy eyes, lost in painful memory. "That is her."
"Who?" Krevich confirms deeper. He doesn't stir when he speaks. His lips barely move, and neither do his eyes. He is as stony as the CIA can make, and unnerving to be interviewed by.
"Are you sure. Look again."
"Of course. I am fucking 'sure', man. I took the fucking picture. I was there. ...Conjo!"
"You are Omar Botero?"
"You ask me this 10 minutes ago."
"Are you still in Medell 'edn."
"No. I no live there for years. I live... I hide in Puerto Nari 'f1o. Among the Ticuna."
Agent Krevich considers Omar with all the cold calculation of an airport scanner, "You don't need to be afraid, Omar. They can't get you here."
"What? You think because I live in the jungle I am idiota? Pfft. Understand this, mister agent man, They have their fantasmas, you have yours. What they call them? 'Spooks?' It is just that I fear theirs more than yours. You know?"
"Look at the photo, Omar. Tell me what happened."
"You know what happened, cabron. They torture her to death. What do you think they do to See Ahy Ey? Hmm?" Omar hastily lights a cigarette. Krevich is unmoved, a stoic stare demands more, "I went to work for Capo Juan in 1977. A runner at first. Then a mule. After that they trust me with a camp... because I know the jungle good. Three years I sweat and die in the heat and rain... so your Hollywood can party, eh? It was not unusual to see or shoot a spook when we found them or they came to close. But then Juan Carlos he gets smart and wants to catch them... alive. "Know your enemies' mind," yes?
But your people came to me in 1979. Cornered me in my own fucking hotel room in Bogot 'e1. Like I have choice. So I work for you while working for them. I am a dead man from this time on. Yes?" Omar lights another cigarette before the other is done. So now everyday I hear someone behind me that never comes. I am sure they will find out. What they do to rats is worse than your nightmares, mister agent. But they never find out, and I take pictures of the compounds, all with the small camera your people gave me. The one that took that picture, Senior Krevich. The last one I ever took. That was 15 years ago. How did you come to have it, eh?"
"I'll ask the questions, Omar." Krevich creaks in his chair. The only movement he makes in two hours, "Tell me what happened there. The photo. Names."
"Ay g 'fcev 'f3n! Do you not know who you have in that photo? Yes. THAT is your woman, your spook. The one being tortured...."
"Yes. Agent Adrea Argenta."
"No, no. The other woman. The tormentadora. You have no idea who that is, do you? Perhaps you are the idiota, senior."
"Tell me." Krevich, only his pupils widen.
"THAT, my friend is "La Jaguara Negra." The one and only. And that is the only photo of her in the flesh, I think. She is one of their 'ghosts'. The most evil of them all. She eats CIA."
"Paola Espantoso. Yes. We know her."
"Than you know she is not Colombian. She is Munduruc 'fa... headhunter from the basin. Juan Carlos paid a fortune for her services. The best. 'A' number one," Omar chains another cigarette. The dark under his arms has grown, "She bunks with us at the camp for a time. She sleeps naked right before us like a man. The guaricha, she knows we are more afraid of loosing our bicho than to bother her. Maybe lose our lives. One day she comes back from the jungle. She has Emberas carrying your agent on spit like a monkey for diner, eh?"
"Go on."
"This I know is not good. In the past, maybe we just hear the report of a rifle early in the morning. And then we don't think on such things the rest of the day. It is not like the city, where people are butchered and no one blinks. We just cook coca. We never see blood. And... anyway, this is long ago. Why you need to worry this now?"
Krevich stares. The stare of 'if I don't hear what I want, maybe I just let you go on the street and maybe someone is told, quite by accident, where you are.' Omar can see this at a glance, and continues, unprompted, "So La Jaguara, she orders the men to bind your agent in the courtyard. She says she wants her feets. She wants her feets bare so she can smell them. I am now thinking the bruja is arepera... a fucking lesbian, you know, man? They tie her tight. I am thinking they are going to question her... but they never do. The bitch negra is only interested in torture. And I think she is getting sexed by it. She is crazy, you know. Your woman does not have a chance. La Jaguara pulls off her boots and begins to talk all crazy about how soft and pretty this feets are and she rubs herself. The men begin to pull at your agents clothes. They like her tits and chocha. But the negra she is only interested in the tied feet. She tortures your agent with tickling. At first the men laugh at it, but after an hour of hearing your agent cry and scream for mercy, most of them leave in shame. It is too much to bear. You know, I read somewhere the chinamen do these kinds of tortures. They really work. All the time, La Jaguara is smiling and moaning, rubbing herself on the leg of your agent as she tickles the soles of her feet and is sucking her toes. Another hour of pitiful tears and forced laughter like a hoarse donkey and even I cannot bear to listen any longer, but I want to document it. So I try sneak a picture. The bitch she looks up just as I going to and scares me... that's why it is blurred. I quickly left. I never went back to the camp. I know, to this day, that **** is hunting me. Juan Carlos does not like loose ends."
Krevich staring. Omar stubs his cigarette. He has no more.
"So. Cabron. That is all I know. Yes, that is your agent. Yes, I took that picture long ago. And, yes, that woman is La Jaguara Negra... and she will probably kill me here, in Langley, America, tomorrow... Carajo!"
"I told you Omar. You need not be concerned." Krevich finally stands erect.
"Moj 'f3n."
"I can not say with any certainty that Juan Carlos will not eventually catch up with you. But I can tell you that it won't be Paola Espantoso. You see, we have her. She almost got you," Krevich offers his hand to Omar mechanically like a toll booth arm, "And coincidentally, I can assure you, we are having the last laugh, as it were. Three days so far. She's a tough cookie. Good luck, Omar. They sell cigarettes in the gift shop."
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Enjoy more short stories of tickle torture in C.A.B.'s Nightstand Companion ~ I
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