Chapter 8
The hot musky scent of lust multiplied to dizzying degrees in the still-smoldering heat of the theatre, as probing brown fingers and snaking tongues slithered toward captive white faces with ovaled red mouths and helplessly moist pink vaginas... heralding stage one of The General's Annual Military Ball.
Jose Emanuel's human decency shed with his uniform, he clawed bear-like at Helga's pale white body like it was honey in the hive, ripping the single strap from her shoulder to expose the strawberry-red nipple topping the creamy mound of white flesh on her left breast. In the foray, the marble topped table crashed over and Sangria splattered everywhere, red as a virgin's spilt blood.
"No! I'm not going to be made into your whore!" Helga spat, aghast at how her American gringa sisters were trading their souls for the cheapness of sex.
Jose's lip curled with lust and he took a flying leap to nail her to the floor.
"Eeeeeiiikkkk!" Helga snatched up a discarded spike heel shoe and wielding it over head, crashed it down over Jose's skull, stopping him in mid-leap. He crashed to the floor in a pool of sticky blood. One more scream made no difference... Jose's cry mingled and was lost in a chorus of grunts and squeals as captors and captives threw themselves into an S & M party that would have made Marquis de Sade blush with shame.
The tangled mingle of dark brown skin topping the contrasting white arms and legs resembled more of a Pissarro victory than a general's military ball. Only one victim escaped...
Helga clamped the dress hem in a clenched fist and ran on polished tip-toes for the door, jumping over naked bodies littering her path. Half way through the door a brutal hand clamped over her arm and then a second one... less gentle than the first... dumped her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and dragged her kicking white body back to the dormitory where her weary, sob-wracked frame was dumped on top of the bed. The door locked shut behind her.
Helga wasted no time in making her decision; "I've got to get out of here! Oh God, they'll torture us until we die!" Images of Polly's sex-raptured face flitted through Helga's Sangria sodden brain, straining out fear and reprisal... and dwelling on those inevitabilities.
Her hands dug at the bedclothes, tearing off the coverlet and the two sheets and roping them together, she tied them securely and fastened one end to the iron bedpost. Trembling, quivering fingers threw open the window and hiking her gold dress up around her waist, she held it in a wad and did a Tarzan swing through the open window.
She dangled there like a shimmering Christmas tree ornament, her toes gracing the windowsill of the first floor. Daring herself to take the last leap, she sucked in her breath, heart pounding in her temples, and kicked off the windowsill and was about to drop to the ground for the dart across the wall when the yap of hungry dogs stopped her short.
Instinct told her to hang on... well, too, for a brace of Doberman Pinschers, mangy and starved, fangs dripping with saliva, leapt into the air to snap at the deliciously slender pale ankles dangling in front of their noses like so much raw meat.
It was some minutes later that she was rescued by an older guard, who reined in the dogs.
"Come weeth me, Señorita," growled a toothless little Mexican man with a leathery face. "The General he weell be pleesed. Nobody runs away from the Mansion." His flashlight beam slinked slowly over her white flesh for a time, first up the open slit of her evening gown, between the ample white flesh of her thighs, then resting on the flapped down bodice where her fat, creamy breast with its strawberry nipple dangled freely, before he finally helped her down.
She held her torn strap up to draw the curtain on her creamy flesh and followed him meekly back to the dormitory, a whimpering, frightened girl. What will they do to me now?
"What does the General propose we do with thees Gringa? She ees as spirited as a wild horse," Manuel said apologetically, shrugging his shoulders and spreading his hands, knowing that his chosen prisoner's failures to please the General and his highest officials put a big black X on his record. Ohhh, stupeed mee... why deedn't I send Karen she would gladly open her pink asshole for a goat... but no, I go for the really beautiful ones!
Major Jose Emanuel sat in an overstuffed chair, nursing his drink and holding a bag of ice on the two inch gash Helga put in his skull. "Señorita Helga must be taught a real lesson like all these American Gringas," muttered the shamed Major, whose machismo had been deeply wounded by his failure to seduce the gorgeous tall Gringa with the big white breasts and spun golden hair. To have predetermined the General's choice of women from the seventy-eight held at the Monterrey Mansion would have been quite a distinction... better still, to have broken her in first.
Burning to heal the wounds inflicted by his prisoner's fiery temper, Manuel offered a quick suggestion. "General, shall I fetch the Señorita for you now?" To embarrass the General's highest officials was the same as putting the General to shame... and indirectly, Manuel had done just that. He quivered inside, fearful of the General's explosive temper.
The General scraped contemplatively with his thumb nail at a dried speck of hot sauce that had dribbled over a few medals to soil his scarlet ribbon. He chewed on his cigar as he made his decision. "No, I think not. The best punishment is the unexpected. Use her in the show tomorrow night... but with no hypnosis!" The General licked his beefy lips and snickered lewdly.
"Tomorrow the Señorita will know far more sorrow than is her share."
Manuel shuddered. Eef she does not please the General, she weell die! He crossed himself over the chest and hastened to refill Major Emanuel's empty scotch glass.
The General stroked the few hairs remaining on his balding scalp. "Tonight I will be on the stage... to personally welcome our Miss Helga to the Mansion..." he said with a lewd smirk that hinted at cruelty.