Snatches

Snatches

Paloma shuddered as she followed Carlito into the large shabby house. The crabby Cuban who was some relative of hers before becoming her husband, she had a hard time pinning that down, brought her into the ‘Showroom.’

“Little Butterfly, did you think I was asking for your permission? Been a while since we got together, Baby Girl. You miss that, don’tcha?”

His florid face, cherubic cheeks and very wide, expressive mouth sometimes reminded her of a clown. At the moment though, Carlito’s eyes were narrowed, an irritated flush covered him from hairline to hipbone. She felt like she was in the presence of Stephen King’s “It.” He patted the bed, really just a camp cot in an alcove off the main room. Carlito turned to face her, bare chested, his jeans unzipped.

“Sit with me, Chica.”

Paloma wanted to do almost anything else in the world. They had history. That all changed as he continued glaring at her while Carlito took out the bowl and a tiny vial. He prepared the pipe with maddening attention to detail. Paloma watched him with misty eyes.

When she moved to join him, Carlito struck serpent fast, digging his manicured nails into the waistband of her hip huggers. He leered as he tapped his elegant fingers just above her clit. Just above. The vibrations of it got her nubby growing and it peeked past the sheath, hunting attention. Paloma tried to will the butterflies in her tummy still. Carlito knew how to tease. He was much more prone to torment. The bastard knew Paloma, inside and out. He yanked her close.

“Chicaaah, don’t be shy. Put your pretty leg up here,” while pulling her close to his bony hip.

Carlito patted his thigh and swallowing revulsion, Paloma draped her leg over him. Her anxiety showed in the rapid tapping of the sandal against the sole of her foot. Paloma had lots of experience with revulsion in pursuit of her medicine. She never took her eyes off the pipe.

*******

Four days, locked alone in Carlito’s ‘Harem’ because Paloma had refused to pull a train. All of that praying for rescue from her own twisted version of therapy. She very much enjoyed self-medicating her pain and loathing away and for the first day or so that tantalizing desire was foremost in Paloma’s thoughts.

It was late in the morning of her second day of captivity. Another shiver raced through Paloma; this one was tastier. Her nips responded in an instant and a delicious frisson trickled down her spine. She was anticipating her reward. With iron determination, Paloma faced down the degrading visions of what she was prepared to do to do to earn it. That gave her something else to think about besides her isolation.

Her palms were sweating a little and she wiped them dry in her lap. Her jeans dampened there. Not all of the moistness came from outside, either. Paloma sighed and did it some more, this time dragging her fingertips over the swelling mound between her thighs. Happy to have something else to think about besides being alone (and that was starting to crowd its way into being her biggest anxiety) Paloma stood and peeled the jeans down her legs. Her puss was beaucoup damp and the fresh air against her brought a delicious tingle with it.

In a minute the modest hip hugging panties were going to be useless, so Paloma took them off, too. There was a bamboo, sort of cagey-looking chair suspended from the ceiling that she crawled into. The chain creaked as she got situated. Paloma immediately loved this chair.

It was deep, the cushion was luxuriant as hell. Paloma sank into it, reclining as much as possible and put her foot on one of the cross-hatched bars. The other leg dangled over the edge. Her pussy opened, a dusky rose Venus Flytrap. Impatient to force her irritating and consuming thoughts aside, Paloma pushed three fingers in deep. She was wet enough that she didn’t get splinters when she did it, but there was some discomfort that she relished until her arousal caught up.

Panting, mewing when some horny nerve responded to her thrusting fingers, she lost herself in it. Not taking her fingers out of the soaked warmth, Paloma scooted around in the chair until she could put both feet up. She learned she could use them as leverage and fucked her hips up toward the fingers stabbing into sopping puss. The chair wiggled like a carnival ride, the chain groaning and squeaking. That worked nice and she did it lots more, until Paloma panted from the exertion. She let her butt melt into the soft cushion and rubbed herself, tickling her fingernails from her navel down to tap on the hiding place of her electrified clit. She slid her red-nailed fingertips into the sizzly spots. Her position put her head forward and having both hands in her lap made her arms bulge Paloma’s tits out of the neckline of the wife-beater tank top. She licked them and purred.

By early afternoon of that second captive day, Paloma’s attention was shifting. There was no contact with anyone, in any way. She could have been in an isolation tank with a kitchen. She had food, if that’s what you thought Ramen noodles and half a dozen eggs were. There was beer in the fridge, a couple of wine coolers or water to drink.

Paloma stood at the sink, tap running to get to cooler water. She rubbed a plastic glass in both hands. This isolation was new and unnerving. Paloma could not remember any time in her twenty-two years that she had ever gone two days without seeing or hearing or talking to someone. There was no TV, no radio, no music, period. Not even a damn Gameboy. Nothing but Paloma and her bug-a-boos. It sucked.

The end of a horrendous third day of seclusion was cut short by night terrors. Paloma gasped herself out of sleep with her long black hair sweaty. Like spider webs stuck to her face and neck. She scratched it away, frantic as hell. Ragged breaths, the exhaled keening of those through Paloma’s flaring nostrils, a flush that shivered through her. For long, long moments Paloma was aware of nothing but horror.

Three days. Omigod, gonna be four now! The replay of the real-life nightmare Paloma had endured, the one that had just torn her from slumber, had lasted just one day. Not even a full one.

Paloma was the fifth child of eleven born to a sugarcane growing despot and his cowed and invisible wife. Papa never left a doubt in her mind that as soon as he could be rid of yet another useless daughter, he’d take the dowry.

“Mama, no! Please, oh please don’t make me do this! I’m fourteen!”

Conchita brushed her daughter’s shoulder-length hair until it gleamed. Faint midnight blue highlights peeked through in the light. She clucked at her.

“I, too, was your age when I was betrothed to your father, Paloma. You are a woman now. Will you go to chop cane until you are as old and stooped as your mother? I think not. A girl, a woman, as pretty as you needs a man to protect her, to care for her. Besides, Child. It is our way. Now, hush and get dressed, Chica. It’s almost time to go.”

Paloma waited in the motel room. She was alone and afraid. The man who would take her to his bed was coming. A man she had never met.

Papa had even negotiated the cost of that into the purchase of his daughter. She and Mama hugged at the door until Papa let his impatience show with an angry, long blast of the pickup’s horn.

Sleep wouldn’t come and nothing on the television channels Paloma surfed made any sense to her. The hours of horrid anticipation were exhausting and terrible. She cried. That lasted until she caught sight of herself in the large mirror over a cheap looking dresser. The only thing worse to Paloma would be the retribution Papa would exact if her new husband refused her. She hurried to repair her makeup, trying hard to tame her trembling hands.

Paloma saw the door open in the mirror’s reflection. Carlito came in.

*******

“So pretty. Ayde mi, Chica. Sooo pretty.”

He had his hand around her throat, her ankles resting on his shoulders.