Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Cholito and Mariela - Part Three

By Rita Goleta

...continued from Part Two!

How I missed Mariela when she had to go back home.

A couple of years went by. We were both graduated by that time, our parents talking about college, when she sent a letter inviting me to come for a visit and to share in some real fun. I knew exactly what she meant by “fun.”

She said, “You won’t believe it, darling Rita, I am Numero Uno girlfriend of none other than the President of our country. He’s planning a special punishment for rebels captured in their mountain encampments and wants me not only to come along, but to bring a friend, because he likes having two girls to play with. I don’t know what he’s planning, but whatever it is, he calls it by the English words “drag races.” How about it, dear heart, you want to come? Can you?”

I asked my parents to let me go, it would be part of another cultural exchange program (I was good at lying and making up stuff). They beamed with enthusiasm and agreed, not only to let me go but to pay my way.

And now, good friends, the “fun” part.

Oh my, how the luscious adult Mariela had grown into a dream girl more exquisitely beautiful than any flower of the tropics, including the orchids, with a penetrating simpatico, a kind face, velvet-smooth, light cappuccino skin, the warmest, comforting eyes, perfect little almonds set in above soft cheeks and lips. Oh, those lush, full-bodied lips. How could this alluring jewel of the rain forest be fascinated by a reign of brutality scientifically choreographed by one of the world’s foremost masters of sadism?

If “Cholito” the great dictator was the choreographer, gentle, lovely Mariela was his prima ballerina, his diva. Sessions of prolonged hideous pain with incessant screaming were—what else can I call it?—her sex life.

I must give the country in Central America a fictitious name, simply [X]. If any of you readers recognize the country [X] from inescapable clues along the way, please, for my sake, keep it to yourself—our little secret—because I got in really bad with rebels opposing the dictators, those dumb rebels, who didn’t realize I was there just to have fun. My life is in jeopardy even today as aging demigods of the era and their younger axe men hunt for me. The majority, if not all, have died off, the shitty bastards, but still, I must be ever watchful.

Okay, that said, let’s return to that time, as I still dream of my sisterhood with the warm, delicious, ice-hearted princess and her magnetic attraction to brutish men.

At age 18, Mariela took third place in the national Miss [X] Beauty Contest. She really could never have won. Can you guess why? Sure as hell not for ugliness. Frankly, she was too damned curvaceous. Beauty pageants in Central America want girls who most resemble New York or Parisian supermodels, android-like stick figures. The judges, men and women both, would gasp longingly at Mariela, at her ample, lusciously rounded breasts, which protruded in an assertive way, as though taking charge. And, oh, those nalgas. Her magical buns had a life of their own, the kind we call “sassy,” inviting men to forget their own names for one sensual stroke of those swaying, undulating cheeks. Sometimes grown men wept just looking as she walked away. They shed tears knowing that that sinewy, erotic body would be as inaccessible as the moon and stars.

But…if only they knew, all they really needed to do would be to threaten President “Cholito” and expect to writhe in pain, for then that coveted body, in a way, would be close enough to touch.

The old Dictator-for-Life General Osvaldo Solórzano exercised his tyranny over [X] for forty-plus years. His reign was abruptly terminated by a carefully crafted roadside assassination, whereupon his chair was immediately filled by Osvaldo “Cholo” Solórzano the Younger, who made life for the disgruntled and disenfranchised even more terrifying than they could’ve imagined under the elder dictator.

Whereas the father ruled with an iron fist, known for having executed tens of thousands of political enemies, the son—sardonically called “Cholito” behind his back, with all the connotation of a baby brat dictator—was totally loco, crazy as a balloon poodle in a porcupine nest. Papa ordered formal executions by shooting, quick and dirty. He loved firing squads.

Cholo, on the other hand, a modern-day Caligula, preferred slower death after ongoing torture with all the sexual accoutrements of Rome’s psychotic emperor. He disposed of the bodies in a way never to be found, turning them into desaparacidos after having them loaded onto an airplane and deposited either for sharks swarming in the waters of the Pacific around the cliffs of Piriamba, or dropped into one of the country’s many volcanoes, usually his favorite, the heavily steaming, active Volcán Belatombo. Ancient folklore held that Belatombo’s crater descended all the way to the center of the Earth. For enemies who had inspired in paranoid Cholo a special hatred, real or imagined, he made sure to drop them while still alive, hearing them scream in a nonhuman way and seeing their arms and legs flailing to try and climb back to safety through nothing but thin air, knowing their bodies were plummeting down at a horrendous velocity.

The technology did not exist in those days, but he wished for some kind of miniature microphone to be implanted on the victims’ throats, transmitting to an onboard amplifier, so he could hear them screaming all the way to the end of their journey.

Mariela grew up with a chubby mother and a strict disciplinarian father. She resented them both, the mother for letting herself become repulsive in appearance and content to work long hours at the most menial of jobs, her father for his unrelenting punishments. But there’s one of the oddities of Mariela’s upbringing, her inner constitution. She had a little brother, who in his efforts to stay out of trouble and in good with his father, did everything wrong and was taken to the barn for frequent thrashings with a large belt applied to his naked body.

Mariela, on the other hand, openly defied her father, provoking him to the point where he would spank her, but in the house, not in the barn. Moreover, he had a strong sense of propriety, always respecting his daughter’s girlhood dignity and applying his bare hand to her fully clothed rear. On those occasions she felt something that made her question her own sanity, was there something abnormal? She feared the punishment to the point of tears and cold sweating, yet concurrently with that hatred and fear was an odd excitement of anticipation. How could those two sensations of awful pain and almost joyful buzzing arousal coexist in her? She would think about the spanking afterwards and wonder how much worse could pain become, imagine her body being subjected to all sorts of creative barbaric abuses. But then, over time, she realized, no, she didn’t want to suffer those torments, she wanted to see them happening to others, see the tears and hear the cries. In a bizarre way, she wanted to experience the most horrid pain, but vicariously!

She could hear her dear loudly crying brother being beaten in the barn and soon was obsessed with finding a way to watch the procedure without being caught. And that she did.

She told her mother she was going to be a good girl and go to the chicken coop to look for eggs. At the opposite end of the barn from the punishment area she found a ladder permanently leading up to the lower roof covering the ground area where horses were groomed. Above that was a hayloft. Mariela crawled in through the farther of the two openings to the loft from the outside and snuck in behind tiered bales of hay, where, unseen, she could look below.

On her very first visit to the loft, she saw her father strip Miguel, then order him to sit on a hay bale while he lectured the boy. She noticed that the reprimanding and accusations merely prolonged and exacerbated the boy’s tears of fearful anticipation, and she began to massage her throat and wet her lips in a different kind of anticipation. Finally the father grabbed Miguel’s arm and twisted him around until he was bent over the bale. The father snapped the belt loudly in the air before starting a metronomic, swishing application of the belt to the boy’s bare skin. Whoosh…ka-whack! 

Again and again. Prolonged.

Now Mariela found herself grasping herself between the legs and, as the beating proceeded, she discovered the new and all-consuming feeling of moving her hand around that area. The third time she snuck up and into the loft to witness the scene below, she kept up the rubbing motion until something entirely new surged through her body. Mariela discovered, as must everyone at some point for the first time in their life, the sensation known as climax. Hello, very first orgasm!

The clever girl also devised scheming ways to get the younger brother into trouble even when he hadn’t done anything wrong. The boy idolized his sister and was oblivious to her scheming. Indeed, the two siblings were close to each other. She was equally fond of him, but couldn’t help herself, frequently needing to experience the wonderful high of seeing him punished, and then comforting him afterwards.

A breathtaking beauty in the American high school, Mariela quickly found ways to exploit her physical attributes and conniving skills in pursuit of the joy in cruelty.

She and Cholo Solórzano, in their separate lives before they met, had one artful technique in common, in effect, how to throw salt on a newly opened wound. Make the victim think everything was going to be okay, not to worry. Hope! Simply put, hold the carrot of reprieve, escape from suffering, the redeeming light of hope, and then yank the carrot away, leaving them with the horror of no hope at all.

She got the idea after reading about some other Roman emperor who had a special ledge built all the way around the arena where enemies and rebellious slaves were fed to wild predatory animals. The ledge was just high enough for the poor victims to almost reach the top of the wall, providing them with last vain hope of escape from the hungry vicious animals. The female citizens of Rome would hold on to their male partners in smiling anticipation as fully armored members of the emperor’s elite Praetorian Guard lined the entire top of the wall and, on a signal, opened their tunics, thrust out dicks ranging from peanut-size to Roman cannons, and peed all over the prisoners below, at the same time using their maces and clubs to knock the victims back down to the sandy ground, where they were chewed on and eaten by the starved and slobbering animals. The spectators laughed and shouted at all the terror and screaming below them.

Mariela honed the skill of that technique in her own way, finding enormous pleasure in, first, being approached by awkward teenage boys, especially the Latino dweebs, creating hope in the hopeless by sly flirtation, and ultimately dropping them into the pit of rejection and heartache. The more they moaned and groaned and pleaded for her attention, the more she laughed in their teary-eyed faces. Eventually she would grind their noses all the way into the gritty dirt of humiliation by coaxing them for a tryst in a secret hideaway in the woods, where big boys would be waiting to bully the little geeks, then making sure the victim would see her fornicating with the bullies.

But then, just when some buffed jock thought he’d found fuck heaven, she’d pull a twist like getting him stripped down and rigid where rigid counts, even dripping, then suddenly turning away, ignoring him, and getting it on with his best friend, another superjock, getting new guy to strip down to underpants, and laughing in the first guy’s face until, finally, the two of them clashed in a vicious fight, bruising and bloodying one another, Mariela all the while laughing as she suddenly yanked Best Friend’s jocks down around his ankles, giving Boyfriend One an upper hand, so that for a few minutes he could freely smash the face of his ex-friend. Mariela hopped up and down with glee, cheering for one and then, in midstream, the other!

However, the exquisite and exquisitely mean Mariela had an Achilles heel, a point of vulnerability, a monkey wrench in the works, which went by the name of Danilo.

...to be continued!

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