Ciudad Paraiso

[Boccaccio]

Well, here goes.

This is a quite a long story that I wrote about fifteen years ago that has never been published anywhere. Please keep the date of authorship in mind when you see references to OPEC and its history, and with regard to the type of communications instruments then in use.

It begins rather tamely, but there are 'thrill scenes' in the offing.

Most importantly, if you don't care for the story, you have Windar to thank for it!



Ciudad Paraiso



Chapter I The Plaza


Sheik Abdul Al-Ibrahim sipped at the icy mojito the cocktail waitress had placed before him, and inclined his unruly beard toward her in approval. Many years earlier he had read that Ernest Hemingway had downed countless mojitos, a refreshing mixture of Cuban rum, fresh lime and crushed mint leaves, during his stay on the Pearl of the Antilles. A man much given to sensual pleasures, the Sheik had survived forty-seven summers without a mojito, but yesterday afternoon as his jet cruised through the blue Caribbean skies toward Colombia, he had resolved to have one at the first opportunity. And he had found it delicious.


But not quite as delicious as the exotic flaxen-haired beauty who had brought it to him. La Isla Encantada, was the best appointed of the alfresco cocktail lounges which lined the plaza of Ciudad Paraiso, Don Roberto’s fabled Colombian resort that catered to the sexual whims of the rich and powerful. It was only fitting that Don Roberto’s female employees were both stunning and scantily clad. Last night, for example, when the sheikh had had dinner shortly after arriving, the waitresses had worn pirate outfits, comprised of daringly low-cut peasant blouses and hip-hugging trousers. The sheik, like the other habitues of La Isla Encantada had not been shy about exploring the enticing treasures only half hidden by the pirate costumes.

Only fatigue and jet lag had prevented him from taking one or two of the temptresses back to his suite for some jolly rogering. Unfortunately, however he had found it rather difficult to sleep, because a couple of Don Roberto’s guests had apparently brought one of the lovely young buccaneers back to the room next to his in the hotel. Throughout the night his sleep had been interrupted by the intermittent sound of leather cracking against bare female flesh.

But he was well rested now and looking forward to similar pleasures of his own as his roving eyes appraised the assets of Don Roberto’s stable of beauties and planned his evening’s entertainment.



The pirate theme had apparently given way to that of La Corrida at the exclusive resort because the waitresses serving lunch-time libations at the open-air tables in the plaza were all clad like New World Manoletes. The exotically dark-eyed blonde who had just served his drink was wearing a richly embroidered toreador jacket of shockingly hot pink which reached only halfway down her nicely tanned ribcage. The large silver button at the base of her jacket was fighting a losing battle as it did its best to restrain her firm young breasts, which seemed to seek air and light as if they had a life of their own. Her low-slung, calf-length toreador pants clung to her shapely thighs and rounded buttocks like a surgical glove. It seemed inconceivable to Sheik Abdul that a postage stamp could have fit under her toreador pants, much less an undergarment, and the faint traces of perspiration at her crotch seemed to bear out his supposition.

What fools the fundamentalists in his region of the world were, he thought, to deprive themselves of such hedonistic pleasures. He sipped again at his cocktail, and debated whether to buy a round of drinks for the men at the adjoining table, just so that he could get an uninterrupted view of the waitress' delectable butt-cheeks when she bent over to serve them.


"Sheik Abdul! I did not expect to see you until next week. What a surprise to see you here!"


Abdul tore his eyes away from the retreating blonde whose twitching bottom had caused his manhood to stir beneath his flowing robes. He turned toward the source of the dark shadow that had been thrown across his table.


"Julius, my friend," he said, rising to take the visitor's hand. "Salaam Aleikum. When did you arrive?"


At nearly two meters in height, Julius Baraka, the oil minister of Equatorial Banda, magnificently resplendent in a $1500 Italian suit, towered over his squat, heavy-set counterpart. "Aleikum salaam. How is your father?"


"The emir is very well, inshallah. May he live a thousand years!" Abdul added, raising his glass in a toast that seemed to pledge filial loyalty. In actuality, Sheik Abdul had long looked forward to the happy day of his father's death, that day when all of the wealth of a tiny but oil-rich emirate would be his. "Join me, please," he added offering a seat with his hand.


Baraka limped slightly as he took the chair. "This damned knee! Four surgeries over the years, and still it troubles me. He glanced amusedly at the Sheik's cocktail. "I am glad to see that, like myself, you do not let the teachings of the Koran interfere with life's little pleasures. Baraka glanced up to see the blonde waitress approaching the table. "Or its great ones," he whispered under his breath with a hint of awe in his voice.


"What can I get for you, sir?" There was a quaver in the blonde's voice. Despite the skimpiness of her attire, and the nature of her employment at Ciudad Paraiso, it was not often that customers at the Isla Encantada ogled her as candidly as did this corpulent, many-jowled Sheikh and his gigantic companion. There was something about the hair on the back of the heavy-set Arab's hands that made her skin crawl. Meanwhile the African beamed at her with a toothy smile that seemed as false as those of the crocodiles that ruled the rivers of his homeland. The waitress shuddered slightly, grateful that when she was taking drink orders it was possible to hold her hands across her chest in such a way as to preserve some vestiges of her modesty. But when it came time to serve the drinks ….


The African's eyes gleamed with suppressed excitement as he appraised the waitress with an expert eye. An Olympic basketballer two decades earlier, until he had torn up his knee, Julius Baraka knew a magnificent body when he saw one, and this young waitress, who looked to be barely out of her teens, was as delectable as a French pastry, but far more exotic.


He judged her to be about five and a half feet in height, with unusually fine blonde hair that cascaded over her nicely-formed shoulders. It was an arresting shade of blonde, darker and richer than the pale tresses of Scandinavian girls, and it had the luster of old gold. The inner curves of her pleasingly ripe breasts were plainly visible in the deep V formed by her all-but-unbuttoned bolero jacket; her belly was lean and flat and golden brown, and her narrow waist billowed into womanly hips that seemed to want to burst out of her too tight matador leggings. Her thighs were fit and shapely and the haunting scent of an ethereal tropical fragrance seemed as much a part of her as her soft brown eyes and her sensuous, carmine-tinged lips.

There was something in the girl’s features that hinted of mystery and a sultriness that hinted at exotic parentage, and possibly even mixed blood. Perhaps it was her sculpted cheekbones, or the elegant eyelashes that invited a man's glance deep into the bewitchingly dark irises of her brown eyes. This young woman, concluded Julius Baraka, was no ordinary beauty. Even among the voluptuous, scantily clad beauties that flitted from table to table at the Isla Encantada, she stood out like a diamond among rhinestones.

 

[windar]

Most importantly, if you don't care for the story, you have Windar to thank for it!

I will happily take the credit for bringing a wonderful writer such as yourself to this site. Very promising start!

 

[Boccaccio]

I will happily take the credit for bringing a wonderful writer such as yourself to this site. Very promising start!

You are too kind.

Oh, and by the way, Windar -- I think they caught Barb. Nobody's heard from her for a couple of days.

 

[Barbaria1]

Well, here goes.

This is a quite a long story that I wrote about fifteen years ago that has never been published anywhere. Please keep the date of authorship in mind when you see references to OPEC and its history, and with regard to the type of communications instruments then in use.

It begins rather tamely, but there are 'thrill scenes' in the offing.

Most importantly, if you don't care for the story, you have Windar to thank for it!



Ciudad Paraiso



Chapter I The Plaza


Sheik Abdul Al-Ibrahim sipped at the icy mojito the cocktail waitress had placed before him, and inclined his unruly beard toward her in approval. Many years earlier he had read that Ernest Hemingway had downed countless mojitos, a refreshing mixture of Cuban rum, fresh lime and crushed mint leaves, during his stay on the Pearl of the Antilles. A man much given to sensual pleasures, the Sheik had survived forty-seven summers without a mojito, but yesterday afternoon as his jet cruised through the blue Caribbean skies toward Colombia, he had resolved to have one at the first opportunity. And he had found it delicious.


But not quite as delicious as the exotic flaxen-haired beauty who had brought it to him. La Isla Encantada, was the best appointed of the alfresco cocktail lounges which lined the plaza of Ciudad Paraiso, Don Roberto’s fabled Colombian resort that catered to the sexual whims of the rich and powerful. It was only fitting that Don Roberto’s female employees were both stunning and scantily clad. Last night, for example, when the sheikh had had dinner shortly after arriving, the waitresses had worn pirate outfits, comprised of daringly low-cut peasant blouses and hip-hugging trousers. The sheik, like the other habitues of La Isla Encantada had not been shy about exploring the enticing treasures only half hidden by the pirate costumes.

Only fatigue and jet lag had prevented him from taking one or two of the temptresses back to his suite for some jolly rogering. Unfortunately, however he had found it rather difficult to sleep, because a couple of Don Roberto’s guests had apparently brought one of the lovely young buccaneers back to the room next to his in the hotel. Throughout the night his sleep had been interrupted by the intermittent sound of leather cracking against bare female flesh.

But he was well rested now and looking forward to similar pleasures of his own as his roving eyes appraised the assets of Don Roberto’s stable of beauties and planned his evening’s entertainment.



The pirate theme had apparently given way to that of La Corrida at the exclusive resort because the waitresses serving lunch-time libations at the open-air tables in the plaza were all clad like New World Manoletes. The exotically dark-eyed blonde who had just served his drink was wearing a richly embroidered toreador jacket of shockingly hot pink which reached only halfway down her nicely tanned ribcage. The large silver button at the base of her jacket was fighting a losing battle as it did its best to restrain her firm young breasts, which seemed to seek air and light as if they had a life of their own. Her low-slung, calf-length toreador pants clung to her shapely thighs and rounded buttocks like a surgical glove. It seemed inconceivable to Sheik Abdul that a postage stamp could have fit under her toreador pants, much less an undergarment, and the faint traces of perspiration at her crotch seemed to bear out his supposition.

What fools the fundamentalists in his region of the world were, he thought, to deprive themselves of such hedonistic pleasures. He sipped again at his cocktail, and debated whether to buy a round of drinks for the men at the adjoining table, just so that he could get an uninterrupted view of the waitress' delectable butt-cheeks when she bent over to serve them.


"Sheik Abdul! I did not expect to see you until next week. What a surprise to see you here!"


Abdul tore his eyes away from the retreating blonde whose twitching bottom had caused his manhood to stir beneath his flowing robes. He turned toward the source of the dark shadow that had been thrown across his table.


"Julius, my friend," he said, rising to take the visitor's hand. "Salaam Aleikum. When did you arrive?"


At nearly two meters in height, Julius Baraka, the oil minister of Equatorial Banda, magnificently resplendent in a $1500 Italian suit, towered over his squat, heavy-set counterpart. "Aleikum salaam. How is your father?"


"The emir is very well, inshallah. May he live a thousand years!" Abdul added, raising his glass in a toast that seemed to pledge filial loyalty. In actuality, Sheik Abdul had long looked forward to the happy day of his father's death, that day when all of the wealth of a tiny but oil-rich emirate would be his. "Join me, please," he added offering a seat with his hand.


Baraka limped slightly as he took the chair. "This damned knee! Four surgeries over the years, and still it troubles me. He glanced amusedly at the Sheik's cocktail. "I am glad to see that, like myself, you do not let the teachings of the Koran interfere with life's little pleasures. Baraka glanced up to see the blonde waitress approaching the table. "Or its great ones," he whispered under his breath with a hint of awe in his voice.


"What can I get for you, sir?" There was a quaver in the blonde's voice. Despite the skimpiness of her attire, and the nature of her employment at Ciudad Paraiso, it was not often that customers at the Isla Encantada ogled her as candidly as did this corpulent, many-jowled Sheikh and his gigantic companion. There was something about the hair on the back of the heavy-set Arab's hands that made her skin crawl. Meanwhile the African beamed at her with a toothy smile that seemed as false as those of the crocodiles that ruled the rivers of his homeland. The waitress shuddered slightly, grateful that when she was taking drink orders it was possible to hold her hands across her chest in such a way as to preserve some vestiges of her modesty. But when it came time to serve the drinks ….


The African's eyes gleamed with suppressed excitement as he appraised the waitress with an expert eye. An Olympic basketballer two decades earlier, until he had torn up his knee, Julius Baraka knew a magnificent body when he saw one, and this young waitress, who looked to be barely out of her teens, was as delectable as a French pastry, but far more exotic.


He judged her to be about five and a half feet in height, with unusually fine blonde hair that cascaded over her nicely-formed shoulders. It was an arresting shade of blonde, darker and richer than the pale tresses of Scandinavian girls, and it had the luster of old gold. The inner curves of her pleasingly ripe breasts were plainly visible in the deep V formed by her all-but-unbuttoned bolero jacket; her belly was lean and flat and golden brown, and her narrow waist billowed into womanly hips that seemed to want to burst out of her too tight matador leggings. Her thighs were fit and shapely and the haunting scent of an ethereal tropical fragrance seemed as much a part of her as her soft brown eyes and her sensuous, carmine-tinged lips.

There was something in the girl’s features that hinted of mystery and a sultriness that hinted at exotic parentage, and possibly even mixed blood. Perhaps it was her sculpted cheekbones, or the elegant eyelashes that invited a man's glance deep into the bewitchingly dark irises of her brown eyes. This young woman, concluded Julius Baraka, was no ordinary beauty. Even among the voluptuous, scantily clad beauties that flitted from table to table at the Isla Encantada, she stood out like a diamond among rhinestones.

Beware! A sexy New World Manolette could be more than he bargained for ...

(Great beginning Bocco!)

 

[toxidomaskjr]

This is a quite a long story

Excellent! just the type of reading that I enjoy very much. The start is really intriguing. I'm wondering something like: "will it include crucifixion?"

 

[Eulalia]

quality writing, drawing us into an intriguing situation...

 

[Boccaccio]

Installment 2 { In which we learn a bit about the darker pleasures enjoyed by Sheik Ahmed and Julius Baraka, who are soon joined by a mysterious guest}






"What can I get you, sir," the girl repeated nervously, shrinking under the gaze of the regal-looking African giant.


"Have one of these, Julius," Abdul interjected, holding up his glass. "They're delightful."


"Yes. I'm sure they are," murmured the African. As his dark eyes took in the rise and fall of the waitress's half-revealed breasts it occurred to him that Abdul’s cocktail would have to rival the nectar of the gods to be as delightful as the shapely treasures barely contained within the gaping toreador top. "Yes, yes, whatever my friend is having will be fine."


"And miss," the Sheik added as the girl began to turn away. "Bring a round of drinks for those gentlemen," gesturing toward the neighboring table, "and put it on my tab."


As the striking young woman made her way across the plaza toward the bar, Baraka turned to the Sheik. "I take it you know those Englishmen," he said, gesturing toward the adjacent table. "Can you introduce me? One cannot have too many friends while traveling in a strange country.”


"I have never seen them before in my life."


"Then why would you buy them drinks?"


The sheik's bristling black mustache curled into a wry smile. "You shall see, my friend, you shall see." He paused and frowned in thought. "How long has it been, my friend, since we first met?"


"Eight years this fall, I think. It was in Jakarta, was it not, that we both attended our first OPEC meeting?


"In Jakarta, yes." added the sheik, raising his glass in commemoration of the occasion. "On the last night of the conference we bumped into each other in the cocktail lounge of that brothel and arranged our little foursome. Ah, do you remember those two Javanese beauties?"


Baraka nodded enthusiastically, remembering the flashing eyes and the soft thighs of the golden-skinned lovelies whose bodies they had plundered together. "And the following year, en route to the conference in Brunei, we met again in Bangkok for three days. What a weekend that was! Did we sleep at all?"


"Not until after the gavel fell, opening the conference on Monday morning," Abdul laughed as he cast another salacious glance at their bolero-jacketed waitress. She was standing at the bar, looking around the plaza nervously while she waited for a stunning raven-haired barmaid to make their drinks. "My friend, I swear to you before Allah himself, that after those three days of whoring, my testicles were sore for a week."

The sheik seemed to be los in a pleasant reverie for a moment before he spoke again, "Do you remember that round-bottomed bar-dancer? Vanida, wasn’t that her name? And how we took turns burying our shafts in her little rosebud that last night?"


Baraka nodded enthusiastically. For a moment the two men fell silent, each recalling how they had begun by removing the skimpy dress worn by the brown-skinned beauty. After cinching her hands tightly behind her back, with one of Baraka's ties, they had removed a pair of high tension paper clamps from their orientation documents, and attached them to her swollen nipples. Her attempts to shake them off had been as pleasing as they were futile.

When the petite teary-eyed dancer finally gave up and begged her tormentors to remove them they had exchanged amused glances before agreeing. Moments later they had began a game in which they had used a doubled-up flail they had fashioned from a wire coat hanger to try to knock the clamps off. That pleasant pastime had occupied the two men for a quarter of an hour before Baraka finally clinched the victory with a firm and accurate stroke that opened a rivulet of crimson just above a chocolate-hued nipple .


Upon completion of their little game they had positioned the dancer’s tawny body over a large ottoman. Having won the contest, Baraka was awarded the honor of being the first to vanquish Vanida’s delectable backside. Reclining on a large divan, Sheik Abdul had enjoyed the supple-thighed beauty’s groans and grimaces while he had awaited his own turn.


“Yes, what a night that was!” Abdul enthused. "But tell me, old friend," Abdul interjected with ministerial seriousness, "how do you think things will go in Caracas next week?"


"It is difficult to say. The oil markets have been chaotic of late; but I think that if we can get the Saudis and the Chinese on board, the price of crude could well be up another eight per cent by the end of the year."


Sheik Abdul scratched his woolly beard thoughtfully. There were worse things in the world than being the oil minister of an Arab Emirate. Or being the son of its emir. "These OPEC meetings could not possibly be more tedious, could they? It is like the Whining Tower of Babel sometimes. But the …" he paused, searching for the proper word, "perquisites of travel to exotic destinations are often worth the trip, eh? Shall we look up Carmelita, again, when we arrive in Caracas?"


Baraka's eyes brightened. "I should say! Two thousand dollars American apiece – but … that's what governments are for, are they not? To provide services to their most important citizens." The African broke into a broad smile. "And if you ask me she was worth every penny of our taxpayers' money," he added with a throaty chuckle which bespoke the corruption rife in his homeland.


Abdul smiled cynically. He had not been at all surprised to learn some years earlier that the government of Equatorial Banda was every bit as venal as his father's regime.


Just then, the golden-haired waitress reappeared with a trayful of glasses. She tried to hold the tray against her top while she placed the drinks in front of the two men, but their wandering gaze was rewarded by the sight of her ripe-nippled breasts once again playing peek-a-boo with the panels of her pink jacket.

Blushing, the girl deposited two of the drinks in front of Abdul and Baraka She then turned her back on them as she served drinks to the men at the adjoining table. As she leaned over their table, her toreador pants-encased bottom rose up in the air, giving the two oil ministers as splendid a vista of a round and shapely a pair of buttocks as could be imagined.


"Do you see now why I ordered drinks for those gentlemen?"


Baraka, nodded, mesmerized by the young woman's tantalizing pose, unconscious of the fact that he was rubbing his huge black hands together with sensual anticipation.


"I must have her!" he whispered under his breath, as the Englishmen hoisted their glasses toward Sheik Abdul, who smiled hospitably and tipped his glass silently toward them in return.


"You have bad joss, gentlemen. She belongs to Don Roberto."


Julius Baraka spun around in his chair to see who had spoken these words, to find a Chinese man standing a few feet behind him. The Asian man awkwardly raised a hand to adjust his dark sunglasses as he stared across the plaza as the golden-haired bar-girl, returned to the bar, her tempting buttocks churning deliciously with each stride.


"Belongs to him? How do you mean?"


"Could you not see it in her eyes? The fear?"


Abdul Al-Ibrahim and Julius Baraka exchanged irritated glances. Who was this interloper?


"Besides, despite her beauty, or perhaps because of it, she has a deathly fear of the very vice you crave."


The two oil ministers stared at each other suspiciously, each thinking that the other had betrayed him. After a moment the sheik broke the silence by snapping at the slender Chinese, "What do you know of my … tastes? And how do you know?"


"It is my business to know such things, Your Excellency. Between them, your two countries control nine per cent of the world's petroleum output and seven per cent of its natural gas. The economy of the People's Republic of China is growing by leaps and bounds, gentlemen. In a decade, perhaps, two, we intend to dwarf the economy of the Americans, who have grown soft and lazy. But we will need oil, vast quantities of oil. And it is countries such as yours, led by men such as yourselves, who can provide it to us. It would be criminal for a man in my position not to know his … potential business partners. "


"But why have you come here?" Baraka asked leaning forward intently still distrustful of the Asian who had eavesdropped on their conversation. "Why did you not wait until the OPEC meetings next week?"


"Surely, gentlemen," the Chinese began again in a voice that was tinged with the self-assuredness of a professor who had long since mastered every syllable of his subject matter, "you are aware that the poppy fields of central Asia are producing bumper crops, now that those fools in the Taliban have scurried back to their caves. Our host, Don Roberto, 'El Hombre', is an expert on the international distribution of certain Colombian … commodities, just as you are experts in petroleum. Don Roberto and I find it useful to discuss certain joint … opportunities from time to time. The Central Security Bureau of the People's Republic overlooks nothing, no matter how insignificant. I am Colonel Chao Lin-Feng, gentlemen, at your service.

 

[Barbaria1]

ohhhhhhhhhhhh....things are getting seriously interesting now!

 

[windar]

After cinching her hands tightly behind her back, with one of Baraka's ties, they had removed a pair of high tension paper clamps from their orientation documents, and attached them to her swollen nipples. Her attempts to shake them off had been as pleasing as they were futile.

I really appreciate the use of everyday objects. So economical. Even if you are rolling in oil wealth, why waste money ordering special toys out of catalogs when the things lying around you will work perfectly well?

Nicely done.

 

[King Diocletian]

Wonderful stuff. Great to find more of your writing again, Boccaccio.

 

[Boccaccio]

Installment 3 {In which we learn about the Four Bracelets of Don Roberto





The gaunt Chinese bowed and the three men exchanged cautious handshakes.


"Tanya is a splendid creature, isn't she," the tight-lipped Chinese murmured, changing the subject, as his shaded eyes followed the blonde waitress from table to table. "Yes," he continued in response to an inquiring glance, "her name is Tanya Spencer. She is an American, an aspiring actress/model from southern California, who was foolish enough to fall for the dashing Don Roberto. But since he tired of her, she has had a run of … shall we say, bad luck here in Ciudad Paraiso. Her traveling papers, it seems, are not in order, and so, she cannot leave Don Roberto's cocaine-financed enclave." Then he added in clipped syllables. "But tell me – do you find her as attractive as Carmelita Calderon?"


The jaws of Sheik Abdul and Julius Baraka dropped as one.


"How … do … you …??"


"I told you it is my business to know everything. Calderon is the most expensive call girl in South America. Last … hmm," the gaunt Chinese paused and, using only his left hand, removed a device no larger than a television remote control from his jacket pocket and punched a few button-like keys. He glanced at the tiny text and went on. "On 23 September of last year the two of you … entertained La Calderon at the Five-Star Caracas Suprema Hotel. Tell me, was she as insatiable as they say?"


Dumfounded by the seeming omniscience of the gaunt Asian, Abdul grunted, "She was incredible. I've never seen anything like it. She gave as good as she got all night long, didn't she, Julius? And she didn't mind a few strokes of the belt, either."


The African nodded, remembering how the raven-haired Venezuelan beauty had knelt over the hairy body of the sheik, her magical mouth breathing life into the Arab's fifth erection even as she thrust her tempting bottom high in the air, forming an inviting target for his Versace belt. He had doubled the glossy leather strap in two and given her bottom-ovals four and twenty well-spaced strokes while she pleasured the sheik. Her tawny derriere had still been warm to the touch when he had straddled her rosy buttocks for the fourth time that night a short time later. "And what a body!" he exclaimed, remembering her tawny skin, the warm fullness of her pleasure-mounds, and how her exquisite nipples had remained as hard as cherry pits for hours on end. "Never have I seen a woman so beautiful…."

Baraka paused to watch Tanya gliding toward them with the tray of drinks, the inner slopes of her half-revealed breasts jiggling enticingly, her golden thighs kissing each other at every step. "Until this moment." His black fist slammed against the table heavily. "I tell you, I must have her!"


Judging that the colonel was not an impediment to either their economic or carnal interests, Sheik Abdul beckoned for the stern-looking Chinese to join him and Baraka at their table. The colonel did so a bit clumsily, pulling at the chair awkwardly with his gloved left hand while his right arm hung limply at his side. A moment later Tanya Spencer materialized at his shoulder to take his drink order.

Colonel Chao Lin-Feng proceeded to rattle off a litany of questions about the ingredients of various tropical cocktails, pointing at the exotic names and colorful photographs on the drink menu, forcing Tanya to lean forward to follow the path of his finger. Although the purpose of his tactic was transparently obvious, there was little Tanya could do to prevent his hosts from enjoying such an extended opportunity to admire the delicious décolletage exposed by the open to the navel bolero jacket.


Tanya answered the questions patiently, but a faint quaver in her voice betrayed her nervousness. She was accustomed to being ogled, having been the object of countless masculine stares since her ripening breasts had first begun to challenge the confines of her bikini tops in the summer of her fourteenth year. But the eyes of these three men were far more rapacious than most.


While the colonel considered his options, Tanya tried to ignore the pillaging glance of his companions, forcing herself to concentrate on their hands, which, in a way, were thumbnails of their larger natures. The Arab's hands were hairy and oleaginous, fat-fingered and grasping; the African's hands were proportionate to his great height, his fingers easily long and powerful enough to palm a basketball.


But the hands of the Asian wearing the sunglasses were the strangest of all. Though the mid-day sun was at its equatorial fiercest, the fingers pointing at the menu were encased in a kid glove. His right hand, too, was gloved, but it was balled into a small fist and rested on the table inert and lifeless. The Chinese, she remembered now, had stretched his left hand awkwardly across his body when he had reached for the menu even though it was within inches of his right hand.


Tanya's ruminations were interrupted when Colonel Chao ordered a Cuba libre, an annoyingly commonplace tropical drink, considering his long series of questions. She turned and headed for the bar, feeling the hot gaze of the strange threesome on her backside at every step.


"But I have told you already," the man in the sunglasses repeated . "I have learned that Tanya Spencer has an almost pathological aversion to anal sex. It is that very reluctance that caused her to lose favor in the eyes of Don Roberto. Did you notice that she no longer wears the diamond bracelet?"


"I was not aware that she had ever had one," Baraka replied thoughtfully.


The Four Bracelets of Don Roberto were known to all the men who came to Ciudad Paraiso in search of pleasure. In the isolated masculine paradise founded by El Hombre, a small number of women between eighteen and thirty-five were protected from unwanted advances, at least in theory, by diamond bracelets which were the emblem of Don Roberto's protective embrace. The fortunate few so honored included wives, daughters, and mistresses of key associates, and certain others whom the Don had deigned to protect.


The next-highest ranking group of beauties wore golden bracelets; the golden girls were expected to submit to any form of non-violent sexual play up to the point of intercourse – they could be subjected to fondling, groping, or demands that they display their bodies at any time or place.


Most of the young women of Ciudad Paraiso wore silver bracelets. As such they were expected to comply with any sexual favors demanded by Don Roberto's patrons, but were not to be physically mistreated or punished as long as they pleased their masters.


The lowest rung of the unique caste system of Ciudad Paraiso was occupied by young women who had been brought to El Hombre's South American enclave against their will, and those who had earned the Don's disfavor by failing to please his patrons of either sex. These unfortunate beauties were condemned to display bronze bracelets at all times, an emblem which branded them as targets for any form of sexual abuse which did not involve permanent damage to the Don's property. It was these comely hostages to bondage and discipline who were forced to accommodate the darkest fantasies of the guests of Don Roberto.


The caste system of Ciudad Paraiso, while rigidly enforced, was quite fluid. 'Bronze girls' whose beauty, courage, and stamina pleased their patrons often won 'promotions' to silver status or higher, while golden and silver girls who proved rebellious or unpleasing in any way, could find their bracelets replaced with one of bronze at any time.

El Hombre himself had conceived this system of rewards and punishments and it had proved most successful. Most of the pleasure girls in his stable of lovelies would go to any lengths to satisfy the exotic sexual tastes of his patrons. And those who did not quickly ended up as slaves to the cruel whims of his most demanding guests. All in all, it had proved to be a splendid system.


"Of course Tanya had a diamond bracelet," Colonel Chao explained to Julius Baraka. When Don Roberto first brought her here from Los Angeles, she was the most favored of all his women. But I have heard whispers that she has a great distaste for anal sex, and that one night when she refused him that pleasure, Don Roberto tore off the diamond bracelet he had given her, slipped a bronze bracelet around her wrist and turned her over to a pair of his goons. Two of his toughest men proceeded to teach the spirited young vixen a much-needed lesson in humility. So intense was this 'training session' that Tanya did not appear in public for a few days, and when she did, she sported only the silver bracelet which afforded her protection from the worst abuse. She has apparently made outstanding use of her other sexual talents since, for despite her aversion for anal sex, which no doubt was greatly exacerbated by that 'training session', you can see that she is once again sporting a golden bracelet, which gives her the right to decline those embraces for which she has no taste."


"An aversion, you say," Sheik Abdul spat contemptuously in a harsh voice, his eyes ablaze with an unholy fire. "In my country no woman dares deny me anything! Golden bracelets be damned!" The sheik scratched his bristling beard with a hairy hand. "I must have her, I tell you!” he growled, unconsciously echoing the words Baraka had muttered earlier.

“ If only there were a way, a safe way…." The sheik looked up and stared at the imposing African intently. "Did we not speak of this last September, my friend? Carmelita was splendid, a miracle of beauty and stamina. But the pleasures we enjoyed with her would be as nothing compared to forcing ourselves on one such as …" The sheik's smoldering eyes strayed once again toward the table where Tanya was serving drinks in the hot sun. A thin patina of perspiration caused the inner curves of her breasts to glisten in the bright sunlight and the toreador pants to cling to her legs and loins like wet tissue paper. "Oh, to rape such a goddess… an unwilling goddess. To possess her in every imaginable way. Ah, if only it were possible!"


"All things are possible, gentlemen," Chao said in a low voice as he withdrew a business card from a tiny silver case, "to those who dare to reach for the stars. It is true that using the property of Don Roberto without his consent would be to risk becoming persona non grata here in Ciudad Paraiso – and perhaps to risk even more than that. But …," he added, as his two companions eyed the sleek lines of Tanya Spencer's figure, each imagining the pleasures he could reap from her sensational body if she could somehow be made a slave to his lust. "But who would not risk all for such a prize?"


His eyes bright with suppressed excitement, Sheik Abdul Al-Ibrahim turned to face the African. They had first met across a poker table in a London casino, where cadres of jet-setters played for astronomical stakes. "What do you say, my friend? Are we going to sit here fiddling with our chips – or shall we have the colonel deal the final card?"


Julius Baraka leaned forward and planted his elbows on the table and rested his chin on a tent he had formed with his long black fingers. His dark eyes appraised Tanya's body as if it were a huge pot on a poker table, estimating its value and calculating his chances for success. He did not speak for several seconds, as he turned the probabilities over in his mind. Finally, when Tanya leaned over to serve a nearby table, her provocative pose displaying the lush roundness of her all but nude breasts and the sensuous curves of her hips and buttocks, he decided. He placed the heels of his huge hands on the lip of the table and then made a pushing gesture, as if he were propelling an immense pile of chips into the center of the table. "I'm all in!" he exclaimed, with a long shuddering breath.


"I, too, will call, Colonel" the Sheik whispered. "When will we see the final card?"


"I admire your enterprising spirit, gentleman," Colonel Chao confessed with a smile as he clumsily scribbled a number on the business card with his left hand. "Come to Penthouse C of El Castillo at 4:30 this afternoon and you shall learn more about Tanya Spencer and Ciudad Paraiso, the City of Paradise."

 

[Boccaccio]

Wonderful stuff. Great to find more of your writing again, Boccaccio.

Ave, Your Excellency, and thank you for the kind words. I shall try to make the story worthy of your praise.

 

[Boccaccio]

really appreciate the use of everyday objects. So economical. Even if you are rolling in oil wealth, why waste money ordering special toys out of catalogs when the things lying around you will work perfectly well?

I agree.

Scott Adams of "Dilbert" fame once wrote "There's nothing more dangerous than a resourceful idiot."

Except, perhaps, for a resourceful sadist.

In the offices of men of my generation, one might have found clips and clamps of various sizes, rubber bands with a stinging elasticity, and rubber bands sturdy enough to cling closely to the base of a firm young breast. Pencils and pens with sharp points...

Some of you may be old enough to remember those piercing devices that resembled an inverted nail mounted on a base. Cooks and clerks used to take slips of paper that they had processed but needed to hang on to temporarily and impale them on the sharp point until the end of the day's business. A pair of them, well-positioned and secured, could enliven an interview with any young beauty whose work had proven unsatisfactory.

Rulers of wood and springy metal, suitable for punishing a nice pair of buttocks or breeasts.

Those are just a few of the commonplace things that used to be at hand for many of us.

I'm sure there are many more office items that could be added to the list. I'm sure that my readers can think of others.

An ordinary kitchen provides many opportunities for the imaginative as well.

 

[windar]

"I told you it is my business to know everything. Calderon is the most expensive call girl in South America. Last … hmm," the gaunt Chinese paused and, using only his left hand, removed a device no larger than a television remote control from his jacket pocket and punched a few button-like keys. He glanced at the tiny text and went on. "On 23 September of last year the two of you … entertained La Calderon at the Five-Star Caracas Suprema Hotel. Tell me, was she as insatiable as they say?"

Is that a Blackberry you are referring to? The latest in Y2k technology?

In the offices of men of my generation, one might have found clips and clamps of various sizes, rubber bands with a stinging elasticity, and rubber bands sturdy enough to cling closely to the base of a firm young breast. Pencils and pens with sharp points...

And all of those have been replaced by the smartphone, which, while useful for filming exploits, lacks sharp corners. Damn Steve Jobs and Johnathan Ive!

 

[Boccaccio]

Is that a Blackberry you are referring to? The latest in Y2k technology?


And all of those have been replaced by the smartphone, which, while useful for filming exploits, lacks sharp corners. Damn Steve Jobs and Johnathan Ive!

As for the blackberry, I honestly don't remember if hand-held smart phones that could store a lot of data were commonplace when I wrote this story maybe fifteen years ago, or whether Mr Chao was possessed of a device that anticipated our present reality. As we will learn, Chao is an extremely intelligent man with an interesting history.

 

[Madiosi]

Bocaccio, i like your story. But i give you my likes after collect the parts for a e-Book.

 

[windar]

As for the blackberry, I honestly don't remember if hand-held smart phones that could store a lot of data were commonplace when I wrote this story maybe fifteen years ago, or whether Mr Chao was possessed of a device that anticipated our present reality. As we will learn, Chao is an extremely intelligent man with an interesting history.

The iPhone, which is considered the first true smartphone debuted in January 2007. So if Chao beat Steve Jobs to it, then he should have marketed it, rather than wasting his time hanging around the pool. But the Blackberry was around in 2000 and had quite a few smart functions.

 

[Boccaccio]

The iPhone, which is considered the first true smartphone debuted in January 2007. So if Chao beat Steve Jobs to it, then he should have marketed it, rather than wasting his time hanging around the pool. But the Blackberry was around in 2000 and had quite a few smart functions.

I wouldn't know. I'm probably the only person in the US and Canada over the age of ten who doesn't carry a smart phone.

Boccaccio the Luddite

 

[malins]

I really appreciate the use of everyday objects. So economical. Even if you are rolling in oil wealth, why waste money ordering special toys out of catalogs when the things lying around you will work perfectly well?

I like that too ... less for economical reasons than, ummm the art of improvisation. When they lay out their catalog-ordered tools I'll know what's coming, and (unless they're tools of the most horrible sorts which usually aren't in the catalogs...) - probably I'd be more composed, than when I'm surprised by everday objects made into implements of punishment or torture, and that approach also does more to show how it's firstmost their will that might turn my world into punishment and pain - they use everything (and everyone) for their own purpose... not what someone else says it should be...

(and wire coat hangers can be scary)

The Four Bracelets of Don Roberto were known to all .... The caste system of Ciudad Paraiso, while rigidly enforced, was quite fluid. 'Bronze girls' whose beauty, courage, and stamina pleased their patrons often won 'promotions' to silver status or higher, while golden and silver girls who proved rebellious or unpleasing in any way, could find their bracelets replaced with one of bronze at any time.

I like that idea too, I've used something similar, I need to get back to that

 

[Boccaccio]

Installment 4 {In which the three oil ministers eavesdrop on a most stimulating encounter}





Chapter II Il Convento



Promptly at 4:30, the two oil ministers tapped at the hotel room door of Colonel Chao's penthouse suite in El Castillo, the taller of the pair of towers of Paraiso del Rey, the luxurious hotel that constituted the skyline of Ciudad Paraiso. The tall, lean colonel, his sunglasses having been traded for eyeglasses with unusually thick lenses, answered the door and beckoned for them to enter. "Hurry! That which I promised you is about to begin."


Sheik Ahmed and Julius Baraka followed the slender Asian through a magnificent entryway and past a spectacular split-level room that could easily have accommodated half a hundred party-goers, toward a glass door that opened onto a patio balcony. The three of them stepped out on to the balcony and the colonel offered each of his guests a pair of field glasses. "Don Roberto has chosen a magnificent location for his pleasure palace, has he not?"


"Indeed. Allah be praised! What a view."


Immediately in front of them, some eighty or a hundred yards away, stood the other slender tower of the Paraiso del Rey. But extending outward from either side of the other wing of the hotel was the magnificent landscape of Colombia. And indeed the sweeping, panoramic view from the balcony of the tallest building in Ciudad Paraiso was breathtaking. The white sand beaches of the Pacific to the west, the lush foliage of a tropical rain forest to the east, and in the distance to the east, the snow-capped peaks of the northernmost ridges of the Andes.


"Spectacular. Just spectacular," echoed Baraka as he slowly panned from west to east.


"Sublimely beautiful, is it not gentlemen?" said Colonel Chao Lin-Feng softly. "But you have yet to see the greatest treasure of this valley of paradise." He paused for a moment, as he put his eyeglasses in his pocket and altered the focus of his binoculars and lifted them back to his eyes. "May I direct your attention to "Il Convento".


"The Convent?" Baraka replied, frowning. " What a strange name for a wing of a hotel! I see it, of course. But why are the towers uneven?"


"Yes, 'El Convento' is the other tower of the Paraiso del Rey. Nearly all of the … 'entertainers' of Ciudad Paraiso, the lovely bracelet-wearers whose beauty and … special talents outdo even the natural beauty of this region, reside in the convent at the express wish of Don Roberto. Although due to the numerous demands on their … time," the colonel added with a sly smirk, "most fail to spend too many nights there."



"As for the towers," he went on, "the Convent has only six floors, compared to the seven of this tower, "El Castillo". The difference is the penthouse suite of "The Castle", which offers Don Roberto's most favored guests, of which I am one, the wonderful view you see before you."


The three men continued to admire the breathtaking vista, until they were interrupted by an exclamation from the colonel. "Ah," the colonel announced. "Our timing was perfect, my friends. Train your glasses on the sun-patios of the rooms on the sixth floor of the Convent. "Do you see them?"


"Of course – each suite seems to have … Allah be praised!" Sheik Ahmed whispered as he adjusted the focus on his glasses. "Baraka! The patio on the eastern corner of the top floor! No, to the right, to the right!"


The African oil minister shifted the glassed irritably, muttering, "I still don't see anyth…" and then froze, exhaling a long whistling breath. "Wait … I think … Yes! It is she!"


For Tanya Spencer, carrying a drink in one hand and a magazine and a beach towel in the other, had stepped out onto her sun balcony, stunningly barelegged in a short white terrycloth robe. The hot South American sun had clearly spent many hours worshipping her body, tinting her well-toned thighs a delectable shade of golden brown.


Tanya glanced up at the sun through her sunglasses, and then strode the few steps across the balcony to the small end-table which stood alongside a large, bench-like banquette. She seemed to be drinking in the rays of the sun as she unbelted the terrycloth robe and slipped it over her rounded shoulders.


"Magnificent!" breathed the sheik. "What a body!"


The tanned sun-goddess wore only a skimpy burgundy bikini, and as she bent toward them slightly to place the drink and the magazine on the end table, the three men were treated to a splendid view of her mouthwatering cleavage.


"Can she see us?"


"Perhaps as specks in the distance, but there is no way that she could identify us."


Facing El Castillo, Tanya stretched the terrycloth towel out on the banquette and slid down on top of it, her golden body face down. She reached behind her to undo the bow which knotted the top of the bikini. The tiny burgundy bandeau matched a pair of eye-catching bowstrings at her hips which held the skimpy bottom in place. Then she formed her elbows into a face-high triangle on the beach towel and rested her head on her arms.


The three men studied Tanya's amber-gold body with a strange mixture of reverence and lust. She was clearly in superb physical shape. It was as if some sculptor of human flesh had chiseled away at her waist until he had achieved the perfect torso. When she had reached behind her to undo her top, they had gotten a momentary glimpse of her splendid breasts, arched toward them by her reaching posture, before she had tucked her ripe-nippled lust-globes into the soft embrace of the terrycloth towel. The bikini-bottom was so small, and slung so low on her hips, that a tempting crevice of butt cleavage was clearly visible.


Just then the glass doors to Tanya's sky-patio opened and a second figure emerged and, attracted by the piercing cry of a soaring seagull, glanced upward in their general direction.


"My God! I don't believe it!” cried Chao. “Gentlemen, come back inside. Quickly, please."


"But …" stammered the sheikh irritably, disappointed at having to take his eyes off Tanya Spencer's nearly nude body.


"Hurry! You will not be disappointed, I assure you."


Perplexed, the two oil ministers followed Colonel Chao back inside, through the palatial living room, toward the rear of the suite, and a den-like room which was dominated by a large video screen.


Hastily putting his glasses back on, the colonel grabbed a remote control with his left hand and punched impatiently at its array of colorful buttons. "I never dreamed …" he muttered, shocked surprise in his every word. "My friends, one of the perquisites of the penthouse here in the Castillo wing of Paraiso del Rey …" he began, punching various combinations of buttons while his companions regarded each other doubtfully.

"Damn this thing!" Chao cursed, and tried the sequence of buttons again until he was rewarded when the video screen was filled with the image of Tanya Spencer lying on the toweled banquet. Behind her, a strikingly beautiful Latina teenager, fresh from a strenuous work-out, stood in the patio doorway. She paused to towel perspiration from her glossy hair and model-like features, giving the three voyeurs a nice frontal view of a cropped-to-rib-length turquoise tank top that clung to her sweat-drenched breasts. Below a tantalizing expanse of bare belly she wore a pair of sinfully tight black leather short-shorts whose eye-catching glossiness was enhanced by the late afternoon sun.


The girl, who looked to be in her late teens, took a sip of Tanya's drink and ran her tongue over her lips. Her young nipples hardened into stiff points against the skimpy tank top as she stared down longingly at the blonde's recumbent body.


"As I started to say," Colonel Chao continued in a better mood, "one of the perks of staying in the penthouse is unrestricted video access to all parts of The Convent."


"Astonishing!" whispered Julius Baraka, as he watched the raven-haired teenager stoop down and retrieve a small bottle at her feet. She whispered something to Tanya, who nodded sleepily, and then the girl in the thin turquoise top leaned over the reclining blonde.



"Yes it is rather remarkable. It must have been quite expensive to install hundreds of hidden cameras. The gentlemen who stay in the penthouse suites at El Castillo are honor-bound, of course, not to disclose the secret of the cameras to the beauties who so unknowingly grace them. As a result we are occasionally treated to scenes that would titillate the most jaded voyeurs."


"Allah be praised!" Sheik Ahmed muttered softly, adjusting the stiffening erection under his robes as he watched the dark-haired girl pour a liquid ribbon of sun oil down Tanya's naked back. Then, easing down behind her, she slowly began to work the oil into the planes and hollows of Tanya's back and shoulders, while Tanya's golden body squirmed with pleasure at the sensuous caress.


“But Colonel," the African asked as he, too, watched intently as the Latina's fingers teased her partner in pleasure, alternating feathery touches with vigorous kneading motions as she rubbed the glistening sun oil into Tanya's soft flesh, "why did you blurt out, 'I don't believe it,' just now? Surely you have witnessed such encounters before."


"Of course, Minister, but never involving the eighteen-year-old daughter of Don Roberto! That schoolgirl with the talented hands is Letitia Sandoval, an illegitimate daughter that he both dotes on and tyrannizes."

Chao stopped and watched mesmerized, as Letitia dripped oil on Tanya's legs and then rubbed it into her flesh until her feet and calves and thighs had the look of molten honey. "Recovering himself, the colonel continued, "If Don Roberto were to get wind of this…" he muttered to himself. Then he straightened and said, "My friends, unless I am greatly mistaken Tanya Spencer is about to deliver herself into our power. All we have to do is …" and he reached out and pressed the RECORD button on the video screen.


The three men heard an almost imperceptible click and then a soft whirring sound as a tape begin to spin. At a gesture from Colonel Chao, the oil ministers seated themselves comfortably and watched with mounting excitement as Letitia Sandoval undid the burgundy bow on Tanya's left hip and peeled the triangle of fabric back toward Tanya's inviting buttock crease. She splashed the oil liberally onto Tanya's left buttock and proceeded to rub it until it glistened, and then reached across to undo the other bow and peeled it too away and tucked the tiny square of fabric into the crevice between Tanya's slightly parted thighs. Then Letitia lowered her lips to Tanya's un-oiled bottom-oval and polished it with long sensual sweeps of her lips and tongue, while Tanya's nethercheeks quivered with longing.


"Her skin is of purest honey," whispered Baraka admiringly. "One can almost taste it." And it was true. The bodies of even the most devoted sun-worshippers of Ciudad Paraiso often sported pale bikini zones. But Tanya's body seemed to have been dipped in a vat of golden honey, so even was her tan. Even her sweetly rounded buttocks were only a quarter-shade paler than her smooth, supple thighs.


"For the love of Allah, I must possess her!" growled Sheik Abdul in a bestial voice as he pictured his thick member plundering the perfection of Tanya Spencer's derriere.


"And you shall, my friend, you shall. But let us enjoy this interlude first. If nothing else, we must record Ms. Spencer's dalliance with this young beauty, if she is to be entirely at our mercy."


"Do you think she knows who Letitia is?" Julius Baraka asked as the dark-eyed Latina peeled the flimsy top over her head, revealing a bronzed torso and a pair of firm young breasts capped with sweet, dark, nipples that drew circles of delight in the air with her every movement.


"Impossible! Unthinkable! A madwoman would know better than to seduce the daughter of El Hombre at The Convent. Letitia has been away at school and just returned a week or so ago. She is working at El Convento as some sort of intern, I believe, and Tanya must have befriended her, not knowing her identity. As you can see the young temptress is as hot-blooded as her father!"


Letitia had dripped oil on Tanya's other buttock, but this time, rather than using her beautifully manicured fingers, Don Roberto's daughter lowered her shapely breasts to her partner's bare backside, and began to slide her dark-tipped mounds back and forth across Tanya's glistening buttocks, even as she felt between Tanya's legs. Even though the voyeurs could not see the hand, the expression of rapture on Tanya's face made it clear that Letitia's hand had found the very font of her desire.