Part 3 - Jacqueline's Sister
Chapter 7: Finding Julieta
"Hassan requires another story from you," says A'isha the next morning. "Only he wants one with a happy ending for once. Can you manage such a thing?"
"Oh! Do you mean that my first story when I ended up enslaved in Hassan's harem doesn't rank as a happy ending?" I reply mischievously.
"You know what I mean, Zakiyah," growls A'isha, using my imposed slave name to reinforce my lowly status within this harem. "And remember Samed's cane is always available to keep you in order."
I'm never sure what to make of Hassan's sister A'isha. There are times when she's really friendly, but she can also be as hard as nails if any of us overstep some undefined line. While none of the 32 young women kidnapped and sold into slavery by the vile Nathaniel Wickliffe want to be here at Wadi Halaf, I mustn't forget that Hassan and A'isha didn't really want us in their home either. That's not to say they will simply set us all free. Our purchase price paid by Hassan's uncle Rashid must have been a tidy sum, and the cost of our upkeep only adds to the expense of waiting for ransoms to be paid. Not that ransoms will ever be paid for some of us. I, and at least five of the others, have nobody with access to the kind of money needed to set us free. We can only guess at what future awaits us.
I go to the desk I have used before and take out some writing material. So Hassan wants a story with a happy ending. How do I determine if an ending is a happy one? Life can rarely be broken into convenient chunks, each with a clear beginning and ending. Does avoiding ending up being sold as a slave count as a happy ending? There are times when I've achieved something which makes me happy and proud with what I've done, but those occasions don't always result in a happy outcome for me. Anyway, I'm stalling. I had better begin before Samed arrives to encourage my efforts with his cane.
The summer of 1809 finds me once again on the Iberian Peninsula. This time I've been given an escort of English dragoons from Lisbon to a small village about 75 miles south-west of Madrid. The combined English and Spanish armies have recently defeated the French army at nearby Talavera and are poised to liberate Madrid. At least that's what I've been told. So why have I've been summoned to meet with Sir Arthur Wellesley, commander of the English troops, in this out of the way place? Even though he must have hundreds of matters requiring his attention, he sees me within half an hour of my arrival.
"I have a spy working inside Madrid gathering information about the French forces defending Madrid," begins Sir Arthur. "Unfortunately the French are bringing up a large number of reinforcements. Despite our victory at Talavera we are heavily outnumbered and we must retreat to the west. Which means I need to get my spy out of Madrid."
"Okay," I reply, not understanding what any of this has to do with me.
"When I say 'I' what I really mean is 'you'."
"Huh?!? You want me to get your spy out of Madrid? Why me?"
"Firstly because you speak Spanish like a señorita, French like a mademoiselle, and English like a ... er ... um ... well, you get my meaning. Secondly, you are one of the few people able to recognise my spy and be able to persuade her to come with you without getting yourself killed in the process. Hopefully."
"Hopefully! That's not very comforting."
"Well you can always refuse. If you prefer, I can arrange an escort for you all the way to London so that you can stand trial for piracy. A hanging offence I believe."
At this point in the story you may be asking yourself 'Why is Jacqueline helping the English?' especially as they seem intent on ending my life. Let's just say I was given an offer I couldn't refuse. If I help Sir Arthur Wellesley rescue his spy, then in return the English judiciary only get to send me to a penal colony as a convict for life instead of stretching my neck with a hangman's noose. Of course, I would prefer that they did neither, but this deal is at least a step in the right direction.
"Yeah, okay. I get your point. You said 'her'? Who is she and how will I recognise her?"
"She's your half-sister, Julieta Raquel Maria Luisa Cortes de la Vina y Fernandez."
My mother was once the mistress of a Spanish grandee until his eyes wandered towards a younger filly and he discarded my mother like an old rag. Which, of course, is one of the hazards of living the life of a courtesan. My mother left their two month old daughter in the care of the grandee's sister and her husband and promptly moved to France. A short while later she became my father's mistress.
"I've never met my half-sister," I say. "Julieta is a complete stranger to me."
"But you are almost identical in appearance. You obviously both take after your mother."
I was only six years old when my mother told me about Julieta and how she was adopted into the grandee's extended family. Would the same good fortune have happened to me had the French revolution not intervened? Who knows. Anyway, I can't argue with Sir Arthur's observation. Given my age at the time, I'm a bit hazy about some of the details, but I can remember what my mother looked like. These days I certainly look enough like my mother to be able to pass as her young self.
My objective seems clear enough, but that's about the only positive element of this mission. Transport is a major problem. If I was crazy I could simply try walking all the way to Madrid in the hot baking sun, while simultaneously avoiding the French army in the way. And even if I get into Madrid, I've only been given a couple of possible addresses where Julieta might be found. If she's not there then I'm reduced to looking for a needle in a haystack. And then finally, assuming I find her, she and I need to get ourselves to safety. This doesn't strike me as a mission with a high chance of success, but I doubt my fate will give Sir Arthur any sleepless nights. Nevertheless I must do my best because Julieta is my only kin, and apparently she's in mortal danger.
Taking the direct route along the Tagus valley towards Madrid is out of the question unless I plan to fuck my way through a French army. So I'm given a rather worn map and provided with one of the many Spanish guerilla fighters to guide me. We set off on horseback along a back road which the map has only bothered to record for part of the way. Our route will involve skirting the southern edge of the Guadarrama mountains, and entering Madrid from the north. It means passing between two converging French armies with the hope of encountering neither. Whatever happens, we can't return by this route.
Mateo is good company, even if he spends most of the time trying to talk his way between my legs. He's a year or two older than me and quite good looking in a rugged sort of way. I'm feeling horny enough to encourage his efforts without actually allowing him to get his wish. I will need his help to bring Julieta to safety, so if it means fucking him to keep him happy, then I'm okay with that. For the moment, however, he seems content with simple flirting.
We dodge several French patrols over the next couple of days, but eventually our luck runs out. We hide the horses in some trees on the outskirts of Madrid and continue on foot. We pass a house on which we mistakenly thought to be deserted, only to discover that it's a well hidden French checkpoint. There are too many soldiers to fight, and we are too close to them to flee.
"What are you doing here? This your woman?" asks the French sergeant of Mateo.
"Yes, my new bride," replies Mateo, using our agreed cover story. "I have just fetched her from her village and I'm returning to my home in Madrid."
"New bride, heh?" muses the sergeant. "And she's a real beauty. Has she sampled your cock yet? Perhaps she might like to sample a few French cocks to see which of us can satisfy her the most?"
"I'm sure my bride is more than satisfied with what I have to offer," replies Mateo.
"I think we need her to convince us of that," says the sergeant. "How about giving her a quick fuck and let us all watch her moan with pleasure?"
"It is against our traditions to fuck in public," replies Mateo. It's not a very convincing lie.
"That was an order, not a request," growls the sergeant. "If you don't fuck her here and now, then me and my men are happy to take your place."
"It's okay, Mateo," I say.
We need to focus on getting away from these men. If they can be persuaded to let us leave without a fight then so much the better. I've heard of many atrocities committed against civilians by soldiers of all the nations fighting this war, so anything is possible. Even if we give into their demands they may still decide to kill us, but it's worth the risk.
I guide Mateo towards a bedroom at the back of the house and kneel on the bed with my trousers lowered to my ankles. It's the position the men onboard the Zafiro used to like me to adopt when they reamed my arse. The sergeant and two of his men crowd into the room with Mateo. He doesn't seem overly happy at finally being awarded the treat he's been angling me to give him. Nevertheless he responds to the sight of my bare arse like any other heterosexual male and he doesn't refuse what's on offer. It takes him less than a minute for his erection to become rock solid and he wastes no time in ramming it into my cunt. I gasp at the suddenness of his assault on my innards. My own juices haven't started to flow, so Mateo's actions cause me some pain. But the soldiers mistake my moans of discomfort for my delight at Mateo's cock claiming his manly rights. As usual, it only takes a few seconds before my juices begin to flow in abundance, and my pain turns into genuine enjoyment. Before long I sense that Mateo is about to shoot his load into me. It's as well that I picked up a fresh supply of herbs to prevent pregnancy when I landed in Portugal. Mateo comes with a roar of triumph which nearly deafens me and a flood of cum which soon dribbles from my cunt. I'm not sure if his crowing is genuine delight or whether he's putting on an act for our audience.
The soldiers are focused on watching me while their hands are busy inside their trousers. The wet stain on the inside of one soldier's pantaloons suggests he has already shot his load into his pants. They aren't paying attention to Mateo, so the two knives he produces from inside his shirt catches everyone by surprise. Two of the soldiers die with the hands still wrapped around their erect cocks. At least they died with a smile on their faces. The sergeant only lasts a short while longer before Mateo's knives do their deadly deed. I take a few moments to recover my senses while Mateo tidies up his handiwork. By the time I've pulled up my trousers Mateo is ready to do battle with the three remaining soldiers outside.
"A warning that you were going to do that would have been appreciated," I say to Mateo.
