A stereotypical black on blonde gang-bang.
I hope you enjoy the story. I might be in for some flak for this from the usual suspects, but ...
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Please forgive any errors that are likely here.
GA - Antigua, Guatemala. 10th May 2012.
*
They were in the wrong part of town at night. In a wood and tarpaper shack, a dingy confined space of a place well away from the bright lights, the security of the tourist strip, the hawkers and touts, bars, and a policeman. A low beat of perpetual reggae throbbed dimly through the fragrant miasma that clung to the low ceiling. The only lighting came from a triple series of ancient disco lights which suffused the smoky haze with alternate blushes of colour. Red Stripe and rum bottles littered the scarred and stained plank that served as a bar counter, while a scarred and stained man wearing a ratty sleeveless vest served up replacement beverages from a fridge that seen neither cloth nor disinfectant for a decade or more.
The girl sat on a plastic chair, knees together, head bowed, hands folded in her lap as though at prayer. A sweating bottle of Red Stripe sat in a saucer-sized pool of water, almost untouched in front of her. Dutch blonde and pretty she kept her blue eyes focussed on the bottle's peeling label while her husband of two days surveyed the bar with an outward show of calm confidence he didn't feel.
The girl's eyes flicked sideways, which had been her only physical movement for a full three minutes. Out of the corner of her mouth she muttered: 'I didn't expect this. When he said a bar, I thought he meant one on the strip. Not this ...' Her head jerked, the meaning clear:
Where are we? How are we going to get out of here? ... Alive.
Everything about her, her posture, her gaze locked on the bottle on the plastic picnic table, immobility -- if she just stayed still, didn't move, ignored everything around her then it would all just go away -- screamed fear. She added: 'It all seemed like a good idea at the pool. Now look at us.'
Anxiety squeezed the man's chest. What was she complaining about? It was her idea. The guy had approached them as they lay next to the pool, secure inside the hotel complex. Gold-toothed charm, a woollen tea-cosy hat bulging with dreads, and a typically laid-back air, he'd convinced the honeymooners to come out to a local joint he knew.
'Away from the expensive places,' he'd drawled, toning down the patois for their unaccustomed ears. 'The tourist places ...' He sucked air through his teeth and shook his head. 'Sky high prices.' The gold eye tooth glinted in the sun as he smiled. They arranged a time, and here they were after a giddying, circuitous, and disorientating jalopy ride, afraid and confused in some local shebeen. Their guide, following a brief discourse with a group of locals at the bar, explained he'd be away for a few minutes and left.
'A couple of beers,' her husband assured her, his voice low, beneath the bass thump from the speakers. 'Then, if Linus doesn't come back we'll just ask for a lift back to the strip.' He shrugged and offered a tentative, nervous smile. 'Or maybe they'll call us a cab,' he added hopefully.
The girl's head swivelled slowly. She regarded her husband, face pinched with concern. 'They look like Yardies,' she hissed.
'I'm sure they're not gangsters,' the man replied.
'They look fucking dangerous, Daniel.' His wife's terse response surprised him. She wasn't given to profanity. He wondered how badly she'd been upset by this excursion.
Three men dressed in faded jeans and vests of various colours stood at the bar, elbows on the counter, backs to the nervous couple. Two of them held burning cigarettes that gave off a pungent, suspect odour, the smoke rising to the low ceiling, thickening the blanket of fugue overhead. The three were all youngish, mid-twenties, athletically muscular, two of whom sported the ubiquitous dreadlocks while the other wore his hair short. One of them, the close-shorn one, turned to regard the pair briefly. A conspiratorial chuckle came from the other two after some mumbled comment. The man detached himself from what was obviously his habitual position, biceps bulging, triceps tensing as he pushed his angled torso away from the bar.
'Evening,' he grinned, eyes all over the girl's body after sauntering slide-footed and insouciant to the table.
The woman tensed, sensing his appraisal rather than seeing. She kept her eyes on the bottle in front of her. Her husband returned a timid hello, his eyes sliding over the other man's grinning face, seeing the challenge there but powerless to react. He ignored the blatant assessment of his wife's décolletage. Now wasn't the time to play the knight in shining armour.
The man loomed over the couple, dark-skinned and rangy, unsettling the pale-skinned visitors, his smile sinister despite its breadth. 'We don't get many tourists in here,' he offered ambiguously in what could be either comment or threat.
The girl said nothing while her husband, equally silent, blinked quickly several times at this opening gambit. 'Uh ...' he began. 'It was recommended by Linus.' He used the name in the hope of a positive response. This didn't feel good at all. If he could engender some favour by dropping a familiar name all to the good.
The man's response remained ambiguous. 'Yeah,' he said, his gaze fixed on the woman. Then, suddenly, he turned his attention to the nervous man seated. 'We don't get many white people in here at all ... ever ...' He smirked, adding: 'And we never get pretty white girls payin' us no visits.'
'We just got married,' the husband blurted. 'Two days ago.'
The man's smile widened. He turned to his companions at the bar, both of whom were leaning on one elbow, watching the scene unfold. 'Got a pair of honeymooners,' he called.
The barman slopped a desultory cloth over the counter and made no comment.
One of his customers spoke, the one in the green vest. 'Calls for a celebration,' he said, 'bottle of rum.' This last was offered to the man behind the bar, who ceased his slovenly ministrations and bent forward to lift a bottle from under the counter.
'Oh, no, that isn't necessary,' the husband began. 'Linus should be back soon,' he suggested, more than a little hopefully. 'And we really don't drink spirits ...'
'Just a little drink to celebrate,' Green Vest said. 'Linus said he'd be a half hour ... maybe a little more. He's on an errand for me.' He grabbed the bottle by its neck and ambled to the table. 'Just a drop,' he finished.
The third man brought five more bottles of beer, while the barman delivered glasses, carrying his cargo one-handed on a tray. Chairs scraped through the dust on the wooden floor, bottles thunked onto the table top. Daniel suddenly found himself positioned on the periphery of the group, with his wife, as the focal point, flanked either side by the two long-haired locals, the man with short hair interposed between Daniel and the main group.
'You're a mighty lucky man,' the short-haired one said, leering sideways at Daniel. 'That's a very pretty girl you got yourself.' He nodded appreciatively. 'Sweet,' he added.
The woman stared at her husband, her eyes beseeching. She could feel the heat coming from the two men positioned so closely at her sides, could smell their bodies. Inwardly cursing her trembling hand she picked up the bottle which had held her attention for so long. She swigged deeply, chugging half the contents in one go. 'Cuh ... could you call a taxi,' she stammered. 'Please. I'd like to leave now. Daniel, could you ask for a phone to call a cab?'
The man to her left spoke, the one in the green vest, the one who'd suggested the rum. 'Hey,' he said softly, shaking his head, lips pursed. 'No need to run away,' he purred, voice like silk, smile like a tiger's. 'We just wanna celebrate with you. Toast your good fortune.' His eyes slithered across the woman's chest. 'Toast your husband's luck.' He leered at the girl. 'Lucky fellah,' he said. 'What you say, Danny? You gonna take a little drink with us? Your new friends here.'
Daniel vacillated, sensing that to refuse might invite an angry response. 'Uh,' he said, 'I don't suppose ...' He looked at his wife, willed her to understand. 'Just one drink?' he suggested, his smile tepid.
Rum was poured and glasses chinked. 'Cheers,' Green Vest said, grinning his huge grin, obviously the leader of the group.
The girl demurred. 'No, thank you,' she said, seething inside and silently cursing her husband. 'I don't like rum.' She tilted the beer bottle against her lips and drained it. Then, the empty bottle banging the table like a gavel, she lifted her second. 'Cheers,' she toasted through clenched teeth, her eyes flashing fire towards Daniel.
'Rum,' the short-haired man suggested, pouring generous measures into four glasses without waiting for any motion of acceptance from Daniel.
Watching her husband, the new Mrs Bartholomew felt humiliation and anger corrode her guts. He should have refused, she thought. He should have acted when I told him to call a cab. These men are taking the piss and he's just going along with it. She burned with indignation. I should've insisted, she reasoned. Stood my ground, made my point and fucking demanded to leave. Clara chided herself: I should have stood up and just left. This is getting stupid now. Look at him sucking up to these fuckers. She began to question her husband's courage.
From his sidelined position on the left wing, Daniel considered the options. Clara was obviously fuming, but she didn't understand, if this went wrong it would be he who would get the kicking. Maybe worse, these boys could have knives or guns ... Who knew where this could go if he showed a lack of respect. No, he reasoned, best to ride it out. Have a few drinks, act all friendly, leave with all his teeth intact. Who cared about dignity?
He then made the fatal error of leaving his wife alone with the men. 'Where's the toilet?' he asked.
Clara, mouth hanging in surprise, with Bob Marley wailing about no woman no cry in the background, predators all around, watched her husband leave the bar. What was he thinking leaving her alone with ...
them
?
'Are you afraid of us?' Green Vest asked.
Clara considered the question. The blaze of anger had cooled to a leaden ball of fear in the pit of her stomach. 'A little,' she admitted, nodding, her eyes lifting to regard the man face-to-face.
'We's just messin' with you,' Green Vest relented. 'Just a little joke.'
Ire flared again. 'It isn't funny,' Clara returned.
'We do it from time to time. Get Linus to trawl the hotels an' pick out some likely prospects. We gets a bottle of rum or two outta tourists, mebbe they leave some cash, fifty dollars or whatever for a cab ride back to the lights.' The man grinned at Clara. 'Linus picked you guys 'cos he thought
you
wuz hot stuff.'
