I was a girl in bliss lounging on Venezuelan sand. I lay in the shade in my pink bikini, my headphones blasting the sonorous, nay epic and often romantic scores of Braveheart. My glossy shoulder-length blonde hair was tied up in a ponytail because at first I had planned on taking a dip in the warm and embracing waters of the Gulf.
"Je-ess. Come on. How many times are you going to be on a Venezuelan beach on a day like this? Let's join the others."
I wasn't sure what I was missing exactly. Most of the others were in their own separate realms, each teammate sprawled on her towel on open sand closer to shore -- the better to bask in the sun's golden tendrils.
I smiled, content and indifferent, amused by the good-natured whining of Valerie, my best friend and closest teammate. "It would take the Rock to move this babe...no thanks I'm staying put."
Val sighed exasperatedly. "Who needs the Rock with all of his clones practically tripping over you! Venezuelan guys make me hot. Hey, look at that guy with the six-pack."
I feigned interest but found myself drifting back into my musical trance. Sunlight had never been too kind to my fair complexion. I reveled in the cool shade undisturbed... well, almost. I giggled as the breeze tickled my legs and back. I breathed in the fresh smell of the salty ocean, my lungs gladly opening. Colorado's mountains were nice, but paradise was here. Even after only five minutes, I was sure of it.
Valerie got up from her towel grumbling and strode toward the water without so much as a backward glance. I silently wished her luck in rousing our teammates languishing in the day's heat. My gaze followed her perfect, pert little bottom, a spark of admiration stirring as I looked at one well-sculpted specimen of the female sex. In looks I had always been second best to Val. Her tan was exquisite, the finishing touches on that slim, 5'4 body, all curves. I was pretty, my face right up there with the gorgeous, but Val was...well, the complete, irrefutable model of perfection. Something or someone had molded her out of some truly divine stuff.
As I watched her saunter, hips swaying to attract every male in a half-mile radius, I thought of her other exceptional qualities -- her athleticism an equal marvel. It confounded the mind that one of the shortest members of our team easily had the best vertical, and her spike was unstoppable.
I glanced over at Lisa, now the only teammate within earshot. Of course, much more than that, she was family. My stubborn sister had the same fair complexion and the same blood, but not much else. Where I liked to avoid conflict, she strove to confront it head-on. We didn't even look alike. My features were more delicate, slender. Lisa was far from overweight, but her body was built from something more substantial. She was well-endowed you-know-where, and that plus the outgoing personality was a magnet for guys.
Shocker of the century, a local guy was kneeling by her trying to impress her with some bother or other. Mindless chatter...boys. As a college freshman I still didn't have much use for the uncouth jerks that made up half of the human race. Sure I found males attractive, but my disposition and shyness tended to undercut their chances of getting me on a second date, let alone beyond.
Soon I'm lost in my music. A good kind of lost, maybe the best.
I happen to see Coach walk by. She's only a few years older than us, an alumna from our university. Her family's important, and by important I mean they put up big dollars on campus, so she'd gotten the job. Still, for all her inexperience, she is as good as they come.
She waves and I wave back. Coach Shannon Daugherty had improved us, like tempered steel, and made an unlikely group of girls into the darling champions. The journey for these Colorado State Wildcats had been arduous -- many of our star players were only freshmen or sophomores -- but now it was finally over and somehow we'd amassed an undefeated season of spectacular, sweating-our-butts-off play.
I watch her tiptoe into the water, testing the temperature. Lisa's talking to our little sis, Sara, the most malleable of the group because she's not in college yet and only on the trip because, well, she's our sis. I look back at Coach. Her red hair is stormy, the invisible gusts whipping the many strands in a way that makes her appear like a goddess of the elements. Now that was only fitting for someone with her fiery persona, a monster that reared its head both on and off the court. How many practices had those endless suicide drills sent me, chest heaving, to the showers with sports bra, panties and jersey totally soaked?
My mind wanders and I dream about Mel (one of those good dreams that tantalizingly seep forgetfully from your brain just after you wake). Then, suddenly a shadow falls across my face.
"Hey chica get up!"
I open my eyes slowly...and don't bother to take my headphones off. Who does this jerk think he is anyway?
"What?" Then I notice. Why are all the other girls milling about while men in military fatigues stand ominously nearby? Where's Coach?
The man has an ugly scar across his left forearm. Reaching down, he grabs me by the wrist and hauls me unwillingly to my feet. "Hey, what's going on?"
I see Val close by putting up quite the resistance. A man in fatigues has her by the arm. She flails and starts shouting in his face. "What do you think you're doing? You better let us go! We'll go to the American Embassy and report you assholes!"
Suddenly things are moving awfully fast. Scar-boy snaps handcuffs on my wrists and there are three of his friends who start doing the same to the others. Many of the girls are complaining loudly, but the soldiers take us to the parking lot ignoring all the verbal abuse. Lisa, Val, Becky and Kira pile on the insults. Sara and I are quiet, but my senses are on high alert. A soldier helps us step up into the back of a truck.
I see Coach. She is not only cuffed but also gagged and blindfolded with black cloth.
Our pleas and demands to know what is going on fall on unsympathetic ears. The truck heads inland, then navigates along undulating roads with foliage and jungle on either side. Finally we arrive at some kind of facility. The truck stops on level dirt, a crude parking lot. We're escorted into a plain-looking block-shaped building, the light paint peeling on its sides.
We are instructed to sit on comfortable leather cushions in what appears to be a conference room. The four soldiers stand stonily nearby. One of them radios in. Soon a man in military fatigues walks in -- now he looks like the head honcho. He dons insignia on his breast. A cigarette dangles haphazardly from his impetuous mouth. I can see harsh eyes behind the semi-opaque green-tinted sunglasses. A thin, arching loop of a mustache makes him look especially arrogant, imperious. The man exudes ego, raw power. My gaze inexorably gravitates to him.
"Hey Weasel-face, who the fuck do you think you are?! You can't do this to us! We're American citizens!" Val retorts. Some of the girls are starting to get scared, and I can tell they don't like the look of the newcomer. Sara starts to say something to calm Val down, but the high-ranking hombre sharply barks an order in Spanish. To my horror I realize he just pointed at me. Val, Coach and I are led into a spacious, sparsely furnished square room with a bland, white carpet. There are three wooden chairs on one side of the room and across from them stands a long table. Sliding chains dangle from pipes that run horizontally along the ceiling at seemingly random angles. Running vertically there are three large concrete poles. Across from the door through which we just entered there's another door, leading to where I can't guess, but I've got more pressing worries.
Soldiers undo our handcuffs and force each of us to sit down in one of the chairs. Scar-arm grins as he forces my arms behind my back, wraps my wrists in duct tape to the chair and cuffs my ankles to the chair legs. Coach and Val get the same treatment.
Suddenly I notice that there are all kinds of strange things on the table -- devices that shouldn't exist!!
Only a few things look even familiar. Two candlesticks on either side of the table add superfluous light to the room. There's also a tube of mint toothpaste and more tubes filled with different kinds of gels or oils. My eyes widen as I behold a cylinder, long and pink and over a foot long with ridges covering that entire length. I realize in horror that it's essentially a giant, rubbery cock. Next to it sits another cylinder, silver-shiny. At the time I don't realize that it's a huge chrome vibrator. My eyes pass over nearly a dozen leather collars, dark and gleaming. Each of the collars is fitted with rings all around at equidistant intervals. An equal number of pairs of matching black metal ankle and wrist shackles are strewn across the table. One device completely baffles me. It's a three-pronged object with straps. Who would wear such a silly object? Why are the three cylinders spaced like that and why are they different sizes? I wonder for a moment. No, it isn't possible...there has to be another explanation. I'm appalled as it finally dawns on me...they're actually three dildos. At least, I am pretty sure that's the right name. One dildo is apparently to be inserted in the vagina of the wearer, one plugs up the wearer's anus -- oh how terrible -- and one is not straight, but curves more horizontally as if to allow the wearer to use it to fuck. Oh my god this can't be happening. This has to be a nightmare.
Thoughts whirl in my head. I'm dizzy with fear. My heart goes thud...thud like a galloping mare. The man in the green sunglasses paces back and forth.
"Hello girls. You may call me General. I am in charge of security in the region.
Valerie is quiet even as her eyes smolder with defiance. She has seen the toys on the table, however, and I know that look. Her defiance is a thin façade over her terror. Only Coach seems adamant, still trying to shout protests through the cloth gag.
The General draws a six-inch blade and cuts away the blindfold. Next he slices the gag: "You can't do this! We are American citizens!"
"What is your name puta?"
"Shannon Daugherty. We're here on vacation. We've done nothing wrong! You have no right to hold us!!!"
The man laughs. "Nice try puta but Venezuelan intelligence never lies. The President knows all about Washington's assassination plots. Does it surprise you to know that our agents monitor American activities? Our sources tell us that you and you and your girls are really American spies!
"You're either kidding or crazy!" Coach scoffs.
"Oh I am quite serious puta. And you will tell me what I want to know. I have ways of loosening the tongue."
Coach shakes her head. "You can't be serious! Do these girls look like spies to you? They go to college. They are students at Colorado State University. For chrissakes we're a volleyball team that won State and I've taken the girls here as a reward!"
"Yeah you better watch it. It's tourists like us that save your pitiful economy!" Val chimes in, apparently encouraged by Coach's example. "You'll be punished by your own government!"
Coach continues her remonstrance. "This treatment is deplorable! Listen buddy, if you don't let us go this instant I'll report you to the American Embassy and that'll only be the beginning of your problems!"
"Yeah you'll rot in prison for kidnapping!" Val musters.
Ignoring my friend's outburst, the General wags his finger at the red-haired captive. "You know honesty really is best policy. You say that girls do not look like spies. Just how are spies supposed to look, eh puta? Should I have my soldiers look for handsome man with sunglasses, nice car and hi-tech gadgets? Wait I know! I should look for men in suits creeping around at night! Bah! I do not watch James Bond and I am not so foolish or naïve! You will tell me the truth!"
"But Coach just told you the truth! We're just tourists!" Valerie pleads. Wordlessly I watch it all transpire. It's not a motionless calm, but the grip of terror.
