Tit for Tat

There hadn't been much of a firefight at all. The Hondurans hadn't really expected any of our Sandinista bands to strike across the Rio Coco Segovia, the river marking the Nicaragua-Honduras border, so they hadn't really seriously established a defense of the Gringo mining engineer team at the project in Brus Laguna. The Hondurans apparently hadn't bothered to read our new manifesto for the year about expanding our operations outside of Nicaragua's borders. We really didn't care that much about disrupting the new strip mining operation on the coast of Honduras. But we wanted to make a statement.

We wanted to make the news with the Norte-americanos. We were to capture a few and use them—not kill them—but use them to gain headlines. They hadn't been taking the Sandinistas seriously up North. A point was to be made, and my band was chosen precisely because of the point we could make.

It took a while to settle on the men we wanted. Most of the foreigners working in places we could access in Honduras were Europeans. But we wanted Americanos. And men of prominent, wealthy families.

We found what we wanted at the start-up strip mining project inland from Brus Laguna. Three Americano engineers, one the son of a federal congressman, and lightly guarded.

We had managed the trek across the Rico Coco Segovia from our base in Waspán in near silence and without encountering a single Honduran, civilian or military. The terrain was remote and a true jungle. And we were hardened soldiers now, experienced in the ways of stealth and steal.

At the first sign of an armed attack, the small band of Honduran soldiers guarding the Gringos melted into the jungle. We would rather have taken care of them there and then, though. They retreated in the direction of the army base at Brus Laguna on the coast. This would mean that the trek back to Nicaragua would have to be faster and more stealthy than our march to this point. The escaped soldiers would raise an alarm and the army would soon be on our scent.

We caught the three Gringos trying to hide in one of the mining operation sheds. We'd attacked at night and they were all stripped down to boxers for comfort under the slow-moving paddle fans in their primitive quarters at the height of the Honduran hot season.

The youngest and most fit of the three, a blond Gringo of athletic build and more bravery than the other two, was crouched between the door and his two compatriots when we kicked our way in. He was shielding a middle-aged man who was starting to go to overindulged fat and a younger, dark-haired man of slight height and build. The blond Gringo was holding a knife, at an experienced "kill" angle. He could see that he was not armed to fight with the AK-47s of ten hardened Sandisnitas, but he obviously was willing to try.

I motioned to Hectoro to feint at him from the left, which drew the young Gringo's attention, and then I bore in from the right and caught him in the chin with the butt of my AK-47. He went down with a groan. He wasn't unconscious, but he had dropped the knife.

"David Winston," I barked. "Which one David Winston?" I wanted to know immediately which one was the son of the congressman. He would receive special treatment. And I was the only one in the band conversant in English. This was as planned. I didn't want there to be any chances of the Gringos getting friendly with any of my men. It was impossible to tell, given our specific mission, whether that might become a problem.

The young blond's head lolled up at me. He was groggy from the hit on the chin, but he recognized the name when it was spoken. And he was quick witted. I could see that he understood in an instant that this hadn't been just a random raid.

"What—?"

"No questions," I commanded. "Get up and get those two up too. Where are your boots?"

Winston gestured in the direction of their sleeping hut, just a few steps from the door of the shed, as he whispered to the other two Gringos to stand up, that they were being directed to go back to their hut and dress. But he didn't stop there.

"He asked for David Winston," he was quickly adding. "This can't be an accident. They—"

"No talking," I barked, shoving the butt of the AK-47 into Winston's ribs. "No talking to each other from now on. If you talk we'll gag you. In the wet heat of Honduras, you may not survive that. Think about that. Now over to the hut and put socks and boots on. Now! Move!"

We hustled the three out of the shed and into the hut. Since their guards had escaped, there wasn't much time to get them on the move.

When they got to the hut, the blond started to take khaki trousers and a work shirt off a hook, but I nudged him with the butt of my AK-47 again.

"No, just the boots and the socks," I grunted. "And you won't need this either."

With that, I took the knife we had seized from the Gringo and I ran it under the waistband of his boxer shorts and cut the material to shreds. Winston gasped and tried to cover himself, but I knocked his hands away with my gun butt. He was magnificent. Not only was he built for power in his torso, arms, and legs, but he had the longest, thickest cock I'd seen on a man, and heavy hanging balls.

This mission wasn't going to be hard at all.

I handed the knife over to Hectoro, and he quickly had the other two Gringos naked too. The pudgy middle-aged man was hung nicely too, and the dark younger man had a boyish body that would please a few of my men greatly.

Stripping the prisoners was prudent for more reason than one. It not only served the purpose of our mission, but it also helped make them docile and gave them the proper sense of helplessness. We needed to dominate and control them fully and as fast as possible.

Once they were booted, I made them group together, facing us, with their hands at their sides, and then it was Manuel's turn to ply his craft. Manuel had been the photographer for a newspaper in Managua before joining the Sandinistas.

I had Manuel take several photos of our Gringo prisoners, showing them being held by my men but careful not to show any of the faces of the Sandinistas. He had three cameras; One with good film in it to use later, a video camera, and a Polaroid camera, the latter of which gave us photos to leave for the inevitable Honduran search party to find—once the Honduran cowards had gathered their strength and resolve.

Time was short, though, and I quickly had the band, prodding the prisoners along, their hands tied behind their backs with leather bindings, back into the jungle, for a fast, hard march toward the Rio Coco Segovia River.

We marched the prisoners relentless and mercilessly through the jungle for hours. Twice the pudgy one collapsed and had to be prodded back to his feet. I wanted them to be utterly exhausted before we stopped for the first time. But I especially wanted the blond Gringo, the congressman's son, to be totally exhausted. And he was proving to be strong and up to the task of hiking.

Being naked and trussed, though, finally got to the blond one before any of my life- and battle-hardened Sandinistas had lagged in energy. At the last, as we entered a fern-floored bowl at the base of a rocky hill, the blond collapsed in total exhaustion. The middle-aged Gringo had given out a long time ago. He was being nearly dragged along between two of my men, two who had gravitated to him. I had some idea what they liked, and I was content to let this order be.

The small dark one had also been chosen by natural selection. He was draped over the shoulder of the biggest, tallest of the band, like a sack of rice. The head and arms of the little one were just flopping back and forth between the Sandinista's broad, bulky shoulder blades; he appeared to be nearly unconscious, but I could tell he wasn't completely out, because of the expression on his face. He was in shock and his mouth was open in a look of pain and surprise. This most likely was because both of the big Sandinista's hands were busy. One was squeezing one of the small Gringo's pert butt cheeks, and the thumb of the other hand was buried inside the little one's asshole.

It was obvious that the band was ready to stop here.

I barked an order, and two of the band jumped forward and untied Winston's bounds, turned him over on the moist, fern-cushioned ground, and then retied his wrists over his head and around the trunk of a small tree. Then they both sprang down on either side of the blond Gringo, at his knees, and spread his legs, each taking a well-muscled calf and lifting it up and out, which rolled his firm, rounded glutes up.

Before this, I'd had all of the Sandinistas pull on their black masks, and then I told Manuel to take out the video camera and to get everything from this phase of the mission on tape.

I opened my fly and pulled out my cock. I was proud of my cock, and I stood between the Gringo's spread legs and made sure he got a good view of my cock. I had been mentally preparing for this for many kilometers, when I saw that the blond Gringo was, at last, on the verge of exhaustion. And so my fine cock was standing straight out from my body.

I opened the pack on my back and took out a jar of grease. And then I scooped out a glob and gave it over to one of my men holding the Gringo's legs, and he greased the Gringo's hole while I greased my pole, lovingly stroking myself up and down while standing above the panting Gringo.

The blond Gringo was panting as much now from the realization of what happened next as from his utter exhaustion. His exhausting kept him from struggling much, but he whimpered some and bellowed his disapproval much, albeit in very weak, almost-spent tones.

I looked around, hearing other cries and moanings and gruntings and whimperings about me.

The two likeminded band members, we liked to call them the Siamese twins for their special proclivity—the ones who had taken to the pudgy middle-aged one and who had virtually carried him to this spot—were sitting on the ferns not far from me, facing each other close, the thighs of one over the thighs of the other. And with the naked pudgy Gringo sandwiched between them. He was floppy as a rag doll, his head lolling and his eyeballs rolling up in his head. Only his weak cries and whimpers told me he was conscious as, with two pair of hands on his waist and sides, the two Sandinistas were pumping him up and down and their ever-disappearing joined cocks in his single asshole.

The mountain man of a Sandinista band member was walking slowly around the perimeter of the open area, humming and laughing and singing lullabies, obviously pleased with himself. The small, dark Gringo was attached to him at the pelvis, his legs flopping back and forth over the hips of the Sandinista monster man. The Sandinista's big hands were encircling the waist of the small, boyish-figured man, and sliding the small man's ass up and down on his huge tool. The Gringo's body was arched away from that of his ravisher, and his head was lolled back and his arms were flopping down from his shoulders. In spite of his exhaustion, his weak screams were quite energetic and convincing.

I instructed Manuel to make sure he got good coverage of the big man's thick cock appearing and disappearing in the small man's hole.

With a thrill of excitement, I knelt down and placed one hand under the blond Gringo's tailbone and held the base of my cock steady with the other hand. I placed the ruby tip of my cock at Winston's hole, and he whimpered and gave his last argument for being spared, and then I reared my hips back and struck home, strong, fast, and deep.

The blond congressman's son cried out and his pelvis lifted up, trying to escape me as I drew back again. But he couldn't evade me. He was fully mine. Exhausted, trussed, dominated, fucked.

"Take that, Norte-americano Bastard," I cried out, as I thrust again, and again and again.

The video rolled, as loud cries and bleatings across the clearing turned to whimpers and moans, the heavy grunts to weak groans. The Gringo's ass opened to me. The two Sandinistas at his side worked his greased cock with their free fists, and as they sucked him off, his pelvis started to move with my rhythm. I certainly wouldn't be telling my leader that he seemed to be enjoying his fuck in the end, though.

Both of the other Gringos were unconscious when the video film played out.

The Sandinistas zipped up and took up what were now three burdens, and moved quickly off once more toward Nicaraguan territory.

At the banks of the Patuca River, about half way toward safe territory, we rested for several hours. When we woke, two of the prisoners seemed to be recovering themselves and were whispering stealthy. The pudgy one was still completely docile and doing no more than groaning and moaning, with his eyes tightly shut.

We bustled the prisoners into the three boats, separately, that we had hidden in the rushes upon our trek into Honduras. And when we got to the other side, I let the "twins" double fuck the congressman's son back into submission and I fucked the small one. His ass had tightened up again. I was covering him bent over a mossy boulder on his stomach, and taking him was like fucking a small woman, all gentle curves and slight frame on the outside and all sweet and creamy inside. He even cried softly like a girl as I took him roughly in long, deep strokes, one of my fists between his shoulder blades and the other buried in his hair and arching his head and torso back up toward me.

I had Manuel take still photos of both takings.

The small, dark one soon was completely cowed again and would not, I was sure, be doing any whispering against my command any time soon. I didn't complete my fuck, though, because we heard the sound of chopper blades in the distance, toward Brus Lagunda.

We hurriedly broke off our conditioning and propaganda photo op exercise and gathered up the three nearly comatose prisoners and struggled back into the jungle, running now as hard as we could for the Rio Coco Segovia and the welcoming arms of our well-manned base at Waspán, across the border and in Nicaragua. The return trek was no where near as easy as the entry; we were hunted prey now, leaving spoor our trackers could follow—and carrying the dead weights of three fully used Gringos.

They caught up with and cornered us not more than fifty kilometers beyond the Patuca. I sent Manuel and the spent film off on another track toward Waspán. At least the mission we were sent on could be accomplished.

* * *

I'm not sure what happened to any of the others in my band. I was knocked unconscious early in the hand-to-hand fighting. And I woke up here in a cell—I assume at the army base outside Brus Lagunda. At least I assume I was brought back to where it started. That was two nights before. Since then I've had two, body-crunching sessions with the Honduran soldiers.

I am hunched on a narrow, hard bed against the back wall of the cell. The wall is clammy, rough, badly stacked bricks, but cool against my cut, aching, naked body. They must have tortured me for hours. They beat and whipped and punched every part of my body, careful not to break anything—yet—although I'm not at all sure about two of my ribs. They ache so badly. I am totally exhausted—physically, but not mentally. I am a Sandinista. And I have accomplished my mission—as long as Manuel has made it back. This will be a propaganda statement for the world as has never been made before. The Norte-americanos can be fucked—can be screwed—by the Central Americans. They can not lift their heads down here in pride ever again now. As long as Manuel and the film made it to safety.

My body aches so badly and I want more than anything else to curl up on the hard wooden bed here and die. But I'm held in this sitting position, my back to the wall, by the shackles at my wrists chained close to the walls and holding my torso up.

I close my eyes, wanting to make it all go away. Listening to every part of my body separately, checking out my wounds, trying to determine whether anything is seriously broken or violated.

But I hear the noise of metal screeching on metal. The door of my cell opening. So, I look up, expecting to see the sneering Honduran captain again.

But there he is. The blond Gringo. The one we'd taken prisoner and fucked for all the world to see. The American congressman's son. He is walking into the cell unsteadily and with a grimace at each step, bowlegged, his ass stretched and worried hard. But he is moving with the resources of determination I had seen from the beginning that he possessed in full measure.

"Winston. David Winston," I croak.

"No, dumbass," he retorts, his voice full of venom and anger. "You stupid insurgents attacked the wrong camp. David Winston's camp is several miles to the east of ours. We are with a Canadian archeological dig."

I want to say something, I'm trying to say something, but he is shouting, "Just shut the fuck up," and then he strikes me hard across the face with an open palm. Nothing compared with what the Honduran captain does.

But then I gasp and watch in horror as he unzips his pants and rolls out that huge, thick cock of his. He is taking a tube of cream from his pants pocket and giving me the most cruel expression. And he is greasing up his monster cock.

My eyes look wildly around the cell, searching for escape, but I know there is none. I hear a noise in the corridor beyond the open door, and I call out for help. But I know there will be no help from that sector.

There, beyond the doorway, crossing the open space, from one side of the yawning opening to the other, being dragged between two burly Honduran soldiers, his feet dragging the ground. Manuel. His head lolling down. Spent. Beaten.

My legs are being roughly parted and spread and lifted, and my bare butt rolls up and the cuts in my back are opened anew as they scrape along the undressed bricks. And, Yiyiyi! Excruciating pain. The violation of my last protected body part. A telephone pole jamming up into me, running far and deep, swiftly, stretching and splitting soft tissue as it fills me and expands and thrusts deeper. Yiyiyi!