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Chapter 2 – Getting Comfy
Sven Stevenson tried once more to concentrate on the pictures he was developing, but again gave up. He was exhausted. He had spent the entire night yesterday talking with every news service in the world, following the section-length expose in the Times . Unless he began fabricating information, he was quickly going to run out of things to tell them, and that wouldn't be good.
His darkroom phone rang, and he looked at it wearily before picking up the receiver.
“Stevenson?” Isamu's husky baritone traveled over the line, hampered slightly by a thin buzzing noise.
“Yes, major,” Sven said, with a quiet obedience that made his stomach turn.
“How did the interviews go?”
“Fine, major.”
“You followed the script?”
“Yes, but….” Sven's eyes darted around, trying to find a way to break the news to Isamu.
“But what?” Isamu demanded sharply.
“I don't…think they bought it.”
“What do you mean ‘bought'?” the major asked, and Sven had to remind himself that English was not the man's native tongue.
“It's just that… it's not like her. She wouldn't run away from a situation like this. She'd be at the nearest embassy filing charges right now. And it directly contradicts my statements from last week. It just seems obvious to me.”
“Leave the thinking to me,” he barked. “As of Tuesday, you're nothing but an employee. Perhaps you aren't taking us seriously. By the way, my operatives have informed me that your daughter just completed the eleventh grade. Give her my warm congratulations. Perhaps she could teach you a thing or two.” He tittered, and cold sweat began to break out on Sven's brow.
“Please…leave them out of it….” he begged, the phone becoming slick in his hands. “I've done what you want.”
“For now,” came his silky reply. Silence assaulted Sven's ears, followed by a smooth spate of chuckling from Isamu. “You'll have to excuse me, I was just pondering the wicked dreams I have for that dear, sweet child of yours. Not to mention your beautiful wife. All the terrible things I have planned…” Isamu gloated, and Sven could imagine the big man sitting in his elegant office, smoking a cigar and crushing walnuts in his frying-pan-sized, calloused hands.
“Just, stop. OK, I get it,” Sven said, cutting him off a bit more rudely than he intended. “She's gone to Athens .”
“That's right,” the man laughed, “that's right….” The line went dead.
He was getting Shelly and Brianna out of the country tonight.
*************************************************************
As the heavy smoke continued to pollute her lungs, Diana felt her stomach begin to cramp with nausea. What little clean air she could wrench through the tiny hose only provided the briefest stays of execution. If she could only shut out his infernal laughing! He's really enjoying this, the old psycho, Diana thought.
The General suddenly snapped his fingers, and the tube in her mouth cleared, though it was still resting in her mouth. She gulped the fresh air furiously.
“Shall we talk?” the tyrant queried grandly. “Guards, cut her a breathing slot near the nose,” he instructed.
As it was done, she found she could make some sounds…low guttural, humming noises. Her mind raced at what he was planning next.
“I'm going to re-insert the mouth tube and continue the smoke, but this time I will ask you some questions. If you wish to agree, signal the guards by inhaling through your nose, twice in sharp succession. This will also act as a small reward for you. If you disagree, blow out once. Do you understand me, my beauty?” he asked gently.
She instinctively tried to speak, but settled for inhaling twice through her nose. Relief washed over her as her lungs finally began to clear.
“Good. Isn't it better to cooperate?”
She heard him get up and stroll to her side. “I've custom-designed this hookah for just such purposes, and can control how much smoke you inhale with a valve. A friendly tip: the deeper you take my smoke into your strong, little lungs, the more you can hold. If you continue to cooperate, I'll leave the air hole near your nose unblocked, If not, I will seal it and increase the amount of smoke delivered to you twofold! Now, will you amend your UN report?”
Without hesitation, Diana blew once.
Silence from Tara , and then finally he said, “Very well, seal her nose.”
She began to shake as the air flowing into her nostrils was cut off, and a foul blast of smoke entered her mouth. At the same time, a slender finger, sporting a razor sharp nail, snaked into her pussy. It made slow, circular movements. He's running true to form, she thought. He loves to associate pain with pleasure --- his own sick mind-control game. She wouldn't, couldn't, let him win.
Diana reviewed her options. She could lie and agree to help him, to buy herself time or she could resist and try to outlast him. She remembered the testimonies of his past victims, whom she had personally interviewed. Suki Ingerslev had resisted, and was rendered childless for her efforts. He won't stop until he kills you , she had said.
She heard a squeak and the smoke began to billow in to her mouth in large clouds, like the wretched exhaust of a diesel bus, as the finger began to violently assault her.
“If you come, I'll stop,” Tara said, his voice tauntingly lilted with the promise of relief. She braced herself against the rack and tried to think of anything but sex. But, as successful as she was in every other arena of life, her body was one thing she had yet to achieve total control over, and this, more than anything, secretly enraged her. If only Sven were here. Her mind roamed to a pleasant thought of the big, blond, muscular photographer. She pictured him rushing into the room, taking out the two guards with swift karate kicks, and then confronting Tara --- pushing him down on his knees, dirtying that faggy dressing gown of his….
She suddenly let out a small squeak of disgust as the lips of her pussy became lightly glazed with moisture. She threw her head back as all the horrid things vanished, if for only a few brief seconds. She knew she should feel relieved, but found it only irritating.
Tara began to laugh, victorious for the moment. The mouth tube and mask were removed, and she again stared into his hateful, smirking face.
“My, my” the dictator clucked, “You are a hot little thing, aren't you? Perhaps we adjourn to my chambers and discuss what you'll write about me in further detail?”
“I'll die before you have me,” she said, her voice lifeless. So what if she sounded like a dime novel? It was the truth.
“That's always an option,” he agreed, nodding as if she had proposed something novel, plucking his holder from his breast pocket, “though one that I wish to wait a while before pursuing.”
*************************************************************
Sy Carey turned the brown envelope over and over in his hands. It felt empty, light as feather. Upon taking it from the mailbox, he was instantly wary of the fact that it had only his name and address printed in large block letters.
If the circumstances of the past few days had been different, he wouldn't have thought twice about ripping it open. But talking to Gallagher and the Times had changed things. He was on his guard again. All the unease and paranoia that had followed his trip to Tarakimo five years ago was now alive and well, thanks to the freshly published interview. It had sat in his stomach, coiling and thrashing around like a snake trapped in a cardboard box. And that box was getting flimsier by the minute.
He was still staring at the envelope when his phone rang. He picked it up gingerly, half expecting to hear Isamu's gloating, musical voice on the line.
“Sy Carey, please,” the voice said, seeming to belong to a man very close to his own age.
“Speaking,” he replied, without much inflection. No doubt another reporter, he thought.
“Mr. Carey, my name is David Palmer…”
Carey's eyes widened. Besides being uncle to the now missing superstar reporter, David Palmer III was one of the richest men in America . Old, old money. Getting a direct phone call from the man was as strange as being summoned by the President.
“Yes, Mr. Palmer, I know who you are,” Sy returned, in a low voice.
“First of all, let me express my sincere regret and sorrow upon reading your account of your experiences with Tara in the Times .” Palmer's voice was as cultured and proper as Sy would expect it to be, yet he could tell from the man's tone that he was carrying an enormous sadness that threatened to crush him at any moment. “It took a lot of courage to come forth with the information you provided, and I, for one, most appreciate it.”
“I…thought I owed it not only to your niece, but to the world,” Sy found himself saying. “I've been quiet about it for too long now,”
“Yes, yes,” Palmer continued. “I thought that you, more than anyone, might be able to give me some insight into this situation, and some of my possible next moves. You obviously have a fair idea of what I'm up against on both sides of the globe.”
Sy winced and balanced himself on the back two legs of the chair on which he was sprawled, in the small kitchen of his San Diego home. He had to viciously fight the urge to slam down the phone, rip the jack from the wall, and then call a U-Haul.
“I do know that where Tara is concerned, world opinion is extremely…how shall I say….” --- Carey strove for a word that would be neutral, but finally relinquished his political correctness --- “…wishy-washy.”
“Yes,” Palmer concurred, “I'm finding that as well. Is our government afraid of the man? I don't understand their ambivalence….”
“They want him to go away,” Sy answered quickly. “They've always wanted that. To them, Tara is a tin-pot despot --- nothing but a sink-hole. Engaging him in conflict doesn't buy them anything.”
“That's my opinion, too, Mr. Carey. Unfortunately, in this case, my niece is at the center of it, and I feel I must act quickly.”
“I would recommend that, Sir,” Sy replied, stammering slightly.
“Could I get your help in the matter?” Palmer asked
Sy closed his eyes in misery.
“Sir, I'm not sure what I can do, I'm only a photographer, and my health is not what it was….”
“You know your way around this situation better than anyone. You know how that maniac thinks. You've met him, for god's sake….”
And I wish I hadn't. That is my biggest regret, Mr. Palmer, Sy thought. “What do you want to know?” he asked dismally.
“What are her chances?”
“If she appears to help him, she'll have some time….” Sy's voice trailed off as he found himself ripping open the envelope, quite as a distraction. He recoiled as a single piece of metal fell forth from it, onto the Formica table top.
It was a rusty spike.
Removing a piece of paper from the envelope, he read the block-print message:
COMFY YET, OLD MAN?
************************************************************
Diana was taken up to the top floor of the palace, a level just a fraction of the size of the rest of the building. She had noticed it in press pictures and had always wondered if it was functional or merely decorative. Accessible only from the third floor of the palace by a winding marble staircase, she now discovered that this was where Tara spent his nights, housing as it did his enormous circular bedroom and many adjoining salons.
Once inside the bedroom, she was led over to an ornate cage with golden bars that sat in the center of the room. The top of the cage was domed, resembling the top one would normally see on a bird cage.
As the mustached henchmen gripping her left arm turned to unlock the cross bar that secured the cage door, Diana seriously considered trying a judo move she had learned as a teen, then quickly dismissed it. Making a run for it, she reasoned, would only kick off a domino effect that would force her to engage in further confrontations of an increasingly intense nature. No, she would have to grab the chance when their defenses were down.
After the door slammed shut, it was only a matter of minutes before Tara entered the room and gave her a tight, little smile.
“You must know by now that I have every intention of keeping you alive, for as long as I can, my pretty bird,” he began haughtily, “seeing as you're worth little dead to me, other than for the fleeting bit of satisfaction killing you might provide.” He paused to thoughtfully light a fat, black cigar.
The apparent ease he took in tormenting her finally released the dam of frustration and anger that had been pulsing inside of the young woman since her humiliating session on the rack. Diana began to shake the cage bars violently. “I will never change that report, General Tara,” she shouted, stabbing a finger in his face through the bars, “and if you think I'll become some kind of propaganda tool….”
Tara smirked, bemused. He snapped his fingers and the cage door was opened. Diana felt her fury quickly dissolve into fear as the big man moved purposefully toward her, backing her into the corner of the cage.
As he pressed his large body against hers, she got her first appreciation of how big a man Tara was. Aside from being a good five inches taller than she, he was massively wide as well: barrel-chested, with arms that resembled branches from an old oak. Up until now, she had made the mistake of assuming that he was all lard underneath his shimmering, feminine silks and satins. When he moved into her, forcing her arms above her head, she realized weakly that these luxurious fabrics were a perfect disguise. They hid the man's primordial savagery quite well.
The dictator moved closer to her face, until she could almost smell the oil radiating from his large mustache. He spoke in a calm, soft, even voice. It was the voice of a man who decreed everything, and asked nothing. “It would be unwise for you to project what you will or won't do in the future. When I am finished with you, my lovely Diana, you will be an entirely different person. The feisty little sprite before my eyes will be gone forever, and you will do whatever I ask of you, without question.” His robe parted, and his chest, as furry as an ape's, pressed into the front of her body.
Diana tried to look away, but he clenched her jaw in his muscular hand, moving it toward his mouth. The big man then engulfed her, pressing his greasy mouth over hers while gripping her ass with both of his hands, squeezing tightly. His tongue probed like a serpent and she could sense his entire foul being invading her own. From below, she felt his lumbering manhood pulsate. He seemed ready to take her, when suddenly he stepped back and re-tied his robe, puffing absently on his cigar. Diana only watched helplessly, as the situation became increasingly bizarre. He seemed to have absolutely no fear of an attack from her. With the cigar still in mouth, he gripped her arms, which were still frozen in the air, poised to attack him, and brought them to a pair of manacles that hung from the top of the cage, securing them with a swift click of the cuffs. Motioning to his henchmen, he stepped back and began to survey her body, eyes resting intently on her crotch.
A large, steel dildo was presented to the General. He took it, and, stroking it pleasantly, began to bend down to insert it. To Diana's disgust, and to Tara 's delight, it slid right in.
“I see you were ready for me,” he giggled. “A pity. Forcing this terrible tool always affords me great pleasure. But, never mind, we'll have our fun later. Besides, it's simply not possible to threaten someone with something they secretly, truly want, is it?” He laughed delightedly.
“That has nothing to do with you, you foul pig ! You're exploiting simple biological responses, nothing more,” she spat back at him.
He activated the steel rod, which trailed a long cord attached to a remote, and it began to buzz feverishly inside of her. Oh my god, she thought, I have to…. Diana stopped cold as she watched him remove a small, bulbous, steel device from a velvet box that was held open for him by a thug. He turned around and displayed it to her smugly.
“This…is an oral pear, my sweet. You like fruit, don't you?” He laughed sadistically as her mouth dropped open, then immediately snapped shut. “It was a torture device used extensively during what I consider to be the greatest renaissance period of the interrogatory arts --- the Spanish Inquisition!” Tara stroked the metal object like one would a woman's breast, regarding it lustfully. The body of the device looked like a pear, but Diana noticed with distaste that there were long spikes jutting outward from the bottom. The handle was long and ornate, and appeared to sit atop a pivoting head. “It's a bit of an irony that this device was used to make people talk,” Tara continued, “since it is capable of virtually shredding one's tongue, mouth, and lips. I've heard it also causes great dental discomfort, too. You see, my lovely,” he purred, stepping out of the cage and handing the object to one of his thugs, “I don't wish you to say anything for a while. I only want you to watch.”
He walked slowly away from her, puffing grandly on his stogie, and picked up the receiver of a large Princess telephone that sat by his huge, silk-tapestry covered bed. “Major, bring in Mrs. Franzen, if you please,” he said, with an evil smile.
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