Blonde, Naked, in the Jungle Read online

  Blonde, Naked, in the Jungle

  By K. Walker

  Copyright © 2012 by K. Walker

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

  Cover photo licensed from D. Ersler via Dreamstime.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: I Just Wanted to be a College Girl

  Chapter Two: Kidnapped, Into the Jungle

  Chapter Three: Life on the Run, Naked

  Chapter Four: Into the Village, Naked

  Chapter Five: An End and a Beginning

  Prologue:

  Katie Sornsen is a recent high school grad – blonde, gorgeous and poor. She takes a waitress job in Vegas to save money for college, but when her mobster boyfriend offers to stake her to a quickie course in Venezuela to become a well-paid translator, Katie is tempted. Things are not what they seem, and she finds herself kidnapped into the jungle. When she runs away, her captors have a novel idea to discourage her from trying again – they take away every stitch of her clothing. Fortunately, she takes a great tan. Will Katie survive and get home? And will she ever get her clothes back? Read on…

  Chapter One: I Just Wanted to be a College Girl

  The sun is setting in the western distance over the treetops of the Venezuelan jungle, as I walk back to our camp from a bath in the clear spring that runs down a nearby hill. The evening breeze dries the last drops of cool water from my tanned skin. I am of course completely naked — it has been three days since my captors allowed me to wear anything but my boots. I am starting to get used to this. “It’s just like a nudist beach,” I tell myself. I don’t really believe this, and in any case I have never been to a nudist beach. I am nineteen.

  Behind me walks Tomas, the leader of this band of robbers. He is as naked as I am. Since in a few minutes he will be thrusting between my thighs, it is some comfort that he at least is clean. A rigid object the size of a policeman’s truncheon bobs in front of his groin – evidently, he is happy to see me.

  We walk past the campfire, where the other men are enjoying an after dinner smoke. One of them laughs. Their turns will come after Tomas’s.

  Is it really possible that less than a week ago I was a waitress in Las Vegas, saving my money for college? I cast my mind back over the events of the last few days, but I am soon distracted by Tomas’s size, technique and enthusiasm.

  Sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do…

  • • •

  Running my hand nervously through my long hair, I tried consciously to slow my breathing. People ride planes every day. Statistically, they say it is safer than driving. But in my nineteen years, I had never flown, and the thought of being 30,000 feet up and crossing the whole Caribbean Sea with nothing to land on if it broke – well, OK, so I was a little tense. Is that a federal offense?

  I reached down to touch my carry-on bag with my right hand, standing in line for boarding. My worn old school pack hung comfortingly from my back. Everything really vital was in that, or my jeans, or the inside pocket of my nylon windbreaker. Passport of course. A credit card – with a $500 limit, but still a card. A couple of hundred in cash and a bit more, including a tearful farewell present from Mom. Letter of acceptance from the Instituto Profesional de Idiomas, Merida, Venezuela, for their program of training ESL teachers. English as a Second Language. I could get work with that credential. Teaching, or translations. No more drifting from one crap job to another. At the other end this flight, after changes in Miami and Caracas — a fresh start for a better life. It would take more than a small chance of going splat in the ocean, to frighten me off.

  Mom is a New Mexico Mexican — born here, her family for generations back, longer than the gringos, but with that touch of Aztec princess in her cheekbones and her brown skin. Short, of course. I got that from her, barely five feet two. My Dad was some sort of Minnesota Nordic, Danish once upon a time. From him I got blue eyes and a slim straight nose, and honey-colored hair that bleaches blonde in the sun. I wear it in curls halfway down my back. My skin is a blend – lighter than Mom’s, but it tans to cinnamon and never burns or shows a freckle. I am Maria Katrina to my Mom only, Katie Sornsen to everybody else.

  The line shuffled forward. A bored woman in a dorky uniform scanned my boarding pass. Just a few days ago, I was wearing a uniform of sorts – short shorts and a plunging neckline, a push-up bra (not that my girls need help) and fuck-me heels, as a cocktail waitress in The Lion’s Den, a place off the Vegas strip that was kind of a Hooters with pole dancers. I was one of the sorta-Hooters girls, bringing the burgers and beer and flirting for bigger tips. You saw a woman customer about once a day. I am OK with flirting, I’m no prude. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to become a pole dancer. Aside from the fact that I didn’t have a clue — I’m athletic, but I never trained to hang upside down by one hand, that stuff is hard to do — the dancers end up naked and I quickly learned that they made their best money in a horizontal position, after hours. I will fuck any guy I want. I had, as of that date, fucked seven in total, all but one of them my age and hot. Not middle-aged bums cheating on their wives.

  My Dad was a soldier in the first Gulf War. They say that was a cake walk, but it messed him up. Seeing the Highway of Death, and the smell of all those bodies. The year before he died, he opened up to me a little. By that point, the booze and the nightmares were blending together and he was finding it harder to work. He was always gentle. He would put away half a dozen shots after dinner and fall asleep in his chair in front of the TV. He was an artist, landscapes in a neo-impressionist style, and sold them from a Tucson gallery that was a tourist trap. He worked hard at it, did two or three paintings most weeks, and we lived OK when I was little. He might have made more money if he had painted less. The ‘real’ artists of Tucson considered him a hack, and he never got a serious showing. But, like I said, we lived OK.

  When the booze started to creep up on him, Mom went to work, first trying real estate sales and then, when that fell apart, cleaning houses for clients including the agents who were good enough to survive the bust. He died when I was a junior, just dropped dead one day on one of our fiery hot streets. That’s when I realized there was no money. I mean really no money. Barely enough to decently bury him. The house had a second mortgage, we lost it half-way through my senior year of high school and had to move to a ranchito in a rural slum with mainly illegals. We never told the county, so I could graduate from my old school.

  I had a lot of dates in high school. I just assumed that the guys I liked, mainly jocks with brains, would go to college with or without an athletic scholarship, and so would I. My grades were OK, not 4.0 but solid. Hey, there were clubs, and a social life, and judo, after I grew a figure and had to stop gymnastics. I was accepted at all the state schools. I did the numbers with a package of grants and loans. God knows we were poor enough for financial aid. But it was mainly loans, and I didn’t like the idea of graduating with a ton of debts. So, I decided to work, to save money.

  “Querida,” said Mom, “Go to school. Don’t let yourself be captured by work. I was going to college, but I dropped out when I met your father and look where I am now. Forty, and cleaning other people’s houses. Your father was a good man, he made me happy, but I wish now I had a degree.”

  “Don’t worry Mom,” I replied and gave her a hug. “Your Katrina
is nobody’s fool. I will live here with you, save my money, in a year, two at most, I will be a student again.”

  I had decided I would train in elementary education. What I would really like to be was an actress, I starred as Juliet in the senior play and I know I’m easy to look at. But I ran those numbers also. Thousands of Equity members waiting tables. Waste ten of your best years, and then have to find something else, because it isn’t happening for you. So, I put that dream behind me and was resolutely sensible.

  But unemployment was nearly 10 percent and what jobs there were for a high school grad, were bad. You can’t save serious money flipping burgers, even if you live at home, and I hated the way my hair smelled after a few hours. I got a job as a receptionist, also lousy pay but at least clean. After a week the boss hit on me, then fired me when I shrugged him off. I had taken EMT First Aid 101 in the Career Center after school, and the summer after junior year I worked part-time with the rescue squad. But when I tried for a real job now, they said the county was cutting back, because taxes were down with the real estate bust – no jobs for kids like me.

  I caught a break when old Mr. Guttman, the white-haired owner of the gallery where Dad used to show, gave me a job as a sales associate. For a few months I wore a tailored skirt and a crisp white blouse in his tile-floored, air-conditioned place. But it was mainly commissions and people weren’t buying much. One Friday he approached me with my check in an envelope.

  “Katie, based on what we sell, I can’t afford to pay you even minimum wage. Business is terrible. I hope you understand.” His tired old eyes were sad. I hugged him good-bye. Out on the street, I opened the envelope and found that he had included full price for three of Dad’s paintings that still hung for sale. I choked up, and went back to give him a much harder hug. And that was that.

  Mom worked so hard and made so little. I couldn’t live off her. So, I went out with her for the same rent-a–maid outfit. Polyester uniforms, $8 an hour and no tips. I did that work for two months, and every day the iron bit deeper into my soul. I had to find a way ahead. I had to do something. All my friends were gone to college, beyond my reach. I would soon be nineteen. Was this going to be my life? What had I ever done, that fate would give me such a rotten deal? I cried myself to sleep more than once.

  Then a girl I knew from high school, Puridad (no joke, she really was a sweet, innocent kid) called me up. She was also drifting. Puri was the kind whose destiny should be a good marriage. Not necessarily a lot of money, but a good man. I could see her in ten years, a classic Mamacita, a newborn on one breast and an eighteen-month baby on the other. Hard-working, good-hearted. Thick waist but boobs like melons. She could suckle a platoon on those things. She had decided to take her chances in Vegas. Was I interested?

  I asked Mom. She looked relieved.

  “Oh, honey, this is a good idea. I was meaning to tell you something. Mrs. Felder, one of the biggest houses we do, she asked me the other day if I was interested in quitting the agency and living in. Six days a week, but the pay would be two thousand a month, and food and my own room with private bath. It’s a great chance. But I was worried about you…”

  “Mom, this is perfect. I can get a good job in Vegas. Puri and I will live cheap, save, and college will be back in the plan.”

  So Mom sold the little she had from twenty years of marriage and work, moved into the maid’s room, and I had a couple days alone in the rented ranchito before Puri and I left for Vegas. I had five hundred dollars saved, so I gave myself a holiday. I drove our old Chevy around town, revisiting the places I had known, the hangouts, feeling sentimental. One night, I went to The Loft, an independent movie house where you can get a foreign film and a glass of wine with your pizza. In line ahead of me was a remembered face. Joey Santiago. A year ahead of me in school. Not a special friend, but familiar. I called out to him, and we did the movie together.

  Joey had on a uniform for one of the big delivery companies. His shift had just ended. If the year after high school had been bad for me, his two years seemed to have suited him better. He was a big guy, over six feet and strong, but kinda pudgy in school. All that walking and carrying boxes had trimmed him down and put muscle on his shoulders. He wasn’t exactly hot, but he wasn’t bad either. I had not been with a boy in nearly a year. The night was mine, no Mom to worry if I didn’t come home.

  “How do you like it?” meaning his job, I asked between bites of pizza. I can’t even remember what the movie was about.

  “Not bad. Out and around. In the sun a lot. People tell me the tan looks good on me.” And it did. “I make enough, I just got my own efficiency in a place with a pool and a tennis court. Wanna see it?”

  I gave that some thought. If I went there, the evening would finish up in bed. I looked again at the muscles on his forearms. The movie ended and I played for time. We walked a couple blocks to a back-street bar where they didn’t card. In the end, of course, I went to his place. My hormones were kicking in. It was small and plain, but with lots of built-ins and terra cotta floor tiles. He had a little balcony that overlooked the pool. Joey wrapped his arms around me as I stood there, and carried me back inside.

  “You’re nicer to look at than any view.” Not exactly a classic Hollywood line, but simple and genuine, like Joey. I let him strip us both down piece by piece as he walked me step by step toward the shower.

  “Been a long hot day. Let’s get clean.” He was right, the shower felt great. Suddenly I was laughing. The grime of twelve wasted months swirled down the drain. The spot where my legs meet was wet, and not just from water. He laid me down on the edge of his bed, my legs sprawling onto the floor, and kissed his way up my thighs. His tongue probed. His lips closed on my clit, and he sucked. Every bit of frustration poured out of me as I arched my back off the mattress. My legs stiffened, the muscles shaking uncontrollably. I howled my joy into the night, and nearly passed out. When I came down, Joey was looking at me with a proud smirk.

  “That was quick. Now my turn,” and he smoothly inserted a nice hard cock, so rigid the tip nearly pressed against his belly button. Not too small, not too large (if that is possible), just right for my mood and my experience. He took up a steady rhythm, and in about ten minutes he and I were ready again, this time together. He gave a muffled roar as he released inside me. We dozed together for an hour or so.

  I had no safe sex worries, well at least not baby worries. Our Katie is a sensible girl. During senior year, I had an insert put under the skin near my armpit, a tiny plastic rod dosed with hormones. No pregnancy for five years. No pills to forget or lose.

  “Third time is the charm,” he said as he fed me his half-hard cock. This is the 21st century. We all know about what Bill and Monica did. Oral sex has no mystery. I pursed my lips into a tight circle about half-way down his cock and sucked, gently at first, then greedily as he stiffened and grew. His breathing grew ragged.

  “Is this OK by you?” he asked between gasps. I did not reply, but stuck firmly to him, and in a few minutes more he released with a groan, shaking and moaning, flooding my mouth with salty fluid. It made me feel powerful to hear him. I swallowed it down. I learned from Vic Anders, our star quarterback (now at Notre Dame) the easiest way to dispose of that stuff, and guys love it when you do it, the little darlings. In minutes, we were both asleep. In the middle of the night I woke up, horny. He had lit a fire that had been quiet a long time. But he was deeply asleep, so I handled the situation myself and after another orgasm, a quiet one, went back to sleep. He fed me breakfast at the IHOP before we kissed goodbye.

  Next day, Mom gave me the old car, Puri bought the gas, and we were off to conquer Vegas.

  We rented a rundown foreclosed house for a weekly sum that was less than a hotel for one night, and went looking for work. She settled quickly into a regular waitress job at a small casino, and by the third week she was dating a dealer. Of course, by week five she found out he was married. Twice. Once in Mexico, once up here.

  “Why are m
en such louses?” she wailed. I handed her a Kleenex. I couldn’t let her cry on my shoulder because I had on my frilly top with the scoop neckline, ready for my waitress gig at The Lion’s Den. For the first time, I was making good money, at least a hundred a night and three hundred on Fridays and Saturdays, most of it cash and untaxed. I plunked a thousand into my bank account. Things were not looking too bad. Then an older guy in an expensive suit decided he liked my curly blonde hair.

  Everybody has seen The Godfather. Everybody knows that the Mob used to own Vegas. If you live here, old-timers tell you stories. Larry the Irish bartender was an old-timer, old enough to be on Social Security but not ready to quit.

  “Honey, this town was a lot more fun and a lot safer, when the mob ran things. I’m telling you, if you didn’t mess with their money or their women, they didn’t bother you.” He was polishing glasses behind the bar in the quiet hour of early afternoon. “They only killed each other.” Which goes to show, what a sentimentalist he was.

  Anyway, I noticed after I had been there awhile that this very tough Italian-looking guy with the deep pool tan and a big nose and a thousand dollar suit, dropped by two or three times a week. He had wide shoulders and he could have been any age north of fifty. He would chat with the manager, take in a show by a dancer, have one drink, and leave quietly. I served him a couple times, and he tipped big. I asked Larry about him. He looked uncharacteristically cautious before he replied.

  “Angelo Vittelli is one of the old crew. When the corporate money came, it was so big the mob couldn’t afford to buy the politicians any more, they got squeezed out. But they hang onto the fringes at the smaller places, the ones that don’t have a gaming license.”

  “Like this place?”

  “I’m not saying. He’s not a bad guy, quiet, courteous. Very dignified. Respect. Respect is everything to those guys.” He looked me in the eye. “One night some college boys lipped off. He put one in the hospital in about three seconds, and the other two just stood there shaking. If you ever have anything to do with him, remember that. The story goes that he killed four guys and never did a day inside.”