River Dance
by Peter Loaf


It is early dusk as I watch the riverbank passing, watch as the steamboat’s gentle bow wave reaches the muddy shallows where it makes the lily pads undulate and dance. I glance back at the big stern paddlewheel, driving us upstream, taking me further from my betrothed with every passing second. I listen to the gentle whoof-whoof-whoof of the steam engine’s exhaust.

I look down river, my mind’s eye looking back over the horizon to where he sits, rotting in his cell, the political prisoner of a murderous dictator. I wonder if he still lives. My eyes remain dry. I pray that he is…safely dead.

I sneak glances at the two men who have been assigned to escort me to El Diablo, the upriver prison village, the place where the Generalissimo sends those of his worst enemies he wants to keep alive for a while. Captain Lomas and Sergeant Cabasa make a good team, Lomas is in command, he is tall, bearded and lanky. Not skinny, but close to it. Beneath his dark brows, his black eyes seem to glow with an inner fire whenever he looks at me.

Sergeant Cabasa is the team’s muscle, 130 kilos of brute, ebony skinned strength, bone and gristle, not a pound of fat on him, despite his bulk. He holds my leash in his ham-like fist. It is attached to the dog collar on my throat. It is the only thing that keeps me from throwing myself into the river.

When I don’t think anyone is watching, I again glance down at the crotch of the officer’s trousers, at the huge bulge he is sporting. I quickly drag my eyes back up, only to discover he is watching me react to his readiness, a sardonic grin twisting his features.

He tilts his head so that he can whisper into my ear. “Patience, little puta, you will get plenty of me, tonight.”

A bell rings, announcing supper being served on the riverboat’s upper deck. My guards move with the crowd, the leash on my throat dragging me up the stairs after them. Climbing the stairs with my hands shackled together behind my back, I am hindered by my long, hoop skirted dress which keeps trying to trip me. I have no hope of escape.

At dinner I am forced to sit cross-legged on the deck between them as they eat. My bare bottom on the deck reminds me that the dress is my only article of clothing. I have no shoes, stockings or undergarments. I feel naked yet to the other passengers I am well covered and respectable. I cannot sit on a chair or even fall down without displaying my underlying nakedness.

I am fed scraps, like a dog. I think about biting the hand that feeds me… And quickly decide against it. These men have too much control over me.

The other passengers cast piteous looks my way but I don’t think any of them will come to my rescue. Everyone knows that I am the betrothed of the condemned rebel. I have been banished to live in a small, fortified prison village up near the border, where it will not matter if I continue to plot against the Generalissimo.

As we dine, Cabasa is sitting on my leash, snubbing me close to his hip while at the same time freeing his hands to eat. Captain Lomas is entertaining me, pinching my nose and forcing me to drink four full water glasses of sweet red wine. I am already feeling tipsy, the strong wine hitting my nearly empty stomach like a Mongol horde sweeping down on an unfortified city.

I know that my captors are trying to further discredit me, and through me, everything in which I believe. I pray that it will not work out the way they think. The people know what kind of monster is the Generalissimo, they know our cause is just.

When the guards are satisfied I have drunk enough, they make some crude remarks to the other passengers and force me to stagger between them down to our cabin. There, I am efficiently gagged with a pear shaped, cotton stuffed leather-bound ball. Then I am unshackled, stripped of the dress they’d put on me and tightly tied to a chair. Last but not least, they spread my knees and carefully place a sharpened stick between them so that to close myself is to hurt myself.

After double-checking the knots, they walk out, leaving me sitting there alone. As the door closes behind them I think I see the captain’s hand squeezing the big sergeant’s tight ass...?

At first I struggle with my bondage, hoping to find some slack, some possibility of escape. But the knots are too tight. My crossed and bound hands are lashed down behind the chair back, unable to move an inch. My legs are bent and my ankles are tied up on each side of my bottom. My naked exposure forces me think about the night ahead. Will I survive long enough to see the dawn?

After a long while the two men return, smelling of smoke and brandy. They are drunkly singing a filthy song about the landlord’s daughter and the regiment. As soon as the door has closed, they go into each other’s arms, frantically striping each other bare and falling grunting onto the bed.

I watch in astonishment as the two of them begin to make out while rolling around naked. They are ignoring me in their mutual drunken lust. I feel my pussy swelling and growing hot in helpless response to their sex pheromones. I realize with a small shock that I probably won’t be getting fucked tonight. It makes me still more afraid.

After a little while I feel the discomfort of a full bladder and know that I dare not disturb their rutting. I hold on, the room seeming to spin from the wine.

I watch Cabasa’s sweating face as he’s getting a blowjob from his Captain. The officer is deep throating the big man, taking the entire donkey dick right down into his voice box. Both men have long cocks that match their respective builds. The captain has a long slim one, the sergeant’s is nearly the same length only twice the diameter.

The big man reaches down and grabs his lanky lover’s knee. Using it, he pivots the captain around on his cock, then takes the officer’s long stiff organ deep into his own mouth. When they finally grow quiet, I am right on the verge of having a serious bladder accident. Gag garbled, I try to warn them but Cabasa simply chuckles, lifts up on his elbow and says, “What are you waiting for, puta, do you think we care if you wet yourself?”

I realize it is all part of the training regimen they plan for me. They intend to smash down my defenses by making me ashamed. They think this is the best way to force me to submit and give them the names of the surviving underground.

Finally, I cannot hold it any longer and piss myself. It is my lowest moment.

They watch and laugh, then the still naked captain gets up and comes to me, his long now limp cock still dripping his jizzum. Tipping my chair over forward and letting me go. My knees hit the deck first, then, just before my face hits, he catches me, my face just above the spreading puddle of my own hot piss. “Girls who make messes mop them up.” he chuckles, lowering my gagged face into the spreading yellow liquid.

Still bound to the chair, I cannot lift my face out of my own piss. The gag is right down in the stinking puddle, the cotton wadding absorbing the stuff like a sponge, filling my mouth with the acrid taste, my nose with the smell. The sight of bare feet coming to stand in front of me makes me hopeful, for a second, until the captain’s hot piss begins to splatter down on the back of my head. Pinned down by the chair, unable to scream, unable to struggle, unable to escape, I retreat into my deepest mental bunker. I ignore what the two goons are doing to my body and try to remember Jorge, my first ever lover.

I think about the first time, the sweetest time, that time when the political police were chasing us and we had to hide in that old steeple.

We had been teaching land reform law to some sharecroppers when the politicals had crashed in. In the panic and confusion, Jorge and I slipped away down to the hidden escape passage. Soon, the sounds of the raid died away behind us as we slipped out through the sewers.

They must have had an informant, because when we got home we found the cops waiting for us, a squad of ten uniformed thugs, lounging on our front steps.

Spotting us at the same time we spotted them, the cops gave chase, blowing their whistles and waving their nightsticks in the torch light.

We ran, we dodged, we used every trick we knew but they came on, their whistles sounding the call for reinforcements, drawing cops from all over the city.

At one point we ducked back into the sewers but found them now infested with a barking attack dog. Only Jorge’s pistol saved us, killing both the dog and its two handlers.

When we climbed back out above ground, there was nowhere to go, no one who would help. We were going to be caught and “disappeared” like all the others.

Then Jorge saw the steeple, outlined against the stars. The church was so old that it had been condemned and abandoned. Used as a stone quarry for fifty years, it was now on the verge of total collapse. Only the steeple still stood relatively straight. I guess the thought of an eighty-foot stone tower crashing down without warning had kept most of its masonry intact. Once inside, I looked around the sanctuary and almost cried out in despair. It was empty of all its furnishings and covered with two feet of rubble. There was simply no place to hide.

“This way,” Jorge whispered, “we have to climb the steeple. It’s our only chance!”

“This old steeple is dangerous, my father said it could collapse at any time.” I whispered in the inky darkness, moving carefully to feel my way around.

“Come over here,” Jorge said, “I’ve found the ladder.”

“Lets just hope it goes all the way.” I said as I felt my way toward him.

“That just means the cops won’t try and follow us. Hurry!”

My questing hand found the ladder and gave it a feel. It was vertical, very rotten and missing the second rung I felt for. Having no choice, I started to climb. To put your foot in the middle of a rung was to have it break. Climbing in total darkness, we were at least spared the sight of the floor receding below us. On the other hand, we had no idea if the ladder still went all the way up. Dressed as a woman, I could never have gotten up any ladder. But my hoop-skirted dress had been left behind, back in the escape tunnel beneath the meeting hall. Always wearing men’s clothes under my dresses insured I could run away faster, if I had to, and change my appearance at the same time.

When we finally reached the belfry the cops were just entering the abandoned church, eighty feet below. We lay panting on the floor, listening, straining to hear if someone were coming up after us. Down below we heard the tower door crash open and saw flickering torch-light through the cracks in the floor.

“Ok, we know you are up there!” yelled the corporal up the shaft. “You are trapped, come down now or we will shoot!”

We lay still, baiting our breath. We had nowhere to go, the bullets would pass right through the thin floor, we were like fish in a barrel.

But for some reason the fusillade did not come, perhaps they were under orders to bring us in alive. We will never know.

Instead he waited for a minute then said, “All right men, which of you is the lightest?”

Almost immediately there came a flash and the thunder of a gun fired inside the stone tower. Peeking down through a crack, I saw one man crumpling to the floor while another pointed his revolver at the two others. “I wasn’t going to climb that ladder, it’s simply suicide. Besides, they ain’t up there, they can’t fly and they sure as hell didn’t climb that ladder! Lets just take the corporal’s body back and tell them the rebels shot him!”

Later that night, when we were sure we were alone, we made love for the very first time. The tower did not fall, despite our very best efforts.


It is morning on the riverboat. I am so stiff that untying my legs makes no difference. At first, I am unable to straighten my knees. My hands are untied and I get to work on getting my poor legs massaged back into usefulness.

As soon as my knees are up to it, I am stood up, ungagged, dressed and collared. My hands are again shackled behind my back, this time with a painful elbow tie to make me even more helpless. And then off we go to find our breakfast.

My hair is stringy and stiff with dried urine and cum. My face is sticky with the same mess, my gown is wine stained and filthy from being used to mop up my piss puddle. I can only guess how I smell, as my nose shut down hours ago. We climb the stairway to the serving area, I am forced down into the same Indian squat as before and my escorts take chairs on each side of me.

Chuckling, the Captain feeds me a forkful of eggs off his plate. Ravenous, I take a bite, only to discover he has soaked the eggs in something hot enough to make smoke come out of my ears. I look up at his sardonic face and see pure evil. My mouth is on fire. I quietly beg for water but he pretends not to hear. Desperate, I ask louder, causing heads to turn our way.

Smiling, the Captain pulls the big leather wrapped ball gag out of his pocket and splashes it all over with the same pepper sauce he put on my eggs, then holds my nose until I am forced to open up for the gag.

The rest of the day is not so pleasant.

Late in the afternoon the steamboat reaches the refueling dock. While the crew is loading firewood and fresh food, my captors take me ashore. We go upstream and behind a screen of low brush. Soon, I am buck naked and hanging beneath a tree. My right toes can just reach the sandy ground. My left leg is slung up to the side so that my sex is completely exposed.

River Dance

Captain Lomas takes his time stripping himself, all the time his eyes seem to burn into me. Behind him the Sergeant is sitting on a stump, drinking brandy and slowly masturbating.

The captain grips my bottom and spins me around, lining me up for a fucking. The Sergeant sets aside his bottle and comes to stand close to my face. As the long slim cock slides deep into my open vagina the other, fatter one stretches my jaw further open than it has ever been before. If it hadn’t been for the stretching my mouth has had from the gag, I’d never be able to take him in. And once it is in it does not stop at my gag spot but rather drives past and right down into my voice box, cutting off my air supply and adding gasper panic to the mix. Fucked from both ends at once I can only dance and choke, my vaginal muscles gripping on the captain’s cock, my gullet gripping the sergeant’s big love muscle. I find myself coming faster and harder than I’ve ever come before.

After awhile the sergeant uses my third hole, all the while massaging my poor clitty.

When the warning whistle sounds, Cabasa looks up from his task of binding my nipples together with thin wire and says, “Well shit, we just got started.”

Leaving the wire on my cross-eyed nipples, they let me down and button me in that dress once again. The rub and squeeze on the dress sets my wire bound nipples on fire. I stumble as they drag me back to the dock and up the gangplank where the other passengers stand staring at me, some in outraged disgust, others in sympathy, a few in naked lust. I am acutely aware of how loud I have been under the care of my two captors. There is nothing I can do about it.

Two hours later, the boat hits a snag and quickly sinks.

I am hogtied when it happens and so have no possibility of swimming. The water is rushing in so fast that my two guards are literally swept away. The water comes up and covers my face. I am about to drown when a hand grips my hair and lifts my head to let me breathe.

Then in a swirl of confusion we are out of the sinking boat and on our way toward a rescue fire on the riverbank. I am helpless to either assist or even see my savior, who is dragging my hogtied body through the swift current by my hair in his teeth, swimming strongly for the shore.

It is only when he carries me ashore near the fire that I see my rescuer’s face. It is Jorge, my love, my betrothed. He’s alive!

When he pries the swollen gag out of my mouth, I whisper, “My love, you survived!”

He nods, grinning, “Yes, there was a coup, the Generalissimo is dead, the political prisons are being emptied. The new “President” promises the class war is over and everyone is going to live happily ever after.”

I wince as the tight wet ropes are pulled from my skin, leaving rope bruises behind. And then I scream a little as he unbinds my nipples. “How did you get here, so far upstream?” I say, trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt.

Working quickly Jorge answers, “The river makes a huge oxbow. Three of us cut across country on horseback. Then we came on board carrying firewood. I am sorry but we were forced to listen while you were being raped.”

“If I had known you were within earshot I wouldn’t have made a sound.” I whisper, shuddering against his chest at the passionate memories.

Jorge chuckles softly and whispers into my ear. “If I’d known you could scream like that I’d have tied you up myself.”

I turn and look into my future husband’s dancing eyes. There is a spark there that I have never seen before. I realize how turned on he is, just from untying me. I realize that the bondage has turned me on as well. I come to believe I am now, and forever more, a sex slave. I cannot imagine getting that level of passion in any other way. Master Jorge, my mate for life.

“We were just about to try and rescue you when the boat hit the snag.” Jorge was saying, hugging me in the darkness. “Then when I saw the two of them running up on deck without you, I knew what I had to do.”

While we have been busy, the other survivors have gathered around. A young man wearing the captain’s pistol speaks up and says, “We killed the two soldiers as they came ashore, sir. We crushed their heads with rocks and pushed them back into the river.”

“Good, my friends, good.” was Jorge’s soft reply. “Thank you.”

Twenty hours later another boat came huffing up the river. On it were soldiers, loyal to the new president, and apparently under the orders of my betrothed, my Jorge. They have been assigned the happy task of liberating the prisoners at El Diablo, and arresting the guards as war criminals.

The End