Chapter 1

Posted: February 26, 2007 - 12:02:55 am?

Peter Ballard squirmed on the hard plastic chair in the waiting area near the exit from customs. He looked at his watch for what must have been at least the twentieth time since the disembodied metallic voice of the public address system announced the arrival of his sisters' flight. Heaving a sigh, Peter picked up the geological survey report he was working on and tried to calm his nervous anticipation. Bogotá's El Dorado International Airport was a model of efficiency, but clearing customs was still a time consuming operation. To go with his anticipation, Pete was beginning to consider the time of day. It was already a little after three-thirty in the afternoon, and with a minimum two-hour drive in front of them, they would barely make it to his house before dark.

He fidgeted for another fifteen minutes before his sisters came through the door, Darla in the lead as usual, obviously looking for him. Smiling broadly, Pete stood up and waved.

"Darla, over here," he called.

Darla turned and flashed him a big grin as she herded her sisters towards him. It took a few minutes to get the hugs and kisses out of the way. The Ballard siblings were very close, even though Stephanie and Katherine were only his and Darla's half sisters. Pete was the oldest at twenty-four. Darla was twenty-one and had just passed her Registered Nurse Boards. In another month, she was to start work at Orlando's Arnold Palmer Children's Hospital. Stephanie was eighteen, and just out of high school, while Katherine was sixteen and an upcoming high school junior. All four of the siblings shared their mother's blue eyes and blonde hair, although Pete and Darla's hair was a few shades darker than their sisters'.

Pete noticed the admiring glances he was receiving from the other male passengers, and smiled to himself. Yes, he had some very good-looking sisters. Hell, even Katherine had blossomed in the seven months since he'd seen her last. She had filled out in all the right places, and was almost as curvy as Stephanie now, and Stephanie was about as lushly curved as a woman could be. Darla was a couple of inches taller than her sisters, at five feet seven inches; Pete was a tad over six feet tall. All four siblings were well built, although Pete and Darla were slimmer than their half sisters.

Pete managed to get the women, bags and baggage into his car by four, not that it mattered, because as soon as they exited the airport, traffic was gridlocked in every direction. For once, Bogotá's perpetually snarled traffic didn't drive him crazy, as he and his sisters caught up with each other's lives. Pete relished hearing his sisters talk, he had really missed the camaraderie they had always shared.

For their part, his sisters were ecstatic over getting to see their big brother again; they had missed the hell out of him for the seven months he'd been down here in Colombia. Pete had been the perfect big brother, always there for them no matter what the problem. They all adored him.

It was fully dark by the time Pete cleared the last of the city traffic and started up the steep mountain road leading to his house. The house was a modern three-bedroom villa that he shared with two mining engineers. He and the engineers were employees of Consolidated Minerals and Metals. The company leased the house. The house was located close to an area his employer wanted surveyed for its potential for heavy metal deposits.

Consolidated had recruited Pete right out of grad school, because his Master's Thesis had caught their eye. Even at his young age, Pete Ballard was acknowledged as a leader in the field of reclamation of heavy metals from depleted mines. Pete had been thrilled to land a high paying job so quickly, and had been working hard to justify his hiring. His hiring was already paying dividends for Consolidated, as two of the sites he recommended were already yielding ore.

Pete had just negotiated a switchback uphill curve, when he had to slam on the brakes because of what appeared to be a fallen tree across the road. He knew from briefings by his coworkers that roadblock ambushes were a trademark of the FARC (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia), the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia, or the so-called Peoples' Army. Fearing a FARC ambush, he quickly jammed the Jeep Cherokee in reverse and turned his head to look behind him. Before he could hit the gas, a large cargo truck pulled out of a side road and blocked his retreat.

His sisters were terror stricken when heavily armed soldiers piled out of the back of the truck and surrounded the car. At a gesture from the soldier next to his window, Pete turned to his sisters.

"They want us to get out of the car. Don't panic and don't resist; hopefully they will rob us and be on their way," Pete said with more calm than he felt.

The siblings piled out of the car and were unceremoniously herded off to the side road from which the truck had appeared. Three soldiers started dragging the limbs off the road, while a fourth hopped behind the wheel of the Cherokee. In less than three minutes, all the evidence of the ambush had disappeared into a clearing a hundred yards up the small dirt side road.

Pete was gently talking to his sisters, trying to keep them calm, when a cruelly smiling, scar faced, bandy-legged soldier grabbed one of Stephanie's large breasts and made a crude comment. When Stephanie yelped in pain and surprise, Pete jumped to her defense. Just as Pete reached the offending soldier, another man slammed the butt plate of his wooden stocked AK-47 into Pete's temple. Pete dropped like a rock, unconscious before he hit the ground. The soldier who butt-stroked Pete was preparing to hit the fallen man again, when a sharp female voice rang out.

"Ramon, basta ya, más que suficiente (stop it, enough is enough)!" she ordered.

The soldier named Ramon reluctantly lowered his weapon.

"Sí, Comendadora (yes, commander)," he mumbled.

The statuesque woman strode into the clearing and fixed the man groping Stephanie with a baleful stare. The man quickly dropped his hands and stepped back. The woman then shifted her attention to the three cowering women standing before her. When she spoke again, it was in passably good English.

"Welcome to the Revolution. My name is Comander Zorra (Zorra is an alias - her real name was Marta Cardenas), I am the top-ranking officer of the Carlos Sanchez Column of the Peoples' Army of Colombia. You will be our guests until the running dogs of imperialism that are exploiting our people pay for your release." (In the Table of Organization of the FARC, a column is the equivalent of 100 soldiers or two companies of 50 soldiers each)

Without waiting for a reply from the stunned women, Marta turned towards a pair of women soldiers, who were busy rifling through the personal effects of their captives.

"¿Hayalguna documento official o pasaporte(Any official papers or passports)?" she asked.

"Sí, Comendadora. Pasaportesparalasseñoritas, documentos del trabajopara el hombre (passports for the women, work papers for the man)," said one of the women.

Marta turned back to the Anglo women.

"What is this man to you?" she asked.

"He is our brother. He works here and we just arrived today to visit him. Please don't hurt him any more," Darla pleaded.

Marta allowed herself to smile at the news. She was relieved that she had at least one person who was not a tourist, because it was easier to ransom off a person working for a company doing business in her country. Even these soft looking, spoiled capitalist females might be worth something to the right person. How nice it would be if she could find a way to support her unit without catering to the drug lords. It would be heavenly if she had the money to institute the agrarian reforms she envisioned for the people in her district.

Marta issued a string of rapid-fire orders, and her soldiers swung into action. Two of her soldiers, a man and a woman, changed into civilian clothing and drove off in the Cherokee. The pair would abandon the car in the slums of Bogotá, and return to their base by bus. Other soldiers secured the hands of their prisoners and put them, including the unconscious Peter, into the back of the truck before climbing in themselves. Marta swung up into the passenger seat of the truck and told the driver to move out. In fewer than fifteen minutes from the start of the ambush, the truck was lumbering up the mountainside, headed south towards FARC controlled territory.

During the four hour ride via back roads to avoid government check points, Marta reflected back on how she had arrived at this juncture in her life. She was the daughter of a wealthy coffee plantation owner and had lived a sheltered and pampered early life of privilege and luxury. However, as she matured into an idealistic young woman, she began to see that her family's wealth was built upon the backs of the dirt-poor peons who worked on the coffee plantation. Marta was horrified to see the living conditions of the workers and their families, who lived in dirt floor shacks without running water or electricity. She was angered to learn that her father paid these poor people as little as five pesos per day; a day that began at first light and continued until sunset.

When Marta was sent to the Universidad Nacional de Colombia (National University of Colombia) in Bogotá, she soon gravitated to the Socialist and Marxist student organizations hosted on campus. Their leftist ideology of shared ownership appealed to her, and she became convinced that communism offered a cure for all the social inequities of capitalism.

It was through her political activities on campus that Marta met Isabella Santos. The two became immediate friends because they had so much in common. Isabella was the only child of a wealthy cattle rancher, and like Marta, she was disillusioned with the corrupt capitalist system of the current government. When Marta learned that Isabella was looking for an apartment, she suggested they become roommates. Not long after moving in together, an incident in the shower revealed they had something else in common.

It began innocently enough as the girls prepared for morning classes, both wanting to take a shower. Problem was, there wasn't enough time to take turns using the single bathroom in their apartment. Isabella suggested they save time by showering together and Marta agreed.

As the girls climbed into the close quarters of the shower, Marta felt Isabella's breasts brush against her back. She tried not to think about this innocent contact in sexual terms, but to her chagrin, she felt the unmistakable stirrings of arousal. Her excitement only got worse, when she felt Isabella's soapy hands begin to rub over her shoulders and back.

"I'll soap your body and then you can do mine," Isabella said in a deceptively calm voice, as her soapy hands continued to work their way down Marta's back.

Marta struggled to maintain her composure as she felt her roommate's hands slowly descend down her back. When the hands stopped at the beginning of her buttocks and then retreated, she felt a mixture of relief and disappointment that the sensuous contact had ended. Her roommate was not finished with her, however, and after working more soap into her hands, she returned to her task.

An involuntary moan escaped Marta's lips, when she felt Isabella's soapy hands suddenly move over her buttocks and slide down into the cleft, pausing a moment to press against her sphincter before withdrawing.

Isabella smiled to herself, for she now had confirmation that Marta was receptive to her sexual overtures. She had begun to suspect Marta might like females, after catching her roommate staring at her whenever she was undressed. Now with her suspicions confirmed, Isabella pressed on with her seduction. Pressing her breasts firmly against Marta's back, she moved her left hand to grasp one of Marta's breasts, while her other hand went to her pubic mound. When Marta felt Isabella slip a finger into her sex, she openly cried out.

"¡Mi Dios!" (My God!)

Isabella tweaked one of Marta's erect nipples, while her fingers worked over her labia and clitoris, quickly bringing the girl to the precipice of a tremendous orgasm. When Isabella pushed her tongue into Marta's ear, which was all it took to send her over the edge. Marta's legs nearly went out from under her as her body was rocked by wave after wave of orgasmic spasms.

Isabella helped her shaky roommate out of the shower and dried off the both of them with a towel, before leading Marta to her bedroom. She lowered Marta onto her back, nudging the girl's legs wide apart so she could enjoy unobstructed access to her lovely pink pussy.

Marta laid therein a daze, her mind still spinning from what Isabella had done to her in the shower. No other woman had ever touched her before. Oh sure, she had fantasized about it many times, but now her fantasies had become reality, and she was about to experience having her pussy licked by another woman!

That first swipe of Isabella's tongue against her vulva made Marta's hips buck off the mattress. Her hands flew to the back of Isabella's head, pressing that wonderful tongue firmly against her womanhood. She continued to buck and thrust, as Isabella eagerly lapped at her juicy pussy.

"Levántese en sus manos y rodillas sobre mí (Get up on your hands and knees above me)... Deseobesartetambién!" (I want to kiss you too!)

Isabella needed no further prompting. She quickly assumed the classic sixty-nine position over Marta, before returning to fellate her new lover. Marta gazed up at the glistening pink folds of Isabella's womanhood. She stuck out her tongue and tasted another woman's sex for the first time. She smiled when she heard Isabella give a sensuous moan.

The two girls continued to drive each other through one climax after another, completely losing track of time and their college classes. By the time they came up for air and looked at the clock, neither of them really cared. They spent the next hour just cuddling and sharing pillow talk.

Marta learned that unlike herself, Isabella was strictly a lesbian. She had tried to conform to society's sexual mores, dating a man her straight friends had fixed her up with. She even had sex with him a couple of times, hoping she might acquire a taste for men, but it was hopeless.

Marta soon became a zealot for the budding communist movement in Colombia, helping to recruit other students, and organizing demonstrations on campus. It was during one such demonstration, that a tragic incident took place that would prove to be a pivotal moment in Marta's life.

The demonstration took place in the Plaza Francisco de Paula Santander, just outside the university's auditorium. The square was better known as the Plaza Che, because of the large portrait of Che Guevara painted on the side of the auditorium that faced the square. What had been a peaceful gathering for the first hour, suddenly turned into a nightmare, when armored vehicles and troop transport trucks suddenly surrounded the campus. Heavily armed Colombian GuardiaNacional troops poured out of the transport vehicles. As they formed into ranks and closed in on the peaceful demonstration, some of the students began to shout obscenities at the soldiers. Then one brash demonstrator lobbed a rock, which struck a soldier. That was all the provocation the soldiers needed to open fire. When it was all over, twelve student demonstrators lay dead on the ground, and countless others were seriously wounded.

Marta was not physically harmed in this bloody massacre, but what she had witnessed would leave her with emotional scars. Several close friends had been killed, including Isabella, her roommate and lover.

Fearing that the government would now begin rounding up the leaders and members of the Marxist student organization, Marta went into hiding, joining the growing ranks of Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia), or FARC. This Marxist organization has led the longest insurgency in the western hemisphere.

Over the following weeks, Marta was moved from one FARC safe house to another. Eventually, she and several other new FARC recruits were transported out of Bogotá, and taken to a mountainous region south of the city. FARC had set up a secret base camp, from which they would send out small teams of guerillas to ambush government anti-insurgency patrols, blow up electrical towers and other infrastructure, kidnap wealthy businessmen to hold for ransom, and to assassinate government officials. It was here that she received training in the use of firearms, explosives, and a variety of other tools of the trade.

Marta had never harbored any violent tendencies toward anyone. She had always been a loving and compassionate young woman, and believed that peaceful protest was the best means of changing society for the better. However, the bloody massacre at the University of Bogotá had caused her to reevaluate her pacifistic beliefs. She now came to the realization that social transformation in Colombia could only be achieved through the violent overthrow of this corrupt capitalistic system. If kidnappings, assassinations and other violent acts helped FARC achieve its goals, she reasoned that the ends justified the means. Marta's reasoning was about to be severely tested.

One evening, a team of guerillas returned from a mission. They had been sent to the home of a Colombian judge with orders to kidnap the judge's wife. Marta watched with growing apprehension as the men gathered around the bound, blindfolded and gagged woman. The men were saying all sorts of vile things about what they wanted to do to her. Suddenly, one of the men grabbed the front of the woman's blouse and violently ripped it open.

Marta spun on her heels and ran to find the unit commander. When she angrily told him that the men were about to gang-rape their hostage, the commander calmly informed her that he was not only aware of it, he had actually given the order to do it.

Marta was stunned by her commander's words. When she finally found her voice, she asked why he would order such a monstrous act.

"Would you have preferred that I order the judge's wife to be assassinated?"

His question was unexpected, and she groped for a logical response, but before she could offer an answer, he continued.

"This woman's husband just condemned two of our comrades to death. We warned him that if he did this, there would be serious repercussions. I could have simply ordered that the judge and his family be killed, but I decided to be merciful. After the men are finished with her, she will be released. I am certain that this judge will think twice about ever condemning another comrade to death. We have found rape to be a very effective means of demoralizing and intimidating the enemy, and it is often more effective than assassination. Again I ask you, Comrade Marta, would you have preferred that she be killed?"

Marta swallowed her anger and shook her head no. She hated the idea that FARC would condone the use of rape as a tool of warfare, but she reluctantly had to agree that being rape was preferable to being killed. She vowed to herself that if she ever attained a leadership role in FARC, she would fight to eliminate this disgusting practice.

Just as she had done in the Marxist student organization, Marta excelled in her new role as a FARC guerilla, and within a year, she had moved up the ranks to become a squad leader. (The squad was the basic unit of the FARC and was composed of twelve fighters.) She possessed an uncanny ability to anticipate what action the enemy was about to take, and reacted with effective countermeasures.

Besides being a superb guerilla fighter and squad leader, Marta was a strikingly beautiful young woman. She stood at a statuesque five feet eleven inches, unusual for a Latina, and most of her male counterparts had to look up to meet her large, brown eyes. Her raven hair was long enough to reach her shapely buttocks, (although most of the time she kept it coiled and pinned up while on patrol) and her 34C breasts constantly received admiring glances.

Being bisexual, Marta enjoyed the advantage of having twice as many potential lovers, and over the course of the next five years as a FARC guerilla, she had enjoyed casual trysts with several of her male counterparts, and a couple of affairs with female guerillas. Then a new man entered Marta's life.

His name was Carlos Sanchez. He had just been assigned by FARC command to take over the leadership of this column. Carlos was a charismatic leader and a handsome man as well. When he and Marta first laid eyes on each other, it was pure chemistry. Before Carlos had finished his first week as the column commander, he and Marta had become inseparable lovers.

Although the two never formerly married, Marta considered Carlos to be her husband, and for that reason, her casual sexual liaisons came to an end. As the comandante's de-facto wife, Marta's rank in the unit was immediately elevated. Marta became Carlos's Lieutenant, or column deputy. Carlos would often give Marta his latest tactical orders, and she would relay them to the fighters. Before long, the rank and file members of the unit looked upon Marta as another comandante. For the next two years, everything went well for Marta and Carlos, then tragedy struck.

Carlos had accompanied a group of guerillas on a mission to plant explosives under a key bridge in the area. The operation had gone off without a hitch, and the team observed from a safe distance away, as the bridge collapsed into the deep river gorge with a thunderous roar.

"Mission accomplished!" Carlos said to his men, as he watched the smoke rise into the air.

Without that bridge, the Colombian government's anti-insurgency forces would have a much more difficult time transporting soldiers and equipment into the region. (Never mind what a hardship the loss of this key bridge would cause for the poor residents of the area.)

Carlos and his team congratulated themselves as they headed back up the same mountain trail they had used to reach the bridge. That was their first tactical error. They were relaxed and inattentive as they climbed up the trail. That was their second error.

Suddenly, the quiet was shattered by automatic weapons fire coming from both sides of the trail. The guerilla team was cut down in a deadly crossfire ambush. Comandante Carlos Sanchez and his six followers never had a chance.

Back at the guerilla traveling base camp, the brief sound of gunfire alerted everyone to a mission gone terribly wrong. Marta had a terrible premonition that Carlos and the team members were all dead. She ordered a search team to investigate the source of the gunfire. Just to be safe, she ordered the entire camp to evacuate to a previously selected emergency rendezvous, just in case their current camp's location had been compromised.

A half hour later, Marta received a heartbreaking radio message from the search team. The bullet-riddled bodies of Carlos and his team had been found, and the cowardly bastards who ambushed them were long gone.

It was a somber gathering beneath the jungle canopy, where seven graves had been dug for their fallen comrades. Marta gave the cold, lifeless body of her lover a final kiss on the cheek, then stood stoically, as his body was lowered into its final resting place. As tears ran down her cheeks, she watched the men shovel dirt into the hole.

As the new comendadora of her unit, (comendadora is the term for a female commander) Marta would have little time for grieving over the loss of her beloved Carlos. The full weight and responsibility of leadership did not permit that luxury. She assumed the nom de guerre (name for war) of Zorra (feminine form of Fox, as Zorro is the masculine form) and renamed her column after her fallen lover. She would have to bear her grief alone, for as the unit's leader, she could not seek solace in the arms of one of her underlings, lest such fraternization undermine her command.

Marta was jolted out of her reverie when the cargo truck bounced off the paved road onto a barely improved dirt trail. She heaved a sigh of relief that they were back in FARC controlled territory, and bade the driver to halt. She jumped down out of the cab, then walked to the back of the truck, where she pulled aside the canvas curtain and announced a fifteen minute break to her soldiers. While the women prisoners were escorted to a place of privacy so they could relieve their bladders, she checked on the still unconscious male. The man's injury did not look that severe; aside from a goose egg sized lump above his ear and a small amount of blood, he would probably be fine. Yet, who could tell with head wounds? She prayed that her potential hostage wasn't too severely hurt, and cursed Ramon's lack of discipline.

Marta also saw potential problems with the three Anglo women. In many FARC units, captured women were given to the rank and file soldiers as a reward for service. The soldiers used the women as they pleased. Umberto, the soldier who had been molesting the girl with the big chest was one of those old soldiers. As a woman, Marta was against the practice, and her soldiers were not the undisciplined rabble found in some other units. Still, she knew denying her men something that some might consider their due, could lead to dissention in the ranks. Martha heaved a sigh, being a woman in a leadership position was certainly fraught with challenge.
Joe J & Wet Dream-Girl
Chapter 2