The Humbled

La Romana, Republica Dominicana

La Romana, Republica Dominicana

“He’s a feisty bastard... mouth like a toilet. For a kid in his teens, he’s got the vocabulary of an old sailor. Sure you can handle him? Get him outta here with no problems?”

The confident smile answers. The words aren’t really heard. The sports reporter is distracted, dazzled by the combination of the woman’s size and beauty.

“The government here has been most cooperative, Harry. It seems dead relatives can depart the country more easily than live ones... with the right emolument.”

“Yeah. The dollar talks here... real loud.”

“What time is the game? I will need to be alone with him. Say thirty minutes.”

“The game isn’t until tonight. Jay Handley isn’t even pitching. He’s in the locker room using the hot tub.”

“And he meets our standards?”

The sports writer cackles with his response.

“Interviewed him enough times coming out of the showers. He’s hung.”

The woman smiles. Though the reply is crass, his summation interposes images that place her in the right frame of mind for the task at hand.

“What’s in that bag? Looks heavy.”

Heavier than Harry can guess. The woman’s inordinate strength makes the nearly fifty pound load appear only partially burdensome.

“Your cash, of course.”

The duo enter the locker room of the baseball stadium. Modest yet sizeable, the Dominican league is quite popular on the Caribbean’s second largest island. Thus games draw crowds not only from the local population but typically from the city of the visiting team as well. Therefore steady attendance is assured, the teams are financially sound and quality players can be procured for winter play.

Down a hallway, the sports writer pushes open a door, ignoring the sign in English and Spanish suggesting that only ‘Authorized Personnel’ enter. The cacophonous words of some Blue Grass song echo about the cinder block walls. Jay Handley sings in the hot tub... and not well.

The sports writer leads to the tiled shower room where a stainless steel vessel holds hundreds of gallons of steamy, swirling water... and one promising young baseball pitcher.

“Jay, I got you some stuff!” the reporter yells over the din of machine and insonorous lyrics.

Gratefully, the words end.

“Harry! Knew you’d come through.”

A hand flips the control lever. The bath ends. A head shaved to stubble turns. There comes a look of surprise.

“A broad in the Azucareros locker room! And well stacked! Hot s**t! This is just like the f*****g big leagues!”

The profane words are uttered by a boy. The youthful features suggest precociousness… irritating precociousness. The devilish smile and snort of laughter in response to his own reference inspire the need to slap the irksome face and apply punishing soap to tongue and lips.

Still the woman of color politely smiles. The scatology will make her mission easier. For now she will remain demure.

“You sure the juice can’t be detected, Harry? The major league testing is getting tighter than a virgin’s p***y!”

“Brand new formulation,” the woman of color replies, ignoring ‘Johnny Badmouth’s’ analogy. “It will be years before this compound is reverse engineered and their computer chromatographs are programmed to discern it from simple cold medicine.”

Handley indecorously arises from the tub... no words of pardon for his indecent exhibition. The lady is pleased to see a buffed athletic form... though the male organ is miserably shriveled with the long, relaxing soak.

Harry retrieves a towel as the young pitcher gloats, noting the feminine examination he is undergoing. The woman does not politely deflect her gaze and he misconstrues her thorough inspection as p***s envy. He must consider himself quite the cocksman, the woman concludes. She will enjoy his comeuppance.

“See something you like, sweet cheeks? Chocolate was my first ice cream. You like vanilla?”

“Oh, yes. I’m always curious about white d**k,” the woman mimicking to verbally parry using the same brutish cadence.

The sports writer offers the towel.

“Don’t bother on my account, Harry. No sense covering what I’m going to need to access.”

“‘Access’ my ass!”

“Exactly, Mr. Handley. Injecting the large muscle of the buttocks offers the best intervention... particularly for the first dose.”

“So you’ve got it with you?”

“Right here in this bag.”

“I’m pitching day after tomorrow. Scouts from the states will be here. Think it’ll make a difference?”

“Can’t hurt, Mr. Handley.”

“I need that extra two or three miles on the fast ball... know what I mean. At my age I could be at 100 miles per hour by the time I’m 21. Lot’s of dough.”

“You’ll be a star. High paid. And the locker room will be full of well stacked broads.”

The woman plays along, feeding the ego.

“Let’s go for it! Harry paid you?”

“For a week’s dosage. But there will be more to come.”

Harry has taken money from Jay Handley to procure performance enhancing human growth hormones. He has also been paid to make Jay Handley accessible to the woman of color. The burned out, talentless writer is having a lucrative day.

“Money’s no object. Three major league teams are bidding for me like I’m a f*****g prized bull stud.”

The woman smiles with the auction analogy. There will be other bidders... in time.

“Lie on the massage table for me. I’ll make sure I hit a spot which won’t cramp a muscle.”

A naked Jay Handley moves as suggested. With him lying prostrate, the woman teasingly smoothes her hand over his buttocks. Firm. Well shaped. Working him will be a treat.

“I know you want to f*****g kiss it, sweet cheeks. I’m a star performer.”

The woman opens her bag, smiling with the continuing opprobrious behavior.

“Oh, I think you’ll perform for me, Mr. Handley. And do so quite obediently.”

The words confuse, bringing initial silence as a hypodermic needle quickly plunges into the right buttock.

“But it won’t be throwing a baseball. I like my men performing more... obeisantly.”

“Obesee... is that English?”

Jay Handley is shocked to feel the needle plunge again, this time into his left cheek.

“What the fuck...”

The woman moves to the front of the table.

“You’re a cheat. And a boor. But have some redeeming attributes. Roll over so I can see them. You seem to like exhibiting yourself to a woman. Move now while you can.”

The stentorian voice becomes surprisingly authoritative compared to the polite diffidence of moments ago. Handley begins to roll but oddly freezes. The woman smiles and those powerful hands assist, effortlessly prodding to bring him supine.

“Curare, Mr. Handley. Not human growth hormone.”

Wordless shock as more injections puncture the right bicep then the left.

“A powerful but fast acting alkaloid which temporarily blocks the acetylcholine receptors. That’s what controls the muscles and that’s why you had trouble rolling over for me.”

The large brown hand reaches to tenderly pat the youthful puckish face.

“Have to be careful of the lungs. Don’t want you to stop breathing. Move your hands for me like a good boy.”

“I... I... I... can’t.”

“Yes, fast acting indeed.”

A digital camera and ruler are retrieved from the large bag.

“Photos, Harry. Required for your final payment.”

Once again, a hand pinches the p***s tip and firmly tugs to stretch the flaccid organ upwards to full length. She smiles in countering the shriveling effects of the long bath. This time with the ruler standing like a flagpole, the boorish young pitcher helplessly watches as his manhood is evaluated and measured and the sycophant reporter snaps to assure his payday.

“Just over nine inches. Not bad for a white boy.”

It is the woman’s turn to gloat

“You’ll miss baseball I am sure, Mr. Handley. But baseball won’t miss you,” the woman playfully patting his balls.

The shock dispels. The immobile form erupts in a string of obscenities. The woman smiles, moves to her bag and replenishes the syringe.

“With obedience, you’ll also learn the virtue of silence, Mr. Handley.”

Arms paralyzed, the needle is easily plunged into the pitcher’s throat, just a tiny dose to likewise incapacitate the vocal cords. There follows a quick cell phone call.

“Bring in the box.”

The woman smiles confidently and turns to reporter Harry.

“His coffin and some trustworthy thugs are waiting in a rented hearse in the parking lot. My deceased ‘cousin’ will be on a boat and long out of the Dominican by game time.

“And now for your final compensation, Harry.”

A muscled arm reaches forth and gruffly entwines a hand in Harry’s hair. The free hand drives the hypodermic needle into the throat and plunges to inject a massive dose of curare. The look of Schadenfreude returns as the alkaloid instantly disables the vocal cords then within seconds streams to the lungs.

Harry’s mouth opens in shock. Yet there is no sound and more disconcerting... no draw of air.

“Oh my, Harry. Seems you’re having a heart attack. Another attribute of curare I neglected to mention. It dissipates without a trace. By the time your lungs are able to return to functioning... ‘poor’ Harry will be long gone. The autopsy will reveal the death of just another aging man with a bad ticker. Bye, bye Harry.”

Harry goes limp from lack of oxygen and the woman guides his form to a chair. Then she turns and softly laughs at the look of terror on Jay Handley’s face.

“Time to get you properly dressed.”

The oversized bag opens and yes, the mass of clanking metal returns. Jay Handley, once promising professional athlete, will helplessly watch while a woman deftly immerses his naked form into the comfort of steel bondage... comfort for the woman in charge.

The broad, smooth and shiny cuff that encircles the scrotum sends the appropriate initial message, the woman always thinks to herself. Thus she begins by enshrouding the testicles. The circle clicks closed to delicious tightness. Then she unravels the connecting right chain then left to encumber the ankles by way of cuffs attached to the balls. Always measured to secure an inch or two shorter than the legs, Jay Handley will not fully stand for quite some time... and certainly not walk upright much less run.

“My goodness, Mr. Handley, the curare doesn’t seem to inhibit tumescence. You enjoy the controlling touch of a woman.”

She bends and condescendingly whispers.

“That means it’s getting hard.”