The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 4 (15 page)

With a last glance at Ignacio, Socrates swiftly divested himself of the lower garments of his attire, exposing a most ready and respectably large penis standing rigidly out from his hairy loins. Climbing onto the couch, he crept between the sleeping girl's thighs, lowering his body to her crotch and roughly probing for her cunt-hole as he guided his stiffened organ with one hand.

She opened her eyes just as the tip of his organ found the yielding entrance and went plunging into her moist warmth – vainly squirming in an effort to prevent what had already happened. Grunting angry protests, she struggled beneath him as he thrust the male member in and out with vigorous strokes and mumbling sounds of enjoyment – firmly holding her wrists with his hands while his undulating body ravished her private parts in a steady performance of sexual activity.

“You surely did need that attention,” observed Ignacio affably between mouthfuls of food and drink. “I can tell from the manner in which you energetically fuck the pretty thing that your need is considerable. Well, she's a tight little baggage and you should find her most satisfying – unless you're a great deal harder to please than myself!”

Now the girl had stopped struggling and lay still, her legs lifted high on either side of the thrusting, panting Socrates. She glared up at him with rage and contempt on her face. Once, she spat directly in his face but he was too intent upon his increasing pleasure to pay attention to the insult, simply driving faster and harder with savage enjoyment – and then groaning hoarsely as his juices burst into her with spasms that shook his muscular body until they subsided, leaving him slumped upon the girl with a blissful expression of complete satisfaction on his face.

“By the cornucopian cunt of Venus!” Socrates declared, rising from the couch and wiping his greasy, glistening prick on the covers. “That was a most gratifying fuck indeed! I shan't forget this kindness, friend. I owe you for it – perhaps more than you realize. It's particularly difficult for a fellow of my heat to find daily life bearable sans a decent fucking! I can do without food and drink easily enough for long periods of time, but I damn near perish when I must do without the necessity of a woman! Raping my fist has never eased the tensions worth a boar's fart, either!”

“I know the feeling.” Ignacio stood up and picked at his teeth with a finger. “We better join the others quickly now, friend Socrates. They'll be getting impatient. Especially Bullpole who has been raging with impatience these past three days.”

“I'm ready.” Fastening his garments into place, Socrates led the way out of the chamber with Ignacio following, the muttered curses of the girl fading behind them as they departed.

Bullpole and the Greek were already mounted upon small sturdy horses. Two more such beasts awaited Ignacio and Socrates who silently and swiftly put themselves into the empty saddles.

“What took so long?” demanded Bullpole in a surly tone, glaring at Ignacio. “We've been waiting for hours, you miserable rabble!”

“I was difficult to awaken,” Ignacio lied.

Bullpole swung his fist, the impact of the smashing blow unseating Ignacio and sending him hurtling from the horse to the ground where he sprawled in stunned disorder.

“Enough, enough, old friend!” intoned the Greek calmly. “Let us be on our way!”

Ignacio remounted without a word or a glance at the others, and soon they were riding out of the still sleeping city – the only sound being that of the horses' hooves clattering upon the paved streets. A short while later they reached open country and the pace was increased from a steady trotting to an easy, distance-consuming canter. Bullpole rode abreast of the Greek. Ignacio beside Socrates to the rear of their masters. From time to time, Socrates grinned appreciatively and Ignacio replied to each grin with a roguish wink.

Thusly, they followed a winding road that led to the edge of the sea and down many twisting turns toward the rocky ledges where the fabled sea-cave awaited their invasion of its interior.

Now dismounted, they stood a few yards from the narrow entrance that gaped in the nearby stone cliff, Socrates holding the reins of all four horses and facing the Greek with stiff attentiveness.

“You will await us, here,” ordered the Greek quietly. “You know what to do upon our return?”

Socrates nodded, his eyes troubled.

“Meanwhile, keep a lookout for any travelers that may approach. It's unlikely that any will-this place being so feared by our people-but you stay on the alert, anyway.” Turning to Bullpole and Ignacio, the latter holding the coiled rope-ladder over his shoulder, the Greek put his finger warningly to his lips.

“From this point,” he said in a low voice, “it would be wise to keep our voices as quiet as possible! And do as little talking as necessary. She has sharp ears, that immortal one! The success of this brave experience will hang entirely upon our making an almost silent approach.”

“Understood,” grunted Bullpole. His eyes searched the cliff impatiently, feverishly. “Let's be about this business without further delay!”

Walking swiftly and silently, they approached the narrow opening. Entering it, they found themselves within a fairly spacious cavern. The Greek continued toward the depths of this chamber, now moving even more silently and cautiously than ever before until he stopped at a small crevice in the slime-covered, dripping wall. It was large enough for a man to go through. Gesturing for Ignacio to affix the end of the rope-ladder to the protruding and jagged outcroppings of rock at the base of the opening, the Greek waited until Ignacio had done so. Then he tested the ladder, yanking at it several times until he seemed satisfied with its reliability. Squatting, he slowly fed the ladder through the opening – peering with narrowed eyes as it descended until its entire length hung down into the cavern below, the end of the ladder barely touching a broad, rocky ledge still dotted with inch-deep pools of sea-water from the last high-tide that rose far above it. Now the seawater had receded until it glittered and surged a few feet below the ledge. Rising to his feet, the Greek stared at Bullpole, smiling intently.

“Shall I go first, old friend?” he whispered. “To prove my concern and willingness to share the danger with you?”

Bullpole nodded.

Carefully, the Greek lowered his body, feet-first, through the opening as he began climbing down the swaying rope-ladder. When he had vanished from sight, Bullpole did the same – descending immediately after the Greek and leaving Ignacio squatting at the opening, watching both men as they silently went down the ladder and reached the ledge where they stood, peering into the greenish light of the dimly lit sea-cavern with expressions of tense expectancy.

Then, the Greek raised his arm and silently pointed to a figure sitting with its back to them. The back was beautiful in its nakedness – the back of a lovely woman with long, wavy golden hair streaming down over the ivory flesh. Now a weird humming could be faintly heard echoing through the dank cavern. She was singing quietly to herself, the rise and fall of her strange song almost surging in time to the rise and ebbing of the murky green water swirling and splashing beside the mollusk encrusted ledge.

Stealthily, Bullpole started toward the unsuspecting woman – his great arms outstretched to embrace her in a closing of his arms around her shoulders – a shout of triumph ringing hollowly through the cavern.

“I've – I've got her!” he bellowed thunderously.

Suddenly, he stiffened as she whirled – her maddened and contorted face a mask of hatred and fury as she made an abrupt motion that was blocked from our sight by Bullpole's hulking body which doubled up as he gave a sharp cry of pain – toppling sideways and plunging into the water with an immense splash as his heavy body went under the surface for a moment, rising again to float face-up.

Tiny sparkling glints of light gleamed from the metal handle of the dagger which she had thrust into his fat belly to the hilt, blood cascading around the dagger and thickly flowing over his girth to the water where it spread in a veil of crimson.

The woman crouched with insane eyes glowing wildly, howling most horribly. Her raucous laughter deafening filled the cavern. Bullpole's face was frozen in a death of surprised anguish as he floated lifelessly beside the ledge.

The Greek whirled, leaped for the rope-ladder and started up it with the agility of a frightened monkey, yelling: “Now! Now pull me up!” He clambered swiftly and was halfway up the ladder's length by the time Ignacio – moving as though he had already planned each motion – whipped out a knife and began slicing powerfully at the rope-ends anchoring the ladder to the rocks.

They parted – dropping the Greek and the tangling ladder to the ledge. His head hit with a dull thud and his body sprawled awkwardly upon the rocky surface – inert with instant unconsciousness. He had made not the slightest sound.

Ignacio peered down, breathing heavily. The madwoman stared up at him, her gaunt face empty of all sanity, all comprehension. Then he noticed the water was churning and boiling as a surge of tide lifted it to the ledge.

“He'll be drowned within the hour!” Ignacio muttered. “Both of the bastards will be dead by then! I'm – I'm free! I'm my own man!”

Shaking his head as though to clear his senses, he looked about until he spied a large boulder nearby. Grunting, he pushed and shoved it – manhandling it with great effort until he had rolled it over the narrow opening – sealing off the deathly scene far below. Now the mad creature's babbling could no longer be heard shrilly echoing. Wiping his sweaty face with the back of his sleeved-arm, Ignacio left the chamber and emerged stumblingly into the bright sunlight. Pausing for a moment to compose himself, he stared at the distant figure beside the horses.

Then he started forward.

“Dead!” Socrates' face mirrored incredulity.

“Both of them – dead,” said Ignacio evenly. “I jest not, friend. Our masters are no more.”

“B-But how?”

Taking a deep breath, Ignacio told him the simple truth, watching various emotions – ranging from stunned disbelief to undeniable fear – cross the other's features as he gave a factual account of what had taken place in the cavern.

There followed a long moment of silence.

“I'm not sorry,” Ignacio said quietly. “They were treacherous, cruel masters. Neither really knew the meaning of true loyalty. Of that I'm as sure as I am of the sun rising tomorrow.”

Socrates nodded, his face still somber. “Yes, you're right friend. But how are we to explain all this? What do we do next?”

“I've thought that out. Just as I've thought out many aspects of my life. We merely return, stating that the Mermaid destroyed them both. Your people are sufficiently superstitious to accept the story, aren't they?”

“Most of them. Those who may doubt it are in a minority. Yes, the story will hold true in the minds of many who hear it.”

“All right. Then, I shall claim to be Bullpole's natural son – and I shall grieve for my lost father. After all, I arrived here attending him. It figures that I was close to the ruthless monster.” Ignacio grinned. “Do you see that you and I can easily assume their power and possessions?”

“Us – replace them?” incredulity again oozed onto Socrates' face. “Y-You're mad, friend!”

“Not truly. Wouldn't you like to have the freedom and power that they had?”

“Of course!”

“Then be courageous enough to help me see this scheme through – and you shall replace your master! I want not any portion of his holdings. Bullpole's empire is plenty for my greed. And I long for the sights and sounds of Spain. But I'll need you in the position of power before I can leave here – unless I were willing to sneak to sea like a dog! Which I'm not.”

“What do you suggest?”

“First, that you slay any of the guards who were here when you put that madwoman in the cavern by the Greek's orders. Neither of us can afford to have them live – perhaps spreading the truth about a mere crazed creature baited for a Mermaid as part of a murderous plot.”

Socrates nodded. “True enough. Getting rid of the three who accompanied me when I brought the repulsive wench here won't be difficult. I'll slay them after they're far gone in wine. It can be done quickly and quietly. The palace is rampant with mysterious killings constantly.”

Ignacio squinted thoughtfully. “Fine. Next, is there a skilled forger available to us? One who can duplicate any handwriting?”

“I know of one so accomplished who is imprisoned in the dungeons.”

“Then on the promise of his freedom, you will have him forge the Greek's handwriting. I shall dictate the statement. It will be nothing less than a letter informing all that you are to run things in the event of his untimely end.”

“What if the forger should talk?”

“Dead men can't speak. He will be slain when the document is safely finished and in our hands.”

Socrates smirked wryly. “We seem to be planning the deaths of many men, friend. Which makes you and I dismally similar to our recent masters.”

Ignacio shrugged. “Would you rather remain a guardsman, perhaps in slavery to an even worse tyrant than the one you depended upon for your life before he lost his own miserable existence?”

“No.”

“Wouldn't you prefer to be a master? To have leisure time for sensual pleasures – including all the girls you want – and never take another order as long as you live?”

“Gods of Mount Olympus – yes.'”

“Then, friend, stop moralizing and listen to my plan as I detail it to you. Every step must be carefully executed if we are to have what lies easily within our grasp.” Ignacio took reins from the other's hands, mounting a horse. “Come along. We must return sometime. I'll explain everything while we ride. By the time we reach the palace, you'll have it entirely memorized.”

“Did you have any idea of your fate?” asked Socrates with a sad smile. “I mean, after you had helped Zorba murder Bullpole?”