The Autobiography of a Flea, Book 4 (16 page)

“I was promised rewards.”

Climbing upon a horse, Socrates withdrew a sharp-bladed knife and held it before Ignacio's eyes. It glinted and sparkled in the sunlight with deadly beauty. “Well, friend, this was to be your reward,” Socrates said grimly. “I was under orders to bury it in your back the moment an opportunity presented itself to kill you. I have no doubt that he planned to rid himself of me and the others who brought the madwoman to the sea-cave – so I guess their deaths won't make that much difference.”

“Not if you truly want to be master of this empire the Greek built. All I want is to return to my homeland. Perhaps we can stay in touch. Be friends over the years.”

“Better ones than they were, I trust!” Socrates grinned wryly.

“I'll drink to that when we're near wine!”

“A favor, my friend?”

Ignacio smiled. “Of course, friend!”

“Please desist from referring to my deceased master as 'the Greek.'”

“Why so?”

“Because I, too, am a Greek, friend!”

Laughing self-consciously, with just a tinge of resentment beneath their laughter, they spurred their steeds into a full gallop and began riding back in the direction of the palace.

For brevity's sweet sake, I'll delete much of the time that passed and the confusion that accompanied it when Ignacio and Socrates returned to the palace, bearing the news of their masters' deaths. There were those who were saddened, oddly enough; those who accepted the story with thoughtful silence and expressionless faces, and those who were visibly gladdened by it.

Hinting that a document was being sought among Zorba's private papers – a will that would give his lasting orders, Socrates and Ignacio went ahead with their daring plan. Guardsmen were murdered into silence, as was the frail little forger once his counterfeited work of art had been completed. Showing the deceptive will to those who had been closest – in the loosest sense of that term – to their master, Socrates found grudging obedience among the residents of the palace. There were a few who protested, and some who even attempted an uprising – which was quickly put down and its perpetrators publicly executed in a most horrible manner, being torn apart by wild bulls before a fascinated crowd of thousands who cheered and ate tidbits as they avidly viewed the punishment meted out to troublemakers.

Day by day, little by little, with constant alertness and attention to detail – checking every rumor and mercilessly killing all opponents – Socrates took over the power his master had possessed. By the time a month had elapsed, he was as much the master of Zorba's empire as that bearded schemer had ever been. Naturally, he realized – and often admitted as much with seemingly charming gratitude – that he could never have brought the change-over about without the help of his Spanish friend, Ignacio.

As might be expected, Ignacio's proclamation to the effect that he was none other than the natural son of Bullpole was accepted almost totally by those in the palace since they had little reason of suspecting otherwise and on way of disproving his heritage, even among those skeptics whose innately jaundiced eyes regarded the whole matter as nothing more than smoothly timed skullduggery.

Messages sent by fleet vessels across the Aegean seas to all the Grecian isles where subordinates received the news of their now entrenched young master, soon returned bearing replies that business was splendid and would indeed continue as always, various percentages and profit-sharing arrangements not being affected by the new administration as represented in the haughty person of Socrates who had begun acting like the master he was.

Ships bringing fresh cargoes of abducted young women – innocent-faced country girls who had been lured away or bodily carried off from their home villages-resumed docking, and Socrates was up to his sprouting beard in paperwork and endless conferences that dealt with the rerouting of these hapless virgins – barring a few selected for his own enjoyment – to distant places, there to be delivered into the hands of lecherous collectors or whoremongers who would pay handsomely for such tenderly curved, firmly fleshed creatures. And so it continued, week after week, with girls arriving and girls departing; gold arriving and being stored in the massive vaults beneath the palace – and in the center of all this activity, a gradually hardening Socrates who gave every sign of thrilling to his own immense power and prestige.

Meanwhile, Ignacio had been in communication with the Bullpole empire on Palma de Majorca and had successfully convinced those left in charge that he was indeed the rightful inheritor of his alleged father's holdings. At least, there was no word of dispute or rioting, or any form of difficulty that might forbade his return to there as the recognized master of that palace and all it symbolized in wealth and power.

Never having been quite so privy to this much grand intrigue, involving so many riches and such extensive power, I – being still clearly aware of mine own unimportant station in life – was quite impressed by all the hustle, bustle, sound and furor. It was exciting. I suppose it's always rather pleasant being safely on the side (even if it's only the soft and exceedingly bite-able backside) of genuine winners such as Socrates and Ignacio now indubitably were.

Then came the evening when I was irritably sitting atop a shelf while Ignacio diligently (ugh!) bathed himself with the assistance of several lovely attendants, giggling as they handled his hard and throbbing penis, cooing with feigned awe as they provocatively soaped and rinsed his mammoth pair of brownish-skinned balls, and he lounged idly in the perfumed water as he enjoyed their ministrations which were surely as sensual as they were cleansing.

Without warning, Socrates stalked imperiously into the chamber. With a terse gesture he sent every attendant fleeing from the room. Grinning at Ignacio, he sat down beside the sunken pool of scented water.

“Excuse this intrusion, friend, but I've been smitten with a notion that rather excites me – and I want to include you in the enjoyment of it!” he said laughingly. “I'm getting bored by the mood of this palace. I need a few hours away from it and its stifling luxury.”

“I understand,” replied Ignacio. “My own peasant's blood is oftimes curdled by such a steady diet of rich foods, the oppressive atmosphere of servile people and the unchallenging prospect of having even the most delectable wench by simply curling my finger beckoningly.”

“Well, splendid!” exclaimed Socrates slapping his knee. “Then you'll not deem me too coarse for craving a different style of recreation – perhaps in celebration of your forthcoming voyage back to sunny Spain!”

“Not at all. What have you in mind, friend?”

“Not the usual palace orgy, I assure you! But rather a simple romp in a small village where we can take what we like – rudely and to our lustful hearts' content! I've earmarked such a village. It lies but an hour's ride from here!”

“Mmmm, sounds refreshing as hell, friend! Yes, I must congratulate you for the imagination shown in such a lively scheme!”

“Get some real rest, then,” chortled Socrates, winking. “You'll need every drop of your manly juice tomorrow night when we assault the village and the tidbits we choose there!” He rose, swiftly leaving the room, still chuckling to himself.

The sly-eyed little attendants drifted back to the pool, softly chittering among themselves as they wondered which of them would serve their master's guest's lusty appetites in bed that night.

“Out!” shouted Ignacio. “All of you little sluts – out at once! Begone, vile temptresses!”

“B-But, sire, we th-thought you w-would -” began one bold little baggage beguilingly.

“This night,” he said firmly, “I sleep alone!”

Standing together under a velvety black sky spattered with glittering stars, each of them clutching a wine bottle, Socrates and Ignacio studied the sleeping village with its deserted narrow streets and buildings with darkened windows. A short distance away, guardsmen – brought along as protection against any heroic villagers who might attempt to interfere with the planned frolic – sat their mounts patiently.

“It's not much of a place,” Ignacio said tipsily, gulping at his bottle. “It looks exactly like the wide place in a cowpath that I was born and raised in! Just a country village!”

“Ah, but this particular village is very special to me, friend!” said Socrates in slurred accents.

“You were born here?”

Socrates shook his head. “No, but I once craved a lovely creature who was born here, and who lives here still to my knowledge! Ah, but won't she be surprised to see me!”

“She probably will,” belched Ignacio.

“So will her good husband, I wager!” Socrates chuckled lewdly. “I must remember to ask the lout if she was a virgin!”

“You didn't find out for yourself?”

“I merely craved her, friend. And she was too disdainful of a poor young man who had no future or funds.” He guzzled at length from his bottle, hurling the now empty container into the darkness. “Well, by the bulging bellybutton of fair Diana!” he swore laughingly. “Tonight I'll have some sport with that proud little bitch that shall erase my longstanding humiliation!”

“I sense vengeance,” observed Ignacio.

“You have very good sense, friend! Come along. The hut we seek is right over there and I see a light in the window!”

Stumbling over the stony ground, they lurched to the whitewashed hut made of carefully fitted and cemented rocks. Flinging open the crude door, they marched into the large room. The only cringing occupants were an ancient crone who buried her lined and toothless face in splotchy hands, a harsh-faced matron with stout figure and graying hair who clutched two young boys to her skirts protectively and a mongrel dog that vanished beneath a table with a muted whimper. Then the matronly woman's face showed an expression of recognition.

“Socrates!” she gasped.

Drunkenly, he bowed – almost falling upon his face had not Ignacio caught him, holding him up until he had regained balance.

“The very same, my dear!” said Socrates. “How nice to find you at home. But where is your good husband? Not swilling wine at the tavern, I trust, leaving you here unprotected?”

“I'm – I'm a widow!” she said hoarsely, her eyes flickering to the stairs nearby that led to a hayloft. “I've heard that you -”

“My, but you've aged with marriage and child-bearing, sweet one of my youth! Yes, indeed! You've become a mere shell of yourself. Well on your way to hag-hood like your witchy old mother there!”

“Pi-Please, S-Socrates -”

A motion at the top of the stairs caught their eyes and when the young girl descended partway, lust gleamed hotly in Socrates' face as he stared at the firmly rounding figure that was still in the process of developing into full womanhood – her small breasts pressing against her thin dress in hard little points, her hips still slender with extreme youth. I judged her to be about thirteen – albeit a tempting thirteen for all of her immaturity. She was a beautiful young thing and possessed just enough shape to proclaim her desirable. Socrates licked his newly bearded lips as he stared hotly at the girl who hesitated on the stairs.

“Go back, Adonisa!” cried the matron. “Go back upstairs to your bed!”

“Adonisa, eh?” Socrates belched loudly, heading for the stairs as the frightened girl retreated up them with terror on her pretty face. “Well, I must know little Adonisa much better – being an old friend of her mother's! Perhaps I shall tuck the toothsome creature into her bed!”

Heavily, he clumped up the stairs.

“Pi-Please don't molest her!” pleaded the matron, rushing forward and clinging to Socrates as he made his way with effort up the staircase. “She's only a child! Just a mere child! Take me, Socrates! Take me, instead! I'll do anything you say if you'll only leave her alone and -”

Grunting, Socrates turned and shoved the distraught matron with his booted foot – sending her wildly flailing and tumbling down the stairs. Glaring down at where she lay sprawled, weeping noisily, he gave an evil burst of laughter.

“I no longer want you! You're too fat and worn! You are ugly and repulsive! I'll take pretty little Adonisa, instead! She's young and tender and most exciting! And everything I teach her will be new to the innocent little darling!” His glowing eyes swung to Ignacio. “Friend, you better come up and watch this little event! One of those stupid old peasants might take it into their head to ram a pitchfork into my gut! We'll find you a nice piece of female flesh when I'm through here shortly!”

Ignacio nodded, ascending the stairs and following as far as the doorway to the loft. Below, the matron wailed bitterly to the accompanied sounds of her son's bawling and the dog's yipping.

Socrates staggered into the loft. At the far end of the beamed room, huddled with her face pressed against the wall, crouched the young girl. She looked up – - paralyzed with the terror spread across her fine features – as Socrates approached her, trembling uncontrollably, his lust overpowering now.

“Hello, you pretty little creature!” crooned Socrates. “There's nothing to fear! I shan't hurt you, sweet Adonisa! I simply want to have a better look at you! That's a good girl!”

Pulling her to her feet where she stood swaying with fear but unresisting, he began deliberately undressing the girl. She made no struggle – not even when her small hard breasts with their knobby nipples were exposed. And she still was frozen into immobility when he took the last stitch of clothing from her slim white body, leaving her naked and vulnerable before his heated gaze and greedy hands.

“What beauty!” he muttered thickly. “Oh, what pristine beauty! Just see that pretty little patch of dark hair down there! I wonder what it hides?”

“D-Don't hurt m-me, sir!” she whimpered in a small, faint voice. “I'm a good g-girl! I've n-never done any-, thing b-bad, sir!”

Ignoring her pleas, he shoved her onto the nearby bed, forcing her to lay upon her back. Taking one of her smooth slender thighs in each of his hands, Socrates opened her legs – peering with lust-convulsed features at the pursed lips of her chubby pubic mound surrounded by the fleecy growth of dark hairs still in the thickening stage of puberty.