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codes: M+f+/ SM / humil / viol / caution / anal / nc
Note: This story is a bleak, dark tale, not for the squeamish. So if you’ve already decided to step into this puddle of muck, make sure you’ve got a pair of waders handy – Hip high if you can manage it – because you’re going to need them! Peace, brothers.
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WARNING: This story delves into aberrant sex practices that might well offend you. So if topics such as Sadism and Masochism, among other deviant practices offend you, do not read this story. Some of the sex depicted is consensual, some not. I don't condone it. I'm not advocating it. I may or may not even like it. It's simply a fantasy, a product of my imagination, and thus, completely fictitious.
Before you read it, please note the following:
*If you are under eighteen, it is illegal for you to read this story!
*If you have a hard time separating fantasy from reality, do not read this story!
*If it's illegal in your
jurisdiction to read non-consensual sex stories, don't read this story!
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Mlle
Isabella Santeria
& the
Flea
(An Erotic Horror
Story)
by
Hunsi
Book
cover Picture
Click to meet Rose & the Flea
/files/Authors/HumblePie/Pics/rose.jpg
On Route 180 just outside Campeche,
Mexico, we spot Rose Addison filling up her Land Rover at a Pemco
station as a man who had been hitch hiking a ride beside the road approached
her car.
---
"G'day, Mum! "I can see from your license plates that
you're from the States."
"Yes, and I can tell by the safari hat
and rucksack that you're a good distance from home as well."
"Yes, Mum, I'm on my way back home
now. I'm supposed to be catching me a
flight back home come Saturday. That is,
of course, if I can catch me a lift out of this gawd
forsaken jungle."
"You’ve come to visit the Mayan ruins at
"Yes, mum, and
you?"
"I'm I postgraduate student working on a
research project at the site and I’m now on my way back home. So yeah, I should be munching down on my
first cheese burger in 6 months come Friday.
“Not withstanding any problems, of course, and that’s probably asking a
lot given my luck."
"Well, if you are that tight for time,
you might want to consider cutting a day off the travel time and by-pass Quintna by way of route 186.”
“Where’s that?
I saw no such road on the map.
No mum, you won’t find that on anything less
than a Topo map.
It runs through and across what we Aussie’s call a quag,
and is all but swallowed up by the jungle.
The driver of the truck I hitched a ride on said it follows the route
the ancient Mayan Indians took to cross the
“Of course, it isn’t what you would call a
Sunday drive to be sure, and can get a bit hairy in places too. But even as pitted and rutted as that old
dirt road is, should you choose to go that way, you'd already be half way to Vera Cruz by this
time tomorrow.”
"Really?" She inquired.
"Yes, positively. The driver of that Mercado food truck I was hitching
a ride on made the trip in just four hours.”
“No, can’t be.
No way. That trip took me over twelve hours on the way in.”
“Yes, Mum, It’s true. Of course, he was Mayan himself, and a pretty
tough little fella too, but I wouldn’t be
recommending it if I thought you couldn’t do it.”
"Oh my, I had no idea," she said
with raised brows, obviously quite taken in by the idea. "You're looking for a ride, is that right?"
"Yes, mum, I most assuredly am!" He
replied, while offering up a smile a strong and bold as his voice.
“My name is Rose, Rose Addison, glad to meet
you, Mister, mister . . ."
“Paulson, Rudy Paulson. Where do I put my rucksack?"
It was at that moment when a young girl, emerged
from out the bathroom of the Pemex (gas) station and
enters our scene.
“Hum, well, I suppose you can still find some
room atop the heap of suitcases and boxes in the back seat for your rucksack. Go ahead, just press down hard,” she said as
she gave her daughter a hug and swept aside her bangs off her forehead.
“Well, get to it, my Assie
travel guide, you’re gathering up the butt dust.”
“What’s that you say, ‘gathering up the butt
dust’? He chuckled, as he opened the
rear door and began looking for a way to get that rucksack to squeeze in.
“You Yanks sure got a funny way talking.”
“We do?
You should talk Mr. ‘G-day Mate’.”
“Mommy,” her daughter then said, tugging upon
her sleeve. “Where is he going to sit?”
“In the front passenger side, Sweetie, and you
can sit on his lap. Or would prefer I
tie you to the bumper?"
“No, mom, please. I can’t even stick my head out the window
without swallowing a mouthful of bugs.”
“The bug! I’ll give you some bugs you rascal, “she
playfully tugged upon her daughter’s ear.
“As you can see, Mr. Paulson, I’ve had the pleasure
of my Lilly’s accompaniment this summer.
And a helpful hand she’s been too.
Isn’t that right, my sweets?”
“Yes Mom.”
“Now, you know what that means,
don’t you?’
“No, Mom, what?”
“It means no more summer kiddy camps for my
big girl,” she laughingly said, while tapping Lilly upon her nose.
"Now, Mr. Paulson," she said as she
took her seat behind the wheel. "It’s
time for you to show me the way to that time saving route you know so much
about."
----
Rudy was right, it was a hard road to travel,
and combined with the intolerable heat, it seem more a road to hell than
not. So, you can just imagine how loud were the cheers when they came upon the first sign
civilization. And it came in the form
of a small town. Actually it was a smaller
than small town with a block long unpaved street that cut though a small
scattering of adobe bungalows.
The town, Peto, by
name, amounted to nothing more than a Station de policía,
a Mercado Súper, Banco
Central, and a general mercantile with a petrol pump out front. All of which were also adobe and none of
which were an inch larger in size than a typical Panadería
(bread) shop to be found in most Mexican towns.
However, across the way there was a building
that was quite substantial, indeed. A
Saloon with a rooming house above, the Casa de Trastada,
“The House of Mischief,” was as odd a sight as finding a
Painted a bright lemon yellow with red and
green trim, the gaudy looking edifice as simply a
torture to look at. And worse yet, the
front portico was decorated with a macabre assortment
of Papier-mâché figurines hanging off the rafters. The man-like figures were not only Life-size,
but disturbingly reminiscent of a voodoo doll she'd once seen on the telly. With white
painted skeletal faces, and a vulture feathered Top Hat et al!
She also saw the Mercado food truck that Rudy,
her hitchhiking travel companion, had mentioned he'd previous hitched a ride upon
parked in the street.
"Hey, there's Juan, making his weekly
delivery," Rudy, her Aussie hitchhiker pointed out. "Pull over, and I'll go see if he's got
a couple of bottles of soda he can spare.”
“Great!
I’m parched, make mine a cola.”
“Sure, how about you, Lilly,” he asked the
squirming girl sitting upon his lap.
“An orange, get me orange with a straw too . .
. Please!”
"Yeah, okay, with a straw too,” he
laughed, then readied himself to jump out once Rose’s
Land Rover came to a stop. Which she
quickly endeavored to do, wasting but a moment too pull the ol’
Rover off to the side and
And why not? There wasn’t single vehicle on the street,
or probably anywhere within a radius of twenty miles. Besides, to any regard, it seemed to her a
totally innocuous thing to do.
But apparently not to patrolmen Garcia who was
inside the bank looking out the window watching her park - watching this
arrogant Americano act with such disregard for the law.
Seeing a need to immediately being a stop to
this madness, this outrageous disruption to the order of things, he rushed out
and shouted out loud enough to wake the dead.
"Seniora, no, no, you hog the street,
move, move quickly to not obstruct traffic."
"Traffic?" She puzzled, as she looked down the street
seeing but a burro tied to a post down at the end of the street.
"Oh, shit,” she cursed. “Well, that’s alright. You go ahead and get the soda and I'll stay
with the car and deal with him," she told Rudy, which he promptly did,
though not so quick as to take the time to dig out his rucksack from the back to
take along with him.
“Seniora, Seniora, move immediately.
La pueblo de Peto has no tolerance for such things.”
“But officer, I’ll be in
and out before you know it, and it’s harming not a soul . . .”
“Step out, Seniora, pronto!” He cut her
apology short. “I wish to inspect this
vehicle.”
“Inspect?
Inspect for what?”
“I say, step out, you step out.” And so she did, then stood back to watch
patrolmen Garcia go through every box, case and bag like a raccoon shuffling
through garbage. She obviously hadn’t a
clue as to what he was looking for, but dare not speak out. Not even went he held up a pair of her panties
to give them a sniff.
‘Oh wait,’ she thought to herself, ‘those were
Lilly’s panties, weren’t they? How disgusting!’
Nonetheless, she remained mum until at last he
stepped out of her car holding a brown paper bag. A common, everyday brown grocery bag, one she
didn't recall having placed in the laundry basket that sat atop the heap.
Opening up the bag, he peeked in, then turned to her and asked, "Es esto
tuyo, Senora (Is this yours, Madam)?"
"What is it," she asked, and to wit
he replied by reaching into the bag and pulling out a knuckle-sized ball of
whatever wrapped in blue cellophane, then stood back and waited for her
response. But as one wasn’t fore coming,
he reached in and pulled out another wrapped in green, then a handful, each
brightly wrapped in an assortment of colored cellophane.
“What, is all that?” she asked, sounding every
bit as confused as she looked. “I’ve
never seen it before.”
"Senora, you must come with me, por favor."
---
The honorable chief of police, Diego Pérez, pulled his hand out of the bag after examining the contents
for himself. And, just as patrolmen
Garcia had asked of her, he too asked if the bag belonged to her.
“Well it is true the policeman did find the
bag in my car, but it is not mine. I’ve
never seem it before."
"No?
Who it belong to then, huh? Your baby girl's fairy Godmother?"
"I don't know. I don't know what to say, except that Rudy
had his rucksack in the back seat too."
"Rudy? Who is this, Rudy?"
"The Australian I’m traveling with,"
she said, and to wit he turned to the patrolman and whispered in his ear.
"Seniora,"
he then turned back to say," Officer Garcia say he see no one but
you. He also see
only your bags."
"Well, yes, Rudy took his rucksack with
him when he went to get us a soda."
"Huh!
Well, officer Garcia say he see no one else. But I send him back to fine this Mr. Rudy
anyway. In the meantime, I'm afraid I
must lock you up. So, if you would
please come with me . . ."
"Lock me up? For what, what's in the bag, what have I done?"
"For now it's just for your safety. If this Mr. Rudy is found I assure you, you will
be quickly released. If this Mr. Rudy is
not found the charges will be spelled out to you shortly thereafter."
"Charges? My daughter, my child, you can't lock her
up!"
"No, no, of
course not.
She can sit on my lap until officer Garcia returns. If he returns with this Mr. Rudy, you can go
and take her home with you. If not, I take
her to Ma’am Isabella Santeria to stay.”
“Isabella who?”
“No need to worry about who ma’am Isabella
be. Besides, you say you will be leaving
here shortly anyway . . . . or so you say”
---
The chief of police, Diego Pérez,
found Rose Addison sitting upon a bunk bolted to the wall that served as her
only place to sit by day, and sleep by night.
With her face buried beneath her hands, the poor dear was crying her
heart out, rising up to her feet only upon hearing the ruckus going on outside
the bars of her cell.
"Put inside the first cell, Pablo,"
Chief Pérez said to the workman who was wheeling a
rack with a curtain attached into her cell.
"For some
privacy, Ms. Rosy Addison. Now
you can pee without all these drunken Indians I got locked up killing each other
just to get a peek."
"But I'm leaving here, right?" She
shouted out, “You said so yourself. When
you find Rudy I’m out of here.”
"Oh, sorry, Ms Addison, but I regret
having to inform you that the phantom Mr. Rudy you spoke of could not be found. And worse for you, Officer Garcia informs me that
no one else has seen this Mr. Rudy either."
"So, it would seem you're going to be my
guest until such time the honorable justice Guzmán
arrives to hold court in two weeks."
"In the meantime you can use the pot
behind this curtain I got for you. And
as for a change of clothes, Mlle Santeria will take it upon herself to assure
your naughty parts are covered."
"Well, as best she can anyway. It does come at some expense, you know. The same for your Lilly, though her wear will
must certainly be less costly given that the patches will be much smaller."
“Patches?”
“Yes, we patch her up, here, there, or as I
believe you hip Americanos like to say, she be dressed
in the blushing pink. So you see, no
problem, no worries. Oh, and by the way,
Ma’am Santeria simply loves Lilly. She
calls her, her little Pulga," he chuckled and
his fat cheeks wobbled, while her jaw tightened.
"Oh, Perdóneme (Pardon
me), I sometime forget that you don't understand Mexican humor all that
much. You see, in Americano Pulga means flea.
One of those hopping and jumping little bug that just loved to bury their
nose in the damp, warms places. Make a
home of those places they do," he said with a chuckle.
"It's funny, yes?" He asked, but
when he saw her jaw tighten all the more he backed off a notch and said as he turned
to leave. "Yes, well, your evening
meal will be served to you shortly."
"Wait, wait,
wait, where are you going? What
the fuck is going on here," she screamed furiously. "Let me out of here right now, you
fucking Mexican grease ball. I'm an
American citizen, I have my rights. I want to see somebody, anybody, now. A consultant, an attorney, a man with a gun
to blow you away," she howled, she cried, she pulled upon the bars as if
trying to pull them apart.
"I am sorry, senora, but I did not make
your bed. You did, without thinking
about your little flea, or anything other than your own
wish to traffic in heroin. I just hope
after 20 years you'll never chance doing such a foolish thing again."
"Twenty years? She again screamed, only now all the louder,
and the look on her face turned to one of sheer terror.
‘Holy mother Mary, what
a fuss! I must
remind myself to bring cotton for my ears!’ He
said to himself as he slowly turned away to return to his office.
Then after flopping
his fat ass down in the chair behind his desk:
‘Perhaps I should give Dr. Ramos a call as well. He must know a way to quiet her, get her to
relax so she can find some comfort, perhaps even some joy, in the hard labor
put upon a women locked up in a cage surrounded by half crazed naked man
crawling up the bars to get at her.’
---
“Hola, Ramos, thank
you for coming, that screaming is driving me loco (crazy).”
“No problem, Diego, how is it I can help you?”
"Yes, well, as I said to you last night,
I need find a way to quiet that heroin smuggler I've got lock up back
there. With all the screaming, no one
can enjoy a moment of peace."
"Yes, I've heard. But I am doctor, Diego, and subject to the
ethical constraints that I am, there is only some much I can do."
"Tranquilizers,
no?"
"Si, but they
wear off, and the screaming starts again, and I just can't go on giving her
tranquilizers forever."
"So, there's nothing to be done?"
"Si, there are
means, but that is in your hands not mine."
"Me?"
"Si," he
said, “you know Isabella Santeria as well as anyone, do
you not?” He asked with a smile.
“Yes, yes, of course, why didn’t I think of
that? Truly, you are right. I’ve yet to hear of a pill, or drug, or anything short of a bullet that can bring quiet to
the mind like the devil herself can do . . .”
---
A day later we find Mlle Isabella Santeria
talking to a customer in the lounge of her Casa de Trastada,
“The House of Mischief.”
On his lap we see Lilly, her bare thighs
straddling his, and his tongue worming its way down her gullet. And while in the process of doing his worse,
the Mariachi band standing beside the table played La Gloria (the Glory), to
the rhythmic slap, slap, slapping of her ass.”
“I must apologize, señor
Méndez,” Ma’am Isabella said as she approached his
table, “but your ten minutes has elapsed, and I wish the flea to accompany me
up the stairs.”
“Come with me,” she tells her flea, and then
after assisting in the untangling, she stoops to pick up the sopping wet panties
she saw lying upon the floor.
Walking down the upstairs hallway they come to
a stop at a door strung with beads with the sweet smell of Jimson Weed coming
from within.
There she stopped and took up Lilly’s hand,
and said to her, “Would my lil’ flea like a see her
mother? She is inside, so if you wish to
see her you will come with me and kneel down beside her as will I. But you are not to speak to her until after
I’ve spoken to the deity, the Lwa, your
Papa. Understand me?”
“Yes, mother Isabella.”
“Jan ou vle, (as you wish), my lil’
Flea,” she murmured as she turned about and led the way into the darkened room
with the flea at her side.
---
Entering she saw her mother sitting upon the
floor staring into the flickering flame of the candlelight.
Beside her sits a man. His face is painted white in the image of a
skull and atop his head sits a top hat with a vulture feather. Like Rose, his eyes also reflect the flickering
flame, and his lips move to the unspoken chant he mimed.
Coming alongside the pair, Bon Mamba Isabella
Santeria and her flea sat down beside them to complete the circle. Behind them, upon the wall, their silhouettes
joined the other undulating figures shadowed by the flickering light, looking
for all more like a coven of ghostly apparitions.
Then, consumed by the visions she saw, Bon
Mamba Santeria raised her arms up high as if possessed by a powerful spiritual
force and began to sway and chant.
“Come great Papa, come make U mischief and I
give to this, ha! ha! ha!,” she
laughed, in a deeply guttural, masculine baritone, a voice seemingly not of her
own. And then, with equal relish, she reached
over and plucked out a strand of Rose’s hair and held it up high above the
flame of the candle.
“Rise, Papa, rise. Rise up and open your heart to the believers
and the non, the dead and the undead, and to Rose, who
wanders because she knows not which.”
“Rise, Papa, rise,” her carried on as the flame
grow higher, and then broadened until it opened up to reveal the amber red that
lie at the heart of the flame; A revolving
amber orb that looked for all the more like an eye swirling around in the
center.
“Papa,” Isabella again spoke, as she embraced
the eye. “She knows not who she is, or who she is to be. She aimlessly wanders while her flea hungers
knowing not how she is to be next fed. To
save her I need ask you encase her now . . .”
“Encase her now . . .”
“Encase her now . . .” the words echoed
through the corridors of her mind, sending her adrift, and into the darkness, where
neither time, nor space, nor sense of the fall had any meaning.
And then suddenly, she was blinded by the
light. A bright,
intense light that she rose up and out of her box to meet.
‘Her box?’ She stopped to wonder. ‘A
coffin? Had
she died, had she been buried, and if so, when and for how long?’
‘No, no,’ she then said to herself when it
became apparent that the intense light she saw was but a reflection of the
bright lights overhead gleaming off the polished floor beneath her.
Once more, she wasn’t in a graveyard. She was in a room with men sitting at tables,
drinking and shouting out in a heated fervor while the Mariachi band played
on.
The riot of voices, both
excited and rabid, were more than enough to raise the dead, and three fold more
than needed to stir a wonder in her as well.
A wonder that spurred
the question as to why? ‘Why was she
here, and why was it that amongst the riot of voices, she could hear Lilly’s
squealing voice amongst them? And the
most cryptic of all, why was it that she saw Lilly’s feet dangling down off her
saddled back?’
Saddled
back . . .
Saddled back, the thought rattled through her
mind, though not knowing why, or why it should matter, or why she shouldn’t be equally
pleased when she heard the gentleman standing alongside with his pants down say
to her daughter.
“Here you are, my sweet
little flea. Burrow into this, and dine
upon your diez centavos (10 cents) worth.”
“Gracias señor, I’m forever
starved for more . . .”
---
Three weeks later . . .
The honorable chief of police, Diego Pérez, entered the Casa de Trastada,
“The House of Mischief”, with a document in hand to present to Rose
Addison.
With the assistance of the door minder, Pablo
Diaz, the honorable chief of police was led into a room where Ma’am Isabella
Santeria was busy cinching up the saddle on Rose’s back as dinner time approached.
“Hola, peace be with
you, good mambo Santeria,” he said bowing, showing his respect.
“I’ve come to present to Ms. Addison, your
horse, the verdict of her trial in absentia.”
“Yes, mi Creyente (my
believer), and how does it read?” She asked after finishing cinching up her
horse, and then allowed her animal to resume licking up her dinner from her bowl
before the viscosity of the viscid whitish fluid lost its consistency.
“It has been decided, Ms. Addison & her
flea shall live with you in this most beneficial environs for the full 20 year
term of her imprisonment.”
“Yes, this is well. The flea shall grow plump like a tick gorged
on blood, and her horse will be happy, knowing now her place, her aimless wandering
an affliction of the past . . .”
Das Ende
Hunsi
------- § § § ------
I’m
thinking about a part II to explain what happened to Rudy. Or more to the paint, what Ma’am Isabella
Santeria did with Rudy (._.)
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