“Good. Now tell me . . . whose wife are you?” His fingers tighten further, and the stars go supernova as my brain struggles to get enough oxygen. My body is on the brink of suffocation, yet it’s more alive in this moment than it’s ever been, every sensation sharpened and refined. The burning thickness of his cock inside my ass, the heat of his breath on my temple, the pulsing of my engorged clit—it’s too much and not enough at the same time. I want to scream and struggle, but I can’t move, can’t breathe . . . and as if from far away, I hear Julian demanding again, “Whose?”
Right before I pass out, his grip on my throat eases, and I choke out, “Yours” . . . even as my body convulses in a paroxysm of agonized ecstasy, the orgasm sudden and startlingly intense as much-needed oxygen rushes into my lungs.
Frantically gulping in air, I slump against him, trembling all over. I can’t believe I came like this, without Julian touching my sex at all.
I can’t believe I came while being afraid of dying.
After a moment, I become conscious of his lips grazing my sweat-dampened cheek. “Yes,” he murmurs, his hand now gently stroking my throat, “that’s right, baby . . .” He’s still buried inside me, his hard cock splitting me apart, invading me. “And what’s your name?”
“Nora,” I gasp out hoarsely, quivering as his fingers trail down from my neck to my breasts. I’m still wearing my sports bra, and his hand burrows under the tight material, cupping my breast.
“Nora what?” he persists, his fingers pinching my nipple. It’s erect and sensitive from my orgasm, and his touch sends a fresh ripple of heat down to my core. “Nora what?”
“Nora Esguerra,” I whisper, closing my eyes. It’s a fact I will never forget now—and as Julian resumes fucking me again, I know that Nora Leston will never exist again.
She is gone for good.
Part II: The Estate
Chapter 11
Nora
Over the next couple of weeks, I slowly acclimate to my new home. The estate is a fascinating place, and I spend much of my time exploring it and meeting its inhabitants.
Besides the guards, there are a few dozen people living here, some by themselves, others with their families. They all work for Julian in one capacity or another, from the oldest generation to the youngest. Some—like Ana and Rosa—take care of the house and the grounds, while others are involved in Julian’s business. He may have only recently returned to the compound, but many of his employees have lived here since the time when Juan Esguerra—Julian’s father—reigned as one of the most powerful drug lords in the country. To an American like myself, such loyalty to an employer is unfathomable.
“They’re well paid, provided with free housing, and your husband even hired a teacher for their children a few years ago,” Rosa explains when I ask her about this unusual phenomenon. “He might not have been here much in person, but he’s always been good at taking care of his people. They’re all free to leave if they want, but they know they’re unlikely to find anything better. Besides, here they’re protected, but out there, they and their families are fair game for nosy policemen or anyone else seeking information on the Esguerra organization.” Giving me a wry smile, she adds, “My mother says that once you’re a part of this life, you’re always a part of this life. There’s no going back.”
“So why did they choose this life?” I ask, trying to understand what would make one move to a weapons dealer’s isolated compound on the edge of the Amazon rainforest. I don’t know many sane people who would do something like that willingly—particularly if they knew there was no easy way to return home.
Rosa shrugs. “Well, everybody has a different story. Some were wanted by the authorities; others made enemies of dangerous people. My parents came here to escape poverty and provide a better life for me and my brothers. They knew they were taking a risk, but they felt they had no other choice. To this day, my mother is convinced that they made the right decision for themselves and their children.”
“Even after—?” I start asking, then shut my mouth when I realize that I’m about to bring up painful memories for Rosa again.
“Yes, even after,” she says, understanding my half-spoken question. “There are no guarantees in life. They could’ve died anyway. My father and Eduardo—my oldest brother—were killed doing their jobs, but at least they had jobs. Back at my parents’ village, there were no jobs, and the cities were even worse. My parents did whatever they could to keep food on the table, but it wasn’t enough. When my mother became pregnant with me, Eduardo, who was twelve at the time, went to Medellín seeking to become a drug mule—just so that our family wouldn’t starve. My father went after him to stop him, and that’s when the two of them ran into Juan Esguerra, who was in the city for negotiations with the Medellín Cartel. He offered both my father and brother a job in his organization, and the rest is history.” She stops and smiles at me before continuing, “So you see, Nora, working for Señor Esguerra was the best alternative for my family. As my mother says, at least I never had to sell myself for food, the way she did in her youth.”
Rosa says that last part without any bitterness or self-pity. She’s simply stating facts. Rosa genuinely considers herself lucky to have been born on the Esguerra estate. She’s grateful to Julian and his father for providing her family with a good living, and, despite her longing to see America, she doesn’t mind living in the middle of nowhere. To her, this compound is home.