Finding Zach Read Online Free PDF Page A

not unusual, either. Just part of life in the jungle. Esteban likes his whip, and he likes discipline. But his men are well fed. Not me, but I’m just a dog. The beating depresses me, though—Esteban likes his whip—did I say that?—and that makes him happy, and when he’s happy….
    He comes in a while later, patches of sweat on his paramilitary uniform, a grin on his face and his dick making a tent at his crotch. He opens the crate, reaches in and grabs me by my collar, hauling me out onto the floor. “There’s my good dog,” he croons, “there’s my little puppy,” and he strokes my hair as he puts on my leash. “Puppy’s fur’s getting matted,” he observes. “Ernesto, remind me to take him to the groomer’s.” And he laughs like he’s said something fucking funny. A regular laugh riot, Benito Esteban. He’s not fat, but he’s big, muscular, with a thick neck. Next to his arms, my emaciated little sticks look like twigs. He shoves my face into the floor; I turn my head just in time to avoid a nosebleed, but my cheekbone cracks against the wood and it hurts. “Down, dog,” he says, and I draw my knees up, my arms tucked under my chest and my skinny ass flapping in the breeze, the picture of canine submission. He lets me stay that way while he deals with the orderly, giving him orders I don’t pay attention to anymore. I hear him say something about “hostages,” but not what exactly. It isn’t hard to figure out what’s making him so cheerful, even discounting the fun of whipping some poor fucker’s skin off his back. He has hostages, which means ransom, which means more funding of his little army. All is happy time in Esteban-ville.
    Che finishes getting his instructions for the day, and Esteban sits down behind his desk, tugging at his end of the leash and snapping his fingers. I crawl over and sit down on my haunches beside him, waiting for his orders. I wonder if real dogs hate their masters as much as I hate mine. “Up,” he says, snapping his fingers again. If I were a real dog, I’d bite them off, but I’m not, so I get up in a half-crouch, knees bent, elbows on the desk. There are papers there, but I can’t read them; they’re in Spanish and in his handwriting. I never did learn to read Spanish, and his handwriting is for shit. I hear him rustling behind me, then the blunt pressure of his cock at my hole and he’s pushing it in, humming happily, no spit, no lube, just that fat prick. Fortunately, I don’t feel it much anymore; the muscles are torn or dead or scarred or something, and once he’s past the entrance it’s just him filling me up again, and then pulling out. He gets into a rhythm and then it’s just a matter of waiting for him to come. Once or twice years ago I reacted to him, physically, but my cock doesn’t get hard anymore, not even if he plays with me. He says I’ve been neutered. Could be. What do I care?
    I’m careful not to think when he’s fucking me, though, because sometimes I suspect that he can read my mind, and when he’s fucking me he’s got me vulnerable. He’s brilliant at finding things that hurt, at wrecking good memories, memories of my life before, of my parents, of anything. I’m especially careful to never think about Taff. Taff was the only person to ever kiss me, and I’d like to keep it that way, so I don’t think about it or him when Esteban’s around, which is pretty much always. My memory of Taff’s kiss is clean, as nothing else is. Sometimes I have nightmares about Taff, but when you don’t talk, you don’t cry out in your sleep. Besides, I won’t sleep when Esteban’s in the room, and Che’s never said anything as far as I know.
    Esteban doesn’t kiss me; occasionally he will make me suck him off, but he’s not big on that, for some reason. Maybe because even though I’m scared shitless of him, I still have all my teeth. I haven’t got the guts to bite him, but maybe he’s just that little bit unsure. If anything