Chapter 13: Miami Mothers

It was a two-day drive to Miami. Zara and Gail didn’t accompany us—Willard and Joe and family drove some sort of bus rigged out as a camper. Billie and I were kept naked. I didn’t see Connie or Debbie wear anything either. Joe and Paul took turns driving.

“Zara cured my morning sickness,” Debbie complained, “but I’m constantly in heat now. Somebody make out with me!”

“Your turn, Jackie,” Billie commanded. “I’m worn out.”

Connie was sleeping so deeply that our lovemaking didn’t disturb her. Billie fell asleep sometime while I brought Debbie to her climax. We were both sweaty and stank—so a shower was in order. Water was limited. I was familiar with the ‘shipboard shower.’ I learned that during the War. Wet down, water off, soap up, rinse. I was glad that my hair was short. Debbie put on a shower cap and after our shower I brushed her hair vigorously. It occurred to me that the shower cap was the only thing I had seen either her or her sister-in-law wear. I began asking questions while brushing Debbie’s locks.

“Master Joe likes us better naked,” Debbie said. “He says that us slaves should never wear clothes. Paul does because he is in public more. Connie and I wear only the minimum. We actually live at a nudist colony in Orlando. Zara said that In Sharpe Focus everybody is naked unless you have to wear clothes. Is that true?”

“I’m new and don’t know the rules,” I replied. “Like you, they’re all shaved for photographic reasons. I didn’t ask why.”

“Pubic hair is the difference between art and obscenity,” Debbie informed me. “Joe liked me smooth. Connie, Paul and I had electrolysis to keep us that way.”

Female spies are infamous for eliciting information from men through pillow talk. I didn’t have much to do with women after I wound up in the Ares Boys Academy—and liked it that way! Women do chatter on and on and on. With a little patience, it is easy to get women to spill secrets—if they haven’t been indoctrinated to keep secrets. The trick in interrogations is getting the subject to speak. Talk about anything. Once someone begins talking, shutting up is hard for them. It’s not unique to women—get them talking anybody will tell interrogators anything. Women talk all the time among themselves. Even in traditional societies where women are seen but not heard, among themselves women gossip. Debbie told me that her mother regarded masturbation to be a mortal sin if it were self-pleasure. That’s why Debbie and her brother were lovers—Mommy schooled them to pleasure each other. Debbie’s mother wasn’t alone. Paul and Connie’s mother went to the same church, had the same opinion on the sin of Onan. That, and no girl was good enough for their sons, no boy was good enough for their daughters. Both mothers were thrilled to see their children marry each other.

“After Daddy died, Mom moved us to Camp Bare. The joke is that there are no bears in Florida. That’s where we’re going.” Debbie concluded.

“I see you’re getting comfy with the hired help, Sis,” Joe sneered. I was beginning to guess that Joe was always sneering. “Make us some sandwiches and coffee. We’ll be stopping for half an hour.”

The coffee urn was fixed in position and easy to fill—there was a spigot and removable basket. Debbie brought out cheese and meat. There was a motorized slicer—no dangerous knives. Debbie set the slicer up for some foot-long bread rolls and began slicing them lengthwise. She had me smear butter on the halves and after four rolls Debbie reset the machine to slice meat and cheese. I quickly assembled sandwiches and Debbie drizzled mustard and other stuff on them, garnished the sandwiches with pickles, put the tops on.

“Cut these sandwiches in half,” Debbie instructed as the bus pulled over to the side. “Wait until we stop. Use the large chef’s knife.”

“Where is that?” I asked. Debbie pointed out an unexpected hidden compartment. “Thanks, I overlooked that.”

“Some spy you are, not finding a hidden compartment!” Debbie jeered.

Our bus stopped and Debbie filled coffee cups from the coffee urn’s tap. I was just cleaning up the chef’s knife when Joe stomped into the kitchen area demanding that I suck his cock. He blanched when the chef’s knife clattered into the sink.

“Sir, do I fish out your penis or will you do it for me?” I asked.

“Forget about it,” Joe grumbled as he grabbed a half sandwich. He took a big bite as Paul entered.

“We are three hours from Camp Bare,” Paul announced. “There’s a convention from Miami, so we’ll need to remain in the camper.”

“Anybody we need to talk to?” I asked.

“Yes, matter of fact,” Paul answered. “Do you know what the Mob and Cuban exiles have in common?”

“No, sir.” I admitted.

“Castro stole our country from us.” Joe stated. “These ladies from Miami will be your starting point here,”

“What a dump,” Billie remarked hours later. “Was that a barn?”

“It used to be a timber shed,” Paul said. “This place was a lumber yard, part of the penal system in Florida. When the trees were all cut down, the land was purchased by a group of sun worshipers. You won’t see many people outside It’s too cold for air baths or sunning—even here in Florida.”

“At least there’s no snow on the ground,” I said. “Even California was too cold for swimming, especially in lakes or the Pacific.”

“The pool is closed for the season,” Paul mentioned. “This isn’t much of a place because it was built back in the Twenties. There are a dozen cabins, the main hall, and the office over there. There’s a generator on site but it’s only run a few hours per day. The water tower gets filled when we run the generator. We have a well and a septic system but the old latrines are still there.”