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gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot · 10 months ago

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Chapter 12 Nemo dat quot non habet (No one gives what they do not have) - Benidorm part 3

Next, Cartagena

Warnings: Smut and I'm sure lots of typos that I missed

Taglist: @glitterypirateduck @letsreadallday @jamesrifftapes @sofasoap @mmyrrhh

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‘‘Was that Price? Did anything happen?’’ Johnny’s voice sounded concerned when Simon hung up the phone, but the sly grin on the scarred lips of the Lieutenant made him relax right away and smile. ‘‘Shit, what did’yae do?’’

‘‘Exploding cigar’’ Simon chuckled, grabbing his glass of beer to take a sip, face mask hooked under his chin and the hood of his hoodie covering his head and most of his face, leaning back in the chair. Like always, it was too small for him, but he felt so satisfied and content in that moment that he didn’t care.

They were sitting at what Christine had called a chiringuito, which seemed to be a bar next to the beach, with good food and sometimes music. It was right by the building where they were staying, at the apartment that they had rented even before leaving the UK, not trusting the CIA arrangements in the slightest.

And in spite of all, as both men observed the girls having a good time, dancing… life was good. Gabi’s laughter could be heard over the music as she twirled following Christine’s guide. There were plenty of people dancing, and the music was at times too loud, but life was good.

‘‘Yer an awful piece of shite’’ Johnny was laughing, imagining Price’s face, and Simon just grinned, his dark brown eyes following Christine and Gabi as they danced. Carefree, duty forgotten for the moment. Even though she was wearing her face mask after finishing dinner, Christine seemed to be laughing and enjoying herself. Gabi was beaming too, as they both danced to the music, whatever it was.

‘‘He put glitter in my gloves, it’s fair payback’’ Simon justified himself, shrugging, still grinning, and Johnny just burst into laughter. The girls were making their way back to the table, chatting among themselves, and he straightened up a bit in his chair, looking for the blue that he wanted to see.

‘‘Eeeeh, guapa (Hey beautiful)’’ Someone slurred from the neighbouring table, and both him and Johnny tensed up. Simon covered his lower face again with the face mask, turning to look at a small group of men that had been ogling and trying to chat women up the whole time they had been there. When Gabi had gone to the toilet they had tried to talk to her, but she had ignored them. When Christine had gone to the bar counter to order food and drinks, one of them asked her something that she plainly ignored when she came back.

It seemed they still hadn’t got enough rejection to get the clue.

‘‘Eh, cabrón (Hey motherfucker)’’ Johnny called out to them in his broken Spanish, grabbing Gabi’s waist to pull her onto his lap. ‘‘Mi novia, cállate (My girlfriend, shut up)’’

Christine sat calmly beside Simon, in silence, trying to avoid looking at the other table. Slowly, he threw his arm around the back of her chair as usual, waiting for what he knew was coming next.

‘‘¿Y esa qué, es tuya también? (And what about that one, is she yours too?)’’ Another of the men laughed, pointing at Christine, but his face dropped when Simon leaned in, his dark eyes as unforgiving and stern as ever. His arm fell slightly between the back of the chair and her body, and his enormous hand came to rest on her waist, dragging her closer.

‘‘No’’ Ghost answered coldly, with the low, gravelly voice that promised nothing good would happen if they continued on that path. ‘‘Es mía (She’s mine)’’

He felt her body melt into his side, but he kept staring until the men turned around and decided to pay attention elsewhere. Gabi was cooing something in Johnny’s ear, but his friend was looking at him, with a smile half amused and half surprised.

‘‘Ye bastard, ye speak Spanish!’’ He laughed, slapping his shoulder and making Gabi bounce on his lap with his laughter. ‘‘But you told Alejandro in Las Almas…’’

‘‘I said nothing in Las Almas’’ Simon corrected, leaning back in his chair again, but bringing discreetely Christine’s body back with him, reluctant to let go. If he had to act like an alpha male to the whole fucking bar, so be it, as long as she was left alone. ‘‘You told Alejandro you didn’t speak Spanish. I said nothing’’

‘‘Oooh, yer an asshole’’ Johnny was still laughing heartily. ‘‘All those times Ale and Rudy were talking in Spanish in front of us ye understood everything’’

‘‘Not everything’’ Simon admitted, and then looked down at Christine, to find her blue eyes on him. ‘‘I don’t really speak it, only understand part of it’’

She nodded slowly, but seemed lost in thought. Gabi decided in that moment to speak up.

‘‘Johnny and I are going to visit a couple of bars before going back to the apartment, do you want to come?’’

‘‘No’’ Both Simon and Christine answered at the same time, and looked at each other for a second before she added. ‘‘I prefer to go back to the apartment, to be honest. I’m drained’’

‘‘Not interested in going clubbing’’

‘‘Yer loss’’ Johnny grinned, standing up with Gabi in his arms, and kissed her before setting her down on her feet. Then, he bent down to kiss Christine’s covered cheek. ‘‘Behave yerselves, don’t do anything ah wouldn’t’’

‘‘Get lost, you wanker’’ She laughed, and waved them goodbye as they left the bar, holding hands.

Even with the loud music and the chattering of the other patrons around them, the silence between them was deafening.

‘‘When did you learn Spanish?’’ Christine looked up at him, and for a second she saw something in his eyes that made her doubt and regret her question. A flash of pain, or maybe anger, and amusement.

‘‘In another life, lovie’’ Simon answered, gently, and with his free hand brushed back a strand of her hair. ‘‘I’ll tell you about it sometime’’

‘‘Does it… have to do with that story you said you’d tell me…?’’ She almost leaned into his touch, her eyes closing, and he smiled under his mask.

‘‘It does’’ Looking around, he decided he had had enough human interaction for the day. ‘‘What do you say we go back to the apartment and watch something on the telly? A movie, or whatever. While those two are whoring around’’

‘‘Don’t say it like that’’ Christine laughed, standing up, and smiled down at him. ‘‘But I like the idea of watching a movie. I hope the sofa is more comfortable than the one in the common room’’

Simon grunted his approval as he stood up, watching with satisfaction how the men in the neighbouring table cowered when they saw his size. Sometimes, being that big was an advantage. With his hand on the small of her back, barely touching her, he guided her out.

The building door was close enough to not really have time to talk about anything, and when they took the stairs up instead of the lift, as always, they kept their comfortable silence. The apartment came with two copies of the keys, one that was in Gabi’s possession, and the other Christine used to open the door.

Maybe it was not as luxurious as the CIA apartment had pretended to be, but the apartment they chose looked cozier. With two bedrooms, one bathroom, an open plan kitchen connected to the living room, and a balcony with a great view of the beach and the sea. There were faint noises coming from the neighbouring apartments.

‘‘I’m going to have a shower first’’ Christine commented, going to the bedroom the girls had claimed, the one with the king size bed, to grab her toilet bag. The other had two single beds, and Johnny and Simon had flipped a coin to choose. ‘‘I forgot how hot this part of the country is. It’ll get worse when we go south’’

‘‘Take your time. I’ll shower after you’’ Simon sat down on the sofa and turned the tv on, trying, hard, not to allow his mind to wander. She flashed him a smile when she walked past him to the bathroom and closed the door. A couple of minutes later, he heard the shower working.

He had managed to half distract himself with a metalworking contest when his phone vibrated in his pocket. A text from Johnny.

In case ye need some, condoms are in my bag. Cheers!

And the twat added a winking emoji and an aubergine. Simon felt tempted to write something snarky back, but decided to just ignore the text and return the phone to his pocket, seething. Only to find that his jeans were more strained than normal, and his cock was fucking hard out of nowhere.

He looked at his crotch, half amused and half affronted, and tried to get more comfortable on the sofa so he could… No, not working. The noise of the water coming from the bathroom made his mind start wandering, and wandering, and… He tried to focus on the metalworking episode.

In the shower, Christine was having her own problems trying to distract herself, but to no avail. It had started with her wishing he had showered before, because in that case she’d be able to smell him, right? Because that wasn’t creepy or pathetic at all.

And one thing led to another, and now there she was, biting the inside of her hand, her back against the wall, and her index finger rubbing slow, soft circles over her throbbing clit. There’s my girl. Es mía (She’s mine). Because I don’t fucking know what I would do without you either.

Christine bit back a low whimper, with her head hanging low to avoid water in her eyes, trying to imagine his voice praising her. His hands on her skin, his fingers inside her. Lovie. She really didn’t enjoy her own fingers inside her because it never felt good enough. But just thinking about one of his long, thick digits, toying with her folds, slowly sliding inside of her…

I will ruin you

Her eyes snapped open, and she bit down hard enough on her hand to mark her teeth. But she forced herself to continue rubbing her clit in small circles, thinking about Simon’s voice, about his broad shoulders, his big hands, his strong arms…

No one will want you after I’m finished with you, whore

Simon’s wide back, Simon’s dark eyes that equally undressed her and made her feel safe, Simon’s dirty blonde or light brown hair, she couldn’t decide on the colour but she was dying to tangle her fingers in it, Simon’s mouth, with that big scar that crossed his lips and the smaller ones around it, and the scars on his chin and jaw…

Who would want a marked bitch like you

Simon’s hot tongue between her legs, teasing her clit and plunging deep inside her, Simon’s meaty hips between her legs while he pinned her down somewhere, wherever, Simon’s cock, that made her mouth water just by fantasizing about it, Simon’s strong thighs that she was dying to ride…

Christine slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, too far gone for the voices in her head to ruin her this time, not this time, with Simon’s voice in her ears and the warmth of his forehead still on her forehead and…

She moaned his name. Like a whore. Like a desperate virgin. But she moaned his name as she came, harder than she had managed to come in the latest months, feeling hot water streaming down her cheeks. Salty water.

‘‘All yours’’

Simon looked up at her, startled, and for a moment, his eyes widened and his throat went dry as sandpaper.

Christine was standing there, smiling, with her hair still damp from the shower, wearing… pyjama shorts and a black t-shirt that looked enormous on her.

His t-shirt.

‘‘Where did you get that?’’ He grunted, smiling, standing up from the sofa, and she shrugged while sitting down exactly where he had been, curling up on the seat.

‘‘Mysteries of the universe’’

Simon hesitated, looking down at her and her smile. She seemed… happy. For what, he had no clue, but it warmed his heart.

‘‘We’ll talk about this later’’ He threatened mockingly, and she stuck her tongue out at him. He almost didn’t leave, but he did, before she noticed the growing strain in his jeans.

And the second he stepped into the still damp bathroom and closed the door, he felt it. Smelled it.

Her scent, everywhere. The sweet, faint scent of cherries that accompanied her whenever they weren’t deployed. He grunted while undressing, his hard cock springing free from his boxers and standing at attention, too heavy to really reach his stomach.

Inside of the shower, the scent was worse. Or better. He couldn’t decide as he washed his hair and then tried to focus on rinsing the sweat off his body, but the insistent weight between his thighs was making it difficult.

Before he knew it, his hand was around his shaft, his fingers tracing the vein on the underside, and he gritted his teeth. Her scent was making him go crazy, and as he slowly thrusted his hips forward, into his closed fist, he tried to imagine it was her hand. Her long, slender fingers around him, her body against his back, her tits pressed against his flesh, her lips on his scars.

Simon braced himself on the wall, using his forearm and dropping his forehead on the cool tiles of the shower, with a low grunt. What he wouldn’t give to shake his hesitance. What he wouldn’t give to feel her body against his, like in that goddamn dream that had made him cum in his sleep like a schoolboy.

He tried to imagine her lips wrapped around him, but his fantasy soon turned into something softer, more intimate. Her hand wrapped around his cock, and his hand guiding hers, while they kissed until their tongues hurt. Her pretty little moans, like the moan she had let out a couple of months ago in the gym while lifting weights and that had almost made him cum right there. Her giggles, like when she laughed at his jokes.

Her beautiful breasts, her thighs, God her thighs, what he wouldn’t give to have those thighs around his waist, or around his neck while getting drunk on her taste and fucking her with his tongue until she was a babbling mess underneath him.

Her voice telling him…

Simon had to bite his own arm when he suddenly came, embarrassingly soon but hard, spurting ropes of cum all over his hand and the shower wall. He growled her name.

God, what he wouldn’t give to not be afraid.

When he returned to the living room, Christine seemed engrossed on something on the TV, and when he sat down beside her, she almost jumped and fumbled with the remote to change channels.

‘‘What were you watching?’’ Simon asked, curious, trying to grab the remote and change back, but she kept it out of his reach, blushing.

‘‘Nothing! Something stupid I used to like when I was a kid’’

‘‘Well, let’s watch that’’ He shrugged, still trying to get the remote, and she hesitated.

‘‘Only if you answer something first’’

He stopped immediately and looked at her, expecting her question, but she seemed to hesitate even more. Until she sighed and looked right into his eyes.

‘‘Did you mean it?’’ When he just stared, without understanding, Christine explained further. ‘‘What you said to those idiots in the bar’’

Es mía (She’s mine). Simon’s shoulders relaxed, and his gaze softened.

‘‘I did’’

She smiled. He was still wearing a face mask, but she got rid of hers right at the door, as always, when they came back from the bar.

‘‘Ladyhawke’’ She whispered, giving him the remote, and he changed the channel back to what she was watching before, choosing the option to watch it from the start, in English. ‘‘It’s… my favourite movie since I was a kid’’

Simon smiled and raised an arm, a bit doubtful of his bold move. But she immediately moved closer, and he let his forearm rest on her shoulders as she made herself comfortable against his side.

‘‘Then I’m sure I’ll love it’’

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paulacorinna · 2 years ago

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RELATO DE UN NÁUFRAGO: EL ÉXITO PERIODÍSTICO DE GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ QUE SU PAÍS LE RETRIBUYÓ CON EL EXILIO

Por Paula Corina Hernández.

Tal como lo dice la contraportada del libro fue quizás sin pretenderlo que con esta obra Gabriel García Márquez, a sus 28 años, se descubriría a sí mismo como un gran narrador. Fue con “un prodigioso ejercicio literario, una narración escueta y vigorosa donde latía el pulso de un gran escritor”. Aun así, el Premio Nobel de Literatura tardó quince años en publicar su libro, Relato de un Náufrago. Una obra periodística que más que relatar a detalle tanto la desgracia como la suerte de un marinero en un naufragio puso en duda la honra del mismo y desmanteló uno de los casos de corrupción de la dictadura de Gustavo Rojas Pinilla, en Colombia.

Este análisis no busca ni desmeritar ni enaltecer al náufrago, tampoco relatar lo que él vivió, por el contrario, se centrará en analizar el extraordinario valor periodístico de la obra y la censura que quiso afectar la misma. El afán de su autor por ceñirse únicamente a la verdad en un país que le retribuyó su éxito con el exilio. Un libro que según Gabriel García Márquez “está más cerca de la crónica, porque es la transcripción organizada de una experiencia personal contada en primera persona por el único que la vivió. Pero que, en realidad, es una entrevista larga, minuciosa, completa, que hice a sabiendas de que no era para publicar en bruto, sino para ser cocinada en otra olla: un reportaje”.

LA HISTORIA DE ESTA HISTORIA

El 28 de febrero de 1955 ocho miembros de la tripulación del buque Destructor Caldas, de la Marina de Guerra de Colombia, cayeron al agua a causa de un golpe de viento en el mar Caribe que desplazó el contenido de contrabando que albergaba esta embarcación ocasionando una tragedia. El trayecto, que daba inicio en Mobile, Estados Unidos, no llegó con sus tripulantes a su destino, Cartagena, Colombia. Esto incursionó en una búsqueda en colaboración con las fuerzas norteamericanas del Canal de Panamá que duró cuatro escasos días, declarando a los tripulantes fallecidos. Sin embargo, un único marinero, Luis Alejandro Velasco, apareció diez días después moribundo en la playa de Urabá, al norte de Colombia.

Con las primeras entregas superficiales de esta historia surgía la interrogante de por qué a la mismísima Fuerza Naval de Colombia le sucedería un naufragio un día en que los servicios meteorológicos afirmaron que no hubo mal clima. Pero el debate, por un momento, se limitó al heroísmo del náufrago que había estado diez días a la deriva en mar abierto, donde lo único que pudo comer fue una gaviota que al final desperdició, un pescado que le fue robado por un tiburón y una raíz misteriosa.

En el libro, se pueden apreciar diversos acontecimientos de los que vivió el náufrago después del accidente, sin embargo, en el capítulo: “viendo ahogarse a cuatro de mis compañeros”, resulta inquietante pensar en qué pasó con los demás marineros. Según el relato, el único sobreviviente, habría escuchado tan solo minutos después de la tragedia, la voz de sus otros camaradas: Julio Amador y Ramón Herrera. También, logró visualizar a Eduardo Castillo y Luis Rengifo. Sin embargo, pese a estar en una balsa, no logró salvar a ninguno de sus compañeros. Aunque para no caer en injusticias, podríamos pensar que, uno; no le fue posible, o dos; si lo hubiera hecho, quizás él no habría sobrevivido, por lo tanto, no existiría esta historia.

De esta manera fue como adquirió valor periodístico en el momento en que la historia llegó a manos de Gabriel García Márquez, luego de que él desmantelara las reales causas de la tragedia. Como afirma en el prólogo, en primer lugar, estaba totalmente prohibido transportar carga en el buque, asimismo, fue el peso de la misma la que ocasionó el accidente y, por último, eran electrodomésticos de contrabando. Así que como afirma GGM “estaba claro que tanto el relato, como el Destructor, llevaban mal amarrada una carga política y moral que no habíamos previsto”.

LA RECONSTRUCCIÓN PERIODÍSTICA

Un mes después del acontecimiento, G.G.M., llevó a cabo la reconstrucción minuciosa de la historia en conjunto con el náufrago. En total, fueron veinte sesiones de seis horas diarias, donde el escritor, lanzaba preguntas capciosas para detectar cualquier incongruencia en el relato de Luis Alejandro Velasco.

Gabriel García Márquez en El Espectador (01/01/1954).

Así fue cómo convirtió la historia, en una serie de catorce publicaciones diarias coleccionables en forma de reportaje periodístico en el diario El Espectador de Bogotá, para posteriormente, en 1977, publicarse en forma de libro. Esta obra, asumía los retos de “un género híbrido entre la literatura y el periodismo en la que los aspectos estéticos y ficcionales eran elementos tan indispensables como la objetividad, la verosimilitud y el realismo” (Chillón, 1999: 185-195).

Curiosamente, fue el mismo Luis Alejandro Velasco, quien se acercó a vender su historia. Por su parte, G.G.M., sabía que el acontecimiento ya había sido cubierto por periodistas adherentes a las Fuerzas Armadas tras la larga estadía del protagonista del suceso en el Hospital Naval de Cartagena. Sin contar, al joven periodista de oposición, que se había infiltrado en el hospital.

Este reportero, ingresó disfrazado al centro médico donde se recuperaba el náufrago, con fonendoscopio, anteojos y bata, asegurando ser un psiquiatra que venía de Bogotá. Incluso, consiguió el permiso del mismísimo director del establecimiento, luego de hablar en complicados términos médicos para poder “examinar” al paciente durante 15 minutos y, pese a la reticencia del suboficial que se encontraba de guardia, a que el marinero revelara detalles de la carga de contrabando de la embarcación, logró que el náufrago, en medio de su convalecencia, le dibujara en un papel el mismo buque y que, además, pusiera su propia firma. Posteriormente -con una grave falta de ética periodística-, esos mismos dibujos fueron difundidos al día siguiente con deshonestas añadiduras en el diario El Tiempo de Bogotá.

Por el contrario, la principal intención de Gabriel García Márquez, era que el relato fuera veraz y que la extraordinaria historia pudiera ser creída por los lectores. Asimismo, una de sus inquietudes era por qué el náufrago había decidido confiarle a él lo que la dictadura le había prohibido decir. Era evidente que lo único que podía hacer el gobierno ante el relato era desmentir en un comunicado cualquier presencia de carga de contrabando, como si no hubiesen sido suficientes las vidas de los jóvenes marineros que se fueron con el mar agreste. Sin embargo, fueron los registros de algunas cámaras de los tripulantes lo que confirmó la presencia de neveras, estufas y lavadoras, dándole el voto de la verdad a la gran obra de G.G.M.

Este libro, demuestra ser un periodismo destacable, riguroso y veraz, en una de las tantas etapas de tiranía que ha sufrido el pueblo colombiano. Demuestra, además, ser la oposición a las entregas sinsabor que se realizaron del suceso, sin antecedentes, ni profundidad y demostrando ser parte de la dictadura de Gustavo Rojas Pinilla. Fue Gabriel García Márquez, quién con su gran obra destapó un caso de corrupción y que, como consecuencia, se tuvo que dar al exilio en París, donde cumplió su labor de corresponsal para el mismo medio que meses después fue clausurado. Una tristeza, para el escritor que tanto amaba su patria, verse meses después sin dinero en el extranjero, pero que por su talento y empuje logró veintisiete años después ser el Premio Nobel de Literatura.

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#Periodismo #Gabriel García Márquez #Libros #Cronicas #Colombia #París #Podcast #Radio #Bogotá #Spotify

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