The worst month of your life started as the best month of your life. "We're honeymooning in Colombia" you told everyone. "We hear it's so beautiful and fun."

It was a magical honeymoon: dinner, dancing, drinks, romance, five star hotels and no expense spared...and every minute of it you became more and more conviced—as if you hadn't been 100% conviced before—that Kat was the perfect woman, the love of your life.

Cartagena, sunset: You walk down the beautiful colonial alleys, the buildings covered in bouganviliea and painted bright colors. Kat runs ahead of you, her sundress wisping in the wind, one hand holding down her hat, as she laughs into the air. That woman is the love of my life you think.

San Andrés island, noon. The tropical turqouise waters lap quietely. Kat is sitting on the lounger next to you. She's reading a novel, absorbed by the plot. Her strawberry blonde hair tangled from the salt, sweat, and breeze. Tan lines slowly forming under her red bikini. That woman is the love of my life.

San Andrés island, midnight in your 5-star hotel suite. You lay on the bed as Kat straddles you, riding you. She's wearing a white nightie that clings to her perfect perky C-cups. Her cheeks are flushed from the 3 cocktails she had at dinnertime. She was always a lightweight. Her hands dig into your chest as she rides you, illuminated by the soft light from the hotel courtyard. She closes her eyes, focusing on your dick, moving her ass slowly up and down your shaft. You know not to talk right now. Not when she's this close. Her lips part, she lets out a soft "oooh" sound as her whole body trembles. That woman is the love of my life.

Bogotá, 3am. You stumble out of the salsa club, laughing. The bouncer is happy to hail you a cab, especially after the amount you just spent on table service. "I never knew you could dance like that!" you say. "There's a lot about me you don't know", she answers, giggling.

"Hey, remember New Years when we started dating?" she says with a grin. "No, Kat...not here!"

She grabs your hand and pulls you into the alley behind the club. She kisses you briefly as her hands undo your fly in seconds. Seconds later she's squatting in front of you, her minidress riding up her strong thighs and ass as she takes your dick into her mouth. You look down at her. God she looks pretty. God, she's beautiful. God, she's such a good cocksucker. That woman is the love of my life.

warning, this is where it gets a little dark

The last four days of your vacation were a whim of yours but Kat was happy to play along. A visit to a coffee plantation up in the mountains. Kat was more of a tea drinker but you had always been a coffee nerd, and she thought your excitement was cute. And the landscape was beautiful.

What happened next is something you'd rather never think of ever again, except you'd be forced to repeat it, write it, narrate it half a dozen times at the US Embassy in the next few days. How your land cruiser slowed down for a fallen tree in the middle of the road. The white van that pulled up next to you. The nervous look on the driver's face as the five guerrilleros stepped out.

"Don't worry señor, they just want a bribe for pass through"

The guerrillero, bandanna covering the bottom of his face, peering in the drivers side window. The driver reaching into the glove compartment, rifling through the papers looking for the bribe money. The guerrillero, waiting impatiently, looking back at the passengers. He looks at you. He looks at Kat. He looks at Kat.

"Un momento" says the driver as he fumbles in the glove compartment, unaware that the guerrillero has all but lost interest in the bribe.

"No te preocupes" says the man. His eyes are locked on Kat.

The blur of the next few seconds are seared into your mind. The door of the Land Cruiser opening violently. The man's hand on Kat's arm, pulling her out of the car. Kat looking back at you, saying your name. Her face. The look of paralizing fear. You jump out of the car, and immediately feel cold metal of the butt of an AK47 smashing into your left orbital. There's a sickening crunch as the bone fractures and you pass out.

The people from the Embassy were nice. They found you a room at the Hilton, which was comfortable. They checked in on you every day. They were kind, but clinical.

"In cases like these, the abductee is returned about half the time."

"Our best hope is if they ask for a ransom."

"We're doing the best we can."

By week 4, your life had settled into a dull routine of...waiting. Your job had given you a leave of absence. The Hilton staff, so accomodating at first, had started to think of you as a sort of nuisance. Your glum demeanor seemed to spread whatever space you were in, and they had started just bringing your food to your room. Most of your friends had stopped calling to check in on you, which was just as well--it's not like you wanted to talk. Her parents still wouldn't speak to you.

The caller ID was unexpected. It was your old hotel in Bogotá. The small luxury one. The one where you slept next to Kat for the last time. You pick up, already annoyed at what you assume will be an insensitive call asking for a review on TripAdvisor.

"Yes, hello"

"Mr Williams?"

"Yes. What is it."

"Oh hi sir. This is Guillermo at Casa Azul."

"Yes. What do you want."

"Uh, sir. Your wife is here."

"...what?"

"Yes sir. She was dropped off this morning."

The next few months were a combination of relief, joy, and sadness.

Joy to be together, and back home, and far away from that godforsaken counry.

Sadness at the fact that Kat would not talk about her time in Colombia. To you at least: the State Department debriefed her extensively, but you knew as little about her time away as the day she was taken.

Joy at touching her hand next to you at night. Cuddling her.

Sadness at wondering if things would ever be the same again.

Joy at opening the closet and seeing her shoes, her clothes, her perfume.

Sadness when you saw the box of her cartegan chic hat, purchased specifically for your honeymoon.

Joy when she agreed to go to couples therapy.

Sadness when she refused to say a word.

Joy when, in the middle of the night, she asked to have sex with you.

Joy at feeling your new wife underneath you, the body that you knew so well, her gentle breathing as you penetrated her and claimed her.

Sadness and not wanting to think about what might have happened.

Joy during all those hours in the day—more and more every week—that seemed normal.

Sadness at the fact that despite how normal she acted, there was something you didn't know.

You developed an obsession with Colombia. The story had leaked to the press, and Kat's return had turned her into a very minor celebrity. You started frequenting colombian tabloids online, forums, searching for clues about what might have happened to your wife. Gringa secuestrada regresa a casa. Guerrilas que secuestraron a La Guera Kat ligadas con las FARC.

The more time passed, the weirder the stories got. Stories claiming Kat was a CIA operative. Stories claiming it was fake news, created to sow discord with the US Government.

You clicked on them all, no matter how ridiculous, looking for little bits of information or knowledge. Any insight, anything new. There was never anything, of course. There wasn't anything to know. Just comments about the guerillas, or gringos, the occassional comment about how hot Kat was. But never any news.

Until one day you saw a comment that you'd never seen before. No se confundan. Hasta le gustaba. And next to the comment, a link. The video (pm me for source) opened on a new page and you felt a knot in your stomach instantly. You start to hyperventilate as you watch the action on the screen: there she is, Kat. On her hands and knees, surrounded by colombian men.

oh god

It's kat, of course it is. But it's not quite Kat. Her eyes look different. Is she on drugs? She's not fully there but she's not fully not either. She's not being forced either. She's into it, although in a way wholly unlike the wholesome sexy cute wife of yours. It's her, but it's not.

You watch. You can't help. But... you also listen. You listen to her moan. She says something you can't hear. You put your headphones on and increase the volume. You rewind to the section where she speaks:

Duro. Más duro

It rings in your ears. You're not the most fluent spanish speaker on earth but even you know what that means: harder. Give it to me harder.

Oh god. It looks like she enjoyed it. And you can't stop looking.

Phew! I doubt anyone made it that far but thanks for reading it in case you did. To be honest I'm not quite sure what I really want to do with it. Maybe discuss it or brainstorm what might happen or even what happened with the guerillas in colombia. I kinda just started ~running~ writing, Gump-style.

So if you like it, holler.

Limits: Violence/pain. Non-con (dubcon YES, noncon NO). Bathroom. Incest.