K.W.

She was wakened by the stab of a needle, right through her pajama leg, injecting some drug.  She raised her head, and saw, in the gloom of her bedroom, several figures in black ninja costumes, wearing night vision goggles.  She got only a glance, for they stuffed a gag in her mouth, pulled a bag over her head, and twisted her arms behind her back to bind her thumbs together.  She tried to call out, tried to struggle, but it was useless.  She felt hands all over her as she passed out.

She awoke in some sort of box.  She was naked, and the gag was gone, but her thumbs were still tied, and the bag was still over her head.  Dim light filtered through the fabric and, though the air was stale, she could breathe.  The sides and lid of the box were smooth, but not metal, maybe clear plastic, since light got through.  There was hardly room for the width of her hips, and her knees were bent, with her weight on her butt and heels.  The bottom of the box seemed to be knobby bars, like the rebars they put in concrete.  She tried to shift her weight a bit, to relieve the concentrated pressure of the bars, but she could hardly move.  The top of the box was so low that it forced her to bend double, with her breasts pressed against her thighs.  She tried to squirm and get more comfortable, but there was so little room.

“The cunt’s waking up,” said a man’s voice.  There was a man, watching her, and she was naked.

A woman said, “Where’s Hassan.”

“There must be some mistake.  I don’t know anyone named Hassan.  Let me go.”

“Homeland Security doesn’t make mistakes, cunt.  Tell us where your boy friend is.”

“I’m an American citizen.  I want a lawyer.”

“You are a terrorist, cunt, and you are not entitled to a lawyer.  You were seen entering  the building with him.  Where is he now?”

“I’m not talking before I get a lawyer.”

“The boss won’t be in for a while,” said the man, “and she’s still groggy.  Set the timer on random. It’ll soften her up a bit.  Then she’ll talk.”

All was quiet for a while, while she tried to figure out what had happened to her.  These people were Homeland Security?  How had they come to suspect her?  Suddenly a jolt of electricity traveled through the bars, though her feet and buttocks.  The muscles of her legs contracted violently, throwing her head up against the lid and squashing her breasts.  In a second, it was over, and she relaxed, panting to get air through the bag over her head.  She smelled urine, her own.  A second jolt convulsed her again, making her scream mindlessly.  There was a period of rest --- minutes? — while she waited, tense, fearful, not knowing when the next jolt would come.  She tried to lift her heels off the bars, clawing with her toes at the smooth end of the box, but the next jolt, passing thorough her buttocks, slammed her heels against the bars.  She gave up and simply waited for the next shock, never knowing when it would come.  She hurt all over, especially her legs, which felt as if she had been running up the stairs of a skyscraper.

When they hauled her out of the box, she couldn’t stand.  They dragged her some distance and plopped her into a hard chair.  “Now, tell us where Hassan is.”  It was a new man.

“I demand a lawyer.  The Martha Stewart case made it clear; don’t try to cooperate, or they’ll nail you for ‘impeding their investigation.  I’m not talking until I have a lawyer present.”

“Crucify her.”  The words terrified her.  They dragged her upright and pressed her shoulders against some sort of cross bar, like a two by four.  They pulled her arms out straight and strapped her wrists to the bar.  Then they put tight straps around her upper arms, close to the arm pit, so tight her fingers tingled.  She tried to support her weight with her legs, tired as they were, but then they pulled her ankles up and apart and fastened them to the bar near her wrists.  Now part of  her weight was supported by the straps on her arms, pulling on her shoulder joints, and the other part  was supported 

by her legs, stretched apart in an obscene split.  Her hip joints ached, and the stretched muscles of her legs, so recently tortured with electricity, protested with pain.  Her pubic area was now upturned, curling her spine, which compressed her abdomen and made breathing even more difficult.  They left her there, to endure the pain.

Footsteps approached.  A man said, “Here’s one of the terrorists they rounded up last night.”

She felt a single pubic hair being pulled until it popped out.  A woman said, “I like to collect a single pubic hair from each prisoner.  I have more than a hundred, now.  Funny thing, though.  This one’s the first Muslim woman I’ve seen who didn’t have her pubic hair removed.  It’s a cultural thing.  It’s not very dark.  Do you suppose she bleaches it?”  The footsteps moved on.

At last her interrogator returned.  “Tell us where your boyfriend, Hassan, went.  Why wasn’t he in your apartment?”

“I want a lawyer.”  Suddenly her whole vulva was burning!  “Stop!  I’ll talk.  You’re burning me.  For the love of God, stop!”

Cold water sprayed over her gaping vulva, and the pain subsided.  “That was only alcohol.  If you don’t cooperate, I’ll use pepper spray, which doesn’t wash off so easily.  Now, Khadija, tell us where Hassan is.”

“My name isn’t Khadija.”

“So, it’s an alias.  You signed the lease Khadija Walid.  Your initials were over the doorbell to your apartment.”

“My name is Kathy Walton.  I live alone, no boyfriend.”

“You were in apartment 319.”

“I live in 219.”

“Our guys went up two flights of stairs, to the third floor.”

“219 is only one flight up from the lobby.  They must have come in through the basement garage.”

“Pull the bag off her head.”  Suddenly, she could see and breathe easier. “Oh, shit.  She’s a blonde.  They got the wrong woman.”

“Let me go then.  Please!”

“We can’t do that.  The press would have a field day.”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

“Take her down off the cross.”  She found herself in a heap on the floor, her strained muscles and joints unable to support her.  She lay there, crying, her eyes closed against the intense light.  She heard a whispered conversation behind her.

“We can’t let her go,” said a new voice.  “There’s no point in keeping her here for interrogation.  We’ll have to find some place to hide her, some place where she’ll never be seen by a journalist. Until we can ship her out of the country,  put her in the women’s holding cell.  Handcuff her, and blindfold her.  She’s already seen too much.”

Kathy wondered how things could possibly be worse.  She had disappeared from her apartment, and  the government was determined she should never be found.  She was suddenly a non-person, no name, no address, no family, no occupation, no future.  She was alone in some sort of prison cell.  She got some sleep, naked on the floor, and her aches and pains subsided some.  She was jolted awake by a new voice: “Wake up the new bitch.”  She scrambled to sit up, difficult with her hands cuffed behind her.  “You hungry, cunt?”  It was a woman’s voice, harsh, mean.  Actually, Kathy hadn’t thought about food, with everything else going on.  She said she was hungry.  “Eat this!”  She felt her head being pressed into a woman’s smelly crotch, the pubic hairs invading her nostrils.  “Suck my clit.  If I don’t come, you don’t eat.”

Kathy had hardly seen another woman naked, and certainly had never seen another’s clitoris.  She knew where it was supposed to be.  Holding her breath, she felt around for it with the tip of her nose.  “You got it.  Suck it.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to vomit.”

“Listen, you treasonous twat; that’s insulting, and I  don’t take insults from prisoners.  Hold her.”

Some sort of hook or clip captured the chain of Kathy’s handcuffs, and she heard a squeaky pulley as her wrists were hauled up behind her.  She managed to get to her feet, but the lifting continued, pulling her arms up behind her.  She stood on tip-toe, bent over, her breasts hanging down,  and she cried out, “You’re going to dislocate my shoulders!”

“Yes, I will, if you don’t learn to obey.  I can cause you endless pain, so you might as well get used to doing what you are told.”

Cathy felt a clamp on her left nipple, excruciating pain, and she screamed and blubbered.  “Please, please, stop it.  I’ll do anything you say.”  With a clicking sound, the pressure was released.

“Good old Vice-grip pliers.  We’ve got a box full of them.  They can be adjusted for maximum pain, and they lock in place.  Now, if you don’t do what I say, you’ll hang for an hour or so from your arms, with Vice-Grips on your tits.  Understand?”

“Yes,” replied Kathy, as tears streamed down her cheeks.  She was lowered so she could kneel, and the woman pulled Kathy’s  head back by the hair and planted a smelly vulva over Kathy’s mouth.  It was disgusting, smelly, humiliating, to suck the woman’s clit, but at last the tormentor shuddered with an orgasm and released Kathy’s head.

“Well, you can do it.  Next time, no delay, if you value your tits.  You’d better learn, cunt, that your ass is grass and I own the lawnmower.  When your nips are gone, we’ll do your clit.  Ever seen a woman with no clit?  No?  Bring Iman over here.”  There were loud sobs, probably from Iman. “Put her on her back and hold her legs up and apart, so this cunt can explore hers with her tongue.” Several hands pushed Kathy’s head down, guiding her face to Iman’s upturned crotch.  “You can’t see, so you’ll have to use your tongue.  Tell us what you find.”

“She has no pubic hair.”

“You sure?”

Kathy licked the hairless labia of Iman, going up as far as her navel, to make sure.  “I can’t find any pubic hair.”

“Suck her clit.”  Iman had stopped struggling, but she still sobbed, utterly humiliated.  Kathy did as she was told, slipping her tongue between Iman’s outer labia.  “Go ahead.  Lick her labia minora.”  Kathy explored, from the top of Iman’s vulva down to her very small, tight, vaginal opening.  She had no labia minora, only some rough areas that might be scar tissue.  “Go on, suck her clit.”

“I can’t find it.”

“Right!  She doesn’t have one, not any more, or any inner labia either.  That’s so she won’t want sex. Her vagina’s been sewed up until it’s tiny, to insure her virginity.  When she does get fucked, it’ll hurt like hell, but the man will enjoy it.  Iman’s a good Muslima.  We didn’t do that.  She had it done with a rusty razor when she was eleven.  That’s the kind of   fucked up perverts those towel heads are.”  Kathy’s head was pulled back.  “Let Iman go.  Now, listen, cunt.  If you don’t satisfy, you could end up clitless like Iman.  She gets fucked every day, but it’s up the ass.  Before you eat, you have to earn your supper.  There’s half a dozen GIs need to get their rocks off, understand?”

Willing hands tied Kathy’s ankles to the legs of a table, lying on its side.  The rail at the edge of the table top pressed against her upper thighs.  They left her hands  cuffed behind her, while they put nooses of ruber tubing over her breasts and pulled the nooses tight.  Her breasts swelled up like oranges, and she was worried they would never be the same.  They tied her breasts to something on the other side of the table top, so Kathy was bent at the hips, her breasts  not far above her knees.  “You a virgin, cunt?  I didn’t think so.  Still, it’s been a while since you’ve had sex, hasn’t it?  I’ll make it easier for you, this time, since you haven’t  learned to get juicy before dinner.”  Kathy felt some sort of lubricant being applied to her anus and pushed inside.  A tapered bottle, like a ketchup bottle or one of those European beer bottles was pressed against her anus.  “Relax.  It’s for your own good.”  Kathy tried to relax, and, to her surprise, the tapered bottle slid halfway in, stretching her anal muscles.  Fingers spread lubricant in her vulva.

The first fucker pulled the bottle out and thrust his penis in its place.  Kathy screamed as his dick drove deep into her and her buttocks were mashed by his body.  He held onto her hips  and pumped in and out.  “Gawd, that’s good,” he said as he dumped his load in her rectum and pulled out.

The next rapist grabbed her hair and told her to suck his cock.  He pulled her head up, which stretch the rubber bindings of her breasts, and as she cried out in pain, he stuffed his cock in her mouth.  She tried to satisfy him, but, while it got hard, it wouldn’t ejaculate.  Her jaws were tired, and her breast hurt, but she kept trying, even as someone else slipped his dick into her vagina and humped her doggy fashion.  She rocked back and forth and  gagged and grunted as she was stuffed at both ends.  The two guys came simultaneously, and Kathy found herself with jism in her throat and on her chin, even as more seeped out her vagina and dribbled down her inner thighs.  She swallowed and wondered how long this could go on before she got pregnant.

The next proclaimed that he was a boss niggah who just loved white cunt.  He plunged into her from behind and gyrated his hips so that his huge prod pushed her cervix from side to side.  It also rubbed her G-spot, and Kathy cried out at the unexpected sensations, but she could not enjoy it.  She reflected on the psychology of torturing prisoners, reducing her to a receptacle for men’s semen.  Though she could not see, she knew from the sounds and smells that other prisoners were being raped too.

Number five said, “Gawd! Her cunt looks like Carlsbad Cavern.  I’ll have to use her ass.”  She had learned to tolerate that now, trying to think of other things, not what was happening to her.  She imagined sunbathing at the lake.  He pulled out and ejaculated on her back.  She didn’t know why he’d do that.  Perhaps he’d watched too many porno flicks.

“Hello, Blondie,” said a soft, feminine voice.  You can’t see, but I’ve got a nice strap-on.  Eight inches long, almost three in diameter, with nice rubber fingers on it to tickle your twat.”  Kathy felt the rubber dildo slowly force its way into her, the rubber fingers plucking at her inner labia, the diameter stretching her, even more than the black man had.  “Men don’t interest me, but a cute blonde ass is just my what I like.  It takes a woman to really rape a woman.”  It was like the black man, but worse, and it went on and on, since dildos don’t go soft.  “Anorgasmic, huh, Blondie?  When was the last time you had a good orgasm?”

“I don’t think I ever had one,” said Kathy, breathlessly.  The dildo was hurting her vagina, and the nooses on her breasts were tormenting her too.

“You are gonna have to learn, Blondie.  Surely you have masturbated.  You never came by rubbing your clit?  No?  A vibrator, then?  No?  Don’t go anywhere.  I’ll be right back.”  The knobby dildo pulled out and left Kathy feeling utterly violated, her vagina stretched and punished so it gaped.

“Hello, Blondie, I’m back,” said the soft voiced woman with the big dildo.  “You look a mess, but that’s as it should be.  When we’re through with you, you will have no pride, no modesty, no hope.  You will be a slut, a plaything, and you won’t have the courage to complain.  So, you aren’t going anywhere until you have learned to have an orgasm.”  Kathy felt the woman’s hand exploring her vulva.  “Nice, puffy fig lips, the camel toe effect.  Inner ones are small.”  She slipped a couple of gloved fingers into Kathy’s relaxed vagina, while she explored with the other hand.  “I can’t see your clitoris.”  She felt around a bit more.  “You have one, but it’s completely hooded.  I can feel it though, a little ridge.  I can roll it from side to side.  Does that feel good?”  Reluctantly, Kathy admitted that it did.  She had tried masturbating by rubbing up and down, but she had never tried what the woman was doing.  “Come on, Blondie, think sexy thoughts.”  She inserted all her fingers while she continued massaging Kathy’s hidden clit.

“Oh, don’t stop,” Kathy whispered.   “Oh, God, that’s... I’ve never felt...”  Her pelvic muscles began to contract, again and again.  “Ohhhh. Aaah.”  Her knees went limp, leaving her draped over the edge of the table.  The woman withdrew her hand from the vagina and said, “I don’t think you faked that orgasm.  Well, you’ve earned your dinner, but I’d better clean you up, first.”  A strong spray, like she used to wash her car, sluiced the cum off  Kathy’s back, and then the nozzle was inserted into her abused vagina to flush it out.  After the first surprise, the unfamiliar sensations, she found it sort of nice.  The woman then directed the strong spray so that it blasted the hooded clitoris, and Kathy screamed as she had a second orgasm.  How could pain and an orgasm coincide?

The woman  untied her from the table, removed the tit torturing rubber nooses,  and returned her to the holding cell, here the other prisoners were already eating.  “Here, drink this.”  She put a glass to Kathy’s lips and made her drink a shot of whiskey.  “Islam forbids drinking alcohol, so we force them to sin.  You don’t seem to mind whiskey, so what’s the point?  In future, I’ll drink your shot.”  She released Kathy’s  hands, so she could eat, but warned her not to remove the blindfold.  She was given a plastic bowl, no spoon, with what seemed like mashed potatoes.  “There’s enough milk in it for nourishment, and we always add some pork fat to piss off the Muslims.”  When she finished eating, her hands were cuffed again.  She found there was a toilet, but of course she couldn’t wipe or wash with her hands behind her back.  It was clear to her that there must be six or more women in the cell, just from counting the trips to the toilet.  She found a blanket or something on the floor and was drifting off to sleep when the mean one, the woman with the Vice-Grips came in.

“Cunts, there’s a new bitch here.  You can’t see her, but you will all get to know her.”  Guards grabbed Kathy’s ankles and tied them, raised and apart, so her buttocks were well off the floor and her weight was on her arms behind her back.  “You know the drill, cunts.  Iman goes first.”  Kathy felt Iman’s

breath on her exposed vulva.  She felt the clitless girl’s tongue slithering along her labia.

“She has no clitoris,” said Iman.

“That’s not what I heard.  Make her come, or I’ll whip your ass.”“   Iman’s lips pressed against the smooth membrane covering Kathy’s clit. kissing, sucking, using her tongue.  “Keep at it until she comes,” barked the mean one.  It took a long time, the slow build up.  Kathy tried to imagine it was Brad Pitt or some other hunk who was doing her, not a strange Muslim girl.   Kathy did come, writhing and coating Iman’s face with pussy juice.  Iman did not pull away.  Probably one of the guards was holding her face against Kathy’s crotch.

“No pleasure without pain, around here,” said the mean one as Iman was pulled away.  Kathy felt a stinging blow, from something like a hose or electrical cable.  It landed on her vulva, just missing the hidden but very sensitized clit, and the end whipped around and smacked the anus.  Kathy screamed.  A second blow came from a different angle and did hit her clit.  The sound Kathy made was unreal, like the sound effects of a horror movie.  “Listen, cunt, the rule is: no screaming.  You’re going to get whipped until you take five without a whimper.  Understand?”  The next blow slashed across Kathy’s breasts, the end of the whip biting her right nipple.  She gritted her teeth and moaned.  She got three more across  her upraised buns and two to her inner thighs, but she suppressed the screams.

“OK, next.”  Another face was pushed against Kathy’s bruised labia and the cunnilingus began again.  Even though her vulva was bruised and sore, her battered clit seemed even more sensitive than before, and she writhed and came again.  That was followed by five more blows, to her thighs and belly, somehow missing her clit.  Perhaps she was already doped up with endorphins;  Kathy clamped her mouth shut and stayed silent.

The next cunnilinguist seemed curious and explored Kathy’s genitals with her tongue, trying to probe the vagina, sucking on the inner labia, and finally going for the passion button.  Kathy responded from the first touch of the tongue and was on the edge by the time the woman finally got to tonguing her clit.  The orgasm left her exhausted and groggy, which was just as well, because the subsequent whipping was aimed at her breasts and belly.  Maybe the guards were taking turns, and each had a different choice of target.

The mean woman squatted over Kathy’s face, nearly choking her with her ass, as she demanded that Kathy eat her.  Kathy tried, even as she was eaten by some anonymous prisoner, but she didn’t have an orgasm.  When the mean one was satisfied, and Kathy’s face was covered with juices, the other woman was still trying to make Kathy come.  Someone whose hands were not cuffed, a guard most likely, began to knead Kathy’s breasts.  “Don’t,” she moaned, “you’re hurting...AAH!  Oh, God!”  Her body writhed, and the mean one said, “We may just have a real pain slut here.”  Following that orgasm, Kathy received her five strokes on her butt and the backs of her thighs.

Four more women ate her out, a total of eight, and Kathy was covered with welts, front and back, from her waist to her knees, plus her breasts.  “Sleep well,” said the mean one.  Kathy knew she couldn’t.  There was no way to lie down which did not put pressure on her bruises.

Several minutes went by in silence.  Then someone said, “I think they are gone.”

“I’ll bet there are microphones and surveillance cameras.  You want to take the chance?”

“Yes.  New bitch, get your ass over here and make me come.”  Kathy tried to resist, but even with their hands cuffed, the other prisoners were able to compel her do what they had done to her.  Only four wanted it, four who still had clits, though one had had her labia trimmed back.  Kathy had no idea who they were; they mentioned no names.  “It’s better, whispered one, if you don’t know names, don’t make friends.  If they think you like someone, they’ll make you hurt her.”

In the morning, they were fed stale bread and tepid water.  Then Kathy was cuffed with her  hands above her head, with the chain through the bars, so that she was on display.  She assumed the other women were similarly displayed.  They could hear muffled noises from the men’s part of the prison, muffled shouts, screams of pain.  It was very unnerving.  Then she heard men’s voices, there in the cell.  “This is the one from yesterday, eh?  Aren’t there two more?”

“They are still being interrogated.”

“Ah, yes.  Pull their teeth, if you must, but remember, no torture.”  There were laughs.  “This one,” he said, as he squeezed Kathy’s breasts, “seems to have had some sort of accident.”

“Ah, last night, when they were supposed to be sleeping, the prisoners, uh, had their way with her.  We have it on video tape, if you are interested, Sir.” 

“Which prisoners?”

“That one, that one, that one, and that one.  The others were, uh, passive accomplices.”

“We can’t have prisoners showing signs of initiative.  Well, you know the rule: do unto others as they do unto others.  I think twenty strokes of the cane for each.  Careful not to mark their faces.” 

Kathy listened, fascinated, horrified, as the women she had sucked last night were caned.  Each stroke was clearly audible, whap!  Each stroke was counted out, four times twenty.  Sometimes the punished prisoner managed to keep silent, but some groaned or screamed of pleaded for mercy or called out “Allahu akbar!”, god is geat.

“Any other unfinished business?” said the man, who all the while had been squeezing Kathy’s bruised breasts.

“There was the matter of the forced cunnilingus.”

“The same ones?”

“Yes.”

“Pepper spray, tits and twat, and leave ‘em trussed up like that to enjoy the warmth.  Take the rest of ‘em to the exercise room.  We don’t want them getting flabby or sick, do we?”  Kathy and the others were unchained, recuffed behind, and led away, while the chosen four writhed and screamed and wept, imploring God in English and Arabic and Pharsee to relieve their suffering.

The morning exercise seemed to be a woman thing, no males.  Kathy was led to a treadmill.  Since she could not steady herself with her arms, they being behind her back, the mean woman put nooses on Kathy’s breasts and fastened them to the handholds.  Her treadmill, and four others, started up, humming along at an easy walking pace.  Kathy soon learned to match the speed and minimize the tension on her breasts.  However, the treadmills began to tilt, so she was walking uphill, and things got more difficult.  She could hear the other women, too, breathing hard, their feet slapping on the rubber belt.  Occasionally there would be a yelp of pain as one slipped; they were probably all tethered by their tits.  Just when Kathy felt she must collapse, tearing her breast off, the treadmill slowed down and went back to level.  The nooses on her breasts were untied from the handholds but left in place.  Her breasts throbbed in protest.

“That’s enough lower body exercise for now.  Time to work on the pecs and abs and arms.”  The voice was unfamiliar to Kathy.  She was uncuffed and made to sit on a horizontal pole, belted down with a lap belt, and made to grasp a vertical bar. Blindfolded, she had no idea what it was, until the voice said, “Time to pump water, cunts.  Push back and forth to pump the water, full strokes, until you fill your tank.  As you know, there’s a leak, so if you don’t keep working hard, you’ll never fill the tank.  And you know what that means, disobeying an order.” Kathy pushed and pulled on the bar, sort of like a vertical oar.  There was a lot of resistance and slurping sounds.  She couldn’t use her legs, only the muscles above the lap belt.  She had to bend at the waist and  lean into it, extending her arms as far as she could, then lean back and pull on it, pulling the bar right back between her breasts.  Soon her arms, her back, her abdominal muscles and, yes, her pectorals, underlying her breasts, were all aching with fatigue.  She was slowing down, wondering how much longer she could keep up the pumping, and whether she was, in fact, actually filling her tank, when a hand tapped her shoulder.  “OK, cunt, you’re done.  You came in first.  Did you work hard?”

“Yes, I tried.”

“The sin of pride.  Just wait here until the others are done.”  She had no choice, of course.  The curvature of the pole  pressed on her bruised buttocks, but it was bearable.  She might have tried to loosen the nooses on her breasts, as her hands were free, but she didn’t dare.  Surely the guards were watching.  “OK, cunts, you’ve had your physical conditioning.  Now it’s emotional conditioning time.  You will be put on display before a large group of men and women.  Today’s entertainment is the merry-go-round.  As a ‘reward’ the first  cunt to fill her tank  get to ride it, and the rest of you get to pull it.”  Kathy, who was first, knew she was to ride it, whatever that meant.

The prisoners had their hands recuffed behind their backs and were led some distance to large room.   Kathy  heard as they approached  the murmur of many voices.  She guessed it might be a dining hall or a gymnasium, perhaps a basketball court, judging from the acoustics. As she entered, the first of the five, the noise volume dropped, but for some low whistles.  “Now, now, you know the rules, no signs of appreciation.  These cunts are here to lose their pride, their modesty, and their hope, so treat them accordingly, as the terrorist trash they are.  Take this one and put her on a horse. Harness the others to pull it.”  Kathy felt herself being lifted by many strong, male hands.  Some groped her breasts and vulva.  One remarked that she must be a natural blonde, judging from her pubic hair.  They sat her on the saddle of a wooden horse and strapped her ankles to its flanks.  It was, as far as she could tell, like a standard merry go round horse, except for one thing.  In the middle of the saddle was an upright knobby dildo, which was planted firmly in her vagina.  Well, at least they took the nooses off her breasts, and the ache, as the circulation was restored, took her mind off  the fact that perhaps a hundred horny men and women were watching her, naked, astride a dildo.

The soft spoken guard said, “Lift her up a minute.”  Men lifted her by her shoulders and breasts. “Here, Blondie, this will help.”  As they lowered her, Kathy could feel that  something soft and rubbery

had been placed over the dildo, tapered, to stretch the vestibule of the vagina, and with an extension that curved upward, spreading her labia and pressing on her hidden clitoris.

Some of the men chuckled.  The last one who rode that thing was damn near destroyed.  It nearly rubbed her clit off.” — more laughter.

 

There was the crack of a whip.  “Alright, ponies, pull the cart.” Loud circus-type music drowned out the response of the crowd, as the horse lurched forward.  Kathy had nothing to hold onto, but the dildo anchored her in the saddle, so she couldn’t fall off.  The horse was on wheels, and the wheels were not round.  As it gained speed, the horse bucked, up and down, back and forth, so strongly that Kathy might have been shaken off, except that the dildo, pressing against her pubic arch, then against her tail bone, kept her from sliding in the saddle, and the extension, distending her vulva, rubbed the membranes which covered her clit, rolled it back and forth, sent electric tingles through her, even as her vaginal muscles clamped onto the squirming dildo.  She slipped into a dreamlike state, where she heard herself vocalizing as she went into a sort of sensory overload, a kind of continuous orgasm which stirred her insides, even as her vagina was stretched and bruised beyond comprehension.  For the first time she could remember, her natural vaginal lubricating fluid gushed with each contraction of her vagina. coating  her inner thighs where they rubbed the saddle.

When it was over, they lifted her off the horse and left her collapsed on the floor.  Then she was half dragged to a shower room.  Apparently it, too, was public. Each woman was given an enema, made to hold it, and then made to expel it, to the comments of an appreciative audience, a kind of ultimate humiliation.  Kathy was last, as she could barely stand.  Then the women were made to shower, to instructions like, “Soap your tits.  Lift ‘em, squeeze ‘em, pull on you nips.  Soap your cunt.  More.  Harder. Spread your lips with the soap.  Shove it in and let the guys see how big you are, cunt.  Now, turn to the prisoner next to you and shove it up her ass.  Last one to lose her soap gets an extra one up her ass.”   The audience laughed and joked about the cunts who were getting what they deserved.  Some of the women reacted strongly to the soap in the rectum, and they all got another enema to get rid of the soap.  The guards made a game out of it, measuring how far the bar of soap flew when the bent over woman forced it through  her stretched anus.  The audience was all adults, but they surely liked  bathroom humor.

Dripping wet, the prisoners were taken back to the holding cell, where the four pepper sprayed women still groaned, still chained to the bars.  The four were taken away, and the wet women dried off by standing around, afraid to speak.  Kathy had lost all trace of modesty; what was left to hide?  She knew the Muslim women, who were convinced they would burn in hell if a male, not a relative, ever saw them uncovered, suffered worse than she did.  Clearly, their exposure not only humiliated them, it convinced them that they were doomed to hellfire; there was no hope, nothing to be proud of.

Two new prisoners were brought in.  Then, before dinner, the scheduled  gang-rape.  This time, Kathy was  bent backward over the table, her legs spread, her breasts up thrust, her handcuffed arms painfully pulling her shoulders  toward the floor. She had to fellate some guy, her head upside down, and she gagged when he ejaculated in her mouth.  The second rapist tried to fuck her ass, but penis wasn’t long enough to really  penetrate when that orifice was closest to the table.  He settled for fucking her vagina and ejaculating in her pubic hair.  Three women worked on her as a team.  One stuck a freshly peeled ginger root into Kathy’s anus, where it burned her mucus membranes.  Another concentrated on her breasts, kneading them, playing with her nipples, pulling them up, away from her chest, or pushing them in, as if to turn them inside out.  Strangely, Kathy’s as breasts became sensitive, the effect was almost pleasant, even as it was sometimes painful.  The third woman slipped a short, thin vibrator, bullet shaped, into Kathy’s vagina and moved it around, massaging the vaginal walls.  Then she gave up on that, leaving the buzzing thing inside, and she began to beat on Kathy’s labia with the bowl of a spoon.  With her legs spread as they were, and the dildo inside her, her outer lips easily moved aside with the blows, so the bowl of the spoon struck the pinkness inside.  Without even looking, the woman aimed where the clitoris would be, perhaps expecting howls of pain, but Kathy’s hooded clit, the clit she hadn’t known she had, responded nicely.  Juices flowed, her body tensed, her breathing rate increased, until her orgasmic contractions shot the vibrator out, onto the floor.  Then the three of them made her do the cunnilingus thing on them.

“Hey, Blondie, I can see by the wet that you are getting the hang of this.  You’ve got to learn to be a slut, or else you won’t be able to bear what happens to you.”  With that, Kathy’s “personal trainer” pulled the ginger out and fingered the hidden clit until Kathy came again.

After dinner, the new prisoners were eaten out.  Kathy, of course, did her part.  It had ceased to be sexy; it was just a ritual, there, in the darkness of her blindfold, lapping at the cunts of two some nameless women.  She appreciated the hygienic advantage of their being hairless.

Over the next few days, the cell filled up, a total of fifteen women.  The smell was constant, unpleasant, and unavoidable.  They could not sleep except against another woman’s naked body.  The daily ritual was much the same, except for the public entertainment.  One time, the women had to crawl on the floor, until they found an upright candle, not lighted, then squat and take it into their vagina, then another and another.  Iman, of course, could not even accomodate one in her infibulated vagina, but she got two up her ass.  Another time, the women were made to compete in a tug of war, no hands, with the rope attached to a peg in the anus.  Iman could participate in that.  Once the women were paired off and made to wrestle to a submission on a plastic sheet covered with lard, pig fat, of course, for the Muslims.  The loser got a sound thrashing in public.  Once they staged a race across an array of electrified wires.  Every woman, at some point, fell and writhed on the floor as the electricity convulsed  her body.  One had to be treated for a heart attack; they used a portable defibrilator.  In short, the women’s lot was not a happy one.  As far as they could tell, the male prisoners fared no better.

Kathy would have slipped into deep depression, but for two things.  Whenever she was whipped, caned, the pain seemed to tune up her system, make her feel more alive, and since she was often caned or paddled or strapped once or twice a day, apparently just for the spectators’ amusement, she had a lot to be thankful for when it stopped; her depression was beaten out of her.  The other factor was the daily rape.  She found her vagina would get wet, even before they bound her in some painful, humiliating position.  While she never much cared for oral sex, she found the repeated penetration of her bottom holes, sometimes both at once, resulted in involuntary arousal, and if there was the slightest pressure on her hidden clit, she’d have an orgasm, or two, or three.  The guard who called her Blondie was always there to make sure her pet slut responded properly.  Once, as an experiment, she had Kathy fucked by a machine, and Kathy lost count of her orgasms.  She sure slept well that night.

Then, one day, after the exercises and shower, there  was no public humiliation session.  The women were issued loose jumpsuits and then, when they were clothed for the first time since their arrests, they were handcuffed again.  Still blindfolded, they were herded into an enclosed truck and driven to an airport, a military one, where they were unloaded on the tarmac.  “You will be going on a long flight.  You will be blindfolded and handcuffed, also shackles on your feet.  If you have to urinate, just do it where you sit.” 

Kathy could hear turboprop engines as she climbed the ramp of a cargo plane.  The one who called her Blondie belted her in the canvas sling seat and chained her bare feet.  “Ma’am, permission to ask a question?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m not supposed to know, and not supposed to tell, but I’m pretty sure you’re going to a military prison in Algeria.  If they think we’ve sent them a terrorist, or a political undesirable, she may be tortured, even executed.  Of course, that’s not our concern; you’ll be out of US jurisdiction.  In your case, I wouldn’t worry.  They’ll keep you alive.  They love to fuck blondes.” 

--- end ---