Abigail's Ordeal
Part 1: Abigail's Capture
Abigail was a struggling reporter from the USA, posted by her newspaper to
some godforsaken country in the middle of nowhere, where nothing much
happened that would ever make even an inch of column space back home.
Even the terrible human rights abuses were of no interest to editors who had
tastier tales from the "Axis of Evil" and such examples to chase. Africa was
nothing to them, a non-entity unless the event was too big to be ignored.
"Disappearances" of trade-union agitators and women's rights protestors were
a part of the background noise not just from this part of the world, but from
everywhere, it seemed sometimes.
The indifference of the people of the "Land of the Free" to what was going on
here had soured Abigail's outlook on her profession and her life. A few
months ago, she had decided that, in between writing up the daily releases
made by the military oligarchy on behalf of their appointed dictator, she would
start to do something about the injustices she saw every day meted out to
members of her sex. Only her obvious American heritage and her press
credentials protected her from the same treatment, and that only worked in the
day. She would never have dared to go out at night before she joined the
Revolutionary Women's Freedom Party. Some of the Marxist texts espoused
by these resistance fighters she found disturbing and contrary to the ideals that
she believed upheld the greatest democracy in the world, but she could not
deny their power to mobilise a unified force for change. The politics may be
wrong, but it would have the right effect here, she was sure. Besides, even
Nelson Mandela had read Marx when he was fighting for equal rights in South
Africa - and wasn't South Africa a democracy now?
Her editor had told her three things: "Don't cause any trouble, keep your head
down, and do as they tell you - you'll be fine!" He was a lying bastard, a hard-
nosed businessman who basically considered his most junior foreign affairs
reporter as expendable. He was sending a woman into a nation with an
appalling record on its treatment of women, simply because he wanted to give
the cushy jobs to his junior male staff. Abigail's decision to sign on with the
equal-rights protests was as much a blow against the chauvinism in her own
world as the abuses in this land.
She was hardly a major player in the high-profile activities, but she was useful
to the team as a friendly ear in the media, who could write the truth about what
happened when others would take the official line, or just ignore it altogether.
Her media credentials were also useful in reaching places and information
inaccessible to her black sisters in the movement. Abigail now knew
personally many members of the top ranks of the organisations responsible for
running the campaigns.
She knew she had to be careful in how she made use of her privileged position
as a presswoman, not only because of the consequences to herself but also
for the movement as a whole, with all the information about it that she carried in
her brain.
However, when she managed to wangle an interview with the First Lady
herself, she thought she might have a good chance of persuading the fabled
woman of the justness of her cause. She would test the water with a few non-
committal questions, and then if it looked safe, she would dive in.
Dive in she did, but not in the way that she had anticipated. The First Lady,
Anagelike (pronounced AN-a-G-el-i-kay), was an attractive young African
woman, who had effectively been bought by the President as a trophy wife, the
traditional dowry system being utilised. Anagelike refused to take any form of
political view: it was not her place as the dutiful wife of the leader to do so.
But Anagelike was not 100% traditional. She had seen Abigail's appreciative
glance at the long, supple body of an African princess, and saw in those deep
brown eyes a kindred spirit. For Anagelike had discovered while still a young
girl that she preferred the bodies of girls to those of boys, and only lay with her
husband out of her sense of duty. Abigail had been with both sexes, but never
with someone as elegant and highly placed as the First Lady. To be hit on by
her, just as they were parting, was a heady experience. How could she
refuse? This was not only a once-in-a-lifetime chance, it was also tantamount
to a Royal Command!
Their fingertips lingered as they parted, and their farewell kiss, had anyone
noticed, was not cheek-to-cheek but lip-to lip. There was an exotic flavour to
the kiss of the First Lady, Abigail decided, and one that she would have to taste
properly later that night.
That night, the president was being entertained by a concubine rather than his
wife, and she was banished to her own chambers. Ferried to the presidential
palace in the first lady's state vehicle, Abigail was brought discreetly to those
chambers, dressed beneath her carefully wrapped blanket against the cool air,
only in her most revealing underwear. Anagelike was reclining naked on a soft
bed, waiting for her lover to arrive.
Hungrily they grabbed at one another, caressing and fondling each and every
curve of the other's body. Abigail realised how sex-starved she really was, for
she had too many doubts about the attitudes of the men in these parts to go
with any of them, and her friends in the protest movement were too busy or else
already partnered. The urges long pent-up could now flow free.
Abigail had no idea how it could have come about, but either Anagelike was
just naturally gifted or else she had become a skilled lover with much practice
in her short years. She took the lead and directed the unfolding encounter,
choosing when and where to use her hands or tongue, and instructing Abigail
in those matters also. It was like a conductor of an orchestra, and on their two
bodies she composed a symphony of sensation that culminated in a delicious
soixante-neuf that brought them both to climax.
As they lay in each other's arms, savouring the flavour of the moment and of
each other's mouths, Abigail raised again the subject of the women's rights
movement, "Why do you not want to be free to choose this lifestyle?"
"I have all I need here," Anagelike replied, "Why should I change it? And what I
cannot get here I seek out in people like you who need the same thing."
They parted with a promise that the next time that the First Lady needed a
female tongue, she should call on Abigail. "I'll tell my women's lib friends
about you," Abigail commented, "They'll never believe a word of it!"
* * * * *
The telephone rang in Abigail's rented house, stirring her from warm, erotic
dreams of being a white slave in an African queen's palace, commanded to
pleasure her majesty with tongue or fingers, in any way her majesty desired.
The telephone was a luxury item in this country, and most people who would
need to contact Abigail would do so by sending a messenger or coming in
person. Her editor required that she use a satellite computer link to submit
her copy, about the only thing of any value he had entrusted to her. So who
could be ringing her at dawn in Africa? She hurried to answer the phone and
find out.
"There is a tape of our meeting last night!" gasped the voice of Anagelike as
soon as Abigail had the handset to her ear, "They heard everything! You will be
arrested for treason: you must flee! Now!"
"But..."
"Go! I will survive, but you may not. Go!" And the telephone went dead.
Abigail's head was in a whirl of emotion. She had not only transgressed
against the president in sleeping with his wife, but she had revealed beyond
doubt in that encounter that she knew of the identities and whereabouts of
many women labelled enemies of the State. She wished that she had heeded
her editor's advice and stayed clear of the whole business, but it was too late to
do anything about that now. She had to get dressed and find a way out of the
city before they came for her.
She had only managed to put on a bra and panties when there was a crashing,
splintering sound from the front door. They were here already. Without
thinking, she grabbed her wallet and press ID, and ran semi-naked into the
backstreet behind the house. This was not a well-off area, but better than
most of the slums around the city; even so, there was no protection to be
offered by her own kind. The wealthy Europeans and Americans who lived
here effectively had their own city, walled in against the tide of Natives and
Barbarians that still haunted their dreams, an inherited memory of the revolt
against colonial rule.
Barefoot along the dusty street she pelted, thankful that she had managed to
stay fit and healthy, keeping up her fitness regime even here. Her long
chestnut-coloured hair streamed behind her as she ran, her supple arms
pumping, her breasts bouncing and making her wish fervently for the sports
bra that she had had to leave behind in the house.
Behind her, she could hear the booted feet of the pursuing soldiers. As she
steered her way through the grimy passageways, she knew that she was
headed deeper into the poorer areas, and people with no love and great
resentment of the white man were watching her desperate race with glee, both
at her fear and at the sight of her naked flesh.
It might have been planned that way: she had only taken a few corners from her
starting point when she took a wrong one: a police van blocked her route. She
turned to run the other way, choose another path, but already the crossroads
behind her was filled with her pursuers. Frantically, she looked about her for a
friendly face, a way out of the trap. But all around were eager eyes, anxious
only to witness the humbling of a cornered American bitch.
The police did not want witnesses to their deeds, however, and a quick
shotgun blast into the air scattered the onlookers who scurried back from their
windows and hid inside. Abigail looked desperately about her for a means of
escape. She thought that she could squeeze between the truck and the near
wall, and darted for it. It was a mistake, because it brought her within range of
the men hidden in the truck itself. One of them, a guy who might have made an
excellent defensive linebacker in America, burst from the back of the van and
tackled her, slamming her against the mud wall and throwing her to the floor.
Dust filled the hapless American's mouth and nostrils as the linebacker
expertly took her wrists and put plasticuffs on her, brutally tight and painful.
The five who had broken into her house and had chased her from there soon
caught up, and they were joined by two more men from the van. The runners
seemed to resent the chase on which Abigail had led them, for they each took it
in turns to spit in the dirt by her head until a muddy paste of saliva and dust had
formed. Then they grabbed Abigail by the hair and rubbed her face in the sticky
soup as she spluttered and gasped at their rough treatment of her. While they
did it, her ankles were plasticuffed together as well. The leader, who had run
the hardest in the chase aimed a kick at Abigail's stomach and winded her with
the fore of his steel-tipped boot. Limp from the effect of that savage attack,
Abigail could not even struggle as the soldiers hoisted her between them, and
threw her facedown onto the floor of the van. Her breasts were crushed
beneath her body, her hair splayed in tangles around her head. The eight
soldiers piled in, sitting along benches on either side of the van. There
seemed to her to be ample room for their feet, but all of them chose to place
their feet upon the prone body of their captive. Abigail didn't mind the boots on
her back or her thighs so much, but a pair from each side was firmly pressed
into her buttocks, and two more pairs were wiped in her hair and on her head,
and left there, pressing her face into the filthy floor of the van.
It was a bumpy ride and lasted well over an hour. The processing facility for
political prisoners like Abigail was well outside the city limits, and the roads
were of poor quality. The boots were firm in keeping Abigail to the floor, but
every time the road suddenly rose and the van jolted upwards, the floor crushed
ever harder into Abigail's face, bosom and body. Her nose had bled after one
particularly severe bump, and her bladder felt like it was going to burst with
each one. A wet snivelling was the only sound she could make, and her salty
tears were mingling with the dirt and dried blood matted into her hair.
Considering her destination, relief would have seemed a strange emotion for
her arrival, but Abigail did feel it, thankful to be lifted from the stinking floor of the
truck and carried into open air, however briefly it might last.
The plastic around her ankles was severed, and she was dragged from the
truck onto the ground before being hoisted bodily to her feet by two of the
guards. They frogmarched her rapidly to a metal door in the building where
they had arrived. In the bright morning light, Abigail saw only that it resembled
a large warehouse, and that there was more than one, arranged in a courtyard.
Then she was in the relative darkness of a corridor, being forced along at a
tough pace.
It was not a long walk, even so, and then they were in what appeared to be the
room where these guys spent their spare time together.
"Right, let's have some fun with this whore!" one of them started, placing a
meaty slap across Abigail's buttocks and making her jump forwards slightly,
with a gasp.
"No, I told you, this one's scheduled for the Special Compound - they want her
whole until then. And that means no poking, either!" said the senior officer,
wearing a lieutenant's emblems.
Abigail got her voice back, "Hey, you! I want to be put on the phone to the
American Embassy this minute!" she cried at the lieutenant, playing her one
high card, and hoping it was a trump.
The lieutenant snapped around to face her. He marched right up to her and
stood inches away, his face glowering down at hers. Keeping his eyes firmly
locked on hers, he held her by the throat with his right hand while is left roamed
easily to her bra and her right breast. He found no difficulty in squirming his
way under the cup, as though he had practised the move many hundreds of
times. "You arrogant Americans are all the same, always believing to the last
that the letter of the law can save you when its spirit is far away. You have no
nationality, no identity, no existence, since you entered this building. When you
are finally reported missing, we will trace you as having left the country hours
ago, and nobody will ever find you again." He squeezed hard with his fingers
gripping round her nipples, and Abigail saw the savage pleasure he took in her
expression of horror and outrage at what he did, and her terror at what his
words implied.
"This cow stinks!" he announced to those present, "Give her a good
showering." And he shoved Abigail so that she staggered backwards, unable
to keep her balance with her hands behind her back. Fortunately, there were
two of the soldiers waiting to catch her. One of them produced a knife, making
Abigail shrink away in fear. Two more came from the front.
The reason for the knife, and the two extra men, was soon clear. The knife
made short work of Abigail's bra straps while the two men had no trouble
pulling down her panties and making her step out of them. One of them went
to finger her pussy, but the lieutenant smacked his hand away: "What did I tell
you about the Special Compound? They said no touching!" Another, the guy
with the knife, was examining his prize: "Look, a D-cup, it says!" He reached
around to have a feel of Abigail's breasts. "Hmm, a little bit ambitious if you
ask me!" The eight men in the room laughed uproariously at this, "Eyes bigger
than your tits, love? Just like a Yank to buy things bigger than they can use!"
All of them wanted a go at measuring, and for a few moments Abigail's tits
were at the centre of a free-for-all, through which could be heard comments
like, "Barely even a 'B' if you ask me!" and similar suggestions as to Abigail's
correct choice of bra.
It didn't take them all long to declare that her tits were massively undersized,
and then she was being marched along another corridor and through a door
marked "Shower Room". It was exactly what it said, a room with a shower in it,
and little else that Abigail could see. A drainage hole was in the centre and the
guards shoved Abigail to stand over it. The lieutenant was last into the room,
and he threw a lever by the door. Icy water instantly sprayed down from the
ceiling in a wide circle while the soldiers, who knew intimately the properties of
the room, stood back near the walls.
Abigail clutched her arms to her chest, and shrank down to the floor to protect
her modesty and her skin from the lecherous stares and the freezing droplets.
Disgusted, the lieutenant threw the lever back again and gestured to two of the
soldiers. They knew what it meant, and from a high shelf produced two
nooses. Two men on either side of Abigail came forward and grabbed her
arms, slipping a noose over each wrist. They reeled the rope out behind them
as they went to the side, and by the simple means of one providing a step for
the other, they fed the ropes through two pulleys hung from the ceiling, that had
escaped Abigail's attention when she entered the room. Her eyes had been
turned downwards, trying to make sure that she did not stumble. Now, when
the lieutenant reactivated the shower system, Abigail tried again to curl into a
ball on the floor, but the soldiers pulled on the ropes, and her arms were
yanked akimbo and at an angle above her head.
Her body glistened under the cold, stinging jets of water, and her nipples were
erect under the influence of the low temperature. Her matted hair was
plastered across her face and shoulders. The air was full of water and
breathing was hard, every intake causing her to gasp and splutter as wetness
flooded in with the life-giving oxygen, and her mouth was left hanging open
under the torrent. Water streamed off her shoulders, her elbows, her breasts
and her cheeks. Above all, eight macho men were appreciating the contours
of her fit and toned 36-26-38 body and (nearly) D-cup breasts.
"A free day to spend with the family, to the man who can throw a ball of
soap into the bitch's mouth!" announced the lieutenant, "One go each!"
The first three throws were wild, thrown hard and with no accuracy. One
struck Abigail on the forehead, another on the shoulder, and another just
above her nipple. They all stung and made her flinch, but the last one was
hardest and brought a yelp from her lips. She tried to close her mouth to
stop their game, but she couldn't get enough air and had to open it again.
Just then, the fourth contender took his shot, and he was directly on
target. At the last second, Abigail turned away and it struck like a harsh
slap on her cheek.
"Hey, not fair! She moved!" the thrower cried.
"Those are the rules," said the lieutenant, "I said nothing about her being a
willing participant for our challenge. You may punish her afterwards, with
one action of your choice. Next thrower!"
The fifth struck her on her eye, but fortunately Abigail had blinked at the
crucial moment or she might have been blinded. The sixth caught her
chin, and the seventh her nose. All of them were painful, but none hit the
target.
"Very well, I shall have to show you all how it's done!" the lieutenant
sighed, and took the last of the eight small soap pellets. He made a rapid
movement as if to throw, and Abigail flinched. As she regained her
posture, he made the real throw and Abigail was too slow in reversing her
head movement. The lieutenant scored a direct hit.
Abigail coughed and spat, shaking her head desperately in order to
dislodge the chemical missile from her mouth. But it was cleverly
designed to be just the right size that it was big enough to get a good
froth, but small enough to dissolve before the target could eject it from her
mouth. Braving the water jet, the lieutenant went up to her and forced her
head back and her mouth open so that the water poured from the ceiling
directly into her mouth.
"We want you clean on the inside as well as the outside. Whatever filth
you've been speaking had better be eradicated now!"
Abigail gargled under the water spray, unable to struggle or avoid the
suffocating water because of the lieutenant and the ropes around her
wrists. She was sure that she was going to drown if the lieutenant held
her there a moment longer. A moment passed, and another, and the
drowning sensation grew until at last his painful grip on her throat and chin
was released and he went back to the lever and switched it off.
"You may punish her now," he told the guard whose soap ball Abigail had
avoided. The man looked at her for a moment, and then used his great
spade of a hand to plant a smack directly over her right nipple. It would
have hurt under any circumstances, but with a film of water as well, the
impact was magnified and mutated into an incredible sting. Abigail
howled in anguish under the blow. Jeers and laughter followed from the
men watching, and congratulations to the man who had dealt the awful
blow. Then they filed out, anchoring the ropes somehow. The lieutenant
smiled nastily at her: I am going to get a change of clothes and a towel.
You can try to get dry where you are!"
Abigail hung there, shivering as the icy water evaporated and transferred
her body heat away. There did not appear to be any form of heating here,
and it appeared that "try" had been the operative word in the lieutenant's
instruction. She could only shiver, and wait for somebody to untie her.
It might have been ten minutes or ten hours before anyone came to the
Shower Room. Abigail started as the door began to open, and then began
to plead, "Please let me out of here!"
But it was pointless. It appeared that quite a few other soldiers on the
base had heard that a "whitey" had been brought in, to be sent to the
Special Compound, and they wanted a look themselves. Every couple of
minutes a new black face would appear at the door, and its owner step into
the room. He would then nod appreciatively, and wander all the way
around the spread-eagled woman, taking in her pussy and her ass, and
any other features he deemed noteworthy. Then, because Special
compound demanded that she remain untouched, he would leave and
shortly afterwards a new face would appear. Abigail felt like an exhibit in
a museum, and she knew that each and every one of those men would be
fantasising about her and what they would have done to her if she had not
been destined for this "Special Compound", whatever that might be.
She was still damp when the soldiers responsible for her came back; she had
lost track of time, and the number of men who had ogled her naked body, but
not nearly as much could have passed as she imagined. They had rough,
scratchy towels that they used to rub her vigorously, except around the privates,
where they were extremely careful. Abigail was thankful in the short-term, but
the concern that this Special Compound showed over her sexual organs could
only mean that they would be more severely punished later.
No restraints were applied to her this time, but four strong Africans were more
than enough to prevent her from making any effective struggle or bid for
escape. They marched her back to the team's waiting room, where the
lieutenant was waiting with the other team members.
"It appears that there has been a slight delay in our colleagues at the Special
Compound's plans!" announced the lieutenant. It appears we have the
pleasure of," he consulted a piece of paper on a clipboard, "Abigail's company
for another couple of hours after all. I think we should start by reading out the
charges for which she has been brought in: '1: Unnatural acts with another
woman!' She's a filthy lesbian slut-whore, gentlemen, and we got to clean her
up a bit for the Special Crew! '2: Treasonous acts within the Presidential
Palace', no less! So she's a seditious, filthy lesbian slut-whore to boot! '3:
Conspiracy to commit terrorist atrocities!' She's a seditious violent Marxist
filthy lesbian slut-whore, boys! '4: Crimes against the person property of the
President!' You know what that means, men! She's a seditious violent
Marxist filthy lesbian slut-whore who seduced and raped the First Lady! No
wonder the Special Crew bunch are after her so bad!
"But I'll tell you what gets me the most, and it doesn't appear on this here
sheet. She's a white Yankee uppity reporter bitch seditious violent Marxist filthy
lesbian slut-whore who seduced and raped the First Lady! We now what
Special Crew want with her, but there's no reason why we shouldn't have
ourselves a bit of justice, too! Now, I counted eighteen words in the
description of her crime, 'White Yankee Uppity Reporter Bitch Seditious Violent
Marxist Filthy Lesbian Slut-Whore Who Seduced And Raped The First Lady'.
Here's what we do. Each of us takes a particular area of her body, and an
implement to use on it. Then we each take in turns to beat her 21 times, telling
her just what she is accused of being, starting with, 'You are a...'"
The lieutenant produced a short cane, a leather belt and a broad paddle from
somewhere.
"Two people use each item. The fourth implement is the hand," he explained.
Then he handed out targets for each of his people: "You, left breast, you, right
breast, you, stomach, you, back, you left buttock, you, right buttock, you, cheeks.
I'll choose one of the above for extra treatment!"
While the lieutenant was quickly and efficiently organising the impromptu
punishment session, Abigail was unable to do anything. Still held firmly by two
of the men, all she could do was shake her head and whimper, "no, no, no!"
But the situation would not be denied.
The first man was going to strike her cheeks, with his hand.
"You." Slap. "Are." Slap. "A." Slap. "White." Slap. "Yankee." Slap.
"Uppity."
He paused only long enough for her to take a breath to try to speak or scream,
then he struck again, alternating cheeks and hitting harder each time. As well
as the bruising, Abigail thought that she could feel her teeth being loosened in
her jaw, and could taste blood in her mouth.
"Seduced." Slap. "And." Slap. "Raped." Slap. "The." Slap. "First." Slap.
"Lady." Slap.
And it stopped. Abigail swallowed, and then burst out, "That's not true, it's a
lie!" and she struggled again against the men holding her. The men just
shrugged and said, "They all say that!" The second man had the belt and her
stomach. Each blow whipped across her taut physique like a pistol-shot, and
winded her as he worked his way through the ridiculous phrase that the
lieutenant had concocted. The stinging pain brought tears over and over again
to Abigail's eyes until finally it was over. She sagged, exhausted by the
impossibility of holding a breath for more than a second under the barrage of
blows across her belly. The men holding her simply gripped tighter and
adjusted their grip. They held her firmly as the next man stepped alongside
her. His duty was her right breast, and his implement the paddle.
He swung hard at her, pounding, mashing, flattening her poor tit as he also
recited the phrase. Abigail was yowling now with each stroke, hearing the
taunting laughter from the men each time she let another agonised cry into the
room.
The worst part was that it wouldn't stop, and that each new approach was a
different sort of pain and a different area of her body. Tears streamed down
her face, and she went through every noise of pain and anguish that the human
voice will make. The beating continued: her back was whipped with the cane;
her right buttock was spanked by hand; her left buttock succumbed to the
paddle, and her left breast was flicked viscously twenty-one times by the leather
belt.
She had survived, it was over. The whirling maelstrom of pain had ceased and
she could mentally reawaken and take in more of what was around her again.
But no! The lieutenant had reserved the last beating with the cane for his own
delivery, and he had a free choice of the already punished areas.
"The left breast, I think," he announced, and went to work, expertly placing the
stick across the nipple in his stroke. Abigail writhed under his skilful
application of the weapon, while the men behind her held on firmly. She was
beyond noises of protest, it seemed, just gargling with slack jaw under the
extreme pain meted out on her. And then the lieutenant stopped, and walked
away. She relaxed again, at last they were truly finished. But the lieutenant
stopped, and turned.
"There is one person here who has not recited the charge. Abigail herself!
She must be made to recite it also, and she must begin, 'I am a...' I will
administer the required blows to her right breast. Every time she goes wrong,
we start at the beginning again. Do you understand, filthy slut-whore?"
Abigail dumbly nodded her head. She could not refuse to cooperate, for the
lieutenant would keep on striking her, and after the frightful pain that still burned
in her left tit, she would save her right tit as much as possible.
"Speak steadily," the lieutenant told her, "And I will keep pace with the cane.
Begin!"
Abigail paused only a moment, girding herself to speak the hateful words. It
was too long for the lieutenant, who placed warning-shots on either side of her
nipple. "Begin!"
"I am a White Yankee Uppity Reporter Bitch Seditious Violent Marxist Filthy
Lesbian Slut-Whore Who Seduced And Raped The First Lady"
But it was not as smooth as that, for under the beating of the cane she lost her
place reciting the phrase from memory, and each time she had to start from the
beginning. It was closer to fifty strokes of the cane that had landed on her right
nipple or close by, by the time that she had completed the phrase to the
lieutenant's satisfaction. Gratefully, she sank to the floor as the men holding
her recognised that her punished and beaten body would not be taking her
anywhere for a while.
"See?" Crowed the lieutenant, "She admits it! Let the Special Crew do it their
way, but we know the truth!" And the laughter was as much at the Special
Crew as at the suffering woman in their midst.
Their fun over for the time being, the men ignored her, talking their usual
business and macho swaggering tales of their deeds in or out of uniform.
Every so often, one or other of them would wander past the curled-up figure on
the floor and aim a kick at her, but it was nothing hard, just a reminder that she
was surrounded by eight hard men who would not let her go until they were
ordered to.
* * * * *
One of the men had a word in the lieutenant's ear. He seemed to be showing
him something shiny, but Abigail couldn't make out what as she lay in anguish
on the floor. Whatever it was, the lieutenant pocketed it and sent the man on
some errand.
When he came back, he handed some tool or other to the lieutenant, but what
he held in his other hand made Abigail tremble in fear. It was some kind of
gas burner, and apparently very hot, like a miniature welding torch.
"Corporal Kayode here as pointed out that all real women know that their place
is no different to that of a beast of burden. He just so happens to have a ring
that we can use to teach it to this uppity white Yankee bitch."
What could they mean, wondered Abigail, but she had little time to ponder such
matters because the men had grabbed her and were swinging her across and
laying her down face-up on their wooden bench.
It was a well-planned operation it seemed, with the lieutenant directing his men
like a conductor of a well-rehearsed orchestra. Abigail's wrists were tied using
tough string to the bench's legs, while other men held her legs down with their
full body weight to stop her kicking. Someone else was leaning on her belly to
stop her twisting or writhing during the proceedings. Another man held her
forehead down. She was utterly helpless and immobilised by their efforts.
The man who had fetched the equipment stood beside the lieutenant as he
bent down beside Abigail. He drew the tool from his pocket and showed it to
her. It was a simple spike, used for marking holes that would make drilling
easier.
"What are you doing?" she stammered, but he ignored her. Instead, with the
thumb and index finger of his left hand he grabbed the ridge between her
nostrils. The right hand holding the tool moved in, and he rested the cold
metal tip against the septum itself. With a single, excruciating movement he
plunged the spike through the fleshy wall. Abigail's cry was cut short by a cloth
gag provided by one of the men holding her down. The lieutenant drew from
his pocket a first-aid kit and found a cotton bud to which he applied anti-septic,
which he dabbed in each nostril as the blood began to flow. The anti-septic
itself was a fearfully stinging concoction on the open wound, and Abigail found
herself biting into her gag, thankful for its existence.
The lieutenant reached into his pocket again and pulled out the shining thing
that Abigail had seen him take earlier. It was a copper earring, in a circle about
3/4" across its inside, and its circular cross-section was probably 1/8" thick.
He opened the ring and pushed it firmly through the hole he had made in
Abigail's nose. He closed the ring, and twirled it through the hole until the
fastening was now clearly visible on the outside.
Then he fired up the burner, and turned it to its hottest flame. Very carefully, he
turned it down to just a very short length of blue fire showed, and he held the
ring in gloved fingers as he played the heat across the join in the ring. The
copper began to melt and fuse together, while Abigail's nose seemed to be
doing the same as the heat was transferred quickly and easily around the
copper ring and into her flesh. Behind the gag, she was screaming and
howling with the pain, a muffled wail all that could be heard on the outside. But
it did not last long. With the join in the ring irrevocably fused, Abigail was now
fastened with a nosering just like a farmyard animal.
"I say we let it cool a couple of minutes more, and then we take her over to the
labrats to show them what we wanted their gear for!" the lieutenant said, and
there was a general murmur of agreement among the men. A couple of them
wandered off, now that there was not so great a need to hold down the captive.
Just a couple of the men were needed for it now that they had successfully and
painfully inserted her nosering.
The lieutenant looked down into Abigail's dark brown eyes.
"You know," he said, "That ring was going to be a birthday present for Kayode's
wife. But he decided that you were in much greater need. I think you ought to
thank him on bended knee for putting it in your nose instead of his wife's ear."
The men holding Abigail forced her into the right position, and Abigail looked up
at the big black man. Gulping, she spoke, sullenly and hesitantly, "Thank you,
Corporal Kayode, for putting this ring in my nose instead of giving it to your
wife."
"I'm not happy with that, she sounds like she doesn't mean it!" Kayode
complained. The lieutenant kicked her in her ribs, and she tried again, with
more feeling and more fluently.
"Believe me, filthy lesbian slut-whore, it was my pleasure!" Kayode told her.
The lieutenant put his index finger through the ring, and pulled upwards
steadily, forcing Abigail to her feet.
"Looks like it's cooled down enough," he announced, "Let's go and show of our
good deed!"
Just then, one of the men came forward with a length of thin chain, "I think we
could lead her with this," he suggested.
"Where did you get it?" the lieutenant asked.
"That toilet that won't flush properly? I took the chain from that, and here it is!"
"That's good thinking, Private. I'll remember your resourcefulness in my next
report."
Corporal Kayode looped the chain through the nosering, and got ready to lead
Abigail out, but the lieutenant stopped him.
"We don't want her hands left free if we're leading her," he said, "better get
some cuffs on her!" The deed was done as the lieutenant ordered, and Abigail
felt not the plastic of her capture, but the real thing: biting steel ratcheting
closed around her wrists.
Kayode gave a short, sharp tug on the chain, and Abigail stumbled forwards as
he led her back down the corridor by which they had entered and out into the
bright sunshine, making Abigail blink. With her wrists behind her back, her
bosom jutted out prominently and she was on full display in her nudity to any
who might be looking. Kayode set a quick walking pace, and led by her nose,
Abigail struggled to keep up the rapid, long strides that the man leading her
could manage. She was forced to stumble, and the biting pain in her nose
kept being given extra teeth as she lost momentum and the chain tightened
briefly. As they crossed the courtyard, she soon adopted a jogging gait; it set
her bruised, beaten breasts bouncing heavily, but it was the only way that she
could keep pace.
Wolf whistles surrounded her suddenly, as a platoon of men came marching
from a gap between the warehouses. Her jogging was giving them a
magnificent display of young, fit and sexy American womanhood, and there was
nothing she could do about it. The platoon leader brought his men to a halt so
that they could feast their eyes on the wonderful sight of a white slave being led
by a black NCO.
Kayode would not slow down, ignoring the newly arrived audience, and Abigail
was for ten to fifteen seconds the full focus of the soldiers' attention before
Kayode reached the door for which he had been heading. Abigail slumped as
the Corporal worked the latch, and there was a ragged cheer from the men who
had relished her performance. They, too, would be imagining what they could
do to a girl like Abigail, if only she were not scheduled for the Special
Compound.
Another short corridor, and another door. There they waited, and Kayode
fondled Abigail's asscheek idly as they stood there, his other hand keeping the
chain short and lifted, so that Abigail had to lift her head and look into his eyes.
His eyes showed the kind of propriety lust that had disgusted Abigail in so
many macho men back in the States, and she had seen so many bimbo
girlfriends of bikers revelling in just such a caress as he had on her at the
moment. Some types of men were the same the world over.
They were only waiting for the other members of the lieutenant's team to turn
up: they all wanted to join in showing off their newest toy. They opened the
door and walked into what looked just like a school science lab, where a
number of African men in the traditional white coats of the scientific caste were
apparently working on a project of some kind, brewing up a mixture of
chemicals. These were not the big, macho build, and some even were
wearing the stereotypical scientist sort of glasses.
As one, they wolf-whistled when Abigail was dragged into their lab.
"This is what we wanted your stuff for, boys!" crowed the lieutenant, "But
remember, she's destined for the Special Compound, so hands off. But take a
good look!"
The scientists gathered round to examine not only Abigail's lithe and attractive
body, and the welts that were showing from her session of punishment (they
were most appreciative of these); but also the handiwork of the men who had
put in her ring. They were anxious that they had used anti-septic and sterilised
the wound, because if she got an infection then the Special Compound
personnel would not be happy. They were also very interested in the
mechanism of the procedure. The lieutenant returned the equipment that they
had used in putting in the ring, and then they were ready to head back to the
processing building. But one of the scientists had a suggestion for the
lieutenant that he whispered in the lieutenant's ear.
"Wait a second, boys!" the lieutenant said, "This here egghead's noticed
something about our Yankee lesbian slut-whore, and that is that the view down
below is somewhat obscured by a bush!" He stalked over to Abigail, and held
the chain close to her nostrils and pulled her upwards so that she was almost
looking at the ceiling.
"Don't you Yankee bitches always have the bikini waxing done? What's wrong
with you, you dyke? Come on! Answer me!"
Abigail stammered, "There aren't any clinics here that I can afford." Really, it
was in accordance with her preference, and she didn't mind at all that there
weren't really supplies or facilities in this country for that particular part of the
female grooming process. But she now felt absurdly ashamed of her pubic
hair, and tried to excuse it.
"I think we should help you out with that!" the lieutenant laughed in her face.
One of his men objected, "But Special Crew say no touching! How are we to
do it?"
"Apparently, the eggheads have recently cooked up something that can clean-
shave a woman head to toe without the need for touching at all!"
"Let's do it!" and there were affirmative cries all around. The lead scientist of
the group took charge of Abigail's chain and led her out through another door,
followed first by the soldiers and then by the other scientists: in all there would
be about fourteen witnesses to the next stage of Abigail's treatment at the
hands of the authorities.
In the room, there were just two bathtubs, one of which was empty, the other
was filled with some foul-smelling chemical.
"We can't touch her head, Special Crew will spot something is wrong then,"
one of the scientists pointed out, "So we'll have to use the cap." Pressure on
her shoulders forced Abigail to her knees and the chain was removed from her
nosering. The scientist who had spoken began coiling her hair into a rope that
he held pinned up onto her head. "Size D, I think," he informed one of his
colleagues, who handed the hair-coiler something that Abigail couldn't see.
"Now, Yankee slut-whore, take a deep breath and hold it, otherwise this is
going to be a lot more painful for you than it needs to be," the scientist told her.
Abigail didn't argue, but did as she was told, closing her eyes and holding her
breath.
Instantly, she felt a rubber cap being pulled over her hair, obviously to protect it
from their chemicals. But it didn't stop there. Just a second later, the rubber
attached itself firmly right across her face, trapping her mouth and her nose,
pressing the copper nosering painfully into her philtrum and smothering her
entirely. One of the other scientists was at her throat, tightening the suffocating
mask by means of a strap. Abigail struggled wildly, uncontrollably, uselessly,
with her hands cuffed behind her back, there was nothing she could do but
stare into the translucent yellow that filled her universe. The cuffs were
whipped off and about a dozen rubber-coated hands lifted her bodily and she
was dunked headfirst into the evil liquid, sliding all the way under and held
there with her lungs burning and bursting for want of a fresh batch of air. It was
only ten seconds that she was under, but it seemed like a lifetime with the
fingers that held her under shifting every so often. The fluid horribly tingled
across her naked skin, and she did not know what it was doing to her.
Then the rubber-coated hands lifted her and turned her over, putting her face-
up in the empty bath. The strap was undone and the mask lifted off her face
(though it still clung to her head, covering her hair). But only in time for a water-
jet from a hose to strike her straight in the mouth. Kayode was in charge of the
hose, and scored a huge laugh as Abigail spluttered from the effect. Then he
began to play the powerful stream of water over every inch of Abigail's body.
The scientists and the lieutenant had been wearing the rubber gloves, she saw
when the jet passed towards her feet, and were standing by again. This was
so that they could turn her onto her front for Kayode to repeat his rinsing
procedure on her back. It was as she was lying on her front that Abigail
noticed what felt so strange. Her pubic hair was gone, washed away in the
water spray. She reached to feel what had happened, but the rubber-clad
hand of the lieutenant spanked her ass, hard, "Special crew say no touching, it
means no touching! What makes you think that doesn't apply to you!?" Abigail
returned her hands to where the lieutenant could see them and where they
could also receive the rinsing treatment.
They turned Abigail over for another rinse on each side of her body, and while
she was lying on her back she was able to see down her body. She had been
rendered completely bald from her neck to her toes. Not a single hair
remained on her livid skin, made red not just by the nasty hair-removal
chemicals, but also by the cold pummelling of the water.
When they put her on her belly again, the scientists removed the rubber mask
completely, exposing her hair to the water spray as well. Abigail could see
nothing of what went on behind her, but she heard enough:
"What have you got there?"
"Shampoo that's not been tested on animals. Uppity Yankee bitches are
meant to like that stuff, and we want her to look her best for Special Crew, don't
we?"
"What has it been tested on, if not animals?"
Abigail could hear the smirk in the reply, "Nothing, yet. We're testing it on
Yankee slut-whore here!"
Through the water pouring off her, Abigail began to wail. She was nothing to
these people, on a par with a farmyard beast, or an animal in some cosmetics
research lab. She had no idea what would happen to her, would it sting, would
they put it in her eyes, what horrible effects would it have?
She felt the squirt of shampoo on the back of her head, and rubber-clad fingers
working it in all across her scalp. Salt-water tears of fear and humiliation
joined the soapy water of her enforced hair washing. She wept through eyes
kept tightly closed against the suds that scoured her head and flowed with the
rinsing water down her cheeks and round her face.
But it seemed that this one was one that could go onto the supermarket
shelves, and that Abigail had been lucky enough to be the guinea pig for a
successful hair treatment. She felt no horribly itching scalp, no burning
eyeballs or scarified skin. Just clean hair. The water cascade stopped, and
the lieutenant, having removed his rubber gloves, hoisted Abigail out of the bath
with the aid of a couple of his men. He put her on her feet and shoved her into
a corner, where she found a large mirror staring back. Somebody threw a
couple of large towels at her as the lieutenant commanded, "Dry yourself off!
And don't forget, no touching!" To emphasise his point, he revealed another
element of this room's equipment, a vicious looking bullwhip that he cracked
expertly in the air.
Abigail did as she was told, standing bare footed on a cold stone floor and
rubbing herself with the towels provided. She could see that no matter which
way she turned, she had to provide a full view of her newly exposed pussy to all
the watching men, which was obviously the whole reason for putting the mirror
there. If she tried to cover herself with the towel, the bullwhip would crack
nearer and nearer until she opened out her arms and continued the job.
She could see that the remarkably effective hair-remover had lived up to its
promise. It had also rendered her labia as angrily red as the rest of her
chemical-soaked body, and the temptation was great to reach gently down ad
find out how tender she really was down there. But she had absolutely no
wish to be on the receiving end of the lieutenant's whip.
She dried her body first, but the lieutenant wasn't satisfied and indicated that
she should do her hair as well. The reason for this was very clear when she
lifted her arms with the towel to do so, for it meant that her breasts were
displayed in all their glory, and whichever way she turned, they had a full-frontal
view of her tits and her hairless crotch. Even so, she did not want to disappoint
the lieutenant while ever the threat of that whip hung in the air, and she could
not hurry the job of drying her hair if she wanted to avoid it. She had to do it
thoroughly, and that merely prolonged the show, and made it more interesting
for the watching soldiers and scientists. For in order to dry, she had to rub,
and whether she rubbed fast or slow, her tits would jiggle appealingly, in time
to the vigour of her actions.
When the lieutenant finally signalled that she could stop, she gratefully lowered
her arms and instinctively went to wrap the towel around her, as she might
have done at home. But she was not at home and the whip cracked just
inches from the point were her hands holding the towel would have met to
cross over. She yelped, and dropped the towel completely, amidst further
laughter from the soldiers.
"To the salon!" cried one of the scientists, "Follow me!"
Intrigued, the soldiers grabbed Abigail by her arms and the troupe of guards
and scientists followed as they marched her down the corridor again, to yet
another room.
In the room was a chair with metal bracelets, and to Abigail it resembled
pictures of the electric chair, but with no high back and no skullcap. The
soldiers needed no instruction from the scientist whose idea this was, and she
was strapped down into the chair in peremptory fashion.
"Now what?" they asked the man who had led them here.
"We have washed her hair, but it is all matted and tangled. That will never do
for our friends from the Special Compound! We must brush it."
The looks on the soldiers' faces said it all, incredulous at the mundane notion
of brushing a prisoner's hair. Where would the fun be in that?
"Watch, listen, and learn!" said the scientist, and he produced a brush that
might have been designed by the devil himself, as Abigail discovered as he
dragged it from her scalp down the length of her knotted hair. This brush, it
seemed, was intended to gently ease out the knots but to catch in them and
pull them until either the knot gave way or her hair did. Abigail's head was
pulled back and the top of her head seemed to be caught by a million
fishhooks so that she could not help but cry out in pain.
Again and again the demonic hairbrush did its work, seeming to pull out as
much hair as it straightened, and drawing cries of pain from Abigail with each
stroke.
When he had done, the scientist brought the brush around to show Abigail the
enormous knitted clump of her hair that was stuck in the evil bristles of his
brush. He stroked Abigail's hair, and she was surprised to find that it now felt
silky, smooth and luxuriant, and all the other words used on the commercials.
Everyone queued up to take a feel of her mane, intimately caressing her hair
and suddenly making Abigail feel more helpless than ever, as though they
were fingering her private parts instead.
Suddenly, a messenger burst into the room.
"Special Crew are here, and they're asking for you," he told the lieutenant.
"Ah, well, playtime's over, boys; it's back to the old grindstone now! Come on,
we'd best bring the slut-whore with us, it'll be her they want."
Abigail's hands were cuffed behind her back again, and the chain looped
through her nosering once more. They led her back through the lab, where the
scientists thanked the soldiers for the fun they had had. Finally, just as Abigail
was leaving, the lead scientist called out, "By the way, Yankee bitch, that
chemical is great, it means your hair won't ever grow back, ever!"
The team of eight men lined up outside, and Abigail was made to kneel in front
of them. The chain was quietly hidden as a man wearing a captain's uniform
marched across.
This must be the Special Crew.
END OF PART ONE
