Torture The Widow

Chapter 47 – Hindu Kush

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This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living, dead or otherwise is purely coincidental, etc.

Copyright 2005

****

We were three days out of Camp deep into the Hindu Kush. The scenery is some of the most spectacular on earth. Snow covered peaks towered above us. The air was amazing clear and clean. Robbie's team of sixteen battle-hardened Marines was taking it slow aware that this was ambush territory. Whole armies had gone into the Hindu Kush seeking the enemy and few had ever come back out again.

Bashira and I were the only two women along. She looked adorable in her uniform with the soup pot helmet and goggles practically swallowing her. I'd get so horny during the day watching her cute little rear bouncing up off the ATV seat that I couldn't' wait until we were alone in our bivouac tent.

After Bashira and I working in tandem servicing the Marines, we'd bury a double-ended dildo in our cum-filled cunts. God is there anything hotter than the look and feel of semen oozing out the sides of a latex filled twat. We'd scoot together until our clits were in contact. We'd kiss, suck tit, and grind out clits together until we climaxed. After that it was sixty-nine time. I usually took the bottom. Semen obeys the Law of Gravity when it oozes out of a well-fucked pussy. I'd let my mouth slowly fill with girl juice and the dregs of well-stirred Marine jism. Tossing the mixture back and forth across by tongue before I swallowed, I loved every second as it wound its way down my esophagus into my belly. After we ate each other to a climax, we'd both fall sound asleep until morning

Right before dawn, Robbie would climb in our tent for his start of day threesome. Bashira and I took turns rimming his ass. Given that most days, he'd stopped to take his morning dump before he arrived at out tent, it was a brown start to our day.

With Bashira along, servicing sixteen Marines didn't present a problem. After we'd set up our bivouac tent, we'd invite the guys to visit in pairs. There we would be shoulder to shoulder with a virile muscular man between our legs pumping away until he dropped his load. Often the two would switch around a few times so most nights there were sixteen different cocks in my twat. It went pretty fast. As soon as a soldier pulled his fatigues up and backed out of the tent, his replacement would arrive. It was a small two-person tent and maneuvering around to suck cock or rim a Marine butt would get the two of us giggling and laughing like a pair of schoolgirls. Most of the time, they climbed in the tent hard as rocks and it was a simple case of insert, pump and dump.

There are times when I realize how lucky my life has been. There I was young and healthy with a guaranteed eight fucks a day. Once there were eight loads of high-octane jism in my box, Bashira and I would curl into a sixty-nine and lap up each other's cream pie until we hit the Big O. Between that and the mountain air I slept like a baby.

We had almost made it to Bashira's tribe when our luck ran out and we encountered the enemy. A scout reported there was a large force of hill people up ahead less than three kliks. They'd spotted us and were headed in out direction. We were lucky. Robbie was able to call in an air strike almost immediately. The sound of a stick of two hundred and fifty pound bombs came from the other side of a large hill. The tribesmen probably never knew what hit them. A Marine scout laser-painted them as targets for the planes far too high overhead to see from the ground. Smart bombs locked on to the painted enemy and that was that. One moment you're rushing to capture the enemy and the next your ass is being blown all over the Hindu Kush.

"Major, I'm going to leave you and Bashira here with Sgt. Lawson. Command wants me to gather any intelligence from what's left of the bunch that the air support just splattered," said Robbie.

The three of us waited as the others drove over the hill to what was left of the enemy. The sound of an occasional shot reached us. Robbie's command was finishing off the wounded. Sgt. Lawson wasn't much of a talker; so we sat quietly drinking water. All of a sudden I noticed some movement off to our right.

"Run," yelled the Sergeant as bullets started to whiz by us. That was his last word. A small red hole appeared in the center of his forehead. Blood and brains exploded out of the back of his head onto the rocks.

"Get to Robbie," I screamed at Bashira as I unsnapped the safety on my assault rifle. I let loose a long burst at the oncoming tribesmen taking a couple down. Bashira had already climbed on her ATV. She motioned for me to come.

"Go. I'll cover you," I screamed once again as I emptied the clip. I'd repeatedly emphasized to Bashira that if things got dicey, she was to do exactly what she was told and do it damn quick. She floored the ATV's accelerator and off she went. I covered her escape with a long clip-emptying burst.

I'd ejected the clip and inserting another when a mujahadeen out of nowhere knocked the rifle out of my hands and hit me on the chin with the stock of his AK-47. I have a vague recollection of falling toward the earth as things turned black.

****

When I regained consciousness, I was strapped across the back of my ATV being driven to parts unknown. There is probably no worse fate for an American female soldier than to be captured by one of the hill tribes in the Hindu Kush. We rode for several hours thus diminishing my hopes for a quick rescue.

When they finally took the filthy sack off my head I found myself in a large room inside what must have been a private home. Afghan homes are dark places with garbage-strewn interiors. Sometimes sheep and other farm animals wander in so you can imagine how they smell.

The walls and floor were stone but the roof looked like it was made out of sticks. A good two-dozen men were crowded into the room. One of the men set to work on the buttons of my blouse. I resisted the urge to help or hinder him. I quickly realized the majority was there to watch me being stripped naked. Normally, I would have been more than happy to take my own clothes off but they insisted on doing it for me.

If I live through this I will never ever try to be a heroine again I told myself as four tribesmen who hadn't bathed since the last rainfall (and it can be years between showers in this part of the world) removed my shirt, trousers, boots, and socks. They were rough about it too. They kept slapping me and shouting angrily when they couldn't figure how to undo something.

"Take it easy," I said in Pashto not that I thought any of them spoke Pashto. Just for fun, I repeated my remark in Dari, the other official language of Afghanistan. When I was down to my underwear they stopped to admire the result. I got curious stares while they marveled at my diamond navel jewelry and my lace red bra and panty. Apparently, the Tonga Thong was not worn that much by the women of their tribe because everything halted while each male examined my underwear. They made me turn around several times so all present could take a look at my exposed buttocks. The kept pulling the narrow strip of material out of butt then letting it go to disappear back into my crack. That caused a flurry of excitement and loud conversation among those assigned to strip me naked.

The lack of progress in getting me to an au natural state caused the hetman to appear and start barking orders. I smiled at the hetman and arched my back to thrust my boobs in his direction in the vain hope that he might decide to keep me around for his personal amusement. This was in spite of the fact that he was not exactly GQ material. He had only one good eye, the other an empty socket decorated with scar tissue and sporting a thin line of pus that dripped down his cheek. His teeth were mostly missing. Those still present were green with black spots. He also had a curved white scar on his other cheek that must have been stitched up with packing twine by the tribe drunk.

One of the over achievers of the group managed to solve the problem of how my bra was fastened. All of a sudden my boobs were free. Someone pulled my panty down and when I stepped out of them, he ran off at top speed brandishing them over his head and shouting something at the top of his lungs.

The appearance of my shaved sex decorated with a narrow rattail caused another round of consternation. I stood passively while they poked around my pussy trying to assure themselves I was female or human. I wonder how they would have reacted to a transsexual with a big set of boobs and a nine-inch cock.

My attempts to flirt with the hetman were a complete failure. He must have been a fag. They marched me out into the sunlight toward an open space in what I took to be the village square. The entire population was gathered to watch what was about to happen. The women started making that weird high-pitched cry that signifies nothing much in particular but is disconcerting to Western ears.

There were children everywhere. Several young boys rushed up to touch my ass only to be shooed away by my escorts. In the center of the square was a raised stone platform. There were two posts in the center of the platform a couple of yards apart. There were iron rings at the top and bottom of each post.

I suppose that if I didn't face the prospect of some form of horribly painful death, being naked in front of hundred of men, women and children would have turned me on. It has before. I'm an exhibitionist at heart. My most erotic fantasies always involve public humiliation followed by equally public gang rape. The watchers are never just men. It's families of all ages. I was about to live my fantasy but I was too scared to get off on it.

I climbed the two steps to the platform. My escorts tied ropes around my wrists and ankles then proceeded to stretch me tight between the two posts. There was blood seeping out from under the ropes when they were done. I looked like a four-pointed star painfully stretched and exposed. A young boy climbed up on the platform unnoticed and felt my pussy attempting to get his small hand in my vagina. I was uncertain whether he was motivated by lust or curiosity. When finally one of the men saw the groper, he grabbed the boy by the arm and led him back to his parents. They all seemed to have a good laugh out of junior's snatch grabbing.

The crowd gave out a small cheer as the hetman accompanied by several other dignitaries stepped up to the front of the platform. One of the group walked over to me and smiled to display his missing teeth. I watched as he removed his shirt. I made two observations. First of all, for a local he was much larger and more muscular than most. Your average Afghani man is short as a jockey and thin as a run way model. Starvation is the national pastime in Afghanistan. My second observation centered on the very nasty looking whip hanging from his waist. Why did the man chosen to whip me have to be the Arnold Schwartzeneger of the Hindu Kush?

He put one hand in my hair to pull my head backward to the point that my neck was about to break. When I opened my mouth to protest, he hawked a gob of slimy spit to the back of my throat that promptly slid down into my belly. That must have been a crowd pleaser because there were shouts of encouragement from the crowd.

Once I was in position for whatever they had planned the hetman stepped forward and made a short speech. It was at that point that I noticed a clean, well-dressed young man standing beside the hetman. I had no idea where he had come from. He was definitely not with the bunch that captured me. He looked almost as out of place as I did.

The hetman was from the Fidel Castro School of speechmaking. As he went on and on, the young man slowly edged back my way.

"It is too bad for you," he whispered when he was close enough.

"You speak English," I said in surprise.

"Yes, I went to school in London. My name is Kashi."

"Hi Kashi, I'm Rozz actually Major Rosalind Donaldson. Can you make them let me go," I asked.

"No, they consider the very idea of a woman soldier an offense against God. Their honor requires that you be punished."

"What are they going to do?"

"You don't want to know. "

"Look, I am a very rich American widow. I can pay whatever sum you name to get me out of here. How does one hundred thousand US dollars sound? No, let's make it a quarter of a million."

"Money is meaningless to these people."

"I can arrange for a thousand Kalishnokov's to be delivered and a million rounds of ammunition. All I need is a cell phone."

"They wouldn't trust you. They will believe you will bring the American army to attack them."

"They can keep me hostage until the guns and ammo are on site. Speak to the hetman for me. I will make it worthwhile for you not only financially. I'm a terrific cocksucker and a great no limits fuck. I'll do anything you want and do it well."

I watched as Kashi walked back to the hetman that was just winding up his speech. They occasionally glanced in my direction as they talked. I tried to smile when they looked my way. Their lengthy conversation made the crowd restive. Who wants to watch two men gab when there is an attractive naked female to whip?

Finally, Kashi came back.

"Did he agree?" I asked.

"He wants to think about it over night," replied Kashi. "Rafindi is a prudent man who does not decide quickly."

"And in the meantime?"

"He cannot disappoint his people. For today, matters will proceed as planned. Abdullah will whip you until the skin on your back is flayed. Then all the men of the village will recover their honor by raping an infidel. That's you. After that, they will let the women of the village have you for the night. That will be the worst part. Tomorrow, if you are still alive, Rafindi may decide to accept your offer," said Kashi.

"And if he doesn't?" I asked.

"In this tribe, execution is simple. They will first use hot knives to remove all your skin. They will preserve your flesh in their holy place. Next they will drive a sharpened iron pole in the ground and impale you through your vagina. That is how you will die. "

"Tell him two thousand AK-47s, the good Chinese made ones, and two million rounds of ammunition," I said. The thought of winding up a religious relic was not appealing.

"I will tell him but it will change nothing," said Kashi leaving me to walk back to the hetman and deliver my improved offer.

Rafindi wasn't buying. He gave me an unpleasant look and walked off the platform leaving me with muscle boy who started to limber up his arm by snapping his bullwhip in the air. After a dozen loud air snaps, the whip landed dead center of my back. The pain was mind-boggling. It hurt so bad it took me half a minute to open my mouth and scream.

My torture was a professional because the next blow was successfully targeted on my right shoulder blade. And the following blow made my left shoulder blade hurt just as much as the right. A few more blows and I could feel blood splatters when the whip landed.

The man with the whip demonstrated his skill by causing the whip to wrap around me and land on each boob taking a small patch of skin off my areola. I passed out when I looked down and saw that a piece of my hide was hanging on by a tiny skein of flesh. My hosts immediately revived me by dumping a bucket of cold filthy water over my head.

You know a public lashing is working when you loose control of your bowels and you shit yourself. At least that's what the experts at the NYC Hellfire Club used to say. Once the submissive shits himself right there in front of everybody, you know the pain is real. The pain is so great and the impact of each blow so profound that your body forgets about the task of keeping your asshole closed. The very tip of the whip landed on my right nipple causing me so much pain that my resulting muscular contractions sent shit out my asshole like it was a fire hose.

Not unsurprisingly, the crowd watching my public defecation sounded a murmur of approval that grew louder when then a corresponding blow on my other boob, resulted in what must have been a complete emptying of my GI tract. All fourteen feet of long intestine and eight feet of the shorter version gave it up. Major Rosalind Donaldson emptied out in less than a second.

Loosing control of your bowels is not uncommon in execution and torture. In the days of public hangings in the US, I have read where the wardens stuffed rags and even wooden pegs up prisoner's butt holes so things did not get too messy. Supposedly at earlier executions when the noose ran out of slack, the jerk was so violent that turds came flying out at escape velocity. When they landed on the pavement, the splatter was wide spread and those lucky enough to have the closest view were splattered with shit.

Somewhere in the General's extensive library of pornography, torture, and executions was a first hand illustrated account of the execution of a Mary Eleanor Pierce a young miss of twenty four who poisoned the wife and smothered the child of the man she was having an affair with. This was officially classified as a crime of passion. The execution took place in London at Maidstone in 1754.

The author begins by recounting the circumstances of the execution. He attributes Mary's haunted look and painful gait to repeated rapes by her jailers who extracted their own form of rough justice. Raping female and even male inmates has always been an important perk of jailers. Biographies of Joan of Arc report that prior to being burned at the stake, the youthful messenger of God was relieved of her virginity by her several dozen Burgundian guards. The sainted girl's pussy was so sore that she hobbled to the stake her hands clutching her ravaged sex.

Keep in mind that in that time public hanging was considered far too merciful by a public that had until recently displayed an avid taste for watching miscreants have their intestines removed by making an incision in their belly then slowly wrapped around a take up spool. After their guts were properly extracted or drawn then wound around a large wooden spool they were burned while the condemned watched. Skillful executioners employed several tricks to keep the victim alive so he could experience the horror of watching his lower intestinal track reeled in. Afterwards they were castrated, beheaded and cut into quarters. So given that hanging was considered a sissified form of public retribution and that Mary was a comely lass, the wardens performed their own version of punishment which consisted of a non-stop assault on Mary's orifices in the days prior to her execution. At least that was the rumor according to the author.

The term, 'prodigious' was applied to the quantity of feces that Miss Pierce released. "The smell of colcannon and boiled beef assaulted my nostrils," was a quote I recalled referring to what must have been Mary's last meal. Our intrepid author noted that another bystander lifted Mary's petticoats to reveal she had gone to her maker without her drawers. My thought at the time was that the missing knickers were most likely hanging on the wall in the warden's office signed by the members of his staff. Could you imagine what something like that would bring on eBay?

The author of the historical account complained vociferously that his recently purchased trousers and waistcoat were soiled. The moral of the story might have been that if you have VIP seating at a hanging, wear old clothes.

I can only say that my own unanticipated bowel evacuation sent shit flying in all directions much to the crowd's delight. Those standing closest to the platform and behind me were treated to a fine spray of watery brown shit. The Afghani wielding the whip had to stop and wipe his eyes and whip hand whose firm grip was imperiled by the slick contents of my bowels.

Far from being repulsed, the crowd waxed enthusiastic over the brown rain. Keep in mind that Afghanistan is so poor and benighted that having someone shit on you is considered lucky. It breaks the tedium of the day.

Having my brown moment in the sun, I continued to scream in agony as the whip landed time and time again. Cuts appeared in my breasts and I could feel blood flowing down my back.

Kashi was nearby enjoying the show. I repeatedly begged him to make them stop. He just stood there smiling as the whip removed my epidermis. I noted a bulge in the crotch of his trousers. No doubt he was anticipating Phase Two of the day's events.

Finally the whipping stopped but Phase One was not quite finished. From somewhere, my torturer came up with a bucket of what appeared to be crude white sand. He took a handful and looked into my eyes as he rubbed what turned out to be salt in the cuts on my left tit.

Even though crying, begging, pleading for mercy and offering money and pussy to everyone did me no good, I pursued it anyway. Large unrefined salt crystals found their way into the lesions created by the whip sending me into a frenzied dance of agony. As soon as the left tit calmed down enough for me to stop screaming, he did the right. He took a double handful of salt and wrapped both hands around my boob then squeezed and massaged it like he was kneading a loaf of bread.

I would have shit myself if there had been anything to expel. My back followed my tits in the salt treatment. It felt like several layers of skin were missing from my shoulder blades to my buttocks. The salt was pure hellish agony as the crude crystals were forced deep into my cuts. I started screaming to Kashi begging him to kill me but the just smiled and said something to the hetman that caused him to smile too.

At that point, the crowd broke for lunch leaving me there in my agony. The sun added to my pain as it bore down on my ravaged body. With the adults gone for the noon meal, the village boys exploited their opportunity to climb up on the platform and copt a feel. I was too far-gone to give a fuck as their small hands probed my orifices. Lunch over; the return of the adults caused the boys to scurry away.

I watched as several men carried a table constructed of unfinished lumber up the platform steps and set it in front of me. Men in the crowd were gesturing at me and grabbing their crotch. Normally, the Rozz is always up for a gangbang. If being screwed by one man is good, then two is better and three is best; but this was ridiculous. They cut me down from the posts and threw me on top of the table. The hetman exercised his prerogative and went first.

I went in and out of consciousness as different members of the tribe mounted me. There were young boys that looked like they were barely out of puberty and old men who had to be helped to climb on the table. It was one hole fucking no oral or anal. After a while, the lining of my cunt started to abrade from overuse. The pain grew as their pricks slowly sandpapered the walls of my snatch. I began to moan and whimper at each thrust. The whimper turned to screams as the day turned to dusk. The crowd hung in there not wanting to miss a thing. Each time, one of them blew his load; there were cheers and claps.

Finally as the sun was about to set, my most prolonged and painful gangbang ended.

I was vaguely aware that two men were dragging me into a building right off the village square. Darkness had apparently ended my gang rape. I was hoping they would throw me a cell and leave me alone until tomorrow's execution or even better cut my throat and end my ordeal. In the back of my mind was Kashi's remark about turning me over to the women of the village for tonight. Given the fact that my back was missing its outer layer of skin and the salt crystals kept finding new and painful ways to enter the cuts in my flesh, it seemed ridiculous to torture me more. Combine that with the fact that my pussy was leaking blood and further torture seemed pointless. I would have preferred a quick death to further pain. However I had underestimated the ingenuity of Afghan tribal women.

I'd read somewhere that British soldiers campaigning in the Hindu Kush rather than becoming prisoners of the mujahadeen would blow their brains out before allowing themselves to be captured. According to accounts of officers who fought in the region, tribal women were skilled at emasculating a male over a period of days. After first removing the eyelids, they would make the soldier watch as they slit his scrotum open.

They would then extract each testicle individually and snip off the connecting tissue making certain that the soldier was completely aware of what was happening. Given the degree to which men prize their nuts that must have been devastating to say the least. It was certainly a much more drawn out and lengthy torture than the Manchu practice of placing the victim's balls on a metal plate and smashing them flat with a large mallet.

At the end, the unlucky Tommie would have his cock severed at the base. The women would apply a white-hot iron to cauterize the blood vessels thereby preventing a quick death by exsanguinations. The previously removed gonads would be sewn back into the scrotum. The soldier's last meal consisted of your own manhood washed down with urine supplied by the women. It was a form of ritual cannibalism.

In the 1850's, a Lieutenant Osgood Waverly of the King's Rifles was captured and subjected to all but the final step of having his throat cut before managing to escape. He wrote a vividly detailed account of his mutilation a copy of which found its way to General Donaldson's library. Lieutenant Waverly spoke highly of the skill the women displayed in keeping the man alive and awake through the process of emasculation.

Unfortunately for my own piece of mind, my two escorts carried me into a room occupied by several tribal women who immediately began to sound the most terrible chants as soon as I entered. Clad in black from head to toe with only their faces showing they were a terrifying sight. Quotations from the Quran were written in black ink across their faces. The area around their eyes was blackened with kohl. They appeared dressed to star in a good old fashion horror movie.

I was dragged to the center of the room and dropped to the stone floor. Female hands lifted me to another rough-hewn table. In a matter of seconds I was totally immobilized by leather strapping.

I watched in terror as an old woman with a long thin knife shaped like an ice pick approached. She began by closely examining the top of my left foot. After she had completed her visual examination, she slipped the tip of the knife under the skin on top of my foot then slowly ran the point down the length of my first metatarsal. Bone scrapping, I'd heard of it but never imagined I would be subject to it. Even the most extreme blood worshipping extremists of the S&M world eschew inserting a knife tip under the skin and then rasping the point across the surface of the bone underneath. It's a practice that must have been dreamed up in hell.

I shrieked as I felt the sharp metal tip travel from the very top of the bone to the joint. After two passes over the first metatarsal, she switched to the second metatarsal. The other women began to chant something as background to my cries of agony.

After the woman was finished with my left foot, she scrapped the bones on my right. I kept begging them to kill me. If I passed out, they revived me. After my feet, two different women tortured the bones in my hands. Time passed with agonizing slowness.

They inserted long needles down through my nipples reaching to my sternum allowing them to scrape up and down that large flat bone. It seemed like they methodically scrapped almost every bone in my body. They saved my pubic bone for last. One of the women captured my clitoris in a crude pair of pinchers and extended it so another could insert a long thin needle length wise through my overstretched button. I could feel the tip of the needle touch my pubic bone then move slowly across the surface of my skeleton. I cannot imagine anything more painful. I could no longer scream. I was beyond pain.

Their final act of torture was to cut off my labia. I was so far gone that I didn't give a shit. I assumed they were going to remove my clitoris as well but they left that alone. One of the women used her fingers to stretch the outer fold of tissue until it was translucent. Another employed a razor sharp knife to carefully slice the tissue off at the base. The carrion was cut into small pieces then passed among the women each of whom took a small piece and ate it after murmuring a prayer. My God these people were savages.

A narrow bar of white-hot iron was passed over my wound to cauterize it. After my outer lips were removed, they trimmed off the inner labia. One of them forced the bloody flesh of my inner lips into my mouth. I was forced to chew and swallow it. In later years and after a few drinks I sometime recount my tale of being made to eat my own pussy.

When they were done, my cunt resembled Bashira's. I later learned this was done to make my impalement more visually appealing. The entry point of the iron bar into my vagina could be clearly seen by the crowd.

I was allowed to pass out for good. The next morning I was awakened by several of the men who took me back to the square and once again stretched me between the poles.

"Rafindi has refused your offer of weapons. He does not trust you. You will be skinned and impaled," said Kashi when I arrived on the platform. Somehow I gather he preferred that outcome.

I was beyond caring. A nearby table contained crude knives that based on their curved shape I assumed would be used to skin me alive. Two of the knives were being heated in a nearby brazier. The crowd had gathered to watch the finale.

Just as the man assigned to remove my hide was about to make his first incision in the base of my neck, all hell broke loose. Several of the larger buildings in the village exploded into piles of ruble. A machine gun chopped out a sizeable swath of the crowd creating a panic. Everybody began to run. All of a sudden the Marines arrived. Overhead a pair of helicopter gun ships was spewing death into the fleeing crowd. Bodies were flying up into the air as their cannons methodically raked the crowd. Then Robbie and a couple of his guys were cutting me down, throwing me on a stretcher lashed across the back of an ATV. A corpsmen stuck a syringe in my arm and I went off to Demerol heaven carried by the sweet sounds of the screams of dying tribesmen.