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Tuula and the Miners
Tuula was flying to Cape Town, South Africa,
to meet her husband, Peter. A man sat next to her,
nice enough, old enough to be her father, with
graying hair. In time, she found herself telling him
about Peter, and the trip they planned. The man said
he was a native of South Africa and had a diamond
mining concession.
"Oh, where is it? I'd love to see it."
"It isn't near anywhere that's marked on a map."
"Then it's a secret mine. Are you putting me on?
You are just trying to impress me."
"No. It's real." He took the napkin from
under his Coke and wrote some numbers on it. "Here
are the coordinates, latitude and longitude. If you
look them up on a map, you'll find it's on the coast, a
hundred miles from anywhere. If you can find it, I'll
show you around."
Peter and Tuula were beginning to have doubts.
They were three days traveling in their rented Land
Rover, north, up the coast from Capetown, and they
hadn't seen a white person for a hundred‑sixty
kilometers. Their GPS (Global Positioning System)
told them they were near their goal, the latitude and
longitude scrawled on the napkin, but there was no
sign of a town, no obvious industrial activity. Then,
cresting a little ridge, they came to two rows of
razor‑wire topped fence and guarded gates. There
were some low shed‑like buildings but nothing like a
mine shaft, no heaps of spoil. The South Atlantic
ocean was only hundreds of yards away. It looked
more like a prison than a mine. Peter stopped the
vehicle and waited as a big, black guard with a
military‑style rifle approached the driver's side. A
second guard watched them warily.
"What do you want?"
"We came to see the diamond mine."
"Who are you?"
"Just tourists."
"Do you have an invitation?"
"Yes. No, not exactly. We were told there was a
diamond mine here, and we wanted to see it."
"You can't come in without authorization."
"How do I get authorization? Is there someone
I can ask, a manager or something?"
"Wait."
Peter turned off the ignition and they waited,
sitting in the car, baking in the sun, while the guards
eyed them from their little guard shack. Tuula said,
"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea."
"We've come this far. Let's see what happens."
Finally a tall, well dressed black man was allowed
through the inner gate, which closed behind him, and
then the outer gate. He approached with an air of
authority, an older man with graying hair. He packed
a holstered automatic pistol. "I am Mr. M'bele. What
can I do for you?"
"We came to see the diamond mine. Are you
the manager?"
"No, I have several functions. Security is one
of them. May I see your passports, please?" After
much questioning and signing of forms releasing the
mine from any liability, Mr. M'bele instructed them to
leave everything, especially cameras, in their car and
to follow him. They passed through the gates and
walked toward the water. There were individual
buildings, barracks, surrounded with barbed wire.
Tuula held Peter's hand. "It's spooky, like a
World War Two concentration camp."
"Yes," said their guide, "it is very important that
the workers do not smuggle diamonds out of the
camp, so it is necessary to restrict their movements."
"Where is the actual mine? I expected to see
holes in the ground."
"Ah, you didn't understand. We mine diamonds
from the sea. It's rather like panning for gold. The
river carries diamonds downstream, into the ocean.
We vacuum up the sediment and sort through it for
diamonds. There is a small crew of divers, vacuuming
up the silt, and a larger crew, over there, sifting and
washing the sand, looking for diamonds." They saw a
large open area where perhaps a hundred workers,
naked but for shorts or loin cloths, were sifting and
examining what the divers had vacuumed up.
"Can we talk with some of them?"
"Certainly, as long as you do not interrupt their
work. Some do not speak English very well."
Tuula seemed bored or distracted, standing back,
but Peter spent several minutes looking at some of the
rough diamonds, like pebbles, and asking questions.
"How many diamonds, how many carats, do you find
in, say, a month?"
"I'm sorry, but that is proprietary information.
We operate under concession from de Beers, and we
are profitable."
"Could we see where the workers live?" Mr.
M'bele gave them a brief tour of one of the barracks,
a single room housing perhaps 40 men. "Well, that's
about it," said Mr. M'bele. "Would you like to make a
contribution to the workers' benevolent fund?"
"Oh" said Peter, "I understand. How much did
you have in mind?"
"5000 rand."
Peter broke into a sweat. "Uh, that's rather more
than I carry in cash."
"I understand," said Mr. M'bele, smiling. He
guided them toward a smaller building, with more
fences and gates. "You will be wanting to leave."
Two burly guards fell into step behind them.
"Are the workers prisoners here? Can they leave
any time they want?"
"Yes, a worker can leave at any time, but we
have standard security procedures for anyone leaving
the camp." They entered the building, a corrugated
iron shack which was baking in the sun. Two guards
closed the door behind them. The only light came
from screened openings high on the walls. "You
understand that workers sometimes try to conceal
diamonds on their persons or pass them to visiting
accomplices, so no one can leave without being
strip‑searched. Please remove your clothes." Tuula
screamed, her hands covering her face in dismay.
"I don't have cash," said Peter, "but will you
take a credit card?"
Mr. M'bele smiled and said, "There is time for
that, later. Please disrobe." When Peter protested, one
of the guards punched him in the solar plexus, so he
doubled over, sick with nausea. They forcibly
undressed him, decorating him with a few bruises,
and when he was naked they sat him on a board with
a hole in it and strapped him down with his hands
handcuffed behind him. Tuula stood there with her
hands over her eyes, screaming. Beneath the hole
was a wooden trough with metal screening across the
top. "You shit, and we wash it through the screen Any
diamonds you may have swallowed will show up on
the screen."
"But I don't have to shit."
"You will." One guard held his head back, while
Mr. M'bele poured some vile green fluid down Peter's
throat. He had to swallow or drown. It tasted like
super‑strong lemonade. "My other duties include
being the camp's witch doctor. I assure you that you
will be cleaned out in a matter of hours." They
forced a water hose into his mouth, and he had to
drink until his stomach was bloated. The water was
warm, probably from a sun‑warmed tank. Painful
spasms rippled though his guts, as if there was a
"Roto‑Rooter" in there.
When they released Peter's head, he could see
Tuula. She was cowering in a corner, as the guards
menaced her. She said, "Don't touch me! I'll take my
clothes off myself, if I must." She glared at
Peter, as if accusing him of causing her humiliation.
Turning her back to the men, she began by taking off
her boots and socks. Reluctantly, she removed her
shirt and shorts, but she could not bring herself to
remove her underwear. She stood there, her white
panties and bra contrasting with her honey‑colored
skin. It was a B‑cup bra, and her almost C breasts
bulged above it. Mr. M'bele nodded. One guard held
her arms pinned behind her while the other used his
bush knife to half cut, half tear her underwear,
leaving her naked. Stoically, she remained silent, but
she tried to cross her legs to conceal her vulva, which
was accentuated by her dark pubic hair. The guards
grinned and commented in their tribal language.
The guard held her, her arms behind her,
showing her off while Mr. M'bele left the room and
Peter, his guts churning, stared at his wife.
Upon his return, Mr. M'bele pulled on rubber
gloves and began to smear her body, especially her
breasts, with an oily liquid. "It burns!" she cried,
"Please don't touch me like that." As the
guard held her and turned her around, the witch
doctor continued, coating her back and ass, coating
her thighs and, ultimately, rubbing it between her
legs, as she screamed in protest. Mr. M'bele just
laughed.
"The medication contains a strong chemical,
like arrow poison, which relaxes the muscles. It also
removes hair. Let's just give it a few minutes to
work."
"Poison!" cried Peter. "Don't hurt her. What if
it kills her?"
Mr. M'bele laughed. "Then we will put her,
and you, in a sack with a few hundred kilos of waste
sand, and we'll drop you in 200 meters of ocean."
Tuula began to relax, to the point where the guard
had to support her weight, as her knees bent. Mr.
M'bele began to wipe down her body with burlap
sacks, and when he scrubbed between her legs, the
pubic hair wiped off, leaving her cleft naked for all to
see. A guard brought in a wooden saw horse, and they
draped the now limp Tuula, her body gleaming with
residual oils, over the cross bar, tying her wrists and
ankles to the legs of the horse, so her ass was upmost,
her naked fig and rosebud of an anus perfectly
accessible between her spread buttocks. By now,
Tuula had stopped screaming and was only making
faint mewling sounds.
Peter lusted for her, her pendulous breasts
visible between her spread thighs, her long hair
spilling on the floor. The waves of pain from his
tortured intestines, however, detracted from the
otherwise interesting events. Men forced Peter to
drink more water from the hose and then applied the
hose to Tuula's ass hole, filling her bowels until she
shrieked with pain. The contents spewed forth, and
the solid parts were hosed down a drain. Again and
again they filled her, laughing as she squirted, until
the water ran clear. Mr. M'bele fingered her cunt and
ass hole. "She's a tight little cunt. I think some more
muscle relaxant is in order." He inserted his gloved
index finger into the poison and pushed his oily finger
into her anus, as she moaned in protest. "Well, then,
let the games begin. You fellows can go first." The
largest guard pulled out a black penis that looked to
be a foot long!
"Wait a minute. A cavity search is one thing, but
you can't rape her," said Peter. "When we get out of
here, we'll report you to the police."
Mr. M'bele laughed and replied, "If you get out
of here alive, and that depends on your good
behavior, the nearest police are 180 kilometers from
here, and they won't care. The white men are out of
power, now, and black Africans don't recognize rape
as a crime." The guard had the tip of his tool against
Tuula's anus, and he was pushing so hard that the saw
horse began to slide across the tiled floor, until the
second guard pressed down on Tuula's back, to steady
her. She screamed as the monster cock slid into her
rectum, and the rapist rocked his hips until he came
inside her. The guards changed places, and the second
chose to violate her cunt, applying some lubricant, for
she was dry, even though relaxed. Soon his semen
was dripping from her violated vagina. Mr. M'bele
opened the door, and a line of miners had
formed outside. "A little treat from your morale
officer," he said, grinning, and the men filed in, one
by one, to bury their tools in one or the other of
Tuula's holes, while the others looked on and laughed
and commented in their various languages. Peter,
who was doubled over in pain half the time, lost
count at rapist 57, but they kept on coming. These
guys hadn't seen a woman for months. They walked in
stiff and walked out a minute or two later, having
made their deposit in the helpless Tuula. Between
brutes, Peter could see the effects. Her labia gaped
open, revealing the ravished pinkness of her vagina,
with semen seeping out. Her anus was stretched
beyond belief, an open hole you could have pushed a
banana through. She was beyond complaining, but
tears streamed down her inverted face. Peter
wondered how any woman could be fucked so hard
and so often without experiencing an orgasm, but it
seemed she took no pleasure in it.
The light began to fade, but the miners kept on
lining up outside. One, who had masturbated while
watching, had some trouble getting it up again, which
caused the others the laugh and comment as he tried
to stuff his semi‑soft penis in Tuula's slippery cunt.
He backed off and stroked his shaft with one hand
while fingering her clit with the other. That seemed to
bring a response from Tuula. The waiting miners
called to him to hurry up, but he had to fuck her for
minutes, grinding his belly into her ass and moving
in circles, his prong circling her cervix, before he
ejaculated inside her. Peter heard her cry, saw the
blush of her breasts, and concluded that she had
experienced her first orgasm of the session. A dozen
or so more men had their way with her, and Peter was
sure she had experienced at least two or three more
orgasms, one while being fucked in the ass.
At last they were alone, except for Mr. M'bele.
Suddenly Peter exploded into the trough below the
hole, gushing smelly, liquid shit. Mr. M'bele topped
him off again with water from the hose. The sun was
low, and the sweatbox of a room was darkening, with
only weak rosy light coming in the screened
openings, after the witch doctor closed the door. He
hosed off Tuula, flushing the cum from her rectum
and vagina, washing the dribbles off the insides of her
thighs. He held the hose so that the tepid stream
splashed directly on Tuula's clit, and he held it there
until, gasping, she had another orgasm. "The men
think you are frigid, unresponsive. Let's fix that." He
took out a jar of creamy fluid and a huge syringe,
maybe 200 ml., with a 100 mm needle. "This," he
said, looking toward Tim, "contains a mixture of
plant extracts. Some resemble latex, and will add a
bit of volume to the injection site. Others are
phyto‑estrogens, plant products which mimic
hormones. They will, how shall I say, feminize her,
stimulate growth, and, uh, tune up her libido." Mr.
M'bele squatted beside her and injected each of her
breasts in several places. With each injection her
breast grew visibly, and by the time Mr. M'bele was
through reshaping her, her once hanging dugs were
full and round, like grapefruit, with large, protruding
nipples, larger, maybe even a D‑cup.
"Please, enough!" whimpered Tuula. "My breasts
hurt. They feel as if they are going to explode."
The witch doctor lighted an oil lamp, to see
better, and bent down behind her, peering at her
tortured vulva. Deftly, he injected some fluid between
her inner labia.
"What are you doing!" shouted Peter.
"This will elevate her clitoris, so it is more
accessible." Peter could see it was true. Whereas she
used to have an innocent looking slit, like a baby's,
her pink clit now pushed its way between her labia
majora. The witch doctor released her wrists and
ankles and helped her off the horse. She was still
weak from the muscle relaxant and her ordeal,
brutally fucked well over a hundred times. Her knees
collapsed, and she knelt on the floor, trying to cover
her breasts and crotch with her hands, complaining
that her breasts hurt.
Mr. M'bele pulled out his penis. "I have no
desire to catch AIDS, so you will have to use your
mouth, woman."
"No, I couldn't."
"You can."
"No, never. I refuse."
The big black man went to another of his pots,
dipped his gloved finger into a brown liquid, and slid
his finger between Tuula's labia. She screamed and
rolled on the floor, rubbing her cunt. "You think you
could learn?"
"Yes, if you will only stop the pain!" She
allowed him to hose off the offending liquid, and
obeyed his instructions for fellatio. Peter, still
spurting from his cramping guts, watched as she took
the big black shaft into her mouth and bobbed her
head while Mr. M'bele coached her on technique.
When he came, he let her spit it out and wash her
mouth from the hose.
"Well, sir, are you through shitting?"
"I think so," said Peter. Mr. M'bele opened the
door and called in the two guards, who released Peter
and hosed off his filthy backside. They ran the hose
on the screen until nothing remained, and announced
that there were no diamonds. Tuula was curled up in
a corner, trying to conceal her privates. A guard
brought in a large foam pad for them to sleep on.
"The camp is locked down after dark, but you can
expect to entertain more of our men in the morning.
Good night." They locked the door behind them,
leaving Peter and Tuula alone in the darkness.
Peter tried to hug and comfort Tuula, but she
screamed that he mustn't touch her, that her breasts
and bottom hurt. They slept as well as they could,
lying on the foam pad, not touching.
Morning came, with light streaming though the
screened openings. "How are your breasts?" asked
Peter.
"The pain has gone away, but they are very
sensitive. See how the nipples stand out." A guard
brought them breakfast, sweet black coffee and some
mush, like grits. Mr. M'bele showed up, carrying a
camera.
"When are you going to let us go?" asked Tuula.
"Oh, I don't know. What your have that the
workers want won't wear out for a long time. You
can look forward to another busy day. Now that your
useful orifices are, shall we say, well broken in, it
shouldn't be necessary to drug you and restrain you.
But, before, you get started, there is little detail to be
taken care of." He checked out his camera. "Peter,
you must fuck Tuula."
"No. She's sore. I don't want to hurt her."
"Peter, you must do as you are told. You don't
want Tuula to suffer, do you?"
"I don't think I can. I can't get it up."
"Do I have to inject your penis as I did her
breasts, to make it big? No, not today. I haven't
time to mix a fresh batch. Well, then, you can eat her
out." He held up the flash camera. The guards put
Tuula on her back on the foam and held her ankles up
and apart while Peter went down on her and licked
her protruding clit. There were several close‑up flash
pictures, his tongue in her gleaming groove. "Don't
stop. Make her come." Peter was pleased to try, and
was surprised when Tuula actually called out, "Don't
stop! Don't stop. That's it. Oh, Peter!" She writhed
with a particularly wet orgasm that left his face
dripping pussy juice, gleaming in the flashes of the
camera. "Now, Tuula, you do Peter." Peter sat on a
stool while Tuula sucked his prick, being
photographed doing it. Peter's prick did respond, and
Tuula continued her efforts until he came in her
mouth.
Then it was time for the miners. Peter sat
helpless and watched, as Tuula took on one after
another. Usually, she would be on her hands and
knees, and the black man would fuck her doggy
style, in her vagina or her rectum. Three elected to
have her fellate them, and Peter had to watch as she
slurped and sucked, sometimes choking on the big
black pricks. One miner was really hung. His cock
looked to be a foot long and as big around as a beer
can. Tuula put him on his back on the foam mattress
and squatted over him, facing his feet, while she
slowly lowered herself onto the tip of his huge organ.
She steadied it with her right hand as she flexed her
knees and allowed the tip to spread her semen‑slimy
labia. Slowly, grunting softly, she lowered herself,
and the huge meat stretched her incredibly, like the
inverse of delivering a baby. Peter could see it
pressing into her, until she stopped, unable to take
any more length into her. Several inches of shaft
were still visible, with her hand wrapped around it.
Tentatively, she bobbed up and down a bit, and
moved her pelvis in a circle, while her taut labia
clung to the penis like rubber bands. The man on his
back grunted and bucked his hips, nearly unseating
Tuula, and then, with a shout, he exploded inside her,
and she screamed as her own orgasm rendered her
half unconscious. She fell off onto the floor, with
fluids, his and hers, running from her gaping
pinkness, as the miner got up and staggered out,
smiling. It took Tuula a few minutes before she
could once again get on hands and knees to take on
the next stiff prick.
Peter counted more than sixty before lunch,
when he gave up counting. Mr. M'bele brought them
delicious grilled sausages, and, since Tuula seemed
very hungry, Peter gave her some of his. After lunch,
Tuula took on even more men than in the morning.
Almost all were there for seconds or thirds, so they
took a bit longer and wanted a bit more variety.
Some roughly fucked her throat, holding her head
with both hands, making her gasp and cough and
spew cum which splashed on her chest. Some
squeezed her breasts as they took her from behind.
Several wanted her to sit on their prods and rock her
hips until they came. They left satisfied, many
drenched in Tuula's ejaculate when she came
especially violently. Peter had heard of that, but he
was amazed to see half a cup of clear fluid spraying
from her stuffed cunt.
As nightfall approached, the miners had to
leave for their barracks, and in the failing light the
two lovers washed as well as they could with water
from the hose. As Peter directed the stream over
Tuula's new, improved clit, she moaned and held his
hands, the hose, until she came. She flipped the
mattress over, so the cum covered side was down, and
placed Peter on his back. Lovingly, she licked his
penis until it stood tall, a matter of seconds, it
seemed to him. With her hands on his shoulders, she
lowered herself onto his erection, smiling as she
gyrated her pelvis. He was about to come when she
stopped and sat quietly, tracing his facial features
with her index finger. As soon as his tension had
passed, she resumed her tease, bring him to the edge
several times before his incredibly sensitive penis
erupted inside her. She kept him inside her but bent
over close and whispered, "Suck my nipples, lover."
He did, and soon he felt her vaginal walls clamping
on his flaccid penis, squeezing him out as she came
with a gush of fluid which soaked his pubic hair.
They slept in each other's arms.
During breakfast, coffee and mush, they heard a
small plane overhead. Tuula prepared to get back to
work, flipping the mattress over again, and Peter
resigned himself to seeing his wife fucked
senseless again. "You first," she said, stroking his
penis. As he stood there, she induced him to lift her,
hands under her arms, so she could slide down on his
prick. She locked her legs around his body as he
bounced on the balls of his feet, driving into her until
she came, and when she came again, he did, too,
feeling his own seminal fluids dribbling down his
thighs. Mr. M'bele discovered them still locked
together and said, matter of factly, "You have about
three minutes to clean up and get dressed." He put
down their clothing, washed and folded, with their
passports and wallets and watches, but, of course, no
underwear for Tuula.
In exactly three minutes, Mr. M'bele was back
with a well dressed white man, whom Tuula
recognized as the man who sat next to her on the
flight to Cape Town. "My name is Johann Maarten.
I'm one of the owners of this concession. I
understand you stayed here longer than you intended
and were ‑‑‑ um ‑‑‑ inconvenienced. I expect you
would like to leave, now. I've had the boys put a
hamper of food in your Land Rover and top off the
petrol tank. Let me walk you back to your car." Mr.
M'bele hung back as they passed through the outer
fence and Mr. Maarten opened the door for Tuula to
climb in. At the driver's door, he shook hands with
Peter. "I wish there were some way I could apologize
for what happened." Peter felt something hard, like a
marble, between their palms as they shook hands.
Then, very softly, Mr. Maarten said, "Don't try to sell
that until you get back to Europe. Any dealer in
Amsterdam or Tel Aviv should give you at least thirty
thousand dollars, American, for that."
Hidden from Mr. M'bele by the car door, Peter
pocketed the uncut diamond and said, "Thanks. A
very nice present."
As they turned around and drove away, Tuula
unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged it off her
shoulders, looking down and admiring her new
breasts. Shifting into high gear, Tim let go of the
gear lever and gently slid his palm over the tip of her
nipple.
[end]
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