This story is inspired by current events. The so-called 'human shields' from that bus are now safely back in the UK, having refused to be sent to military installations. The heroine in my story is not so lucky or wise.
1. Posted (Human Shield, Jessica Verdi) Before I begin my debriefing report I should give a little background to myself. I am from a good middle class home but my lifestyle since my teenage years has been 'alternative' - that wonderful catch-all term for political, vegetarian, left-wing etc. I've been a hunt saboteur, an anti-vivisectionist, anti-capitalist and anti-globalisationist. I was what they called a militant pacifist! When I heard that a red London double-decker bus was about to depart for Iraq, I knew I had to be on it. Thanks to the publicity I received in Cosmo magazine as the 'glamour girl of the alternative movement' my credentials were not in doubt and they were glad to have me aboard. A few days later I was trundling through western Europe on that bus with a bunch of idealists, misfits and thrill-seekers. Any Londoner can tell you how often their buses are seen broken down at the side of the road. They will recognise the traditional signal of the rear seat removed and leant between the road and the back of the bus. The law of probability stated that we were due at least breakdown during our journey. We had two breakdowns, and used up most of our spare cash on the repairs before we even reached Iraq. The Iraqi people welcomed us warmly. They were so hospitable on that first evening. We ate well, sung and danced until late in the night. The next day we got ready to do what we came for. The twenty of us met with the equivalent amount of military personnel and minders. It didn't take long before the disagreements started. We expected to be 'human shields' in various hospitals and schools in Baghdad, but it soon became apparent that they had 'more important' sites for us to protect. I had expected something like that to happen but many in our group soon got the jitters about the thought of being anywhere near a military installation when the bombs dropped! After day of futile discussions, most of my group went back to the hotel to start booking their flights home, disappointed and disillusioned. I was furious that my fair-weather activists hadn't forced the issue harder. Along with five others I decided to spend a further day persuading the officials that it was better to have the six of us in the hospitals instead of following the other human shields back to the UK. The meeting resumed after lunch and the Iraqi officials were all smiles as they walked into the room. Apparently the great leader himself had intervened on our behalf! We were to be taken to three different hospitals the following day. I felt vindicated. If only the others had shown a bit more backbone instead of flying home we would have been able to protect even more hospitals. The next morning we were taken to our posts. A pair of us would go to each hospital. I was paired up with another girl - Emma. She was a lovely girl; nineteen years old, slim, with long dark hair. Being ten years older and much more experienced in the ways of the world, I felt protective towards her, like a young aunt. Emma and I hugged the other four, wished them all luck, and shedding a couple of tears. We clambered into the back seats of our respective Landcruisers that were lined up and waiting. We drove for nearly an hour, away from Baghdad and deep into the desert. Eventually we reached a place that didn't look anything like a hospital. The 10 feet high barbed wire fence was an ominous sign. We stopped at the sentry post, where a brief discussion took place between our driver and the sentry guard. It appeared we were in some kind of industrial complex. "Hospital?" I asked the driver, desperate for reassurance. "Yes, yes," he said, but 'yes' was one of the few English words he knew. along with 'Bekkam good!', whatever that means! The Landcruiser stopped in a large open area some 50 yards away from any of the neighbouring buildings. Ready to greet us was yet another Saddam-lookalike Colonel. He seemed very pleased to see us, and as he greeted us we realised he spoke English very well. "This isn't a hospital!" I shouted at him angrily. I learnt long ago that you don't get anywhere without creating a noise. "Dear Ladies!" he responded. "You are just stopping her for lunch. Please get out of the vehicle." We got out from the air-conditioned Landcruiser into the baking heat of the midday sun. "Here is your post," he announced. With utter horror I realised he was pointing to a telegraph pole nearby. My driver and minder grabbed me and frog-marched me towards the one foot thick wooden pole. One of the men held me with my face pressed again the pole while the other fixed handcuffs on me. It all happened so swiftly and I was left hugging the pole. I kicked at the bastards as they walked away from me. Emma was marched away, kicking and screaming, by the two bastards. I called out to reassure her that everything would be okay, but neither of us believed it. This really wasn't good at all! The Colonel stayed near me, seemingly amused by the sight of what his cronies had done to me. "Your friend will be guarding the other side of factory," the Colonel said, his smile bigger than ever. "We are supposed to be at a hospital," I protested, tugging at the cuffs that bit tightly into my wrists. The Colonel came almost to within kicking distance. "Change of plan. You weren't needed there. Here you can protect our valuable pharmaceutical supplies." His eyes went up and down my body, drinking in its shape. "Tell me," he said, becoming serious. "Why do you think you are safe as a human shield? You are a traitor to your country. Do you really think they care whether you die or not?" "I don't suppose they do; but I believe in peace and solving conflicts without war. I'm willing to sacrifice my life for peace." Suddenly my idealism seemed meaningless. I could die protecting several tons of anthrax! The colonel left me, and I spent the remaining hours of day alone, hugging my telegraph pole. I'd been called a tree-hugger before but never a pole hugger! In the cause of past protests I'd chained or handcuffed myself to trees and fences, but this was different. Usually the police or security forces were the ones who freed me. Wasn't that ironic? My enemies were the ones that cut me free. Where were they now that I needed them? As the sun was setting, the colonel and his assistants returned. I was glad of the relief from boredom but not thrilled to see the chains and ropes they carried. First they applied the ankle chains which they fixed over the top of my jeans and passed the joining chain in front of the pole. It restricted my movement slightly but more worrying denied me the ability to defend myself. After being chained hand and foot, I was baffled as to the purpose of the rope. I soon found out as they wrapped it repeated around my waist and the pole until my belly was compressed against it, trapping my cuffed wrists in the process. The rope was knotted in the small of my back. Even if I remained handcuffed I had hoped to be able to lie down during the night, but it seemed they wanted me to remain standing. They stuffed some bread in my mouth then offered me some water from a bottle. I had one last plan to get free, if only for a short break. "Toilet, toilet!" I said, looking over my shoulder at my backside just to make sure they got the message. Surely they didn't expect me to poo in my pants! After they had a brief Iraqi conversation I thought that they had relented. A man bent down behind me, but instead of releasing my ankles he started cutting away my jeans with a small knife. I felt the steel blade of the knife on my calves, then at the back of my thighs, perhaps deliberately trailing the blade against my flesh. Eventually he was able to pull off all of my jeans. Just a few more cuts and my panties gone too, leaving three guys quietly taking in the sight of my naked buttocks. They felt they had addressed my toilet problem. The atmosphere seemed to become more menacing once my buttocks were on display, and my squirming against the post only seemed to provoke them further. One of the men was pouring water onto a rag, ensuring it was well soaked. It was destined for my mouth, and I had little choice but to allow him to push the wet cloth between my lips. I heard the ripping of gaffer tape and after my mouth had been filled to capacity, the wide strips of tape were plastered across my face. Any thoughts of talking my way out of the situation had been literally stuffed! A black cotton hood was put over my head, its drawstrings pulled tight and knotted at the back of my neck. It plunged me into almost complete darkness. Naively, I expected that they would go off to leave me 'guarding' whatever it was they stored here. Yet the chatter continued, and I began to sense that they were not yet done with me. A hand started caressing my buttocks, then that same hand slipped between my legs until the fingers found my labia. His purpose was not merely to get a gratuitous feel, he was determined to get a reaction from me. The three men talked quietly as the man continued his manipulations. I'm only human, and he knew what he was doing. Despite my predicament I felt myself reacting physically to his touch and was fighting a mental battle against my own body. After around five minutes of leisurely foreplay the hand withdrew but was replaced by another hand. Fresh, even more determined, fingers went to work on my pussy, locating and stroking my clit. I felt myself squeezing against and hugging the post even tighter than my bonds held me. My involuntary groaning produced mutterings of approval from the men. It was as if they were trying to prove a point: That all western women are sluts? That I could get turned on despite being bound and gagged? Perhaps by bringing me to orgasm without raping me they thought they could prove their superiority. But I didn't get where I was today by giving in so easily! I was determined to hold out and deny them that victory. They raised the stakes, unbuttoning the top of my shirt and pulling it slightly off my shoulders. Hands came down into my shirt and slipped into the cups of my bra and across my nipples. I don't know whether they were impressed, but most men were. Despite my feminist credentials I was very proud of my tits! Never before had anyone touched them without my permission, now the matter of my consent or willingness was an irrelevance. I was just a bound and gagged body to use any way they wished. A hand cupped each of my breasts as if weighing them, squeezing them to feel their quality. I was fighting a battle on two fronts as another hand continued its work between my legs. The 'breast man' had meanwhile discovered that my nipples were pierced. He fingered my nipples and their jewelry, trying to feel exactly what was going on there. It was a boyfriend from several years ago who said my large nipples 'were made to be pierced'. I relented to his suggestion and never regretted it. I loved the feel of the piercings and the way that intruding metal made my nipples feel. I don't know whether the piercings had offended them, excited them, or whether they were simply tiring of their efforts to stimulate my body. Suddenly my shirt was yanked fully off my shoulders, down to my elbows, and likewise the straps of my bra. My breasts were dangling free and the noises from my three captors left me in doubt about the topic of their conversation. I felt a man's fingers unscrewing the barbells from my nipples. They were gold so perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised. I could imagine one of the men smugly dropping them in his pocket, looking forward to visiting a goldsmith the next day. What happened next shocked me. Something else was being push through the holes in my nipples, first one, then the other. The metal felt strange and rough - not like anything I'd felt before. A hand lifted up my left breast so my nipple was against the wooden post. A sharp pinging sound accompanied a sudden jolt in the nipple. The awful truth struck me: They were nailing my nipples to the pole. Each tap of the hammer sent the nail more firmly into the wood until I sensed the flat head of the nail was against the side of my nipple. The same treatment was meted out to the right breast. My only consolation was that I was already so well chained and tied to the pole that I couldn't easily move enough to pull on the nails. Nor did I have any inclination to do so. (Guys, if you ever want to subdue a woman, nail her tits to a pole or a tree. That'll do it!) I was defeated. They knew it and I knew it. I just wanted them to go away for however long they planned to leave me like that. But they weren't finished. Something slashed across my buttocks. I had heard that in Iraq they used rubber hose pipes as part of their punishment and tortures. And this certainly felt like a hose-pipe would. Several more well-aimed blows fell on my buttocks. The pain left me beyond tears, in a kind of semi-consciousness. Fingers stroke my buttocks but they were really just tracing the tingling welts made by their blows. I hoped and prayed that they were done with me after that. They still had Emma to play with, I thought selfishly. The Iraqis had one final torment for me. Something was being applied to my anus. An oil, but not a sanitary one; perhaps it was olive oil. A finger repeated popped in and out of my sphincter, then something that was undoubtedly metal pushed between my buttocks. All I could do was grunt in protest as it forced its way into my rectum; four, maybe five inches of it. Someone started tying it in position with rope passing from my waist, between my thighs and tied at my back where the other knots were located. That's when I knew that it was a gun barrel in my anus. There was an ominous clicking which made me wonder whether they were going to shoot me. The colonel shocked me by speaking in English. "So now you know what it feels like to have a gun barrel up your ass. Just like a typical Iraqi." He paused as if waiting for an answer, but my gag spared him the worst of my sarcasm. "The gun is loaded and ready to fire, but we are not going to kill you. Tariq is now tying rope around your right ankle. This is attached to the trigger of the gun. If you want to kill yourself just kick out your right leg." He must have been expecting my high-pitched muffled 'why?' "Why? Because if this site is bombed you should use it. If some of these gasses escape you will be grateful for that gun. The first thing you will feel is a burning in your throat, which will rapidly reach your stomach. Your head will feel a pain that you can not imagine. The strokes we gave you were like a tickle in comparison. You won't be able to see the blood bursting from your skin but you will surely feel it. I recommend that you pull the trigger to kill yourself before you lose control of your leg." Following the vivid description of what could happen, I wanted to thank him for the merciful provision of the gun. "Farewell, Ms Jones," he said with a bizarre air of melancholy and affection, "may our God be with us tonight." I could hear the three sets of footprints trudging away from me. They were heading in the direction of Emma. The daylight that I saw earlier through my hood had all but disappeared. All I could do was stand perfectly still, meditate on my life and pray for a miracle. Straining my wrists upwards my fingertips could just about touch my nipples. I felt the flat head of the galvanised nails which impaled them. The nails were firmly banged into the post - I had not a hope of pulling them from the wood. My fingertips caressed the tips of the nipples, comforting them, and my thoughts soon turned to sex. Despite the all-too-real plight I found myself in, tied, chained and nailed to a telegraph pole, if someone would have come along and rammed their penis in me right there and then I would have been eternally grateful. To my shame I started to squeeze down on the gun barrel. Sometimes you just have to take comfort where you find it. end of part 1 (of 2)
2. The Longest Night of my Life (Human Shield, Jessica Verdi) Night had surely fallen, as the darkness within my hood had turned to blackness. The compound was eerily still and silent. It was as if everybody had deserted it or gone into hiding. The silence had the effect of making my hearing seem more acute and I became aware of noises in the far distance. Tiny little booms, as quiet as an explosion could possibly be. They might have been fifty miles away. Just as my ears were tuning into the distant noises, everything changed. There was an explosion that sounded like it came from the neighbouring town. Then there was a bright flash that turned darkest night into brightest day. As thunder follows the lightening, that was how I heard the explosion. There was the sound of artillery, anti-aircraft fire that etched bright dotted lines in the sky. Not even my black hood could keep that view from me. The earth was shaking and I was too. All I could do was hug my post as if it was my dearest friend. The deafening bombardment continued all around me. I bit down on the rag in my mouth and sobbed in a way I had never done before, sometimes banging my forehead on the post in sheer terror. Then there was a kind of whooshing and whining sound in the sky and an instant later the building behind me was blown apart. I was being bombarded by a hail of rubble and shrapnel that beat into my naked back and legs. Several small rocks hit my head too, and I was grateful for the modest protection of my black cotton hood. I tried to stay still despite the pain, fearing that the gun in my rectum would be fired if I moved my leg. I must have been dazed and confused because I remember thinking that I hoped the gun wouldn't fire accidently in case I needed it later! The impact of shrapnel was causing a trickle of blood to run down my thigh. I could sense its coolness on the soft skin at the back of my knee. My head was hurting. My stomach hurt too. I could hear nothing but a maddening ringing like I used to hear after going to loud rock concerts. My throat tickled and I started to cough, but the expulsion from my lungs was suppressed by the stuffing in my mouth. I thought I was choking. Eventually, perhaps hours later, the cacophony of the immense blitz had ceased. To my amazement I was still alive. I had stopped coughing. I could feel the slight coolness of the steel manacle that rested loosely on my ankle bone of my right leg. A chain led from it, around the front of the pole to the left ankle. It meant I could move a leg forward but not backwards...except that there was also a thin cord tied tightly on the slimmest part of my lower leg. It led to the trigger of the gun that nestled so snugly in my rectum. I didn't know how much slack there was in the cord - I was not inclined to experiment. It took all my willpower to hold my trembling right leg still. At my lowest moments during that night it was strangely reassuring to know my life was in my own hands or rather my leg. One kick and it would be all over for me. There was nothing I could do but wait and try to sleep. If I relaxed and leaned back, I would pull on my nailed nipples. They could stretch a little, but not enough to take my weight. Somehow I must have slept, or perhaps I simply fainted from exhaustion. -oOo- Beneath my hood that blackness had become mere darkness again and led me to conclude that it would soon be dawn. I continued to wait but it never got any lighter, yet the warmth on my shoulders indicated that it must be daytime. Nobody came for me. I stood quietly, chained, tied and nailed to my post, listening intently for any signs of life. Were they all dead? Had they simply evacuated the compound? After surviving the bombing and the threat of nerve agents was I destined to die of thirst or sunstroke? What an irony that would be! With nothing else to do to keep me amused, my fingers reached upwards, as I ignored the pain of the handcuffs digging into the wrists. The tip of my left index finger could touch the tip of my left nipple. With my hands restrained on the other side of the pole for so long they had begun to seem detached from me. Now my body felt connected again. The gun must have slipped out of me a little, because the cord that held its barrel inside me had tightened. I could feel the itchy cord nestled deep between my labia. I rubbed myself against the pole trying to dislodge it but that only served to agitate me, although not unpleasantly so. While my finger continued playing with my nipple I was wriggling to dislodge that rope from between my labia. I couldn't help but wonder what I looked like. A kind of trussed-up pole dancer, I suppose. Those little movement made my body feel alive. It wasn't the ideal moment for me to be discovered. "Need any help there?" said a friendly, almost laughing voice. He wasn't an Iraqi, in fact he sounded like a Yorkshireman. I nodded and mmmppphhed excitably. Yes, yes I wanted help! I wanted out of my dark, tightly bound world. Without delay that man's hands were at my neck fumbling with the knotted drawstring of my hood. I felt the coolness of a knife blade against my shoulder. A light tugging, and the hood was loosened. "Close your eyes," he said as he lifted off the hood. I understood what he meant as the full daylight blazed through my screwed up eyelids. My rescuer peeled the strips of tape from my face while I still resisted opening my eyes to the light. I felt myself gagging as he pulled the sodden cloth from my mouth, and the first thing I saw was the look of mild distaste on his face. Then he was smiled at me. I didn't know who was the most pleased to see the other. "I'm Paul. British S.A.S.. Sorry, not permitted to give my full name." "Barbara Anne Jones. Human Shield." "Pleased to meet you," he said lightly shaking my cuffed right hand, showing that he hadn't forgotten his manners. He studied my nailed-fast nipples and shouted out to somebody. "Charlie, bring me bolt cutters and a hacksaw!" "Looks like we'll have to cut 'em off," he said, shaking his head apologetically, with typically dry English wit. "How are you feeling?" I looked back over my shoulder and frowned. I still had a loaded gun up my ass. "Jesus Christ!" Paul blurted out as he studied the weapon. "Is it really loaded?" I asked. He bent down behind me, studied the gun, then started fiddling with it, sending delicate vibrations right into my belly. "It isn't now!" I made him promise he'd fully unloaded it, because there was something I simply had to know. I moved my right leg forward just a fraction and heard the click of the gun's trigger. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I did both. Charlie arrived with the bolt cutters and hacksaw. The teenage squaddie was open-jawed in amazement when he saw my appearance. It's not everyday these soldiers encounter a naked damsel in distress. Still chained and tied to the post I was at Paul's mercy as he went to work on my nipples. With great care and dexterity he gently hacksawed through the nails that had pinioned by breasts for so long. I liked the way he touched me. Firm yet tender. Totally in control. As he pulled the nipple clear of the remaining spike of the nail he seemed perplexed. "No blood?" "Already pierced," I explained. He seemed to approve. The bolt cutters made light work of the chains that connected my hand and leg cuffs, but the cuff parts had to stay on my limbs like crude jewelry until the locks could be drilled or picked. The rope around my belly was untied and I was finally free from the pole. I put my sore tits back in my bra and buttoned up my shirt. Paul tossed me his spare pair of combat trousers, as if I were his new recruit! I think the guys were more bothered about my partial nakedness than I was. A section of the rope that for so long had tied me to the post was now used as a belt to keep the man-size trousers around my waist. I felt surprisingly good, almost in a state of euphoria. I had been lucky to survive. What were the odds on a person surviving what I had? Then I remembered Emma. -oOo- We went in search of my young colleague, picking our way over the debris in the compound and skirting around the bombed out shell of a building. Once my eyes had adjusted to the daylight I realised what a murky smoke-filled day it was. Paul said the Iraqis had been setting oil wells on fire and using it for a defensive screen. It had been my defence as well; protecting my pale skin from five hours in a baking middle eastern day. We must have been walking and searching for ten minutes through the lifeless and decimated industrial complex before finally catching sight of a motionless body standing upright, belly hard against a telegraph pole. I shouted Emma's name as we approached, and leapt for joy when she moved her hand slightly to acknowledge us. She was manning her post, secured exactly as I had been. When I looked at her I felt like I was looking at myself, but I soon saw that Emma had it even worse than I did. Her nipples, like mine, had been nailed to each side of the post, but unlike mine they were not pierced beforehand. Dried blood was spattered on her nipples and breasts. We had chatted the previous day about piercings after I had noticed her tongue stud. It was horrible to think of what she must have gone through as they banged those nails in. I felt responsible because I had indirectly inspired the act. When Paul removed Emma's hood we saw something more shocking. Emma wasn't gagged like I was, in fact her tongue was sticking out of her mouth. She didn't have any choice as her tongue had been threaded with a thick wire and that had been tied fast to a staple hammered into the post. It appeared that she was permanently licking the wooden post. She gave me a pitiful sidelong glance from her lovely dark eyes, giving me with a hint of what she had been through. I tried to comfort her and held her still as Paul and Charlie carried out the delicate task of freeing Emma from her vicious bondage. -oOo- That night Emma and I slept in a tent on a British army camp not far from where we were rescued. We were both like emotional yo-yos, both nursing our various sore bits. It felt great to be alive. I felt a little sad the following day when Paul handed us over to others to arrange our trip home. We had been getting on surprisingly well. He hadn't mocked me for being a human shield, in fact he only commented that I was brave. Nor had he mentioned to anybody about the state I was in when he found me. Before he left we kissed and hugged and in time-honoured English fashion we promised to meet for a drink when the war was over, although I seriously doubted we ever would. I can be such a pessimist. -oOo- EPILOGUE - 1 year later Emma sold her story to a Sunday newspaper for pounds100,000. She also became a C list celebrity for a few months. Good luck to her! She had been through a lot and deserved her break as much as anybody. I didn't sell my story. It was not appropriate for the wife of an SAS soldier to do so. The anonymity of SAS personnel must always be protected. Yes. Paul and I finally met for that promised drink two months after I returned to the UK. We chatted awkwardly in a quiet corner of the pub and realised we were both still fixated on what had happened to me. At last I could talk to somebody who understood me. It proved to be a strong bond between us. Strong enough that we never really parted after that meeting. Talking of strong bonds, I soon found out that Paul knew a thing or two about how to tie up a woman. He'd recognised something in me, and he was right. We live deep in the wonderful countryside of North Wales. If I'm a good girl he will take me fishing with him. At a remote spot near the river, he'll let me choose my own tree. Then he ties me to it with immaculate and very tight ropework that leaves me in a passionate embrace with the tree, making the rough bark dig into my skin. He stuffs a coffee soaked rag stuffed into my mouth then the lower half of my face is plastered with tape. I like how firmly he presses down the tape. I always wear a summer dress on such trips, so that it is easy for him to pull the shoulder straps down around my arms until my breasts popped free. He'll kiss me on the shoulder and I'll start to feel excited about what is to happen next. Of course we didn't forget the hammer and nails! I liked to watch as he lovingly skewered each nipple and gently nailed it to the bark of the tree. Each tap of the hammer further condemning me to my fate. Having a loaded gun up my ass was definitely not part of our ritual, but a fiendish little vibrator was a worthy torment in its own right. After being tied up, nailed down and appropriately stuffed, I was hooded with my home-made black satin hood. The vibrator in my ass would be started, then I would be subjected to the bitter sweet torment of his leather flogger, meticulously applied to my back and legs until every trivial thought had been purged from my mind. While I was tugging and straining, seeking relief from my dark bedeviling position, Paul was quietly fishing nearby. Several hours would pass. In Paul's own time - his fishing done - I would be rescued. It was never a moment too soon! Exhausted, frustrated, emotional and as horny as hell, I was very grateful to be released from my bondage. Then we'd spend some extremely high quality time together where Paul would give me 'a good seeing-to' as he liked to call it. I bumped into an old friend recently. Having discovered with a degree of surprise that I had married a soldier, he asked whether, in that case, I was still a 'tree-hugger'. "Yes," I replied smugly. "I still am...more now than ever!" THE END
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