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]