Remembering that her reaction to this abuse might be a matter of life and death, Elizabeth desperately tried to pull herself together. She endeavoured to ignore her own pain and to smooth her reactions to coincide with his ramming shaft. She tried to make her squeals sound like a compliment to his size. She felt herself hoist bodily by the hips, backside in the air, toes just grazing the sand and thereafter was helpless to affect events. Flopping loosely, she was pulled onto his shaft like a tight boot and then thrust off again. Verbal contribution finally failed her too. She tried to keep up the pretence but she was too hoarse even to squeal.
In a panic, her mind centred upon the progress of her abuser’s deepening lunges, desperately assessing every nuance of his grunting and thrusting. Feeling her whole rear to be one huge ruined red-hot hole, she could do nothing to shorten her ordeal and was forced to long instead for his speedy gratification.
Suddenly it was there, bursting wetly in her bowels, greeted by the pair of them simultaneously, one bellowing in triumph, the other wailing her relief. As he pulled back out of her, Elizabeth sagged in his hands as limp as a deflated doll. She was dumped face down on the damp sand, legs apart, gasping and groaning while the man brushed himself off, his throaty exclamations evidently expressive of satisfaction and walked away to join the group by the fire. When at last she raised her head, she saw with numb despair that they were arguing once more.
The five deserters and the man who had been their corporal were natives of the nearby town. Without money for bribes they hadn’t dare to return to their homes for fear of the security checks. They had been lurking among the dunes and ranging along the shore after dark, seeking wreck and flotsam that might be of value. This night had delivered an unexpected prize that excited ideas as to possible profit. Already the fire burned more palely in the first flush of dawn and quick decisions were in order. Two of the men had been so excited watching the others as to ejaculate before their turn came and were now anxious to keep possession of Elizabeth for future use. The eldest of the deserters, a grey haired man who had taken his turn with the others, now objected to meddling further with her. She was a spy he insisted and they could all be shot for concealing her. The others discounted his argument. He was known to prefer boys to women and anyway they were all just as liable to be shot for desertion.
While they furiously debated her fate, their plundered prize sprawled exhausted and terrified at their feet, where they turned her over once or twice to survey her generous curves in the growing light. Yet had she known it, her efforts had not been wholly in vain, for the argument now was not about how best to dispose of the suspected spy but how to make better use of her. Elizabeth’s blondeness, nakedness and apparent inability to make herself understood might have made her seem an unlikely spy but it rendered her temptingly vulnerable to exploitation. She was a mature woman very much to the local taste. Her breasts were heavy enough to stand in full round curves on her rib cage, the dark nipples standing out like bullets. Her legs, half drawn up, fell apart as she was rolled over to reveal a full bush of ginger-ish pubic hair above the damp red gash of her sex, now dusted with a coating of sand grains. How to make use of it?
A few miles along the coast on a shallow and sandy creek lay the town to which they aimed to return. Since the war began it had been the centre of a multitude of tented camps, widely spread and camouflaged in the surrounding rocky desert. Collectively they made up a major supply base and a source of recreation. To the corporal and his gang, low-grade conscripts from the local militia, it was both an attraction and a threat. As soldiers they had been poorly paid, when paid at all, and could seldom even afford the services of the cheapest whores. How could they conceal such a prize as this? How continue to enjoy her? How to keep her secure?
Lust and greed overcame their caution when they heard the corporal’s solution. He had moved away from the town to seek his fortune in the capital, but before he was conscripted he had been employed as a door-keeper in an expensive brothel. Its enterprising Madame had attracted a clientele so powerfully connected and so deviantly inclined as to encourage her to provide attractions for them of a blatantly illegal kind. The rise to power of puritanical Fundamentalism had increased her business, but made her position in the capital too precarious. In the first victorious phase of the war she had followed in the train of the army, setting up behind the front where brothels were tolerated and less attention paid to the nature of their attractions.
She had achieved protection and influence, the corporal said, by serving high- ranking men whose tastes ran counter to the current law. He extolled her acumen to his comrades. She had an eye for rarities in her stock in trade. While he had served her she purchased many foreign girls of different types and trained them to provide erotic specialties. Even in peacetime she had been able to employ such hapless cock-fodder without questions being asked. Now free of foreign complications and out of reach of timid civil authorities, her protectors would be all the more powerful. Where better could the men turn to use their find to best advantage than a brothel madam who had specialized in the breaking in of reluctant girls? If anyone knew how to employ the prize it would be Madame Zurra!
So, unaware of her destination, Elizabeth soon hung jolting helplessly, head downwards, folded like a bundle of carpets across the back of a small donkey. She was wrapped in the remnants of her sea-going home, salt stained canvas bound with nylon rope cast up from the sea. With wrists and ankles bound, gagged with a double turn of salty rope, she could see only the dusty ground passing beneath the donkey’s trotting hooves. She was being transported through the poorest quarter of the town. Built amid the bomb-shattered ruins of an earlier stage of the war were masses of squalid huts utilizing salvaged bricks, military discards and dusty palm fronds. Amid these inhabited ruins half-naked children, skinny goats and slinking dogs foraged for scraps. About them lay a waste of broken palm trunks and the wide curves of a meandering muddy creek.
Soon after the beginning of the war, motorised transport had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared, to be replaced by equally mysteriously pre-prepared supply trains comprising donkeys, camels and mules in huge numbers. Now, in the cool dawn, hundreds of over-laden donkeys just like the one carrying Elizabeth, filtered unheeded past bored sentries on their way with vegetables, fruit and tottering stacks of fodder to the military encampments, accompanied by herds of goats, shrouded, burdened women and ragged labourers whom no-one bothered to check.
Elizabeth’s captors merged with the flow, nervously following in the confident wake of their corporal. Here and there on the outskirts of the town, amid date gardens and a warren of huts, stood a large building almost islanded in a loop of the creek. Its outer walls rose like those of a fortress almost from the edge of the mud. The only windows were high in the walls and defended by ornamental grilles.
Men and donkey approached the building by a circuitous route through the date plantations and halted before an unexpectedly finely carved door. A knock by the corporal and a low-voiced parley admitted the group, donkey and all, the door closing swiftly behind them.
The deserters’ confidence grew at this confirmation of the corporal’s account of his familiarity with Madame Zurra’s establishment. The hulking giant who had admitted them slid the bolts on the door and came to help them unload the donkey in the small bare high-walled courtyard. Whipping out a long knife with the celerity of long practice, he slashed through the rope that bound Elizabeth’s wrists to her ankles and tipped her out of her shroud of canvas. He displayed no great surprise at the sight of a naked blonde woman sprawling at his feet, her wrists still bound before her, the ropes now flapping loose on her ankles.
“So you have fresh meat for sale! Like old times, eh!” He lifted a large and horny foot to kick Elizabeth’s unfastened legs apart, expertly defeating her attempt to curl up and kicking her again to force her to rise to her hands and knees. “Madame is in the cellar bar.” He stooped ov
er Elizabeth and scooped her up easily by the waist. Her former captors crowded hastily after him, anxious not to lose sight of their merchandise. There was a dark arch and a steep flight of steps going downwards. The doorkeeper dropped his burden at the bottom of the stairs, pulled aside a heavy curtain and lofted Elizabeth with a kick into an unexpected tumult.
The trappings of the cellar bar were wholly Western in style, the sound a throbbing electronic beat, the air thick with fumes of alcohol, tobacco and heavy scent, the space whirling with dizzy multicoloured and disorienting light, reflected along one side by the mirrors and bottle glass of a long bar. In this ancient desert town where the only industry had been the weaving of goat-hair cloaks, the chance of war had opened up a new source of wealth. Thousands of soldiers were encamped around or passing through en route to the front line. There was a market to be had for many things. Whatever was forbidden, men made reckless by danger and uncertainty were willing to pay heavily for. Western-style music and dance had been added to the more traditional prohibitions of alcohol, tobacco, drugs and prostitution.
“So this is the meat you expect me to buy?!” A powerful female voice cut effortlessly through the beating sound. Crouched upon all fours on the gritty floor, Elizabeth looked up in uncomprehending hope and terror at Madame Zurra.
The brothel owner was a big woman, not so much in height as in width. Vast hips were swathed in black silk, enormous breasts squeezed one another in the low neck-line. Her legs, elegantly shod and sheathed in black nylon, supported her massive body like the tapered baluster legs of a grand piano. Coarse black hair was drawn back and done in an elaborate knot at the back of her thick neck, around which she wore a triple string of superb pearls. Pearl drops dangled from her ears and her stubby fingers were loaded with heavy gold. But it was her eyes that transfixed Elizabeth. The round face, powdered cherubic cheeks and cupid’s-bow mouth were a mask of chuckling bonhomie out of which glittered eyes like black stone sunk into fleshy pouches. They looked down at Elizabeth with the greed and rapacity of a shark, raking their prey from head to foot as if assessing her value by the pound.
“You there! Let me see what I’m being offered!” A ringed forefinger stabbed first at Elizabeth, then with compelling authority at the nearest of half a dozen round-topped tables. “Get up on there! On that table!”
Impelled by terror and the memory of sharpening steel as her captors debated her fate on the beach, Elizabeth moved awkwardly to obey. Helped by a smack with the rope’s end from the doorkeeper and a push from the corporal behind her, she mounted clumsily by way of a chair to crouch on hands and knees amid discoloured beer mats and glass rings, reluctant to stand, aware of her nakedness and feeling the pressure of eyes upon her.
Her erstwhile captors blocked her retreat, shuffling in proprietary fashion to the rear. Behind Madame Zurra’s bulk several whores, dark eyed and pouting, lounged against the bar, half-dressed in a mixture of Western and local finery. At Madame’s abrupt gesture, one of them switched off the heavy beat of the old-fashioned juke- box.
“What is she worth? Not much!” The fat woman moved lightly for all her bulk, circling the little table while Elizabeth followed her passage with frightened eyes and then jerked, squealing from behind her rope gag, trying to clamp her thighs together, as a plump finger speared accurately between her sex lips. Quickly Madame landed her a noisy spank, effectually disguising her victim’s response to the experiment. “Too old to learn tricks!”
The corporal was the only one other than Elizabeth who understood her words, though his comrades could detect well enough from their tone the familiar routine of bargaining. He protested more comprehensibly for their benefit, enjoying his role.
Shapely as a houri in Paradise, he declared, a real blonde and such were rarities in these days of war. She was perfectly docile and had given them no trouble. See how obedient! Dazed and uncertain, their victim was made to spread her thighs apart, thrust up her rump and display herself as she had on the beach, as well as that might be within the narrow confines of her table-top.
“See how firm and taut she is! Nothing sagging there!” Elizabeth felt strong fingers spread the lips of her vagina and flick the fleshy nub he had exposed. “As pink and healthy as a young girl’s!”
“You are peasants and have the taste of peasants!” Madame said loftily.
Privately she was more appreciative of the generous proportions postured so obscenely for her inspection. Her customers complained if the girls were skinny. The soldiers were mostly peasants anyway. Novelty was always stimulating too, though long experience told her that where male debauchees were concerned anything female could be turned to advantage. What her old employee had said about wartime shortages was also true. An impeccably English, blue-eyed blonde would be a rarity.
The corporal persisted in his theme. “You used English girls in the old days, as I remember.”
Madame Zurra laughed. “Ah, the old days! I was an expert at breaking and training reluctant girls! But they were young and foolish, drug users, lost or strayed and needing only the application of discipline!” Though for all her artful disclaimer, she had no doubts. This particular woman was in no position to resist either.
“Either she works for you or she is shot as a spy!” The corporal put it into words. Madame changed her tack.
“That’s all very well, but I have to arrange for bribes to be paid, otherwise I run the risk of her being discovered by security and taken from me before I’ve had full use of her!” The prospective buyer of flesh noted the suddenly crestfallen faces of the would-be vendors. “We will talk business!” she said. “Leave the merchandise with my girls!” Muttering, the men followed her into the room behind the bar. “Dirty spy! Those men should have shoot you!” One of the whores, a bold-eyed, hawk-nosed creature in a scarlet cocktail dress evidently spoke English. “You fuck them to let you live. Now they want sell you to Madame.” She prodded Elizabeth here and there as dispassionately as a buyer in a meat market. “Pah! She tell them she will not buy you! Too old; no skill for please men; Englishwoman too cold, like fuck dead fish! Madame send for policemen. They sure shoot you for spy!”
The others echoed the word they recognised, shrieking accusingly “Spy!
Spy!”
“No!” The one who spoke English translated further. “Torture you first to make you confess, then shoot you.”
Still perched upon her table in dazed confusion, Elizabeth squealed and wriggled as a hand, small but firm, smacked her hard from behind. Her male captors had disappeared and the whores, who had alarmingly armed themselves with a variety of straps and slippers, now surrounded her.
“Shoot is too quick for you! Confess! You are a dirty spy! The others eagerly echoed her words. “Confess! Dirty spy!”
Elizabeth alternately tried to make protests of innocence behind the gag and to escape from her exposed position.
“Stay still! Dirty spy bitch!” They crowded closely about her. The English-speaker uncapped a lipstick. “You make old antique!” she sneered, using English for her victim’s comprehension and then translating that for the amusement of her shrieking colleagues. Flourishing it she swiftly inscribed a For Sale sign upon the bare curves of Elizabeth’s up-thrust rump. “Old cow for sale!”
“Old cow! Old cow!” The painted Jezebels jeered heartlessly, congregated in a sniggering huddle behind their leader, like a back-up group.
Little tremors of shame and dread made Elizabeth quiver, poked and pinched by red-nailed, feminine fingers. If the soldiers had intended shoot her as a spy, why had she been reprieved? Was it because she had co-operated in what they had demanded. Was the ugly woman really likely to be her rescuer and pay them money? She knelt, red faced, under the dispassionate examination of her persecutors, though their comments were mostly lost upon her. She quailed in terror when a big knife made its appearance, but it was only used to slice away the rope
gag from between her jaws.
The English speaker among her tormentors proceeded to put her to an interrogation, the others circling eager for an excuse to pounce.
“What you nem, eh?” “Same queen, eh?” “You get kid, eh?”
“How old you?”
“Hah! Old bitch, eh!”
Mercilessly they put her through a catechism. They made her describe her capture and recount how many men had raped her and who was the biggest and whether she had orgasmed or not. It completed Elizabeth’s disorientation that they should seem to regard her as having deliberately utilized her sex to escape with her life.
“Those titties like cow!” The English-speaker came round and leant over Elizabeth apparently to examine her expression. Ayesha, the others called her. Bending forward so much that her own bronze breasts almost tumbled out of the deep-curved neckline of her dress, she reached out to grip Elizabeth’s nipples between finger and thumb, jerking downwards as if milking her like a cow.
“You want Madame buy you? Keep you here? Save you from death? You must show us how hot you can make yourself.”
Fingers gripped Elizabeth painfully by the hairs of her pussy from behind. She writhed and squirmed while more fingers joined in teasing her. A slim hand slid across her belly, cupping her furry mound, another slid in from behind and delved two fingered between the tender lips of her vagina, a third, caressing her bottom,
Elizabeth Enslaved Page 2