How Bad Girls Learn (The Institute: Bad Girls Book 4)

by Emily Tilton

  David shook his head, knowing that the end of the sentence didn’t reflect well on the military’s values. “If it wouldn’t endanger the mineral resources.”

  Lieutenant Stevens nodded. “But that’s good news for us, maybe. Captain thinks we may go out tomorrow to find Jones and Brady.”

  He frowned at the grimace David couldn’t keep off his face.

  “We’ll get them back, David,” he said. “And we’ll make them pay.”

  “Yes, sir. I know, sir,” he replied, pushing back the images that came from his mind of what the enemy might do.

  Her. I’ll get her back. My Georgia.

  Chapter Seven

  They had stuffed Georgia’s panties in her mouth right after she screamed. Then they had bound her wrists with a zip-tie and covered her in heavy plastic that made her feel she would suffocate any moment, and carried her quickly out of the barracks.

  Guerrillas: bearded, copper-skinned men in ragged green fatigues that looked straight out of an old movie. Except that the explosions shook the ground, not the couch.

  Four of them had stood in the doorway of her quarters. Georgia hadn’t even pulled her panties up, because of the butt plug; she had just walked, as fast as she could, to her cot, lain down on it, and covered her head.

  The barracks had shaken, and she had tried to curl up into a ball, to block it all out.

  Then she had heard a deep, menacing voice from the doorway. “Puta sucia. There you are.”

  Georgia had turned to see them there; two already in the little room and two behind them.

  She had screamed, but she had not struggled. They had ripped her panties off and put them in her mouth, and they had picked her up.

  One of them had shouted something raucous in Spanish to the rest, and she knew he must have seen the base of the pink plug sticking out of her anus, or maybe the redness of her bottom from the whipping the master sergeant had given her. She hadn’t been able to understand the words, but she had heard their mocking tone nonetheless.

  The other men had laughed, and one had said in heavily accented English, “Tonight my cock is going to go right where you have that pretty plug, chica.”

  That had made her face go hot, and she hadn’t struggled.

  She hadn’t even struggled on the pickup truck that bounced through what she knew must be the jungle, though she could hear another girl beside her, and Georgia could feel the warmth of the other girl’s body against her own.

  The other girl struggled.

  Martha? Rian? Wendy? Whoever the second SRD in the Jeep might be, Georgia thought the other girl couldn’t have been in the middle of the most shameful punishment of her life. If the second captive had the will to struggle, she must want to go back to the FOB, back into the possession of her platoon.

  Georgia didn’t want that. Not right now, anyway. The master sergeant had whipped her so hard, and then he had shown the whole platoon how he could make her take the plug. Right in the middle of the barracks, with the lieutenant’s hard cock in her mouth.

  She had screamed, but she hadn’t tried to get away, or to fight back. Now, on the bouncing pickup, she didn’t attempt, as the other girl seemed to be trying, to wriggle her way down the truck bed in hope of finding the gate open so that she could tumble off into the jungle. Maybe the Army would find her there.

  At the moment, Georgia didn’t much care if the Army came to find her or not. The master sergeant had whipped her so hard. Her bottom still felt very sore, and each jolt from the jungle road sent another thrill of pain through the whole troubling region between waist and knees, so that she sobbed with the awareness of having the butt plug still firmly implanted inside her.

  Part of her mind knew that her reaction to getting captured by guerrillas had something terribly wrong about it—that her realization during her public punishment, that she had screwed up, had somehow scrambled her brain. She could tell that at the moment up was down and down was up, inside her, but Georgia didn’t care.

  She and whoever the other girl in the back of the pickup was had come from a place for bad girls. Guerrillas, it seemed, liked bad girls. They had presumably attacked the FOB with the intention of bringing back some of the SRDs with them, to serve them the same way the girls had been made to serve in the barracks. Maybe Georgia could even gather intel and come back a hero, and win her way out of the clutches of Master Sergeant David Heath. All she had to do, it seemed to her, was play along.

  The truck stopped. She heard its doors opening and closing. Men’s voices spoke rapidly in Spanish. The gate of the truck bed thunked down.

  “Take the covering off these whores,” said a voice Georgia didn’t think she had heard—the accent didn’t sound quite as thick, and the rhythm of his English sounded less halting. “Let’s see what we’re going to fuck.”

  The other girl emitted a muffled cry through whatever they had gagged her with—her own panties, probably, just like Georgia. Georgia suppressed the thrill of fear that went through her limbs. The backwards thinking that had taken possession of her mind began to let go as many hands seemed to obey the order from the commander, as she instantly pictured him. The idea that she would be able to manipulate her captors vanished as she stared up at the six men standing around the truck with the rain forest canopy above them.

  On their copper-skinned faces she saw lust and anger. Her heart quailed. She turned to look beside her and saw that the other girl, Rian, did have a pair of panties in her mouth, just like Georgia. Rian’s panties were lacy pink ones, though: she must have been in the middle of an intimacy session when the guerrillas attacked. The redheaded SRD, naked like Georgia, looked wildly over with her wide green eyes.

  “Look here, whores,” the commander said. Georgia and Rian turned to look up at him. Georgia could tell which one had spoken, now: he had a mustache instead of a beard, and he wore a hat that had a star on it, though his makeshift uniform otherwise resembled his men’s. The commander also had the kind of indefinable air, maybe simply in the way he stood, by which Georgia had learned to recognize officers even in their fatigues and at a distance.

  A familiar voice—the man who had led those who captured Georgia, and had said the thing about her butt plug—spoke in English, clearly for the girls’ benefit.

  “Can we fuck them now, sir? Right here on the truck? Get those asses up and have a ride?”

  Georgia felt her skin crawl at the degradation and the loathing in the man’s voice. She thought she could tell from his jocular tone—as well as his decision to speak in English—that he had no expectation of getting his wish. He had spoken only to frighten and humiliate Georgia and Rian.

  The commander laughed, and responded in English, as if he shared his subordinate’s intent to make the Americans fear their captors’ lust.

  “No, Ramirez. We need to make sure the gringos haven’t followed us. We’ll have them soon, though. Take them inside and tie them up.” His tone changed, then, and he finished the order with a warning to his men who had already begun to pull the naked girls from the truck, “Remember. Nobody gets to fuck until we all do. It’s the Way.”

  Even as they started to carry Georgia and Rian off in a direction she couldn’t see, the guerrillas laughed raucously, as if the commander had made a joke. Fear and shame vied for control of Georgia’s mind. Part of her suddenly wanted desperately for First Platoon, with Master Sergeant David Heath at its head, to come racing up the road in a tank, guns blazing.

  You didn’t struggle, though, did you? asked another part of her brain. You’re a bad girl, and you got away from those Army assholes with their punishment straps. You’ll get away from these pricks, too—if you even decide you want to.

  Inside turned out to mean a cave, its entrance concealed by a mat woven of branches. No wonder the Army hadn’t had any success finding the enemy, Georgia thought as she tried to keep her heartrate down. She thought she might have had an easier time pushing back the panic if she hadn’t had a good view of Rian, whom the guerri
llas carried into the cave behind her: the naked, redheaded girl had a wild, terrified look on her face, and the bareness of her nubile body in contrast to the rough fatigues of the men who carried her like a sack of potatoes, made Georgia humiliatingly conscious of her own nudity. The sight of the lacy panties just emerging from Rian’s lips and the degrading taste of Georgia’s own underwear, shoved into her mouth by a rough masculine hand, made her feel a wildness grow inside her to match the expression in the other girl’s eyes.

  The guerrillas had two cots at the far end of the cave ready to receive the captured girls, as if they had laid a careful plan for their kidnapping and keeping. The webbing straps attached to the narrow beds, which they put around Georgia’s and Rian’s wrists and ankles to leave them naked and spread-eagled, made Georgia think that idea probably true. Her heart sank even as it beat faster with fear and a shameful, willful excitement she tried and failed to wish away: the guerrillas had watched them from the jungle, and they had coveted the girls, and they had come to take them, so that they could keep them for their own use.

  Four men stood over Georgia and Rian, now, looking down at them with lust all too evident on their faces. One of them said something in Spanish, and the one who seemed oldest—perhaps in his late thirties, with a look of experience that seemed to temper his hunger to take pleasure with the helpless, naked girls—replied in English.

  “No, Jose. The captain said these whores have to wait to get their first fucking.”

  Rian whimpered in a way Georgia thought must mingle fear and the same involuntary bad-girl jolt of wanton need that Georgia herself felt.

  A second younger man spoke, and again the older man responded so that the naked captives could understand him.

  “No, Roberto. You’ll get to put your dick in their mouths as much as you want, later.”

  Roberto asked another question, his voice even in a foreign tongue seeming to Georgia to betray the hardness of his young cock even as he tried to pretend it didn’t matter much to him. All three of the other men, including the sergeant—as Georgia found herself thinking of the older man, without even intending it—laughed.

  The sergeant replied in Spanish this time, but Georgia could tell he had spoken in the affirmative. Rian, who must, Georgia realized, have some high school Spanish, whimpered.

  Georgia couldn’t suppress a little cry of her own, then, because the younger men—both of the ones who had asked the sergeant if they could enjoy the American girls on the sly before the captain gave the all-clear and the whole platoon or company or battalion came to share them—started to take down their pants.

  The sergeant and the fourth man, who seemed like a veteran almost as old as the sergeant, but without as much authority, stepped back a little so that the younger ones could get into the two-foot wide space between the cots on which they had bound the naked girls. One of them, Jose, the one who seemed like he couldn’t be more than nineteen, had focused his attention on Georgia. The other, Roberto, whose beard showed him to be in his early twenties, looked at Rian.

  As they came toward the heads of the girls’ cots, they lowered their fatigues, and two rigid, arrogant penises came into view, clasped in their owners’ hands and pumped slowly up and down as if to demonstrate their length and hardness.

  “Jose and Roberto here,” the sergeant said, “can’t speak your gringo words, whores, but I told them to say something to you in the language we know you understand.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jorge Herrera, a ten-year veteran of the mineral rights insurgency, looked down with satisfaction on the naked American girls. He approved entirely of Captain Nocales’ decision to make the capture of two of the enemy’s whores the centerpiece of the insurgency’s first attack on the capitalist base.

  He also approved of the captain telling the men that they must wait to fuck the girls. This initial raid wouldn’t set the Americans back very far, if at all—only a long campaign of continuing harassment could do that. The idea of taking two young American whores for the use of the jungle fighters had come from the captain’s correct perception that morale would prove the most important element of their battle. If Jose and Roberto, practically the greenest among the men of the captain’s insurgent cell, got the chance to enjoy the spoils of the raid before more experienced fighters, it could have the opposite effect on the cell’s warrior spirit from the intended one.

  So Jorge’s duty at the moment lay in keeping the two young men currently jerking off their prodigious erections over the face of the blonde girl and the tits of the redhead from feeling slighted while he still obeyed the captain’s order and made sure the whores didn’t have a fucking until all the men of the cell could share them. He knew the captain wouldn’t object to Jose and Roberto shooting their youthful loads on the pretty, naked whores, though, and he felt sure the veterans would actually laugh when they saw the girls already adorned with semen. Jorge had given the two green fighters permission to show the whores their proud cocks and to do what they liked as long as they didn’t put those stiff tools inside the girls, even in their pretty little mouths.

  Apparently content with the freedom their sargento had allowed them, the young men pulled off their grimy, sweat-soaked tank tops, now, one after the other. The redheaded whore emitted a little whimper at the sight of the well-muscled chest of Roberto. The blonde girl’s face grew very troubled, the fabric of her panty gag moving a little as she tried to say something in protest. Her blue eyes met Jorge’s, and he gazed back steadily, to show the whore he understood her perfectly.

  In English, he said, “Play with their tits, boys. Nice and gently. Let’s get them ready for fucking, when the captain comes.”

  He looked down the body of the blonde American whore, his cock giving a little leap at the sight of her bare pussy. The Americans knew how to keep their fuck girls.

  Jorge moved his eyes back up her body, to see that Jose had begun to obey him, thick fingers kneading the little mound of the whore’s breast only a little more firmly than Jorge might have done himself.

  “Play with the nipple, Jose,” said Victor, to Jorge’s left, in English, accented much more heavily than Jorge’s own, though the blonde girl’s eyes showed she understood him. “Pinch it—not hard, boy. Just a little, until you feel... that’s it.”

  Jorge smiled at the way the girl arched her back in helpless need. He glanced over at Roberto, doing the same thing to the redhead, who seemed a little more frightened than her fellow whore, but whose sexual need Jorge could still read in her face and the instinctive sexual movements of her young body.

  His own cock growing between his legs with every passing moment of the arousing scene, he looked back at the blonde girl, straight into her eyes, and found her still looking back at him. Her brow had developed a deep crease as Jose masturbated in front of her with his left hand. The young man’s right hand roamed from nipple to nipple now, and Jorge broke the eye contact for just a moment to note that the whore’s slender hips had begun to jerk atop the cot with tiny, helpless movements of erotic need.

  When he raised his eyes to hers again, the pleading he saw there, for him to stop this degradation scene and to bring it to a conclusion that would satisfy her wanton cunt, made his manhood jump in his fatigue pants. He knew what these girls needed: he could tell from the moment the captain had handed him the binoculars and told him to look at the whores the Americans had brought to the jungle that they would not have recruited—or, probably, conscripted—pretty young women unless those young women had broken the law. These naked young whores were bad girls, and Jorge knew how to treat bad girls.

  “Look,” he told his comrades. “The blonde one needs a fucking, doesn’t she? I wonder why she has that plug in her asshole. Maybe it makes her need the cock more.”

  Both the girls whimpered through their panties at these words. Jorge could feel the scene becoming more dangerous as the two spread-eagled whores, their smooth cunts shamefully visible and ready for fucking, presented so great
a temptation to the younger men, and even to himself and Victor. He knew exactly how to keep the danger in check, though: he just had to ensure the men looked to him for their guidance.

  Jose looked at his sargento and gave Jorge the help he needed. “Can I touch the cunt, Jorge?” he asked eagerly. “And the butt plug?”

  “Si, chico,” Jorge told him. “You too, Roberto. These girls will be good whores for us if we make sure they get to come sometimes.”

  “Gently, at first,” Victor said, as the younger men reached eagerly for the smooth, hairless cunts.

  Jorge had returned his eyes to the face of the blonde girl, to see an expression of such distress that it moved his heart as well as his penis.

  “Take the panties out of their mouths,” he told Jose and Roberto. “The Americans aren’t coming or we would hear them. I want to know these whores’ names.”

  He watched the girls’ eyes widen as Jose and Roberto took their hands from their bare pussies just long enough to tug the underwear from between their lips. Jorge found the contrast between the lacy pink panties the redhead had been wearing and the gray briefs of the blonde girl rather moving: it made him wonder what differences in the treatment the Americans had given their whores had brought about the difference in their underclothes—and made him even more curious about the pink butt plug that peeped out provocatively between the bottom-cheeks of the yellow-haired girl.

  “Give me those lacy panties,” Victor told Roberto. “I want to see if she was wet when we got her. Then start rubbing that little cunt again.”

  Jorge heard in Victor’s tone that the veteran understood the need to keep the younger men in check and under their guidance. He nodded and winked to his comrade. “Jose, put that one’s panties next to her face so she can look at them. She needs to know she’s not going to be wearing panties again for a long time.”