As it was, Stoner’s passions were now sated. He leaned against the body of his slave, spent. After catching his breath, he rose slowly. He pulled his now flaccid tool from Cheryl’s bowels and rose to his feet.
“Thanks for the fuck, whore,” he said. “Now get off my bed and get into your cage.”
Cheryl moved quickly to gain the relative security of the cage at the foot of Stoner’s bed. Stoner’s wives were relegated to this cage after a night of serving his passions. No whore slept with him.
The hulking man released Justine’s feet from their bindings. He untied her hands and removed the belt that had held them to her sides. “You too,” he spat at her. Justine rushed to join Cheryl in the small cage. Cheryl was already in and she had to press herself firmly against the other woman to gain entrance. The cage was small for one and a very tight fit for two. Her warm flesh rubbed up against Cheryl’s as they maneuvered to find positions that permitted a degree of comfort. Stoner slammed the cage shut and locked it. Without further comment, he stumbled back to his bed, put out the light and fell in. He was asleep in moments.
Justine waited until she heard Stoner’s snoring before speaking to her friend softly, in a whisper. “Oh, Cheryl,” she said. “I’m so sorry,”
“I know,” Cheryl replied. The limbs of the women were tangled. Justine placed her lips on Cheryl’s back and kissed her. Her hand wandered over Cheryl’s legs and found the still moist fulcrum between them. She stroked it softly.
“I love you Cheryl,” she said. “Please let me caress you. I want to give you pleasure.”
Cheryl melted as she felt the delicate fingers probe her sex. Her passions had remained unsatisfied and she welcomed the prospect of release. She turned her head in the darkness, but could not put her lips on Justine’s mouth.
“Justine,” she said woefully, “I, I…”
“Shhhh,” the blonde woman replied, pushing aside the engorged lips of Cheryl’s cunt. “Shhhhh.”
Silently, lovingly, Justine stroked Cheryl’s moist pussy. She rubbed the small bud at its top softly, making small circles on it with her finger. She pushed her fingers inside the slick crevasse, plunging them in and out.
Cheryl’s breathing became heavy as the deft caresses of the other woman fueled her lust. She felt Justine’s warm lips on her flesh, sucking at her skin, caressing it with her tongue. “Oh…, oh…,” she cried in a small, impassioned voice as her blood began to rise. Suddenly, she was over the top and her whole body shuddered. Justine’s hand frantically stroked the gushing sex. She pressed her fingers in, finding the sensitive zone of pleasure.
Cheryl moaned as wave after wave of soothing sensation pulsed through her. When her orgasm subsided, Justine withdrew her hand and kissed her lover’s back a final time.
Cheryl drifted on a sea of contentment as the tension of the night’s events left her. Her hand was just able to reach Justine’s. She gripped it firmly and said, “Thank you.”
PART NINE
THE RAID
On the morning after Cheryl’s cruel beating, Stoner arose groggy and stupefied. He stumbled to the bathroom to take his morning piss. The girls were sleeping fitfully in their cage, but did not respond to the sounds of their master’s awakening. Stoner returned to the bedroom and considered the two young women, legs and arms akimbo, crammed into the tiny steel cage. He laughed to himself, enjoying the spectacle of his power over them. He picked up a shoe and banged harshly on the cage.
The clanging of the metal caused both Cheryl and Justine to jump awake. Fear was the byword of their lives and any startling sound could presage torment. They looked up to see their master looming over them.
“Time for my morning blowjob,” he said in a sickly sweet voice. “Who shall it be?”
The girls remained silent. Cheryl’s eyes had still not adjusted to the light. Stoner stood between her and a long, arched window. His form was outlined by the sun’s strong rays. Justine was behind her, jammed against her back.
“No volunteers, eh?” Stoner taunted. “I’ll just have to make the decision. The loser goes to the Discipline Room for the day. How about that? Any volunteers now?”
Both girls grimaced with indecision and fear. No one wanted to make a visit to the Discipline Room, Stoner’s den of torture that lay in the bowels of the mansion. But neither girl wanted to be the vehicle of condemning the other. Cheryl could feel the perspiration of fear on her face and body. Her throat was dry, her hands shook. She reached her hand back to find Justine’s hand. Their hands met and joined in sister-like solidarity.
“Okay,” Stoner said. “Justine, you get to suck my cock. You, cunt,” he said leering at Cheryl, “you go downstairs.” Cheryl cringed and whined. Justine gripped her hand harder in pity for her lover’s dismal fate.
Stoner shoved his flaccid cock between the bars adjacent to Justine’s mouth. The helmet just passed inside. Justine grabbed it with her mouth without hesitation. As a result of her expert ministrations, the joint of flesh began to harden and extend. Her right hand being free, she circled the shaft and urged it towards climax. Stoner had no desire for a long, sensual erotic ride. He pumped repeatedly into Justine’s mouth. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” he said, grabbing the top of the cage with both hands. His cock exploded, pouring its discharge into the servile mouth. Justine sucked down every drop as if it were ambrosia.
Satisfied, Stoner dressed and left the women to their fates. Just before he stepped from the bedroom, he turned to Justine and said, “By the way, next time I ask for a volunteer to suck my cock, you better be on the front of the line. You can join your friend in the Discipline Room for the rest of the day.”
After giving appropriate instructions to Jeremiah, Stoner left the mansion and sought out the commander of his garrison, Kurim. Kurim was a tall, bulky native who had received his training from the U.S. Army, specifically the Ranger School. It was part of a program left over from the Cold War for training the armed forces of former colonial countries so that they could resist communism. Apparently it didn’t matter that these forces were used more often for cementing a local dictator’s control over his populace or hunting down authentic rebel movements seeking political and social justice.
Kurim had fought his way up the military ladder by the combined results of ruthless conduct in the field and adeptness at political intrigue. Stoner had hired him away from the government and had him train and equip his small army. Kurim and his men were paid very well and organized dissent in Stoner’s kingdom was kept at an absolute minimum…until lately, that is. Over the last six months, two of Stoner’s convoys had been ambushed and three patrols had disappeared in the jungle. Stoner rued the loss of the material, but was more distressed at the loss of well-trained men and their modern weapons. Today, he would strike back.
Two weeks ago, his men had captured a rebel following a botched attack. Twenty three rebels lay on the ground when the shooting stopped and one man was taken prisoner. After a few days with Kurim’s experts, the man had identified himself and his native village. Today’s expedition was to entail a little visit there.
Stoner’s two helicopters could transport thirty men each. This was more than enough to capture and secure a basically unarmed village. They were to take off at 10 A.M. so that they would reach the village just before the noonday work break. All of the women would be at home preparing lunches for their men. The men would be straggling back to the village from their fields.
The helicopters were loaded and ready when Stoner met with Kurim. They shook hands and stepped aboard the lead chopper. It took off with a graceful, bounding leap, followed by its mate.
Ninety minutes later, the choppers were approaching the village. They flew high to minimize the ground level noise. When the sprawl of grass huts appeared ahead, the two choppers diverged. They swooped down and landed at opposite sides of the village.
The eager men poured out of the choppers instantly upon landing. Brown eddies of dust swirled around them as they ran off to encircle the vil
lage. Stoner and Kurim waited until their chopper had settled and the backwash dropped down to a mere annoyance. They stepped out and took stock of the operation.
The village of Yarukamba held 1500 souls. It is situated in the foothills of the Djougou Mountains. Its fertile land feeds its villagers well and several cottage industries enable it to procure some elementary conveniences from the outside world. Its only road is a small dirt track that winds down 30 miles to the plains below. It has a small electric generator that powers a radio transmitter for contact with the outside world.
Since the coming to power of the current regime and the imposition of suzerainty over the region by Stoner, careful records are required of all villagers. Even here, a hundred miles from the nearest town, all were required to register annually with the government and obtain picture identifications. Once a year, a government helicopter would arrive with government clerks to take a census of the village and assess taxes. Pictures and vital data of all villagers were filed in the government offices, information that found its way to Stoner’s computers. These facts would make Stoner’s mission that much easier.
A small cadre of bodyguards preceded Stoner and Kurim into the village. By now, the villagers were streaming from their huts. There was the occasional staccato sound of automatic weapon fire. Stoner stepped over the body of a young Yarukamba male, his lifeblood staining the brown earth. When Stoner and his bodyguard reached the radio hut, it had already been secured. Three black men, garbed only in short loin cloths, stood beside it with their hands behind their heads. The radio lay smashed and broken on the ground.
The villagers were being herded into the village square. Most of those present were women and children. About 900 people crowded the large, flat village center consisting of hard packed clay. A stool was brought and Kurim stood on it holding a bullhorn. At his signal, the men surrounding the crowd fired their weapons in the air. The boisterous, panicking crowd silenced.
Kurim spoke to them. “Citizens of Yarukamba!” he called out in the local dialect. “This village is guilty of fomenting rebellion against the government!”
The crowd protested as one. More gunfire silenced them.
“Here is the proof!” Kurim shouted.
A half naked, emaciated, pitiful figure of a man was hustled into Kurim’s presence. His hands were tied behind his back, his legs joined by a foot long chain,
“This man has made war against the government and has dishonored this village,” Kurim continued. A few voices hesitatingly emitted protests, but the rest of the villagers remained quiet. They all knew that fomenting rebellion against the government was a serious charge meriting harsh, collective punishment.
Kurim continued. “By order of the central government, all females between the ages of 18 and 25 years are to be taken as hostages to secure the obedience of this village. I have a list of all such women in the village. For every one that fails to report, five people will be shot.”
A great groan rose from the village square. A few of the men, and there were few in the crowd, struggled vainly with Stoner’s soldiers. They were subdued quickly by the butts of the soldier’s rifles.
“All women between the ages of 18 to 25 will now move to the right so that they can be identified.”
At first, the crowd stood still. After a few moments, Stoner’s men began to advance through the crowd, combing out all prospective ‘hostages’. There was screaming and crying as women were torn from their families and herded to the assembly area. A few shots rang out, leaving resisting relatives bleeding on the ground.
It took about a half an hour for the eligible women to be isolated from the crowd. According to Stoner’s census, there should be 153 women of claimable age. A temporary compound had been established ringed by armed men. One by one, the women were lined up and checked off of a list. Then each were unceremoniously stripped of their native garb and a wide, bright red mark was applied to their chests, just over the right breast. The processed women were made to crouch on the ground, huddled together.
As the process of selection continued, six large trucks with canvas tops drove into the village led by an armored scout car mounted with a heavy machine gun. These contained more troops and had started out two days before. They pulled up to the center of the village opposite the assembly area and stopped. Uniformed men jumped out carrying chains and other bindings.
Meanwhile two teams of soldiers were methodically searching the villagers’ huts. From time to time they would emerge with a struggling, protesting young woman. She would be quickly driven to the temporary holding area and processed. In a few huts, suspicious literature was found. Suspicious literature was any newspaper, magazine or book not printed by the central government. Those huts were burned to the ground.
The men of the village had returned from their fields but were held at bay by the soldier’s automatic rifles. They screamed and yelled futilely as they saw their daughters and wives rounded up.
After an hour, 145 naked young women crouched in the dust, their hands behind their heads. There were eight women missing. Kurim resumed his stool and spoke to the remaining crowd. “Eight women have failed to come forward. You have five minutes to produce them. If they are not produced I will have 40 people shot.”
The crowd yelled and screamed frantically. Five women were pushed to the front of the crowd by anxious villagers. Another sweep of the huts produced two more. One was still missing. Kurim slowly counted the seconds remaining over the bullhorn, “5! 4! 3! 2! 1!” A moan went up from the crowd. Kurim nodded to his men and five male villagers were dragged from the herd. They protested and called out as they were forced outside the circle of troops. They were lined up, their backs to the soldiers, their hands on their heads. They stood there docilely, inured to their fates. There was a moment of silence. A grey haired old man struggled to the edge of the crowd. He wore the raiment of a village elder. He yelled out to Kurim.
“Please have mercy, General, please!”
Kurim looked down at him. “There is one woman missing,” he told the man.
“It is Takiya Ndapewa!” the old man exclaimed. “She left the village this morning. She is not here!”
“Rules are rules, old man,” Kurim responded ominously.
“Please, please, do not shoot these men. They are fathers, brothers, please!”
Kurim looked at Stoner and explained in English. The cruel man shrugged. After pondering the question for a moment, he said, “Okay. Take ten more women, the best you can find.”
Kurim shouted the order to his men. Again they waded into the packed-in villagers. In a few minutes, ten nubile women, fair of face, frightened and crying were assembled at the front of the crowd. The old man looked heartbroken. Kurim looked at him coldly. “It is one or the other grandfather,” he said.
The old man looked up at the heartless soldier. “Will they live?” he asked.
“For a time,” the soldier replied.
“Then so be it,” the defeated man muttered soulfully. He looked at the cringing women. “I’m sorry,” was all he could say.
The ten crying and protesting women were hustled off to the assembly area where they were promptly identified, stripped and marked. They joined their sisters.
One hundred and sixty-two young women sat crouched, naked in the scorching noonday sun. The time for selection had come. Stoner had them stand and face him. The girls were drawn into five lines. Quickly, Stoner went down each line. He examined the proffered breasts, felt the muscled thighs, fondled their sexes. These women had no doubt as to what their future held. ‘Hostage’ was a euphemism for slave. They were being abducted into slavery right in front of the families, their children. They would never see their village again.
The demeanor of the forlorn women ranged from angry to defeated. Tears flowed generously. No one resisted. As Stoner went down each line, he selected the finest, most beauteous of the women and had them pulled aside. When he finished, he then reexamined the women he had selected, winnowing
a few. He ended up with twenty black beauties, standing in a group. These were the cream of the crop. They would be flying back to Stoner’s compound shortly. The rest would be taken by truck.
Stoner knew that although the trucks had taken two days to get to the village, they would be a couple more coming back. In fact, as soon as the trucks were a respectable distance from the village, they would be stopped and the youngest, most attractive women pulled out and raped by the side of the road. By the time the small caravan reached Stoner’s compound, all of the women would suffer a similar indignity. That was what they had been taken for anyway. Once at the compound, they would be parceled out to the various whorehouses that served Stoner’s mines and fields. Men far from home would squander a week’s wages for a fuck. And all the money spent would go back into Stoner’s coffers.
The unselected 142 women were, one by one, affixed with steel collars on their necks and leather bands around their wrists. Their hands were bound behind them and their necks connected by a chain to each other in groups of twelve. Two coffles were piled into each truck, the last truck holding only 22 women. Seeing that there were two empty places on the chains, Stoner ordered his men to round up two more women. They would be older than the rest, but they would do. After two more crying and moaning women were stripped, marked and added to the coffles, the loading of the trucks began. The naked, condemned women cried and wailed as they were led into captivity. Sharp blows with long rattan canes silenced some of them. The women’s bodies glistened with sweat from the torrid heat. Their clothes lay in a huge pile in the dirt. Gleeful soldiers herded them to their destiny, laughing and joking with each other.
The twenty elected women were similarly coffled. They were led to the edges of the village, ten to each side, where the helicopters awaited. They were forced inside.
Slaver's Bait: The Taking of Cheryl Page 5
