Stained Sheets

Chapter Two-2

A dark, bearded man in military garb moved in, bearing a knife that he grazed along my neck.

“Please no!” I said in an impassioned cry. “Please…”

More hot tears streamed down my cheeks.

“Please, what? Cut you?” he scowled.

“No, no no,” I shook my head.

He smiled derisively and placed the tip of his knife blade between my breasts and under my bra. I looked down, shuddering at the sight of the sharp edge and watched, awestruck as he pulled back, cutting the bra in two and exposing my breasts to his glare and the vague stares coming from the men in robes. My n*****s shriveled into tiny knots as they hit the air and I recall feeling an odd flutter in my tummy that I could not identify.

The soldier’s eyes filled with lust as he viewed me. Then he sidled up to me and rubbed his chest against my naked t**s. I winced and turned my head away.

“No, enough, huh?” he said, disparagingly. Backing up, he slipped the knife inside my panties and ripped through the thin strap on my left hip. He repeated the move with the blade going under the right side, then lifted the panties and held them up for all to see, chuckling at his find.

Finally, he stepped back to show off my utter nakedness, letting the others see me fully. A thick finger traced a line down my undulating belly. The terror turned my mounting fears into a painful arousal, and I knew the swarthy soldier would find that out. His finger moved further down between my labia, and pressed against the hood of my c******s. I gasped, shaking, but was still held securely by the man behind me, so I couldn’t get away. He opened my s*x, pulling back my labial lips and revealing my wetness.

“They are all alike, these American sluts,” he growled for the others. Then he began to finger my bud more vigorously, delivering me from fear to an embarrassing state of arousal, so I was just seconds from spasming whorelike. Though I was a virgin at the time, I knew what s****l pleasure felt like. With my body bared and crudely exposed, I closed my eyes, lowered my head and tried with all my might to shake off the unwanted feelings of lust. But my belly swelled with such enormous energy that I knew I’d fail. Just when I thought the orgasm was about to burst through my body, however, the soldier’s hand withdrew, and the man who held me released his hold.

Weakened, I nearly slumped to the floor, but then another hand reached out from behind and held me upright until I could stand on my own.

The hood of one man’s robe fell back and I saw a face emerge, a dark brooding Mid-Eastern face, bearded and solemn. Even the black eyes afforded no clue to his thoughts.

“Turn again, young one,” he said, “so I can see your ass.”

I turned, shuddering so deeply that I stumbled on my own feet. I held my hands over my breasts, which I think only made my crotch all the more visible to the leering eyes.

“And bend over,” he said, when my backside faced him.

I did as he commanded, feeling even more wobbly in my bent pose.

“Now reach back and grab your cheeks.”

I did that too, feeling my awkwardness grow along with my shame.

“You will not falter,” he suddenly shouted.

The soldier grabbed my hair; I feared his knife was posed to cut it off.

“Please!”

The man ignored my plea and continued: “Part the cheeks and let us see where we may use you, slave.”

He called me slave. Was that what I’d become?

I grabbed my asscheeks hard and pulled them back, opening the crevice to their gaze. Humiliation turned my neck hot, the sensation rising toward my face, which I was sure was blotched with a harsh red blush. While the soldier still gripped my hair to keep me steady, we turned in tandem so that all the robed men in the room could see my asshole and my vulva below. For a time, the soldier’s free hand stroked the crevice, gathering juices from my p***y and swathing them upward. I could only guess at how that made me look. Only now can I make sense of what was happening to me in those miserable hours.

At the time, I was forced to believe that the degrading treatment revealed the real truth about my character. Until then, I was like other teenagers, interested in s*x, even boy crazy at times driven by my burgeoning lust. But I’d never been promiscuous. I dressed modestly and shyly averted the attention of most boys my age. In captivity, it seemed that these demons had suddenly shown me the truth about myself, the beastly s****l me that I must have hidden in my real life behind the respectable behaviors I was taught.

“They either pay your price or we sell her,” the soldier said in his gravelly voice.

My insides recoiled at this statement, my knees buckled, my hands dropped to my sides, and I stumbled toward the floor, with the sudden move releasing my hair from the soldier’s fist. He grabbed at me fast, yanking me back upright, but then the man with the voice waved him off.

“Without the ransom, we will turn her quickly. She’ll bring a good price, yes.”

“Should you leave her a virgin, she’ll bring an even bigger price,” someone added.

“Ah, but there must be some pleasures in life. I think this one we pluck for ourselves,” my tormenter said with a twisted grin. I heard murmurs rush through the room. “Beat her, Masood to make her soft and ready.”

“No!” My faltering voice managed a full-fledged protest. I wanted to flee but there was no where to go and Masood grabbed me by the arms and hauled me from the room, drawing out his gun again, which stunned me into silence.

Back inside the dark room where I had slept, Masood left the door ajar so he could see my body under the gloomy glow of the corridor’s yellow light. Pushing me over the end of the bed, he tied my wrists, and picked up a heavy leather flogger, which he used to lash my backside from my neck to my knees. I cried miserably from the outset, although after several minutes of repeated flogging, I was transported to a strange altered state that was not just painful, but sexually arousing as well. I’m sure I lost track of time; in fact, I remember very little about that beating. I know that I screamed. I understood later that at times I wailed so loudly that Masood paused, showing pity on me. He said so later while informing his superior about the incident and I overhead their conversation.

After the punishment was over, Masood bound me to the bed again and I fell asleep.

Hours later, the first of many men came to use me. This initial rape is the only one I recall in any detail; the act stunned me into a state of clarity that fused the experience in my memory forever. The rapist took me from my dark sanctuary to another room with a low pallet bed. There he forced me to my hands and knees, greased my ass and fondled my privates, running his fingers gently along the wet, sticky flesh in an effort to arouse my desire. His methods seemed to work for my body seemed to relax as he continued to caress the flesh. Even my reluctant asshole opened for his penetration. After having fondled me for quite sometime, he began to slap my ass hard for a minute or so, then he returned to a rough massage of my privates. Again and again, he worked me over with his hands, spanking, mauling and fondling me deeply, until I began to moan as if I welcomed his rough treatment. He backed off momentarily, then came at me again; this time, his c**k spearing my v****a and ramming in deep. His one hand reached below and continued to massage my c******s, inciting the sensitive bud. My s****l heat rose in a powerful wave, and then crested as he continued. Once I had come—apparently, it was quite evident to him that I had orgasmed hard against his organ—he withdrew from my cunt and jammed his c**k into my asshole.

I screamed as he impaled me; that vivid sound still rings in my ears; the terrible pain still rifles through my body memory. Sometimes, I curl up in the fetal position when I hear that scream in my thoughts, and feel the pain burst though the barriers I have erected to contain it. And the pleasure… you would think that as frightening as the abuse was that there would have been no pleasurable compensation. But there was! That ghastly arousal shocked me then; it shocks me still. I know that little by little, the intense feelings I experienced have weakened, and the pathway to that memory has become a little more difficult to discover. But the incident is still with me and will be forever, I fear; there is no psychic bleach that can remove the stain.

Other men followed this first man, with many others sating themselves on my yielding body. Twenty-four hours, forty-eight, the length of my rape is unclear to me—but does it really matter how many used me or for how long?

I only know that I was finally led back to the comfort of the dark room and put to bed. Some hours later—again a period of time too indistinct for me to recall—I was awakened by the sound of loud conversation, even shouting in the corridor outside the door. A man suddenly burst through the door and dragged me from the bed. He took me to a small vestibule and handed me some clothes—jeans, a t-shirt and a pair of yellow tennis shoes.

I looked at him dazed.

“Dress! Yes! Now!” He didn’t know how to explain further.

After quickly dressing, I was blindfolded and taken to an airstrip, then dragged onboard an American military airplane where the blindfold was then removed.

While the journey out of Africa was short, in that hour, I was ‘debriefed’—which meant a thorough interrogation. Everything happened so fast that I could hardly think straight. In a passionate flurry of words, I told the military officers who supervised the debriefing what had happened to me: about my capture, the heavy drugs, the inspection and humiliation in the room full of robed men, about the gun held to my head, the knife that slit my underwear, the beating and the repeated rape by my captors.

While several men listened to my sobbing story, none seemed sympathetic to my plight. They nodded, asked a few questions, but gave me little sympathy—as if I’d caused the entire ordeal. Finally, the head man—a hard-faced general—approached me, shaking his head and telling me in his most serious tone, “You will not breathe a word of this to anyone, not to anyone. Not your father, not your mother, your lover, your psychologist, a teacher, a friend. No one. Not ever! You understand that? No one.”

I nodded my head, being too bewildered to object.

“Important negotiations are going on,” he said. “It’s a delicate issue; matters hinge on many things, especially on your solemn statement to the press—through your esteemed father—that you were treated humanely by your captors. No torture, no s*x, no rape. That didn’t happen. None of it. You understand? That didn’t happen.”

I nodded yes every time he made his point. Every time he pointed his huge, lit cigar at my face and said, “No rape, no mistreatment.”

Finally, me made me repeat a written statement, not once, but maybe a hundred times.

“Say it and mean it: My captors were very kind to me, they treated me well. Say it.”

“My captors were very kind to me, they treated me well,” it came out haltingly at first.

“Again.”

“My captors were very kind to me, they treated me well.” I tried to believe what I was saying.

“Again.”

“My captors were very kind to me, they treated me well.” I nodded my head. I smiled. I felt as abused by the general as I’d been by the dark-haired soldier and the men in robes.

“Keep repeating it, over and over,” he said.

My captors were very kind to me, they treated me well. Again. My captors were very kind to me, they treated me well. Again. My captors were very kind to me, they treated me well.