The ride was an endless, blind torment. At least she had been trained to expect similar
eventualities but she guessed that Rebecca must even more terrified. However, she wondered
whether knowing what was probably to come made things any better. She guessed they were
now back in the country she had recently left and would be shown no mercy.
Their bound hands prevented them from stopping themselves from rolling to and fro over
the dirty smelly floor. Occasionally, the boot of a laughing soldier, planted on their
bottoms, would roll them back the other way. Just as she thought she could stand no more
and must be sick into her gag, she felt the lorry slow and stop.
When she had been roughly dragged out, stone replaced sand under her feet and her
bindings were removed. Brutally they ripped the tape from her face, leaving it smarting
and stinging painfully. Working her dry mouth, rubbing her numb wrists, Samantha found
herself in a cold stone room, quivering with fear.
She shrunk back from the weasel-like Arab in camouflage uniform standing before her, his
tongue darting like a snake whilst his small dark eyes appraised her avidly. He smelt of
sweat, soiled clothing, and bad breath. Hands clasping herself, she took a step back only
to bump into someone behind her. Turning, she found herself confronted by a wild-eyed Arab
girl, also in army dungarees, probably a year or so younger than herself and with an
obvious Negroid mix in her genes. The girl's large almond-shaped eyes flicked over
her then glared up into her own, flashing gleaming white teeth.
"You first, I think," she declared to Samantha. "Take the other one next
door and lock her in, no touching - yet. Lean her against the wall till I get to
her."
A bigger soldier, belly bulging his jacket over his trousers was holding Rebecca.
Accompanied by the weasel, they roughly grabbed the bound blonde, dragging her out and
slamming the door behind them. Samantha relaxed slightly, her eyes trying to express some
warmth to the girl.
"Thanks," was all she managed before the youngster's hand snaked out of
nowhere.
Slap!
She reeled back gasping from the flat of the girl's hands, her cheek singing.
"Don't thank me, cow. That's how we greet English spies," she
glared, walking slowly around her. "The men are just outside and would dearly love to
be left alone with you. I'm not sure you'd like that. You are in a very
dangerous and serious situation," she shouted.
"Please, where am I, who are you? We've done nothing, our plane was hijacked
and I demand to see the British Ambassador."
Slap! Slap!
Again the girl's hand cracked out, left and right.
"Don't waste my time or insult my intelligence. Your time for making demands
has now long gone. No-one knows where you are. You simply vanished during the hijack,
maybe shot trying to escape."
"I don't know what ... ooofff," she bent double under the fist in her
belly, dearly wanting to fight back but knowing the uselessness and danger of that
course.
"Silence. We'll do it the hard way then. Remove your clothes."
Still winded, Samantha shook her head in bemusment. "Or shall I ask the guards to
do it?" the youngster cocked an eyebrow.
Shoulders sagging, seeing the dawning of another blow reflected in the girl's eyes,
she began unbuttoning her blouse, shivering with fear and chill. She stopped when she
stood in her pretty blue bra and pants, hands crossing her thrusting chest. Automatically
she cast anxious glances towards the door, imagining the two frightful guards just beyond
it.
"Hah, don't," she pulled away from the girl's hands sliding her bra
strap down her shoulder, disgust and fear mounting at the unnaturally hot burning in her
captor's eyes. She disliked the touch of other women.
"Decadent Western strumpet. You've nothing to hide, take off the rest of that
shit, tart," the girl spat venomously, "let's see what else you may
hide."
Taking a shuddering breath, Samantha slid her hands down the waistband of her panties,
easing them off and reaching behind to unclasp her bra. It felt so out of place to do so
before the girl in such surroundings. She reminded Samantha slightly of a friend of hers
at college, also an Arab girl. They would go clubbing, share flats and boyfriends; equals
- although Samantha always nurtured a secret and hidden sense of superiority over the
girl. Now any such thoughts had been turned on their head. The girl contemptuously kicked
the pretty pool of discarded satin across the filthy floor.
"Now your watch and rings - on the heap. You have nothing; you're ours
now."
Biting her lip Samantha obeyed, now truly naked, covering her body from the harsh gaze.
No longer a powerful, confident woman, she was simply a helpless, frightened girl.
"Hands on your head, back straight - straighter. Lower your eyes, whore,
you're not fit to look upon me," the girl derided.
The thrill of utter control flowed through the Arab as she walked slowly around her
victim's beautiful trembling body, determining she would enjoy it to the full
someday.
"Legs apart." It was delicious to be able to make the sophisticated white
bitch, who probably secretly scorned her kind, obey every demeaning whim.
Samantha fixed her eyes on the shining black boots as the girl collected her clothes,
throwing them in a sack, pocketing her watch and jewellery. Never had she felt to truly
naked, no clothes, no possessions, no hope. No one had told her during training that it
would be like this. A tear stung her eye. Shivering, desperately she hoped the soldiers
would remain outside.
Slap! Slap!
"Haarggghh," her face stung from pain and shock as the girl back-handed her
harshly, left and right. A few short hours ago she would have flown at anyone who even
attempted that. Somehow restraining herself, she gingerly touched the burning hand-prints
on her cheeks. She could never have envisaged those hours ago, though, having to stand
naked before such a savage vixen in such hopeless circumstances.
"That's just so we understand whose in charge," the girl pronounced.
"Hands back on your head, spy!" she ordered, "look down!"
Still trying to control her breathing, Samantha cringed as the girl walked around her.
Shrinking back, she somehow fought the urge to lash out as the girl casually reached out
to hold her breasts, cupping and weighing them, the nipples firming treacherously. Again
she thought of her Arab college room-mate, of a drunken kiss at bedtime. How she had
pushed her friend's hand away when it slipped under her tee-shirt to hold her breast
- the loathing she had felt at the touch - though mixed with excitement.
Recalling her interrogation training, she knew that when a prisoner had no obvious
prospect of escape, the best tactic was compliance with your captor. Agree with them,
pretend to be on their side, it might lessen the interrogation. They wouldn't believe
a first story given by a prisoner, but after a reasonable time gradually give them most of
what they want, appear to be compliant. Buy time and keep the deepest things back.
However, the training had not prepared for treatment quite like this. She shuddered in
loathing, in dread, thinking guiltily of what Rebecca would go through.
"I don't know what I'm doing here, neither of us do," Samantha put a
sob in her voice, "I thought I was helping out with an aid programme ... helping your
people. You and I are probably very alike," she tried.
"You are a decadent English cow with everything given to you whilst I ... You like
Boyzone?" the girl suddenly changed tack in enquiry, her friendly voice totally
contrasting with her previous manner.
Samantha was disorientated, perhaps that was the intent, she thought. She stood, a naked
prisoner somewhere in the desert, being asked about a pop group.
"Yes, I suppose ..."
"I do, but I cannot get many of their tapes. Have you any?"
It dawned on her that her captor, despite being a spiteful soldier in control, was also
a girl with a girl's desires and needs.
"Yes, I've got plenty," she dared look up slightly to the enthusiastic
face. "My make-up might suit you too, you're very pretty."
"Any in your case?" the girl ignored Samantha's olive branch.
"Yes, some. When you let me go you can have ..."
"Thanks, I'll take what I want, they unloaded your shit from the plane,” she
announced with amusement. "Eyes down again, no looking at me!" she snapped,
moving closer.
Samantha longed to slap away the hands which crawled so intimately over her body.
"Legs wider apart, please," the girl requested, almost like a doctor. Samantha
rose slightly onto tip-toes as the fingers intruded painfully but ineffectively. "We
can do better than that. Bend over with your back to me, legs wide, we'll try that
again - must be thorough."
Red-faced at her shameful posture, she felt de-humanised as the small hands pulled apart
the clenching cheeks of her buttocks to probe within.
"Ughh," the gasping grunt was torn from her as the girl delved tightly,
disgustingly, into both of her orifices, long fingers exploring deeply, thoroughly,
twisting and turning. Was it only a day or so ago, yet in another world, that Mitch's
hands had made a similar journey? Then her body had tingled and co-operated, now she
remained cold, trembling. Efficiently, the hands explored every inch of her shivering
nudity, lingering, stroking, making her shudder in distaste.
"Nothing there," the girl's tone held a trace of surprise. "Up,
whore you wear only this now," she snapped throwing her a small rough blanket
fashioned into a poncho. "You lean against the wall, legs and arms wide. Arms
straighter," she directed. "No moving or noise if you know what's good for
you. Unless you want to be shot you remain exactly as you are when they come to
interrogate you," she announced ominously as the door clanged shut and locked.
An hour passed, maybe two? Samantha's arms ached from her posture, her head
throbbing from sheer tension. The poncho felt rough against her flesh but it at least
covered to just below her bottom. A simple toggle top and bottom held it together with her
arms protruding from the slits between. Her stance made the material gape to expose the
side of her body and heaving breasts in unwelcome invitation.
She shuddered, both at the thought of the soldiers somewhere outside and the
interrogation to come.
When the door clanged open and the two grinning Arabs in khaki entered, her breathing
quickened, throat tightening. Tongue nervously licking her lips, her wide eyes flitted
from one to the other. Ominously carrying a rope and a blindfold, they smiled through the
black stubs interspersing their teeth.
"Little girl come with us, yes," the weasel-like one spoke softly in broken
English.
Samantha only just managed to remain in position, shuddering in repulsion as he pressed
himself against her, his disgusting hardness against the quivering cheeks of her bottom.
"Hah, don't ... please," she squirmed as his coarse hand slipped under
the side of the poncho to cup and squeeze her heaving breasts, pulling her more tightly
against him.
Suddenly the blindfold plunged her into a terrifying darkness, her hands twisted and
bound behind. Samantha was dragged through a dark void of clanging doors and shouted
orders, thankful that they hadn't assaulted her. She wore only the black poncho, her
bare feet dragging over cold flagstone floors until she was sat on a wooden stool, cold
against her bare bottom.
Minutes passed, already her buttocks ached, feeling like lumps of clay against the hard
stool. Absolute silence. Was she alone? Her head quested, trying to see under the
blindfold.
"Don't move." It was a man's voice, calm and sophisticated with an
Arabic accent. Her breathing quickened, she bit her lips nervously.
"Have you been told to expect pain?" the voice was matter of fact as though
discussing the content of a job interview. She heard the rasp of a match and the smell of
a French cigarette. Tensing, her belly knotted, awaiting a fiery jab into her exposed
flesh.
"No ... I don't know what to expect I haven't done ..."
"Oh, I think you have, my dear and know the consequences now," the voice
interrupted. "Don't waste my time with further stupidity. Open your legs as wide
as you can. Do it now. "
"Please," she whispered pitifully, only exaggerating her fears a little as she
reluctantly shifted her thighs apart, her breathing now shallow and rapid, wondering where
the cigarette was.
"Wider."
She took a deep breath, feeling the poncho ride up to reveal her charms.
"You're a very pretty girl, as is your friend. The clothing conceals little of
your beauty but I think we'll have it off - please."
Before she could react, two pairs of hands from somewhere behind her had ripped undone
the toggles to pull the poncho off, whilst her hands remained immovably bound tightly
behind her. Although she had instinctively, protectively pressed her knees together, they
re-positioned them wide apart again sitting her bolt upright on the stool. Her hands
clenched behind her back at the sharp intake of breath from the darkness outside the
blindfold.
"Such beauty, such delicate folds, enough to keep many a man happy. A shame it
will be wasted and abused if your stupidity continues."
She heard a snap of his fingers and was then dragged from the stool. Her pinioned wrists
were tied to what must have been an overhead rope and pulled upwards until she was bent
painfully forwards, immobile, helpless.
"We shall start with the kiss of the cane on those proud, shapely English
buttocks," he announced, "just like your Public Schools, eh?" he laughed.
She tensed trying to remind herself of her training. "Then we'll see if you can
remember what pretty pictures you took with your camera and why."
Samantha wondered how they could be so stupid as to not simply develop the film,
guessing that the hijackers must have accidentally exposed it. If they had seen the
documents she had copied, things would probably be very different now. She heard a cane
being swished through the air behind her. Gritting her teeth, anger and fear raged at
being humiliated so, but she couldn't prevent her buttocks clenching and unclenching
in unbearable anticipation. She tried to imagine and steel herself mentally for the first
stroke. However, nothing could have prepared her for the white hot pain which scorched
across, and seemingly deep into, her flesh.
"Yaaaahhhhh, please no!" she screeched through clenched teeth as what felt
like a band of fire ate into her loins. Desperately, but uselessly, she tugged at the
unyielding thongs securing her wrists, quite unable to prevent her blatant exposure,
almost an invitation to the pain. Like a glowing poker from a Christmas fireside of her
childhood, it burrowed into her core leaving her feeling weak and sick, a rivulet of sweat
trickled down her temples.
The interrogator smiled, inhaling deeply on his cigarette as he watched his victim, her
beauty emphasised by her pose. The girl's buttocks pouted and curved delightfully,
the glorious flesh round and firm, golden apart from the thin red line across the centre
of each cheek. Her flat stomach was hollowed and sucked in with pain, further thrusting
out her large breasts below her. The muscles stood out in tense relief, knotted in her
legs and shoulders until she shuddered and relaxed slightly down from tiptoes, sagging.
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