Miranda bounced wildly on the horse as the heathen galloped out of the camp. She screamed in horror, pounding her fists on the side of the horse, trying to twist and fall away, but the Indian kept a firm hand on her bottom. He slowed his wild gallop and, laughing, ran his hand across her body with shocking familiarity. He squeezed her raised bottom through her skirt, then tugged it up to bare her petticoat, squeezing her again, and tugging at the soft silk to see more.

She squealed and yelled and tried to slap at him, but could do little, her upper torso hanging upside down over the side of the horse so that she was unable to even see him, aside from his lower legs.

His hand slid down her side and squeezed one of her breasts, and she squealed anew, twisting and slapping at him.

They rode in amongst a large group of men, and her face, already red with shame, and humiliation, became even more dark as they all saw her and laughed at her undignified position. Then she was thrown back off the horse to fall heavily on her bottom and then back on the ground. She scrambled to her feet, gasping, turning to see men staring at her from all sides. Heathens, Indians, their eyes dark and cold.

Many wore turbans, and strange, baggy trousers. Necklaces of gold and silver hung from their necks, and they had heavy, dark beards.

A rough hand took her arm and yanked her away from them, and the man who had captured her led her through hundreds and hundreds of them to a large colourful tent or pavilion. There were older men there, who wore fine silks and more jewellery, and she was flung to her knees before one, a short, plump, middle aged man with a chubby face and small, beady eyes.

"Good morning, Miss Witier-Jones," he said, his accent barely discernible.

She gaped at him, and tried to rise, only to be roughly shoved back down again...

"You wonder how a heathen can speak English so well?" he asked. "I speak many languages. I am an educated man, you see."

"H-H-How do you know who I am?" she gulped.

"There are only two attractive young white women among your army, and both are the daughters of Colonel Witier-Jones."

"Yes. Yes, he is!" she said, trying to straighten her shoulders. "He will punish you most severely for this... this unspeakable treatment!"

"Oh I doubt that," he said with a smile. "Your father is a pompous ass who knows nothing about war, as he has just demonstrated to us."

He said something in his own language and the men around cheered and shouted and laughed.

He turned back to her and then to the man who had captured her, saying something else. She was abruptly yanked up to her feet, then hands reached around her, gripping the edge of her bosom and tore it free. She screamed in shock and tried to cover herself but her arms were twisted back behind her as the surrounding men laughed and hooted.

"What a terrible thing for you, Miss Witier-Jones, to be surrounded by wogs," the man said with a sneer. "Goodness knows what un-gentlemanly things we will do to you."

Her breasts were fully exposed to all of them, and Miranda's face burned with shame as she was held firmly upright, her hair forced back so that her chest thrust out.

"You have a very lovely bosom," the man said. "Is the rest of you as enticing to the eyes?"

With a word two more men moved in, laughing, and tore at her dress, ripping the thin fabric into pieces and tearing it from her body. Miranda screamed and twisted to no avail as the laughing heathens stripped her naked before the older man. Then they moved back, leaving her exposed to them all, so shamed she could hardly breath, hardly think, and could not speak at all.

"Very generous hips," the Indian said.

He moved forward, and Miranda squealed in horror as he reached out to squeeze her breasts, lifting them as if weighing them, pressing them together, letting his thin, hot fingers dig into the soft flesh.

"Large breasts for suckling many babies," he said.

He dropped them and let his hand move down her slim belly, then through the tangled hair of her groin.

"Oh! Oh! Don't! No!"

The men laughed as he fingered her sex, as he opened her and forced a finger up into her body. Burning in shame, trembling in horror and fear, Miranda burst into tears, her body shaking with sobs as his finger pushed up inside her private place, and searched out her virginity.

He drew his finger back, smiling.

"All prepared for babies, but unused," he said. "Such a shame. We will have to remedy that."

A tall, slender man pushed his way through the crowd, an elegantly dressed European. Miranda saw him and gasped. "Please, sir!" she cried. "You must make them stop!"

The man smiled at her and walked over to stand next to the short fat man.

"So, Capitaine Larocque?" the short man said with a smirk. "Do you intend to stop me from having my way with this English slut?"

Miranda gasped in shock at the word.

"She is unused?" the Frenchman said in English.

"Yes. And do you despise the thought of a Hindu desecrating the body of a white woman?"

"An English woman?" The man said with a laugh.

He smirked and leered at Miranda, and she shuddered at the hatred in his eyes.

"Would you like me to show you what I would do to the body of an English woman, your highness?"

"Very much so, but I do not wish her despoiled before I take her."

"There are many - alternatives - we in France have found for whores like her," Larocque said.

"Show me," the short man challenged.

Miranda gasped as she was thrust forward into the Frenchman's arms. She tried to twist away and was slapped sharply in the face. She jerked back in shock and pain and he spun her around, then yanked her arms back behind her. At a harsh word a rope was thrown to him, and the stunned young blonde girl found her wrists bound tightly and painfully together behind her back. He gripped her hair and forced her roughly to her knees, then held her by the hair as he undid his breeches. She moaned in pain and fear as he exposed himself, and tried to turn her head away.

"Listen to me, slut," he growled. "You will do as I say. Do you understand!"

He brought his open hand down across her face again and she screamed in pain and fear, trying to cower back. He yanked her forward by the hair and slapped her face again, throwing her head back, yet again his hold on her hair prevented her from falling back onto the ground.

"Do you understand, bitch?"

She sobbed and tried to turn away to block his next blow. "Yes! Yes!" she cried.

"On your knees, bitch."

Whimpering and sniveling, she righted herself on her knees, gulping in air, and he held his naked organ out before him, thick and white and hard. She stared at it in horror even as he took her hair and pulled her forward.

"Take it into your mouth."

She stared at him in disbelief.

"Do as I say!" he snarled, raising his hand.

"I can't! Please! Oh please!"

His fingers twisted in her hair and she cried out in pain.

"Do it, dog! Or you will be flogged!"

Flogged!? Again Miranda was jolted by shock. The very idea that any man would flog her was astounding. Yet this cruel Frenchman seemed capable of anything, and the leering heathens which surrounded her would certainly do nothing to restrain him.

He rubbed his smooth, slick, sweating erection against the shocked girl's face and she trembled and shook, her skin crawling where it touched.

"Open your mouth!"

She let out a sob, and he thrust his organ in between her lips. She squealed in horror, again trying to twist away, yet he held her hair tightly and pressed forward. She wanted to bite down on it but the hate and anger in his face promised a terrible punishment if she were to do so. She could only moan and whimper and sob as he pushed his filthy male organ forward, sliding it over her tongue, punching it against the inside of her cheek.

The men watching murmured in appreciation at this, grinning and rubbing their groins as the Frenchman pulled back, then pushed forward again.

"Suck!" he ordered.