Jennifer Marie Jenkins' heart was in her throat when the jets reversed their thrust and the wheels of the 4-propeller jet hit the runway. It seemed to summarize the way her week had gone.

She had intercepted a confusing text message from her husband, Doctor Conrad Jenkins, who had gone to Liberia to help treat people in the Ebola crisis. He had flown to Monrovia, where he had been helping to diagnose patients and send them to other hospitals.

Jenny had seen something in her phone, a text message that he had come down with symptoms of Ebola, and would be quarantined for a month in Monrovia. He would need to pay for emergency treatment, medical expenses, hotel rooms, etc. during his stay. Return texts had not been answered. Jenny could read the GPS App on his phone to tell where he was.

It seemed more likely that he was somewhere in Sierra Leone, rather than in Liberia. The nearest city seemed to be something called Sulima, in Sierra Leone. Jenn took a plane from Kansas City to Washington, D.C. From there, she flew to Brussels and then on to Monrovia, in Liberia.

When she got there, she saw a man with a sign he was holding up. It said "Welcome, to Monrovia, Dr. Jenkins." Without any real plans or expectations, she walked up to the man to ask if he knew where her husband was.

Without the sign, Jenny wouldn't have had anything to do with him. His looks were intimidating. He must have been 6'-4" to 6'-8" tall. He had tribal scars along his cheeks, in the pattern that football players put on their face to reduce glare. Instead of one wide strip of black on each side of his nose; there were three parallel streaks of tattooed lines about 2" long. The sides of his head had been shaved bare. The top of his head had a Mohawk band of curly hair that got a little longer towards the top of his neck. He had military boots with boot cut blue Levis hanging loosely over them that wrinkled to a stop just above the soles. His blue oxford men's dress shirt was sleeveless; leaving chiseled muscles rippling in the afternoon sun like an oiled muscle builder in a Venice Beach body-builder contest.

She approached him cautiously. "I ... I ... I'm Mrs. Jenkins. I ... I ... I'm here to find my husband, she stammered. Perhaps in a different time; in a different place, things might have been different. If she had been back home at a charity fund raising event, she would have been intrigued with meeting him, like several of the Kansas City Chiefs players. With her husband nearby, with elegantly dressed wealthy neighbors at the same party, she would have been intrigued with him.

The last leg of her trip to Monrovia had come in an aluminum-clad six passenger propeller plane with three small glass windows on each side. When she got off of the plane, they had rolled a portable staircase up to the door and they exited onto the asphalt tarmac in the tropical heat and mist of a seaside African airport. Once inside, she had scanned the half-dozen or so people gathered to meet the small group of passengers.

Pierre Ngorro, the man who had been holding the sign, tried to feign surprise; that he had been a hired driver who didn't know her; that was supposed to take her to a hospital to meet her husband.

"Mrs. Jenkins? Welcome to Monrovia. Sorry to have to have you here under such unfortunate circumstances." He said while extending his hand to greet her.

Jenny did her best to hide her discomfort at their greeting. She was somewhat hesitant, but had no alternative but to be as cordial as possible.

"My husband; Dr. Conrad Jenkins, do you know where he is? How is he? I couldn't get any information on his condition. I'm not sure where he is. What can you tell me?"

"Yes, ma'am; he is probably okay. The officials feel he needs to be quarantined. I can take you to him right away." Deep down, Pierre felt he had hit the mother lode. The pictures in Dr. Jenkins' wallet were small and a little grainy. The pictures were old; probably when they had married, or even before. The pictures were of a tall young man, holding a gorgeous young girl in his arms. She had been wearing a short summer dress and trying to hold her dress modestly around her legs.

This woman was the same one, but obviously much older. According to the dates of the picture and notes on the back of it, she would be about forty years old now. Other than that, time had been gracious to her.

"I'll take you to him." He said as he tossed Jenny's two small bags into the back of a camouflage painted older military hummer. He held out his had to support hers as she struggled to get up into the high door of the 4-wheel drive military truck. He tried to be gracious and not stare as she struggled to raise one leg up to the lowest rung below the door. Her short button front green summer dress was too short for modest Hummer entry. She struggled to hold the hem down as she raised one leg to get in...

Sensing her embarrassment, Pierre got behind her, put one massive hand on each side of her waist; hesitated for her to put her hands over his, and lifted/tossed her up into the edge of the seat. The tossing/lifting gave her a much more gracious access to the passenger seat. As much help as he was, it was still a little embarrassing for her when she landed.

With her hands over his, she was not able to hold down her dress. She still had to lift her left leg a little to land on the seat. She landed at a somewhat 45° to the axis of the door, with her legs pointing out of the opening. She was in no position to hold her short green summer dress from hiking up when she landed. The dress parted and lifted as she landed on the seat.

Their eyes met. She had caught him looking square up her dress. He made no effort to conceal his stare. He looked into her eyes. She knew what he had seen. He didn't seem to care that she knew. At this point, Jenn had no choice but to think the incident was a coincidence; that she had no prerogative, but to ignore the incident. She needed this man to find her husband. She chose to ignore his blatant stare. In many ways, she was used to it. "Everybody stares," she thought; "just another horny, dirty, old man."

"How far is it?" she asked, trying to change the focus of his attention.

"It's quite a drive. They are trying to isolate all the people who might have Ebola from the rest of the population." He said, with his eyes on the road.

Jenny fastened her seat belt and struggled to tug her dress down. "Why didn't I dress differently? Why the fuck didn't I just wear boots and jeans?" she wondered, hoping she was not enticing this savage. "How long is he going to be stuck here?" she asked.

"Normally, it takes about three weeks to be sure he is not under the influence of the germs." He replied.

They chit-chatted for what seemed to be an endless ride. Jenn continued to make idle conversation; to keep him talking and thinking about his driving. She tried to ignore his casual glances over at her.

Pierre tried to hide his interest, but it was not easy. Women in Africa age fast. A woman in her teens looks more like an American woman in her thirties. Miss Jenny, who was forty according to her husband's pictures, looked more like a woman in her mid-twenties to him.

He was not used to seeing a red-haired woman. This complexion was intoxicating to him. She had a faint covering of almost imperceptible freckles on her legs and arms under a light summer tan. Her stomach was obviously tight; taunt for a woman who had had children. Women in Africa did not wear bras. Their breasts sagged after the first child.

Pierre was not aware of the hose-fabric bras of American women. It was cellophane thin. It barely hid her nipples. Like an African woman, she seemed to have magnificent, protruding nipples. Were they pink? He had never seen anything like this. He tried to hide his excitement with almost meaningless chit-chat about the costal mangroves they were driving past; the high mountains to the other side of them.

Jenn was a little surprised when they got to a check point that said: "Boarder Crossing; Welcome to Sierra Leone. All cars must stop for inspection."

Pierre got out and came around to her side. "Give me your passport." He said. Jenn rifled through her purse and gave it to him. He walked over to the guards and spoke to them in a mixture of Krio and English. She heard the word: "Sulima." Were they going to Sulima in Sierra Leone?"

What were they doing; leaving Liberia? Pierre got in the Hummer and waived to the guards. They waived and tapped the hood of the Hummer. Pierre smiled and waved back.

He had not returned her passport. "Where is my passport?" Jenn asked, trying not to sound alarmed. "Why are we leaving Liberia?" Pierre's expressions and demure seemed to have changed once they were past the boarder. He became more silent. "We'll be there soon enough. Everything will be explained then." Jenn tried to ignore the expression she felt she saw in his eyes now. Jenn became quiet now, trying to conceal her feelings of alarm. "I'm just fucking imagining things." She tried to tell herself. "We'll get to the hospital and Conrad will be alright. We can talk to the Foreign Embassy and perhaps get the next flight out of Monrovia."

After a few hours of hard, dusty driving, they arrived at a compound. There were a ring of different sized stone houses, barns and outbuildings. Their outer walls had stone infill to form an enclosed compound. There was a row of barbed wire around the top of the 10'-0" stone wall.

Two black men holding automatic weapons stood next to the double wooden doors which were gates into the compound. Pierre yelled something in Krio; pointed to Jennifer and waived at them. They pulled the doors open and he drove through. Jenny's heart was again in her throat. This was no hospital. It was more of a military compound of some sort.

Obviously, at some previous time, it had been an elegantly designed and maintained living quarters for maybe, a large land owner? The space between the buildings was a mixture of areas paved with limestone, planting areas and a large fountain with a pool of water around it. Closer to the large barn was a much smaller, and old fashioned water well. It had a rough wood roof over it. It had a stone wall about three feet high around it. The columns holding the roof had a horizontal bar with a crank and thick rope wound around it. At the end of the rope was a wooden bucket. It was probably a second class well, used for feeding livestock? A number of Humvees painted roughly with splashes of green for camouflage were sprinkled around the area.

Pierre stopped in front of the biggest house. It looked like it must have been the main headquarters of the place. Pierre walked around to the passenger door and opened it. Jenn turned her body; pointing her legs out the door and trying valiantly to hold her dress down as much as possible. "How was she going to get down?" she wondered. All of a sudden, the gentle, innocent handling of her getting into the Hummer now had a degrading, humiliating connotation to it. Knowing he was going to handle her getting out; knowing she was not able to modestly conceal herself as he handled her, she struggled with her egress.

She wanted to say: "No, fuck you; I'll get out by myself. Don't fucking touch me." That's what she wanted to say. Knowing she still faced uncertain problems, she was reluctant to blatantly insult this man.

Her eyes met his as he put his hands on each side of her waist. She put her hands over his for support. Instead of firmly grasping her and lifting her out; he lifted her, pivoted her out of the opening, and as he was letting her down, released his grip enough that his fingers caught in her dress at the waist and pulled it up as her body slid down through it.

Jenny's cheeks turned a crimson red as she felt her legs exposed to the edge of her crotch to the onlookers when her feet hit the dirt. She was looking him in the eyes when her feet hit the ground.

She had a look that was a mixture of fear, hatred and indignity as her eyes implored him for an end to her embarrassment. "P ... p ... Please let me down." She stammered, knowing that things were not right. Both she and her husband had had an air of aloofness, thinking that they were taking time out from their lucrative business back home to help these people who were in such an unfortunate situation. Now the situation was on the edge of life-threatening.

Pierre led her into the once elegant mansion. It had undoubtedly been the farmhouse of a wealthy land owner at one time. Now it was obviously run by savages.

Once inside, Jenn came face to face with a number of very dark skinned men in military clothing. All were carrying automatic weapons. All had the curious look of African servals sizing up their next meal.

Miss Jennifer, I would like you to meet Colonel Abdul Ansah. Colonel; this is the wonderful wife of our guest in the barn; Doctor Conrad Jenkins. His wife has come to visit him. Maybe she can convince you to let him go. Maybe she has enough money for his ransom.

Jenny's felt like she had been hit with a sledge hammer. Nothing she thought to be the facts were true. Now she began to remember some things. She remembered reading on the foreign embassy website about the dangers of traveling in Liberia. All she had been focused on were the dangers of Ebola. The foreign travel service had issued warnings about travel dangers because of the disease. Now she remembered something she had almost skipped.

She remembered the warning about "Liberians United for Reconciliation and Democracy (LURD)." They had been accused of committing massacres. They had been accused of kidnapping foreigners for ransom. It was part of how they funded their terrorism against the Liberian Government. Most of the kidnapping victims were executives from American rubber, copper and gold mining companies. This Ebola issue had come up after the warning had been issued.

The men smiled. They spoke in Krio, but she heard part of the sentence mention "Jenkins." Colonel Abdul pointed outside the building. Pierre smiled and took Jenny by the arm. "Come, Miss Jennifer; we are going to show you your husband." Jenn began to tremble. She could hardly move her legs.

Pierre led her across the dusty plaza of the compound to what looked like a big storage barn. Two guards opened the steel door. It took Jenn a few moments to adjust from the blazing outside sun.

Inside, there were grids of telephone like columns; on a 20'-0" grid. They held up a second floor and a sloped roof above that. The cracks in the corrugated metal roofing, and openings between the vertical metal wall panels let enough light in to eventually see.

There were a number of men and women tied to the wood columns. Some were shackled by a log chain at one leg. Her husband was bound; with his arms over his head with rope back to the wood post. He was naked. He had blisters where he had been tortured with cigarettes. Jenn had been a doctor long enough to know cigarette burns.

"Oh, no." her mind screamed. "What's going to happen now?"

"We are about to contact your parents. We know that you, your husband and your mother have lots of money. We want a million dollars for ransom for your husband. You are here to verify that we have him; that he is alive and that we can kill him if we want. We do not want the authorities notified."

"I ... I ... I ... can ... can come up with the money. Please don't hurt him; please." Jenn tried not to cry. To cry might convey too much desperation.

"Well, Miss Jennifer, we have lots of hostages. We can torture several of these people for our own entertainment until the money gets here. I think rather than send you back; we will have your mother come over with the money instead. We will send her an email and get her to come here too. She isn't bad looking from the pictures you have in your purse. Also, your fourteen-year old daughter will probably come with her for company. There are many possibilities here."

Abdul sat in a large wooden captain's chair with several guards around him. "Miss Jennifer, you intrigue me. I think you would be an intriguing guest until your mother and daughter get here. What do you think? Do you think you could take our mind off of your mother, daughter and husband for a while? The men laughed.

"P ... p ... p ... please leave them alone." Jenn sobbed. She tried to catch herself. She took several deep breaths. She could not bargain from a position of desperation. She could not be crying. She had to show more dignity.

"We ... we ... we will ... will get you as much money as we can. I ... I ... can have it wired to the National Bank in Monrovia. We can go back there to get it. We ... we ... can get the money and my husband and I can leave." It sounded logical to her. She hoped the money would be enough.

Colonel Abdul smiled. "That's a nice idea. I like it. On the other hand, we have a beautiful woman in front of us. It would be a waste of beauty to send you home so soon, wouldn't it?"

"Why don't you give us your most convincing argument to let your husband go?" Abdul smiled. "Your mother isn't bad either. On the other hand, your daughter is spectacular. We here in Africa love young girls. Is she a virgin? We understand that in your country it seems unlikely. Perhaps she has a curiosity for the adventure of sex with large black men? We hear and see from our televisions that wealthy white women in your country are curious about sex with black men?"

Jenn tried not to panic. Her mind was racing. She tried not to show her outrage at the comments. She struggled not to show her panic. "What could she do?" her mind was racing.

"I ... I ... I ... please leave my mother out of this." She whispered, not daring to look up at the Colonel. There was no answer. The silence was terrifying. She looked up. She glanced into the Colonel's eyes. His face was expressionless, but she could see a glitter in his eyes. He had the cold look of a cobra; trying to cut her off if she tried to run. She couldn't bear to mention her daughter's name or bring it up after what they had said about her.

"Please leave my family out of this. I will be able to get you some money. I ... I ... I ... can ... can ... cooperate with you. They had brought up the vulgar issue of sex. They wanted to fuck her mother. They wanted to fuck her daughter.

Like a mother of a small bird who tries to distract predators by faking a broken wing, Jenn was considering her options of turning these savages away from bringing her mother and daughter into the picture. "I ... I ... I'm a married woman. I ... I ... think that ... that I could please you more than an older woman and a young child. It was hard to hide the desperation in her voice.

"Please let me help you. I ... I ... I think that I can ... can be nice to you. You will not need these people.

By now, the other guards had brought in several large wooden chairs and formed a semi-circle in front of her husband. The Colonel sat in the middle; facing her husband. Pierre sat on the chair facing the one set up for Jennifer. The two men had seated themselves. Jennifer had not settled her mind enough to know what to do. She remained standing in front of the chair set up for her, on the left of Colonel Ansah.

Convince us young lady. What can you do? "Go fuck yourself!" her husband said as he tried to spit as far as he could. It didn't reach the men. By now, the guards had put their automatic weapons down. They had a tall stool behind the Colonel. They had leaned the weapons around the stool. The colonel looked up at the guards. Nothing was said. They must have been through this kind of incident before. Without much more than the glance, one of the guards pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He took a few puffs; enough for the tip to glow.

He walked over to the naked, bound white man at the post. With one more puff, he got the tip to glow red. Slowly he lowered the cigarette to the tip of the Doctor's penis. The doctor screamed. The contact of the cigarette almost extinguished itself at contact. The guard pulled the cigarette back up to his lips and took another puff. He was prepared to continue doing this the rest of the day.

"Tell her; Doctor. Your beautiful young wife needs instruction. She obviously has no clue how we do things here." The doctor groaned. He was an expert as a physician, but he was a pussy when it came to pain. He was a bit of a pussy when it came to character too.

Most husbands would rather die than see their wife humiliated. The guards had watched him for a few days. They knew he was a pussy.

"I think your wife is beautiful, but she seems to need some prompting from the man she loves; to know that it is okay to have sex with your friends. Can't you relieve her of her guilt? You know what goes on here. You know what the other wives are prepared to do for their husbands. Please assist us in her guidance. It will be so much less painful for you if she does."

Jennifer listened to the words directed at her husband, but was indirectly intended for her ears too.

The doctor groaned as he struggled with his conscience. He struggled with his own embarrassment and pain. "Jenn, honey. You know I wouldn't ask this of you ... his words trailed off. She could sense the pain in his voice. "Would ... would you please do what they are asking? Would you please do this to keep our daughter out of this?"

"You fucking pussy!" the colonel almost spat out. "Quit your fucking begging you miserable piece of shit. Tell the beautiful woman what to fucking do. Show some fucking backbone."

The doctor closed his eyes. It was barely more than a whisper: "Jenn," he groaned. "Jenn, honey; please do what they want. Please do what you need to do to keep our daughter out of this."

The words hit the stunned woman like a tong full of bricks that had been dropped from the top of a scaffold. She now knew how her patients felt when she told them their spouse had terminal cancer. Never-the-less, she was humiliated to hear the words from her husband. She felt abandoned in spirit and emotional support. The man she had loved for almost twenty years had implied she should fuck somebody else with his consent; had ordered her to do so.

She tried not to let her shoulders sag. She tried not to let her eyes blink. She tried to keep her eyes focused at a spot on the wall above and behind Pierre. She tried not to make eye contact with him; to acknowledge the lustful glare of the African serval in front of her.

She turned to face the colonel. "Is ... is ... is there some place we can go?" she whispered as she held out her hand, gently trying to guide him up and out of his seat. She looked up at the loft above them, hoping there was a spot of privacy somewhere away from all the lecherous grins.

"No young lady; I want to watch. I want to watch your commitment to your husband. He needs to see what you are doing for him. I don't want you to be able to tell him, later, that you talked us out of this. I don't want you to bat those beautiful green eyes and convince him you were able to talk us out of anything." The doctor groaned. Jenn couldn't help one sob.

The colonel stared at the guard with the cigarette. The doctor could see what the two were thinking. "Jenn, honey; show them. Take your dress off. Please." He was a pussy.

Jennifer took a breath as her mind raced. Her shoulder sagged; almost imperceptibly, but they did. She raised her left hand to remove her wire rimmed glasses. She used the back of her right hand to wipe the beginning of tears from her eyes. She put her glasses back on. It was a fucking ridiculous gesture. Why in the world did she need her glasses? However slight, perhaps psychologically it was one element of her outfit that had not been ordered removed.

Jenn tried not to look around. She tried to shut out the amused and ecstatic lecherous glares of the guards. Pierre and the colonel were not smiling. They were determined to coerce her into continuing the humiliation.

Jennifer didn't know where to start. Should she just reach down; grab the hem and pull the close fitting summer dress up over her head like removing a tee shirt? Somehow, psychologically she felt the need to procrastinate; as though maybe a meteor might hit the building before she was done. If only she took long enough. Jenn reached for the top button. She pushed the first one through the eyelet. One at a time, she worked her way down the buttons to her waist. The sides splayed, showing her transparent nylon-covered breasts.

Jenn turned a little, measuring her distance to the chair behind her. She didn't want to bend over for the lower buttons. Instead, she sat in the chair facing Pierre. She could reach the buttons in her lap. She crossed her legs and worked her way down to the last one above the hem.

Jenn struggled to keep the dress together. Her hands held the bottom of her dress together as much as possible. Her arms, pinched against her ribcage helped keep the top from gaping any more than before. She bent over, with her face on her hands at the top of her knees.

The guard took a puff on the cigarette. "Jenn ... honey; T ... take ... Take off the dress; please."

Of course she knew this had to be the next step, but the words still cut. At some level, she must have known that her husband was being coerced to say these things, but they still hurt. It was still humiliating. Jenn took a big breath and stood. She let go of the hem. She fixed her eyes on the spot above and behind Pierre.

Jenn's face flushed as she forced her shoulders to arch back. Was it her dignity or her dress which hurt her the most as she let it slip off over her shoulders? Jenn caught the dress in her right hand and brought it around in front of her. Procrastinating for all she was worth, she tenderly held the dress up and folded it; first lengthwise, then in half several times, taking as much time as possible.

She stood there for what seemed like centuries; with the dress folded in front of her, draped over the top of her crossed arms. Her under clothes were superfluous. Her bra was made of the same thin transparent taupe material as hose. Underneath, one could see that she had long, coral pink Bai Ling nipples on melon sized alabaster white breasts that seemed to defy gravity.

These Africans were used to seeing bare breasts. Once women had borne children, they started to sag. As age took over, they tended to droop. Jenn had the look of a teenager blooming into beginning womanhood.

Her panties were not really a classified as a thong. They were of the same color and transparency as her bra. The sides were cut almost to the elastic at the top. The back was a full panel; going up to the narrow taper of her waist. It was obvious that she had shaved. This was a bit of a surprise to her husband. "What the fuck had she been doing at home?" he wondered in suspended outrage. He did not know that his beautiful and sexually suppressed wife had been talked into trying to revive their sex lives by her friends. They knew she and her husband had become bored with lack of excitement in their almost non-existent sex life. They had talked her into trying something provocative for her husband when he was scheduled to return from Liberia.

If he had been away from home for several months, perhaps he would be more interested in sex. The women had talked her into getting herself shaved; thinking it would be more enticing to him. Jenn had her heart in her throat when she had shaved herself. She had been mortified when she saw herself in the mirror. She looked ... like ... a teenager?

Secretly, she had hoped it would all grow back before he came home. Now, here she was; with her dress folded in front of her and in lingerie intended only for her husband. What the fuck had she been thinking?

Jenn hesitated, trying to figure out in her confused mind what to do with the dress. Could she keep it? She started to lower herself back into her chair; to continue to shield herself; however futilely with the folded dress.

"No." she heard. Pierre held out his arm; palm up. Jenn struggled to take the four steps or so to close the distance between them. Trying not to get any closer than necessary, she extended her hand and pass the dress over to him. Instead, he grabbed her hand. He tugged. Jenn struggled, however imperceptibly, but allowed herself to be tugged over to stand in front of him. Their eyes met. Maybe it was innocent. Maybe it was un-preventable. To the husband, bound and naked, his mind may have been playing tricks on him. Was it just him, or was it the result of the pain of his predicament that he sensed some animal attraction between the two of them? In his mind, the joining of their hands holding the dress was taken as a consensual attraction between the savage and his wife. He groaned in outrage to himself.

Pierre spread his legs and dropped the folded garment between his legs. He looked down at it then up at her. There was more to the gesture than just putting the cloth on the floor. Everybody caught the meaning. His gaze dropped to the transparent garment covering her breasts. He turned his glare to her husband. The guard standing next to Conrad drew another puff and took the glowing tip out of his mouth. The doctor didn't need to be told.