“Oh mighty one,” the guard captain said, “we have brought you some infidels. Spies I’m sure.” He smiled, showing his stained teeth and purple gums.
The warlord tossed his long caftan over the bare girl attached to his huge manhood. She was doing her best to avoid another beating for using her teeth and had both hands as well as her mouth on his gnarled root. “Bring them in,” he said. “And wait.”
The four barefoot Americans were pushed in front of the wide table, their hands tied behind them, the man’s face bloody and the woman’s shirt torn open. The warlord’s slitted eyes flickered over the group, pausing briefly on the youngest, an adolescent girl. Immature females were his weakness.
Two of the lord’s men stood behind each other them, trying not to smile since they had all pawed the white women thoroughly and were looking forward to enjoying their bodies. The guard captain searched in his shoulder bag and produced four blue passports and put them carefully in front of his cruel master and then bowed back to stand off to the side. He had briefly raped the woman on the spare tire of their Land Rover while his men searched the vehicle and expropriated two cameras, a good bit of folding money, a cell phone, all the shoes and boots and some jewelry. He would have liked to have more time in her body. She was clean and healthy unlike the sad young women he usually used.
The warlord shuffled through the passports and then held one open. “Robert Manchest,” he said, looking up.
The man with the split lip and bloody nose said, “Yes, Manchester. I demand you contact the American embassy.”
“Obviously a spy,” said the big man, reaching under his robe to adjust the girl on his prick since he was getting close to his climax for the morning. He yanked on her hair. “Take him out and impale him by the gate, and I had better be able to hear his screams in here.”
“Oh god,” the man cried, “No, you can’t.” Two robed soldiers with slung AK47s dragged him out while the three women watched in horror and tears.
“Please,” said the woman, her hands on the table and her lush breasts hanging almost bare before the smiling man. “Please don’t do this. We haven’t done anything.”
The warlord laughed and backhanded her. “Elizabeth Manchester,” he read, “hm, thirty five. American, an enemy. Too old, too fat.” He spat to the side. “Put her in the pleasure house so the men can use her if they don’t mind fucking an infidel. Knock out her teeth and cut her tongue is she keeps complaining.” Two more soldiers stepped forward and grabbed the woman’s arms, ignored her cries and pleas and dragged her out. By the time they reached the door, her shirt was hanging loosely at her waist and one man was tugging on her bra.
The warlord closed his eyes, leaned back and ejaculated into the throat of his current house girl, the proud daughter of one of his many enemies, and then sat back up when she mouthed his scrotum. He picked up another passport. “Which one of you is Amy Manchester?”
The older girl looked up and sniffed. “I am. Please don’t hurt my father.”
“You are sixteen?” said the big man, kicking away the girl between his legs. “Sixteen? Very nice for sixteen. Take off your shirt.”
The girl shook her blonde head and stammered, “No, please.”
The war lord smiled and nodded, and the guard on the girl’s left produced a long, thin knife and slit her shirt from top to bottom along the back, cutting through her bra strap as he did so. The other guard grabbed the shirt between her breasts and pulled it away and then stepped back holding it and her brassiere in his hand, repressing a smile as his cock jumped.
The girl squeaked and covered her large, firm breasts with her hands.
“Put your hands behind your head,” said the man. ‘Be quick.”
She did as she was told and her pink nipples rose and hardened.
“Call Ahmad,” said the man, licking his lips. He picked up the other passport, read, pursed his lips, and said, “Pamela, hm? Aren’t you pretty.” He laughed. “Take off your shirt, Pamela, be quick or they will cut it off.”
The lean blonde girl unbuttoned her khaki shirt, trying not to look at her sister’s jutting breasts, the breasts she so much envied, the breasts she had licked and kissed and sucked many times.
“Ah Ahmad,” said the warlord as a tall young man strode in and bowed. “This is Amy and that is Pamela. Take your pick. Your slut died didn’t she?”
“Yes, father,” he said, “after only twenty-some strokes of the whip. One wrapped about her throat. Pity. I punished the man. How old is this one?” He smacked the 16-year-old on the buttocks and watched her breasts bounce as his cock hardened. She whimpered.
A long and terrible scream echoed through the room and the warlord smiled. “You are fatherless, girls. I am now your father. And I expect you to be obedient to me.” Another gurgling cry was heard and the girls looked at each other, tears in their eyes as Pam shrugged her shirt off her shoulders and revealed her high, young, conical tits with their tiny, rose-bud nipples.
Robert Manchester’s last scream of pain and horror was cut short as the sharpened pole that had entered his anus pierced his diaphragm and pushed up into his throat. The executioners tugged down the man’s bare feet and the bloody tip of the thick spear emerged from the corpse’s mouth.
“Well,” said the warlord, “which one do you want. She is sixteen and the other is, yes, younger. Take your pick.”
Ahmad grasped Amy’s full breast and pulled her to him, squeezing hard and pinching out her nipple. She grimaced and bit her lip.
“Good choice, she should last you a month or so, don’t you think?”
Ahmad squeezed still harder, distorting the girl’s breast. “Yes, father, she seems very fit, but, of course, my friends, you know.” He laughed and his father waved him away. He twisted Amy’s arm up behind her and hurried her from the conference room, followed by two guards.
The war lord kicked away his slave girl and she crawled off behind his chair where she sat silent, making herself small and licking her sore lips. “Well, little one,” he said to Pam, “I am left with you. Strip. Take off the rest of your clothes and climb up here on my table.”
While Pam was undressing slowly, her sister was bent over an old chair in the corridor with her slacks about her feet and Ahmad’s stiff prick in her vagina. The young man held her hips and pumped hard and fast in her dry and nearly virginal tunnel, ignoring her screams and thrashing about.
After Pam wiggled out of her high-cut underpants, the warlord forced her to climb up on the table, lie on her back and spread her legs with her pussy facing him, her knees on the edge of the thick table.
“Ah,” the big man said, poking his fingers into the girl, “just as I hoped, intact. We will have her tonight after our meal.” He heard the cries from the corridor, assumed his son was busy and turned to his guard captain. “Take this little piece to my chambers. Do not yield to temptation.”
All that, I later learned, had taken place before I was called and sent to rescue the four Americans who disappeared in the Saudi desert. Their Land Rover had a GPS function so its location was known. That made things a lot easier but no less dangerous.
A Blackhawk brought me close and I was in the warlord’s big tent as the meal was being served with perhaps fifteen men sitting around the low table and a half-dozen veiled women doing the serving. Naked and bound, the little blonde knelt beside the chieftain.