Based on a recent news story

“How the fuck could you get it so wrong?” screamed Giovanni Montesorrie. “You wanted two girls, one black one white,” groaned Gerry Malone. “That’s what you got.” “Yeah but bimbos, not a fucking half man half woman, you stupid fucker.” “She’s a bimbo and she’s built, you said big.” “Yeah but for fucks sake look at her. Big is beautiful, not fucking arms and legs like a fucking navvy you Irish imbecile,” screeched Giovanni.

They stared at the two girls bound, gagged and blindfolded on a sofa in Modena Italy. The pretty bimbo, with shoulder length bleach blonde curly hair, who was short and very shapely, dressed in a tight white, low cut tee-shirt, fashionably ragged, cut off, washed out, denim shorts, and five inch heeled stilettos, the other with a strong, pugilistic face, very tall, in a green/cream tracksuit and a bandanna round wiry short black hair, green and cream socks and Nike trainers.

Two other men joined them in a scruffy room of a nondescript, poor quality, empty warehouse in the Gazzata area of the Italian city, near the airport. “It was him,” cried Gerry, pointing at Alf, an elderly, white whiskered, thick set, aged old Italian shoemaker, who didn’t understand the English language. Alf held his hands up in misunderstanding and shrugging. Italian, rich local dialect and at speed, held sway between the three native men confusing Gerry, who gazed with longing at the bimbo’s gorgeous tanned, smooth legs and extensive deep dark cleavage. Huge knockers he’d established and thought about. After highly animated discussion Giovanni turned to Gerry. “You did go to the ladies toilets yes?” He got a fervent nod, the Irishman thinking he was off the hook by agreeing. “Yeah boss, he showed me, let me in the back door and the corridor,” he pointed at Franco, a swarthy tall, heavily built man in his 50s. “And Georgio was with you?” he got more enthusiastic nods. “Georgio’s at work now?” Franco nodded and described something. Gerry didn’t know and said “Dunno.”

After more local lingo, Giovanni gave Alf a right ballocking, nearly bring him to tears. Gerry was off the hook after Giovanni explained that Alf had indeed got it wrong, being scared of the daring swoop to abduct two tourists and the precarious situation he’d got into against the promise of shagging a foreigner for the first time and fifty Euros then making a hurried bad choice. Black was black in his rheumy old eyes.

Tipping the bags contents out on a bench, the two captive’s bags were emptied and searched. The blonde bimbo turned out to be Chloe Ayling, a 20 year old, five feet one tall, aspiring busty, glamour model, completing a photo shoot and on her way home back to the UK. Her trendy Burberry handbag contained her passport, various professional documents attributing to her profession, some printed glamour photographs, 343 Euro cash, a sachet of Wet Wipes, a spare black M&S lacy thong, hair brush, extensive cosmetics, credit and debit cards, a Samsung device and a sachet of Tampax.

The black woman had a less feminine, sports, shoulder bag, with a spare Nike tracksuit, two pair of plain white M&S panties, a packet of Durex, minimal cosmetics, a hair straightener, a hairbrush and a pair of cheap sandals. Her passport showed her name as Caster Semanya, a 26 year old, close to six feet tall, South African, middle distance, athlete who was on her way home after winning a Gold medal at the World Championships. The gold medal was not in her bag.

Giovanni gave the order to rip off the hoody blindfolds, making the two women blink and shake their heads in the bright glare of two industrial overhead lamps. Still under the effects of the Rohypnol drug, administered with a cloth over their mouths, Caster and Chloe were very dazed, shaken and confused, having been accosted in cubicles in the airport toilets and smuggled out the back door on a cargo trolley, disguised as heavy bags.

Gerry was happy he’d done his bit of the abduction correctly, enjoying a brief molestation of Chloe’s very sexy young body. Certainly her tits were real, he’d established, getting his hands inside quite a firm, substantial brassiere as it needed to be with her buxom being. Her cunt was behind the denim double thickness of her shorts and he’d longed to get his mitts on it, but speed was the essence in the kidnap. It was Alfredo Pochetino who’d cocked things up, pouncing on the ugly black girl, mainly due to his failing eyesight. The powerful athlete, struggled briefly in his feeble grasp but the well chosen drug had worked it’s magic.

“What we doing with them boss?” asked a newly enthusiastic Malone. “Something about sex slaves in the Middle East I heard somewhere.” “Shut the fuck up boy,” commanded Giovanni. The women heard Gerry’s question but didn’t know where they were, who their captors were, although managing to glance fearfully at each other. They mumbled incoherently, the Gaffer tape across their mouths holding firm. The Italians went into a huddle with lots of glances, grins, smirks at Chloe in particular, frowns where Caster were concerned.

“They’ve got to be disguised, at least she has,” Giovanni pointed at Chloe. “For the next stage of the mission, to Abu Dhabi, by road. Truck ready?” Franco nodded, adding that Georgio was due with it at 6pm. “You can have her,” he glanced at Caster, who saw the glance and also Gerry’s delighted reaction, leering at her and licking his lips. “What to myself?” “To start with, the others might join you. Take her in there.” The Irish lad grabbed the edge of the tape and cruelly ripped it away, making the black athlete yelp as the strong adhesive tore her skin, leaving a precise red bruise round her mouth. Giovanni roughly slapped Gerry across the face, pushing him out of the way and grabbed the tape, sticking it straight back on Caster’s ugly masculine featured face.

“Stupid cunt, how the fuck you were hired I don’t know ... go!” Caster was sobbing with pain as a disgruntled Gerry heaved her tracksuit top to force her to stand, giving the men an eyeful of bare, hard, ebony, abdominal muscles. The next room, more a space than a room, was plain and had a high level, grimy, frost glazed window and some sacks of indeterminate contents. The door was kicked shut by Giovanni, as the woman was unceremoniously shoved, falling on to the sacks. “Right you ugly back bitch, get your fucking gear off,” commanded Gerry, dropping his jeans and frightening Caster with the enormous thickness and length of his cock that hung loose, untidily out of the gap in his pants. She didn’t understand his broad Irish brogue, but was staring at the threateningly rising donger between his legs as he removed his pants.

“Yeah bitch, you’re going to get this beauty ... fucking get your ... oh fuck.” The poor woman was handcuffed, with her arms trussed behind her, her legs had been released when bundled out of the van and into the building. Her eyes were wide and white, framing the black/green irises, totally fearful of the situation, but she kicked out as Gerry grabbed the waistband of her tracksuit bottoms and tore them down her heavily muscled limbs. Her panties were dragged partly down, so he ripped them off too and gasped. “Fucking hell, you’ve got a dick ... tiddler, but a dick heh heh...” he grabbed it and pulled the two inch knob of penile tissue. It felt soft and squidgy as he pinched it hard and Castor yelped, before he pulled it up to see if she had any testicles. He was further amazed, there was a tiny shrivelled bag, not exactly a scrotum ... but! “Shheeeet! You’ve got a cunt as well. I don’t believe it ... hey fell... !” he started to shout then decided he was already under duress with his Italian compadres and why not enjoy himself with this weird person. Gerry shoved her back onto the sacks, leapt on her. His cock worked itself free as he manoeuvred his trunk on to her. Caster’s fanny was at least a slit he could aim at and within two pushes he penetrated it and shoved mercilessly into the dry membranes. The athlete screamed more in disgust than pain as the young wiry Irishman plundered her writhing and admittedly powerful body but he was equal to her struggles, smashing her face several times with his fists, in the last case dislodging some teeth. Her struggles were pitiful, with her strong arms tied behind and beneath her. He ripped her shirt and found a minimal but structured black brassiere, more like a sports top. It was strongly made and tight, but he wrestled it off, clattering her genitals with his massive tool. “Call them tits? You stupid cow,” he leered, his pace quickening at the sight of glistening, large circles of areolae, mounted on small bumps of black blue breasts. There was virtually no projection of nipple buds.