Chapter 3: Bukkake in Bosnia

She remembered, not doubt, the event a few years ago, whilst doing research on sectarian struggles in the Caucasus, a large gang of hoodlums had captured us in the midst of a photo session in one rather large old ruin. Brandishing both Soviet and US made weapons, we tried running but an ageing photographer and a woman wearing four-inch heels were no match for them. Both Tess and I have an aversion to firearms, and rather than attempt a Rambo-like escape, we held up our hands in surrender. Thus began a twelve hour ordeal that was far harder on Tess than I. We'd heard of the 'rape squads' but never dreamed they were in the locale we were in.

A bumpy and uncomfortable half-hour ride in the back of a Toyota pickup transported us to their field HQ, I assumed. I was roughly pushed into a small bungalow and tied securely to a rather spindly wooden chair. Tess stood nervously in the middle of the gang, her bravado not quite as strong as normal, but she certainly hadn't broken in to a panic like some women would normally have. She'd been involved in studying human behavior too long to succumb to hysterics. A few of the men circled around her like wolves, leering at the tall English woman that had become their prize. Red heels and her longish but flowing skirt led to a white blouse, her prized South Sea pearl necklace adorning her slim neck. As usual, she had perfected the art of makeup and even though we were 'in the field', she never saw any reason not to project a well-coiffed image. No dirt-smudged cheeks for her – rosy and blushing, with eye makeup, lipstick, and the whole works.

One man reached out and hooked a finger in the waist of her skirt. She stood perfectly still, as if almost daring the man to rip it off. He looked at her for a second, then to his mates, and as if on a hidden signal, he withdrew a short knife (well, it may have been a long dagger, I couldn't really tell) and sliced right through the waist band and belt just at her hips.

I don't suppose they were quite ready for the sight that greeted them, as evidenced by the excited murmurs that quickly were replaced by hoots and cheers.

You see, Tess never wore tights (panty-hose, I think you Yanks call them). As such, when the dress flew off of her, she displayed the suspender belt and nylon stockings of a bygone age, an age that had gone by most other women, but not Tess. The small lacy knickers did little to hide the rest of her charms as well. She had just shaved that morning, and her labia made what I believe you call a "camel-toe". The man with the knife stepped up to her and ran his blade right up her ribcage, slicing the buttons from her blouse. It was next to go. The bra, which I'd spent almost 20 pounds on just a few days earlier, suffered a rending tear across its middle between her bosoms, and was unceremoniously tossed on the heap of tattered clothing at her feet. He kicked the mass of cloth into a corner, and before I could say, "I say, chap, go easy on the Abercrombie & Fitch, you know?", her complete womanly charms were exposed to the gang, numbering somewhere between 30 and 50.

They pushed her over to a large platform in one corner of the room, appeared to be part dining table, part cot, and part workbench. Her wrists and ankles were soon secured to posts at each corner of the contraption. I noticed with odd detachment that they left her heels and stockings on. Bosom heaving, thighs quivering, and her lovely tresses tossed about in a combination of excitement and fear, the men soon began the mass rape for which people of their background were so well known. But Tess never uttered a word. Deep down, both of us knew there was nothing we could do to avert the impending sexual ravishment, and our experiences with several foreign tribes had taught us that compliance, while not necessarily the most brave thing to do, very often led to survival. Resistance was, as the saying goes, futile.

The only thing odd about the entire scene, which lasted for perhaps six hours or more, was that none of the rapists, so far as we could tell later on, achieved a full ejaculation in either of Tess's two lower openings, both of which saw several dozen examples of Bosnian appendage thrust roughly into them. The first man, evidently the leader, as he was largest and ugliest, penetrated my wife's lovely tunnel and thrust rapidly into her for several minutes, eliciting first a groan, then a moan, and finally several small shrieks from Tess as she succumbed to the raw sexuality. As his grunts became more and more indicative of an impending climax, he pulled suddenly out of her, clambered up to sit astride her bosoms, and directed the entire contents of his testicles onto Tess's face and open mouth. Wiping the slime from his penis on her hair, he climbed off and indicated for the next man to take his place.

Semen-besotted and sweating from the exertion and heat, Tess endured the next half dozen or so similar episodes, each man roughly pounding away at her smoothly-shaven mound, framed by the garter belt and stocking tops that were rapidly being worn to a frazzle, only to exit the more biologically appropriate area and instead ejaculate what often appeared to be several days of built-up seminal fluid on her flushed features. Soon, the white fluid was copiously deposited across all of her face, running in wet lines from forehead to chin, pooling stingingly in her eyes and even drooling off to run into her ears. Much of it was directed into her mouth as she gasped in surprise, shock, and sexual fervor. Swallowing semen, as I said, has never been an aversion to my lovely bride, and I'm sure much of the liquid found its way into her grateful belly.

After seven rapes and seven facially-directed ejaculations, the next man loosened her ankles from the rough ropes holding her legs apart at the end of the platform, and pushed her legs back towards her torso. She struggled a bit, whether to actually indicate her displeasure at the event or just to de-cramp her legs, I don't know but the man gripped her ankles with strength she could not overcome. Soon, her legs bent almost double at the waist, her hips were raised up, and, as we both feared, her anus became the target for the next round of penile penetrations. Luckily for her, the lubrication offered during her first group of rapists had somewhat sufficiently allowed her nether region to offer a not extremely unpleasant entry, notwithstanding the fact that her first anal assault was with a rather large fleshy weapon.

I watched in fascinated horror as his plum-sized head paused at the wrinkled opening to her rectum, then pushed forwards, accompanied by a grunt from him and a groan from her, until the crown of his foreskin popped into the small opening. An inch of two of penile shaft quickly followed it, as Tess groaned with the unexpected entry. She was no stranger to sodomy, having practiced it almost exclusively at one point in her life, but like any other sudden entry of a large and unyielding object into a small and still-unstretched aperture, the feeling caused some discomfort.

The rapist continued his downwards path, until nearly all of his shaft lay buried in my wife's lower intestine. I saw her anal ring expand to accommodate the intruder and a sharp intake of breath on her part confirmed the presence of a foreign object in her rectum. Gradually he drew it out again, then thrust in, fully impaling her this time, and continued the piston-like movements. Her groans turned so whimpers then grunts as his penis explored the interior of her most private parts. I glanced at her face. Her eyes were shut in a grimace, but whether it was due to the anal invasion or the still-gooey amounts of semen collected in her eyes, I wasn't sure.

After several minutes of the sodomy, her first anal attacker withdrew his somewhat war-weary weapon and proceeded to emit his personal DNA on to Tess's writhing body, as has forebears had done. The first stream landed heavily with an audible splat on one lovely breast, covering her nipple with semen like frosting.