Condemned to Slavery Page 3

  A hand clamped to her shoulder and spun her about, bringing her face to face with the enraged countenance of a soldier. Rambling loudly in his native tongue, Lydia was left startled and confused, unable to discern what he wanted.

  When he made a grab for her camera she instinctively shied away. Trying again, he caught the flailing strap and in response she hauled at the instrument with a shout, determined not to give it up until she could explain what she had innocently been doing to someone who could actually understand her. For a few seconds they wrestled as she tried to keep her possession away from the soldier, while he sought to remove it from her grasp without employing the full brute force a male opponent could have expected.

  A pair of troops entered the fray, having been drawn by the sight of struggle. Before Lydia noticed them they each snagged an arm and drew it back, forcing her into relinquishing her hold. The soldier yanked away the camera with an irritated snarl, slipped it over his shoulder and drew a pair of handcuffs. Lydia suddenly found fresh energy to fight her captors, seeing herself being arrested for no more than failing to speak the local language.

  Images of all the horror stories she had ever heard about such imprisonment in fragile dictatorships flashed across her thoughts, prompting desperate flight and rash action.

  The kick she swept up into her assailant’s groin was more nervous spasm than intended attack, though its effects were just as debilitating. With a croaking cry the soldier doubled up, clutching his traumatized genitalia and sinking down onto his knees. The pinioning troops increased the strength of their hold, seeking to subdue her resistant mood.

  The pained soldier began to arise, a vindictive scowl playing across his curled lips. With a frantic lunge she attempted to fell him again but he was not to be fooled by the same mode of attack a second time. With a burst of speed he blocked her foot and swung the defending arm around in a wide arc, his backhand slap jerking her face aside and filling her cheek with throbbing heat.

  With a swift motion he drew his side arm, cocked the pistol, and put the muzzle to her temple. Lydia squeaked in mortal shock and closed her eyes, bracing for execution, petrified by this sudden application of deadly jeopardy. As the click of the hammer being drawn back filled her ears, she was brought to an expectant and dread saturated silence, holding her breath, the only sound being her thumping heart beat as it through itself against her ribs.

  The muzzle fell sharply away as a young man jumped onto the soldier’s back, causing the trooper to stagger aside under the added weight and imbalance. The firearm dropped from his grasp and rattled upon the ground, removing the threat.

  Lydia recognized the heroic savior as being from the plane, a face she had seen in the crowd but never really noticed until now, at a time when he was bravely risking his own life to preserve hers. For a moment the two grappled, striving to defeat the other’s grip as Lydia sought to take advantage of her captor’s distraction and slip loose, fighting their clenched holds but unable to escape.

  With an animal growl the soldier thrust his elbow back, catching the man’s ribs and winding him, causing his frame to slacken and thus be easily sloughed off against the wall with a stern shove. The passenger struck the grimy surface with a jarring crack and began to sink down, dazed. Airing a scowl of contempt, the soldier reached down and lifted the pistol in a loose grasp.

  “NO!” shrieked Lydia, seeing what was to follow as she battled to get free.

  The pistol spat a brief flare of light and a single cartridge that jumped free and chimed merrily upon the tarmac. A tiny group of warm spots touched her face and she froze in aghast horror, paralyzed as her attempted savior jerked back, the rear of his head opening amidst a plume of red and black that splashed across the walls in an abstract collage of gore. Twitching, the lifeless cadaver slumped down and fell onto its side, his face screwing up into a grimace before going slack. A pool of red began spreading swiftly out from the gaping exit wound and the neat hole that had been punched in his forehead.

  The soldiers holding her addressed the killer in severe and worried tones, snapping him from his gloating and causing him to step towards Lydia. Thinking herself to be eliminated as a witness to this crime she screamed in manic calamity, bucking and whirling against the grapples. Her struggles escalated with every step the killer took towards her, leaving her unprepared as he suddenly pressed the pistol into her hand. Lydia gasped in alarm and tried to drop the smoking murder weapon, but they were holding her firmly and ensuring they kept the gun in her hand with their crushing fists.

  Other troops ran from around the corner, assault rifles trained on them as those about her wrestled the firearm from her grasp and twisted her arms back to be caught in handcuffs, capturing her squirming frame as she wailed her innocence.

  “Madre de Dios! Que ha pasado agni, solado?” yelled one.

  “Tenemos uma espia, Capitan,” replied the killer.

  Without pause they frog marched her towards the side of the building, where a rough door was opened and a brief passage down a long, dark corridor brought her to a small room. The interior was decrepit and barren save for a rough wooden table and an overhead light bulb dangling upon its life supporting cable.

  The soldiers shoved her against the wall as they entered and closed the door behind them, the impact winding her slightly for she could not cushion herself with her arms locked behind her back.

  Spinning around, she straightened and yelled her protests.

  “I demand to see someone in charge!” she roared.

  The trio of soldiers merely looked at her blankly as two of them lit cigarettes from a match. The wielder wove out the flame and tossed it on the floor.

  “Do any of you even speak English? Get me an interpreter or something. Now!”

  The venom in her voice suggested an insult, a mistake that caused one of them to remove the cigarette from his lips and flick it at her. Lydia gave a yelp as the hot tip struck her bare shoulder and she responded with increased rancor, her words muddled from sheer indignation at such treatment.

  “Bastard! You…you, I’ll—”

  Unable to string coherent words together she charged forward, only to be snared and held with an amused chuckle.

  “Oye, chica, quieres divertirte? Las gringes no pueden resistra a los hombres que llevan uniformes!” he muttered in her ear, his hand suddenly grabbing her breast and massaging it roughly. Lydia bucked against the hold, yelling for help as the troops laughed heartily and mocked her impotent antics.

  The door opened and a dour faced official walked in, another behind him bearing her luggage. After a brief exchange in their native tongue her cuffs were removed and she was cast back towards the corner, whereupon all the soldiers save the felon with her camera departed.

  Rubbing her chafed wrists she viewed the bronzed faces with a morose glare. The man bearing her suitcases placed them up on the table, side by side and looked upon the numbered wheels beside each lock.

  “What are the combinations?” he asked tonelessly without even looking up, his voice corrupted by a heavy accent.

  “Fuck you. I want to speak to someone in charge. Your butcher there just killed someone and tried to blame it on me. I want him arrested! I want to be let out!” she hollered, pulling at the restraining shackles.

  “What are the combinations?” he repeated in the exact same tone, his eyes never leaving the sources of his inquiry as though by looking long enough he would discern them himself.

  With a sigh she looked to the ceiling, her eyes welling with tears, her heart pounding and her limbs quivering.

  “This isn’t happening,” she muttered to herself, repeating the words as a cracked mantra to soothe her nerves.

  The official removed a screwdriver from within his coat and pried open the locks, snapping them and bringing Lydia’s attention back.

  “Hey! That’s mine, you f—” she protested, stepping forward only to have her words cut off by being rudely shoved back away from the vandal as he continued to wor
k.

  The other locks were broken and the two officials began to go through her possessions, the guardian soldier watching her closely as she helplessly observed the desecration of her privacy. Once the examination of the contents was complete, they moved onto a more thorough repeat.

  Small knives began to dissect the cases, the hems and seams of her clothes, even her toiletries were gouged open and their gels and pastes scanned. Heels were wrenched off, buttons smashed, even souvenirs were broken to allow internal scrutiny and she could only watch in pathetic dismay as they destroyed everything she had brought with her and valued.

  Their search ended in failure, so they turned to her.

  “Remove your clothes,” they demanded.

  Startled by this bluntness, her jaw dropped open before she refused. A search was an unwelcome enough thing with normal customs, but at least they provided a screen and female attendants. To be nonchalantly processed by these vermin was an abhorrent prospect she could not acquiesce to, no matter what the consequences might be.

  As they closed in she screamed for aid and sought to fight them off, but they were too strong. Not only was she outnumbered, but nobody beyond the ruinous walls cared for her plight. Held upright to the decaying surfaces, the soldier and a customs official held her under her armpits, watching casually.Suddenly Lydia shrieked as the third lifted his knife towards her torso. A burly hand clamped across her lips, muffling her signal of distress to a gurgling murmur.

  When the edge of the weapon winked in the dull glare of the chamber she became more passive, realizing that any struggles would give rise to chance of the blade cutting at more than her clothing. The accidental running of it across her skin terrified her even more than the stripping.

  As she panted in fright and hung against her pinioning captors, the blade was employed with casual jerking slashes to cut away her skirt. Then her shirt, her bra, and her underwear, the rip of the parting materials and the coolness of exposed skin making her close her eyes and weep with self pity and worry.

  The laces of her shoes were gouged open and the footwear removed, leaving the commissioned thief to gather the assorted piles of ribbons and carry the mangled shreds to the table for investigation, and again, nothing was found.

  Lydia’s tears flowed freely as she saw the man remove a rubber glove and slip it onto his hand. Fighting all the more sternly against her bonds, she could only watch as he interlocked his fingers to push the tight sheaths fully onto the digits and then brushed the shredded articles and luggage from the table to provide space for their owner.

  The restraining tyrants dragged her from the wall and slammed her face down onto the tabletop. Her arms were dragged up and the handcuffs were captured by a length of slender rope. A knot at the chain links let the twin excess lengths be tugged up and fastened about the table legs by her head. With her arms twisted up her spine and held there, the metal edges of the cuffs dug sharply into her joints. Lydia grimaced and fought them as they continued to forcefully manipulate her body.

  Taking an ankle each they hauled back, splaying her legs and making the shackles bite at her skin as she gasped and whimpered. The parting of her legs made her feel horribly vulnerable, the exposing of her naked loins starting her pulse racing with fright.

  Lydia was unable to conjure how this situation had arisen but subconsciously she was resigned to getting it over with in the hope of being on her way as quickly as possible.

  Frozen like a timid rabbit, she mewled and begged, unable to believe that this was actually happening to her, the imploring requests gaining no response or delay.

  Latex-coated fingers brushed her rear and she clenched with all her might, strengthening her muscles to bar entrance. Employing added force, her molester dug the probing digits into the fortified cleft and wormed his way onwards, parting the sphincter and then clawing his way inside. Lydia wailed with revulsion and then from pain as he forced his entire fist onwards, the ramming extremity stretching her almost beyond tolerance. She writhed against the table, her hands clasping and clawing at the metal cuffs from the effects of this outrageous profanity.

  Whether it was satisfaction in his work or a methodical nature he lingered for a long time, fully exploring her until she was sobbing for him to desist.

  Withdrawing his intruding hand, she was given a moment’s respite before a finger reached out and rubbed along her sex, pushing through the tangle of hair and riding through the valley of her pussy.

  “Oh God! Stop! Please!” she howled, and was taken aback with a gasp when it reached her clitoris and began to swirl, the smooth bulbous dome of the digit swirling slowly. The expert masturbation made her stiffen against her bonds, her mouth dropping open with surprise and shock.

  “Wh…what the hell are you doing? Stop that you bastard!” she exclaimed, appalled by what he was doing, an act that was well beyond any reasonable excuse in a search.

  But the officer merely continued, his finger beating whirls of pleasure on her belly, making her shiver with bursts of tickling delight. She couldn’t believe she was responding to the touch, that the man was encouraging her breath to quicken, her body to shudder with small flickers of rhapsody, her mouth to hang open on a panting snarl.

  Lydia screwed her eyes shut and tried to fill her mind with disgusting images, to remind herself where she was, to stop her arousal in any way she could.

  The continuing touch soon started to melt the resistance, her body tensing as she was brought methodically towards orgasm.

  It was bad enough being made to writhe like some wanton slut for the amusement of these men, but to climax under their gaze was a hideous notion. With tears welling in her eyes, she strained to kick her libido into submission, but the continual rubbing of the finger to the roused bud of her sex was relentlessly defeating her attempts.

  “Please! Don’t make me do this!” she implored, teeth clenched as she continued her fight against her own animal instincts. Her breath was jumping in and out, her hands wringing into tight knots as the warmth of release started to manifest more distinctly in her loins, growing stronger every second. It was soon at a level that would have had her beg him to continue if he stopped, the presence of such a tempestuous orgasm seducing her, making her heedless of any consequence or appearance she might give. Why was she so turned on? She had been abducted and bound by these villains, and yet she was at a level of bliss no coitus or masturbation had ever acquired for her.

  Jerking against her bonds, she let out gurgling croaks of stress, the eruption of delight making her bounce on the table, fighting to break free of her restraints.

  “Stop! I can’t…I can’t take…any…more!” she cried in stalled moans, the man pushing her deeper into the scintillating fires of climax, deeper than she had ever gone before. The sensations were overwhelming her, her system scrambled by the input he was bequeathing. If he didn’t stop she felt like she would explode.

  The digit continued until she was screaming incoherently, her body quaking violently, the pleasure starting to melt into a chafed and irritating pain, her sex growing raw as he continued to manipulate it.

  Suddenly he stopped and wiped his hand across her dripping pussy, moistening the glove in readiness for the delayed search.

  Lydia lifted her head, strands of damp hair hanging across her sight as she felt him start to enter her damp womb. The bunched fingers began to drive inward, kindling far greater pain as he forced a full entry. Lydia wailed and continued to fight her bonds, the intrusion as severe in pain as the masturbation was in pleasure. The tender tract erupted with burning mayhem at being stretched so acutely, the feel of his fingers squirming within her turning her stomach as he probed within her.

  Having conducted a thorough search and finding nothing, he departed and removed the glove with a sharp elastic snap.

  With her abdomen resonating with its own pulse, she listened as her garments and possessions were stuffed haphazardly into the cases. A blade sliced the ropes at her legs and the trio of violator
s departed with her confiscated luggage.

  The door slammed shut and she realized that they intended to leave her naked and bound. A few shouts for their attendance to rectify this oversight yielded nothing, and rather than remain on lewd display she chose to slip from the table.

  Wriggling her legs free of the cut strands, she winced as her arms were twisted and pulled with her motions. It took a few attempts to find out that she could not get upright without snapping her arms, the tries making her croak and whimper. Swinging hips around, she pushed a leg forward and tried to pick at the knots with her toes, her arms still folded up her back, preventing her from easy access. The extremity proved useless for such work. With a hiss of frustration she kicked at the table leg and the rope, cursing it before lying slack on the table, her mind trying to figure a way out.

  Writhing forward along the tabletop, she scowled as her arms straightened themselves, gaining slack to fold back down her spine. Turning onto her flank, she moved to one side and blindly located a knot. Her fingers traced it, examining its structure, and after several laborious and infuriating attempts she finally started to open it. With one side of bonds freed, the other was relatively easy to handle. Once free of the ropes she climbed down off the table and pulled her linked wrists under her rear so she could have her hands at her front.

  Sneaking over to the door she placed her ear to the wood and listened onto the silence. Satisfied that all was empty without, she took hold of the handle and turned it slowly, trying to keep the noise to a minimum. The door failed to open, dashing her hopes of escape.