“Take off clothes.” It was a very casual order.
I suppose Terry and I hadn?t expected anything else. The first thing you do with a slave girl or a captive female is strip her. Why not? It?s practical. The things you are going to do to her certainly don?t call for clothes. We started to undress. Apart from being frightened and heartbroken we were almost bored. It was all too familiar.
But poor Cedric! It was all a bit too much for him. He laced into them in no uncertain way. One of the crew hit him with the butt of a gun. There was about as much emotion displayed as if he had brushed away a fly. Cedric was knocked down but not out. Blood came from the wound. He fingered it in disbelief as he sprawled on the sand. We tried to go to him. But that was definitely out. The moment we stopped our strip act dirty fingers reached out to help. We were soon naked. We did not care. Cedric was our main concern. “Don?t interfere over us,” I warned, and got slapped for my pains.
What do you do with a captive girl? Of course you do! The answer is the same on every continent and every century. Terry and I knew what the first thing would be. Poor Cedric did not! Hen the first ruffian took his erect sex out of his scrap of dirty blanket and motioned to me to kneel before him and pay the eternal female homage with her lips, I was about to obey when Cedric went wild.
Poor Cedric! He?d never been a captive girl. What I was about to do was no more than I expected. I did not want to do it. But I had no thought of fighting against the inevitable. I was simply about to pay the tribute that a few million other girls had paid before me. Cedric ejaculated a startled and shocked: “No! Oh no!” He was on his feet in a flash and had seized a gun from the holster of one of our captors when one of the other ruffians shot him. It was done with the indifference of any act that does not matter very much. Cedric fell and stared up at the sky he would never see again. Another of the four wnet to the truck, found a shovel, and began to dig a hole in the loose sand of a dune. Whilst I serviced the first of them, who thoughtfully pressed the muzzle of a revolver against my head to insure proper attention, I was able to see the body of the man who had tried to buy our freedom thrust into a shallow grave and covered over with sand. Poor Cedric! I suppose those words are his epitaph.
We were two naked girls. It would be silly to pretend that we were anything other than quivering in fear. We had witnessed the ultimate horror. What we were now forced to do with our lips and our loins seemed trivial compared to our loss. We performed the age-old rituals in a daze. But I expect with competent precision. At least we earned no blows. Our function now was to survive. Thus the human entity adapts so what it may live on.
Having fed upon the flesh of girls, our four captors toke no chances with their merchandise. We were tied again. Far more tightly than need be. Hands palm to palm, elbows crushed together. The cords bit with a personal animosity. Terry and I did not weep. We had gone beyond tears. We looked at each other in despair, unwilling to acknowledge what we had seen. We did not speak. There was nothing to say. We recognized our condition.
They fed us. We could not feed ourselves. The cords upon our arms made us utterly helpless. We were feminine torsos without arms or hands. Our impotence was deliberate. It pleased the four of them to tease us. To offer a tid-bit so that we opened our mouths, then eat it themselves amidst roars of laughter. But they did give us the least desirable bits of meat and bread. From their concern that we should eat we knew we were merchandise. They enlivened their meal by painting our breasts and nipples with some sweet we were not allowed to sample. They then sucked it from our skin. We sat erect with breasts outthrust. What else could we do? It did not matter. The four male animals did not matter. Only Cedric mattered. But Cedric was beneath the sand. Suburbia had given her son to the desert.
From our breasts there was an inevitable progression. We were told to lay on our backs and lift our loins. That our bound arms made it agony did not matter. We lay on them and stretched wide our legs. We were fertility goddesses playing a role milleniums old. They painted our vulvas with the sweet, being careful to open the labia to pour it within. Then each partook of the nectar and ambrosia we provided. A desert vagabond?s dessert! Whatever it was they enjoyed it. From the absence of cuffs and cruelty, what they?d consider cruelty, we knew we gave satisfaction. They threw us back in the truck.
You have never been jolted around in a truck while cords bite into your elbows. Be thankful! It is no fun. Between the pain and the memory of poor Cedric neither Terry nor I coeld contain our tears. We let them flow. They stained our cheeks. Our desert escort laughed. Did not some conqueror say a maiden?s tears were the salt of the earth?
We knew not where we were being taken. We were utterly lost. It was early evening when we were unloaded again. I asked that our elbows be loosed, but was slapped for my pains. There is no better way to keep a girl humble than to tie her elbows together. She cannot fight. She will not even try. Our four escorts know their job. Supper was a repetition of the midday meal. Our breasts, our nipples and our vulvas contributed to an erotic dessert. There were those among the four who had experience. Terry ans I are only female flesh. We had orgasms. We were deeply shamed. The cunning lips controlled us as did the cords. Our will was taken from us. Our senses were easy prey.
Men must always hurt a girl! We have discussed this before, so why bother? I expect the real answer is very simple. To ship a naked girl is to have an eternal orgasm. Much better than the real thing really… Certainly for the one who holds the whip!
Pain is kept as the?piece de resistance?. First we service them with lip and loin. It is easy to do. We do it well. While we endure their gasps and agony we wonder why the act merits attention. It seems to Terry and I that the act, for the male, is a defeat rather than a victory.
It is a defeat they seek to counter and nullify with pain. Our pain! They get revenge for their flaccid member we have made ludicrous. They do it in many ways, all of them terrible to a naked girl. Their favorite is the whip.
The whip is wonderful. It so easily becomes a live thing in the hands of a man bent on revenge for impotence or seeking to recharge the forces he has spent. The whip or the cane. It does not matter.
Our escorts have canes. They take us into the poor abandoned shed beside which the truck is parked. They throw a rope over a beam and loop one end on our wrists. Then they pull. If it has not been done to you it is a mystery. To Terry and I it is not. It has been done to us before. It will make our bottoms stick out to invite the cane as though we had asked for it. Up and up go our pinioned hands, our arms wrack our shoulders. We bend down and down to ease the strain. But we can only bend so far. When they have us on our toes it is considered the ideal pose for a girl. She can now be caned or whipped on her bottom, her thighs and her legs. Even her lower back is exposed. She is very vulnerable. Her breasts are most available. She will kick and lunge under the cane, but she will evade no single stroke.
They cane Terry and me for a long time. It is probably all evening. Time passes very slowly for a girl in this predicament. What does it matter? A naked girl against a man?s joy! They are not comparable. Joy wins. Why not? It has logic. The cane cuts into the flesh of my thighs. I scream in desolation. The scream is expected of me. I deliver the male no more than is his due. I hear Terry?s screams as though they are far away. It is a very happy evening for the four men. Terry and I do not matter. We are slaves.
There comes a change. An air of purpose. Things of consequence are afoot. Our hands are lowered. We can stand erect. The agony is almost justified by the glorious relief. We stand, still helpless, letting it irradiate every nerve and sinew. Our skin is scalded from the cane. We do not care. The torture of the cord has eased.