You are unfamiliar with the L.A. streets and somewhere south and east of the airport, you find yourself lost in the dark in a very questionable neighborhood, run down, full of signs in lanquages you can’t read. Suddenly, an old van with a big wooden bumper rear-ends your rented Toyota, driving it up over a curb. When you recover from the shock of the collision, you reach for the door handle, to get out and look at the damage.
As soon as you get out, someone grabs you from behind. A coarse sack, burlap or jute, is pulled down over your head, and your arm is twisted behind you, by someone you can’t see. “Don’t make a noise, Anglo bitch, or you are dead right now.” says a voice which sounds as if the teeth are clenched. In seconds, you are dragged into the van and pushed to the floor. You can feel it back up, stop with a lurch, and then move forward, making several turns, probably turning at every intersection.
Strong hands roll you on your back. Counting hands, there must be at least three men. You feel the hard steel floor of the van against your back; it is a cargo van, no seats in back. Probably no windows, either, you realize. Unless there were witnesses to the ramming and abduction, no one could know where you are.
You feel cold steel against your throat, under the bag which covers your eyes. “Listen, Sweetie, you are going to do everything you are told to do, and you are not going to scream or struggle or talk back; otherwise, you die right now. Understand?” The point of the knife presses painfully into your skin.
“Yes,” you croak, your throat dry with terror. You feel them pulling your arms above your head, and apart. Your wrists are tied to something, maybe the front seats of the van. They are using wire; it bites into your skin. They take your Reboks and tie your ankles, using wire again, pulling your legs straight and apart. You are spread-eagled, entirely helpless and vulnerable. Your breathing is rapid. You are hyperventilating and might become light headed, blowing off too much carbon-dioxide, except that the sack over your head restricts the air flow, compensating for your panicky panting.
You are wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. The knife point slides down your neck, until the blade encounters the first button of your shirt. There is a little tug, and the button flies off. You actually hear it strike the metal wall of the van. Men laugh. You smell marijuana.
You can feel another tug at your shirt. The second button is cut off. Then the third. And the fourth, and the fifth, which is down by your navel. Someone pulls the tail of your shirt out of your jeans and cuts the last buttons. They didn’t have to cut them off. You know you can never wear that shirt again. Will you die naked? The flannel is pulled back, baring the front of your body.
The sharp blade, double edged, slides along the midline of your tummy. You wonder, is it drawing blood? How can you be so detached, so clinical? Does it have something to do with being blindfolded by the sack? You cannot see who is assaulting you, so you must concentrate on what you feel. You feel the blade pause, between your breasts, and lift, and suddenly your bra springs away from your breasts, leaving them exposed. Almost instantly, strong, masculine hands grasp your breasts. They are big hands, able to engulf your B-cup breasts, and they are rough, calloused hands. They squeeze and knead your breasts. These men have no respect for your body.
They could unbutton your jeans, but they don’t. The knife slides along your hip and down the outside of your leg, slicing the denim. When it has travelled down both sides, there is nothing holding your jeans on but force of habit. Someone yanks on the cloth, and you feel it sliding out from under you. In seconds, there is nothing on the lower half of your body but your cotton briefs. You can feel the cold steel floor through the thin cotton. You feel tugs at the waist of the briefs, as the knife does its work. Your last covering is snatched from you. Now your bare buttocks are pressed against the cold steel floor, and your genitals are fully exposed to the crazy men who have kidnapped you.
You know you will be raped. You know it will be very unpleasant. You can only hope you are not maimed or killed. You remember that woman who was raped and had her arms cut off. You remember countless reports of nude bodies being found in the hills around L.A. You don’t want to end up on a slab in a morgue.
The bag over your head is pulled partially off. You cannot see, but you can breathe easier. Something warm is pressed against your lips. “Suck it,” you hear. You open your mouth to receive the stiff cock, uncircumcized. It tastes strange, as if it hadn’t been washed for a long time. You are disgusted, but fear for your life makes you suck it just the same.
Meanwhile, whoever was squeezing your breasts is now pinching the nipples, hard. You want to cry out, to complain, but your mouth is full. The pain radiates through your body and, by the time it finds its way between your legs, it is somehow pleasurable. Another man begins grinding his fist into your vulva, mashing your labia, pressing on your concealed clitoris. “Hey, man, she likes it! Lookit her get wet.”
The cock in your mouth is now fucking your thorat. You want to gag. You can only breathe in gasps. You are no longer sucking, just enduring. Sweet/salty semen makes you gag, and you have to swallow it, or you will suffocate. Several men laugh, as you swallow hard and try to breathe. The now soft penis pulls out of your mouth, dribbling sticky fluid over your chin.
Now rough hands are probing your crotch, pulling the labia apart. You hate that. You feel hot breath between your legs, and then a tongue touches your clitoris and begins to lick it, pressing hard. “OH, God, NO!” you cry, as the tongue rapes you. Even as you loathe the violation of your most private parts, you feel the electric tingles from your clit, and you involuntarily begin to buck your hips. Tingles, twinges, waves of muscular activity, radiate from your cunt, as, simultaneously, waves of stimulation from your tortured nipples radiate downward. The nervous energy meets in your belly, causing pandemonium, as if your internal organs were playing musical chairs in your pelvis.
You are tossing your bagged head, moaning, straining at the wires which bind you, sweating, on the edge of an orgasm, when the tongue stops, leaving you frustrated and angry. How dare they! The nipple pinching stops, and you feel a warm hard body climbing onto you.
“No, Angelo. You got AIDS. You go last.” A shiver of horror erases the lust you felt seconds earlier. AIDS! Someone else lies on you, the buttons of his shirt pockets digging into your mashed breasts, his massive belt buckle scraping your navel. His fat dick finds your cunt. With a grunt, he forces into you. Seconds earlier, you wanted a cock in you. Now, you don’t. Push, push, push, the penis invades your vagina. You are wet and slippery. You were on the edge of an orgasm. Now, you grit your teeth and bear it. Strangely, however, in spite of yourself, you feel delicious tingles in time with your rapists push-ups over your helpless body. Again, you are gasping, feeling waves of excitement racing through your body. “Uh, uh, uh,” you cry, waiting for the climax you know can only be seconds away. Even now, your cunt is twitching.
“UUUHHH!” the rapist groans, and his spunk floods your cunt. In seconds, his prick is gone. Your cunt quivers, with nothing to hold onto. The promised orgasm evaporates, leaving your feeling congested and frustrated.
“Was she tight?”
“This will help.” You feel something being inserted in your anus. There is no lubricant; it hurts. It’s a hose, or something like that. You hear a swish-swish sound, and something, a balloon or bag of some kind inflates in your rectum.
“Ah, you’ll kill me,” you cry, as your stretched bowels send distress signals of intense pain to your brain. You feel your anal sphincters, and your anus itself, being stretched, dilated, by the growing thing inside you. Your swollen intestine presses your vagina. Your bladder is pressed, and you can’t help passing urine. The men laugh. The next rapist is quick and rough. His swollen cock forces into your vagina, sending waves of increased pressure through your painfully full rectum. With the air pressure squeezing your cunt against his tool, the friction is intense, and before you can get over the shock and decide whether he gives you pleasure or pain, he has ejaculated into you and withdrawn. You feel cheated. You got fucked and couldn’t even enjoy it.
You realize the van is no longer moving. You wonder where you can be. “OK, Angelo, your turn.” The one with AIDS! Your blood runs cold. The hose in your anus is pulled. Almost painfully, the bag within you bears against your anal sphincter muscles, stretching, stretching. You think giving birth to a baby must be like this. “EERRRGH!” you cry, and suddenly your rectum is empty, your burning anus no longer stretched.
“Shit, man, I don’t want her tight. I want to enjoy this.” Angelo lowers himself onto you, pressing you against the hard steel floor. His hard penis pokes at your cunt, trying to find the hole. At one point, it bumps your clit, and your whole body shudders. Now he finds his goal, and you feel your ring of cunt muscles distended as he thrusts deep into you. He pushes hard. His pubic hair tangles with yours. You feel your womb displaced, as his prod reaches the very depths of your treasure tunnel. Slowly, he strokes in and out, sliding on the semen of his predecessors. You dread the moment when he ejaculates. Will he give you AIDS? For that matter, will you get pregnant; it’s your fertile time. But such questions are meaningless, if they are going to kill you anyway. Angelo strokes in and out. He even hums to himself, in no hurry. One of the men says, “Hey, Angelo, enjoy it while you can.” Angelo tries to prolong the pleasure, changing position slightly, making his prod rub higher up in your vulva and lower down in your cunt. You begin to feel those pleasant tingles and twinges.
Angelo keeps up the rhythmic stroke, filling your cunt with his tool, then pulling out, almost all the way, so that when he thrusts again, you feel yourself stretched open anew, feel delicious friction in your vulva. The sensations become stronger, more insistent. Little shuddering twinges begin to ripple through your belly. They get stronger, so that your whole body responds. As he pushes down, driving his meat deep into you, your legs stiffen, your tummy twitches, your breasts feel electric, and your toes curl. Before you know it, things are out of control. You are so sensitive. You feel everything, and every touch sends electricity through your belly. Your organs spasm. You buck your hips. You groan, and thrash and writhe and go crazy, as Angelo keeps thrusting into you, giving you no relief.
There is laughter. “She likes it, Angelo.” Your nipples are hard, your chest sweaty. You feel hot, flushed, and you are breathing hard, as another wave of contractions washes through you, like shock waves from an explosion, like an earthquake in your body. And then it is over. Angelo has come inside you and withdrawn his prick. You feel slightly sore, but relieved and relaxed. It was a whopper of an orgasm.
“What do we do now, cut her nipples off?” says a voice. You shudder with dread.
“Too messy. Kill her.”
“No, don’t kill me. I can still show you a good time,” you hear yourself saying, without even thinking about it first. You will do anything to stay alive. You hear a wicked little laugh. “Remember what we did to that chick we picked up on La Cienega? The one that was only thirteen?”
“Yeh, man, let’s do that.”
You quake with fear, fear of the unknown. Someone turns off the engine, gets out of the van. You hear the hood raise. Moments later, they start the engine again. “Hey, you red haired Anglo sweetie. Do you know what happens next?” “No,” you say. You still can’t see anything.
“Here is a wire from a spark plug. A hundred thousand volts. Enjoy.” You feel a sharp burn on your belly, and the electricity spreads through your abdominal muscles and through your buttocks and into the steel floor of the van. Your body convulses, flopping as far as the taut wires to your limbs will allow. You have a few seconds to catch your breath, and then the wire is run down the centerline of your body: breastbone, navel, vulva. The engine is idling, so the sparks are leaping to your body perhaps twice a second. The burning pain where the spark enters the skin is bad enough, like a red hot iron, but the ripply spasms of your muscles, unable to relax, are even more worrysome.
“Man, lookit her twitch!” says a laughing man, as you scream in pain and frustration. Someone pushes the end of the wire into your vagina. You do not feel the burn, but the muscle spasms are unbearable.
Some one gooses the engine, so the sparks are almost continuous. “UNNNGH!” you groan, through clenched teeth, as your back arches and your womb leaps in your belly, and you climax like the 1812 Overture, with cannons in your cunt. They pull out the wire. You lie there, gasping.
“Any bets how long she’ll last?”
“Not long. Do it again.”
The wire strokes along your wet labia. Your body writhes and bounces on the steel floor, as every muscle from your shoulders to your heels convulses. You can’t breathe! And your cunt is doing things that drive you crazy. Through the pain, your brain lights up with exstatic orgasms, a paradox of pleasurable pain. Again, they give you time to catch your breath, to recover.
“Anyone want to fuck her again?”
“Shit, man, her cunt is ruined. Be like fucking a bag of Jello.”
“Well, give her some more.”
This time, they shove the wire against your anus. There is no orgasm, just pain so intense that you faint for a moment. When you come to, you hear, “She’s not dead yet. Here, put this in her.” You feel something cold inserted into your vagina, something like a wrench handle. “Now, just touch the wire to that.”
“UUNNGH!” You make horrible noises, as your vagina recieves the electricity, and your contracted buttocks connect with the cold steel floor. You reach a climax in seconds, and then another and another. You can’t breathe. You can’t control anything about your body. The electricity jerks you like a marionette. Climax. Pain. Climax. Pain. You see stars, hear roaring in your ears, and then nothing.
You realize that your are regaining your senses, but you try to remain limp and not let on. You are being carried, hanging by your hands and feet. The bag is still over your head; you can see nothing. The remains of your shirt and bra are gone; you haven’t a stitch on. You can still feel the wires, wrapped around your wrists and ankles. They must have simply cut you loose, not bothered to remove them. You continue to play dead. You feel yourself being lifted. Your ass bumps on a round railing. Suddenly you are falling! One second, two, three! You wait for death.
There is a jarring, stinging, smack against your body. You are under water, salt water. You slam against a gravelly bottom. You scrunch into a ball, holding your breath, and push off toward the surface. You tear the sodden bag from your head, gasping to breathe. You can tread water. You are alive and able to breathe. You wait, looking up at the bridge above you, blacker than the night. You wait, until the men will be far away. Then you swim toward the beach.
– The End –