POW Pt. 01byDrSqueaky©
It wasn't supposed to be like this. She felt like two different people were occupying her head at the same time. One of them was appalled by what she was willingly getting herself into, while the other's heartbeat was exploding with excitement, her sex already damp with anticipation. Her story had earned sympathy and outrage on a national level—what would those same people think if they saw her now, choosing to walk back into the lion's den?
She paused before the door she had been instructed to find. Situated in an abandoned warehouse district north of DC, one door seemed very much like another. Amidst the other graffiti, however, this door bore the black symbol she had been instructed to find—the symbol of Master Carl. Perhaps he might Require her to be marked with this symbol, in time, to Prove his ownership of her...assuming he found her servitude acceptable. The thought frightened and excited her in equal measure.
Glancing around to see no one was watching, she unbuttoned her raincoat. She adjusted the straps of her leather harness, the only thing she was now wearing besides shoes. She made sure her breasts were jutting proudly through their openings, raised the lower straps to make sure all of her holes were easily accessible to her new master. She itched her mons briefly; she hadn't shaved it bare like this since she'd been held captive overseas. Stung for a moment by the memories, she almost turned and ran --but the attraction was too powerful. After all, no matter how much she might try to deny it, she'd been looking for exactly this for a while. In a sense, she'd been looking for a new master ever since she'd escaped her first. From what she knew of Master Carl, she felt confident he would give her what she desired--punishment, stern and demanding, forcing her to bend her strong will to his even stronger demands. Sshe had learned that pain amplified pleasure when administered in alternation, the two contrasting each other in ways beyond comprehending. It made the pleasure almost otherworldly, a drug she was horrified to realize she could no longer do without. And so she here she was, was coming for a fix
She adjusted her hair quickly, then removed her raincoat. She deposited the coat into the storage crate placed next to the door for that purpose, as instructed. She straightened up; she was for all intents and purposes naked, but she had long ago ceased to be self-conscious of these things. Her master desired she dress this way, and so she did without question. Her only concern was that she not be arrested before she could meet him. She reached for the knob, grasped it hesitantly--it looked locked. But she felt the handle turn under her pressure. With renewed resolve, she twisted the knob and the door swung inward, opening the door to the next chapter of her life.
Months earlier, she had been a soldier on routine patrol in Iraq. PFC Melanie Riordan was her name, and she was walking a dusty road with her usual partner, PFC Michael Simpson. Her blonde hair was cut short then, not even shoulder length, so that it tucked easily into her combat helmet. "M&M" as their unit referred to them had been walking this stretch of road twice a day for four months, and nothing had ever happened. No pipe bombs, no rocket fire; at most one or two old men leading donkeys with packs to the village. It was mind-numbingly dull duty. And because it had been so dull for so long, Melanie and Michael had increasingly taken to passing the time by entertaining each other. The sexual tension was undeniable; Melanie, pretty young and blonde, and Michael, a tall, muscular, articulate African-American. But their attraction was also strictly forbidden by regulations—not to mention each had a significant other back home. Unable to express the desire they felt directly, they sublimated it into jokes and innuendo. It was fun, and it made the dull day bearable.
The man leading the donkey towards them that day seemed ordinary enough, if much younger than they were used to seeing. Bantering with each other, neither paid close enough attention to him. It's hard to say if they would have been able to notice the bulge around the young man's chest even if they had. They met and started to pass when suddenly, the man whipped off his robe to reveal a string of plastic explosives strapped to his chest and a detonator in his hand. "Freeze or I will blow us all up!" he commanded. Snapped back to attention, Michael began to talk to the man in calm tones in what Arabic he knew, following his training in de-escalating suicide bombers. But the man wasn't listening; three words in, and the pair found themselves surrounded by a dozen militia with cloths over their faces pointing machine guns pointed at their heads. One of them demanded, in English, that they drop their weapons. Since their options seemed limited to obeying or dying, they surrendered. Thus they became the two latest kidnapping victims in Iraq.
Disarmed, they were marched to a house by the side of the road where they were blindfolded and tied to chairs. About a half-hour later, they heard a truck pull up outside. Their captors lifted them both, chair and all, into the back of the truck. One guard climbed into the back of the truck with them, the door was closed, and the truck started moving. Melanie was fearful but not terrified; she hoped that the truck would be pulled over at one of the many roadside stops dotting the countryside. She became more concerned when the bumping of the truck intensified and dust started seeping in to the cargo hold; it seemed they were crossing open desert, making it less likely to encounter patrols.
After driving for several hours, they were unloaded at a farmhouse. Their blindfolds were finally removed, but they were kept under constant guard. She overheard parts of her captors' conversations as they debated what to do with her—it was a major coup for them to have captured actual American soldiers instead of civilian contractors, but they hadn't counted one of them being a woman. For once, the strict separation of genders in Islamic culture was playing in her favor.
Early the next morning, Michael was blindfolded again and taken away, while Melanie was left behind in the farmhouse with two men to guard her. She tried to talk to them, to ask them what they planned to do with her. This only earned her a dirty sock in the mouth. For all that day and most of the next, that's where Melanie sat, tied to the chair. At one point one of the guards fed her a little water and a few crackers. When she didn't try to talk to them again after eating, they didn't put the sock back in her mouth. Finally, a truck arrived. She was blindfolded again and carted into it. The truck drove only a short distance, then stopped. She felt her arms being untied, then her legs. Her blindfold was removed last; the first thing she saw was the barrel of an assault rifle pointed between her eyes. "Get out of ze truck," the guard said with a heavy accent. She gingerly stepped forward, circulation still returning to her arms and legs. The butt of the assault rifle smacked into her ribs painfully. "Faster," he commanded. She did the best she could.
She climbed out of the truck, but being the middle of the night she could see little. A second guard was there, holding a gas lantern in one hand and an AR in the other. "Follow him," the first guard hissed.
It seemed they were in the middle of nowhere, although she sensed they were at the foot of a mountain range. The guard leading came to a stone, which he rolled aside to reveal a passage behind. He motioned for her to follow, then disappeared into the opening. All Melanie could see was a faint light ahead of her, but as her eyes adjusted to the darkness she could see traces of rock walls. This must be a cave, probably once an underground river although no water flowed here anymore. It was at no point tall enough to stand straight up in; sometimes they had to crouch, sometimes, crawl on all fours, and sometimes crawl on their bellies to pass through—but it was very long. In a few places there were piles of loose rock scattered, which she decided must have been places where humans had widened the tunnel to allow passage. She had no idea where she was, but if they were passing under a mountain she feared they might be crossing under the border. If so, once she was on the other side there would be no US patrols looking for her. She was increasingly panicked by the implications, but alone and unarmed she had no chance against the two armed guards. She searched for a place where she might try to surprise one of them, but moving quickly through the darkness she couldn't evaluate a location where the terrain might play in her favor. All she could do was follow.
It seemed to take a very long time to pass through the tunnel. A black sedan was waiting on the other side. Emerging from the tunnel, Melanie was forced to lie face-down on the ground. Her captors then hog-tied her and stuffed her into the trunk of the sedan. The trunk closed, she heard two doors close, and then the car made noise like it was moving. Unlike the truck, however, it didn't jar the fillings from her teeth. It must be an expensive luxury car, she thought. Why would they be using that to transport me? And where are they taking me?
The car came to a stop. She heard the doors open, voices, then steps receding away from her, but no one opened the trunk. She lay there, listening for an eternity, hearing nothing. Finally, she heard voices and footsteps approaching. The lid of the trunk popped and opened itself automatically. A bright light shined in, looking her over. She was blinded by it, having been in total darkness for so long. Eventually she made out that her two guards were now joined by two other men. The one holding the light seemed to be the leader. His clothes were not dusty like the others; he seemed to be wearing fatigues, but rather than actual military clothing they were the kind that boutiques sell to people that aren't revolutionaries but wish to look like them.
"She has possibilities," the leader said in Arabic. "Put these on her and bring her inside so we can have a closer look." He stepped back as one of the guards and the fourth man reached into the trunk and hauled her out. She couldn't stand hogtied, so the put her down on the cement. She seemed to be in the basement of a parking garage. She felt them put something around her neck; she couldn't see what it was, but it was tight-fitting, about an inch thick and limited her head movement. Then the other guard put his foot down on her head, not gently, and held his gun to her so she could not escape. Then the two men started to untie her feet. She felt them clamp some kind of anklet on each leg; she heard a click as each one closed. Then her hands were untied, and matching bracelets were attached. Only then was she permitted to stand. She found herself wearing bondage anklets and cuffs, leather-lined iron rings the latched closed with tiny locks. A single O-ring dangled from each; undoubtedly for the purposes of restraint. She correctly surmised that her neck choker must be part of a matching set.
One guard gestured with his gun towards a doorway. They entered, and she was surprised to find a carpeted hallway and an elevator--like any office building back home. They didn't stop at the elevator, though, continuing through a narrow service passageway to a single narrow door. The door opened, and the lights were switched on. It was a large laundry room; she guessed this must be a hotel. She was led in, stood in the middle of the floor with a gun pointed right at her head. "Right, let's get a look at her," the man in charge said, then addressed her in surprisingly good English, "put your hands behind your head." She did as she was told. She heard a click as some kind of lock fastened the rings of her bracelets together. She tried to lift them, and discovered they had somehow been attached to her neck restrain as well; her arms were pinned behind her head.
The man looked her over carefully in the light. He ran his fingers along her chin, felt her cheeks. Then all of a sudden he grabbed hold of the lapels of her fatigue jacket and tugged at them violently, ripping the jacket open. She wore a tank top and a bra underneath. He produced a large knife. Melanie had tried to avoid looking at the man, but when he put the knife up to her throat, she had no choice but to look at him. She could feel the sharpness of the blade; if he slipped even a little he might sever her artery without even meaning to. She gulped at his apparent total disregard for her life.
She felt the pressure on the knife back off. She felt him run the blade flat along her skin, down the front of her chest. Then without warning he grabbed her tank top with a fist, pulled, stuck the knife under and sliced open the front of her shirt. Putting knife back in the concealed place where he carried it, the man gently touched the smooth skin in the front of her chest. He felt between her breasts, which were still covered by loose tatters, down her stomach. He felt and almost lovingly circled her belly button, then felt her flat stomach all the way to her waistband. Then he slid his hand to the side and upwards, pushing her clothing to the side as he did. He grasped her bare breast, circled the nipple with his finger. With his other hand he now bared the other one, and squeezed both breasts. Melanie felt a flush rise in her face, but he was still powerless. She stared at the ground while the man fondled her. He grabbed a nipple in each hand and pulled. She pursed her lips, but was determined not to wince. She knew he was watching her, but refused to give him the satisfaction of looking up.
Suddenly his boot kicked the inside of her shin. She lifted the leg in pain, and he pressed his leg inside and pushed her leg out so that she was now standing with her legs more or less "at ease" but with his leg pushing out against hers. He grabbed her hair and pulled; she was forced to bend her head back, but looked at the ceiling rather than giving him the satisfaction of looking at him. Suddenly she felt a hand in her pants, reaching down between her legs. The man felt for her cleft, forcing his finger down until it touched her sex. In the corner of her eye she saw the man nod, then he removed his hand from her pants and let go of her hair. "Tell the front desk that our plans have changed and we will be leaving tonight," he said in Arabic "of course we will pay for this evening, even though we cannot stay to enjoy it." The fourth man nodded and disappeared out the door. "Sit on the floor," he growled to Melanie in English. Awkwardly, with her hands still clasped behind her, she lowered herself. She started to sit "Indian style," but he growled "knees together." She uncurled her legs, put them together and drew them up tight to her chest, attempting to cover herself. She felt someone working on her wrists, but couldn't see who. All of sudden hands pushed her arm down, and before she knew what was happening
The fourth man returned--with a large steamer trunk on a dolly. He rolled the trunk up next to Melanie. She saw the iron rings in the inside of the trunk, but the four men were able to stuff her into the trunk in spite of her fighting. She was in essentially a fetal position, each wrist/ankle pair chained to the bottom of the trunk, while a short chain clasped her neck restraint to the top. Then the trunk was closed.
It was hours before Melanie saw the light of day again. She had felt the trunk being moved; she had heard long, persistent droning sounds that might have been airplane engines. When the lid was opened, she was in an opulent room in classic Arab style: sand-colored walls, decorative arches, Persian carpets. Two male servants of some kind released her from the trunk. She was allowed to take a toilet and to sit at a small table with some hummus and water. She had just started to eat when a man with an important air burst into the room. He was wearing a sheikh's thawb and headdress, in white. Let us see what Abdullah has bought for me, he muttered in Arabic as he swept into the room. Melanie's blood ran cold at the verb he used: bought. She hoped she'd gotten her Arabic translation wrong. The man came right over to her and impatiently demanded "stand up" in very good English. She froze for a second, then started to push back on her chair, still chewing the bite in her mouth. Apparently too slowly, because a second later the man swat at the table and sent it flying, seemingly unconcerned with the water and food spilled all over the floor. Then he grabbed her by the ring on her collar and pulled her up. Melanie quickly swallowed the bite in her mouth.
"I am your Maulana... master," he glared. "You will do what I say, when I say it. I have paid good money for you, and now I own you. Do you understand?" She nodded fearfully. Without another word, he shoved his hands under the tatters of her shirt, grasping her breasts. He was more testing them like an orange in a grocery store than groping them. She focused her gaze down and to the side to avoid looking at him. "On your knees," he commanded. She had a pretty good idea what that meant, so she hesitantly started to kneel. Apparently it wasn't fast enough for him. The last thing she saw was the back of his hand, raised and ready to strike.
When she regained consciousness, she was in some kind of bedroom. Every stitch of her clothing had been removed, as were her dog tags. She was sitting on the floor, her wrists locked to her ankles. A heavy chain ran from her neck to a ring in the floor, tight enough that she couldn't stand up. The right side of Melanie's head was throbbing. If felt as if her cheekbone might have been broken, so hard was the blow, and she felt her cheek swelling. She also felt a sharp pain in her left side; it wasn't hard to guess that she had been kicked while she was down. She looked around; a large four-post bed stood against the wall opposite her. There were iron rings protruding from any number of places in the tan walls and concrete floor. Iron bars covered the lone window. A flat-screen television set in the wall was the only other thing in the room.
The Maulana peered in. "About time," he muttered angrily as he strode into the room. He raised his hand to strike her again. She turned, trying to protect her injured cheek from another blow--but none came. "Now you're starting to understand. You do what you're told immediately, or you will suffer greatly. Now suck my dick." He lifted his thawb, pushing his limp penis towards her face. She turned, opened her mouth gingerly, and wrapped her lips around him. The side of her face screamed in pain as she opened her jaw, but she didn't dare not obey again. She sucked it lightly, and it grew rapidly in her mouth. He grasped her head and pulled it to and pushed it away from his pelvis rapidly three times. She sucked a little faster, but not surprisingly her heart was not in it. His penis reached for the back of her throat as she sucked. She started to gag, and spit it out quickly. She barely had time to recover her breath and he was shoving it into her mouth again, dripping with her spit. She tried to suck him without gagging, which was hard because he kept trying to reach further down her throat all the time. All at once he grasped two fistfuls of hair firmly, leaned forward, and shoved his dick all the way into her esophagus. She tried to gag, but that was the least of her problems--his dick totally blocked her airway. She struggled, but he held her face tight against his crotch. His balls pressed against her chin, and her nose was smothered in the fatty spare tire around his chest. Her stomach tried to gag, her mouth tried to breath--and she could do neither, as his dick blocked completely filled her throat. Her jaws were forced so far apart she couldn't even generate any pressure to bite, and on top of it all her cheeks screamed in agony.