Dirty War


Emma handed the microphone to her soundman, “I’ve had enough of this dirty war. I’ve seen too many innocent people killed, too many people hurt.” The soundman switched off his recorder and gave Emma a supportive smile. “I’m hot,” she continued, “I’ve not slept properly for a week, I have a constant headache, this flak-jacket is heavy, my helmet is hot and heavy, my hair’s a bloody mess, I need a shower, I haven’t spoken to Bob since I arrived at this goddamn place of evil, and to top it off, my period’s late.”

The soundman gave Emma a hug as tears begun to well up in her eyes. “Come on Emma, let it all out,” he coaxed her as she sobbed into his shoulder.

The cameraman paid little attention to her ranting; it reminded him of his wife’s moaning at him, every time he was sent on assignment, she got on his case. He decided he hated women, as he cleaned the desert dust from his camera lense. And just because Kath caught him on the receiving end of a ‘thank-you’ blowjob from her sister, for fixing her broken-down central heating boiler, his wife had taken his son away and left him. His arrogance and chauvinistic character wouldn’t let him understand why it was such a big deal for his wife, “after all, I wasn’t fucking her” he shouted back as she slammed the door in his face. That was two months ago; yes, he hated women, but he loved fucking.

Jim, the cameraman, had teamed up with Emma and Dave, the soundman, at the beginning of the conflict. He hadn’t had sex in two months, and he found himself fantasising about Emma every time he had the camera perched on his shoulder. He would focus on her lips, her eyes, and sometimes, when they we rehearsing, he would focus on her petit breasts, imagining how he would lick and suck on her nipples. But, Emma loved her husband, Bob, and she had turned down several advances from associates over the five years she had been in television journalism. Jim wasn’t even going to try; he hated rejection.

Dave was a solid shoulder to cry on. He was a good listener; ‘perhaps that’s why he was a good soundman’ Emma had thought on the three occasions she had broken down over the last three days. The bloodiness of this dirty war was worse than anything she had reported on in her fifteen years of journalism, ten of which she spent as a newspaper reporter for The Guardian. Even seeing the horrific piles of corpses in Rwanda and the killing sprees during the Bosnian conflict hadn’t got to her this badly.

The explosions from allied bombing, some ten miles away, could be heard as Emma and the soundman slowly re-entered the hotel room from the balcony where they had just completed Emma’s latest report for the Associated Press. In the far distance, across the ancient city, plumes of thick acrid smoke billowed into the air, drifting northward and out over the desert. The desired effect from the militia had backfired and resulted in their downfall to the northeast of the city. They had split up and hidden with the innocent victims of this bloody war, where a bullet could kill without discrimination; and several of Emma’s work colleagues witnessed that firsthand, killed by snipers and shrapnel.

Emma stopped sobbing as she pulled herself together. “It will soon be over,” she told herself, Dave agreeing, gently hugging her shoulder. Jim handed her a cup of hot black coffee taken from a stainless steel flask. She popped a couple of aspirin and drank the coffee, sat in the corner of the dusty hotel room.

That night, she was woken from a deep sleep by a loud explosion. The allies had begun another sortie of air raids. The Jim and Dave had already set up the gear, fixed towards the city centre. Two huge explosions were capture on video by the time Emma wiped the sleep from her eyes and picked up her microphone to start a running commentary on the allied proceedings. The satellite uplink LED turned green and they were feeding the coverage live to the Associated Press office in London.

The team had slept in their cloths and with the heat and dust, where in dire need of showers. But the adrenaline took over their sense of smell when a loud blast shook their hotel room. The camera powered down as the shockwave caused some damage to its electronic circuitry. Dave gave Emma a thumbs-up sign to tell her she was still feeding live commentary.

“I don’t know if you heard that one, but it was extremely close,” Emma commented into her microphone. “The camera has just died on us, so I can only apologise for the loss of picture.” Emma continued her commentary for more than two hours; time flying by. Dawn approached and shades of blue began to appear on the eastern skyline. Bombing was now uncomfortably close. The team decided they needed to find a safer location. Emma signed off her report, informing millions of TV viewers of the need to flee from the area.

“This is Emma Flo…” BANG! A huge explosion ripped through the hotel. Glass and concrete flew everywhere. The force of the explosion blew Dave over the balcony and onto the concrete five stories below. Jim’s torso turned red and glass and concrete fragment pierced his body as he flew across the room and hit a wall. Bloodstains outlining the impact as his dead body slumped in a heap on the floor.

Jim and a heavy wooden door had shielded Emma. Her body lay unconscious on the hotel room floor, blood leaking from cuts on her right arm, but otherwise untouched.

She came round several hours later. Loud ringing in her ears added to the pain in her head and the aches from her body. She looked around the room and saw Jim’s body lying slumped in a pool of blood. Dave was nowhere to be seen. Emma screamed when she realised what had happened. She staggered to her feet, almost collapsing as she supported herself against a splintered dressing table. Her right arm was caked in congealed blood. She panicked, then realised her wound was a minor one. Dazed and confused and with ringing in her ears, Emma stumbled to the balcony to call for help. It was then she saw a mob of militia ransacking Dave’s poor broken body, five stories below.

“Stop it!” Emma screamed on top of her voice. She could barely hear herself over the ringing in her ears. Several of the militia looked up and saw the blond reporter looking down at them. Emma could see several talk, and point toward her, and then she saw one raise his AK47 and felt a bullet fly close by, narrowly missing her head, perhaps by millimetres. A small cloud of cement exploded off the wall behind her as the bullet lodged into the course plasterwork.

Emma ran back into the room, opened the door and ran into the corridor. “Help, help,” she shouted, but there was no-one around to help her. She burst into two adjacent rooms and found several body parts scattered around the room. The CNN team had occupied this room, Jayne, Peter and Jocelyn. Emma screamed at the carnage and almost collapsed with shock. She ran into the next room, its door hanging on one of its three hinges. No-one to be seen. She ran down the corridor turning left at the end and straight into the arms of two militiamen. She screamed in surprise as they caught her and restrained her movement. In a flash, duck-tape was wrapped around her wrists and across her mouth. She was lifted onto a shoulder and fireman-carried down the internal staircase and into what remained of the hotel’s lobby. There, she was discourteously dropped onto the hard tiled floor. Her head thudding on the ceramic, and then blackness fell over her.

Emma opened her eyes and saw nothing. ‘Are my eyes open or am I dreaming?’ she asked herself. Yes, her eyes were open and no, she wasn’t dreaming. Then, her memory fired into life. She remembered the carnage at the hotel and began to cry. Her salty tears stung her face as she realised her face had several small cuts. She felt bruised. Her head pounded and there were several large lumps at the back of her skull. Then she remembered being dropped onto the lobby floor.

“Where am I?” she whispered to herself. The room, if that is what it was, was silent. Her ears were still ringing slightly, but she could hear herself breath now. Emma was totally disoriented. She didn’t know what time it was, how long she had been unconscious or where she was. She sobbed as fear crept in to overtake her common senses.

A naked strip light flickered on. ‘How long have I been awake?’ she thought to herself. The door opened and two militiamen entered. One carried a metal cup of water, the other a chair. It was then that Emma looked around her surroundings. The room appeared to be similar to those she reported on two weeks earlier. She thought they were torture chambers then and now, she felt her fear explode as she watched her captors eye her up form her head down to her feet and back again. She could feel them undress her. She began to shake.

“Do not be afraid,” said the one handing her the cup of water, “drink.”

The other sat in the centre of the room. The bare concrete walls were about 20feet long and the ceiling about 8feet high. Two steel shackles hung from the ceiling and in the centre, under the captor’s chair, was a small drain.

Emma feared for her life. The cup rattled against her teeth as she drank the warm water. “Slowly, slowly,” he said, taking the cup from her to give her chance to breath.

“Who are you?” the other asked.

“Emma Floyd, news correspondent for Associated Press, London Office.”

“Why have you been saying bad things about our country?”

“I’m a correspondent, I report what I see,” Emma began to tense as the man sat on the chair lit up a cheep cigar. A cloud of emanated from his puckered heavily moustached mouth. She hated cigar smoke; it clung to your clothes and your hair. She ran her fingers through her hair as she watched the cloud evaporate into nothingness. She became aware she hadn’t showered or changed her clothes in days, she must have looked a mess. Then reality took over her thoughts.

“And what do you see now?” the captor asked as the one with the cup left the cell, slamming the metal door behind him.

“Why are you holding me?”

“I will be asking the questions, bitch!” Emma felt the mood swing instantly as he abruptly responded to her simple question. He spat on the floor in contempt then drew another lungful of cigar smoke. “Now, tell me, what do you see now?” he asked repeated his question.

Emma realised she was a prisoner of war. As a member of the press, she was supposed to have limited access to the country and was not supposed to be classed as a prisoner of war. But these people ignored the rules of warfare. She had heard of innocent people and soldier’s torture. She didn’t want to believe the stories, but the scars of some of the victims spoke for themselves. ‘Surely they wouldn’t dare torture me?’

“I see an empty cell with a chair and two people talking,” Emma finally answered.

“Wrong infidel!” shouted the captor, “you see a reception room with an enemy spy and her captor.”

Emma shook as she listened to him rant on about how the press has become the enemy of his country, feeding treasonous words to his people, turning them against the freedom fighters of the world. She knew she was helpless; she began to cry.

“Do you think tears will help you?” he whispered.

Emma shook her head, “No”.

He stood and left the room, taking the chair with him. The light extinguished and Emma was in total blackness once again.

Emma drifted in and out of sleep. She was extremely hungry and thirsty. Twice, the heavy metal door opened and two containers were tossed into the room. Emma had to feel for them, one contained water, the other some form of oatmeal, much like a salty porridge. She ate every last scrap with her fingers, washing it down with the warm water.

Emma woke with a fright as the metal door opened and the light flickered on. Three militiamen entered the room. One sat on his chair; the others took Emma’s arms and stood her under the shackles. She felt her wrists being bound and then her arms were hoisted above her head. Almost standing on tiptoes, Emma began to fear the worst. She felt the coldness of a large blade slip between her t-shirt and her back. The material gave way to the sharp blade and she felt the cooler air of the room on her exposed skin. The second assistant took hold of the t-shirt in front of Emma and ripped it from her, pain in her arms as the material was torn from her. Emma’s breasts were small and firm, so she never felt the need to wear a bra. Her nipples were erect and the second assistant pinched them, laughing as he did so.

Emma then felt the blade cut through her leather belt and trousers. These too joined the t-shirt on the floor. Her white cotton panties were ripped from her and the second assistant smiled at Emma as he tugged her pubic hair, speaking in his native tongue as he inflicted pain; the other two laughed.

“Out!” ordered the senior man, sat on his chair. The two militiamen left to cell, slamming the metal door behind them.

“What are you going to do to me?” Emma trembled.

“I will do what I please,” he answered. “Now be quiet and answer only my questions,” he ordered.

He began a barrage of questions. Emma answered as best she could, but no matter what her answers were, he was not satisfied.

“I see I am going to have to teach you a lesson in manners,” he whispered in Emma’s ear.

She felt a hand on her ass, then a hard slap. The pain shot through her body and Emma winced. Another slap, then another. Emma’s tears rolled down her face.

More questions, and still he wasn’t happy with Emma’s responses. From his pocket, he pulled a small metal clamp, similar to a bulldog clip. He placed it on Emma’s right nipple and tightened the screw. Emma whelped as she felt the pain sear through her breast.

“Please, please,” she pleaded to her captor, but he ignored her cries and set another clamp on her left nipple.

“You will answer my questions correctly,” he ordered Emma.

Emma nodded her head, “Yes, yes.”

More questions, but whatever Emma told him, he was not satisfied. It became apparent that she could have said nothing and still received the same punishment. It was clear he wanted to inflict pain on her body.

The captor placed a hand on Emma’s vagina and sharply inserted two fingers. She was dry and the penetration was painful. Emma cried out in pain. “Quiet bitch!” he ordered as he forced a third finger into her.

He began to grin, breathing over her with his rancid breath that stank of stale cheese, coffee and cigar smoke. Emma felt like throwing up, but managed to control her convulsions. He pulled out his fingers, spat on them, then reinserted then into her vagina. The spittle lubricated some, but it was still painful. Emma wanted to hurt this man badly.

She felt his other hand reach behind her and a finger probe her ass. Again, shear pain as he pushed a finger into her tight ass hole. Emma screamed; she had never had anal penetration and it was extremely painful. The clamps on her nipples were forgotten at this point and all she could focus on was the pain in her ass burning through her body.

The door burst open and the two assistants entered. The captor gave orders and soon he left the two assistants alone with Emma.

They laughed and joked, staring at Emma’s body. She didn’t think they had seen body as white as hers before. One ran his fingers through her blond hair as the other pulled on one of the nipple clamps, sending a spear of pain through her.

The first assistant stood behind Emma, feeling her ass and talking to the second man. She heard a zipper open and felt something probe between her ass cheaks. Emma realised she was about to get raped. His cock penetrated into her pussy as she screamed in defiance. The first assistant slapped her face to stop her screaming; it worked. Then he pulled out his cock and slowly wanked it to a full erection. He moved closer to Emma, then placed his cock at the entrance to her pussy. She felt him enter her along with the second man. She felt her pussy give in to the intruders. The instinctive urges began to make her juices flow. She felt betrayed by her own body. She breathed a sigh of relief when both emptied their semen into her without making her orgasm. If she had, then she would have performed treason on herself.

The door slammed closed and the light extinguished. Emma, still tied to the shackles, felt semen run from her vagina and down her legs. She could smell man on her body, mixed in with her own body odour and pheromones. In the darkness, she focused on the nipples. They were numb now and she began to wonder what they were going to do next. ‘Would the kill me?’ she asked herself.

The pain in her arms was excruciating as she came round when the door burst open and the light flickered on. She had no idea how long she had been strung up like this. She sensed the semen on her thighs had begun to crystallise, so she assumed she had fallen asleep for some time.

Two militiamen dragged a large wooden table into the room and placed it behind Emma. She could hear them discuss something and the sound of wood and metal coming into contact.

A new face appeared at the door and ordered the two men out of the cell. The door slammed and the man approached Emma.

“Here, let me help you get a little more comfortable,” he said as he untied her wrists, letting her arms fall slowly and lifelessly down to her side. Emma groaned as she felt blood circulation return, bringing life back into her arms and hands. The pain was almost as bad as the first man’s anal intrusion some time before. The captor helped Emma to lie down on the wooden table. She was oblivious to the various pieces of metal and wood that protruded from the table. She jus wanted to close her eyes and sleep.

And she slept. The captor strapped her ankles to what looked like a gynaecological examination table. Emma’s ass was perched at the very edge of the foot of the table, her legs in stirrups and her ankles secured by leather buckles. Her arms were secured to her side with leather buckles and her head rested on a small leather cushion.

Emma woke in surprise as she felt cold-water splash over her face and breasts. The nipple clamps had been removed and there were bruises to her nipples. She tried to defend against the cold, but her hands were secured at her side.

The realisation of where she was suddenly come to her after the last shadows of a dream of home faded.

Emma soon realised her predicament. She had laid on a table similar to this once before when she suffered a miscarriage ten years earlier.

Three men hovered over her and a fourth was sat on a low stool between her legs. She felt him probe her vaginal and realised he was a doctor of sorts. She could just see the top of his head and the shoulders of his white coat. She felt him take a sample from her womb; she had had several cervical smears taken and was familiar with the procedure. Then, she began to wonder why there was a doctor probing around her private parts. She almost laughed at the thought of ‘private parts’, after what she had just been through, she had nothing private.

The doctor stood then proceeded to inspect Emma’s abdomen and breasts. He looked up to one of the three men and nodded. He left the room.

“Ah, Miss Floyd. We are glad you have rejoined us. We wouldn’t like for you to miss the enjoyment we are about to have with you.”

Emma shuddered at the intonations of the man’s words. She was about to be raped again.

One of the two assistants, a new face, dropped his trousers and penetrated her vagina. He slipped in relatively easily. Emma was expecting pain, but felt very little. ‘Perhaps the doctor, if he was a doctor, had applied some local anaesthesia’ she thought.

The new face pounded Emma’s pussy. She could feel his size and every thump of his cock head against her womb. He exploded into her, filling her with his hot semen.

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byBigDave1340© 1 comments/ 110310 views/ 9 favorites

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