Wednesday, July 11, 2012
What If? Part 5
So life continued like that for years. Bradley finished secondary school at seventeen with all O levels, even though he had never sat foot in a school except to take the exams. By then he had mastered the sewing machine and was making most of my clothes along with some of Mummy’s. And they were beautiful – all up to the latest style and, of course, they fit perfectly. When friends asked where I bought them I said they were tailor made for me by a budding dressmaker that did not yet want his name made public. He even made my panties and did wonderful embroidery work on them. I gave one of them to a girl that I had my first affair with. She said she slept in them every day, and night for a week, unwashed. I told Bradley about it and we had a good laugh. He said he would gladly make her a pair of her own but she would have to come to the house for proper fitting. Furthermore, he would make her two pairs if she was having her period when she came over. I playfully hit him on the arm and called him a “dirty old man” but I have to admit that I relieved myself for many nights fantasizing about that scene and adding my own scenario. I knew my friend had her period during those same two weeks he was making her panties. I wished I had asked for the panties back – unwashed.
Bradley enrolled at the London School of Economics and with very little time on campus, earned his degree in two years. He met a girl there, Louise, and had his very first date. After a few more, I knew he had fallen in love and he eventually admitted it. Mummy invited her for dinner and put on one of her best meals ever. She was so relieved that it was a girl that he had fallen in love with. Everything went splendidly. For the very first time I could remember, Mummy and I cleared the table and washed the dishes while Bradley romanced his new, and only, friend, in the parlor. We agreed that we would “retire” early so they could be alone. Both of us were hearing wedding bells. And then it happened. The world changed drastically for all of us.
Mummy bade her “good night greetings” and then innocently added “Bradley dear, I will be having morning tea with Jillian and Robin. Before you go to bed would you mind ironing my silk blouse and pleated skirt that I left out on the ironing board. Afraid there’s a button missing on the blouse so would you take care of that also. Maybe you could do that while you chat with Louise and show off one of your domestic skills. And I will be dining out with the Hollingsworth’s tomorrow evening so will you make yourself available in the afternoon to give me a shampoo and set. Night Louise, it was wonderful to meet you. Night Bradley” she said and bent down and kissed him on the lips for just a second or two longer than most people would consider “proper”. When she left the room, Louise asked “Did I hear right? You iron your mother’s clothes and you do her hair? And you can sew?”
Bradley was just a little flustered. Was Louise praising him or mocking him? For all his talents and wisdom, the poor guy had had almost no social intercourse in his life and had no clue that doing what his mother had asked might not set well with everyone.
“Oh, Mummy has not been feeling well lately so I am just, ah, you know, helping her out, kind of.”
“How interesting. Why don’t you go get ‘Mummy’s’ blouse so I can watch you sew. I’ve never seen a man sew before.”
Poor, innocent Bradley fell for it and went off to the sewing/ironing room to fetch the blouse along with a needle, thread and a button. Just a little nervous, he sat back down next to Louise and quickly thread the needle. In no time at all, he had skillfully sewn the button on the blouse.
“So, do you like setting your mother’s hair and ironing her clothes?” Louise asked.
“Oh, I don’t mind.”
“Really? And I suppose you like wearing panties too” she added with just a little laugh.
Bradley froze. He knew that a man should not be wearing panties but he was at a loss to say anything. His silence and blushing face was all Louise needed.
“You’re a mommy’s boy! A pansy. A frigging QUEER! Aren’t you” Louise spat out at him while she slapped him across the face. “Don’t ever call me again, you pervert.”
Mummy and I, anxiously waiting in her bedroom, heard the door slam followed by loud noise of shattering glass. Bradley had thrown a large vase across the parlor into the china cabinet. Our world was changed forever. Bradley withdrew into a shell. He did nothing around the house. For the first time in my life that I could remember, I had to brush my own hair. Mummy and I were in a quandary as to how to cope. Bradley had taken care of everything in our household. We had let him become our maid, no, worse, our slave. We tried everything to get him to talk to us. We suggested he see a psychiatrist but he would have nothing to do with that – “they’re all phonies” he charged. One evening, after he had too much to drink he accused Mummy and I of ruining his life for making him do everything around the house. Well, we had permitted it and certainly reaped the benefits but in fact, he had insisted on taking over, we tried to rationalize. For weeks, he left the house early in the morning and returned after dinner. A month later, he packed a small bag and headed for the door. I tried to stop him and Mummy did too. His only comment was that he was leaving and that “he would get even.” Mummy was in shock and I was close to it.
I next saw Bradley two weeks later. I was lying in the back of a van, arms and legs bound and a gag in my mouth. My head was spinning and everything was blurry. I had been snatched off the street and drugged. Before I passed out, I saw Bradley through the rear window exchanging papers with a well dressed, Eastern looking man. When I woke up, I found myself in hell.
Right away I knew that I was no longer in Merry Old England. It was too hot and dry. There were strange smells in the air and the small room I was in was different from anything I had ever been in before. The dirt floor was old and the walls looked something like stucco. Wood beams with corrugated meta panels served as the ceiling and probably the roof too, I guessed. It seemed like it might be a jail cell but there were no bars on the small window nor on the door. In fact, there was no door at all, just an opening. Strangest of all, I was naked with shackles on my ankles that would only allow me to take very small steps. I was hungry and thirsty and my stomach felt funny. There were no sounds of any kind, either inside or out. With great effort, I managed to stand up. I called out “Hello” but there was no response. I worked up the courage to shuffle to the doorway and look down a corridor. Nothing. I said “hello” again. I slowly moved down the corridor. Already my feet were hurting from the rough sand floor. I paused to listen for a sound. Nothing at first but then there was a terrifying scream from somewhere. It was a female, I knew, but the sound was like something from a wounded animal. It scared me to death. I turned around and shuffled as fast as I could to my room. No way did I want to be close to where that scream came from. I went into a corner and sat down. Though it seemed like hours it was probably no more than fifteen minutes later when two very rough looking men came in. One wore desert camouflage and carried an assault rifle. The other had a dirty white coat with a stethoscope around his neck. Though his English was not good, I understood what he said.
“I am Dr. Mobeen, I am here to examine you. Be still.”
He gave me a crude, but thorough check-up. It included a digital probe of my vagina. I shuddered when I noticed he was not wearing gloves. It lasted far longer than I thought was needed.
“Good. You virgin.”
Yes, though I was eighteen, that was true. I had always resisted anything beyond a good feel-up from my male dates, which did not make me very popular. My sexual pleasure came from my female dates and their tongues did not break my hymen. From a pocket inside his jacket he removed two hypodermic needles and took the cap off one.
“What are you doing? What’s in that?” I half screamed.
An evil smile came on his face. “Inoculations. You not in
anymore, Dorothy.” Kansas
That wise crack set me off. “No shit, Dick Tracey, where the fuck am I?”
The smile went from his face. He finished injecting me then slapped me several times across the face.
“Kneel” he ordered and I was suddenly very afraid of him. I saw him nod to the other guy who stepped forward and moved close to me. In horror, he unzipped his pants and pulled out his prick. I assumed I was going to be forced to blow him. Not quite. He urinated in my face.
“English bitch” the so called doctor said. I doubted that he was licensed in any civilized country in the world, but at least my humiliation brought back the smile on his face. When the soldier type finished, he pushed me backwards so that I was again lying on the floor. They both left. Immediately I began to shiver uncontrollably. Wherever I was, and for whatever reason, I knew I was in deep trouble. The open doorway beckoned me but I was too afraid to risk leaving my room, the horrible scream still fresh in my mind. It was a while before the sky outside darkened. At the same time it got colder. I tried to make some sense of what had happened to me but I could not think. The sight of an old woman arriving with a plate of something I assumed was food gave me some hope. She gestured for me to kneel. Was she going to piss in my face too. No, all she did was spit in my face and call me some name. I later learned it was the Arabic word for “slut”. I had no idea what I was eating but by then I was not in any position to be fussy and I quickly gobbled it all down. I wanted a drink badly but could not find the bell for room service. I also questioned whether I should drink anything in a place that I guessed was not terribly concerned with sanitation. But I was wrong. The woman returned to take my dish and retrieved a bottle of Evian from under her shawl and handed it to me. The cap had not been opened. Absobloody unbelievable! I drank it all down in one gulp. The woman called me the same name again and left.
With food and drink in me I began to try to figure out what the hell had happened to me. One thing kept coming back to me though I tried to ignore it – the quack’s comment “Good. You virgin.” That was important to him. Why? There was only one reason I could think of, white slavery. Every so often the English media reported on missing young females, always suggesting that they might be victims of this trade. I was young, good looking, and still had my long blond hair all the way to my waist. So why had I not been whisked away to some sultan’s harem where I assumed the accommodations would be much better than this rat trap I was in. I would have my answer in time. My thoughts were interrupted by two men, looking much the same as Dr. Quack’s bodyguard without the rifle, who just marched in and grabbed me by the arms and dragged me down the corridor. I immediately remembered the scream from earlier and feared that I would be next. We came to a room much like my own, but bigger. There was a wooden rack against one wall with leather straps dangling from it. The sand floor was wet underneath. A box with electrical wires and clamps attached was on a small table with a metal chair next to it. I could not understand why an old style wrought iron brazier with glowing coals was needed in such a hot climate. A poker stuck out from the coals. A barrel with sticks and what looked like the bamboo canes my teachers used to use sat in a corner. Crudely built shelves had a variety of odd looking tools was along another wall. In the seconds it too for me to gather all this in my heart began to beat quickly as my mind put a name to this evil place. Torture chamber. In only a few more seconds this was confirmed. The men tied my hands into the belts over my head. Without a word said and not waiting on ceremony I was being flogged by each of them – my back, my buttocks, and my thighs were suddenly on fire. It took my brain a nano second or two to register the pain. It was like noting I had ever experienced in my life. I screamed – the same scream I had heard earlier from another victim. But she must have been braver than me as it seemed like there was only one scream while I did not stop the entire time they beat me with some sort of leather whips. I don’t know how long it took for me to pass out. I just remembered the kind gentleman holding smelling salts under my nose. Once revived, the whipping continued. When they finished, they tossed their instruments into the barrel and left. I had no idea if it was minutes or hours before someone came back. It was the old lady (I later learned that she was only 27, as best she knew) that had brought me my food. She washed my wounds with some awful smelling liquid, which did feel good. But again, like Dr. Quack, she spent far too much time between my legs, which had not been whipped. While the stuff she used was soothing on my back, it stung like hell on my vagina. I screamed once more. She said what sounded like “shush” and twisted my nipple. She continued rubbing my pussy for quite a long time while she made strange sounds. Soon after she left, the two men returned and took me back to my room where they threw me to the floor. I burst into tears and wailed.
Another man came in and helped me to my feet. He said “follow” and so I shuffled behind him, terrified that I was being brought back to the torture chamber. He passed that room and went to a door that he unlocked. It opened to a grassless patch to the front of the building. Three other young women, all naked like me, squatted down. The man gestured and pushed me on the shoulders to indicate I should do the same. What now? I wondered. Sounds and smells from my fellow guests of this wonderful establishment gave me my answer. I was in the bathroom. I peed but could not bring myself to poop in front of not only these women and the guard but also to people who casually walked by, as though this was any everyday occurrence. Unfortunately, it was. Being the well brought up English lady that I was I looked around for toilet paper. The girl next to me shook her head “no”. Oh fuck, I thought, I had not bathed for however long and now I could not even wipe myself. A good thing that I did not poop but if this went on for very long, that would be inevitable. The guard removed our leg shackles, then yelled something and waved his arms upward. The girls stood and I followed suit. He yelled something else and started doing a jumping jack. I was sure now that I was still unconscious and having the most weird nightmare of my life. But the others were in cadence with him. No fucking way, I thought. This was not real. But the slap across my face was very real. The guard gestured for me to join in this farce. Our exercises drew an audience of laughing, jeering men. And why not? Four young, white, attractive women doing jumping jacks in the middle of god knows where, their boobs bouncing up and down and all of us trying to avoid stepping in the soiled ground. I heard one “oh shit” from the red head at the end of the line. Yes, she had stepped in it. All the men pointed at her and laughed louder. When we finished, our guard led us on a slow paced jog through what was a small, desert village. I was trying to decide which was worse – the pain of the whip or the total humiliation of being paraded through the “streets” of this village. Men, women, and children stopped what they were doing to jeer us. And my bare feet were killing me. We stopped behind what appeared to be a stable. An order was called out and the girls leaned forward and placed their hands against the wall. The guard walked behind each of them and kicked their legs outward. I just looked on until he reached me and slapped me on the face. He pointed to the others and so I too found myself leaning against the wall with me legs spread. One of the girls began to cry. She knew what was going to happen. I did not think that I could have been more humiliated by our public bathroom display and our crude calisthenics and jogging but all that was nothing to what happened now. We stayed in this place, in the same position for at least an hour. In that time we were all crudely raped, anally, over and over by the village men who took their turns with us. It was not long before we were all crying. When we got back to our jail, dripping semen down the backs of our legs, each girl was escorted inside, one by one. I could now see that they all had been whipped from the marks on their skin. No doubt I looked the same. It did not look like we would be taking a shower. Our shackles were replaced and I once more ended up on the floor of my room. It was getting dark outside so another day was ending. My old lady returned, again with a plate of the same stuff she had brought before and again, the removal of the fresh bottled water from under her shawl. I almost laughed at this totally incongruous event. She handed me the bottle and held out two white pills in her hand. I hesitated but then thought, what the hell, after all I had been through I was worried what might be in the damn pills. I prayed it was cyanide. (I would learn later that one was a sleeping pill, and the other was simple penicillin.) She left with an indication that I should eat. I gobbled down the food and swallowed my pills while emptying the bottle of water. She returned shortly with a rolled up mat which spread on the floor. She pointed at me and then the mat. This was my bed for the night, and she was here to tuck me in, I joked to myself. But now I was to experience the last indignity of the most horrible day of my life. When I had lain down flat on the mat, she kneeled above me, raised her abundant dress, and pressed her pussy into my face. I froze. She pulled back and slapped my face repeatedly until I was again crying like a baby. “Eat” she ordered and lowered herself back on me. I wondered what decade it was when she had last bathed. I would have given anything to have a knife to drive into my heart but of course, this was not possible. Then my survivor instinct kicked in and I decided it was up to me to get this over as quickly as possible. So I gave it my all and soon she shrieked and buckled and rolled off me. This was to be my nightcap every night for the next month or so – every night!
What happened that day was repeated every other day for what I estimated to be two weeks (in fact, I had no idea how many days, or weeks, or even months had passed). I was a broken woman by the third day but they wanted to make sure there was no chance of me “recovering”. I longed to be able to speak to the other women and then at some point would have given my daily rations just to have hugged one of them. Both my body and soul ached. I became delirious at times and received a beating when I did, often accompanied by one or more of the guards urinating on me. For two damn weeks I had not showered nor been able to wipe myself after peeing or pooping. Flies began to swarm on me. I would have killed for a toothbrush. My mouth and ass were being violated every day but strangely, other than the old lady’s excessive washing of my pussy, I was not touched there. At the end of what I figured was the two weeks, the four of us were wakened early and shoved into the back of a canvas covered truck. We no longer needed a guard. We had all given up any hope of escaping. The only thing we longed for was a quick death, which we all expected was waiting for us. We were even so conditioned that we dared not speak to one another, though it would have been impossible for the two guards in the cab to hear us. We traveled over rough roads that bounced us around. Then the ride smoothened and soon we stopped. There were strange sounds around us. Amazing how one can become totally disoriented in such a short time. The sounds were from traffic of braking cars and honking horns. Was this good? No, as it turned out, just a change of ways to totally break us, as if that was necessary. The canvas at the back was pulled aside and I could see a double door at what I guessed was the back of a large building. I immediately recognized the clean, welcome smell of a laundry. By the end of the day, that thought had left me. We were pushed through the doors into an immense room, bristling with activity and noise of machinery. If I thought it was hot back in the village it was twice as hot in here and very humid. Nobody looked at us as we were led to another door to a much smaller door. In the center was a large copper vat of boiling water with gas burners underneath. Oh my gosh, they are going to boil us alive! Fortunately not, it turned out. Instead, an English speaking woman gave us instructions on how to wash clothing without a washing machine. Bundles of clothes were dumped into the water and the four of us, each standing on a small platform around the vat, were provided with what looked like a boat oar to stir the clothes in the water. It would take an hour for each load which we would then lift out using our “oars” and place the clothes in plastic carts. The carts were wheeled to an adjacent room where the clothes were hung to dry on lines strung across the room. Ceiling fans would blow hot air to hasten drying. Once dry, the clothes would again be placed in the carts to transport to another room. A row of oversized ironing boards were set up but I did not see any irons at first. The woman pointed to an old, heavy duty stove where sat a bunch of irons on top. There were no electric cords attached. The irons heated on the stove and had to be constantly alternated. I was to become a laundress. We labored in this very hot climate all day. Bells would ring in the building periodically but we had no idea of their significance. The only good part about the change in venue was that we were able to communicate with one another. We all had the same story – kidnapped, drugged, and waking up in hell. There was one Irish girl, the redhead, one
, and one Russian, both brunettes and myself, the blond. Common denominator? Pasty white skin. All of us had good figures and at least C cups. And we were all virgins. We all agreed we were probably in Romania North Africa. So, if you held your nose, we were not a bad looking bunch, as filthy as we were. We joked about diving into the vat for a bath, but the bubbling water told us this was not a good idea. The work was non stop. Grueling washing of the clothes, rolling the heavy carts to the drying room where we had to reach to get the clothes pegged to the ropes, then having to use the heavy irons that made the room even hotter. Exhausted, we were finally pushed outside and loaded in the truck. I did notice that the small yard we crossed was surrounded by high stone walls with barbed wire on top. Back at the camp just a little before sunset we were introduced to a new treat – bastinado! We were lined up outside the torture chamber, trembling about what was in store for us. The Irish girl, Kate, was taken in first and the door was closed. We heard beating inside and screams from Kate. It did not last long. The door opened and Kate crawled out on all fours and went to her cell. I was next. The two men who had flogged me every day directed me to lay on the floor, back down. Very efficiently they each lifted a leg and placed my feet into loops of rough cord hanging from the ceiling. They each took a stick from the table and began beating the soles of my feet. This hurt as much, or more, as the flogging. I screamed too. When they finished, my feet were dropped onto the floor. I tried to stand up but it was too painful. I too crawled to my cell. What sort of animals would do such things to fellow human beings? I wondered. My old lady visited as usual with the same slop and the bottle of water. She did rub some sort of ointment on my very sore feet before she tucked me in after I had got her off. At the laundry the next day, Olga, the Russian suggested that the change in beatings might mean we were to be sold soon. The flogging left marks on our backs, though amazingly, none of us had broken skin. Still, we needed to heal. Bastinado left no visible marks. She predicted, quite correctly, that we probably would be subjected to this torture for a while. Two days later, poor Mirela had her period. Of course there were no sanitary napkins, or even a rag, to stop the flow, so for three days she dripped blood down her legs. Clearly, that was the worst humiliation any woman could suffer. Over the course of our stay, all of us would experience this same degradation, more than once. With that as a timetable, I knew that we had been in this hellish for several months.
After what we estimated was six weeks at this place, “graduation” was just around the corner. For several days we were interrogated by well dressed men who managed to be able to speak to all of us in a sort of language we understood. The bottom line was that each of us agreed to accept whatever fate was in store for us. Yes, we would accept our future masters and/or mistresses as our gods and do anything they asked without hesitation. Believe me, I was totally honest in my acceptance. I could not last another week here. I was actually ready to dive into the boiling vat to end my misery. A final agony was in store before we left. I was taken to the torture chamber by the two gorillas and again strapped to the rack. I did see one of my interrogators standing in the corner with his back to me. I braced myself for the lashes but they did not come. There was an odd, though familiar sound behind me that I could not identify. The room seemed much warmer than usual. Suddenly I was grabbed and my legs were roughly spread apart. My leg was twisted to expose my upper thigh. I screamed louder than I had ever before as the hot iron was pressed against the tender skin. I had been branded. I passed out but was quickly revived. Now my other leg was being twisted and I knew what was going to happen. I was branded on the other thigh and allowed to collapse to the floor. Now I knew what caused the blood chilling scream I had heard the first day. Through my pain, I then had to endure the screams from my friends back in my cell. I was ready to obey any order given to me, no matter what it was and by whomever gave it. Any one of the day in day out routines would have broken the best of us but combining the pain and humiliation of the floggings, the walking about rough streets, being raped repeatedly, and all this without wearing a piece of clothing nor being able to wash for such an extended period rendered us pathetic globs of nothing. My spirit had left me.
“You asked me about my branding when you were making love to me and I thank you for not pursuing this then. I was still so ashamed of how it happened, actually blaming myself for allowing it. Now you know.”
Lin Lu got up and hugged Rose tightly before getting on her knees and softly kissing the brandings on each thigh. She had tears running down her cheeks when she got up.