When I awoke, the sun was just coming up. I could hear the sounds of the guards yelling
at the prisoners to get them moving for the work day ahead. Soon they began filing out of their barracks
and lining up on the parade ground.
Once they were assembled, Commandant Okereke came out of
his office, accompanied by several burly guards. He stood in front of the assembled prisoners
and addressed them. “Last evening a
busload of new prisoners arrived. As you
know, we are very hospitable here. We
wish to extend to them a hearty welcome into our little family.”
He continued, “Our new members should know that if they
obey our rules their time here will pass smoothly. But they must also know what the consequences
are if they fail to obey.” He read off a
list of names and I could see the prisoners who had ridden with us on the bus
forming a line off to the side of the main assembled group.
Two of the guards were dragging a wooden vaulting horse
that looked much like the one I remembered from gym class in high school,
though there were restraints attached to the legs which hadn’t been on the ones
back there. One of the guards called two
names and two of the male prisoners from the bus were ordered to strip. They quickly shucked off their clothes and
were escorted to the horse. The guards
bent them over the padded top, side by side, so that their buttocks were
presented to the assembled audience.
Then, their wrists and ankles were secured to the legs.
Two muscular guards approached, each carrying a long and
rather thick strap-rhino hide, I later learned- which they gripped by the
attached wooden handle. Without further
ceremony, they swung the leather at full force smashing the business end into
the prisoners’ buttocks. It made a loud
“Smack!” as it struck the round, fleshy globes.
They delivered nine more strokes, each as ferocious as the first, at
approximately ten second intervals.
As soon as they were done, two other guards began undoing
the punished prisoners and helping them to their feet. The next two prisoners, now at the head of
the line, quickly stripped under the watchful glare of the guards and were
ushered to the place of their “welcome” as their predecessors were being
escorted to the barracks for whatever “treatment” one got in this hell hole.
The line kept moving inexorably, as each pair of new
arrivals was made to strip, taken to the horse and quickly dealt with. While a few of the tougher prisoners managed
to remain silent through all ten strokes, most moaned in agony by the end and a
quite a few hollered and blubbered, some of the men included. Finally, everyone in the line of new
prisoners had received their “welcome”.
It seemed possible that because we were staked out at the
side, Okereke had forgotten about me and Barb.
But no such luck. “Before you all
leave,” he announced, “We have two special guests joining our family. They have come here all the way from
America. We cannot neglect to extend our
welcome to Meghan Shanahan and Barbara Moore.”
Two guards made their way to where Barb and I were staked
out. They untied us and helped us to our feet.
We were, of course, already naked, so no stripping was necessary. They escorted us to stand before the
assembled prisoners, who looked at us curiously. Many had likely not seen a naked white woman
in the flesh.
Okereke spoke. “I
have special orders from Molabayo that Ms. Moore, a reporter for a very
important newspaper in New York, should receive a special welcome in view of
the attitude she displayed at the Detention Center. Give her twenty.”
The guards marched us to the horse, bent us over
unceremoniously side-by-side, our hips just touching, and quickly bound our
wrists and ankles. Despite the early
morning cool, the padding on the top of the horse was warm against my groin and
belly from the body heat of the prisoners who had preceded us. It was also damp from their sweat and other
fluids that I could only imagine. Soon
Barb and I would be adding our own secretions to the rank-smelling mix.
I turned to look at Barb.
Her face registered both fear and resignation. She must know, as I did, that this was just a
taste of what we could expect during our long sentence here, on top of the
brutal whipping we had received back at the Molabayo Detention Center.
We didn’t have time for further thoughts, as the
floggers, doubtless eager to complete their duties here and move the prisoners
off to their work assignments, launched into their appointed task.
The first stroke dispelled any idea that they might be
fatigued from their previous exertions.
I felt the brutal rhino hide smash into my poor ass, driving my crotch
into the padding. The pain was intense-I
hesitate to say which was worse, the strap or the multi-tailed whip that they
had used back at the Detention Center.
The heavy strap seemed, perhaps, to produce a duller, deeper pain than
the lighter cords of the whip, which produced a sharper, more acute agony. But both were hell on earth.
The awful punishment continued, stroke after stroke, each
one at maximum force. My ass was a sea
of pain. I was gasping for breath in between moans and shrieks of despair as
the agony mounted with every stroke.
Each time it struck, the strap drove my pussy into the
padding on the horse. The pressure
against my clit wasn’t enough to overcome the pain, but it provided at least a
little bit of relief.
I glanced over at Barb, though I could barely see through
tear-clouded eyes. She was grimacing and
mumbling to herself, tears and sweat running down her face, as they ran down
mine. “Be strong, Barb,” I managed to whisper
through clenched teeth,
“You too, Meghan,” she groaned back.
Finally, just when I didn’t think I could stand any more,
the strokes stopped. I had lost count in
my agony, but I realized that must have been ten. I drew in a deep breath and slumped against
the padding. It was finally over.
Then, I heard the smack of leather against ass flesh once
again. Yet, I felt nothing. Then I remembered-Barb was due a second ten
lashes for what she had said to her boss after our “party” at the Detention
Center! How would she stand it? But then what could she do other than stand
I watched Barb flinch and grit her teeth each time the
strap connected with her badly bruised ass flesh. My hands were tied, so I could not block my
ears against her heart-wrenching howls of pain as the full measure of lashes
she had earned by her defiance was delivered.
In order to distract myself from watching my companion,
someone who had come here to Zilawe because of me, suffer, I rubbed my pussy
against the padding. I didn’t have
enough freedom of movement to come, nor did I want to do so in front of these
disgusting guards, but I did feel a tingling pleasure in my groin.
Finally, the twenty lashes Barb was due had been
delivered. She lay across the horse,
panting. As the guards untied us, a
young woman, quite tall and dark-skinned, clad in a black and white striped
prison dress, approached. “It’s over;
you can get up now,” she told us. I
pushed myself off the horse with my arms, the sudden movement causing daggers
of pain to shoot through my buttocks.
Barb was in worse shape, and the young woman took her arm
and helped her stand. “My name is
Yvette,” she said. “You have been
assigned to our barracks. Come with
me.” She led us off the parade grounds
past several barracks.
We followed Yvette into one of them. “Lie down,” she said, indicating two cots of
the dozen or so that were arrayed against the wall. “Mama Juba asked me to take care of you. You will not work today, but you will have to
be ready to work hard tomorrow.”
Barb groaned as she lay down. “Who is Mama Juba?” she asked.
Yvette shook her head.
“I thought everyone knew of Mama Juba.
She ran a very famous house in Molabayo.
Everyone went there, even President Parambe sometimes. I worked for her and many of the other girls
“What is she doing here?” I asked.
“She hid some money that she was supposed to pay to some
important men,” Yvette replied, kneeling beside my cot and rubbing some
ointment into my ass. It felt cool and
the pain lessened almost immediately.
“Thank you, Yvette, that feels much better,” I sighed.
“You don’t have to thank me, but tonight, you must be
very sure to thank Mama Juba. If you
please her, she can make your stay here bearable, but if you displease her, she
can make it very bad.” I resolved that I
would do whatever was necessary to satisfy Mama Juba and that I would make sure
Barb did the same.
As it turned out, the task of satisfying Mama Juba fell
to Barb, whether just by chance or some kind of arrangement involving exchanges
of money and favors, I’m not sure. At
some point during the day-I couldn’t be sure of the time, but it was hot, so it
must have been around midday-I felt my bladder was full.
“I have to pee,” I told Yvette. “Where do I go?”
“There is a latrine in back of the barracks,” she
replied. I got to my feet, slowly, the
sudden motion causing waves of pain to surge through my freshly strapped
ass. I made my way, gingerly, in the
direction she indicated, out the back door of the barracks. There was a small outhouse, like the
Port-A-Potties they have at outdoor concerts back home, only made of wood
instead of plastic.
As soon as I got close, the smell almost made me gag, but
I had to go, so I took a deep breath and opened the door. Inside the space was a wooden box with a hole
cut in it. I couldn’t see what was under
the box, but I could certainly smell it.
I had used some primitive toilets working in the Zilawean countryside,
but this was much, much worse.
I really didn’t want to go in, but I didn’t see much
choice. After all, this would be my
bathroom for the next ten years so I might as well get used to it. I gulped another deep breath, sat my butt on
the box and did my business as quickly as I could.
Glad to be out of there, I started making my way back
towards the barracks. But, when I
reached the doorway, I found it blocked by the largest, blackest man I had ever
seen, at least in person. His khaki
uniform bulged in several places, including the crotch. “Where are you going,
girlie?” he asked.
“Back inside,” I replied.
He smiled at me, but it wasn’t a very friendly
smile. “You are Meghan, right?” he
asked. I nodded. “I am Barto.
I have never had a white girlfriend,” he announced.
It seemed that he was expecting me to fill that gap in
his sexual experience. “I think we’re
all the same inside,” I said, hoping that would dissuade him.
“Maybe,” he allowed, “But I would like to see for
myself.” I tried to squeeze by him, but
his bulk took up the entire doorway.
“You will work tomorrow, Meghan.
I am making the schedule. The
cotton fields need weeding. It is hard
work, but breaking rocks is much harder.”
I thought about what Tuma had said back at the prison,
about how there were jobs in the camp that one wouldn’t last too long in. I took a deep breath. “What do you want?” I asked, knowing the
“You will be my girlfriend. We will have fun together.” He grabbed my arm, which looked like a twig
in his huge hand. “Come with me.”
I didn’t see much choice, so I followed him, struggling
to keep up. We crossed the parade ground
where we had been strapped earlier that day.
Several other guards were going about their business. They stopped in their tracks for a moment to
stare at us. I doubted the sight of a guard escorting a naked prisoner
somewhere was unusual here. Perhaps they
were jealous that Barto had claimed me, but they were unwilling to challenge
someone of his obvious strength.
He pushed me up a flight of three stairs into what seemed
to be a kitchen storeroom, with shelves stocked with bags of flour and a
variety of large cans. He put a massive
hand on my right shoulder. “Get down on
your hands and knees,” he ordered.
I had already been fucked by the guards back at the
prison in Molabayo and by Tuma and Barb’s editor Jerry, and the guards last
night, so what was one more?
Nevertheless, when Barto lowered his pants and underpants, I had second
thoughts. He was fully erect and he was
huge! Far bigger than any guy I had ever
had sex with.
I wondered how I
would ever take such a thing inside me.
But what choice did I have? I
knelt. “Spread your legs wider,” he
commanded, kicking my left foot with his boot to move it. Then he knelt and I
felt his weight pressing on my back and my sore ass and his large hands
grabbing my breasts, which, though not small, seemed tiny in those massive
“Oww!” I moaned.
He ignored me and pressed the tip of his erection against my vaginal
opening. I wasn’t wet, but Barto didn’t
seem to care. He pushed into me. I yelped in pain. It felt like he was going to tear me
apart. But, as he started moving, my
body came to the rescue and I could feel myself becoming lubricated.
Once I resigned myself to it, I found it tolerable, and,
as his thrusts became more urgent, it even became mildly pleasant, though I was
determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me have an orgasm. But, before that could even happen, he gave a
final deep thrust, shouted “Oh, fuck!” and I felt him empty himself into me.
Spent, he collapsed on top of me, his weight almost
crushing me. “Please, I can’t breathe,”
I pleaded. He lay there another few
moments, then finally stood and pulled his pants up. Then, he went to one of
the shelves, rummaged around a bit and returned with two chocolate bars,
handing one to me and tearing the wrapper off the other one.
“Thank you,” I said, devouring the treat in two
bites. It was the first decent food I
had had since the party with Tuma and Jerry.
“I think a man should give his girlfriend chocolates
sometimes, don’t you?” he said. I
nodded. “You treat Barto good and he
will treat you good. And no one else
will touch you. OK?”
I knew what my women friends back in the US would say. I
was prostituting myself for a better assignment and some chocolate. I wasn’t just a whore but like the cheapest
of cheap whores. But they weren’t locked
in a Zilawean labor camp for the next ten years, were they? “OK,” I replied.