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Assignment: Africa-Part 2 by James Darwin and Barbara Moore

EXTRACT FOR
Assignment: Africa-Part 2 
(James Darwin and Barbara Moore)


Assignment Africa 2 - excerpt

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 it?

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 did too.”

“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 answer.

“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 paws.

“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.