Tree ... for once ... has a valid point.
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Assignment: Zilawe
- Thread starter windar
- Start date
windar
Teller of Tales
Hey, sometime around noon, when it's really hot out in the fields, they bring out some slop and stale bread and you guys can have lunch outdoors. That's a picnic, Moore, isn't it?No one ever said ten years hard labor at Zilawe Penal System Rehabilitation and Re-education Camp #4 was going to be a picnic!
Sometimes it seems the whole world is Northwest Arkansas
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
Cleaning the latrine will be a job reserved for 'special' prisoners. Who could that be?
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Mama Juma decides about that?
windar
Teller of Tales
You hear that Moore? You better do a better job with her than you did with me and TumaMama Juma decides about that?
I sense some demerits coming....
You here that Moore? You better do a better job with her than you did with me and Tuma
Just for a stupid second there I thought Jerry had landed in the soup!
Then I realised that the mulligatawny was reserved only for Meghan and Barb.
Great chapter, Windar!
Or at least, those parts visited by BarbSometimes it seems the whole world is Northwest Arkansas
Or at least, those parts visited by Barb
I need a better travel agent. I've about had it with Tree Tours, Inc.
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And it sounds so nature friendly and relaxing, Tree Tours.I need a better travel agent. I've about had it with Tree Tours, Inc.
LittleSiss
Sorceress
You both know, that fine print thing is wearing pretty thin?Especially when you fail to read the fine print
Just saying!
24.
Zilawe Penal System Rehabilitation and Re-education Camp #4. December 24, 2017
Nearly a week had passed since Meghan Shanahan and I arrived in camp to begin our ten-year sentence of hard labor in one of the remotest corners of Zilawe. Our arrival had been horrific enough. Within the first 12 hours we had been staked out naked on the parade ground and left there to be raped during the night by the male guards, almost killed in a rebel mortar attack that fortuitously just happened to take out some of those who raped us, and subjected to a brutal and humiliating bit of corporal punishment at the next morning's roll call, in which we were bent over a horse and thrashed mercilessly on our backsides in front of the assembled male and female inmates of the camp. Only then, were we given a little respite, confined to the camp for one day to recuperate.
Over the next several days we learned what the term "hard labor" really meant. Each day began at dawn when we were awakened for roll call, offered a meager breakfast, and forced to witness the "corrections" that were routinely administered to prisoners who had run afoul of the camp rules on the preceding day. Then we were assigned to work details and marched off. The work was strenuous and grueling, performed under dreadful conditions. Much of it was meaningless, such as moving rocks from one side of a field to the other and then back again, or digging holes and then filling them back in again. Occasionally it was productive, like when we were sent out into the cotton fields to till or weed, or pressed into gangs to work on road repair. But for the most part, the work was simply intended to degrade and exhaust us, in body as well as in spirit.
As we labored, we were under the surveillance of the prison guards, both male and female, who were diligently on the lookout for any sign of laziness or infraction of the many camp rules. Many offenses were trivial. Straightening up from one's labor to relieve a muscle cramp, for example, could be interpreted as sloth, and could earn you a few lashes at the next morning's roll call. Enforcement was arbitrary as well. Some guards were cruel and sadistic monsters, who loved to see prisoners grovel fearfully in their presence, and who competed with one another to rack up punishments, or 'corrections' as they were called, for the next morning's roll call. Others were more lenient, and might look the other way, although they might also expect favors in return for their leniency. More on that shortly.
Roll call punishments were of several kinds. The most common was a bare buttock strapping, of variable severity, leaning over a horse. Whippings were common too, with prisoners stretched on their toes before whipping posts for up to 20 lashes on their bare backsides, although a half dozen was more common. A more severe punishment consisted of a whipping and then an all-day-long suffocating incarceration in one of the camp’s fearsome corrugated metal "hot boxes, or a lengthy period of time "staked out" under the sun. Morning "roll call and corrections" was a joint event, involving both male and female inmates. The work details, on the other hand, tended to by made up of individuals of the same gender, although some times both might be present at a work site.
The newer prisoners, like Meghan and myself, labored day after day in the nude, irregardless of the weather. We found that there was a definite pecking order among the prisoners. Some of the old-timers were allowed to possess and wear clothing of various sorts, including headgear of some kind to ward off harsh sunlight or drenching rain. They were even allowed, on occasion, to slough off in their work ... the younger ones being expected to pick up the slack, and even absorb any due punishment at roll call. Animosities between inmates and different classes of inmates were encouraged by the management. We often had as much to fear from some of the old-timers as we did from the viciousness of the guards.
Sex slavery was rife. A newcomer like Meghan or myself could easily be commandeered as the personal sex slave of a guard, or one of the older inmates. In fact, as white women, we soon found that there was a stiff competition to “own” us. In my case, it was an inmate called "Mama Juba" who moved quickly to lay claim on me and my body. I found that I was invariably assigned to her work details, and that I was expected, with the full connivance of the guards, to do part of her work as well as my own. During the first week, I was whipped on four separate mornings for my failure to keep up with the demands of both her and my own work assignments.
But it was at night in the barracks that she truly “owned” me. The usual evening routine was that we prisoners lined up for dinner, which was served on a tin plate. Then we would take our dinner into the barracks where we were expected to eat and then get to bed. As soon as I entered the barracks with my food, Mama Juba was there to pick through it, taking the best parts for herself. On the first night I refused to let her have anything. I paid for this with a beating which she organized others to Administer after lights out. In the morning she reported falsely to the guards that I had started a fight. I paid for that by taking six lashes, the standard "correction", at morning roll call.
In addition, I soon learned that it was my duty, each night after the lights were doused, to satisfy Mama Juba's considerable sexual needs. I found this repugnant, but had little choice. Once lights were out, she would summon me to her bunk and force me to crawl under the ragged smelly blanket with which she covered herself and eat her pussy until she orgasmed. I was also informed that I was her “property” to rent to the prison guards whenever they needed a little fun. That didn't happen during the first week, but I knew that the guards were planning a big party for this day, which was Christmas Eve ... and that I was to be “on loan” from Mama Juba, once the lights were out, to make the guards' little Christmas soiree a joyous one.
Meghan fared scarcely better than I in this regard. One of the male guards ... an absolute mountain of a man known as Barto ... claimed her early as his personal property, and forced her to service him almost daily when we were out working, as well as at night. He would come along at any time during the day and beckon to her. She had no choice whenever this happened but to lay down her shovel or rake, or whatever implement she was working with, and follow him behind a tree, or truck, or whatever cover might be available. She would return a little later with her face almost as red as her hair, often with gobs of the bastard’s cum smeared between her full milky thighs. He would also typically come for her in the middle of the night, dragging her from the bunk she shared with me and carrying her away with him.
Yvette was our friend from the first day. It was she who salved our asses after our thrashing on our first morning roll call, and it was she who did her best to teach us the ways of camp life. She warned me about Mama Juba, and even tried to intervene with the guards on my behalf once or twice. But even she had to watch her step.
So, on this Christmas Eve we rose, as always, at the crack of dawn. I rolled out of my bunk and stumbled out on to the parade ground, stuffing the piece of stale bread that passed for breakfast in my mouth. Meghan was out there already. I fell into line alongside her.
“Merry Christmas,” I mumbled in the way of greeting.
“You too,” she said, stifling a yawn.
“Long night keeping Barto happy?”
“The worst. Barb, I am so so sore,” she complained. “The man is so rough!”
At that point they began calling roll. A female guard with a clipboard strutted down our row, checking off names as she glanced at each of our faces.
Then it was time for “corrections.”
I knew one of the guards had written me up the previous afternoon when Mama Juba had disappeared and left me with the hopeless task of filling two large carts, one hers and the other mine, with quarry stones. The stones had to first be broken free, then reduced with a heavy hammer into chunks light enough to be lifted, and finally carried over to the cart. It was tedious, back breaking work and the sun blazed down on me as I worked feverishly, knowing there would be hell to pay if I didn’t complete my assigned task. By the time the whistle had blown at the end of the day, I had managed to fill Mama’s cart, but my own had only a few stones in it.
Mama returned from wherever she had gone just as one of the guards came around, to claim her full cart. Then she promptly informed the man that she had witnessed me shirking my work.
Sure enough, as the morning corrections were called out, my name was first on the list. I was ordered to receive six lashes and to spend the day in a hot box as well.
The guard with the clipboard, who was responsible for our row, grabbed me by the arm and propelled me toward one of the waiting whipping posts. A male prisoner joined me at the posts. He faced the post off to my left. My arms were raised over my head and my wrists secured to the chain bolted to the top of the post. The length of chain was adjusted so that I was stretched against the wood on my tiptoes.
They rarely wasted any time at morning roll call corrections. I was given a piece of leather to clamp between my teeth. I closed my eyes, placed my cheek against the pole and braced myself for the first lash. Seconds later I heard the familiar snap and the sound of leather winging through the air and striking bare skin, and a grunt from my male companion off to my left. A moment later a searing pain cut across my own back as I took my first lash. The next five came quickly, one after another, each one slamming my body hard against the unyielding wood of the post.
Released immediately after the sixth lash, I spat out the leather strip and twisted about to ruefully examine the six red weals on my backside. They hurt, but the damage was light ... no blood. I would survive. This was my fourth trip to the post for a "correction" in five days, and I had learned that these “correction” whippings were inflicted to punish, not to maim. But now I was about to experience something new: the dreaded hot box!
With the "correction" whippings finished, the assembled prisoners on the parade ground were dismissed to their respective work details. I was released from my whipping post and escorted, along with the male prisoner who had been whipped alongside me, toward the camp's hot boxes. The boxes were made of corrugated metal and looked something like an upright coffin. They were perhaps six feet tall and no more than three feet wide, with a hinged door on one side. The walls were perforated near the top with a few dozen holes to allow at least some flow of air. But, given that the thing was called a "hot box", there could be little doubt of what spending an entire day confined inside one might be like.
Silently, the other prisoner and I stood side by side while they opened one of the boxes. He was a muscular fellow, and clearly not a newcomer like myself as he possessed a pair of trousers. With the door ajar, I could look inside the box. In the center of the box was an upright post, otherwise the box was empty. It was already beastly hot on the parade ground. The super-heated air inside the box appeared to shimmer in the light.
"Get in!" barked one of the guards, giving the other prisoner and me a shove toward the box, but not before they made him remove his trousers. i couldn't help but take in his impressive cock dangling between hard ebony thighs.
I stepped inside first, keeping well away from the sidewalls which I imagined were quite hot.
"Back up against the pole," commanded the guard.
I backed my ass up against it.
The other prisoner stepped in and was directed to back up against the post from the other side. Then I was ordered to stretch my arms back around him, until my wrists came together over his flat stomach, and were promptly cuffed together there. He was made to wrap his arms around mine and allow them to be cuffed together in front of my tummy. We both shifted our feet and bodies, attempting to fit ourselves together against the post comfortably.
"Have a good day," smirked one of the guards, as he slammed and secured the door.
"What do we do now?" I asked my companion, squinting at the pencil shafts of light coming through the breathing holes that lit up narrow beams of swirling dust disturbed by the slamming of the door.
"Try to hold still and breath slowly," he replied, in the precise clipped tones of a man educated in the British way. "We need to conserve the air in here as much as possible. Those little holes don't let much in, and its important not to pass out and touch the walls. They'll soon be hot enough to burn severely.
I gauged the distance to the nearest wall and judged it to be only a few inches, at best.
"I'm Barb," I said lamely, unable to think of anything else to say.
"Roderick," he said, adding in explanation that he had been a member of the old ruling class, and a government official, before that thug, Parambe, took over the country.
I was about to say something else, but the rising heat had begun to make my head swim. I closed my eyes and attempted to press my backside tighter against the pole and Roderick.
"If you start to swoon, I will try to hold you back," he said moving his cuffed hands up along my midriff until they rested just under my breasts. "We'll need to work together in here.
I nodded appreciatively, and must have passed out not long after because I remember little else of my day in the hotbox. Only when they came to let us out did I come around, revived by the influx of fresh air. I found that I was leaning forward and off to one side, head and shoulders bowed forward and the top of my head nearly touching the hot metal side. Roderick's cuffed hands were pushing up on the undersides of my breasts ... just able to keep me from being badly burned. My hair was soaked with sweat and plastered to my face ... my body glistened in the light.
Turning my head to one side, I could see through my hair that Roderick had somehow maintained consciousness through it all, which caused me to marvel at his remarkable stoicism and strength.
Quickly they freed our wrists and I toppled out through the open door to the parade ground. He strode defiantly out under his own steam, and sat wearily down beside me.
Through the confused haze that filled my mind, I heard someone say," Get them up and clean them up, especially her. I'm told by Mama Juba that she needs to be ready in time for tonight's Christmas Eve party.
Zilawe Penal System Rehabilitation and Re-education Camp #4. December 24, 2017
Nearly a week had passed since Meghan Shanahan and I arrived in camp to begin our ten-year sentence of hard labor in one of the remotest corners of Zilawe. Our arrival had been horrific enough. Within the first 12 hours we had been staked out naked on the parade ground and left there to be raped during the night by the male guards, almost killed in a rebel mortar attack that fortuitously just happened to take out some of those who raped us, and subjected to a brutal and humiliating bit of corporal punishment at the next morning's roll call, in which we were bent over a horse and thrashed mercilessly on our backsides in front of the assembled male and female inmates of the camp. Only then, were we given a little respite, confined to the camp for one day to recuperate.
Over the next several days we learned what the term "hard labor" really meant. Each day began at dawn when we were awakened for roll call, offered a meager breakfast, and forced to witness the "corrections" that were routinely administered to prisoners who had run afoul of the camp rules on the preceding day. Then we were assigned to work details and marched off. The work was strenuous and grueling, performed under dreadful conditions. Much of it was meaningless, such as moving rocks from one side of a field to the other and then back again, or digging holes and then filling them back in again. Occasionally it was productive, like when we were sent out into the cotton fields to till or weed, or pressed into gangs to work on road repair. But for the most part, the work was simply intended to degrade and exhaust us, in body as well as in spirit.
As we labored, we were under the surveillance of the prison guards, both male and female, who were diligently on the lookout for any sign of laziness or infraction of the many camp rules. Many offenses were trivial. Straightening up from one's labor to relieve a muscle cramp, for example, could be interpreted as sloth, and could earn you a few lashes at the next morning's roll call. Enforcement was arbitrary as well. Some guards were cruel and sadistic monsters, who loved to see prisoners grovel fearfully in their presence, and who competed with one another to rack up punishments, or 'corrections' as they were called, for the next morning's roll call. Others were more lenient, and might look the other way, although they might also expect favors in return for their leniency. More on that shortly.
Roll call punishments were of several kinds. The most common was a bare buttock strapping, of variable severity, leaning over a horse. Whippings were common too, with prisoners stretched on their toes before whipping posts for up to 20 lashes on their bare backsides, although a half dozen was more common. A more severe punishment consisted of a whipping and then an all-day-long suffocating incarceration in one of the camp’s fearsome corrugated metal "hot boxes, or a lengthy period of time "staked out" under the sun. Morning "roll call and corrections" was a joint event, involving both male and female inmates. The work details, on the other hand, tended to by made up of individuals of the same gender, although some times both might be present at a work site.
The newer prisoners, like Meghan and myself, labored day after day in the nude, irregardless of the weather. We found that there was a definite pecking order among the prisoners. Some of the old-timers were allowed to possess and wear clothing of various sorts, including headgear of some kind to ward off harsh sunlight or drenching rain. They were even allowed, on occasion, to slough off in their work ... the younger ones being expected to pick up the slack, and even absorb any due punishment at roll call. Animosities between inmates and different classes of inmates were encouraged by the management. We often had as much to fear from some of the old-timers as we did from the viciousness of the guards.
Sex slavery was rife. A newcomer like Meghan or myself could easily be commandeered as the personal sex slave of a guard, or one of the older inmates. In fact, as white women, we soon found that there was a stiff competition to “own” us. In my case, it was an inmate called "Mama Juba" who moved quickly to lay claim on me and my body. I found that I was invariably assigned to her work details, and that I was expected, with the full connivance of the guards, to do part of her work as well as my own. During the first week, I was whipped on four separate mornings for my failure to keep up with the demands of both her and my own work assignments.
But it was at night in the barracks that she truly “owned” me. The usual evening routine was that we prisoners lined up for dinner, which was served on a tin plate. Then we would take our dinner into the barracks where we were expected to eat and then get to bed. As soon as I entered the barracks with my food, Mama Juba was there to pick through it, taking the best parts for herself. On the first night I refused to let her have anything. I paid for this with a beating which she organized others to Administer after lights out. In the morning she reported falsely to the guards that I had started a fight. I paid for that by taking six lashes, the standard "correction", at morning roll call.
In addition, I soon learned that it was my duty, each night after the lights were doused, to satisfy Mama Juba's considerable sexual needs. I found this repugnant, but had little choice. Once lights were out, she would summon me to her bunk and force me to crawl under the ragged smelly blanket with which she covered herself and eat her pussy until she orgasmed. I was also informed that I was her “property” to rent to the prison guards whenever they needed a little fun. That didn't happen during the first week, but I knew that the guards were planning a big party for this day, which was Christmas Eve ... and that I was to be “on loan” from Mama Juba, once the lights were out, to make the guards' little Christmas soiree a joyous one.
Meghan fared scarcely better than I in this regard. One of the male guards ... an absolute mountain of a man known as Barto ... claimed her early as his personal property, and forced her to service him almost daily when we were out working, as well as at night. He would come along at any time during the day and beckon to her. She had no choice whenever this happened but to lay down her shovel or rake, or whatever implement she was working with, and follow him behind a tree, or truck, or whatever cover might be available. She would return a little later with her face almost as red as her hair, often with gobs of the bastard’s cum smeared between her full milky thighs. He would also typically come for her in the middle of the night, dragging her from the bunk she shared with me and carrying her away with him.
Yvette was our friend from the first day. It was she who salved our asses after our thrashing on our first morning roll call, and it was she who did her best to teach us the ways of camp life. She warned me about Mama Juba, and even tried to intervene with the guards on my behalf once or twice. But even she had to watch her step.
So, on this Christmas Eve we rose, as always, at the crack of dawn. I rolled out of my bunk and stumbled out on to the parade ground, stuffing the piece of stale bread that passed for breakfast in my mouth. Meghan was out there already. I fell into line alongside her.
“Merry Christmas,” I mumbled in the way of greeting.
“You too,” she said, stifling a yawn.
“Long night keeping Barto happy?”
“The worst. Barb, I am so so sore,” she complained. “The man is so rough!”
At that point they began calling roll. A female guard with a clipboard strutted down our row, checking off names as she glanced at each of our faces.
Then it was time for “corrections.”
I knew one of the guards had written me up the previous afternoon when Mama Juba had disappeared and left me with the hopeless task of filling two large carts, one hers and the other mine, with quarry stones. The stones had to first be broken free, then reduced with a heavy hammer into chunks light enough to be lifted, and finally carried over to the cart. It was tedious, back breaking work and the sun blazed down on me as I worked feverishly, knowing there would be hell to pay if I didn’t complete my assigned task. By the time the whistle had blown at the end of the day, I had managed to fill Mama’s cart, but my own had only a few stones in it.
Mama returned from wherever she had gone just as one of the guards came around, to claim her full cart. Then she promptly informed the man that she had witnessed me shirking my work.
Sure enough, as the morning corrections were called out, my name was first on the list. I was ordered to receive six lashes and to spend the day in a hot box as well.
The guard with the clipboard, who was responsible for our row, grabbed me by the arm and propelled me toward one of the waiting whipping posts. A male prisoner joined me at the posts. He faced the post off to my left. My arms were raised over my head and my wrists secured to the chain bolted to the top of the post. The length of chain was adjusted so that I was stretched against the wood on my tiptoes.
They rarely wasted any time at morning roll call corrections. I was given a piece of leather to clamp between my teeth. I closed my eyes, placed my cheek against the pole and braced myself for the first lash. Seconds later I heard the familiar snap and the sound of leather winging through the air and striking bare skin, and a grunt from my male companion off to my left. A moment later a searing pain cut across my own back as I took my first lash. The next five came quickly, one after another, each one slamming my body hard against the unyielding wood of the post.
Released immediately after the sixth lash, I spat out the leather strip and twisted about to ruefully examine the six red weals on my backside. They hurt, but the damage was light ... no blood. I would survive. This was my fourth trip to the post for a "correction" in five days, and I had learned that these “correction” whippings were inflicted to punish, not to maim. But now I was about to experience something new: the dreaded hot box!
With the "correction" whippings finished, the assembled prisoners on the parade ground were dismissed to their respective work details. I was released from my whipping post and escorted, along with the male prisoner who had been whipped alongside me, toward the camp's hot boxes. The boxes were made of corrugated metal and looked something like an upright coffin. They were perhaps six feet tall and no more than three feet wide, with a hinged door on one side. The walls were perforated near the top with a few dozen holes to allow at least some flow of air. But, given that the thing was called a "hot box", there could be little doubt of what spending an entire day confined inside one might be like.
Silently, the other prisoner and I stood side by side while they opened one of the boxes. He was a muscular fellow, and clearly not a newcomer like myself as he possessed a pair of trousers. With the door ajar, I could look inside the box. In the center of the box was an upright post, otherwise the box was empty. It was already beastly hot on the parade ground. The super-heated air inside the box appeared to shimmer in the light.
"Get in!" barked one of the guards, giving the other prisoner and me a shove toward the box, but not before they made him remove his trousers. i couldn't help but take in his impressive cock dangling between hard ebony thighs.
I stepped inside first, keeping well away from the sidewalls which I imagined were quite hot.
"Back up against the pole," commanded the guard.
I backed my ass up against it.
The other prisoner stepped in and was directed to back up against the post from the other side. Then I was ordered to stretch my arms back around him, until my wrists came together over his flat stomach, and were promptly cuffed together there. He was made to wrap his arms around mine and allow them to be cuffed together in front of my tummy. We both shifted our feet and bodies, attempting to fit ourselves together against the post comfortably.
"Have a good day," smirked one of the guards, as he slammed and secured the door.
"What do we do now?" I asked my companion, squinting at the pencil shafts of light coming through the breathing holes that lit up narrow beams of swirling dust disturbed by the slamming of the door.
"Try to hold still and breath slowly," he replied, in the precise clipped tones of a man educated in the British way. "We need to conserve the air in here as much as possible. Those little holes don't let much in, and its important not to pass out and touch the walls. They'll soon be hot enough to burn severely.
I gauged the distance to the nearest wall and judged it to be only a few inches, at best.
"I'm Barb," I said lamely, unable to think of anything else to say.
"Roderick," he said, adding in explanation that he had been a member of the old ruling class, and a government official, before that thug, Parambe, took over the country.
I was about to say something else, but the rising heat had begun to make my head swim. I closed my eyes and attempted to press my backside tighter against the pole and Roderick.
"If you start to swoon, I will try to hold you back," he said moving his cuffed hands up along my midriff until they rested just under my breasts. "We'll need to work together in here.
I nodded appreciatively, and must have passed out not long after because I remember little else of my day in the hotbox. Only when they came to let us out did I come around, revived by the influx of fresh air. I found that I was leaning forward and off to one side, head and shoulders bowed forward and the top of my head nearly touching the hot metal side. Roderick's cuffed hands were pushing up on the undersides of my breasts ... just able to keep me from being badly burned. My hair was soaked with sweat and plastered to my face ... my body glistened in the light.
Turning my head to one side, I could see through my hair that Roderick had somehow maintained consciousness through it all, which caused me to marvel at his remarkable stoicism and strength.
Quickly they freed our wrists and I toppled out through the open door to the parade ground. He strode defiantly out under his own steam, and sat wearily down beside me.
Through the confused haze that filled my mind, I heard someone say," Get them up and clean them up, especially her. I'm told by Mama Juba that she needs to be ready in time for tonight's Christmas Eve party.
Where is this luxury spa located???
Nothing like jumping right into farm life with both, er, feet.
There we go. At least there will be some festivities after the ordeal. That's got to be good, right?
I don't know how much more these girls can take.
Goldman, I will always have the nerve to complain .... it's what I do best!
What did you expect ... this is Zilawe!
Type Zilawe into your GPS ... oh, wait ... you probably don't have one ... ok, on your Shell service station map ....
I don't know how much more these girls can take.
Neither do they ...