Online_Ratt
Guard
Gook v1.2
by Online_Ratt
Summary:
During the Vietnam war, soldiers on reconnaissance capture a sniper on a ridge overlooking their platoon’s intended path. First they rape her, then question her about how she knew their route.
[MMM/f, non-consensual, war, racism, rape, knife play, asphyxiation, piercing, burning, sadism]
-----
It was a shame, really. If only they could have stretched out the fun a bit longer, even just a few more hours. She was such a good-looking gook as they went: long straight black hair; brown almond-shaped eyes open wide in agony; a small, pointy nose with nostrils flaring as she tried to suck air; unexpectedly full lips open in a gasping O; a muscular frame with decent-sized tits for a change, firm ones a man could really grab and squeeze and twist; and those thin little gook hips with just a wisp of black fuzz over her snatch. So different from the bitches he'd fucked back home, with their wide hips and full bushes. The lack of pussy hair appealed; for a moment, he wondered if he could talk his States-side girlfriend into shaving her cunt when he got out of this Vietnamese hellhole.
But whatever. While he was here, at least there were plenty more gooks to do. And in this case, they did need the information quickly. Still, it was a shame.
It had been a good takedown. A great takedown, actually. Her camouflage had blended into the overgrown outcrop nearly perfectly; it was luck that Crusher had spotted her. It had been the eyepiece in her rifle scope that had done it: a glint when a ray of sunlight pierced the everlasting clouds and touched its glass. She was lying along the edge of a ridge, looking down at the road where the troops would pass later that evening. No one on the road would have seen the reflection. But Crusher and Packer were on the ridge behind her, in the twilight of the dripping undergrowth, scouting for trouble. She hadn’t counted on that.
Her second mistake was concentrating so hard on the road that the two of them were able to reconnoiter her position without her hearing, and then execute a simple plan. Packer made a noise as a distraction... Crusher slipped in from the other direction with the butt of his gun ready... a hit in the temple... and she was down.
They'd bound her hands behind her, then slapped her around a bit to take the fight out of her. Crusher had always found that a woman is much more cooperative after a few blows across the face, punches in the tits and stomach, and kicks in the crotch. She struggles less when her legs are kicked out from under her, twine looped around her mosquito-bitten ankles so her legs can be pulled wide and tied agape to nearby tree trunks, and her clothes cut off with combat knives, baring her goose-fleshed breasts, flat torso, and tight, tender pussy.
Crusher had bagged her, so he got first fuck, and he would treasure the memory: the hatred, despair, and disgust in her eyes as he spat between her pussy lips for lubrication, then positioned himself; her back arching up to him as he savagely twisted her hard, red-brown nipples; her cuntlips parting around his shaft as he drove it in, splitting her velvet heat; the liquid grip of her rippling cunt wrapped around his cock; the little squeal of anguish from under his smothering hand each time he bulled into her; the tingle in the tip of his prick as it hit the end of her tight passage. He thrust harder, pounding down and in, force-feeding every inch, every millimeter of himself into her gaping cunt, his pleasure building to a crescendo until his cock emptied into her, each spasm another exultation, erasing the fucking war and the jungle and the heat for a blessed moment. He breathed, contentedly watching tears run down the gook’s cheeks, and pulled out.
Then it was Packer’s turn. He rammed in even more viciously than Crusher, slamming his hips into the gook's like a punch, then again and again, savouring her winces and squeaks as he connected. He put a hand on her throat and squeezed, revelling in the sensation as her cunt tightened in fear – but Crusher held up a warning hand. Immediately, Packer grabbed the rolled-up scrap of her tunic he'd placed by her head and stuffed it into her mouth, muffling her crying. He unsocketed, grabbed his gun and stood, quietly pulling up his pants. But a guffaw of laughter stopped him short: it was Breaker, detouring from his path back to the rendezvous after hearing the noise and searching the ridge.
The explanation didn't take long, despite Packer's torrent of abuse at Breaker for the interruption. Soon, Packer was back in the saddle, the girl's cunt feeling even warmer and more welcoming now that the fear of an attack had passed – and also after the chill of the evening air on his dick, still wet with her pussy juice. The girl's clothes, which they had put on the ground between her thighs as some small protection from the mud as they knelt and thrust, were damp and starting to soak through, but Packer didn't care. He emptied his blue balls into the bitch with a groan of contentment, mashing his hips into hers, crushing her down into the ground. He rested for a moment, softening inside her, then stroked her hair away from her cheek. "That's a good gook," he murmured to her. "Now, this don't have to get nasty. Just tell us now how you knew to be up on this ridge."
But when he removed the gag, she grimaced and spat at him. And so, after they fucked her a few more times, wiping themselves with her bandana as they finished, they collected the materials for the interrogation and began.
Time was short. Another beating would do nothing: she had barely spoken at all, and certainly wouldn't tell them how she'd learned of their route without much more encouragement. So while Packer built a small, smokeless fire in the driest spot he could find, Breaker began taking some of her skin off. With his knife, he cut a thumbnail-sized hemisphere on her thigh, very shallow so the blood welled but didn't flow, then yanked it like a pulltab on a beer can. A four-inch-long, paper-thin strip of skin tore away, and she spasmed and shrieked. Next came a slow strip from her torso: she was slippery with sweat and the rain, and Breaker's flesh pulltab kept slipping out of his grasp as he tugged once, twice, again, the translucent brown ribbon of skin getting a bit longer each time. Then, asking her about her information source, listening to her gibbering and cursing, he made his next cut on the upper slope of her left breast and peeled carefully down to her aureola as she wrenched and shook.
Packer, meanwhile, had been whittling a small pile of what looked like thin, sharp knitting needles out of bamboo, drying and hardening them in the fire. He set the blade of his knife next to Crusher's in the burning coals to heat in case they needed them and came over. Breaker, just finishing pulling a fourth filmy ribbon from the girl's other breast as she wailed through gritted teeth, made room, and Packer squatted between her legs. He took a pinch of skin high on her right inner thigh and readied one of his skewers.
"How you know? How you know?" Breaker repeated into the gook's ear. She sobbed, but said nothing.
With a shrug and a smile, Packer forced the point of the skewer completely through the fold of thigh skin with one hard push. She screeched and jerked her leg fruitlessly, blood blooming around the bamboo, and he pushed until the sides of the makeshift needle were balanced. He took a second pinch of flesh higher up and did the same, interleaving the two thin sticks into an overlapping X. Each time he pierced her, her hips bucked and writhed against him. He felt himself growing hard; shame he couldn't take a little break to relieve that. When his line of interwoven Xs reached her pussy, he playfully poked her clitoris with the point of the skewer a few times to make her jump, then pulled her bruised right labium out. He slid the the point along it a few times in a mock caress, then viciously ran the bamboo through it in a row of vertical stitches, piercing first one pinch of cuntlip flesh, then a second, then a third before connecting the skewer back to the pattern on her thigh. With each penetration, she shrieked and bled, but she did not beg. Or talk.
But Packer wasn't beaten. He replicated his pattern of bamboo on her other leg and pussy lip, then evaluated the eight skewers that remained. He settled for making a pretty X through each of her nipples, grabbing her left one first and pulling her breast up into a cone, then slowly driving the sharpened bamboo through her stretched point while she squealed. The second bamboo needle, at 90 degrees to the first, earned him frantic gasping and sounds that might have been prayers -- but not what he wanted.
He slid his hands back down her body and her legs to her right foot, then dragged the point of his fourth-last skewer up its sole -- watching her twitch and shake -- and further up to the nail of her big toe. With Crusher holding the foot in his vice-like hands, Packer slid the tip of the stick under the nail, testing, probing, letting her think about it. Then, holding it in place with one hand, he smacked the butt of the skewer hard with his other hand, driving it deep into the quick. Uncontrollable shivers of pain ran through her, and she screamed, then keened and wept. Before she could recover, Packer added a second skewer under the same toenail, and then, with his last two bamboo needles, turned to her other foot and made the symmetry complete.
Packer looked down at her for a moment, enjoying his artistry, her breathy gasps of pain. Then, with a dark grin, he pulled out his lighter, sparked a flame, and held it to the tips of the skewers. One by one, they caught and began to burn down, orange and yellow in the dusk, the heat rising against her damaged skin as she groaned and panted; the blood welling from per piercings popping and cracking as the flames touched it and cauterised: her body shaking and flailing as the bamboo burned itself out inside her singed, traumatised flesh to the music of her screams.
But while it was pretty, it wasn't working. If they'd been back at base, they'd have wired her to a field telephone generator and sent message after hand-cranked message to her tits and cunt, watching her thrash and sway in time to the tiniest of movements of their hands. Or put white phosphorous powder into her eyes and on her clit, watching it eat her flesh away. Or used the heated blades of their knives to make entertaining brands on her tits and torso. But they were here in the field and out of time. The sun was nearly gone; the troops were en route. It was time for something else.
Crusher strung a rope over a branch of a nearby tree and wove a quick noose while Packer cut down a small dead sapling. He snapped it in half so he had two thick sticks about a foot and a half long, then hurriedly carved one end of each to a rough point. The other end he blunted.
Breaker, meanwhile, sat the semi-conscious gook up and retied her arms Japanese style -- with her wrists pulled way up behind her back so that they met behind her shoulder blades, twine holding them together and looping around her neck to keep them uncomfortably in place, the string cutting into her soft, brown flesh. Beneath her wrists, he yanked her elbows together and fastened them with another length of twine, straining her shoulders painfully back and forcing her to arch her bruised, abused breasts out.
When he finished, he nodded at the others to make sure they were in place and ready, then slapped her a few times to wake her up. She groaned as he cut her ankle ropes, grabbed her waist, and lifted her wriggling frame a foot and a half in the air. Crusher dropped the noose around her neck and tightened it, then pulled the rope taut so there would be no slack when Breaker let her go. He lashed the end to the trunk of the tree, then he and Packer each grabbed one of the gook's dangling feet and pulled them sideways, spreading her legs about a yard and a half. They each took a stick, braced its butt on the ground, and placed the point beneath the tender ball of her foot.
Then Breaker slowly released her. The noose tightened around her neck as it took some of her weight, and they stepped back to regard their work. Crusher loved this part nearly as much as the rape, the dreadful calm. They always looked so terrified and beautiful just before their final suffering began. The gook stood stock-still, balanced on the points of the two sticks, toes blackened with soot and straining in pain, a drop of blood running from the sole of her right foot down the wood, legs stretched wide apart, wrists tied brutally behind her, the rope around her neck holding her upright and steadying her on her perch, but choking her more and more with every movement she made.
If they'd had the time, Crusher would have just left her in this pose for a few hours with some other torments thrown in -- after all, there were lots of things in the forest to make a gook uncomfortable. A couple of cockroaches up the pussy -- that's what she needed, so she could feel them crawling and tickling inside her as she swayed. But they'd enjoyed the preliminaries for too long. He reached into his pack to find what he wanted. Breaker, still standing behind her, grinned in anticipation, and moved around to the front for a better view. He smacked her tight little ass as he went, making her wobble and quiver precariously on the sticks, gasping in fear.
When Crusher held the fat red cylinder of the hand flare in front of her purpling, puffy face, her eyes got very wide. Not knowing or caring if she understood his words, he explained how flares carry their own oxygen, so they burn at 1500C even in the airless cavities of the human body. Then he drew it slowly down the front of her aching body, scarlet paper against tan skin, past the marks and burns on her breasts, past her stomach and belly button, over her pussy mound and between her mottled lower lips, watching her mouth open in a soundless protest as she confirmed his intent. As he forced it deep into her vagina, tears started to course down her cheeks for the first time. But not until he re-lit his lighter did she started to babble, information tumbling out of her in a gush of words.
To keep her talking, he slowly ran the flame under her chin and shoulders, making her jerk this way and that, over her breasts and nipples, and along her front. It was just a reminder -- he was careful not to hold the flame too long in one place, in case her struggles knocked her off the sticks and she hanged too soon. When she ran out of breath and fell silent, he moved the flame lower, to her sparse pubic hair, and as it went up with a whoosh, out came the names of her confederates. Good. Now they knew where to go later so the fun wouldn't stop.
But that was all she had. The pump was dry. And besides, they were out of time -- night had fallen and the troops were marching. It was a shame, but it had to end. He repressed a sigh. Then he stuffed the cloth gag back into her mouth, ran the flame of the lighter across her vulva a final time, and held it between her cuntlips to the fuse of the flare until it caught. Instantly, her anguished form was lit brilliantly from below by a hissing white glare that weaved in the air as she swayed, a snaking trail of light and smoke travelling up towards her crotch.
As her muffled screams began, he watched her torso through the dazzling haze, looking for the tightening that meant her vaginal muscles were struggling to expel the lethal invader. He knew she couldn't do it -- he'd wedged the thick tube in up to her cervix, and the ooze in her pussy would stick the cardboard to her cunt walls like glue -- but all the gooks tried it... and yes, there it was. She stretched her thighs as far apart as possible, away from the searing heat nearing her crux, still hoping it was a bluff, that they would relent and remove the deadly thing before she cooked from the inside out. But no. The pitch of her screams changed - high, desperate, anguished, urgent – as the destroying, radiant flame reached her cuntlips and the smell of her own burning flesh suffused the air.
In agony, she kicked her feet out and up like a frog, pathetically trying to shake the flare out of her snatch, puffs of illuminated smoke hovering around her hips as she bucked, the life-giving sticks rolling across the ground forgotten. The noose pulled tight around her throat, cutting off her air, and she thrashed even more desperately as she suddenly dangled and choked. Retching, burning, she searched frantically with her toes, groping for the fallen sticks, her hands shaking as they strained towards her crotch to remove the source of her torture, her legs opening wide again, in vain. Darkness settled on the camp as the light between her thighs burned its way up inside her, spitting and sizzling in the moisture, turning reddish as it passed her cuntlips, then vanishing from view. Her struggles hit a new frenzy: she flopped like a fish on a line, convulsing and spluttering. But after a minute, her motion slowed to twitches; and finally, she hung still, the scent of charred meat and hair drifting on the night air. The rope creaked.
In the distance, boots advanced along the road.
by Online_Ratt
Summary:
During the Vietnam war, soldiers on reconnaissance capture a sniper on a ridge overlooking their platoon’s intended path. First they rape her, then question her about how she knew their route.
[MMM/f, non-consensual, war, racism, rape, knife play, asphyxiation, piercing, burning, sadism]
-----
It was a shame, really. If only they could have stretched out the fun a bit longer, even just a few more hours. She was such a good-looking gook as they went: long straight black hair; brown almond-shaped eyes open wide in agony; a small, pointy nose with nostrils flaring as she tried to suck air; unexpectedly full lips open in a gasping O; a muscular frame with decent-sized tits for a change, firm ones a man could really grab and squeeze and twist; and those thin little gook hips with just a wisp of black fuzz over her snatch. So different from the bitches he'd fucked back home, with their wide hips and full bushes. The lack of pussy hair appealed; for a moment, he wondered if he could talk his States-side girlfriend into shaving her cunt when he got out of this Vietnamese hellhole.
But whatever. While he was here, at least there were plenty more gooks to do. And in this case, they did need the information quickly. Still, it was a shame.
It had been a good takedown. A great takedown, actually. Her camouflage had blended into the overgrown outcrop nearly perfectly; it was luck that Crusher had spotted her. It had been the eyepiece in her rifle scope that had done it: a glint when a ray of sunlight pierced the everlasting clouds and touched its glass. She was lying along the edge of a ridge, looking down at the road where the troops would pass later that evening. No one on the road would have seen the reflection. But Crusher and Packer were on the ridge behind her, in the twilight of the dripping undergrowth, scouting for trouble. She hadn’t counted on that.
Her second mistake was concentrating so hard on the road that the two of them were able to reconnoiter her position without her hearing, and then execute a simple plan. Packer made a noise as a distraction... Crusher slipped in from the other direction with the butt of his gun ready... a hit in the temple... and she was down.
They'd bound her hands behind her, then slapped her around a bit to take the fight out of her. Crusher had always found that a woman is much more cooperative after a few blows across the face, punches in the tits and stomach, and kicks in the crotch. She struggles less when her legs are kicked out from under her, twine looped around her mosquito-bitten ankles so her legs can be pulled wide and tied agape to nearby tree trunks, and her clothes cut off with combat knives, baring her goose-fleshed breasts, flat torso, and tight, tender pussy.
Crusher had bagged her, so he got first fuck, and he would treasure the memory: the hatred, despair, and disgust in her eyes as he spat between her pussy lips for lubrication, then positioned himself; her back arching up to him as he savagely twisted her hard, red-brown nipples; her cuntlips parting around his shaft as he drove it in, splitting her velvet heat; the liquid grip of her rippling cunt wrapped around his cock; the little squeal of anguish from under his smothering hand each time he bulled into her; the tingle in the tip of his prick as it hit the end of her tight passage. He thrust harder, pounding down and in, force-feeding every inch, every millimeter of himself into her gaping cunt, his pleasure building to a crescendo until his cock emptied into her, each spasm another exultation, erasing the fucking war and the jungle and the heat for a blessed moment. He breathed, contentedly watching tears run down the gook’s cheeks, and pulled out.
Then it was Packer’s turn. He rammed in even more viciously than Crusher, slamming his hips into the gook's like a punch, then again and again, savouring her winces and squeaks as he connected. He put a hand on her throat and squeezed, revelling in the sensation as her cunt tightened in fear – but Crusher held up a warning hand. Immediately, Packer grabbed the rolled-up scrap of her tunic he'd placed by her head and stuffed it into her mouth, muffling her crying. He unsocketed, grabbed his gun and stood, quietly pulling up his pants. But a guffaw of laughter stopped him short: it was Breaker, detouring from his path back to the rendezvous after hearing the noise and searching the ridge.
The explanation didn't take long, despite Packer's torrent of abuse at Breaker for the interruption. Soon, Packer was back in the saddle, the girl's cunt feeling even warmer and more welcoming now that the fear of an attack had passed – and also after the chill of the evening air on his dick, still wet with her pussy juice. The girl's clothes, which they had put on the ground between her thighs as some small protection from the mud as they knelt and thrust, were damp and starting to soak through, but Packer didn't care. He emptied his blue balls into the bitch with a groan of contentment, mashing his hips into hers, crushing her down into the ground. He rested for a moment, softening inside her, then stroked her hair away from her cheek. "That's a good gook," he murmured to her. "Now, this don't have to get nasty. Just tell us now how you knew to be up on this ridge."
But when he removed the gag, she grimaced and spat at him. And so, after they fucked her a few more times, wiping themselves with her bandana as they finished, they collected the materials for the interrogation and began.
Time was short. Another beating would do nothing: she had barely spoken at all, and certainly wouldn't tell them how she'd learned of their route without much more encouragement. So while Packer built a small, smokeless fire in the driest spot he could find, Breaker began taking some of her skin off. With his knife, he cut a thumbnail-sized hemisphere on her thigh, very shallow so the blood welled but didn't flow, then yanked it like a pulltab on a beer can. A four-inch-long, paper-thin strip of skin tore away, and she spasmed and shrieked. Next came a slow strip from her torso: she was slippery with sweat and the rain, and Breaker's flesh pulltab kept slipping out of his grasp as he tugged once, twice, again, the translucent brown ribbon of skin getting a bit longer each time. Then, asking her about her information source, listening to her gibbering and cursing, he made his next cut on the upper slope of her left breast and peeled carefully down to her aureola as she wrenched and shook.
Packer, meanwhile, had been whittling a small pile of what looked like thin, sharp knitting needles out of bamboo, drying and hardening them in the fire. He set the blade of his knife next to Crusher's in the burning coals to heat in case they needed them and came over. Breaker, just finishing pulling a fourth filmy ribbon from the girl's other breast as she wailed through gritted teeth, made room, and Packer squatted between her legs. He took a pinch of skin high on her right inner thigh and readied one of his skewers.
"How you know? How you know?" Breaker repeated into the gook's ear. She sobbed, but said nothing.
With a shrug and a smile, Packer forced the point of the skewer completely through the fold of thigh skin with one hard push. She screeched and jerked her leg fruitlessly, blood blooming around the bamboo, and he pushed until the sides of the makeshift needle were balanced. He took a second pinch of flesh higher up and did the same, interleaving the two thin sticks into an overlapping X. Each time he pierced her, her hips bucked and writhed against him. He felt himself growing hard; shame he couldn't take a little break to relieve that. When his line of interwoven Xs reached her pussy, he playfully poked her clitoris with the point of the skewer a few times to make her jump, then pulled her bruised right labium out. He slid the the point along it a few times in a mock caress, then viciously ran the bamboo through it in a row of vertical stitches, piercing first one pinch of cuntlip flesh, then a second, then a third before connecting the skewer back to the pattern on her thigh. With each penetration, she shrieked and bled, but she did not beg. Or talk.
But Packer wasn't beaten. He replicated his pattern of bamboo on her other leg and pussy lip, then evaluated the eight skewers that remained. He settled for making a pretty X through each of her nipples, grabbing her left one first and pulling her breast up into a cone, then slowly driving the sharpened bamboo through her stretched point while she squealed. The second bamboo needle, at 90 degrees to the first, earned him frantic gasping and sounds that might have been prayers -- but not what he wanted.
He slid his hands back down her body and her legs to her right foot, then dragged the point of his fourth-last skewer up its sole -- watching her twitch and shake -- and further up to the nail of her big toe. With Crusher holding the foot in his vice-like hands, Packer slid the tip of the stick under the nail, testing, probing, letting her think about it. Then, holding it in place with one hand, he smacked the butt of the skewer hard with his other hand, driving it deep into the quick. Uncontrollable shivers of pain ran through her, and she screamed, then keened and wept. Before she could recover, Packer added a second skewer under the same toenail, and then, with his last two bamboo needles, turned to her other foot and made the symmetry complete.
Packer looked down at her for a moment, enjoying his artistry, her breathy gasps of pain. Then, with a dark grin, he pulled out his lighter, sparked a flame, and held it to the tips of the skewers. One by one, they caught and began to burn down, orange and yellow in the dusk, the heat rising against her damaged skin as she groaned and panted; the blood welling from per piercings popping and cracking as the flames touched it and cauterised: her body shaking and flailing as the bamboo burned itself out inside her singed, traumatised flesh to the music of her screams.
But while it was pretty, it wasn't working. If they'd been back at base, they'd have wired her to a field telephone generator and sent message after hand-cranked message to her tits and cunt, watching her thrash and sway in time to the tiniest of movements of their hands. Or put white phosphorous powder into her eyes and on her clit, watching it eat her flesh away. Or used the heated blades of their knives to make entertaining brands on her tits and torso. But they were here in the field and out of time. The sun was nearly gone; the troops were en route. It was time for something else.
Crusher strung a rope over a branch of a nearby tree and wove a quick noose while Packer cut down a small dead sapling. He snapped it in half so he had two thick sticks about a foot and a half long, then hurriedly carved one end of each to a rough point. The other end he blunted.
Breaker, meanwhile, sat the semi-conscious gook up and retied her arms Japanese style -- with her wrists pulled way up behind her back so that they met behind her shoulder blades, twine holding them together and looping around her neck to keep them uncomfortably in place, the string cutting into her soft, brown flesh. Beneath her wrists, he yanked her elbows together and fastened them with another length of twine, straining her shoulders painfully back and forcing her to arch her bruised, abused breasts out.
When he finished, he nodded at the others to make sure they were in place and ready, then slapped her a few times to wake her up. She groaned as he cut her ankle ropes, grabbed her waist, and lifted her wriggling frame a foot and a half in the air. Crusher dropped the noose around her neck and tightened it, then pulled the rope taut so there would be no slack when Breaker let her go. He lashed the end to the trunk of the tree, then he and Packer each grabbed one of the gook's dangling feet and pulled them sideways, spreading her legs about a yard and a half. They each took a stick, braced its butt on the ground, and placed the point beneath the tender ball of her foot.
Then Breaker slowly released her. The noose tightened around her neck as it took some of her weight, and they stepped back to regard their work. Crusher loved this part nearly as much as the rape, the dreadful calm. They always looked so terrified and beautiful just before their final suffering began. The gook stood stock-still, balanced on the points of the two sticks, toes blackened with soot and straining in pain, a drop of blood running from the sole of her right foot down the wood, legs stretched wide apart, wrists tied brutally behind her, the rope around her neck holding her upright and steadying her on her perch, but choking her more and more with every movement she made.
If they'd had the time, Crusher would have just left her in this pose for a few hours with some other torments thrown in -- after all, there were lots of things in the forest to make a gook uncomfortable. A couple of cockroaches up the pussy -- that's what she needed, so she could feel them crawling and tickling inside her as she swayed. But they'd enjoyed the preliminaries for too long. He reached into his pack to find what he wanted. Breaker, still standing behind her, grinned in anticipation, and moved around to the front for a better view. He smacked her tight little ass as he went, making her wobble and quiver precariously on the sticks, gasping in fear.
When Crusher held the fat red cylinder of the hand flare in front of her purpling, puffy face, her eyes got very wide. Not knowing or caring if she understood his words, he explained how flares carry their own oxygen, so they burn at 1500C even in the airless cavities of the human body. Then he drew it slowly down the front of her aching body, scarlet paper against tan skin, past the marks and burns on her breasts, past her stomach and belly button, over her pussy mound and between her mottled lower lips, watching her mouth open in a soundless protest as she confirmed his intent. As he forced it deep into her vagina, tears started to course down her cheeks for the first time. But not until he re-lit his lighter did she started to babble, information tumbling out of her in a gush of words.
To keep her talking, he slowly ran the flame under her chin and shoulders, making her jerk this way and that, over her breasts and nipples, and along her front. It was just a reminder -- he was careful not to hold the flame too long in one place, in case her struggles knocked her off the sticks and she hanged too soon. When she ran out of breath and fell silent, he moved the flame lower, to her sparse pubic hair, and as it went up with a whoosh, out came the names of her confederates. Good. Now they knew where to go later so the fun wouldn't stop.
But that was all she had. The pump was dry. And besides, they were out of time -- night had fallen and the troops were marching. It was a shame, but it had to end. He repressed a sigh. Then he stuffed the cloth gag back into her mouth, ran the flame of the lighter across her vulva a final time, and held it between her cuntlips to the fuse of the flare until it caught. Instantly, her anguished form was lit brilliantly from below by a hissing white glare that weaved in the air as she swayed, a snaking trail of light and smoke travelling up towards her crotch.
As her muffled screams began, he watched her torso through the dazzling haze, looking for the tightening that meant her vaginal muscles were struggling to expel the lethal invader. He knew she couldn't do it -- he'd wedged the thick tube in up to her cervix, and the ooze in her pussy would stick the cardboard to her cunt walls like glue -- but all the gooks tried it... and yes, there it was. She stretched her thighs as far apart as possible, away from the searing heat nearing her crux, still hoping it was a bluff, that they would relent and remove the deadly thing before she cooked from the inside out. But no. The pitch of her screams changed - high, desperate, anguished, urgent – as the destroying, radiant flame reached her cuntlips and the smell of her own burning flesh suffused the air.
In agony, she kicked her feet out and up like a frog, pathetically trying to shake the flare out of her snatch, puffs of illuminated smoke hovering around her hips as she bucked, the life-giving sticks rolling across the ground forgotten. The noose pulled tight around her throat, cutting off her air, and she thrashed even more desperately as she suddenly dangled and choked. Retching, burning, she searched frantically with her toes, groping for the fallen sticks, her hands shaking as they strained towards her crotch to remove the source of her torture, her legs opening wide again, in vain. Darkness settled on the camp as the light between her thighs burned its way up inside her, spitting and sizzling in the moisture, turning reddish as it passed her cuntlips, then vanishing from view. Her struggles hit a new frenzy: she flopped like a fish on a line, convulsing and spluttering. But after a minute, her motion slowed to twitches; and finally, she hung still, the scent of charred meat and hair drifting on the night air. The rope creaked.
In the distance, boots advanced along the road.
