Hamburg Snuff Party

Section 8 The African Connection

	Section 8 - The African Connection

	Chapter 1 - Suck Ups

	In his office in Woking, Smedley Hargreaves slipped his hands inside
Michelle's panties and gave her bum a friendly squeeze. His beautiful asian
secretary looked up at her employer gratefully. As he had pointed out to her on
numerous occasions, if it wasn't for him, she'd still be working grueling days
wading knee-deep in the rice paddies back in the old country. While her Bank
Manager boss kneaded her firm young buttocks, lovely Michelle reviewed his
schedule for the day.

	"Mmmmm! First off, the anthropologist Ingrid Schumacher will be coming
in to find out the status of her grant application."

	Smedley parted her firm, rounded buns and began to finger Michelle's
rectum.

	"Ooooh! Later in the morning, just before lunch, your second visitor is
due. Someone named Linn Lovelace is scheduled. She says that it's about
something personal, private and confidential."

	Smedley nodded knowingly and began gently, but insistently, worming his
finger into Michelle's warm anal orifice.

	"Aaaahhh! In the afternoon, Trish and Kate, two journalism students, are
here to discuss a small loan for an investigative trip to a small African
kingdom."

	Michelle shut her eyes and moaned ecstatically.

	"You are a very generous man, Mr. Hargreaves!"

	Smedley was cheerful.

	"Why not? It's the bank's money!" 

	A short while later, Smedley unzipped and fed Ingrid his dick. Naked
from the waist up, the blond anthropologist slurped it in like a pro. Ingrid,
topless and on her knees, her bobbing ringlets of hair shimmering like a heaving
ocean of glorious golden tresses, was performing the final part of her grant
application. Smedley groaned as he bathed her tonsils in a thick, viscous sea of
sperm. He pulled back and sprayed the rest of his liquid load into her lovely
face, hitting her right between her smokey blue eyes. Ingrid blinked as his cum
coated her long lashes and dribbled down both sides of her patrician nose.

	Ingrid's anthropology career had been founded on her looks and sexual
skills. Today was no exception. She made no move to wipe off his cum as it
dripped from her chin onto her bouncing breasts. Staying on her knees, she
licked his dick clean, tucked it back in his pants and zipped him up. Tilting
her head back, she grinned lewdly up at him.

	"I take it that there's no problem about my getting the grant?"

	Smedley Hargreaves grinned back at her and tousled her golden hair
patronisingly like someone rewarding a faithful hound.

	"None whatsoever! Just don't tell anyone about this expedition the bank
is funding so jealous colleagues don't steal a march on you. I guess I don't
have to tell you what academic competition is like! Getting access to a
reclusive, little known African tribe of female warriors will be quite a coup!"

	Ingrid smirked smugly. Like many good-looking bitches who fucked their
way to the top, she was under the mistaken impression that it meant that she was
smarter than the dullards who played by the rules.

	"Don't worry, Smedley. Mum's the word until I reveal my research and the
others are left looking stupid one more time!"

	Just before lunch, Michelle ushered Linn into Smedley's office and shut
the door. Linn sat primly in the visitor's chair. It was deliberately set lower
than Smedley's so that his visitors were forced to look up at him.

	Smedley looked at the young divorcee suspiciously.

	"I'm taking a big risk trusting someone unknown like you as a courier.
Your looks are in your favour. You certainly look very innocent indeed! No
customs guard would suspect a pretty girl like you. You're so innocent looking,
I only have one concern. How do I know that you're not an undercover
policewoman?"

	Linn was desperate for the money. Easy credit had led her into the 'debt
spiral' where most of her income was devoted to paying the interest on her
loans. When she had lost her job and defaulted on her loan payment she had come
to Smedley's attention. He loved pretty girls who were down on their luck and
had made her a tempting offer.

	As far as Linn could see, any fool could smuggle drugs into a small
Afican country that couldn't afford much in the way of border security. It was
just a matter of having the contacts. Lucky for her, Smedley was a contact.
Suspecting the answer, she asked the question.

	"Um, how can I prove to you that I'm not undercover?"

	"By doing something for me that no undercover policewoman would do!"

	Smedley could see her nerving herself up to do whatever was required.

	"Um, what could I do for you?"

	She saw the look in his eyes and hastened to add her sole proviso.

	"As long as it's not sex! I don't want to catch any diseases from a drug
dealer!"

	Smedley laughed genially, a man of the world.

	"Very wise of you! People you wouldn't even suspect of it are serious
needle freaks!"

	He opened his desk drawer, removed a digital camera and placed it on his
desk.

	"No sex, but how about posing for some lewd, rude and crude little
pictures?"

	Linn was thoughtful.

	"Um, how do I know you won't show them to my friends?"

	"Because I'll be in them too! All I need is a couple of pictures of you
showing me your goodies. They'll be obviously taken in my office with the clock
on the wall showing that it's during the working day. I'll print you copies on
my office printer! If I try anything, you can show them to the bank directors
and get me fired!"

	The young divorcee thought about it briefly, then shrugged.

	"In for a penny, in for a pound!"

	Smedley nodded.

	"Exactly!"

	He set up the camera on a tripod and placed a chair in front of it. He
sat in the chair with his side to the camera, facing Linn. Smedley held the
trigger to the camera out of sight, in his off-camera hand.

	He went into pornographer mode with practised ease.

	"Take off your bra, honey. You stand next to me at an angle. Open your
blouse wide, showing me, and the camera, your bare boobies."

	Linn obliged, boldly flashing him her tits.

	"Arch your back, honey. Stick out your tongue and give your lips a slow,
lewd little lick."

	Linn looked like one naughty little minx indeed as the camera flashed.

	"OK! Leave your top open. Turn around, bend over and pull down your
panties."

	Linn bent over and bared her bum.

      "Reach between your legs and spread your cuntlips wide with your fingers.
Turn your face to the camera. Spread 'em a bit wider, honey. I want to see lots
of pink!"

	A bit red-faced, bent over with her bare breasts hanging down, looking
back at the camera, Linn brazenly exhibited her split apricot, wrinkled rectum
and tight bare buns as the camera flashed.

	Linn jerked upright and emitted a small squeal as Smedley playfully
slapped her proferred rump.

	"OK! Nice little performance, Linn! You get the job! Half the money up
front and the rest when it's done!"

	"Um, thanks, I think!"

	He downloaded the images to his PC, printed off the photos on his
printer and handed them to Linn.

	"Wow! I really look shameless!"

	Smedley grinned.

	"Yes, a very nice little package, beautifully displayed! You're
definitely not a narc!"

	She giggled as she buttoned up and put the photos carefully in her
purse.

	"A pleasure doing business with you!" 

	In the late afternoon, Trish and Kate put in a delightful little
apearance. University co-eds studying journalism, Trish and Kate were bosom
buddies, two red-headed bimbettes that saw eye-to-eye and tit-to-tit on
everything. Trish cut right to the chase.

	"Mr. Hargreaves! We talked in the pub where it was pretty clear that you
like doing favours for young women who do favours for you! You had an
interesting idea about our getting a grant for a fun little vacation in Africa.
We would be there to photograph some native rituals but, really, just to party
and have a good time."

	Trish looked at Kate significantly.

	"Now that we're sober, we have a few concerns!"

	Smedley stifled a smile.

	"What's troubling you?"

	"Lots of Africa isn't very safe! We're having doubts about the wisdom of
going there."

	Smedley leaned forward and spoke reassuringly.

	"You'll be going to a country run by King Mumboli. He went to Oxford so,
although he's as black as a coal mine at midnight, he's a throughly civilized
gentleman! His head of security, Whitey Nairobi, who also went to Oxford,
another civilized gentleman, will personally look after your safety during your
visit. The Kingdom, although small and not found on any map, is politically
stable and was ruled by King Mumboli's father before him. He's not a
johnny-come-lately with a insecure grip on the reins of power. His kingdom is
not in the middle of any civil wars or exercises in genocide that plague many
other African countries. He's not fighting his neighbors. His people are gentle
farmers and peaceful herders, not fierce warring tribesmen."

	"It's just that we hear so much about Central African bloodbaths in the
news!"

	"And you don't feel like contributing to the bathwater! I understand
completely! Here's the deal: Whitey Nairobi will pick you up in the King's
personal luxury jet at Heathrow. Your next stop will be in his country, a jungle
paradise. You don't have to pass through any of the unpleasant places en route.
You will be perfectly safe at all times. He'll take you to the native rituals
which you can observe first-hand as much, or as little, as you want, thus
satisfying the terms of the grant. He'll also show you the parties and, believe
me, a King knows how to party!"

	  	 Kate and Trish looked relieved. With very little further
coaxing, the two co-eds took off their tops and shook their tits for him,
working to secure the grant. Trish squatted down and unzipped Smedley to clinch
the deal with a blowjob while Kate frenched him.

	As Smedley and Kate's strong wet tongues intertwined muscularly, Trish
pulled his penis from his pants and sucked on his thick knob to stiffen him. It
took little time for his pant python to uncoil. Trish skilfully deep-throated
him, sword swallowing until her lips were kissing his pubic hairs.

	Smedley spitting cobra spat hard down Trish's wide-open throat and it
was a done deal. Trish and Kate left, smirking smugly.

	It was the end of another busy day at the bank as Smedley and Michelle
closed up. They headed off to a strip club where Smedley had arranged for a
deeply grateful Michelle to do a little moonlighting. As far as lovely Michelle
was concerned, it sure beat having nasty parasites feed on you in the rice
paddies.    

		   

	Chapter 2 - Airport To Hell

	Lovely Sherry was pissed. She shook her long blond tresses violently and
stamped her pretty little foot.

	"Meredith, I told you that wasn't a good connection! Now we're stuck in
this stupid little African airport in the middle of nowhere! Look at this place!
The only airplane in sight is that private jet! There's no one at the ticket
counter and not many passengers!"

	Her buddy Meredith was resolutely optimistic.

	"Stop being an hysterical ninny! Have some faith! We're both
stewardesses. I can certainly read a timetable. I'm sure there's another
airplane out of here bound for Johannesburg in an hour."

	Sherry was despondent.

	"This plussing is the pits!"

	"What do you mean? It's free transportation! It's a perq of the job. You
know how much these flights would cost if we were paying for it! We're airline
employees, so we can travel for free on any unfilled seats on a flight."

	Sherry sighed.

	"I guess so. The only problem is that the unfilled seats brought us
here. You said there was a connecting flight! I don't even see anyone at the
ticket desk, much less an actual, factual commercial plane! There's just that
one private jet and that's it!"

	Sherry looked out at the empty tarmac glumly. Meredith pointed out the
up side.

	"At least there's no stupid airport security here!"

	Sherry brightened marginally.

	"Yeah, those security weenies are officious jerks. Underpaid little
morons drunk on power who like making you spread your legs for their stupid
metal detecting wand! Like I've got an AK-47 hidden up my wazoo!"

	Meredith eyed Sherry's generous superstructure.

	"Well, you're certainly packin' !"

	Sherry giggled.

	"They never look me in the face! The way those guys talk to me you'd
think I had microphones in my nipples!"

	She resumed her rant about airport security.

	"If you object, it's all the excuse they need to have their pet butch
bitch feel you up."

	"Yeah, that's the closest those creeps are ever going to get to a pair
of luscious blonds like us!"

	Sherry shuddered delicately. She was quite particular about granting
access to her ex-cheerleader body.

	"Well, it's too close for me!"

	"Amen, sister! Hey look, someone's finally manning the ticket counter!"

	Sherry stepped briskly up to the ticket counter. Like many people in
customer service, she demanded a lot when it was her turn to be served.

	"It's about time! What is this - a banana republic?" 

	The slow-moving black woman eyed them insolently.

	"Actually, bananas are a major export, honeybuns!"

	She hated uppity blond bitches.

	"How much service were you expecting, sweetie? You two lost? Ain't
nothin' happenin' here!"

	Meredith struck a conciliatory note.

	"Sorry! It's just that we've been waiting awhile! Where's the flight to
Johannesburg?"

	"Cancelled! Next flight's in a couple of days!"

	"WHAT!"

	Short-fused Sherry looked like she was ready to go postal. Meredith
placed a restraining hand on Sherry's arm.

	"Is there another flight out of here?"

	"No commercial airline's flying out of here for the next couple of
days."

	Meredith looked at the ticket agent slyly.

	"Are there any private planes leaving from here?"

	The black ticket agent nodded reluctantly. She gestured at a muscular
black gentleman at the far end of the terminal.

	"If you ask nicely, Mr. Nairobi might give you a lift on King Mumboli's
private jet. He's King Mumboli's head of security. He and King Mumboli were at
Oxford together!"

	Neither of the stewardesses had heard of King Mumboli, but figured that
an Oxford educated monarch with his own private jet was just what the doctor
ordered. Beaming brightly, the ticket agent was suddenly extremely helpful. She
picked up the microphone and paged him.

	"Will Mr. Whitey Nairobi come to the ticket counter, please? Two lovely
young damsels in distress need a favour!"

	Smiling broadly, bright white teeth almost jumping out of his coal-black
face, Whitey came over. Convinced that they were temporarily stranded, Sherry
and Meredith were delighted to be offered complimentary seats on King Mumboli's
private jet which 'just happened' to be going to their destination in South
Africa. The two bodacious beauties cooed in gratitude as he escorted them off.

	It was a busy day for the ticket agent. Shortly after she had finished
pushing Sherry and Meredith onto Whitey, a blond, nordic beauty stepped out of a
cab, glanced around and stepped up to the slow-moving ticket agent. The ticket
agent eyed her with her usual languid insolence. What was it with all these
white bitches all of a sudden?

	"You looking for something, sweetie?"

	Ingrid looked down at her coolly.

	"I'm supposed to meet my guide, Jimmy Whitcomb."

	The ticket agent grinned, always happy to help a blond bitch on her way
to hell. Ingrid assumed, quite correctly, that the name of Jimmy Whitcomb, a
well-known local scumbag, accounted for the ticket agent's sudden warmth.

	"You're looking for Jimmy Whitcomb? I think he told me about you! You
must be Ingrid Schumacher, the anthropologist that Jimmy's guiding to the
Widowmakers, a mythical, reclusive tribe of female warriors?"

	"Well, he's going to let me off in the vacinity. Since they reportedly
use men only for breeding purposes before disposing of them, he doesn't want to
hang around."

	The ticket agent laughed genially.

	"They sound like my sort of women! What makes you think they're real?"

	Ingrid loosened up.

	"A man named Smedley Hargreaves showed me some interesting video footage
of one of their rituals and arranged some funding for my expedition."

	The ticket agent looked around the empty airport as King Mumboli's
private jet with Meredith and Sherry aboard took off.

	"How big is your expedition? You're not exactly swamping our facility
here!"

	Ingrid giggled.

	"Well, actually, it's just me, my trusty video camera, my audio cassette
recorder and my notebook."

	The ticket agent nodded approvingly and looked at her shrewdly.

	"Afraid that a big expedition might frighten them off?"

	Ingrid nodded.

	"That's what Smedley suggested. I've not been to Africa before, but I've
done a lot of camping and hiking so I should be OK for a week! I've investigated
tribes in New Zealand quite a bit, so I'm used to petty tough terrain and, in a
territory dominated by fierce female warriors, I'm probably pretty safe."

	The ticket agent loved a naive blond bitch. She eyed Ingrid's buxom
figure slyly.

	"I'm sure that they'll love you to death!"

	Ingid sniggered.

	"I've heard the rumours that they're lesbian, if that's what you mean,
and I think I can cope!"

	The black ticket agent rolled the whites of her eyes comically.

	"Just lay back and think that it's all for the good of science!"

	Ingrid guffawed.

	"Exactly! I mean, the worst case is that I get to taste some warrior
pussy!"

	"Best case is that they get to taste yours!"

	The women were smirking, enjoying a deep-down dirty snigger, when Jimmy
Whitcomb stepped up.

	"Since you are absolutely the only potential passenger in the airport, I
assume that you're Ingrid Schumacher from the University's Anthroplogy
Department?"

	Ingrid smiled and held out her hand. They shook. She picked up her
knapsack. Jimmy eyed the large knapsack.

	"Is that all of your luggage?"

	A thoroughly modern young woman, Ingrid was supremely confident of her
ability to handle herself.

	"That's it! My supplies for a week!"

	Jimmy projected an image of brisk, reassuring competence, his
stock-in-trade.

	"OK! The deal is that I fly you in on my float plane, drop you off and
come back to the same place to pick you up in a week. I'll give you a
transmitter and we make radio contact each evening at six o'clock so you can let
me know of any change in plans and where you are so that we can get you out if
there's any trouble. Right?"

	Ingrid nodded.

	"Right!"

	"Got a gun, Ingrid?"

	"Yes, a .45 automatic."

	She showed him her pistol. He nodded approvingly.

	"Excellent! Let's go! My float plane's on the lake just past the trees."

	Behind Ingrid's back, the ticket agent crossed her eyes and mouthed the
words 'float plane?' with a look of mock astonishment. Jimmy grinned cheerfully
at her.

	"Thanks for your help, Yolanda."

	"No problem, Mr. Whitcomb! Glad to be of service!"
   

	Chapter 3 - Coffee, Tea  or (ulp!) Me?

	The superior, red-haired stewardess ushered them to their seats aboard
King Mumboli's jet. The seat belt light went on. Obediently, Sherry and Meredith
buckled themselves snugly into their seats like good airline employees. The
red-haired stewardess buckled herself into the seat facing them, smiling
nervously. Sherry spoke sardonically.

	"You seem nervous. Been flying long?"

	The English stewardess had a plummy, upper-class accent.

	"They don't know it yet, but this is my last flight working for these
bastards!"

	"What do you mean?"

	The English stewardess was mysterious and none too comforting.

	"I've seen too much of the way these guys operate. When we land in South
Africa, I'm bailing!"

	The jet engines whined noisily, drowning out all conversation as they
were cranked up full blast. The pilot released the brakes and the jet took off
like a rocket.

	"Wow! Someone must have really souped up those engines! That was fast!
What did you mean by the phrase 'those bastards' exactly? Is there something we
should know?"

	Glancing behind them, the stewardess spoke furtively.

	"I'll tell you later!"

	The red-haired stewardess went silent as Whitey and two very large
gentlemen pushed a trolley bearing a covered bucket, a pair of tweezers, a small
metal bottle and a large sponge down the aisle towards them. Whitey smiled at
Meredith and Sherry.

	"Has lovely Brandi been telling you her problems?"

	Sherry spoke quickly.
	
	"Not yet! Does she have a problem?"

	Whitey nodded.

	"She has a quite serious problem. She keeps refusing the King's
advances."

	Sherry glanced uneasily at Meredith.

	"Uh, is that a crime in your country? I thought that you and the King
went to Oxford together! Surely a civilized gentleman can accept a lady's
refusal?"

	Whitey smiled warmly.

	"Certainly! He accepts her refusal completely and has given us
permission to use her as an example."

	Brandi fumbled with her seat belt, but it wouldn't unbuckle. Belatedly,
Sherry and Meredith discovered that they were strapped down too, pinned
helplessly in their seats.  Whitey helpfully clarified their predicament.

	"I guess you girls are just discovering that those seatbelts don't come
off until I unlock them. Sherry and Meredith, since there's nothing you can do,
you just settle down, watch and learn."

	He gripped Brandi by the hair and pulled back her head. She looked up at
him fearfully.

	"What are you going to do?"

	Whitey spoke quietly.

	"I want you to show everyone your tits, Brandi!"

	Brandi scowled.

	"Why would I want to do that?"

	Whitey reached to the trolley and picked up the small metal bottle. He
unscrewed the top. An evil mist emerged from the bottle like a swampy, miasmic
breath, smelling of almonds. Brandi looked at it fearfully.

	"What's that?"

	"This is hydrofluoric acid in concentrated form. It's stored in metal
because it eats glass. It's used to clean cast iron, copper and brass or to etch
fancy patterns in glass. Although it's clear, it's more like a thin oil than
water so it probably won't spray around much if I spill some on you and you jerk
around a lot. If you don't show us your tits, I'll pour it over your blouse. The
good news is that it will dissolve your blouse and bra, saving you the trouble
of removing them. The bad news is that it will dissolve your tits and chest as
well."

	He gingerly poured a small drop onto the trolley next to the covered
bucket. Sizzling and hissing violently, it promply ate a large hole in the
trolley top. Whitey looked at her inquiringly.

   	"Want everyone to see your bleached rib bones or will you take it all
off?"

	Brandi began unbuttoning. Badly shaken, she started to speak. Whitey
held a finger to her lips to shush her.

	"The time for talk is over. It's time for some action! Let's start with
a stripshow, a working girl showing everyone what she has to offer."

	Whitey grinned at Sherry and Meredith.

	"Why don't you girls show us what you're packing too? Let's have a
totally topless stewardess party!"

	Whitey shook the acid bottle gently. Sherry and Meredith gave each other
a horrified glance and hurriedly started to unbutton.

	The men smirked smugly as the young beauties pulled off their blouses
and unhooked their bras to show them the merchandise. Brandi was first,
displaying pert breasts capped by small, blood-red nipples. Sherry uncupped her
monster melons and big brown nipples. Meredith came in third with a nice pair of
firm young globes and pretty pink paps.

	As their bare boobs jiggled gently, Whitey and his goons noticed that
none of the stewardesses were trying to cover up. Whitey appreciated experienced
women who knew an enchanting variety of tricks. Here he had hit the jackpot:
three in a row. As he eyed the tit parade, he mentally amended that to six in a
row. He capped the acid bottle.

	"OK, ladies! Put your hands on your heads and give them a shake."

	The captive stewardesses bounced them for the boys. He zeroed in on
Brandi.

	"When I release you, you have nowhere to run. You're on a plane high in
the sky. If you think you can take any one of us, much less all three at once,
you're very stupid indeed. Give us any excuse, we'll pin you to the floor and
I'll pour acid on your face. Feeling co-operative, Brandi?"

	Brandi swallowed hard and nodded as he thumbed his remote control to
unbuckle her seatbelt.

	"Stand up and take it all off, Brandi. We want to see every square inch
of your skin. We want to know if you shave your pussy. We want to see your Brit
slit. Show us your every nook and cranny, Brandi!"

	Her patrician features frozen and impassive, Brandi coolly stripped,
stepping out of her heels, undoing her skirt and peeling off her pantihose. She
had a neatly trimmed pubic triangle and a slit that looked like a snug little
cockpit indeed. Whitey patted the seat.

	"Sit!"

	Brandi sat primly, knees together. Whitey loved nylon stockings.
Producing a pair from his pocket, he firmly tied one around each of  Brandi's
slim ankles. The two goons each pulled a stocking in opposite directions,
spreading Brandi's shapely legs nicely. They tied them down to ringbolts, set
far apart, into the floor. Pulling out another stocking, he tied Brandi's wrists
together in front of her, pulled them up over her head and tied them to the back
of her seat. He picked the big sponge up off the trolley and held it in front of
Brandi's tightly pursed lips.

	"Open!"

	With visible reluctance, Brandi opened. He jammed the large sponge into
her mouth and tied it in place with a fourth nylon stocking. Meredith and Sherry
watched, their eyes huge. Whitey mugged a bit for his captive audience. He
gestured dramatically at the covered bucket.

	"I bet you're wondering what's under the cover!"

	Sherry piped up nervously, hating the way her voice squeaked when she
fed him the straight line.

	"What is it?"

	With a dramatic flourish, he pulled back the cover. Under the glassed-in
top, a nest of large black wasps began to buzz angrily. Whitey picked up the
tweezers and opened a small hole in the top of the bucket. As a very aggressive
wasp climbed out he gripped it firmly with the tweezers and hurriedly shut the
hole. The evil black wasp wriggled and writhed, buzzing angrily in the tweezers.

	Whitey smiled at Brandi, reached between her legs and parted her Brit
slit to expose her clit. Brandi tried frantically to squeeze her thighs together
and press her hips as deeply into the chair as she could as he slowly lowered
the squirming, angrily buzzing insect towards her crotch while it's companions
in the wasp nest droned an evil chorus.

	"Brandi, there are consequences to refusing a King!"

	He helpfully positioned the furious wasp's plunging black stinger next
to her bare, defenseless clit. Unlike a bee, which can only sting once, a wasp
has no barb on it's stinger. The frenzied wasp jabbed it home repeatedly, each
excruciating jackhammer jab injecting a minim of venom into her aching love
nubbin.

	Eyes bulging, flushing brick red right down her shaking breasts,
Brandi's British reserve broke completely. Her lovely face twisted in anguish.
The bare bummed buxom beauty bucked berserkly. 

	Brandi shreiked and screamed and screeched, the blood pulsing in her
fiery-red face, every cord in her neck standing out like a taut steel cable
about to snap.

	She screamed until the snot ran. Then she took a great ragged, sobbing
breath and screamed some more.

	Everyone was grateful for the gag as poor Brandi shreiked long, hard and
high, her entire being consumed by the raging fire that flamed fiercely between
her trembling naked thighs.

	Whitey deftly slipped the wasp back into the bucket and covered it up.
The two ashen-faced stewardesses watched Brandi hump her hips like a jackhammer,
bare buttocks bouncing, screeching like a madwoman, trying vainly to handle the
agony of her burning, grotesquely swelling penis fimineus. Her labia distended
fully as the powerful wasp venom worked it's evil magic, eating into pain
receptors in the very core of her being.

	As Brandi screamed herself hoarse and her vocal cords tore, Whitey gave
a quick pep talk to Sherry and Meredith, a coach giving his players the game
plan.

	"You're going to meet King Mumboli. He likes his babes nude and really
friendly."

	He undid their seatbelts so that they could peel while he told them
exactly what King Mumboli liked.


 
     	Chapter 4 - Jungle Queens

	Ingrid groaned as she swayed, suspended on a pole shouldered by two
sturdy tribeswomen who handled her weight effortlessly while they trekked
through the jungle. Her head felt like someone had used a nail gun to staple
down her brain. The last thing she remembered was wondering where the float
plane was, not to mention that there was no trace of a lake. Presumably, her
'faithful' guide had knocked her cold and was somehow responsible for her
current fate.

	She did a quick self-inventory. She seemed to have lost her hiking
boots. Her belt was unbuckled, her pants were unzipped and her cunt burned. She
presumably had Jimmy to thank for that.

	A feeling of unaccustomed freedom told her that she was missing her bra
and panties as well. Perhaps Jimmy liked souvenirs. If there was any justice in
the world, these black bitches had done him in and kidnapped her from her
kidnapper. Light-headed, she tried to work out the genealogy. Did that make
Jimmy a kidnapper once removed?

	Suspended by her wrists and ankles from the pole, poor swaying Ingrid
tried to clear her head and focus. She wondered if her captors spoke English.

	"Um, speak-ee en-glish?"

	One of the female warriors looked down at her disdainfully.

	"A better question, my dear Ingrid, is whether that whack on the head
has scrambled
your brains completely!"

	Ingrid felt stupid.

	"Um, er, sorry. You seem to speak excellent English."

	"Just because we're primitive savages doen't mean that we're
inarticulate!"

	Raped and beaten, Ingrid was confused, which led inevitably to another
stupid question.

	"Sorry! I'm an anthropologist. Is English your native language then?"

	This drew an inevitable sarcastic response.

	"Do you really think that there are entire tribes in Africa that speak
English with a London accent, my dear dimbulb anthropologist?"

	Shalla's tribe had early recognized her superior intelligence and, being
female warriors and strong believers in favouring the talented, had pooled their
funds to finance her education at an exclusive girls boarding school in England.
The fact that she had been tormented mercilessly by her white classmates as the
only 'nignog' in the school was unfortunate.

	Particularly unfortunate for Ingrid, Shalla's principle tormentress had
been a gorgeous blond, Amanda. Of course, Shalla being a very bright girl, that
particular score had been settled thoroughly. Her former tormentress was working
hard to amuse everyone by stripping naked and opening all her orifices for
business in a Bangkok bordello when she wasn't recuperating from one of the S&M
pain shows. A high breasted beauty with flowing golden tresses, Amanda's pale
white skin displayed her deep flushes and angry red welts beautifully. Her
crimson, well-paddled bottom was widely admired on the internet. The pain freaks
who ran the bordello in Bangkok spent a lot of time and ingenuity making the
English bitch scream for the cameras time and time again.

	"Smile, Ingrid!"

	Shalla ran Ingrid's video camera, capturing the lovely young
anthropologist swaying  on the pole with her unbuckled trousers slipping down
revealingly. This wasn't exactly the sort of footage Ingrid had hoped for.

	"Um, I just want to watch your tribal rituals and interview you. I'm
here strictly as an observer. I mean you no harm!"

	Shalla broke the bad news to her.

	"Ingrid, you naive little muffin! It's a tribe of female warriors.
Observer equals spy. Spy equals a gruesome, protracted death."

	Shalla, a graduate summa cum laude of Pervert U., loved sweating the
golden whitebread bitches, persuading them to wade ever deeper into the shit
pit.

	"Look, I know what an anthropologist is, but these other women are
deeply distrustful! You can't be a long-lived warrior without full-blown
paranoia being a huge component of your personality!"

	There was a long pause while Ingrid absorbed this deeply depressing
factoid. Suddenly, Shalla's face brightened.

	"I know! You could join the tribe!"

	Ingrid was pathetically eager.

	"Yes! Yes! I could do that!"

	Shalla's face clouded with doubt.

	"Um, there's an initiation ritual designed to weed out the unworthy. If
you fail, you get sacrificed on the three-way guillotine!"

	Shalla let out a rueful laugh.

	"Silly me! Of course, right now you're going to be sacrificed anyway, so
you don't have much to lose!"

	Ingrid's major career moves had been made stark naked, featuring many
intimate exchanges of bodily fluids. She thought of herself as physically tough
and adventurous and, compared to most academics, she certainly was.

	Then, of course, there was the real world.

	Ingrid was foolishly eager. 	

	"Look, I've studied the martial arts. I'm a modern woman, not a
fluff-headed chicken who needs a big, strong man to protect her when he's not
abusing her! What's involved that you think I can't handle?"

	Shalla spoke seriously.

	"It's basically a series of trials to see if you're tough enough."

	Ingrid was positive.

	"I can do it!"

	As Ingrid was carried into the village, Shalla relayed the good news to
the others. Her black sisters grinned broadly in a display of strong,
startlingly white teeth. It seemed that they all shared Shalla's delightful
sense of fun.

	"You have to strip naked, Ingrid!"

	This was something Ingrid was rather good at. She did a playful
striptease for the girls, slowly unbuttoning her blouse, coyly eyeing the
fiercer-looking warriors who watched her impassively, though one gave her a sly,
encouraging wink. Courtesy of the enterprising Jimmy Whitcomb, she didn't have
much to remove. She dramatically dropped her pants to her ankles and languidly,
with lazy-bitch insolence, stepped out of them. Shalla grinned.

	"Nice tits, nice nips, nice buns and a natural blond! Quite a lovely
package! Hands behind your back, Ingrid!"

	Ingrid's wrists were crossed and tied to a rope which was looped around
her neck. The rope connecting her wrists to her neck was tightened brutally,
pulling her wrists high up on her back, forcing her breasts out and partly
strangling her. As her pretty face turned purple, her legs were spread and each
dainty ankle was tied to the end of a leg-spreading pole. As she was prepped,
the female warriors strapped on huge ebony dildoes.

	"The first trial is a rape-a-thon, since if a female warrior is
captured, that's what happens."

	Shalla held up a smooth wooden ball attached by a short chain to a ten
pound weight. She pressed it against Ingrid's lips.

	"Open up, Ingrid! Hold the ball in your mouth."

	Ingrid opened and Shalla popped the ball between her lips. Her jaw
muscles tightened as she held the smooth ball in her mouth, supporting the ten
pound weight swinging between her breasts with difficulty. Shalla explained.

	"The skill-testing element is that you must keep your lips together,
Ingrid. If you drop the ball, you lose! Comport yourself with dignity as
behooves a brave warrior meeting her fate!"

	Dignity was difficult as the first grinning warrior stepped up behind
her quivering nakedness and, with a quick brutal thrust of her hips, rammed her
dildo home. Ingrid's eyes bulged and she squealed through closed lips as her
burning cuntlips stretched achingly wide to accomodate the thick, unlubricated
shaft.

	The weight banged against her jiggling chest as the choking beauty was
reamed vigorously. Each warrior had five minutes with her blond rape toy. Each
was larger than the previous one.

	Ingrid, with the mouth muscles of an experienced tongue-wrestler, held
on to the smooth grimly. The inevitable drooling around the edges made gripping
the smooth ball tricky but, as an experienced mouth whore, she managed. Snot ran
in two thin, runny streams from her nostrils as she sobbed and quaked making the
ball ever more slippery. The grinning warriors had one more trick for their pet
white bitch.

	Her tight buttocks were prised open and her anal orifice opened for
business by a slim, prickly shaft. Ingrid opened her mouth wide and shreiked
like a banshee.

	Ingrid stared numbly in horror at the ball rolling by her feet. Shalla
was warmly encouraging, wanting to keep Ingrid in the game and struggling hard
for as long as possible.

	"Very good, Ingrid! Everone's much impressed! Don't worry, Ingrid! It's
a two out of three event! You can still win! We'll move right on to the fish
hooks."

	Her jaw muscles hadn't ached this much since she had blown an entire
basketball team for some play-off tickets. Those black dudes had been huge,
they'd had serious stamina and they had really, really, really BELIEVED in
making the white bitch work hard for her play-off tickets.

	Ingrid licked her swollen lips.

	"Fish hooks?"    



	Chapter 5 - True Confessions

	Swinging his tool box jauntily, Whitey Nairobi whistled happily as he
strode along the cool concrete corridor to the thick metal door at the end. He
put the key in the lock and slowly opened the heavy door to The Sweatbox.

	Standing in the middle of the steamy room, lovely Linn stared fearfully
at him, flushed and sweltering in her bra and panties. Dainty wrists tightly
bound behind her back and glossy red lips firmly wrapped around a large ball
gag, luscious Linn was his sort of milk white meat.

	Whitey dropped his tool box on the floor and slammed the door behind
him. He snapped the chain hanging from the ceiling onto the strong plastic strap
that clamped Linn's wrists tightly together. Using two more of the strong
plastic ties, he fastened each of Linn's slim elegant ankles to large ringbolts
imbedded in the concrete floor, spreading her superb legs nicely. He went to the
wall and carefully cranked up the chain attached to her wrists until she was
humbly bent over in front of him, balancing precariously on tiptoe, every muscle
stretched taught under her creamy smooth skin.

	Linn watched apprehensively as he knelt down and opened his tool box. He
took out a pair of scissors and snipped off her sweat sodden bra and panties.
Her full, ripe breasts and pretty pink quim quivered delectably as she shivered
despite the heat.

	Whitey ungagged her and raised a bottle of warm water to her lips. Linn
gulped the brackish water thirstily. It tasted a bit salty because Whitey had
pissed in it, but poor parched Linn had no way of knowing that. Grinning, he
generously let her drink long and deep. Despite his name, Whitey was as black as
a coal pit at midnight. He loved making the white-skinned sluts sweat.

	Linn stood on tiptoe, dripping with perspiration, her guts tense and
queasy as she unwillingly bowed before him.

	When, at last, she had drunk her fill of piss water, Linn tried to
explain.

	"Look, there's been some kind of mistake. I'm not a drug smuggler! The
drugs must have been planted-eh-ehhrrb."

	Playfully, Whitey started to ease the gag back into her mouth. Linn was
frantic to convince him of her innocence. She clamped her pearly white teeth
tightly together, hoping that he would allow her to say more. The gag was so
frustrating. She couldn't argue her innocence with it in place. With the gag in
place, she was a helpless victim to be broken into mindless acquiescence and
then turned over to the legal system of this small, deeply religious African
country for a long, brutal public execution. What Linn wanted, above all, was to
avoid having her beautiful bare body slowly and carefully carved up in front of
an approving audience.

	      Whitey let her grind her pearly whites together while he held the
back of her head firmly with one hand and lightly pressed the thick rubber ball
against her unwilling lips with the other. He liked letting his playmates wear
themselves out in futile struggles, first arousing their hopes, and then cruelly
dashing them.

	He stood, calmly listening to her molars grate against each other for
long minutes. Linn began to have hopes that she could outwait him, that he would
relent and listen to her.

	As he saw hope growing large in her big neautiful eyes, he gave her
aching jaw muscles a hard painful pinch. Her teeth parted and the ball gag was
popped back in place. Linn squealed in pain and frustration as the ball gag was
buckled tightly in position. Whitey hummed contentedly.

	He could have told Linn that they had been waiting for her for weeks,
that informers had turned her in long before she had even arrived at the
airport, that her luggage had not been searched at random, in short that they
had her cold. He could have told her that maybe she could make a deal as they
knew that this was her first drug-smuggling effort: to co-operate in breaking
the drug ring in exchange for her freedom.

	He could have, but he didn't. After all, he had helped set her up.

	Whitey loved making his naked white meat resist him every obscene step
of the way. He smiled at Linn as her gaze strayed to the disquieting contents of
his toolbox.

	A strong believer in encouraging mental meltdowns, Whitey took out some
of his instruments. He held the long, thin needles before Linn's anxious eyes.

	"These are used to probe the most sensitive portions of the female
anatomy. I find that working generous amounts of baby oil into these tender
flesh parts amplifies the pain quite nicely."

	This wasn't quite true. Whitey just liked his satin meat wet, dripping
and thoroughly groped and fondled. Linn's breasts quivered magnificently as he
pulled out a large bottle of baby oil and began squirting it on and lovingly
working it into the soft creamy skin of her glistening, milk white mammaries.

	Her smooth bare belly was oiled next. As he rubbed in the oil with
strong, smooth strokes, he noted approvingly the quaking of her firm young
viscera.

	Last and best, he delved between her widespread legs and painstakingly
worked the baby oil into every crack and cranny of her tight, moist orifice. He
lovingly spread, parted and exposed every square inch of exquisitely sensitive,
deeply private skin. He sprayed oil and massaged it in thoroughly with strong
probing fingers. As his well-lubricated digits slipped slickly and repeatedly in
and out of her most intimate cavity, Linn whimpered, feeling more degraded and
more deeply violated than she had thought possible.

	Whitey lit the small brazier in the corner. Linn's heart was hammering
against her ribs like a trip hammer. Her big bare breasts shuddered and swayed
as she saw him pull the small branding irons from his toolbox and set them in
the brazier to heat.

	Linn squirmed uncomfortably as she watched him pull out the electric
prod. At first, she didn't know what it was. He held it inches from her sweating
face, pressed the button and was gratified to see understanding dawn in her
terrified eyes as a bright blue spark sizzled across the contact points with a
fierce snap of raw power. Caught by surprise, Linn's callipygous buttocks
clenched reflexively, dimpling prettily as she tried to jerk back. Her erect
nipples sprayed drops of sweat as she shook and shivered in terror.

	Whitey grinned. He turned on the microphone that dangled from the
ceiling in front of Linn's lips to record her confession. He removed the gag.

	Linn looked up at him, unwilling to confess everything and thus sign her
own painful death warrant. Her pretty pouty lips trembled delicately as she
pleaded.

	"I didn't do it! I didn't smuggle those drugs. I didn't know they were
there! Please let me go. It would cause a lot of bad publicity for you and your
government if you torture and kill an innocent person!"

	Whitey patted her on the head and gave her tits a friendly fondle.

	"Don't bother your pretty little head about bad publicity. If you are
innocent, you can't confess to any of those little details that only a guilty
person would know. Once you let one of those slip, no more Mister Nice Guy!
Nobody minds when a nasty drug smuggler gets squeezed hard. Until then, I can
inflict no lasting injury."

	He glanced at the microphone and spoke piously.

	"Indeed, I will be gentleness itself as I conduct this very serious
inquiry!"

	Linn chattered quickly, nervously, pathetically eager to gain sympathy,
to explain it all away.

	"My husband died! I don't have his income any more, so I came here to
look for a job..."

	Whitey gripped her plump pink nipple between his strong fingers and
clamped his hand over her mouth as he pinched and twisted brutally. Linn hummed
frantically into his hand. He spoke reproachfully and loudly to cover any
squealing that might get through to the recording, not that it really mattered.

	"I want to hear about the smuggling, not some sad sob story!"

	He removed his hand. Linn, panting hard, tried desperately to sound as
plausible as possible.

	"I'm telling you! I don't know anything about the coke in my suitcase. I
never saw it before! It must have been planted on me. After I had inadvertently
smuggled it across the border, whoever planted it on me was probably going to
steal my briefcase."

	 Whitey took a razor strop from his toolbox. He bumped the microphone to
cover the sound as he slashed it across her delectable bare bum. Linn  gasped.

	"Don't sass me, woman! How did you know it was coke? Nobody said it was
coke!"

	"Coke's white, isn't it? I saw that it was white!"

	"So's heroin and crack."

	Linn affected surprise.

	"Oh! I didn't know that!"

	He clamped his hand over her mouth and pinched her other pink plump
nipple, twisting and yanking it painfully. Linn emitted a muffled yelp as he
spoke loudly.

	"Of course you know! You did it - why?"

	Whitey withdrew his hand. Linn licked her lips very nervously indeed.
Her damp hair was curled and plastered to her head, framing her superbly
scuplted cheekbones. Breasts shaking, her aching nipples swollen, she reeked of
fear sweat.

	"I didn't do it! Honest!"

	He snapped the electic probe in front of her eyes again. Linn flinched.

	"Just tell me about it. Make it easy on yourself!"

	"Look, even if you hurt me, I can't tell you about something I know
nothing about!"

	He ran his finger along the angry red welt on her burning rump. Linn
winced. He reached between her trembling thighs and delicately twisted and
tugged at her pubic hairs while he spoke. He loved playing the fuckmeat, making
them sweat and tell him hopeful lies.

	"That's right! You can't, but if I don't sweat you good then I can't be
certain that you won't let some incriminating little detail slip, the little
detail that only a guilty person could know. If you're innocent, you can't tell
me anything you don't know and we'll eventually have to let you go with our
sincere apologies for any inconvenience you may have suffered. Well, that ends
this first little session!"

	He turned off the mike and glared angrily at her.

	"Now we get serious!"

	Linn stared fearfully at the electric prod and pleaded beseechingly.

	"Hurting innocent people won't do your country's reputation any good!
You're trying to attract tourists, aren't you? Is this the way to do it?"

	He touched the electric probe to the back of her quivering thigh and
pressed the button. Linn screamed hoarsely as the largest muscle in her body
spasmed painfully.

	"What did you say, slut?"

	"I DIDN'T DO IT!!!"

	Linn looked at him frantically. He touched the prod to her bare bum and
pressed the button. Linn shreiked piercingly as her buns clenched and quivered
convulsively.

	"Fucking Christ! I'll do anything! Anything at all! Please don't use
that thing on me. I'll do anything!"

	Whitey smiled. This was the music he liked to hear. He sqeezed one of
her bare boobs gently.

	"Anything?"

	Linn looked at him with total sincerity.

	"You name it. I'll do it!"

	He reached between her legs and rubbed her cuntlips softly.

	"Any wicked little thing at all?"

	Suddenly believing that she could fuck her way to freedom, Linn babbled
excitedly.

	"That's right!"

	He touched the prod to her neatly shaven armpit. Linn whimpered. He
pressed the button. Linn's breast jerked as the current convulsed her pectoral.
When she had quietened down, Whitey flicked the mike back on.

	"You offered me sexual services just now, didn't you?"

	Linn was confused and frustrated. Deep in the pain locker, she hadn't
noticed that she was being recorded again.

	"Yes, yes I did! What's wrong with that? Don't you want it? Everybody
likes a good fuck!"

	"Only a dirty little whore would behave like that! You're guilty as
hell! Tell me about the forty kilos of coke in your suitcase!"

	Linn was surprised. Unthinkingly, she blurted out her protest.

	"It was only five kilos!"

	Whitey smiled. Linn could have bitten her tongue, glancing nervously at
the tape recorder, suddenly aware that the tape was turning.

	"How do you know that, Linn?"

	Linn stuttered her reply.

	"I-I, um, er, overheard one of the guards say it!"

	Whitey spoke gently.

	"It was weighed after you were taken away, Linn. Only a guilty person
would know the exact amount. You're a self convicted, lying little slut! Time to
get tough and see what you really know!"

	Linn screamed shrilly as the razor strop was snapped crisply and
repeatedly into her taut bare thighs and quivering asscheeks. Her welts blazed
brightly like stripes on a barber pole. Whitey paused briefly and took careful
aim.

	Linn was blubbering hoarsely when the razor strop cracked between her
parted thighs and kissed her genitals hard. Linn squealed like a boiled pig as
her battered chuff box exploded in agony. She raised her pain-contorted face,
looked at Whitey with tearful, big brown eyes and began stuttering.

	"I-I-I-..."

	Whitey realized that the stupid bitch was about to confess everything.
No fun in that. He popped a ball gag between her parted, trembling lips and
buckled it tight. Linn snivelled frustratedly into the gag.

	"We don't seem to be getting anywhere, my creamy white marshmellow, so
I'm changing the rules. You only get to talk when I let you. Maybe you'll have
more to say if talking is a privilege!"

	Linn looked up frantically to communicate her eagerness to confess and
tell him absolutely everything. Whitey smiled at the incomprehensible, muffled
effort. He waved his hand dismissively.

	"Please! No more lies!"

	Linn squealed like a boiled lobster as he inserted the ice cold
speculum, squeezed the handle and opened her cunt wide. He thoughtfully picked
up the tenaculum, a small metal pincer on the end of a long rod operated by a
squeeze handle. He held the tenaculum in front of Linn's bulging eyes. She
watched in gibbering horror as he squeezed the handle and the pincers snapped
shut.

	Linn struggled futilely as the long tenaculum was inserted inside her.
She began hyperventilating as she felt the jaws of the chilled steel pincer
touch her intimately. She screamed hard into the gag as it bit viciously into
her moist, exquisitely tender cavity.

	Whitey grinned. This was the way he liked his white meat - hot and
helpless. Linn's big brown eyes bulged as he positioned  the tenaculum carefully
and squeezed the handle again.

	Linn went berserk. Her naked torso bucked and heaved. She danced and
pranced, gasped, shreiked and bawled hysterically. The gag thwarted completely
her manic efforts to break down and confess.

	At last, Whitey removed the tenaculum. Linn stood on tiptoe, bent over
humbly, reeking acridly of fear-sweat and urine, panting fast and hard, shaking
badly.

	Whitey decided that the foreplay was over. He unzipped, pulled out his
bulging blacksnake and encunted her. He pumped hard and then powerfully sprayed
copious quantities of hot milk into her raw, aching void. So powerful was his
ejaculation that Linn could almost taste it.

	He decunted and wiped his dripping member off in Linn's hair. He removed
the gag. Linn eagerly blurted out a complete confession to the tape recorder.

	He gently asked her questions. She told him all the things that only the
truly guilty could know. Gratefully, sobbing in relief at being given the
opportunity to tell all, she babbled out everything: names, addresses, times,
who did what when, everything.

	He turned off the recorder and patted her burning rump.

	"I'll just pass this to the British Ambassador. It will help greatly in
the anti-drug crusade back home. To ensure that he won't make any waves when
you're executed, we'll invite him to attend! The King and I went to Oxford with
him, doncha know. The three of us often went to Hamburg together to watch them
make the bitches scream during school breaks!"

	Linn bawled hoarsely as viscous white pearls of Whitey's man-oil
dribbled stickily down the inside of her thighs.

	
	Chapter 6 - The Happy Hooker

	Ingrid whimpered as the first fish hook pierced her cuntlip. The other
five weren't any easier. Three on one lip and three on the other. Shalla coached
her enthusiastically.

	"You're doing great, Ingrid! Just like a true warrior!"

	Ingrid eyed the thick, greased spike apprehensively. She was still bound
as before. The choke rope was holding her wrists up high behind her back. Her
legs were still spread wide by the pole fastened to her dainty ankles. The busty
blond anthropologist was stark naked, totally exposed, completely vulnerable.

	"We're going to lift you up and the spike will go a little way into your
cunt. You're an experienced woman of the world. You can handle it!"

	As an experienced woman of the world, having a dirty, greasy pole shoved
up her newly pierced, swollen, bruised cunt was the absolute last thing Ingrid
wanted to handle. Sensing that her player was losing her enthusiasm for the
game, coach Shalla knew a motivational pep talk was in order.

	She showed Ingrid the three-way guillotine.

	"It looks a lot like an ordinary guillotine, doesn't it? You're hung on
the upright frame upside down. Your leg-spreader fits in those big hooks that
travel up and down the frame on pulleys. Once your leg spreader is in the hooks,
the hooks are adjusted until your big yummy knockers are on a level with those
two holes. We push your breasts through the holes. We push your head forwards
through that large third hole that's underneath and between the other two. Then
we crank up that heavy board on the bottom until it's resting against the back
of your head, so that your head is bent forward and looking up, between your
tits, at the large descending blade. A series of straps hugs you tightly against
the frame. We release that huge, heavy blade and your last sight in this world
will be your sliced off tits hitting you in the face just after the blade chops
off your head."

	Ingrid was sweating nicely. Shalla gave her a bright, happy-nigger
smile.

	"Are you suddenly feeling a lot better about getting the greasy pole up
your cunt, Ingrid?"

	Ingrid gave a short, rueful laugh.

	"You are so persuasive, Shalla, you silver-tongued rogue!"

	Shalla was surprised and delighted at this show of spirit, but then,
Ingrid was a lot more inured to sexual abuse than the average female.

	"Where did you find a toy like that in the jungle?"

	Shalla grinned.

	"It's one of the benefits of a higher education. A little bargain I
picked up during a shopping trip in Hamburg."

	Ingrid arched an eyebrow at her.

	"So they were having a sale on tit-slicers and you just couldn't
resist?"

	Shalla nodded.

	"Exactly! Europe is so sophisticated!"

	"So! Here you are, bringing civilisation to your people!"

	"Absolutely, old bean!"

	Ingrid gave a rueful snort.

	"What's the deal with the fish hooks?"

	"We hang weights from them. You'll be surprised how far cuntlips can be
stretched!"

	Ingrid grunted as the heavy weights were attached, stretching her labia
far down between her quivering thighs.

	"We insert the pole."

	She was lifted into the air by strong black hands. Ingrid sobbed as the
rounded end of the thick pole parted her swollen cuntlips and penetrated the
bimbo's bruised box a single inch.

	"We add two more fish hooks."

	Ingrid gasped as her nipples were pierced and weighted heavily, dragging
her tits down to her waist.

	"This last hook has a little bell attached."

	Shalla tinkled the bell playfully and knelt between Ingrid's legs.
Ingrid screamed shrilly as her clit was pierced by the barbed fish hook. Shalla
ran the hook along the length of Ingrid's clit like a fisherman putting on a
worm.

	Shalla waited for Ingrid to calm down a bit before explaining the
contest.

	"You see the two marks on the pole, six inches apart?"

	Ingrid looked down between her legs and nodded. One mark was just below
her cuntlips and the other was six inches below that.

	"You have to slide up and down the pole sixty times without tinkling the
bell. You have to completely cover and then completely uncover the two marks
with your cunt."

	Shalla grinned lewdly.

	"Do you think that you're woman enough to handle it?"

	"Do I have a choice?"

	"There's always the three-way guillotine!"

	Ingrid began doing the most excruciating deep knee bends that she had
ever experienced: slowly, obscenely, agonizingly penetrating herself for a
wondrously invasive seven inches and then pulling herself up again. The grinning
black bitches watched the beautiful blond bimbo degrade herself for their
amusement, the large pole disappearing, inch by agonizing inch, into her cunt
and then, slowly and painfully, re-emerging.

	To Ingrid's horror, her exhausted inner thigh muscles began to tremble
from the unceasing, brutally obscene exertion.

	It was near sundown when the tiny bell tinkled merrily between her legs.

	Emitting loud war-hoops, the howling black bitches descended on her.
Ingrid found herself de-poled and strapped upside down on the three-way
guillotine. Eager hands pushed her tits through the holes. Her hair was pulled
forward and she found herself staring up between her tits at the thin gleaming
blade, heavily weighted across the top. The heavy board was cranked up to hold
her neck in place.

	Shalla was right.

	The last thing Ingrid saw was her sliced off breasts hitting her in the
face as all three rolled down the chute into the basket. The warriors looked up
between Ingrid's long lovely legs, splayed wide, jerking spastically, as a
golden fountain spurted prettily in the dying sun.
	      

	
	Chapter 7 - Execution Day in Deepest, Darkest Africa

	It was Execution Day at the Women's Prison in the small African Kingdom.
Until King Mumboli came to the throne, there had been no executions at all, only
boorishly brutal bloodbaths as tribes warred viciously. Now they were a popular
regular event and peace reigned in the kingdom. King Mumboli and Whitey Nairobi
were old buddies. Their affiliation with Die Singvogel and their attendance at
the annual Frauleinschlachtfest in Hamburg had taught them how to put on a good
show.  

	The fact that he only executed white foreigners further endeared King
Mumboli to his people. The seldom seen whites were regarded with deep suspicion,
fueled by the native experience with slavers, colonizing European armies,
invading Italian armies, Rommel's Afrika Korps and, most recently, some red-neck
Americans who had been running a "coon hunt" safari using helicopters to run
down and shoot the locals for sport. Their clientel had consisted of  wealthy
businessmen eager to "stalk the most dangerous animal on earth - man!" (well, at
any rate, that's what the brochures called shooting peaceful herders from a
helicopter).

	The "coon hunt" had ended abruptly when one of the helicopters
malfunctioned and the hunters became the hunted. It turned out that fat
whiteboys, no matter how obscenely rich, were no match for athletic, vengeful
natives on their own ground. Staked out naked in the burning sun with their
eyelids cut off, the fat American businessmen's fair skin burned a bright red.
Their screams, after their genitals had been removed and stuffed into their
gaping mouths, settled down to pathetic parched croaks.

	In the deepest dark of the terrifying African night, the rich,
whimpering whiteboys were silenced permanently when the hyenas discovered the
fat, juicy, medium-rare meat laid out for dinner. After that, the "coon hunts"
had ceased, but native distrust of the white devils was red hot.

	The crowd murmured their excitement as the first two victims were
trotted out. As usual, King Mumboli refused to even discuss the white beauties'
crimes. They were too hideous for any decent person to even think about. He
feared that it would "unhinge his people's minds" if they knew the sick,
twisted, dark deeds these young blonds had committed. This, of course, fanned
the wildest rumours imaginable.

	Whitey Nairobi had known that the two stewardesses were guilty of
something impressive from the moment he had laid eyes on them at the small
airport. From then on, their fate was sealed. Whitey always explained that he
was not a racist. He just happened to prefer blonds and redheads.

	After failing to please the King, something to do with their total
unwillingness to tongue his rectum, Sherry and Meredith had been turned over to
Whitey for further coaching and ultimate disposal. On the other hand, after a
shaky start, Brandi, the red-headed English stewardess, was doing well. As long
as your idea of doing well is spending a lot of your day stark naked, with your
pretty face buried in a fat King's butt crack tonguing his asshole while
masturbating him, young Brandi was doing very well indeed.

	Failing to satisfy a demanding Monarch has consequences. Once the two
blond stewardesses had been taken to his underground chambers, Whitey's powers
of persuasion soon had them opening every orifice for him and confessing to
anything and everything. Whitey was not a greedy man. He was willing to share
his bitches, once he tired of them. Lovely Sherry and beautiful Meredith soon
found themselves opening their holes to the King's guards. Since there was
always a shift of guards arriving or leaving, Sherry and Meredith were busy
bimbos indeed. With the prevalence of AIDS in Africa, the guards rejoiced in the
arrival of fresh, clean, blond rape toys.

	Part one of a good snuff show is stripping the bitches.

	The two terrified stewardesses protested volubly as their thin cotton
shifts were jerked off over their heads while their panties were yanked down to
their ankles. Aside from their gleaming black high heels, that pretty well
covered the dress code for fucksluts, so they were naked for everyone's
delectation in no time.

	Two T-shaped poles were resting on trestles, waiting to receive the
bodacious bimbos. The two stewardesses were laid face up on top of the poles.
Their arms were hooked over the crosspiece at the top. Their slim wrists were
pulled down and tied to the back of the pole. Their sleek ankles were crossed
and tied together behind the pole. Whitey made a little speech, well received,
speaking mysteriously about turning white bitches into brown ones. The local
dialect contained a lot of  tongue clicking and lip smacking and Whitey, with
his thick lips, was a master.

	The stewardesses shouted out, trying frantically to make themselves
understood. The crowd murmured uneasily that the evil witches were cursing them.
Whitey reassured them that the wicked wenches thought that their good looks
would save them and were offering themselves shamelessly to the husbands and
elders.

	He turned them over to the women.

	Part two of a good snuff show is involvement: audience and victim
participation. Getting the audience to help, combined with knowing what your
victims cannot handle, is the key to success. The audience is gripped thoroughly
and your victims become lively bitches indeed. 

	The native women trundled out a wheelbarrow of shit and began lathering
it onto and into the two blubbering beauties. They were quietened down by the
simple expedient of slapping a handful of rectal excreta into their mouths every
time they opened them. Eager black fingers parted their cuntlips and rammed
moist turds deep inside. Their big, jiggling breasts were liberally bemerded.
Excrement was worked into their hair, their earholes, between their toes, under
their fingernails, rubbed into their eyes and smeared over their ass globes.

	Whitey liked his sluts smooth shaven, so they had no cunt hair. The
native women looked on this with wonder as they worked fecal matter into vaginal
folds and crevices. A bucket of honey was poured over each squirming
stewardesses' face, breasts, belly and crotch. They shreiked shrilly as thick
bamboo tubes filled with honey were jammed forcibly up their cunts and tied to
the pole. A trail of honey was laid from the bamboo cunt tubes down the pole.

	When the two beauties had been liberally coated inside and out with
soft, nasty ordure and soaked with honey, their poles were hoisted up by the men
and set in holes in the ground. High in the air, squirming and squealing
frantically, the naked stewardesses were soon enveloped in a buzzing, black
cloud of stinging, biting, voracious African insects. In the hot, humid climate,
it didn't take long for a stream of fire ants to find their way up the poles,
following the honey trail, and into the bamboo cunt tubes, performing agonizing
excavations with their fiery, acid-dripping pincers deep inside moist, intimate,
feminine cavities. Sherry and Meredith shreiked madly, writhing insanely for the
deeply approving crowd. This was how a white she-devil should be treated.

	Prince Mumboli and Whitey Nairobi had met at Oxford University and
formed an instant bond. Prince Mumboli had been sent by his father to get an
education. Whitey had made sure that Prince Mumboli received one, introducing
him to the sessions at Die Singvogel in Hamburg on school holidays and finally
taking him to the annual Frauleinschlactfest. When the old King died suddenly,
the newly crowned King Mumboli invited his old friend Whitey to set up some
edifying spectacles based on what they had seen in Hamburg.

 	The newly crowned King Mumboli had a big problem. His father had
survived by personally supervising the slaughter of the smaller tribes by the
bigger tribes, staying on the winning side in carefully orchestrated bloodbaths.
Now there were only big tribes left. If they went at each other's throats, chaos
would ensue and the new King could not be sure which would be the winning side.

	The former Prince made use of his expensive Oxford education and united
them against a common enemy, the white man. The fact that there wasn't a white
man in sight was both a blessing and a problem. He and his good friend Whitey
solved this conundrum by discretely, but regularly, kidnapping a few bitches for
public slaughter by his bloodthirsty subjects. Snuffing white bitches specially
imported for the purpose was not only fun, but actually proved beneficial. It
provided a regular release for his subjects' violent urges without destroying
the country or, even worse, having the new King's head paraded through the small
kingdom atop a bloody spear. As an added bonus, the King's Royal Statisticians
had proved that, nine months after a public execution, there was a noticeable
increase in the birth rate.

	It was good, wholesome family entertainment. Everyone watched the two
nude stewardesses writhing and shreiking atop their poles for the edification of
all. Mothers held their children up to see the devil bitches jerking and
jiggling frantically, their skin acrawl with biting, stinging, pinching insects,
answering for their heinous, unmentionable crimes.

	Part three of a good snuff show is pacing.

	After a decent interval, Whitey decided it was time to unveil his next
attraction.

	The next exhibits could be seen only as big breasted forms squirming
under white sheets as they were wheeled out on slanted tables. A large, deep
bucket on the end of a rope hung from the higher end of each table. A heavy
brick was in the bucket. Whitey jerked the sheets aside.

	Trish and Kate were superb specimens. The red-headed journalism students
had been sent to Africa with the encouragement of Smedley Hargreaves to observe
the native rituals under the guidance of his good friend Whitey Nairobi. Nobody
could say that they weren't observing the rituals up-close and personal, getting
a real insider's point of view.

	The crowd eyed the fiery haired beauties with amazement. White women
were rare. Red-heads were almost unheard of. Evil witches for sure.

	Each lay on her back on a slanted table. Wrists were tied behind,
lifting bare breasts up and thrusting hips lewdly forward. Ankles were tied
together and hooked to the lower end of the table. A noose ran from each neck
over a pulley to a dangling bucket. Trish and Kate were red-faced, tongues
protruding amd mouths gaping as they gasped for air. Whitey explained to the
crowd.

	"If you urinate into the bucket, it will help us take care of these evil
red-haired witches!"

	While the men eagerly pissed into the bucket to increase the weight on
the strangling noose, the women were amazed at the black high heels, thigh high
black stockings and black elbow-length gloves that were the red-heads' only
adornment. The men were paying more attention to the high-breasted, purple-faced
beauties' jiggling endowments. The women wondered what possible use high heels
would be in the jungle. The whole ensemble looked thoroughly impractical. The
women loved it and concluded that it was probably part of their sinister
sorcery.

	The crowd surrounded the slowly strangling beauties. They eagerly
fingered gasping, choking, sweat-slick bodies, tweaking dark red nipples,
twisting and pinching pouty cuntlips. Trish sobbed as one of the older women
thoughtfully scraped her bloodshot eyeballs with dirty, ragged fingernails.
Trish's heels drummed a tattoo on the table as she coughed and choked, twisting
and jerking to avoid the savagely probing fingers.

	Loops of rope were dropped over their heaving bosoms. A stick was
inserted into each loop and the crowd amused itself seeing how tight they could
twist these 'tit tourniquets' around the base of each bulging breast.

	At Oxford, learning that his country still had the death penalty,
well-meaning critics had told then-Prince Mumboli that it did nothing to prevent
crime. They cited statistics to prove it, urging him to abolish the death
penalty when he came to the throne. Prince Mumboli had replied derisively with
all the arrogance of one born to power, rolling the whites of his eyes
dramatically in his coal black face.	He sarcastically demanded to know where
they got their obviously faulty statistics from. Nobody his country had executed
had ever become a repeat offender. How could these fools even think that it was
possible? The death penalty was therefore 100% successful!

	Since Trish and Kate were conveniently located near the refreshment
stands, their buckets were filling nicely. Mothers held up young children so
they could pee into the buckets to further the cause of justice in the war
against the pale, white, red-haired witches. Tongues protruding, Trish and
Kate's gaping faces were deep purple, matched by the colour of their tightly
strangled breasts as they gagged and choked, their nude, well-groped bodies
racked by deep, painful coughs.

	Part four of a good snuff show is to have your victims' bladders full.

	The crowd laughed coarsely as Trish and Kate peed long and hard. Small
children caught the pee in cups as it poured over the edge of their slanted
tables and gleefully poured the victims' own urine into the piss buckets. The
grown-ups nodded approvingly. Their parents patted them on the head proudly.

	Part five of a good show is to always have a star turn - a grand finale.

	'Black' Hans Dietrich was definitely a star. He had been flown in from
Hamburg for the execution, on loan from Die Singvogel, the underground, very
hard-core, S&M club that hosted the annual Frauleinschlachtfest. His performance
at the last Frauleinschlachtfest had led to today's invitation by King Mumboli.

	He was attended by his bevy of hand-picked pain sluts. He had personally
kidnapped, raped over, broken and trained each one. Deep in anguish, each had
pledged her very life to him and knew that it was a pledge she would be forced
to honour.

	A dedicated craftsman, Hans had warmed up for the execution by taking a
pair of vice-grip needle nose pliers, clamping it around each painslut's clit in
turn and making her scream hard for him. Each had been promised that her pain
would be exquisite when it was her turn to die in his strong, brutal hands.
Their role was atmospheric, surrounding him, writhing in agonising death spasms
as he made his main victim scream long and hard before he turned her lights out
permanently.

	Jeanne, the lead painslut, knew what was required of her. Earlier, she
had dropped to her knees so that she could lick his dick and suck his clean
shaven balls, making Black Hans as hard and cruel as possible for his star turn.

 	Black Hans was stripped to the waist, revealing a massive, magnificent,
ebony torso. The ladies in the crowd all agreed that the bulked-up black
executioner was definitely a man 'to die for'. Black Hans was the result of the
brief, but ecstatic, union of a drunken Afro-American weight lifter and a
particularly heavyset member of the old East German Women's Shotput Team.
Conceived during one of the Olympic Games, Black Hans was the most massively
muscled black man anyone in the audience had ever seen. His bullet head was
shaved smooth. His cruel brown eyes arrogantly surveyed the crowd. Clad only in
jackboots and black leather pants, he definitely sent a thrill of horror through
the audience. This was a man without pity.

	His pain sluts were trotted out one by one. The crowd had been told that
these evil temptresses would be forced to contemplate the consequences of their
ghastly, unspecified crimes as they slowly, agonisingly met a fate befitting
villainous monsters.

	Jeanne, who had been promised that he would slowly slice off her clit
with a razor blade, was first. Hans liked giving his painsluts food for thought,
playing on their secret fears and desires. That morning, as she was
spread-eagled on a padded leather restraining table, he had carefully shaved
Jeanne's pubes. With each stroke of the straight razor, she experienced an
orgasmic frisson of horror, wondering what it would feel like when the blade
slit open her most exquisitely sensitive morsel of flesh. Jeanne had been
captured while horseback riding, one of her favourite pastimes. Hans figured
that a woman who spent a lot of time with a large animal throbbing between her
legs had an unmistakeable interest in the sexual arts.

	Jeanne had not disappointed. Understanding that escape for a white woman
in a land of blacks who thought her evil personified was hopeless, that she
would be hunted pitilessly, she was making the saucy best of it. Wearing only a
black leather vest, tight leather hot pants and thigh-high, shiny black whore
boots, she was paraded to the platform where four special posts, one on each
corner of the platform, awaited the four pain sluts. Tossing her short blond
hair, jet black eyes flashing, boldly embracing her fate, Jeanne stripped for
the crowd.

	She peeled off her black leather vest. Just before going on, Hans had
pumped up her soft breasts using a huge hypodermic filled with vinegar. Her
heavily inflated breasts, looking like twin red balloons about to burst, burned
agonisingly on her chest. Hans had made clear what was expected of her. Jeanne
shook them violently for the crowd, crying out as her bright-red burning boobs
bounced on her chest like twin balls of fire searing her torso.

	Each of the beautiful painsluts stripped in turn: blond Jeanne,
red-haired Nancy, brunette Sandra and black-haired Susan. When they were naked,
each was led to to her cross.

	The T-shaped crosses were laid out on trestles. They were laid with
their backs to the cross and their wrists were tied to either end of the
crosspiece. Their legs were bent back and their ankles tethered to ringbolts set
on either side of the upright at waist level. A thick ridge of wood bolted to
the upright between their shoulder blades forced them to arch out from the
cross, their grotesque, vinegar-inflated breasts projecting from their chests
like twin artillary shells. A steel bar was passed behind their knees and a
heavy iron ball hooked onto it, stretching them cruelly, each rib in their
chests clearly visible, outlined against their taut, stretched skin.

	Black Hans slipped on their steel collars, tightening them until they
couldn't swallow their own spit. Their pretty faces turned cyanotic blue,
tongues protruding, eyes bulging, gagging and choking, drool slowly dripping in
long strings of spit onto their tits. The painsluts' poles were pushed upright.
One was bolted to each corner of the platform, facing outwards.

	Once they were in place, deep in the throes of erotic strangulation,
stiff clits and spasming dripping cunts clearly visible to the crowd, Hans made
the rounds with his straight razor. Each screamed hoarsely as her stiff clit was
cruelly excised. A saw blade on a hinge was pulled out of a slot on the cross
between their legs and locked in place with the teeth upwards. The teeth bit
viciously into their slits and the bleeding stumps of their clits.

	Hans set a small charcoal brazier under the end of each saw blade. The
heat would slowly be transmitted down the blade, gradually turning it red hot.
At that point, the painsluts would be sawing themselves in half as they pumped
their hips against the searing saw blade, writhing and shreiking mindlessly.

	Enough window-dressing. It was time for the main attraction.

	The crowd roared as Linn was carried out by her wrists and ankles,
bucking and heaving, clad only in a flimsy bra and thong. Applause rang out as
she was dragged to the executioner's platform in the middle of the square. They
oohed and aahed as Linn's dainty wrists and slim ankles were strapped to the X
frame and her luscious body was displayed, spread-eagled, under a sign hinting
at her heinous crimes and explicitly spelling out her hideous fate. Children
perched on their parents' shoulders to get a better view.

	Hans picked up a pair of scissors from the implement table next to him.
Three deft snips had her big bare tits jiggling delectably for the crowd as her
bra fluttered to the ground to be snatched up by eager onlookers. Two more snips
revealed her tight slit and richly curled pubic triangle to the onlookers and
provided a fragrant souvenir for the fans as her thong was peeled out of the
crack of her smooth, creamy white ass and dramatically thrown to the crowd.

	To the shreik music of the painslut quartet, Black Hans selected a
portable electric shaver from the implement table. He sheared Linn's head like a
sheep. Her thick tresses were snatched from the air as they dropped to the
ground. Scampering urchins cavorting under the platform seized them gleefully.
They peered up between the slats as Linn's eyebrows and eyelashes were painfully
plucked. The crowd grinned as her pubic hairs were lathered up and scraped away.

	Tears trickled down Linn's lovely cheeks as she glared hate at Hans.

	"You're lower than shark shit and that's at the bottom of the ocean!"

	Her jaws were instantly pried open. Pincers gripped the tip of her wet
tongue and stretched it out at full length. Sweat trickled down Linn's naked
torso as her executioner took his time testing the curved blade of the knife
that he normally used for castrations.

	Black Hans, satisfied at last, leaned forward. Urine sprayed messily as
Linn lost bladder control. Underneath the platform, the urchins squealed,
scampering quickly to avoid the yellow rainshower.

	Her titanic tits shook wildly and she made horrible choking noises as
her carved her tongue out by the roots. The dripping tongue was held up for the
crowd to see and then tossed to the dogs.

	There was surprisingly little blood. Black Hans was a master of his
craft. Linn was left, ashen faced, bright red arterial blood seeping from the
corners of her grimly clamped lips. For the rest of her short life, lovely Linn
would have to keep any more smart comments to herself.

	The executioner selected a bolt cutter from his implement table and held
it high for the crowd to see. They nudged each other knowingly. Mothers
whispered to their children, who looked on eagerly, smiling happily.

	Joint by joint, one by one, her exquisite, finely manicured fingers were
slowly and carefully positioned between the sharp, powerful cutting jaws to give
Linn the idea. The executioner waited while Linn thought carefully about the
pain and disfigurement to come, her eyes riveted frantically on the poised jaws
of the bolt cutter. The crowd went silent, breathlessly awaiting the first snip.

	Linn shreiked as the executioner sudddenly snapped the jaws shut. The
tip of her severed pinky dropped to the ground where it was wolfed down by the
largest dog. Slowly, precisely, each well-manicured, beautifully-cared-for
finger was amputated in three leisurely snips.

	Linn shreiked hoarsely, jerking violently with each brutal snap of the
bolt cutter's cruel jaws. The executioner waited patiently for the screams to
die into sobs and then moved to the next joint. As he snipped the last joint on
each hand, his assistant squirted it with boiling oil to seal the wounds and
prevent Linn from dying prematurely from blood loss.

	When her hands were reduced to ten little stumps, the executioner slowly
lowered the bolt cutters. Linn gasped in horror as it was positioned around her
little toe. She looked at the executioner and whimpered beseechingly. He grinned
and snapped the jaws shut.

	In ten more screams, her pretty little toes joined her pretty little
fingers in the dogs' stomachs.

	He selected a flat bladed skinning knife. Linn shreiked maniacally as he
cut in a circle around the base of each breast and carefully peeled the skin off
her big quivering superdroopers, reducing them to two shivering mounds of raw
red meat. The skin was thoughtfully placed onto stretching frames to make
souvenir lampshades.

	The cliterdectomy was next. Linn looked down in gibbering horror as her
cuntlips were spread wide and the skin peeled back to expose her tiny red
nubbin. She sobbed hysterically as a small scalpel was produced and
painstakingly honed to razor sharpness before her frantic eyes. Hans slowly
lowered it to her waist. The crowd went silent to savour Linn's raw screams and
the painsluts hoarse blubbering as Hans delicately excised her love button.	

	He went to work on her pretty face, carving off her coral pink ears and
throwing them to the dogs for chew toys. Her eyelids were pulled up with
tweezers and deftly sliced off. As the small teaspoon with the sharpened edges
scooped out her pretty blue eyeballs, Linn passed out.

	Vinegar was briskly squirted up her nostrils so that she could feel the
void as her guts were scooped out. Large carrion vultures stalked through the
pile of steaming intestines, fighting each other for the choicer giblets.

	Linn passed out for the last time. No crudeness or cunning brutality
could revive her. Hans removed her heart and left the rest exposed on the frame
for the birds and clouds of buzzing insects to pick over and feast on.

	He turned, his hands dripping blood, to the painsluts. The painsluts
were well into their final death spasms, their vocal cords torn from the
constant shreiking, reducing their shreiks to raw croaks. Their inner thighs
were awash in blood that sizzled and spattered against the red hot saw blades
eating into, and burning into, their crotches. Large vultures had settled on
their shoulders, fighting for the privilege of pecking out their tasty eyeballs.

	"Are we having fun yet, girls?"

	Only painslut Jeanne retained enough vestiges of consciousness to reply
to Hans' sardonic little question.

	"It's like a dream come true!"

	She shreiked one last time as the vultures tore out her eyes and then
she was gone.