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It was the right front wheel that hit the mine. The explosion struck with such force that not only was the ambulance lifted up and dropped on its side but a hundred pieces of metal from the truck tore through the cab like shrapnel. The waiting Viet Cong leapt out of the jungle and within seconds had climbed onto the now useless vehicle. The driver and his passenger were bleeding profusely, and if not dead, were dying. The VC emptied their weapons into the cab anyway, headless of the Red Crosses both men wore on their arms.

A third guerilla had circled to the back of the truck where he found the rear doors had been sprung. Sprawled across the ground was a pretty blonde woman dressed in camouflage, unconscious and bleeding from a gash in her scalp. After checking quickly inside and finding the truck otherwise empty he turned her on her back while his two companions watched closely.

She came to with a start when her eyelid was pulled back and she found herself staring up into the face of the Viet Cong. She instantly realized what had happened and tried to fight off her captor. It was useless. She was pulled to her feet by her hair and when this did not stop her desperate struggles, a rifle butt was driven into her stomach.

Gasping for breath and momentarily helpless she was pulled around to the top of the truck which now lay on its side. They pressed her against the rack and bound her wrists to it, spreading her arms wide. Recovered now, she kicked and fought her captors who responded with blows to her face and breasts. Her shirt was pulled open and her dog-tags torn from her neck. A rifle was pushed into her mouth and they began to shred the camo from her body.

The leader gave an order the other two began to strip off her bra and panties. “You bastards!” she screamed, “You slimy slant-eyed bastards!” Unable to move her arms she tried to kick him in the groin. A fist slammed into her cheek and then the rifle was again driven into her belly, driving the breath from her with a loud whoosh. The leader hit her again and again slammed the rifle into her suspended body until she hung limply unable to fight any more.

Through a haze of pain and exhaustion she heard him laugh and felt the rifle butt pushing up into her crotch. She could only moan. Hands were at her breasts and then at then at her belly. Her pants were ripped in two and her legs spread. They started to pull her panties down; they were going to rape her. She pulled at the thongs that bound her wrists but she was at their mercy.

Then she heard the WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP of helicopter blades. Moments later the sound was almost on top of them. “Help!” she screamed, “Help me! Save me!” A hand was clamped over her mouth and her hope disappeared as the chopper headed away. They hadn’t seen her and of course could not have heard her over the noise of the engine, but her captors realized they couldn’t wait around any longer. The truck would be missed and soldiers might appear at any moment. They would take their prize back to their base and deal with her later. The name on her dog-tags was Sharon Connelly.

With the chopper went Sharon’s hope. She watched with growing terror as they found two thick branches and tied them into a cross. When they untied her and pressed the cross into her back she knew they weren’t going to kill her, at least not now. She did not struggle, thankful that she was going to live. Her elbows were bent around the horizontal member and then her wrists tied together at her bare belly. Another long thong went from the top of the cross around her throat binding her neck to the wood and leaving two leather strands in front to act as a lead. Finally her mouth was forced open and a short thick stick pressed between her lips and that too bound to the cross gagging her tightly.

The leader took hold of the lanyard that circled Sharon’s neck and pulled at it sharply. She staggered forward behind him, the other two trailing behind them, rifles at the ready. Painfully bound by leather to the wooden cross that dug into her back, the half naked girl was led into the jungle, shivering with fear despite the heat. She had one last sideways glance at the disabled truck and the thought that it might be the last she ever saw of American civilization flashed across her mind.

The three-quarter moon had risen high in the sky by the time the party arrived at the VC base camp. Sharon did not even know they had arrived until the sentry shouted down a greeting from his perch above their heads. Not only was the camp well concealed but for the past two hours she had not had the energy to lift her head. It was all she could do to keep from keeling over from exhaustion.

Her forced march had not been terribly far, perhaps five miles, but the path had been almost nonexistent and the footing treacherous. Bound as she was with her arms tied at the wrists and her back held rigid by the cross it was hard to maintain her balance on the rough path as she was pulled along by the lead around her neck. The guerilla who headed the small procession made no attempt to hold the branches he pushed aside, and with her wrists and neck firmly tethered she could neither block them or avoid them as the whipped across her body. Her bare breasts and belly took the worst of it, but her thighs also showed numerous welts and scratches, as though she had been lashed with a thin whip.

Only her surpassing agility and determination had kept her on her feet, but near the end of the journey she had finally tripped on a root unseen in the gathering dusk and toppled forward. Somehow she managed to twist to her side and avoided any bad damage, although her knee hit a jagged rock and began to bleed profusely. The fall pulled the lead from her captors hand and he immediately turned around and started shouting at her to rise.

She couldn’t. Face down in the dirt with her arms bound in such a hideous fashion she was as helpless as a turtle on its back. She was kicked in the side and a rifle but struck her sharply on the buttocks, but all she could do was writhe helplessly on the ground and utter muted cries through her gag. Finally her captors tired of their sport and lifted her to her feet by the cross and they continued on, Sharon now capable of thinking of nothing but keeping on her feet.

Her first emotion upon reaching the camp was one of relief; her forced march was over. This almost immediately gave way to shame as she felt the hungry eyes of the VC guerillas on her – shame not of her near nudity but of the bondage that left her vulnerable and helpless in the midst of the enemy. They pushed her forward without a word and seconds later she was gripped by fear as the door of the wooden cage was opened and she was thrust inside.

The cage was set at the edge of the compound in what was once the margin of a rice paddy. It was only shoulder high and open at the top. Escape would have presented no problem for an athletic girl like Sharon if she had not been bound to the cross and if wicked seven inch nails had not been used to attach the cross-members to the cage so that they protruded into the “living space” itself. The result was that any attempt to rise from her squatting position was blocked by the long spikes, as was any movement to the side. Worse, if she moved forward or tried to stretch her cramping legs she would have been impaled. There was nothing for her to do but squat in the stagnant water as the door was shut and locked before her.

Oddly it was not the pain in her legs or the fear of her unknown fate at the hands of an enemy she knew to be cruel and vengeful that made her cry. It was the fact that her captors had left her unguarded that started her weeping. They were that sure not only that she could not escape but that there was no help coming for her. In other words, it was hopeless; she could not escape, she would not be rescued. She was their prisoner to do with as they pleased. And so she began to sob.

Throughout the night pajama clad men would come to stare at her. She would doze for a moment, her agony overwhelmed by sheer exhaustion, to wake up with a start and see a face staring at her naked breasts with undisguised lust. Then the eyes would move up to hers and the expression was always the same – one of pride and superiority, as if to say, “How strong is your great American army that we have you at our mercy?” But none spoke.

This display of arrogance by her captors gave Sharon incentive not to show her misery. She managed to stifle her sobs but they were soon replaced by moans of pain. Her calf and thigh muscles were exhausted from the long trek. Normally such a walk would not have disturbed her but with her arms, neck and head bound so tightly in such a constricting position every step had been torture. Now hunkered down in her cage in water up to her crotch her legs had cramped painfully and there was nothing she could do to relieve the agony other than squirm fitfully between the spikes.

In a way the pain was a blessing. It kept her mind from dwelling too long on what the next day would hold. She would be raped, she was sure of that, but she had already steeled herself and was sure she would be able to bear it. Her legs became numb but it was now her back that kept her in constant agony. Her moans became louder and more constant. Somehow she managed to drift off into a restless sleep for a few minutes but when she awoke she realized with horrible clarity that her captors had not bound and caged her like this simply to make escape impossible – they had done it to cause her pain. She was being tortured. Was this just the beginning? Was this simply the first of many and more horrible tortures? She had heard the stories, the stories of bamboo being pushed under fingernails, of hot coals searing off nipples, of the slow and careful mutilation of a woman’s sex. Oh God, she thought, let them only rape me and then kill me. I don’t think I could bear torture.

Posted September 2nd, 2006

Sharon stood before the guerilla leader using every bit of her courage to put on a brave face, while her stomach was in truth tied in knots from fear. She was exhausted and even if she had not been terrified, she would not have been able to still the trembling of her limbs. Every muscle in her body was aching to a degree she would not have believed possible before her introduction to the Asian talent for sadistic bondage. She had been unable to walk or even stand when they had first dragged her from her cage. As a reward, her face had been pushed under the muddy water of the rice paddy by a booted foot. Even after the foot had been lifted off her face she did not have the strength to lift her head and would have drowned right there if she had not been lifted by the wooden bar that ran across the small of her back.

She coughed and spit up water around the thick wooden stick that served as her gag. Barely able to stand she was dragged forward and forced to walk until the cramps in her legs abated enough for her to stumble forward between her two captors until they came to the open hut where their leader waited.

She stood there, half naked and gagged, trembling, her back held upright and rigid by the cross, while the Viet Cong explained the circumstances of her capture and the destruction of the military ambulance. When he finished the leader scowled and said to Sharon in clearly understandable if heavily accented English, “I not think you are nurse or any kind medical worker.” Instinctively she tried to answer but the thick wood in her mouth made it impossible and the rough bark of the stick sawed painfully at the corners of her mouth.

The guard holding her pushed her roughly forward against the small table in front of the VC captain. When she resisted he grasped the vertical member of the cross at the top and bottom and bent her forward so her face was close enough that she could smell the captains foul breath. She tried to jerk her head away but that too was held tightly by the thong that bound her neck to the cross.

He pinched her nipple between the fingers of his left hand while he held a knife at her throat with the right. For a moment she thought he was going to slash her jugular and she stared at him with unalloyed hate but he simply cut away the cords that tied the wooden gag in her mouth. “Now you tell me…what you do here?”

Sharon licked at the dried blood on her lips. “Water,” she croaked, “Give me water.” She was slammed face first onto the table. The captain shouted at her, “You not tell me! You do as I tell!”

Sharon’s shorts were quickly pulled down below her knees and she knew she was now going to be raped. “You fucking animals! You fucking bastards!” The captain grabbed her hair and pushed her head down on the table. She felt the guerilla’s cock between her legs and began to struggle and curse her attackers. But she was helpless. The guerilla rammed into her and then pulled hard on the cross while the captain retained his grip on her hair. She cried out in pain; it seemed she was being pulled in four different directions – the captain pushing and twisting hr by the hair, some times banging it on the table; the guerilla jerking up on the cross while he fucked her viciously, slamming against her buttocks. Her head was pulled up and the captain shouted at her, “Who are you? What you do here?” The guerilla never stopped ravaging her while the captain shouted and threatened her, calling her an arrogant American dog and promising to slit her throat once every one of his men had fucked her twice.

They turned her on her back. The guerilla jammed his fingers into her pussy and spit on her with contempt, but Sharon was barely aware of it. She started to moan and the captain put his large knife in her mouth. “You not want talk, maybe I just cut your tongue out.” Sharon closed her eyes and waited, almost not caring whether he did so or not.

They tied SharonТs ankles to the legs of the rough hewn chair. Even though she had been practically nude for the past 12 hours and had been brutally raped only minutes before, being tied to the chair with her pussy exposed left her feeling more naked than ever. She pushed her thighs as close together as the ropes would allow and instinctively tried to cover herself with her hands, but held tightly by the thongs that bound her wrists they merely fluttered uselessly in front of her belly.

The guerilla grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head back, straightening her back against the chair, and slapped her across the face. From behind him she heard the captains voice shout УWho are you?Ф a moment before the VCТs fist crashed into her face. Now he had her face in both his hands forcing her to look straight at the captain. УOne minute we stop playing unless you talk quick.Ф Sharon spit out a globule of blood, licked her lips and managed to speak in a husky whisper, her fear and caution replaced by rage. УFuck you, fuck all of you.Ф

The captain took over the beating while the guerilla held her head, slapping her face hard, back and forth, back and forth, all the while shouting УFuck you, hah hah, fuck you.Ф He worked on her with his fingers, probing the painful wounds on her face until she wanted to scream, but she choked it back despite the pain. The VC holding her head grabbed her throat and strangled her to the point she almost blacked out while the captain continued to slap her harder and harder and use his fingernails on her wounds. Blood was pouring from her wounds and she felt herself getting lightheaded from the punishment and her lack of food and sleep. Still she held on, afraid of what they would do to her if she fainted.

The captain reached into his pocket and pulled out her dog tags. УThis say you name Sharon Connelly.Ф She said nothing but couldnТt help smirking at the butchered pronunciation. He slapped her hard again then leaned on her thighs putting his face inches from hers. УI have message from friend in camp Echo that say soldiers searching for missing one with name Connelly. Very worried. But that Connelly not nurse. No, she translator. She help with questions. Maybe torture men yes.Ф

With the word УtortureФ Sharon felt the blood rushing from her head, felt her grasp of consciousness slipping. She was a translator, and she had been present at the interrogations of Viet Cong prisoners. But that was all. She had never been present at the torture of any of the prisoners, could not even have sworn that such torture had taken place, although the stories certainly led one to believe so. УNo,Ф she groaned, УNo. I didnТtЕФ

The captain grinned. УNow your turn.Ф SharonТs shook her head weakly back and forth one time before she fainted.

She regained consciousness as though she were climbing out of a deep pit. The first thing she was aware of was that she was lying on her back, tilted at an angle so her head was below her feet and that there was a pressure on her throat. Her eyes fluttered open and she saw the VC who had raped her bent over and looping strands of cord around her neck, tight enough to hold her head steady but not so tight as to cut off her air. Her arms were still tied in front of her with her elbows bent around the pole that crossed her back. She could feel rope being tied tightly around her legs just below her knees. She managed to twist her head just enough to see she had been bound to a wooden board. With horror she realized there could be no other purpose for this other than to secure her for torture.

The captain began to pull off her boots, the last piece of her uniform that remained intact. When he finished she would be naked except for a few torn shreds of her blouse that remained across her breasts. Worse, she knew that that simple operation was all that remained between her and the beginning of her torture. Sharon began to weep and writhe in her bonds. УWha…what are you going to do to me,Ф she sobbed.

The captain answered in stern voice of a school teacher lecturing a recalcitrant student. УWe teach lesson in humility.Ф

Sharon began to struggle against the ropes but it was of no use. УNoЕnoЕplease oh God no,Ф she begged, УWhy? Oh God why? Not me please no not me.Ф

Her pleas dissolved into an ear splitting shriek as the captain slid his knife under her large toe nail and began to slowly pry the nail from its bed. She tried to move her foot away from the horrible pain but between the ropes that bound her so tightly to the inclined board and the captains firm grip on her foot she was completely helpless. All she could do was claw at the air with her hands, scream and suffer the agony of the slow Viet Cong torture.

Sharon lay in a state of near shock. Despite the searing pain she never fainted although she was aware of little beyond the agony that racked her body. There were more threats, more demands, none of which made sense to the tortured captive. The pole that had been the vertical member of her cross was forced between her thighs. Sharon gave a startled cry, feeling the pressure against her pussy but not knowing what was causing it.

“Am I being raped again?” she thought but as the rough wood was forced into her vagina she knew it was worse. No man’s cock was that thick and that rough, no rape could hurt that much. She opened her mouth to scream but her cry of pain was muffled by a cloth that dropped over her face. Simultaneously with the entry of the pole between the lips of her pussy the captain began pouring water onto the cloth that covered her face. Completely disoriented by the pain and the cloth that blocked her vision, she began to struggle and scream with renewed energy brought on by panic. As she opened her mouth to gulp in air. the cloth, dripping and heavy with water sank into her mouth. Water ran down her throat into her straining lungs. She gagged and coughed trying to expel the water but more dripped down her throat. Unable to breathe Sharon tried to get air through her nose but the wet cloth clung to her nostrils and made that all but impossible. She was strangling, dying, slowly suffocating, gasping desperately for air between hacking coughs. She tried to toss her head from side to side to throw off the torture shroud but the ropes around her throat held her head fast. And through it all the VC guerilla fucked her with the thick wooden pole, pushing it deeper and deeper, until she felt as though it were slamming against the top of her head.

The captain stopped pouring water and lifted the cloth two inches above her face, allowing Sharon to gulp in enough air to stay conscious. Then the cloth fell back across her lips and the captain once again started to spill water in a thin stream over the shroud. Sharon writhed desperately against the ropes that pinned her to her torture board, trying to keep her mouth closed but unable to get enough air through her nose. She felt the pole being shoved and twisted deep inside her and her back arched against the ropes, pushing her breast against the sharp point of the captain’s knife. Slowly the captain worked the knife into Sharon’s nipple, slicing at the delicate flesh until she couldn’t contain her screams of pain anymore. Then the cloth was back filling her mouth, the water once more running into her lungs, her breasts rising and falling on her heaving ribcage as she fought for air, her incessant coughing making breathing impossible. Again her consciousness started to slip away and she was sure that if she blacked out she would stop breathing and die. Not a bad thing, her rational brain told her as everything began to go dark, an end to the torture. But she knew with a certainty much deeper than that that she must live, that she couldn’t allow this VC scum to kill her. Then suddenly the cloth was lifted once again and she was gulping in air as fast as she could.

Twice more her tormentor drew her through this cycle of torture, lifting the cloth free of her face just as Sharon was sure she would strangle on the wet clinging shroud. Finally he tossed the cloth to the side and looked down at his helpless captive. “This just the beginning,” he hissed, “You will suffer for all you have done…for all imperialistic swine have done.”

The captain drew the knife down Sharon’s cheek, leaving a thin trail of blood. The poor girl moaned loudly, more from her fear of being disfigured than from the pain, but could do nothing more than wait for him to continue slicing her face until it was nothing more than a bloody mask. But he drew away the knife and the next moment Sharon felt herself being untied from the torture board.

Bound hand and foot Sharon’s naked body was dragged face down across compound. She was barely aware of the stones that dug at her soft flesh. The guerilla reached the cage in which Sharon had spent the night and with strength surprising in one as small as he managed to lift her inert body into the hellish contrivance. Only this time she was not dropped onto the floor. Instead he held her upright while his comrades scurried toward him carrying two long poles and fresh cord.

It took only a minute for her captors to prepare her. The poles were laid across the top of the cage, one in back of her neck and one in front, then lashed together with twine. This left Sharon’s feet, bound at the ankles, barely able to reach the slatted floor. The only way the naked prisoner could ease the agonizing pressure on her head and neck was to put some of her weight on her toes. Pain shot up her leg like electric current from the toenail that had been all but torn from her flesh.

This was the way they left her, trying desperately to ease her pain, allowing her to choose her torture from between her violated toe and her stretched neck. Within minutes her calves began to cramp, adding new agony. She cried and moaned. The sun rose in the sky, beating down on her nude body. Then the captain was standing in front of her.

“No more,” she begged him, “No more.” He merely smiled and turned away. A half hour later he was back. This time Sharon moaned through cracked lips, “Water. Please…water.” The captain lifted a canteen to the suffering girl’s lips and let the water flow slowly into her mouth. She managed to take three swallows before he pulled the canteen away. “More,” she pleaded, “Please more.”

The captain held up the canteen in front of Sharon and screwed the top back on. “Just enough to keep alive. Keep alive for more torture…more pain. You suffer more, much much more before I allow to die.” Sharon screamed “Noooo!” at his receding back but all that emerged from her parched throat was a hoarse croak.

Posted December 14th, 2006

It was past noon when the two guerillas who had tortured her that morning appeared in the clearing. Sharon was dehydrated and half delirious from her ordeal in the wooden cage. She saw them from the side of her vision and at first could not be sure whether they were real or a hallucination. But as they came up to her she heard them and smelled them and knew it was not a figment of her imagination.

She moaned in fear, certain that there could be no other reason for their visit than to remove her from her bondage for more terrible torture. Then she saw the pot the men carried between them and thought they were going to feed her. For a moment her spirits rose a little from the dark hole in which they had plunged from her ordeal. Although the thought of food had little appeal – it was water she desperately craved – it gave her hope that her captors had decided to show her some mercy. These hopes were dashed when she saw that the pot contained not food, but mud, and crawling in the ooze were insects, slugs and wormlike creatures with antennae and legs – a collection of the foulest looking vermin she could have imagined.

Before she was sure what they were going to do with the disgusting cargo, one of the slimy creatures was being pressed against her lips. She tried to turn her head, her stomach churning with revulsion, but strong hand gripped her tightly, pinching her nose shut so she had to open her mouth to breathe. They forced her mouth wider and held her jaw fast, pushing the horrible “meal” at her while she struggled vainly to escape. She felt the moist carapaces against her tongue, felt the legs and feelers against her gums and palate, felt the slimy vermin slide toward her throat. She gagged and retched but now her jaws were being held shut and there was no escape from her mouth for the creatures except down her throat.

“Enjoy your meal,” the captain said in Vietnamese, “You will need it for strength.” He laughed, then placed a centipede on Sharon’s cheek and laughed even louder as the creature began to crawl into her nose.

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