FRUITS OF THE FRONT
The country had once been rich on trade, on spices, precious stones, strong wood, pottery and slaves, all traded along its coast. The interior was better for hunting than farming, but where food crops could not be grown, herdsmen roamed. The wealth of the coast was protected by excellent forts and strong harbours.
All that had gone. The trade routes were bypassed, foreign ships no longer needed to call in for food, water and repairs, and over-farming had made much of the interior bleaker and barer than ever. People even said the climate was changing. Certainly, the rains came later and with less force.
The country had celebrated its freedom from French rule and the Portuguese before them, and had then fallen into five years of chaos. Out of that arose The General. For 19 years, he ruled unquestioned. People who asked the wrong questions or taught the wrong things disappeared. But as bandits and thieves had a way of disappearing too, most people accepted his rule.
Then a group of young army officers had rebelled. The General had thrown himself into crushing the rebellion, but on its way to an outpost of his loyal forces, his helicopter had crashed. A trick by the rebels? Or by traitors within his own camp? The Americans, the Israelis, or just poor maintenance or chance? At any rate, he was dead. His supporters made peace with the rebels and a new military junta arose, promising elections.
When the junta dishonoured its promise, the inhabitants of the capital rose in revolt. The soldiers and police lost their nerve or felt free to show their sympathy. Some of the junta’s leaders fled, while others regrouped in the sandstorm-blown interior. A new government dominated by young, well-educated people conducted elections, formed a new constitution and opened up opportunities for all kinds of people, even women. Female legislators, female lawyers, female civil servants, female police and even in training and largely hidden, female soldiers. It was a revolution.
There is always a reaction to a true revolution. Some soldiers and some peaceful professionals felt their callings were cheapened by the presence of women. Some preachers preached openly against the ungodly ways of the government. Few of the tribes of the interior approved of the soft ways and strange teachings of the coast people and the capital. The government might have overcome the resistance, had it not been for a crucial coming together. Some army officers of the junta made common cause with the religious zealots. Military know-how and weaponry plus zeal, passion and the belief that theirs was the cause of God. Some government outposts and convoys were overrun and their supporters executed. Some police were shot. A party of policewomen on their way to a training day were captured, tortured and executed.
The President called to all the people to defend freedom and democracy. Some responded. The government was secure enough in the capital, the coast and the better farming areas, but in half the country, its rule was threatened if not eliminated.
The response to the President’s plea was strongest among one group of people – young, educated women. Soon they made up 40% of the government army – and they could fight.
Towards the end of the second year of fighting, young Hamid abandoned his father’s petrol station and shop in a remote hill village and joined the rebels, taking with him his Spiderwoman book and his smartphone. He was not really moved by religious zealotry, but most people where he lived supported the rebels, most of his friends did, he wanted excitement, danger and glory and although he wasn’t really moved to fury by female police officers and soldiers, there was something strangely exciting to him about the stories told about what could be done to them. He proved a capable soldier, brave, calm and clear-thinking under pressure, good at explaining things, and very soon he was an officer.
Foreign extremist groups provided weapons, money and many volunteers to the rebels. Worried by the rise of religious extremism and by rebel successes, the USA and France provided training, money, equipment and a few special forces soldiers to the government. The government organised village militias to protect their villages against “bandits”, though few could withstand the rebels and some just handed over their weapons to them. The war approached deadlock.
In the middle of the fifth year of the fighting, Commando 34 of the government army, an elite all-woman unit, went to the aid of one of the most effective village militias, which was defending its surrounded village. But Commando 34 itself got surrounded. Were the men of the government army slow to move to their help? Who can say? Maybe it was a matter of trucks breaking down.
The second-in-command of one of the three rebel units in the hills surrounding the village and Commando 34 was Hamid. Five leading rebels met to discuss the situation.
“It’s these bitches of 34,” said the Big Man. “They fight like demons.”
“God is great!” said the One-armed Man. “This is our chance to destroy them!”
“Only destroy them?” asked the Old Man.
“We haven’t got them yet,” the big one replied. “The village huts give them good cover. We should starve them out.”
“Who knows how much food is in the village?” asked the Small Man. “If we wait too long, there’s bound to be a relief force. Helicopters. Even tanks.”
“Then use our rockets,” said Hamid. “Setting a few huts aflame will soon smoke the bitches out.” There was a horrified silence.
“The rockets are valuable. We may not get more for a long time” the big one objected. “We’ll need them if helicopters, tanks or half-tracks come.”
“They won’t waste tanks on saving cunts,” said the Old Man.
“But helicopters?” asked the small one. Rockets, against mud huts?”
“We should use the rockets. Only three or so – that’ll be enough,” replied Hamid. “I have a plan.”
“Then tell us this plan,” said the old one.
“We have the high ground. If the traitor bitches taste the fire of our rockets, they’ll want to break out instead of staying to be burnt alive. Out of this village there are two tracks, neither using the highest ground. The broadest one, where we saw that burnt-out ambulance, on the lowest ground, heading back south-east where they know they have help; and the narrower one, rising higher and heading south-west.”
“Aha! So they’ll use the broader one!” said the one-armed one. “We set a trap.”
“Half right, brother,” replied Hamid. “We set the trap on the narrower one.”
“Why?”
“These are cunning bitches with plenty of combat experience. The Devil has given them low wisdom. They know we are numerous. The broad track is much too obvious. They’ll assume we’re waiting along it – so they’ll go for the narrower one, thinking to outwit us. One through our lines, they can turn south-east or even hide up in the wild ground to hit back at us. We can still have some men along the broad track just in case, but I have no doubt what they’ll do.”
“God is great! If we capture some alive, what a raping there will be!” cried the One-armed Man.
“The young man is wise beyond his years,” the old one commented. “Let us do as he has said. But just three rockets, mind.”
Three rockets did the job. A few screaming villagers, a smell of burnt flesh no doubt, militiamen rushing around with water-buckets getting picked off by Hamid’s comrades, and the foul bitches of 34 came out in their jeeps and on motor-bikes. Hamid had not seen them properly till now, and even at a distance, he noted their curves of breast and buttock and the tightness of their khaki trousers. They came out firing and one brother who left cover for a good look paid with his life. They headed for the narrower track. When he saw that, Hamid felt fiery exultation, more than he had ever felt in his short life, more than when he scored that winning goal against the rival village.
The trap clicked shut. Many, many rebels appearing in front of them. Many behind them. Trucks blocking the track. The lead jeep on fire. A beautiful officer, urging her fellow-sluts on, humorously picked off by the old man with one shot in the belly: so much better than a bullet in the head, because there was time to see her expression change, quite slowly. A few casualties on both sides. And the famous and valiant witches of Commando 34 surrendered. Their weapons hit the ground and they raised their hands.
Hamid headed those who walked towards them. How many were there? 40 at least, maybe 50, excluding the dead and badly wounded. Some looking fearful, others attempting a stoic pose which wouldn’t last. He noted one or two with particularly big rumps or breasts and let his gaze linger on them, not only because to view such things was good, but to discomfit them. He strolled to the officer who had surrendered: young, proud, high cheekbones, fat buttocks. He pinched her less interesting cheek and slapped one of the finer ones. But what was this? In the midst of them were four men from the village militia, who must have volunteered to continue the fight, and some different whores. The men were taken straight away, shot in the genitals and left to die. And the different whores? Three of them stood out immediately by their nurses’ uniforms – two of them white, one brown but not like a local. They must have been in that ambulance. The other two were even more interesting. They were dressed in government khaki uniforms like the other whores, but one was black like some of the slaves that used to be traded in the country. The other was white, or rather, the palest of browns. Foreign military advisors? If so, what a catch!
He addressed the black one:
“Who are you, zinji whore? You aren’t one of our people.”
“I’m a volunteer from Chad.” He slapped her.
“Liar! You don’t speak like people from round there. Tell truth, or die.”
“I’m an American military advisor.”
“You gave good advice!” He called out to his comrades, who were collecting government weapons: “Brothers! We have an American! This Zinji here.”. They responded with laughter, cheers and praise to God. He turned to the other stranger.
“And what are you, slut? Another American whore – or French?”
“I’m French,” she replied, a little too quickly.
“French, are you? A colonialist! But are you, I wonder? Bilal, where are you? Ah, there. You told me once you spoke French and English. Speak to her in French.”
“Avez-you deja ete baise par un chameau ou un singe?” The woman looked puzzled. Bilal laughed.
“She’s not French. I don’t know what she is.”
By now, the other commanders had arrived. Hamid briefed them. The sluts of 34 and the other sluts were all just standing pointlessly, fearful, losing their pose of pride and soldierly standards. Disarmed, what were they? Cunts. Warriors wandered among them, stroking, pinching, slapping, slyly groping. The most senior commander, the big man, warned the men to be careful. A gun or knife could be grabbed. He then gave an order about the false Frenchwoman:
“Strip her. Search her.” The woman’s face showed horror, disgust, contempt; but none of these were of any use against four sturdy men, cheered on by many. They made short work of her uniform and were soon down to her pretty pale blue bra and – a fascinating discovery – her dark red and cream thong. Nestling against her flat, pale-olive-brown stomach was a leather pouch. The men were instantly excited and curious. She must keep something important here, maybe something secret. Bilal tugged at the strap, but it would not break. He had to saw it apart with his knife. Brothers crowded round him as he popped the pouch open.
Some dollar bills. A tiny book with strange writing more like Arabic than the alphabet. And…her I.D…. Unbelievable! God is great! Captain Tamar Goldstein. Israeli! Their involvement had been proclaimed by the Leadership, but the world said there was no proof; and nor did any of the brothers know anyone who had encountered an Israeli in their country. But here was one – in the delicious flesh!
“An Israeli! An Israeli! A Jew! A Jew! Discovered!”
“There’s something else I want to discover,” said Hamid. “Hold her well.” Ignoring her hate-filled face, he bent down to the thong.
“Beast! Bastard! Leave her!” The American had risked getting shot to break free from her captors and was throwing herself at Hamid. She never got there. She jumped right into a muscular brother’s fist. End of rebellion: flat nose a lot flatter.
Hamid ripped the thong apart. He already knew not to expect a rich, tangled bush, but neither was she fully shaven. Instead, there was a silly little tuft like a small moustache. He laughed. Other men laughed. The Israeli special force captain began to cry. He poked the thing. He was annoyed by the American moaning about her face, so he ordered her spanked, which was noisy.
By now all the captives had been searched for weapons. Several had been hiding knives. The Big Man, in overall command, lumbered across to Hamid.
“You’ve done well in this business. You’re promoted. Do you consider we’re safe from counter-attack?”
“Yes, brother – these bitches have been crushed, the village militia is cowed and there are no government forces anywhere near. We do need to extirpate the village, but there’s no hurry.”
“Then we can all rape these bitches!” He expected enthusiastic agreement. Instead, Hamid frowned, tapping his phone.
“There are 53 bitches here – 48 government soldiers and five others. We are nearly a thousand. Even if each man fucks only one government bitch, then each bitch will get 18.7 men on her. I mean, 18 or 19.”
“Sounds good, brother.”
“No, brother, for after that, they’ll all be dead or dying.”
“Should I feel compassion? For these whores?” Hamid smiled.
“None – none at all! But brother, consider: 53 cunts! Fit, young – what could we sell them for? And if we mean to sell them, they must be kept in good condition.”
“If I buy a chicken for the pot, do I care if it’s dead?” This puzzled Hamid.
“If someone buys them to eat, then how would we preserve them for him? In any case, most people will buy them as sex-slaves.” The Big Man was persuaded.
“Meesha Digaagga market! We can take them there. I’ll send messengers so there’s a good response.”
“Very good, but I can also put a choice few on the internet. I can post pictures of them.” The Big Man was happy to leave such things to kids. His mind returned to the present.
“Some of us can still fuck them, though.” The Old One and the One-armed One had joined them.
“If every commander of ten nominates two of his men to fuck them, if every commander of ten is included and then us generals, that would be about 300 men. Each slut gets raped by five or six men. That won’t kill them,” the One-armed one said. “They’re soldiers, after all, for the shit government. Are they not used to being raped by their male comrades?” That seemed reasonable to the commanders, so the order was given to strip all the sluts.
To Hamid’s surprise, the soldiers of 34, even the officers, obeyed with no fuss – some weeping and wailing, but no resistance, no proud stances. Maybe that was military discipline – but rather, as he watched them slough off their mannish uniforms, it seemed these sluts, whose grandparents had been farmers, fishermen or tinkers, were sloughing off their Western ideals and pretensions, their foul education, their democracy and equality, their pretended freedom, and reverting to what they would have been five hundred years ago – slave-women for men’s use.
The Jewess was already stripped and could now watch the stripping of the black American. The Old Man had sidled up to Hamid and confided he thought these two were lovers, for in degraded Western society, such things were possible. The American made a big noise about international law and respect, declaiming with pauses to snuffle the blood from her broken nose, but a gun pointed close at her belly magically silenced her and she stripped. The Jewess was sobbing. Bilal pinched her bare, plump bottom: she shrieked and stopped sobbing. The Zinji American had fine, big breasts.
There had been noise of arguing women for a while and once the black breasts had been contemplated, Hamid could find out the source of the trouble. It was the nurses! They were all interfering foreigners, pretending to help the poor people of a war-torn country while spying and whoring. Never mind, God has been generous: they had breasts and rumps. They were whining and complaining that they were just here to help sick and wounded people and they could treat rebels as much as anyone. They, did, though, respond to questioning. They were one blonde Swede, one red-headed New Zealander and one black-haired Indian. The Indian was particularly tiresome, bleating on about human values, until the Old Man grabbed her by her long black hair and effortlessly sliced off one pretty ear. For some reason that stopped her outpouring of words. The red-head started protesting, but one good spank on her fat bottom silenced her, after a comical shriek. The Swede began to sob. They stripped, with hilarious reluctance, at gunpoint.
The rape was organised exactly as the One-armed Man had suggested. There was no pushing into queues, only pushing into sluts. Hamid, as the mastermind of the victory, was given first choice and selected the American Zinji. Her breasts wobbled, so he squeezed them. She moaned, but he formed the impression she was switching off, maybe some trick that was part of her training. Right, he’d retrain her. Hand up her cunt and feel around. Tweak. Tug the sweet little thing. Fingers out and stroke them across her face. He drank her humiliation. He felt her resolve crumble. Now was the time to fuck her. Eye to eye, prick to cunt, shove to shiver: sweet. How is this, American? How do you like my orders, officer? Will you interfere with us again? Fuck you, interfering American! And so, with great vigour, he did. Meanwhile, the Old Man was having the Israeli (possibly his first, though he claimed to have had one in 1973) and the Big Man was hammering flat the Swedish nurse.
Great was the joy that day and great the anguish. The joy of the brothers was the greater, because Hamid’s proposal about a sale of cunts had spread fast. To receive from these shameless sluts, not only immediate joy, but money! It was soon worked out, between the Big Man, the Small Man and Hamid, that each brother should receive half of his share of the profits, but the rest should go into the common purse to buy weapons.
The Old Man had a fine sense of humour. He proposed, and it was agreed, that the slave-sluts should be marched way naked except for their army boots and socks. It was a wonderful sight: fat, wobbly buttocks, lewd wobbly breasts, tear-stained faces and the army boots of which the bitches had been stupidly proud! Practical, of course, as the Old Man always was, since these soft sluts could not have marched far barefoot.
Meesha Digaagga, when they reached it, was a revelation. Such crowds! People with different accents, from different tribes; some from towns that were supposed to be under government control; and apart from those aiming to bid and buy, many spectators and hangers-on, children, women, poor men. The approach of their column was spotted when it was merely a dust column. Word spread like fire. They reached a place seething with excited people nearly all pushing, pleading, climbing to get a look at the captive sluts.
“They are naked! Did they fight like that?”
“Look at the arse on that one!”
“I hope Daddy buys the blonde.” And so it continued to the crowded market-place.
There was a slight natural rise in the middle of the market-place, and there some big packing-cases had been shaped into a platform, some on their side round the outside and eight each on end jammed together to make the highest point. There the auctioneer would stand and there would be displayed the slut being sold, guarded by one man.
The auctioneer clambered up the platform. It was Hamid. He had wanted the Old Man to do it, but that distinguished warrior had declined as his voice would no longer carry well. The Big Man had determined he would take care of security, so he couldn’t be auctioneer. Hamid readied himself. He adjusted his keffiyeh.
“Brothers and sisters! With God’s blessing, welcome to the sale of the century! We have here the fruits of the front, three and fifty fresh cunts, 48 of them government whores, five of them foreigners meddling in our affairs. What is more, one of them is an American army whore and another, an Israeli! Now 46 of these whores can be sold here only, to you alone.
“What about the other seven?”
“You can bid, but we may also have bids on the internet. You bid against the internet. Yes, in Durhams. The foreigners will have to bid in Durhams, not in dollars or dirhams. But only for the five foreigners plus the two most senior officers.” They did not know whether to be excited or disappointed at this. “So – bring up the first slut for sale!” It was a small but curvy one who hardly looked 18, but that was supposed to be the lower age limit for the government army, so she must have been. She hadn’t quite got the hang of being a slave yet. She was trying to look brave. She was breathing heavily, which made her breasts wobble, which made any attempt to look soldierly and defiant laughable. Hamid displayed her. “Very young one, hardly out of school, very tight cunt. What am I bid?
“One hundred durhams!” There is laughter all around.
“Five hundred durhams!”
“Six hundred!”
“650!”
“651!” Hamid pulls a face.
“Only in tens, brothers.”
“660!”
“670!” And for 670 durhams she went, to an old man with a stick, who took her away, collared and roped.
The next captive to be sold was tall, leggy and a corporal. Hamid made much of that: she was used to exerting authority, so she needed a man who would teach her instead to obey. Instead of just waiting for bids, he asked for any bids at 600 and the bitch went for 750.
Next was something special – the first internet sale. It was the Israeli! When the crowd knew that, what awe, what excitement, what exultation! She looked a good piece of cunt, too, and still proud. Hamid asked for bids from the crowd first.
“Will you bid 800 durhams?” A moment’s silence. Then:
“850!”
“900?”
“900!” Three bidders.
“Who among you will bid 950, then?” Four bidders! “Very well, now we open bidding on the Jewess to the internet.” A pause. Hamid is intent, focussed on his phone. The crowd and the fighters wait, wondering what will happen.
“One thousand, one hundred on the internet!” Hamid’s eyes widen. “One thousand, two hundred!” He can hardly speak the next words:
“On the internet – two thousand!” There is an awed silence. “Two thousand, five hundred? On the internet, two thousand, eight hundred! Three thousand? Three thousand? Gone to the Saudi prince for 2,800.” After that came some sluts not for internet sale. Any sense of anticlimax was washed over by excitement as not a few in the crowd found an elite soldier slut to be affordable. As for the sluts, they seemed stunned, unresponsive, shamed by their nakedness, but their arses and tits spoke for them. One by one – or two by two in the case of tits – they were roped, collared and led away.
Then it was time for the nurses. They too were available for internet bidding. The Swede occasioned the most interest in the crowd and from countries with few blondes. A North Nigerian was locked in combat with a mystery bidder from Hamid’s own country. Who could it be? The Nigerian was finally bested and the mystery local got her for 1,900. At last, his identity was revealed! General Mohamed! Hamid offered a short prayer. The commander of the Government army! If he was treating with the rebels, if he was compromising himself by purchasing a female slave against all the preaching and laws of the unbeliever government, he must be preparing top change sides; and he would not do that unless he knew he could take a lot of soldiers with him.
The Nigerian was not disappointed for long. He got the Indian nurse. The New Zealander went to a fat local. Two more former soldiers were sold off. Then it was time for the American. A hush, waiting. A ripple of surprise: few of them had known she was a Zinji. Strange, but intriguing. She looked defiant, so he tweaked her ear. A pretty ear too, not a soldier’s ear.
“What is an American worth?” he called out.
“What is a Zinji worth?” a voice from the crowd riposted. “Our ancestors sold them daily. My father six generations back exchanged one for an English iron back-scratcher! It is still in the family.” Hamid did not know how to deal with a clever heckler, except by ploughing on.
“This one also is on the internet, but don’t let that stop you bidding, brothers. Do I hear one thousand durhams?”
“One thousand and ten!”
“One thousand and twenty!”
“On the internet, from Russia, one thousand two hundred. Do I hear 1,250?”
“1,250.” A local street trader: he probably didn’t have the money, but maybe he was acting for a consortium? 1,300 from Russia. No more bids? Gone to the Russian for 1,300. Not the same Putin, presumably – probably an assumed name.
After that, a consortium of local lads bought a sergeant with big breasts for 880, but no other bid topped 750. The auction was just winding up when all heard the thump of a distant explosion – distant, but not very distant. Almost immediately, another: then silence.
Hamid felt a great responsibility. The Small Man was handling security outside the town, in case of a rescue attempt or an attack by independent bandits, but he himself could not know whether the explosion was the start of an attack or its end – or just someone smoking by a stack of ammunition. In the meantime, the brothers present were not organised for a fight and most of the slaves had not been taken away.
“Brothers, sisters, listen to me! If you have bought a slut, take her away home, now. If you are a warrior, come together here, in good order, ready for action till we learn what those explosions mean.” So it was done. But very soon came a messenger, a trusted follower of the Small Man.
“Brothers, good news! Six big helicopters approached very low, but we shot down the first two with rockets. The rest turned tail. What was in the two that crashed? Sluts of Commando33! Some of them a bit roasted, some of them alive and now captives.”
“How many alive?” asked Hamid.
“Twenty-eight.” The Big Man took charge.
“Excellent! Bring the 28 here to be fucked and sold, and also those of the rest that are in best condition. Distribute the roasted ones among the villagers. Hamid, you have more work than we expected.”