Note: The following story is a work of fiction, and it’s just that, fiction. Nothing in the depicted events really took place. This is an audlt site where readers know the difference between a fun piece of fiction and real life.
All the characters included in this story are over 18 years old. Words such as “teenager”. “kid” and “boy” all refer to characters who are 18 or 19 years of age.
This story is one of those very rare requests I take. The main character being a blonde, PlaysWithKnives on RapeCage would have said I’m casting my story against type. I miss her, so my next story will feature a black-haired girl.
—
A beautiful blonde stood in front of the camera, all 5 ft 6-in of her, wearing a black tank-top under a loose white blouse, her light-golden hair in long curtains playing with daylight on her shoulders; filmed by her loyal Caolan. The viewers were hit by the cock-teasing display of her upper cleavage, her tank-top being tight enough to show how busty she really was. Her presence in that heavily Muslim neighborhood was nothing short of a provocation.
“Hi! Welcome to my YouTube channel. This is Lauren Southern, and I’m here in the no-go zone of Molenbeek, a majority Muslim enclave near Brussels in Belgium. And as you can see, I’m pretty much the only woman in that marketplace who has her head uncovered; most of the women you see are wearing a niqab or at least a hijab.
“I spoke with a guy here yesterday, if you guys saw the interview, and he said that yes, he has no problem with the Islam Party that wants to impose the Sharia law across all Belgium and put the entire country under the Quran.
“And, eh, did you hear this? That old man who just passed… He says I’m a slut and a bad influence for little girls here!
“Only yesterday, I spoke with an old man, a white Belgian who was in Congo with his parents back when he was a teenager. He says that Congo back then was a safer place for white people than Molenbeek today, even in 1960 when the military broke into a mutiny. That man told me I should leave, that this place isn’t safe for me. He told me to never stay here after nightfall, that the police won’t do anything if I run into trouble.
“Hey, you! Don’t touch me!”
A young man, with Moroccan features, briefly entered the frame and seemed to do something with his hand behind Lauren’s blue jeans, which she’s wearing under her loose white blouse over a tank-top that shows a bit of cleavage between her inviting round breasts. The busty blonde now looks pissed.
“Did you see this, Caolan? Are you recording? That guy; he just touched my, well… that place below my lower back… This is outrageous! Is this really what Belgium has come to? I… I think we better leave soon, Caolan. We’ll maybe talk to a couple of folks here, and then we’ll be gone. We were supposed to stay after sunset and see what this neighborhood is like in the evening, but I… I just don’t feel safe, even when it’s still daylight. All right, we’ll go and have a chat with this old man over there, that one who sells lemons and oranges…”
***
The gorgeous-looking blonde walks to a stall filled with lemons and oranges. Behind it stands a short old man with dark olive skin and a wrinkled face, and a strong black mustache that tells the viewer about the young man he once was. He’s wearing a white beanie hat. He’s looking at Lauren with an expression that seems meek and cheerful, but his smile looks fake, and even on the YouTube screen, one can see there’s something ominous, predatory in the way he looks at Lauren. The man’s dark eyes tend to gaze a bit down below her pretty face.
She starts talking to the fruit seller, asking him about his usual customers.
“Muslim wifes. Muslim wifes,” says the Berber-looking old man in a heavily accented English, always looking at Lauren, whose face shows tenseness as she slightly moves away from him.
Then, the busty blonde asks him what he thinks of the Sharia law.
“Sharia law, very good. Very good,” he answers, his gaze clearly wandering south.
His gaze remains on her assets long enough to make her seriously cringe.
“Lauren, I think we must go.”
Caolan, her cameraman, just spoke.
While they were with the old fruit salesman, people had promptly left, as if they all went back home to have supper at the same time.
The sun was sinking low. The streets were getting shadowy; streetlamps would be turned on at any moment. The old salesman kept gazing at the white woman, and her uncovered blond hair, with a pair of eyes that had turned rapacious.
He no longer gave the vibes of a peaceful street salesman. He now came across as someone a lot more warlike, closer to some Bedouin clan chieftain who was hunting down the enemy. Above his pitch-black mustache, which he probably dyed, his nostrils were palpitating, as if he were smelling blood.
***
There was a group of men, advancing near the walls, like shadows with leather-brown faces under the Arab-written signs, their eyes of black steel piercing the dim evening light. They were all looking at the two pale-skin intruders and making their slow, silent advance, their steps resolute as their cheap sneakers walked the weathered pavement. It was them that Caolan had spotted.
The cameraman took Lauren’s hand, and he started to calmly walk away from the lemons-and-oranges stall.
As the cameraman led the frightened activist by the hand on the now-deserted street, they looked like a young white couple walking away from the wrong place at the wrong time, or trying to.
Caolan gently accelerated, Lauren following him and clinging to his hand like a lifeline. This time, she was in positive danger.
The silently moving men also upped their pace, following their prey like shadows. As she saw this, Lauren felt a chill of icy terror down her spine, along with notes of dark arousal down her core; something deep within her had always wished for something like this to happen. When they’d be back in their hotel room, she decided she’d try to persuade Caolan to fuck her; Caolan was gay.
Caolan went from a walk to a brisk walk and into a jog, then into running, with the darker-skinned youths always keeping pace. The migrant boys were gaining on them!
As he neared the end of the street, Caolan had to choose between two narrow by-streets, neither looking reassuring. He bolted to the left side, where he soon learned that he was in a dead-end.
“Allahu akbar!”
“Allah’ akbar!”
The young men broke their silence as they got near.
Lauren screamed, “Caolan! Call the police! Call the police!”
But there was no time to use an iPhone. Caolan saw an opening and ran into it; he ran through a two-car wide doorway into an underground parking lot, always leading Lauren by the hand.
He needed to find a place to hide! Hide and then call the cops!
With their pursuers pressing hard at their heels, Caolan sprinted past a BMW and a 1988 Volkswagen minivan, and promptly got behind it. He slid underneath it, and he then realized something.
He no longer had his camera, and Lauren was no longer with him.
Caolan was dead with terror as he got deafened by his own panting, his heart pounding hard as if it were trying to burst out of his chest.
“NNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! Caolan! Caolan! POLICE HELP!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO LET ME GO! LET ME GO!!!”
“ALLAHU AKBAR!” “ALLAH’ AKBAR…” “Allah’ akbar!!!”
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH NNAAOOOOOOOOO LET ME GO! POLICE! POLICE! I’M AN CANADIAN CITIZ’N MMMHH NNNAAAOOOOOOO OOOOOO AAAAAAAAAA Caolan! Caolan! HELP ME! HELP Mmmmhh…”
They had her. He had dropped his camera… Caolan’s very first thought was for Lauren and his camera. Nobody seemed to pay attention to him. If he still had his camera, he could hide and film whatever those men would do to Lauren and use it as evidence, or perhaps to… No, he must not harbor such evil thoughts!
Lauren kept screaming amid men’s chanting, “Allahu akbar! Allahou akbar!” God is the greatest!
Caolan was safe under the Volkswagen minivan, but he had to see what was happening to Lauren. He had to! He couldn’t help it. He knew what those men would do, and he had to watch. He had to. He was gay, but the adrenaline level was through the roof; it didn’t matter, really. All that mattered was that someone he was close to was about to get brutally assaulted in an extremely intense way. This turned him on in a profoundly evil way.
Caolan slid and crawled and slithered out from underneath the minivan as the enclosed parking lot seemed to explode with Lauren’s shrill screams.
Moving like in a dream, with lead slowing his legs to a crawl, Caolan rose himself and hid behind a Jetta Volkswagen from the early 2000’s. He pressed himself against the car, making himself as low and as inconspicuous as he could, and he took a peek just above the hood, his face close to the windshield on the passenger’s side…
The young Moroccan migrants were tossing Lauren left and right between them, forming a circle of standing hate. The white Canadian girl kept screaming in shrill notes of terror as she was being grabbed and tossed from one Muslim man to the next one.
She yelped every time one of them forced a kiss on her before pushing her hard into his mate’s waiting arms. The old salesman was right there with them, smiling under his dark mustache as he watched Lauren being tossed around their circle, her flapping blouse looking like the white sails of a floundering ship amid a dark hurricane.
Her boobs beautifully moved inside the tight blackness of her tank-top, doing their subterranean dance under her wide-open blouse, her long loose hair moving in waves amid the flurries of manly shouts, “Allahu akbar! Alla- Allahu akbar, … u akbar-aRr!”
Caolan was deeply aroused as he watched, his mouth gaping. He hated himself for being so evilly coward. He was now afraid of, yet hoping and waiting for the moment her assailants would take things to the next level. Right now, they were playing cat and mouse and enjoying her panic and distress.
Each time Lauren tried to make a dash out of their circle, they grabbed her and threw her back right in their middle.
One man had a camera. Lauren recognized it. It was Caolan’s. Where was he? The young man, about 19 or 20 years old, like most of the others, was filming her.
Then, her right side exploded with pain and she fell flat on the asphalt, trying to find her breathing. Someone had punched her right in the liver.
Lauren was grabbed. Hands ran all over her… At her crotch. Around and amid her buttocks, forcing her arousal right through her blue jeans. Hands cupped her full round boobs as she tried to shriek, but no sound would go out as she slowly gained back her ability to breathe, but then an old mustached man pressed his lips against hers, before avidly grabbing her head and licking the whole left side of her face, his licentious tongue showing to the far-right activist which side was the better one.
With terror, she recognized the lemon-and-orange salesman. Why was he here? People were going to steal his lemons! What was he doing here?! She felt so confused. Confused and terrified, with young hands forcing her arousal all over her body.
The more she tried to fight them off, the bolder and stronger they got.
A hand grabbed her black tank top and pulled the fabric. The old man slapped her, then he grabbed the upper hem of her tank-top and viciously pulled and ripped!
RRSSSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRR… “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I’M CANADIAN! MY EMBASSY!!!”
The fabric-ripping sound filled Lauren’s cold-sweating universe as she panted, fought for her breathing, and felt all those hostile gazes on her exposed cleavage while hands were busy undoing her belt and other ones holding her legs still. She looked everywhere for help. There was nothing she could do!
Caolan watched, silently panting, hiding behind the Jetta.
The old salesman, his nostrils palpitating more than ever above his lush moustache, grabbed Lauren’s black bra by the front and pulled the elastic fabric, which formed a thin slingshot-like front that seemed to safeguard the girl’s modesty and hung there for a fleeting moment, until other brown hands grabbed the pulled-thin straps and yanked them in opposite directions, and her bra snapped apart.
Lauren shrieked at the top of her voice as her round and full breasts burst into sight. Caolan had just enough time to figure out the paleness of her loonie-round areolas before her busty paleness disappeared under a throng of rapacious hands.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO! DON’T! DON’T! YOU… YOU HAVE NO RIGHT! NO RIGHT! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-OOOO!!!”
Hands violently pull her blue jeans down below her child-bearing hips, revealing the pale beauty of her slender legs. Brown hands discover the silk of her whiteness as they start to fondle her suddenly naked thighs. Her panties are pink with a pattern of white maple leaves.
Caolan can’t see much; Lauren is utterly surrounded by the young men who press themselves like a group of cubs attracted to a piece of meat with honey on it. The young bears are unstoppable. It’s the will of Allah.
The old salesman will never forget how that white girl’s nipple feels and taste under his tongue as he presses his mustached face against her white flesh and feels it yield under his Muslim push; Lauren will never ever forget the soft brush of his mustache on her sensitive skin.
He enjoys it beyond words; he’s defiling the assets of this pretentious bitch as she writhes and wriggles amid the insisting hands. She clearly needs to learn humility, as she ought to as a woman under Allah; the Quran says so.
Lauren’s breasts are now veiled under adoring hands and mouths, all of them North African. She feels a huge jolt of arousal that force juices down her pussy as they grab and rip off her pink panties; neither the Canadian embassy nor the white pattern of maple leaves can save her cunt, which they find clean and trim, with a subtle strip of light-brown hair leading their gazes to her Christian-girl paradise between her bright thighs. She screams with deafening force. She’s theirs.
“Allahou akbar!”
“Allahu akbar!”
Her exploding senses are surrounded with voices barking “Allahu akbar!” Her distressed breasts are forced into an unwanted swelling under the old man’s mouth as he keeps circling his tongue around her juicy nipple, not to mention the youthful hands that press and knead her tits while other hands are finding their way everywhere on her body, even inside her asshole, which someone is now ravenously fingering.
“NNAAAA-AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME, YOU BROWN-FACED BASTARDS! AAAAAAAAHHH BASTARDS!!! BASTARDS-NNNAAAAAA OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO…”
The more Lauren screams, the hornier they get around her. And the hornier Caolan gets too. He is now masturbating, his pants unzipped. Maybe he’s bisexual after all. He doesn’t want to admit it, but deep down, he feels like raping Lauren deep inside her ass.
As she keeps shrieking and venting out her powerless rage amid her many captors, Lauren confusedly notices that those Moroccans don’t all look the same like she thought. They surround her with faces that go from thin to pudgy; there are slender guys and large guys, one or two so big that they look like some Moroccan version of a football lineman.
Hands are pressed hard against her trim-line cunt, and she yelps in pain, this on top of her forced arousal from that finger insistently exploring her rectum. The mere fact she’s being forcibly stripped out of her clothes is feeding her forced arousal. Something within her has always daydreamed of this.
A big Moroccan man grabs her ankles and lifts her off her feet while the salesman and others hold her torso and restrain her arms, ripping her white blouse and shredding the rest of her black tank-top in the process.
The big teenager, looking at her white splendor from his fleshy brown face, urgently pulls her shoes off and his fingers sink into her tender ankle skin as he impatiently peels her socks off her dainty feet, which he begins to kiss and lick ravenously, holding her ankles together in his vice-grip hands. Lauren feels that pressure; she feels his wet kisses on her feet. It only adds to her sense of sensual despair as she finds herself drifting closer and closer to sexual surrender.
They find a suitable car, a black Nissan. They make her naked buttocks land on its hood and as she keeps protesting while having her boobs kissed, sucked and hand-worshipped, they force her legs wide open, and the large man who has been worshipping her feet finds himself right in front of her cunt as she vainly writhes and struggles, one of her legs naked while the other one is covered with the blue surviving mass of her half-removed jeans.
“Yusuf! Yusuf!”
“Allahu akbar!” “… Yusuf!”
Yusuf promptly lowers his jogging trousers. He wears no underwear. Lauren’s eyes become round Canadian loonies as she sees his incredible brown size, his cock forming an impatient fist of Allah as the big boy grabs its base. Raping that Western bitch is going to be so much fun!
From the car hood where the shouting men keep her pinned, Lauren looks desperately for someone, something that would save her from the unthinkable. She screams her despair…
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! CAOLAN! POLICE! HELP!!!”
“ALLAHU AKBAR!” “ALLAHU AKBAR!!!”
Yusuf wedges himself between Lauren’s legs, his big-shoulder mass obscuring her field of vision, dominating her as they firmly hold her pinned on that black hood with her buttocks now clear above the air.
They restrain her arms as she frantically shakes her golden-haired head and keeps screaming, “Nooooo!”
They hold her ankles with her legs well spread out for big Yusuf as he comes rushing and urgently pushes his humongous cock against and into her entrance, straining with his 250-plus pounds behind his effort!
Lauren shrieks in a mix of searing pain, deep humiliation and yes, forced arousal as she notices how young that big boy looks. He’s just a big kid! Eighteen, maybe nineteen years old. A high-school kids with silky-soft features and innocent-looking eyes.
From her experience, she can tell that this teenager is probably a nice fellow, good-natured in his normal life. But he’s under peer pressure as they keep shouting his name, encouraging him. He’s perhaps losing his virginity right here and there!
As she feels him entering her, as he strains to sink deeper, she wants to talk to him, to tell him how bad and shameful it is to do what he’s about to, but she remains silent as she realizes she’s about five years older than him… She feels intensely aroused by the prospect of forced sex with a younger guy, twice her size with man’s boobs visible under his black tee-shirt with a dirty-golden label that says “BAAD!”
“AAAHH—YYYAAAAHHHHRRRRRRRR…” the teenage boy growls as he violently pushes himself deep inside Lauren, who yelps with pain, along with more arousal than her right-wing morals would have liked.
The big boy grabs her pure-white thighs with his Moroccan hands, and the rape begins, primal and filled with unspoken truths.
Yusuf takes unfathomable delight in the act, losing his virginity to that gorgeous foreigner. Amid the shouting, jeering pack of his fellow migrants, the big Moroccan begins to forcefully pound her, like he has seen done in porn.
With his mouth gaping, grunting like a rutting baboon, Yusuf rapes Lauren, whose pretty face is bobbing amid darker hands that keep violating the distressed brightness of her long hair, and the jiggling mass of her boobs that look as if they are some sort of small balloons of flesh with a life of their own. Her pale nipples and areolas are glistening with Moroccan spit; she makes a wonderful sight, and the most adorable cum dump a bunch of migrants could dream of.
Yusuf’s huge dick gloriously expands inside her as he keeps plowing and ravaging the right-wing activist. He’s now screaming, “Allahu akbar” along with the sordid dozen of his peers and keeps pounding her like he really means it, letting his gaze get lost somewhere in the pristine whiteness of her cleavage between the urgent jiggling of her tits. His edge is approaching, fast!
Yusuf yells out his bliss as he explodes! From his pudgy face, the sweating, overweight boy screams, “ALLAH AKBARRRR AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHNNNNNN NNNNNNNN NNNNNNNNN NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!”
He screams, feeling he’s bursting alive and meeting Allah as a furious geyser of cum shoots out of his wild-pulsating cock. All his cream gets lost deep, deep inside the whimpering, panting girl, whose enfeebled voice calls for help, for the police, for the Canadian embassy. She’s screwed.
Caolan runs!
He rushes right at Lauren, his dick out of his trousers. He somehow finds his way amid the small mob of young men, and as he suddenly finds himself just beside Lauren, he furiously masturbates himself with his cock right above her sweaty tits, and he presently bursts in an explosion of cum! He daydreams of raping her ass as he forcefully ejaculates…
Caolan shoots a thick rope of semen, a straight line of diffuse milk that seems to hang in the adrenaline-filled air before it lands on and graces the top of her left breast after flying right across her torso! It’s followed with another shot of pudding, then another one, hot and sticky on Lauren’s busty defilement, before he gets grabbed and pulled away.
He’s thrown against the side of a Mercedes and beaten up into a pulp. Once he’s down and bloody, they kick him right in his balls, making him squeal as he vainly tries to protect himself. All the assailants laugh as they keep hitting him while Lauren is whimpering loud and clear, her squeals echoing those of her cameraman while her gang-rape is duly filmed.
They have flipped her around and they presently force her to bend over in their midst, next to that black Nissan, under the neon lights of the parking lot. Two tall and stringy men hold her arms and shoulders still while the old salesman stands behind her.
The old man isn’t tall so he’s going to fill in right inside that slut; he’s on her level. He runs his hands around the white contours of her angel-soft butt. He praises Allah aloud as he desecrates her intimate skin, enjoying how incredibly silky she feels, unable to believe this is happening.
Then, he drops his dirty pants and boxers, and without warning, the lemon-and-orange salesman brutally penetrates Lauren, who lets out a long-winded squeal as her pussy gets forcibly entered again.
His pair of Moroccan hands sink into her girly flesh where he holds her tight waist as he begins to rape her, enjoying the feel of her full buttocks that begin to white-bump into him, making the rape that much enjoyable. Oh, by Allah!
Aamir, 62 years old, has the time of his life! He enjoys every second of it as he gives her his die-hard dick, finding unsuspected youth in himself with each stroke he gives her, her distressed whimpers music to his ears amid the young men’s jeering and shouting. Raping her is so Allahu-akbar good!
“Allahu akbar!” “Allahu akbar!” the other ones scream while Aamir loudly grunts, filled by an elating sense of pure victory as he keeps bumping Lauren’s pale bottom, as he keeps up his furious assaults, doggy style!
As he shows her who’s boss, the mustached Moroccan watches her head bobbing to and fro, the mass of her golden hair a loose curtain of distress while the surrounding mob of young men contemplate the ivory-paleness of her spotless shoulders, along with her well-toned backside, her hips and the maddening expanse of her snow-white buttocks that seem to bump forever against the sweating Aamir.
Aamir is now panting, his mustached mouth gaping with frothing slobber trickling down his chin as he keeps her waist within his painful grasp.
The two tall men hold her shoulders and restrain her arms, making sure she remains bent-over for her session of forced Islamizing. They love the sound of her whimpers.
One of the pair unzips his khaki trousers and lets his erection fully deploy right below her nose. He then grabs her hair, pulls it hard, making her yelp, before forcing his cock inside her mouth, all this while Aamir is still taking his pleasure and banging her from behind, where he stands and holds her lovely waist seemingly forever. The right-wing activist has her mouth full.
Lauren gets spit-roasted between two Moroccans. They film her glorious exploit as all the young migrants laugh and call her a far-right bitch who needs some good Muslim cocks; they give her their jeering, their mockery and their ever-present Allahu-akbar shouts.
She can’t scream, her mouth utterly filled with the rancid meat that strikes hard against her palate while the man holds her face inside a vice-grip hold, while that old salesman keeps raping her standing doggy-style, and this man takes his pleasure, teaching her what it feels like to be face-fucked while being screwed from behind! All this and that at the same time with a flurry of Allahu-akbar shouts!
Aamir thinks of how entitled she looked when she was asking her silly questions about Sharia law, fully clothed and strutting around like she owned the place. And now he’s doing exactly what he was thinking of when she was interviewing him.
The old man suddenly twitches inside her and shouts, “AAAAAAAAAAHHHH ALLAHOU AK-BAR!!!” sounding he’s dying out of sheer ecstasy as he massively erupts inside her and frantically grips her pale hips; and he groans, like a boar, as he empties himself inside the face-fucked blonde. He loves that subtle tinge of pale gold on her ass as he blissfully finishes ejaculating.
Lauren would groan with a sense of self-hate and sordid humiliation if her mouth was free to do so, but she’s being roughly face-raped. The man pinches her jaw in a way that would make biting nearly impossible if she were stupid enough to try this. Besides, she feels forcibly horny and she’s been soaking wet from the moment she got chased through the streets of Molenbeek.
The young men are enjoying the show of white nakedness as they watch Lauren come down on her knees while the tall man face-fucking her doggedly refuses to let go of her head.
Her golden hair moves in long shockwaves as her mouth keeps being violated by the Allahu-akbar shouting man, whose hard facial features make him look like a typical terrorist. He even wears a dark-blue beanie that reinforces that effect.
Aamir stands by and looks on, oblivious of his sated dick that now glistens with a sheen of Lauren’s juices mixed with his own jism. She’s getting Islamized properly. That will teach her good!
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH AAALLLAAAHH!!!” the beanie-wearing man bellows, his face tensed with nearly painful bliss as he liberally showers Lauren’s palate and tongue with a strong jet of Moroccan seed!
Lauren feels the degrading heat. She feels the rancid, foul taste as it Islamizes her mouth, which suddenly feels empty as the man pulls out and paints her pretty face with two urgent shots of Allah’s semen that put a rancid-smelling coat of glistening goo over her right eyebrow, most of her forehead and the bridge of her delicate nose.
“Allahu-akbar!” the man predictably shouts as Lauren’s facial shower comes to a sticky end. She’s ruined and changed forever. The Moroccans think she’s truly pretty now. The salesman smiles a mile wide under his dyed mustache.
The second man follows suit. He too wears a beanie; he’s the first man’s brother. He kneels down and forces his own cock inside her mouth before she has time to spit out all the Moroccan semen polluting her tongue. She notices he’s smaller, but just as rock-hard as her previous face rapist.
Lauren is forced into another act of fellatio as the man imprisons her head inside his iron grasp, while a newcomer kneels behind her inviting butt. That young man urgently spears his dick inside her twice-taken pussy. His hands grab her waist and teach her Allah’s truth.
“Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Huh-hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-hu-huuu…” the new rapist utters as he begins to defile the right-wing activist, sounding like a sick donkey as he starts to take his deep pleasure inside her, doggy-styling a white woman for free, while the second tall man is face-raping her in an act of pure domination.
That heathen woman needs to be reeducated. They’re doing her a favor. Islam is a peaceful religion. They’re doing their duty by giving her their heated love. Raping white girls is fun.
All of her ordeal is filmed, using Caolan’s camera.
The cameraman lies half unconscious. He can’t help it. He couldn’t protect Lauren. He’s now masturbating again. He has often daydreamed of something like this happening to her. To them. It’s all surreal, yet she had it coming.
TO BE CONTINUED.
