(Another entry in the diary of Sickman) 


I never used to like whores. Despite my other many, diverse, politically incorrect perversions, throughout my twenties I just never really got into renting women. It's odd since I've always loved a nice dirty slut, and weirdness, and anything that remotely smells of depravity or a woman humiliated, but the couple of times I tried paying for pussy I had been greatly disappointed. Maybe I am just a cheap bastard, but paying $150 bucks for a passionless suck-'n-fuck from a questionably attractive tart with major attitude just never seemed like a good buy. I could get THAT, and far better, for free! I guess what appeals to me about using a prostitute is the exploitation aspect and at those prices, while clearly one of us was being grossly exploited, I just could not feel that it was her.

Of course the first time I found myself in an under-developed country all that changed. When you can rent women for 15 bucks and you know that, far from being a liberated woman who sees this as an expression of her sexual freedom and a great way to scam pathetic men who have more sperm than brains, she is, instead, purely a victim of a harsh society that gives unfortunate young women no choice except between prostitution and starvation. Now THAT appeals to both my sense of perversion and my naturally cheap nature.

In the mid 90's, I worked for a company that installed huge phone systems, upgrading entire countries and such. It was a good job, paid great, and I got paid to see the world, and in many cases, exploit its feminine side on my off hours. The perfect job.

That is how I ended up in B0snia only a few months after the shelling had stopped. After a far bigger asshole than me had bombed the living snot out of Sarajev0, I was part of the crew that went in to replace the main switching station.

The job should have taken 6 weeks but within a day of arrival we knew it would take at least twice that. I have worked in far more remote areas, but never one that was more thoroughly fucked up than that poor city. So, having just come out of the Philippines, where I had first discovered the joys of all-you-can-fuck budget retail pussy, my first night off in Sarajev0 I was immediately out into the rubble making enquiries. After a couple of months plundering a wonderful smorgasbord of delicious Filipina dark meat, I was more than ready to climb into something blonde and pink for a change.

As I have seen so often since, ask any taxi driver and it usually does not take long to find a pussy store.  That's how they seem to me: grotty little retail boutiques offering a selection of mouths, tits, and warm cunts for rent. They are usually in a hotel or apartment building - the one I found in Sarajev0 that night was in a highrise apartment block that was half destroyed by shelling. Not crumbling, just the whole of one side and a good part of the other were covered with pockmarks with only a handful of windows still glazed.

Usually, you are either taken to a bedroom and the girls are paraded in, or you are taken into a living room full of bored girls watching t.v. and waiting for business. You then wander about looking over the merchandise much like I have seen women in markets trying to decide between this piece of meat and that.  I mean does it really matter?  Where I'm going they will all be pretty much the same: warm, wet and pink, but, since you have to choose one, you want to get the best one and it is fun to draw out the process, leisurely studying each one, sizing up her body like the piece of meat it is, so that when you finally make your selection, all the others can know that after careful consideration, they just weren't good enough. Not worth $15 bucks. 

I suppose every guy has his own criteria. With me, it depends on my mood. I tend to like small girls, both short and petit. While I am sure to be stopped by a particularly remarkable set of mammary glands, generally it is of almost no concern. Neither is hair colour. If a girl is truly beautiful I will probably take her just to see what she looks like gagging on my cock. But, for the most part, I have found that the most important thing is her eyes. If I see a real spark there, I know that she will be a fun fuck. Dull eyes probably means that, although she will do what she is told, it will be more like jerking off inside her than a mutually-eager humping.

That night in Sarajev0, I was taken into a living room stocked with either five or six girls, late teens to mid-twenties. The pimp stepped out to pay off the taxi driver that had brought me while I looked each whore up and down. No contest. There was a tiny blonde girl, twentyish, and really quite beautiful. Her eyes gleamed, and she flashed a lovely smile at me as my eyes rose from her nicely curved chest.

"Do you speak English?", I asked


"What's your name?"


Great eyes; lit with a brilliant spark, you know. Decision made. But, since buddy had not returned, I forced myself to finish my inspection.

The last one was sitting back, away from the others. Dark hair. My first thought was "homely". And "miserable". I certainly could not imagine her getting much business with that dejected, sour expression. Tall, very slim, quite young. Beautiful long hair. On second look I decided that, in fact, she would have been quite pretty if she wasn't scowling. No spark in those eyes. More like utter despair. She looked far more sad and downtrodden than any girl I had seen in the Philippines. I wondered what it would it would be like to screw such a sad girl. It appealed to my sense of cruelty and exploitation. Not that I was going to do it - the blonde looked far more entertaining - but maybe some other time. Just for the experience.

"What's your name?

She looked confused for a moment and then said, "Samra".

"Dis von is cry-baby", the pimp said with disgust, coming to stand with me. The expression sounded funny in such rough English. I looked at him questioningly, so he explained, "She cries whenever she's with man. Some men like dat".

Well THAT got my attention. What would it be like to fuck a girl who was crying? Like rape without all that force-stuff. I think a grin may have spread across my face as I pictured it, and I almost went for it, but decided I really just felt like screwing the cute little blonde at that moment.

So I purchased Amina, took her down the hall to one of the bedrooms, and she fucked me like a crazed bunny. She was great. She was totally into it and giggled and grinned throughout, sucked my cock like she was ravenous for it, and humped me back like a kitten in heat. One of the best lays I had ever purchased. I would definitely be back for some more of THAT stuff.

But the next day at work, while I was still grinning about the little blonde, I spent far more time thinking about the "cry-baby". That night I was back at that apartment building and it wasn't for the blonde.

The bedrooms were sparse; an old metal bed and a wooden chair in a small cell, the walls in desperate need of paint. But the sheets were clean and I sort of like the sordidness of mounting a soft, pretty girl in a hard, ugly room. I sat in the chair and she stood, awkwardly, in front of me.

"Do you speak English?"

"A little"

Take your clothes off"

She flinched just a little at this order, but started stripping.

"Slowly", I corrected.

When she had finished I did not say anything, but just studied her body. A nice body it was, too. Long and lean with beautiful firm titties - not large but flawlessly round - a long flat belly, far too much pubic hair for my liking, hips that were small but well-rounded and legs that just kept going. She had that triangular-shaped face that so many Yugoslavian girls have with cat-like eyes, framed by a long cascade of dark brown loose curls. God, she looked young.

"How old are you?"

A few seconds to translate this..."Eighteen"

Eighteen! Sweet Jesus!

She was squirming a little under my gaze, obviously embarrassed. Her hands seemed to meet over her hairy thatch of their own volition. But I had been thinking about this all day, and I certainly was not going to make it easy for her. She blushed! Who ever heard of a whore that blushed? But her face and throat slowly turned bright pink. I was almost laughing out loud at this. As it was, I doubt she knew I was grinning ear to ear, her gaze was so fixed on my shoes.

This was great! What wonderful theatre.

"How do you say 'whore' in Croatian?"

"'kurva'", she said so low that I had to have her repeat it a few times.

"Get on the bed. Kurva.".

She sat down, but she flinched from the name.

I spoke slowly and clearly now, leaving lots of space between my words and used hand gestures for clarity. Communication was far more difficult than I will even try to record here, with me constantly needing to repeat or find alternate ways of saying things.

I made her lie on her back, spread her knees and use the fingers of both hands to spread her little clam for me, and with every order I called her a pearlyava kurva; a dirty whore. She was crying by the time I had her like I wanted her. I had sort of guessed the night before, but everything that she did was now confirming: here was a good, innocent girl who had been forced into prostituting herself and hated every minute of it.  I was getting hard.

"There, now you look like a dirty whore. Do you like this?" She assured me she did not. "You don't like being a kurva?" I asked in mock surprise, spitting at her splayed gash, though most landed on the back of one hand. She was sobbing now, looking miserable in her disgrace. It made my cock pulse in my jeans. "Get it ready for me, whore." and I spit again, hitting the mark with a great clot of snot and saliva. "Get that cunt all wet and ready" and I started climbing out of my jeans.

"You know I am going to fuck you, don't you?"

She nodded.

"Are you going to like that?"


"No?!, But I thought whores like to fuck. Maybe you are not a whore after all. Maybe you are a good girl."

This went on and on, her rubbing my spit into her splayed fuckhole and me stroking my hard-on in anticipation, knowing I was going to fuck the tears out of her. It took a lot of coaxing and coaching, but I eventually got her begging me "Please, please don't fuck me. I'm not whore. I am good girl. Please, I am good girl" Music to my ears. I made a production of preparing my weapon with its latex shield and then mounted her in two or three hard jabs.

God, how she howled! Her face was a mask of torment; her eyes clamped shut; tears streaming down her face; her mouth blubbering almost incomprehensibly, "Please don't. I not whore. please..." It was wonderful. I was eating up with a spoon. I banged the living snot out of the wailing young girl and the harder I fucked, the louder she cried. And begged. But my perfidious libido would not let me come. I fucked her until I was exhausted, but could not get off. So I rolled off her, tore off the condom and told her to use her mouth. She looked like shit. Her face was all puffy and red, mascara streaks on her temples, her mouth huge pout of misery. I took her head in my hands like a basketball and forced it on and off my cock making her gag at every thrust, choking for air. She had to endure a couple minutes of that but I eventually pumped my scum down her throat and let her catch her breath.

I felt a little guilty after that. I think I got out of there pretty quick.

The next time I went back, I took Amina, the blonde girl again. I mean, I had really gotten off on screwing a girl who was bawling miserably, but I kind of freaked myself too, a little. That night I had splurged for a "Long Time", which meant $25 - everything was done in US dollars or Deutsch Marks - for the night, where a "Short Time" was basically get off and get out. So after my first round, after she had cleaned me up and was gently lapping at my balls, I asked her what was with Samra; why she cried.

She shrugged and said that Samra had been raped by soldiers. "She really hates this", Amina stressed.

"There's nothing else she can do?"

She shrugged, it obviously meaning very little to her, and said, "Her parents are dead. And here is not like where you come from. Nobody will marry a girl who is not a virgin, specially if she was raped. And specially for her because she is Moslem and from a little village. When a Moslem girl has been raped, she is no good for anything. Except to be whore. No one would ever marry her. Everyone in her village would treat her like a whore."

"What about the refugee camps?", I asked. Isn't that they were for?

"It would be no different there. And she has a sister that is sick, so she has to send money. This is best."

Bored with talking, she went back to licking my balls and that was the end of that conversation.

But I thought about it a lot over the next couple of days.

She'd been raped.

That sweet young girl had been raped. Her life ruined. How awful.

How intriguing.

I don't do rape. I am totally into it as a fantasy, but me actually forcing someone against her will?  Nah. In fact, that first little scene with Samra was probably the closest I have ever come and I have said how difficult it was for me to get off during that.  But I certainly do get off on stories of rape. And torture.  I have some very well thumbed copies of Justine and Juliette by the Marquis.

And here was a girl who had a story of her own. I wanted to hear it. I REALLY wanted to hear her story. Would it turn me on? Or off? I really didn't know. I liked it in fantasy, but not reality. Well this was reality, it just wasn't me. It had already happened so there was nothing I could do to change it. But could I actually get off on screwing a girl while or after she had been telling me about the worst thing that had happened to her? I didn't know. But I was going to find out.

My next trip back, I took Samra for a Short Time. I had her sit in the chair, fully clothed, while I lounged on the bed. I told her Amina had told me she was raped, and then I gave her the choice: she could either tell me about it, or I could fuck her. She hesitated, not really liking either option, but then, after confirming that if she told me about it, I would not fuck her at all, she agreed.

She was not good at first. She just gave me the basic story; no gory details, no heart-wrenching feelings, in fact, hardly anything arousing at all. But it was the first time I had heard it and just the basics of what had happened to her were enough to turn me on.

So, when an hour had passed, I sent her out with a few dollars tip and told her to send Amina in. Amina was busy with another customer, so one of the other girls came in and took care of me.

After that, I would always try to arrange to have Amina and Samra. At first, it was one after the other, but soon I just gave up and rented them both for the entire evening, even if I had to leave early because I had to work in the morning. This way Amina could help with translating Samra's descriptions, her English being far better, as well as gently exciting me all the time I was listening to Samra's story. I heard it over and over. Each time, I would ask dozens of questions about the finest points of what things looked like or felt like, and how she felt about things.  Eventually, she got to know what I wanted and, while I still asked more questions, her descriptions got very graphic, very arousing.

I will not try to tell her story in the manner I heard it. It was as painful as assembling a jigsaw puzzle, though, to my taste, infinitely more enjoyable. Instead, I will finish describing my stay in Sarajev0 and then set down the entire story with as much of the detail as I can remember. Obviously, I asked far more questions about what interested me, so while I only have a very sketchy view of the village, I can describe in gruesome detail the look on her sister's face.

At any rate, to continue: the first times we found it better if she sat in the chair facing away from us. I think it helped her overcome her shame, and it may have been less upsetting to not have to watch me get off on her misery. But I really did want to see her face, watch her cry at the memories, have her watch me screwing her little friend because hearing about her torment had turned me on so much.

I still screwed her occasionally - I really did get off on pumping into her, my pleasure for her tears - but I always told her that it was because her story had not been exciting enough that night.  Amina used to have this funny, smug smile on her face when I did it; I think she enjoyed seeing her friend's misery.

After a few weeks, I was so happy with our little trio, and I was spending so much money on them anyways, that I approached Nick, the pimp who ran the brothel, about hiring them by the week in my hotel room. After much horse trading and whining about how hard done by we each were, we finally settled on a rate of $220 a week from 7:00pm until I was done with them which worked out to a little more than $15 each per night. And it was only that much because Amina was his star attraction. But business was hardly steady for him, and in a city where the average monthly income was something like $50 a month, he could not turn down a steady $200 a week.

So I got a spare key to my hotel room and suddenly living in the fucking Holiday Inn did not seem so bad. At whatever time I got out of work and wandered home I knew as I approached that hideous yellow hotel that there would be two lovely young fucktoys in my room awaiting my pleasure, freshly bathed, shaved, made-up, and dressed in the sexiest bits of lingerie that I could find in Sarajev0. The girls generally worked seven days a week, their only days off being the four to six when the had their periods. Nick would send a different girl over those nights, so I got a bit of variety, too, never certain each night which two young ladies would be obediently waiting with welcoming thighs and mouths.

Of course, there was a limit as to how long I could get my money's worth out of Samra just by hearing the same story over and over again. But she earned her money in other ways, too. While initially completely repulsed, she eventually got quite comfortable licking cunt, something Amina never got used to. Since girl/girl stuff is one of my turn-ons, that alone was worth fifteen bucks a night. And then, just having TWO svelte young bodies in the shower with me was such a blast that for the little it was costing me hey, why not live a little. I know I certainly would be kicking myself now if I hadn't splurged for the second slut.

Well, that’s basically it. That glorious arrangement continued for my entire three and a half months in Sarajev0. When I left, I gave each of the girls a hundred bucks and with a sigh, walked away. It was a great period in my life. All I have to show for it now are a few pictures and my memories, both of having those two delicious svelte sluts to play with night after night after horny night and of Samra's tale of barbarous rape and murder. I guess it says something disturbing about me that I remember both very fondly.

This was Samra's story:

She grew up a couple of kilometers outside a small village somewhere near Tuzla. Her family owned a small farm about a kilometer and a half from the village near the edge of a ridge and it is possible that all the woes of Samra's life were due to the unfortunate chance of living near a tactically advantageous position.

The Serbian slaughter of B0snia had been underway for a number of months when "they" arrived at Samra's family's farm. Her sister, though married and living in Srebrenica, had been staying with her family with her 6-month-old daughter because her husband had been taken away in one of the early round-ups. It had been a frightening time, not knowing if Fatima's husband was alive or dead and never knowing if today would be the day that "they" would come. Not that Serbian soldiers were not around from the beginning; their trucks often drove by on the road. But any time they saw an army truck, her parents would freeze with fear, waiting to see if the truck would keep going. Rumour had it that at any time, and randomly it seemed, the Serbs could decide that it would be either worthwhile as a terror tactic or perhaps just as sport to slaughter an entire family. Though very little had happened locally, the village was rife with tales, each more horrific than the last. So horrific that it was hard to believe they were true except for the very real fact that Fatima's husband had most definitely been dragged from Fatima's arms and had not been seen since. Still, their mother tried to calm them by assuring that not all the stories could be true; they were just too horrific to be real.

The house was a small two-story that had been built by Samra's grandfather or great grandfather, I never got straight which. The main floor was one room that served both as living room and dining room with a cooking area or shed attached to the back of the house. There were two bedrooms on the second floor; she and her sister were sharing a double bed in one with the cradle in the same room.

The Serbian soldiers arrived just after second prayer which is at sunrise. She was upstairs with the baby when the commotion started outside, but she ran to the window and watched the thing transpire. They ordered her father to the ground. Her mother came running from the hen house and was seized. The door crashed open and heavy boots stomped in, her sister crying out as she was dragged outside. Then the boots came in again and Samra dove under the bed and wriggled to the back corner. Boots on the stairs. She was so scared she was crying and couldn't keep quiet. The boots went into her parent's room first, but when the boots came in the room, shear terror helped her manage to hold her breath and when she finally had to breathe, the baby's crying hid it. They moved around, but there really was nowhere but under the bed to hide. Her face was to the wall but she thought she heard them move the bed and expected to feel hands close on her, but there was nothing. But they were moving something. The boxes up in the rafters. It was a low room open to the rafters but one section had had boards put across the open cross beams and was used for storage and one of them was standing on the bed to reach it. Satisfied, they left, and, despite her fear, she wriggled from her hiding place to see what was happening to her family.

Her father was still face down in the dirt, his hands now fastened behind his back, ankles bound together, a boot on his back and a gun to his head. One soldier held her mother, her arms pinned behind her, while another man pawed at her bosom. She was in tears. Samra assured me that just this would have been the worst thing that had ever happened to her mother and that she would rather have died than to be dishonoured in such a way. Which is perhaps why, when the man, it turned out later that he was in charge, when he went to rip her dress open to have a better look, she raised her knee abruptly. Samra thought that her mother's knee had connected, but, at least from Samra's vantage point above and behind him, he never let on. But he got very angry and started yelling orders. They said something to her father, the gun barrel striking his head and then two soldiers went running off into one of the sheds. And then they all waited. Below Samra, out of her view as she dared not get too close to the window, some soldiers must have been amusing themselves with her sister. Though she could make out almost none of the words, her sister's cries were clearly of utter outrage. The soldiers laughed at their game.

When the two men came back one had a hammer.

Three men came at her mother at once, picked her up and placed her face up on the wagon so that her feet were on the ground and she was arched back so her shoulders were on the wagon. And they nailed her arms to the wagon! Rough spikes driven through her wrists into the wooden bed. She was shrieking horribly. Samra, her father, her sister and even the baby were all crying out for them to stop, but over and over, the hammer kept pounding. Samra could not watch it go on and knelt, covering her ears, trying to block out her mother's cries, the sound of the hammer, the soldiers' laughs.

When next she looked her mother's dress had been torn open from top to bottom and her poor, honourable mother was completely displayed to all those men and was helpless to cover herself. To Samra, this in itself was as horrific as the nails through her wrists. Kill them all if they must but this was too much! Better for a good Moslem woman to die than to be seen naked by strangers.

Then the rapes started.

Samra knew all about sex, she had often seen the goats doing it. But she also knew the importance of a woman's virtue. She knew what this would mean for her mother in the eyes of Allah, the people of the village, even her father. It really was a fate worse than death and Samra was watching it. Each man in turn - she thought there were fourteen of them - would paw at her chest and hairy crotch until he was ready to mount her. At first she tried kicking them but they clubbed her legs so hard with their rifles that she soon stopped. The first few seemed to have trouble getting in, but soon the passage was well lubricated and the men were more than ready, coming to her with hard-ons eagerly wagging out the front of their pants. They would walk up and shove into her without ceremony. Some finished quickly, others went for long leisurely rides, taking time to squeeze her breasts and in some cases, wring and slap them. Then they would speed up, pounding into her violently before stopping stiffly. Moments later they would walk away from her splayed, drooling crotch only to be replaced by the next one.

When she had come out from under the bed, Samra had thought she would hide up on the platform in one of the trunks. She had played up there as a child and now that it had been searched she had intended to... but the scene at the window had made her forget everything but her poor mother's torment and by the time she heard the soldiers coming they were already on the stairs. She dove under the bed but they dropped their gear in the doorway to haul her out by her legs.

Laughing, one asked her "Where are you going, mala stidnica" (little cunt - among others, this became one of my fave pet names for my young lovers; funny what bits of Serbo-Croatian I made an effort to learn) "Don't be shy, you don't want your mother to have all the fun, do you?", and she was marched out of the house.

The man in charge stopped giving an order in mid-sentence when he saw her, came over and eyed her up and down in a most immodest way before smiling in a way that terrified Samra and said, "This one is mine. Tie her with the other one".

Her sister had been tied sitting against a fence, her wrists bound behind her and around a fencepost. Samra was secured to the next post along. They left her alone after that. Left her to watch what they were doing to her family. Watching her mother being mounted with less regard than a billy goat mounting a nanny. Her mother was not even complaining by that point. She lay sobbing, her face turned away from them. The whole ordeal took a long time, two or three hours, Samra estimated.

The ones still waiting for their turn amused themselves with Fatima. They had ripped her dress off her to the waist and mauled her full breasts, milking them and kneading the milk into them. She had her eyes scrunched closed, sobbing to herself, biting her lower lip, enduring what she was powerless too stop. When pressed, Samra would describe this to me using her hands to show me the size of her sister's breasts - healthy "D"s at the least I would guess, with large dark nipples - and to imitate how the men were mashing, kneading them, and scrunching her eyes closed to show me what her sister looked like.

Her father was broken. He lay writhing in the dirt bawling as each new man violated his wife, violated his honour and pride. Samra had never before seen her father cry but, like her mother, there could be nothing worse than having your woman so utterly and completely defiled and be powerless to prevent it. Better to be dead; he would never be able to face the men of the village again.

As each man came away, packing his glistening cock back into his pants, he went to work unloading the truck, stowing gear, or working up the road. They were planning on staying for a while. When at last the final man unloaded into Samra's mother's oozing hole and went to work the family was alone except for one soldier left to guard them.

Her mother did not seem to even realize that for the time being her ordeal was over. Samra told me that it suddenly seemed very quiet. No yelling, no screaming, her mother's sobs almost inaudible, the soldiers talking a little, but even the baby had stopped wailing. Just the goats. It was passed the time they normally were taken to pasture. Who would take them to pasture, she wondered, they needed to eat.

That was what she was thinking when her mother suddenly yanked her arms off the nails with a horrible wail, pulling the heads right through, and just started running full bore down the lane way passed Samra her eyes wide and unseeing. Samra told me it was a sign of how crazed her mother was that the tatters of her dress were flying out behind her and yet she was not even aware of her nakedness.

It took a fair amount of badgering and a good hard humping to convince Samra to include in her description of this moment the details of her mother's breasts flailing about as she ran, but I liked this imagery so it was worth the effort. Fatima had inherited her mother's breasts but two children and the extra years had made her mother's lose their shape. Samra estimated they normally hung about halfway to her navel. In her demented sprint they were thrashing about in every direction, "very immodestly". Yes, very immodestly. I liked that picturing that.

" Crek-crek! Crek! "

She flew through the air in a spray of blood and landed face-first in the rocky lane. The guard lowered his gun. Others came running but when they saw what had happened they just laughed and went back to what they were doing.

At first the reality just did not sink in. Samra could not make herself believe that with those three sounds her mother would never speak to her again.

"It's for the best", her father said. "May she rest with Allah"

The twisted heap of pink skin, black hair and cloth lying in the laneway was the last Samra had seen of her mother. At whatever point she was moved from the yard it was still there and when next Samra was outside it had been removed.

Since I find tales of rape titillating and tales of a daughter's grieving for her mother to be anything but, I really do not know how the rest of the day went, only that the fun bits did not start again until after dinner. The men had roasted one of the goats and eaten well that night. Samra and her sister had served them unbound, Fatima still bare to the waist, her breasts leaking from lack of use, but their father had been securely bound to the centre support post of the house and the baby was in her crib in the bedroom, crying because she was hungry, wet and lonely, a constant reminder to the two sisters why they had to be obedient. If, they had been promised, all the men were happy with their service, Fatima would be allowed some time later that night to suckle the child. If not, she would go hungry, and if either of them tried to escape or to harm any of the men, they would all be killed.

Samra had it easy. None of the men would lay a hand on her after their commander had claimed her. But that only meant that all their lewdness was directed at Fatima. Greasy hands pawed her bare breasts and pinched her ass, diving under her skirt while she was serving making her blush furiously but too afraid for her baby to pull away. They made it clear that they would be raping her after dinner, but the captain - I can't believe that a captain would be in charge of a platoon of men manning a backwater checkpoint, but that is how Samra referred to him so that is the title that sticks - the captain told them to "not behave like animals, no one will rape the `persat svinya'" - a term of endearment I adopted for Amina, literally `big-titted sow' - until AFTER dinner. Had they no manners? This got a roar of laughter from the men who contented themselves with groping her.

Samra was sent out to the road to bring the men there some meat. There were two nests, one on either side of the road at the summit, armed with machine guns and something larger, RPGs are my guess though she was rather vague.

On her way back, even from the end of the laneway she could hear her sister's screams. Samra almost ran away. She could have. It was dark; she was well away from the checkpoint, no one would miss her until she was long gone. But they had said they would kill her family. By the time it was over, she wished she had run away. Her sister would have been happier dead, her father ended up dead as far as she knew, but that night walking down the dark laneway to the house full of screams and terror she still let herself think that the captain was going to protect her. That he would not let the others touch her because he realized she was too young and innocent for such immodest things. Such things were not for young virgins.

Poor naive fool.

And so, despite her fear, she forced herself to go back into the house. Where else would she go?

Her sister was stretched out facedown across the dining table. Her dress was gone. Men were pulling her arms high up her back while one man sawed away between her legs and another pulled her head back by the hair to force his way into her mouth. Around this intruding sausage Fatima wailed and begged for mercy but the garbled words were lost in the festive, blood-thirsty bon-ami of the moment; the platoon bonding together to share a couple of bottles of slivovitz and a Moslem stidnica.

While she was harshly skewered from both ends like the goat that had been spitted earlier, others bound her wrists together, still up her back. When they rolled her over, her hands kept her back arched, her breasts thrust out proudly, and, once she had been dragged by her hair past the edge of the table, her head hung back, her throat an open invitation.

That morning they had each patiently waited their turn, done their bit for Slobedan, and then yield to the next; all very organized. This was a free-for-all. They fucked her cunt and her throat and her asshole. They climbed on her and fucked her tits. Two, three, four men at a time. And since their morning sport had taken the edge off, none were in any hurry to end their fun. How long it went on, whether there was a shift change with the men out at the checkpoint, whether Fatima ever actually got to feed Iyelat (? I have been trying to remember the baby's name; I think it was something like Iyelat though lord knows how it was spelt).

Samra never knew any of this because shortly after re-entering the house, the captain ordered her over to him where he lounged and she suddenly had her own problems to deal with. Nothing compared to what Fatima was enduring, but for a young, chaste Moslem girl, sitting on a man's knee, being forced to drink alcohol, and then having him pawing at her budding breasts and between her tight-clenched thighs was its own special horror; the realization, has his large hand pulls up her skirt and then stops to slap her face telling her to spread them before ripping the underclothes from her sacred, secret girl-place, that she too would be dishonoured by the evil men; that the cruel captain had every intention of taking from her the only thing of value a girl possesses, of shattering her honour and her worth. If he did it her life would be over. No husband would have her, no village would accept her. If she was not fortunate enough to die, then she would become the worst of all fates for a girl: a whore. A kurva. Pearlyava kurva. For there is nothing more despicable in all the world then a dirty whore, and, as she sat there bawling with that horrible Serb molesting her, she knew that Allah had willed that this was to be her fate. What? What had she done to deserve this?

When, years later as the whore that she feared she would become she was telling us this, she still asked these questions with the same pleading, anguished lack of comprehension as I imagined she had that night. She still had no answers why her God had done this to her.

The man was forcing his huge finger inside her. His nail scraped, her dry hole stuck shut as if glued, making it more painful for her and him more determined, forceful. She was acutely aware of her father’s woeful gaze on her, watching his daughters' dishonour with desperate helplessness.

All the while the captain was laughing at the antics of his men, shouting encouragement to them, "Harder, Bogo, the stidnica loves it! Don't tease her. Show that Moslem svinya what a real man is like!"

Oh, he smelled, too. Of sweat and liquor and, I would guess, her mother's cunt. No Moslem man would ever smell like that as he would wash five times per day before prayer.

After a long time, a couple of hours of this she guessed, the captain finally took her upstairs to her parents' bed. Her knees were shaking as she climbed the stairs, knowing that this would be the only marriage night she would ever know. I am sure Samra would hate anything I said here that minimized the barbarity of what he did to her, but in fact, from her description, he was about as gentle as one could be while still doing the deed. He let her undress herself. He spent a long time rubbing her slit, spitting on his fingers to grease it up. Not that she was at all willing when he finally mounted her, she most definitely was not! But her pussy had at least warmed to the idea of sex. She could not tell me if it was actually juicing, but she said that after the initial tearing it did not hurt very much, so I have to assume she was not dry. She really could not tell me much about the event. She said she cried from start to finish, that she was so ashamed that, well, I don't think she ever did find the words, even in Croatian, to describe her feelings.

When he was done he tied her wrists together behind her and then to the bedpost and fell asleep. She cried for hours.

The next morning she was allowed to put Iyelat on her mother's breast. Fatima had been tied on the other bed, her wrists fastened to opposite bedposts. Where it seems Samra had been tied only to prevent escape Fatima had been tied for use. Samra had to wait until a man had finished with her to nurse the baby, he had not been the first she guessed, and she had to take Iyelat away before she was through so another man could climb onto their public cunt. During the day Samra was allowed to pasture the goats near the checkpoint. She was also expected to fetch water and make chi.

When she returned to the house that night her father was gone. She never saw him again.

That night a group of the soldiers returned from the village with three local girls, two Moslems and a Croat. Fatima was left tied to the bed, ignored for the fresh meat, but Samra had to watch the wailing girls being raped and re-raped. Her captain was the first to violate the Croat girl, a young blond thing. Samra felt guilty but relieved that the other girl's torment meant that she had to endure no more than bawdy groping that night.

By the next morning Fatima had wet the bed and the room reeked. They let her up to change the sheets and let her relive herself more often after that, but within a few minutes she would be again on her back, arms tied spread, defenseless and ready for all comers.

The soldiers stayed for something like two months. A number of times they dragged girls back from their patrols, but the people of the neighbouring villages became quite adept at keeping their women well hidden. Those nights the unlucky girl or girls - on one occasion they must have found a hiding place for there were seven or eight from early teens to middle age - would take all the abuse, but the rest of the nights and any of the days it was just Samra and Fatima. Samra did not know why they preferred to keep using Fatima rather than replace her with one of the new girls. I can guess, but it would be just that. For the first three weeks or so it was basically just Fatima.

You have no idea how much it turned my crank to picture that poor girl lashed to the bed day and night, a sperm depository for more than a dozen Serbs, climbing onto her, sawing in and out, and dumping their loads. Yes, Samra told me, the sperm often poured out of her; the bed was caked with it.

One night Samra came in to find her sister's breasts pinned together with a big diaper pin, her cleavage smeared with blood, her neck awash with sperm. Before she could decide whether to unfasten them to feed the baby, two soldiers came bounding up stairs to try this new passage. .  Ayelat had to drink goats milk after that.

Later, one of the men, Stani, took to whipping her breasts with his belt and burning them with cigarettes. Some thought this was very funny. Others just looked away.  But after a few days she was a mess. That was when they kept a couple of the girls they had found.

Fatima was allowed to help with cooking and such while the new girls were used for sport. They were only released when next the men found fresh meat. Fatima was never completely safe; if all the new girls' holes were filled a man might grab Fatima and mount her like a goat, but it was better than the first few weeks.

But for Samra it only got worse. At some point they brought a very young girl back with them, younger than Samra and blonde, and after that the captain had no interest in Samra. The night after the he raped the young girl, he turned Samra over to his men, laughing at his joke. They were not particularly brutal with her and some did not even use her, perhaps seeing her around had stirred some small sense of compassion, but they fucked her none-the-less and after that she was generally available. Just a pearlyava kurva - a dirty whore.

Everything had been so confusing and horrific the first day or two and for those long weeks that Fatima was their "mattress" that it took Samra a while after Fatima was released to figure out that something was really wrong. She didn't talk. Her eyes were glazed and empty "like she was dead". She had never gotten better. She did not have bad dreams every night anymore and she had not cried since, but she never spoke, though she would sing quietly to her little girl sometimes. They lived with an old woman in the village now, but only because Samra kept sending money for their room and board.

And Samra was still a pearlyava mala kurva.

MY dirty little whore!