(Another entry in the
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
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
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?"
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
"You know I am going to fuck you, don't you?"
"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
"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
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.
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
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,
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
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, thats 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
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
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
Poor naive fool.
And so, despite her fear, she forced herself to go back into the house. Where else would
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 fathers 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
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.
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!