A female soldier's nightmare

[LaLia]

Good morning Afghanistan

Morning broke like a merciless, relentless day, and the Hindu Kush sun climbed slowly over the jagged, jagged mountain ridges—a merciless fireball that bathed the Taliban camp in a harsh, golden light, etching every contour sharply and relentlessly without allowing the slightest shadow of grace or compassion. The air was still cool from the starlit night, tinged with the acrid, smoky smell of smoldering wood from the central fire crackling in the middle of the camp, mingled with the heavy, earthy aroma of fried flatbread sizzling on makeshift grills over the open flames, and the sharp, spicy scent of strong black tea bubbling and steaming in dented, rusty kettles.

The sun was rising from the night before, and the air was thick with the acrid, smoky scent of charred wood from the central fire crackling in the middle of the camp, mingled with the heavy, earthy scent of pancakes sizzling on makeshift grills over the open flames, and the sharp, spicy aroma of strong black tea bubbling and steaming in dented, rusty kettles.

The camp gradually awoke in a ritualistic, almost mechanical chorus: the distant, echoing call of the muezzins from a nearby, hidden village mingled with the dull thud of horses' hooves on the hard, dusty ground, the metallic clanking of ammunition belts being hastily fastened, and the soft murmur of prayers as the fighters unrolled their threadbare carpets, their faces turned piously toward Mecca, their bodies shivering in the morning chill. Dogs barked hoarsely in the distance—scrawny, shadowy creatures that, like ghosts, prowled around the remains of last night's dinner, sniffing and growling. The entire camp pulsed with a raw, primitive energy emanating from men who ate and breathed war as their daily bread: Some 40 or 50 figures crawled sleepily from their tattered tents, their beards wild and untamed, their coats crumpled and thick with dust, their eyes red-rimmed and inflamed from a night that had kept them awake—not by guards or alarms, but by the incessant, agonizing sounds from the hut on the outer edge of the camp, sounds that had penetrated the silence like a dark echo.

Katha lay right there, in that primitive, improvised shelter of ragged, holey canvas and crooked sticks, perched like a dark, menacing hole in a small hollow, far from the main tents. Her naked, vulnerable form was a wreck on the old, sagging mattress, now a chaotic battlefield of stains and marks: Dried semen clung to her smooth, lightly tanned skin, mixed with salty sweat and dried tears, reducing the once confident, vibrant girl from the distant village to an empty shell of bruises, throbbing pain, and profound exhaustion.

Her pale blonde hair—usually tied in a tight, neat braid or cascading freely over her shoulders—was now a matted, tangled mess, strands damply plastered to her forehead, neck, and cheeks, interspersed with sticky semen residue and the grime of the night. Her blue eyes, once filled with radiant joy and ambitious drive, stared glassily and vacantly at the cabin ceiling, dulled by deep exhaustion and a protective fog that enveloped her mind, shielding her from the full, overwhelming horror of reality. Her athletic, toned body throbbed in every nerve and fiber: her intimately shaved labia, smooth and vulnerable as silk, were swollen and sore, a red, burning pulse that exploded at the slightest touch like a firework display of agony; her firm, athletic buttocks—taut and defined, not voluptuously round like some women's, but sexy in their hard, muscular elegance, shaped by countless squats and long bike rides—felt like blazing fire, stretched and abused by the endless intruders of the previous night; her medium-sized breasts, firm and rosy with pale pink areolas, hard and erect in the cold, were covered in bruises where fingers had pressed, pinched, or twisted too hard, leaving the skin sensitive and irritated; Her mouth, lips chafed, red and salty, still tasted of the bitter, sticky aftertaste of the loads she had been forced to swallow to avoid choking; and the shackles around her wrists—coarse, rough hemp rope that cut deep into her skin—held her captive, loose enough to allow minimal movement, but tight enough to make any stirring a painful reminder of her helplessness, while the rope around her neck lay like a dead, limp snake on the dirty ground, a silent, threatening guardian of her imprisonment.

Outside, around the central fire, where the camp leader—the gaunt, ascetic mullah with the tightly tied black turban and wiry gray beard—sat enthroned on a pile of worn, threadbare cushions, an old Kalashnikov casually slung across his knees, the atmosphere hung like a loaded, invisible weapon, ready to explode at any moment. The other fighters, who had sat far from the hut the previous evening but close enough to hear every detail of the night—the desperate, bloodcurdling screams, the deep, animalistic gasps of the men, the rhythmic, wet thud of flesh on flesh, the stifled whimpers and the rattling breaths that had penetrated the thin, holey tarpaulins—had been goaded like a pack of hungry wolves on the metallic scent of fresh blood. They hadn't been allowed to, not on that first night, reserved exclusively for the hunters, the eight tough men who had dragged them from their village, but their fantasies had fed on those sounds for hours until dawn finally broke, and now they burned with suppressed desire. Their long abstinence in the rugged, isolated mountains—months, sometimes even years, without the touch of a woman, far from the villages where femininity remained hidden behind thick veils and high walls—had turned them into wild beasts, their eyes blazing with a mixture of repressed lust, thirst for revenge, and primitive greed.

The mullah sipped his hot tea thoughtfully, the steam curling in the cool morning air like a ghostly veil, and nodded curtly when one of his lieutenants uttered a whispered question, a murmur that rippled through the group like a spark: “The infidel is for all who want her—divide her as Allah permits the victors. Break her spirit until nothing remains.” A deep murmur spread, an unholy mix of pious prayers and raw shouts, fists clenched in excitement, and a group of twelve men—more fighters from the camp who had been passive listeners yesterday, their faces a rugged palette of old scars, bushy beards, and hard, weather-beaten features—stood up abruptly, their turbans askew and askew, their eyes red and inflamed from lack of sleep and an excitement that made their bodies tremble. They were more than provoked; Her frustration with the nighttime noises that had kept her awake and tormented her made her rougher, hungrier, more aggressive as she stormed toward the cabin with determined strides, flinging open the hatch with a brutal jerk so that the bright morning light flooded in like a sharp knife, abruptly ripping Katha from her dim, trance-like state, her pupils painfully constricted, a sudden surge of cold, merciless reality leaving her breathless and panicked.

The twelve men pushed inside, the cabin suddenly becoming cramped, stuffy, and oppressive, the overwhelming smell of male sweat and primitive greed hanging heavy in the air as they surrounded her in a circle – a ring of hungry, lustful gazes that greedily roamed over her naked, vulnerable body, from the disheveled light-blond hair to the blue eyes, now wide open in sheer panic, to the firm, medium-sized breasts, the narrow, defined waist, the long, toned legs, and the intimately shaved pubic area, still slippery and sticky with the remnants of the night. The one in front, a burly Pashtun with a thick, black beard that reached his chest and broad, muscular shoulders shaped by years of hard fighting and carrying, grabbed her first – his paws, rough as sandpaper and calloused, grasped her slender arms, roughly yanking her up, her body hanging limp and powerless in his iron grip, her bound hands dangling uselessly, her long legs swaying uncertainly as she desperately tried to find her footing on the uneven ground, the sneakers she had once worn long since lost and forgotten. “No… please… let me sleep, I can’t anymore,” she whimpered in a hoarse, broken voice, rough and weak from the endless screams of the night, a low, pleading whisper that abruptly choked off in a sharp cry as he struck her – a flat, hard slap of the open hand across her cheek that threw her head sideways, a red, burning mark blooming on her pale, delicate skin, and hot tears rushing into her eyes, salty and unstoppable.

The second round began without any warning or mercy, a brutal gangbang that jolted them from their stupor like a bucket of icy water over their heads. These men were wilder, more unrestrained than the night before, their pent-up lust a blazing fire driving them on, their grips tighter and more brutal, their thrusts deeper and more merciless, as if the sounds of the night had transformed them into veritable monsters, fueled by revenge and desire. There were twelve of them, a parade of raw, untamed masculinity: the burly one with the black beard, his cock thick and uncircumcised, dark and throbbing with excitement like a loaded gun; beside him a younger one, slim and wiry, with mine blast scars on his arms, his cock long and curved, unshaven and already dripping with anticipation; An older man with gray streaks in his beard, sinewy and experienced, his shaft short and thick, hairy like an animal's coat; the fourth, a muscleman with tattooed arms, Koranic verses carved into his skin, his tail monstrous and straight, stubborn and hard as steel; the fifth, lean and aggressive, with a thin shaft that pricked like a sharp needle; the sixth, a giant, broad-shouldered and imposing, his thing long and thin, hanging heavily and menacingly; the seventh, a Pashtun with a bushy beard, thick and curved; the eighth, slight but wild and unpredictable, long and thin; the ninth, a veteran with a missing tooth, short and blunt; the tenth, wiry and tough, with a curved shaft; the eleventh, burly like the first, thick and uncircumcised; the twelfth, young and eager, long and smooth, full of youthful energy.

They dragged her with brute force into the middle of the cabin, her bound hands forcing her back into a painful bend, and the burly man was the first to sit down on the mattress, pulling down his baggy pants, his cock springing out, hard and ready, throbbing. He grabbed her narrow waist—his fingers digging deep into the soft but defined skin, taut from her intense core exercises—brutally pulled her onto his lap, and positioned her precisely over his shaft. "Sit down, Infidelin," he growled in a deep, rough voice, and rammed her down with a hard thrust, penetrating deep into her sore, swollen pussy—the pain exploded like a bright flash through her lower abdomen, despite the sticky remnants of the night that made her slippery, a burning, tearing pulse that made her cry out, "Aaaah! God, no, stop! It hurts so much!" Her whole body tensed, the muscles in her long, toned legs twitched uncontrollably, her firm buttocks taut and hard as he thrust up from below, slapping against her thighs, the sound wet and disgusting, sweat already beading on her skin, mixed with yesterday's old semen. But that was only the beginning of the sandwich they so frequently and mercilessly took, a specialty of this group, as if they wanted to fill her completely, leaving not an inch of space: The younger one with the scars knelt behind her, his hands—rough and scarred, full of calluses—spread her firm, athletic buttocks, pulling apart the tight cheeks, revealing the sore, sensitive rosette, and rammed his long, curved cock dryly and brutally into her ass, the pain a white-hot, all-consuming lightning bolt that jolted through her entire body like an electric shock, a scream that echoed loudly and desperately through the cabin, “No! It’s tearing! Please, no, take it out!” Tears streamed down her face, mixed with saliva, as she gasped and hyperventilated, the two men now fucking her in synchronized rhythm, the burly one from below into her pussy, stretching her inner walls to the limit, the younger one from behind into her Ass, thrusting into the tight, burning opening, their bodies slapped together loudly, sweat dripping onto their skin, and Katha was trapped between them, her athletic body nothing more than a helpless toy to be stretched, filled, and tortured, the pain a constant, pulsating inferno.

The others didn't wait passively, but closed the circle tighter, their hands grasping greedily – the older one with the gray streaks pinched hard at her medium-sized breasts, which were firm and rosy, the nipples hard from the morning cold and the rough touches, twisting them brutally until they turned red and new bruises bloomed like dark flowers; another tugged roughly at her matted braid, twisted her head painfully to the side, and shoved his short, thick penis into her mouth, hairy and stinking of sweat and dust, choking her next cry into a gurgling gurgle, drooling and gagging, saliva running down her chin and dripping onto her bouncing breasts, which bounced in time with the hard thrusts. And so it went on, an endless, agonizing cycle of the sandwich, which transformed the entire morning into an eternity of torment: She was lifted up, turned and twisted like a lifeless doll, placed on the next one – the muscle-bound guy with the tattoos, his monstrous cock impaling her pussy, stretching her to the absolute limit, while the fifth, the aggressive one, penetrated her ass from behind, his thin shaft thrusting deep and stabbing inside, and she screamed, sometimes loud and echoing through the camp when her mouth was free for a brief moment, “Help me! Someone, please! Tim!”, her fiancé a distant, unattainable dream from another life, sometimes silenced and muffled by the next cock, the sixth, the giant, his long, thin thing ramming brutally into her throat until stars exploded before her eyes, she gagged violently, saliva gushed out, It dripped onto her narrow waist, onto her flat, muscular stomach, which tensed and cramped with every thrust. The men panted heavily, roaring triumphantly – “Take it, blonde slut! Feel the revenge of jihad!”, “Tight as a virgin, but broken as a whore!”, “Allah blesses us with this booty!” – relishing the tight warmth of her body, which they had so long lacked, her hips thrusting in a hard rhythm, sweat mingling with fresh semen that flowed early and abundantly: The burly one came first, a hot, pulsating gush deep inside her pussy, overflowing and running stickily down her thighs, her long legs trembling and weak, while the younger one spurted into her ass, warm and viscous, running down her buttocks, which she instinctively clenched, the muscles hard and defined beneath the irritated skin. They switched seamlessly; the seventh sat beneath her, his thick, curved cock fucking her vaginally, stretching her swollen lips further; the eighth anally from behind, brutally ramming into her now slippery rosette; and the ninth in her mouth, his short, blunt shaft completely suffocating her until he came, sperm flowing down her throat, which she had to swallow to avoid choking, the bitter, salty taste a gagging in her chest that almost made her faint.

The torture stretched on, a long, detailed symphony of suffering that swallowed the morning hour after hour, the sun rising higher in the sky, casting streaky beams of light through the tears in the tarpaulin, illuminating the glistening sweat on their bodies, the moist sheen of the cocks sliding in and out of her, an incessant rhythm: Katha was passed from sandwich to sandwich, sometimes lying on her back, the hard mattress pressing beneath her, a man in her pussy – the tenth, wiry, his curved shaft hooked deep, kneeling in her ass the eleventh, burly, thick and uncircumcised, ramming with full force, while another thrust into her mouth, the twelfth, young and eager, his long, smooth cock shoved down her throat; Sometimes on all fours, bound as she was, her arms twisted uselessly and painfully, one cock in her mouth from the front, gagging and drooling, two alternating from behind – vaginally and anally, the muscleman and the giant, their thrusts hard and slapping against her burning ass, the semen oozing out, running down her thighs, dripping onto the mattress in sticky puddles; sometimes lying on her side, a sandwich on her side, the older one in her pussy, the slender one anally, her breasts grabbed and kneaded, her nipples twisted until they were sore and sensitive like open wounds. Her screams were a distorted concert—loud and echoing throughout the entire camp when her mouth was free, “It’s tearing me apart! Stop, I beg you!”—muffled into wheezing, gurgling sounds as a cock filled her, saliva and semen mixed, running down her face, burning and blurring her eyes. Her shame was a deep, endless abyss, panic a constant, choking companion in her chest as, in moments of lucidity, she thought of Tim, of her old life before this nightmare, the weekends in sexy, tight tops, laughing and free, dancing under the sun—This isn’t me, this can’t be real, please let it end, her mind pleaded silently. The tenth came explosively in her ass, the eleventh in her pussy, semen everywhere—on her flat stomach, where it pooled and ran over the light freckles drawn by the Afghan sun; on her face, matted in her eyelashes and hair, which now hung like a wet, sticky nest; leaking from her holes, sore, stretched, and slippery with countless loads, a smacking, wet sound echoing with each change.

The twelfth, the last before the next endless cycle, fucked her hard and deep in the mouth again, while two others sandwiched her, one vaginally, deep and ramming, one anally, brutal and relentless, and she screamed, the sounds alternating between loud and muffled, her body trembling with exhaustion and agony, bruises blooming on the skin that had once posed so confidently on the beach, in a pink bikini and blue shorts, laughing and free as the wind. The men savored every moment, their throats raw from heavy panting and roaring, their grips tighter and more possessive as the sun climbed higher, the hut filled with the acrid smell of sex, sweat, and semen, the torment lasting hours upon hours, a relentless cycle that broke her, piece by piece, until she lay there, whimpering and broken, her mind distant and submerged in a protective fog, her body nothing more than an empty vessel for her revenge and lust, the screams fading to a broken, barely audible whisper, while the camp outside went on, unmoved and indifferent, as if nothing had happened.

[Blue]

One heck of a story!!! There was an old story on many of the defunct boards about a female (pilot I seem to remember) by an author named Conwic (?). It was quite long and as well as it was written it pales when compared to what you've put together here. Really outstanding!

Yes, Convic was a very well-known author of many stories. And you're right, he had written a similar story.

[Blue]

@LaLa71

It's a shame that you can't give three points for every sequel...

[Shocker]

@LaLa71

It's a shame that you can't give three points for every sequel...

Blue you actually can, that’s what the post ranking is for.

[HistBuff]

"her intimately shaved labia, smooth and vulnerable as silk, were swollen and sore..."

This does a great job at making the reader feel for her. This must really really hurt when a dozen men force her into another gang-bang when she's in this state to begin with. You start to wonder what will be left of her when or if she makes it back home. This makes the story truly scary.

[HBK]

I like this story.

The entire structure is very detailed, and it's clear you did a lot of research beforehand. It wouldn't matter if the region were accurate, but it makes the whole narrative more believable.

The description of the two gang rapes is definitely a tough subject, and you describe it well. I also thought it was great that the Taliban fighters remain vague. This gives the reader plenty of room to interpret the story while still including the right details.

But yes, I don't see much potential for the plot here either. However, not every story needs to be unnecessarily drawn out.

[LaLia]

"her intimately shaved labia, smooth and vulnerable as silk, were swollen and sore..."

This does a great job at making the reader feel for her. This must really really hurt when a dozen men force her into another gang-bang when she's in this state to begin with. You start to wonder what will be left of her when or if she makes it back home. This makes the story truly scary.

I think even as a woman you can only vaguely imagine it, and yes; the idea is truly frightening, but it also reinforces certain stereotypes.

I like this story.

The entire structure is very detailed, and it's clear you did a lot of research beforehand. It wouldn't matter if the region were accurate, but it makes the whole narrative more believable.

The description of the two gang rapes is definitely a tough subject, and you describe it well. I also thought it was great that the Taliban fighters remain vague. This gives the reader plenty of room to interpret the story while still including the right details.

But yes, I don't see much potential for the plot here either. However, not every story needs to be unnecessarily drawn out.

Thanks Yes, as I said, there are three possibilities. 1. An endless loop of rapes. I could write another 3-4 parts, but it would lose its appeal. 2. Escape and recapture. Not so great either. 3. And this is what I've decided on – the fourth part will be the last, and it will have an ending that leaves the reader in suspense.



I'd be interested to know what all of you thought of the ending, or if you would have preferred to read more episodes?

[LaLia]

Trapped in the cycle of hell

The day dragged on like an endless torment, the sun rising higher over the Hindu Kush and beating down on the camp, a blazing hammer that banished all shadows and turned the air into a stifling soup of heat and dust.

Katha, her body already covered in bruises, dried semen, and sweat, was dragged from the hut when the second round with the twelve men finally ended—her screams had faded into hoarse whimpers, her blue eyes empty, her mind trapped in a fog of pain and humiliation. But the twenty men she had taken so far—the eight hunters of the first night and the twelve goaded men of the morning—were only half. The camp held twice as many again, and the leader, the mullah in the black turban, had decided: each could have them, a feast of revenge that would last all day or longer.


The remaining fighters, who until now had only heard the sounds or watched from afar, now pressed forward, their eyes burning with a mixture of religious fervor and the raw, months-long abstinence they had endured. There were twenty more of them, a motley crew of young recruits, barely 18, with smooth cheeks and trembling hands, and old veterans whose beards were gray and whose bodies were scarred and scarred by shrapnel. They waited patiently, praying intermittently, eating their flatbread and goat meat, but their gaze kept returning to the hut in front of which Katha lay, naked and bound, her athletic body—the narrow waist, the long, toned legs, the firm, athletic buttocks—a magnet for their fantasies.


Around midday, perhaps an hour or two after the morning gang rape, as the sun reached its zenith and the heat shimmered in the air, two younger fighters, barely older than herself, hauled her up, her hands still bound, the rope around her neck taut like a leash. She stumbled across the dusty ground, her bare feet—once clad in practical sneakers instead of high heels—bled from splinters and sharp stones, and shame burned within her like an eternal pyre as the other fighters' stares pierced her, some laughing, others spitting, still others whispering prayers, as if she were a demon to be vanquished. They took her to a makeshift washing area at the edge of the camp, a corner behind a rock, where a rusty water tank stood, filled with icy mountain water pumped from a nearby spring. “Clean yourself up, whore,” one of the boys growled, and they tipped the container over her. The water hit her like a shock, ice-cold and merciless, washing away the dried semen from her face, her breasts, her stomach, running down her intimately shaved labia and her sore bottom, washing away the traces of the night and the morning—at least outwardly. The dirt, the blood, the sticky stains disappeared in rivulets that seeped into the dust, but the shame remained, clinging to her like an invisible veil, suffocating her. She trembled, not only from the cold, but from the realization that cleanliness here was merely preparation, a ritual to freshen her up for the next round. Her pale blonde hair clung wetly to her head; her body, once so proud in pink bikinis or blue shorts on the beach, was now an object to be cleaned only to be defiled again.

After the cold shower, which lasted barely ten minutes, they dragged her onward, out into the shadow of the mountains, where an improvised cross of two beams stood—roughly constructed, reinforced with ropes and barbed wire, a symbol of humiliation they had seen in other camps, in accounts she had never wanted to believe. They forced her to her knees, the hard ground digging into her skin, and bound her: arms stretched out to her sides, wrists tied to the crossbeams, legs spread, ankles fixed to stakes in the ground, leaving her kneeling, naked, and exposed, her labia visible to anyone passing by, her firm buttocks taut, her breasts—firm and medium-sized, with pale pink areolas—rising and falling with every gasping breath.

The position was excruciating: her shoulders screamed in pain, her knees burned, and the shame, naked before the entire camp, was a knife digging deeper into her soul. After lunch, when the men had finished their meals of rice, goat meat, and tea, the first ones arrived. A burly fighter with a bushy beard and a scar above his eye stepped forward, pulled down his trousers, and stood before her, his penis already hard, thick, and uncircumcised, the smell of sweat and tobacco heavy in the air. “Open your mouth, Infidelin,” he commanded, and Katha pressed her lips together, a final act of resistance, her blue eyes gleaming with defiance. But it only lasted a short time: Another, a young recruit with trembling hands, produced a heavy whip—braided leather, knotted with knots—and struck, once, twice, on her stomach, her breasts. The blows left bloody welts that burned like fire, splitting her skin open, and she cried out, “No! Stop!” Tears streamed down her face before she opened her mouth, surrendering to the next ordeal.

It began again, the torture of the mouth, this time outdoors, under the watchful eyes of the camp, where the other fighters watched, laughed, ranted, or prayed, as if it were a performance. The burly man grabbed her wet braid, jerked her head back, and rammed his cock into her mouth, deep into her throat until she gagged, saliva oozing from the corners of her mouth, running down her chin onto her breasts, which trembled in the shadow of the mountains. He thrust, grunting, his hips slapping against her face, and she gasped, a gurgling sound that echoed across the square while the others waited, their trousers already straining.

After him, they came one after the other, sometimes alone, sometimes two alternating—one on the left, one on the right, their cocks in their hands, hard and dripping, one long and thin, the other short and thick, both thrusting into her mouth, taking turns, pulling out, only to thrust again, their hands in her hair, on her cheeks, pinching her breasts, the welts from the whip still bleeding. In the early afternoon, as the sun beat down and sweat poured down her face, it was once again covered in semen: some spurted down her throat, salty and bitter, forcing her to swallow to avoid choking; other splattered onto her cheeks, sticky and warm; still other drops landed on her forehead, in her hair, or on her breasts.

But the humiliation reached a new level: some of the fighters, spurred on by their power, enjoyed not only using her mouth, but also urinating in or on her face. The first was an older veteran with a gray beard who, after giving her oral sex, stepped back, held his penis, and sent a hot stream of urine into her open mouth. “Drink, whore,” he laughed, and she gagged and spat, but the stream hit her face, ran over her eyes and nose, mingling with the semen—a pungent odor that made her vomit. Others followed: One urinated on her breasts, the urine running over the welts, burning in the wounds; another aimed at her hair, soaking her once light blonde braid. Katha wept, her cries muffled by the penises that continued to thrust into her mouth, shame an ocean drowning her. "I'm no longer a person, just a thing," she thought, as her body trembled, her knees bloody, her arms numb from the restraints.

In the evening, as the sun sank behind the mountains and bathed the camp in a red glow, she was taken back to the hut, her restraints removed only to be replaced with new ones, her hands in front of her, her legs free but useless against the overwhelming force. The torture started all over again, without a hint of mercy: sometimes two came in, a duo who took her on all fours – one in her mouth, his thick, hairy cock choking her screams, the other in her pussy, ramming into her sore pussy, her long legs trembling; sometimes there were three or four surrounding her, one in her ass, one in her pussy, two in her mouth taking turns, their hands in her hair, on her breasts, pinching and pulling until she whimpered; sometimes there were more, five or six, who sandwiched her between them, one in her pussy, one in her ass, another in her mouth, the others waiting, jerking off until it was their turn. Another time she lay on her back, the mattress wet with sweat and juices, and one after the other the men lay panting on top of her, their heavy bodies crushing her, thrusting their cocks into her, vaginally, anally, orally, sperm flowing in streams, into her, out of her, onto her, an endless cycle that lasted deep into the night, her screams sometimes loud, sometimes muffled, sometimes just a whimper when she lost her strength.

So it went, day in, day out, a cycle of hell that repeated itself until the days blurred together: In the morning, the cold shower, the water ice-cold, washing away the traces, but not the shame; then the cross, kneeling, naked, arms outstretched, legs spread, twenty or thirty men using her mouth, one after the other, sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs, semen and urine mingling in the puddle beneath her, the smell acrid, the humiliation all-encompassing; in the evening, the hut, at least ten men fucking her in every hole, on all fours, sandwiched, on her back, her screams a chorus echoing through the camp, the dogs barking along, the stars cold in the sky. Her body, once so proud—the athletic figure, the long legs, the firm buttocks, the pert breasts—was now a tool of revenge, marked by welts, bruises, and dried semen; her light blonde hair a matted mess, her blue eyes empty, her spirit broken, only a spark deep inside whispering: Tim. Home. Survive.

Would there ever be rescue? Her comrades, Oliver and Chris, had made it back to camp, limping, injured, but alive. Their story of the crash, the pursuit, and the separation had put Camp Marmal on high alert. For days, German troops, reinforced by American and British units, had been scouring the mountains around the crash site: helicopters circled like falcons, drones buzzed over the valleys, ground troops climbed through scree and ravines, search dogs sniffed for clues, and satellite images were analyzed. The Resolute Support Mission was on high alert, but the Taliban camp was like a needle in a haystack, camouflaged and hidden, the fighters vigilant, the dogs aggressive.

In Camp Marmal, the German general, a man in his mid-fifties with graying temples and a face etched with years of responsibility, was sitting in his office when an encrypted USB drive arrived—from an informant, an Afghan spy who had taken the risk. He opened the file, and his blood ran cold: The video was a compilation of the hell Katha had experienced. A close-up showed her on all fours, naked, her body covered in welts and bruises, her light blonde hair disheveled, her blue eyes empty, a shadow of her former self. Men surrounded her, laughing, thrusting into her, one in the mouth, one in the vagina, one in the anus, her screams muffled, her body swaying to the rhythm. Another scene: She kneels on the cross, semen and urine on her face, dripping onto her breasts, the puddle beneath her glistening in the sunlight. Then a voice, rough and triumphant: “Get the dogs.” The general switched off the video, his hands trembling, his stomach churning, he couldn’t watch any longer, couldn’t bear what was coming next—the dogs, lean, aggressive beasts, barking around them, the men roaring, and Katha, broken, whimpering, while the camera kept rolling. “Reinforce the search parties!” he roared, his voice echoing through the office as he crushed the USB stick, “and if you find them, no mercy—kill them all!” His adjutants nodded, but his eyes were cold with rage and fear: A young German soldier, turned into a Taliban whore, a video that would bring shame to the world, a scandal that could drag the Bundeswehr, the mission, the country into the abyss. He could only hope they found her—hopefully still alive—before the video reached the public, before Katha's suffering became a weapon that destroyed everything.

The cycle of hell continued, day after day, and somewhere in the mountains Katha screamed, her spark slowly dying, as helicopters circled overhead, closer, but not yet close enough.



The End

[Blue]

@LaLia
In my opinion, this sequel falls significantly short.
@HBK made it clear in his last sentence: "But yes, I don't see much potential for the plot here either. However, not every story needs to be unnecessarily drawn out."

This is one of those typical stories where the climax is eventually surpassed, and further rape scenes, while initially enjoyable to read, become boring over time. This often happens with @HistBuff's stories as well.
But you've already found the right approach: the search for her is underway. Will they be able to find and rescue her? Perhaps in the middle of a final rape?

[LaLia]

@LaLia
In my opinion, this sequel falls significantly short.
@HBK made it clear in his last sentence: "But yes, I don't see much potential for the plot here either. However, not every story needs to be unnecessarily drawn out."

This is one of those typical stories where the climax is eventually surpassed, and further rape scenes, while initially enjoyable to read, become boring over time. This often happens with @HistBuff's stories as well.
But you've already found the right approach: the search for her is underway. Will they be able to find and rescue her? Perhaps in the middle of a final rape?

It also fell short of my own expectations. Too short, nothing new, no story...in hindsight, I should have stopped reading after part 3.

But the story is over now, and I'm leaving the open ending as is. I already changed it to "finished" yesterday and have now added "The End" below the text.