Too well? I'm not sure what you mean. I think anyone here would say you have a very adventurous CF life.I think you have come to know me too well
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Desert Sands
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Too well? I'm not sure what you mean. I think anyone here would say you have a very adventurous CF life.
I'll take that as a compliment ... I think
"Shit, I don't know where the 'safety' is on this type of gun!" -PVT. Moore
It does seem like Pvt. Moore is going to get her 'last warrior' moment. Dulce et decorum est, and all that.
"Shit, I don't know where the 'safety' is on this type of gun!" -PVT. Moore
Males!!!! ... You do know women can have combat roles in today's army, don't you?
Oh yes. I'm all for equal opportunity. It's just that women in combat roles have a statistically low survival rate at CF, especially in your stories. I'll wait while you run the data, if you like.
So, you're going to fight your way out of this, are you?
Oh yes. I'm all for equal opportunity. It's just that women in combat roles have a statistically low survival rate at CF, especially in your stories. I'll wait while you run the data, if you like.
So, you're going to fight your way out of this, are you?
I intend to give them nothing more than my name, rank and ID number, and then sit tight until coalition forces arrive to rescue me.
I don't know what she does to the enemy, but by God she scares me!
I thought this is happening in 1991...
SkatingJesus
King of the Crux Hill
Really nice and inspiring start!
Reminds me my good old "Vanessa in Somalia" story!
http://skatingjesus.deviantart.com/gallery/42411281/Vanessa-in-Somalia
Reminds me my good old "Vanessa in Somalia" story!
http://skatingjesus.deviantart.com/gallery/42411281/Vanessa-in-Somalia
SkatingJesus
King of the Crux Hill
2. We walk in total darkness, single file along the side of the desert track. Our abandoned column of “Deuce- and-a-half” trucks burn brightly, lighting up the horizon us as we leave them behind. An old soviet-made Iraqi tank clanks alongside us, spewing out choking clouds of exhaust. The Iraqis move us along quickly, away from the scene of our capture in the dark. They don't want to attract coalition air strikes.
I am cold. I am wearing nothing above the waist but my army ID tags and the temperatures at night in the desert at this time of year can drop to just a few degrees above freezing. There is a definite chill in the air. The wind has died down, the sky is clear, the stars overhead brilliant. I shiver.
The sand underfoot is coarse and grainy. They took away my desert boots and socks. My bare feet have become raw and I have begun to limp as I walk. Behind me I can hear the other seven survivors of my unit shuffling along in the sand, occasionally muttering to themselves about being cold or tired.
The English-speaking Iraqi officer walks alongside me. Since I rode in the first truck and the Sarge is dead, he treats me as though I am the leader of the captives even though, technically, I am not.
I try to be friendly and tell him his English is good. He says he studied for two years at Princeton. I decide that maybe his a sympathetic soul, and mention how cold I am and ask if he couldn't please give me and the other prisoners something more to wear against the cold. He shakes his head and bluntly says "not permitted."
We trudge on past the burned-out wreck of a Bradley, the charred remains of its American crew grotesquely entombed inside. My spirits sink. No rescue is likely anytime soon. Sadly, I look away. We trudge silently on.
About the time that I think my feet will give out, we reach an Iraqi base, half-hidden in a depression. They lead us to a bunker, usher us in through a heavily sand-bagged entrance, and order us to kneel in a row along the far wall. A soldier produces some strips of black cloth and proceeds to blindfold each of us. We wait under guard and are not permitted to speak. At least it's relatively warm inside.
At long last, there is a buzz of activity in the tent. I gather an officer … most likely an intelligence officer has arrived to take charge of us. My guess is that he intends to question us. I remind myself that I am supposed to give him only my name, rank and ID number. That’s what I was told when I went through basic training.
A firm hand grips me by the arm and pulls me to my feet. I am to go first. I am taken from the room, leaving the others behind, propelled down a corridor and ushered into a room, where I am seated on a metal office-style chair. My hands, which have been bound behind my back since leaving the ditch beside our stalled convoy, are untied and then quickly bound at the elbow and wrist to the arms of the chair.
The blindfold is removed. I blink in the harsh light of a lamp shone directly on my face. The intelligence officer stands in front of me ... stockily built, clean uniform, shiny boots, swarthy skin, dark eyes, and a heavy black mustache with tinges of gray.
"You are a prisoner of war," he informs me unnecessarily, "I have questions. You will answer them, understand?"
"Barbara A. Moore, private, 7311 ..."
He cuts me off with an open-hand slap across the face. I look up at him, startled. Blood runs from my nose.
"This is not a Hollywood movie," he hisses, "You will answer my questions! What is your unit? What were your orders? What units were you sent with your trucks to resupply, and where was that to take place?"
"Under the Geneva Convention I am allowed to limit my answers to no more than my name, rank and ID," I inform him as forcefully as I can.
"Well then ... perhaps a little persuasion."
He snaps his fingers and an aide steps forward, carrying a dark box with coiled wires attached. The officer steps back. The aide places the box on the floor, picks up two of the saw-toothed clips attached to the ends of wires, and begins trying to attach them to my erect nipples.
I react by twisting wildly about on the chair, frantically shaking my bare breasts in an effort to avoid the clips. But two more aides step up to hold me down, and before long an offending clamp is successfully and painfully affixed to and hanging from each of my nipples.
The officer nods … the juice is turned on!
I am totally unprepared for the throbbing, burning shocks delivered to my poor breasts. I bounce and shake, arch my back, buck and twist about spastically; throw my head back and scream at the top of my lungs. The zapping, crackling, deeply penetrating shocks just keep on coming. I shake my head, roll my eyes and scream again and again, beg them to stop, and then keep on screaming.
When they finally turn the current off, my head lolls forward, chin resting on my chest, hair in my face. My eyes flutter and I pass out momentarily … until they throw a bucket of foul-smelling waste water over my head.
I come up sputtering. My head is rocked sharply back by the officer, a sodden handful of my hair gripped tightly in his fist.
"Want to answer my questions now private Moore?" he purrs contemptuously while tugging on one of the wires and stretching one of my tortured tumescent nipples.
"You know I can't ... I won't," I croak.
"Well let's up the ante then, shall we?"
He bends down to open the front of my desert tan camouflage pants and peels them ... along with the waist band of my black panties ... down over my hips. Then with a sharp tug, they come out from under my butt; and with a second tug, slide down to bunch around my knees. My panties which momentarily cling to my crotch quickly follow.
Horrified by the thought of what is about to happen, I gasp and cry, "Please, please, dear God no!" He ignores me and snaps his fingers. His aide produces a third clip. The other two brutes kneel down and lash my ankles securely to the legs of the chair.
I blubber incoherently, tears streaming down my cheeks.
With an intense look of concentration on his face, the officer forces my thighs apart, and begins to roughly probe my pussy with his fingers … spreading lips, penetrating, rubbing up and down, sliding in and out, spreading more, folding back, searching until he finds the place he seeks.
Satisfied, he holds out his free hand, palm up like a surgeon.
His aide promptly slaps an alligator-toothed clamp into the proffered open hand.
TO BE CONTINUED
I am cold. I am wearing nothing above the waist but my army ID tags and the temperatures at night in the desert at this time of year can drop to just a few degrees above freezing. There is a definite chill in the air. The wind has died down, the sky is clear, the stars overhead brilliant. I shiver.
The sand underfoot is coarse and grainy. They took away my desert boots and socks. My bare feet have become raw and I have begun to limp as I walk. Behind me I can hear the other seven survivors of my unit shuffling along in the sand, occasionally muttering to themselves about being cold or tired.
The English-speaking Iraqi officer walks alongside me. Since I rode in the first truck and the Sarge is dead, he treats me as though I am the leader of the captives even though, technically, I am not.
I try to be friendly and tell him his English is good. He says he studied for two years at Princeton. I decide that maybe his a sympathetic soul, and mention how cold I am and ask if he couldn't please give me and the other prisoners something more to wear against the cold. He shakes his head and bluntly says "not permitted."
We trudge on past the burned-out wreck of a Bradley, the charred remains of its American crew grotesquely entombed inside. My spirits sink. No rescue is likely anytime soon. Sadly, I look away. We trudge silently on.
About the time that I think my feet will give out, we reach an Iraqi base, half-hidden in a depression. They lead us to a bunker, usher us in through a heavily sand-bagged entrance, and order us to kneel in a row along the far wall. A soldier produces some strips of black cloth and proceeds to blindfold each of us. We wait under guard and are not permitted to speak. At least it's relatively warm inside.
At long last, there is a buzz of activity in the tent. I gather an officer … most likely an intelligence officer has arrived to take charge of us. My guess is that he intends to question us. I remind myself that I am supposed to give him only my name, rank and ID number. That’s what I was told when I went through basic training.
A firm hand grips me by the arm and pulls me to my feet. I am to go first. I am taken from the room, leaving the others behind, propelled down a corridor and ushered into a room, where I am seated on a metal office-style chair. My hands, which have been bound behind my back since leaving the ditch beside our stalled convoy, are untied and then quickly bound at the elbow and wrist to the arms of the chair.
The blindfold is removed. I blink in the harsh light of a lamp shone directly on my face. The intelligence officer stands in front of me ... stockily built, clean uniform, shiny boots, swarthy skin, dark eyes, and a heavy black mustache with tinges of gray.
"You are a prisoner of war," he informs me unnecessarily, "I have questions. You will answer them, understand?"
"Barbara A. Moore, private, 7311 ..."
He cuts me off with an open-hand slap across the face. I look up at him, startled. Blood runs from my nose.
"This is not a Hollywood movie," he hisses, "You will answer my questions! What is your unit? What were your orders? What units were you sent with your trucks to resupply, and where was that to take place?"
"Under the Geneva Convention I am allowed to limit my answers to no more than my name, rank and ID," I inform him as forcefully as I can.
"Well then ... perhaps a little persuasion."
He snaps his fingers and an aide steps forward, carrying a dark box with coiled wires attached. The officer steps back. The aide places the box on the floor, picks up two of the saw-toothed clips attached to the ends of wires, and begins trying to attach them to my erect nipples.
I react by twisting wildly about on the chair, frantically shaking my bare breasts in an effort to avoid the clips. But two more aides step up to hold me down, and before long an offending clamp is successfully and painfully affixed to and hanging from each of my nipples.
The officer nods … the juice is turned on!
I am totally unprepared for the throbbing, burning shocks delivered to my poor breasts. I bounce and shake, arch my back, buck and twist about spastically; throw my head back and scream at the top of my lungs. The zapping, crackling, deeply penetrating shocks just keep on coming. I shake my head, roll my eyes and scream again and again, beg them to stop, and then keep on screaming.
When they finally turn the current off, my head lolls forward, chin resting on my chest, hair in my face. My eyes flutter and I pass out momentarily … until they throw a bucket of foul-smelling waste water over my head.
I come up sputtering. My head is rocked sharply back by the officer, a sodden handful of my hair gripped tightly in his fist.
"Want to answer my questions now private Moore?" he purrs contemptuously while tugging on one of the wires and stretching one of my tortured tumescent nipples.
"You know I can't ... I won't," I croak.
"Well let's up the ante then, shall we?"
He bends down to open the front of my desert tan camouflage pants and peels them ... along with the waist band of my black panties ... down over my hips. Then with a sharp tug, they come out from under my butt; and with a second tug, slide down to bunch around my knees. My panties which momentarily cling to my crotch quickly follow.
Horrified by the thought of what is about to happen, I gasp and cry, "Please, please, dear God no!" He ignores me and snaps his fingers. His aide produces a third clip. The other two brutes kneel down and lash my ankles securely to the legs of the chair.
I blubber incoherently, tears streaming down my cheeks.
With an intense look of concentration on his face, the officer forces my thighs apart, and begins to roughly probe my pussy with his fingers … spreading lips, penetrating, rubbing up and down, sliding in and out, spreading more, folding back, searching until he finds the place he seeks.
Satisfied, he holds out his free hand, palm up like a surgeon.
His aide promptly slaps an alligator-toothed clamp into the proffered open hand.
TO BE CONTINUED
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OMG...that's so perfect SJ!!!!! That's me and one of the other captives being led away. A simply great illustration for this story. Thanks so much for posting!!!!
SkatingJesus
King of the Crux Hill
xso
Tribune
Poor military training due to budget cuts?
xso
Tribune
Beautiful pic!
xso
Tribune
Oh,oh, seems that you met some rather nasty guys.....Looking forward to the next episode!
(Pic shows another member of your group, with the standard army panties, the evening before your capture)
