Caterina Valente was lost and floating under the evening sky -- majestically serene heavens of deep sapphire that seemed to mock her with the twinkling of nascent stars. They were now floating her amid them, enjoying her view and her sperm-polluted scent in the nude.
She was in such an over-agitated state she didn't feel much pain down there, where she had already taken so much abuse. This would come with a vengeance on the day after, but right now, Caterina felt all those hands touching her, and her artistic mind could only see the surreal nature of this outdoors carnival of white skin and black hands under Léopoldville's evening sky that felt like a June sky.
Where was she? They were bringing other white women outside those wide-open front doors. Naked shadows of women. Hell. This was hell. "lasciate ogne speranza voi ch intrate." Those letters were clear and bright above these doors.
MEMLING. She was in front of the Memling hotel. Surrounded with jeers and catcalls, hearing the whimpers of women being abused under a rain of tam-tam sounds. The sky was clear. The screams reached heaven.
Negroes were naked, dancing around. Others were masturbating. Some black women had also stripped naked and were presently using some white girl and forcing her to press her face against their groins, taking turns in making the poor girl give them oral sex! Caterina shuddered as she saw the new horror.
But she was too busy getting abused herself. She soon saw a legacy jeep, a battered thing that had seen half of the last World War. It seemed to come closer and closer fast as men brought her near this old piece of junk, which was still wearing its sun-faded original khaki. American khaki. She could even see the faded traces of a large white star on its hood, where they pressed her face down as they made the naked singer bend over, always whistling and calling her name while groping her ass.
"Caterina Valente! Caterina Valente here! Who wants her ass? Come and line up! She's here to fuck!"
"P-please stop..." Caterina tried to say in Italian as one man began playing tam-tam on her butt cheeks. She would always remember the tribal rhythm and the soft-slapping sounds of his hands. Her pussy was frying in pain and unwanted juices as the Negro played tam-tam with her resonating skin.
"Let's get it inside her ass! I know it's taboo, but she's Caterina Valente!" One man told his brother, a tall civilian wearing a straw hat. The very man who was playing tam-tam with her butt.
Soon after, Mr. Bertrand saw it. The straw-hat civilian produced his erection, which was enormous and he pushed it between the butt cheeks of Caterina Valente! Under the streetlight, her buttocks looked fantastically pale against that big pillar of Congolese strength. It looked like a huge lump of blood milk pudding getting shoved between two pleasing loaves of wide-offered civilization, in a realm where anything was permitted to happen.
"HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA ANNAAAAAOOOOOOOOOO!!! Non ancora!" Caterina shrieked as the large banana-curved thing was shoved deep inside her rectum, mercilessly distending it and spelling a world of pain and misery for the unfortunate singer. The owner of this cock was surprised to hear her scream like this. Didn't he put enough slobber on it?
Somewhere in the background, through the tam-tams, her own shriek pierced heavens. And as she was fiercely sodomized against the old US jeep bought cheap by the Congolese army, Caterina heard her own song "Amour". She was groaning in absolute pain, and yet it was there. Her own song seemed to celebrate her anal rape!
"Haaahhh haah haah huhhh hhhhNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNHH..."
As she heard the man agonizing with bliss and felt his THING as it twitched, she knew her rectum was flooded as the straw-hat Negro finished driving his point home.
In absolute elation, his straw hat taking an intense celebratory yellow, the man wiped his elephant cock on her butt, smearing the sensual wideness of her butt-cracked beauty with this smudge of blood-mixed semen.
Caterina was groaning as she heard the conclusion of her own song. The woman who had released this hit earlier this year no longer existed. She was something else now. Who was she now? What was she? A whore! A Negro tramp! She bitterly sobbed on that sorry jeep hood.
"Make way!" the man's brother said as he came at Caterina with his erect cock. And she was subjected to another anal rape.
"Wow! This feels good!" the young brother said, his straw hat falling off his bobbing head as he grabbed her hips and went to town with unbridled strokes that caused the brunette's pretty face to slide violently on the faded khaki hood, along with the boy's back-and-forth enthusiasm as he obliterated her anus with glee. The paleness of her skin amplified how soft her skin felt under his hands.
The boy's strokes felt lighter to her and he was certainly smaller in size, but he was insanely energetic. Caterina had heard his youth in his voice. She hoped his fuse would be short like most youngsters, but this time she was sorely mistaken. Why did it had to be during an anal rape? Why? His hands remained like brown glue around her waist and the star singer got banged against the jeep again, again and again for the longest time as she felt the presence of many men gathering nearby.
"How dya like it, white tramp?"
"Wow! She's getting it real deep and hard! Right inside her ass! This is wrong, but it looks like some serious piece of fun! I'm next!"
"No I'm next! Hey white tramp! You got a big line-up coming up! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"
"Hey, don't yell at her like this! This is Caterina Valente! Don't you know?"
"Well, she can be Cleopatra or Mata Hari for all I care! She's gonna taste this Negro cock of mine before the night is over and that's all I need to know!"
"She's so lovely! Look at her ass! Look at her legs!"
"Look at her feet! I want to kiss them so bad!"
One after the other, the Negroes forming the constantly renewed line-up inflicted growing pain by violating Caterina's religion-forbidden hole. Sodomy in the strongest terms. From fiery hot, the pain became numbing as her head bobbed on and on from the never-ending nightmare.
Her face kept sliding in leitmotiv on that same old faded jeep that perhaps was used as transportation by US General Patton or perhaps even Eisenhower back when that piece of junk was a brand-new solid khaki jeep issued from those assembly lines manned by Yankee girls waiting for their men to come back home and produce babies to replenish blood lines. But those were also the days when the Soviets captured the eastern town of Breslau where she happened to be along with her family, and the Soviets had then proceeded to rape all the girls there en masse.
Caterina kept her eyes closed and her mind shut. She refused to give those bastards the satisfaction of knowing they were re-opening an ancient wound she had thought was healed.
As she surrendered to the numbing pain down there, while one Negro after the other made his strong statement by offering her the low pitch of his ejaculating groan, Caterina knew her body would always crave those black hands around her waist. She morally hated herself for this, but she knew she would have to go overseas to USA and once there she wouldn't be able to deny her body a gang-fuck at the hands of some Harlem niggers who would each pound her deep inside her ass.
She knew it deep down. This was not her last gang-fuck. She was going to need this counter-intuitive remedy. Only men and women who were ass-raped truly understood what Caterina was going through.
"Wou-hou-hou-hou-hoooooo! Aaahhhhrrr! Take this, Milady! Uuuuugghhh, this was a good one!" Lieutenant Loko yelled as he pulled his over-throbbing cock out of her ass and liberally shot bolts of hot stickiness on this female-singer ass he treasured so much!
Caterina felt the shower of shame and felt guilty for this secret-most part of herself that had the nerve to feel aroused by THIS.
Someone was nearby. Caterina got a whiff from her sperm-marred perfume. She was a blonde girl whose face was flattened cheek-smack on that same jeep hood. Caterina saw the glimmer from her wedding ring where the poor wife was hugging that hood while enduring a barrage of predictable strokes.
"Nee! Nee! Nee-nee-nee-neee! Stop alshblfts!"
Caterina was a bit familiar with Dutch so she understood she was a Flemish wife begging them to please stop in her native tongue. No wonder, for they had shaken the French out of her.
While a well-hung Sergeant kindly introduced himself down there and grabbed her waist for a new ride, Caterina found her hand. The Paris-born Italian singer and the Flemish wife held hands while having their ass repeatedly impaled and abused. Troops wanted to make sure they got the message deep down --- Congo was independent. Both girls felt the need to remind one another they were humans who had had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
There was also a naked grandma over there, also being mass-raped as if to remind them this wasn't only because they were young and pretty. Those men were gang-raping them because they were white. Black women stood there and cursed them! Spat on them. They stood there and none of the men harmed them, because they were black.
The brutish Sergeant shuddered from head to toe and lost much slobber as he learned for the first time what it felt like to flood a white girl's rectum. And this was Caterina Valente's ass he was holding! Realizing this caused his ropes of semen to stretch some more inside her throbbing intestines.
***
Now they pushed Mr. Bertrand and told him to stop looking at his "granddaughter" who was kept naked on her knees and constantly fed black cocks in her wide-open mouth, sometimes two at a time, just as two Negro cowboys fired rifle shots in the air. Poor Pauline! There were even black women pulling her hair and spitting in her face. Poor Pauline, such a gentle girl!
"Now, white swine, show us how you fuck a star singer. This is Caterina Valente and since you fucked your granddaughter so good, we're offering you this reward. But listen well, swine. If your toy gets soft before you finish, we'll shoot her through the head!"
Caterina screamed in terror as she heard this and she clenched the Flemish wife's hand with a death grip while the said blonde wife was herself too busy getting ass-raped to really care. Julia barely registered anything else than that crazy-deep pain that kept playing tam-tam in her deep shitty reaches.
Caterina was ghastly pale and beautiful to see. Up until now, it had never occurred to her that she could get killed, be it by a stray bullet. She indeed heard gunshots amid the tam-tams, the jeers and cheers and whistles and catcalls and the whimpers from that wench getting sodomized right next to her.
"Je suis vraiment désolé, Mademoiselle... Désolé..." (I am really sorry, Miss... Sorry...) a voice said behind her in flawless Belgian French.
And as the pair of hands landed on her buns and she heard the man's grunt of lust and wonder and felt his penetration, Caterina knew the rapist was white. This was the worst!
But at least, he had entered her pussy and this felt like a welcome holiday, almost...
"Haaahhrrrr! Harr hahrrr hahrrr hrrr hrrr hrrrr HRRR HRRR HRRRR Aahhrr! This is good! yeahhh!" the sorry man uttered as he began pounding the star singer and found the groove and rhythm. She felt his hands around her waist as he flattened her buttocks against him, on and on. With glee oozing out of those hands. The swine! He was enjoying it!
Holding her full hips and admiring her flawless hourglass nakedness, Mr. Bertrand could hardly believe he was now fucking Caterina Valente! Only a week ago he had heard her sing at the music hall, where her sea-green décolleté was tantalizing his gaze, where she sang on stage, utterly out of his reach while he held his old wife's hand, while Pauline leaned against him on the other side, resting her pretty head on his shoulder and giving him whiffs of her teen-girl hair.
And now... Now Pauline was no longer a virgin. Now he was as hard as a Zulu warrior, deep inside this same brunette, hearing her voice singing a different tune and sweating profusely as he gave her the same kind of barrage he would have if he had been decades younger.
"Aaah aaah aaaaaahhhh OUI!!! C'est trop prodigieux! JE LA VIOLE!!! JE LA VIOLE!!!" (... .... ... YES!!! This is too fantastic! I AM RAPING HER!!! RAPING HER!!!)
The seventy-something retired Colonel was too far gone to notice that those wicked jungle devils had brought his naked wife so she could watch him power-rape Caterina Valente.
The old Colonel didn't have a clue his wife was seeing every shock ripple on Caterina's buttocks where he landed stroke after stroke. And she was glaring at him as if he was committing a murder right here and there! The yellow-belly Colonel enjoyed the act so much that he even forgot his own fear as he plugged away, knowing paradise with each new collision against the butt curves of Caterina Valente!
The brave old Colonel sounded like a rutting orangutan as he passed his edge and gave Caterina a final salvo of frenzied thrusts as the Colonel lost and gave her all his mustard! All this without having a clue that his wife was right there two metres away. She was sobbing bitterly. And then she looked away, her soul as dead as a shamed door bell upon feeling the death of her love for him.
Oblivious of his surroundings, the Colonel was lost amid a sea of glee as his old legs collapsed under him in paradise wobbliness, and down he went on his knees. He grabbed her ass and enjoyed the close-up view of the holy relic. He pressed his wrinkled face plump into the butt of Caterina Valente! He kissed her silk-soft skin where she sat countless times. But then, there was something strange...
Colonel (ret.) Bertrand realized all had gone silent and still around him --- just as still as a trench in that dreaded moment before the assault, after the artillery had gone as silent as a tomb.
"Lumumba! This is Patrice Lumumba! The Prime Minister himself!"
"The Prime Minister!" "Lumumba!" "Lumumba!"
"Lumumba! It's him, yes it's him!!!" said many voices in French and Lingala. "C'est lui! Oui, c'est lui!"
***
It was indeed Patrice Lumumba. He was wearing simple street clothes and only something magnetic about him distinguished him from the commoners. He removed his fedora hat in a respectful gesture as he surveyed the car-crowded carrefour and found things just as he had feared he would. Celebrating soldiers, beaten-up white men and gang-raped white women.
Flanked by a high-ranking officer -- a black Colonel wearing his uniform all nice and legal! -- and escorted by stern-faced MP's whose white helmets intensified the deep shadows around their lust-filled eyes as they saw the white women, Patrice Lumumba walked near the jeep where Caterina Valente was bent over and she wondered what the sudden halt was all about. The Flemish wife heard the loud silence through buzzing ears and thought she was dead.
Caterina saw the young man and suddenly recognized the handsome Prime Minister. She had seen the tall, slim man in several receptions and she was there on Independence Day when he made his long speech about Congo being a sovereign nation promised to a great future. Patrice Lumumba was the most civilized Negro she had ever seen. She could picture him hastily removing his tuxedo before putting on that tawny-brown jacket he was now wearing over a white shirt she instantly recognized as a pricey Italian brand. He had forgotten to change his shirt! This relieved her... He had hastily come to save her!
The young Prime Minister nodded at her, as if casually recognizing her during a mundane gathering. His face looked soft and very kissable. At last, someone was coming to save her! Caterina mentally prepared herself for the shock of being suddenly taken away from this nightmare to a safe place where she'd be treated before being flown home. Saved! At last!
All listened as Patrice Lumumba spoke...
"I see that you have done the unforgivable! Now Belgium will see us as savages and they'll double down on us! General Janssens, your former commander-in-chief, insisted on..."
There was a gigantic cheer from the troops as they heard the word "former". It took Lumumba's military aide some two minutes to restore silence, but then all the soldiers stood at attention near their pretty hostages as they recognized Sergeant-Major Joseph-Désiré Mobutu, the most charismatic man in the entire Force publique. It was now Colonel Mobutu as they noticed the three stars over one stripe he wore on his shoulder pads. His dress uniform was flawless. Powerfully tan. Caterina saw this tan colour as a reminder of the beach of DePanne in Belgium's Flemish coastal part, where she planned to lie down and cool off while drinking rum and coca-cola.
Silence was restored by Mobutu and Patrice Lumumba went on...
"Yes, I've relieved General Janssens of his command! I've replaced him with one of yours. Victor Lundula. He was promoted to..."
Another loud wave of cheers erupted. Caterina's heart sank as one of the men poured banana beer on her buttocks and began to lick it off. The Prime Minister saw this and did nothing while Colonel Mobutu yelled and ordered the troops to silence. And the slurping sounds from the licking on Caterina's butt were suddenly loudly heard in this silence. The Private stopped licking and stood at attention.
"As I say, Victor Lundula was directly promoted to Major-General earlier today. All of you will be promoted by one rank with the corresponding increase in pay effective tomorrow, and..."
A wave of loud cheers erupted. Patrice Lumumba wanted to add that all the eligible NCO's would be promoted to various officer ranks according to merit and seniority, but this cheering was overpowering. Like a stadium crowd getting out of hand when their national football team just won!
Patrice leaned near his military aide and said something. Colonel Mobutu, who never did a single day of officer training in his life, shook his head. Mr. Bertrand looked at the coloured officer with absolute contempt. But he had learned his lesson and kept his yapper shut, looking at his grandniece Pauline where she lay prostrated and sobbed, and yet charming in her virgin-like nakedness.
"No, this won't do, Sir!" Mobutu replied. "You can't ask them to go home now. They're far too gone! Listen to the women screaming in the Memling hotel! We must wait till the men get dead-drunk and tired. Have more beer brought here. Truckloads of beer. And cases of cigarettes. Congratulate them! Make them feel good about themselves and tomorrow morning you'll be able to fly the Soviet delegation back home like the Kremlin is asking us to do. But in the meantime..."
As he finished speaking, Colonel Mobutu walked to the naked Flemish wife. Once near her, he gently caressed her hair and spoke softly to her in flawless French...
"You are very pretty, Milady, and I've never had sex with a blonde. Now girl, I'm not here to hurt you. I'm just going to penetrate you a little so I can taste the forbidden fruit inside you, that's all! Now relax, darling. Relax and enjoy..."
As he spoke to the broken wife, he ran his hands all over her and appreciated how young she was, maybe as young as eighteen. Maybe she was a teenage honeymooner. She clearly looked like one. Her husband was one lucky bastard.
"Whoever's her husband! He gonna learn the Christian virtue of sharing! Hhaahhhrrrr she got a good pussy! Don't cry baby! I'm taking you to boom-boom land!" Mobutu uttered as he thrust himself inside the bent-over wife and began pounding her against the old American jeep.
Caterina heard him clear and knew the man for what he was. A commoner speaking like a street Negro. But this was partly why the troops worshiped him, just as they now worshiped her cute European ass.
The Flemish wife began to whimper hard and loud, like a little squirrel getting tortured, this while Caterina's heart sank down her sore rectum and turned to putrid shit as she realized that she was NOT going to be saved. Grinning MP's were already forming a line-up behind Mobutu. They too wanted to explore the art of fucking a Flemish girl with her long golden hair obscuring the hood of a jeep.
The troops erupted in wild clamours as they looked on. Mobutu was pounding the young wife like a champion. The husband was brought near so he could see Mobutu with his Colonel's trousers down, so he could see Mobutu's full brown buttocks under the hem of his uniform jacket --- Buttocks where he kept brown-bombing his wife and feeding her whimpers, intensifying them as he slowed down his strokes and made the pleasure last under the legion of cheers and catcalls.
The rapes were renewed all over the place. Pauline was brought near Patrice Lumumba, who sank into the guilty pleasure of sucking her white maiden's breasts after a generous amount of beer was poured on them.
The MP Sergeant was now deep-fucking Caterina Valente whose hand held on to the blonde wife's as if this were her ultimate life line. The old jeep was double-wobbling on its tired suspension as both Negroes reached their climaxes simultaneously and --- mirabile dictu -- both white women were betrayed by their body and let out one long series of groaning whimpers as a devilish climax sneaked on them.
Caterina would remember this for ever and always. From the jeep hood her sore cheek was kept sliding on, she endured the final strokes from the big MP and she heard her own groaning litany as she said "Aaa--aaaaahhh vi prego--ooooohhn!" (... I beg [all of] you!) just as she heard the grunts from the MP along with Colonel Mobutu's baboon grunts, all this blonde-spiced with the wife's yelling moans... Both men filled up the climaxing girls, kept their asses in the heat of their shivering hands as they enjoyed the deed beyond words. And the jeep's suspension acknowledged the feat.
"AAAAA AAAA AAAAAA AAAAAA AA AA AAA AA AAAAAAAA! Get this, white girl! This! This and this!" uttered Patrice Lumumba in his gleeful rage where he knelt and kept Pauline's hips off the street where he violently raped her, her head bobbing on the street dirt while her high-riding tits were a tumult of silence where her fast-moving nipples were dancing for the Prime Minister, as her hoovering legs kept brushing the sides of his tawny jacket.
His arms tensed as he kept the pleasing, yet tiring hold on the thin girl with her butt clear off the ground, Patrice lost frothing slobber down his handsome face as he kept colonizing Pauline with his harsh barrage of strokes until he nearly howled like a wolf and filled up the white girl with his raging prowess. The hundred men cheered for him as Pauline received the load from Congo's Prime Minister.
Lumumba let out his true nature as a Negro who loved doing this to white girls. With white men there to watch. Nobody ever said anything about his private parties. But this one was public.
As the renewed orgy went on, Caterina and the Flemish wife kept holding hands as the MP's each took their turn inside them on either side of the reliable jeep. Lumumba stood and watched along with Mobutu. They both wanted a crack at Caterina Valente. And by the end of the MP's collective pussy smashing, the Prime Minister and his military aide were both masturbating and sounding like jungle baboons.
And as soon as the last MP had pulled out of Caterina and shown her his gratitude by shooting steamy arrows of semen on her ass, Patrice Lumumba took his turn.
"Hello, Miss Valente! I think we already met!" Patrice said as he quickly penetrated her. He captured her exhausted arms and then he held her wrists with a firm grip together in the small of her back. He began to rape her with savage glee. She sounded like a little girl getting whipped for having done something awful. This position was fun! From behind with her wrists held together in her loins. The perfect punishment. Done to the famous singer. Her sorry whining whimpers were priceless!
Caterina cried and bawled loud out to the starry sky as she felt the painful separation. She was no longer holding the wife's hand. She was all alone now. Where were the Poni-Tails? Where was Laverne? Lumumba's words to her made it even worse.
"I'm very sorry this is happening to you, but my men got a little loose! There's always a slip-off during a change in command, I think you can understand that! aaahhr, God! I love your vagina, Miss Caterina Valente! Do you know how badly we all wanted to do this to you ever since you got off that plane? Hurrhhh! hhaahhhh, this is worth it! Do you know you could make a fortune here by being a high-end call-girl? Hurrhh, you're good! I cnn, hrrr oooh! I can get you set! I got connections... I got cunnecxss... Connextss shhuuns!!!
... ... ....
"Haahhr hhah hhah hhaahh yeah, raped on a jeep! The soldiers have mutinied and now... Hahhr... Now the white girl are getting... ahhhr getting our big fat cocks... HHNNRRRR MMMNNNGGHHH NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!"
"Ahhhr yes! Thank you! Thank you most kindly, Miss! I'll never forget you! I'll see to it that you get out of here and fly home in two days."
"Two days!!! Two nights! Due giorni e due notti!" the poor singer thought as Patrice Lumumba, after such winged words, gave her a parting kiss on her heated buttocks.
"Thank you, Miss! This was epic!"
And then Colonel Mobutu took over!
For ten long minutes, Caterina was given the African battering ram as her sore face, wet with tears, kept polishing that steel hood she now knew so well, feeling Mobutu's grip around her waist and her butt against him as he lost himself in the pure delight of colliding with the famous singer in the most intimate and public setting as could be. Out on the street.
Caterina desperately found again and held the wife's hand during the brutal abuse. This officer may look intellectual with his glasses, but he felt like an absolute bull. Sounded like one too. At one point, he pulled out of her, only to change holes! And he heard her shrieking -- and her enduring voice finally broke --- as he used his nigger batt to distend her rectum and gave her something that she would always remember, and secretly crave for deep down, along with a sense of being beyond repair as a white woman. Perhaps as a singer too --- Her turned-husky voice was going to take months to heal. Was she ever going to be the same singer again?
Something subtle would be lost forever in her voice. She could sue Congo for millions over this damage to her voice, but she knew she would never go down this route, as the suit would expose her ordeal at the hands of Negroes and destroy her public image forever. Caterina bawled and sobbed most bitterly as she understood she would be forced to keep this whole ordeal a secret. A secret sealed with her own anal blood.
The man now raping the Flemish wife was some old street sweeper who smelled like garbage. "Aahh aaaahh ahahh! I can't believe this happeninghh haahh, Missie misssie! I love those long strands of hair!" And the old trash-smelling Negro plucked on of her hair just as he drowned her under his final scream! He had always wanted "to cream a creamy skin girl". He said so aloud in his joy, with tears in his eyes, as he came deep inside her. Her husband watching, but now also watching Caterina, whom he had recognized.
When he was done with Caterina's ass, when he had flooded her ears with his savage growl and stuffed her anus, Mobutu readjusted his black-rimmed glasses and put himself back together before taking one last look at Caterina. It was time to depart and escort the Prime Minister back to his limousine. Once the driver had finished emptying his balls inside Armande DeVos, the limousine started back for the Prime Minister's well-guarded mansion... where some officer's daughter was kept waiting for the private party that would soon follow. That girl was a niece of General Janssen.
"No", the Colonel told the driver. "No, we can't take this young wife with us. Those men would over-turn our car and burn it with us inside after getting the girl back for them. Or they would pull us out and slaughter us! Those white girls are theirs for the night."
Mobutu then turned to Patrice Lumumba who sat to his left in the far-off back seat while the driver drove off reluctantly.
"This was very good fuck, Sir! Now remember, send the boys truckloads of beer. Send 'em loads of pizza too. We gonna wake up old Guiseppe and he'll do this for us against the safety of his granddaughters. Keep 'em men happy and they gonna worship you!"
"Don't you dare patronize me, Lieutenant-Colonel! I don't need to be taught such simple crowd tactics. And since you're now a high-ranking officer, I think it's time you stop talking like a commoner!"
***
Up there on the seventh floor of the hotel Memling, Katyusha was still naked on that dining table. Yet again they were playing Katyusha! She was now sick of that song! She begged them to stop playing it, in French with her wonderful r-rolling accent, as yet again, a group of masturbating Negroes gave her a shower of sperm. Sperm to wash her hair and face with. Sergeant-Major Daniel Bukongu bucked her against that same table, yet again. Before she was laid down and drenched with vodka from head to toe, and kissed all over by a legion of pouty lips.
In his ransacked suite, the Soviet ambassador was shown how his wife was being raped on with her hands tied up to Katyusha's bedposts before being offered the choice between fucking his wife in front of them or doing the same to his "dear daughter".
Igor chose Katyusha.
Nadia, the Ambassador's secretary, was kept face down on her desk amid her crowded room where myriads of sheets were made to fly up in the air by a pack of illiterate soldiers and hotel staff, who made fun of those funny characters on those leaves. None of them could spell "Cyrillic", but all of them knew the whiteness of her buttocks and took it to heart to see who could flatten them best.
"There goes your diplomatic immunity, Snow White! Deep inside your ass!"
Yet again, Corporal Ekoko, who looked more like a sorry-face dish washer than a soldier, kept her hands together in the small of her back and drank the fun of her whining whimpers as he unknowingly mirrored the way his own Prime Minister had used Caterina. Be it on a jeep or a desk, the result was the same.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Colonel Mobutu...
He was Lumumba's Secretary of State and only two months later, in September 1960, he lead a coup and had Prime Minister Lumumba arrested and kept in house arrest. This is the same Lumumba who ruled the country as President from 1965 to 1997. Colonel Mobutu in 1960. He's wearing one bar with three stars, meaning he's a full Colonel.
Some other stuff can also be portrayed without the story becoming stale or out of breath. I may have written a couple of scenes that were needlessly lengthy here and there, but the issue isn't as bad as in "The World Championships" so I'll just move on and take away the lessons learned.
But alas, I quickly realized that the link to chapter 10 left me stranded only on page 2 of the topic and then found out that the story isn't even finished yet. That's the 
It sounds so modern and kind of out of place for me in the 60's. Personally, I don't mind a little anachronism in a story like this, but you should be careful not to give 
