-------------------------------------------------------------
The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life.
-------------------------------------------------------------
- This story ist part of the Used and Abused Tournament
- It competes against nobody in the R16-8 match
- Theme: It’s Not What It Looks Like
-------------------------------------------------------------
Freak Flag Fluttering - Used and Abused R16-8
The warm wind wafts my bare skin now and then as I lounge stark naked in my hammock, slung between two luxuriant palms. The waves of the Arabian Sea seem to kiss the white sand of Anjuna Beach. My long red hair, bleached strawberry blond by the Goan sun, tangles around my shoulders as I lay stretched out, lost in the haze of hash. I like to smoke a chillum or two first thing after breakfast, and today it was two.
Two tanned Swiss lesbians stroll past as the faint sounds of the guitar introduction to The Who’s “Pinball Wizard” from somewhere nearby blend in with the murmur of the ocean. We wave at each other.
The next one to walk along the beach is Quebec Pierre.
“Hey Gail,” the good-looking devil approaches me with a sly grin. “Leaving soon? You need a scam?”
Only the junkies stay in Goa during the time of monsoon rains. It’s my second season here. The first one was after I dropped out of Davis during my freshman year and split the States. First Europe, then the long overland journey. Iran—the Kingdom, uh, the Shahdom of Heavy Vibes. Afghanistan—where I swam in the blue Band-e Amir and then made love in one of the cells behind the tallest Buddha statue in Bamiyan. Pakistan—nothing to write home about… not that it is my habit, mind you! My father is an LAPD officer, after all.
India and Nepal at last. Love, dope, and ashrams all the way! I spent the winter here at Anjuna Beach, swimming, sunbathing and getting high, becoming one of the Freaks here.
When the season was over I smuggled eight kilos of hash into Canada—that’s the way we make our money! With eight thousand Canadian dollars to my name I stayed for the Olympic Games in Montreal, then flew to England to party in London before heading back to India and Goa, my new boyfriend Alan in tow.
The second season has been a magic one, but I’m in deep money trouble now. What I didn’t spent on dope and coke I put into funding Alan’s scam. We sent Linda, a sweet, innocent-looking eighteen-year-old hippie from Toronto, on a dope run to her home town. Well, Linda got nabbed at Heathrow with four kilos of our own hash, and now she’s a guest of Her Majesty. I chuckle as I imagine the Queen of England stashing our Afghan Gold somewhere in her castle for her Silver Jubilee party.
Alan and I had a huge fight, and the bastard split for parts unknown. Alan is English, and he can live in India all year long. I’m here on a six-month tourist visa, so I must leave India.
And I’ve got two, maybe three rupees to rub together.
“In everlasting Krishna’s grace, all just appears…” I drawl, stretching languidly in the hammock, contemplating my long, nut-brown thighs.
So does Pierre. Well, he’s mostly ogling what’s between my thighs—when he’s not looking at my full tits sitting high on my chest, that is. I can practically smell his cock twitching and rising to attention.
Alright, I’m into the whole sexual thing, and Pierre is the third best cocksman I’ve balled in Goa. His good looks make me quiver with longing again...
“I know you’re looking for a run, ma belle. What will you do?” He knows I need a scam bad.
“I carried hash to Canada last year. I can do it again.”
“Want to take another trip? Only… it’s powder this time!” Pierre is barely able to contain his exuberance.
I sit up, a nervous flutter in my stomach. Can I trust Pierre with a heroin run? Heroin can land me in prison for a long time.
“Look, Gail, smack’s way safer to carry than hash,” Pierre says, noticing my uneasiness.
“I don’t know man, sounds like a big risk.”
“The quantity is smaller, powder’s way lighter… And you’ll make lots of bread!” He touches my arm, then squeezes it lightly.
Carnal thoughts flood my mind, pushing my anxiety away, as my eyes rove over Pierre’s lean body clad only in the loin-cloth, the lungi. Oh boy am I getting wet.
I want to be convinced. And I want him.
I float out of my hammock, all 5’9” of me, and wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my breasts against his sweaty chest. Pierre groans and captures my mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue delving oh so deep. I moan around it and suck on it, giving him a taste of what is to come. He palms my bare buttocks roughly as I squirm, rubbing my thighs together, aching to feel him inside.
Giving his tongue a final suck, I pull back and lead him to my thatch hut. Once there, he tosses me on the sleeping mat and I sprawl back with a grin, holding my arms open in invitation.
Well, my legs too.
“Come on, baby!”
Pierre sheds his lungi, and I lick my lips at the sight of his jutting cock, thick and hard and ready. He settles between my thighs and drives into my already-soaked cunt.
I moan loudly as Pierre stretches me, filling me to the brim. From the get-go, he sets a fierce rhythm, fucking me with deep powerful thrusts. Dizzy with lust, I pull his face to my heaving tits by his long shaggy hair. Pierre suckles my nipples like a man possessed, his cock jackhammering my core.
My back arches as I lock my ankles around his pumping hips, the pressure inside me building to an unbearable peak.
He swivels his hips, grinding into me, rubbing against my clit. I exploded with a loud groan, my cunt clamping down on him in rippling spasms, taking Pierre over the edge. He erupts inside me with a roar, his hot seed flooding my fluttering love channel.
We collapse together in a sweat-slicked tangle of libs, chests heaving.
“I’m doing it,” I kiss him messily, still floating on a pleasurable cloud.
“Canada’s no longer easy to enter,” he warns. “Customs inspectors look for people coming from India”
“Awful hot,” I say, thinking of poor, innocent-looking Linda.
“I’ve already thought everything through,” he pants. “You’re not going to Canada, you’re going to Europe. Swedish Birgitta will be waiting for you with a clean passport—she said she lost hers, you know?”
“Not in London,” I kiss him again, thinking of poor, innocent-looking Linda. “Let’s have a smoke? I still have some of that Afghan Gold—”
“Sure, ma belle. No, not in London... Heathrow is hot. How about we leave for Bombay tomorrow, set everything in motion? You’ll need a case, and I know who makes them,” he kisses me back.
Heroin. I’m gonna carry heroin! Bitchin’!
I nod eagerly as I stuff the chillum with hash.
“Bom Bom Bole, Hara Hara Mahadev!” I invoke Shiva as I light the pipe. I love the rituals—you can take the girl out of the Catholic Church, but can you take the Catholic Church out of the girl?
-------------------------------------------------------------
Charles de Gaulle Airport. Air France Flight 193 Hong Kong–Bangkok–Bombay–Tehran–Tel Aviv–Paris has landed on time, at 13:20. The immense concrete drum of the terminal, criss-crossed with escalators encased in pipes of acrylic glass, swallows me. I drift down those Fallopian tubes of modernity towards the future.
In my plain safari suit, looking as square as I can, I breeze through the customs without a hitch, the black entry stamp in my green passport.
“Gail!” Swedish Birgitta meets me outside the terminal, looking gorgeous in a striped dress of artificial silk. She’s one of us Freaks, but she sure scrubs well. We weren’t really close back in Goa.
We hug, and Birgitta leads me to a sleek black Lancia. A tall, dark-haired, well-dressed man, an air of money about him, opens the rear door for me.
“Philippe, meet Gail!” I welcome Philippe as I ease myself into the back seat, taking the black Samsonite case with me.
Looks like I did it! I’m a successful heroin smuggler! I was so scared I got high on coke and smack with the Italians from the Nataraj Hotel the night before the flight. Pierre was so angry, and not only because he came upon me making love to an Italian girl… But it’s all over now.
Philippe takes the wheel, Birgitta sits next to him, and we drive away, towards Paris.
Yellow headlights, black license plates.
France! I’m in France, and I’m rich!
We navigate the street of Paris until Philippe stops in front of the grand old apartment building. Laughing, we tumble into the entrance hall and take the elevator to the second floor.
We enter the lavish apartment. Birgitta must be living it up here in Paris!
A couple of guys in their late twenties welcome us, a smarmy-looking blond named Bernard and a hulking black man who goes by Justin. We all have a drink.
“It’s all there?” Bernard nods at my Samsonite.
“Sure, man,” I flash them a broad smile, hiding my uneasiness. “Let’s get to business then. How about my money?”
“What about your money?” Philippe looks at me coldly.
The next thing I feel is Bernard striking me across my face. Hard.
I lay stunned on the floor as Birgitta screeches like a banshee in French, slapping her hand over my mouth, the mouth that has just been given a fat lip.
“Mmmmmmmmmm!”
My French is that of a schoolgirl and a Freak, but I think I know what Birgitta wants when the men began to tear at my clothes, ripping them off me until I end up stark naked in the middle of the room. The men kneel around me, holding me down, their hard gazes sweeping up and down my bare torso.
Philippe strips naked, showing me his massive cock, while Birgitta, the fucking bitch that she turns out to be, stuffs my own panties—the sweat-soaked panties I wore throughout the flight from Bombay to here!—into my mouth. Then Philippe settles down between my legs and grips my thighs, his strong fingers digging into my tanned flesh.
Philippe yanks my thighs apart. My red-furred cunt on lewd display, I squirm slightly. Holding my hips, the man presses his muscular body onto mine.
My heart pounds. My breathing is short and rapid, every muscle and sinew drawn tight.
His aim is perfect—the bulbous head of his cock splits my tender folds, and he enters me fully in one deep, vicious thrust.
Deep inside me, Philippe holds himself still. He looks down at me with a smug smile, taking a few seconds to appreciate the sight of the naked captive spread out before him, taking his huge cock all the way up her quivering cunt.
Stretched too fast, my love channel screams out. Pain shoots through my loins. I want it to be over as quickly as possible. To egg Philippe on, I fake a breathy moan—which is pretty difficult, the panties balled up in my mouth and all that—and roll my eyes back, as if overwhelmed by his male strength.
He sees through my game. His hips pressing down between my thighs, his cock buried in me to the hilt, he pins my wrists to the floor on either side of my head. He looks down on me with cold contempt as he begins to fuck me hard, setting a slow, steady rhythm, making me take the full measure of his cock with each long, painful thrust.
There was nothing left to think about, nothing but my pained cunt and his cock, thrusting into me again and again. I set my feet flat against the floor and tilt my hips a little, trying to ease the waves of hurt washing up my stomach with every push. I no longer feel myself being ripped apart from the inside out, but the raw ache remains. My breasts jiggle with each powerful thrust.
The others watch us, a man having his way with a woman, until he growls in ecstasy, spilling his seed into me.
“Good fuck,” he says to me in English as he leaves me to his underlings.
Justin, already naked, stretches on the floor next to me, his big black cock standing up proudly. Bernard and Birgitta grab me, stretch my my arms out over my head and force me to straddle him. Justin grabs my swaying tits and squeezes them roughly as he rears beneath me. My just-fucked, leaking cunt slides down onto his throbbing shaft. The leering black man gives me another upward jerk of his hips and pulls at my nipples, stretching them out.
Tears well up in my eyes, and I bend my back to ease the strain and hurt. In a heartbeat Bernard the blond crouches behind me and jerks my buttocks apart. His cock shoves hard against my asshole, smearing it with his precum, not giving me a chance to clench.
“Aaaiiiiggghh!” A sharp pain tears through my whole lower back, and I yowl through my stinky gag and wriggle and buck as my tight ring of muscle stretches wide to take his girth. Birgitta cheers my double penetration.
I wail incoherently out loud from the burning sensation throughout my whole pelvis as their cocks rub against one another through the thin membrane between my cunt and my guts.
The men hold me fast as I groan loudly. They fuck me and drink and laugh and fuck me again. My wrists now tied behind my back, I grow woozy and disoriented as I am stretched and twisted into a variety of positions as the night falls upon the city and myself.
I am praying to Jesus Christ and Shiva and the Blessed Virgin Mary and Krishna and whoever I can think of at the moment as they finally grow tired of me and leave the room to clean themselves.
Birgitta watches over my prone body that is speckled with the semen all over.
“Why? Why, Birgitta?” I wail, spitting out my panties.
“Do not whine, slut!” she hisses, toying with my green passport. “Amateurs like you disrupt the business of heavy people. You kids get caught and attract attention. People like you and Pierre must be… discouraged.”
That’s when I know I’m not getting out of it alive.
Gathering what is left of my strength, I get on my feet and crash into Birgitta, taking her down. Down on the floor, I give her a couple of headbutts on the floor—the first one must have broken her nose, but I gave her the second just to make sure. My passport lies next to her—I pick it up with my teeth and get up as the men come through the door.
I break into a run, their screaming propelling me forward. I smash through the balcony doors and topple over the railing in a shower of glass.
I land hard, but I get up again, my flank flayed, my knee skinned, but nothing seems broken. I leg it away from the building, running down the empty street, swerving left. I see the dark tunnel—the stairs!
Good thing I used to run track all four years of high school. My muscles carry me up the stairs, and I do not look back.
Naked, bloody, and tied up, I make it to the top of the stairs and run into the roadway of a wide street. The first car swerves around me, but the second, a flashy yellow Mercedes, stops.
The passenger, a stunning blonde, runs towards me and gives me her jacket, speaking in rapid French.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind. The passport falls out of my mouth and on the cobblestones, but she picks it up.
“American? Never mind, get in! Ali! We’re taking her with us!” she says with authority, her accent with a hint of English. “I’m Véro, by the way.”
The driver, a young Iranian, chuckles as he drives us away. We all ended up at his town house on the Rue Vineuse… but that’s the beginning of another story!
