White Pirates of Somalia

©2009 Herb Cat. Do not reproduce or distribute this story without the author's permission.

As an author, I welcome feedback from readers. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herbcatwriter@yahoo.com. Thank you.

.oOo.
Part 4

So one morning, we were roused out of bed and hustled to a waiting jeep, without the chance to gather any of our belongings. The jeep rattled for about four hours deep into the wasteland. The pavement ended at the city limit, and even graded roads eventually gave way to mere paths. We had no idea where we were going.

Then we heard music coming from somewhere up ahead. Western music. Abby and Kevin looked at each other. This was their kind of music. Loud and irritating. As we drove on, it got even louder. When we finally arrived at the compound, the music was blaring loudly from speakers. We were surrounded by black boys, none older than 18, some younger than Kevin. Three of them grabbed me and held me down as two more grabbed Abby and took her away screaming. Then Kevin too was taken away, more angry than frightened.

They took me and pushed me into a hut of concrete blocks, and shut the door. There was a small opening in the door about four inches high and a foot wide. It allowed a bit of light to come in. Once my eyes got used to the dark, I could see I was in a cell about 8 foot square. It smelled like an outhouse, and I found a piece of plywood in one corner that covered a squat hole. On one wall was an old mattress which must have been infested with millions of bedbugs. I hollered for the guards, but of course nothing could be heard above the din of the speakers.

I sat and analyzed my situation. I'd sure screwed things up. A year ago, I had no friends. Now I had no kids, no money, no prospects of release. I wanted to kill myself. Every so often a flashlight would shine through the door hole and someone would check if I had. So I decided not to give them that satisfaction.

As the hours passed, I looked out my hole. Across the compound was a roofed structure, no more than a large wooden canopy, with long tables underneath. A far more comfortable area than my stuffy cell, since the lack of walls allowed the air to pass through. The boys, all teens or preteens, mostly sat there with their weapons on their shoulders, passing a joint around and swigging beer. All these lads with their proper Moslem names drinking alcohol like water. Actually given the sanitation in the compound, the beer was probably a lot healthier for them than the water.

A young girl was brought in and made to suck off each boy, from the oldest to the youngest. Then a couple of the bigger boys fucked her as the others watched and laughed. That seemed to be their life. Jeeps came and went, weapons were fired indiscriminately. But that was it.

As the sun was setting that first night, a jeep arrived with supper. The boys began eating like animals. One boy, whom they called Tawfiq, took a dish, dumped some food on it and brought it over to my hut. Before he passed it through the hole in the door, he spat on it. I didn't feel much like eating.

A couple hours later, a young black girl was dragged into the canopy, laid on a table and viciously gang raped. After they gave me this show, they closed a wooden flap over my hole and bolted it. I was in stifling darkness. I tried to remember where the squat hole was. These kids obviously had not an ounce of compassion in their souls. Then I thought to myself, did I?

The next few days passed the same way. Throughout the day I was allowed to watch these lazy bastards waste their lives away, and throughout the night I lived in total suffocating darkness. Eventually hunger gave in and I forced myself to eat the slop Tawfiq brought me.

Then one night, before they closed up my hole, they opened my door and tossed in a young girl. Now the two of us were in darkness. Who the hell was this other prisoner? Silently, the youngster found my body and together we lay on the mattress. She couldn't have been older than Abby. But she knew what to do with a man in bed. She petted me, hugged me, and tried to fondle my manhood. I pushed her away. I couldn't stoop to the level of my captors. I was determined to treat this child with respect. I simply held her in my arms and went to sleep. The next morning, the door suddenly opened and sunlight burst in. We were both dragged over to the canopy. I saw a dozen or so other girls lined up in fear.

One of the hoodlums, who walked with a limp from some battle wound, took charge. "Did he have sex with you?" he asked her in Arabic.

"No," she said shaking.

Then he turned to me. "You fuck her?" That was one English word he knew.

"No, I most certainly did not. I'm not a child molester." Everything I said went right over his head, of course, except the first word, No.

"Fuck her now." They laid her on the table, held up her feet, and spread her legs. "Fuck her now," repeated the gimp, cocking his weapon. I refused. I didn't care if they killed me. I wasn't going to buy my life with a child's cunt. With that he turned the weapon on her and shot her to smithereens. The other girls started screaming.

"What the hell!! Why the fuck did you kill her?" I was so angry I almost swore at them in Arabic but I held my tongue. I wasn't about to give them the knowledge that I understood everything they said.

They pushed what was left of her lifeless body off the table on to the dirt. "You think she no good to fuck, you kill her." Gimp pointed at me. I was the one who had written her death sentence. Then they dragged over another girl, who looked barely twelve, laid her on the bloody table, and spread her legs. Her eyes stared at me pleading. Damn. I dropped my pants and started wanking. The boys cheered. The girl seemed to be relieved. I sure as hell was in no mood to fuck anyone, but I saw I had to. Somehow I managed to get a hardon and I leaned over and pushed it into her waiting cunt. She let out a soft squeak when I got through her labia and then began moaning.

Then I saw Manzar with the camera. My camera. He took pictures of me fuckin' this baby. I shot my wad, pulled out and proceeded to throw up on the ground. Limply, I dragged myself back to my hut and lay down.

Every night after that, a girl was brought to me just before my light hole was closed and I did my duty with her. Each morning, I had to fuck her one more time in front of the boys and get my picture taken. I saw Manzar change the memory card. They were saving all these pictures.

Actually, I was beginning to treasure my new bedmates. eleven-, twelve-, thirteen-year old cunts were damn tight and could really deliver a lot of pleasure to my poor neglected cock. And even more important, their tiny bodies were nothing like my voluptuous Sybil. I didn't even think about her when my cock was inside them. I had no guilt feelings.

Occasionally I was given a young virgin to open. As tender as I tried to be, I had no lube to use other than my spit and precum. My mattress, already filthy, now began to get blood stains from torn hymens. Still, it was no doubt a gentler deflowering than they would have gotten from the boys. In fact, I sometimes heard little girls pleading with the teens to let me fuck them first. And of course being the first to penetrate any girl gave me a perverted pride.

What a boring life the boys led. Nothing changed from day to day. Guns, jeeps, loud music, beer, joints, meaningless fucks. That was their total existence. I kept my sanity by carefully monitoring what was going on. Collecting little clues. This compound seemed to be a supplies depot. Mostly munitions. Every few days a shipment would arrive. Some half-stoned illiterate adolescent would sign for it. I had to laugh 'cause I knew the suppliers, men from China, Russia, and other lands, were ripping these kids off. The translators were running their own cons, telling the boys a higher price than the foreigners were asking. In their own way, though, the boys were also getting a piece of the action by pimping their girls to the suppliers if they were interested.

I knew there had to be older men somewhere running the operation, but I never saw them. I began to pick up references to an Abdul and a Mufti. Abdul was apparently the top dog for this sector, the one who reported to Nidal in Eyl. Mufti was his lieutenant.

One day as I was looking at the boys waste their lives away, I suddenly saw him. His little white body contrasted strongly with their black ones. Thank God Kevin was alive! I shouted out my light hole but he couldn't hear. With a gun slung over his shoulder, he was sitting with the others, drinking a beer and sharing a joint. What he had done in the weeks since that day he was taken from me I had no idea, but now he was one of them. He was talking and laughing with them. He obviously had my gift for language. When a poor little girl probably about ten was brought in, Kevin got his cock sucked along with all the others. I watched his body shake in dry orgasm. Obviously he wasn't old enough to fuck the poor girl; he didn't even have any pubic hair. But he laughed along with the others when she got both her ass and young cunt stuffed by bigger cocks. And the louder she screamed, the harder he laughed.

For several weeks, he came into the compound every afternoon, and spent the rest of the day lazing with the others. He was getting chubby from overeating and lack of exercise. I learned he was on morning patrol, traveling through the woods with his squad by jeep, ready to shoot anyone who didn't belong. One day they did capture a poor old Hawiye hunter who didn't realize where he was. The boys tied him to a tree and told Kevin to shoot him in the head. From what I heard, I don't think he hesitated. I wanted to blame the weed for warping his mind, but deep down I knew I was to blame for failing to instill in him any respect for human life.

Each evening, when dinner arrived, Kevin watched as Tawfiq prepared the dish for the prisoner whom he never saw. Before bringing my dish to me, Tawfiq told Kevin to spit on it. He spat a big wad in it, and laughed as the boy strolled across to my hut with my supper. He didn't know how much I relished his big juicy phlegm gobs each night; At least I had that small intimate contact with my boy.

I continued to get a girl each night. I treated each one tenderly and lovingly, not at all like the treatment girls got in the canopy. And each morning we were brought out into the sunlight where I demonstrated how a man can fuck with love, as if any of them cared. Each day I got my picture taken with my cock implanted between some girl's legs.

While I was performing this fuck one day for all the boys to admire, I heard a familiar voice above the loud music. "That's it, Dad. Fuck the little bitch." There he was watching me. My son. Beer in hand. Gun slung over his eight year old shoulder. His squad had been reassigned to afternoon patrol. He kept jabbering. "I'm glad to see you're havin' fun too Dad. I didn't know where you was. This place is great ain't it Dad? I got lots of friends now." I lost my erection. But before I pulled out, Manzar handed the camera to Kevin and had him take my picture. The girl got up, let her skirt fall back over her privates and went over to a waiting jeep. I pulled up my pants, grabbed Kevin's arm and took him to a table.

"Kevin, you do realize we're fuckin' prisoners here, don't you? Your Dad's been stuck in that stink hole over there all these weeks."

"Shit, Dad. I didn't know that was you. Sorry I spit on your food. Hehe. But these are my friends. They're cool. Look at this neat gun they gave me. And I got all the beer I want. And pot. And girls. It's great Dad. And shit, Dad, you sure looked like you were enjoying yourself."

What could I say? As horrific as conditions were, the boy had a point. I had been enjoying my newfound lust for young cunt. I just shook my head.

Kevin talked to his new friends and convinced them to let me out of the hut except overnight. He still had the ability to strike a deal. That evening I sat at the table with him and tried to explain the situation. He kept puffing on his reefer and I was not convinced he understood a word I was saying.

"I wonder where Abby is? I hope she's having fun too. Right Dad?"

.oOo.

As an author, I welcome feedback from readers. Please send any comments about this story, positive or negative, to Herbcatwriter@yahoo.com. Thank you.