[Raping a Vietnamese female soldier]

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-24

Rape of a Vietnamese Female Soldier
Author: Grasshopper
All around was quiet, with only the occasional chirping of some unknown birds.
I had been lying prone in the grass for three hours. If it weren't for the American-made grenade in my right hand and my left hand stuck in the mud
, my palms would probably be bleeding profusely from my own fingers. Under the banana tree less than three meters away, Gouwa
's groans had ceased; he had suffered agonizingly for over three hours before dying. And during those three hours, I
could only stand motionless three meters away, watching him until his life ended. If it weren't for
the M9 multi-purpose bayonet I was biting, I would have cried out long ago, but I couldn't. That damned Vietnamese sniper
had been lurking around, waiting, waiting for the perfect opportunity to kill me. I could even feel his murderous intent towards me
.
The day before the start of the Sino-Vietnamese War, my company, by sheer bad luck, was assigned
the sharpest task by our incredibly unlucky company commander. From that moment on, our company's casualties skyrocketed, while our company commander and political instructor
kept shouting, "Sacrificing for the country is an honor!" Damn it, by the time we reached Hanoi, only
Gouwa and I remained of the entire company. Just then, the order came down: "
The punishment for the South Asian bully—Vietnam—is over; we can withdraw." Gouwa and I, through the binoculars of the company commander and political instructor, looked at the distant
rows of narrow, long, white, low-rise houses—Hanoi (Vietnamese houses all look the same, two or three meters wide and ten
meters long, uniformly gray-white and two or three stories high), cursing the bigwigs who issued the withdrawal order,
and began marching towards the assembly point.
In the woods a mile from the rendezvous point, still chatting and laughing with Gouwa, thinking we could
return home heroically, I suddenly sensed danger. I yelled "Get down!" and pushed Gouwa, rolling
into the bushes myself. A sharp gunshot rang out. Gouwa only had time to drop to the ground before the sniper struck him in the right chest and fell
. My instincts have always been sharp, especially in dangerous situations; that's why I've survived since the start of the battle
. Gouwa was the sniper's primary target because he was carrying a radio transmitter, a device
long since rendered useless by a dead battery. Gouwa insisted on carrying it back because he was the transmitter operator, and military
property had to be protected. This damned military regulation should have been abolished long ago, and now Gouwa was
risking his life for a piece of junk. The sniper only wounded him, not killed him immediately, to wait for me to rescue him.
During the three-hour standoff, the subtropical sun was scorching hot, my skin burning painfully
. I was cursing the heavens a thousand times in my mind. A flash of light streaked through the forest—
the reflection from a sniper rifle scope. I never imagined that the damn bastard was less than thirty meters away. I finally caught
him. Slowly, I pulled the safety on the grenade in my hand. This grenade and the bayonet were left behind by the retreating American troops
. Now I'd taken them and was using them against the enemy their former owners hadn't eliminated. It was truly
laughable. In the tropical jungle, there are only two ways to deal with a sniper: tit-for-tat, sniper against
sniper, or carpet bombing their area with multiple shots. Trying to
outshoot an experienced sniper would be suicide. Luckily, that guy must have been waiting a long time for me to make a move
before daring to emerge from underground.
After counting to five, I suddenly straightened up and threw the round grenade thirty meters away. I
have to thank the military's strict requirements for combat skills; throwing grenades is one of the five essential skills in the military.
"Boom!" As expected of the Americans; small in size but more powerful than our military's wooden-handled grenades.
A large flock of birds took flight from the forest. At the moment of the explosion, I jumped up and charged towards the sniper's position, firing as I went.
Sniper rifles are semi-automatic, single-shot only, making them unsuitable for close-range shooting. As I rushed closer, I
had already fired a full magazine, but I didn't need to reload. The sniper had been
blown to the ground by a grenade, his bent Soviet-made sniper rifle lying to one side (it was a copy made during China's aid to Vietnam, one
of the top ten rifles in the world at the time, so good that it was given to our comrades and brothers in Vietnam to fight the Americans before it could be equipped by our army
). He lay groaning on the ground, his right side covered in blood, his black
women's clothing torn to shreds by shrapnel, a pair of snow-white breasts standing erect on his chest, and long black hair cascading over his face
. He was a Vietnamese woman. When those small, perky breasts appeared before me, I was immediately stunned,
my gun and bayonet falling to the ground. This was the first time I had ever seen a real woman's breasts, naked and in person. At that time,
China had just emerged from the turmoil of the ten-year Cultural Revolution, resources were scarce, and social customs were still quite conservative. All we knew was that
the protrusions on a woman's chest that made her clothes stand up high were her breasts.
The woman's low moans startled me from my daze. I
immediately knelt beside the petite Vietnamese woman, brushing aside the disheveled hair from her face to reveal a pale, sweat-drenched face etched with wounds. Although
her face was distorted by pain, it still retained a certain childlike innocence (Vietnamese women weren't the thin, dark-skinned figures we might imagine; that
was in the past when dark skin was considered beautiful, and even their teeth were stained black from childhood betel nut chewing. But
after the French occupation, they began to take care of their skin tone, wearing scarves under their conical hats
to cover their faces, wearing cotton trousers, and long gloves to prevent their arms from tanning).
She looked to be only sixteen or seventeen. Her right hand had been blown off, and her right leg and right abdomen were lacerated by shrapnel, the main
injuries being to her abdomen. In a panic, I pulled out gauze from my first-aid kit, not daring to even glance at her exposed breasts
—another bad habit dictated by military regulations. Just as I was about to bandage the Vietnamese girl's wounds, she
suddenly opened her tightly closed eyes—eyes filled with resentment, a hatred so intense it seemed it could rip out my heart
. My keen senses sent a chill down my spine. The bandage nearly fell to the ground. I immediately turned my head, and
there before me stood my good brother's sniper rifle, its grip bearing dozens of scratches, six of them
new. This gun, the gun that took Gouwa's life, had before that taken the lives of six Chinese soldiers.
A surge of rage welled up inside me. "Damn it, I'm actually going to treat this little bitch's wounds!"
Cursing, I threw down the gauze in my hand, grabbed her by the neck, and slapped her face hard across the cheek
several times with my right hand. Blood dripped from her mouth and nose onto my hand, but the girl still stared at me with those eyes.
"Look, look!" I lifted her up, and her small, perky, snow-white breasts
bounced in front of me, dazzlingly white for a moment. A surge of heat rose from my lower abdomen. From the countryside to joining the army
, a full twenty-two years had passed. The poverty of the countryside, the turmoil of the Cultural Revolution, the strictness of the army—I had never felt such
lust before. Today, in a foreign land, it was aroused by an enemy, a girl from the enemy side who was not even eighteen years old
.
"Ugh, ah!" With a cry of pain, I threw the girl to the ground. Ignoring her injuries, I
tore off her already tattered top and tightly grasped her small breasts, kneading them in my hands.
"Ah!" I exclaimed in admiration. This was a woman's breast. For the first time, I had truly touched a woman's breast
(I was an orphan and had never been breastfed). Soft yet with a certain firmness, the two small nipples
slid back and forth in my palms, the two breasts constantly changing shape in my hands. The delicate white flesh was sandwiched between my fingers. Goodness,
this nipple felt so damn good! Excessive force left purple marks on the breasts, and my penis
stood erect, creating a bulge in my wide military pants. "Ah...uh...ah..." The girl groaned intermittently
, whether from the pain of her wounds or from the pain of my gripping her breasts, her face contorted in agony.
Large beads of sweat soaked her hair, and her left and right severed limbs weakly tried to block my advances.
Unmoved, I lifted her upper body and bit down on one of them. "Ah!" The girl
screamed in agony from the wound in her abdomen. I bit and licked her breasts, but that wasn't enough. It wasn't enough for me to
understand the mysteries of a woman's body. I put her down and started unbuckling her belt. The girl frantically tried
to push me away with her uninjured left hand and her uninjured left leg, making futile efforts. She mumbled angry curses,
which I couldn't understand in Vietnamese, only that she was cursing. After a few struggles, she fainted from the pain of her wound.
Damn it, this damn Vietnamese woman's belt was so damn hard to unbuckle! Fueled by lust and anger, I grabbed
the M9 bayonet and stabbed it into her belt. With a single slash, I cut the belt in
two. This damn American stuff was really useful. Without further ado, I used the knife to slit open her baggy black gauze pants,
leaving a three-inch-long wound on the girl's snow-white abdomen. The congealed blood began to flow again from the tearing.
The woman's mysterious area was completely exposed before my eyes. The mysterious area that had only
been mentioned in the dirty jokes of the old soldiers was now laid bare before me, and my breathing began to quicken.
Between her legs, the sparse black pubic hair on the slightly protruding mons pubis was stuck together by blood from the wound
, obscuring the most vital part. Grabbing a tattered cloth, my hand trembled as I gently pressed it against that soft, beautiful flesh. I
kneaded and rubbed it heavily through the cloth, experiencing an indescribable sensation. After wiping away the blood,
the pink cleft hidden among the pubic hair was finally revealed. So beautiful! The two plump labia were tightly closed, like half a nearly
ripe peach.
Throwing away the tattered cloth, my right hand pressed against that semi-circular area again. Without the obstruction, a
different sensation came from my hand—the heat from the cleft, the friction of the pubic hair, and the
boneless flesh. These sensations made me increase the intensity of my kneading. My left hand wasn't idle either; it reached up and grabbed one of her breasts
.
At this moment, my penis throbbed with extreme pain. I quickly unbuttoned my pants, and a purplish-red, engorged, fiery hot cock
sprang out. Just as it emerged, I felt a sharp pain in my lower back, a surge of urge to urinate, and a stream of white fluid
gushed from my urethra. Damn it, my first time was a wasted effort.
Unwilling to give up, I rested panting for a moment, then hurriedly pulled down my military pants and immediately placed my semi-erect penis
between the girl's legs. I lifted her buttocks and clamped her legs around my waist. I began to move my hips
, pressing the girl's vulva tightly against my penis, rubbing it against her slender waist with both hands. Soon,
my lust was rekindled, and my penis hardened again.
This time, I couldn't let it be a wasted effort. I released my right hand, parted the girl's labia with my fingers, aimed my penis at that
small, red opening, thrust my hips forward, and pushed my left hand, which was holding her waist, forward, forcing the glans into
the girl's flower passage. So tight, so tight! It was so tight and dry, like being bound by a rubber band, preventing me from
moving forward. My lust was burning, and I used all my strength, thrusting my hips forward with all my might. Finally, I broke through
a thin membrane. With a trickle of heat, my penis, like breaching the Liangshan pass in Hebei
, plunged into another tight sheath of flesh. The surrounding flesh walls tightly enveloped my penis.
"So good, so comfortable!" This is the union of man and woman, I roared.
I began thrusting in and out of the girl's vagina, the friction of flesh against flesh, my abdomen slapping against her vulva with
a "slap, slap" sound, my hands gripping and kneading her small, round, elastic buttocks. At
the point of union, the symbol of the girl transforming into a young woman was carried by my penis, flowing out with each thrust. At that moment, all I knew
was to keep going, to keep fucking the whore beneath me, the whore who had taken the lives of seven of my brothers. Now she
was nothing more than a tool for venting my anger, completely disregarding the severity of her injuries. Finally, after thrusting for an unknown
amount of time, another urge to urinate arose within me. I quickly thrust a few more times, roared, and
ejaculated my raging semen into her body. I still had my still-erect penis inside the Vietnamese woman, enjoying
the afterglow of the intense pleasure and slowly regaining my strength.
A sense of danger suddenly arose again. Instinctively, I flung the girl's legs away and rolled to the side.
"Ah!" A scream escaped the girl's lips as a triangular bayonet pierced her left leg, blood spurting
out in three deep gashes. Her left hand, gripping the hilt, was torn open; the excruciating pain caused her to faint again
.
Damn it, this bitch actually used her left hand to remove
the bayonet from my gun while I was venting my lust… no, my rage. My sense of danger saved my life once more; if I'd been stabbed by that bayonet, I'd be half-dead, if not dead.
(Wounds inflicted by a triangular bayonet are the most difficult to heal and stop bleeding, often leading to death from massive blood loss.) In this
hostile country, being half-dead could mean being dead.
Enraged, I pulled the bayonet from her leg and, with a swift motion
, plunged it into her prominent left breast. The force was so great that it pierced her heart and went straight through her back, pinning the still unconscious Vietnamese female sniper
naked and firmly to the ground.
Blood spurted from the bayonet's groove, covering my face. Regaining my senses, I immediately collapsed to the ground.
Good heavens, according to military regulations, I had committed a crime punishable by death. Sitting beside the naked, beautiful corpse, I
could only mutter, "What to do?! What to do?!"
Twenty minutes later, I gritted my teeth, stood up, wiped the blood off my body with my torn clothes, dressed
, and organized my equipment. I stood by the naked corpse for a while, then pulled out the two American-made
grenades I had captured. These were the last two; I'd have to hand them over anyway, so I might as well use them. I used my M9 to pry open
the girl's tightly closed mouth and shoved one in. Then I plunged the knife into her vagina, slicing upwards
to open her once-tight vagina, and inserted the last grenade. I wiped the blood off the knife on her breasts
, sheathed it in the scabbard strapped to my right calf, slung my gun over my shoulder, bent down, and simultaneously pulled the
safety pins on both grenades in her mouth. I turned and started running.
"Boom!" Ten seconds after I lay down, the two grenades exploded almost simultaneously. The girl's body was blown to
pieces, the evidence destroyed, no one knew what I had done to her, and my army's "reputation" was preserved.
Just as I jumped up, something white and grimy hung from a tree branch in front of me, blood still dripping down its surface
—it was a human intestine hanging there. I could even clearly see
some foul fluid leaking from the ruptured intestines. A wave of nausea washed over me; just as I was about to vomit, a white flash swept across my face, instantly sending
a burning pain down from my eyebrow to below my right eye, almost making me faint. At my feet lay a broken triangular
bayonet—the one I'd plunged into the girl's breast and forgotten to remove.
"Damn it, they blew the person up and still tried to stab me!" I hurriedly pulled a tourniquet from my first-aid kit
and wrapped it around my head several times. I was disfigured; even if the wound on my face healed, it would remain there forever
. Enraged, I stomped on the bayonet again. Just as I was about to strike, my mind cleared, and
I jumped back, narrowly avoiding adding another wound to my right foot. With nowhere else to vent my anger, I turned it
on the piece of intestine, using the broken knife to poke it into small pieces on the ground, then stomping on them a few times in frustration, finally releasing my rage
.
Discarding the broken knife, I returned to Gouwa's body, knelt down, closed his wide-open eyes, and
murmured, "Good brother, I've avenged you."
Sitting beside the body, I ate a few compressed biscuits and drank some water. Having regained my strength, I
threw away all the extra items on Gouwa's body except for the magazines and rations, and carried him towards the assembly point.
Near dusk, I boarded the last train back home. In this punitive battle, my company , in its first combat engagement
, suffered either serious injuries or death in a foreign land, except for me, who was lucky enough to only sustain minor wounds. From
this battle, I went from a rookie to a veteran.
"Danbian!" I roared towards Hanoi! (Vietnamese for goodbye; pronounced quickly, it has a different
meaning.)

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