Beastly Experiences

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

The pale corpse before me had struggled desperately just moments before, but now it resembled a mannequin in a clothing store back home. Its hands were bound with vines, its body spread-eagled, face up, thick white fluid oozing from its stomach and chest. A thick, bushy branch, the most common tree branch in the forest, had been shoved into its genitals, at least half a foot deep.

Lying haphazardly around it were my newly acquainted brothers—well, better to bury them properly before nightfall than call them brothers.

This full-breasted, slender-waisted, pretty black-haired woman had killed Tom, Joshua, Lyca, and several other young men I didn't recognize.

As a Viet Cong guerrilla, she was definitely a skilled killer.

She was killed by those black men in the third platoon. I'm not a racist, but faced with such inhumanity, you would definitely develop a negative impression of their race if you were in their shoes.

They captured her alive and were supposed to send her to a prisoner-of-war camp, but I watched as a group of twenty men stripped the young girl naked. She looked about seventeen or eighteen years old. She'd probably run out of bullets and couldn't escape in time; these twenty black men stripped her naked without a word. The girl struggled desperately, even nearly escaping once, but I knew she couldn't outrun them.

We'd been stuck in this jungle for half a month, and too many people had died.

It had been far too long since we'd been with a woman.

Sometimes at night, we'd talk about dirty jokes, imagining the times back home.

Now that we'd captured such a woman with a full bosom and a slender waist, how could we let her go? To hell with the military court.

I watched as they grabbed her and, amidst her desperate cries, stripped her of her clothes—coarse linen camouflage smeared with tree sap, the Viet Cong's simple uniform, very discreet.

Then the leader of the black men, the squad leader of the third platoon (the platoon leader had died on the third day of the week, so he was temporarily in charge; he was a big guy who had boasted about being a boxer back home), we called him Old Peter, ripped off the girl's panties, pulled up his thick penis, and thrust it all the way in. The girl convulsed, screaming and crying in a language I couldn't understand.

I could see her blood running down her pale thighs.

I also had a fiancée; she was newly pregnant when we left.

I desperately wanted to stop this, but Old Peter's red eyes silently stopped me.

Yes, we had lost too many friends in the past two weeks.

At this point, morality and law were meaningless.

We needed blood for blood.

Old Peter had been working on her for over an hour. The girl, supported by several men, was crying until her voice was hoarse, as if she was about to faint. But just as Old Peter was about to pull his thick penis out, one of our sharp-eyed comrades—we called him "Little Girl" because of his delicate voice—screamed. That's when we noticed the girl's hand was already in the pocket of Old Peter's knife.

Without a word, blinded by rage, we immediately grabbed her hands, using the most common vines in the rainforest to separate and tie them together. Then the second black man pulled Old Peter away and forcefully thrust his even longer, thicker penis into the girl's vagina. With Old Peter's semen and the girl's blood as lubrication, the black man easily inserted his entire penis, only his dark pubic hair sticking out. The girl screamed with all her might and fainted.

The second black man, let's call him Strongman Will,

claimed to have Carthaginian ancestry and had defeated the Romans and Gauls. Only a fool would believe such nonsense, but he was indeed a huge man, even larger than Old Peter. His

black ancestry gave him a sufficiently large secondary characteristic; his bulging, veiny penis often made us feel inferior, looking from a distance like the thickness of a muscular calf.

Now that treasure is in a strange... The Vietnamese woman's body convulsed, releasing streaks of blood and a white fluid; more blood gushed from her thighs.

Such a virgin being used by the Viet Cong in combat—what a waste.

With each powerful thrust from the burly Will, the girl's body twitched weakly, her breasts swaying.

Will's lips quickly began to suckle on her pink nipples, her dark, smooth, plump buttocks bobbing up and down.

The girl's blood pooled in a small patch beneath her buttocks.

I suddenly felt a wave of nausea.

The Vietnamese girl only awoke when the seventh black man climbed onto her body. We lit a campfire, and these black... The ghosts were still busy climbing onto the girl's body one after another. I was certain she couldn't possibly survive the night.

Between each ghost's turn, I could see that the inside of her long, slender thighs were a bloody mess, the flesh inside her vagina was turned inside out from being so thoroughly penetrated, and her once pink vulva now looked like a gaping hole. Her breasts were bruised from being squeezed. Before the seventh ghost climbed on top, I even thought she was dead. But to my surprise, when the seventh ghost climbed on top, she opened her eyes and began to cry, moaning in rhythm with the ghost's thrusts. Sometimes, as the ghosts... She gasped for breath during the brief pause, as if she might faint again at any moment, tears welling in her large, long-lashed eyes.

Several soldiers surrounding her couldn't resist the allure of her fair body and began masturbating in front of her.

The girl's eyes then swept over us—as far as she could see, although our ranks were disheveled, our numbers were vast, and we possessed advanced weaponry.

Even our fifth, third, and fourth platoons, which had been routed, numbered roughly seven or eight hundred men. She looked around, then gazed at the sky with a sense of despair, silently enduring each thrust. She looked like a corpse.

When the twelfth man climbed up, her eyes were unfocused, as if she had long since become numb to the pain, as if she could no longer feel the abuse each person inflicted upon her. I was among those masturbating around her; our white fluids splattered on her breasts, face, and thighs. Each of us had caressed her elastic and warm body, squeezed her full, supple breasts.

When the thirteenth man came down, her eyes rolled back, and she screamed pitifully with her last strength. Marks remained on her hands, and her beautiful legs struggled and kicked for a moment before going still.

But I didn't know if she was dead.

In fact, on the third floor... When the five men who had climbed onto her realized that her incontinent urine was flowing uncontrollably across the ground, already stained with her blood and our fluids, we were still unsure, even though she felt cold to the touch and there was blood-tinged foam at the corner of her mouth.

We finally determined that she had died in the brutal way I described at the beginning.

The half-madman, Bell, first used the thin muzzle of his rifle to forcefully thrust into the girl's already bloodied and mangled genitals. The girl's body swayed helplessly a few times with his movements, her two alluring breasts swaying along with them. Then Bell grinned maliciously as he pulled out the rifle, blood dripping from it. The girl... The girl didn't seem to be awake yet, so Bell found a wooden stick as thick as a bowl and shoved it in with all his might—he claimed he would stuff a thick thing into the belly of every Vietnamese whore he slept with—it went in a full half-foot long.

But the girl's eyes were still wide open, rolled back, and only then did we finally realize that she had been dead for a long time.

I feel nauseous every time I think about her final fate.

What I can vaguely remember is that her breasts were cut off by a 17-year-old German boy, who supposedly played with them until they smelled bad.

Her two slender feet were also cut off and taken by a corporal as a souvenir.

It was the first time I realized there were so many crazy people around me, but perhaps war makes people even crazier.

Living in constant fear, I had become accustomed to bloodshed. When I first saw a comrade next to me, blown to pieces by a landmine and struggling to be rescued, my soul died.

In the days that followed, we witnessed Viet Cong bandits decapitating our people as trophies, and we saw lawless soldiers seize Viet Cong women, take turns raping them, and then shove gun barrels into their genitals before pulling the triggers to kill them. Some even went so far as to force rifles directly into women's vaginas, all the way to the butt, to conserve ammunition. The woman had long since screamed until she collapsed, suffocating from the excruciating pain and fear. This horrific method of execution lasted a full hour. When the rifle was halfway in, she struggled violently, blood gushing from her mouth and nose. The executioner—the madman Bell, with his signature smile—forcefully thrust the rifle in and out, brutally pounding into the woman's internal organs, while simultaneously ramming and slowly pumping it in. The woman was just a civilian, looking no more than thirty years old, her face pale.

Even after Bell had completely inserted the rifle, she was still struggling desperately. Bell forbade us from firing to release her; he wanted to watch her slowly suffer and die.

Finally, the woman stopped struggling after vomiting a string of black, bloody bubbles.

If I hadn't experienced that horrific process myself, I certainly wouldn't have been able to accept it.

But I've completely accepted it.

Every day, people around me die, not peacefully, but in agony and struggle.

[The End]

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