Zanu PF Fuckpig pt 1_(1) by PieterM

It was the fourth checkpoint of the afternoon, Susan was getting used to them, she wearily collected her holdall with the ID, Jacob Isumkubu, sitting next to her, drove the Landcruiser while Daniel Mzume and her husband Richard Harding sat in back. ZANU PF War veterans, again, she noted, ever since Mugabe started using food as a weapon they had been trying to leave but the poor fuel, heating oil not diesel had destroyed their injection pump and delayed them, the Food Aid Charity needed the Land Cruiser for South Africa so they were trying to repatriate it.

They rolled to a halt and she got out, the Guards looked even more menacing than usual, “All out” they shouted. The guys followed her to a table where an officer was waiting, she presented the I.D.

“Ah English Imperialist Pigs,” he said pleasantly enough, and nodded.

There were three shots. Jacob, Daniel and Richard each fell, each sporting a gaping wound to the skull, no blood, no bleeding. Dead.

“We have suffered enough of you imperialists.”

“B’but Daniel and Jacob, they are, were black, just drivers”

“Still enemies of the ZANU PF and useless mouths. ” he explained

“W,what will you do to me?” she asked.

“No don’t beg, I shall not be pitiful and kill you, you will wish, yearn for death soon but for now you will live, come let me tie you up like an animal.”

She did not resist or struggle as the guards bound her ankles and then bound her wrists behind her before forcing her to lie down in the dust for her ankles to be trussed to her wrists, almost as they would do with an animal. then rolling her onto her stomach they thrust a pole between her arms and her legs and lifted her first so her ankles and wrists were at shoulder height then carried her to a truck, usually used to transport pigs, and threw her together with the pole into the filth.

An hour passed she stayed silent, the flies descended on her husband, as she watched.

The truck started and drove very fast throwing her around in the filth until they arrived, at what had once been a Country Club, for the Idle rich Colonials, Farmers, Imperialist Bureaucrats. Now a derelict ZANU PF “Holding” or confession centre. They carried her inside hanging from the pole, the pole resting on their shoulders.

Black faces, and one white, deathly white, they threw her down. The Officer was there, Black, in his clean Khaki uniform.

“This is Mr Stephens, Mr Stephens meet an imperialist pig,” The officer introduced them. “Prepare the Pig Mr Stephens, if you please”

The deathly white face came towards her, In his soiled medical whites, he began tying tourniquets around her legs above the knee and around her wrists.

She just stared.

They cut her wrists free, and her ankles then the machete flashed, her left hand stung, she watched fascinated as her fingers flopped sideways severed at he knuckle, then the other hand the same, all four fingers severed at the knuckle, she passed out.

“Do your thing, Mr Stephens, nice neat stitches like a schoolgirl now please.”

Stephens resisted the urge to vomit and gathering his bag of filthy rusting surgical instruments he set to work on the rough table top, the splintering of bone was minimal so he was able to make a reasonably neat job, not the sort the Cecil Rhodes Memorial Hospital where he trained would have considered good but this was in Mugabe’s wonderland.

Stephens stood aside. “Sorry Sir, It’s the best I can do, the light is poor.”

“Come, come Mr Stephens, you cannot expect to achieve perfection on animals,” The Officer reassured him.

Susan half regained consciousness. strong arms were carrying her, they carried her outside, laid her in the dirt and placed a block of wood under her lower leg, just below the knee, the sea of happy black faces, some she had handed food aid to in the weeks gone by, or did they all look the same, they bound her thighs, and placed a wooded baulk over them sloping down to the ground, then as she watched they brought the truck, American, Tank transporter with the tank aboard, she saw them expertly align it with the wooden baulk, the pain was beyond anything, but adrenalin kept her awake, alive to the horror, gentle but firm black hands, black on top, pink beneath held her down. knees held her head, one at each ear.

Crunch, she heard her legs splintering, heard, the pain did not register, her mind rejecting as spurious any sensation that powerful, yet as the wheel ran up the timber suddenly the timber collapsed to the ground as her knees broke, the lower legs forced forwards till the sockets failed, flopping up then sideways, limp and disconnected, pushed forward through ninety degrees where usually they will only straighten.

She screamed silently.

The truck stopped, willing black hands removed the baulks and gentle black hands carried her to the blood soaked table.

“The cut Mr Stephens, show us where.” the officer instructed.

Stephens vomited in he corner and came to the table, flies rushed to enjoy the feast of half digested food,

Stephens pointed, “Give me some skin to work with,”

The Machete flashed and the foot fell to the floor dragging the shattered bones from the knee joint with it.

She remained blissfully unconscious as the Machete flashed again and the second foot joined the first.

“Take the feet to the dogs then you can stitch up, Mr Stephens.”

Stephens forced himself, he picked up her dainty feet, unlaced her canvass shoes and removed her short white socks and as in a dream carried her pink feet to the dog pen.

Blare and Bush the Rotweillers looked on, salivating, Stephenson tossed a foot to each and watched as they tore away and ate the pitifully small amount of flesh and then gnawed at the bone.

Stephenson returned to the job in hand, peeling back the skin and sawing the bone to form a makeshift foot from each former knee. Cartilage sinew nerves, all severed neatly and tucked and tied into the remaining stump of leg he did his best with the flies and the dirt, and the growing impatience of the black faces. He tried to make a tidy job, toying with the idea of letting her bleed to death but he dared not risk the officer’s wrath.

“Just the tongue now Mr Stephenson, if you please.” The Officer requested politely.

Stephenson extracted a fiendish contraption of metal plates and ratchets, rust spots marred the shining stainless steel caused by the African climate and neglect in equal measure.

He held her pretty button nose and her mouth opened involuntarily, he inserted the tool and ratcheted her jaw open, The scalpel was blunt, blunted by rust and repeated sharpening on a leather, a use once blade used for the thousandth time.

He worked feverishly, cutting, aware the blood she was losing could not be replaced,

The blood they had was out of date, kept at room temperature under the baking sun and not refrigerated, most of it from desperate HIV positive starving refugees, with little chance of the Blood type in the bottle matching the label.

He extracted the small piece of meat and quickly sealed the wound and sewed it up.

He removed the Jaw spreader.

“Mr Stephenson, an excellent job, I shall have to consider keeping you around for a while longer,” The Officer thanked him.

“Museppe, a haircut for the Lady.”

Museppe was an artist, he chopped methodically with Machete and a wood block, hr golden hair falling to the floor, and soon it was just something like an animal and inch perhaps, like fur and he barely nicked her scalp with the twelve inch blade.

“Remove the wrappings, Museppe.” The Officer ordered.

Museppe rolled the unconscious Susan onto her back and inserted the wicked blade inside her canvas bush Jacket, the fabric cut easily then the tip caught her bra strap severing it easily, and cutting continued on down, past her navel he undid her belt then resumed cutting her shorts and her panties, almost a thong, very European. Finally he cut the other leg of her shorts away and the Pink body beneath was revealed.

They carried her to a rough wooden Table, once the pub bench from the “Red Lion”

the English Pub at this former colonial Country Club.

They tied down her now naked body, they spread her thighs.

“First Fuck, Mr Stephenson” The Officer invited. Stephenson was trying to throw up again, but his guts were empty.

“Museppe then, Fuck our new Imperialist Fuck Pig.”

Museppe saluted and took his place between her stumps, he discarded his shorts and roughly peeled her labia lips apart, and forced his manhood into her, it was hard work, he tried spitting in his hand and lubricating his member with it but eventually he edged inside, her eyes opened momentarily as he came, then he was pulling out and the next in line took his place, his manhood hurt, he wished he had not gone first as he watched Martin Unfartu humping happily. She had never enjoyed a passionate frequent sex life with her Husband, the marriage was more one of convenience, sharing a double room in hotels and allowing her into Islamic countries than one born of a desire to fuck each other’s brains out.

The Men waited patiently, the Women watched, some relieved some jealously, her cunt became loose so eventually they started to try the tighter alternative, a few strokes in her cum filled cunt to get lubricated then try the anus, some using their thumbs and fingers to transfer slippery lubrication, but her spinchter held out until Masoola, renowned for his tiny manhood, tiny but rock hard like Oak.

Masoola smeared his fingers with her juices and the stale cum from her cunt, and lubricated the target, then with a mighty thrust he was in her, she was too tight but his cum shooting in after half a dozen strokes laid the foundation for the next guy.

Phillipe Orangu took full advantage, to the envy of the Women watching, as his beautiful bronzed body rippling with muscle stretched the Pig’s secondary orifice into a satisfactory spunk repository. “Private Orangu, don’t be greedy, others are waiting”