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The Apostate
« on: October 30, 2020, 06:50:59 PM »
The Apostate

(Note: this was written for audio. I've shortened a few of the special effects sounds - but you may still notice a stress on sounds and not much description)

(This has extreme torture and also some humour)

Hinda Cherif felt like whistling. It was a beautiful day, the suburb was sleepy and she was happy, but just a bit bored.
She almost did whistle, but someone might hear her and it was not what a police officer did on duty.
No-one around, though, this early, except a van and a car going through and an old man working in his front garden. She wished him good morning. He grunted.

Chris watched the plump, tight official arse strut lewdly away and felt in his trousers. Bugger! Well, they needed cleaning soon anyway.
He hadn’t seen that sexy slut before. Some kind of Paki? An English girl screwing with an African? Not quite, but not proper English. Never mind. Super arse.

Hinda’s Tunisian refugee father and white French mother had moved to England with his university post and her computer business. Their clever daughter was enthusiastically British the way some people of different origins are, choosing and enforcing an identity. But they were surprised when she chose policing for a career.

She took her Muslim religion very seriously, but like her father, was open and liberal. She had Christian, Hindu and even Jewish friends. She’d happily go to the pub with them, just not
drink alcohol. She hated violent extremism. She believed a police officer’s job was to do good for all communities.

She had a wonderful, meaty arse and big tits.

Fawzi, Hamid, Salman and Adeel had work to do, loading the stuff from the rented house into the van. They did it early, before the morning rush-hour brought the unbelievers out in droves.
They didn’t see the policewoman approaching.

“Hard at work?” Friendly young female voice, English.
Brown-skinned policewoman.
“No rest for the wicked, they say,” Hamid replied edgily.
“But we are not wicked,” Adeel added.
Hinda was sensitive to little things, tone of voice, hesitation, body language. Something was wrong.
Heavy boxes, white van, four young men, two maybe Pakistani, one more like Arab, one, she was almost sure, North African.
Alarm bells rang in her head.
“Do you mind if I look in one of those boxes?” Bodies stiffened. Nervous faces.
“No, of course. Go ahead.”
“Open that one for me, please.”
Thud. She’d let Adeel get behind her. A large lump of policewoman meat on the road. The big arse bulged and swayed slightly as she breathed.
“Well done, brother,” said Hamid. “Load the slut in the van.”
The loading was complete. Explosives, wiring, police slut.
The van drove off.
Chris saw them go. Well done, young men! Oh, to be young again! Rape that fat dusky arse!

Fawzi drove. Adeel took care of the slut in the back. Hamid rang Youssef.
“With you in twenty minutes max. All you need – plus a nosy cop slut. Adeel got her.”
“Was she alone?”

Adeel was enjoying himself in the back. That arse! Those tits! In uniform! He felt between her buttocks. She murmured in her ignorant sleep. He felt between her legs. There it was – her cunt! It would be better with her trousers off. But perhaps Youssef would order her killed right away? He hoped not.
He remembered his duty. He handcuffed her wrists and gagged her with a greasy rag. He patted her fat bottom. He squeezed her full breasts.

Hamid’s phone rang. Youssef.
“This policewoman. Describe her.”
“Young, black-haired, not native British – don’t know what. Big rump, quite big tits.”
“Good.” Youssef rang off.

Youssef, their father, commander and advisor, sat stroking his long beard, smiling. Then he reached into his robe and stroked something else.

They were good lads, a good team: Hamid, the Pakistani, his deputy; Salman, the other Pakistani, the keen teenager; Fawzi the cunning Algerian technician; and Adeel the Syrian, warrior and ingenious lecher. With them, he would do great things – and have pleasure with this crusader policewoman.

Hinda woke. She was somewhere in darkness. On a floor? In something moving? A vehicle. That van! She was gagged. She tried to move her arms and found them cuffed. There was a shape. A man. He put his hand between her legs and squeezed.

Could she get to her alarm? Not while he was so close. Pretend to lose consciousness. He slapped her bottom. He looked away. Could she get to it?

The van slowed, turned, stopped.

“The slut first, then the boxes,” said someone. They pulled her out.

Fawzi was a big man: he easily put the slut over his shoulder, arse-first. Adeel patted her arse.
Salman watched, fascinated. He saw the crusader bitch’s handcuffed hands move towards her waist. He grabbed them and tore the small object from her waist.
“She was trying to get at her alarm!” he shouted.
Adeel smacked her arse hard.

They had arrived at a large house in the country.
The door opened.
Youssef smiled.

“Welcome, brothers! So – this is the fat backside of the crusader bitch!”
Adeel was reassured. Youssef too lusted after police cunt and arse. The bitch would not die too soon.
They arrived in a large room with chairs, a sofa and a table, but no decorations; prayer-mats on bare floor; two hooks in the ceiling and ropes.
“Just hold her till the boxes are all in,” said Youssef. Salman held her. He was honoured.
She looked in his eyes and wanted to speak to him, but could not. He smiled at her, sniffed her, poked her breasts. Youssef wandered across and examined her closely.
“Not Arab, I think,” he said. “Maybe filthy Jew slut.” She made animal noises into her gag. He smiled. He pulled the gag out. He smiled broadly at her. Now she could speak.
“You can’t get away with this!”
“Oh, but we can, fat-rumped bitch. We can do whatever we like with you while we consider in what interesting way you should die. You are ours!” He pinched her nose. He laughed at the anger in her brown eyes. “What fortune, to have taken a Jew!”
“I’m not a Jew.”
“What are you, then?”
“A police officer!” He slapped her face, hard.
“I can see that, slut! Religion – if any?”
“Muslim!” Youssef was not a man who showed anger easily. He plotted calmly and destroyed enemies serenely. Now he was angry.
Hinda could see the sudden, mad anger in his eyes. He might kill her now! She was scared.
“No good Muslim serves the crusaders!”
“I serve all communities! I am proud…”
Smack! One angry, masterful, powerful slap in her face silenced her. She looked in his eyes: an antelope calf looking in the eyes of a lion.

The last of the boxes came in. The Jihadis ringed their catch.
“She says she is a Muslim.” Horror, anger, contempt.
“Murtadd!” said Hamid. “A traitor! Nothing but shit.”
“Strip the bitch,” said Youssef. This was a duty they were all keen to do. Tear off her radio! Rip her crisp, white shite apart! A grey-blue bra with little transparent bits! See how it rises and falls with her breathing! Undo her belt! Remove those mannish boots! Tug her trousers down! It is difficult: her trousers are tight and her arse is fat. Down they come! Peach-coloured panties! A cunt bush! They cluster round the back: oh, what an arse! Big, round, brown, wobbly, meaty, deeply-parted – the panty-elastic cutting into the fat buttocks, leaving a third of them bare! An arse-crack! Just a suggestion until Youssef, smiling, pokes one finger in, making the crack more obvious and leaving a hole like a bullet-hole where her panties have been pushed far up her arse-hole! A kind of sigh of horror and shame from the slut.
“No! Please – no!”
“Yes, please, yes!” Youssef strokes her arse; pokes it; pats it – then smacks it hard. She squeals. They all laugh.
“You are no Muslims, to treat a woman like this! You are just lewd thugs! You are aiaooooo! Iaaaaaa! Oh!” Youssef had seized her ear and twisted it round, bringing her impious words to a sudden end and replacing them with amusing screams. Then he had spanked her bottom.

“Brother, may I take off her bra?” Salman asks humbly.
“Of course!” He does not know how to do it, but the others are patient. He fumbles with the strap. He succeeds. He plucks the flimsy bra from one big breast, leaving it hanging comically from the other. A friend had shown him a picture like that.

The slut begins to sob.

The vibrations dislodge her bra, which falls to the floor, leaving her tits to wobble bare.
The tears plop on to her breasts, run down them and fall on the floor or trickle into her panties, making them wet.
“Her panties now?” asks Adeel eagerly.
The apostate slut stares imploringly into his eyes, but sees only righteous lust and triumph. He looks at her as a ripe peach. Her sobs redouble. At first, he had intended to rip her whorish panties down in one manly gesture; but instead, he draws them down very slowly, smiling. Some crinkly hairs appear – then more. Then they are off her wide hips; and suddenly, they are nothing but a wispy scrap, not enough for a man to blow his nose on. Then they huddle around her ankles.
“Move her, so she steps out of them,” Youssef instructs. They move her. Adeel picks them up, holds them up for the others to admire and sniffs them. He smiles, nods, and passes them to Hamid. Each warrior sniffs the slut’s panties.
“Cunt!” says Fawzi.
“What did you expect?” asks Hamid. The slut’s eyes follow every move as she sobs and her tits wobble. Her buttocks also twitch and wobble.
“We will see her cunt soon,” says Youssef. “Let us contemplate her rump.”

They do. The only sound for some time is an intake of breath: that and the bitch’s sobs.
Only Youssef and Fawzi had ever seen an arse so wonderful. Fawzi had fought in Somalia and had the honour of fucking a captured government policewoman before and after she was beheaded, and her arse had equalled this. Youssef had been invited secretly by a keen supporter to fuck his daughter and her behind had been just about as good.
He squeezes the thing’s left under-cheek. The sound it makes was quite unusual – a sort of sob and wail combined. He spanks it.

“Before we rope her up, let’s bend her over. The thrashing is more satisfying that way. Hamid – you have an idea?”
“Brother, if we unlock one handcuff, we can attach it to her ankle. Then the bitch has to stay bent.” It is done. The men stare at the huge meaty arse. It stares stupidly back at them.
“Spank it,” says Youssef. “There is something I will go for.” The men look at one another. He had not said who should start. Hamid uses his authority. Whack! The slut’s cry of horror, pain and humiliation fires them all. Whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack, whack! A scream after every hit and then, when he pauses, sobbing.
“These things are easy to break,” he says.
Sob, sob – “I’m not broken!”
Whack, whack, whack! Ooooh!
Whack. Adeel steps up. The slut’s arse is reddening and quivering. What a whore! That fat, lewd thing poking in the faces of good Muslims! Smack! This’ll teach her. Smack, smack, smack, smack!
More and more red! Was it the Japanese who had a round red thing as their flag?
He makes sure to hand over to Salman. He suspects the kid has not spanked an arse before.
That’s true. Salman is in ecstasy. How bouncy and rubbery it is! It hurt his hand, though, which makes him angry. Take that and that! Spank, spank, spank, spank, spank, spank, spank, spank, spank!
While Fawzi is whacking the slut’s now hot, sore rump, Youssef returns. He views the traitor’s buttocks with satisfaction. He bears a strap and a whip.
“Hands hurting, brothers?” he asks. “Here is the answer.” He shows the implements to the slut. “Will you enjoy these, murtadd bitch?” He pinches her cheek. “Your father should have disciplined you, to keep your behind smaller,” he ads. He takes up position and contemplates his target. He smiles. He strikes.
He makes fine music: crack, oh, crack, aah, crack, ooh, crack, aaah. He makes a fine picture as the pale brown buttocks, already many shades of red, form thick lines of brighter red.
“See, brothers,” he says, poking arse, “here there is no more skin! Where has it gone?” Suddenly, he’s grim.
“Open her legs.” Fawzi and Adeel hurry to obey.
For the first time, the brothers are rewarded with a clear view of her cunt. Now when Youssef pulls back his arm, there is extra anticipation among the others.
Crack! Aiaaaaa!
“I have never seen a cunt strapped before,” Hamid admits.
“Never heard a cunt strapped before, don’t you mean, brother?” asks Fawzi.
They hear more, for Youssef gives her six right there. When he stops, she is moaning and sobbing uncontrollably.
“One broken crusader slut,” says Hamid.
“Brothers – I’ve found her I.D.!” shouts Salman.
“Constable Hinda Cherif,” Youssef reads. “Cherif! Not only an apostate from Islam, but from the Prophet’s family!”
“Hinda. She’s not Algerian. Tunisian, probably,” says Fawzi. “Are you Tunisian, whore?”
Sob, sob, wriggle, sob, mumble, quiver, sob, “Yes. I mean no. I’m British!”
“But not a Muslim.”
“I am!” Youssef twists her ear till, having screamed, she pleads for mercy and apologises.
“Right – let’s string her up,” he says.
“No, please, no, help!”
“Not hang you, stupid girl. Just hang you up. English has these subtle distinctions, don’t you know?”

That’s what the hooks and rope are for. Her handcuffs are adjusted again: now they are back on both wrists, which are held high above her head.
She has just been winched tight when Youssef calls a halt.
“I wonder if this stupid girl officer has any information?” he muses. “Whore – do you know who we are?”
Splutter, moan, sob. “You’re jihadis. Terrorists.”
“Correct. Were you looking for us?”
“Is there high alert? Any warning?”
“That is all in your brain of any use to us. The rest is shit. But your cunt and arse-hole, those are useful to us.”
Splutter, moan, sob.
“Haul her up. Enough.” Her toes are just off the floor. She waits, helpless, weeping, staring stupidly, wobbling buttocks and breasts.
“Now what parts of a slut like this can a man whip?” asks Youssef.
“Her arse!” Adeel shouts.
“Her thighs,” Fawzi adds.
“Her cunt – it already got the whip,” Hamid says.
“Her tits!” Salman suggests. Youssef claps.
“Her big breasts! They are undamaged – but they won’t be for long! Watch, brothers!”
He stands with the whip in front of the whore. Her defeated eyes plead with him.
“Please, no, not there, no, please! Aaargh!” Her cries have been stopped by one cut of the whip across her face. “Now!” says Youssef. His face shines with devilish joy as he cuts the whip into the traitor slut’s breasts. With every skilful shot she screams. Three on the right breast! Three on the left! Now to target one nipple, her left. Got it! Screech. Got it! Screech. Got it! Screech. Shit! Missed – she moved too much. Got it that time! Screech.
Sob, wail, mumble, sob, wail, mumble, sob, twitch, wail, mumble, sob, quiver, wail, mumble, sob, wobble, wail, mumble, wobble, sob, mumble, wobble, wail, sob.
“Brothers, when they send such stinking bags of refuse against us, we know victory is near! Now this is a bit special. Salman – you have your famous baseball bat? Bring it, then. She can wait.
Good. Now pull her up by the feet as far as you can on your side of the room. Good. Now she becomes a pendulum and at the other end, I’m here with my whip! Ready? Go!
Salman lets the crusader slut free with a good push. She swings right up to Youssef, her fat arse bulging right into the fierce cut of his whip. A scream – and she swings back to Salman, who pokes her hard in the belly with his bat. Back to Youssef, who justly punishes her impious arse. Back to Salman, who whacks her in her sore tits. Back to Youssef, who takes skilful aim and whips her up her arse-crack. Back to Salman, back to Youssef, back to Salman, back to Youssef, back to Salman, back to Youssef! The rest of the brothers cheer loudly and clap. The slut screams, wails and moans. Her fat unbeliever arse is now a fine modern painting, with lines, strips and blotches of scarlet, dark red, crimson, purple, maroon and here and there, just little islands of pale brown. Adeel photographs it.
Finally Salman strikes; Youssef does not strike; the traitor flinches, but no hit comes; and she dangles in slowly-reducing swings till she is still except for her weak twitches and quivers. The only sound is her soft sobbing and the plop of her tears on the bare floor.
The brothers are silent, but the bulges in their jeans speak for them. Youssef’s robe, too, is pushed out as though he was concealing a broom-handle.
“What else can be done to an unbeliever slut?” he asks.
“Fuck her!” shouts Salman.
“Rape her!” adds Adeel.
“Bugger her!” Fawzi advises. 
“Is it possible to use her for sex from this position?”
“Hmm…not sure.”
“Possibly, but not easy.”
“Cast her down!”

Soon, the wretched slave lies in a heap on the floor, her breasts twitching, her buttocks twitching and heaving.
Now Youssef shows he is a great leader. They all expect him to take first fuck; but he announces,
“Adeel took her! First fuck to Adeel!”

Adeel drags the slut by her hair to the table. She is splayed lewdly, shamelessly, across it, displaying her cunt to the men. Adeel lowers his jeans and his underpants. Grinning, steel-eyed, he enters her.
She jerks rhythmically as he hammers her: with a fuck and a fuck and a fuck and a fuck and a fuck; with a fuck and a fuck and a fuck and a fuck and a fuck. Adeel has much seed to give her. He pulls out – but he is not finished.
He fucks her up the arse. His groin pushes against her tortured buttocks and causes almost as much pain as his thick penis in her tight arse-hole:
With a fuck her arse, fuck her arse, fuck her arse, fuck her arse, fuck her arse, fuck her arse, fuck her arse, fuck her arse!
Youssef, of course, goes next. He hitches up his robe and what he shows is truly impressive. By such things is leadership reinforced.
By such things are crusader sluts raped: push, spurt, grunt, moan, push, spurt, grunt, moan, push, spurt, grunt, moan, push, spurt, grunt, moan, push, spurt, grunt, moan!
“Her arse-hole is even better!” 
He hands over to Salman.
Salman is a virgin! What wonder, what honour, that his first women should be a murtad he has helped capture! He has watched Adeel and Youssef, so he knows what to do. He fucks with all the vigour of a keen young man.

Hamid is next. His special trick is to squeeze her breasts hard as he rams up her. They’re already very sore, so her wails and screeches are hilarious.
Fawzi does not mind being last, except that she is not as tight as for the first brothers. However, his penis is the biggest, so it doesn’t matter too much. Youssef plans all things wisely and no doubt he thought of this.
The raped slut sobs, her big buttocks heaving and wobbling pointlessly, for no-one wants to fuck her any more.

“Should this murtad slut now die?” Youssef asks. 
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“Then she shall die. Who shall commit her slaughter?”
“Me! Me! Me! You!” He laughs.
“Three of you suggest yourselves. One suggested me. It was Salman! So Salman shall kill her.” The youth is starry-eyed.
“Brother, I am honoured! How…how…how shall I do it?”
“You are a clever lad. In whatever way you choose.” Salman thinks about this. The slut speaks:
“Please, please, don’t kill me! Please!”
“Do you admit you are murtad?”
“Are you sorry for your treachery?”
“If we let you live, will you work with us for the Cause?”
“You will not. Slut – you are worthless shit. Salman – have you decided how to kill her?”
“Yes, brother. Do you have salt?”
“Salt?” Youssef is puzzled.
“Yes, salt.”
“A lot?”
“Yes.” He brings the salt.
“Hold her down,” says Salman. “Arse high.” Fawzi and Adeel comply.
Salman takes a big handful of salt and pushes it up Hinda’s cunt.
He rams it in with the handle of his baseball bat and shoves some more in – then more still.
It takes a few seconds for the screams to start. They are like none of the screams the bitch has made before. They are frightening and wonderful. More salt! More salt! Some now up her arse-hole! Push hard! The brothers are struggling to hold her. Youssef jumps with joy. Rub some salt in her big, bleeding tits! Oh, those screams! He shoots off in her face. There is no more salt. She screams and writhes for a minute; then suddenly, the screams stop. The brothers let go of her. Her arse no longer bulges with her breaths. A last convulsion propels her backwards off the table, to thud wetly on the floor, a meat mess.
The brothers stare down at her.
Youssef says, “Excellent! Fresh meat ready-salted! Salman – you will not be a martyr for Islam yet. You are a genius, a leader. You will be my successor.”
Salman places his foot on the traitor slut’s arse and poses for photos.
Hamid drags the dead bitch into the kitchen.
Her torn uniform and other clothes lie on the floor like petals from a rose blasted by cold wind.
Fawzi puts her hat on and prances around with exaggerated hip and buttock movements, parodying a female walk or maybe a belly-dancer.
Adeel places her panties on his head.
Hamid chooses a knife.
A righteous victory is theirs.
A fine meal is theirs.


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