Mark Townsend - White captive

"Get'er, she's runn'in," she heard the negroes shouting from the car and then the opening and slamming of the car doors behind her.

"Don't lose that little piece o'tail," a voice rang through the night and mixed with the pounding of shoes on the pavement behind her.

"God damn, she's a fast lil' bitch, look at 'er go."

"Y-y-yeah, and man look at those y-y-yams," she heard a puffing voice behind her say. It was close, so close she could almost feel a breath down her neck. She strained, trying to run faster, trying to escape the coarse, horrible blacks chasing after her. There was not a single doubt in her mind of what was going to happen to her if she were caught, and the thought made her move faster. Her breath was coming in small gasps now and her legs felt as though her muscles would snap from the awful pressure of the distance she had run. She kept her eyes straight ahead and looked pleadingly to the darkened house, now only a stone's throw away.

She was almost there!

A hand reached out from behind her and grasped once at her hair flowing in the night breeze behind her.

He missed!

She felt the softness of the lawn of the house under her feet and screamed with all her strength as she felt her heel dig into the soft ground and her legs twist from beneath her. Her two black pursuers dove, and landed in a heap on top of her prostrate body, crushing the wind from her lungs.

She screamed again.

"Bring the Goddamn car over, we got her," she heard a shout above her.

A porch light snapped on from the house.

O thank God, thank God, flickered through her mind.

"Help me! Please help me!" she screamed at the top of her voice until a harsh rough callused hand clamped down over her lips.

The car screeched to a halt a few feet away at the curb and the door on the front porch opened.

"Get 'er in, damn it, get 'er in," someone was shouting.

"Dear God, please, oh please," she screamed at the middle-aged man, whose face was peering stone-like through the opened door. He seemed to stare directly into her wide, terror stricken eyes for a long, long moment. His face was impassive and unchanged. And then, even as she struggled with the last of her waning strength, she watched in uncomprehending disbelief as the man, still expressionless, slowly closed the door and switched the light off. A crazy vague thought of the forty brave souls who allowed a girl to die on the streets in New York flickered through her mind as she gave one last stifled scream. Both of the negroes had her from behind now, and were forcing her toward the car. One of them had his hand over her mouth, and though she was still struggling with all her remaining strength, they were moving her to the car with little difficulty.

The back door was open wide, and one of them was in the back seat. He grabbed Susan by the neck as they thrust her head first through the open door and pulled her hard into the interior so that she fell face down across his lap. The one called Duke leaped in on top of her, pulling the door closed behind him. The other one jumped in the front seat by the driver, and the car roared off with a squeal of tires. Susan's pale blue eyes were wide with terror, and her mouth twisted with a soundless scream that was choked silent by fear somewhere deep in her throat.

"Have ya got her, have ya got her," a hot, excited voice came from the driver's seat.

"Hell, yes, we got 'er. Get this son-a-bitch rolling good 'fore that ol' bastard gets brave and calls the cops."

"Awright, awright," the driver answered, shifting it into second and roaring off on the road headed out of town. "Don't let her yell till we get out' here."

Susan felt a thick muscular arm circle around her, and another harsh callused hand press into her face and over her mouth until her lips ached back against her tightly clenched teeth. She could feel the negro's excited breathing as he pressed her closer to him to keep her from screaming. A pungent animal smell of sweat came from his clothes, and seemed to permeate the whole of her own gasping breath. The odor was horrible.

Tears of helpless frustration filled her eyes as suddenly the lewd obscene picture of Richard's father's penis spearing mercilessly into her mother's open and receptive vagina crossed her mind, and she sobbed helplessly as the grim realization came that she too might soon be filled with the cruel hard flesh of one of these horrible rapists who had kidnapped her from the street.

Oh God, she prayed silently through the pain of her helpless position, don't let it happen like this, don't let it happen like this.

"Okay, you bastards, keep her down out'a sight. We gotta go through this intersection up here."

Duke pressed tighter down into her from his position and stretched over the full length of her back. She was still groaning softly but her body was limp as though the life had been crushed from it. She no longer struggled, but moved her face slightly away from the loins of the boy where it had been pressed. His hand clasped against her face, following her every movement to insure that she would not scream.

Susan could feel Duke's loins pressed tightly into the curve of her buttocks from behind where he lay over her back. His face was pressed into her hair, and she winced slightly, in spite of the pain throughout her body, from the stale odor of alcohol that he breathed alongside her face. They obviously had been drinking a lot, and though she hadn't really seen any of them outright, she was certain they weren't from around here. They spoke in thick negro accents that sounded like the Woodlawn District of Chicago, and must have driven down just for something like this.

Oh God, why did she have to be the one. Why did she have to catch her mother in that horrible position with those two men. She knew somehow the entire train of her life would change after tonight. Nothing – nothing – would ever be the same.

Behind her, the negro Duke's breath was coming heavier. He had lain still at first, recovering his wind from the struggle he had just engaged in, but now his strength was returning, and Susan could feel the whole of his body squirming down onto her with an impatience that frightened her. She tried to move again, but could not. The pressure of the boy's arm around her neck and face, and the weight of Duke on her back held her pinned tightly to the seat. Her knees were hanging off the edge and she could feel him sliding down her back until his hardening loins were pressed tightly against the soft flesh of her buttocks. She moaned her protest into the hand over her mouth as she felt his knee inserting between her legs and prying them relentlessly and cruelly apart.

She fought, but there was no stopping him.

He had the leverage, and soon her inner thick muscles tired as she felt them being pushed slightly open. His hardened penis, trapped painfully under the tightness of his jeans pressed hard and intimately into the upraised junction of the soft underside of her thighs.

The car raced along the highway, leaving the sparse lights of the suburbs behind it. There was the click of the glove compartment opening in the front seat, and a sound of glass scraping against metal.

"H-h-how about a d-d-drink fella's," a stuttering thick-sounding voice asked from the front seat.

"God damn, Stitch, you get the best ideas sometimes," Duke answered as he pulled his loins back slightly from Susan's upraised buttocks. He kneeled up on the floor and reached over the back of the front seat to take the bottle. A husky gurgling sound of deep-throated swallows filled the car above the soft roar of the engine.

"Whooeee! Damn that stuff burns," he roared after a moment. "Here take it, Shorty."

The negro laughed drunkenly and lifting her head, reached over and grabbed the bottle, coughing loudly after his last swallow. She could feel droplets of the foul-smelling liquid falling to the back of her neck as it dribbled from the corners of his mouth. The bottle was then passed up to the driver, who they referred to as Coke. It made several rounds among them as she trembled silently, too afraid to speak.