Poor Joan

It was just a whim to go to Montenegro for a few days. It seemed romantic, and we'd heard it was very beautiful, and, well, it was different.

We drove across the Croatian border at about 3 o'clock and headed north to Niksik, the mountain town we'd picked as our destination. Looked wonderful on the internet.

We got lost and wound up driving up these increasingly poor roads, not much more than tracks really. We didn't have a compass and once we realised the roads we were on weren't on our map, we couldn't find our way back to the road that was on the map. We went back and forth for a couple of hours, initially not too concerned - it was a bit of an adventure, and the mountains and valleys were dramatic, stunning - but in the last hour we gradually realised that we hadn't seen another human being for a while, and the light was failing, and the roads were too treacherous to drive at night.

By dusk we had openly discussed the likelihood that we were going to spend the night in the car. I'd been to a top English boarding school - what in England we call a "Public School", although in fact they're Private and very expensive - and among other things, a place like that instills in you a confidence and resolve that comes in handy in situations like this. But Joan was clearly frightened. What about bears? What about freezing to death? What about bandits?

I did what I could to comfort her, and explain that we didn't really face any danger, just a little discomfort and a bit of an adventure. But she wasn't very reassured, poor Joan. That stiff-upper-lip attitude isn't something you can learn on the spur of the moment.

Once it was pitch black, a wind started to blow around the car, making it moan and then whistle. Just wind, but it rocked the car and emphasised how exposed we were, and the noises were quite spooky if that sort of thing bothers you. I'd stopped on an exposed bluff, in retrospect a mistake, but I didn't want to move the car at that point for fear of driving over one of the cliffs.

I was soothing Joan when suddenly she stiffened and said 'what's that?' and sat up straight. Over to one side of the car we could see a light. It was evident it was being carried by a human being, it swung and paused and turned. After watching it for a minute or two, it also became evident that it was heading for us.

And a few minutes later a large balding man of about 50 was standing beside the car holding his lantern up and inspecting it, then holding it to the window.

"Excellent!" I said to Joan. "Help has arrived."

And we both got out of the car.

When we did we could immediately see that it wasn't just one man, there were four of them, and all of them were armed.

"Good evening, gentlemen!" I greeted them. "We are so pleased to see you!"

The balding one said something in a language I didn't understand, and I had to admit, it didn't sound very friendly.

"Do any of you speak English?" I asked, shouting a little above the wind.

"Ptraww!" said one of the others, or something like that, and then the word "english" but pronounced more like "eengreetsch". And he spat noisily.

Joan's arm locked onto mine like a vice.

"Parlez-vous Francais?" I asked. I didn't speak a word of their own language, but I have fairly good French, German and Italian, and I was quite sure at least one of them would speak at least one of my languages.

But "Eengreetsch," he repeated. "Ee spik eengreetsch" and he moved forward so his face was illuminated in the other man's lamp.

"Ah, excellent, thank you for coming, we need ..."

"Wise you are on mine countries?". Not friendly. Joan's grip becomes almost unendurable.

"Your country? We are tourists. We got lost."

"Is mine countries" he repeated. "You not ..." he paused, apparently at a loss for words, then went on "Give me key" and held out his hand.

Joan was now cutting off the blood supply to my arm.

"The keys to the car?"

"Oui, voiture - donnez-moi les clefs." He was apparently more comfortable in French.

"No, it's our car, you can't have the keys. But ... "

"Yoz car, yez. Mine countries" he interrupted me.

"Do you mean 'my land'?" I asked him. "Or 'my property'? When you say 'mine countries' I'm, yes, I know it's your country, and it's very beautiful, but we are just visitors, tourists, I don't understand why you're ... "

"Yas! Mine lands. Mine properties. Mine countries. Yas! You ... you - vous faits l'invasion!"

"We are invading? Nous faison l'invasion?" I wasn't certain I had understood him.

"Oui! Yas! We make the war." He paused to spit again. "Give me keys!"

"Please, monsieur, let's just fait le parlez ..." but he nodded to the big bald man and two of them stepped forward and grabbed us. Joan let out a cry, and I said to her

"Don't worry about it, darling, there's obviously some crossed wire, we're not who they think we are, we'll sort it out."

The bald one held me in a half choke lock with one hand. His other hand sought mine and took the keys. He gave them to the spokesman.

They exchanged a couple of sentences in their own language, ending in a laugh, and the keys were given to one of the other two. He got in the car. When he opened the door the interior light came on and we got our first well-lit look at one of them.

It was not reassuring. He had on a sheepskin vest, a black beret, and an arm-band with some sort of insignia on it, and as he stooped and entered the car he pushed ahead of him an old and large weapon, much worn through use by the look of it. I realised I was seeing for the first time one of the legendary Kalashnikovs, the weapon of choice for the rebel, the terrorist, the guerilla. And the bandit.

He closed the door and started the car. He turned on the lights and inspected the controls for a moment, obviously not very sure what he was looking at, but then he put it in Drive, let off the handbrake, and - he jumped out!

The cute little car began to creep forward, just a few feet, but it kept going.

"No!" cried Joan, and they all laughed. With the headlights on, the car found its stupid, robot way off the road and onto the little camber that separated it from the cliff. Gathering speed, as if excited at the prospect, it trundled down the camber and abruptly tipped forward and disappeared. There was a spectacular "Bang!" immediately, a pause, and then an irregular series of increasingly faint and incoherent crashes.

As the last distant crash faded, our captors laughed and cheered. Then, the leader said

"Come!" and they marched us along the track they had arrived on.

Their house was quite close, so much so that it was surprising we hadn't seen it when we stopped. They pushed us inside, then downstairs and into a basement. They retreated back up the stairs and locked the door.

Joan immediately collapsed into my arms.

"Oh, darling, they're bandits, they're going to kill us."

"Don't be silly," I said, feeling sorry for her. "They have no reason to kill us, nothing to gain. They're just a bit ignorant and we have to make it clear to them who we are, that we are no threat."

After a while Joan calmed down a bit, and then said to me

"I'm hungry."

It was true, I was too, we hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.

I went up and banged on the door at the top of the stairs.

"Wass?"

"We are hungry. Nous avons fam. We need food."

A grunt upstairs. A shuffling about for a few minutes and the door opened and a pot was placed on the top step. I went up and got it.

"See, they're not interested in killing us - they're giving us food." And it did indeed seem to cast the whole situation in a better light.

The food was a thin greasy gruel, perhaps chicken-based, but with an indeterminate and unpleasant chewy grain in it.

Of course, I'd been to an English public school, and this level of food wasn't a shock to me, but I did feel sorry for poor Joan. She gagged at the first couple of mouthfuls, and my heart went out to her, but she was so hungry that she ate it.

By now it was quite late, and we curled up on the dirty old bed and fell asleep immediately.

We'd been asleep for perhaps an hour when the basement door suddenly opened, and two of them came crashing down the stairs. They came and roused us out of the bed and pushed and pulled us up into the main part of the farmhouse. It was very basic - one big room with very large table, chairs, couch, bed, wash basin, stove, a few other things. The table apparently served as a dining place and a work surface - there were the remains of a meal down one end, and a disassembled electric motor at the other. And a tv, looking a bit out of place.

And a fifth man. He sat at the table, a big man with grey hair, not too well cared for, complete with Kalashnikov, laid on the table. His arm-band was a different colour.

He looked us over, and we must have made a pretty poor sight. But somehow I was aware that to them we looked golden - coddled, shining. Our hair was recently washed, we had all our teeth, our clothes were the ultimate in finery compared with theirs. Joan is one of those people who look good in any clothes and any situation. In spite of the circumstances, in spite of being hungry, scared, just woken up, she looked cute and pert, petite, even stylish.

He finished looking at us and, yes, he spat.

"Eeengreetsch?!" he sneered.

"Yes, I am English. And I see there is some mis-understanding. Please, tell me what's wrong, and we'll fix it."

He said something to the others and they all laughed. Not a laugh of humour. When they settled, he said something else in their language, and they came forward and grabbed both of us. We were forced over to the big sturdy kitchen table and bent forward over it. My arms were dragged forward in front of me, across the table, and tied to a leg on the other side, so that I was almost lying across the table, but with my legs on the floor. I looked to my side when I heard Joan gasping and crying, and I saw they had done the same to her, so that we were bound and helpless beside one another.

The boss got up and said something to the others, clearly another order, and I heard Joan cry out again, and a moment later I understood why - our pants were being pulled down. Not just pants, everything, so my bum was bare. I squirmed and wriggled but of course there was nothing I could do, and in a few seconds we were both completely nude from the waist down. Joan was hysterical, and I could see her tight little bum, as always, highlighted by a bikini tan line, squirming and threshing.

Now the boss stepped forward and said something in his own language. Whatever he said it included the word "eengretszch". and it was spoken in a hostile tone. Then I felt a stinging blow across my bum and I involuntarily cried out, and a moment later I heard another 'crack' and Joan shrieked. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the boss had a belt in his hand. We were being strapped!

Well of course, I had been to an English public school, so, although I didn't welcome this, it wasn't new to me either. But I did feel for poor Joan.

We were both strapped twice on our bare bums, more for humiliation than punishment I think.

Joan was sniffling, but I think it bucked her up to hear the boss put his belt aside, and to realise it was over.

But unfortunately, that wasn't the end of it. I felt the pressure of something firm and slimy against my anus, something insistent. There was a strong smell of olive oil, and I realised my anus was being probed by a big finger with oil on it. I struggled to see Joan's bound helpless form and saw that the boss was probing her anus too, his fingers dripping with oil.

As I watched, he opened his pants. His thick, stiff penis emerged and he slathered it in oil, though this seemed to be superfluous because he was already dripping with clear runny spunk. He aligned himself behind Joan, bringing the head of his penis between her cheeks. Then he grabbed her hips and I could see he began pressure on her anus with his glistening penis. It looked very big to be seeking entry. I heard Joan gasp and pant as he pressed the head onto her, heard her groan as she involuntarily opened up and accepted him into her anus. And I felt the same things myself as the man behind me pressed himself unrelentingly onto me, opening me up, into me.

Well, of course, I'd been to an English public school. But ... poor Joan!