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Offline joyfully

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Petra's Story
« on: March 25, 2009, 05:15:25 AM »
Petra's Story

I was just another office worker in the offices of an international company in the capital of the Republic of San Sebastian when the revolution suddenly burst upon us. I had accepted the offer of a post for a couple of years for some adventure, and I was to be well rewarded in my search for adventure. Of course, we in the foreign quarter of the capital didn't know about the revolution until we heard shooting in the street, and even then we didn't really understand that it was shooting, let alone that it was a revolution ... particularly, as we discovered, a revolution against the government's invitation to foreign companies like ours to come and exploit their resources (and cheap labour).

I had come into the office as normal that day, wearing a short, tight skirt - really as short a skirt as I could risk at work -- and a tight white blouse in soft stretchy silk. I'm a buxom woman, with long, willowy legs, and I enjoy showing off legs or cleavage, the more so when my boss is in a bad mood, as he doesn't know what to do with me when I flash leg or bra at him and he thinks he's oh-so-clever to get a glimpse of something forbidden. And he's been such a sh!t of late because he's been pressured by his bosses, so I thought it wise to dress pretty near to the acceptable limit. I don't know what made me do it, but I put on my favourite white Wonderbra, which really does make a girl feel a million dollars. I don't really need it, but -- what the hell. All that cleavage makes me feel great, and irritates those skinny girls in the office who can wear all those clothes made for emaciated under- developed models. Normally I wear my hair up during office hours, but that day I was a little late in the morning, so saved 10 minutes by leaving it down, to fall well below my shoulders. During the day it was too hot to wear tights, so I set out for work without, enjoying the cool morning air caressing my legs. Since it isn't a long walk to the building where I work I could also wear quite high heels, also useful as a weapon to reduce to the boss and other men in the office to good behaviour.

And it seemed like any other day to begin with; the usual pile of things from the overnight download from central office on my desk, the usual gossip about her various boy-friends from Marta at the next desk, the usual leers from the men, and so on. The boss had easily been placated by both bringing in his post and putting it on his desk in front of him (and thus leaning over and giving him a long, relaxed view down the front of my shirt and cleavage), and then sitting with my skirt "accidentally" hiked up to my knickers taking instructions for the morning's work. Sometimes I think I'll go into his office nude one day, just so that he could see everything that he has so struggled to see in bits and pieces. Then at least he'd be happy... or have a heart attack and die and stop bothering us. Anyway, the morning was passing off perfectly normally, and I was putting my mind seriously to work to the deeper matters of planning my weekend, when about mid-morning we heard banging in the street and then lots of noise that only after a while did we realise was shooting. Somebody eventually went to the window and looked, and saw military vehicles and tanks or armoured cars coming up the street and men in combat uniforms going into the buildings. And saw them shooting at buildings and the security guards.

We all rushed to the windows to see what was happening, but then when the soldiers started to shoot at our building, we realised that something was deeply wrong, and there was a speedy and frightened retreat to the back of the building. I didn't put two and two together until one of the local girls in the office piped up that these were revolutionaries; at that point I suddenly became frightened because the local insurgent movements, usually kept well into the countryside and away form the capital by the particularly [email protected] local government, were not likely to be well disposed to foreign workers in foreign corporations like ours. That they were coming down our street and shooting at security guards was hardly a good sign. I went back to my desk and tried to made a phone call, but the line was dead. And shortly after that, there was a distant boom, and the electricity went off. This was not good, and I felt more and more frightened, as did the others in the office. I checked around the office, and needless to say, the men were nowhere to be seen.

We waited. There was shouting from outside our office area -- in the stairwell, I guessed, and then a great deal of crashing and noise from our foyer. And then shooting. I froze with fright, and there was a lot of crying and whimpering of the girls around me, now starting to cower into corners of the office. The doors to our office area burst open, and a number of shouting men charged in, shouting I have no idea what. They started shooting at the ceiling, bringing large chunks of tiling and wires and lights crashing down (mostly on them), and then started shooting into the office. I remained frozen with fright as all this happened until Laura, one of the local girls who was standing just in front of my desk, was hit and whirled around crashing onto my desk in front of me. I dived under my desk. The shooting stopped and there was more shouting; I put my head above the desk to find I was staring directly into Laura's dead eyes. She was spread-eagled over my desk, with holes all over her T-shirt and blood everywhere, including a little rivulet coming from her mouth. I looked at her wide- eyed: she was very definitely dead, but the open eyes made me think that she was still alive. "Laura?" I whispered at her "Laura?" There was no reply, except the widening pool of blood under her face. I stood up more, more interested and shocked by her body than anything else. Her tummy was exposed and she must have had half-a-dozen bullet holes in her there, including one hole which was still dribbling blood exactly where her cute little navel had been, and there was blood everywhere over my desk.

Finally the noises around me broke me out of my shocked gaze of Laura's body. I looked around me to see several other dead girls, and a couple obviously wounded: Penny was at her desk and clutching her chest with blood all over her hands, a couple of girls were lying on the floor trying to get up, again with blood everywhere. The revolutionaries were all around us, shouting, and resolutely not realising that we didn't understand what they were shouting.

Mind you, such was my shock that I don't think I would have understood them even in English. One was calmly walking about the frozen girls, killing the wounded ones by putting a gun to their forehead and shooting. I watched horrified as he went up to Penny, who had slouched forward, grimacing and gasping with pain, and put a pistol to her forehead, and bang! -- her whole body jerked like a spring that had been released, and she flopped back into her chair, head falling back, completely still. She went from live woman to completely still dead body in a second. I couldn't help but be fascinated: her dead body was suddenly so still, and strangely attractive as she sat there, head and shoulders over the back of her chair and arms hanging limp beside her, her upper torso invitingly arched and thrust forward, legs open and skirt riding up, a large red patch on her tight and now very revealing top. Her stomach and navel were exposed, the curve of her tummy clearly visible under her skirt. To put it mildly, my mind was not working clearly, as I thought how attractive Penny looked, lying there dead. Shock at what was happening around me was making me confused. Then I stared as a man came up to Penny's corpse, ran his tongue over his lips and pulled out a knife. He grabbed her grey dress, ripped the button fastener off the front, and pulled the dress away to expose the whole of her tummy down to the white of her panties. Then he held the knife in a forward grip, and with his other hand on her shoulder he suddenly shoved the knife forward so that it plunged into her tummy exactly through her navel. Uttering a strangled yelp of delight, he then pulled the knife downwards with jagged strokes, opening a great gash in the lower curve of her stomach. He withdrew the knife and put it back, still covered in blood, his pocket, and pushed his hands into the slit so that he could grasp the unfortunate woman's intestines. With a flopping sound a couple of intestinal loops fell to the floor, and I could only prevent myself throwing up with great effort and the knowledge that he would surely kill me if he saw that I had seen him. I cowered back behind my desk, heart pounding and a strange tightening in my fanny which I recognised as the first sign of my typical sexual arousal.

The shouting continued, and the soldiers or revolutionaries started pushing girls around, pushing them towards the door. I realised we were being ushered out, and complied without resistance: I followed the rest of the office through the rubble from their ceiling shooting, and out of the doors and into the garden courtyard of the building. We were pushed and huddled into a line, prodded repeatedly by their guns, and we were all whimpering with terror, not understanding what they wanted.

Out in the bright sunlight of the courtyard I was still too numb and shocked to understand immediately what was going on, then I began to catch a few of their words, and see what they were doing. The other girls began to see too. We were to be executed. They were drawing us up into a line and arranging themselves into a firing squad, and we were to be executed.

Killed, just like that. I cannot escape: they are going to kill me.

Three girls were immediately pulled out of the line, dragged to a wall, pushed against it, and then the soldiers that had formed into a line with rifles simply shot them. The crack of their rifles was strangely quiet: it was all very unceremonious and quick, almost casual. The three girls against the wall probably had no time to realise what was happening to them: they jerked and cried out as they were hit, sagged and began to fall, with red patches growing on theirclothes: they'd all been shot in the chest. After a couple of moments, they were on the ground, splayed about with arms and legs akinder, jerking, writhing ... and then unmoving. What must have taken only a few moments seems to take hours, as I watched with a kind of horrified excitement.

Around me, the other girls in the line were crying and screaming, I could feel a knot of fear in my stomach and I was finding my breath coming in short shallow gasps, I could not take my eyes off the first bunch of girls as they writhed and jerked about on the ground, and the fading motions of their flailing arms and legs until they lay still, sprawled about with arms outstretched or legs outstretched.

I hardly noticed the next three girls being pushed from the line-up to the wall, I was thinking so intensely about what it would be like when it is my turn. In my mind I was feeling the bullet in my body, and the warm blood running down my skin. It was as if I had become hyper-sensitive over my whole body, as I were waiting for a man to touch me and caress me. I felt my body with an intensity I have only felt during sex. I gently touched my left breast, thinking about the bullet piercing it. The three girls against the wall were crying and begging the men not to kill them, and one of them -- the most bosomy of the three -- pulled open her blouse and ripped open her bra to expose her breasts, begging the men to take her and do anything with her, but not to kill her. The leader of the firing squad went over to her, and stood very close to her. He appeared to say something to her, and she went quiet, a look of relief and hope on her face as she looked up at him. What she did not see was him pull out his pistol, and she only realised when he placed the muzzle gently on her belly, just beside her navel. She stiffened and looked down at her body, and there seemed to me to be no noise, just a violent jerk of her body, and then she arched her head back, grimacing, her hands holding her belly ... with blood pouring out between her fingers. The two girls beside her went very quiet, as did the line of girls around me waiting for the firing squad. The girl took a couple of steps forward, and then her arms dropped to her side, showing her beautiful breasts, and the stream of blood down her tummy, and onto the material of her skirt. She sank to her knees, and then without a sound, fell backwards, her legs splaying out as she fell. She did not move again apart from a last spurt of blood.

The other two girls remained motionless, watching her. I could hardly take my eyes away from her perfect form, lying so still. The leader of the firing squad then stood over the dead girl and motioned with his pistol at the two girls, and they understood that he meant for them to take off their clothes, and they immediately pulled off their blouses exposing their bellies: one girl, small and blonde was wearing no bra, and exposed quite small breasts, the other, a much taller girl with fuller breasts, immediately started fumbling with her bra, pulling it off. They were crying and pleading as did so. As soon as she had it off the commandante flicked his hand, and the firing squad shot them. Unceremoniously. The smaller girl was hit in the chest, in between the breasts, and was thrown back against the wall, a trickle of blood going down her flat tummy, her face a look of compete astonishment, as if she had not expected this. The taller girl threw her arms out and pushed herself forward, as if to meet the bullets. She was hit just below her tummy button, and again just above her jeans belt. Her body jerked as the bullets hit her, and she screamed. She staggered forward and then slowly sunk to her knees, her back arched. She continued to groan and cry out for a few seconds, and then her body jerked violently several times before she fell forward, and then her agonised spasms pushed her onto her side, then onto her back, pushing her arms above her and her legs straight. I watched intently as she continued to breathe, and then began to gag, and the spasms of her body becoming weaker. Then she lay still, her eyes wide open, blood coming from her open mouth; utterly still. The blonde girl by now had sagged to the bottom of the wall, and was sitting against the wall, her head slowly sinking to her chest, but she remained sitting, with her arms beside her and her legs apart, her torso cut by the red line of blood that came out of her chest.

The commandante was enjoying himself, as were the firing squad. The were laughing. The next three girls were needed, and as the commandante came along the line-up of waiting women, I could feel the knot in my stomach getting tighter. I knew I was going to die, I knew I was going to feel those bullets tearing into my body, and I knew that soon I would be lying out there amongst those dead girls, unmoving. What would it feel like? My nipples were hard, and I could feel cold sweat running down my spine. The man pulled out a girl to my left, pushing her towards the wall, and moved on; he looked at me and I almost screamed with the tension -- I could not tell within myself if I was willing him, begging him, to choose me, or not. He moved on, and pulled two more girls out, pulling them with him towards the firing squad. The have to pick their way over the dead bodies on the ground. One of the three girls was particularly beautiful: dark skin and dark hair, with large breasts and narrow waist. She was wearing a halter top and a very short skirt, whilst the other two were in short tops with jeans, their tummy buttons showing. The commandante told the dark girl to undress, and slowly, very slowly, she took off her halter top, apparently impervious to the gaze of so many upon her body; she was wearing nothing underneath. Her breasts were the kind all girls dream about: large, firm, and high; her tummy flat, smooth, with its gentle undulations perfect. The commandante motioned for her to take the rest of her clothes off, and again, in silence and so agonisingly slowly, she unzipped the back of her skirt and shook her hips to make it fall. She had a model's body, perfect skin. She stood still, quite still ... and without expression on her face. I could not believe it: I think she's enjoying this. The other two girls were told to undress and in a few seconds they were both standing naked, at first trying to hold their hands to cover themselves, their suntan marks showing tanned skins and white breasts. The commandante moved away, and with his back turned to them, then turned round and in one flowing motion threw a knife which slammed into the model girl's tummy through her navel. She gave one load shriek, and then sank slowly to the ground, mouth working furiously until she pitched forward to lie on her face, her body twitching and writhing furiously.

The commandante signalled the firing squad; in a second, the other two girls were screaming, falling against the wall or on the ground. The contrast had me open-mouthed with excitement: first they are standing still, silent, exposed and vulnerable. Then they are a blur of involuntary motion as they cry out, hold themselves, and fall about, blood pouring from wounds in their chests and bellies, falling to the ground, legs and arms stretched out amongst the other now still girls' bodies.

The blond one was the last to fall. After she was hit she stood still, holding her left breast with one hand, supporting herself against the wall with the other, her head bowed. Then she started to walk, staggering towards the commandante. She got to him, and started to fall against him, and he caught her in his arms. She put her arms around his neck, and tried to stand, pulling herself up. He drew his pistol, pushed it into her soft belly, and shot her. She reeled back, almost dancing and turning, and fell amongst the other bodies, lying absolutely motionless, legs apart and arms outstretched, torso arched over the body of another girl. I could not believe how sexy she looked; I almost wanted to be her, lying dead like that. I wanted to die like that. The commandante finished the model off with a shot to the back of her head. She jerked once and lay still.

I could not take my eyes off the girls, now so still on the ground: there were nine bodies spread out on the ground in between the wall and the firing squad, nine unmoving girl's bodies in various states of undress, a tangle of arms and legs showing off their bodies. The commandante came to the line of girls, now much reduced and cowering. We all knew that we were going to be killed in a minute, and fear gripped us all. But I looked back at him as he passed me, suddenly determined to be killed next, suddenly longing to feel the bullets in my breast, wanting to feel myself motionless on the ground. He grabbed my shirt and pulled me forward, wheeling me around -- I almost stumbled -- and pushed me across towards the wall.

I finished the walk to the wall without any further pushing, walking carefully, picking my way through the limbs of the dead girls, and carefully allowing my body to sway and swing; I know that the firing squad would be looking at my backside as I walked to the wall. My high heels make my back curve, making my pelvis and chest curve provocatively, and I exaggerated the curve as I walk. I turned slowly, pushing my hair back behind my shoulders, and eyed them directly. The were leering at me. I wondered if this was going to take long. I wondered if I will feel much pain as I die. I was very frightened, sick with the fear of what was about to happen. My stomach was so tight it hurt, my legs felt weak with excitement. My whole body was tingling, waiting for the impact of bullets. My mouth was dry, and I kept licking my lips; it was difficult to breathe, knowing I was going to be killed in a minute.

My mind was racing, crowded with thoughts. Do I want to take my clothes off, to be killed naked? Do I want to try to run? Where will I be hit? What will it feel like? Does it take long to die? I looked down at the girls' bodies in front of me, admiring the undressed, naked bodies. Their faces did not look pained -- some even looked happy, peaceful, as if they had enjoyed themselves. How will I fall? Can I make myself lie dying in a particular way? Two girls were now standing beside me, whimpering. They pleaded with the commandante, begging for their lives. He leered at them. I realised that the girl next to me was Marta, the girl who worked next to me in the office. She has a statuesque figure, one that we have all admired. The commandante came up to her, pushing his face into hers, and leered: "I want a performance from you before you die!" and pulled her forward, away from the wall. "Let us all see you as god made you, before he sees you again!"

Marta didn't know what to do. I whispered, almost hissing "undress! maybe he won't kill you!" The commandante leered at me "I will kill you all, my pretty, do not worry. You will all die, like the pigs you are!" Somehow, that certainty -- of death -- made me excited: they *will* kill me in a moment, and there is nothing I can do. I'm just waiting to die. I wanted to die naked, to lie amongst the other dead girls, my body nude and exposed. My mind raced, a blur of terror and fear, of excitement and desire. Marta turned to me, looked at me with a kind of affection, and smiled. She then turned back to face the firing squad, and started to wiggle her hips, slowly shifting weight from one leg to the other. Her arms reached down around her front and she pulled her top over her head in one smooth motion, shaking her hair back into place. She continued to move, writhe, a kind of stationary dance. She reached behind her back, unzipped her skirt, and reached down to pull it down, caressing her hips and thighs as she did. She stepped out of it, her legs elegant in heels, her feet elegantly moving the skirt aside. I could see the firing squad and the commandante looking her undressed body up and down, leering with pleasure. Marta than began to walk towards the firing squad, stepping with a ballerina's care across the still, silent bodies of the executed girls. The soldiers didn't know what to do, they didn't move. She stopped right in front of them, and slowly raised her arms above her head, beginning to dance, wriggling her body to and fro, side to side, in a slow, erotic invitation. I watched their faces as they watched her. Her arms went back behind her back, and she unhooked her bra without loosing the rhythm of her dance; holding the bra to her breasts she slowly and deliberately removed the straps from each arm. Then she stepped closer still to the firing squad, so that her body was only inches from their gun barrels and leaned over to one of the guns (did she actually push it into her tummy?), and let her bra fall over the gun. Straightening, her arms went back over her head, and she resumed her silent dance. The faces of the firing squad were unbelievable to watch: not being able to see Marta's body didn't matter, I could tell exactly what it looked like from their eyes. Marta's arms came down again, and she started to pull down her very skimpy panties. They came down her hips a bit, and then she turned her back to the men, separated her legs a few inches more, and bent at her hips until her torso was almost folded upside down, and then very very slowly, still wiggling, pulled her panties down to her ankles. I was stunned at what she was doing: she must have been a strip-tease dancer at some point in her life to move as she did. She looked up at me, and our eyes met: she had a wild look, of despair and hope in her eyes. I realised that she thought she was going to escape this way; in my gut I knew she was just giving the firing squad more pleasure in killing her and watching her die.

She stood up, and putting both hands in front of her sex, turned around to face them, her gyrating hips returning to their dance. She dragged her hands up her body, rubbing her tummy, her breasts, and her throat and face, before her arms went up over her head again. She stepped back one step, then an other, flaunting her naked body in front of the firing squad. They remained immobile, leering at her body, drinking it up with their eyes.

She didn't see the commandante start towards her, stepping over dead girls' bodies, and come up beside her. She turned to him and started to rub him with her body, stroking him with her breasts. I could see her eyes looking intensely, imploringly, into his; she didn't see him reach behind to the sheathed knife on his belt in the middle of his back, she didn't see him pull it out and bring his arm around. I wanted to scream at her, to tell her she was about to die, not to hope! She didn't even see him move his body back from her a few inches, and angle the knife up and push it in one clean jerk into her tummy just below the belly button. She screamed, her arms falling to hold her wounded belly. Blood poured down her tummy and down her legs. The commandante laughed, and the spell she had cast on the firing squad seemed broken, and suddenly they were all laughing. I think every girl watching felt that knife go into their own bodies, and felt her humiliation; I certainly did ... and realised I was instinctively holding myself where Marta had been stabbed, my fingers caressing my delicate oval navel.

She stood there, slowly bending over her belly, looking at the knife, for what seemed minutes. Her knees slowly bent, and she sat on a hip, leaning on the body of a dead girl behind her. She looked at me, motioning to her tummy: "he's killed me" she said. I couldn't reply ... I was just watching her, watching her die as I knew others would be watching me die, knowing as they watched me that they too would be dead soon. I wondered what the court-yard would look like when we were all dead. I wondered what would happen to our bodies. I could feel that knife in my tummy, feel what she was feeling inside her. I was sweating, holding my tummy. It was wonderful, it was like having a man inside me. But I was shaking with fear and anticipation.

Marta seemed to sit there, quiet and almost unmoving, for ages; we all watched her naked body silently, even the men. She just sat holding her tummy, breathing more and more sharply, sometimes raising her head to look around her. It was taking a long time for her to die, and we were all just watching her, waiting for her final death throes, waiting to see her dead body lying on the ground.

I guess the commandante lost interest in her slow agony. He turned to me. Now I was going to be killed.



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