Unwanted Attention Part 1 The Accident
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An Unwanted AliasChapter 3 free porn video
I awoke with a stretch, rubbed my eyes, and tried to get my bearings. Nothing had changed, which meant that I was still confined in my seat, and the flight to nowhere (or so it seemed) was still in progress. Looking out the window, I was startled to note that it was daytime, and the sun was well up. Had I really slept all night, and then some? It sure didn't feel like it. Then, I remembered that we were flying from west to east, which meant that the night would have been substantially shortened.
The sun was ahead of us, indicating that we were continuing in an easterly direction. I tried to visualize a map of the world in my head. What was directly east of Cuba, assuming maybe eight hours' flight time? The west coast of Africa? Once again, I couldn't help but marvel at this particular aircraft. Despite its size, it appeared to have the range to make a transatlantic crossing on one tank of fuel, and with ten people on board to boot.
There was a thick bank of clouds below us, which prevented me from observing whether we were over land or sea. At that moment, I felt the plane begin its descent. Moments later, one of our abductors went around and pulled down all of the window shutters, depriving me of an outside view. Soon, we were on the ground, although exactly where we were, I couldn't say. The windows remained closed. No one on board made a move to deplane. With a sense of tired resignation, I guessed that the aircraft was being refueled in preparation for another leg of this seemingly endless journey.
I was right. Soon, we were once again airborne. I desperately wished to look outside, but the window shutter was out of my reach. I waved at one of the kidnappers, gesturing toward the window. Amazingly enough, he merely shrugged, and came over and opened it for me. The sky was now cloudless. I noted the position of the sun, and figured we were still heading east, with maybe a slight turn toward the south. We were over a desolate, treeless expanse of land.
It wasn't long before we were given what amounted to breakfast – more fruits, nuts, raisins, crackers, and some bread that was very slightly stale. We were also given cold milk and an unfamiliar kind of fruit juice. I was so hungry at that point, I wasn't about to be picky. After I'd eaten my fill ("fill" might be an exaggeration here), I decided to visit the rest room, which required me to signal one of our captors as to my intent. The seat belt was unlocked with a click, and I was free to go and do my business. They were willing to allow as many bathroom breaks as we needed, but only one of us at a time. For me, it was more a means to avoid going stir-crazy than anything else. Also, it was becoming increasingly apparent that this would be quite a long flight; and there was the concern of deep-vein thrombosis. I wanted to find a way to alert the women to that particular danger. I had noticed, however, that all three had been making frequent trips to the rest room. Perhaps they'd had similar thoughts.
As I sat there in virtual solitude, I was tormented by thoughts of home, and of Erin. To pass the time, and to maintain my sanity, I kept glancing out the window. Was that the Sahara Desert down there? An hour or two passed by, and the lay of the land transitioned over to lush green foliage; again with no hint of civilization. Were we now over the jungles of central Africa? Right now, I was thinking that my knowledge of world geography was not such a good thing.
Time marched onward. The sun swung around behind us until it appeared to be late afternoon, and the aircraft once again began to descend. Our captors decided that we'd had enough peeking outside, and closed the window blinds again. We touched down on an unseen runway; I wondered if this was another refueling stop. It turned out to be more than that, and a break in our routine was imminent. The guards suddenly stood up, with their weapons in hand. I heard a telltale click inside the buckle of my seat belt. I was now able to stand up, and we were ordered off the plane at once.
Outside, it was sunny, quite hot and dry. We'd landed at an air strip in a God-forsaken arid wasteland. The terrain was rather hilly with no foliage to speak of. Aside from the runway, the only signs of civilization were a couple of hangars that had been constructed nearby. They were presently closed and locked.
Near one of the hangars, I noticed four men standing and waiting. It was apparent that they were allied with our captors. Hmmm, I thought. Once again, a new station, and there are fresh troops on hand to relieve the previous crew. I found this development truly frightening.
We were directed over to where the newcomers were standing. One of the four stood out; he was obviously a very important man within the organization. Despite the harsh surroundings, he was impeccably dressed. He had on a freshly pressed white button-down shirt with a starched collar, and the top two buttons unfastened. He was wearing a similarly-pressed pair of beige slacks, and clean dress shoes. His hair was short, jet black, and flawlessly styled. Despite the heat, and the fact that everyone else on hand was sweating profusely, not a bead of perspiration marred his shiny complexion. I wondered if this dude was even capable of sweating.
A portable lavatory was nearby, and this was the first stop for us hostages. Again, I allowed the women to use the facilities first. I would have preferred to utilize the much cleaner lavatory inside the plane, but I was in no position to complain.
After I finished up, I stepped outside into the midst of a most disturbing development. The three women had been ordered to remove their clothes, and were standing there fully naked. They understandably appeared mortified and frightened, and I moved to raise a protest in their defense. A firearm was pointed at me, and I was ordered to follow suit – by "unsuiting" myself, if you'll pardon the expression.
Concerned about their intent, I stripped to the flesh as directed. By now, any embarrassment I might have had about being naked in front of the ladies had pretty much vanished. At this point, they'd already seen everything I had. It turned out that quite fortunately, things were not as I'd feared. We were led around a corner of the hangar, to a single overhead shower. We were being given the opportunity to wash up. I sighed in relief. Had there been a little more privacy, I'd have actually been grateful. We were given wash rags and small scraps of soap. Once again, I played the gentleman and let the girls go first. Initially, Mrs. Manny refused to shower. Braid Gal eventually intervened, directing Mrs. Manny under the stream of water and scrubbing her down. Finally, it was my turn. The water was lukewarm and smelled of sulfur. Still, I did need a shower in the worst way, and I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Next, they gave us ratty old towels to dry ourselves off. I was almost finished when out of the corner of my eye, I saw trouble brewing. One of the slimebags, unable to control himself in the company of unclothed females, had put down his rifle and was coming on to Pinky. He grabbed her quite roughly and tried to kiss her. She struggled and pulled away; he responded by attempting to fondle her breast.
Both Braid Gal and I were on him in a flash. I seized his offending arm and pushed him backward, giving it a little twist for good measure. Braid Gal, meanwhile, smacked him flush across the face with enough force to leave a distinct red mark. The coward yowled in pain.
This drew the attention of the nattily-dressed boss man. He shouted out a few phrases in Mandarin; the would-be rapist immediately took heed and backed off. Then, the leader strode over and faced me, his expression baleful and forbidding.
"I trust you are Mr. Gustafson?" he addressed me in overly precise English, in the manner of a non-native speaker trying to project an officious vibe. "I am Mr. Choi. Why don't you and I have a little chat?" He flashed a blinding white smile that was equal parts insincere and threatening.
"What's going on here?" I demanded, finally in a position to make inquiries now that I'd encountered an English speaker. "Where are we? Where are you taking us? Exactly what is your little game?"
An impatient look with a menacing undertone crossed Mr. Choi's face. "Mr. Gustafson," he said levelly, "you ask too many questions. I find that most annoying. When I am annoyed, I am not a nice man. You would do well to remember that."
Something in his tone persuaded me that a less pointed approach was warranted. "You obviously have some plans for us," I began. "And tell me this. Do you tolerate sexual assault of female hostages?"
Mr. Choi's stern expression was unwavering. "Our plans for the four of you are no concern of yours at the time being. As you said, you are our hostages. And as for your second question, the gentleman will be dealt with." Speaking in Mandarin, he ordered his offending subordinate to walk over and sit on the ground next to him. "And now, Mr. Gustafson, please don't interrupt me again. I'll choose to ignore your little outburst – this time. Let me address the matter at hand. My accomplices were directed to confiscate all of your identifying information and all of your valuables at an earlier point in your journey. I see that they missed one item." He spoke briefly in their native tongue to another member of his team, who at once came over and started to tug on the ring finger of my left hand.
Shit, I thought. He wants my wedding band!
I wanted to fight him for it; I really did. Thankfully, the more rational part of my brain prevailed. I can always replace it later, I assured myself. Erin will understand, and it's not worth risking my life over. I removed the ring of my own volition. I took a quick glance at the engraved inscription on the inner surface: Jake & Erin, 6/29/02. Then, I surrendered it to the asshole, who turned it over to Mr. Choi. The boss man nonchalantly slipped it into his pocket.
I was given new clothes to put on. I noted that the ladies had already gotten dressed. They'd been given plain sun dresses and flip-flops. Where this apparel had come from, I hadn't a clue. Braid Gal had undone her braid, and now had her long hair confined in a simple ponytail. My new attire consisted of a tattered white T-shirt, a pair of frayed denim jeans, and flip-flops. I looked like your typical beach bum, but at least the clothes were clean and fit me reasonably well.
Libbie
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