ISIS regiment rapes French girl Monica. Story.
Among the Muslims’ captives there were only two women: the old wife of the French colonel Gerard Lefèvre, and his daughter Monica, a pretty young 16 years old girl.
Monica was then a virgin still, and that was someway known to the ISIS fighters. Monica Lefèvre often ran from the prisoners' barrack to the kitchen where the old, browless Muslims' cook was in charge. Winking and heaving exaggeratedly loud sighs, the Muslims drilling on the parade ground watched every movement of the girl's grey skirt as she ran across the yard. Feeling the gaze of the ISIS fighters and the commanders fixed upon her, she bathed in the streams of lasciviousness that came from three hundred pairs of eyes, and swung her hips provocatively as she ran backward and forward between the kitchen and the barrack, smiling at each ISIS fighter in turn, and at the commanders in particular. Although all Muslims fought for her attentions, rumour had it that only the platoon commander had won them.
One day in early spring Mutakaffil was on duty in the regiment barrack. As he adjusted rifles stand, Mutakaffil heard a sound of struggling and a muffled cry coming from the dark corner at the far end of the barrack. Startled by the unusual noise, he hurried past the barrack compartments. His eyes were suddenly blinded as someone slammed the barrack door, and he heard a suppressed voice calling:
"Hurry up, boys!"
Mutakaffil hastened his steps, and called out:
"Who's there?"
The next moment he bumped into one of the senior fighters, who was groping his way to the door. "That you, Mutakaffil?" the senior fighter whispered, putting his hand on Mutakaffil's shoulder.
"Stop! What's up?"
The senior fighter burst into a guilty snigger and seized Mutakaffil's sleeve. "We. . . . Hey, where're you going?" Tearing his arm away, Mutakaffil ran and threw open the door. In the deserted yard a draggle-tailed hen, unaware that the cook already had designs on her for soup the next day, was scratching some dung in search of a place to lay her egg.
The light momentarily blinded Mutakaffil; he shaded his eyes with his hand and turned round, hearing the noise in the dark corner of the barrack growing louder. He ran towards the sound, and was met by Naabih, buttoning up his trousers.
"What the . . . what are you doing here?"
"Hurry up!" Naabih whispered, breathing bad breath in Mutakaffil's face. "It's wonderful… They've dragged the young girl Monica in there . . . laid her out!"
His snigger suddenly broke off as Mutakaffil sent him flying against the wall of the barrack. Mutakaffil's eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and there was fear in them as he ran towards the noise.
In the corner, Mutakaffil found a crowd of Muslims of the First Platoon. He silently pushed his way through them, and saw Monica Lefèvre lying motionless on the dirty mattresses on the floor, her head wrapped in camouflage clothes, her dress torn and pulled back above her breasts, her legs, white in the darkness, flung out shamelessly and horribly.
Monica was feeling how this head of the dirty Muslim penis was drinking a sweetest pleasure from her gentle French vagina. The man was committing his frictions on her, groaning louder and louder with pleasure. This nasty Saracen already just roared like a wild b**st with pleasure, smearing Monica face and lips with his stinky saliva.
It seemed to Monica, a gentle young girl, that already not the rude man fucked her, but a huge male dog, a huge monster enjoyed growling her pussy, her vagina, her sexy thighs, her gentle girlish breasts. At the same time that scared and excited her.
And though it was very painful for her, some strange pleasure was felt amongst this pain, and Monica vagina trickled with juice. Her uterus began to contract rhythmically in tact with the male fucking motions. Now she wanted to participate in this fuck with this huge b**st, and she became involved in the fuck, actively moving with her pelvis to and fro in tact with Muslim frictions.
A Muslim had risen from her; grinning sheepishly, he was stepping back to make way for the next Saracen.
Beside the wall stood a group of those captured French soldiers. Their hands were handcuffed, their legs were shackled. They watched with the dreary faces the scene of young French girl ****.
Mutakaffil tore his way back through the platoon commander. But the other Muslims ran after him and caught him at the door. They dragged him back, putting their hands over his mouth. He tore one man's tunic from hem to collar and gave another a kick in the stomach, but the others pinned him down. As they had done to Monica, they wound a camouflage clothes round his head and tied his hands behind him, then, keeping quiet so that he should not recognize their voices, threw him into dark corner. Choking in the camouflage clothes, he tried to shout, and kicked furiously at the wall. He heard whispering in the other corner, and the door creaking as the ISIS fighters went in and out. He was set free some twenty minutes later.
The captured French soldiers were still here. Some of them wept bitterly in despair. But others ashamed can't hide the erect penis hills under the trousers between their legs.
The another platoon commander and two Muslims from another platoon were standing at the door.
"You just keep your mouth shut!" the platoon commander said to him, winking hard and glancing over his shoulder.
"Don't blab or we'll cut your ears off," Badialzaman, a fighter from another platoon, said with a grin.
The two Muslims went in and lifted up the motionless bundle that was Monica Lefèvre (her legs were parted stiffly under her skirt), and climbing on to a shelling made hole, thrust it through the hole left in the wall by a lose plank. The wall bordered on the orchard. In each barrack compartment was a tiny, grimy window. Some of the ISIS fighters clambered on to the stall partitions to watch what Monica would do, others hastened out of the barrack.
Mutakaffil, too, was seized by a bestial curiosity, and gripping a crossbeam, he drew himself up to one of the windows and looked down.
Dozens of eyes stared through the dirty windows at the young French girl lying under the wall. She lay on her back, her legs crossing and uncrossing like scissor blades, her fingers scrabbling in the sand by the wall.
Mutakaffil could not see her face but he heard the suppressed breathing of other Muslims at the windows, and the soft and pleasant crunch of sand under their feet.
Monica Lefèvre lay there a long time, and at last struggled on to her hands and knees. Her arms trembled, hardly able to bear her. Mutakaffil saw that clearly. Swaying, she scrambled to her feet, and, dishevelled, unfamiliar, hostile, she passed her eyes in a long, slow stare over the windows. Then she staggered away, one hand clinging to the bushes, the other groping along the wall.
Copyright © 2015 XHamster.com cute_Caroline
Monica was then a virgin still, and that was someway known to the ISIS fighters. Monica Lefèvre often ran from the prisoners' barrack to the kitchen where the old, browless Muslims' cook was in charge. Winking and heaving exaggeratedly loud sighs, the Muslims drilling on the parade ground watched every movement of the girl's grey skirt as she ran across the yard. Feeling the gaze of the ISIS fighters and the commanders fixed upon her, she bathed in the streams of lasciviousness that came from three hundred pairs of eyes, and swung her hips provocatively as she ran backward and forward between the kitchen and the barrack, smiling at each ISIS fighter in turn, and at the commanders in particular. Although all Muslims fought for her attentions, rumour had it that only the platoon commander had won them.
One day in early spring Mutakaffil was on duty in the regiment barrack. As he adjusted rifles stand, Mutakaffil heard a sound of struggling and a muffled cry coming from the dark corner at the far end of the barrack. Startled by the unusual noise, he hurried past the barrack compartments. His eyes were suddenly blinded as someone slammed the barrack door, and he heard a suppressed voice calling:
"Hurry up, boys!"
Mutakaffil hastened his steps, and called out:
"Who's there?"
The next moment he bumped into one of the senior fighters, who was groping his way to the door. "That you, Mutakaffil?" the senior fighter whispered, putting his hand on Mutakaffil's shoulder.
"Stop! What's up?"
The senior fighter burst into a guilty snigger and seized Mutakaffil's sleeve. "We. . . . Hey, where're you going?" Tearing his arm away, Mutakaffil ran and threw open the door. In the deserted yard a draggle-tailed hen, unaware that the cook already had designs on her for soup the next day, was scratching some dung in search of a place to lay her egg.
The light momentarily blinded Mutakaffil; he shaded his eyes with his hand and turned round, hearing the noise in the dark corner of the barrack growing louder. He ran towards the sound, and was met by Naabih, buttoning up his trousers.
"What the . . . what are you doing here?"
"Hurry up!" Naabih whispered, breathing bad breath in Mutakaffil's face. "It's wonderful… They've dragged the young girl Monica in there . . . laid her out!"
His snigger suddenly broke off as Mutakaffil sent him flying against the wall of the barrack. Mutakaffil's eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and there was fear in them as he ran towards the noise.
In the corner, Mutakaffil found a crowd of Muslims of the First Platoon. He silently pushed his way through them, and saw Monica Lefèvre lying motionless on the dirty mattresses on the floor, her head wrapped in camouflage clothes, her dress torn and pulled back above her breasts, her legs, white in the darkness, flung out shamelessly and horribly.
Monica was feeling how this head of the dirty Muslim penis was drinking a sweetest pleasure from her gentle French vagina. The man was committing his frictions on her, groaning louder and louder with pleasure. This nasty Saracen already just roared like a wild b**st with pleasure, smearing Monica face and lips with his stinky saliva.
It seemed to Monica, a gentle young girl, that already not the rude man fucked her, but a huge male dog, a huge monster enjoyed growling her pussy, her vagina, her sexy thighs, her gentle girlish breasts. At the same time that scared and excited her.
And though it was very painful for her, some strange pleasure was felt amongst this pain, and Monica vagina trickled with juice. Her uterus began to contract rhythmically in tact with the male fucking motions. Now she wanted to participate in this fuck with this huge b**st, and she became involved in the fuck, actively moving with her pelvis to and fro in tact with Muslim frictions.
A Muslim had risen from her; grinning sheepishly, he was stepping back to make way for the next Saracen.
Beside the wall stood a group of those captured French soldiers. Their hands were handcuffed, their legs were shackled. They watched with the dreary faces the scene of young French girl ****.
Mutakaffil tore his way back through the platoon commander. But the other Muslims ran after him and caught him at the door. They dragged him back, putting their hands over his mouth. He tore one man's tunic from hem to collar and gave another a kick in the stomach, but the others pinned him down. As they had done to Monica, they wound a camouflage clothes round his head and tied his hands behind him, then, keeping quiet so that he should not recognize their voices, threw him into dark corner. Choking in the camouflage clothes, he tried to shout, and kicked furiously at the wall. He heard whispering in the other corner, and the door creaking as the ISIS fighters went in and out. He was set free some twenty minutes later.
The captured French soldiers were still here. Some of them wept bitterly in despair. But others ashamed can't hide the erect penis hills under the trousers between their legs.
The another platoon commander and two Muslims from another platoon were standing at the door.
"You just keep your mouth shut!" the platoon commander said to him, winking hard and glancing over his shoulder.
"Don't blab or we'll cut your ears off," Badialzaman, a fighter from another platoon, said with a grin.
The two Muslims went in and lifted up the motionless bundle that was Monica Lefèvre (her legs were parted stiffly under her skirt), and climbing on to a shelling made hole, thrust it through the hole left in the wall by a lose plank. The wall bordered on the orchard. In each barrack compartment was a tiny, grimy window. Some of the ISIS fighters clambered on to the stall partitions to watch what Monica would do, others hastened out of the barrack.
Mutakaffil, too, was seized by a bestial curiosity, and gripping a crossbeam, he drew himself up to one of the windows and looked down.
Dozens of eyes stared through the dirty windows at the young French girl lying under the wall. She lay on her back, her legs crossing and uncrossing like scissor blades, her fingers scrabbling in the sand by the wall.
Mutakaffil could not see her face but he heard the suppressed breathing of other Muslims at the windows, and the soft and pleasant crunch of sand under their feet.
Monica Lefèvre lay there a long time, and at last struggled on to her hands and knees. Her arms trembled, hardly able to bear her. Mutakaffil saw that clearly. Swaying, she scrambled to her feet, and, dishevelled, unfamiliar, hostile, she passed her eyes in a long, slow stare over the windows. Then she staggered away, one hand clinging to the bushes, the other groping along the wall.
Copyright © 2015 XHamster.com cute_Caroline
9 years ago
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