A Sudanese kidnapping and gangbang for Peninah – Chronicles of Penninah

This is an offshoot from a chapter in my Indian Sex Club Chp 16. It can be read and enjoyed as a stand-alone story, but background character depth will be found by reading the Indian sex Club stories Chp 14, 15 and 16. and from earlier stories in this series.

It was two days after I witnessed the female Kenyan navy chief petty officer Peninah Anyango when she was being utilized as a sex aid by the forearm sized cock of Onkwani, the vessel’s cook, to wring cum after cum from the mature Indian Anushka. And it was one day after I got to know her intimately. Anushka was from my recently started Indian sex Club, and I thought until those 2 Kenyans took her apart to claim their prize money, sexually insatiable. Why only 4 hours before taking these two Anushka had not only outlasted a marine from the same Kenyan naval vessel but ruptured his cock. All of this was part of my competition which started the day before that with six Kenyan sailors competing for a $5000 prize to get the most cums from the Indian woman.

Peninah had replied to the phone number I had left on her phone and I was now on autopilot impressing the 5 ft 4-inch Kenyan navy Chief petty officer. To be fair I was doing a good job of hiding my fear of inadequacy as one of my stipulations was that all the 6 Kenyans Anushka took on the first day had to have 10 inches of fuck meat. You would have the same feeling as me if The Rock turned up at your gym and started working out beside you.

I have been blessed I suppose in the fact that one of my few talents is to listen when talking to someone. Most people half listen, impatient to start talking again themselves; seduced by the sound of their voice and convinced what they are spouting is the only relevant thing in the other person’s life.

Then without knowing how, I also had the skill to not only remember at a later date what we had discussed, but to miraculously select what was important to that person and somehow sound trustworthy, honest, and that I was interested and it was important to me. That and my incredible luck meant I usually obtained far more than what I deserved, and rarely suffered for my callous manipulation of others.

I was doing all the right things with Peninah and she was lapping up my honeyed words. It was only a matter of time and I had never had a black coffee let alone the Luo woman I was escorting past the women’s clothing shops in Bridge Road. My other talent was I could measure a woman’s sex drive. Her real sexuality. I could weed out the pretenders like no one else, and Peninah was sending my measuring meter past the red zone and into uncharted areas. In the words of that fabulous song Gimme Some Lovin’ by the 1960s group fronted by Steve Winwood, the Spencer Davis Group:

Well my temperature’s rising and my feet are on the floor

Twenty people knocking ‘cos they’re wanting some more

Let me in baby, I don’t know what you’ve got

But you’d better take it easy, this place is hot

[Chorus:]

I’m so glad we made it, I’m so glad we made it

You’ve gotta gimme some lovin’ (gimme some lovin’)

Ahhh, Steve Winwood. The man who caused me to swap my bass guitar for a Hammond B3. Sure, most people know of Jon Lord from Deep Purple, the sound of Santana’s B3 man, Gregg Rolie, or Gregg Allman of the Allman Brothers. But for me, Steve was the man. Perhaps if I had been christened Gregg not Greg, I too would have made it big.

But it meant that I was saddled with a 350-pound monster with its wooden cabinet and seat, two keyboard, twin 12-inch revolving Leslie speakers, 12 wooden foot pedals and drawbars. It was as heavy as the groupies that Stan “The Man” Stevens handed to us peasants that made up the band. He had the grace not to smile when he said he was giving us the ones he wanted most. We believed him. Hell no, they weren’t even factory seconds; they were factory rejects. Though perhaps our bass player John “Fingers” McEvoy did, but then even bass players know bass players have IQs as low as their lowest E string.

It was a bad choice on my part. They carried their lighter instruments or, in “The Man’s” case. his groupies, as even his microphones were carried by our one roadie. I struggled with my monster before being relegated to the side of the stage only able to make eye contact with the most undesirable ugly slags as all the A grade stuff was bopping in front of the stage hoping to catch the eye of “The Man”. Hell, even the drummer was at least centre back. But the band money financed my University course. Still, it has its advantages. Even today when a neighbour pisses me off I sit in the seat, turn on the starter motor, (yes it has one), wait 15 seconds for it to get itself organized and then blast out chords or play lead at 1 am. It was the God, and I always smiled as I thought that an instrument made for the huge market of churches in America’s bible belt became famous playing the Devil’s music. But then electronic synthesizers came. They were the new God but at least they included a tribute to their predecessor. Yes, they included a watered-down, weak simulated module. More of an insult than a tribute.

But am I am old and rambling off-topic so back to the real story. Peninah was loaded down with shopping bags carrying all the big names: LV, Gucci, Dior. I had flashed my card and the purchases were made. They were all genuine. I can assure you the names were genuinely spelt correctly, and the sample displayed in the shop was the real thing. Even the sold product was genuine. A genuine fake. Still, she would look fantastic at the Vietnam wedding I was escorting her to that night. It would open her eyes to see the exhibitionism that those women would be displaying at The Happy Palace Reception room.

I could see her looking at the reflections in the store windows seeing and admiring her extreme high heels and the minuscule red, night club dress she was poured into. It had enough material to make me a small handkerchief and was minute even before I took her to Lan, my go-to Vietnamese seamstress. There I had told Peninah to strip it off and hand it to Lan so she could shorten it so that if Peninah wasn’t shaven any cunt hair would have would hung lower than the dress hem, and take in the seams so that the lycra dress would take 20 minutes to wriggle into. Peninah hadn’t hesitated and watched, dressed in her G string and with her huge nipples completely exposed by her new quarter cut bra, as Lan went about her work. She was also watching my eyes when young women passed us by, but I was too experienced to fall for that trap and didn’t notice them.

There was a sudden movement ahead of us. A force of arrogance, entitlement, young men’s testosterone, gold jewellery, hip hop clothing and white teeth in black faces were belligerently forcing its way through the crowd. It was a pack of young Sudanese refugees. They marched to a different beat to their cultural background. They were the followers of the new God, Gangsta Rap. They were Melbourne’s answers to the Bloods and Crypt Gangs of Western USA. They were following the creed that Coolio chanted in Gangsta’s Paradise:

As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death

I take a look at my life and realize there’s not much left

‘Coz I’ve been blastin’ and laughin’ so long, that

Even my mama thinks that my mind is gone

You better watch how you’re talkin’, and where you’re walkin’

Or you and your homies might be lined in chalk

I moved like a trained SAS soldier. My arm moved as though to protect Peninah. My brain was a supercomputer judging distance, time and angles. It spat out a plan of action. I wasn’t going to run. I knew my grip on the Kenyan could spin her into the louts, keeping them from me. Perhaps, hopefully, it would satisfy them. No, I wouldn’t run this time. I would just walk briskly away. I would be safe. If they got past Peninah well, yes that was the time to run. Friends. My dictionary would say: to be cultivated with least effort, then manipulated, used, drained completely and then discarded.

You ask: “How do I look in the mirror each morning”? The same as you. Through bleary, sleep-filled eyes.

The Sudanese gang swung left and crossed the road. There must be a shop over that side to rob I thought. Anyway, not my problem. I held Peninah tighter and hummed Gimmee Some Lovin’ again. All was good.

For Peninah the sight and sounds of the Sudanese gang were devastating. She took in what was happening. She felt joy and happiness knowing that this new man she had just met in Melbourne was about to risk injury to protect her. She would repay him tonight in bed. Then it took over. It was always there. Always nibbling at the edge of her mind trying to force its way in and take away happiness. Those two months that defined her approach to sex. It took control and threw her mind back 15 years to when she was 25 years old, a long way from her Kenyan Luo heartland near Lake Victoria, trying to make her way in the Kenyan capital Nairobi. Of all the Kenyan tribes, although many were fishermen and simple farmers, the Luo kept producing the top intellectuals in Kenya. Peninah was one of them, having attended the prestigious top-ranked University of Nairobi and being handpicked and groomed by the Government department that employed her.

She was in a taxi daydreaming. She was set. The pay was good, she was valued for her intelligence, doing what she wanted. She had met mzungu (Westerners) in her job with the Foreign Trade Department and they seemed attracted to her personality and her body. Sure, she had a Kikuyu boyfriend and her father had warned her that they were the devil, never to be trusted. But Kamau was different: gentle, loving and caring of her. He was so grateful when she used her influence to ensure his tender was the successful bid. When her father met him and heard how he would give 40 cows for her when at her age most would only give 5, he would change his mind. Kamau had been working so hard recently and was a bit distant towards her but that was to give him and her a future together. But now he had put everything aside and asked her to take her holidays with him. Everything was arranged for a couple of months holiday at Suncoast Towers in Kwazulu-Natal. They would be alone and his sister Njeri whom he shared his apartment with would stay in Nairobi.

She noticed that they were going by a different route to meet Kamau. This one would take her close to the Kibra slum. She questioned the South Sudanese driver, but he replied head office had warned him of road works on the direct route and this was the best way. They seemed to be getting closer to the Kibra area and she tensed. Although she had not been raised in the big smoke, she was not naive. She saw the driver text and became more worried. It was common for drivers to liaise with a gang for the passenger to be robbed. People joked if your taxi was stormed and you were robbed and the driver asked how much was stolen, tell him five times as much. At least that would cause trouble when he demanded his cut from the robbers.

The taxi approached a corner and the driver slowed down, turned to Peninah and said he just had to see the street name to verify if he was on the right road. Then it happened. A small boy on a bicycle sped around the corner, saw the car too late and crashed into it. The driver pulled up completely. There was a rush of movement, a door which should have been locked by the driver was wrenched open and a rusty knife was at her throat. She was pushed forward and, as she did, she saw an incoming call on the driver’s mobile. It was Kamau’s number. Then darkness as a scented cloth was held over her mouth and nose.

Peninah came to in a semi dark room. She was surrounded by Sudanese men, all under 25, glaring at her with an intensity which was as frightening as the sensations of desire and hatred she sensed emulating from them. There were about a dozen of them surrounding her silently, although more were approaching. They were motionless except for the uniform hand movements as each man stroked his exposed cock. She was overwhelmed by the crude maleness of their urges and knew instinctively what they wanted of her.

NO”, She screamed, “YOU CANNOT DO THIS!”

The man with the largest cock took two quick steps forward and backhanded her across her face, spinning her head to the left. Peninah was stunned. She just stood there and stared in shock, her eyes taking in for the first time another woman inside the circle of black men. “Well, well, well, what do we have here boys? A big arsed, small titted fuck slut. Is that right bitch?”

Another man quickly moved behind Peninah, grabbed her arms and spun her around to face the first man, saying to the tall Sudanese, “You tell her Mabior. You are the man. Tell her what you want us to do to the stuck-up Kenyan bitch.”

Mabior looked her up and down. “Looks like we got ourselves some fun for the evening. Any slut in our meeting room with a bunch of naked Sudanese men is just begging to be fucked.”

“Yeah, what an ugly slut,” someone muttered.

Another gang member reached out and grabbed one of Peninah’s small tits, squeezing it hard through her dress material and snapping her out of the shock she was in. “No, please don’t do this,” she pleaded as she tried to slap the man’s hand away.

“Shut up bitch,” Mabior barked as he reached out and grabbed her by the chin. “We’re going to do anything we want whore, and you know you want it from us Sudanese, so shut your fucking mouth unless there’s a cock in it.” She tried to make a run for the door but was grabbed immediately by three pairs of hands and dragged back to the centre of the circle.

NO”, She screamed again, “YOU CANNOT DO THIS!”

Her natural haughtiness and the impetuous tone of her command served only to inflame the Sudanese gang members. Aroused by her resistance, they were in no mood to listen to her pleas. They advanced and two of them grabbed her arms and twisted them painfully behind her back to hold her still as Mabior used a long flick knife to cut her dress. Peninah’s brown eyes widened in fear as the tip of the blade slit the material to rest in the shallow valley between her tits. The garment opened easily at the touch of the long, sharp blade as he dragged it down. To surprise Kamau before their holiday she had worn no bra, and her two smallish breasts jumped into view, the thick dark chocolate nipples erect from fear.

Mabior kept cutting the fabric, his blade travelling just above her full rounded, prominent belly to her slit. With a double slash to cut first the skirt of her dress and then her lacy panties, her cunt and short sparse curly pubic hair was revealed to the men. Her shoes were the only covering they left her as they stripped her of her pride and self-assurance, along with her clothing. Each time Peninah felt the cold of the knife, a spasm of fear cut through her. She shivered, moaning and flinching as the cold steel cut away her clothing to expose her naked body to the mob. Mabior grabbed her left leg in his powerful hands and pulled it open to reveal her open cunt, the thick, dark brown almost black outer lips of her cunt with its prominent clitoris big and visible. The reality of her powerlessness as well as the terrifying way they had stripped her filled the Peninah with fear as well as shame.

Mabior said, “Have a look at her boys. She’s maybe 25 and already got a body like a pregnant sow.” He rummaged in her bag, found her red lipstick and printed in big crude letters on her face and tits the word PIG, and on her prominent belly, OINK OINK. Mabior continued. “And of course, we can’t forget our other guest.” He looked over Peninah’s shoulder, took her head in his hand and twisted it so she could see another woman. A tall, thin-legged, Maasai with a shaven head and dressed in a traditional red leso was also surrounded by Sudanese males. She looked to be about 23.

“Boys we got to decide. Our friends in Dubai have used up their 2 month’s supply of women we sent for their dungeon. Must have had too many high paying European perverts joining in their Arab party and broken the goods we sell to them.” He laughed and continued. “We got to decide which of these two to send to them and which to keep for ourselves before we sell to a local brothel.”

He advanced towards the scarred faced Maasai woman intent on stripping her. But she had already removed her Leso and stood lean, tall and nude with her firm, grapefruit-sized breasts standing firm and proud. “I am from a traditional village. When I married my husband, I also married his entire age group and any visitors that come to see my husband. The inkajijik I lived in was never empty. Every night there would be 4 or five visitors wanting me. It will be the Luo bitch who will die in Dubai.”

Mabior’s phone rang and he answered. “Yes, Kamau, we got her here and for another 8000 shillings, you can watch. Ok, here she is.”

He walked back to Peninah. “Your boyfriend wants to say hello,” and turned the phone around so she could see the screen.

There she saw Kamau. He tilted the screen and there was Njeri completely nude, kneeling and sucking his cock. He had always introduced her as his sister, but she looked up from sucking his cock and waved her hand flaunting her wedding ring to the camera before enthusiastically and noisily going back to the task in hand. Or should I say the cock in hand? “Thanks for getting us the Government tender,” Kamau said. “It sets up Njeri and me for life. We were struggling financially for the first 3 years of our marriage, but not now thanks to you. And by the way, enjoy Dubai or the Kibra brothel. Be seeing you. Oh sorry, we won’t be seeing you again after we watch the Sudanese use you.”

Her world shattered; tears came to Peninah’s eyes. She had been used completely by the Kikuyu man she believed in and worse lay ahead of her; rape and then the dungeon in Dubai or the Kibra brothel. Mabior had made the gang write on a scrap of paper which woman each man wanted to fuck first and had said, “Just so it isn’t raping we will pay for it. To keep it fair a fuck of the pig will cost half a shilling, 50 cents, but the beauty queen will cost you 10 times more. 5 bob for the Maasai.”

He started tallying the results. “Another for the Beauty queen, beauty queen, beauty queen, the pig, no it has been crossed out and it’s the beauty queen. That gives 18 want to fuck the beauty queen and no one for the pig. Fuck, that’s no help. I will divide you up alphabetically into 2 groups and then we will swap over. Its quicker that way.”

At Mabior’s order, a Sudanese man picked up Peninah’s shredded panties and stuffed them into her screaming mouth; then, as another man held her head still by gripping her nearly shoulder-length, dark hair in his fists, he secured the shredded panties in her mouth by using a strip of her destroyed dress tied around her frantically shaking head. In a second the now panic-stricken Luo woman had her arms also secured together behind her back with unbreakable plastic ties at her wrists and at her elbows.

By : asiansexfight

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