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Posted by blue.beard on December 16, 20011 at 15:18:08:

The following story is by Petra. The manuscript was untitled when I received it, so I took the liberty of adding one. I'm not sure if the story is finished or not, the ending is a bit ambiguous. But as always with Petra, a good read.

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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 labor).

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 shit 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 favorite 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 behavior.

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 realize was shooting. Somebody eventually went to the
window and looked, and saw military vehicles and tanks or armored 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 realized 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 brutal 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 realizing 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
recognized 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 realized 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. My whole body tightened with excitement, as the
prospect of being killed sunk in. Fear, of course, but also a strange
excitement; my mind raced: I could not get out now, and there was an
inevitability to what happens next -- I was going to get shot by these
people. I cannot escape: they are going to kill me. Strangely, my whole
body was suddenly incredibly, unbelievably excited. Excited like a child:
as if death were something I wanted. 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 realize what was happening to them: they jerked and cried out as
they were hit, sagged and began to fall, with red patches growing on their
clothes: they'd all been shot in the chest. After a couple of moments, they
were on the ground, splayed about with arms and legs akimbo, 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, but I was
not: I watched with fascination as the movements stop. The idea of being
killed was exciting me, and although 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 thought how sexy they look as they moved and cried out. And
then the lack of motion, their stillness: utterly sexy -- they seemed to
lie there in the throes of orgasm, unseeing eyes staring out into space.

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
realized 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 agonized
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. They 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. They had 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 agonizingly slowly, she un-zipped 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 signaled 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
realized 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, un-zipped 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 realized
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 realized 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.