Illegal Immigrants
Introduction:
Trying to sneak across the border they get their dues
Two uniformed guards closed the big wooden gates behind it. The driver stopped and jumped down from the cab. “Raus!” he shouted, “Everybody out!” He unlocked the rear doors and swung them open..
Anxious faces peered out over the boxes in the back of the semitrailer. “Out, Raus!” the uniformed guards shouted as stood waiting rifles in hand.
Frightened confused Arab faces, tired and hungry after the long journey along Autobahn and Autoroute. Confused by the language and uniforms. They had expected to arrive in England.
One by one the young men and women put their hands up. They jumped down off the high platform. The women in all enveloping black robes sat on the edge of the doorway and swung elegantly down, the men just jumped down onto the tarmac.
“We have arrived,” the driver announced as he wandered around to the back of the vehicle. “Sorry, couldn’t make Dover, but we came here instead,” he apologised.
“But we paid to go for England!” a woman shouted her voice coming from a slot in the front of her all enveloping black robe.
“And paid very well thank you,” the driver laughed. The guards smiled broadly at the joke.
They stood blinking in the sunlight, looking for a way to escape. They peered at the Triple rows of 2 metre high mesh fencing topped with barbed wire which surrounded the compound. Tall watch towers with powerful search lights stood at each corner and a long row of wooden huts stood a little way inside the wire. One large hut larger than the rest sported a tall brick chimney.
Heinrich Waldheim strode across the tarmac clipboard in his hand. He looked faintly ridiculous in his Germanic suit with Homberg hat as he stood by the truck. “Right, two lines, men to the left women to the right,” he shouted. “Have your papers ready and we shall have you processed as soon as we can.” He pointed to the office doors marked with male and female symbols.
Abdul looked at his friend, “”What does he mean processed?” he asked.
“What does he mean papers?” Mustafa replied with a shrug
“What you mean processed?” Abdul demanded.
“We check your details and see if you are suitable, it is a formality no more, we have almost no rejects, relax my friend,” Waldheim assured him.
“What for?” Abdul demanded, “What is the chimney!” Abdul asked pointing to the tall smoking chimney towering over one of the huts.
“That is the pie factory, some of you will go there, those with no papers, others will work in the town.”
There were only three women, Waldheim looked at the shapeless black robes and imagined the nubile pale virgins within, he also remembered the bearded Arab they found dressed as a woman the previous week, he smiled to himself, the guy wouldn’t try that again.
Abdul followed the directions, he clutched his haversack containing all his worldly goods.
He waited as his companions explained why they had no papers and were sent through to the next office.
Alain DesCartes wore a white coat and a stethoscope around his neck, and listened patiently as Abdul lied fluently that he was Italian and had his papers stolen. He stamped Abdul’s form “Pending” and sent him through to Herr Lindermann in the next room
“The Doctor will see you in a moment but first we must check your height and weigh you and then you must take a shower,” Herr Lindermann instructed, “Stand here please,” he said indicating the scales, and then as he wrote the weight and estimated the height he announced “Shower room 4 is free.”
Abdul went in, there was a lock on the door, pegs for clothes and a shower cubicle. He checked the water, it was warm. He felt dirty. He undressed. He stepped into the shower. He pulled the door closed. He did wonder for an instant why the door was so solid, why it had a rubber seal but it never occurred to him that it was in fact soundproof. He was too concerned with taking a shower which he certainly needed after his long journey in the truck.
Lindermann watched a monitor, he saw Abdul step into the shower and as he closed the cubicle door, Lindermann flicked a switch.
Abdul’s world disintegrated. The shower tray swung downwards and he dropped ten feet into darkness. Something was moving, squashing his feet as it revolved. He screamed but no one heard him in the soundproofed shaft. He was slipping down. Something crushed his ankles. He screamed again. He clutched for something to drag himself up with but there was nothing.
The machine was fully automated, two interlocking one metre diameter one metre wide gear wheels pulled his body down crushing his feet and lower legs, then a horizontal blade came across to sever his head and push his body over. It then paused while the piss and shit drained away before restarting to crush the rest of the body. Smaller gear wheels then crushed the bones and flesh into paste and this passed along an augur to a machine which mixed the paste thoroughly and divided it into 1 kg portions.
Abdul’s world stopped at 21.36:20, we don’t know what his last thoughts were, but his head landed in the head crusher at that precise time and the machine split his skull precisely along the centreline to extract his brain intact.
Two bored technicians Edmund Schultz and Kurt Ratchenheim watched porn and occasionally checked a monitor but the precision made “Kim Jung Un,” machinery whirred faultlessly, which was fortunate as the instructions were in Korean and none of the technicians could read them.
The machine paused with the body lying sideways, its muscles relaxed and waste drained away channelled into a separate chamber away from the flesh blood and bone.
The process continued, powerful water jets washed the waste away and the gears started again, crushing his upper thighs and as it approached his hips a razor sharp blade swung out between his legs, impacting behind he root of his cock and removing his cock and balls before swinging away again allowing his genitals to drop into a refrigerated chamber for future use.
Abdul was long dead. His soul wandered aimlessly around Hell trying to find somewhere to cool down. He tried to get into Christian heaven but St Peter told him to hop it as he wasn’t Christian, and couldn’t get in Muslim Heaven as his head and body weren’t buried together and anyway the only virgins they had were 90 year old nuns so he was pretty much stuffed
“Nearly a trolley full,” Schultz observed, “Your turn I think.”
“Ja, I need to stretch my legs,” his colleague agreed and he went to load the trolley.
Kurt pulled on his smart green overalls with “Denzil Penwithers Kornisch Pastise Werke Koln.” emblazoned on the back and started to load the 1 kg trays of human pie filling into the refrigerated trolley. He closed the doors tightly and waving to Edmund he set off on the short walk along the tunnel to the pie factory.
For the women it was different, out of respect a lady doctor examined them, if they were fit they went to the ladies shower room, if they were old and ugly they joined the men in the pie filling machine.
Amina was beautiful, “Take a shower,” Dr Helga Mengele suggested, “Then I examine you properly.”
Amina locked the shower room door behind her. She undressed and hung her robe and underwear on the peg provided and then stepped into the cubicle. She turned the tap and warm water cascaded over her.
Helga watched Amina on the monitor, she liked what she saw, nice pear shaped tits, decent length dark hair, not too ugly, she stepped into the shower room, the lock was simply a dummy, and scooped up Amina’s clothes.
Amina was oblivious to this as the cubicle walls were opaque she did not realise anything was wrong until she tried to open the door.
“Hey!” she shouted.
Helga let her out, “Now I examine you,” she said, “Sit down and show me your fuck hole.”
“No, where are my clothes?” Amina demanded.
“Burned,” Helga said apologetically, “Fill of lice, disgusting. Now please your fuck hole, your cunt. Show me, has it been cut?”
“Yes, I am no whore!” Amina said forcibly.
“You take it up the ass and suck men off then do you?” Helga asked.
“No!” Amina protested, “I am pure woman!”
“Oh dear, and I had a lovely flat for you in London,” she sighed.
“In London, a flat and a job?” Amina asked.
“Oh yes, a nice flat where gentlemen can come and fuck you. It is in Lewisham,” Helga explained. “You do a week training in Amsterdam on the streets and then we take you to London.”
“As a whore,” Amina queried. “You expect me to work as a whore?”
“Oh yes,” Helga explained, I know a very good plastic surgeon who can sort your fuck lips. He does all the royal princesses from the Gulf when they go university and cuts them again when they want to marry.”
“Where are the others?” Amina asked.
“Fuck hole first, then we take you to see your friends.” Helga suggested.
Amina sat down and shyly let Helga ease her thighs apart. “Oh dear,” Helga sighed as she saw Amina’s poor damaged cunt. “This is going to hurt.”
Helga ran her finger along Amina’ disfigured cunt lips. The lips had been cut by a pedophile back in Syria many years earlier and made even a gentle wank painful, though, luckily Amina’s clit was still intact.
“Relax liebchen,” Helga cooed and she tenderly kissed Amina’s cheek. She caressed Amina’s left breast. Sucked her left nipple and kissed her cheek again. Slowly Amina’s cunt moistened and Helga eased her index finger between Amina’s fuck lips.
Amina winced in pain, but Helga kept her finger inside her, probing easing further into Amina’s tight virgin fuck hole. Helga smiled and took a long thin dildo,not much thicker than a fountain pen from her pocket and slipping her finger out she slipped it inside Amina’s cunt.
Amina cried, maybe it ripped her hymen. Helga didn’t care. The dildo had a valve on the end. Helga had a gas cylinder attached already, a tiny cylinder pressed to 20 bar. She twisted the cylinder and Amina screamed as the dildo expanded to four times its size, stretching her cunt like she had a big buck negro’s cock deep inside her. She wailed and passed out.
Amina woke. Her cunt was on fire. An agonising intense ache. She had never experienced anything like it before, and never wanted to again. She looked around. She was lying on the floor in a small room, a cell perhaps.
There was a bed and a chair, nothing else. She was completely naked except for a wrist band. It was warm. Her cunt was filled by a huge dildo. She tried to pull it out but it was bigger inside her than where it went through her cunt lips. She remembered how Helga had inflated it.
Amina looked for her clothes. There were none. She shouted. No one came. She stood up. The dildo chafed horribly. She sat on the bed. The dildo pushed further into her. She gasped.
A wave of pleasure sent shudders through her. She forgot the agony. She gently humped up and down on the dildo. Her cunt was so wet. ‘God forgive me’ she thought as she started to hump even harder.
She looked down, the moisture was red. She was bleeding. Her poor distorted cunt lip had split. She wanted to stop but something compelled her to continue humping. Suddenly she heard her own voice shouting “Yes!” Glorious waved of relief and release swept over her.
“Ohhhhh,” she shuddered and Helga walked in.
“Well you certainly are a mess,” Helga opined as she walked in, “I think you are now very nearly a woman.”
Amina’s cunt lips were bleeding. Her cunt was bleeding but she felt good. Too good, Guiltily good.
“My friend will soon have you stitched up,” Helga promised.
Abdul was already well on the way to England, he was part of a batch of Halal Pasties being sent to Bradford and was being heated in the ovens. Other parts of him were being used for pig food and fertiliser. His cock was part of a batch destined for a gender reassignment clinic in Amsterdam and his balls were part of a batch being sent to Tunisia. Tourists were told the Bedouin liked to have human balls on a string around their necks, but in fact it was the tourists who bought them for $ 20 plus local taxes as souvenirs!
Helga handed Amina a yellow backless minidress. “Your uniform, in street you wear it, working you put it on backwards so your tits hang out,” she explained.
“I am not a whore!” Amina swore as blood dripped down her leg.
“Of course you are a whore,” Helga snapped, “Why you wanked until you bled. Do not worry you will have plenty of cock soon enough.”
“I will not wear it!” Amina insisted.
“Then go naked!” Helga laughed, “And go hungry.”
“I should rather starve,” Amina replied.
Amina waited until Helga was gone, she touched the Minidress, held it against herself and put it on, then in a moment of devilment she put it on backwards so her tits flopped out.
“Very pretty my dear,” Herr Waldheim complemented her as he walked in.
“Get out!” Amina screamed.
“Delightful tits my dear,” he complimented her. “Smaller than your friends but very pretty.
“Out!” she wailed.
“Would you like to eat?” he asked.
“Just a little fuck and you can have a lovely meal,” he added.
“No!” she refused, “I should rather die.”
“It can be arranged,” he agreed. “I shall be back when you are really hungry.”
Herr Waldheim sadly walked away but cheered up when he met Walter Miller in the corridor. “How you doing?” he asked his old buddy.
“Not so bad, you want to watch the video?” Walt asked.
“Ja, why not!” Waldheim agreed.
“Haven’t seen it myself yet,” Walt admitted, “Why don’t we get a few beers and watch it tonight?”
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Walt had a six pack of Budweiser, Kurt Waldheim Carlsberg, Anton DuBois a bottle of Chablis and they sat in the office waiting for the video to start on the big screen.
The action started with recruits being interviewed. The interviewer’s face was never seen but the recruits were easily identifiable.
“You know you might die for the Jihad?” they were asked.
One shook his head, “I wish to live to fight,” he said so they rejected him.
Eight young Arab men passed the interview. The scene changed, a woodland clearing. A wooden hut. Men with shot guns.
An explosive vest, a young Arab slips it on. He walks up and down. He puts his jacket and shirt over it. “Don’t look so guilty,” he is told.
“Walk about outside.”
The young man walks up the woodland path, “Oi Paki!” someone shouts.
He turns angrily seeking his tormentor, “Say Hi to Mohammet for me!” the guy says.
He sees his tormentor. A man in Army fatigues, with several more similarly dressed men. He stared uncomprehending.
A man with a child’s radio control sent a command to Abdul’s explosive vest.
Abdul felt the pain briefly before everything went black.
“Bingo!” Sgt ‘Pongo’ Pink laughed as a puff of blue smoke erupted around Abdul’s waist. His jacket flew open scattering lining and flesh and bits of explosive belt over a fifty yard radius. His legs stood still or several seconds. His his head and shoulders were thrown several feet skywards. Everything from his upper thighs to his armpits was blown sideways over the fifty yard radius. Finally his head and part of his spine landed.
A soldier held up a number. 5 and another held two 5.5 while a third agreed with 5.
“So that’s a five for style,” Pongo laughed. “Commitment?” he asked
Three 10s were displayed. “Fucking idiot!” Pongo laughed. “Let the dogs out someone.”
“Nein, that was not a ten!” Waldheim declared.
“More like a six than a nine,” Miller laughed. “What an idiot!”
The Camera cut away and returned as night fell. A red fox was gnawing on a human leg bone while a Rotweiller was eating a lump of flesh. Two soldiers were taking it in turns tossing Abdul’s head through a basketball hoop.
An Arab appeared from a wooden shed. “Hey!” he shouted. “What are you doing?”
There was a muffled crack as the five pounds of semtex hidden up his ass exploded blowing his body to twice its usual size before his tee shirt jeans and skin split. Blood and shit and bone blasted upwards and outwards scaring the fox away. The head rolled maybe twenty yards. The Rotweiller just looked bored.
The video continued. Six more men were blown up in the clearing. One blew himself up outside Bradford railway station, during the rush hour on the Zebra crossing. A muffled crack, a puff of smoke and his body in two parts, the legs on the black and white markings. His head and shoulders on the bonnet of a Skoda Favorit. The camera panned to a ‘Woman’ in an all enveloping robe giving a thumbs up while holding a mobile phone.
The footage changed to a TV channel, “Fortunately no one was hurt,” the announcer said over footage of the man being stretchered away with his head missing.
“Is goot ja?” someone commented
“Only if YouTube show it.”
“Could go Viral.”
“Cunts in a line is next, twelve fuckers going up in sequence,” Miller announced.
Twelve suicide bombers, explosive vested with extra semtex up their asses walk across Westminster bridge towards parliament. The traffic stops. A police car rolls slowly towards them. “Put your hands up,” echoes from the loudspeaker. “We know you are ISIL supporters, give yourselves up.”
Hands rose and as one the first and last in line exploded. Then another and another.
Heads and shoulders flying skywards. Feet and legs standing for a few seconds. Looks of utter disbelief from the men as their friends exploded.
Big Ben showed 2.05. A Transit van stopped. A squad of men emerged. Biological suits. A refuse truck stopped. Body parts thrown in, everything except the heads which were put in bin liners and thrown in the back of the Transit. 2.08 a Fire truck moved in, hosing the bridge with its water cannon. 2.15 normality returned.
A Brigadier appeared on screen. “I’m not a real Brigadier,” he said, “But I did play Colonel Melchett in a show at the Appollo, Ealing Broadway. What you have just seen is several very stupid young men being blown up safely. They wanted to die for ISIL so we obliged. They did not realise their explosive vests were radio controlled, but if they had any brains they wouldn’t have wanted to die, would they?”
“The vests come in several versions, the ‘London’ requires three different mobile phone calls within five minutes, two to arm, and one to fire. The ‘Clearing’ simply uses a radio control decoder from a model aircraft.”
“Is good ja?” someone shouted changing the mood.
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Amina’s resolve failed much sooner than she expected. Two days. Her throat was dry like the Gobi desert. “Ok!” she shouted, “You win.” No one came.
“I fuck, OK?” she shouted.
Heinrich Waldheim opened her cell door. Amina faced him, her dress reversed. Her tits hanging out. “I fuck, I must drink,” she announced.
“I get a drink,” he agreed.
Amina gulped the liquid greedily, unaware it was 25% Vodka. Her mind swam pleasantly. She barely noticed Kurt lifting her onto the bed. She had a brief pain as his short fat cock slid into her cunt but she was past caring.
“Now you are English girl, fucked when drunk,” Waldheim announced as he fucked her.
It felt good, a warm cock pulsing. A wave of warm cum suddenly swam through his cock and oozed deep into Amina’s private parts.
“Ohhhhh,” Amina sighed, “Soooooo good.”
Waldheim climbed off her and zipped up his pants
“Over already?” Amina asked as she stared drunkenly at him.
“I can get someone,” he offered.
“Please,” Amina said drunkenly.
Walt Miller was next. Amina smiled as he shoved his meat in her bruised and bleeding fuck hole. She was far too drunk to care.
She never realised Schultz and Grosjean two of the guards had fucked her after Walt finished until she saw the video on PornoTuba Italia later.
She wondered why her ass hurt, but seeing herself on the video sitting on Schutz’s lap with his cock up her ass while Grosjean fucked her cunt sort of explained things.
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Amina woke with a hangover. Her head was bursting. Her cunt and ass were on fire. Her poor stretched cunt. She explored the damage, her fingers slipped inside, it felt nice, very nice. Soon she had three fingers inside herself. Wanking. Her first proper wank. She wanted a cock and burst into tears. She knew she had let everybody down. Her Parents. The Imman. Everyone. She had fucked for money she had become a whore.
Helga came to see her. “From now you fuck for food, OK?”
“Please no.” Amina pleaded.
“Or wank till you cum while someone watches,” Helga suggested.
“Oh,” Amina agreed.
“Not now.” Helga advised.
Amina had not really realised she was wanking as she fingered her cunt.
“You are doing very well, soon you will be an English slut,” Helga advised, “Make us lots of money with your hot tight fuck hole and tight brown ass.”
“Am I going to England?” Amina asked.
“Of course,” Helga replied, “The boys are there already.”
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Postscript
Jenny Bradstock bought Abdul’s left bollock off a stall in Tunis and Lily Cartwright bought the other. Heather Ramprakash bought a Pastie with most of Abdul’s kidneys from a corner shop in Bradford, while Mandela and Barma, Ted Oakhursts pet pigs ate the biggest part of his intestines which went for pig food. His cock skin was a good match for Tanya who is now Tony, so it is not fair to say Abdul’s life was wasted.
