Crash Diet by Jo-Anne Wiley
Welcome aboard the Bikini-Bus and join members of the Women’s Olympic Beach Volleyball Team on a flight straight into icy hell. Feel the panic rise in your throat as your plane is hurled toward a remote mountainside and, if you live, stand with Captain Irene Ross as she fights for your survival against the cold, hunger ” and the men. Led by a photographer from a scab magazine, the male survivors close ranks to defy Irene’s authority. They want her girls: Eight leggy flight-attendants, clad in bikinis, and handpicked for their challenging looks. Captain Ross fights valiantly but the men have the gun.
All laws of decency are stripped away and Captain Ross, hanging naked from a stake, watches as her girls are chased down and thrown to the ground. Whooping and hollering like a tribe of matinee Indians, the men dash from girl to girl, dropping down between splayed legs. It’s the gang-bang a woman fears; and a man secretly yearns for.
Once the male regime is firmly entrenched, laws are handed down: The crew and female passengers must bathe daily and do their hair. They wear only bikini briefs. And must entertain and serve the men. The enslaved female hostages answer to the men, cater to their needs, and the nightly performances around the log-fire become more and more provocative; until finally the girls, pitted against each other like gladiators, fight hand to hand for the right to be taken next and thus avoid adding their bodies to the dwindling food supply.
With rescue doubtful, the men herd the less attractive women to the Pigpenwhere a foreboding sign hangs above the gate: “Your only escape is on a meat platter.” Jo-Anne Wiley spins a tale of intrigue and sexual torment as the women secretly plot their escape and ultimate revenge. Includes non-consensual, control, violence, revenge, imprisonment, punishment, sexual torment.
Excerpt
The women waited to partake of the broth in Ashwin’s stew-pot. Some would even crave the flesh they found, knowing full well what it was and who had provided it. The men sucked meat off bones and tossed the leftovers at the girls.
After, in a rare show of benevolence, they scraped their plates down, back into the pot. The girls added more water to stretch the remaining slop so everyone could have a little but as they assembled around the fire with their bowls, Ashwin strode up with two of his enforcers in tow.
“There’s been a change in menu,” Ashwin announced.
The girls turned to him, their faces clouded with questions.
“Tonight, you work for it.” Ashwin started pulling girls away from the cook-pot. “Everyone line up. Now! Volleyball players on the right, flight-attendants on the left. Two of you girls will be pitted against each other in a wrestling match,” Ashwin informed them with all the authority of a ringmaster. “The rules are easy. This will be a no-holds-barred contest. Do whatever it takes. The first girl to bring me her opponent’s bikini bottoms wins. The winner eats and sleeps with the men. The loser goes to the Pigpen, without her supper.” he slyly chuckled.
“No,” Pamela sobbed, eyes wide as she took in the Asian girl opposite.
“And just to make it more interesting,” Ashwin continued, “your ankles will be bound.” A man stepped forward with a coil of wire hanging from his fingers and Ashwin watched closely as one end of the wire was twisted to hold Laylee’s feet together; the other end wrapped around Pamela’s ankles. Satisfied, he took a breath. “Bare your breasts.”
With trembling fingers, clasps and snaps were opened and a poke-a-dot bikini top along with a team-jacket were dropped to the earth. Ashwin brought the girls together, their foreheads touching, stepped back and shouted, “Begin!”
Pamela screamed. Pamela knew she was no match, pitted against the taller, more muscular volleyball captain and she bounded away with the wild hope of escaping even though she was tethered to her adversary by a six-foot wire leash. The men rolled with laughter. Two beautiful girls had been reduced to the ridiculous; hopping madly after each other, their hair bobbing in their faces, tits bouncing wildly and taunt thigh muscles straining.
Laylee’s face burned. She heard the men, knew how absurd she looked and, to Ashwin’s disappointment, she refused to continue with the vulgar display. Laylee reached down, gripped the wire in both hands and hauled back, putting an end to the deadly game of hop-scotch. Pamela’s feet were jerked out from under her and she landed hard on her chest. She was stunned but, fully aware of what to expect, Pamela rolled to one side just before Laylee landed with knees knifed together. Pamela drove her fist into the startled girl’s nose. It wasn’t a hard punch but it stung and brought a burst of blood. Laylee’s eyes burned with tears and she desperately attempted to clear her vision with the balls of her thumbs.
Pamela sprung to her feet, saw she had the advantage, and jumping, Pamela lashed out with both feet. A heel caught Laylee in the mouth and flipped the volleyball player over backwards like she had been shot in the head. But instead of going after her, taking the fight to a hapless sprawling Laylee, Pamela reached down and began untangling the wire from her ankles. She had the desperate need to run. Somewhere. Anywhere.
Pamela was aware of a movement and looked up just in time to see the descending swing. It was a chop; Laylee drove the edge of her hand into the side of Pamela’s neck. Her vision doubled. Pamela was on her back again, just barely conscious of the wires being loosened. She made a weak grab as her bikini bottoms were peeled from her legs. She knew it was over.
Laylee turned the bikini bottoms inside-out, walked up to Ashwin and rubbed the damp crotch under his nose. He grabbed her wrist and twisted. He wasn’t happy with the fight. It had been short and lackluster. He had wanted to see the girls sweat it out. “Grab her!” he shouted, pointing to Pamela who was now struggling to sit up. “Throw the little bitch into the Pigpen!”
Dirk stepped forward with a grin on his face. “Hey Ashwin. If you haven’t noticed, it’s getting a might crowded.” And he laughed outright.
Ashwin’s eyes rounded. He looked across the compound to where three figures huddled in the close confines of the pen. Dirk was right.
“Fuck it. Take her. Gut her right now. We’ll have her for tomorrow night.”
Six men gleefully descended on the horrified girl. Pamela shrieked and tried to scramble away.
Irene was on her feet, moving swiftly across the compound toward the men. Pamela was kicking and clawing at her captors and the men strained to contain the writhing body.
“Get away from her,” Irene screamed.
“Irene. Please Irene,” Pamela looked up, her face a mask of terror. She reached out and clung to Irene’s neck. “God. They’re going to eat me. Please. I beg you. You have to help me.”
The men hoisted her squirming body and holding her shoulder high, they bundled Pamela toward the far side of the airplane. “Oh please,” Pamela’s cry was plaintive. “Oh god no, you can’t. Please don’t eat me!”
Irene charged into the men, the knife was out and she slashed at first one man and then a second, tearing skin and sending up cries of surprise and fear.
There was a dull clunk, like someone driving an ax into a pithy stump. The sizzling pain shot up the back of her skull like a skunk’s stripe. It reached around and spread across her forehead. Irene felt the pressure build behind her eyeballs and there was a flash of brilliant white that fragmented into pulsating spots that slowly, gradually, dimmed.
Irene wasn’t aware of dropping to her knees and rolling onto a shoulder. She didn’t see Dirk standing over her, inspecting his club for signs of blood. Irene wasn’t aware of Pamela being thrown across the trestle behind the plane. Didn’t hear the pleading sobs as the girl was repeatedly raped. Didn’t hear the squeaking of the wheel as Pamela was hoisted by the ankles nor the slushy sound of the blade sawing, separating Pamela’s head from her shoulders so the carcass could bleed out. Irene was wrapped in sweet dark nothingness. If only it could have lasted.
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