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The Interrogation And Punishment Centre For Girls

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thehangingtree said:
I am not going to whip, beat or crucify you Admi so quit begging ...what? Of course! Ulrika, Admi needs a drink!!!

T
Click to expand...
a drum Ulrika and two goblets and put the key in the lock when you go to your slavework in the dungeons
 
Eulalia said:
the rigorous training and barbaric punishment regime in ImageMaker's slave-camp​
are far, far worse than the darkest deeds done in the dungeons of the IPCG​
:eek:​
Click to expand...

Really? Where may I inspect this slave-camp first-hand, to evaluate these alluded privations? :)

Promise I'll be back in a jiffy, not to miss a moment of the highly anticipated execution of that dangerous traitoress, Eulalia Merida... :cool:
 
Chapter XIII​
​
The Wheel of Death​
​

​
With my hand now free, I brushed back my filthy, sweat-greasy hair and looked nervously up at the great Wheel looming over me – about three metres in diameter, its black rim painted with white flashes so as to look from a distance like the broken cross symbol of the MSC. Metal spokes linked the rim to the hub, which was mounted on some driving apparatus at the back, with an Engineer already stationed to operate my torture-machine. On the hub hung a pair of metal rings, and projecting from it were concentric rings of sharp iron spikes. Between hub and rim, mounted in front of the spokes, four dark, roughly-worked wooden planks formed a St Andrew's Cross, there were chains hanging from rings where each arm of the Cross met the rim.

Instinctively I clutched my breast – was it the frisson of terror as made me shield my soft flesh from those cruel spikes? A feeble attempt at self-defence? Coy femininity? Gawky adolescent shame? After all this body had endured in the past three years, how could I still feel so frightened, so self-conscious, girly?

The men standing around me were grinning, my Executioner, the Guards and Cadets – Averil and Sara smirking with them – had been joined by the VIPs, Zeta, Ioannides, the President of Elclud, the Security Secretary from the UCS, all drinking me in, enjoying my vulnerability. Perhaps it was not just fear, shame, self-consciousness driving the hormones pumping through my breast - have these men stirred something else in me? I smiled at Buron, ready for his command.

He nodded, I turned my wire-bound hips and walked compliantly, feeling for the very last time my legs striding free, a warm, dusty breeze aggravating the soreness of my whip-streaked skin. Bare feet on harsh stone, thorny weeds thrusting up through the cracks, fed regularly with girls’ blood. Tossed over a spoke of the Wheel I noticed a filthy scrap, knickers off some poor kid they’ve slaughtered here, picked up by the Engineer to wipe her body's effluents off his machine. In front of the Wheel stood a mounting block, streaked with gore.

I’m nothing special, I was thinking, There have been many more as young as me, desirable and innocent as me – and there’ll be plenty more! I've not been picked out for glorious martyrdom. I'm just meat for routine butchery, for a moment in the limelight as starlet in their snuff video, a sleazy night-club showpiece, sexy tart, dolled up in barbed-wire bondage to perform my dance of death.

With one glance through the woodwork at the sky I stepped up on the bloody stone. Buron behind me slapped my rump, I turned to face my Torturers, and lifted my slim, shackled arms, prepared. He ordered his men to check my manacles," Make sure they’re tight!”

Standing with my back to the Wheel, I felt the spikes on the hub pricking my buttocks, hinting at the pains to come. A dark cloud hid the sun. The Engineer pulled a lever, gears groaned, the Wheel turned until one of the Cross-planks was horizontal to my right, conveniently placed for a Guard to lock my wrist-iron to the chain hanging from the rim. Then the Wheel swung back till my right arm was upright and my left one could be shackled by the other Guard. Next turn brought the Cross back to its X form, and I was standing in front of it as an upright Y, pulled up by the chains so I was on tiptoe, the spikes now piercing my bum-skin. I felt blood trickling down the back of my thigh, the audience murmured appreciatively at my first whimper of pain.

Buron himself now attended to the next stage, pushing me forward a little so he could detach the wires that ran under my groin to the back of my barbed-wire belt. “Your bum will suffer first and worst,” he said as he tugged the wires between my thighs," You'll try to keep completely still – but that of course we won’t allow: with whips and red-hot irons my boys are going to make you dance!” He hauled the wires to thread them through the two rings on the hub, then reconnected them to my belt. I heard myself yelp in pain as he jerked the wires tight, lifting my pelvis so I was now suspended by the wire harness, its barbs biting into my flesh around my pudenda, my toes now only just in contact with the rock.

A slavegirl brought irons for my ankles now. Lifting my leg for a Cadet to fit one, I felt strange pleasure thrilling through my thighs, sensing my racked and mutilated girlhood eyed by so many men, in front of me on the bastion, watching on giant screens in the Parade Ground and around the city, and on televisions, computer screens and smartphones throughout the world no doubt – the cameras were feeding my every quiver to the world.

The second Cadet, standing ready with the other ankle-iron, was a boy hardly any older than me. He seemed to sense my secret arousal, and responded, thrusting his hips, flaunting his bulging manhood. I looked in his eyes - proud, insolent. Between us there burned nothing like love, but yet I caught my breath, gently moving for him as I tested out my helplessness. He spotted the little quiver of my branded breasts, my nipples firm, my lips half-blowing him a kiss, and moved to lock the final shackle on me slowly, handling my legs and feet with fascinated delight.

“Legs open!” Buron shouted, “Wider!” I was dangling by my wrists, held up by the wire, my thighs spread as wide apart as the lower legs of the Cross. Click! The two Cadets linked my wrist-irons to their chains. Now I was stretched like a butterfly trapped on a spider’s web, defenceless. Ready.

The men, Sara and Averil too, picked up their whips and stood appraising my stretched, quivering girlhood as they awaited the Executioner’s word. I lowered my eyes submissively.
 
2​

They took turns at thrashing me, across my hot, heaving breasts, round my ridged rib-cage, over my hips and lower abdomen – where the barbed-wire belt and truss, and the cruel nails still held in my belt bit into my skin as the whipthong struck them – and between my taut-stretched thighs. My arms, so stretched now, forced to share my body’s weight with those wires cutting into my sex-lips, soon burned with strain as I swung helplessly in response to the lashes.

Then the Wheel began to turn, slowly at first, pausing when I was hanging upside-down by my ankles, blood pounding into my head, long hair brushing the blood-splashed dust beneath me – my Torturers enjoyed the ease with which they could cut their strokes across my wide-opened groin, relishing the shrieks they drew from me.

And now it turned faster and faster, spinning me round and round, tossing me, up and down, arms and legs racked as my weight hauled at them, my buttocks and thighs dragged back and forth across the spikes, blood spurting, as my tormentors swung away with their whips with ever more frenzied vigour.

God knows how long it went on. At last Buron signalled to halt, I hung panting, sobbing with the pain that coursed all through my limbs and trunk, watching blood-ribbons straggling down my purple-striped skin. The party of onlookers clapped enthusiastically.

The VIPs now departed, the Place of Execution was opened to the public, good numbers soon arrived to witness our suffering – even in this defeated city, when word got round that there were pretty girl-victims on the Castle wall, there was no shortage of wannasees. I earned a few wolf-whistles, youths jeered and joked, their girl-friends giggled and gloated. Older men ogled us, laying bets on how long each of us would last. Harsh-faced hags opined we were slave-sluts, only getting what we deserved. I just hung, keeping as still as I could, submitting to their abuse.

While I'd been hung up and tortured on the Wheel, the suffering of my cousins and friends had of course continued, though I'd had little leisure to pay any attention to them. Now as I hung there gasping, I could hear Barbara and Lucia away to my right still labouring to come to terms with the unbearable demands on their pinioned bodies. Julia and Carina to my left were wailing too, I heard the younger girl cry out to her mummy – my aunt Christina, whom we'd watched suffering as her daughters were suffering now – "Mummy, I can't bear this ... please... oh Mummy, please let me die!" All the perky courage she'd displayed throughout her purgatory in the IPCG had ebbed away, crucifixion had broken her.

Each of the crucified girls had been fitted, after twenty minutes, half an hour or more of desperate struggling, with supports under their groins, equipped with spikes to impale their cunts. These would provide some comfortless support to their bodies' weight, though of course they would greatly extend their pre-death suffering. Looking to my side, I saw Barbara being fitted with hers, her bright, intelligent young face still alert as she watched her Guards, suddenly twisted in pain as the horn was forced into her sex.

Now my Guards brought mine – not the same as the ones used on the conventionally-crucified victims, this was an evil-looking steel dildo, about 20 centimetres long, its surface deliberately ridged and roughened, its conical tip blunted lest it cause too severe a haemorrhage, too easy a death. It was mounted on an angled tang to a flat plate. After holding it before my terrified eyes, grinning, one of them began to insert it, slowly, forcing it between the strands of barbed wire cutting into my soft lips, deliberately twisting and wiggling it as he invaded my womanhood. I couldn't prevent myself from letting forth an animal scream.

When he'd thrust it in so far that I could feel it probing my cervix, his colleague swiftly screwed the plate into position on the hub using an electric tool. With my weight sagging down on the tang, it provided a little more support, though gruesomely uncomfortable, as the metal edge pressed on my perineum, and I could feel straightaway how painful the movements of this thing inside me were going to be whenever I hauled myself to try to modify my position and ease the strain on my arms, shoulders and chest – never mind what will happen if they spin the Wheel again!

As they let me hang for a few minutes, striving with my aching thighs to ease my tortured sex around the exploring spike, flexing up my supple body, I felt a sudden, surprising thrill, my clitoris still susceptible to the rough rubbing of the tool - how close ecstatic pleasure lies to exquisite pain! A gang of excited schoolboys now observed each throb of my loins as the triumphant metal penetrated, conquering, not just my flesh, but the very depths of my female soul.

But now I saw there was worse to come – much worse. I knew the nails still tucked tightly in wire twists on my waist, pricking my pudendum whenever my pelvis moved, were going to be used, that was my sentence, to be nailed to the Cross, and now Buron was holding a hefty hammer!

The Wheel swung me over again so my right wrist was a convenient height for him, Guards stood one behind the Wheel, the other in front, gripping my arm tightly against the rough wood of the plank. Buron extracted one of the nails, I watched him position it carefully just below the wrist-iron, where my thumb met my wrist. I winced and squeaked as I felt the sharp point pricking in, turned my head away, bracing my body.

My squeals must have been heard all over Moro, my whole frame shuddered, as the mallet drove the spike through flesh and gristle, only a couple of blows to reach the wood, half a dozen and he was hammering the broad flat nail-head against my flesh, I was yelling and squirming like I was in labour, tearing my rump on the spikes.

The Wheel swung me up, now I was hanging by my pinioned, throbbing wrist. The shackle was redundant now, no doubt they left it on me just in case I should tear my wrist right off my hand in my agony. Pain shot down my arm like a bullet to my shoulder as I was rotated to the left. I was sobbing like a child as he prepared to nail my left wrist, kicking wildly as the chains on my ankles still allowed as the merciless torment was redoubled. I could hear the crowd cheering, urging him on, clapping in time to the thud, thud of the heavy hammer – there's nothing so sexy, so arousing, as a lovely girl being nailed to a Cross, all across the world, men were enjoying me!

The Wheel rolled as soon as he had me riveted, now I hung, still a spreadeagled X, on the metal spikes of torture through my crushed wrists. I was sobbing, gasping for breath, blood dripped to my right and left and trickled down my arms to my aching armpits. Blood oozed from my vulva too, dripping in globs to the stone pavement below me. I hung my head in despair, surely I can endure no more?

But there were still two nails, two rather longer ones. I knew what they were for. As the Guards knelt to clutch my right leg, I let it go limp, no point in resisting. The planks behind my legs were bevelled, they carefully positioned my sole on the angled edge, so my knee was slightly flexed, and splayed outwards. Buron took the next nail and dug it into the top of my instep, I prepared myself for what turned out to be still worse pain, as the spike drove through the thickness of my foot, wrecking the small bones on its route. I was howling for mercy.

The fourth and final nail pierced my left foot, Buron and the Guards stood back to admire their handiwork, slavegirls handing them warm cloths to wipe their hands, enjoying me as I struggled to cope with the agony now surging through my body. Head back, lips wide, teeth clenched, all of me tugged on those four flesh-rending nails, ripping my racked girlhood!

At first I fought, as all girls crucified do, though we promise ourselves we won't be so foolish, when you're up there you can't help yourself . I was frenzied, trying to tear my feet and fingers free from those fixed nails. At last, I recognised, resigned, there’s no escape. No choice but to accept the agony that was surging through with every lunge of my long, slow death-dance.
 
thehangingtree said:
well done again Eulalia. I noticed you made the steel dildo just bigger than tree so you can finally say 'Mine's bigger'...

...you will pay for that...

Tree
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............but that's why
 
3​

My feet being nailed, I was at last able to gain some relief for my aching shoulders and steel-invaded genitals by pressing down on them with my legs, lifting my trunk an inch or two, feeling the metal tormentor slip down inside my sex, though it was still lodged well inside me, and heaving my upper body so it no longer tugged so relentlessly on my arms. But it was hideously painful, my legs splayed wide could only exert force outwards rather than downwards, and the nails through my feet were forced by my own strength to bite into small, fragile bones, flesh and gristle. And the Engineer had left the brake off the Wheel, so my every movement made it sway one way or the other, exerting sharp, unequal spasms of strain on either arm and down through my body, I had to work constantly with my thighs to simply balance myself in an upright position – I'd learnt to row at school, my body recalled instinctively the discipline of keeping a scull steady on the water, but if it was hard then, it was an extreme beyond my fast-ebbing powers now. After no more than minute or two – and the amount I could bear diminished rapidly to a mere few seconds – I had to sink down again, renewing the sharp strain-pains in my shoulders and upper arms, experiencing again the torturing thrust of the impaling spike inside me.

It was hot, the sun beating down on us between thunderous clouds, even when they veiled it the air was clammily warm. The crowd – and no doubt television watchers throughout the world – were getting full value from me and my eight companions, our parched lips panting, schoolgirl teeth flashing in the sun, each breath a new agony. Softly-swelling hips that will never bear young, heaving adolescent breasts that will never nourish, tossing and thrusting in their torment, Our oozing wounds where the scourge had left its signature were crawling now with flesh-gnawing flies swarming to taste our sweet sweat. Thirst-maddened and frantic, I twisted my head, trying to suck a few drops myself off my shoulder, at once the Wheel rolled and I had to lurch back to right it.

I hung my head, exhausted. Crows were already wheeling around close overhead, intelligent birds, well-used to crowding in on a feast like we'll be – soon! Suddenly their mocking caws were joined by new, wild shrieks of anguish. I realised it was young Faith, begging for some new torture to stop. Immediately her cries were joined by more from the other end of the girl-row, whatever they were doing to Faith they were doing to Dagmar too.

Leaning forward gingerly, I could see crowds clustering to watch, jeering and cheering. After a few minutes, they moved closer, their attention turned to Erica and Gaby, these older girls howling as desperately as the youngsters. Next Lucia and Carina, and now I could see the nature of the entertainment, pairs of Cadets simply holding long-handled flame-guns, applying them to the defenceless armpits of the crucified victims, forcing them to squirm helplessly, unable to escape, exposing their breasts as well as their backs to the merciless heat. A stench of grilling girlskin, much like bacon, wafted over the Place of Execution, the flies buzzed all the more eagerly. Barbara and Julia endured their turn – knowing what was coming only made things worse, there was nothing we could do to prepare, never mind protect, our helplessly exposed bodies.

And finally me. Sara and Averil took the Instruments of Torture with delight, approach me brandishing them triumphantly, "We've come to cook you, Lali! Are you ready for grilling?" I sighed, bowed my head and closed my eyes. The pain was of course unbearable, I twisted violently unable to endure even a couple of seconds of the burning on any one zone of my skin, but my Torture-Girls followed my movements, aiming skilfully, it was clearly not the first time they'd done this.

When they'd got me writhing and screeching to his satisfaction, my Executioner joinedin, grabbing a flamegun himself and aiming it between my wide-open thighs – being crucified St Andrews-style of course exposes a girl to worse humiliation, crueller torture. He scorched my shaved pussy, toasting my labia, but even worse was the transmission of heat through the metal rod inside my flesh. Within seconds, my whole birth-passage, right into my womb, were beginning to cook.

Now he drew back, and commanded the Engineer, "Spin the cunt!" Once more the Wheel began to turn, quickly accelerating, hurtling me round. Now I was nailed, the tearing pain in my wrists and feet was far, far worse than the tugging of the chains, and the lance in my loins remained painfully hot as it thrust up and down as I was tossed. My tormentors continued to let the flames brush across my most sensitive parts, as the rotating Wheel presented me in conveniently vulnerable poses.

Again, it probably only continued a few minutes, again it seemed never-ending. Buron ordered "Stop!" when I was upside-down, and enjoyed the sight of me hanging by my nailed feet, fighting for breath, scrabbling with my fingers in a futile effort to cope with the weight of my body now pressing down on my nailed wrists. As I sucked in air I detected smoke, my hair was sizzling, smouldering from flames that had caught it as I was flung around.

I was left hanging like this for a while, as the Executioner and other officers departed for their lunch and siesta, leaving the Cadets with instructions to "make sure she suffers!" Averil and Sara obliged by lashing me, half-a-dozen strokes each, across those parts of my skin that were now glowing and horribly sore from the scorching, then they joined the Cadets under the shade of the other big, horizontal, Wheel, eating huge filled baguettes, swigging canned drinks, shrieking with raucous laughter as they watched my shuddering body dangling from blood-oozing nailed feet.

However, their picnic was terminated when a Sergeant came along with orders for them. The girls immediately began unpacking the heavy iron tools from one of those bundles I'd been made to carry on my yoke along the Parade of Death early this morning – they'd remained where they'd been parked when I was brought up to the Place of Execution.

At the same time, a couple of slave-girls arrived, carrying between them a large metal brazier, which they stood on a circular plinth apparently intended for the purpose. The Cadets routinely whipped their red-knickered buttocks, they scampered off and quickly returned, this time bearing armfuls of kindling wood, and on a third trip they came, panting with exhaustion, lugging a large sack of coal, which the Cadets ordered them to empty into the brazier, having first arranged the kindling in its base. It was a typical scene in the new order of civilised society, two hefty youths and two strong young women standing watching with arms folded or hands on hips, whips ready, as two little wretches were compelled to labour away at a task much too heavy for them, a whip-flick across their bottoms their only reward.

One of the slaves was then sent to fetch a flame-gun, one of those that had been used to torture us victims. The Cadet aimed it into the brazier, soon the kindling caught, within minutes the coals were beginning to smoulder and then to glow, the smoke rose up to add to the dryness of my cracked lips and thirst-dry mouth.

Meanwhile, Sara and Averil were carefully arranging the various implements in the brazier, thrusting them in among the coals. I shuddered as I looked from my inverted perspective at the irons being prepared – as I knew all too well -to sear my skin and gouge into my flesh: black-fanged pincers, sharp three- and five-hooked claws, The smell of hot metal filled my lungs, smell of the Torture Chamber!
 
thehangingtree said:
Eul, you have the meanest fantasies...
tree
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If you think that was mean, take a stiff double before you read this next episode -​
​
4​


All the morning, ever since my Torture to Death commenced, my sister Laura and young friend Marie had been made to watch, standing naked, each held by a tough Guard who made sure they didn't hide their eyes from any of the horror they were witnessing. I didn't know what their sentences were, they hadn't been able to tell me, they'd just been pale and terrified ever since we left the IPCG. Now Laura was about to learn.

When Buron returned, General Ioannides and Dr.Sheng were with him. When she saw they were approaching her, Laura went rigid in her Guard's grip, let out a little shriek of terror. What Ioannides had done with her in the Colonel's Bedroom had plunged a knife of remembered pain deep into her soul, the very sight of him was torture.

He took on the role of Director of Punishment. "Name and number?" Laura responded, hoarse with fear, "492180 Laura Mérida, Sir!" "Repeat your confession!" She croaked it out, line by line, almost breaking down completely several times, but glancing up at Ioannides cold eyes she somehow managed to put it together. Then I heard words that made me retch, bile and phlegm flowing down my gullet to my upturned mouth, "Your sentence, Laura Mérida, is to be stretched on this Wheel of Death, tortured and slowly racked, until your body is broken and torn in pieces."

Laura shrieked in horror, she struggled and almost wrenched herself free from her captor, but another thug was standing by to grab her arm, and between them they swung her round and half drove, half carried her up a set of steps on a mounting block, to the rim of the great Torture Wheel.

Ioannides glanced over at me, snapped to the Engineer, "Turn that cunt so she can watch her sister suffer!" The Wheel trundled me round, I was upright again, hanging by my wrists where I could see all too clearly the place where Laura was about to be martyred.

Her Wheel was about the same size as mine, the hub somewhat higher than the rim, its spokes covered by a cap of strong wire mesh over which the Guards drove their victim. They made her stand for a few seconds, astride the hub, while Ioannides, Sheng and other Officers took up positions on a pair of stands at each side. Buron accompanied her, he was to be her Executioner as well as mine.

"Sit!" he ordered. Compliant now, she sat down, for the last time in her short life, on the hub, with her face to the sun, her back to me. As if anticipating, she sat with her legs straight out before her, wide apart. The pair of Cadets who'd escorted her on the Parade of Death now checked her wrist-manacles, she held up her arms obediently, Buron ordered the boys to tighten them so tightly I was her wince. Meanwhile the Guards were screwing irons equally firmly onto her ankles. Soon the last screw was tight.

"Lie back!" Laura lay, her slim, fragile body arched over the hub, she spread her arms and legs for them, she knew what they required. From four cardinal points on the rim ran strong steel hawsers with loops in the ends. They were not attached to the rim, but threaded through apertures, to the mechanism below no doubt that would turn the Wheel and draw them ever tighter. The chains from the victim's wrist- and ankle-irons were attached to these cables, all the Execution Squad withdrew to the platforms at the side. The Engineer had left my Wheel and positioned himself at a set of controls on the far side of my sister's Wheel.

The sun had broken through the clouds, it was fiercely hot now, searing my bare scorched skin, Laura's too. It was made all the worse by the heat now coming from the glowing brazier, standing between my Wheel and hers, I could feel its heat on my cruelly exposed vulva and my sore, sweating breasts. The Instruments of Torture now beginning to glow red-hot. To my horror I realised they were going to be used not on me – not for now at any rate – but on my poor kid sister.

Flies were humming, crawling over her sweat-wet body and ashen face, which was now looking up at me, her one undamaged eye wide with terror. I could see even from my Cross her heart drumming her starved-thin rib-cage, her whole body shaking…

The Executioner saluted, Ioannides nodded, the Engineer pulled a lever, the Wheel began to turn, slowly, a ratchet sounding click, click, click ... At once the cables holding Laura's limbs began to shorten, pulling taut, she yelled out "No, no!" and then a long, shrill cry as the strain began to tear at her shoulders and loins. At this signal, her two Guards stepped on to the Wheel swinging their weighted whips, and began scourging her stretched nakedness. She was screaming, unable to move as she was used to doing when flogged, forced to feel every blow on her tight muscles.

After they'd given her a dozen or so apiece, they stepped back, and the Engineer released the mechanism a few clicks, so Laura could relax her muscles slightly and writhe a little. But it was only a brief respite, soon he pulled again at the lever and the cables tightened, a little bit further this time, the strain on the victim's body increased, the pain even worse. And now her Torturers put on thick leather gauntlets and drew hot, glowing irons from the brazier. They walked leisurely across the surface of the Wheel, brandishing the fiery instruments, making sure the girl saw them, then pressed them against the sides of her rib-cage where her torso was pulled taut. I heard the hiss of burning, the scent of burning skin reached my nostrils, Laura's moans echoed around the Castle.

Again she was relaxed briefly, tugged tight again, yet tighter still. Now the men drew a pair of sharp-hooked claws from the fire, with long handles and five blades each. They used these to rip through her skin just where their first inflictions had burnt her, slicing ribbons away, exposing pale ribs through bleeding gristle. Her howling was continuous now, turning wilder, more despairing, when the Engineer released the tension, she almost leapt in her wild paroxysm of agony, twisting and rolling, blood cascading from her sides, until she was tugged taut again, tighter still.

The third torment brought the pincers, savage black monsters with jagged jaws white-hot. She moaned, shaking her head from side to side as her Torturers waved them over her, then suddenly gripped at her small, tender breasts, biting slowly, remorselessly into the flesh till they burst in sizzling gushes of blood and ooze. Then, for good measure, they used the still hot weapons to squeeze the muscles of her stretched thighs till they too were skinned and cauterised.

When the Engineer relaxed the tension this time, Laura was less active, her hips still thrust up in sharp spasms, her legs were shaking violently, but her upper body was s till, her head rolling helplessly from side to side. I was sure her shoulders must have been dislocated by the last racking – and soon she had another, yet worse.

Now Buron himself approached the brazier, gauntlet on his hand, drew a huge red-hot poker, its destination cruelly obvious. He stationed himself between the girl's forced-wide thighs, pressed his left hand on her abdomen, and inserted the vile instrument, performing the most evil act of torture that can be inflicted on a female body. Laura's scream was so loud it hurt my ears, it should have deafened her tormentor, but he was grinning as he pushed the poker up and down, twisted and jiggled it about inside her, delighting in the agony he was causing.

At last he drew it out, dull now but coated with smoking girl-flesh, dripping with her juices. The cables eased, Laura's hips twisted and rolled again, but her arms lay quite limp. Buron withdrew, the rack tightened once more, and now it continued to stretch her more and more, with no more pauses for relaxation. She was groaning, her body seized with frequent spasms. The two Guards, and two Cadets, brought hefty iron bars onto the Wheel, and began crashing them onto her stretched limbs, aiming at her wrists and shins, striking again and again, mercilessly smashing her frail bones. Her cries were growing weak, but they still pierced the sultry air.

Suddenly there was a murmur of excitement among the spectating party, and a fearful howl from Laura, as her left arm ripped clear from her shoulder, blood spurting from the gaping wound. Her body rolled over on to her right side, now her right arm was being hauled away from her trunk, her wide-apart legs still holding her. It wasn't long before that shoulder gave way and the arm sprung free, dragged by the cable, spattering gore.

Yet she was still alive, still shrieking. The Engineer increased the speed of the Wheel a little, the ratchet clicked a bit faster, but the stretching of her legs was still slow and methodical. Her trunk was now twisting and bouncing, bleeding freely from the torn shoulders. After some minutes, he suddenly paused and relaxed the tension, Laura heaved her torso with a dying groan, the tension was rapidly increased again, and I saw my sister torn in two, her left leg and hip ripped away. A few seconds of death-spasm, then stillness.

There was applause from the visiting dignitaries, a murmur of satisfaction, joined by the flapping of crows' wings and excited cawing as they crowded impatiently around the steaming corpse.
 
If you think that was mean, take a stiff double before you read this next episode -​
Eulalia, ad Crucem damnata​
​
You had me at 'hello'- Jerry Mcguire​
​
But what the hell, I had the stiff double anyway, there was no room for water...​
​
You are very bad, Eul, thus there is plotting against you in a parallel universe.​
​
T​
:rolleyes:​
 
5​


With my sister ripped to pieces, the trinity of evil – Ioannides, Sheng and Zeta – turned their attention to me. They ordered Sara and Averil to replace the torture-irons in the fire-basket, the slavegirls added more coal, we waited while I contemplated at the instruments growing crimson, scarlet, bright gold, prepared to sear my skin and gouge into my flesh: that red-hot poker they'd used in Laura– and Executioner Buron's own little bit of mischief his special branding-iron with which he'll his handiwork.

When they decided the irons were ready, my tormentors were commanded to "soften me up", as if I were a newbie just arrived in the Stripping Room! The Engineer set the Wheel spinning, while all four Cadets thrashed me enthusiastically, their sadistic vigour all the more aroused by the sufferings they'd just watched inflicted on Laura.

When they'd got me screaming and squirming in pain, the Wheel stopped, and Buron approached with the fangs of those pincers held open, hungry for my naked nipples. The way I was hung on the Cross gave me no choice but to hold upwards and outwards my nicely-rounded though not large breasts, as if I were thrusting them towards him in longing, coaxing him to bite. And bite he did, not into the flesh as they'd done with Laura (I doubt this was mercy, only to ensure I survived a good deal longer under Torture), but right on the nipple – stiff, plump, wickedly aroused by the strange hormones of fear. He pulled and twisted at it for what seemed eternity, then with a violent jerk that drew a screech of pain from me, he ripped the little shoot of flesh right out. Triumphantly, he waved the smouldering fragment in front of my face, then forced it between my lips, "Eat it, slag!" My mouth was too dry to taste much, it was hard to swallow, but I managed.

Meanwhile, he'd returned to fetch a second set of hot pincers to repeat the torture on my other tit, my distressed cries were all the worse, knowing what I was going to suffer. He used a series of red-hot bars to sear long, smoking scars on my aching flanks, armpits and thighs. Then he ordered one of the Guards to remove the spike from my cunt. I was shaking in terror as it was quickly unscrewed and withdrawn from my flesh, dripping with my blood and juices. Buron was holding the poker in readiness, deliberately letting it cool somewhat, too great heat would destroy all feeling, he was going to ensure I experienced every moments of its contact with my most intimate parts.

When he forced it in, slowly, turning it, twisting it, thrusting it up and down, my body responded instinctively, heaving to its rhythm, bouncing my buttocks against the spikes, twisting my torso as if in erotic ecstasy instead of hideous pain. The watching men laughed and masturbated shamelessly, even the senior Officers, this was the spectacle they most enjoyed, a girl's helpless response to the cruellest rape of pain.

At last he ceased, I slumped, sobbing and gasping, but I knew there was more to come. After he'd watched me, enjoying my ongoing struggles to cope with the internal pain, he turned and drew his branding-iron from the flames. Where will it be? He held it before me, letting me tense my muscles in preparation, Then he suddenly pressed it hard, right on my cleavage so that it burnt into the skin and fat of both my breasts. It was in the form of a big letter B, but laid on its side so it looked like a pair of breasts, and it formed a deep purple hieroglyph between my two bleeding, mutilated aureoles. "Victim of Buron", that's what it proclaimed!

The audience applauded, a Cadet refitted the Spike into me, it hurt hellishly as it rasped against the scorched flesh in my vulva and vagina. As soon as his colleague had screwed it into position, the Wheel was spun again and the girls had another game with their whips, this time competing to lay strokes across the very points where Buron had just tortured me. Their aim was pretty good, I felt several cuts especially across my breasts that drew shrill shrieks of pain from me.

The sun was sinking as the dignitaries departed, Laura's slow dismemberment and my torture by Buron had taken at least two hours, now there was a bit of a pause in the day's programme of entertainments. Not that there was any relief for us girls hanging crucified, still fighting to flex our legs, pressing down on our nailed feet - the pain unbearable – to ease our other agonies in aching shoulders, steel-tormented groins. Breathing was hard labour in itself, and our mouths were burning with thirst. I wanted to communicate with Barbara, but I couldn't possibly call out to her, and I'd have been punished if I'd tried. I gazed in her direction, her head was bowed, she was gazing intently at her spiked, bleeding feet, watching the slow, cautious movements of her long, stretched legs, her hips rolling gently as she did so. Even in my agony, I felt pleasure in the beauty of her suffering body.

And there was filth, all our bodies had voided uncontrollably whatever was in our bowels and bladders, the stench, along with the pungency of our blood, sweat and other oozing, gobbing fluids, brought black swarms of crawling flies, which by now had laid eggs in our festering wounds, eggs that were already hatching in the damp warmth to writhing maggots.

During the day, little attempt had been made to cleanse the Place of Execution, the filth and foul smell were an important part of our torture and humiliation, and of the fear-provoking spectacle intended for the citizens of Elclud. Only the observation platforms where the VIPs sat were washed down and sprayed with some strong disinfectant. But in this late afternoon interlude, a gang of slavegirls had the job of cleaning the place, and us victims, up. Local, Elcludan youngsters, bright, cheery schoolgirls just a few weeks ago, now learning how their lives will be in the new, civilised, order. Overseers, whip-wielding Cadets of much their own age bullied them along, just like in the IPCG. They carried buckets of water, but they had to use their bare hands to scoop up solid waste and drop it into empty buckets, and they stripped off and used their briefs to scrub the pavement, the Crosses, and us.

By the time a pair of the lassies reached me, their water was foul, their knickers worn to scraps of rag impregnated with everything a tortured girl's body can excrete, but it was still a relief to feel the moisture swabbing my body, especially the many ultra-sensitive parts still stinging from the hot irons and whiplashing. So they could reach my legs and mangled genitals, one of their slavedrivers turned the Wheel to hang me upside down once more. When they'd finished, one of them thrust her panties into my gaping mouth, I sucked at it furiously, not caring what was in the disgusting liquid, biting on it so she couldn't pull it out, so mad was I with thirst. It took a lash of the overseer's whip across my face to compel me to release it.

It was dark when the slavegirls finished, lights were on the city below, and huge powerful floodlights illuminated the Place of Execution, if we were conspicuous by day, we must have been omissible by night. Preparations were now begun for the evening's amusements. Over to my right and left, I was aware that there were two more braziers burning, one in front of Erica and Carina, the other by Gaby and Lucia – indeed, while I was being tortured by Buron, I was vaguely conscious of screams from other girls, no doubt they do were being subjected to similar abuse.

In front of these braziers, close to the Castle wall, were two tall poles, higher than the Crosses of my Wheel, with ominously spiked tops. Before these, all day long, stood Afra and Gejo, the two brown-skinned youngsters – Afra probably mixed, Gejo certainly Asian - managed like Laura and Marie by Guards ensuring they missed nothing of the horrors they were being made to witness. Now a party of Officers arrived and performed the routine of "Name and number? Repeat your confession. Your sentence is...." I couldn't hear precisely what the Director of Punishment said, but the phrases "coated with hot pitch", "impaled on a sharp stake" and "set alight to illuminate the Place of Execution" were sufficient.

The two girls were terrified, Afra started to scream and struggle, but her Guards soon subdued her, Gejo simply burst into tears. They were flung face-down on the ground, their limbs quickly trussed, right wrist to left ankle, left to right, then they were kicked to roll over and lie face up, wriggling helplessly.

Slavegirls had heated pans on the braziers, and these were now lifted by Cadets and the contents, thick, black pitch, was poured over their bodies, the slaves using their knickers to spread it across every bare inch. It was hot enough to make them yell. They were rolled back to lie face-down and the remaining pitch poured over their backs and the long, lush, tangled hair that beautified both of them.

Now cherry-picker vehicles were driven up to where each girl lay. Guards lifted their victims and carried them onto the platforms, which were quickly raised to bring them level with the pointed tips of the poles. The girls were being held heads upright, facing the giant phalli to which their bodies were promised, they were crying ad wriggling, but of course quite helpless, as they were swung forward, their forcibly-parted thigh straddling the pole-tops, the points of which were carefully located, then they were pressed down and allowed to drop onto the impaling stakes, high notes of exquisite pain ringing across Moro.

The cherry-pickers lowered the Guards to the ground, the two victims were left for a while, twisting and shrieking in unspeakable agony as the weight of their own bodies forced the torturing pale deeper and deeper into them, ripping their genitals wide open.

Then the Guards mounted the platforms again, this time one carried a fuel-can, the other a long-handled flame-gun, the kind that had been used to torture us girls on crosses. They were lifted up to their moaning victims, the contents of the cans poured over the pitch-painted bodies, the vehicles drew back a little way, the flameguns fired and at once the two bodies were swathed in flame, from which echoed hideous cries.

The platforms were lowered and the vehicles withdrew. The big flames soon subsided, but were replaced by smaller flames and a general bright glow, veiled by wisps of smoke, over each still-squirming body. Afra and Gejo were still alive and very much conscious, and so they remained for a long time as the pitch slowly burnt away, gradually consuming their skin and subcutaneous flesh, two glowing girl-lanterns visible for miles across Moro.
 
6​

While the two human torches were blazing, Marie was led away. Marie, the girl I'd comforted that first terrible night in the Interrogation Centre, who'd clung to me then and treated me as her big sister through all our shared ordeals in the Punishment Centre, Marie who had been Laura's oppo, slaving as sewer-rats. She'd been made to stand with Laura watching the horror unfold, and she'd been made to watch Laura torn apart on the Wheel. And now it was her turn.

As they marched her off, I gazed longingly after her – a leggy youngster with swelling breasts, a little round rump like a deer, alert and responsive, the kind of girl marked out to be the special pet of the Torture Squads, picked out for their most imaginative cruelties. Where were they taking her? Cameras were following. There were giant screens at either end of our row of Crosses, and smaller ones on the platforms either side of Laura's Wheel of Death, where the VIPs had sat to watch her destruction, so I could see from my position of pain on the Wheel the hideous fate these monsters had devised for her. I couldn't bear to watch, I was utterly exhausted by my own suffering, sickened by what they'd already done to Laura, Afra and Gejo, yet her screams, broadcast full volume through the sound-system, kept drawing my eyes back to those screens, so bright in the evening darkness.

She was taken into the Castle Keep, down many flights of steps, along endless gloomily lit dark passages, into a bright cellar. It was stone-vaulted, with heavy iron rings and chains dangling from the walls, a genuine mediaeval dungeon, but one equipped with the latest styles in Torture equipment. In fact, it was furnished exactly the same as Ioannides 'Colonel's Bedroom', where both Laura and I had been subjected to such unspeakable horrors. And Ioannides, Sheng and Zeta were there, waiting for Marie.

First she was raped, vigorously and viciously, by half a dozen thugs. All filmed and broadcast, onto the big screens and across the world. A gloating commentary through the loudspeakers was warning the people of Elclud to take care that their daughters didn't suffer a similar fate. Then she was trussed up in the humiliating bondage they'd used on me, head clamped, jaw jammed wide open, slave-belt round her waist with chains under her crotch, and shackled, arms behind the back, legs forced wide apart, onto the Torture Chair.

The Cruel Dentist was there, with all his equipment, and he immediately got to work drillingMarie's teeth down to the nerves, then slowing the drill to torment them, before inflicting even worse pain in them with electrodes. The poor victim was fighting helplessly, screaming and jerking abut in the Chair, tugging on her shackles so fiercely her wrists and ankles bled. All the while, the commentator reminded the conquered Elcludans that this was standard procedure for dealing with subversives.

Her tongue was tortured and torn out with heated pincers, her face disfigured with branding irons, then, cruellest of all, her eyelids were sliced away – both eyes – and chilli seeds rubbed into her defenceless eyeballs. The laughter of the men roared through the loudspeakers as they watched her twisting her head frantically with the agony of her sight slowly burning away. As soon as she subsided, her eyeballs were carefully gouged out, threaded on fishing-line, forced down her throat, then hauled up again. This was repeated several times.

Now they turned their attention to her sweet breasts. First the nipples, then the aureoles, then the fleshy globes, were squeezed by red-hot pincers, the sizzling flesh bursting in cascades of blood and fat. And finally, as far as her torture on the Chair was concerned, she was roasted with a stove placed below the seat, so her buttocks, thighs and pussy were grilled till they smouldered.

Only when she was losing consciousness did they release the wretch, letting her try to stand, and tumble to her knees on the stone floor – the commentator made sneering remarks about sluts being made to grovel. And now she was dragged, stumbling blindly, all the way back up again to the Place of Execution.

Meanwhile, right in front of me, preparations were being made to receive her. A tractor with a trailer delivered a large steel cage, about two metres long, a metre high and wide, which slavegirls had to unload and set on the ground between my Torture Wheel and the still-burning brazier. I could see it was divided lengthways into three sections. The central part was vacant, the lid of it open, but in the side compartments were moving figures, dark shadowy creatures in the glow of the fire – rats! Yes, Ioannides' little pets had been brought all the way to Moro to provide the climax in this demonstration of his unprincipled ruthlessness.

Poor Marie staggered into view, they marched her along in front of the Crosses bearing my four cousins, flung her to the ground below me. She was swiftly trussed like Afra and Gejo had been, wrists to ankles, then rolled over and swabbed, not with pitch but with blood, shit and other filth gathered up by the slavegirls, and now wiped by two of those slaves onto the victim, using, as ever, their knickers.

So prepared, Marie was lifted by two Guards, swung across the top of the cage, held there for a moment, then dropped into the central slot, like a body into its grave – indeed, that's what it would be for Marie, but only after a long, slow and miserable death.

The lid was slammed shut. The rats were hissing furiously, scrabbling at the bars that separated them from Marie's succulent flesh, only inches from their teeth. She was obviously aware of them, unable to see them but utterly terrified, still crying out hysterically, begging for mercy.

The partitions were opened, the rats sprang, at once their prey began writhing frantically, as the rodent teeth gnawed into her most sensitive parts. She rolled back and forth, jerked her torso up and around in wild contortions, but of course she could do nothing to shake them off her, they only gripped the more fiercely with their needle-sharp teeth and claws.

Martyrs thrown to the lions must have died a much quicker death. The rat-feast lasted a couple of hours, Marie survived, conscious and squirming, until large zones of her already mutilated breasts, face and female parts had been skinned and chewed into by the hungry little monsters. Lights and cameras remained focused on her agonies throughout, broadcasting fascinating footage backed by cynical, triumphalist commentary, for the whole world to witness.

At last, after a series of violent death-spasms, Marie stiffened. Ioannides' contented rats were carefully removed and placed in comfortable carrying cages to be returned to their home had his private ranch with its dreaded 'Bedroom'. Marie's horribly mangled body was hauled out and flung onto the horizontal Wheel alongside Laura's dismembered joints, left there before my eyes, an obvious whim of the arch-sadist to compound my suffering.
 
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