5. The beating has stopped. I hang half-naked by my wrists, spinning slowly, small welts and bruises appearing on my back and tummy. My brain is foggy. I have lapsed into silence.
"Well! Say something!" demands the General. "Tell us who you are working for! You have a taste of our methods now. And that which you just experienced was nothing! Just a preview of what we can do to you! No one is going to save you. It's up to you Ms. Moore. Talk!"
I remain silent. My arms ache. My back hurts. I kick my feet in a desperate attempt to reach the floor and relieve the strain. But I can't.
"How can Yankee sluts be so beautiful and stupidly stubborn at the same time?" sneers the captain as he stares leeringly at my exposed breasts and flattened tummy. My head droops. I am revolted by his attentions. I don't want to look him in the eye and avoid his gaze.
"Get her down and take her down to the 'Terror Pit'. Give her a few hours to recover, then torture the stubborn little whore until she sings!" orders the General.
"Oh shit!" I think as they untie my wrists, lower me down and drag me ... too weak to walk ... down a flight of stairs to the cellar area that the General referred to so casually as the "Terror Pit."
At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy door swings open. I am dragged across the threshold of what appears to be a large subterranean space consisting of several cells and a larger room for torturing and interrogating prisoners. I am dumped on the floor and left. The heavy iron door slams shut.
After a time ... possibly several hours ... during which I pass in and out of consciousness, they return, pick me up off the floor without saying a word, and take me over to an old iron bed frame propped against the wall.
My shirt is removed, my arms outstretched, my wrists cuffed to the frame. They spread my legs and cuff my ankles too. When they are finished, I am helplessly spreadeagled.
A moment later, the General enters the so-called Terror Pit, looks me up and down, grabs a chair, drags it over and takes a seat directly in front of me.
I watch warily over the looming bulk of the General as the captain drags a heavy black battery, along with a crate full of wires, coils and electrodes, across the concrete floor.
With business like precision he hooks the electrical apparatus to the bed frame, while the General offers me one last chance to talk.
"Talk Moore, or you will be sorry," he purrs.
Feeling a sense of renewed determination to deny him what he wants, I shake my head, look him straight in the eye and yell, "Fuck You!"
"Proceed!" he thunders.
"Well! Say something!" demands the General. "Tell us who you are working for! You have a taste of our methods now. And that which you just experienced was nothing! Just a preview of what we can do to you! No one is going to save you. It's up to you Ms. Moore. Talk!"
I remain silent. My arms ache. My back hurts. I kick my feet in a desperate attempt to reach the floor and relieve the strain. But I can't.
"How can Yankee sluts be so beautiful and stupidly stubborn at the same time?" sneers the captain as he stares leeringly at my exposed breasts and flattened tummy. My head droops. I am revolted by his attentions. I don't want to look him in the eye and avoid his gaze.
"Get her down and take her down to the 'Terror Pit'. Give her a few hours to recover, then torture the stubborn little whore until she sings!" orders the General.
"Oh shit!" I think as they untie my wrists, lower me down and drag me ... too weak to walk ... down a flight of stairs to the cellar area that the General referred to so casually as the "Terror Pit."
At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy door swings open. I am dragged across the threshold of what appears to be a large subterranean space consisting of several cells and a larger room for torturing and interrogating prisoners. I am dumped on the floor and left. The heavy iron door slams shut.
After a time ... possibly several hours ... during which I pass in and out of consciousness, they return, pick me up off the floor without saying a word, and take me over to an old iron bed frame propped against the wall.
My shirt is removed, my arms outstretched, my wrists cuffed to the frame. They spread my legs and cuff my ankles too. When they are finished, I am helplessly spreadeagled.
A moment later, the General enters the so-called Terror Pit, looks me up and down, grabs a chair, drags it over and takes a seat directly in front of me.
I watch warily over the looming bulk of the General as the captain drags a heavy black battery, along with a crate full of wires, coils and electrodes, across the concrete floor.
With business like precision he hooks the electrical apparatus to the bed frame, while the General offers me one last chance to talk.
"Talk Moore, or you will be sorry," he purrs.
Feeling a sense of renewed determination to deny him what he wants, I shake my head, look him straight in the eye and yell, "Fuck You!"
"Proceed!" he thunders.
Forget all the discussions about nudity and violence! Now the story will be banned worldwide!
