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The Interrogation And Punishment Centre For Girls
- Thread starter Eulalia
- Start date
tape delay over here... enjoy
T
T
Maybe he hasn't been drinking and that's the problem!!!!!I think Admi's asking whether eul's the beauty or the story -well you can't have one without the other!
T
2
Our shows at the Cadet College and in the town near the IPCG set the pattern for the next several weeks, The Killhope Girls' grand triumphal tour of our whole country – but not our triumph, of course, our public humiliation. We visited Military bases, airfields, factories and towns, sometimes doing one performance, sometimes two or three, usually preceded by our being paraded under our yokes, in skirts and tops in the civilian settlements, just thongs in the Military sites, and in the bigger places, public exposure for some hours and one or other of us being whipped at the post added to the spectacle. And of course after each performance, we were auctioned for rich bastards, sadists and dirty old men to do whatever they fancied with us – nominally for half and hour, though it was rarely less than twice that.
We slept in the cage-truck, and were driven through the countryside in it. The first part of the journey was in the upland country towards the northern border, always bleak and wild, much of it was now a desert, deliberately devastated with fire and toxic chemicals to make it uninhabitable for Resistance fighters and for the native people regarded by the MSC as vermin. Hill-farms, even whole villages, were in ruins, animal carcasses lay rotting by the roadside, bands of bony feral dogs howled as they chased our transport.
In such villages as were still alive we slowed down, so no-one would miss their chance to ogle and gloat – and any secretly harbouring hope of a return to the Libertarian days would learn the totality of our defeat. Some older people scowled, surly and resentful, children clung anxiously to their mothers, there was a palpable air of fear, but always enough loud-voiced toughs and acid-faced women to yell the abuse and hurl the filth as the ever-present Security Police required.
And in the towns where we performed, and the more prosperous villages of the lowlands when we reached them, there was a genuine air of celebration, flags and bunting and bands playing, the new discipline, with its ruthless imposition of law and order and traditional values had been quickly and all-too-readily accepted.
Women and girls all had their arms and legs covered, wearing long dresses or skirts – a few still wore trousers, they're not prohibited, but a girl wearing slacks, never mind jeans, who finds herself beaten up in a dark alley by vigilantes won't get much sympathy from the Military Security Police – and all had their heads covered with scarves or military-style berets. Some watched us silently, a look of bewilderment if not of sympathy in their eyes, but plenty were as eager as the men and boys to join in the taunting and muck-hurling, enjoying no doubt the sense of power and release of frustration it offered them in their generally constrained lives.
And then there were slaves, lots of them, easily recognised by their uncovered heads with uncut hair streaming wild or crudely tied with scraps of rag, and their totally bare arms and legs. The standard dress for slavegirls was evidently discarded jeans – no longer required by free women – with the legs cut off right at the crotch, and a vest or a strappy top much like we were wearing. A few wore miniskirts; hardly any wore shoes. They didn't hang around to watch us, they scurried about on their errands or toiled at street-cleaning, garbage carrying and suchlike servile tasks. They were gaunt, mostly filthy, many had visible scars on their faces and limbs, and all bore vivid brand-marks on their thighs. Yet many in their brisk movements and determined expressions looked more alive and spirited than the cowed, anxious women with headscarves and frumpish dresses.
In several of the towns where we were put on display, we shared a public square with a slave-market, hearing while we stood exposed under our yokes that salacious sales patter of merchants showing off their wares, the barking of the auctioneers, the eager shouts of bidders – mostly men, but quite a few women too – and saw the looks of apprehension, resignation or sheer disgust in the faces of newly-bought girls as they were led away by their new masters or mistresses.
And one of our stops was at Badegan, that had been an important livestock market where the highlands and lowlands of Elmeda meet – now, under the new régime, it is the chief trading-place for human livestock, an enormous wholesale slave-market.
We were put on display on a trailer by the main entrance very early in the day, while it was still dark, but huge floodlights illuminated a twenty-four hour corralling area. Cattle wagons rolled in continuously, unloading herds of naked slaves brought in from all parts of Elmeda and beyond, and setting off again with newly-purchased stock to be taken to retail markets in the towns throughout our country and abroad.
Slaves were driven into holding pens, where they could be viewed, prodded, and groped by prospective purchasers, questioning the sellers closely, hearing their loud assurances of the quality of their stock. Especially prize specimens would be made to stand on boxes at the sides of the pens, where buyers could subject them to a revolting physical examination, from their hair down to their toes, but especially in all their orifices.
Selling started well before dawn, with slave-babies snatched new-born from their mothers and brought here to be snapped up by slave-farmers. The bidding was broadcast by loudspeakers throughout the market, prices flashed up on big screens, we could hear the wailing of the poor creatures. Terrified little "slave-piglets" came next, attracting interest from some particularly vile-looking customers.
The busiest trading of the day, taking up much of the morning, was in "slave-heifers", female breeding slaves, the high spot being several traders' coffles of A1 certified virgins in tip-top condition. On the big screens, we saw them running naked around the ring, stopped sometimes for a final groping check by the fattest and no doubt wealthiest bidders, then made to stand on a platform, their bodies being filmed in intimate close-up detail while enthusiastic bidding went on until they were sold off individually for premium prices.
When a slave had been sold, she was taken straight to a branding hut, where her new owner's mark would be burnt on her thigh. Some were from slave-farms where they'd been brought on from infancy, they already had a brand-mark, now they acquired another, but a good many were unmarked, so must have been captives of war or slave-raiding, or else been tricked by plausible abductors, or were being sold into slavery by desperate – or just plain greedy – parents.
As well as the branding hut, there were booths around the market selling all manner of equipment for slave-farmers, traders and owners – shackles and instruments of bondage and restraint, of course, and whips of all shapes and sizes, were in strong demand. I could see one large store proudly named IPCG WHIPS AND BONDAGE EQUIPMENT, with posters proclaiming GENUINE GIRLSKIN PRODUCTS, doubtless a very profitable outlet for some of the sidelines of our huge emporium of slavery.
During the afternoon, male slaves, female working slaves, and, at the end, "rubbish slaves" were sold – these last were dutch-auctioned at knock-down prices to evil-looking creatures to be used for God knows what ghastly purposes (as to a few wretches that weren't sold at all, we saw them led away and preferred not to think what was going to happen to them). After this, we were taken to the restaurant, to perform for a keen audience of men drinking the profits of a good day's trading.
The new flag of MSC-ruled Elmeda flies proudly over Badegan, this is the source of the prosperity evident at least among the wealthy and the middle classes in the towns and cities of the lowlands. Our new rulers have not merely reintroduced slavery, they've cashed in on it big time. Exploiting a world-wide demand, even in countries where it's supposed to be illegal, being able to supply that demand from flourishing slave-farms as well as a policy of aggressive slave-capture by the armed forces and freebooters, asking no questions about where slaves have come from or where they're going, sweeping away fussy regulations about health and safety, welfare and "rights", they have turned Elmeda, and especially Badegan, into the slave-trading capital of the world!
dom59
Assistant executioner
I just started reading your story.
With difficulty, because I never learned English, so I have to translate using Google.
This is a beautiful and moving story!
I am overwhelmed by so much imagination and beauty.
Thank you for the pleasure you give us with this story!
merci dom -
il me fait tres heureuse,
connaitre que je donnes de plaisir
aux garcons et filles de Crux Forums!
Dom59, while the offical languge of this site is English (Thank you, thank you, thank you... ) we have enjoyed you contributions and interest. It's a great group (grope?) and you are a great addition!
Tree
great
use google....................................
I've never called the li'l guy 'google'. It's worth a try...use google....................................
Tree
Naraku
Draconarius
Google is a verb, as in: Tree will sit & google his yahoo until it goes bing.
3
After Badegan, our tour took us through increasingly familiar places in the heartland of Elmeda, until one morning we woke up to find our cage parked in the playground of a school which Carina and Julia recognised with a groan, it was the one they'd attended so recently! We were in the suburbs of Evroga, the capital city, and our marching route that morning was to take us through the districts where we girls had grown up, cruel reminders to us of happier times.
We passed the house where Laura and I once lived, the one where in the dead of night after I was first arrested I was taken back home to change from school clothes into shorts and vest for the Corrective Training Centre, the night when little Laura came downstairs to see what was going on and was "noted" by the Security Police sergeant.
We passed the State Ballet School, the swimming baths, we were herded into the city centre down the busy street past the café where my careless chattering first got me into trouble, first gave the Security Police and excuse to get their hands on me – literally!
All the way, the streets were lined with crowds, decorated with bunting, there was a festive atmosphere – could it be just for us, the Killhope Girls? Or are we part of something much bigger? I was conscious – we all must have been – that many of the spectators were people we knew, former schoolmates, neighbours, shopkeepers, even our teachers. I heard familiar voices, jeering calls of "Eulalia!", "Hey, Lali!", I tried to keep my eyes down on the tarmac, but my Guard delighted in jerking me up and turning me to face my mockers. Being spat at by boys and girls you once thought were your friends is not pleasant – in fact, being whipped is less painful.
We were stood on display in the usual way on a platform in the central square, supplies of rotten fruit, eggs, butchery waste and paper bags filled with faeces were efficiently provided for crowds of our tormentors to hurl at us, while a band played cheerful patriotic music.
I was picked out for flogging, led across to a tall whipping-post that was well-used for punishing runaway slaves, the lower part stained purple with blood. Undressing, though I'm so used to being naked now, was uniquely embarrassing in front of such a huge crowd, knowing again that so many watching knew me well, I felt my cheeks burning as I slipped my red thong down my legs to a huge roar of delight.
The whipping was a standard 39 lashes, they made me count them out loud, in between times I pressed my mouth against the wood and chewed at it to endure the strokes – other slaves must have done the same, it was well-gnawed at around my height, and tasted richly of their tortured saliva, sweat and blood. For the last thirteen, I had to turn and face the crowd, taking the punishment on my breasts and lower abdomen, the thunderous excitement urged me to dance with all the vigour I could summon as the pain tore into my flesh – I obliged.
After that, we were taken to the main Police Station nearby, into the central yard. There we were relieved of our skirts and tops, and our yokes, which we laid alongside some wooden beams, I wondered vaguely what they might be. Then we were pushed through a doorway leading down into the basement, which is a labyrinth of prison-cells. The five of us were crowded into one with only a small single bed, the girls let me rest on it as I'd had the whipping, they made themselves as comfortable as they could manage, cuddling together on the dirty stone floor. We were brought food and water, just a single plastic sink-bowl of each for us to share, and left to rest, though of course the bright light remained on and the usual spying equipment was clearly visible.
It was not a quiet place, there was constant noise outside, footsteps, doors banging, men shouting, and screams – women's screams – something violent, something horrible, was happening, we girl-victims were not alone.
We got some sleep – at least, I did – but were woken pretty early and taken back out to the yard, still night-time though there were fiercely bright floodlights. We were yoked again, no skirts or tops today, just thongs. Our Cadet-Guards were, in contrast, in their best full-dress uniforms.
Outside the Police Station, a huge procession was forming, Military bands, marching groups of uniformed men and women, boys and girls, standard-bearers and flag-wavers, drum-majors and majorettes, dancers and cheerleaders (all of these choice slavegirls, flashing the crimson brandmarks on their handsome thighs), all being busily ushered into their positions in the cavalcade by officious stewards.
We five girls with our escort parties were taken to positions in the column separated by groups of cheerleaders, youth bands, and squads of Cadets, as if to proclaim the contrast between their clean, colourful costumes and celebratory air, and our filthy, naked degradation, the defeated put on show in the Parade of Triumph.
Light was streaking the sky as the procession moved off, with a piercing fanfare echoing round the city buildings. Drums pounded, military hardware rumbled along, boots pounded the roadway, the more melodious instruments were largely drowned in a continuous, thundering roar as we wound our way through the tall buildings of the shopping centres and the commercial area, then out through the University, where I'd enjoyed all-too-briefly the excitement of student activism.
The pavements were thickly packed all along the way, schoolchildren obviously brought there under orders, but excited by the show, and massive crowds enjoying the holiday atmosphere. A particular added amusement along the way was soon brought to the notice of us Killhope Girls. Every hundred metres or so, members of the public, presumably having paid for the privilege, were allowed to run out from the crowd waving whips, and use them on our defenceless bodies. Some of the men had whips of their own, others, and all the women, were lent them by our Guards. They were allowed to continue beating any one of us, or to work back along the line giving all of us a lashing, until we'd reached the next "whipping point".
The ones who picked on me were, again, all to familiar – among them a geography teacher whom I'd never liked, grinning as he jumped about in front of me, doing to my bare breasts and defenceless girl-parts what he'd only been able to dream of while he mentally undressed me in the classroom not so long ago. And Maya, my best friend – yes, I dare say it, my lover – greeted me with mocking delight, "Eulalia! It's so lovely to see you! You're looking just as I remember you - a filthy little whore-slut!", then laid her whip across me with a viciousness that's only felt in a woman's love turned sour.
After the University, we had a long, slow climb out towards the ridge overlooking Evroga. The main road had been turned into a pretentious processional way, with a monstrosity at the top end - the Arch of Victory, topped with the huge flag of MSC Elmeda. Out of respect to those of the Military who had died fighting for civilisation, the bands and cheering ceased. Flags were lowered, the procession divided to pass either side of the great Arch, but we captive girls were made to walk through, right under it. An awful, sacred silence hung over us as we, half-dazed, our eyes distant, doll-like, were paraded as though we were being offered up as sacrifice to the shades of the dead warriors. As we emerged, a band played slowly and solemnly, the new, MSC-approved, National Anthem of Elmeda.
Beyond the Arch of Victory, we crossed the bridge over the ring-road and began the stiff climb upMountBurgo, the prominent hill on which the Libertarian government had built the great National Youth Sports Centre. As we approached the top, I saw to my horror a row of tall, dark crosses, along the edge of the plateau where they could be clearly seen from the city.
The way we had to follow took us close, along a pathway just below them, there were human remains still hanging, like on the ones on Death Hill at the IPCG, and bones lay scattered around the bases – left as a warning here, not cleared away to be sent to the Human Body Processing Plant, though skulls were being used to ornament the iron-rail fences around the perimeter of the Sports Centre.
There were a dozen or so crosses, in a row, but there was a gap in the middle where three uprights lay ready, resting at a slight angle on supports. My muscles tightened at the horrible thought of what was going to happen on them – are they for three of us Killhope Girls?
We were led on past the crosses, then paraded around the wide plateau on the athletics track, the grandstands overlooking the stadium were packed with cheering, jeering crowds, loud military music blared through loudspeakers, cameras followed us, huge screens projected close-up images of our sweating, staggering bodies, bowed with weariness and beatings.
At last we were lined up in front of the VIP boxes, the plump figure of General Piniero in a flashy white uniform festooned with gold braid was all-too-recognisable on the balcony, along with his vulgar wife and repulsive offspring. We were made to kneel, our yokes were removed, we prostrated in submission pose, foreheads to the ground, before the President of Elmeda. Then, kicked on our bums, we were made to stand, hands on our buttocks sore from goading, legs wide apart, facing across the stadium to the row of crosses. We were arranged by our families, Faith on her own to the left, Laura and me in the middle, Carina and Julia to the right. I wanted to glance at Laura to see how she looked, give her some reassurance, but none of us dared do anything but gaze straight ahead, our Guards were behind us, a million eyes were watching.
The procession was still snaking in, the various units passing the row of crosses then dispersing to various locations around the vast sports complex, the participants then joining the ever-growing audience.
Suddenly there was a wave of excitement in the crowd. Behind a booming Army band came a solitary figure, naked, staggering under a heavy load, driven along as we had been by Guards with whips and goads. Then another, then another. Each of them was stopped by the gap in the cross-row, made to kneel by one of the waiting uprights, the load – yes, it was one of those beams we'd seen in the Police Station yard! – was taken from the figure's back.
Now they were made to stand, and began to walk in parade around the stadium as we had done. As they emerged beyond the crosses and came onto the athletics track, we could see them more clearly, three nude females, walking unsteadily, painfully. The jumbo screens were showing them in close-up, I could see one from the corner of my eye. I choked back a cry of horror, at the same moment I heard Carina gasp too – approaching us, instantly recognisable in spite of their gaunt, torture-scarred naked bodies, hollow-eyed ashen faces, and filthy, tangled hair, were my aunt Sophia, Faith's mother, aunt Christina, Carina and Laura's mother, and, in between them, our – Laura's and my – Mum!
4
Our three mothers were paraded like we had been, around the track, their Guards frequently pausing to display their nude captives to the gleeful hoots of the crowd. Finally they were flung on their faces in front of the President and made to grovel for a while in humiliation. After that, they were hauled upright and dragged across to stand in front of us.
The Guards made sure they saw us. My eyes met Mum's, hers were glazed in their deep, dark hollows, with a patina of despair, she shuddered as she recognised Laura and me. I tried to smile, but there was no spark of the defiant fire that once blazed in them, just a look of disbelieving horror.
Christina, Carina and Faith's mum, had struggled a bit as she was marched around the stadium, and spat "Bastards!" when she was shown her daughters. At once their Guards forced the girls to the ground and kicked them mercilessly, punishing the mother with the groans and screams of her daughters.
Then the three condemned were turned and made to stand in front of us at the ready, hands on buttocks, legs wide apart. I could see deep weals and patches of flayed skin on my mother's back and legs, all three wore the familiar badges of torture.
After the new National Anthem had been drearily played, Piniero made a long, bombastic speech proclaiming that this festival was in celebration of the triumph of the forces of Law and Order, the restoration of dignity to the nation of Elmeda, especially its women and girls, and the defeat of subversives and terrorists, before turning to a vitriolic denunciation of our - the Killhope Girls' - parents, especially our mothers now standing named before us, facing their just final Punishment, and ending with a tirade against their evil daughters, us!
At last he sat down, to efficiently orchestrated applause, and the business of the morning began. Faith's mother Sophie was first to be summoned. Her Guards marched her to a platform at the centre of the stadium, groping at her breasts and groin even as they drove her, she made no attempt to resist. They pushed her up the steps, where an Officer commanded her to repeat her confession. Like we'd learnt to do in the Torture Chamber, she recited a long list of absurd crimes she'd been forced to admit to. Her voice through the loudspeakers was soft but clear, tense with terror but still honeyed – she was a good singer.
After this, she was handed over to her Executioner, a huge brute of a Sergeant, bare to the waist, she had to kneel in submission before him. When he growled "Up!", she got to her feet, hands on her bum, glanced back momentarily to see Faith being led over to follow her to the Place of Execution.
Drums pounded slowly as Sophie was taken from the platform across to where her Cross was now waiting, her daughter made to follow just behind. What followed we could see on the big screens and hear through the loudspeakers.
Sophie was compliant, she stood astride the upright where it lay, resting at a small angle on a support, then when commanded she sat down, head bowed, arms held wide, and then lay back, spreading her arms along the cross-beam. There was a deep hush around the stadium, all we heard through the speakers were the Executioner's one-word commands, soft sighs from Sophie, sobbing from Faith.
She was strapped down, the nails brought and shown gloatingly to her, her daughter, and the crowd, a buzz of excitement hummed. The nailing was slow, rhythmic, the crowd clapped in time with the blows, Sophie shrieked and writhed wildly, the close-ups of her twisting form on the jumbo screens provoking a crescendo of excitement from the spectators.
The nailing of her feet produced more pained, despairing groans from the victim. The straps were removed, her body's movements now constrained only by the four nails were sharp spasms of agony. The men around her unzipped their flies, pulled out their cocks, and began to piss over her, aiming at her face and breasts, she shook her head to try to escape the drenching, her long golden hair grew sodden.
Now the Cross was raised, with the help of a fork-lift and the strong canvas straps. Sophie moaned as she felt the strain on her arms increasing and tried to prepare herself. When the Cross was at about 60 degrees, there was a pause of several seconds, it swayed a little from side to side, she drew in her breath. Then in swung forward and dropped into its socket with a thud that made us girls jump in vicarious pain, Sophie's scream needed no amplifiers, it was surely heard across all Evroga.
For a few minutes, the cameras played on the victim's anguished efforts to cope with the pain in her wrists and feet and the racking strain on her whole body, hauling herself up, flexing her legs to give ease, swaying and twisting helplessly as the nails bit ever more cruelly into her crushed wrists and insteps, dark blood spurting around the nail-heads.
Next it was our Mum's turn. She too was sexually abused as she took her final walk, but she kept her head up, looking fixedly ahead, striding with some dignity. She recited her confession in a flat, hoarse monotone, kow-towed mechanically to her Executioner. Now our Guards gripped Laura and me by our arms and marched us across. To the sound of punding drums, we followed Mum to her Place of Execution, alongside Sophie, who was still struggling, gasping, trying to come to terms with the multiple sources of torment.
Mum too was co-operative in her Execution, she'd clearly long since given up any thought of resisting. As she sat down on the stipes, for the last time in her life, her sigh seemed almost one of relief. When she was lying ready for nailing, her eyes turned up to see Laura and me made to stand near the head of the Cross, I felt I could see at least a tiny hint of the courage and determination that used to inspire us.
She took the nailing well, shouting rather than squealing, jerking her body sharply. Although she was very thin, ribs and hips harshly prominent, her muscles were strong, her long, straight legs responding to the hammer-blows with powerful kicks.
After the ritual urination, the raising. Laura and I were brought round to the other side so we would watch our mother's suffering from the front. The violence of the jolt as the upright dropped into position was sickening, again the scream echoed to the heavens, and the body that had birthed us began forcing itself up and down, legs flexing and straightening, arms stretching, head under rich mane of dark curls rolling and tossing, it was almost impossible to believe that the human being we'd known as Mum was now this heaving mass of tormented flesh.
Christina was now on the platform, ordered to repeat her confession. There was a pause, for all the horror we were witnessing we could not but be aware of the moment of tension seizing the crowd – supposing she refused, what will they do to her? What will they do to her daughters? But then she began, and rattled off her rigmarole in a tone heavy with contempt, smouldering with frustrated anger.
She flung herself in submission before her Executioner with the force of an angry adolescent, was then dragged to her feet and marched towards us, her arms held wide as if in anticipation of her Cross, by a pair of Guards who towered over their captive.
She had to be held, or at least her captors did not trust her to obey orders, and the Guards who had crucified Sophie and Mum joined them to assist in controlling this troublesome bitch. Surrounded by strong men, she was positioned over the upright, made to sit and then to lie back and be strapped. Carina and Julia watched nervously, torn no doubt between loyalty to their brave and feisty mother and anxiety at the likely consequences for themselves of her unco-operative attitude.
She neither screamed nor shouted but roared as she was nailed, even the strong webbing s traps seemed in danger of breaking under her violent struggling, but the hammering was relentless and soon she was pinioned to her final pose. Instead of peeing on her, the men threw themselves on her and on her two daughters in an orgy of gang rape of ferocious violence, all filmed and witnessed by the enthusiastic crowd –and, no doubt, a world-wide television audience of millions. Such was the punishment for defiance, visited on mother and daughters with equal brutality.
After this, Christina was raised and joined Mum and Sophie in the dance of the crucified, their bodies already streaming with sweat, blood oozing from their nail-wounds, shit from their bowels slithering down the wood of the uprights.
Now the Guards lined us up on the far side of the pathway opposite our crucified mothers. They were brushing down and straightening up their uniforms, then standing to attention as they supervised us. Three P-Section slavegirls busily used their red kickers to wipe the stinking excrement off the Crosses. A Military band started to play, an ironic accompaniment to the gasps and groans of the crucified victims.
Soon, a fleet of fancy cars glided around the running track, stopped near the Crosses. Parties disembarked and walked the final few yards down the path to where they could view the suffering of their trophies of conquest – President Piniero, his revolting family, and all the VIPs of the MSC régime. We Killhope Girls had to grovel in submission.
They inspected our mothers closely. The Crosses were not very high, the women hung at a level where men could peer closely at the humiliatingly exposed vulvas between their splayed thighs, and reach out to grope their tossing breasts. The podgy Piniero kids showed the same delighted enthusiasm they'd shown when they saw me being flogged, and his wife was full of questions about exactly how our mothers had been tortured. Piniero himself spoke sneeringly and gloatingly to each of the victims, all three responded, in strained voices struggling for breath, to his mocking questions, calling him Sir – they dared not do otherwise, knowing we, their daughters, would have to bear the punishment.
When they'd seen enough of the Crucifixions, they turned their attention to us, making us stand and face them . "Ah, Merida's spawn!" he sneered at Laura and me, "Haven't we mounted a splendid show in honour of your dear mother! Are you enjoying it? – Eh, answer me! Aren't you enjoying it?" He was jabbing my pussy with his Field-Marshal's baton. "Y-yes, Sir!" I sobbed, "W-we-we're enjoying..." "And this is only the start, so far as you little vermin are concerned, we've got lots more planned for you!"