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The Interrogation And Punishment Centre For Girls

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:mad: Scots isn't English,
It's a sister language that was the language of Scottish Court until the Union of the Crowns in 1603.
It remained the chief language of the Lowlands, alongside Gaelic in the Highlands.
Burns used it of course, and a great many other fine writers, and it's still very much a living language today,
being encouraged (at last!) in schools. :D
But it's hard to get rid of the idea, in many Scots' heads never mind others', that it's just 'bad English'. :rolleyes:
 
but .............................in this forum we using English:Dor give a translating:p:rolleyes:
 
nardnob said:
Translation: I'm getting a big stiffy just thinkin' about it! :D
Click to expand...
you never can tell,​
there might still be the odd surprise twist -​
but again, there might not :D​
 
2​

The train was no high-speed express, it rumbled on, grunting and jolting, swaying drunkenly over points, frequently grinding to long halts, stopping occasionally at stations or depots where bright searchlights temporarily shone through the ventilators, showing up the deep-shadowed, pallid faces of my companions like ghosts, already dead – which, in the eyes of the MSC, we formally were.

At one, quite prolonged stop, there was a good deal of shouting and banging, sounds as if the whole train was being searched. The door of our cattle-hold was noisily unbolted and briefly slid open, a couple of uniformed men peered in, one of them shining a fiercely bright lamp into our frightened eyes. He muttered to his colleague, the door slammed shut, the lock clunked closed.

There was pale dawn light when we reached our destination. The train stopped, doors slammed, footsteps outside, but we remained chained in our prison. The hum of the power system stopped, there was an eerie silence. We glanced at one another anxiously, no-one dared to speak, I – and I'm sure all my fellows – felt suddenly cold and cruelly hungry, this cessation of all sound and movement made us acutely aware of our shivering bodies, our fear and our feelings.

At last the door was opened. A burly man in uniform snapped at the two slave girls, they hastily jumped out and knelt on the platform. Next he beckoned the dark-haired girl sat at the end of the compartment, she was the only one of us not chained to the sidebars. She crawled across our legs. As she passed me, she turned her head and looked closely in my face. "Eulalia!" she whispered, then "Lucia!", and scuttled on.

The Guard had seen her risky misdemeanour, he grabbed her by her long, rich curls and hauled her out roughly, punching her face as he swung her round and through her onto the platform, where he kicked her viciously. "Cunt! You keep your mouth shut, whore-shit, or we'll make things even worse for you than they're going to be already!"

Lucia! Of course, her face flashed into my memory, bright, playful Lucia, my very best friend at school. I'd thought of her from time to time during the long, long ordeal at the IPCG, had she managed to keep out of the clutches of the MSP? Had she got away abroad? But no, whatever she'd done, wherever she'd gone, the tentacles of the MSP had found her, had caught her – they seem to have been obsessively dedicated to seeking out every single girl who'd been contaminated by any contact with me, Eulalia Merida!

Now pairs of Cadets began unlocking our wrists from the bar, girl by girl, then we were dragged out and made to kneel – not just down on our knees, full 'submission', faces right down on the filthy black concrete. They were in savage mode, condemned girls on our way to execution can only expect the roughest treatment. Much shouting, bullying, hair-tugging, punching and kicking. One of the toughs attending to me finished by stamping on my head, crushing my face against the platform, reviving the pain in my jaw from the teeth Ioannides had tortured more than six months before.

I heard a truck pull up, and next we were fitted with yokes, like the ones we'd worn when paraded through the streets as Killhope Girls, though these ones were heavier and clumsier, solid chunky wooden beams across our shoulders, our arms stretched out, wrist-irons locked to rings at either end, clamps screwed against our throats to hold them firmly.

Staggering to our feet, we were fitted with slave-belts, again familiar, the kind buckled tight at our backs, with a pair of chains hanging down from rings in front. These were threaded through our groins, crossed over, and locked to the belt-rings of the girl behind, so we were once again linked into two slave-chains.

Our Guards had whips and goads, some of them had electric cattle-prods. A jab of one of these in my bum sent a sharp pang of fire up my spine and down my leg. All my companions were set in motion at the same time, we began our last walk.

Down a long ramp, through a dark tunnel, out through gates into a bare, bleak street. Still early morning, little traffic about, most of the buildings in darkness, a few neon-lit. It was a town, a big one, but not one I recognised.

As we plodded, whip-driven, progressively closer to what was evidently the centre, there were more signs of life, though it still seemed eerily quiet. Much of the traffic was Military, most pedestrians were in uniforms too, and carrying arms. Some of them paused to ogle us as we were herded past, but the few civilians seemed to avoid looking, hurrying by with heads bowed, as if anxious, afraid.

We reached a grand square surrounded by imposing, though rather grim, grey-granite buildings. Three trailers were parked along three sides, like there'd been when we were paraded in Evroga. I guessed rightly we'd once again be made to stand, exposed – this time stark naked – for the delectation of the public and our own humiliation. We were disconnected from each other and driven up steps to our positions on the trailers, I was at the centre of one, still between Carina and Dagmar.

Our yokes were attached to upright poles along the side of the trailer, on which were placards, each of which bore a poster with a picture of the girl alongside, her name, number, a list of her crimes and the announcement of when, where and how she was going to be executed. I could only see mine out of the corner of my eye, couldn't read it clearly, but it was enough to send a cold shudder through my guts.

There were posters around the square too, with collective portraits of us, all nude, doubtless ID photos from the IPCG, and the words PUBLIC EXECUTION in large capitals above more detailed information. The insignia of the MSC and MSP were prominent at the heads of the posters, and on several other hoardings and fixtures.

And there were clues to where we were. The flag of Elclud drooped from a flagpole in the middle of the square, there was little wind this murky, stuffy morning. But as we approached it, a brief gust lifted it and I noticed a change, the centre of its saltire was now covered by the black broken cross of the MSC. We were in Moro, capital of Elclud. But what are the MSC doing here, why has the flag changed? Two tanks parked threateningly at either side of the square gave me my answer, we were in the capital of a conquered land, here to serve as a dreadful warning to anyone who might contemplate resistance.

The city slowly came to life. A lot of soldiers, Military Police, armoured vehicles. Civilians looking cowed and cautious, some tousled youngsters in shorts or short skirts, their legs crimson-branded – slaves. There'd never been slavery in Elclud, there is now. And as the day brightened, there were more people in smarter clothes, looking more pleased with themselves. Some may have been part of the occupying forces or their families, but of course there'd be people in Elclud who stood to gain from the régime-change, or at least were making the best of it. Arrogant looking men and scornful women paused to look at us, filthy, emaciated, stinking, covered in scars and bruises, they tutted and shook their heads in disgust.

There was less spontaneous muck-throwing than we'd had in Evroga, but a group of MSC Cadets organised a gang of street-urchins and idlers to hurl garbage from the markets, restaurants and slaughterhouses. Locked in our yokes, we could do little to avoid the barrage of rotten food and excrement, our faces were soon coated. But our tormentors were instructed to aim lower, hurling more solid items – bones, bottles, even stones. Repeated hits on my lower abdomen winded me, I was retching from my empty stomach, and my vain efforts to skip and twist to dodge the missiles gave them the pleasure of a lively dance.

Mid-morning the scourging began. They started with Marie. I had my back to the flagpole where she was chained up, didn't have to watch, and was glad, I couldn't have done anything to help her. I didn't know if she'd been whipped on a post or scaffold before, but she took it pretty well, shrieked and yelled of course, but kept up a vigorous struggle as they swung around forty lashes of a grown-up's nine-tail scourge a cross her fragile-seeming shoulders, bum and thighs. Then I heard them make her turn and face them while they delivered twenty more full frontally. Her shrieking became more desperate, in the end she was gasping and gagging for breath. They unchained her and threw her down the steps, to lie their while they dragged up the next victim, Laura.

Laura was experienced, I knew. I remembered her saying, before she was tortured by Ioannides, that she'd been recognised by the secret police while she was being whipped at the post somewhere as a vagrant. And of course she'd been flogged alongside me on the scaffold at the IPCG. She too had a residue of strength that belied her small size and traumatised mind, her groans had the sound of resigned acceptance, their was no fight left in her, but she was able to bear the relentless lashing.

They scourged Afra and Gejo too. Afra put up quite a fight, twisting and struggling, spitting and trying to bite, as they dragged her from the trailer to the whipping-post. It did her no good, she was thrashed with vicious fury and made to scream like a banshee. She attracted quite a crowd into the square. Whatever their politics, the sight of a naked girl being made to dance to the whip is an irresistible attraction to most males and quite a few women too!

Gejo gave them good value too, she was more co-operative as she was prepared for her flogging, but her wide repertoire of yelps and grunts expressed her torment vividly, and I could hear the thuds as her body and legs swung about against he creaking wood of the flagpole.

Why only the youngsters? There was some muttering in the crowd, some demands for us bigger girls to have our turns under the scourge, I saw some pointing at me and yelling to a Military Police officer, "Flog this slag!" He climbed up onto the trailer and signalled for quiet. "We won't scourge the ones who are going up on crosses," he explained, "We want them to keep all their energy for when they're dangling from the nails – but don't you worry, we'll make sure they suffer, you'll see!" That raised a cheer.
 
3​

So we were taken off the trailers and formed up again in pairs to be marched through Moro, the youngsters who'd been flogged limping along in front, getting additional lashes and curses as they stumbled under the heavy yokes on their sore, still bleeding, shoulders. As we left the relatively intact or patched-up city centre, we passed many large buildings, and whole districts of housing, that had been blasted to rubble, pathetic tents and makeshift shacks clustered among the ruins. A few inquisitive kids, looking as starved as we were, came out to watch, most other people hurried by, ignoring what was happening, or peered anxiously through the ruins from a distance.

We were herded through massive security gates into a large compound, proudly flying the flag of the MSC, headquarters of the occupying forces. There probably were a few women troops, but we sensed an overwhelming male presence, hundreds of uniformed men pausing to gaze at a handful of naked girls. We proceeded along a straight lane between huts and concrete buildings to a larger, grimly functional block in the centre. There we were led round to a side door, through a passage and into a courtyard where we knelt for our yokes to be removed.

"Through there!", the Sergeant yelled, we hurried down steps into an underground room. After a short wait, the two slavegirls appeared with buckets of food which they threw into troughs on the floor in front of us. The Sergeant cracked his whip, we needed no more signal, fell on our knees and buried our faces in the stew, gobbling frantically – we were desperately hungry, those of us in the A shift hadn't eaten for 36 hours, during which time we'd slaved for eight hours in the IPCG, marched several miles, spent a sleepless night on the train, marched again through the streets of Moro, been exposed for hours in the blazing sun, and finally staggered into this place.

When we'd eaten, and refreshed ourselves by lapping ill-tasting water from a big cistern in a corner, we were ordered to sit in rows on the floor. The Guards and Cadets who had driven us through the streets filed in and lolled along the walls on either side, smirking as they looked down at their charges. A Warrant Officer had arrived, a swarthy, burly brute in a uniform with shiny buttons and badges.

"Now, scum," he began, "you know very well what you're here for. You're going to be executed tomorrow." I heard a little sob from Marie, the rest of us were deathly silent. He glared at the littlest girl, I was cold with fear for her, but he just went on, "Now you've had your last meal, you're going to be got ready. When your number's called, you'll stand up and quick-march across to the bench." He indicated benches alongside large sinks on the far wall. He paused again, then suddenly cracked his whip across the table in front of him. "You'll obey every order instantly. Whatever they've got lined up for you tomorrow, we can do what we like with you tonight, and be sure we shall!"

There was a murmur of approval from the men, I could see that even tough girls like Carina and Julia were trembling, I know I was too. Some of the men moved across to the sinks, one of the Cadets called out numbers from a list. Up jumped Afra and Faith, they were the first, they stepped briskly across as instructed. We couldn't see what was being done to them, heard a few yelps and squeals, with shouts and curses from their captors. After a few minutes, Faith was marched between a pair of Cadets out of the cellar.

As each girl's preparation was finished, another was called. We were sweating, the atmosphere was clammy and steamy. I was fairly late in the list. When I jumped up and hurried across, the youths who'd been my tormentors all day grinned and told me to lie on the bench, on my back, legs astride, hands above my head. One of them held my arms while the other swabbed my armpits and groin with hot water from a boiler on the wall.

He leered down at me as he did this." How do you feel?” he asked, as I twisted on the bench, the splintery rough wood chafing my bare back. I was surprised at the question, which was asked in a tone of curiosity, certainly not concern. I responded honestly, surprised at what I heard myself saying. " Not bad, considering.” “Frightened?” “A bit, of course. Excited, too.” “I’ve got to shave you.” “Can’t I shave myself?” “You might try to kill yourself."

I watch him take a cut-throat razor from its case, whip it against the leather strop to exquisite sharpness. He began work on my armpits, scraping them clumsily. I was wincing at the soreness, and squeaked as he snicked away a bit of skin. They laughed.

“Do you enjoy your work?” I felt impelled to ask. “Sure, when I get to handle sexy sluts like you!” I stared up at his sleek hair, dark eyes, his baby face. My armpits scraped to his satisfaction, he moved on to my pussy. "Open your legs – wider!” I wriggled, winced, as I felt my cunt probed by his cold blade.

“You love to kill us? Torturing us to death?” “It’s what you ask for!”“Ouch!” “If you think that hurt, wait till tomorrow. When The Fat One starts to play with you,you’ll think of this as pleasure!” The Fat One. I shuddered, I'd heard rumours even before the coup while I was still at school, and spoken in terrified whispers by girls at the IPCG.

I watched my coiffeur lick his lips in satisfaction with his artistry as he laid bare my woman-skin. “Have you got sisters?” “Yes – twelve and fourteen.” He read my startled mind, scraped me again. “I’d do the same to them if they deserved it …” “Ow! Stop, please, it’s so painful … aah!” “But they don’t. They’re decent kids, not slags like you!” I squealed in terror as I saw him take a small flame-gun, the kind they use for paint-stripping, off a shelf beside the sink. “You’ve asked for this – cunt!”
 
Yes - oh, yes, Tree,​
washed out - quite smashed sometimes,​
like it's all just happened to me.​
Do you feel that way when you're writing?​
I certainly can't dream up new scenarios at anything like the rate you can,​
you're creativity-rates are breathtaking!​
​
This last episode is actually recycled anyway,​
one of the 'prose poems' in Eulalia's Book on the Archive.​
Some that will follow will be too,​
I've explored this final part of the story in writing experiments for some years -​
but it still takes a lot of emotional energy even just rewriting them.​
​
 
Please continue :). We want those bitches cruxed :). And, make them scream, cry, climax and faint ggg
 
Eulalia said:
Yes - oh, yes, Tree,​
​
Do you feel that way when you're writing?​
I certainly can't dream up new scenarios at anything like the rate you can,​
you're creativity-rates are breathtaking!​
​
​
​
Click to expand...
Yes I can find it exhausting. Thank you or the complement but often it is ideas put out on the thread by both the guys and girls that give me the ideas. In "Stuff Happens" Messa remarked she should be crucified with her mother. That netted 5 pages in word and 13 or 14 pictures and I didn't decide until the last page to really have her crucified or do the dream sequence that I got villified for!

The whole 'Where it all began..." started from a couple lines in "Stuff Happens".

And I am working another story inspired from your ladies' page in announcements that explores some of this in a way that I hope is new to all.

So keep up the great work. Have a Madame Wu...

T
 
4​

It took half-a-dozen strong men to hold me down as he inflicted my punishment. The Fat One came over, he said something to the youth that included the word "tomorrow", but it evidently wasn't intended to stop him from doing what he wanted. He didn't burn me for long, he didn't need to, my pussy was already sore from the rough scraping, my body arched up as I screeched. "You sorry now?" sneered The Fat One, "Yes, Sir" I croaked, "I'm sorry." "You'll be more sorry still when you feel it tomorrow, lass, you sure know how to make things worse for yourself!"

They let me get up, and led me stepping painfully over the rough stone floor, through a doorway and into a passage lined with cells, condemned cells. Mine was at the far end, the usual pattern, a hard, uncomfortable bed with dirty sacking for bedclothes, a metal mug and dish, a tap on the wall for water, a hole in the floor for a toilet. A bright light in the ceiling was permanently shining.

When they'd slammed the door, I poured some water, relieved to find the tap worked, drank some and splashed the rest on my burning groin, a little soothing Then I fell on the bed, desperately tired, trying to blot out any thoughts about tomorrow, I lapsed into a spell of restless, nightmare-haunted sleep.

A rattling at the door as a key turned. Quick, on the floor, on my knees, forehead touching the tiles... I know, I’m well trained, that’s how they’ll want to find me. The door opened. All I could see was two pairs of shiny polished boots. ‘Here she is!’ A young woman’s voice, familiar, too – I shuddered. "Kneel up, sow!" I saw them now, two girls in uniform - Officer Cadets - slick, smart, holding their whips.

My memory flashed back to that hot summer afternoon. We’d just been swimming, stopped for a drink in the café, joking about the Ultras, my little school skirt. "If the Military get their way, you’ll have to be a slave to dress like that!" I didn't remember just what I said, something I'd picked up from Dad, but they'd put so many lies into my mouth since. That man in the corner, reading his newspaper, he heard me ....

Avi. Sara. "Do you remember us?" I’m sick with horror, anger, hatred. ‘Oh yes, of course I remember you!’ She kicked my sore, naked groin, "Call me Commander!" "Yes, Commander, I’m sorry, Commander." I bowed my head.

They sat on the bed, grinning. "We were surprised when they told us you were still alive. We thought when they took you off to Killhope you’d had it!" "We didn’t expect it, we guessed you’d just get a good hiding, a few weeks in the Juvenile Training Centre – but then there was the coup, the MSC took over, things got serious!" "Not that we cared! You got what you deserved, little whore!"

She leaned forward, grabbed my hair, twisted my face to look in hers. "But we care now!" "Oh yes, we care what happens to cunts like you. That’s why we’re here, to make sure you suffer!"

"Did they torture you?" "Oh, yes, Commander, they tortured me." "How many times?" "Three times in the Interrogation Centre, Commander, Major Zeta. Then, when they’d captured Laura, Dr. Sheng tortured me in the Studio. And after we’d got away from being slaves and worked with the Resistance, when they recaptured us,Colonel Ioannides sent for me. That meant God knows how many nights in the Colonel’s Bedroom!" I was shaking as I remembered it.

"Wow! They’ve had fun with her!" "Still, you must admit, she’s got the sort of nymphet’s tits and legs that torture-men go for!" "Yes, she was always a little Lolita. What was the worst?"

The worst? What could I say? The whips, the hot irons, thumbscrews, electric probes deep in my female flesh, Dr. Sheng's See-Saw, his Saw-Horse, Ioannides' Torture Chair, even those spiders?

They kicked me. "Come on, rat, what was the worst?" "Commander, worse than all the Torture was, after I’d been in the Punishment Pit, when they exposed me naked on the Scaffold, flogged me – I was pregnant then from being raped – they beat my baby out of me!"

I was starting to sob, helpless. They giggled, "Wish we’d been there to see that!’ "They’ve had their money's worth from this one! Hey, how much did we get for her?" "Thirty." "Not much – but you’re not worth much, are you, sow?" She flicked me with her whip, "No Commander."

"We got more for Carola, didn’t we?’ "Do you remember Carola?" "Oh yes, Commander." I remembered very well, Carola was student the activist who complained she'd been raped by Zeta. She 'disappeared'. "They finished that cow off on the Wheel. They took us to watch her, that was cool! She didn’t half screech, no heroine then, just squealing like a bitch in agony, begging for mercy, hour after hour!"

"But Crucifixion’s best, takes longest. How long do you think you’ll last, sow?" "I’ve no idea Commander." "You’ve been on the Tower Treadmill, haven’t you?" "Yes, Commander." "That will have toughened you up, your legs and arms and shoulders – built up your muscles for your good long final agony!"

"I’d put my money on at least thirty-six hours." "Yeah, I reckon she’could still be twitching on the third day." "We’ll be there. We’ll make sure you suffer every pang of pain that little slut’s flesh of yours can squirm and struggle with." "We'll watch you hanging on the Cross. We’ll make sure you’re kept conscious, yelping and whimpering, twisting, mad with the pain, until the crows start on you!"

I knew. I’d seen when my mother and aunts were crucified how Cadets were trained to inflict whatever tortures will ensure their victim’s dying hours are filled with hideous suffering. Now it was my turn. I shivered responsively. That pleased them.

"We’d better leave you now, the boys want their turn with you – you know what they do to girls the night before they’re crucified?" "No Commander – but I can guess." They laughed.

I threw my forehead to the floor again as they stood up. "Enjoy your last night, Lali,
we’ll be there – four in the morning, your big day!"
 
5​

Indeed, the boys were outside, impatient to get their hands on me, their cocks into me. They took me to an area reserved for such fun and games, a cage about five metres by five with a walkway around the outside and a gallery above, where a crowd of hooting spectators was gathered. The other girls were already sitting or squatting around the walkway, some tense and anxious, awaiting their turns, others already sobbing and panting, their bruised, sweaty bodies and tangled hair fresh from their bouts.

Julia was in the cage, being hurled among three men, who picked her up, twisted her limbs and torso till she shrieked, then threw her to each other or flung her down onto the floor, then leapt on her to drive their pricks into each of her holes. Too dazed and winded to resist, she wisely succumbed, spreading her thighs and opening her lips compliantly, all her fierce rebelliousness had been knocked out of her.

My turn came last. My personal Guards beckoned me, I clambered into the cage and stood for a few moments, glancing around. Several men were filming or photographing, I spotted Sara and Averil smirking in the gallery. The two Cadets entered and eyed me mockingly, one suddenly seized my arm and swung me so wheeled, literally arse-over-tits, into the open grasp of his companion, who struck my head on the floor so I was sick with dizziness, then threw me back. A blow to my lower abdomen sent me reeling against the bars of the cage, both of them began slapping, pummelling and kicking me until I was spewing yellow phlegm.

Now one of them grabbed my hair and hauled me to the centre of the cage to fling me to my knees in front of a third man who had joined them, The Fat One himself. My rape began. My shoulders seized, I was hauled back so I knelt with knees wide apart as The Fat One dropped on me and forced his tool – that too was a fat one! – sharply through my vagina. The two Cadets followed, one making me take up the "bridge" position that we'd been trained to adopt in the IPCG when we were being fucked, the other preferred have me kneeling, entering from behind.

The Fat One was ready for more, he made me kneel and open my mouth wide to receive his sperm. I was breathless, my heart racing. I knew I must co-operate, if I dared to bite him he'd punish not just me but all the girls, in ways I dared not think of – and anyway, dreadful though it seemed, I wanted to share his pleasure. So I flicked my tongue around his glans, licking gently and tenderly at first, then more vigorously, and, as his massive prick grew harder, carefully kneading it between my teeth. His responses were hardly gentle, he was tugging at my hair, punching my cheeks, squeezing my breasts, the pain only urged me on. It seemed an eternity while his jack hung in my mouth, perched above my tongue, just touching the back of my throat, then the eruption came, the cascade down my gullet, warm and succulent.

He kicked me away. Another man had come in, demanding a share, he rolled me over and buggered me, his rod as cruel as an iron spear impaling my rectum. I was crying. That's what they like to see, the whole audience cheered him on, delighted with this triumphant climax to the early-morning entertainment.

As soon as they'd finished with me, we were all marched out into a yard at the centre of the complex. Our yokes were waiting, and alongside them a sight that hit me in the gut with its awful reality just as hard as any of the punches I'd just received – a neatly stacked pile of wooden beams, crossbeams for us to hang from!

We were made to line up alongside the building, at the ready, hands on our newly-buggered bums, legs open wide. It was still dark, a bright full moon adding to the glare of fierce floodlights, we were shivering in the cool air, naked, trying to suppress our terror. Three girls were called –Dagmar, Gaby and Faith. All three stood up smartly, Gaby glanced back over her shoulder and even seemed to grin momentarily. One of her Guards spotted this insolence and punched her face, hard enough to knock out a tooth or two, and sending her sprawling across the floor, his companion booted her then hauled her up by her hair while the first Guard pummelled her until she was retching. Then they flung her down on her knees, blood gobbing from her lips, alongside the other two girls who had compliantly stretched out their arms for their yokes to be fitted.

When all three had been yoked, the two slavegirls who'd been on the train with us had the job of carrying the crossbeams one by one over to where the prisoners were kneeling. Faith's was a little smaller than the ones for Dagmar and Gaby, but it still looked brutally bulky for a youngster to carry. There were webbing straps already on the beams, and when these were laid across the victims' shoulders, the straps were used to secure them to their yokes and extended arms.

Now the Guards yelled and kicked to bring them to their feet, all three staggered forward and swayed perilously until they found their balance and managed to stay on their feet, bowing under their loads. We thought they were ready to set off, but there was another touch of cruelty to come. A slave brought three strands of barbed wire and her companion two bags. The wire was tied around each of the girls' waists, they winced and cried out as the barbs pierced their flesh. But worse was to come. From one of the bags, Faith's Guard drew out a long, dark, square-sectioned nail. He showed it to his captive, leering sadistically as she shrunk away from its threatening point. He then pushed it upwards under her barbed-wire girdle, and twisted it so that the wire tightened around her and it was held pointing downwards, touching her pubic mound. He drew out another nail, did the same again, and two more (these looked a little shorter than the first two, but equally vicious). By the time all four had been fixed to her, the wire was cutting deeply into the girl's soft flesh, blood was trickling over her hips and down her thighs, she was sobbing in anguish.

The same cruelty was inflicted on the two bigger girls, their cries of pain were louder than Faith's, their suffering just as great. The slaves now brought the Guards' equipment, one of each pair carried an electric cattle-prod, the other a cat o'nine tails, each long, black, snaking thong tipped with a sharp-pointed stud. An open jeep was ready for The Fat One and a couple of other Officers, another armoured car would follow the small procession. Faith yelped and jumped as her bum felt the shock of the goad, she was to lead off.

We watched as our three companions stepped out of the yard, each stride awkward and agonising under the swaying beams, their Guards shouting, goading and scourging their doomed flesh along the Way of the Cross. Faith stumbled even before she was through the passageway out from the yard, sharp jabs on her thighs with the electric prod only unbalanced her more, she dropped to one knee, took a lash from the scourge and a sharp kick in her bum, managed to get to her feet again and strode forward.

The rest of us were taken back into the building, back to the area where we'd been shaved the previous evening. We had to sit in rows on the floor, and made to watch, on a big screen on the wall we were facing, a live broadcast of our three friends' Parade of Death. Our Guards sat immediately behind us on benches, drinking in the scene, anticipating what they'd soon be doing to us. They were masturbating eagerly. As the camera zoomed in on Gaby – I'd been a bit envious of her fine boobs, tattooed with torture-scars like mine, but still big and bouncy, her tormentor was targeting them with his scorpion-scourge, thrashing it around her defenceless bare ribs - I soon felt hands groping my breasts, "By the time you get to your cruxing-place," gloated my captor, "Your tits will be flayed to ribbons – just like hers!"
 
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