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The Interrogation And Punishment Centre For Girls

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6​

Their Parade of Death was no triumphant festival like our mothers' had been, more a grim funeral march through the dawn-grey streets of the defeated city, many of the buildings completely wrecked, or shored up with risky-looking buttresses. The only spectators were armed Elmedan MSP and Military personnel, tanks and other armoured vehicles were at every junction, barbed wire checkpoints opened up for the livestock to be whipped and goaded through.. Drizzly rain was falling, mingling with sweat so the damned girls' bodies glistened in the glare of bright lamps – not the ordinary streetlights, but military searchlights rigged up to illuminate the long, slow, uphill climb.

I'd visited Moro with my parents a few times, and recognised the famous High Street, leading from the Parliament Building– now a fenced-off pile of wreckage - up to the Castle. All three girls stumbled several times, the stone setts were slippery in the damp, their bare feet unsteady under their loads. It was pretty well impossible for them to get to their feet without help, so their Guards would jerk up the crossbars with one hand while continue to whip or goad with the other, hauling their charges till they managed to start staggering forward again.

At last the Castle forecourt was reached, a wide parade-ground, big as a football pitch, brightly floodlit. There were grandstands either side for crowds to watch spectacles, I saw the live broadcast we were watching was being shown on huge screens at each end. There were only a handful of men, mostly uniformed, already spectating, but no doubt there'd be more as they day went on. And, just for the delectation of this handful, the three victims were made to walk around all four sides of the court, before being led to the centre and made to kneel in front of a platform, on which stood a party of Officers.

Faith's number and name were called through a loudspeaker, she was tugged to her feet and made to mount the steps to the platform, still bowed under the weight of her crossbar. "Repeat your confession!" A microphone was close to her face, she spoke quietly, breathlessly, but her words were clear, as she reeled off the list of crimes she'd confessed to under Torture. Her sentence was repeated, "Yes, Sir," her voice now little above a whisper, "I understand and accept my just sentence." She was handed over to the Executioner – we all knew him, The Fat One!

He and two tough-looking thugs joined Faith's Guards in escorting down the steps on the other side of the platform, across the courtyard and through the great gate of the Castle. Now they hurried her up a steep slope, the men heaving at the crossbeam so that they half-carried her as she stumbled up a series of steps to the broad walkway around the Castle walls. She had to walk around most of the circuit to reach a wide semi-circular area atop a bastion that overlooked the city centre and the Castle forecourt where Dagmar and Gaby were still kneeling.

On this space, long wooden beams were lying in readiness, uprights for our Crosses, resting at an angle on supports. By the first one the little procession reached, Faith she was made to kneel. The straps holding her crossbeam were at last released, the two monsters lifted it off her shoulders and carried it to the upright, where they quickly screwed it into position while the Guards relieved the little captive of her yoke.

For a few seconds they let her kneel there, her head bowed, long blonde hair hanging limp with sweat and dampness down to her knees. Then The Fat One yelled "Up!", she forced herself to her feet and stood, hands on buttocks, legs wide apart, pale blue eyes anxiously meeting his. "Stand over your Cross!" She knew what she had to do, turned and walked three or four paces, stepped her left foot over the upright and turned to face him again, awaiting the next command, "Sit!"

She swayed slightly, as if dizzy, as she flexed her legs and sat on the rain-wetted wood. "Lie back!" She lay, spreading out her arms without needing to be told. The Guards quickly locked the chains from her wrist-irons to rings at either end of the crossbar, and used the straps that had held it during her final walk to secure her firmly, ready for nailing.

One of the Executioners pulled out a nail from the barbed wire that still bit tightly around Faith's waist. An evil-looking spike, chisel-shaped, the sharp end narrow but not pointed, the camera zoomed in as he held it, grinning, before her eyes, showing its well-used, jagged tip. If he wanted his victim to shriek in terror, her was disappointed, after all she'd been through, she just gazed at it in passive resignation. "Left or right/" he asked, mockingly. "Left, please Sir," she sighed, turning to glance at her slender, shackled wrist.

She looked the other way as he moved to position the nail on the joint at the base of her thumb where hand joins wrist, immediately beside the manacle. His colleague lifted the black-headed mallet, paused – all of us forced to watch in the prison held our breath involuntarily, our Guards were fingering us eagerly, one of mine had two fingers well into my cunt – then thumped it down.

If Faith had denied them the pleasure of a scream when they showed her the nail, she made up for it now! A squeal like a filly being mounted by a furious stallion echoed around the Castle and across the drowsing city of Moro, it pierced the souls of us girls listening, knowing our turn was soon. She bucked up her lower body, kicking furiously – they'd left her free to move as much as she wanted down their, and the continued flailing, leaping, twisting as the hammer pounded down and down, till the broad head of the nail was chewing into her hand, the mallet-blows crunching bone.

The second nail was drawn, her right wrist pinioned in the same way. her screams were hoarse now, but amazingly loud, after her breathless whispers as she repeated her confession. But the pain of nailing forces out inhuman cries from even exhausted lungs.

Now the straps were removed from her arms, a couple of them were fitted around her chest and below her rib-cage, to hold her torso still. A Guard sat on her pelvis, his weight no doubt pressing that cruel barbed wire more deeply into her flesh, he grasped her thighs and forcibly held them well apart. His colleague knelt at the bottom of the upright holding her ankles equally firmly, while an Executioner placed one of the two longer nails on Faith's instep, and his colleague began driving it through.

Her head swung from side to side, there was little else she could move now, her yells turning to moans, still loud, my body was shaking at the sound, my tormentors were chortling with delight both at Faith's misery and my uncontrollable responses.

They nailed the young victim's feet into the angle edges of the upright, so her legs were somewhat flexed, her knees and thighs forced wide. The straps were taken off her, but the barbed wire belt remained. Now the man who'd just hammered the nails into her pulled down his pants and flung himself on her. She sobbed and squealed as he pumped his juices in. All four of the men who'd crucified her enjoyed their privilege, and then they stood around her and ceremonially pissed, aiming at her face, she tossed her head from side to side, but could not escape the warm, pungent shower soaking her lips, cheeks and hair.

Her ritual degradation complete, Faith was ready to be raised. She was deathly pale, her eyes wide, rolling deliriously, her soft lips parted, panting, dripping men's pee. A fork-lift was used to raise the Cross from its support, slowly, little by little. We could see Faith's muscles tense, her body was slipping downwards on the damp wood, she was pressing on her tortured feet and pulling on her tortured wrists, trying to keep control, her face rigid with effort and agony.

At about 60 degrees, the lifting paused, the Guards manoeuvred the upright so it was ready to slip into a socket in the surface of the bastion. The straps were put to their final use to suddenly swing the two arms of the Cross forward. It teetered briefly, then dropped sharply down , a good metre, into its socket. Faith's body dropped, her tense limbs conquered by the shock, a cry like that of no living being was heard across Moro, the citizens looked out to see a new silhouette adorning their Castle's wall.
 
7​


For a little while, the camera lingered on Faith, lit by fierce floodlights in the early dawn, leaping and twisting in a wild, hopeless struggle to ease, or at least come to terms with, the torture of her wrists, arms and aching shoulders, fighting to flex her legs, pressing down – against unbearable pain – on her bleeding nailed feet.

Only when she sank with a deep groan of despair did proceedings continue in the Parade Ground below. Gaby was next, her fine, strong body bowed under the weight of her crossbeam, her breasts hanging vulnerable to her captors' lash and goad as they led her up to the platform. Her confession was hard to hear, her mouth had been smashed in by the blow she'd suffered, she was still spitting gobbets of half-dried blood. The Director of Punishments yelled at her, made her repeat it, told her "You'll suffer for that – extra Punishment for this one!" The Fat One saluted, grinning mockingly, "Yes, Sir!", he clicked his heels.

When she reached the area where our Crucifixions were to take place, she was driven past Faith, now moaning softly as she slowly tried to haul herself up on the cross, sweat glistening on her bruised white skin in the cold light of dawn. Gaby's march continued across to the opposite side. In the growing light I could see the row of uprights positioned ready for each victim, but there was other equipment there too, most conspicuously a pair of huge wheels, one held upright, the other in front of it horizontal. I wondered anxiously what – and who - these would be for.

Though bigger and stronger than Faith, Gaby suffered just as severely as the younger girl as she was nailed, abused, humiliated and finally raised. Her screams echoed around the bastion, as she fought madly to try to force her wrists free from the agony of the nails – of course, she was only torturing herself, making her own hideous pain still worse. The walls and Castle buildings behind served to amplify and project the two girl's shrieks out across the city. By the time we're all up there, it will be a ghastly chorus!

By the time Dagmar's turn came, the audience in the stands on the Parade Ground had grown considerably, mainly Elmedan Military in uniform, some with their partners and even children, and quite a few well-heeled Elclud bourgeois who'd welcomed the invasion and were only too happy to witness the final destruction of wretches they'd never regarded as better than scum.

When Dagmar mounted the platform, the camera zoomed in on her sweat-stained, exhausted face. I watched her lift her head and an expression of shock and deep loathing suddenly replaced her apathy. As the picture swung round, I saw the reason. Waiting to greet her, with his tight-lipped smile, was Dr. Sheng, the evil genius who'd lured her father to work with him, and used the poor daughter as his laboratory rat as he explored the frontiers of his scientific realm – pain in the female body.

Now he'd come to witness and enjoy the final demonstration, not one of his beloved hi-tech tortures, just the simple but still supreme mode of woman-torture, Crucifixion! Dagmar almost spat the absurd confession she'd been made to memorise, then she was marched up and around the walls to he place of execution, alongside Gaby. Dr. Sheng accompanied her, watched all the proceedings with smug satisfaction.

The dank rain had eased, the sun was rising, as Dagmar was lifted on her cross, it was still humid and we were feeling hot in the prison, so were our Guards, still aroused to grope and maul our naked bodies as they enjoyed the sight of our friends' excruciation.

Three girls crying in agony greeted the conquered city as it came to life in the morning sun. Three more would soon be joining them – my cousins Erica, Carina and Julia. We were taken out to the yard again and watched them being yoked and burdened with their crossbars. They all behaved courageously, as I knew they would, both the younger girls were actually smiling, though I avoided catching their eyes for fear we'd earn extra punishments. They strode forward boldly when commanded, knelt and held out their arms, as if challenging their Torturers to do their worst. Their attitude gave me a boost, I felt the despair that had crept into me while I watched the first round of cruxing give way to a surge of determination – we Killhope Girls will fight to the end!

The rest of us were taken back inside to watch the next phase. The sun was bright now as the three condemned girls paraded through the city, more traffic and people about, again it was mainly Elmedan Military or horny Elcludan youths who lined the pavements to jeer and urge on the tormentors, other people hurried by or stopped to watch because they feared the consequences if they didn't.

There were no marching bands, no cheerleaders, none of the grotesque holiday atmosphere that had accompanied our mothers to their execution. Outside a school, the students had been lined up to observe, the younger pupils looking frightened and bewildered, older ones sullen and resentful. There were many more boys than girls, in separate groups, the latter in long, dull grey uniform skirts. They were under the stern gaze of men in uniform, too.

My cousins did pretty well, carrying their heavy crossbeams. Of course they each stumbled a few times, took their punishment and staggered on, their long bare legs strengthened by six months of exercise on the Tower Treadmill were proving well up to the first challenge – there will be much more to come!

The stands around the Parade Ground were pretty well filled when the three victims were herded into view, and a wide area at one end of the ground, fenced off with barbed wire, was now crowded. As the camera panned around, I was able to see who were in this cattle-pen – slavegirls, bare-legged, barefoot youngsters in ragged shorts and sweat-stained vests, standing rigidly with hands behind bums, legs apart, whip-wielding overseers patrolling and flicking the thighs of any who dared move.

I remembered when Laura and I were first convicted and sentenced to Corrective Labour, that dreadful night we'd been marched from our slavery on the Tip to witness the slow burning to death of thirteen girls on the Night of Fire, our first glimpse of the depths of hellish evil into which the Military Security Commission intended to drive us. We were like those girls then, wide-eyed, terrified, unable to believe what we were being forced to watch. And now the girls of Elclud – hundreds of them, by the look of it, already, and no doubt these are only the first of thousands – are being rounded up and initiated into their destined lives as slaves.

Erica, Carina and Julia knelt before the platform. Erica was called up first, made to repeat her confession, heard her sentence, made the long progress round the Castle walls to the Place of Execution. She was crucified next to Faith, who was hanging now fairly still, accepting the agony just twisting a little and occasionally jolting or lunging as a spasm of agony surged through her small, stretched body. I glimpsed a support that had been fitted beneath her groin, trickles of purple blood streaking the insides of her splayed white thighs. I shuddered, remembering how Mum had been provided with a seat like that on her cross, a seat with an upward-pointing spike!

Erica acted bravely as she was prepared, positioning herself and holding out her arms for nailing with a look of determination in her blue eyes. She howled, of course, when her cross was raised and dropped into its socket, her struggle was strong and prolonged before she submitted to hanging, panting, sweat streaming, another crux-victim on the city's horizon.

Carina was feisty too, while she was being nailed, she kicked so vigorously she managed to send one of her tormentors – a grinning little twerp no older than his victim – flying onto the bastion pavement. He got his revenge, of course, when her legs had been nailed, raping her with savage brutality, squeezing, biting, tearing at her neck, breasts and body as he repeatedly thrust his tool into her then pulled out again to inflict further punishment before he finally released his sperm in her.

Her cross was next to Erica's, and her sister shouted some word of encouragement as her cross was lifted – I didn't catch what she said, it earned her a thrashing across her lover abdomen from one of her Guards, but it heartened Carina – and even me, watching in the prison. Carina had always been a natural dancer, if she'd had more patience and self-discipline she'd have been better than me, and on the cross she displayed her capability to the full, with deliciously supple, lively twisting and flexing of her tortured legs and body, I felt a strange pleasure in watching her, knowing I'd soon by up there competing with her!

And young Julia too made a lively victim, not in the least subdued, she rattled off her confession in a bright, clear voice, snapped "Yes, Sir!" to accept her sentence, almost seemed to hurry ahead of her captors as she was taken to the Place of Execution. She let out some good sharp yelps as she was nailed, and gave her legs a good wild waving before they were held down and nailed. She was crucified alongside Carina, and when her cross was up, all three sisters screamed in chorus, a strong, determined sound. "They're going to last well, all three of them!" I heard one of the Officers say who was standing behind me watching the show.
 
Jolly good start to the Grand Finale! :)

Nard is nobbing in anticipation of your plans for 'the wheels'... :D

Have you ever considered piercing the tongue? Hang a 5-oz lead weight from the hole for dastardly torment, and/or use it as a handy grip when at last its time to remove the privilege of intelligent speech from the condemned.

Just a happy thought that perhaps would've been better posted in the 'How Will You Torture Me' thread...
 
It's welcome here, Sir Nob.
Hm, remember Gaby's been threatened with "extra punishment" for opening her mouth defiantly? ;)

Sorry the story's taking such a long time to appear. Things have been busy lately, in "real" life and on the Forums, and I have to be in the right mood - I do envy a writer like Tree who can keep coming up with wonderful yarns and twisty tales, even keeping up two or three at once. I've not felt "blocked", but I like to feel my ideas have "incubated". I'm pretty clear about the way the final part will go now, but want to be sure. When I am feeling ready to write, it comes easily. - I've a sense I'll be there soon, watch this space!
 
Gibbs is a bad man. He tortures Eul and does not expand on his other threads...

...Hell, yes, Ulrika, get him a drink...

T
 
All in good time .................
 
missing that mill tough
 

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8​


And now it was our turn! Our Guards had been refreshing themselves with cans of beer and huge filled baguettes, we were just allowed water, as much as we could drink. Now we were ordered to stand, marched out into the yard, blinking in the now bright sunshine, and lined up, kneeling, arms stretched wide, ready for our yokes. Waiting where I was to kneel stood my avenging furies, Averil andSarah, grinning, whips in their hands. I bowed my head as they tightened my wrist irons, and brushed my hair aside as my Guards laid the hard wood against my bare shoulders. Wrists locked to the rings, head up, neck-clamp fitted.

Now the slavegirls brought crossbars – for Barbara and Lucia, but not for me! I was mystified, but evidently something different was planned for their prize victim. Instead of a crossbar, three bundles of tools, wrapped in pale-coloured, soft leather holders – girlskin, no doubt – were laid behind me and then strapped to my yoke, one over each arm, the third behind my neck. The tools were heavy iron. I could see the business ends of hammers, pincers, pokers, hooks and other cruel instruments peeping out from each bundle.

The Sergeant yelled "Up!", the weight on my back must have been at least as great as that of their beams on Barbara and Lucia, all three of us tottered unsteadily till we managed to find our balance. The slavegirls brought the barbed wire to be strung around our waists, and the nails to be looped into it. Again, mine was different, not just a single strand, but a belt made with three strands plaited together – it was acutely painful as they fitted to me, tightening with a locking buckle at the back – and it had two slender strands hanging down in front of my hips, which the Sergeant tugged between my legs and hooked to the belt at the back, spikes dug into my sensitive parts, it was going to torture me cruelly as I walked. Finally, they slotted the four nails into the belt, the points converging on my smoothly-shaven mount of Venus.

"March!" The electric-sharp sting of the cattle-prod in my buttock and the simultaneous thrash of the cat round my ribs biting into my breast set my legs in motion. So our Parade of Death began. The younger girls led the way, Laura and Marie, Afra and Gejo, just bearing yokes, constantly whipped and goaded, then Barbara and Lucia, panting and often staggering under their crossbeams, and me at the end, driven along by Averil and Sara as well as my two Cadets.

The streets were quite crowded now, our little procession, preceded and followed by armoured vehicles flashing lights and wailing sirens was just an annoying obstruction for workers and shoppers in the busy, hot city. There was some of the usual jeering and abuse, mainly from Elmedan military and local drunks, I was used to that, it washed off me like the handfuls of market waste some of them flung at my nakedness.

What was harder to bear was the sheer indifference of most of the crowds that stood along the pavement as we were goaded past. In Evroga, I'd have had enemies, but friends too – keeping very quiet, but I'd have known they were there, witnessing my martyrdom – but here in defeated Moro I'm nobody, nothing, just a slut serving as showpiece in their conquerors' display of absolute power. If the people of Elclud had any feeling towards us girls at all, it was sullen resentment, our antics with the Resistance on the border was the pretext for the MSC invasion. "But for these slags, we wouldn't be having all this hassle," I heard one woman mutter, "Now they're going to suffer for it," her friend replied, "so they should!"

I suddenly felt very alone, more than I'd ever done through all my captivity. Tears mingled with sweat on my bowed face, I hoped my tormentors couldn't see. Barbara stumbled and fell painfully, we had to wait while she was kicked and flogged and bullied back to her feet, then off we were whipped again.

We passed the marshalled rows of kids and students, some slavegirls too, brought by their new owners to get a glimpse of the brave new world they're going to serve in. At each checkpoint – and there was one at every junction along the way, we were stopped and jerked upright so the Guards on duty could have a turn with the whip, our breasts, pussies and bums were glowing red by the time we staggered onto the Castle forecourt and dropped to our knees in front of a balcony, draped with the flags Elmeda and Elclud – both now charged with the black cross – and that of the Union of Civilised States, and occupied by distinguished guests.

Ugly music was blasting through loudspeakers as we arrived. This ceased and we had to remain kneeling up, still bearing our burdens, through long, tedious speeches. First the new, puppet President of Elclud, a wretched little runt with a whining voice, thanked the Military Security Commission for "liberating" his country, and ridding it of nests of terrorists. He announced treaties of friendship and mutual co-operation, reserving especial glee for the news of a trade agreement opening up to Elclud the thriving slave-markets of Elmeda. He gestured towards the huddled crowd of half-naked girls still standing 'at the ready' in their barbed-wire pen, under the scorching sun, "These will be our first shipment to the market in Badegan. As you see, we've plenty of fine, healthy livestock – there will be plenty more where they came from!"

Next he sycophantically introduced the MSC Military Governor of Elclud, I nearly vomited when I heard his name, General (yes, General now) Ioannides! So that was why he was called away while I was screaming in his rat-pit. I felt sick at the sound of his voice, bringing up the hateful memories of all he'd done, not just to me, to Laura too.

He spoke as the man who was obviously in total command, lecturing the President and people of Elclud on their duty to prevent any hint of Libertarian subversion, to root out and destroy any trace of the Resistance. A new Military Security Police force had been established in Elclud, officers from the Elmedan MSP were giving training, Interrogation and Punishment Centres were being established – though in the meantime, any suspected troublemakers would be renditioned to IPCs in Elmeda. And the wretched vermin being executed today will show such scum what to expect!

Most sinister of all was the third speaker, introduced by Ioannides in a respectful tone that was no part of his usual repertoire. This was the Secretary for Security from the Union of Civilised States. He spoke quite quietly, no histrionics, thanking the President and Military Governor for inviting him, congratulating them on their victory over the "forces of terror", promising continuing friendship and support for both Elmeda and Elclud, announcing in particular new treaties for rendition of terrorist suspects and runaway slaves, and the continued services of "advisers" – I recalled the crop-headed men who'd attended my torture in Ioannides 'Bedroom'.

As the audience applauded politely, we girls were forced to stand. The three national anthems were played, badly, through the loudspeakers, then Lucia was dragged up onto the platform to repeat her confession and hear her sentence, while the rest of us knelt again, our knees sore, our bodies growing desperately thirsty in the humid heat. Lucia behaved compliantly, repeating her confession quite clearly and answering as required to confirm her acceptance of her sentence, but as her Guards grabbed her to march her off for execution, she suddenly swung around and called out to Barbara and me the one word, "Liberty!"

Barbara and I responded instinctively, we were beyond rational thought, both shouted back to her, "Liberty!" At once all three of us were flung to the ground, punched, whipped, kicked so viciously my shoulders were in danger of dislocation, strapped as they still were to the yoke and its burden. But the Director of Punishments called a halt. The three of us were hauled to our feet, panting and spitting blood. He spoke in a monotone, "For gross misconduct at the Place of Execution, you will suffer additional Punishment. That Punishment will be carried out when you are hanging on your Crosses. It will be inflicted by the Mutilator."
 
well done again Eul. Obviously not a THT, Inc. crucifixion but I will stay tuned for the next installment...

Tree
 
Eulalia said:
It will be inflicted by the Mutilator."​
Click to expand...

Oh my, sounds like you rebel miscreants may suffer separation from certain fleshy girl-parts?? :eek:

If so, advise cauterizing wounds to staunch blood-loss and prolong suffering! :D
 
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