God yes, THT,
my session with you and the IMF was like a pampering weekend in the Caribbean
compared to what I get done to me in my fantasies!
-
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The Interrogation And Punishment Centre For Girls
- Thread starter Eulalia
- Start date
5
The Interrogator drove on with her relentless inquisition, Zeta intervening every time I failed to answer, stumbled, hesitated. He moved his attentions to the little finger of my right hand, then progressed through each digit, slowly, meticulously gouging each gram of pain he could inflict in me.
My head was pounding, how impossible it is to think calmly and rationally, to stick to my own rules, in a situation of such pain and threat of more pain! I could easily admit – though of course quite falsely – that I had been the ringleader, obviously I'd get draconian punishment for that alone, but it wouldn't stop there, they'd want me to name other girls I conspired with, what their roles were, what crimes against the State had they committed. Soon I'd be forced to betray friends I knew were perfectly innocent, and soon I'd be weaving a whole fabric of falsehoods that would only snare me deeper and deeper into confusion and self-contradiction. So I went on yelping and squealing and twisting my torso frantically on the Beam and stared constantly – as he'd commanded – into his relentless cold eyes.
She had a new trick up her sleeve, recordings of testimony given by other girls. I recognised several – my cousin Carina (I thought she and Erica and Julia had got away, they headed for the mountains before the coup, must have been caught trying to cross the Border), Laura's friend Fidelia, such a sweet, shy kid. Most painful was hearing girls who'd died on the Night of Fire – Donna and Maxina who were chained to an iron drum slowly rotating over a glowing charcoal grill till their barbecued skin began to burst open, hissing fat accompanying their dying sobs, and Susanna who was coated in hot liquid tar, then impaled on a stake and set alight, to blaze howling through the murky evening air. Naturally they'd been interrogated before they were executed, one could tell by the strain, weariness and terror in their voices that they had been, or were, under Torture, but that doesn't matter for the purposes of the MSC, the aim was to confuse and incriminate me, forcing me to contradict myself, forcing me to confess I was lying.
Which at length I did. The gobbets of false information they'd extracted from the girls they'd already tortured showed the MSC were already building up a framework of lies about me even before the Night of Fire and the riot, they'd already got their claws into me! I felt a sickening sense of despair, a longing to learn the whole fantastic story they wanted me to confess to and be done with it. But that of course isn't the way they work: I was going to have to go on a very, very long journey, picking up hints along the way, stumbling and falling, getting lost, turning back and forth, often dragged back to where I'd started, and all the time in such hideous pain that I'm bound to let slip things they don't already know, names of girls they haven't already caught.
He'd worked his worst – at least, I thought he had – on all eight fingers, the he returned to the left little one and began again, now withdrawing the wedge, twisting and jabbing with it as he did so, and using a new tool, a pair of pointed pincers, to dig under the nail and begin, very, very slowly, tearing it out from under the skin. It was at this point that I heard myself blurting out – it was no conscious decision – "Yes Ma'am, yes ... I d-did p-plan it ..." "You did plan the riot?" "Yes Ma'am." "Two minutes ago you were swearing you didn't." "I kn-now Ma'am.... I'm sorry Ma'am." "Repeat what you said, loudly and clearly." (They're recording me, I knew) "I planned the riot, Ma'am."
She turned to Zeta. Without a word, he took over. "So you lied to us?" "Y-yes Sir, I, I'm s-sorry Sir...." "You know you mustn't lie to us, don't you, Eulalia?" "Y-yes, Sir." "What must happen to a girl who lies?" "She must be punished, Sir." "Yes, Eulalia, you must be punished – Jaguar!"
The slavegirl knew the routine, she was already wiping a cane ready for the Torturer. A dozen strokes this time, he had me leaping up from the Beam, kicking out with my legs, heaving my breasts along the wooden surface, twisting my pelvis if only to present different angles of my bum to each swooping stroke. I was hurting myself all the more with my struggling and screaming, but it was the only way to soak up the Punishment.
The questioning took the road I'd feared, turning to the make-up of the conspiracy, the names of the others involved. Though Zeta carried on torturously extracting nail after nail, my blood dripping down into a gutter in the sill below where my hands were clamped, I still resisted giving names, but she used indirect, misleading questions to trap me into dropping hints, giving clues, and she soon got me flustered and confused, forgetting who was actually in the Corrective Labour Camp, who I could and couldn't have talked to then. And before long she was able to play some of her trump cards, extracts from the other girls that contradicted what I was saying.
"Rat!" shouted Zeta – that was evidently the name of the slavegirl, it suited well her little pinched face, her dark, ever-anxious, darting eyes, her tousled mane of filthy fair hair. She scuttled to the cupboard in the corner at the end of the window and emerged with a tin. She removed the lid and picked up her own knickers off the floor. She, yes, the little slavegirl, was going to apply this round of torment, the one method of Torture the SIS order should be done by slaves. She pressed her pants into the tin and coated them with some greasy transparent paste, which she began rubbing vigorously onto my buttocks, polishing them thoroughly with it. I felt a tingling, then a burning, then a fiercely blazing fire eating into my bruised and lacerated skin, the agony was unspeakable. When she'd coated both cheeks thoroughly, she stood back while the Torture Squad enjoyed the effect of this cruel anointing on their victim. After I writhed, weeping like a child in my suffering, for some minutes, Zeta nodded to her to order a second coating, and then a third. Not just the skin but the whole of my gluteal muscles now felt as if they were blazing beacons.
Rat put the acid paste away, rinsed her undies under the tap, while the inquisition resumed. I still had three more nails for Zeta to extract, he did so with assiduous care, a perfectionist in the art of Torture. By the time he'd finished, the Interrogator had again thrown me into confusion, frightening me deeply by playing a track of my own voice, talking softly to other girls in the dormitory hut at the Camp – shit! of course the place was bugged! How much else have they got of me?
I'd earned a third round of Punishment. This time both Torturers stood, and Rat went to the cupboard again – oh no! I gasped when I saw what she brought out, a flame-gun for paint-stripping. Or, in my case, bum-stripping. Still incandescent with heat from the acid paste and succulently tender from the repeated thrashings, my rump was now subjected to bursts of unbearable ferocity – only a few seconds, twice on each cheek, but enough to bring the systematic castigation of that conveniently prominent part of my anatomy to a wild crescendo.
As I lay stretched along the Beam, my feet kicking back on the chains so they rang unmusically to accompany my moans., I watched Zeta pull from his pocket a rag that I recognised as my old thong, the one I'd finally stripped off in the Stripping Room – had he kept it for a trophy? Well, yes, but more than that. Carefully he picked up my ripped-out fingernails from the blood-gutter and placed them in the pussy-pocket, then knotted the elastic round to make a little bag. This he slipped into a padded envelope and passed back to the office-slave. "That's a little present for the whore, she'll be glad to learn her piglet's in good hands!" So Mum's still alive, I thought, God knows where or what they're doing to her, but it's useful to know.
you're just mean...
T
T
other are cruel tooyou're just mean...
T
6
Now he released my wrist-irons from the clamps that held them, and signalled to the Cadets to free my ankles from the chains. I slid myself back along the Beam and stood down on the floor. Instinctively, I thrust my tortured fingers between my soft thighs for comfort. That earned a blow from one of the boys that felled me to my knees. "At the ready!" the Cadet shouted, I scrambled to my feet and stood correctly.
The office slave opened the door and handed a paper to the other Cadet, who presented it to me. Holding it with pain by my throbbing fingers, I looked to Zeta for instructions. "Read what it says." I, 381152 Eulalia Merida, confess that I took an active and leading role in conspiring to cause disorder in the Corrective Training Camp for Girls ..." and so it went on, all that I had admitted to in the Torture session summarised in a series of abject admissions. "Speak up!" snapped Zeta – no doubt I was being recorded. When I'd read the five clauses, he warned me, "That is your Confession, at least the start of it. There will be more, much more. You will remember every word, and repeat it every time you're ordered to, word-for-word – any error or omission will earn you Punishment. Understand?" "Yes, Sir." "Sign it then." A Cadet beckoned me to the table and handed me a pen. My fingers, still blazing with pain and oozing blood, could hardly hold it – as I tried to scrawl my number and name I dropped it and had to start again. A pathetic scribble represented me, its smudged, wavering, blood spotted lines reflecting my breaking spirit. The Cadet took it and returned to the office slave.
I was sobbing as I turned to see Zeta emerging from the Control Room into the Chamber. "Kneel!" I dropped to my knees, hands on my burning buttocks. "Kneel properly!" He kicked me so hard in my side that I toppled and slid along the tiles, splattered with my blood and piss. Hastily I righted myself and took up the "submission" posture as we'd been trained in the Exercise Yard, arms stretched out in front, forehead on the floor. "That's better, that's how I want to see Merida's little grub!" He stamped on the back of my head, crushing my face on the floor.
"And now you're going to get what you're bubbling for inside your little whore's cunt – up! Lie on the bench!" I stood at the ready. Rat, knowing what was to come, had swung the bench out from the wall. I was to lie on in on my back, my head towards the wall, my legs apart, feet down on the floor. A Cadet took my arms, pulled them above my head and locked the manacle chains to a ring in the wall at the end of the bench. My bottom hurt so much I couldn't bear to lie on, pressed down on the soles of my feet to raise my buttocks off the bench, lay supported by my feet and my shoulders.
A tremor of terror – but of other feelings too I dared not acknowledge – thrilled through my loins as I saw Zeta unhitching his shiny belt, dropping his pants.... I lay gazing up at him, panting softly, my lips parted, aware of throbbing in my upturned breasts, my nipples springing hard, warm moistness between my well-lashed thighs. As he revealed his mighty upstanding tool, I sighed. My eyes were moist, wide and anxious, but I made no attempt to protect myself or resist – this moment was bound to come, my body and inward senses had been preparing themselves for it ever since he first rubbed his cane against my bare thigh the morning I was admitted to the Interrogation Centre.
He stared down at my glistening body for a while, silent, licking his lips. Suddenly he flung himself down on me, forcing my bum down onto the wood, though the pain made me press vigorously with my legs to lift my pelvis even under his weight. He started groping, kneading, squeezing my breasts, neck, cheeks, sharp nails tearing at my soft skin, he grabbed at my sore buttock making me shriek at the pain, he began biting, digging his teeth into my face and neck, chewing my stiff nipples. My body twisted and jerked in response to this violent foreplay, my head shaking wildly from side to side, I was yelping and squealing like a puppy in the maw of a wolf.
Then I felt his cock touching my cunt-lips and my whole body leapt. This was the moment we schoolgirls had discussed, played at, tried to imagine – how will it feel? How will our poor bodies cope? Now I was to learn, not in some soft bed with a gentle lover of my choice, but on this bench in the Torture Chamber with the man destined to destroy me, a hideous honeymoon of pain! I was weeping, perhaps in pain, perhaps in terror, but more in the knowledge that my childhood, all that had been Eulalia up to now, was coming to an end.
The bleating of the lamb, the Chinese say, only excites the tiger, and now I was the tiger's prey! My innocence was ripped apart in a firework burst of pain that tore from my tortured buttocks all round my shuddering loins. I pressed with all the strength left in my calves and thighs, my womb-muscles contracted and relaxed in time with his rhythmic thrusting. I felt the triumph of his iron-hard dick pressing deeper and deeper – he tormented me by sliding it back then pressing further in, again and again. I was yelling, "No! No!", the extremes of ecstatic pleasure and excruciating pain dancing together in my gushing girl-parts were so powerful I thought death must seize me.
At last he erupted, the warmth of his juices flooded my secret regions from my womb down to my vulva, my own moisture mingling gratefully. He did not hurry to withdraw, but remained pumping at me for a while, still grunting in his own pleasure. At last he pulled back and stood up, slapping my tits as he did so, and spitting on my face. I gazed up at his steel-blue eyes. "Thankyou Sir," I croaked, "Thankyou, thankyou...." "Dung-worm!" he spat, "You don't deserve to have my sperm in you, you're only fit for breeding with vermin." "Yes, Sir," I whispered, "I know that. Thankyou for honouring me."
While Zeta lit a cigar and watched, Jaguar the Torturer now took his turn. He made me turn over and stretch face down, exposing my rump to his cruel attentions. Determined to screw the pain in my posterior up to the very summit, he thrust his powerful penis into my rectum, right between the cheeks he'd so viciously flogged and tortured. My screams as I was penetrated this way must have filled the whole building of the Interrogation Centre to the very top floor – the agony was indescribable, and he managed to hold me in it for several minutes before spurting his cum into my intestines, an eternity for a girl in such torment. There was no pleasure in this for me, only dreadful pain and a sense of utter humiliation. Yet, of course, I thanked him humbly.
His colleague released my wrists from the ring and shackled them behind my back, then made me kneel on the floor, not in submission, but kneeling up. He exposed his cock, I guessed what I had to do. I worked carefully, firstly just kissing the tip, then wrapping my lips round it and sucking softly. My tongue came forward, started licking, gradually drawing it into my mouth. He began to respond, his loins jerking, thrusting the tool so that it slid in and out between my lips. Little by little, my sucking became stronger, licking more vigorous, I started to press my teeth on the succulent mouthful, only very gently, rolling it between them from side to side. He grabbed at my hair, started tugging my head back and forth in time with his thrusting. I felt it grow harder and harder, pressing further and further, right to the back of my throat, I was panting fiercely, so was he. Licking now like a hungry cat, sucking the meaty taste into my gullet with all the power of my lungs, my breasts rubbing against his knees, my chin against his balls. Aaaaah! When he burst, my mouth filled with rich warm paste, it slithered down my gullet, I gasped for breath as he slowly pulled himself away, then I swallowed. Bowing my head, I coughed then said, "Thankyou, Sir!"
The two Cadets had their turns with me too, still shackled with my wrists behind me. One made me lean back, still kneeling, while he fucked me, the other got me to kneel with my face and upper body on the bench so he entered me from behind. Finally even the Medical Inspector of Torture had his will, making me stand up, still shackled, against the wall.
When their work was completed, I stood before them, legs apart, hands on buttocks, wrists still shackled. I was streaming with sweat, panting softly, my genitals still throbbing and contracting with the remembered rhythm of my conquerors' assaults, sensing that my whole body was swimming with male sperm, exploring me, colonising me, seeking out every cranny of my female insides.
"Even a Torturer has to rest," said Zeta, having finished his cigar. We're off now for a while. But don't kid yourself – it isn't over, we've hardly started. No rest for you, little scum-rag – get back up on the Beam!" A Cadet released my wrists, I wearily hauled myself up to straddle the Torture Beam again. As I did so, I saw a new figure in the Director of Torture's chair. "Meet my colleague," jeered Zeta, "Captain Scorpio!"
7
I gazed up at Captain Scorpio. He was a gleaming black African, his features seemingly chiselled from polished ebony, bright predator's eyes, a flash of gleaming white teeth as he smiled at his victim. "It's my pleasure to meet you, Miss Eulalia Merida. I've heard so much about you!" My body wriggled spontaneously at his deep, resonant voice, like the growl of a lion holding down his prey, still alive but helpless under his claws. "And let me introduce you, young lady, to my special friend...."
Oh no, oh please God no! My muscles seized as I recognised what he drew from the instrument tray – the Thumbscrew! We girls had been shown at school a propaganda film from the MSC, in which a brave, strong young freedom fighter, who'd stood up with contemptuous disregard to the most cruel beatings and preliminary tortures, was reduced to a howling baby by that simple device.
Scorpio held it up for me to contemplate, a small, exquisitely fashioned apparatus of gleaming polished steel. Across the flat surface of its shoulder I observed the broken cross of the MSC delicately engraved, surrounded by a stylised tangle of bramble tendrils, such artistry devoted to such an instrument of cruelty!
He fitted it with small screws to the sill alongside my left thumb, then, using the pincers to hold me, he inserted my thumb into its aperture in readiness, screwing down the clamp. As soon as it started to press I jerked in fear and began to moan, he continued turning, tighter and tighter, till my thumb was firmly held, though in truth it was not really painful – yet! – it was just my terrified anticipation that tortured me.
A new Interrogator had arrived, when he started questioning I recognised his arrogant, sneering tone from the Interrogation Room. His questioning took me back to the café incident, when I first got myself arrested. We'd popped in for a quick cola after swimming, Sara, Averil and me. They were teasing me about my short skirt – "when the Contras take power, you'll have to be a slavegirl to dress like that!" I carelessly repeated mum's scornful comment, "If the MSP have nothing better to do than go round with rulers and mirrors checking girls' skirt-hems and knickers, it's time to disband 'em!"
Was it chance? That man with big ears reading his paper in the corner? The boy behind the counter wiping glasses? EvenSaraand Averil...? Somehow I'd said the wrong thing in the wrong place, it was enough. And now I was being questioned again and again on what my mum had taught me – that the Contras and their military allies wouldn't dare reintroduce slavery or impose restrictions on women, "They'd find they need women to run the world far more than women need them!" she said, "Our sisters have tasted freedom, that won't let themselves be enslaved again, or turned into gift-wrapped parcels just to gratify men!"
Mum was wrong, of course. When the Military took over and announced the new laws on women's dress and conduct, there was little protest. Feminist intellectuals, who'd been so vocal in the media before the coup, turned out to be a pretty small and powerless bunch – some made it across the border, many were rounded up, most just shut up and faded into the background. A few rowdy student demos were easily dealt with by the Riot Squad, after a handful of ringleaders had been captured, a gaggle of hotheads beaten to pulp, the rest were too drunk or stoned to bother. The Bear Cubs, the best, keenest girls from the Libertarian Youth Movement, were by far the most organised and disciplined, they gave the authorities real trouble for a few weeks, but the Night of Fire sent their hopes up in the smoke of roasting girl-flesh.
And so many women, the 'silent majority' as it turned out, were – or said they were – happy with the reforms. Snobbish women pleased to be clearly marked off from slave trash. Churchy women sanctimoniously praising the restoration of "Christian" standards. Parents and teachers glad to see some discipline and decency imposed on their daughters and pupils. Even younger women came forward to say how proud they were to wear the new 'cover-up' costumes and headscarves, how much better they felt not having to be exposed to the lustful eyes of men, not to be exploited by fashion freaks trying to dress them in less and less that cost more and more. Even many slavegirls seemed relieved to report back to their owners or hand themselves in to the Security Police.
So now here was I, daughter of a leading feminist, myself a former leader of the Libertarian Youth, stripped of my illusions as well as my clothes, stretched naked on the Torture Beam, my body oozing with the sperm of half a dozen men, learning the hard way some painful truths about being a woman!
But Mum was still alive, so was Laura somewhere – God knows where – I had to be careful not to say things that could screw things for them, or for any of their friends who are still free. So I soon had to fall silent and endure the Screw. The pain was beyond all imagining, as the small bone was slowly, relentlessly crushed tighter and tighter. Scorpio would begin each infliction by slightly loosening, then squeezing even tighter, watching with his blazing eyes the distortion of my face as I shrieked like a soul in Hell.
He didn't break the bone – quite – it could surely have withstood no more pressure, but there was another touch of sadistic ingenuity in the construction of the Screw. Down through the centre of the barrel of the Screw ran a slender metal rod with a sharp tip, on a spring, with a loop in the top. Scorpio had only to take the loop between his fingers, pull the rod up, pause for a cruel long moment, then release it so it pounded into the most tormented spot on my thumb like a nail being hammered. The squeal of agony that drew from me clearly delighted him, as did the way my whole body leapt up from the Beam in the shock of agony. And he could repeat it, again and again.
But he varied the torment, using also a small flamegun, a gas lighter, that he played on the tortured tips of my fingers and in between them, gripping them with the pincers so there was no escape from the merciless heat.
Soon the combined badgering of the Interrogator and unbearable suffering inflicted by Scorpio got me confused, almost delirious, my answers became contradictory, I seemed to be lying....
Punishment. "Heat the Irons, Rat!" Rat was still on duty, slaves work much longer shifts than Torturers! She fetched the rods from the cupboard, I heard the clang of metal, the hiss of the gas hob. Two Cadets came to hold me, one stood grasping my hips to control my pelvis, the other knelt and grabbed my thigh, one hand clutching at my groin. As the Torturer approached, I smelt the smouldering metal, the Cadets' hands squeezed my flesh tight. Aaaaargh! The glowing brand pressed my left buttock. Skilfully, the torturer knew exactly how to hold it so that the burning continued, my skin was heated enough to begin roasting without all feeling being lost. As he pulled it away, I could feel my flesh tugged, I was welded to the hot surface till he tore it clear.
Now the Cadets changed sides, and my right cheek experienced its share. After this, more was inscribed lower down on either side – I could not see, but guessed I'd been branded with the broken cross and lightning flash, and the acronyms MSC and SIS. It was another experience, yet another kind of pain, though the Cadets' squeezing hands restraining me as I jerked and squirmed in response had an arousing affect, the cruel heat in my bum mingled with a womanly warmth inside.
After a short break for beer, fetched by Rat, the session continued with the Thumbscrew moved to my right thumb. Still the questioning pounding on. I had to recall every feminist meeting I'd been to, as a student, as a schoolgirl, with friends (what were their names?), taken by Mum when I was a kid. Who was there, what did the say? What had I read in all the books, papers, pamphlets that filled our house? What had I distributed to other girls? The whole network of Libertarian Feminism was being painstakingly unravelled, I was being made to lead them along the various threads....
A second Punishment – surely they can't do any more to my bum? Oh yes they could. Again the Cadets took up position to hold me. I couldn't tell quite what the Torturer was doing for a few moments, then my nerves told me – he was slowly, carefully, slicing off a strip of my skin with a scalpel, literally flaying me alive. The pain was hideous, and far worse when they got Rat to wipe the wound with acid paste, then played the flamegun over them. I was screeching, gasping, choking in the smell of my own rump steak burning!
After this, another Confession, another series of crimes and been tricked or tortured into admitting. Scorpio had made me repeat my first Confession at the beginning of the session and after each Punishment. Now I had to recite it again with the new clauses added. So it would grow, Torture Session by Torture Session.
And after Confession, more rape. Rat had at last been relieved, a new slave-girl, a solemn-faced youngster with dark hair right down her back to her legs, hauled the bench out into position. I knew the procedure, lay back on the wood, using my feet to ease the pain on my brutalised bum, stretched out my arms so my wrists could be shackled to the ring. My fingers and thumbs hurt so fiercely I could no possibly grasp at the ring, they simply splayed and contracted continuously, trying to ease their ongoing suffering.
I gazed up at Scorpio, his lower body now bare, his hand fondling a magnificent penis, his grin gleaming triumphantly. I sighed, my shoulders moved slightly, I felt my breasts heave, I opened my thighs a little wider....
8
As my body yielded to another round of brutal intrusion, my mind was in conflict. Of course I wasn't enjoying it – it was degrading, disgusting, utterly humiliating, and very, very painful. These men were triumphing in their conquest over everything my parents and I had believed in, my gang-rape their celebration of victory. And yet ....
And yet. I dared not even think it, a sickening pang of guilt seized me at the hint of such a feeling in my brain. Deep, deep inside me where their rock-hard tools were ramming me, I experienced the strange sense that this is right, this is how it should be, the female animal, stripped of all the pretensions and delusions of modern "liberty", succumbing as prey to a pack of rampant males!
By the time I'd sucked off my last assailant, a plump Cadet, a natural bully, tears were pouring down my face to mingle with his spilt sperm on my gasping lower lip. From my kneeling position I spontaneously flung myself at Scorpio's feet, arms stretched forward, forehead on the spunk-wetted floor, in the "submission" pose.
In the silence as he enjoyed my subjection, my head was swimming, my heart pounding. I must have fainted briefly. The next thing I recall was the Medical Inspector checking me with a stethoscope, I heard him say, "She's probably okay, Sir, just shock, but it might be wise to get her checked in the MCU." "Fuck!" replied Scorpio, "We were making good progress. Still, if she has a break now, she'll be fit for a lot more soon, eh?" "Oh yes Sir, she's beginning to crumble. Thinking about what's coming next will only add to her Torture!"
"Stand up then, cunt!" Scorpio kicked my head. I staggered to my feet and stood, still swaying, feeling dizzy and sick. His neon-white teeth grinned at me. "Well, little turd, you've begun to co-operate, that pleases us. We'll soon have you singing out those names, won't we, pig-shit?" He groped my breast, digging his fingers into it like raptors claws. "Think about it – we've only hurt your fingers a little and smacked your bum. That's just for starters. There's all the rest of that whore's body for us to play with, and play with it we shall!"
He turned to the Cadets and ordered, "Take her!" They locked my arms up behind my back and marched me out as the Chamber door slid open. I was swung round and driven up the ramp between the SW and NW Torture Chambers, which brought me to a kind of clinic. There they lifted me and threw me onto a trolley, face down. Piglet the slavegirl had followed with a piece of paper from the office slave, that was clipped to a board on the trolley, a list of the Tortures inflicted on me in this first session.
After a few minutes, a bored male orderly came in and began examining me only a little more thoroughly than the MIT had already done. He looked at my burnt fingers, swollen, purple-tipped and still oozing blood, and at my ravaged buttocks, a mass of weals, bruises, brand-burns and ripped skin. No medication, certainly no soothing ointment. He made me stand and place my hands in an x-ray machine for my tortured thumbs to be recorded, and then stood me with my back to a camera for a body x-ray. Just for the record. Then he waved me back down the ramp to the Control Console, where the Guard checked my identity-manacle, then pointed me to my cell.
In there I fell on the bed, face-down, I couldn't bear to have anything touch my sore bum. I sucked my still agonised fingers and thumbs, and soon dozed into a pain-wracked, nightmare-haunted sleep.
It wasn't long before the siren wailed and I awoke, responding semiconsciously to the stimulus. I staggered outside my cell and stood at the ready. The Inspection seemed to take hours, I was one of the last to be checked. While I waited, I gazed at the girl in front of me, a dark-haired, muscular young woman, probably a slave. Her bum had plenty of weals across it, but it hadn't been mutilated quite as systematically as mine, and there was a large brand-mark as well as a cat's-cradle of lash-marks on her shoulders – different Torturers, different victims, each finding their style!
When the Inspector at last arrived, I shuddered, recognising Atjap. He made me lift my hands so he could see and fondle my still-oozing buttocks. "So," his high-pitched Oriental voice sang out, "This one's had a visit to the Torture Chamber! I see Captain Zeta has left his calling-card!" "Yes, Sir," I whispered, "And Captain Scorpio, Sir." "Very good!" He slapped me hard, I jumped in renewed pain. "You are in very good hands, you should count yourself most privileged to be tortured by such expert filly-breakers."
As he spoke, he put his hand between my thighs, I shivered as I felt his finger sliding between my cunt-lips, into my hole still moist and sore from its vigorous activity in the Torture Chamber. A sharp squeal told him I'd begun to feel his ring, he wiggled his finger so it pricked and cut into my labia, then moved its barbed stones very slowly into my sheath, constantly turning this way and that to slice at the tender walls.
I stood firmly, legs wide apart, willing my knees not to buckle, but my torso was twisting more and more violently as the sharp darts of pain shot up from my tender sex. I was yowling like a tortured cat, shrill, high-pitched yells echoing along the corridor. His finger fully thrust into me, he held it for some time, enjoying my helpless struggling, then drew it slowly out, prodding back up several times when I thought the pain might be easing.
He held up the finger, coated with blood and genital fluids. "Lick it clean!" he poked it at my face, I opened my lips and obeyed with my tongue, the rich warm taste filled my mouth. When he was satisfied, he withdrew it and wiped it on my breast, tearing the skin with the sharp stones.
His attention at last taken from me, I fetched my bowl and received food, my first for God knows how long. It was very hard to hold the bowl, so painful were my fingers and thumbs I could only grip it between my palms, but I dared not let it fall – I'd of course be punished, and anyway, as I gobbled the greasy, salty soup, I realised how I desperately hungry I was.
The drink of water and brief chance to splash myself were even more welcome, indeed it felt blissful to wipe some of the congealed blood, sweat and filth off me. When the cell door glided shut, I lay down again and slept a little more peacefully. But of course the screams of other girls reminded me whenever I stirred, only a short break, soon I'll be back in there ...
Edexl
Assistant executioner
Brilliant! I await with anticipation to read the second chapter of prisoner 381152's ordeal! She's in deep trouble!
Eul, please make sure there is something left of your poor body to be crucified in another thread...
T
poor body?
Edexl
Assistant executioner
Thanks I will enjoy your torment and suffering in the story,hope that you
have butterflies in the pit of your stomach,that is how I would feel anticipating a BDSM session. I imagine you may be crucified as a delicious example to all! You write well!Keep on writing!
Edexl
Assistant executioner
Wow I just love it,poor girl must be dripping with swat at the thought of her impending stripping and torture!
Edexl
Assistant executioner
Maybe in preparation for her second and for her worse trip to the Torture Chamber,where I would like her suspended in bondage too,female slaves should soap and wash and shave closely the fictional Eulalia! I fear she may ultimately face crucifixion publically before a baying crowd!
read on further ...
as you'll learn, washing facilities (of a sort), and even medical care, are thoughtfully provided for the victims of the Special Interrogation Squads
several visits to the Torture Chamber(s) to look forward to.
suspension in bondage? could be, could well be ....
public crucifixion .... that's a long way off yet, boys!
mymartinet
R.I.P. Dominus Flagelli
Come on what you need is a good whipping. I Volunteer to give you one or two
Oh yes Martinet, I see you as an Officer Class recruit for the Special Interrogation Service!
mymartinet
R.I.P. Dominus Flagelli
Thank-you i will take that as a compliment