2
One of them, the one with the sjambok, strolled round behind me. I heard the swish of the Whip and tensed sharply, the air whisked my bare back, but he was testing my reactions, teasing me...
Aaaah! Like a red-hot blade slicing my skin, the first stroke of the Whip tore diagonally from under my right shoulder down to my left hip. I thought I was hardened to pain – after my ordeals in the Interrogation Centre and Dr. Sheng's Torture Laboratory, I imagined nothing worse could happen to me. I'd been whipped, of course, during those Torture sessions, and the vicious little 'keeper' whips that the Guards and Cadets are allowed to carry – and use – at all times had become part of my life as a Killhope girl. But there are always new refinements, new facets of pain, that the sadists can open up. This man that was whipping me now was a professional, his whip longer and heavier than the horsewhips used in the Torture Chambers, it licks right around me, tearing into my flank, cutting a furrow all down my ready-scarred back. And, although I know there'll be much worse to come, the first lash is the one you remember, the one that sets the benchmark for your pain...
A professional doesn't hurry. He paused, ten, twenty, thirty seconds or more to let me experience the spreading pain, tense myself ready for the next blow. The second crossed over the first, from the back of my neck down to my right buttock. My reactive kick tugged my leg on its chain. Three! This time straight across my buttocks. I heard myself squeal. I was trying not to cry, trying to show Laura how to be brave, I wasn't going to let these brutes break me, but my eyes were moist, my lips trembling. I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth, as the fourth and fifth lashes curled around my hips and ribs, making me gasp as air was driven from my lungs.
Head bowed, eyes closed, I didn't see the Torturer move round to the side of the Scaffold. His next stroke took me by shock, swung from in front to lay its furrow straight across the lowest part of my now visibly rounded abdomen. A huge, hideous shriek burst from my throat, quite uncontrollable. Piss burst in a torrent between my legs. I heard shouts of delight from the watching crowd, applause from the Officers, "Well done! That's got her going! Now let her feel the Scourge!"
Obeying the Chief Torturer's command, the sjambok-man stood back, his partner walked around me, appraising, choosing his target. "Make her dance!" someone yelled from the Parade Ground. He obliged, the sharp-tipped thongs of his knout on the backs of my thighs, triggering my display of helpless kicking and twisting.
The audience were getting excited, urging him on. His second blow ripped my buttocks. I swore – like in the Torture Chamber, I found swearing a way of fighting what was being done to me. But of course it just provokes them. He strolled round to face me. I waited for the worst. His first shot from in front landed round my left flank, bruising my ribs – horribly painful, made me twist my torso, but not what the audience wanted.
"Tits! Tits!" they were yelling. My breasts were full now, very tender, hurting even to touch and sore from contacts with the rough concrete floor of the Punishment Pit. Their cruel shouts made me shake with anticipated pain. He gave them a thumbs-up, turned back to me, grinning. "Ready, kid?" I bowed my head submissively.
The sharp tips of the thongs fell precisely across my soft flesh, biting deep. Blood spurted. I was howling, tears pouring, all attempts at courage crushed. I sobbed, "Please, please have mercy, Sir – just a little rest..." It was futile, of course, just what a Torturer needs to hear to heighten his cruel arousal. He thrashed the fronts of my thighs, and I swung, legs flexed, trying to absorb the pain. Then he aimed right at my pudenda. The blow sent me spinning, half delirious, a searing spasm tore through my birth-passage into my womb. I hung by my wrists again, twisting, writhing. What was tormenting me wasn't just the torn skin and bruising, there were things, horrible things, happening inside me. I knew, all too well.
"Excellent!" cried the Chief Torturer, "She's a lively victim, going to make a feast of fun for us!" He turned to Laura's Guards. "But now it's time to get her sister brat started. Bring her to the East Scaffold."Laurawas crying. As they hustled her past me, I whispered, "Be brave, Lauri, be brave like Daddy!" At once the Torturer with the sjambok flicked it up between my legs, right into my groin. I jumped with a squeal." You'll pay for that, whore!" snarled the Chief Torturer, "And, what'll hurt you even more, I know, your little sister's going to pay for it, too!"
I had to listen as they put poor Laura through the routine – number and name, repeat confession, sentence, handed over to the Torturers, up to the Scaffold, shackled in position. All the time, as blood oozed and trickled down my quivering trunk and thighs, a sharp, throbbing pain kept gripping my womb. The Chief Torturer was right. The sounds of Laura's whipping, her helpless squeals and cries, were worse pain for me than anything they could inflict on my body. I felt sick, tormented by my inability to save her. It seemed endless, at last the Chief Torturer called a halt.
My Guards, who'd of course gone to watch, came back. They gave me another dozen blows, taking turns, keeping me leaping and twisting, yelping and squealing, to the slow, remorseless swish-crack rhythm of the whip – indeed, I was performing the infernal ballet the Chief Torturer had commanded!
At last they stopped, wiped their whips lovingly clean, and gave them to the slave-girl. A Guard stepped forward and knelt to release my ankles, so that I could stand, arms still raised and shackled, until the next bout of whipping. The sun was just rising, I knew the hints of warmth just beginning to touching my sore, throbbing breasts would soon turn to blazing heat – the day's agony was only just beginning!
Guards and slavegirls came and went, taking little notice of us two naked victims on the Scaffolds. I couldn't quite see Laura, the Officers' dais between us blocked the view, though I could see the top of her scaffold. I wanted to call to her, just to say something encouraging, but I didn't dare – if anyone heard, they'd punish her as well as me.
The sounds and smells of the IPCG were the accompaniment to our ordeal – the scents of cooking bodies and rotting waste, the creaking of the Treadmills, the continuous rumble of trucks bringing waste to the Tip and human bodies to the Processing Plant and carrying away their slave-worked products, the cawing of crows, the endless chorus of high, thin shrieks from the Interrogation Centre behind me. My mouth grew dry, flies buzzed and crawled over me, lured by my pungent sweat and bleeding weals. I shook my head and jerked my body to try to shake them off, but of course I was helpless, they became a part of my Torture. The pain in my woman-parts throbbed, it seemed to rises in surges, then subside, then rise again, gripping the muscles of my abdomen in tight spasms. I knew what was inside me – while I was in the Punishment Pit, I had become sure my monthly bleeding hadn't come, the life inside my womb was slowly taking shape. But I knew that morning on the Scaffold that there was something strange, something horrible, happening with what was in me – I didn't understand what it was, it frightened me almost more than the whips.
After what seemed a long time, when my head was beginning to swim in the drowsy heat, a group of Officer Cadets came to view me. They stood by the Scaffold, whistling, jeering, displaying their bulging cocks under their flies. I'm well used to it, well used to being naked – that's one thing about life in the IPCG that hasn't been a problem for me: I was surprised, even when I was first stripped naked, how natural and normal it felt. Of course I was scared, knowing I was being prepared for Torture, but I felt no shame, no humiliation, just my terrible, delicious, vulnerability. And as for men and boys ogling me, their lewd insults, obscene gestures, gross manhandling, they're all part of being a Killhope girl, I quickly got accustomed to it. So if the sight of my bare, bruised and bleeding body pumped up big erections on some quite dishy-looking Cadets, I admit I felt a thrill of pleasure too. I didn't blush or try to hide anything, I turned myself towards them, let them drink in their fill of me – I'm betraying all my mother taught me about women's "rights", I know, but I've learnt truths here about myself and about being a girl poor mummy couldn't ever have imagined!
While the youths were enjoying me, the Torture Squad returned, a new team, new shift on duty. The Medical Inspector examined me, pressing my womb – he must know what's going on inside me, surely he can't allow them to go on whipping me? But he declared me "fine!", the Guards locked my legs apart again, and the Torturers prepared to do their worst.
Half a dozen lashes each round my flanks, loins and thighs set me screaming and kicking again, tearing open the wounds they'd inflicted earlier, then the Chief Torturer came down from the dais. He gave an order to the slavegirl, who hurried away and soon returned with a bundle of canes in a tall bucket. She drew one out, wiped it with a cloth, and handed it to him. I heard him swish it through the air, it made a piercing whistle. Then he used it on my bum – a sharp, cutting pain made me leap in the air with a roar. He strolled round in front and laid it viciously across my breasts, twice, enjoying my animal squeals. The next blow was right on my womb, raising my inward pain to a new pitch. He called for a fresh cane from the slavegirl – they evidently kept them in water for maximum suppleness - and applied it progressively lower – my pudenda, the fronts of my thighs, then the backs of my legs and up to my buttocks again. I yelped and danced for him, he was laughing, delighted. Strokes on my armpits and sides of my breasts, then another right across them, completed this second bout of flogging, leaving me twitching and shuddering in pain as they turned their attention to Laura.
When they'd got her crying and shrieking like a baby, they were satisfied. Another check by the MI, then again, our ankles were freed, another long wait under the now fiercely blazing sun. Not long after they'd left us, there was strange activity – a tractor with a trailer delivered some large rolls, a gang of slave-girls (red knickers, P‑section) set to work unrolling them: laying across the head of the Parade Ground a red carpet!
"I am most grateful. It is a beautiful work of craftsmanship. I shall treasure it – and I shall certainly use it!" Sheng lifted the other whip, and waved the two slaves away. "May I offer you, young Master, Sir, a Cadet's whip. This, too, has a handle bound in real girlskin." The plump boy grinned and took his present with delight, his parents looking on with pride as he received this symbol of his manhood. "Thankyou, Sir," he mumbled, quite embarrassed at the attention.
