4
The sun was high now, beating down directly on my sore and bleeding breasts and abdomen. Clammy sweat surged down my face, shoulders and torso. Flies, gross black beasts as big as my nipples, crowded along the streaks of bleeding weals, I could feel their mouth-parts sucking at me. The pain within me was heaving and gnawing with ever-increasing intensity, aroused and encouraged by the General and his son's targeting of my lower body. At times, my head swam and I became delirious, but the pain brought me back again and again to conscious thought, focused on the sense that something cataclysmic was building up inside me – it can't go on growing worse and worse, surely it's going to kill me?
Yet time passed slowly, very slowly, like the drips of sweat falling from my thighs to the platform. One thought did occupy my tormented mind in moments when it was not swamped by the pain. The order to suspend my death sentence was supposed to have come from the Presidential Palace, yet Piniero didn't seem aware of that, Sheng didn't mention anything about 'stage three' of my sentence. It confirmed the opinion I'd so unwisely expressed that hot afternoon in the coffee-shop, Piniero is just a fat puppet, there are much stronger hands pulling the strings, hands outside Elmeda!
At last the familiar hooter roused me from my dazed snatches of coherent thought, nightmarish delirium, and sheer agony. Soon girls began running onto the Parade Ground, positioning themselves breathlessly, hands behind backs, legs apart, at their appointed positions, squad by squad, each in their distinctive uniform, from the crisp white tennis dresses and trainers of the most privileged V-Section "pets" to the scanty patch of a scarlet thong that is the only garment of a P-Section slave, my status now. All so familiar, the midday shift-change.
The Director of Punishment arrived on the dais and delivered a short speech, ordering the hundreds of slave-girls to pay careful attention (if they couldn't see us clearly, they could watch live closeups on huge screens alongside the Parade Ground and hear our screams through loudspeakers) while "Eulalia and Laura, daughters of the traitor Merida and his whore of a wife, are given the treatment they well deserve as enemies of the State!" A Cadet locked my legs apart. A single Torturer had mounted my platform, brandishing a heavy bullwhip.
He gave me an almost affectionate smile, as though he were about to give me the attentions of a lover. I responded with a glance of resigned complicity. "Whip them!" commanded the Director, and the blows began to rain. I was past screaming now, I just gasped and grunted at each shock of pain. This Torturer was the methodical kind, working first down my back from shoulders to legs, then my front from breasts to thighs, with a final sharp flick into my groin.
It was those last three or four strokes, on my most tender parts, that brought a sudden, new dimension of internal agony. I started rearing and heaving helplessly, feeling a quickly-increasing straining and burning right in my uterus, blood spurting down my thighs. A Medical Inspector leapt down the steps from the dais and hastily examined me. The DP joined him. No words passed between them, the MI just looked at him and nodded. He dismissed the parade, the slave-girls ran off to their appointed labours, like worker-ants swarming down the anthill. The men remained gathered around me, watching, dispassionately, my shuddering, sweating body.
Soon the girls of the incoming shift arrived and formed ranks. The DP returned to the dais, the MI and the Torturer stayed with me. The DP's speech was slightly different this time, promising the slaves that "We're expecting Eulalia to give us a very special show, something to remember!"
Again the Torturer proceeded systematically. I hung, passive, feeling very sick and weak, my lower body jerking in response to his lashes almost independently, as though it was no longer connected to my brain. But the pain in my sexual parts surged more and more severely, I sensed a downward pressure, something forcing its way through me. After the scheduled ten lashes, the torturer paused, the MI examined me again, crossed to the dais and spoke to the DP. "Six more!" the DP ordered, "All lower front."
It was the next stroke that brought the eruption. I let out a huge scream, hoarse, hopeless. Something warm and slithery burst between my thighs and slurped to the platform. Pain tore through the muscles around my genitals. I writhed in agony for some unimaginable time before the second lash came, the men watching eagerly, excitedly.
There was an audible gasp of horror around the Parade Ground, a few girls were sick or fainted – I glimpsed their Overseers dealing with them savagely, but my mind was in turmoil. Then four more, all exacerbating the new focus of torment in and around my birth-passage. There was indeed, something special, something exquisitely cruel, in this experience of girl-pain. I felt the whole of my sexuality invaded by a merciless, unbearable torment – my entire womanhood being sacrificed to the masculine power of the State.
Suddenly, I heard the voice of the Commandant. He had appeared on the platform, congratulating the Director of Punishments and the Torturer. "The General and his family watched from the balcony. I need hardly tell you, they are delighted!" He turned to me, tugged my hair to jerk back my head. "Don't imagine it's going to stop now, slag – things are only just starting! Hey!" – he turned to the DP – "Dismiss the kids, we'll give this slut a few more to please the General!" The DP read out the list of girls who had to report to the Gymnasium for Punishment, they ran nervously to the Stripping Room, the remainder then departed to the canteen window and the dormitory blocks, shocked and subdued by a new horror beyond all they'd witnessed in their slave-lives at the IPCG.
Now the Officers returned to the dais, the Torturer stood back and took aim again. Once more, a blow across my lower abdomen provoked a great spurt of blood between my legs and a shriek from my lips. I was writhing so vigorously, I was seriously hurting my own arms, but there was nothing I could do to save myself. I screamed for mercy, but another lash bit between my thighs, making me kick furiously in spite of the chains. Another, and another. The Director called a halt – I was shrieking continuously, twisting and squirming, totally possessed by pain.
When my ankles were released, I was able to kick freely, so I danced – and how! A wild, mad frenzy of balletic agony, hideous for me, delightful no doubt to my watching Captors. Eventually I was left alone, with a red-knickered Punishment-Section slave cleaning up what had burst out of my body, scooping it into a bucket, scrubbing the stained crossbar and platform, carrying the stuff away to the Processing Plant – nothing is wasted!
i thought about the same but more nude
I'd call that 'The Milking Parlour'