The moron with the cattle prod brings it down slowly, playfully. Behold Mr. Shock and his electrifying dick inseparable!
All of them are sadists, all of them tore up live cats as children. The myth that "
effective torturers don't enjoy their work" was created by those who hid their perversion in time.
I've been sent to film some perverted movie, the order made no sense otherwise. There were specific instructions, "
do this, and that and take your time", in code of course. There are others available for the job, but I am the expert, the female psychology and anatomy geek. Somebody really hates this woman.
Mr. Shock focuses at her navel and draws circles around it with the cold electrodes. Normally we'd throw water at her, to avoid the burns, and spread the pain over her skin. But this isn't a normal interrogation, it's not even an interrogation, it's a lunacy. He shocks her in the navel. Her tight abdominal muscles tighten even more. He brings the prod lower. He touches her pelvic bone with the electrodes, he likes to make her shake in fear. He makes clear that the very center of her femininity is at his mercy.
They laugh silently at her agony. None of them laughed back then, with the cats. The laughs came later, and so did the taunts, typical for a group of prats with common interests, a sociability. Similar to the other, one-way "sociability", the one that develops with their victims. Sadistic children are not social, neither are dying cats.
He's shocks her cunt. Her vulva muscles are clenching involuntarily. The pain radiates outwards, making her pelvic area throb. As soon as the spasms stop she pees herself. Muffled crying, trapped behind the gag. A flood of tears she can't wipe away. The hood is soaked. Mr. Shock lets her empty her bladder before continuing. Urine is part of the scene, it's not enough to tolerate the stench, one must learn to like it. The asshole next to me enjoys it for real.
"Controlled pee..." he whispers cheerfully. "...Τhe bitch's being trained."
This job is for dog lovers.
Her sensitivity has increased, she feels the electrodes before they even touch her. He shocks once more. He wants her bladder completely empty. This will be the last piss of her life. Her final degradation will start the moment I shove the sealed catheter into her urethra. Then I'll water her for good...
The "perverted movies project" was something we talked about for fun at times, the fame in the porn industry, the scripts without the hardcore scenes, big hit in Hollywood, and all that crap. I remembered that, as I studied the poor devil's technique with the prod. I wonder who consider me and him and all the assholes in here "inseparable", a mere tool of wrath, us and all those links in the chain of command? What "client" ordered this sickness?
She's dancing with the volts. Soon after she'll feel the electricity even after it's stopped.
Mr. Shock is dedicated to his work. He needs no comfort that this is "
necessary for the greater good", he feels no sympathy, he's too young. The "
greater good" and "
human sympathy" are fairy tales we sell to ourselves when the belly aches start. The younger ones still have the crossroads ahead of them: Either a stomach ulcer or a contract with the devil. The asshole next to me has long since chosen. So have I. There is no choice really, it's just that the stomach ulcer comes a little later.
Her tits bounce with every shock. It's a familiar sight, indelibly imprinted in memory. It makes frequent visits to dreams and nightmares. Pot addiction will kill the nightmares, but it will also kill the dreams and many other things. It'll never kill that fucking empathy, the reflection of her shock every time the current hits her. Unconsciously, it'll turn into something else over time, cruel humor usually, or sexual arousal, or both. Accumulation of repressions in the subconscious, continuous mental self-defense. This is the stuff the asshole next to me is made of. I'm made of it myself.
The original order was definitely the company's, but someone intervened and asked for a favor. Whoever the "client" was, he wasn't one of us. If he was I would've known. There is deep contempt here, raw perversion, pure hatred. Someone who knows her personally. Someone from her fucking "ruling class". Our people, apparently thought to accommodate him. They've even supplied me with a gynecological chair, customized to my specifications. They didn't ask me, they just put it in here. They didn't ask me about anything. Until now I was always asked. I am the expert.
I have to concentrate. What follows is a brutality, highly toxic for the nerves. I'll start the music now, Albinoni's Adagio in G minor, Karajan's recording. Pure death-metal under the circumstances. Loud music is also part of the torture, though not for this phase. The assholes know it and they look at me in wonder for a moment. But they 're more interested in the woman writhing under the shocks.
They want a piece of movie from me, so some "ruling class" prick can get his jollies.
I've never been so offended in my life.
"...Τhe bitch's being trained."
...to be continued...
(the animation loops, you need to right-click on the screen and mark the respective box)
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