good so far, Eulalia
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The Interrogation And Punishment Centre For Girls
- Thread starter Eulalia
- Start date
mymartinet
R.I.P. Dominus Flagelli
Good story so far , when`s the next episode ??????????
Dont forget: lesbians are obviously wore....
Why?
and what is a lesbian?
and what a whore?
messaline
Crucified Amazon
Why?
and what is a lesbian?
and what a whore?
I only agree...
"whore = putain" in french...
what is a lesbian?.....admi, you surprise me!!!!
why affirmed what the gray mass is saying?I only agree...
"whore = putain" in french...
what is a lesbian?.....admi, you surprise me!!!!
whore: prostitute; person who is sexually indiscriminate; person who is willing to disregard moral principles to achieve something (Offensive Slang)
why surprising? You know my viewpoint Lesbian are women who loves women not? Some people, especially males find it unethical and wrong.............and You?
for me dear Messi is love something enormous, and it is not important who the subjects are..............male/male, woman/woman, or male woman..............love is love and is unconditionally..........and there is no law or faith in the whole world capable to stop it. And that my dear Messi was what I would hear from you...............
a lesbian is a lebian Messi and not a whore in the way people think about whores.
Perhaps is now clear what I meaned with my questions.
it was after a week in which two beloved friends of me married and that their own parents it found immoral and in my country the "holy" church emasculating boys (age 14) because they wer gay. something i had to said.
Hansi
messaline
Crucified Amazon
I agree with you in real life, but I was speaking about the story of Eulalia: in her world (story) no pity, no rights for lesbians, but, fortunatly, I hope it's a dream and it'll be never arriving!
In real live, you must know that i'm the first to defend lesbians (I'm one and I tell
it) and I think that nobody can judje me; my love is so legitimate than any other
(men/women). For all that I dont want make "proselytism", for all that I want to be respected !
Cheers for your support about your friend! It's wonderful!
Messa
In real live, you must know that i'm the first to defend lesbians (I'm one and I tell
it) and I think that nobody can judje me; my love is so legitimate than any other
(men/women). For all that I dont want make "proselytism", for all that I want to be respected !
Cheers for your support about your friend! It's wonderful!
Messa
I know it Messi, very well and the story is indeed fiction and funny but that's why I want that people think about that.I agree with you in real life, but I was speaking about the story of Eulalia: in her world (story) no pity, no rights for lesbians, but, fortunatly, I hope it's a dream and it'll be never arriving!
In real live, you must know that i'm the first to defend lesbians (I'm one and I tell
it) and I think that nobody can judje me; my love is so legitimate than any other
(men/women). For all that I dont want make "proselytism", for all that I want to be respected !
Cheers for your support about your friend! It's wonderful!
Messa
And for sure the members here with our kink and most of them are well educated I wanted clear what lesbians, gays are and that they are not lesser. And you stay for your viewpoint and I knew that and that's why I would hear it from you and that's why I asked it you. and now it is clear for everyone.
and I stop with preaching.
Hansi
messaline
Crucified Amazon
You know Hansi, that intolerance will be yet for a long time in this world!
In the street, we often have critical remarks about us(Judith & me) even if we are
reserved (only hand by hand, a little kiss sometimes...)...
Imbeciles are everywhere and we dont convice them, unfortunatly!
I stop preaching my dear Messi everybody knows how I'm thinking about it and if somebody wan't accept that then is it their problem.
I heard this weekend that the "holy" Church given orders to the emasculating of 14 years old boys, because they were gays.
And everything I pass through years ago came up again. I'm sorry for that. I'm now well rid of those thoughts (good english? perhaps not but never mind)
I heard this weekend that the "holy" Church given orders to the emasculating of 14 years old boys, because they were gays.
And everything I pass through years ago came up again. I'm sorry for that.
I'm now well rid of those thoughts (good english? perhaps not but never mind)
Aristotle he say: N is lesbian & N is whore doesn't necessarily entail every lesbian is a whore.
But of course Zeta in my story is verbally abusing me,
not stating any truth about me or about lesbians or about whores.
Of course I agree about same-sex lovers,
what's more I have no prejudice against prostitutes:
if they're genuinely free agents, I respect their choice,
if they're not (sex-slaves, junkies, children) they deserve compassion and all the help we can give.
I hope to God you're right, Messa,
but don't kid yourself that it couldn't.
"Funny" isn't quite what I had in mind,
but I'm happy if you're enjoying it!
5
We walked unsteadily back to join the line outside cell 6. While we were standing at the ready, waiting for Zeta to reach us on his inspection, I heard Marie behind me sobbing softly, then suddenly she slumped, I didn't dare turn and look, but I realised she'd fainted. I was taut with horror and what might happen when he gets to us, he seemed to be taken longer than ever, gloating, ogling, fingering the captives. At last he reached me, "Dyke sow!" he snarled again, spat in my face and swiped me with his cane across my pubes, so I doubled forward in pain, his spittle dripping from my cheek.
"Get up, turd!" he yelled at Marie. Still I dared not look, but heard her try to stagger to her feet, then moan and fall prostrate again. "Lazy bitch! Dirty little runt, get up!" he was kicking and beating her without mercy. She couldn't obey. At last he paused. "Should I call the MI?" asked the Guard, even he sounded a little anxious. "Fuck, no!" snapped Zeta, "It's just a girly trick, they put it on, the little cunts." He booted her again. "She'll pay for it. She's on Atjap's list, when he's got her in the Torture Chamber, he'll teach her to faint! "
I shuddered at the thought of little Marie in the dreadful place, but for now they left her, lying face down on the concrete floor, her limbs splayed. As we ate our food, I watched her with concern, she was breathing rapidly, trembling. When we'd finished, the Guard shouted from along the corridor, where Zeta was tormenting some wretch, "You two, get that thing off the floor and into the cell!" The tough, stocky youngster who was standing next to Marie bent down, rolled her over and hauled her up by the arms, I took her legs. She wasn't heavy to carry between us, but my arms were aching brutally from the weight-punishment. We laid her on the bunk, and joined the queue for water.
When I'd got mine, I drank it eagerly, I was very thirsty, but then topped the bowl up before the tap closed and took it across to Marie. Lifting her head gently, I put it to her lips, her eyes half opened, she felt the metal and began drinking. Like me, she was terribly dehydrated. As I let her drink, the door slid shut. I glanced at the spy-camera, thinking I might get punished again for doing this, but I thought stuff it, I wasn't going to let them dehumanise me. Maybe the Guard didn't spot me, maybe he decided we'd had enough punishment, no shout came through the speakers. I put the bowl back on the sill, then crashed out on the cell floor, nursing my aching arms and sore, bruised body. Soon, for all my pain and discomfort, I fell asleep.
I was woken by the siren for the next break. Marie was a bit better, able to stand outside for the short inspection; I let her have the bunk again after the water ration, and sat on the floor thinking. "If that punishment was meant to break me, it hasn't succeeded. Maybe it's my anger at the way they bullied and abused me – and even worse, Marie - maybe it's whatever they've been putting in our food (it's dawned on me that something's making me feel hot and madly moist in the hours after each meal), maybe it's just desperation to get out of this living tomb of a cell, but I'm ready now to face whatever they're going to do to me! I know they've brought me here to destroy me – operation Killhope they call it, rounding up all the daughters, sisters, girlfriends or partners of the Libertarian activists they've killed or imprisoned, to stamp out any last flickering embers of resistance to the absolute male supremacy of the Military Security Council – and I know in the end they will destroy me, but I'm not going to let them do it without a damned good fight!"
I got a hint that my time in cell 6 might be coming to and end the next day, when I spotted outside one of the Torture-victims' cells across the way Eva, the German girl who'd been thrown on the Military Transport plane with us when we were being renditioned. Her back was striped with lash-weals from her shoulders to the backs of her thighs, her buttocks bore livid brands, the broken cross and the lightning flash proclaimed her the "property" of the Special Interrogation Service. When she squatted to eat, I saw how painfully she held her bowl, how her mouth was bruised and twisted, her eyes too were horribly blackened and swollen. She wore manacles and ankle-irons, the little chains tinkled as she struggled to eat in spite of her violently shaking wrists. All that, I thought, and she's only had her first session in the Torture Chamber!
A couple of nights later, they came for Marie. When she heard her number, she sat up, jumped down from the bunk and stood at the ready. I looked up at her, but she stared straight ahead, her mouth set in a determined expression, she probably realised looking to me for comfort now was useless, she'd only burst into tears. The door slid open, out she went to experience the tender mercies of Major Atjap.
Hearing Zeta say that Marie's on Atjap's list had filled me with sick horror. I guessed that was the oriental Major who sometimes inspected us, I'd noticed he regularly picked on her, fondling and prodding, enjoying making her wriggle and yelp as his fingers found her sensitive spots. The most evil thing about him was his ring, on the middle finger of his left hand, a big, gold band with a setting of diamonds, each stone cut to a sharp little point. When he crossed the corridor to inspect the nude Torture victims, he'd pick on one and fondle between her wide-spread legs. Suddenly she'd shriek. If she fell, as most did, squirming in pain, she'd be kicked and beaten till she stood up again, and he'd continue the torment until he'd forced the poor wretch to endure it without flinching, standing at the ready not moving a muscle, while the tiny sharp fangs inflicted exquisite pain and cruel damage to her labia and vagina, and blood trickled down her inner thighs. Such a man was now to wield control over the little living body of Marie.
The next day, a doe-eyed Indian girl took Marie's place in the cell, totally bewildered by what was happening to her. The hell she'd been condemned into must have become a bit more apparent at exercise time, when we witnessed another young woman suffering for "minor offences". To my horror, I saw it was Caterina. She was, of course, guilty of absolutely nothing. On the night of the riot, when the Security Police set the dogs on us, some of the girls had taken refuge in an isolated farmhouse. A crack squad from the MSP were observing from a helicopter, using searchlights to track where the escapees were heading. Within minutes they'd landed in a nearby field and launched a raid on the farmhouse. They machine-gunned the farmer and his wife, who'd only come out to see what the hell was going on, then rounded up the girls along with their daughter, Caterina, handcuffed them and thrown them in transport trucks that had soon arrived. Back at the Corrective Labour Camp, all the girls on those trucks were marked down for rendition to the IPCG, even young Caterina, and she happened to be the one despatched with me.
She was being punished on a trumped-up charge of "failing to report her parents as subversives" and "assisting young criminals in absconding from the CLC". 84 lashes, 7 years punitive hard labour, then to be sold as a slave. Still, a "minor offence" means she's escaped being tortured, I thought ruefully, as I watched her made ready by the usual Punishment Squad. She was an agile performer, dancing to the Whip, her long fair hair tossing and tangling around her timid face, long athlete's legs kicking vigorously on the ankle chains, as blow after blow wrapped round her slender, squirming body. She had a good singing voice, her cries rang sweet and clear, echoing from the high buildings, delighting the enthusiastic crowd who'd come to witness her cabaret.
So, both my companions in rendition were already receiving their share of pain, soon it must surely be my turn? Indeed it was. That night, as I was dozing after the midnight water-break, the dreaded call came, "381152!" I rolled over and jumped off the bunk across the Indian girl, who was curled up on the floor. I stood at the ready, feeling my heart racing, breathing heavily, feeling a wild mixture of terror, relief and excitement – at last the time's come!" The door squealed as it slid open, its noise blending with the screams from along the corridor. Soon I shall be part of that chorus.
Waiting outside was a solemn-faced young slavegirl in white shirt and shorts. She beckoned to me to accompany her. No heavyweight guards, no thugs with manacles to march me along, just a little blonde elf with big blue eyes was all they'd sent to lead me! Of course I followed her, they know that I know that to do anything else would only make the unthinkable horrors that await me even worse – they can always make it worse! So I hurried with her up the stairs, past the Stripping Room, up another flight, past some grand, heavy, polished wooden doors (the Commandant's Office and his private Torture Chamber, but that I was to learn later), up another two flights to a huge, open, brightly-lit room furnished with a range of hi-tech machines – as we carried on up I heard a most terrible scream from somewhere among those machines, and beside the next flight of stairs I noticed small cages in which naked girls were crouching like captive animals, this was the Torture Laboratory, they were the guinea-pigs, but again these were things I had yet to learn. At last we reached the top of the staircase and turned along an unlit corridor. About half-way along, my escort stopped and stood at the ready by a door, I did the same, not a word passed between us.
Opposite me was a wide window, I was looking out at a clear starry sky, the first I'd seen since the night of the riot, though lower in the sky the stars were dimmed by a bright glow from below, the never-off lights of the IPCG. For a wild moment, I thought of hurling myself at the glass, breaking through and leaping to my death some five storeys down, but of course it would be folly, no doubt armoured glass sufficient to withstand a tank-shell, never mind my poor body!
After what seemed a very long wait, the door beside us opened and we entered. Two Cadets were inside a largish room, with a long desk at the far end. One directed me to stand on a pair of concrete blocks at the nearby end of the room, facing the distant desk. They were set nearly a metre apart, so my legs were very wide, hands on my buttocks as usual. In the floor between the blocks was a drainage hole. Clearly I was going to be standing there for some time! In front of me he placed a microphone.
Suddenly the other Cadet flicked a switch and a battery of lights came on, all of them shining at me, I had to shut my eyes, only opened them again when they'd begun to adjust to the brightness. I could just about manage to keep them open, but now I couldn't see anything beyond them. The Cadets sat on a bench by the wall a few yards to my left. I heard the slavegirl ordered, "Tell the Interrogator she's ready." She hurried off down the room. Another wait as I got used to standing in this symbolically vulnerable pose, then I heard – but could not see beyond the glaring lamps - a door open, people entering and taking their seats behind the desk. The slavegirl returned and stood at the ready by the wall to my right. A voice boomed through a loudspeaker, "Number and name?" My voice too was amplified through the speakers, "381152 Eulalia Merida, Sir!"
...and???????????
T
T
Chapter II
Into the Torture Chamber
1
"Eulalia, do you know what 'Torture' means?" "yes, Sir." "What?" "It means ... it means hurting someone, hurting them very, very much..." "Why?" "T-to make them answer questions, tell you stuff...." "And?" "And, er, and confess, confess things they've done." "Any more?" I struggled to think, I was already feeling confused, too scared to think clearly. At last I spoke hoarsely, "Punishment, Sir?" "Of course, to punish you for non-co-operation. I'm pleased you understand that. "To punish you," he'd said, I shook at that turn of phrase. "Can you think of anything more?" I paused, sweat trickled down my face. "N-no, Sir, I'm sorry, I can't think of any other reason." "Pleasure! That goes without saying!" That raised a chuckle from the men around the room.
"We shall ask you some questions, Eulalia. If you answer them satisfactorily, you will not be tortured. You will only get a light sentence –" like those girls I've watched being flogged in the Exercise Yard, I thought glumly – "but if you choose not to co-operate, we shall have no choice but to hand you over to the Special Interrogation Service. Do you understand?" "Yes, Sir." My voice was nothing but a strained whisper, but the sensitive microphone picked it up and amplified it through the whole Interrogation Room. I could feel, they could surely see my wide-stretched thighs quivering in the bright lights' glare. I felt very, very vulnerable, displayed in my near-nakedness in front of these inquisitors, whose faces I could not see for the blinding lamps.
The questioning began. Firstly they began probing me about myself, working back from what I did on the night of the riot, what plotting had gone on in the Corrective Labour Camp, what I'd been talking about in the Coffee Shop that afternoon I was first arrested, back through my student and high school years, back even to my childhood.
I had to think on my feet, my poor bare feet pressed uncomfortably onto the concrete blocks. For a start, forget co-operation, there's no way I'm going to escape Torture. Being the daughter of a Minister in the Libertarian government and of a well-known campaigning feminist journalist is enough to settle that, I'm a trophy victim and they're going to make an example of my suffering. I could refuse to say anything, but that would make things even worse for me – and, yes, they can always make things even worse! So I admitted to things that will doubtless go onto my charge sheet. Some things they pressed me on were quite trivial, absurd – the teen mags they'd found in my bedroom, anything for women published before the coup counts as "subversive literature", failing to hand them in was an offence. Possessing a byke, illegal now for girls, I must have used it to carry messages for the Resistance, what had I carried, where, who for? Even belonging to the Forest Pioneers as a kid, little ten-year-olds enjoying summer camp, we were apparently being trained in terrorist tactics!
But of course there were more serious things – my active and leading role in the Libertarian Youth Movement, and more recently in student groups – "terrorist cells" they called them. Who belongs, where are they, what are they planning? I admitted straight out what I'd done myself, but no, I will not betray my friends, I won't say where they are, I won't give their names.
Names, names, names, they kept pressing me for them. A lot of their questions I knew they already knew the answers, they were just testing me, trying to catch me out, checking if I was lying. Some of their questions I genuinely couldn't answer, when they kept on pressing me I was tempted to lie, but I had the sense to realise that would be a suicidal tactic. I was shocked as it became apparent just how much they did know about me – my phone and computer had obviously been hacked and monitored, but what made me feel physically sick was the realisation that so many people I'd trusted must have been informers – teachers at school, tutors in college, had clearly supplied reports, not just general information and comments about me, but specific things I'd said or written. And, worst of all, someone among my very best friends must have been in their pay. I didn't want to think who it was, but there could be no doubt...
They asked a lot about Dad and Mum, of course. Dad's almost certainly dead now, Mum's probably in some Torture Chamber herself. Nothing I can do to save them. But again, I won't name their friends, I won't say anything that could help them round up or use against anyone who might still be free. And Laura, my sister. They kept going back again and again to the night of the riot. No I don't know, I honestly don't know, where she ran the moment I threw myself at that dog and yelled "Run, Laura, run!" That was the last I saw of her, I've no idea where she's hiding. And no, I won't name her friends either.
The questioning went on and on and on. They worked in teams, three of them, firing questions at me, constantly swapping about, changing the subject back and forth, trying to bewilder me, trying to make me contradict myself. I could hear a typist, no doubt one of those office slaves, tapping away on a keyboard, and of course everything was being recorded too. And they worked in shifts, after some long time, the first team were relieved by replacements, and a third and a fourth team. The Cadets guarding me likewise changed. Even the slavegirl was dismissed when another arrived to take over. But I had to remain standing there, legs splayed, hands on buttocks. Pain gradually spread from my ankles up my calves, thighs, pelvis and back, a dull, throbbing ache. My eyes were sore with the glaring lights, my mouth dry with fear and tense talking. My head throbbed, I was feeling more and more tired.
As time went on, the pace of the questioning changed. They began to leave long pauses while they waited for me to answer, waited for me to change my mind about betraying my friends. In these moments, I could hear my heart pounding, my rapid, anxious breathing. And, form below me in the building, the screams, always screams, ringing through the fabric of the Interrogation Centre. Most of the Interrogators were men, but a couple were women, with acid voices. One pair of Cadets were girls, too. It was a woman Interrogator who, after there'd been a very long pause, eventually said in a voice like a hacksaw, "Well, Eulalia, we're going to leave you. You can stand there and think about the choice we're giving you. When we come back, you'll have one last opportunity to give us all those names you've been trying to keep from us. I repeat, that will be your last chance. Think carefully!"
Still I had to remain standing. The Cadets remained to ensure I didn't move, the slavegirl brought them cans of Coke which they drank noisily to taunt me, knowing I'd had no water for hours. My head was swimming, I felt my legs couldn't support me any longer. Suddenly the lights seemed to go dark, I toppled forward. At once the Cadets jumped up. As I staggered forward onto the floor, I managed to stop myself from falling, and stepped back onto the concrete blocks again. The boys gave me three cuts each with their whips, on my shoulders, buttocks and legs. They told the slavegirl to bring me water. Somehow that brought me back to my senses, I managed to keep standing after that, but the pain was unspeakable. And they don't even count this as Torture!
At last, the Interrogation team returned. A man spoke this time, "Well Eulalia?" I was silent. "Answer me!" he yelled, I jumped. "Sir!" "Are you going to tell us those names?" I took a slow, deep breath, then croaked hoarsely, "No, Sir!" At once, without any more words, the Interrogation team stood up and left. The two Cadets came and seized my arms, jerking them up sharply behind my shoulders so I was forced forwards off the blocks. They frogmarched me out of the Interrogation Room and along the corridor to a lift. Here they made me climb into a box like an upright coffin, not a passenger lift but one for goods. When the door shut, it was pitch dark. It descended noisily, the door opened, I stepped out to find myself in the corridor between the Interrogation Cells, close to the Guard's console. I turned to the Guard, he checked my ID ribbon then pointed to a passageway between the NE and SE Torture Chambers. As I walked through it, a shriek from the NE Chamber seemed to cut through me like a saw, my whole body was shaking.
The passage took me to the Waiting Area, the Guard there gestured to me to sit on a bench. Opposite me sat a couple of girls, pale, frightened, wearing t-shirts, shorts, trainers, newbies like I'd been – was it days, weeks, months back? I'd lost all track of time. I sat and waited for quite a long time, it was some relief after the hours I'd been standing in the Interrogation Room. Both the newbies were called up the stairs for admission formalities, I stayed there trying to shut my mind to the cries from the along the passageway and the dreadful message they were now carrying for me, "Soon you'll be tortured, soon you'll be screaming like us!"
At last the Guard's pager bleeped, he called "381152!" I got to my feet and climbed the stairs, back to the courtroom where I'd been admitted to the IPCG. The dark-suited man again studied papers before addressing me. "381152 Eulalia Merida?" "Yes, Sir." "I am informed that you have failed to give satisfactory answers to the Interrogation Unit of the International Security Police." I hung my head, nothing more to say. "In that case I have no choice but to hand you over to the custody of the Military Security Commission. Prisoner, look at me!" I lifted my head, bit my lip and gave him a defiant stare. "381152 Eulalia Merida, I hereby strip you of all your rights and protections as a citizen of the State. I hand you over to a Special Interrogation Squad to continue your Interrogation by whatever means they see fit to use. They have the power to humiliate, chastise and torture all parts of your naked body, including the use of rape and sexual Tortures, in order to compel you to give up the information you are withholding, to make you confess all your offences against the State, and to punish you for your failure to co-operate. You will now be taken to the Stripping Room, where you will undress in preparation for your Torture."
mymartinet
R.I.P. Dominus Flagelli
I ask this every time Eulalia but when is the next episode , you are a really good story teller.
Thanks mm, glad you're enjoying it.
I seem to manage to leave you with a little cliffhanger each time,
gasping for more!
It's coming quickly for me just now,
but I'm going away on a short holiday soon, so there'll be a bit of a gap -
still, here's today's installment
2
The Cadets who'd marched me out of the Interrogation Room were seated beside me in the Courtroom, and as soon as my 'handover' formalities were complete, they jumped up and seized my arms again, twisting them up behind my shoulders, spinning me to be pushed through the door out into the Exercise Yard. As they grabbed me, I felt a strange, comforting sensation flow through my whole body. My mind was in a wild storm, of course I was terrified, anticipating the agony that was now my destiny, yet I had this profound feeling of relief, I felt almost grateful to these boys for taking charge of me! As we crossed the Yard, they amused themselves by jerking my arms up so that I yelped and struggled, rubbing my body against their shirts and trousers, they obviously enjoyed this, in a way I did too. They repeated the trick two or three times, I squirmed obligingly.
As we re-entered the building, whoops of excitement greeted me, a crowd of MSP men and Cadets had gathered, word had got around. I was pushed through a mass of groping fingers through the gate into the Stripping Room. There stood my nemesis, Captain Zeta, smirking triumphantly, holding his cane in his right hand, tapping it on his left palm. The Cadets thrust me in front of him, I stood for a moment legs apart, but they jerked my arms up so sharply I fell forward, one kicking me as I dropped to my knees, the other yelled "Submit!" That was an order I understood, a pose we'd practised each day at the beginning and end of exercise sessions. I threw myself forward, my forehead hit the tiled floor, my arms stretched out in front, palms turned upwards. It was a position that I liked to be in, in some mysterious way it felt right for me, especially now, at the feet of the man who's about to exercise his absolute power over my girl-body.
Zeta waited for a few moments, no doubt enjoying the sight, still tapping his cane. Then he suddenly stamped on my hands, He ground them under his booted foot for some seconds while I squealed in pain, then he kicked my head, knocking my face against the floor. "Up!" he shouted. I scrambled to my feet, positioned myself, legs apart, hands on bum, head bowed submissively. He said nothing, went on tapping. I glanced up, looked at his cold blue eyes staring at me. I easily guessed what he was waiting for now. Gingerly, I raised my arms, felt behind my shoulders for the clip of my bra. He nodded. My fingers trembled, but I pulled it off and tossed it across to the bench by the wall. A murmur of approval filled the air as my breasts were revealed in all their vulnerable ripeness.
I glanced at those eyes again, silently mastering me. I leant forwards, began peeling my little thong down my thighs, knees, calves, ankles, off one foot, then the other. For a moment I paused, feeling the acutest sense of my total nakedness. He tapped impatiently, I stood straight, threw the last shred of my womanly autonomy away – cameras flashed, I blinked and chucked it clumsily, it hit the edge of the bench, fell to the floor. Male excitement filling the room assailed all my senses, sight, hearing, scent, even the taste in my mouth and the sweat on my skin responding, as I stood 'at the ready', tasting the full, naked meaning of that phrase.
Zeta stood drinking in his victim's nudity, using his cane now to stroke the bulging front of his uniform trousers. A pair of hefty thugs flanking him were dressed in just shorts and trainers, their masculine arousal all the more conspicuous. After a while, he stepped forward, hit my hip with the cane and barked "Turn round! Hands on head!" I turned to face the Cadets, he began examining me. His ran his fingers through my hair, unwashed for weeks, I felt ashamed of its itchy greasiness. He felt my neck, pressing it firmly, ran his fingers like a connoisseur over my shoulders, back and slender flanks, sensing how thinly my skin stretched over my bones, how sensitive to the lash, he spread his hands around me my swelling hips and perky buttocks, kneading them like dough, he stroked my long, smooth thighs.
"Turn!" Now he examined my face, lifting my eyelids to peer into my frightened eyes, his were sharp as steel, he pressed wide my already parted lips, instinctively I yielded up my tongue, he placed his hands around my throat and squeezed till I experienced a shock of strangulation, then pulled them away and let me choke till I breathed again. Now he moved his hands over my collar where my ID label still adhered, he got his fingers under the end of it and slowly, torturously, peeled it off me, I cried out as the surface of my skin was painfully flayed. He stood back and admired the crimson stripe of exposed subcutaneous layer he'd revealed, my upper body wriggling with the burning pain made my breasts sway pleasingly, and to these he now turned his attention, stroking and squeezing, starting around the edges and working in till his fingers flicked and pinched my nail-hard nipples. He and his audience grinned with glee at my sighs and gasps, mingled terror and arousal. As he palpated them, I was very conscious of the warmth growing in my woman-parts, the moisture springing in my tubes, the quivery firmness growing in my clitoris.
His hands moved lower, pausing to measure around my waist, yes, his big, long-fingered hands could easily girdle me. He stroked my pubic hair, then tormented me playfully by pinching and twisting curly strands. I yelped in pleasant pain. At last his fingers reached my vulva, constantly moving like a spider's legs greedily entrapping its prey, I could not stand still for all I tried, my thighs and pelvis, my whole trunk, shook and twisted as my arousal grew and grew. He found my clitoris, began flicking it with his finger nail. "Still a virgin?" "Mmm, yes, Sir!" I panted. "Really?!" he jeered, in mock disbelief. "Yes, Sir, honest..." He and the roomful of men were highly amused. "Not for much longer!" he sneered, as he jabbed his middle finger inside me. For what seemed minutes, I gyrated my pelvis while he wiggled his finger well into my passage, then slid it up and down. I was panting loudly, I could feel my wetness oozing round the intruding digit and out between my sex-lips, my whole body was shaking with an orgasm of a violence I'd never remotely experienced.
He drew his hand away, I stood there sweating, shivering, feeling my heart and my breath both racing. My mind was buffeted, I was wildly conscious of a new, frantic desire, a mad thirst for something I never knew existed before this moment, something that made my old feminist, libertarian ideals, my youthful notions of freedom, seem pale and pointless – through this cruel ordeal of initiation, a new Eulalia was being brought into being!
My eyes followed Zeta with canine longing as he turned to the table. He picked up not his cane but a rubber truncheon, like the Riot Police used on us girls that night. He tested its flexibility with sharp jolts of his powerful wrist, then stood eyeing me up and down. I waited, tensing my muscles, where will he strike?
Suddenly, he swung it hard into my solar plexus, I was bowled forward, retching, one of the Cadets behind me kicked my bum and I fell slithering across the tiled floor. Zeta grabbed my hair, tugged me up and swung me, cracking my head against the leg of the table. The other men – the two thugs and the Cadets – set upon me, kicking and stamping, while Zeta beat me with the truncheon. I curled in a foetal knot, trying to protect all but my curved back from their barrage. Again he hauled me up by my hair, dragged me across the room and threw me against the wood-lined wall. The Cadets seized my arms and held them stretched wide so I stood in a crucified posture, back to the wall. Zeta slapped my face twice, then continued beating me with the truncheon, on my breasts, ribs, pudenda and thighs, again and again. I was gasping, choking, too winded even to cry out.
At last he was satisfied. He threw the truncheon back on the table, ordered me into the photo booth, where I was recorded yet again, now naked, face bruised, blood trickling from my mouth. "Send that to HQ," I heard him say, "They can show it to her bitch of a mother, see if she can recognise her brat!"
A red-knickered slavegirl who'd been in the corner of the Stripping Room throughout my initiation now came forward with a pair of wrist-irons. I held out my hands compliantly, not needing to be told. Zeta tore the ID strip off my wrist, I shrieked again at the pain. He clamped the metal over the sore scar, a code engraved on the bracelet will take the place of the fabric strip – my personal shackles! With a key that all IPCG staff carry, he twisted the screws to tighten the bracelets till they crunched on my bones enough to make me wince. "Hands behind your back!" A Cadet immediately clicked the catches on the short chains, locking them together so that I could move my arms a little, but in no way protect myself. Now the slavegirl handed the other Cadet a pair of ankle-irons. I lifted my legs in turn for him to fit these, the rubbing between my thighs as I did so gave me a pleasant little thrill of submission, amplified as the irons clicked shut and were screwed tight.
I was marched down the stairs, the chains on my ankle-irons tinkling. I was walking unsteadily after my "softening up", still dribbling blood. I felt a deep foreboding as we descended into the cellar of screams, yet excitement too. I thought I was going directly to one of the Torture Chambers, but instead we stopped by one of the single cells on the left, its door open. "We'll leave her here to sweat while we screw the other little cunt," ordered Zeta, "hog-shackle her. Kneel!" he yelled at me, I dropped to my knees, he kicked me, I fell forwards, face down on the concrete.
Now the Cadets released my wrist-shackles from each other and instead connected the right one to my left ankle-iron, the left vice versa. One of the thugs grabbed my hair and hauled me, grazing the front of my body on the harsh floor, into the cell, then he tugged me up and flung me back so I was lying face up, head thrown back, wrists and ankles chained together behind me, the irons digging painfully into my kidneys. I looked up at Zeta, towering over me. "You can lie there and listen, whore's brat, the little rat we're going to torture now's a great screamer, she'll give you a taste of what's coming to you –Merida's maggot!" He stamped on my face, and turned away down the passage. The door creaked shut.
mymartinet
R.I.P. Dominus Flagelli
I am sorry Eulalia , you cannot go on holiday and leave us all dangling for the next episode. If you do you will be expected to surrender yourself to me for a bit of a whipping-mind you , you might enjoy that and i know i would like to give you a whipping.
Naraku
Draconarius
Or, at least, a shower & change of underwear. I know I did.