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Assignment: Zilawe
- Thread starter windar
- Start date
Barb hopes someone got a video of this and she'll get to see it...
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Drinking ice cold water while sitting in the hot African high noon sun, sweating and thirsty? That is not healthy and very dangerous!
Sounds like both gentlemen haven a hidden 'diplomatic' agenda here!
xso
Tribune
Another great episode, thanks! Very intense and explicit! Quite a twist, Goldman and Tuma almost becoming friends! Is what Mr Goldman plans to do in accordance with his papers policy? Anyhow, looking forward to the next episode! Pic's showing what might happen B & M when Goldman and Tuma visits them, + what might happen to rebellious prisoners at the prison farm!
It is just so heartwarming to see Goldman simply oozing concern for Barb's well-being.
It is just so heartwarming to see Goldman simply oozing concern for Barb's well-being.
That's not what I was told he was oozing! 
19
Molabayo Detention Center, December 17, 2017
I spent a day and a half lying naked on a gurney in the Molabayo Detention Center Infirmary, attended to by a kind African woman who lovingly applied salve every hour to the wounds inflicted on my backside at my judicial whipping. I don't know what was in the salve. It was apparently some kind of native concoction. It had a dreadful smell, but it worked wonders. By the evening following my ordeal in the courtyard, the pain had largely subsided and I was assured that the weals and abrasions would recede within days.
Between treatments, I was largely left alone to my thoughts although they had taken the precaution of chaining one of my ankles to the gurney to prevent me from going anywhere. Despite my intention to try and forget, memories of my time bound naked to that frame in front of all those people simply could not be repressed. My suffering under the lash was, of course, paramount in my mind, but the nagging psychological pains of humiliation and helplessness loomed large too. That was an experience I would never forget, and I decided as I laid on that gurney that if and when I ever got out of this hellhole, I would write a prize-winning piece decrying the brutal reality of judicial punishments in Zilawe and in other countries around the world where they were still common practice.
About halfway through my time of convalescence I received a visit from Tuma. He appeared without warning, waking me from a restful sleep by yanking my head back by the hair.
"Well, Ms. Moore ... just thought I would stop by to congratulate you. That was quite a performance you put on out there. My office has received a flood of complimentary messages, even one from President Parambe himself. Your antics under the lash were deemed by all to have been quite entertaining. But I must say, it is a pity that you western women tire so easily. It would have been nice if you could have kept it up to the very end. Nonetheless, your performance under the lash will be remembered here for a long time to come. I am even thinking that we may even want to market the video of your flogging to certain preferred customers all across Africa, Asia and the Middle East."
"You are a despicably corrupt bastard, if there ever was one!"
"I'll take that as a compliment, Ms. Moore.
"It certainly wasn't meant to be one!" I retorted, giving him a withering glare.
"Ah, I see the back is healing nicely already," he said, letting go of my hair and running his hand down my sore back. "They work wonders here. You will be quite serviceable in no time. You're going to love the state prison farm."
"I take it the word 'farm' is an euphemism."
"It's no picnic, being there. I can assure you that! By the way, getting back to to your performance in the Courtyard, did you know that a certain Mr. Goldman was my personal guest? He and I sat together right up front."
"Jerry is my editor, and he is here to get me out of this mess."
"Perhaps. But I must tell you, as soon as he saw you stripped naked on that scaffold and bound to that whipping frame, your Mr. Goldman got a hard on that rivaled your Empire State Building! My guess is that he was as interested in watching you writhe under the lash as he was in negotiating your freedom."
I had no response to that bit of unwelcome information.
"In any case," he continued, "I see no reason to let you go for any ordinary bribe, at least not now that my President, and so many other officials, have taken such an avid interest in you. Goldman will just have to give up on the idea of freeing you."
With that he turned and bid me farewell, saying he had a meeting with the President in which he intended to make a small gift of the video of my whipping. I was left, seething with anger and despair.
I fumed all that night and was still rather out of sorts the next morning, snapping irritably at the poor woman attending to my back. I thought Jerry had wrangled his way into that courtyard to offer me moral support, not to get his jollies ogling my bare ass and boobs! And certainly not to play palsy walsy with Tuma! I began to reassess the ways in which Jerry would always look to me in meetings or in his office back in New York, and decided the bastard was probably mentally undressing me!
By late afternoon the harried young doctor who ran the infirmary informed me, after a cursory inspection, that I was fit to return to my cell. My familiar pair of guards arrived soon thereafter to collect me, bearing almost as a gift my little prison tee. I winced as I put it on and held out my hands to be cuffed and led away.
On arrival at my cell, I was joyously greeted by Meghan who leaped to her feet with the intention of hugging. I fended her off, reminding her of the condition of my back.
Masippa was probably glad to see me too, although he gave me no more than a curt nod and a grunt.
“Oh Barb, I saw the whole thing from the window here,” gushed Meghan. “Thirty lashes on as small a back as yours, and delivered with such force! I was so afraid they were going to kill you. You looked half dead ... you truly did ... when they took you away. I thought I’d never see you again. But here you are!”
“Yes, but you and I still have ten year sentences to serve. There’s really nothing to celebrate.”
“No, you’re right, of course. But we’ll serve them together, won’t we? And Jerry, your editor, will get us out of there before too long, I know he will!”
She really is too sweet and innocent, I thought to myself as she sat on the floor and patted a place next to her, inviting me to sit. I was about to when my mind flashed to dinner, which it seemed to me was long overdue. Instead I strode over to the cell door and was about to start banging on it and demanding food when Tuma suddenly appeared, accompanied by the customary two guards. I backed away as he unlocked the cell door.
"You two!" he growled, pointing a finger at me and then at Meghan. "It's party time. Come with me!"
"What kind of party," chirped Meghan, getting to her feet and adjusting her tattered top to cover her chest.
"Don't ask," muttered Masippa from over in his corner.
"I need food!" I demanded.
"There's plenty where you’re going," snapped Tuma, grabbing me by the arm and shoving me through the cell door and into the custody of the two guards.
"Wait for me," said Meghan, hurrying past Tuma to join me out in the corridor.
They led us away, Tuma out in front, the two guards bringing up the rear.
"I don't think we're properly dressed for a party," tittered Meghan nervously.
I didn’t answer.
After leaving the cell block we entered another wing of the building. Tuma walked up to a door and knocked. A voice from within said, "yes?"
Tuma opened the door, and there was Jerry, standing there in the middle of a softly lit well-lit room with a drink in his hand! What the fuck, I thought, and immediately shot him a frosty glare.
Looking past him, I was aghast. The room I had entered was tastelessly over-decorated ... like a hotel room. Tawdry everything! The only good things were the recording of Kenny G, whose music I liked, playing in the background, and a table laden with food.
I was about to say something unkind to Jerry, who seemed frozen in place and staring like an idiot at that spot where the hem of my tee failed to cover my crotch, when Tuma took him by the arm, guided him over to an overstuffed couch and began prattling on about how pleasant a time was in the offing that night.
Then the big man turned to Meghan and me, leered and said, “Ladies, you are about to go to the labor camp to serve the rest of your sentence. The Supreme Court has confirmed the verdict just today. In our camps there are very difficult jobs ... jobs that few people survive for ten years ... and there are easier jobs. Which one you are assigned to depends on the good will of those in authority."
I knew exactly what he had in mind for us that night and didn't like it one bit. So far on this assignment I had been strip searched twice, arrested, interrogated under electric shock, forced to confess to a crime I didn't commit, gang raped by my two ever-present guards, stripped naked in front of a crowd and whipped 30 times, and was about to be sent off to some remote hellhole to do hard labor for the next 10 years. And to add insult to injury, Jerry, my editor and boss, had turned out to be palsy with Tuma, my nemesis, and was expecting me to party and prostitute myself so he could enjoy a pleasant little evening of whoring at my expense. Not on your life, Goldman!
I was about to flatly refuse Tuma's hospitality and make a show of demanding to be returned to my cell, when he caught my eye. The malevolence displayed in the security man's gaze was enough to make my skin crawl as I struggled with myself over just what to say or do next.
But before I could resolve the issue in my mind, Meghan piped up to innocently ask, "What do you want us to do?"
“Simple," Tuma answered. "Be friendly ... entertain me and my guest. You can start by taking your clothes off.”
In a flash, Meghan had her top over her head and taking it off.
I wondered if she knew better how to handle this situation than I did. Against my better judgement, I decided I had better play along. Turning my back to Jerry and Tuma, I took hold of the hem of my tee and pulled it off over my head, and tossed it aside.
Then slowly ... taking my time ... I turned to face them, hands on hips, one knee out and bent, striking as defiant a pose as I dared.
Molabayo Detention Center, December 17, 2017
I spent a day and a half lying naked on a gurney in the Molabayo Detention Center Infirmary, attended to by a kind African woman who lovingly applied salve every hour to the wounds inflicted on my backside at my judicial whipping. I don't know what was in the salve. It was apparently some kind of native concoction. It had a dreadful smell, but it worked wonders. By the evening following my ordeal in the courtyard, the pain had largely subsided and I was assured that the weals and abrasions would recede within days.
Between treatments, I was largely left alone to my thoughts although they had taken the precaution of chaining one of my ankles to the gurney to prevent me from going anywhere. Despite my intention to try and forget, memories of my time bound naked to that frame in front of all those people simply could not be repressed. My suffering under the lash was, of course, paramount in my mind, but the nagging psychological pains of humiliation and helplessness loomed large too. That was an experience I would never forget, and I decided as I laid on that gurney that if and when I ever got out of this hellhole, I would write a prize-winning piece decrying the brutal reality of judicial punishments in Zilawe and in other countries around the world where they were still common practice.
About halfway through my time of convalescence I received a visit from Tuma. He appeared without warning, waking me from a restful sleep by yanking my head back by the hair.
"Well, Ms. Moore ... just thought I would stop by to congratulate you. That was quite a performance you put on out there. My office has received a flood of complimentary messages, even one from President Parambe himself. Your antics under the lash were deemed by all to have been quite entertaining. But I must say, it is a pity that you western women tire so easily. It would have been nice if you could have kept it up to the very end. Nonetheless, your performance under the lash will be remembered here for a long time to come. I am even thinking that we may even want to market the video of your flogging to certain preferred customers all across Africa, Asia and the Middle East."
"You are a despicably corrupt bastard, if there ever was one!"
"I'll take that as a compliment, Ms. Moore.
"It certainly wasn't meant to be one!" I retorted, giving him a withering glare.
"Ah, I see the back is healing nicely already," he said, letting go of my hair and running his hand down my sore back. "They work wonders here. You will be quite serviceable in no time. You're going to love the state prison farm."
"I take it the word 'farm' is an euphemism."
"It's no picnic, being there. I can assure you that! By the way, getting back to to your performance in the Courtyard, did you know that a certain Mr. Goldman was my personal guest? He and I sat together right up front."
"Jerry is my editor, and he is here to get me out of this mess."
"Perhaps. But I must tell you, as soon as he saw you stripped naked on that scaffold and bound to that whipping frame, your Mr. Goldman got a hard on that rivaled your Empire State Building! My guess is that he was as interested in watching you writhe under the lash as he was in negotiating your freedom."
I had no response to that bit of unwelcome information.
"In any case," he continued, "I see no reason to let you go for any ordinary bribe, at least not now that my President, and so many other officials, have taken such an avid interest in you. Goldman will just have to give up on the idea of freeing you."
With that he turned and bid me farewell, saying he had a meeting with the President in which he intended to make a small gift of the video of my whipping. I was left, seething with anger and despair.
I fumed all that night and was still rather out of sorts the next morning, snapping irritably at the poor woman attending to my back. I thought Jerry had wrangled his way into that courtyard to offer me moral support, not to get his jollies ogling my bare ass and boobs! And certainly not to play palsy walsy with Tuma! I began to reassess the ways in which Jerry would always look to me in meetings or in his office back in New York, and decided the bastard was probably mentally undressing me!
By late afternoon the harried young doctor who ran the infirmary informed me, after a cursory inspection, that I was fit to return to my cell. My familiar pair of guards arrived soon thereafter to collect me, bearing almost as a gift my little prison tee. I winced as I put it on and held out my hands to be cuffed and led away.
On arrival at my cell, I was joyously greeted by Meghan who leaped to her feet with the intention of hugging. I fended her off, reminding her of the condition of my back.
Masippa was probably glad to see me too, although he gave me no more than a curt nod and a grunt.
“Oh Barb, I saw the whole thing from the window here,” gushed Meghan. “Thirty lashes on as small a back as yours, and delivered with such force! I was so afraid they were going to kill you. You looked half dead ... you truly did ... when they took you away. I thought I’d never see you again. But here you are!”
“Yes, but you and I still have ten year sentences to serve. There’s really nothing to celebrate.”
“No, you’re right, of course. But we’ll serve them together, won’t we? And Jerry, your editor, will get us out of there before too long, I know he will!”
She really is too sweet and innocent, I thought to myself as she sat on the floor and patted a place next to her, inviting me to sit. I was about to when my mind flashed to dinner, which it seemed to me was long overdue. Instead I strode over to the cell door and was about to start banging on it and demanding food when Tuma suddenly appeared, accompanied by the customary two guards. I backed away as he unlocked the cell door.
"You two!" he growled, pointing a finger at me and then at Meghan. "It's party time. Come with me!"
"What kind of party," chirped Meghan, getting to her feet and adjusting her tattered top to cover her chest.
"Don't ask," muttered Masippa from over in his corner.
"I need food!" I demanded.
"There's plenty where you’re going," snapped Tuma, grabbing me by the arm and shoving me through the cell door and into the custody of the two guards.
"Wait for me," said Meghan, hurrying past Tuma to join me out in the corridor.
They led us away, Tuma out in front, the two guards bringing up the rear.
"I don't think we're properly dressed for a party," tittered Meghan nervously.
I didn’t answer.
After leaving the cell block we entered another wing of the building. Tuma walked up to a door and knocked. A voice from within said, "yes?"
Tuma opened the door, and there was Jerry, standing there in the middle of a softly lit well-lit room with a drink in his hand! What the fuck, I thought, and immediately shot him a frosty glare.
Looking past him, I was aghast. The room I had entered was tastelessly over-decorated ... like a hotel room. Tawdry everything! The only good things were the recording of Kenny G, whose music I liked, playing in the background, and a table laden with food.
I was about to say something unkind to Jerry, who seemed frozen in place and staring like an idiot at that spot where the hem of my tee failed to cover my crotch, when Tuma took him by the arm, guided him over to an overstuffed couch and began prattling on about how pleasant a time was in the offing that night.
Then the big man turned to Meghan and me, leered and said, “Ladies, you are about to go to the labor camp to serve the rest of your sentence. The Supreme Court has confirmed the verdict just today. In our camps there are very difficult jobs ... jobs that few people survive for ten years ... and there are easier jobs. Which one you are assigned to depends on the good will of those in authority."
I knew exactly what he had in mind for us that night and didn't like it one bit. So far on this assignment I had been strip searched twice, arrested, interrogated under electric shock, forced to confess to a crime I didn't commit, gang raped by my two ever-present guards, stripped naked in front of a crowd and whipped 30 times, and was about to be sent off to some remote hellhole to do hard labor for the next 10 years. And to add insult to injury, Jerry, my editor and boss, had turned out to be palsy with Tuma, my nemesis, and was expecting me to party and prostitute myself so he could enjoy a pleasant little evening of whoring at my expense. Not on your life, Goldman!
I was about to flatly refuse Tuma's hospitality and make a show of demanding to be returned to my cell, when he caught my eye. The malevolence displayed in the security man's gaze was enough to make my skin crawl as I struggled with myself over just what to say or do next.
But before I could resolve the issue in my mind, Meghan piped up to innocently ask, "What do you want us to do?"
“Simple," Tuma answered. "Be friendly ... entertain me and my guest. You can start by taking your clothes off.”
In a flash, Meghan had her top over her head and taking it off.
I wondered if she knew better how to handle this situation than I did. Against my better judgement, I decided I had better play along. Turning my back to Jerry and Tuma, I took hold of the hem of my tee and pulled it off over my head, and tossed it aside.
Then slowly ... taking my time ... I turned to face them, hands on hips, one knee out and bent, striking as defiant a pose as I dared.
windar
Teller of Tales
No need to wonder, Moore.
Tuma should go a bit lighter on the sandwiches I think. He might crush you so you better hope he prefers redheads...
This is really not progressing well for our ladies... There will be moreView attachment 556543Meghan's problem ... not mine
Damn!I took hold of the hem of my tee and pulled it off over my head, and tossed it aside.
She's done it again!
And this time Madiosi has illustrated it!
Well, can you blame him?
xso
Tribune
Great episode and great pictures! (Especially the one from the hospital!) Try and enjoy the moment B, a fuck with the boss can render you a promotion in the un(likley) event you make it back home.....do your best! Soon prison farm life will begin!
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
I almost expected he would give Barb a medal for courage!
Tuma may have started his career as a simple cab driver in NY, he all knows about 'Divide et impera'!
Shall it be posted on CF too?
Great chapter again, and also thanks for Madiosi for the great pics illustrating this story!
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
Stop, take a deep breath, Barb, and THINK.
How to win that Pulitzer prize?
- Survive
- Stay sane
- Get released
How to achieve the above?
- Co-operate with the bastards and
- Smile
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
Unfortunately for Barb, Goldman is in a better position for the scoop. -and the prize.
While Barb is doing the hard labor.
I can imagine his excuse :
"I know, Barb, it does not sound fair, but I just did my job as an editor. I could not afford waiting until this would get cold, or let Spike Sharp run away with it!"
windar
Teller of Tales
No promises, Tree. Oh, alright, yeah there will be moore...
Nope...
No promises, Moore, but it's worth a try...
After all he and President Parambe have chests full of medals and no one can figure out what the hell they are for.
Good advice. Will she take it? Barb smile?
May I steal that line?
This situation Meghan and Barb are in is a travesty of justice. Meghan faces 10 years of hard labor for her good intentions and Barb, while motives perhaps tainted by the pursuit of a story, will join her for her good intentions that ran awry with the the culture of Zilawe. Meghan seems strangely complacent with knowing she will be the sex toy of the farm's overseers.
I am concerned that once the thrill of the story wears off and Barb realizes what her role for ten years will be she will not be as pleased as Meghan.
Is that Goldman looking in???
I am concerned that once the thrill of the story wears off and Barb realizes what her role for ten years will be she will not be as pleased as Meghan.
Is that Goldman looking in???
Tree has now joined the faculty of UVM as an adjunct professor in the Departmenf of Deep Analysis of Unintended Consequences. He specializes in research on how things always go awry for well-intentioned, but terribly naive young career women from blue states, especially when they wander into unsavory and unsafe parts of the world like Arkansas or Zilawe. His writing on the subject is voluminous, and may be downloaded from Nailus Martyrs for a fee or from more dubious sources, like the CruxForums website, for free.