20.
Molabayo Detention Center December 16, 2017 (evening)
Yesterday, after watching the whipping, I spent the remainder of the day at the hotel pool, relaxing and rehydrating from the sauna that had been the Detention Center courtyard. I responded to a large backlog of emails from the office, though, fortunately, most of the world’s hot-spots were calm for the moment.
I thought about my reactions to Barb’s whipping. It had been horrifying, but also intensely erotic, even more so than the video of Meghan’s flogging, both because I had witnessed it in real life together with an audience and because she was a professional colleague.
I was not proud of myself for getting aroused; it was not at all the image of a caring decent human being and ethical journalist that I thought of myself as, but the fact was undeniable-watching Barb writhe under the lash had made me hard as a rock.
Tuma had offered me a chance to “party” with Barb and Meghan before they were shipped off to the labor camp. I had a pretty good idea what that would involve. My head said this was wrong; I had come here to rescue her after all (and Meghan as well if I could), not to fuck her. Moreover, to take advantage of this terrible situation would be a violation of every canon of journalistic ethics, not to mention our paper’s sexual harassment policy.
On the other hand, the spectacle of Barb stripped naked, tied to the frame and whipped had aroused me to such an extent that I thought of nothing else. And now I would have the opportunity to satisfy my lust with her and with Meghan, whom I found quite attractive as well. I was truly torn. Several times, I called up Tuma’s number on my phone intending to cancel our arrangement. Each time, though, visions of a submissive Barb letting me have my way with her-and Meghan doing the same-caused my cock to rise and I never made the call.
Then, today, as I was enjoying a light lunch and a beer poolside, I got a call from Langley at the Embassy. “I just wanted to let you know, Jerry, that the Supreme Court has unanimously denied Barb’s appeal. Meghan’s too. I’m very sorry,” he said.
At first I was confused as to what the Supreme Court would have to do with this case. Then I realized he meant the Zilawe Supreme Court, not the one in Washington. “They must have deliberated very hard on that one,” I said sarcastically.
“It’s how they work here. Justice may not be fair by our standards, but it is quick.”
“So there’s no chance then to keep them out of the labor camp?” I asked, already fairly sure of the answer.
“Only a presidential pardon,” he replied. “Good luck with that from the old bastard. And that comment is 100% off the record. For the record, the United States regrets this situation involving our citizens and hopes very much that President Parambe will dispense mercy along with justice.”
I was deeply touched by the concern shown by the representative of our great nation. I suspected it was fruitless, but I finished my lunch and had Ronnie drive me to the Presidential Palace. The Palace was an over-decorated monstrosity for a desperately poor country like Zilawe. Its high walls, studded with machine gun pillboxes in case of any popular uprising, took up an entire side of the main square of Molabayo.
My press credentials got me in as far as the outer presidential office, but no interview with Parambe. At his age he probably needed several days of intensive medication before he was up to meeting anyone outside his inner circle.
After cooling my heels for most of the afternoon, I got a written statement from a spokesperson that read:
“Zilawe is a sovereign nation, proud of its history and sense of justice. For too long the imperialists have sought to impose their will on us. Let them be aware that any attempt to interfere in our internal affairs is unacceptable. Those who break our laws deserve and will receive their just punishment. Long live the Zilawean people!”
That didn’t sound much like a pardon was in the offing. Defeated, I went back to the hotel for dinner. As the time to leave for my meeting with Barb approached, I thought again about calling Tuma to tell him I couldn’t go through with it. However, the stirring in my loins could not be denied.
Ronnie was waiting for me in front of the hotel. As we rode to the prison, I chatted with him about his brother’s time driving cab in New York. “Roderick loved the city very much. It was so exciting for him. We grew up on a farm in the countryside where there was nothing to do. One day he and his friend Joseph saw a movie about New York and got the crazy idea that they would go there. And somehow they did. Joseph is still there driving a cab. He lives in the part of your city they call the Bronx.”
“Why did your brother leave?”
“Our father got very sick and he came home to see him before he died. Then he found there was some problem with his visa and he couldn’t go back to America. So he tried to start a taxi company here. I worked for him for a while. But then he got mixed up with some political people. He didn’t like having to pay a good part of what he earned to the authorities. They took him away to a labor camp like they are doing with your colleague, Ms. Moore. They won’t even tell us where the camp is or if he’s still alive.”
That seemed to be all that Ronnie wanted to say on the matter, so we rode the rest of the way in silence.
When I arrived at the Detention Center, I was escorted not to Barb’s cell as I had been the time before, but to the administrative wing. The guard paused to unlock a door and motioned me into a room that looked more or less like a corporate suite in a mid-priced hotel chain -two plush sofas covered in brown velvet, a larger-than-king-size bed under a mirrored ceiling, a huge flat screen TV and a large bar that took up most of one wall. Smooth jazz, probably Kenny G, was playing through a pair of high-end speakers.
“Please relax and make yourself at home, Mr. Goldman. Mr. Tuma will be along in a few minutes,” the guard told me. I went to the bar and poured some Beefeater gin in a crystal glass, added a few ice cubes, poured in some tonic and added a slice of fresh lime. The tray of sandwiches on the bar looked tempting, but I decided to wait for the other guests. I grabbed a handful of mixed nuts instead and sat on one of the sofas.
Before I had taken more than a few sips of my drink, there was a knock at the door. “Yes?” I shouted. The door opened and there was Tuma. Behind him were two guards accompanying Barb and Meghan. Both were dressed as they had been before their whippings, Barb in the grey tee that barely covered her nether regions, and Meghan in the tube top with the spaghetti straps torn off and a peasant skirt. They looked like they had recently been allowed a shower in preparation for their big night.
Barb glared at me as she entered the room. It seemed she had guessed that I was not here to take her home, but was going to actually participate in her further degradation. Meghan looked at me curiously for a moment and then looked away.
Barb appeared about to say something, but Tuma glared at her and she thought the better of it. Tuma sat down next to me on the sofa and smiled. The man could turn on a dime, it seemed. “Mr. Goldman, I am very glad that you could join us. I think we can have a most enjoyable evening with these two lovely ladies.”
Then he turned back to Barb and Meghan. “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.”
Tuma’s leer left no doubt how these two women would earn his good will. I could see Barb struggling not to give him a piece of her mind, which was something she would have done to anyone back in New York who had suggested such a thing. But this was Molabayo, not New York, and Tuma held the next ten years of her life in his hands.
Rather than Barb, though, it was Meghan who spoke. “What do you want us to do?” I had a very good idea what I wanted them to do and what I wanted to do to them.
“Be friendly, entertain me and my guest,” Tuma said. “Start by taking your clothes off.”
The two women exchanged a glance. I could see they were considering their options, which were not what either them would have hoped. But nothing in the last several days had gone as they had hoped. The look of defiance melted out of Barb’s face. Her body slumped a bit.
Meghan had already accepted her fate. She had shucked her shirt off and was lowering her skirt to the floor. Barb, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled the T shirt over her head and threw it on the floor next to Meghan’s clothes. My cock was certainly taking notice of these two naked beauties standing before me with little choice but to accommodate my desires.
“Don’t be shy, come closer,” Tuma ordered. They padded over, their breasts swaying as they walked. “Turn around,” he continued. “Show Mr. Goldman that our flogger did a proper job.”
The two women turned slowly presenting their backsides for our inspection. Barb’s back and ass were marked with livid wheals. The spots where blood had been drawn were scabbed over and had begun to heal, but the tissue still looked raw and sore. Meghan, whose whipping had been several days ago now, was considerably more healed, though the marks were still visible.
“I think your flogger did exemplary work,” I opined. “But perhaps, we ought to ask their opinion. After all, who is better positioned to say?”
“An excellent idea!” Tuma cried. “Please describe for us, Ms. Moore, how the whip felt on your skin.”
Barb turned to face us. There were tears in her eyes. “It was horrible. More painful than words can describe.”
Tuma laughed heartily. “The professional journalist is rendered speechless by our Zilawean justice. Amazing! Meghan, what about you, do you have anything to add?”
Meghan shook her head. “No, it was awful. I screamed at every stroke. I would have given anything to make it stop, but they just kept coming.” She was crying too.
Tuma grinned. “Now ladies, let’s not cry. Your whippings are done, at least for now, though they are not unknown in the labor camp as punishments for various infractions. Tonight is a happy night. Barb, go sit on your boss’s lap and Meghan, come and sit on mine.”
My cock practically burst out of my pants when Barb rested her naked tight little ass on my lap. I knew she could feel my erection. She squirmed, the contact of the fabric of my trousers with her wounded flesh obviously painful.
Meghan settled herself on Tuma’s lap. “It is almost Christmas, so perhaps you would like to tell me if you’ve been a good little girl,” he said.
Meghan seemed to be considering what would be the answer which would get her in the least trouble. “I suppose I’ve been bad,” she said meekly. “But I’ve been punished for it and I won’t do it again,” she said tearfully.
“And you, Barb?” I asked.
She looked like she might slap me, thought the better of it and said, non-commitally, “Same here.”
“And what would you like for Christmas?” I asked. “Are you hungry? How about some sandwiches?”
“Yes, Jerry, I would love some of those sandwiches. They look delicious,” Barb replied. There was perhaps a touch of sarcasm in her voice, but I could see she really was hungry.
“Well go get some. Have as many as you would like,” I told her. She got up slowly, in evident pain and padded over naked to the bar. Meghan got up from Tuma’s lap and joined her. Both girls loaded their plates with sandwiches, chips, cookies, enough to feed a dozen Zilaweans for a week. I suspected that the regular food the prisoners here were served left much to be desired.
Tuma got up and walked behind the bar. “How about a drink? Beer, wine, whatever you would like.”
“Beer,” Meghan mumbled, her mouth full. Barb asked for a glass of white wine. I wasn’t that hungry, having had dinner at the hotel, but I took a sandwich and a cookie to be sociable. I also made myself another gin and tonic, heavy on the gin and lighter on the tonic. I figured it would be a long evening.
