• Sign up or login, and you'll have full access to opportunities of forum.

Beauty And The Russian Beast

Go to CruxDreams.com
My ankles and wrists are released, I’m pulled back and off the beam, drop to my knees on the tiled floor, instinctively plunging my poor tortured fingers between my thighs, seeking soothing. “Stand up cunt!” the guard yells, I struggle to my feet, reluctantly place my hands on my buttocks, burning fingers touching burning bum.

The interrogator woman and the typist have gone by another door, but the officer comes into the torture kitchen, a triumphant smirk on his lips, his long whip in his hands. I lower my eyes, instinctively submissive, feeling deep in my female organs a boiling mixture of terror, deep loathing and unbearable desire for this monster who’s got me so totally in his power.

He flicks my right nipple with the tip of the whip, already hard, I feel it grow fuller still. “Well, my lovely,” he mocks, "First game to me, 40-love and an ace to break you?” He strolls around me, flicking me as he pleases. I remain silent, head bowed, just wincing, squirming gently, at his whip-cuts.

“You’re a fine young woman, Alisa,” he drawls, I quiver at hearing my own name from this man’s lips. “Your Ivan’s proud of you, I know, he’s told me all about you.” I start to shake, the name of my beloved brings tears to my eyes.

“Please, comrade, please don’t hurt me any more,” I whimper, “y-yes, you’ve won completely, you’ve broken me, I d-don’t need…” He slices the back of my thighs, sharp enough to draw blood, I nearly topple forward but hold my stance. “Don’t hurt you any more? We’ve hardly begun, little bitch!” I burst into tears, crying like I’ve never done since I was a baby. “That’s just your fingers – think how much more of your sexy body you’ve still got left for us to play with!”

He signals to the guards, they push me to my knees, truss me again like last night. My tormentor gives me a goodnight cut across my breasts, they depart. Another night of cruel discomfort, lying hogtied in the torture chamber, dreading the dawn.

A woman guard brings in a bowl of water. At least this time she leaves it, no sadistic teasing. With a wearying effort I roll over and wriggle into position to lap it up, desperately thirstily. I stay tits-down, it’s hideously painful to lie on my bum with my still-burning fingers under me.

I try to think rationally. What’s gone on in these dreadful hours bears no relation to reason. They’re not extracting anything from me they can possibly need, just names that might by chance crop up in the files, confessions of absurd crimes…

And where, oh where, is Ivan? The woman in my first interrogation implied they didn’t know, at least they didn’t then… but it could have been a trick. And this guy talks as if he knows him. Have they got him now? Is he being tortured? Or… no, I can’t bear to even allow the thought, is he, could he be behind all that’s happening to me…???

I start weeping once more, moaning quietly, feeling utterly alone, abandoned, a victim. Agony surges through my body from my tortured fingers and bum, but weariness at last brings fitful sleep.
 
Eulalia said:
Here's the first part of a 'novel' I'm working on -
it's dedicated with affection (and in the hope that it won't offend) IM,
and to the memory of Makar,
to both of whom CruxForums owe so much.

Beauty and the Russian Beast

View attachment 134129​


Eighteen years hard labour! Eighteen years! I’ll be forty-five … no don’t even think about that, it’s the death sentence, a long, slow, freezing cold death …

The train-truck shudders and creaks its way across the endless tundra. I glance around in the dim light through the wooden slats that imprison us at the female bodies huddled together, silent, glazed, hopeless… one in the corner, pale, slim, no more than a kid …

Like I was when we were ‘liberated’. Eighteen years, that’s how long I’d lived then. Those last few days, bombs thudding, guns rattling, shells whistling past, planes droning over. Yet all we could think about was food, getting it wherever we could, scrapping mouldy potatoes, digging for roots, picking berries, guddling for tiny fish in the swamp, anything we could find. Mamma refused to eat, she made my sister and me have it, though we could see she was growing weaker by the day.

The Germans had pulled out, burning, destroying, smashing anything that could possibly be of use to the Red Army. We, in our battered little farmhouse, were stranded, out in a smouldering no-man’s land. Then the Russians came, tanks first, rattling past in a deafening roar, then truckloads of soldiers. We stood outside to watch, pale, disinterested. We’d seen the Germans – I was only thirteen when they arrived, spruce and polished in their dark uniforms, wretchedly ragged when they left. The Russians didn’t look much different, tired, dishevelled, but cocky with the scent of victory, some of them singing deep-throated tunes like we kept hearing now we’d started listening to Radio Moscow.

Borys, the crazy old pig-keeper, had gone on mumbling all through the war about how much better things would be under Communism, we wished he’d shut up, Mamma said he’d only get us all in trouble with the Gestapo. Now he was across the track, grinning, waving a tattered red curtain by way of a welcoming flag. But we girls had no hopes for heaven on earth, just enough food for mamma and us two was all we asked – and the sight of sweaty young soldiers, most of them no older than we were, was worth coming outside for. One truck passed close, the boys in it whistled, we blushed, waved back to them.

The Red Army moved on towards our little market town, we went inside for a supper of a handful of mushrooms. Borys staggered in with a bottle of village vodka he’d been hiding, he’d obviously already started celebrating. Mamma politely refused it, but her hollowed-out eyes lit up when he produced some strips of dried pig-skin, she begged him to take a few kopeks in payment, but he wouldn’t, “Everything’s common property now!” He lurched back to his hut, chanting a confused apology for The Internationale. We – even Mamma – chewed on the pig-skin like it was priceless pâté.

•••

We were woken by a loud lorry engine, shouting, hammering at the door. Mamma, still up, clearing the house in her anxious way, opened the door a crack and peeped out. “Devochki! Devochki!” men’s voices shouted – we recognised, “Dziewczynky” we’d say, “girls!” It’s us they’ve come for!

“Nie! Nie!” Mamma cried, trying to push the door shut, but a huge kick with a booted foot cracked it off its hinges, and in seconds eight burly men were in our kitchen, Nastusja and I in our nightshirts, clinging to each other outside the bedroom door.

One of the men, with chevrons on his lapel, a sergeant or something, was holding a whip, an old cart-whip. He’d have picked it up in a farmhouse, they’re common enough, not much use since all the cart-horses were turned into meat. He waved it unsteadily at us two, signalling us to come into the middle of the room – to be inspected.

In the light of our one oil-lamp, I could see their faces, ruddy and grinning, they’d obviously been drinking. I recognised them, the lads who’d whistled at us. They still excited my young breasts, but they looked threatening now.

Without warning, one of them lurched at me, grabbed at my hips, started hauling up my nightshirt. I cried out, made a feeble attempt to push him away, hearing mother shriek “Nie!” yet again – another man pushed her to the floor and held a pistol to her head. I knew I had to co-operate, lifted my arms – two or three others were groping at me now.

Suddenly Nastusja screamed, “leave her alone! Bastards!” and flung herself at them, her fists flailing. “No, Nastja!” I yelled, “Don’t! You’ll only….” But it was too late, they’d all turned on her, leaving me shaking as my nightdress slipped back down over my body. My sister had gone wild, she was a powerful young woman, could throw a punch like a boxer, and she was struggling, biting, kicking and twisting like a fury as seven tough men fought to subdue her.

But the sergeant wasn’t taking part. He was leaving it to his men, while he looked around our kitchen. I saw him smile cruelly when he picked up a tin tray. He crossed to the table, pulled out one of the wooden chairs, stamped with his boot through the straw seat, and placed the tin tray over the hole he’d made.

By now they’d just about got Nastja under control, two men gripping each arm, another pistol-whipping her across the face, his colleague using mamma’s rolling pin to crack her bare shins to try to stop her kicking. Mamma was kneeling, sobbing, her guard still holding his gun to her head.

The sergeant gave an instruction, they dragged my sister back to where he’d placed the chair and was holding it ready. They forced her to sit on it, tugged her arms behind it, one of them slipped quickly outside to their truck and returned with a hank of barbed wire and a heavy pair of Red Army issue wire cutters/pincers. As she squirmed and squealed, I thought of Borys’s pigs being bound for slaughter. They wound the wire tight around her bare wrists, twisted it even tighter with the pincers, bound her securely to the back of the chair, making doubly sure with further strands of wire around her upper arms.

Now the sergeant drew a knife, held it in front of Nastja’s face – she glared, swore at him, then yelped as he slashed it across the top of her nightshirt above her breasts, ripping it under the arms, tearing the shoulders. After that, it was an easy job for a soldier to pull it down and off her, along with the knickers she had on underneath. They tied another piece of wire tightly around her starveling’s waist, I could see the barbs piercing her white, hollow abdomen, dark blood oozing. While two were doing this, her legs were forced apart by the others, her feet pulled back and wired to the crossbar between the chair-legs, so she was fixed, naked, exposed.

Her eyes were blazing, as if challenging them to do their worst. The sergeant picked up his whip again, stood feet wide apart, much steadier now than when he’d first invaded us, a look of concentrated hatred on his face. Suddenly, he raised his arm and swung a vicious lash right across her breasts, she squealed, tossed her black hair back, the soldiers cheered.

She soon recovered her composure, swore at him again in Polish. Again he lashed her, and again, catching her face so her lip started bleeding, cutting weals across her collarbone, upper arms, ribs, raising red bruises on her breasts.

Still she was defiant. It was a contest between my sister’s naked, defenceless defiance and ruthless determination to break her. I was horrified, terrified, yet feeling excited, eager to cheer her on – but I knew better than to shout, that gun by mamma’s head urged restraint – I was even wishing I could be bound to a chair alongside her.

But now the sergeant had another tactic. He spoke quietly to one of the men, who took the oil-lamp from the table and brought it towards the chair. I saw Nastusja shrink, heard mamma quietly croak another “Nie!”, shuddered as I realised what was coming.

Two soldiers held the chair and Nastja’s shoulders in a tight grip as their colleague positioned the lamp under the chair, under the tin tray. Instructed by the sergeant, they adjusted the wick so the light was quite low, and the room was in shadowy darkness except for the terrible brightness under my sister’s bare bottom.

At first she just panted, wiggled slightly, testing how far she could move – not much! Soon, her twisting became more vigorous, her legs and hips thrusting against the tight-twisted wires tearing at her skin, her upper body squirming so her bruised breasts tossed in the glimmering twilight, her raven head swung back and forth. The kitchen filled with a sickly scent of cooking flesh, the taste of the dried pig-skin refluxed in my mouth. She was gasping, trying not to scream, but her resistance was breaking.

Suddenly she gave out a deafening shriek, began hurling her body furiously, the men had to grab hard at the chair to prevent it from tipping. The sergeant started whipping her again, harder and harder the louder she screamed. “Go on cunt, yell for mercy!” he shouted. Still she responded with Polish swear-words, more and more vicious grew his lashes…

Her head suddenly dropped forward, “Stop! Stop, please stop….” She was sobbing. Her tormentor just laughed. “That’s more like it, Polish slut … beg for mercy, beg the Red Army to fuck you to death, beg for anything but this….”

It seemed endless, the wait, Nastja was jerking, gasping, yelping, yet still not speaking the words they wanted to hear. She seemed delirious, her eyes were glazing over. And my whole body seemed to be sharing her struggle, my heart pounding, wild excitement was racing through me. Suddenly, out of the silent darkness of the corner of the kitchen, I heard my own voice so loud it echoed in the roof-space, “Stop!!! Leave her, please let her go …. Do it to me!!!”
Click to expand...

Have to start reading this Eulalia. It starts out wonderful!!!!
 
The door-handle turns, I wake with a shriek from a sleeping nightmare into a waking one. My torturer returns. A greeting whip-flick on my right loin, then he tips me over with a sharp kick to lie looking up at him, dark eyes full of dread in a deathly white face, I know.

“Well my beauty,” he jabs the sharp toe of his boot into my abdomen, “How are you?” He leers, mockingly, “I hope we’re bright and full of beans, we’ve got a long night ahead of us!” As I squirm under the pressure of his shoe poking my womb, he adds, “After I’d enjoyed my dinner, read the kids a story and kissed them goodnight, I told my wife I’ve got important work to do, I’ll have to get back to the Lubyanka!”

I shudder as I take in his words – yes, a loving husband, no doubt, a kind, indulgent father, can’t wait to get back to this pit of hell to continue torturing his sexy, naked, young captive! He kicks me to roll over again, unlocks my shackles, tugs me to my feet by my now filthy hair.

“You know the procedure,” he snarls, “Get on the beam.” I lift myself up compliantly to straddle the uncomfortable wood, lean forward and place my hands and wrists through the opening. He whip-flicks my bum, goes into the office and clamps my wrists.

However will he torture me, I’m wondering anxiously, surely my fingers can’t take any more? I soon get my answer. My eight fingers have been cruelly mangled, but my thumbs are still untouched …

He takes from a drawer a little bag from which he produces a shiny, steel clamp I squeal in terror, he smiles. “You know what this is. then?” I nod, “Y-yes, comrade I know - it’s a thubscrew!” “That’s right, my little filly, and well may you whinny at it, I’ve had big, tough men, even a Colonel of the Red Army, howling for mercy at the sight of this little beauty!”

Oh yes, I knew well enough, Father Ignacy dwelt on it when telling us stories about Catholic girls being tortured by vile heretics … I gaze at it in terrified fascination, such a small, beautifully made, piece of crafstmanship, capable of fulfilling such a devilish purpose!

The night-shift guards soon arrive and lock my ankles. The interrogator will be the grumpy man who assisted the woman with my first interrogation, no doubt the young woman typist’s come in for night-work after an evening with her boyfriend… just another routine job for her, the words she types, the screams that she hears with them, are meaningless to her as the squeaking of prison mice.

The officer slips the thumbscrew onto my left thumb, he has to grip vice-like with the pliers, so wildly is my hand shaking. The questioning begins. We’re onto the time from the volcanic eruption of Ivan back into my life – “yes, that Comrade Ivan Taneyev whom you accused of torturing and raping you and your sister,” sneers the interrogator, “I – I’m s-sorry comrade, I’ve confessed … it was a lie…” I sob. Yes, we know, and one of many of your lies – I wonder how many more you’re going to confess to tonight?”

The questions about my life as a schoolteacher and my visits to Brest probe again and again into my contacts, what friends did I have other than Ivan? In truth, hardly any, more just civil conversation, social interaction. The other young women on the collective farm – when I hesitate to name them, the screw tightens, the pain’s exquisite, my whole body’s rigid as I shriek loud and shrill enough to crack windows.

I can own up to the usual offences – looking at American film magazines, buying some black-market lipstick (I didn’t even much like it when I tried it on), taking home leftovers from the meagre school lunch supplied for the kids.

But then the interrogator produces a few papers from the box-file that are clipped together - the School Inspector’s report from last July, a spiteful report by Comrade Markov, Chairman of the Farm Council, (certainly written by his bitch of a wife), and one by the District Education Supervisor, of that interview in Kobryn, along with and a Police record of travel permits issued to me. I admit to failing to help with the harvest in 1951, and – under pressure of the thumbscrew - to vague charges of ‘sabotaging the labour’ of the collective farm by my jaunts to Brest.

But she’s got all my diaries too, and she’s milking them now for anything they can twist to incriminate me, any hint of political subversion, disaffected thoughts. There are precious few, politics was something that happened to us out there on the western frontier, not something we had any say in, any motive to discuss… All the same, my few comments on the harsh effects of collectivisation, the remarks made by the parents at the school, the farmers in the village store, they’ve all been extracted and added to my tally.

What they don’t ask about – and even in my near panicky state and increasing pain from the evil thing on my thumb, it strikes me as strange – is Ivan, his life, his job, his friends. Not they I could tell them much, certainly nothing they don’t already know. But my relationship with him, a young ‘resettled person’, a mere Polish-now-Russian village schoolmistress with the chief henchman of Beria’s collectivisation project in that region, that seems to be passed over without any questions. Curious!

But still there are questions I can’t answer, excuses for the screw to be tightened. The instrument’s carefully, precisely calibrated, a little ‘click’ with every added milligram of pressure on the steel bar, and so on the metacarpal bone of my helpless thumb. My skilled totrturer’s technique is to screw it just a click tighter each time, releasing it slightly in between inflictions, so the blood flows back into the crushed bone, a fierce burning pain that’s only exceeded by the hideous, piercing agony of the next turn.

The interrogator moves on to May Day. Things get more aggressive now. What I wrote in my diary about the Parade and Lenin’s Tomb seems to be evidence of deeply subversive, left-deviationist tendencies, whatever in this basement of hell those might be. When I deny any knowledge, or even understanding, of what I’m being asked about, I’m accused of lying.

And lying means punishment. The guards, who’ve had little to do but sit on the bench so far and chain-smoke, filling the chamber with tobacco fumes, now get to work. One of them thrashes my buttocks, flayed red-raw by the blow-torch yesterday. When he’s got me howling and squirming on the beam, his colleague approaches. I glance back, and wish I hadn’t, he’s holding the electric iron, it’s plugged into the mains on the wall…

The pain makes me leap right clear of the beam, with a scream that seems to unsettle even my interrogator. I drop back down, howling. Another dozen strokes, another touch with the iron, on the other cheek, another hurl of agony. Is that it? No, it goes on, more lashes, more burns – three on each buttock, until my torturer nods his satisfaction that I’ve been adequately punished.

Now the questioning resumes, he’s got a different method with the thumbscrew. Now it’s well clamped, biting cruelly into shattered bone, he doesn’t tighten the screw any more, but pulls a small ring at the top of the shaft, lifting a thin steel rod on a spring. When he releases it, it shoots back down to pierce through a small aperture in the pressure-bar and jab my wrecked bone. It’s a tiny jab, but so damaged is the living tissue it strikes, the pain is indescribable, I’m beginning to feel sick and faint with it.

The experienced torturer recognises the symptoms. He quickly unscrews the instrument and removes it, my thumb sags, ringed reddish-purple, oozing blood, swelling as soon as it’s freed, still agonisingly painful.

A break for refreshments – a case of bottles of Czech beer’s been brought in, my torture-session’s an excuse for a party! The typist’s kept busy preparing more confessions for me to sign. When they’re ready, I read them, semi-delirious. A list of minor and imaginary crimes while I was on the collective farm, then an absurd admission that I’ve persistently expressed and promoted opinion contrary to the interests of the Soviet State, and even ‘conspired with persons unknown’ to undermine the security of the State. I sign them again with a childish scrawl – if he tortures my right thumb, however will I sign any more?
 
The team from the interrogation office depart, leaving me alone with the two guards. They merrily finish up the beer, and take the opportunity offered by a naked woman conveniently positioned and totally unable to protect herself. One uses my cunt, the other prefers my arse, both deliver mighty jets of sperm. I’m crushed against the beam under their weight, the second one especially is a fatty, and my bum’s still raw from the whippings and burnings, sharp squeals and jolts of pain through my trunk no doubt add to their enjoyment.

Soon after this, a new pair of guards take over, my torturer returns, accompanied now by a different typist and the woman interrogator. They come into their office by their door, but the stench from the torture chamber must be seeping in there, the woman sniffs and gestures with disgust, orders the typist to produce a bottle of air-freshener, the type with a green pull-up wick, you can only get it on the black market.

Yes, I think to myself, I know, I stink. Is it surprising after these last two days and nights? But no doubt it will be added to the list of my crimes…

I bow my head and sigh resignedly as the officer slides the thumbscrew onto my right thumb. Now the questioning comes on to my sudden departure for Moscow. Again, there’s a report from Comrade Markov, along with a thickish Police file. I admit straightaway that I left the collective farm and my employment with the District Education Board without going through any of the required procedures.

I relate the story of my ride with Ivan to the Military Base, our welcome by the hospitable Major. No, I don’t know his name, nor where the base was, and no amount of torture with the thumbscrew’s going to reveal them…. But I have to endure half-a-dozen clicks.

I tell them of Ivan’s departure by plane, and my night in the Major’s gentlemanly care. “And how did you proceed to Moscow then?” “A car was provided for me.” She looks slightly surprised, “A car? Really?” “Yes, comrade.” “Tell me about this car, what kind was it?” “Er… I’m not sure, comrade, I don’t think it was an ordinary car, maybe a foreign type. It was very big, and it had leather seats.” The interrogator and the torturer look at each other, with quizzical expressions.

And this car, prisoner Innokentaya, where did it take you? To Comrade Taneyev’s apartment?” I shake my head, “N-no, c…” I tail off, anxious, indeed suddenly dead scared at what’s coming next, dare I tell the truth? “Come on!” she snaps, “Tell us where it took you!” The thumbscrew clicks, I squeal, then blurt out “Beria! C-comrade Beria – it t-took me to his house…”

Suddenly there’s a shock-wave through the chamber. The interrogator turns and signals to the typist, who pulls the page she’s been typing out of the machine, hands it to the her, she glances at it, folds it and puts it in her jacket pocket, stands up and gestures to the officer and the typist, then all three depart. The guards sitting on the bench behind me are silent, shuffling their feet, uncertainly. The thumbscrew’s still biting me…
 
Wragg134 said:
:mad: :mad: :mad: :mad: for the Russians

:( :( :( :( for you

:) :) :) :) for the writing
Click to expand...
Eulalia said:
He leaves, locks the door. I wriggle, trying to get myself into a less uncomfortable position, but give up with a sigh and lie gazing at the ceiling, my heart pounding, blood still dripping down my cheek. I’m shattered by the vicious assault, bruised all over.

Yet my feelings and thoughts are mixed and muddled. The guards are just brutes, but that officer’s a stylish sadist, he’s got the same professional efficiency as Ivan – the well-judged weight, speed and aim of each whip-lash, the precise placing of each kick with his sharp-toed boot, the uncanny divination of my secret female feelings, my perverse but instinctive sexual responses to his physical and psychological cruelties – but of course he’s more ruthless, there’s no safe word, no limits …

I squirm with a sense of my utter vulnerability that brings a surge of moisture in my woman-parts, beads of sweat around my stand-to-attention nipples, the vision of him standing over me with his black whip seems engraved on my retinas.

As I lie, still softly panting, I hear shrill, desperate screams from a room nearby, a young girl in wild panic, men shouting at her, cracks and clangs of cruel instruments … Tomorrow, me …

The door of this Softening –Up Room’s unlocked and opened. A youngish female guard comes in with a bowl, places it on the floor. She looks less fierce than most of the women guards, but there’s an evil smirk on her lips.

The bowl’s a couple of metres away. How can I get to it? She watches, hands on hips. I writhe about, trying to change my position, but I’m trussed too tightly, I just squirm about on the same spot. I roll onto my side, no better, then onto my stomach, still worse.

She’s highly amused. She calls out through the door, “Hey, come here, watch this!” A gang of others, three or four males and another female, all crowd in. I make some progress by rolling, over and over, though it’s impossible to keep any sense of direction. My audience jeers and giggles, some of the boys kick me, not as skillfully as the officer.

At last I’m close to the bowl, I stretch out my neck to lap up the water in it like a bitch, but the woman guard snatches it away, puts it just out of reach again. The show goes on, my pathetic efforts constantly thwarted. Eventually I give up, just lie stomach-down with my face on the floor.

They’re not having that. A youth tugs my hair so I’m bent up, balanced on my knees. The woman takes the bowl and throws the water in my face, then gives it to one of the men, who opens his flies and fills it with piss.

She thrusts it under my face as the one who’s holding my hair pushes it down, “Drink that!” she yells. I’ve no choice, I am desperately thirsty, the acrid moisture wets my parched mouth, though it makes me retch. When I pause for a second, my head’s pushed down again, she orders, “Drink it all, every drop – then lick the bowl clean!”

I comply. Another youth jeers, “Want some more?” I look up at him pathetically, give no answer. “Well you’re having more, anyway!” He repeats the game, so does another. By now, the males are thoroughly, all too visibly, aroused. When I’ve licked the bowl for the third time, the woman-guard takes it from me, the youth still holding my hair jerks me up and swings me so I fall back, face up.

The dominant male, a tall, swarthy Tartar-looking guy, has his pants down already, he flings himself on me, I struggle to get into a bearable postion under his weight, but make no attempt to resist, my thighs are pulled wide by the shackles, I spread them wider, and tense their muscles so as to lift my torso against his weight.

My head rolls side-to-side as he pounds his tool into me, while clawing my breasts, biting my neck. My womb-muscles are warm, my vagina moist, as I feel his weapon invading me, a tremor flows through, I cry out with both pleasure and pain as an orgasm shakes me, and he erupts.

The others all have a turn. They throw me back tits-down, one rapes me normally, another buggers me, I shriek, it’s agony. The one who’d held my hair insists on risking my mouth – “The bitch’ll bite you!” his friends laugh, holding me up on my knees again. “She’d better not even think about it – eh, cunt!” I nod, open my mouth compliantly.

I’ve not done this, not been buggered either, since Liberation Day, nearly ten years ago. It brings it back. I lip-kiss and tongue-tease the lad’s cock like I did the sergeant’s that night, coxing it to hardness, letting him enjoy a long, slow arousal before he’s compelled to deliver a gush of salty brine into my throat, mingling with the sour taste of male urine.

The last one throws me face-up again, masturbates in between my breasts, spurting a thunder-shower of spunk over my face and shoulders. They leave me feeling the cocktail of spunk and piss still slithering down my throat, through my gullet, my stomach’s heaving as my gastric juices strive to digest, my own bladder squirts, the Softening-Up Room is oppressively stuffy, muggy with the rich scents of fluids and effluvia from bodies male and female.
Click to expand...
Only just catching up here. Amazing writing, Eul. I don't know how you,do this, I really don't
 
I sink, resting my head on the wood, grateful for this unexpected intermission, though astonished at the sudden change in the demeanour of the interrogator and her abrupt departure. Pain’s still throbbing through my tightly-clamped thumb, I rest the screw on the desk-top, try to keep it totally still, the least movement berings another stream of pain.

Still wondering about Ivan. Still wondering why their questions seem to skate past him …

These guards, mercifully, leave me alone. They seem as baffled as I am by the sudden departure of the torture-team, mutter to each other in low whispers, kick their heels in boredom, nothing to do but wait… I drowse into tormented semi-consciousness.

At last the officer comes back. He takes hold of the thumbscrew, I yowl, it hurts horribly. He unscrews it, pulls it off, wipes it lovingly with a polishing cloth, puts it away in its neat little bag. “Thankyou, comrade,” I whisper. He looks up at me, with a wry smile, releases the clamp holding my wrists, then lifts my throbbing right hand, bows his head, and kisses it. “It was my pleasure,” he says, with an Ivan-like wink.

The guards unlock my ankles and draw me back off the beam. As I stand, swaying dizzily. “Take her to the Pits,” the officer tells them, then to me, “You can have a little time and space there, to consider the implications, before you make a serious allegation against the Deputy Premier!”

They take hold of my arms, spread wide, their other hands groping my tits and my bum, as I’m walked on unsteady legs out of the torture-kitchen, along a passage, and down some stone steps, a long, steep flight, into a cellar. A flickering neon-strip light’s switched on. There seems to be nothing much down here, bare stone walls. But in the floor, in a line along the centre, are metal grids. Some are shut down, others lying open.

I’m walked along to one of the open ones, hear shuffling sounds, a low moan from below one of the closed grids. “Get in!” orders my guard. I look down, a concrete-lined box about a metre square, I kneel on on knee, lowering my other leg down. I glance back at my guards, appalled, terrified. “In!” they yell, and, with a kick and a shove, I topple in, down onto my knees on the rough base of the pit.

At once, they swing the grid over and slam it shut above me. I hear their departing boots. The light’s switched off. In total darkness, I become aware of my living grave. The grid’s too low for me to stand or even kneel up, the walls too narrow for me to stretch out, even across the diagonal. I can only sit, crouch or curl up on the bare concrete.

Feeling around with my torture-ravaged hands, I find a tin bowl and beaker, and a hole in one corner of the base, I guess what that must be for, feel sick with disgust and humiliation. It’s a crime to keep an animal like this. I’m less than an animal….

My fingers and thumbs are still hideously painful, my bum acutely sore to the least touch, contact with the steel of my manacles keeps hurting me there. I lie on my side, knees tucked up, a foetal ball. I start to cry.
 
Eulalia said:
I sink, resting my head on the wood, grateful for this unexpected intermission, though astonished at the sudden change in the demeanour of the interrogator and her abrupt departure. Pain’s still throbbing through my tightly-clamped thumb, I rest the screw on the desk-top, try to keep it totally still, the least movement berings another stream of pain.

Still wondering about Ivan. Still wondering why their questions seem to skate past him …

These guards, mercifully, leave me alone. They seem as baffled as I am by the sudden departure of the torture-team, mutter to each other in low whispers, kick their heels in boredom, nothing to do but wait… I drowse into tormented semi-consciousness.

At last the officer comes back. He takes hold of the thumbscrew, I yowl, it hurts horribly. He unscrews it, pulls it off, wipes it lovingly with a polishing cloth, puts it away in its neat little bag. “Thankyou, comrade,” I whisper. He looks up at me, with a wry smile, releases the clamp holding my wrists, then lifts my throbbing right hand, bows his head, and kisses it. “It was my pleasure,” he says, with an Ivan-like wink.

The guards unlock my ankles and draw me back off the beam. As I stand, swaying dizzily. “Take her to the Pits,” the officer tells them, then to me, “You can have a little time and space there, to consider the implications, before you make a serious allegation against the Deputy Premier!”

They take hold of my arms, spread wide, their other hands groping my tits and my bum, as I’m walked on unsteady legs out of the torture-kitchen, along a passage, and down some stone steps, a long, steep flight, into a cellar. A flickering neon-strip light’s switched on. There seems to be nothing much down here, bare stone walls. But in the floor, in a line along the centre, are metal grids. Some are shut down, others lying open.

I’m walked along to one of the open ones, hear shuffling sounds, a low moan from below one of the closed grids. “Get in!” orders my guard. I look down, a concrete-lined box about a metre square, I kneel on on knee, lowering my other leg down. I glance back at my guards, appalled, terrified. “In!” they yell, and, with a kick and a shove, I topple in, down onto my knees on the rough base of the pit.

At once, they swing the grid over and slam it shut above me. I hear their departing boots. The light’s switched off. In total darkness, I become aware of my living grave. The grid’s too low for me to stand or even kneel up, the walls too narrow for me to stretch out, even across the diagonal. I can only sit, crouch or curl up on the bare concrete.

Feeling around with my torture-ravaged hands, I find a tin bowl and beaker, and a hole in one corner of the base, I guess what that must be for, feel sick with disgust and humiliation. It’s a crime to keep an animal like this. I’m less than an animal….

My fingers and thumbs are still hideously painful, my bum acutely sore to the least touch, contact with the steel of my manacles keeps hurting me there. I lie on my side, knees tucked up, a foetal ball. I start to cry.
Click to expand...


And nobody in the known universe writes as realistically as Eul!!
 
Weakened by pain, hunger, thirst and lack of proper sleep, I must have lapsed into oblivion, the next thing I experience is a vicious jab with a long, sharp pole in my upturned left loin. “Wake up, turd!” yells a brutal voice. “Hold your bowl up,” follows a woman’s, marginally less hateful, and appreciably more helpful. I hastily find the bowl and lift it to the grid so a motherly-looking eastern woman can ladle a dollop of stew into it, spilling a good bit on me and the pit-floor. I hold up my tumbler which she fills with water.

I drink the water gratefully, start lapping up the food, the light’s soon extinguished, I continue in the dark. Rehydrated, with some lukewarm, greasy, salty stew inside me, something approaching coherence returns to my thoughts.

I reflect on my torturer – ‘my’ torturer, that officer who’d treated me so evilly, whom I should loathe, I do loathe, yet feel a strange bond between us, a kind of dark gravitational pull – at very least, he’s a sadist who values a plucky victim, when he said ‘it was my pleasure’, I’m sure he meant it!

And his final words, spoken in his usual sneering, sarcastic tone, “You can have a little time and space there…”, well, at least that implies I’m not going to be here for ever, little space I certainly have, what will count as little time? An eldritch shriek suddenly interrupts my thoughts, it’s followed by howling from another prisoner – I recalled with a shudder the ward where my crazed sister lives, this is a place where people go mad….

This living grave, coffined in total blackness in a place where the unworldly screams of the mad are my only companions, is a far worse torture than anything they’ve inflicted on my body – small, female, but tough, wire-hard, and torture-trained. Nightmares of being buried alive have haunted me since I overheard as a kid some men talking about prisoners being executed that way, and Borys arguing with them as ever that it was the Germans and not the Russians who did that…

But my feeling of anger, my determination to survive, are rekindling within me. They’ll break me, they’ll make me betray my friends, says lies are the truth, confess to ridiculous crimes, they’ll make me shriek and grovel and beg to do anything to end the agony, even scream for death, but they won’t destroy my mind, it’s a tough little mind, like my tough little body.

I take a deep breath, try to let the dreadful cries drift through me unnoticed. Clearly even to mention the name of Deputy Premier Beria in the dungeons of the Lubyanka is a fatal error, one of Ivan’s very long slippery snakes. Heigh-ho, I wasn’t to know.

But Ivan – where are you? I’m beginning understand the force of the first part of what you said as you left me, “whatever happens, don’t lose faith in me …” Did you know, did you have any idea, that all this was going to happen to me, going to be done to me?

But I still shudder at those very last three words, “don’t hate me!” I told you when you turned up at the school that I didn’t hate you, not even after what you’d done to Mamma and Nastja and me. Why should I hate you now? Unless…. no, it can’t be, it makes no sense, surely you can’t have any hand in what I’m being put through…?
 
last night's episode was a bit short, so's this next bit, so I'll slip it in here, and try to finish off chapter 8 this evening -

There’s no point in even trying to keep any sense of time. We’re fed at intervals. I soon get used to waking up as soon as the lights flicker on, I don’t often need jabbing with the wake-up goad. I notice that the howlers and moaners go quiet when the lights come on, however crazy, they’re conditioned like lab-rats to avoid pain.

The lights aren’t always for feeding-time. I hear more prisoners being brought in, I can almost scent the terror of the poor wretches. But – an encouraging sign – I’m sure I hear one or two taken out.

And from time to time, a couple of guards come in and throw bucketfuls of something down on us in our pits – first time it happened, I heard them coming, heard the splashes, heard cries from the other pits, so I quickly squeezed into a foetal position, felt the liquid cascade over my back, two bucketfuls, freezing cold – it felt at first like just water, but a fearsome stench told me it wasn’t, and within seconds my skin began burning. It must be bleach, in a pretty strong dilution! One way of keeping us disinfected, I infer.

I try to keep my body exercised, not easy in one cubic metre’s space, but I’m afraid if I don’t try my muscles will soon atrophy. I work out ways I can do some bends and stretches. I stretch my legs, then my body, across the diagonal for maximum length. And in spite of the pain that still shoots through my fingers and thumbs, worst of all my left thumb that’s swollen like an egg and deep purply-black, I manage to keep some muscle-tone in my limbs by pressing with my hands and feet against the walls, I even manage a sort of pull-up, gripping the grid-bars. I feel quite pleased with myself about this!

And otherwise I keep up my discipline of remembering and composing poems and stories, though it’s getting harder as time passes. Much of the time I’m in a sort of half-sleeping, half-waking state, increasingly detached from my physical situation, floating up out of my grave into the blackness above…

Sometimes in the darkness, someone – probably a new arrival – will call out “Hello!”, perhaps announce his or her name, but there’s only silence in response. We don’t need to be told, we’re soaked in the foetid atmosphere of dread down here, talk’s dangerous, talk’s what goes on in that now-alien world above us, talk’s what’s got us down here, in this world of screaming, gibbering shadows. There’s no point…
 
Rattling on the grid, jab with the spike… For once I must have been deeply asleep. Not any more – hey, the grid's being unlocked, swinging open. I kneel up without being told, two toughs grab my arms and haul me up, swing me out of the pit, toss me on the floor, where I immediately collapse, unable to stay upright. They lock manacles on my wrists behind my back, tug me upright again and more or less carry me up the long stairs out of the deepest circle of Lubyanka’s Hell.

I’m hauled out into one of the floodlit yards. There’s a plain armoured van waiting, the back door open, they throw me in, slam the door shut. The engine starts, we move off, out of the courtyard I guess, soon we’re moving at high speed.

I’m in pitch darkness again, though this time being thrown around on the bare steel floor of the hurtling van. I’ve no way of telling where they’re taking me or why. But the journey’s not long, we soon swing violently, then slow down, stop briefly, move on, then stop again. Engine off, door opens.

I get little chance to take in what sort of place I’m being delivered to, seems to be another courtyard, not quite so brilliantly lit, I’m hustled up some steps, through a door which a uniformed guard holds open for us, up a couple of flights of stairs. On the landing, we stop, one of my escorts presses a button on a panel beside a grand-looking, well polished mahogany door.

It seems a fairly functional sort of office building, but the landing where we’re waiting seems to be a prestigious part. Besides the fine door we’re facing, to my left there’s a pair of doors with leather covering and ornate brass fittings, like you see in posh theatres or cinemas.

After quite a long wait, a buzzer sounds, a green light glows. One guard opens the grand door, I’m ushered in. A huge room, high-ceilinged, with magnificent velvet curtains pulled across what must be enormous windows. The walls are tastefully papered with an eggshell blue covered by twining, Chinese-style ornament. Oil paintings on the walls, antique furniture –armchairs, occasional tables, as well as office furniture. And a huge mahogany desk in the middle.

What looks like a Chinese carpet on the floor, matching the wallpaper but In a deeper shade of blue, all in exquisite taste. And ahead of me, from where I’m standing at the door, there’s a pathway of white canvas like decorators use. I’m to walk along this towards the gigantic desk, not letting my filthy, stinking body sully the precious carpet.

I stand, awestruck, wrists still locked behind bare bum, conscious of my uncleanness, my filthy hair flopping over bruised, scarred shoulders and breasts, unwashed, ill-used pudendum with its mat of foul tangle, grimy, sweat-streaked face, body, legs…

A door opens at the far end of the room, a shortish, stout man in a dark suit, with a round face and receding dark hair enters, walks to the desk and sits in the grand chair behind it, peers at me through rimless glasses...
 
chapter 9, 'mysteriouser and mysteriouser' said Alisa... pioneer-girl-ussr-.jpg


9​

“So, Alisa, we meet again,” says Beria, in his soft, sharp-edged tone. I lower my eyes, tighten my grip on my still sore bum, I’m shaking like leaf. “Yes, comrade,” I answer quietly. I sense his eyes scanning me, instinctively tighten my shoulders, spread my knees slightly, displaying for him my female assets. “You are still a fine young woman, prisoner Innokentaya. It’s a pity you choose to make things hard for yourself.”

He gestures to my guards, they unlock my wrists. “Come here, let me see what they’ve done to you.” I walk round the end of the huge desk, still unsteadily, as if I were on a ship at sea, feeling the softness of the carpet under my bare feet, even a childish fear that I’ll be punished for spoiling it. He beckons me to stand right up against his knees, as he turns his grand chair towards me.

“Show me your hands, Alisa.” I hold them out, my fingers stripped of their nails, still tipped with scabbed and oozing blisters, my left thumb hideously swollen. He grips them, feels my shudder of pain and terror at his touch, he tut-tuts, releases them, I drop them by my sides. “Their methods are so crude, so primitive. The MGB must be properly trained in up-to-date procedures, like the CIA have been learning from their ex-Nazi friends.”

He waves me away with a back-flap of his hand. “Go. You are in urgent need of a wash. You can have one now, clean yourself up, have a good rest. Then you’ll be able to help us.”

He nods to the guards, they lead me away, out through the big door, across the landing. They unlock a door on the other side, direct me in, shut it and lock it again behind me. I look around, astonished, mystified. What’s all this about?

It’s like a luxury hotel room, furnished at least as comfortably as the one we stayed in for May Day, and rather more tastefully, in delicate pastel colours. There’s a large single bed with a traditional Kazakh embroidered cloth for a bedspread, a soft armchair, a low table, a dressing-table and chair – it’s equipped with brush and comb and body-care materials in bottles and jars.

In a small chest of drawers, I find a supply of clothes, girls’ clothes, all in my size. Hardly glamorous, they look like Young Pioneer issue, just missing the red neckerchief – white knickers and bra, pale blue blouse with flap pockets – military-style – a dark blue, box-pleated skirt, white plimsolls, but all good quality fabric, and brand-new.

But I hardly dare touch them with my filthy, suppurating fingers. I look to my left and see a glass door which gives access to a bathroom – a spotless white bath with a shower-fitting on the gleaming taps, wash-basin, proper w.c., a cupboard with a range of soaps, shampoos, lotions, even feminine hygiene is provided for, and there are some medical supplies, a pot of disinfectant cream and some elastic stick-on plasters which are just what my fingers and thumbs need if they are to mend, a small (much less than lethal!) supply of aspirin.

The floor’s tiled, the walls freshly painted in pale greenish blue, but the wall by the bath is one enormous mirror, and when I see the creature in it, I’m sick with shock – hollow-eyed, sunken-cheeked, face parchment-white, hair a gorgon-mop of greasy serpents, body a crazed map of bruises, scars, weals, with seas of mud and rivulets of sweat among great islands of purple. If this is what Beria considers a fine young woman, he is indeed a man of strange tastes.

I’m not fooled, there’s some game being played, some devilish scheme he’s dreamt up to torment me. Of course I’ve no option but to play along with it, and anyway from where I am just now a bath’s as close to heaven as I’m likely to ever get.

I run the taps and discover that, unlike most taps in Moscow, the hot one produces hot water, plenty of it. As I watch the bath fill, it occurs to me that the mirror (now beginning to steam up) is probably one of those one-way jobs, Beria’s all too likely watching me through it, masturbating frantically. I chuckle to myself at the thought – let him enjoy!

I lie in the warm, soapy water, not too hot, my tortured skin stings cruelly in so many places, but rubbing soap over me is so delicious, both cleansing and erotic. I empty out one bathful, full of filth, and run another, lie in that one simply luxuriating.

Then I draw round the shower curtain – the mirror can still see me, of course – and rinse my hair, after three vigorous shampoos, it’s beginning to feel a bit more like human hair again, less like tarred ship-rope. There are three big, soft, warm towels hanging on a heated rail, I cuddle myself in them, spend a long time first treating my wounds, especially my fingers and thumbs, with the antiseptic cream, then trying other feminine aids and tittivators more for my self-love than for any good they might do me.

The scents, toileteries and cosmetics in the bathroom and on the dressing table are the most expensive kinds from Paris and New York, you can’t even buy them in GUM. Beria sends schoolgirls to the gulag for wearing stuff that’s cost them a hundredth of the price these goods would fetch on the black market.

When I finally exit the bathroom, I find someone’s been in and left a tray with salad, fruit, cold meats, cheese, bottles of soft drink. I eat gladly, drink even more so – though cold water from the tap is what I get and enjoy first and most of all. Then use the sparkly clean flush toilet.

I’m still naked, I seem to have got used to being nude, it’s my natural condition. And anyway, Beria said I should rest, I’m ready to sleep. I pull back the bedspread and find a little white nylon nightie waiting for me on the pillow, I put it on, do a twirl in front of the dressing-table mirror, it’s pretty, just bum-length.

And so to bed, between soft, glistening white linen sheets, on the plumpest downy pillow my head’s ever rested upon…

“Then you’ll be able to help us.” What the hell’s he on about? Fuck it …
 
Eulalia said:
chapter 9, 'mysteriouser and mysteriouser' said Alisa... View attachment 137143


9​

“So, Alisa, we meet again,” says Beria, in his soft, sharp-edged tone. I lower my eyes, tighten my grip on my still sore bum, I’m shaking like leaf. “Yes, comrade,” I answer quietly. I sense his eyes scanning me, instinctively tighten my shoulders, spread my knees slightly, displaying for him my female assets. “You are still a fine young woman, prisoner Innokentaya. It’s a pity you choose to make things hard for yourself.”

He gestures to my guards, they unlock my wrists. “Come here, let me see what they’ve done to you.” I walk round the end of the huge desk, still unsteadily, as if I were on a ship at sea, feeling the softness of the carpet under my bare feet, even a childish fear that I’ll be punished for spoiling it. He beckons me to stand right up against his knees, as he turns his grand chair towards me.

“Show me your hands, Alisa.” I hold them out, my fingers stripped of their nails, still tipped with scabbed and oozing blisters, my left thumb hideously swollen. He grips them, feels my shudder of pain and terror at his touch, he tut-tuts, releases them, I drop them by my sides. “Their methods are so crude, so primitive. The MGB must be properly trained in up-to-date procedures, like the CIA have been learning from their ex-Nazi friends.”

He waves me away with a back-flap of his hand. “Go. You are in urgent need of a wash. You can have one now, clean yourself up, have a good rest. Then you’ll be able to help us.”

He nods to the guards, they lead me away, out through the big door, across the landing. They unlock a door on the other side, direct me in, shut it and lock it again behind me. I look around, astonished, mystified. What’s all this about?

It’s like a luxury hotel room, furnished at least as comfortably as the one we stayed in for May Day, and rather more tastefully, in delicate pastel colours. There’s a large single bed with a traditional Kazakh embroidered cloth for a bedspread, a soft armchair, a low table, a dressing-table and chair – it’s equipped with brush and comb and body-care materials in bottles and jars.

In a small chest of drawers, I find a supply of clothes, girls’ clothes, all in my size. Hardly glamorous, they look like Young Pioneer issue, just missing the red neckerchief – white knickers and bra, pale blue blouse with flap pockets – military-style – a dark blue, box-pleated skirt, white plimsolls, but all good quality fabric, and brand-new.

But I hardly dare touch them with my filthy, suppurating fingers. I look to my left and see a glass door which gives access to a bathroom – a spotless white bath with a shower-fitting on the gleaming taps, wash-basin, proper w.c., a cupboard with a range of soaps, shampoos, lotions, even feminine hygiene is provided for, and there are some medical supplies, a pot of disinfectant cream and some elastic stick-on plasters which are just what my fingers and thumbs need if they are to mend, a small (much less than lethal!) supply of aspirin.

The floor’s tiled, the walls freshly painted in pale greenish blue, but the wall by the bath is one enormous mirror, and when I see the creature in it, I’m sick with shock – hollow-eyed, sunken-cheeked, face parchment-white, hair a gorgon-mop of greasy serpents, body a crazed map of bruises, scars, weals, with seas of mud and rivulets of sweat among great islands of purple. If this is what Beria considers a fine young woman, he is indeed a man of strange tastes.

I’m not fooled, there’s some game being played, some devilish scheme he’s dreamt up to torment me. Of course I’ve no option but to play along with it, and anyway from where I am just now a bath’s as close to heaven as I’m likely to ever get.

I run the taps and discover that, unlike most taps in Moscow, the hot one produces hot water, plenty of it. As I watch the bath fill, it occurs to me that the mirror (now beginning to steam up) is probably one of those one-way jobs, Beria’s all too likely watching me through it, masturbating frantically. I chuckle to myself at the thought – let him enjoy!

I lie in the warm, soapy water, not too hot, my tortured skin stings cruelly in so many places, but rubbing soap over me is so delicious, both cleansing and erotic. I empty out one bathful, full of filth, and run another, lie in that one simply luxuriating.

Then I draw round the shower curtain – the mirror can still see me, of course – and rinse my hair, after three vigorous shampoos, it’s beginning to feel a bit more like human hair again, less like tarred ship-rope. There are three big, soft, warm towels hanging on a heated rail, I cuddle myself in them, spend a long time first treating my wounds, especially my fingers and thumbs, with the antiseptic cream, then trying other feminine aids and tittivators more for my self-love than for any good they might do me.

The scents, toileteries and cosmetics in the bathroom and on the dressing table are the most expensive kinds from Paris and New York, you can’t even buy them in GUM. Beria sends schoolgirls to the gulag for wearing stuff that’s cost them a hundredth of the price these goods would fetch on the black market.

When I finally exit the bathroom, I find someone’s been in and left a tray with salad, fruit, cold meats, cheese, bottles of soft drink. I eat gladly, drink even more so – though cold water from the tap is what I get and enjoy first and most of all. Then use the sparkly clean flush toilet.

I’m still naked, I seem to have got used to being nude, it’s my natural condition. And anyway, Beria said I should rest, I’m ready to sleep. I pull back the bedspread and find a little white nylon nightie waiting for me on the pillow, I put it on, do a twirl in front of the dressing-table mirror, it’s pretty, just bum-length.

And so to bed, between soft, glistening white linen sheets, on the plumpest downy pillow my head’s ever rested upon…

“Then you’ll be able to help us.” What the hell’s he on about? Fuck it …
Click to expand...

I got sidetracked a few days ago and missed a lot on this thread...Now I am fully caught up after a lot of reading .... and can only say what I have said before Eul.....WOW WOW WOW !!!!!! No one writes this stuff as well as you can!!!!
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom