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Liberty

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King Diocletian said:
Soon, soon... work has rather intervened. But I hope this week will be quieter.
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Appreciate the update. Do what you can. Really want to see how much you can hurt and degrade the condemned girl. Maybe branding?
 
What I mean is that Garcia will turn on his senior officers. Kd have you ever heard the term " less is more" sometimes you go over the top.I do like your writing and I think Liberty is one of your best.Thanks
 
I am also active on Quora. The question came up "What is the most disturbing short story you have ever read?"
Someone answered, describing a story about a sweet little old lady that poisons people.
HA! We have one here that blows the doors off of anything like that. I posted a description of this story and how to find it. 1 of 10 hit 'like'. I posted it kind of late, else we would be getting a lot of traffic on the first few installments. That lot surely would not make it past part 4, of course.
 
Secret Keeper said:
I am also active on Quora. The question came up "What is the most disturbing short story you have ever read?"
Someone answered, describing a story about a sweet little old lady that poisons people.
HA! We have one here that blows the doors off of anything like that. I posted a description of this story and how to find it. 1 of 10 hit 'like'. I posted it kind of late, else we would be getting a lot of traffic on the first few installments. That lot surely would not make it past part 4, of course.
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I'll check out that sight.
 
bkcharmer said:
How far are we away from this world?
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We are still a ways off, but closer than in the 1970's.
In the 1970's a former Prime Minister of Italy was kidnapped by a band of terrorists known as the Red Brigades. At the time Italy had several member of this band in their prison. The idea circulated to torture the Red Brigade members in prison for information. Public uproar against this was strong, so it was not done or done in secret.
I suspect it was not done. The Red Brigades wound up murdering the format Prime minister, Aldo Morrow.
Forty years pass.
In the U.S. President Obama tried to close Guantanamo Bay, where torture of Al-Qaeda had become routine. Despite his popularity, he couldn't do it.
That is how things have changed, we are a ways off, but going in a bad direction.

In the dirty war, those who were tortured, were tortured because they were ...... terrorists.
KD hints at this when he touches on the 'bombing at the Interior Ministry.' Joliette, knew of it. That helped her torturers feel justified.
When you hear someone promote, "Zero tolerance of terrorism," this is what they are advocating.
 
Secret Keeper said:
We are still a ways off, but closer than in the 1970's.
In the 1970's a former Prime Minister of Italy was kidnapped by a band of terrorists known as the Red Brigades. At the time Italy had several member of this band in their prison. The idea circulated to torture the Red Brigade members in prison for information. Public uproar against this was strong, so it was not done or done in secret.
I suspect it was not done. The Red Brigades wound up murdering the format Prime minister, Aldo Morrow.
Forty years pass.
In the U.S. President Obama tried to close Guantanamo Bay, where torture of Al-Qaeda had become routine. Despite his popularity, he couldn't do it.
That is how things have changed, we are a ways off, but going in a bad direction.

In the dirty war, those who were tortured, were tortured because they were ...... terrorists.
KD hints at this when he touches on the 'bombing at the Interior Ministry.' Joliette, knew of it. That helped her torturers feel justified.
When you hear someone promote, "Zero tolerance of terrorism," this is what they are advocating.
Click to expand...
Do not believe all you read. Widely reported was guards were flushing copies of the Koran down toilets. Try that and see how well it works.

Obama could have closed the Guantanamo Bay facility (he had a veto-proof Congress) his first two years and chose not to. Think why not...

As for torture and oppression look at Al Qaeda and ISIS. I'm not justifying a few rouge acts on the US' behalf but the prisoners at Gitmo were treated quite well even though they were not covered by the Geneva Convention...
 
Diaz made himself ready. After they’d made her blow the dog, they’d taken her and hosed her down, made her wash her mouth out, then dressed her again as the Statue of Liberty. He could see something had died in her. Her movements were sluggish, as though weighed down by humiliation. Numbly she’d read more of her journalism as they laughed and called her dogfucker. And now he was going to have her again.


She was brought in, head bowed, encircled by the crown. They pushed her down onto the mattress and bound her in position although there was no resistance about her anymore. He’d provided a pillow this time so the barbs didn’t dig too deep into her scalp. The men left and he was alone with her. He approached and pulled back the flag to reveal again her nakedness. He stood over her, determined to remember this moment, her beautiful long body stretched on the red and white material, from the front still all but perfect, her dark hair pressed down by the barbed wire, blood drying on her forehead, her eyes red with crying. He knelt over her and stroked her soft cheek. “Who won, Juliette?” he asked. “Who won?”


She just looked at him, her deep brown eyes radiating an unimaginable sadness. Her chains were loose. He reached round her waist and turned her over, pulling her to her knees. She didn’t resist. Her back was still gorgeous, firm and smooth and ready to be savaged by the whips, but her buttocks had been ruined. They were swollen and bruised, cut by open wounds. He ran his hands over them, feeling the corrugated surface, aware of the pain he was causing her. He unbuckled his belt and slid down his trousers and knelt behind her. “Doggy-style,” he said with a laugh. “Just as you like it.”

*

Garcia walked into the room. This was supposed to be their triumph but he was deeply ambivalent about it. He’d had Hartmann cleaned up – he didn’t want Diaz’s mess on his cock – but he was still struck by how broken she looked, exhausted, defeated, lying on a Stars and Stripes, barbed wire wrapped around her head. But she was still beautiful, her breasts still magnificent, her skin still firm and healthy. Diaz had had her for an hour, then he had her, then she was to be given to four groups of three men, each of which would have her for half an hour. After that, she was to sleep to try to get her ready for her flogging and execution. 60 lashes was a joke: she’d be half dead by then anyway.


He squatted down beside her, ran his fingers along her jaw. Slowly she turned her eyes to look at him. What a beauty she was. He let his thumb play over her lips. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You didn’t deserve this.” She said nothing.


“I tortured you because it was necessary,” he said. “And I’ll fuck you because I want to. But the extras were uncalled for.” She looked away.


“I’ll be more gentle than the others,” he said, and began to explore her breasts.

*

When Juliette woke there was a moment when she didn’t know where she was. All she was aware of was pain: in her ass, most agonisingly, in her vagina, in her head. She was stiff and sore. They’d raped her again, she thought wearily – and then she remembered. She began to retch as she thought of what they’d made her do with the dog, and pushed herself up from the bed. She’d been lying on her side, of course – her ass was too sore for anything else – but the fact she was in a bed intrigued her. The last she remembered she’d been chained down on a mattress covered in the Stars and Stripes. The crown had been removed and she could feel dried blood on her forehead and scalp. An ankle was cuffed to the bed, but other than that she was loose, although there was a drip feeding into her arm. And then a second thought struck her: this was the day she died.


She wondered what time it would be. They had to whip her first. Would they do both together? Death she was reconciled to. She’d lived a good life, a worthy life, and if it had been short at least they would say of her that she’d done her part. And for the past two, three months, whatever, it hadn’t been worth living. The pain and shame had worn her down. She couldn’t live as an object to be raped and tortured. She couldn’t live as a dogfucker. They would put the noose around her neck, she would fall through the trapdoor and her neck would break and in a few seconds it would be over.


What came next? She had little faith in an afterlife, but if there was one she confident she would be judged kindly. She had sacrificed herself for the greater good, had suffered for the rights of others. She’d already experienced hell. No, death didn’t scare her.


But the whipping. She feared that. She had hours to live and she intended to pass them with whatever dignity she could still muster whatever dignity a woman who had engaged in oral sex with a dog, who had been paraded naked in the garb of the Statue of Liberty, still could. But she knew they would strip her to be flogged and that she suffer dreadfully, that at least once before she died she would be naked and begging for mercy as they inflicted hideous pain upon her.
 
Diaz had put on his best suit. This was his day, the day of his triumph. It was damp and drizzling, but it didn’t matter: this was a day to be spent indoors. His wife, of course, knew what he’d been up to that week. She was used to him taking mistresses, but here she seemed not even to mind. She hadn’t ask directly but she had referred obliquely to “making sure that whore gets what she deserves”.


There were a perhaps 30 or 40 politicians in the room, with around the same number of senior military officers, sat on chairs arranged in rows. A row of soldiers lined each wall, all armed, all wearing helmets. It seemed a little ridiculous for the flogging of a woman who had already been tortured into submission. There was a low stage at the front, raised to the right hand side where the gallows stood, a noose hanging from the cross-beam. A post, perhaps 18 inches in diameter in diameter stood slightly to the left of centre. It was on that that she would be whipped.


They’d let her have a hot shower that morning. “It’s your last ever shower,” one guard had said. “It may as well be nice.” Her hair had been pulled back into a pony-tail and she’d been given that shirt to wear again. They’d shackled her wrists behind her and taken her into a small room with a bench along one wall. They’d told her to sit, but she couldn’t, instead leaning against the wall, waiting and waiting to be taken out for punishment.


It was six soldiers who came for her eventually. Two in front, two behind and one on each arm. They took her a short distance along a corridor where they were followed by two other soldiers, each clutching a hideous, long bullwhip. Juliette felt a qualm of terror. Those whips were huge, black coils with thick stocks perhaps an inch and a half thick. She gagged in fear, but the guards kept her walking. They opened a door and she was led through. She didn’t resist, didn’t think of resisting. She walked through, and found herself on a raised platform. First she was aware of the audience to her right, but then she saw the gallows, the coarse rope noose hanging beneath a hurdle. Was this it, then? Was she to be hanged straight after the flogging? She might be less than an hour from death. None of it seemed quite real.


Garcia sat awkwardly at the end of a row. The atmosphere made him uncomfortable: the chattering and the gossip, the talk of her torture, the anticipation of her being stripped and lashed. None of them had a clue what she’d been through. None of them knew how brave she was. None of them had any idea what she was about to suffer. She had to die, he understood that. Perhaps she even deserved to die. But whipping her was a grotesque addition. Especially 60 lashes.


A lieutenant and a doctor walked up onto the stage. Hartmann was pushed to her knees. The scars on her forehead were clear, but she still looked good. Garcia thought of her last night, humiliated beyond belief, as he’d enjoyed her extraordinary body. Her face now was a blank, as though she’d lost the capacity to feel.


“Juliette Hartmann,” the lieutenant said, “you have been sentenced to 60 lashes of the bullwhip.” He nodded at two of the guards. “Prepare the prisoner,” he said. 60 lashes, Garcia thought. Who decided these things? Who decided this was 100 with the palmatoria or 20 with the cane or 60 with a bullwhip? How could you measure out pain like that?


They pulled her to her feet. One soldier unbuttoned the shirt and another uncuffed her wrists. Quickly, without ceremony, they stripped her. A murmur passed through the audience as her nakedness was revealed, the long golden form, the fine high breasts, the narrow waist. She bit her lip and looked down. She was surprised at how embarrassed she felt, that she still had shame left to feel after everything they’d done to her, but she could feel this crowd sizing her up, feel their relish. They turned her round and led her to the post. There was a gasp as her ravaged buttocks were revealed, but there was no roughness in the soldiers. This was calm efficiency. She hobbled across the stage and reached around the post as she got there. There was no point resisting. They fastened her wrists at a little above waist height so she hugged the post, the polished wood pressing against her breasts. She knew this was going to be horrendous. She pushed her forehead against the wood and tried to calm her tremulous breathing.


The lieutenant pushed her ponytail over her left shoulder, letting his hand linger momentarily on her back, as though regretting the smooth beauty that would soon be destroyed. She was shaking, her fear obvious. Diaz felt a warm satisfaction. He had won. The two floggers took their positions behind her, each in short-sleeved military uniform, each holding the heavy bullwhips, eight feet of dark, oiled leather. Whipping was still only a semi-official punishment, one open to tribunals but not the public courts under the emergency legislation that permitted “extreme measures to quell indiscipline”. This part of her execution would not be reported, and could be denied if need be, but it would be known. The lieutenant gave the order to begin. Her whimper was audible.
 
She waited. How bad was this going to be? Her life has been pain for longer than she cared to think. Her buttocks were solid agony. After everything they’d done to her, after the dog, what had she left to feel suffering? She heard the whoosh of the whip, and then it hit. Harder than she’d imagined. Pain, immediately. She yelped. She gritted her teeth, eyes wide, and the pain grew and grew, a line of agony across the centre of her back. “One,” came a leisurely call. And she waited, a horrendous understanding dawning that this was going to be slow and going to be terrible.


She shuffled her feet. The time to think was terrible. The whip exploded on her back again. Her left leg flicked up involuntarily. For a moment she couldn’t breathe and just gawped open-mouthed at the post. The pain was terrible. As her body slowly began to relax, she thought, ridiculously, of the West Wing. She held the post tighter. It was a scene from a film President Bartlet loved. Two sons of an English king in a dungeon. One had given up and the other was encouraging him, telling him that if falling was all you had, then it was important you fell well. Was that it? Something like that. She set herself. She would fall well.


But each lash took her breath away. Each lash was an unbelievable horror. Each lash exploded in fire on her back, knocked the breath from her body and took her to the limits. The pain was terrible, the sense of her body being mutilated was terrible, the knowledge of what was to come was awful. “Eight!” came the call. Eight!? How could she take more? How? Her arms trembled, her legs threatened to give way. How could you fall well when it hurt this badly? Her head dropped back and she screamed.


Diaz was enjoying this immensely. He had been worried when the first lash had landed that it hadn’t been enough. Her back was magnificent, smooth lightly muscled. He’d enjoyed running his hands over it. Even when she’d opposed him, he’d loved to look at it if her dress left some of it bare. Destroying that purity was part of his victory. First the ass, then the back. But the first blow, although fearsomely hard, had left just a pink line. Or at least, he’d thought it had. But even as she was thrown into a classic pose of agony, that line began to darken, and there was a little blood where the tip had bitten. By the time the second lash was delivered the first had turned a livid red-brown.


Her suffering was obvious now, the back criss-crossed with welts, blood dribbling freely. As every lash she would freeze for a fraction of a second as though her body shut down briefly as it processed the new assault. There was a whoosh, a slap, a gasp, and then a scream. She’d begun trying to hold out, but the situation had soon become hopeless. She was howling and bawling, shaking and sobbing. “Eighteen,” came the call. Her back was criss-crossed with red, blood dribbling from a series of deep welts. Each blow provoked greater writhing, the trauma so great she was shaking as though bitterly cold. This was the destruction of what little spirit she’d had left.


Garcia felt slightly sick. He had no qualms torturing prisoners. He’d become used to seeing suffering. He inflicted pain when it was needed and he wasn’t naïve enough not to recognise that the job was a little more pleasurable when the prisoner was a beautiful woman. But this was horrendous. The lashes were brutal, as hard as any held ever seen. The nineteenth flashed into her shoulder, sending up a slight spray of blood. “Grrreaaaaaahhhhh, greaaaaaah!” she shouted and he saw the wound begin to develop on the golden skin, pink becoming a deeper and deeper red as she shuddered, blood oozing where the tip had bitten. There was nothing he could do to help. He just hoped they wouldn’t do too much more to her before hanging her.


He looked round the hall. What did these people think? He saw the politicians and officers, selected specially, presumably, so they would relish this, so they wouldn’t later complain. These were people who actively wanted to see a woman savagely beaten. True, it was a woman who had provoked and aggravated the regime, who had worked for the wrong side, an enemy, but he doubted they’d have been keen to see a male journalist whipped, or even an old woman. He heard the twentieth land, heard the smack of leather on skin, her gasp and shout, the cold announcement of the number. He saw a plump politician look mildly horrified by what he had seen, sucking in through his teeth as though disgusted or shocked, but then his face relaxed and he turned to the besuited man to his left with a laugh. This was like a film to them, enjoying the horror of the spectacle, while on the stage a beautiful and brave woman suffered horribly. What did they know of pain? What did they know of her courage?


His eye fell on a young colonel, eyes wide. The whoosh, the crack, the shout, the sobs. The colonel’s tongue flicked out and licked his upper lip. His mouth hung open with undisguised lust. Garcia turned back to the stage. She was visibly cringing now, shaking, sobbing, her back red and steaked with darker lines. He could see the edge of her right breast against the post. The flogger crossed his vision, the whip whistled through the air and exploded on her back. Her head few back, her knees twitched and her saw her arms momentarily take the strain. “Twenty-two.” She bowed her head, pushed her forehead against the post, pony-tail swinging. He thought of her on the bench, of pressing the picana to her breasts. He sat back. He may as well enjoy the show. She was fucked and there was nothing he could do.


What skin she had, so warm, so smooth. Her buttocks were ruined now, but her remember what they had been like, and her thighs were still lovely, long and slender, the calves firm and shapely despite everything. As the next lash landed and her mouth opened in another scream her saw a flash of her white teeth. She had had everything. Looks, body, intelligence and she had wasted it on her silly campaigns to die here. His eyes flicked up to the gallows where she would die later that afternoon.
 
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