Liberty

[King Diocletian]

Garcia had rarely felt such an atmosphere before. The sense of expectation was palpable, but he waited. Let them look at her. Let them remember this, Hartmann naked and perfect on the flogging bench, her long limbs spread out, her tawny skin perfect and unblemished, her dark hair hanging loose over that smooth back. The buttocks a little paler, pure and firm. Not a bruise on her – yet.


The two soldiers charged with administering the first 50 strokes walked to the back of the room. Hartmann watched them as they took down a palmatoria each. They were new – stiff but supple leather. Garcia wondered what she must be feeling. Terror, surely, yet she seemed resigned, tough enough not to kick and scream. Or piss herself – he’d seen plenty of prisoners of both sexes do that. The soldiers walked back towards her, swishing the paddles through the air, taunting her with what was about to be done to her. She lowered her head. She was naked, she was vulnerable and she was about to go through intense pain for the amusement of about 100 men. But she deserved it.


The soldiers took their positions on either side of her. She seemed calm. He saw her take a couple of deep breaths. He was quietly impressed; she might be a challenge. She was certainly physically tough enough to take severe punishment. The left-handed flogger lay his palmatoria across her buttocks. She tensed and then relaxed.


“100 strokes,” Garcia said. “Proceed.”


The soldier raised the paddle, held it for a moment and smacked it down. There was a slap that echoed round the room. She flinched, her knees trying to jerk inwards but restrained by the straps. The firm flesh quivered, the outline of the paddle showing on the smooth skin. “One,” said Garcia. She had given a slight grunt – little more than a heavy exhalation – but had remained essentially unmoved. The right-hander struck. “Two,” he called. There was always a rhythm to floggings – the palmatoria tended to be used quickly, the blows delivered in rapid bursts. When they moved to canes or the proper bullwhips it was always much slower, making the victim wait for the lash.


Three... Four... Five... Six…. Already there was a pinkness to the smooth skin. Seven… eight. They were leaving only three or four seconds between blows. If he were torturing her he would drag this out, make her think, make her fear the lash. Nine… ten. Her buttocks were extraordinary, the pert roundness springing back into shape after each stroke. They paused and he could hear her breathing – shallow, frightened. She shuffled as though trying to find a more comfortable position. They began again.

*

Remain calm. Relax. Don’t give them the satisfaction. The strap landed, she flinched, lifting her body a fraction from the frame. Eleven. The cold voice calling out the strokes. Twelve. The pain was worse than she’d thought possible. The first had been bad enough. Thirteen. The slaps impossibly loud, the noise reverberating around the room. The rational part of her knew that energy lost in sound at least wasn’t being transferred into her ass but the noise seemed to enhance the sting. Fourteen. Her knees twitched. The pain was getting worse as the palmatorias landed on skin that was already smarting. Fifteen. She was desperate to remain calm, determined not to shout. But it hurt. Hurt far worse than she’d imagined. Sixteen. Her fists clenched. She gritted her teeth, pushing her forehead into the frame. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see them watching her, to see them enjoying her nakedness and her pain. Seventeen. A sharp exhalation left her mouth - a gasp or grunt of pain. She hadn’t realised how hard they would hit her, how the soldiers would smash the leather against the skin with all their might. Eighteen. It was relentless. Left buttock then right. She tried to steel herself but she could feel the pain engulfing her, each new blow sending her closer to cracking. She shuffled, thinking if she could raise her right buttock as the left hander struck it might ease the pain. It didn’t. “Nineteen,” he called as the strap slapped across the centre of her buttocks, driving her pelvis into the bolster. She was horribly aware of the sexuality of the flogging, of how even in the bonds she was thrusting up and down. Twenty. A break. She took a deep breath.


Control the breathing. Deep breaths. Slow and deep. Not the shallow scared breathing she’d been doing. She wriggled as far as she could in the bonds. Her buttocks stung terribly. She’d had no idea what the pain would be like, how her ass would burn. Don’t think of them watching her. Don’t think of her enemies standing round watching her being beaten, enjoying her humiliation and pain. Don’t think of the fact she was naked, ass in the air, her most private parts visible. Don’t think of what was to come, of eighty more strokes and days of torture.


The strap came down again, the slap ringing out. She gave a grunt. Twenty-one.

 

[malins]

the way she knew – knew which prisoners were where and what had been done too them

she ...had taken testimony from prisoners lashed upon it

that's a very special hell... she knows, and they know she knows... she will have everything in her mind she ever heard of from the prisoner's testimonies...but then it will occur to her all these things she knows are only of those that came back, or at least someone came back who had witness of what had happened ... and, as it is with the 100 strokes, yes she'll understand that her knowledge will drive them to surprise her with even greater cruelty ...

Of course they’d torture her, she told herself: she had to be prepared ... this was one of the reasons she’d kept herself so physically fit with runs and gym sessions... able to drive herself on runs till she was retching with the effort.

She isn't able to conceal those preparations and so again, she'll also be driving them on ...

a frog pinned out for dissection

 

[Barbaria1]

Garcia had rarely felt such an atmosphere before. The sense of expectation was palpable, but he waited. Let them look at her. Let them remember this, Hartmann naked and perfect on the flogging bench, her long limbs spread out, her tawny skin perfect and unblemished, her dark hair hanging loose over that smooth back. The buttocks a little paler, pure and firm. Not a bruise on her – yet.


The two soldiers charged with administering the first 50 strokes walked to the back of the room. Hartmann watched them as they took down a palmatoria each. They were new – stiff but supple leather. Garcia wondered what she must be feeling. Terror, surely, yet she seemed resigned, tough enough not to kick and scream. Or piss herself – he’d seen plenty of prisoners of both sexes do that. The soldiers walked back towards her, swishing the paddles through the air, taunting her with what was about to be done to her. She lowered her head. She was naked, she was vulnerable and she was about to go through intense pain for the amusement of about 100 men. But she deserved it.


The soldiers took their positions on either side of her. She seemed calm. He saw her take a couple of deep breaths. He was quietly impressed; she might be a challenge. She was certainly physically tough enough to take severe punishment. The left-handed flogger lay his palmatoria across her buttocks. She tensed and then relaxed.


“100 strokes,” Garcia said. “Proceed.”


The soldier raised the paddle, held it for a moment and smacked it down. There was a slap that echoed round the room. She flinched, her knees trying to jerk inwards but restrained by the straps. The firm flesh quivered, the outline of the paddle showing on the smooth skin. “One,” said Garcia. She had given a slight grunt – little more than a heavy exhalation – but had remained essentially unmoved. The right-hander struck. “Two,” he called. There was always a rhythm to floggings – the palmatoria tended to be used quickly, the blows delivered in rapid bursts. When they moved to canes or the proper bullwhips it was always much slower, making the victim wait for the lash.


Three... Four... Five... Six…. Already there was a pinkness to the smooth skin. Seven… eight. They were leaving only three or four seconds between blows. If he were torturing her he would drag this out, make her think, make her fear the lash. Nine… ten. Her buttocks were extraordinary, the pert roundness springing back into shape after each stroke. They paused and he could hear her breathing – shallow, frightened. She shuffled as though trying to find a more comfortable position. They began again.

*

Remain calm. Relax. Don’t give them the satisfaction. The strap landed, she flinched, lifting her body a fraction from the frame. Eleven. The cold voice calling out the strokes. Twelve. The pain was worse than she’d thought possible. The first had been bad enough. Thirteen. The slaps impossibly loud, the noise reverberating around the room. The rational part of her knew that energy lost in sound at least wasn’t being transferred into her ass but the noise seemed to enhance the sting. Fourteen. Her knees twitched. The pain was getting worse as the palmatorias landed on skin that was already smarting. Fifteen. She was desperate to remain calm, determined not to shout. But it hurt. Hurt far worse than she’d imagined. Sixteen. Her fists clenched. She gritted her teeth, pushing her forehead into the frame. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see them watching her, to see them enjoying her nakedness and her pain. Seventeen. A sharp exhalation left her mouth - a gasp or grunt of pain. She hadn’t realised how hard they would hit her, how the soldiers would smash the leather against the skin with all their might. Eighteen. It was relentless. Left buttock then right. She tried to steel herself but she could feel the pain engulfing her, each new blow sending her closer to cracking. She shuffled, thinking if she could raise her right buttock as the left hander struck it might ease the pain. It didn’t. “Nineteen,” he called as the strap slapped across the centre of her buttocks, driving her pelvis into the bolster. She was horribly aware of the sexuality of the flogging, of how even in the bonds she was thrusting up and down. Twenty. A break. She took a deep breath.


Control the breathing. Deep breaths. Slow and deep. Not the shallow scared breathing she’d been doing. She wriggled as far as she could in the bonds. Her buttocks stung terribly. She’d had no idea what the pain would be like, how her ass would burn. Don’t think of them watching her. Don’t think of her enemies standing round watching her being beaten, enjoying her humiliation and pain. Don’t think of the fact she was naked, ass in the air, her most private parts visible. Don’t think of what was to come, of eighty more strokes and days of torture.


The strap came down again, the slap ringing out. She gave a grunt. Twenty-one.

All I can think of to say after reading this one is wow!

 

[King Diocletian]

Rodriguez brought his palmatoria down again, snapping his wrist to achieve the maximum possible velocity. It landed, perfectly flat, across the lower part of her right buttock, sending tremors through the firm flesh on either side. “Twenty-two.”


He’d only been told at breakfast that morning that he’d been selected for the plum job of flogging Hartman. He and Angel. When they’d heard of her arrest there’d been a suspicion she’d be beaten and of course there’d been the possibility he’d be chosen. He knew he was good. He wasn’t a particularly big man but he was athletic and he had powerful forearms. Flogging backsides wasn’t what he’d come into the army to do but there were worse jobs. Most of the time he just smacked away, regarding it almost as a workout. Not today though. Women didn’t come his way that often but when they did and they were young and pretty, the buttocks pert and smooth, he relished it.


He took two paces forward and struck a little higher than previously, in the centre of the cheek. She gave a slight gasp and the flesh shuddered delightfully. “Twenty-four.” And this, of course, was special. They’d all watched her on television making her speeches, seen her cheekbones and fine figure. Of course she was an enemy of the state but she was a beautiful one. And now here she was, the elegant, intelligent, self-assured woman of her public appearances reduced to this: naked and bound, her buttocks pink. Flogging her was an honour. He went low again, enjoying the wobble as the cheeks flattened and sprang back again. “Twenty-six.”


He admired her toughness. Most new prisoners took only 10 or 20 strokes and were howling by the end, especially the women. It wasn’t just the pain, he knew; it was the shock, the sense of helplessness, the humiliation – and most of them didn’t get a crowd like this, all these men in suits watching and enjoying her punishment. But the pain was bad enough – especially now as each blow landed on tender flesh. He reached a little higher and smacked the rounded top of her buttock where the cheek jutted out from her back. She gave a slight gasp and her head jerked up a little, but essentially she remained as still and unyielding as she’d been throughout. “Twenty-eight.”


Angel’s palmatoria struck hard across the middle of the buttocks. “Mmmphh,” came the grunt and the shudder seemed to go on for longer. Rodriguez put his shoulder into the last of the batch striking hard and low. Her whole body tensed and her saw her fists clench, but she held back the scream. They paused. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and watched as she slowed her breathing down. Really an admirable girl. He wondered what else they had lined up for her that day – they made a pretence of keeping the actual torture secret but they all knew about the cells where they broke dissidents; they’d all flogged prisoners who’d already been savagely beaten, had their nails ripped out, had electricity pounded through them. He imagined they’d flog her again when they’d finished interrogating her before sending her to the camps.

*

Diaz adjusted his glasses and as he did so he caught her eye. There was pain and reproach but also great strength. She’d taken on the regime and she must have known eventually this would happen. The left-handed flogger – Angel, he thought he was called – raised the palmatoria and smacked it down again. He was a powerful man and he clearly was putting all his strength into the blows. The slap was the leather struck her skin was extraordinary. It almost made him flinch just to hear it. Her body jerked, her shoulders lifting from the slats momentarily. He could see how she pressed her lips together, cutting off the shout that welled inside her. “Thirty-one.”


She lowered her head, pressing her brow against the wood. Rodriguez struck her. He heard her teeth knock together, saw a slight tremor pass through her, but her only acknowledgement of the stroke was a gruff sigh through her nose. She swallowed and shuffled. Angel hit her again and her head jerked back again. Her eyes were wide with pain and there was a little mucus oozing from her nostrils, but she remained silent.


And then, finally, her resistance was broken. Rodriguez’s strap landed flush across the middle of her buttocks. Her shoulders snapped back as far as the bonds would allow, giving him just a flash of her breasts as he looked from his position just in front of her and to the right. “Thirty-two.” She tried to hold it in but couldn’t. “Nnnngggyyyyuuurggghhhhh,” she yelled, spittle dripping from her lips and clinging there till she shook it away. She relaxed, but before she’d settled back onto the frame, Angel had struck again. She grunted, her body twitching, and then she fell back. “Thirty-three.” Her breath clearly came in pants; there could be no doubt of her suffering.


The strap landed again and again. Diaz shuffled round. He wanted to see her backside but there were too many people in the way. Each stroke she twitched, her body trying to rise, the strap across her waist the only thing that held her down. Rodriguez smacked low, over the crease where her buttocks met her thighs. She grunted, a spasm passing through her thighs, as though she were trying to press her knees together. She kept her head down. He wanted eye contact. He wanted to see her suffering. From where he stood, though, he could just make out the fleshiness of her right breast as it pressed into the wood. He gazed at it intently. There was another crack as another stroke landed. Her body lifted a fraction and he saw more of the shape of the breast, its firm curve, before she fell back onto the slats. “Thirty-six.”


He’d known how beautiful she was of course. That was part of her appeal. “Thirty-seven.” She was smart and charismatic, a calm and lucid public speaker, but most of all she was a woman with whom men wanted to spend time. He thought back to those meetings, the times she’d asked difficult questions, raised awkward points, made him look a fool. “Thirty-eight.” He’d hated her then and yet at the same time he’d often found himself staring at her when somebody else was speaking, admiring her pretty smile, those cheekbones, the way her dark hair flowed around her face and, yes, her breasts, high and pert and round. “Thirty-nine.” And now here he was getting to see her naked; and her body hadn’t disappointed; she was just as long and lean as promised, just as rounded and curved where she needed to be. “Forty.” The last of the set lifted her again and he briefly saw a flash of nipple before she fell again, gasping for breath.

 

[Boris Spider]

Truly excellent stuff, KD.

 

[King Diocletian]

The pain was worse than she’d ever imagined possible. She felt exhausted, she could feel her heart pounding and a sheen of sweat covered her. This was a test of endurance as much as anything, the long, slow incremental increase of pain. She shook her head, trying to regain control, forcing herself to take long deep breaths.


They started again.


SLAP!!


The shudder passed from her buttocks through her legs. She wished she weren’t bound as tightly. Not only was the position degrading, but her knees and the muscles down the inside of her thighs were aching as the instinctive desire to close her legs battled with the bonds.


The right-hander struck. She gritted her teeth, fighting the urge to yell, desperately trying to keep her body pressed into the frame. “Forty-two.” Why give them more flashes of her breasts than she had to? She knew they were getting off on this, knew her nakedness and humiliation were part of their revenge. But the pain was awful. She shuffled, wondering if she could somehow spread the pain. But it was no good. The next blow landed across the middle of her buttocks and something inside her broke. Her head and torso snapped up and she let loose a roar from deep inside her, spittle flying from her lips. She fell back down with a thump and threw her head back, pressing her breasts into the slats and howling as she stared at the ceiling. “Forty-three.” She hated herself. Why had she cracked? The next struck and she pushed her head into her left shoulder, grunting with pain. “Forty-four.”


She could feel tears pricking her eyes. She wanted to scream and howl to give in to the pain, but that would be to let them win. She had to fight it. The next landed low, almost on her thigh. “Gah-“ she shouted, just checking the full scream. “Forty-five.” It was agony now even when they weren’t hitting her, in the brief gaps between the strokes. She closed her eyes. She would keep them closed until they reached fifty. Five more. That was all. “Forty-six.” She strained at the strap across her waist. She could feel the sweat running down her brow. Just four more. The trouble was, each stroke was an event, the sound of the blow echoing in the room, the pain getting worse all the time. “Forty-seven.” She held herself down, her whole body tense. Keep the eyes shut. The forty-eighth landed. She grunted, her eyes flicked open for a second but she held it together. Two more. The flogger seemed to reach round a little more. This one hit over the hollow beyond the meat of her buttock. She wriggled, but kept her eyes and mouth shut. The last of the set was hard, aimed centrally where the pain was at its worst, she bucked, grinding into the bolster. She let out a gasp and the first half was over.


She opened her eyes and blinked away the tears. She was panting and tried to calm herself, to take deep breaths. She looked around, saw the men chatting, a couple pointing at her, discussing her. It sickened her. She was vaguely aware of the two floggers stepping back, of new floggers preparing, flexing their palmatorias. Her buttocks burned. The thought she had to go through the same again was horrific. She saw a flash of white to her left and realised the doctor had approached her.


He brushed her hair aside, placed two fingers against her neck and took her pulse. “She’s fine,” he said. He examined her ass, tapping each buttock a couple of times with his fingers. There was pain as soon as his fingers brushed her skin, but when he pressed, her cheeks felt oddly numb. Then, as he turned away, he jabbed his two fingers inside her labia, twisting slightly. She squirmed and grunted, then he patted her sore backside and walked away. She gritted her teeth. She wanted to shout abuse at him but she knew that was what they wanted. She knew the whole point of that was to remind her that she was naked, that she was in their power and that they could do what they wanted with her, to remind her that this wasn’t just a flogging but also a way of humiliating her.

*

The second left-hander was a tall, broad, slightly tubby soldier called Cabrera. He considered her ass for a moment, then brought the palmatoria down hard. There was the usual smack and again she gave little more than a cough. “Fifty-one,” said Garcia. He was impressed. Her buttocks were scarlet; she must be in agony, and yet she was holding it together. Breaking her might be harder than they were expecting. “Fifty-two.” Just as important, though, maybe more important, was her physical toughness. If she could soak up punishment like this, her system would probably be strong enough to let him torture her with real rigour. “Fifty-three.” And then of course there was the post-torture. It was conceivable they’d execute her but he thought it far more likely she’d be whipped and sent to the camps. And if they did that, there were all kinds of ways they could make her life in the camps miserable. With her figure she’d be working night and day as it was. “Fifty-four.”


He stared at those round buttocks. Cabrera struck her again. The muscles quivered and she pushed herself up with a gasp. Even from behind he could see her effort to hold herself together. The right-hander was a wiry man of about 1.75 in height, hair cropped close and cheeks thin; Munoz, he thought his name was. He struck low, sending both buttocks and thighs wobbling. “Fifty-six.” She curled her toes, shaking her feet. The next brought a howl, not a scream as such, but a roar. “Nyooorrr, noyooorrrrrr, nyooooorrrrrrr,” she yelled, her shoulders back, her head up. Oh to see her tits from the front as she held that position. Even before she’d slumped back onto the frame, Munoz struck her again. This time her shout was higher-pitched. “Fifty-eight.” She forced herself down before the fifty-ninth landed and remained silent and the sixtieth brought just a grunt.


They paused. The only sound in the room was her breathing, slowing gradually as she regained control. Garcia nodded. The smack seemed louder than ever. She wriggled, distress showing in her inability to stay still but she remained silent. “Sixty-one.” Her feet were flicking and twitching constantly now, her toes flexing and unflexing with each stroke. “Sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four…”

 

[King Diocletian]

Cabrera hated her. He remembered the days before the junta, knew what the leftists had done before they were crushed. He recalled the car-bombs and kidnappings, the mood of fear that had haunted the city. And she attacked the government that had brought peace. She was a stupid, misguided girl, not old enough to know any better and yet she arrogantly thought she could tell them how to live. A Yanqui. He brought the palmatoria down with full venom. The buttocks quivered and she yelped. “Sixty-seven.” A spanking like this was what she should have had years ago. Might have helped her learn her place. He could feel his shoulder beginning to ache; that was the problem when you laid into the lashes. But he wasn’t going to go easy. This arrogant little bitch deserved everything she got. “Sixty-nine.”


He paused and wiped the sweat from his brow. She was tough; he couldn’t deny that. He’d seen hardened criminals, men, weeping long before their asses got as red as that. But they’d break her. She’d be begging for mercy soon enough. Garcia gave him the signal to carry on. This time, at least, he drew a stifled grunt from her, forced her to raise her head. He watched Jimenez’s strap land, saw her shudder, and knew that her resistance was weakened.


Her buttocks were flaming now. They must have been agony - a deep red. He struck had across the centre and her head snapped back, her back arching against the strap. “Grrraaaahhhhhh!” she yelled. “Seventy-three.” Jimenez laid the palmatoria on quickly. “Oh God!” she shouted. And let out another roar. He hit her low. She repressed her scream to an elongated grunt but he could see the effort in her now. Her back kept tensing and releasing, spasms and twitches passing through her. And each blow brought a new grunt. “Seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight…”

*

Very slowly, she relaxed. Eighty gone. The pain was far, far worse than she’d imagined. She thought of all that time in the gym, all the time running laps of the park, to prepare herself for this. She was fit, but the pain… and still 20 to go. If they’d asked her then for a name, for information, would she have given it? Would she have been able to take twenty more? She didn’t know. At that moment, she’d have done an awful lot to get them to release her. She shuffled, trying to find a relatively comfortable position. She saw the soldiers step forward again, took a deep breath and braced herself.


The palmatoria landed. The force of the blow on her tender skin was horrendous. She felt her legs twitch, but she held in the scream. She gritted her teeth, pushed her forehead into the wood. “Eighty-two, eighty-three, eighty-four…” But the next was too much. She could hold it in no longer. A scream broke from her, half curtailed, and her torso lifted. Her head had dropped but her body was still up, tight against the strap, breasts loose above the wood when the eighty-sixth struck. She howled. She desperately wanted to hold it in but the agony was atrocious. She hadn’t stopped screaming when the next struck. She dropped back onto the slats, fingers clawing at the wood. The eighty-eighth landed and her knees jerked hard against the restraints, sending a jarring shudder down the inside of her thighs. She was moaning constantly, spittle flying from her lips as she tried to regain control. “Grrrraaaaahhhh….!” she shouted, her head flying back again. Then, finally, the last of the set. She was left trembling, sweating, grateful for the brief break. She spat, trying to get rid of the thick skeins of mucus that hung around her mouth.

*

Diaz wondered how she’d behave under torture. There was something wonderful about seeing this enemy of the state squirming naked and in pain, that maddening self-assurance of hers ruptured. He decided he would sit in on her interrogation, at least once they’d got beyond the preliminaries. He usually found the torture distasteful but her, well, watching her humiliated and screaming after what she’d put them through, that might be quite entertaining.


They started on the final batch. The first drew a grunt, nothing more, her back arching. She clearly worked out, he thought; there was something alluring about the olive curves of her shoulder, the toned roundness of it, that expanse of smooth back. They landed quickly, ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four. Each one brought a grunt and then keep a deep, throaty groan


She was jerking and twitching all over the place now. Cabrera brought the strap down again. He could almost feel the heat coming off her red cheeks. He’d never flogged such a beautiful woman, never flogged such firm buttocks. Ninety-five. Two more to deliver. He wound up hard and forced a scream from her even as she gritted her teeth to keep it in.


Juliette was shaking. She felt sick. Her buttocks burned. The pain was worse, far worse, than anything she’d imagined possible. She wanted to beg for mercy, to plead with them, but something within kept her strong. Another explosion. The scream wouldn’t stay in. Her shoulders wouldn’t stay down. Ninety-nine. She felt her breasts bounce, knew she must be giving them a show. And then the last. Grrrraaaghhh! “One hundred.” She fell still, her body limp, torso heaving. There were beads of sweat on her brow and her upper lip. Her ass felt somehow both numb and aflame but she’d done it; she’d survived.

 

[Barbaria1]

But the next was too much. She could hold it in no longer. A scream broke from her, half curtailed, and her torso lifted. Her head had dropped but her body was still up, tight against the strap, breasts loose above the wood when the eighty-sixth struck. She howled. She desperately wanted to hold it in but the agony was atrocious. She hadn’t stopped screaming when the next struck. She dropped back onto the slats, fingers clawing at the wood. The eighty-eighth landed and her knees jerked hard against the restraints, sending a jarring shudder down the inside of her thighs. She was moaning constantly, spittle flying from her lips as she tried to regain control. “Grrrraaaaahhhh….!” she shouted, her head flying back again. Then, finally, the last of the set. She was left trembling, sweating, grateful for the brief break. She spat, trying to get rid of the thick skeins of mucus that hung around her mouth.

"fingers clawing at the wood" ... what a picture you paint! Can just imagine myself clawing at the wood like that!

 

[DarknessMonger]

Perhaps she can be given a short tour of the place to show her the other prisoners undergoing interrogation so she knows what to expect if the doesn't talk

 

[MaryGeorge39]

Perhaps she can be given a short tour of the place to show her the other prisoners undergoing interrogation so she knows what to expect if the doesn't talk

I think part of the point is that she already knows exactly what to expect from all of the evidence she has gained about what happens to people held by the Secret Police- she has no illusions about what they might do to her until she speaks and gives them the names of people who have spoken to her.

 

[windar]

I think part of the point is that she already knows exactly what to expect from all of the evidence she has gained about what happens to people held by the Secret Police- she has no illusions about what they might do to her until she speaks and gives them the names of people who have spoken to her.

She should just give them the names of anyone she doesn't like. That's what would likely happen in the real world and is why torture works much better in fiction than in reality. http://www.military.com/daily-news/...eer-cigarettes-work-better-waterboarding.html So, they should give her beer and cigarettes (though maybe she doesn't smoke). That wouldn't make a good CF story, though...

 

[King Diocletian]

The doctor checked her. Fine, he confirmed. And so Garcia put the final part of her welcome into practice. They tipped the bench back to the horizontal and unfastened her bonds. She didn’t move, lying still, as though still coming to terms with the beating. “Get up,” he ordered.


Very slowly, she obeyed, dropping first left leg, then her right to the floor, seeing if her legs would take her weight still, and then turning, slowly, uncertainly, to face him, arms moving hesitantly, stiffly, to cover her breasts and her strip of pubic hair. Good; he wanted her still to feel shame. He walked to stand about 2m from the door. “Come here,” he said and, looking anxiously about, she obeyed, shuffling as though trying to limit the movement of her legs. She stood in front of him, tall and beautiful, breathing a little heavily but otherwise elegant despite her nakedness. “Bend over,” he said. “Hands on your knees.” She looked at him, suddenly understanding what they were doing do her, but having no option she obeyed. Her hair fell forward, surrounding her face and revealing, at the very top of her spine, a tiny cluster of freckles. There was an intimacy in seeing that, Garcia felt, a sense that they were seeing every last part of her.


He walked around her, examining her long tanned back. He placed a hand between her shoulder blades, enjoying the smooth warmth, enjoying even the way she tensed at his touch. Her breasts hung from her chest, deliciously round and full. He stood behind her. “Legs straight, please,” he said, and she pushed her buttocks back. Her legs were splendidly long and taut, the golden skin shifting suddenly into a deep purplish red. And between her legs, her lips were clearly visible.


They opened the door and the audience began to leave, filing past her. Some paused to examine her, staring at her red ass, at her genitals, moving on to look at her breasts. Garcia smirked; the humiliation must be intense.

*

Diaz stood alongside her. God, she was beautiful. He placed a hand on her back, feeling the vertebrae beneath the smooth skin. He ran the hand down her spine, towards the buttocks. They were a violent red, almost burgundy. He let his fingers run over the swollen skin. They were hot to the touch. She shuddered and he patted her, drawing a gasp of pain. He walked around her so her stood behind her. He heard her swallow; she knew he was staring at her cunt. He let his hands caress her long slender thighs, tautly muscular beneath his fingers. He stabbed his fingers between her lips, giving her a sharp prod as she grunted and then he walked round the other side of her till he stood by her shoulders. He stroked her neck, feeling the bone and the soft down, then seized a hank of hair so she looked at him. The movement caused her breasts to wobble and he stared at their wondrous roundness and then he turned his gaze to her eyes.


Her cheeks were flushed, her dark eyes glinting with tears. He’d stared into those eyes before, looked on that beautiful face as she’d denounced him; this time he could sense her shame even as she gritted her teeth. “How about a clever speech?” he taunted. “While don’t you tell me what a monster I am?” Her eyes burned with fury but she said nothing and he let her go, patting her head as he walked out.

*

She lay face down on the bunk. It had been two or three hours now since the last of them had filed from the room and she’d been allowed to put her shirt back on. The flogging had been bad enough but the humiliation afterwards, making her stand like that, felt far worse. Her ass throbbed with pain, but the thought of them standing around laughing at her, talking about her nakedness, made her sick with shame. What was worse was that she knew that was the point: she knew they wanted to emphasise she was their plaything to be prodded and poked as they desired. And of course the contrast to her defiance of them made it far, far worse for her and far, far more enjoyable for them.


She tried to focus, to gather her thoughts. She knew they’d start the interrogation soon. She knew it would be exhausting and she knew they’d torture her. What did they want to know? What could she give them that wouldn’t break the democracy movement? Could she satisfy them or would they batter her into madness? Was there any way she could avoid incriminating her friends? Her sources would be the first thing they’d want, she suspected. What could she tell them? She tried to come up with stories, tried to think up tales of anonymous deliveries and phone calls, tried to remember who’d already fled the country or was already dead or in jail. And then she heard his voice, the flippancy as he’d said, “OK. Strip,” as though being made to take her clothes off was nothing out of the ordinary. And then she heard him say, “This is a prison. You are a prisoner. You obey orders or you are punished,” and her flesh crawled. They’d planned this. Planned her humiliation from the arrest in a fancy dress to the stripping and the searching – she shuddered at the thought of the doctor’s fingers inside her – and the hosing that had left her battered and cold and exhausted.


She shook her head. She had to think clearly. Could she claim she was a stooge? Could she really claim she’d been sent all the information anonymously? Maybe she couldn’t, but it was a lie to stick to. She shifted her weight and ran a hand over her buttocks. They felt hot but were oddly numb. She rubbed gently, but that just awoke thoughts of the soldiers fondling her as they brought her back to the cell. They’d brought her some water, some soup and some bread a few minutes later and then left her to wait.


Think. Think of what they might ask. But all she could think of was cowering naked in that cage as they all stared at her before they turned the hosepipes on. And she knew, of course, exactly what they did to their victims: beatings, electric shocks, the dreaded Petra Negra barbecue. What would electricity feel like? She heard the door open. Instinctively she pulled down the shirt and stood. Four soldiers filed in. This was it then. This was what she’d put herself through all those sessions in the gym for. To toughen herself for this. The pain of lifting that extra set of reps, the pain of pushing herself in the final mile, all that was for this. Her wrists were cuffed behind her, a hood pulled over her head, and then they led her into the corridor.


The stripping, the hosing, the flogging, the mockery. All that was prelude. The real event was about to begin.

 

[thehangingtree]

The doctor checked her. Fine, he confirmed. And so Garcia put the final part of her welcome into practice. They tipped the bench back to the horizontal and unfastened her bonds. She didn’t move, lying still, as though still coming to terms with the beating. “Get up,” he ordered.


Very slowly, she obeyed, dropping first left leg, then her right to the floor, seeing if her legs would take her weight still, and then turning, slowly, uncertainly, to face him, arms moving hesitantly, stiffly, to cover her breasts and her strip of pubic hair. Good; he wanted her still to feel shame. He walked to stand about 2m from the door. “Come here,” he said and, looking anxiously about, she obeyed, shuffling as though trying to limit the movement of her legs. She stood in front of him, tall and beautiful, breathing a little heavily but otherwise elegant despite her nakedness. “Bend over,” he said. “Hands on your knees.” She looked at him, suddenly understanding what they were doing do her, but having no option she obeyed. Her hair fell forward, surrounding her face and revealing, at the very top of her spine, a tiny cluster of freckles. There was an intimacy in seeing that, Garcia felt, a sense that they were seeing every last part of her.


He walked around her, examining her long tanned back. He placed a hand between her shoulder blades, enjoying the smooth warmth, enjoying even the way she tensed at his touch. Her breasts hung from her chest, deliciously round and full. He stood behind her. “Legs straight, please,” he said, and she pushed her buttocks back. Her legs were splendidly long and taut, the golden skin shifting suddenly into a deep purplish red. And between her legs, her lips were clearly visible.


They opened the door and the audience began to leave, filing past her. Some paused to examine her, staring at her red ass, at her genitals, moving on to look at her breasts. Garcia smirked; the humiliation must be intense.

*

Diaz stood alongside her. God, she was beautiful. He placed a hand on her back, feeling the vertebrae beneath the smooth skin. He ran the hand down her spine, towards the buttocks. They were a violent red, almost burgundy. He let his fingers run over the swollen skin. They were hot to the touch. She shuddered and he patted her, drawing a gasp of pain. He walked around her so her stood behind her. He heard her swallow; she knew he was staring at her cunt. He let his hands caress her long slender thighs, tautly muscular beneath his fingers. He stabbed his fingers between her lips, giving her a sharp prod as she grunted and then he walked round the other side of her till he stood by her shoulders. He stroked her neck, feeling the bone and the soft down, then seized a hank of hair so she looked at him. The movement caused her breasts to wobble and he stared at their wondrous roundness and then he turned his gaze to her eyes.


Her cheeks were flushed, her dark eyes glinting with tears. He’d stared into those eyes before, looked on that beautiful face as she’d denounced him; this time he could sense her shame even as she gritted her teeth. “How about a clever speech?” he taunted. “While don’t you tell me what a monster I am?” Her eyes burned with fury but she said nothing and he let her go, patting her head as he walked out.

*

She lay face down on the bunk. It had been two or three hours now since the last of them had filed from the room and she’d been allowed to put her shirt back on. The flogging had been bad enough but the humiliation afterwards, making her stand like that, felt far worse. Her ass throbbed with pain, but the thought of them standing around laughing at her, talking about her nakedness, made her sick with shame. What was worse was that she knew that was the point: she knew they wanted to emphasise she was their plaything to be prodded and poked as they desired. And of course the contrast to her defiance of them made it far, far worse for her and far, far more enjoyable for them.


She tried to focus, to gather her thoughts. She knew they’d start the interrogation soon. She knew it would be exhausting and she knew they’d torture her. What did they want to know? What could she give them that wouldn’t break the democracy movement? Could she satisfy them or would they batter her into madness? Was there any way she could avoid incriminating her friends? Her sources would be the first thing they’d want, she suspected. What could she tell them? She tried to come up with stories, tried to think up tales of anonymous deliveries and phone calls, tried to remember who’d already fled the country or was already dead or in jail. And then she heard his voice, the flippancy as he’d said, “OK. Strip,” as though being made to take her clothes off was nothing out of the ordinary. And then she heard him say, “This is a prison. You are a prisoner. You obey orders or you are punished,” and her flesh crawled. They’d planned this. Planned her humiliation from the arrest in a fancy dress to the stripping and the searching – she shuddered at the thought of the doctor’s fingers inside her – and the hosing that had left her battered and cold and exhausted.


She shook her head. She had to think clearly. Could she claim she was a stooge? Could she really claim she’d been sent all the information anonymously? Maybe she couldn’t, but it was a lie to stick to. She shifted her weight and ran a hand over her buttocks. They felt hot but were oddly numb. She rubbed gently, but that just awoke thoughts of the soldiers fondling her as they brought her back to the cell. They’d brought her some water, some soup and some bread a few minutes later and then left her to wait.


Think. Think of what they might ask. But all she could think of was cowering naked in that cage as they all stared at her before they turned the hosepipes on. And she knew, of course, exactly what they did to their victims: beatings, electric shocks, the dreaded Petra Negra barbecue. What would electricity feel like? She heard the door open. Instinctively she pulled down the shirt and stood. Four soldiers filed in. This was it then. This was what she’d put herself through all those sessions in the gym for. To toughen herself for this. The pain of lifting that extra set of reps, the pain of pushing herself in the final mile, all that was for this. Her wrists were cuffed behind her, a hood pulled over her head, and then they led her into the corridor.


The stripping, the hosing, the flogging, the mockery. All that was prelude. The real event was about to begin.

Another great chapter!!!

 

[Barbaria1]

Another great chapter!!!

Agreed. Great job of getting inside her mind.

 

[King Diocletian]

And yet the guards seemed almost gentle with her. They led her rather than marching her. They didn’t taunt her or fondle her. They even allowed her to walk slowly as she tried to ease the pain in her swollen buttocks. She passed through a number of doors before finally they stopped her in an air-conditioned room. The chains and her hood were removed and she saw she was in a cell, perhaps 10m x 6m. Two soldiers stood guard at the door and another half dozen stood around the walls. In front of her was a desk, behind which sat three officers. A stenographer sat at a smaller table to their right. A wooden chair faced the desk but she stood just in front of it. “Miss Hartmann, welcome,” said Colonel Garcia. “Sit down if you like or if you prefer to stand you may stand.”


“I’ll stand if you don’t mind,” she said.


“Perfectly understandable,” he smiled. “How is your bottom?”


“Sore,” she said.


“Ah well. It’ll fade. Would you like a drink of water?”


She accepted and was given a plastic beaker of water. “Now, obviously there’s been some unpleasantness today but if you cooperate there’s no need for you to suffer any more,” Garcia said. She stared at him. She’d expected to be naked by now, cattle prods poking at her. Was this for real? Or was this a trick? She gulped down the water and handed the beaker back.


“Just say if you want some more,” Garcia said. “Talking can make your mouth dry, I know, and I hope you’ll be talking a lot.”

*

She talked a bit, but not a lot. The first session was always about background and she knew they knew about that. Garcia had files and files on her, but the first one, about her life and her family and her parents was only about 150 pages long. He read slowly through it, checking with her the details. She stood uncertainly about three metres from the desk, tugging down on her shirt as though to cover more of her slender, strong thighs. His two fellow colonels, Juarez and Bochini, chipped in with the odd question but essentially it was him talking at her. He interrogated her for three hours, let her have some more water and ordered a coffee for himself, and then interrogated her for three hours more. There were worse things, he supposed, than having a beautiful girl dressed in just a shirt in his power, but he couldn’t wait till they got on to torturing her. He loved the way she’d shuffled from foot to foot, clearly humiliated, tugging the shirt lower over her thighs. Her thighs! They seemed to go on for ever, so smooth and toned.


She’d agreed to sit down after an hour or so, but of course that made the issue of the shortness of her shirt all the more evident. And sitting down, she occasionally bent forward so he got a look down her cleavage. It was odd that he’d seen her naked only that morning and yet the slightest glimpse of those round breasts got him excited again. She’d sat primly with her knees together, constantly smoothing down the shirt, squirming with the pain in her buttocks. So then she’d had to ask to stand up again.


But she’d given him nothing. She was smart. She’d denied direct links with the insurgents, she’d told him only of sources he already knew about. There’d barely been even a flicker of alarm in her. She’d been calm, measured. A matter of hours after she’d been flogged and pawed at, forced to show her nakedness to her enemies, she seemed wholly unperturbed. Well, so much the better. When she did break, it would be that much more fun to see her degradation.

*

She lay face-down on the bunk and looked across her cell at the wall six feet away. She felt exhausted, but the swelling on her buttocks was receding. Maybe tomorrow she’d be able to lie on her back. She felt confused. She’d expected torture and aggression, fearful beatings and sexual assault, but from the moment they’d let her put the shirt on after her flogging, she’d been treated relatively well. After that first day of questioning, she’d lain awake in the cell, fearfully listening for the tramp of feet and the opening door that would signal rape or torture, but it had never come. She’d had only two visits; the first to give her dinner – a lump of rather tough beef with watery vegetables – the second to take away her dish and the plastic cutlery. When they’d come again, it had been with bread and weak coffee for breakfast. Then she’d been led out – hooded, of course - and taken to a shower-room where, under the gaze of two female soldiers, she’d been unhooded and allowed to wash under a luke-warm shower and clean her teeth. They’d hooded her and taken her from there to the interrogation room where they’d pounded her with questions.


They’d taken turns; Garcia taking the lead but the other two contributing, going over and over her story, checking who she’d met, asking for details of her sources. They’d allowed her water whenever she wanted it, let her go to the toilet, hooded, when they’d stopped for lunch, and then continued the interrogation in the afternoon. They’d let her stand when she wanted and sit when she wanted. In the evening she’d been brought back to the cell and given dinner. That night she’d slept. And so it had gone on the next day, and the day after that, and the one after that. Was this it? She couldn’t believe they wouldn’t torture her, and yet they seemed content with lengthy interrogation. She dozed off, comforting sleep enveloping her.

 

[Barbaria1]

Harshness, pain and humiliation alternated with near civility, small comforts and dignities ... these guys are pros !

 

[bleater]

Was this it? She couldn’t believe they wouldn’t torture her.

nuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu!

 

[Secret Keeper]

Nice twist. Quiet before the storm, most likely.

 

[King Diocletian]

The door crashed back and she woke with a start. The light was turned on and as she blinked, startled and still not fully awake, she felt rough hands on her arms and her legs. She was flung to the floor, landing heavily. Cowering, she watched as they rolled up the mattress and took it and her blanket and pillow away. Then they folded the bed up against the wall, locking it securely away with a small padlock. One of them stood over her. “Serious stuff begins now,” he shouted, and then they left her, turning off the light as the bolts slammed shut.


Juliette curled into a foetal position. So this was the start of it. She had no idea what time it was but she knew it must be early from the darkness. She tried to calm herself. She breathed deeply and deliberately, but she felt sick, a knot of fear in her belly. What would it be first? A beating? Electric shocks? She thought of the journalist she’d met, his fingers broken and burned with acid after a session with them. She tried to compose herself, to work out what information she could give them. The truth was, of course, that she did know members of the opposition and she knew who their people were on the inside – or at least she knew some of them. Mainly information was passed on to her through anonymous drops or through a couple of trusted go-betweens. They, surely, would already have been protected. But she also had suspicions about people further down the chain and that was what she couldn’t afford to give away. But she also knew this was as much about teaching her a lesson as about getting information.


The waiting was hideous, but she knew that was part of their game. Scare her, make her fear the pain. Disrupt her sleep patterns. Make her lie on the hard floor waiting and waiting. Make terror a constant in her life. She acknowledged the cleverness of letting her get used to the cell, to giving her the mattress and the blanket, of treating her civilly. The contrast now, as she stared at the bed, locked back against the wall, was worse. Tell them what they wanted to hear, they were showing her, and she could have her bed back.


How long had she lain there? She had no idea. She’d drifted into a strange half-sleep when the door opened and four soldiers came in, another two standing guard at the door. She cowered away from the, huddling into the corner. They said nothing, just pulled her to her feet, calmly cuffed her wrists behind her and pulled a hood over her head. They marched her firmly but not roughly out into the corridor, through three more doors that she heard being locked and unlocked before finally she was pushed through one last door and the hood was removed.

*

Garcia looked at her as she blinked in the sudden light. She must have known she was about to be tortured, he realised, and yet she seemed calm, taking in her surroundings. The room wasn’t large, nowhere near as the public room where she’d been beaten, and contained a bath, a bench on which she could be restrained and the desk behind which he sat. She looked at him calmly, and he admired her beauty, the dark slightly mussed hair, the intelligent brown eyes, the smooth skin, the swell of the breasts beneath her shirt, and her long, slender legs.


“You have not been cooperative,” he said. “And so we must encourage you.”


She pursed her lip and drew back her shoulders. He took a clipping of one of her stories. “Who was your source for this?” he asked. “Who fed you these lies about the Mosconi contract?”


She gave a slight toss of her head to flick a tendril of hair from her eye but said nothing. “I admire your spirit,” he said. “But we will break you.”

*

Juliette felt terrified. She was desperately trying not to show it but she was in a torture chamber with three officers, a man who appeared to be a doctor and perhaps half a dozen soldiers. She stared at Garcia, trying to make him feel her humanity. He walked over to the bathtub. “Come here,” he said and she shuffled the four or five paces it took to stand by the bath. He took a length of hosepipe that led from a tap in the wall and lay it over the edge of the bath, then turned the tap on. She watched as he pushed the plug into the hole and water level began to rise. Immersion in cold water, then; that was how they’d start.


“A nice bath for you, Miss Hartmann,” Garcia said. She couldn’t take her eyes from the rising water level.


“Now, then, you don’t take a bath with your clothes on, do you?” She hated his calmness, his mockery, his obvious delight at the thought of seeing her naked again. “Come on, now, take your shirt off.”


She’d stripped for him twice before; why was this so difficult? She breathed out and stared straight ahead at the concrete wall. At the bottom of her vision she could see the water level rising. Her fingers felt numb, clumsy, as she unfastened the top button. She kept trying to breathe easily but each button was a step nearer torture. The second came undone. An ice bath. Dunking. Nakedness. Then what? Beatings? Electricity? She knew their methods all too well. She undid the third button. Keep calm. Keep thinking. Why Mosconi? What was that what they cared about. She slipped the shirt back over her shoulders and suddenly she was naked again. She held her shirt in her right hand then handed it to him. He took it with a smile and hung it over a peg on the wall. The calm she’d felt before had gone. She hooked her right arm over her breasts and cupped her left hand over her genitals. She could feel tears pricking at her eyes.


He stood next to her. She thought of those minutes after her flogging when they’d humiliated her, their hands running over her. She pressed her knees together. The water level was rising. Why the Mosconi piece? Why?


Garcia put a hand on her shoulder. “It does fill slowly, doesn’t it?” he said. She hated him. He ran his hand down her back. She closed her eyes and swallowed. He let his fingers run over her left buttock. “Your bottom’s recovering well, I see,” he said. “Only a little swelling.” He patted her gently. “We can probably give you another 100 or so before too long.”


He left her and turned off the tap. “In you get,” he said.


She swallowed again, looked at the bath, looked at him and summoned her courage. She dropped her arms and threw her shoulders back and stepped up to the bathtub. She hesitated for a moment then lifted her left foot over the side. The water was icy but she got in and forced herself first to sit and then to lie down. It was longer than a usual bath so she lay flat, long legs stretched out, her left arm covering her neat strip of public hair, her right arm crossed over her nipples. She could feel her breathing had changed immediately. It was terribly cold, painfully so. Goosebumps pricked her skin. He took a stool and sat by the side of the bath, looking at her, his pleasure in her nakedness undisguised.


He kept talking, asking about Mosconi. Who had told her? She kept blocking him, kept saying it was an anonymous tip-off. So long as she stayed still, it wasn’t too bad. How had she checked the information? It tallied; she’d checked the accounts. The water immediately around her body must have warmed up, she realised. Keep thinking, keep alert. Had she checked it in government? Had papers been leaked to her? They’d been sent anonymously, she lied. He stood up and walked out of sight. She closed her eyes: what was coming?

 

[Barbaria1]

“Serious stuff begins now,” he shouted, and then they left her, turning off the light as the bolts slammed shut.

Yikes! I knew the previous chapter was too good to be true ... the prelude before the storm!

She acknowledged the cleverness of letting her get used to the cell, to giving her the mattress and the blanket, of treating her civilly. The contrast now, as she stared at the bed, locked back against the wall, was worse.

These guys are very good at what they do ....

They said nothing, just pulled her to her feet, calmly cuffed her wrists behind her and pulled a hood over her head.

The constant hooding ... so intimidating

“You have not been cooperative,” he said. “And so we must encourage you.”

Knew it

She hated his calmness, his mockery, his obvious delight at the thought of seeing her naked again. “Come on, now, take your shirt off.”

She’d stripped for him twice before; why was this so difficult?

No one can really explain that ... it just is so difficult!

The calm she’d felt before had gone. She hooked her right arm over her breasts and cupped her left hand over her genitals. She could feel tears pricking at her eyes.

Nope, this is not going to be good

He took a stool and sat by the side of the bath, looking at her, his pleasure in her nakedness undisguised.

Creeepy!!!!!

They’d been sent anonymously, she lied. He stood up and walked out of sight. She closed her eyes: what was coming?

I have a feeling he didn't believe that little lie


Great writing again ... KD has a great way of cranking up the tension and terror!