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Liberty
- Thread starter King Diocletian
- Start date
Something tells me these guys are not fooled that easily ... indeed they may even have connections with the Russians!
Secret Keeper
Executioner
Gives a nice laugh, but comedy would not work well right now for our heroine.
Gibbs505
SERVORUM DOMITOR
Yes, they are not liberal Democrats!
Secret Keeper
Executioner
I wonder if the torturers had a discussion as to whether to feed he something that would cause vomiting and diarrhea. This would weaken her. However, on the other side they want her cogent for the interrogation. That side won.
Secret Keeper
Executioner
Don't be too sure. Any ideology can go bad.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Garcia sat down again. The two other interrogators stood over the end of the bath. Of course they did: who wouldn’t want to see this one naked? He held in his hand an envelope. Slowly, letting his eyes drink in her shivering body, the olive skin taking on a slightly grey tinge in the cold, he withdrew a photograph. “This was taken two days before your newspaper published your lies about Mosconi,” he said. He looked at it; it showed Hartmann accepting a folder from a short man in what appeared to be a shopping mall. She was dressed in jeans and a grey T-shirt, and half-faced the camera. He had his back to the camera, showing only a squat frame clad in a rumpled suit and a bald patch beginning to emerge from his greasy dark hair.
He showed it to her. She blinked. “Was this your contact?” he asked.
She shook her head. He tried to read her expression. “I’d never met him before,” she said. “He came up to me as I was shopping and handed it to me. I don’t know why. I don’t know how he knew I’d be there. I’ve never seen him since.”
“How long did it take you to learn that speech?” he said. She remained silent.
“Stand up,” he said. She’d been in there almost quarter of an hour, he thought; long enough. Awkwardly she got to her feet and stood, facing down the bath. She was shivering and he could hear her teeth chattering but there was something magnificent in her nakedness as she defied him, even keeping her hands by her sides. He knew the pain would intensify as the blood began to flow again so waited, watching the water drip from her cold-hardened nipples.
He had two of the soldiers shackle her hands behind her. She kept staring straight ahead. “Lie down again,” he said. “Face down this time.”
She glanced at him, then sank to her knees in the cold water, turning to face away from the wall. He couldn’t stop staring at her breasts as they quivered, the nipples just beginning to soften as she warmed up. She fell awkwardly forward, splashing, then lay, holding her head out of the water. He walked round to stand by the head of the bath. “Who is the man in the photo?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
The soldiers took their positions, one on each side of her. The one to her left placed his right hand over her left bicep and placed his left hand on her head; the one to the right the reverse. They pulled her back so she looked at him. He raised an eyebrow but she said nothing. He nodded. The soldiers pushed her down, holding her under the water. She resisted a little but then fell calm. He watched the bubbles rise from her mouth as she tried to release the air calmly; she’d trained for this then.
He gave her 20 seconds. “Up,” he said, and the soldiers yanked her head out of the water. Her breathing came in sharp gulps. “Who is that man?”
She said nothing, just looked at him defiantly, impossibly gorgeous with her back bent back and her breasts thrust towards him, the nipples hard again with the cold. “Down,” he said, and they pushed her under again.
*
She’d managed to draw a breath, and lay, allowing the air slowly to bubble from her mouth. Victims she’d spoken to her had told her about this and she’d practised in the kitchen sink in her small flat just a couple of miles from Petra Negro, holding her head in the water, letting the breath out slowly, counting in her head. But this was different. She was cold, terrified, naked. She couldn’t just lift her head when it got too much. She felt the shortness of breath, began to panic, and then she was yanked up again.
“Well?”
She shook her head, water dripping from her chin. Down she went again. A voice in her head wondered if she might perhaps mercifully drown under here and avoid whatever else they had planned for her, but then, as a pain began to well in her chest, survival instincts kicked in, and she writhed in their grip. Their hands twisted her hair, and they held her a few more seconds, before jerking her out of the water again.
She panted. “Who is the man in the photo?” he asked. She said nothing and they thrust her under again. Was it getting longer or did it just feel like it? She told herself he wouldn’t let her drown but the tightness began to well at the back of her throat. She felt the constriction in her chest, a pain beginning in her forehead. She tried to stay calm but, despite herself, she began to struggle. Finally they hauled her out again. She was shivering, her body red and covered in goosepimples. Snot oozed from her nose as she painfully drank in the air. And then the same question and the same lack of answer, and they pushed her under again.
They definitely held her longer this time, and as the band of pain tightened around her chest, she could feel herself beginning to lose consciousness, could feel the emptiness in her lungs as dark shapes began to dance before her eyes. But then the pulled her out again, and shook her violently so it seemed they must tear her hair from her head.
“Who is that man?” he asked.
She could barely speak by now, but, through chattering teeth she muttered: “I don’t know.”
And so they forced her under again.
This was the last time, though. When they released her this time, he ordered her to stand. She struggled to her feet, her limbs, numb with cold, refusing to respond to her brain. But eventually she stood, and, as he ordered, stepped out of the bath.
He showed it to her. She blinked. “Was this your contact?” he asked.
She shook her head. He tried to read her expression. “I’d never met him before,” she said. “He came up to me as I was shopping and handed it to me. I don’t know why. I don’t know how he knew I’d be there. I’ve never seen him since.”
“How long did it take you to learn that speech?” he said. She remained silent.
“Stand up,” he said. She’d been in there almost quarter of an hour, he thought; long enough. Awkwardly she got to her feet and stood, facing down the bath. She was shivering and he could hear her teeth chattering but there was something magnificent in her nakedness as she defied him, even keeping her hands by her sides. He knew the pain would intensify as the blood began to flow again so waited, watching the water drip from her cold-hardened nipples.
He had two of the soldiers shackle her hands behind her. She kept staring straight ahead. “Lie down again,” he said. “Face down this time.”
She glanced at him, then sank to her knees in the cold water, turning to face away from the wall. He couldn’t stop staring at her breasts as they quivered, the nipples just beginning to soften as she warmed up. She fell awkwardly forward, splashing, then lay, holding her head out of the water. He walked round to stand by the head of the bath. “Who is the man in the photo?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said.
The soldiers took their positions, one on each side of her. The one to her left placed his right hand over her left bicep and placed his left hand on her head; the one to the right the reverse. They pulled her back so she looked at him. He raised an eyebrow but she said nothing. He nodded. The soldiers pushed her down, holding her under the water. She resisted a little but then fell calm. He watched the bubbles rise from her mouth as she tried to release the air calmly; she’d trained for this then.
He gave her 20 seconds. “Up,” he said, and the soldiers yanked her head out of the water. Her breathing came in sharp gulps. “Who is that man?”
She said nothing, just looked at him defiantly, impossibly gorgeous with her back bent back and her breasts thrust towards him, the nipples hard again with the cold. “Down,” he said, and they pushed her under again.
*
She’d managed to draw a breath, and lay, allowing the air slowly to bubble from her mouth. Victims she’d spoken to her had told her about this and she’d practised in the kitchen sink in her small flat just a couple of miles from Petra Negro, holding her head in the water, letting the breath out slowly, counting in her head. But this was different. She was cold, terrified, naked. She couldn’t just lift her head when it got too much. She felt the shortness of breath, began to panic, and then she was yanked up again.
“Well?”
She shook her head, water dripping from her chin. Down she went again. A voice in her head wondered if she might perhaps mercifully drown under here and avoid whatever else they had planned for her, but then, as a pain began to well in her chest, survival instincts kicked in, and she writhed in their grip. Their hands twisted her hair, and they held her a few more seconds, before jerking her out of the water again.
She panted. “Who is the man in the photo?” he asked. She said nothing and they thrust her under again. Was it getting longer or did it just feel like it? She told herself he wouldn’t let her drown but the tightness began to well at the back of her throat. She felt the constriction in her chest, a pain beginning in her forehead. She tried to stay calm but, despite herself, she began to struggle. Finally they hauled her out again. She was shivering, her body red and covered in goosepimples. Snot oozed from her nose as she painfully drank in the air. And then the same question and the same lack of answer, and they pushed her under again.
They definitely held her longer this time, and as the band of pain tightened around her chest, she could feel herself beginning to lose consciousness, could feel the emptiness in her lungs as dark shapes began to dance before her eyes. But then the pulled her out again, and shook her violently so it seemed they must tear her hair from her head.
“Who is that man?” he asked.
She could barely speak by now, but, through chattering teeth she muttered: “I don’t know.”
And so they forced her under again.
This was the last time, though. When they released her this time, he ordered her to stand. She struggled to her feet, her limbs, numb with cold, refusing to respond to her brain. But eventually she stood, and, as he ordered, stepped out of the bath.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Garcia gazed at her. She was even tougher than he had imagined. There she stood, dripping, shivering, snivelling, her body a sickly purple and her nipples swollen and red, but she had not cracked. That was a hard session he had given her, as evidenced by the way she still gulped in the air between her sobs, but she had withstood it unbowed. So, to the next stage.
“Come over here,” he said, walking to the bench. Slowly, hesitantly, she obeyed. He loved watching a naked woman walk, seeing her breasts wobble. It was erotic and yet it somehow emphasised her vulnerability.
“Lie down.”
She looked at him, glanced at the door and the soldiers and, accepting she had no option but no obey, she sat on the bench and then stretched out. She must know what this was for, he thought, in which case her calm was astonishing. Soldiers fastened her, methodically pulling her arms down at right angles to her body and strapping them in leather cuffs to the legs of the bench, then fastening her ankles about a foot apart at one end. A further strap was buckled over her waist, just below her belly button, holding her flat to the polished surface. Garcia pulled up a stool and sat level with her chest. He let his hand fall on her right breast and kneaded it gently, admiring its firm elasticity. He flicked her nipple and sat back. “Who was he?” he said.
She looked at him directly, her dark eyes staring at him. “I don’t know,” she said. “And I won’t know however much you torture me.”
“OK, then. Maybe you could tell me about your links with armed resistance groups?”
“I told you before. Anonymous phone calls. Letters to the office. No personal contact.”
He raised his fist and smashed it down into her belly. She grunted, almost retching. He stood up and walked away.
*
Juliette gasped, desperately sucking in air. Her abs were strong but she hadn’t expected the punch and was badly winded. She was strapped down for the picana, she knew that. She heard the squeak of a wheel and knew he was bringing it towards her. She’d heard countless victims talk about this, the trolley with the generator and the cattle-prod.
She watched him approach, the two other interrogators alongside him. She saw the trolley with its two stainless steel shelves, on the top a battered metal box equipped with a couple of dials and a switch, wires leading from it. And on the second shelf a smaller box and a plastic tub. He stood over her and smiled. She was still shivering from the bath but she felt a shudder pass through her. He took a wire that lead from the generator and held it up for her to see – at the end the black rubber had been pared back to reveal bare copper wire. He took up the picana, a stiff rubber shaft perhaps two feet in length with a copper tip. He flicked a switch on the box, and then touched the copper wire to the end of the picana. There was an immediate sizzle, a flash of sparks. She looked away, staring at the ceiling. There was a tightness in her chest, a bitter taste in her throat; she knew true terror for the first time. She’d spoken to enough people who’d been through this, she knew what they said about the pain. She swallowed and tried to calm herself but phrases kept coming back into her mind. “The worst pain you’ll ever know… it feels like your bones are on fire… you think you’ll die but they keep doing it and you never do… You’d do anything to stop it.” She had to be strong. She had to think positive thoughts.
Garcia took the lid off the tub, and took up some unguent on his fingers. She watched each action mechanically. He smeared it on the wire. “It aids conductivity,” he said with a smile. “And hopefully it’ll stop you burning.” He moved to her right foot and slowly, methodically, wrapped the wire around her big toe, pulling the loop tight and coiling the wire six times. He pulled it to check it was tight and then ran his fingers over the sole. “Lovely and soft,” he said. “Do you have pedicures?”
She said nothing. Her heart was thumping. She felt sick. He returned to the trolley and took up the picana again. He smeared a little of the unguent on the tip. He checked a dial on the generator. “Level one to start,” he said, smiling. “Leave us with plenty of new places for you to go.”
“Come over here,” he said, walking to the bench. Slowly, hesitantly, she obeyed. He loved watching a naked woman walk, seeing her breasts wobble. It was erotic and yet it somehow emphasised her vulnerability.
“Lie down.”
She looked at him, glanced at the door and the soldiers and, accepting she had no option but no obey, she sat on the bench and then stretched out. She must know what this was for, he thought, in which case her calm was astonishing. Soldiers fastened her, methodically pulling her arms down at right angles to her body and strapping them in leather cuffs to the legs of the bench, then fastening her ankles about a foot apart at one end. A further strap was buckled over her waist, just below her belly button, holding her flat to the polished surface. Garcia pulled up a stool and sat level with her chest. He let his hand fall on her right breast and kneaded it gently, admiring its firm elasticity. He flicked her nipple and sat back. “Who was he?” he said.
She looked at him directly, her dark eyes staring at him. “I don’t know,” she said. “And I won’t know however much you torture me.”
“OK, then. Maybe you could tell me about your links with armed resistance groups?”
“I told you before. Anonymous phone calls. Letters to the office. No personal contact.”
He raised his fist and smashed it down into her belly. She grunted, almost retching. He stood up and walked away.
*
Juliette gasped, desperately sucking in air. Her abs were strong but she hadn’t expected the punch and was badly winded. She was strapped down for the picana, she knew that. She heard the squeak of a wheel and knew he was bringing it towards her. She’d heard countless victims talk about this, the trolley with the generator and the cattle-prod.
She watched him approach, the two other interrogators alongside him. She saw the trolley with its two stainless steel shelves, on the top a battered metal box equipped with a couple of dials and a switch, wires leading from it. And on the second shelf a smaller box and a plastic tub. He stood over her and smiled. She was still shivering from the bath but she felt a shudder pass through her. He took a wire that lead from the generator and held it up for her to see – at the end the black rubber had been pared back to reveal bare copper wire. He took up the picana, a stiff rubber shaft perhaps two feet in length with a copper tip. He flicked a switch on the box, and then touched the copper wire to the end of the picana. There was an immediate sizzle, a flash of sparks. She looked away, staring at the ceiling. There was a tightness in her chest, a bitter taste in her throat; she knew true terror for the first time. She’d spoken to enough people who’d been through this, she knew what they said about the pain. She swallowed and tried to calm herself but phrases kept coming back into her mind. “The worst pain you’ll ever know… it feels like your bones are on fire… you think you’ll die but they keep doing it and you never do… You’d do anything to stop it.” She had to be strong. She had to think positive thoughts.
Garcia took the lid off the tub, and took up some unguent on his fingers. She watched each action mechanically. He smeared it on the wire. “It aids conductivity,” he said with a smile. “And hopefully it’ll stop you burning.” He moved to her right foot and slowly, methodically, wrapped the wire around her big toe, pulling the loop tight and coiling the wire six times. He pulled it to check it was tight and then ran his fingers over the sole. “Lovely and soft,” he said. “Do you have pedicures?”
She said nothing. Her heart was thumping. She felt sick. He returned to the trolley and took up the picana again. He smeared a little of the unguent on the tip. He checked a dial on the generator. “Level one to start,” he said, smiling. “Leave us with plenty of new places for you to go.”
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Garcia had dreamed of this. Dreamed of having her naked before him, helplessly waiting for the picana. He had no intention of rushing. “Water, please,” he said, and one of the soldiers, taking a plastic jug, dipped into the bath before splashing it over her legs. He took another jugful and tipped it over her stomach, her majestic chest and then her face. She shuddered with cold and fear, blowing the water off her mouth. Garcia took a pace towards her so he was directly over her head. He saw her swallow and looked down into the terrified dark eyes. Her wet hair perfectly framed her beautiful face.
Juliette stared at him. Could she make him realise what a dreadful thing he was about to do?
“Who is the man in the photo?”
She tried to keep her breathing steady. “I don’t know.”
Garcia touched the picana against the inside of her left ankle. She flinched. He stroked it up the shin, circled the knee, ran up the centre of her thigh. She closed her eyes. He was caressing her. He ran the tip of the picana over her hip, up the edge of her ribcage and across her belly. She could feel herself trembling. She opened her eyes again. He was smiling. The other interrogators stood there watching, the soldiers stared at her nakedness. She felt the helplessness of her position.
He circled her bellybutton, admiring the flatness of her stomach, the smoothness of the skin, the pertness of her breasts even as she lay on her back. He pushed the tip onto her navel and pressed the button.
The pain was worse than she’d ever imagined. There was a terrible stabbing pain around her belly button, but her whole body tensed, shimmers of agony running down her nerves. She couldn’t breathe, her teeth clenched and she shook, straining at the bonds. He lifted the picana and her muscles relaxed. She felt weak and cold, a strange tingling still running through her. She blinked, taking in great gulps of air.
Garcia smirked. “That was about two seconds, Miss Hartmann,” he said. “We can let you go a lot longer.” She looked appalled, fear and horror written all over her face. But defiance too. He would have to work to break her.
“Tell me about your meetings with la Resistencia.”
She seemed barely to hear him, staring at the ceiling. He ran the picana over her stomach. “Your first meeting with one of their leaders. When was it?”
Juliette looked at him. “About four years ago,” she said. Her mouth felt dry.
“Good. With whom?”
“I don’t know. I took a call on my cell late in the afternoon and was told to go to the fifth floor of the car park on San Martin and Bolivar at 11pm. When I got there a man in a mask got into my car. On the back seat. Another car with blacked out windows boxed me in.”
“Registration?”
“I don’t know.”
He ran the picana down her ribcage and, at the bottom, pushed the button. She gasped, her body stiffening, eyes wide open. He though he saw fear there but most of all he saw pain. He released the button and she fell limp, panting so her chest heaved. “That was about five seconds,” he said. “We can go longer.” She shivered but held his stare.
“And what did this man in the mask say?”
She wanted to say she couldn’t remember, but she knew what that would mean. “He told me they liked what I wrote, that they wanted to work with me.” Her mouth felt terribly dry, her breath unsteady.
“And what did you say?”
“That I would value any information but that I wouldn’t be their mouthpiece.”
He ran the picana down the inside of her right thigh. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman with longer legs, certainly never tortured one. Although it wasn’t just their length that was impressive; it was their toned nature. And she wasn’t lanky; with those firm round breasts there was a wonderful proportion to her. “And yet you became exactly that,” he said.
She said nothing. Her mind was whirring. What did he actually want? Where were these questions driving?
“What happened next?”
“They gave me a bag, a briefcase really, full of documents. Maybe 250, 300 pages. They left them on the front seat and told me not to look at them till they’d gone. Then the man in the mask got out of the car. A few minutes later the other car drove off and I drove back to the office.”
“Did you see the man in the mask? How tall? Build? What was he wearing?”
“It was dark.” She felt the picana press into the flesh of her right thigh. “It was difficult to see,” she continued. “But a little over average height. He wore a dark suit and a dark coat. It was difficult to judge build but not fat.”
“Good,” he said. “And what did you do next?”
“I drove home.”
“Did you look at the documents?”
“When I got home, yes.”
“What were they?”
“Government papers. Contracts. Minutes.”
“Tell me more.” He ran the picana up and down her thigh.
“From the ministry of the interior. They confirmed corruption and collusion in logging contracts.”
“And whose initials were on them?”
Shit. The initials, she knew, narrowed down the source of the leak. She knew the papers were initialled. Could she remember them? Should she reveal it even if she did? She heard the hum of electricity and then the jolt. Everything tensed. The pain was terrible, firing through her thigh and up and down her leg. Her teeth were clenched and she emitted a low dry gurgle from her throat. Finally he stopped. She shivered. She was sweating but cold. Her ankles, wrists and hips hurt where she’d strained against the bonds.
He snaked the picana up her damp stomach, seeing the sweat part for the metal tip. He circled around her right breast, majestically firm and round, the puckered nipple a rich brown. He prodded, feeling the elasticity, the springiness of the mound. “Initials?” he said.
She closed her eyes. This was going to be hell. She clenched her fists and set her jaw. “Brave,” he said. “But silly.” She pressed the button. Her back arched. The pain was staggering. Lights seemed to flash in her eyes. Her breast felt like a thousand needles were being stabbed into it. On and on the pain went.
He lifted the picana. He’d counted eight seconds. She relaxed and let out a howl. Her body was drenched in sweat. She shivered. He touched the picana to her left breast, caressing the nipple. “Well?”
She barely had time to register the question before the pain was lacerating her again. Through her tightly clenched teeth she let out a strangled roar. She felt intensely cold even as her chest exploded. This was like nothing she’d dreamt of, an intense agony that somehow cut her from the inside.
Garcia counted slowly under his breath. She was thrusting up against the bonds, back arched, muscles taut as though in sexual ecstasy. She was soaked with sweat, eyes wide, teeth bared. He counted eight and lifted the picana. She slumped and lay, panting, tremors passing through her. He placed the picana back on the trolley and ordered them to give her water. She was shivering, her tanned skin an unhealthy grey. She gulped as a water bottle was held to her mouth. He placed his left hand on her left breast and gentled caressed it. The nipple was semi-erect, the skin around it puckered. She was cold to the touch and wet. He squeezed gently and she gave him a look of anger and disgust.
Juliette stared at him. Could she make him realise what a dreadful thing he was about to do?
“Who is the man in the photo?”
She tried to keep her breathing steady. “I don’t know.”
Garcia touched the picana against the inside of her left ankle. She flinched. He stroked it up the shin, circled the knee, ran up the centre of her thigh. She closed her eyes. He was caressing her. He ran the tip of the picana over her hip, up the edge of her ribcage and across her belly. She could feel herself trembling. She opened her eyes again. He was smiling. The other interrogators stood there watching, the soldiers stared at her nakedness. She felt the helplessness of her position.
He circled her bellybutton, admiring the flatness of her stomach, the smoothness of the skin, the pertness of her breasts even as she lay on her back. He pushed the tip onto her navel and pressed the button.
The pain was worse than she’d ever imagined. There was a terrible stabbing pain around her belly button, but her whole body tensed, shimmers of agony running down her nerves. She couldn’t breathe, her teeth clenched and she shook, straining at the bonds. He lifted the picana and her muscles relaxed. She felt weak and cold, a strange tingling still running through her. She blinked, taking in great gulps of air.
Garcia smirked. “That was about two seconds, Miss Hartmann,” he said. “We can let you go a lot longer.” She looked appalled, fear and horror written all over her face. But defiance too. He would have to work to break her.
“Tell me about your meetings with la Resistencia.”
She seemed barely to hear him, staring at the ceiling. He ran the picana over her stomach. “Your first meeting with one of their leaders. When was it?”
Juliette looked at him. “About four years ago,” she said. Her mouth felt dry.
“Good. With whom?”
“I don’t know. I took a call on my cell late in the afternoon and was told to go to the fifth floor of the car park on San Martin and Bolivar at 11pm. When I got there a man in a mask got into my car. On the back seat. Another car with blacked out windows boxed me in.”
“Registration?”
“I don’t know.”
He ran the picana down her ribcage and, at the bottom, pushed the button. She gasped, her body stiffening, eyes wide open. He though he saw fear there but most of all he saw pain. He released the button and she fell limp, panting so her chest heaved. “That was about five seconds,” he said. “We can go longer.” She shivered but held his stare.
“And what did this man in the mask say?”
She wanted to say she couldn’t remember, but she knew what that would mean. “He told me they liked what I wrote, that they wanted to work with me.” Her mouth felt terribly dry, her breath unsteady.
“And what did you say?”
“That I would value any information but that I wouldn’t be their mouthpiece.”
He ran the picana down the inside of her right thigh. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman with longer legs, certainly never tortured one. Although it wasn’t just their length that was impressive; it was their toned nature. And she wasn’t lanky; with those firm round breasts there was a wonderful proportion to her. “And yet you became exactly that,” he said.
She said nothing. Her mind was whirring. What did he actually want? Where were these questions driving?
“What happened next?”
“They gave me a bag, a briefcase really, full of documents. Maybe 250, 300 pages. They left them on the front seat and told me not to look at them till they’d gone. Then the man in the mask got out of the car. A few minutes later the other car drove off and I drove back to the office.”
“Did you see the man in the mask? How tall? Build? What was he wearing?”
“It was dark.” She felt the picana press into the flesh of her right thigh. “It was difficult to see,” she continued. “But a little over average height. He wore a dark suit and a dark coat. It was difficult to judge build but not fat.”
“Good,” he said. “And what did you do next?”
“I drove home.”
“Did you look at the documents?”
“When I got home, yes.”
“What were they?”
“Government papers. Contracts. Minutes.”
“Tell me more.” He ran the picana up and down her thigh.
“From the ministry of the interior. They confirmed corruption and collusion in logging contracts.”
“And whose initials were on them?”
Shit. The initials, she knew, narrowed down the source of the leak. She knew the papers were initialled. Could she remember them? Should she reveal it even if she did? She heard the hum of electricity and then the jolt. Everything tensed. The pain was terrible, firing through her thigh and up and down her leg. Her teeth were clenched and she emitted a low dry gurgle from her throat. Finally he stopped. She shivered. She was sweating but cold. Her ankles, wrists and hips hurt where she’d strained against the bonds.
He snaked the picana up her damp stomach, seeing the sweat part for the metal tip. He circled around her right breast, majestically firm and round, the puckered nipple a rich brown. He prodded, feeling the elasticity, the springiness of the mound. “Initials?” he said.
She closed her eyes. This was going to be hell. She clenched her fists and set her jaw. “Brave,” he said. “But silly.” She pressed the button. Her back arched. The pain was staggering. Lights seemed to flash in her eyes. Her breast felt like a thousand needles were being stabbed into it. On and on the pain went.
He lifted the picana. He’d counted eight seconds. She relaxed and let out a howl. Her body was drenched in sweat. She shivered. He touched the picana to her left breast, caressing the nipple. “Well?”
She barely had time to register the question before the pain was lacerating her again. Through her tightly clenched teeth she let out a strangled roar. She felt intensely cold even as her chest exploded. This was like nothing she’d dreamt of, an intense agony that somehow cut her from the inside.
Garcia counted slowly under his breath. She was thrusting up against the bonds, back arched, muscles taut as though in sexual ecstasy. She was soaked with sweat, eyes wide, teeth bared. He counted eight and lifted the picana. She slumped and lay, panting, tremors passing through her. He placed the picana back on the trolley and ordered them to give her water. She was shivering, her tanned skin an unhealthy grey. She gulped as a water bottle was held to her mouth. He placed his left hand on her left breast and gentled caressed it. The nipple was semi-erect, the skin around it puckered. She was cold to the touch and wet. He squeezed gently and she gave him a look of anger and disgust.
I know I have said this before, but I can't think of anything else but to say "Wow!"
Yes, superb torture-writing, I come out in a sweat just reading it!
One technicality - I may be wrong, but I recall reading an account of being tortured like that
(in Chile or Argentina) that said the victim wasn't allowed a drink of water
immediately afterwards, as it could provoke a fatal spasm.
One technicality - I may be wrong, but I recall reading an account of being tortured like that
(in Chile or Argentina) that said the victim wasn't allowed a drink of water
immediately afterwards, as it could provoke a fatal spasm.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Yes, I've read about that as well. I don't really have the physiological understanding to grasp why that should be - ended up ignoring it because I wanted the emphasise how Garcia flips between kindness and cruelty, his professionalism. I find accounts of electric shock torture generally a little confusing given the wide variations in time of shock, how long recovery takes, whether the skin burns etc (the ointment is a complete invention as well, purely because I don't want her scarred).
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Juliette felt awful. It was as though every nerve in her body had been fried. Shudders kept overcoming her. And as she suffered, he was fondling her breasts. “The initials?” he asked. She closed her eyes. “OK, then,” he said softly. “We’ll step this up.” She watched as he took a towel from the trolley, folded it so it into a square perhaps three inches thick, and placed it under her head. His touch was gentle and he smoothed her damp hair away from her forehead. What was this? She felt a surge of panic. Step it up? She couldn’t take more. Maybe she should give him fake initials.
He went to the trolley and turned back to her, holding up a strip of tattered leather perhaps six inches long and two inches wide. He stepped over to her. “I’m going to give you a shot of level two,” he said. “It’s probably wise if you bite on this. We don’t want you biting your tongue.” She considered resisting for a moment but almost before she knew it the leather was in her mouth. It tasted of vomit and she instinctively gagged. “Bite it,” he said, and she obeyed.
She watched, terrified, as he turned back to the generator and turned a dial. He picked up the picana and stood over her. “Initials?” he said. She shook her head a fraction. He placed the picana between her eyes and slowly ran it down her nose. He could hear her whimpering, her breathing shallow. He ran over the leather bit, over the chin, down the neck, over her chest, between her breasts, slowly, tauntingly, never allowing the possibility that he would not shock her. He touched her belly button, then stopped. “More gel, I think,” he said.
As Garcia turned again to the trolley, he heard her half-suppress a sob. Good. The point of this was not just to get information but to break her. To hurt her physically and destroy her mentally. He let her see as he smeared the unguent over the tip of the picana. He lowered it gently onto her belly-button and ran the baton over her flat belly, through the thin strip of pubic hair and onto the crinkled outer labia. He pressed the button.
She screamed properly for the first time, a nasal roar emitted as her teeth clamped on the bit. Her back arched, groin thrust up as high as the straps would allow, limbs thrashing within the bonds. He saw terror in her eyes and then his eyes fell to her breasts, wobbling deliciously as her torso shook with the strain. After three seconds he took his thumb from the button. Her back fell onto the bench with an audible slap. She lay, twitching, panting, eyes glazed. “Unfasten her,” he said, and four soldiers stepped forward.
*
Juliette sat against the wall in her cell, hugging her knees to her chest. She felt dreadful, weak and nauseous. Tremors still passed through her even though it must have been a couple of hours since the torture had finished. Four soldiers had lifted her from the bench and dropped her in the bath, making her lie in the icy water for a few minutes before pulling the shirt over her wet body, hooding her and shackling her wrists behind her. They’d pretty much had to drag her back to her cell, her legs unresponsive and even after they’d left her, taking the hood and the chains, it had taken several minutes before she’d been able to fasten the buttons on the shirt.
How many more sessions would there be? She feared there would be many. And she knew that that last shock, which had felt as though it would kill her, like it was the worst pain possible, had only been on level two. The generator went up to five. But even level one shocks were hideous. And she knew that ice baths, dunkings and electric shocks were only some of their tricks. The theought of the barbecus terrified her. Garcia was patient, painfully so, dragging every detail out of her. She knew he would force everything from her, even things she didn’t knew she knew, and she knew that even if she gave him everything now it wouldn’t be enough. She was going to suffer dreadfully and she was going to betray everybody she knew. And then what? More flogging. Life in the camps or hanging. For the first time she felt truly defeated. She knew she had to be strong, that she had to resist, that every five minutes made a difference, made her knowledge less relevant, and that if she could somehow last a week or a month longer they might give up on her, allow some small fact to remain undiscovered. But she doubted she had the strength for that.
She rubbed her ankles where the bonds had chafed and her writhing had left bruises. On the big toe of her right foot there was a pink ring where the wire had been wrapped. Her wrists were sore and bruised as well and her stomach ached, both from his punch and from her struggles. But she knew the marks would fade. She knew they were being careful. They wanted her unblemished so that they could present her making a confession that she was a spy and had made her up her stories of atrocity on television and make it seem as though she’d given it of her own free will.
She heard the bolts shoot back. The door opened and as six soldiers entered she cowered hopelessly.
He went to the trolley and turned back to her, holding up a strip of tattered leather perhaps six inches long and two inches wide. He stepped over to her. “I’m going to give you a shot of level two,” he said. “It’s probably wise if you bite on this. We don’t want you biting your tongue.” She considered resisting for a moment but almost before she knew it the leather was in her mouth. It tasted of vomit and she instinctively gagged. “Bite it,” he said, and she obeyed.
She watched, terrified, as he turned back to the generator and turned a dial. He picked up the picana and stood over her. “Initials?” he said. She shook her head a fraction. He placed the picana between her eyes and slowly ran it down her nose. He could hear her whimpering, her breathing shallow. He ran over the leather bit, over the chin, down the neck, over her chest, between her breasts, slowly, tauntingly, never allowing the possibility that he would not shock her. He touched her belly button, then stopped. “More gel, I think,” he said.
As Garcia turned again to the trolley, he heard her half-suppress a sob. Good. The point of this was not just to get information but to break her. To hurt her physically and destroy her mentally. He let her see as he smeared the unguent over the tip of the picana. He lowered it gently onto her belly-button and ran the baton over her flat belly, through the thin strip of pubic hair and onto the crinkled outer labia. He pressed the button.
She screamed properly for the first time, a nasal roar emitted as her teeth clamped on the bit. Her back arched, groin thrust up as high as the straps would allow, limbs thrashing within the bonds. He saw terror in her eyes and then his eyes fell to her breasts, wobbling deliciously as her torso shook with the strain. After three seconds he took his thumb from the button. Her back fell onto the bench with an audible slap. She lay, twitching, panting, eyes glazed. “Unfasten her,” he said, and four soldiers stepped forward.
*
Juliette sat against the wall in her cell, hugging her knees to her chest. She felt dreadful, weak and nauseous. Tremors still passed through her even though it must have been a couple of hours since the torture had finished. Four soldiers had lifted her from the bench and dropped her in the bath, making her lie in the icy water for a few minutes before pulling the shirt over her wet body, hooding her and shackling her wrists behind her. They’d pretty much had to drag her back to her cell, her legs unresponsive and even after they’d left her, taking the hood and the chains, it had taken several minutes before she’d been able to fasten the buttons on the shirt.
How many more sessions would there be? She feared there would be many. And she knew that that last shock, which had felt as though it would kill her, like it was the worst pain possible, had only been on level two. The generator went up to five. But even level one shocks were hideous. And she knew that ice baths, dunkings and electric shocks were only some of their tricks. The theought of the barbecus terrified her. Garcia was patient, painfully so, dragging every detail out of her. She knew he would force everything from her, even things she didn’t knew she knew, and she knew that even if she gave him everything now it wouldn’t be enough. She was going to suffer dreadfully and she was going to betray everybody she knew. And then what? More flogging. Life in the camps or hanging. For the first time she felt truly defeated. She knew she had to be strong, that she had to resist, that every five minutes made a difference, made her knowledge less relevant, and that if she could somehow last a week or a month longer they might give up on her, allow some small fact to remain undiscovered. But she doubted she had the strength for that.
She rubbed her ankles where the bonds had chafed and her writhing had left bruises. On the big toe of her right foot there was a pink ring where the wire had been wrapped. Her wrists were sore and bruised as well and her stomach ached, both from his punch and from her struggles. But she knew the marks would fade. She knew they were being careful. They wanted her unblemished so that they could present her making a confession that she was a spy and had made her up her stories of atrocity on television and make it seem as though she’d given it of her own free will.
She heard the bolts shoot back. The door opened and as six soldiers entered she cowered hopelessly.
windar
Teller of Tales
I'm not sure that's the term I'd use
, since his actions seem driven mostly by his own sadistic desires. If she's been on the radar of the Secret Police for at least a year, surely they know who she has met with. Any names she gives them probably went underground or fled the country as soon as she disappeared, so the whole attempt by her to protect them is likely fruitless on her part. By the way, have they checked her social media accounts? 
Nonetheless, a gripping story...
She screamed properly for the first time, a nasal roar emitted as her teeth clamped on the bit. Her back arched, groin thrust up as high as the straps would allow, limbs thrashing within the bonds. He saw terror in her eyes and then his eyes fell to her breasts, wobbling deliciously as her torso shook with the strain. After three seconds he took his thumb from the button. Her back fell onto the bench with an audible slap. She lay, twitching, panting, eyes glazed. “Unfasten her,” he said, and four soldiers stepped forward.
Really really good descriptive writing!
Really really good descriptive writing!
Overthinking?I'm not sure that's the term I'd use
Nonetheless, a gripping story...
Never mind. It's a story 
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Her attitude had changed. Where she had been confident and defiant, she now seemed cowed. She knew what torture was; she knew what he could do to her. She stood with her head bowed, her responses muttered. She was still resisting, though, telling him only a certain amount, keeping key details back.
He, Juarez and Bochini kept pounding her with questions. It was a long-established ritual. Start on one topic, go through it in mind-numbing detail, then suddenly switch tack and ask about something else entirely. Who had told her about the four students shot in San Martin three years ago? Where had she got the details? Who had given her that name, this date? And then, where had she been going when they’d photographed her on June 6 last year? They had her diary: who was the LM she’d met on August 4th at 10:30?
If she was evasive about anything, he made a note on a separate pad; something to talk about when she was next in the torture chamber, something to check against the details they had from her phone and her laptop. She kept claiming tip-offs were anonymous, that she was sent documents in unmarked envelopes. She’d been annoying efficient in covering her tracks online. She claimed she had no idea about the initials on government papers. She said she hadn’t been to visit la Resistencia. She claimed, ludicrously, never to have met members of the organisation.
“And the bombing of the Interior Ministry last year,” Juarez asked. “Had you knowledge of that before it happened?”
She looked up sharply. She tried to disguise it, but Garcia had seen it. “You did?” he shouted. “You did?”
“No,” she said. “I heard rumours, no more.”
“And you said nothing?”
“I hear a lot of rumours.”
“Miss Hartmann, you have just bought yourself an awful lot of electricity.”
She swallowed. “Who?” he asked. “Who was involved?”
“I thought you executed three people for it?”
“Strip,” he said. He had to be careful not to get angry but he had known people who had died in that blast. He took a breath. She had to be broken slowly. Reluctantly, her hands went to the buttons and began to unfasten them. She looked down. “Look at me,” he said. She raised her head. There was still defiance in her eyes. She took off the shirt and held it in front of her until a soldier seized it. She held her right hand across her breasts, her left hand over her pudenda. He felt his tongue flick along his upper lip. She was delectable. “Insolence is not an attractive quality,” he said. He wanted to flog her, let that ass taste the cane, but he knew he dare not mark her.
“Hang her,” he ordered and the soldiers seized her, dragging her back a couple of metres. Chains were lowered from the ceiling and leather cuffs fastened around her wrists. They backed off, and a guard by the controls raised her. Soon she was stretched, standing on tip-toe and then, as the chains kept rising, she hung, perhaps 20cm off the ground. Garcia walked over to her, admiring her long body, stretched out before him.
He placed his hands on her narrow waist, taking in the nervousness of her breathing, the way she slightly pulled her head away from him. Her position flattened her breasts slightly, but they still stood, pert and prominent and he let her see him relishing them. She’d been naked most of the morning, of course, and he’d played with her breasts with his picana, but it never hurt to remind her that every man in the room was staring at her. He gently stroked the soft skin below her ribs and then, tightening his grip, he applied a little downward pressure, pushing on her hips.
He felt her tense, saw her grit her teeth. He pushed down harder and she gasped. He let his hands wander to her buttocks, his fingers tracing the firm muscles beneath the skin that was, he suspected, still slightly swollen. “Who was involved in bombing the Interior Ministry?” he asked, as his hands ran up her ribs. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
His hands moved to her breasts, lifting them slightly, enjoying their soft weight. He stared into her eyes, letting his fingernail trace the areola. He saw her shame, felt the nipple hardening slightly, then squeezed hard between thumb and forefinger. She grunted and looked away. He punched her, hard, in the pit of her belly. She coughed, gasping for breath. He punched her again and she began to retch. Garcia stepped back, admiring the long slender body as she kicked and coughed. He returned to his desk, took off his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. Slowly he replaced them and started with his questions again.
He, Juarez and Bochini kept pounding her with questions. It was a long-established ritual. Start on one topic, go through it in mind-numbing detail, then suddenly switch tack and ask about something else entirely. Who had told her about the four students shot in San Martin three years ago? Where had she got the details? Who had given her that name, this date? And then, where had she been going when they’d photographed her on June 6 last year? They had her diary: who was the LM she’d met on August 4th at 10:30?
If she was evasive about anything, he made a note on a separate pad; something to talk about when she was next in the torture chamber, something to check against the details they had from her phone and her laptop. She kept claiming tip-offs were anonymous, that she was sent documents in unmarked envelopes. She’d been annoying efficient in covering her tracks online. She claimed she had no idea about the initials on government papers. She said she hadn’t been to visit la Resistencia. She claimed, ludicrously, never to have met members of the organisation.
“And the bombing of the Interior Ministry last year,” Juarez asked. “Had you knowledge of that before it happened?”
She looked up sharply. She tried to disguise it, but Garcia had seen it. “You did?” he shouted. “You did?”
“No,” she said. “I heard rumours, no more.”
“And you said nothing?”
“I hear a lot of rumours.”
“Miss Hartmann, you have just bought yourself an awful lot of electricity.”
She swallowed. “Who?” he asked. “Who was involved?”
“I thought you executed three people for it?”
“Strip,” he said. He had to be careful not to get angry but he had known people who had died in that blast. He took a breath. She had to be broken slowly. Reluctantly, her hands went to the buttons and began to unfasten them. She looked down. “Look at me,” he said. She raised her head. There was still defiance in her eyes. She took off the shirt and held it in front of her until a soldier seized it. She held her right hand across her breasts, her left hand over her pudenda. He felt his tongue flick along his upper lip. She was delectable. “Insolence is not an attractive quality,” he said. He wanted to flog her, let that ass taste the cane, but he knew he dare not mark her.
“Hang her,” he ordered and the soldiers seized her, dragging her back a couple of metres. Chains were lowered from the ceiling and leather cuffs fastened around her wrists. They backed off, and a guard by the controls raised her. Soon she was stretched, standing on tip-toe and then, as the chains kept rising, she hung, perhaps 20cm off the ground. Garcia walked over to her, admiring her long body, stretched out before him.
He placed his hands on her narrow waist, taking in the nervousness of her breathing, the way she slightly pulled her head away from him. Her position flattened her breasts slightly, but they still stood, pert and prominent and he let her see him relishing them. She’d been naked most of the morning, of course, and he’d played with her breasts with his picana, but it never hurt to remind her that every man in the room was staring at her. He gently stroked the soft skin below her ribs and then, tightening his grip, he applied a little downward pressure, pushing on her hips.
He felt her tense, saw her grit her teeth. He pushed down harder and she gasped. He let his hands wander to her buttocks, his fingers tracing the firm muscles beneath the skin that was, he suspected, still slightly swollen. “Who was involved in bombing the Interior Ministry?” he asked, as his hands ran up her ribs. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
His hands moved to her breasts, lifting them slightly, enjoying their soft weight. He stared into her eyes, letting his fingernail trace the areola. He saw her shame, felt the nipple hardening slightly, then squeezed hard between thumb and forefinger. She grunted and looked away. He punched her, hard, in the pit of her belly. She coughed, gasping for breath. He punched her again and she began to retch. Garcia stepped back, admiring the long slender body as she kicked and coughed. He returned to his desk, took off his glasses and polished them with a handkerchief. Slowly he replaced them and started with his questions again.