Secret Keeper
Executioner
Amazing, highly descriptive of torture being a satire of sex.
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Liberty
- Thread starter King Diocletian
- Start date
Are you assuming he doesn't already know the answers to nearly all the questions he's asking?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...
It's part of skillful interrogation, to hide the real questions among plenty that they already know the answers to,
it confuses the victim, makes her learn the futility of trying to lie.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
How long had she hung? Half an hour, maybe? An hour? All she knew was that her wrists were in agony, her arms and shoulders ached and she kept getting stabbing pains through her chest. She tried to keep her breathing steady, but as the pain got worse it was becoming increasingly difficult. How ridiculous her gym sessions seemed now, how inadequate. What did it matter whether she could do six pull-ups, or seven or eight when compared to this? On and on he went, mundane questions about office life, occasionally questions about la Resistencia or specific stories she’d written but it seemed almost as though he were deliberately boring her. She answered dully, mechanically, her mouth dry, her head throbbing.
There was no respite. She tried moving her head or flexing her shoulders but the dull, numbing pain remained constant. She did everything she could to keep her voice steady so he didn’t know how much he was hurting her but she could feel the pitch rising. It wasn’t even, though, that he was asking her things she wanted to hide from him. Was that part of the plan? To show his power over her, that he could hurt her during the most mundane questioning? She tried to concentrate, to see patterns, to work out what he didn’t already know but pain dominated everything. He stood and walked towards her and she wondered if he might be going to release her. He had a smile on his face as he approached. Two fingers flicked out and he ran then down from her belly button over the strip of hair and then sharply jabbed them inside her.
She grunted, then swallowed, trying not to let the disgust and shame she felt show. She closed her eyes, her body recoiling as he moved his fingers back and forth, and then slowly began to tease her clitoris. Whatever she did, she had to make sure her body didn’t respond. She could feel her cheeks going red but she managed to hold off arousal and, as though frustrated, he withdrew his hand and slapped her sharply on her perineum. He returned to his desk and the questions went on.
It was probably another hour before they lowered her. Her arms felt numb, pain welling in them as the bloodflow returned. Her chest was in agony; even breathing hurt. Her wrists were grazed and bruised. She was so sore she could barely put on her shirt as it was returned to her. She’d only just got it fastened when the hood was pulled on, her wrists were cuffed behind her and she was hustled back to her cell.
She slumped in the corner, the taste of bile in her mouth. She looked through the gloom at the bed, folded up so she couldn’t sleep on it and wanted nothing more than to lie down properly. All of her upper body ached. She felt exhausted but the pain and fear was appalling and she couldn’t find a comfortable position. Would they torture again the next day? It was the electricity she feared most, not just the pain, which was overwhelming, but the lack of control, the sense of her body being taken over by this other force of the pain eating her up from within.
Why had she antagonised him about the bombing? It was a stupid thing to have done – but even as she thought that she realised she had exposed a weakness in him. How could she use it? If she could make him lose his temper, could she turn that to her advantage?
There was no respite. She tried moving her head or flexing her shoulders but the dull, numbing pain remained constant. She did everything she could to keep her voice steady so he didn’t know how much he was hurting her but she could feel the pitch rising. It wasn’t even, though, that he was asking her things she wanted to hide from him. Was that part of the plan? To show his power over her, that he could hurt her during the most mundane questioning? She tried to concentrate, to see patterns, to work out what he didn’t already know but pain dominated everything. He stood and walked towards her and she wondered if he might be going to release her. He had a smile on his face as he approached. Two fingers flicked out and he ran then down from her belly button over the strip of hair and then sharply jabbed them inside her.
She grunted, then swallowed, trying not to let the disgust and shame she felt show. She closed her eyes, her body recoiling as he moved his fingers back and forth, and then slowly began to tease her clitoris. Whatever she did, she had to make sure her body didn’t respond. She could feel her cheeks going red but she managed to hold off arousal and, as though frustrated, he withdrew his hand and slapped her sharply on her perineum. He returned to his desk and the questions went on.
It was probably another hour before they lowered her. Her arms felt numb, pain welling in them as the bloodflow returned. Her chest was in agony; even breathing hurt. Her wrists were grazed and bruised. She was so sore she could barely put on her shirt as it was returned to her. She’d only just got it fastened when the hood was pulled on, her wrists were cuffed behind her and she was hustled back to her cell.
She slumped in the corner, the taste of bile in her mouth. She looked through the gloom at the bed, folded up so she couldn’t sleep on it and wanted nothing more than to lie down properly. All of her upper body ached. She felt exhausted but the pain and fear was appalling and she couldn’t find a comfortable position. Would they torture again the next day? It was the electricity she feared most, not just the pain, which was overwhelming, but the lack of control, the sense of her body being taken over by this other force of the pain eating her up from within.
Why had she antagonised him about the bombing? It was a stupid thing to have done – but even as she thought that she realised she had exposed a weakness in him. How could she use it? If she could make him lose his temper, could she turn that to her advantage?
King Diocletian
Magistrate
She must have fallen asleep, for she woke with a start when the cell door slammed open. The soldiers were on her before she could move, cuffing her wrists as they dragged her to her feet. A strip of black cloth, folded over three times, was tied around her eyes before the hood was fastened. Why were they doing that? It was even darker, even more disorienting than that fucking hood. They pushed her around, laughing at her helplessness, then marched her into the corridor.
She tried to concentrate. Were they taking her to the torture room or the interrogation room? She had no idea. The torture chamber was a little further, a right turn just before the interrogation cell. But they took her the other way out of her cell, walked her around and around, upstairs and downstairs. She was taken into a room, pushed down into a chair and the hood removed. A water bottle was held to her mouth and she was encouraged to drink. Porridge was spooned into her mouth. It was demeaning, and the soldiers taunted her, talking as though she were a toddler. “Choo, choo, choo… the train’s going into a tunnel,’ one laughed, pushing the spoon between her lips. She hated them, but she ate greedily, suddenly realising how hungry she was.
Then suddenly they were gone, the door slamming shut. She sat, bound and blindfolded for what seemed like an eternity before they returned, the hood was pulled over her head – always that hood, suffocating and demeaning – and she was lifted to her feet. Her sense of direction had gone totally and they confused her further, marching her along corridors, going through doors, taking her up and down stairs, until finally a door slammed shut behind her and the hood was removed again. She was pushed to her knees and she heard his voice. “Up straight, please, Miss Hartmann.” She pushed herself upright, feeling the concrete on her knees, and then the questions began again. Was this the torture chamber? She had no idea, and she understood the point of the blindfold; the hood muffled her speech; here he could continue to question her, see her reactions, hear her responses, and yet she had no idea if he could, in a matter of seconds, have her in a bath of icy water or stretched out on the bench for the picana.
*
She was weary now, Garcia could see that. Kneeling for protracted periods hurt and she was too scared that she was about to be shocked not to stay upright. She was tired too of the questioning, endlessly circling round the same points, teasing out inconsistencies. They’d interrogated her for four hours in the morning, allowed her to sit down for half an hour, had the soldiers feed her and give her water, and then they’d begun again, he and Juarez and Bocchini constantly probing. There was the temptation, of course, to strip her so he could look at her fabulous body again, but it was important she didn’t become desensitised to nudity. Shame was a weapon and it was important she feared it still.
She was good. She revealed what they already knew, held a little back and then, seemingly reluctantly, gave a little more. She was clever, focus strong despite everything, But he was building the picture, creating the network of contacts and connections. And, most importantly, he was working out the key points, working out where she was hiding information she had so that he could better direct his questions the next time he held the picana in his hand.
She tried to concentrate. Were they taking her to the torture room or the interrogation room? She had no idea. The torture chamber was a little further, a right turn just before the interrogation cell. But they took her the other way out of her cell, walked her around and around, upstairs and downstairs. She was taken into a room, pushed down into a chair and the hood removed. A water bottle was held to her mouth and she was encouraged to drink. Porridge was spooned into her mouth. It was demeaning, and the soldiers taunted her, talking as though she were a toddler. “Choo, choo, choo… the train’s going into a tunnel,’ one laughed, pushing the spoon between her lips. She hated them, but she ate greedily, suddenly realising how hungry she was.
Then suddenly they were gone, the door slamming shut. She sat, bound and blindfolded for what seemed like an eternity before they returned, the hood was pulled over her head – always that hood, suffocating and demeaning – and she was lifted to her feet. Her sense of direction had gone totally and they confused her further, marching her along corridors, going through doors, taking her up and down stairs, until finally a door slammed shut behind her and the hood was removed again. She was pushed to her knees and she heard his voice. “Up straight, please, Miss Hartmann.” She pushed herself upright, feeling the concrete on her knees, and then the questions began again. Was this the torture chamber? She had no idea, and she understood the point of the blindfold; the hood muffled her speech; here he could continue to question her, see her reactions, hear her responses, and yet she had no idea if he could, in a matter of seconds, have her in a bath of icy water or stretched out on the bench for the picana.
*
She was weary now, Garcia could see that. Kneeling for protracted periods hurt and she was too scared that she was about to be shocked not to stay upright. She was tired too of the questioning, endlessly circling round the same points, teasing out inconsistencies. They’d interrogated her for four hours in the morning, allowed her to sit down for half an hour, had the soldiers feed her and give her water, and then they’d begun again, he and Juarez and Bocchini constantly probing. There was the temptation, of course, to strip her so he could look at her fabulous body again, but it was important she didn’t become desensitised to nudity. Shame was a weapon and it was important she feared it still.
She was good. She revealed what they already knew, held a little back and then, seemingly reluctantly, gave a little more. She was clever, focus strong despite everything, But he was building the picture, creating the network of contacts and connections. And, most importantly, he was working out the key points, working out where she was hiding information she had so that he could better direct his questions the next time he held the picana in his hand.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Juliette was exhausted. Three days had passed since her torture. Each had followed the same pattern: the long walk, the food, blindfolded interrogation for hours, sometimes on her knees, sometimes standing, but never able to relax. Three sessions each day, each lasting she estimated three or four hours. She was hungry, her brain ached and, what was worse, she knew that at some point they would strip her again and start giving her electric shocks. She knew as well that the questioning was preparing the ground, so that when they started inflicting pain on her they knew exactly what to ask.
She sat again on the chair having been fed. It hadn’t been enough, of course – just enough to keep her awake. She ached. She was still blindfolded. She would have loved a proper bed and a proper night’s sleep rather than the fitful dozing on the concrete. She wanted a shower as well. Her hair was lank and greasy and she could smell the sweat on herself. The door opened. The hood was pulled back on. She hated that hood, hated the sense of helplessness. She was hustled along corridor and into a cell. She was pushed to her knees and the bag removed. The questioning began again.
“What were the initials on the documents?” It was after about half an hour when the question came and she knew it meant she was about to be tortured. “I don’t know,” she said. He must have signalled, for hands grabbed her, and pulled her up, removing the shackles and the blindfold. She blinked in the light, slowly realising she was standing by the bath. Garcia turned the tap on and she watched the water running from the hose, slowly filling the tub.
“Get undressed, please,” he said with a smile. She looked at him, looked at the other men and their eager, expectant faces and felt a wave of revulsion. She stood, hugging herself. She saw Garcia nod and suddenly a hand struck her ear, hard. She staggered, but managed to stay on her feet, and then they were on her, four soldiers roughly stripping her. “Naughty girl,” he said as she stood, naked, hands covering herself as best she could, head bowed in shame.
Her arms were wrenched behind her and her wrists fastened. She felt a wave of panic and she was surprised how humiliated she felt, standing naked before them. Garcia stood in front of her, placing his right hand on the side of her left breast. He caressed it gently and then moved his hand to her face, lifting her chin to stare into her eyes. “You don’t have to go through with this,” he said.
Part of her wanted to start screaming out names, to tell him that the initials read AAG, to tell him Gaston Hernandez had organised the bombing, to tell him la Resistencia regularly met in a room behind a bar on the corner of Mendoza and Bolivar, but she stared down at his slightly creased shirt and remained silent.
*
Garcia didn’t even ask a question at first. He’d seen this before: the first session she’d been brave, resistant. Now she knew what it meant to be tortured, realised there was no escape, and she was terrified. If it hadn’t been so important to keep her unmarked, he’d have had her flogged for refusing to strip and he was concerned that by failing properly to punish her for that the cycle of discipline had been broken. She’d tried to pull back as they’d led her to the bath, four soldiers eventually picking her up and dropping her in, then holding her under.
They pulled her up and, almost as soon as she’d begun to draw breath, forced her under again. Up and then under. He raised a hand. The next time they let her stay up, one soldier holding her left arm, the other her right and a hank of hair that he twisted so she looked at Garcia. She coughed, chest heaving. He could see the goosepimples on her flesh, a few fine golden hairs standing up on her tanned round shoulders. Water dripped from her nose and lips, running down her chin. “Now,” Garcia said. “Perhaps you’d like to give us some answers?”
She kept looking straight ahead, panting. “Whose initials were on those documents?”
She didn’t react. Garcia nodded. They forced her under. She didn’t resist. He saw the bubbles slowly popping to the surface as she controlled the release of air. He admired the long body, only a little pinkness on the buttocks showing she’d been beaten. She began to twitch and then to struggle. He waited. “Up then straight down,” he ordered. They pulled her up, she took a rasping breath and then was shoved back under. There was no controlled release this time. Her legs kicked. She was fighting them properly now. “Up and down,” he said.
Her eyes bulged as they pulled her into the air and she’d barely gasped when they forced her down again. There was desperation in her thrashing. He let her suffer for 10, 20, 30 more seconds. “Okay,” he said. “Up.” Her face was beet red, she coughed and spluttered, vomited water noisily. She was shivering, teeth chattering, snot oozing from her nose. “Again?” he asked. She was panting, breasts quivering as her chest heaved. He lit a cigarette. “The initials?” he said.
She looked down and he nodded again..
She sat again on the chair having been fed. It hadn’t been enough, of course – just enough to keep her awake. She ached. She was still blindfolded. She would have loved a proper bed and a proper night’s sleep rather than the fitful dozing on the concrete. She wanted a shower as well. Her hair was lank and greasy and she could smell the sweat on herself. The door opened. The hood was pulled back on. She hated that hood, hated the sense of helplessness. She was hustled along corridor and into a cell. She was pushed to her knees and the bag removed. The questioning began again.
“What were the initials on the documents?” It was after about half an hour when the question came and she knew it meant she was about to be tortured. “I don’t know,” she said. He must have signalled, for hands grabbed her, and pulled her up, removing the shackles and the blindfold. She blinked in the light, slowly realising she was standing by the bath. Garcia turned the tap on and she watched the water running from the hose, slowly filling the tub.
“Get undressed, please,” he said with a smile. She looked at him, looked at the other men and their eager, expectant faces and felt a wave of revulsion. She stood, hugging herself. She saw Garcia nod and suddenly a hand struck her ear, hard. She staggered, but managed to stay on her feet, and then they were on her, four soldiers roughly stripping her. “Naughty girl,” he said as she stood, naked, hands covering herself as best she could, head bowed in shame.
Her arms were wrenched behind her and her wrists fastened. She felt a wave of panic and she was surprised how humiliated she felt, standing naked before them. Garcia stood in front of her, placing his right hand on the side of her left breast. He caressed it gently and then moved his hand to her face, lifting her chin to stare into her eyes. “You don’t have to go through with this,” he said.
Part of her wanted to start screaming out names, to tell him that the initials read AAG, to tell him Gaston Hernandez had organised the bombing, to tell him la Resistencia regularly met in a room behind a bar on the corner of Mendoza and Bolivar, but she stared down at his slightly creased shirt and remained silent.
*
Garcia didn’t even ask a question at first. He’d seen this before: the first session she’d been brave, resistant. Now she knew what it meant to be tortured, realised there was no escape, and she was terrified. If it hadn’t been so important to keep her unmarked, he’d have had her flogged for refusing to strip and he was concerned that by failing properly to punish her for that the cycle of discipline had been broken. She’d tried to pull back as they’d led her to the bath, four soldiers eventually picking her up and dropping her in, then holding her under.
They pulled her up and, almost as soon as she’d begun to draw breath, forced her under again. Up and then under. He raised a hand. The next time they let her stay up, one soldier holding her left arm, the other her right and a hank of hair that he twisted so she looked at Garcia. She coughed, chest heaving. He could see the goosepimples on her flesh, a few fine golden hairs standing up on her tanned round shoulders. Water dripped from her nose and lips, running down her chin. “Now,” Garcia said. “Perhaps you’d like to give us some answers?”
She kept looking straight ahead, panting. “Whose initials were on those documents?”
She didn’t react. Garcia nodded. They forced her under. She didn’t resist. He saw the bubbles slowly popping to the surface as she controlled the release of air. He admired the long body, only a little pinkness on the buttocks showing she’d been beaten. She began to twitch and then to struggle. He waited. “Up then straight down,” he ordered. They pulled her up, she took a rasping breath and then was shoved back under. There was no controlled release this time. Her legs kicked. She was fighting them properly now. “Up and down,” he said.
Her eyes bulged as they pulled her into the air and she’d barely gasped when they forced her down again. There was desperation in her thrashing. He let her suffer for 10, 20, 30 more seconds. “Okay,” he said. “Up.” Her face was beet red, she coughed and spluttered, vomited water noisily. She was shivering, teeth chattering, snot oozing from her nose. “Again?” he asked. She was panting, breasts quivering as her chest heaved. He lit a cigarette. “The initials?” he said.
She looked down and he nodded again..
Another good chapter!!!
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Diaz was worried he’d be late. He was surprised by how strongly he felt this, but he was desperate to watch her under torture. He’d seen her when she was in control, when she’d opposed him, when her questions had mocked him and he’d gazed on her tall slim perfection with awe – and now he wanted to see her naked and begging for mercy. The flogging had been good but he’d been forced to witness a couple of sessions with the picana before and he knew this would be better. He knew the pain was worse but the damage less, that a prisoner could be taken to a pitch of agony again and again and again and yet could be left whole, could be made to fear the pain. He was annoyed he’d missed her first session, that they hadn’t felt it necessary to tell him. Of course, they didn’t tell him every time they were torturing a prisoner – quite apart from anything else, he had to maintain plausible deniability – but Juliette Hartmann was different.
The soldier opened the door for him and he immediately saw her. She was sitting, naked and wet, hugging her shins, knees up to her chin, on the bench. She was shivering, panting for breath, her olive skin pink with cold. Garcia, he saw, was wheeling the trolley with the generator over to her. He was just in time. There was something extraordinary, he thought, about the way she just sat, like a pretty girl at the beach, waiting unresistingly for her torture. Was it resignation? And if it was, what did it mean? That she was about to break, or that she wasn’t afraid?
At a nod from Garcia the soldiers, four of them, grabbed her. They seemed needlessly rough, absurdly so, four string men and one naked girl, as though desperate to shake her from passivity as they stretched her out and strapped her down, her nipples standing up from her breasts, chilled into erectness. Garcia, soundlessly, smeared his ointment on the copper wire then wrapped it around her big toe. Hartmann closed her eyes and swallowed; clearly she was afraid.
Diaz walked closer. She’d clearly seen him but was staring intently at the ceiling. He drank in again how magnificent her body was, the long, toned legs, the flat stomach, and those firm round breasts, full but not huge. Garcia stood where she could see him, applying the ointment to the tip of the picana. “The initials, Miss Hartmann?” he said with sarcastic politeness. She said nothing. “OK,” Garcia said. “We’ll begin with level one again.”
He played the picana down the ribs on the left side of her body. Diaz usually hated witnessing torture sessions. He regarded torture as a necessary evil of suppressing dissent, the only real way to keep the insurgents at bay, and found the reality – the screaming, the pathetic broken bodies of the victims, the smell of sweat and fear – distasteful. But she had humiliated him, she deserved this. And she was beautiful. Garcia touched the picana against the side of her knee and pressed the button. She tensed, a look of fear crossing her face as the current pulsed through her. Two seconds, three and the button was released. She relaxed but her breathing spoke of her pain.
Garcia traced the picana down her shin, over the sole of her foot, up the inside of her left leg. “This is silly, Miss Hartmann,” he said. “Tell us whose initials they were and we can stop all this. A couple more questions and you can put your clothes on and be out of here.” He pressed the button mid-thigh. Diaz saw her teeth clench, her head thrust back as her body lifted off the bench, straining against the leather. Three seconds and it ended. She was panting, sweat standing out from her brow and on her stomach.
Diaz thought of her as she’d appeared on television a month earlier, hair perfectly styled, dressed in a smart black suit, confidently setting out questions the government needed to answer over an arms deal. And here she was, naked, shaking, sweating, terror in her eyes, a cattle-prod caressing her soft flat stomach. Garcia pushed into her belly-button and pressed the button. She tensed, seeming to push her cunt towards him, a strangle roar emitting her lips. Four seconds, five, then down. He could see her heart pounding as her chest heaved and yet, for all the fear in her eyes, there was also anger.
The soldier opened the door for him and he immediately saw her. She was sitting, naked and wet, hugging her shins, knees up to her chin, on the bench. She was shivering, panting for breath, her olive skin pink with cold. Garcia, he saw, was wheeling the trolley with the generator over to her. He was just in time. There was something extraordinary, he thought, about the way she just sat, like a pretty girl at the beach, waiting unresistingly for her torture. Was it resignation? And if it was, what did it mean? That she was about to break, or that she wasn’t afraid?
At a nod from Garcia the soldiers, four of them, grabbed her. They seemed needlessly rough, absurdly so, four string men and one naked girl, as though desperate to shake her from passivity as they stretched her out and strapped her down, her nipples standing up from her breasts, chilled into erectness. Garcia, soundlessly, smeared his ointment on the copper wire then wrapped it around her big toe. Hartmann closed her eyes and swallowed; clearly she was afraid.
Diaz walked closer. She’d clearly seen him but was staring intently at the ceiling. He drank in again how magnificent her body was, the long, toned legs, the flat stomach, and those firm round breasts, full but not huge. Garcia stood where she could see him, applying the ointment to the tip of the picana. “The initials, Miss Hartmann?” he said with sarcastic politeness. She said nothing. “OK,” Garcia said. “We’ll begin with level one again.”
He played the picana down the ribs on the left side of her body. Diaz usually hated witnessing torture sessions. He regarded torture as a necessary evil of suppressing dissent, the only real way to keep the insurgents at bay, and found the reality – the screaming, the pathetic broken bodies of the victims, the smell of sweat and fear – distasteful. But she had humiliated him, she deserved this. And she was beautiful. Garcia touched the picana against the side of her knee and pressed the button. She tensed, a look of fear crossing her face as the current pulsed through her. Two seconds, three and the button was released. She relaxed but her breathing spoke of her pain.
Garcia traced the picana down her shin, over the sole of her foot, up the inside of her left leg. “This is silly, Miss Hartmann,” he said. “Tell us whose initials they were and we can stop all this. A couple more questions and you can put your clothes on and be out of here.” He pressed the button mid-thigh. Diaz saw her teeth clench, her head thrust back as her body lifted off the bench, straining against the leather. Three seconds and it ended. She was panting, sweat standing out from her brow and on her stomach.
Diaz thought of her as she’d appeared on television a month earlier, hair perfectly styled, dressed in a smart black suit, confidently setting out questions the government needed to answer over an arms deal. And here she was, naked, shaking, sweating, terror in her eyes, a cattle-prod caressing her soft flat stomach. Garcia pushed into her belly-button and pressed the button. She tensed, seeming to push her cunt towards him, a strangle roar emitting her lips. Four seconds, five, then down. He could see her heart pounding as her chest heaved and yet, for all the fear in her eyes, there was also anger.
There was something extraordinary, he thought, about the way she just sat, like a pretty girl at the beach, waiting unresistingly for her torture. Was it resignation? And if it was, what did it mean? That she was about to break, or that she wasn’t afraid?
Nice passage. She is an enigma. So much torture but ... unresisting ... yet nothing... resigned or quietly defiant? ... when ... and how ... will she break?
Nice passage. She is an enigma. So much torture but ... unresisting ... yet nothing... resigned or quietly defiant? ... when ... and how ... will she break?
Secret Keeper
Executioner
KD - You write this like you have done your homework. No, you write it like you have actually done it. I assume of course you have not.
It appears that Garcia knows our heroine knows the initials, so she is no longer saying, "I don't know." I will read on.
I would have expected your erotic description of Juliette to inspire our photo choppers by now. One pushing that pussy up while getting the jolt would be nice, however, the one in the mind is quite nice, too.
It appears that Garcia knows our heroine knows the initials, so she is no longer saying, "I don't know." I will read on.
I would have expected your erotic description of Juliette to inspire our photo choppers by now. One pushing that pussy up while getting the jolt would be nice, however, the one in the mind is quite nice, too.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
“Miss Hartmann,” Garcia said, “you leave me no choice. We must move on to level two.”
She watched as he turned the dial on the generator, saw the numbers 3, 4 and 5 beyond what she was about to endure. Everything hurt. She felt weak. She wondered how easy it would be to die. She felt cold. The folded towel was placed under her head. A soldier almost gently brushed her damp hair from her forehead. She saw Diaz looking with interest, admiring her body. She remembered his hands jabbing at her vagina after she’d been flogged. Before she’d regarded him with contempt as a weak man serving a corrupt and illegitimate government. Now she hated him, hated the way he was clearly relishing her humiliation and suffering, and that gave her strength.
Garcia applied more unguent to the tip of the picana. He let it run over her breasts, teasing and probing. She braced herself but after a minute or so he lifted the cattle-prod. “I wouldn’t forget this,” he said, turning to the trolley and lifting the leather bit. “Last chance to tell me something worthwhile.” She said nothing as he pushed it between her lips. There was no choice now. She had to take the pain. She bit down, tasting again the vomit and fear it seemed to have absorbed. The letters AAG thumped in her head. He began teasing the picana around her thighs. She was breathing through her nose which seemed to emphasise how terrified she felt, as though a band were constricting her chest. She wished he’d just get on with it. The prod ran over her labia and she flinched, then up, over her belly button. Finally, between her breasts, he pressed.
The pain, for all she’d experienced it before, still surprised her with its force. It ripped through her, every synapse shrieking, her head tipped back, body tense and straining against the cuffs. On and on it went until suddenly it stopped. Her body fell flat, tremors passed through her and she gasped for breath, panting as he removed the bit. She felt icily cold, and yet sweat stood out on her skin. Her mouth was bone dry. “That was three seconds,” Garcia said. “We can go longer if you want?” He turned to the generator and flicked the dial back down to one. “Some more gentle ones?” he asked.
*
Garcia gave her water, let her recover. Every now and again she would shudder again. He talked and talked, pounded her with questions. This was a key time, he knew; while she was worried about the big questions and terrified of the next shock, he could squeeze details from her. For 15, 20 minutes he worked her like that, sitting on a stool beside the bench. Then, gently, he placed his hand on her breast, feeling the firm softness, tweaking the nipple. “Now, then,” he said, “those initials?”
She just closed her eyes. He stood and walked slowly to the trolley. He picked up the picana and smeared gel on the tip. He turned. Her eyes were still closed. He nodded to a soldier who sprinkled cold water on her. She clenched her fists but kept her eyes closed. He walked up to her, placed the picana deliberately in the middle of her forehead and pressed the button. Her head rocked back, thrusting her chest up. Her teeth clenched and she moaned. He held it and held it and held it and finally, after six or seven seconds, released the pressure. She dropped back, spasms passing through her.
She shivered and he continued the questioning, shocking her every four or five minutes. He was impressed by how tough she was but he knew the shocks had an attritional effect. Each one emphasised she was in his power, that the only way out was to confess. After about half an hour, he had them splash her again. Fine, he said, and she snorted in fear and disgust. He applied more gel to the picana and slowly, deliberately, turned the dial to three. He took the leather bit in his hand and walked over to her.
Hartmann was trembling, her breath coming in short gasps. Garcia let his fingers play on the underside of her left breast – so firm, so smooth. “Whose initials?” he asked. He saw terror in her eyes but she said nothing. He touched her lips with the bit and she opened her mouth. He pushed it in and she gagged, a dry heave passing through her. She clamped her teeth around it, though. Garcia returned to the trolley and picked up the picana. Where to apply it? Cunt or tits? He decided he wanted to see her face close up, and he knew what was coming for her cunt if she didn’t crack soon.
He played the tip of the picana around the base of her right breast. He was amazed by the firmness of it, the way that even as she lay on her back, it retained much of its shape, just flattened a little rather than slopping back. He teased the nipple, circling the nub before bringing the picana against it and pressing the button. The reaction was impressively violent, her body tensing and rising, the muscles standing out, a roar whistling down her nose. She bucked, jerking against the bonds. Two seconds he held the button down before releasing it. She slumped and twitched and gasped and sobbed.
She watched as he turned the dial on the generator, saw the numbers 3, 4 and 5 beyond what she was about to endure. Everything hurt. She felt weak. She wondered how easy it would be to die. She felt cold. The folded towel was placed under her head. A soldier almost gently brushed her damp hair from her forehead. She saw Diaz looking with interest, admiring her body. She remembered his hands jabbing at her vagina after she’d been flogged. Before she’d regarded him with contempt as a weak man serving a corrupt and illegitimate government. Now she hated him, hated the way he was clearly relishing her humiliation and suffering, and that gave her strength.
Garcia applied more unguent to the tip of the picana. He let it run over her breasts, teasing and probing. She braced herself but after a minute or so he lifted the cattle-prod. “I wouldn’t forget this,” he said, turning to the trolley and lifting the leather bit. “Last chance to tell me something worthwhile.” She said nothing as he pushed it between her lips. There was no choice now. She had to take the pain. She bit down, tasting again the vomit and fear it seemed to have absorbed. The letters AAG thumped in her head. He began teasing the picana around her thighs. She was breathing through her nose which seemed to emphasise how terrified she felt, as though a band were constricting her chest. She wished he’d just get on with it. The prod ran over her labia and she flinched, then up, over her belly button. Finally, between her breasts, he pressed.
The pain, for all she’d experienced it before, still surprised her with its force. It ripped through her, every synapse shrieking, her head tipped back, body tense and straining against the cuffs. On and on it went until suddenly it stopped. Her body fell flat, tremors passed through her and she gasped for breath, panting as he removed the bit. She felt icily cold, and yet sweat stood out on her skin. Her mouth was bone dry. “That was three seconds,” Garcia said. “We can go longer if you want?” He turned to the generator and flicked the dial back down to one. “Some more gentle ones?” he asked.
*
Garcia gave her water, let her recover. Every now and again she would shudder again. He talked and talked, pounded her with questions. This was a key time, he knew; while she was worried about the big questions and terrified of the next shock, he could squeeze details from her. For 15, 20 minutes he worked her like that, sitting on a stool beside the bench. Then, gently, he placed his hand on her breast, feeling the firm softness, tweaking the nipple. “Now, then,” he said, “those initials?”
She just closed her eyes. He stood and walked slowly to the trolley. He picked up the picana and smeared gel on the tip. He turned. Her eyes were still closed. He nodded to a soldier who sprinkled cold water on her. She clenched her fists but kept her eyes closed. He walked up to her, placed the picana deliberately in the middle of her forehead and pressed the button. Her head rocked back, thrusting her chest up. Her teeth clenched and she moaned. He held it and held it and held it and finally, after six or seven seconds, released the pressure. She dropped back, spasms passing through her.
She shivered and he continued the questioning, shocking her every four or five minutes. He was impressed by how tough she was but he knew the shocks had an attritional effect. Each one emphasised she was in his power, that the only way out was to confess. After about half an hour, he had them splash her again. Fine, he said, and she snorted in fear and disgust. He applied more gel to the picana and slowly, deliberately, turned the dial to three. He took the leather bit in his hand and walked over to her.
Hartmann was trembling, her breath coming in short gasps. Garcia let his fingers play on the underside of her left breast – so firm, so smooth. “Whose initials?” he asked. He saw terror in her eyes but she said nothing. He touched her lips with the bit and she opened her mouth. He pushed it in and she gagged, a dry heave passing through her. She clamped her teeth around it, though. Garcia returned to the trolley and picked up the picana. Where to apply it? Cunt or tits? He decided he wanted to see her face close up, and he knew what was coming for her cunt if she didn’t crack soon.
He played the tip of the picana around the base of her right breast. He was amazed by the firmness of it, the way that even as she lay on her back, it retained much of its shape, just flattened a little rather than slopping back. He teased the nipple, circling the nub before bringing the picana against it and pressing the button. The reaction was impressively violent, her body tensing and rising, the muscles standing out, a roar whistling down her nose. She bucked, jerking against the bonds. Two seconds he held the button down before releasing it. She slumped and twitched and gasped and sobbed.
you are a very sadistic man, your highness
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Juliette saw everything through a haze. She felt desperately weak and her muscles kept spasming. The pain of level three had been beyond her imagination, as though every nerve in her body were on fire. She coughed as the bit was removed from her mouth. Soldiers, she realised, were unfastening her. Breathing seemed difficult. Nothing seemed quite real.
She was pulled to her feet. She had no strength to stand but they dragged her to the bath and dropped her in. The cold water enveloped her but she felt so cold anyway it barely registered. She just lay, waiting, wondering if the twitching would ever stop. She began to shiver and she saw, as though from far away, her body turning a pale shade of purple, goosebumps rising. They hauled her up, out of the bath, and she felt in her legs a little strength. She could hear her teeth chattering and she felt desperately thirsty. Her nipples and labia ached with the cold; her feet felt numb. Water dripped from her. They forced her behind the bench, where three large bricks had been stacked. She knew deep down that this was part of a new torture but her brain refused to tell her what it was.
They shackled her wrists behind her and ordered her to stand on the bricks. It took an effort to lift her leg but she did so. Their combined height meant she was about a foot off the ground. The bricks were about a foot long and six inches across, so her toes curled over the edge. A blindfold was wrapped around her eyes. She felt another chain being attached to the chain that linked the cuffs and, abruptly, her arms were raised. Pain shot through her shoulders and she bent forwards, gasping. Instinctively she shuffled her feet, but there was, of course, nowhere to go. She stood, back arched, head down, arms up. A hand tapped her right breast as it hung out from her chest, knocking it into the left breast. There was laughter, and another hand knocked from the other side. She could feel her face flushing with embarrassment. “We’re off for lunch,” Garcia said. “More shocks when we get back.” His fingers closed around her left nipple and he pulled down, hard. She yelped, partly at the pain and partly at the sense she had of her helplessness.
She heard the door close. Were there any soldiers left? She didn’t know. She wanted to cry. She felt exhausted. She hated this enforced darkness, the sense of not knowing who was where. Tremors still passed through her. She had to concentrate every second just to stay on the bricks, shuffling constantly to try to relieve some of the strain in her shoulders and back. And every time she moved, she felt her dangling breasts move and she felt acutely her nakedness. She couldn’t take any more. Surely this was enough. Surely nobody would blame her for giving in? La Resistencia had had enough time to do what they needed to do to protect themselves. They would understand. She couldn’t take another shock. Even the thought of the picana on her body made her feel ill.
Level three had been awful, an extraordinary immersion in pain. Her muscles had tensed so much she’d thought her bones might break. And she knew from the testimonies of others that they could keep doing it, keeping shocking her over and over. She couldn’t take it. She lifted her head slightly and immediately felt a pain in her neck.
“When do you reckon we get to rape her?” There were soldiers in the room. Close to her.
“She’s a fine piece of ass. I can’t wait.”
They were going to touch her, she knew. “Look at those tits. Have you ever seen a sweeter pair?”
“That ass. When they flogged her I could have cum there and then. So tight.”
She knew they were walking round her, leering at her. Couldn’t they leave her alone for just five minutes? But she knew this was part of the torture, just as making her bend over by the door after the beating had been. A hand ran down the back of her thigh. “Muscular,” one said. “No flab there.” She squirmed at his touch. His fingers ran over her buttocks, which still felt sensitive from the beating. “Smooth,” he said. “No cellulite. She’ll be a great fuck.” Then suddenly, as she knew they would, his fingers prodded forward. He gently parted her labia, and eased two fingers inside. “Nice tight cunt,” he said. “The officers will get her first but we’ll get her eventually.”
He kept teasing her as the other soldier began playing with her breasts, stroking, squeezing, kneading. It was hard enough anyway to stand on the bricks; this felt intolerable. How long did they taunt her? Five minutes? Ten? It felt like an eternity. She was beaten, she knew that. She would have given them the initials just to be allowed to stand straight, just to put some clothes on. She ached terribly. How much longer? The room fell silent again. She knew this was a technique – to make her dwell on what had been done to her, to make her dwell on what would be done to her: more ice baths, dunking and shocks. She shuffled her feet again, desperately seeking comfort.
She was pulled to her feet. She had no strength to stand but they dragged her to the bath and dropped her in. The cold water enveloped her but she felt so cold anyway it barely registered. She just lay, waiting, wondering if the twitching would ever stop. She began to shiver and she saw, as though from far away, her body turning a pale shade of purple, goosebumps rising. They hauled her up, out of the bath, and she felt in her legs a little strength. She could hear her teeth chattering and she felt desperately thirsty. Her nipples and labia ached with the cold; her feet felt numb. Water dripped from her. They forced her behind the bench, where three large bricks had been stacked. She knew deep down that this was part of a new torture but her brain refused to tell her what it was.
They shackled her wrists behind her and ordered her to stand on the bricks. It took an effort to lift her leg but she did so. Their combined height meant she was about a foot off the ground. The bricks were about a foot long and six inches across, so her toes curled over the edge. A blindfold was wrapped around her eyes. She felt another chain being attached to the chain that linked the cuffs and, abruptly, her arms were raised. Pain shot through her shoulders and she bent forwards, gasping. Instinctively she shuffled her feet, but there was, of course, nowhere to go. She stood, back arched, head down, arms up. A hand tapped her right breast as it hung out from her chest, knocking it into the left breast. There was laughter, and another hand knocked from the other side. She could feel her face flushing with embarrassment. “We’re off for lunch,” Garcia said. “More shocks when we get back.” His fingers closed around her left nipple and he pulled down, hard. She yelped, partly at the pain and partly at the sense she had of her helplessness.
She heard the door close. Were there any soldiers left? She didn’t know. She wanted to cry. She felt exhausted. She hated this enforced darkness, the sense of not knowing who was where. Tremors still passed through her. She had to concentrate every second just to stay on the bricks, shuffling constantly to try to relieve some of the strain in her shoulders and back. And every time she moved, she felt her dangling breasts move and she felt acutely her nakedness. She couldn’t take any more. Surely this was enough. Surely nobody would blame her for giving in? La Resistencia had had enough time to do what they needed to do to protect themselves. They would understand. She couldn’t take another shock. Even the thought of the picana on her body made her feel ill.
Level three had been awful, an extraordinary immersion in pain. Her muscles had tensed so much she’d thought her bones might break. And she knew from the testimonies of others that they could keep doing it, keeping shocking her over and over. She couldn’t take it. She lifted her head slightly and immediately felt a pain in her neck.
“When do you reckon we get to rape her?” There were soldiers in the room. Close to her.
“She’s a fine piece of ass. I can’t wait.”
They were going to touch her, she knew. “Look at those tits. Have you ever seen a sweeter pair?”
“That ass. When they flogged her I could have cum there and then. So tight.”
She knew they were walking round her, leering at her. Couldn’t they leave her alone for just five minutes? But she knew this was part of the torture, just as making her bend over by the door after the beating had been. A hand ran down the back of her thigh. “Muscular,” one said. “No flab there.” She squirmed at his touch. His fingers ran over her buttocks, which still felt sensitive from the beating. “Smooth,” he said. “No cellulite. She’ll be a great fuck.” Then suddenly, as she knew they would, his fingers prodded forward. He gently parted her labia, and eased two fingers inside. “Nice tight cunt,” he said. “The officers will get her first but we’ll get her eventually.”
He kept teasing her as the other soldier began playing with her breasts, stroking, squeezing, kneading. It was hard enough anyway to stand on the bricks; this felt intolerable. How long did they taunt her? Five minutes? Ten? It felt like an eternity. She was beaten, she knew that. She would have given them the initials just to be allowed to stand straight, just to put some clothes on. She ached terribly. How much longer? The room fell silent again. She knew this was a technique – to make her dwell on what had been done to her, to make her dwell on what would be done to her: more ice baths, dunking and shocks. She shuffled her feet again, desperately seeking comfort.
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Garcia enjoyed a long lunch. Let her suffer. Let her think about what awaited her. She was tougher than he’d expected but she would break soon enough. He’d left her there almost two hours when he returned to the cell with Diaz and with Dr Fernandez who would make sure they didn’t go too far – which was always the danger with electricity. He heard Fernandez gasp as he walked into the cell: she was a striking sight, bent forward, naked, those delicious breasts just hanging away from her torso, the long legs straining to stay on the bricks.
He walked over to her, hearing in her shallow breathing both fear and pain. “Initials?” he asked. Her jaw tightened and she gave a slight shake of the head. “OK,” Garcia said, and addressed one of the soldiers. “Take out a brick.”
“No!” she yelped, but she said nothing more as the soldier bent behind her and, using both hands, eased the top brick off the pile. Her toes scrabbled on it desperately as it slid backwards and then, as it was removed, she fell four inches onto the one beneath. She gave a gasp of pain and whimpered as her toes sought purchase. The cleverness of this was that she had to choose: stand on tiptoe and relieve the pain in her arms while increasing the strain on her legs, or stand as near to flat as she could and take the pain in her shoulders, chest and arms. And all the while she knew that at the end of it there was a cold bath and more shocks.
Garcia pounded her with questions. Sometimes he shouted, sometimes he was gentle. He went over old ground and he broached new. He teased information from her. He asked her things to which he knew the answers to check her honesty and he asked her about matters that weren’t important to confuse her. She shuffled and fidgeted, shifting her weight, seeking vainly a position that didn’t hurt. Juarez and Bocchini chipped in. And then, after about half an hour, he asked her about the bombings at the Interior Ministry. “I heard rumours,” she said. “That’s all.”
She felt immediately a brick being shifted. “Please,” she said. “Please believe me.” She held her toes on the brick for as long as possible, even as it was pulled backwards, falling painfully, almost missing the one brick that remained. Her shoulders screamed in pain, her chest ached, but on he went, probing her about what she’d known and when. AAG, she wanted to shout. AAG. But she stayed silent. She was polite. She answered his questions and those of the other two. And then, without warning, he kicked away the other brick. It was so sudden, the pain so sharp, she thought for a moment her shoulders had dislocated. Her toes scrabbled desperately for purchase as her arms took all her weight for a fraction of a second. She felt as though she couldn’t breathe, a few coughing gasps all she could manage until she managed to take at least some of her weight on her toes. She was stretched, the balls of her feet only just on the ground.
Her head tipped forwards. The pain was awful. Her breath came in short agonised gasps. The questions continued. She could barely process them, so great was her discomfort. She left his hands on her breasts, finger nails scraping her nipples. “On June 4 last year,” he said, “you met a woman in a café on Calle Moreno. Who was she?”
What? Where had that come from? She had no idea. June 4? It could have been anybody. “Who was it?” he said, grasping her hair and twisting to force her head up. “I’ve no idea,” she said. “I… June 4?... I don’t…” And then it dawned on her. She had met a contact around then on Moreno, a woman who had links to la Resistencia: Maria Soler. She couldn’t hand her over, though. For one thing, she had no idea how well connected she was. For another, she was only a student, 20, 21 at most. She couldn’t give them her name and know that she would undergo this. “I don’t remember,” she said, but it didn’t sound convincing even to her. The thought of what might happen to anybody she betrayed, though, gave Juliette new strength. She wouldn’t let them arrest a pretty, delicate brave girl like that, strip her naked and pump electricity into her. She just wouldn’t.
He walked over to her, hearing in her shallow breathing both fear and pain. “Initials?” he asked. Her jaw tightened and she gave a slight shake of the head. “OK,” Garcia said, and addressed one of the soldiers. “Take out a brick.”
“No!” she yelped, but she said nothing more as the soldier bent behind her and, using both hands, eased the top brick off the pile. Her toes scrabbled on it desperately as it slid backwards and then, as it was removed, she fell four inches onto the one beneath. She gave a gasp of pain and whimpered as her toes sought purchase. The cleverness of this was that she had to choose: stand on tiptoe and relieve the pain in her arms while increasing the strain on her legs, or stand as near to flat as she could and take the pain in her shoulders, chest and arms. And all the while she knew that at the end of it there was a cold bath and more shocks.
Garcia pounded her with questions. Sometimes he shouted, sometimes he was gentle. He went over old ground and he broached new. He teased information from her. He asked her things to which he knew the answers to check her honesty and he asked her about matters that weren’t important to confuse her. She shuffled and fidgeted, shifting her weight, seeking vainly a position that didn’t hurt. Juarez and Bocchini chipped in. And then, after about half an hour, he asked her about the bombings at the Interior Ministry. “I heard rumours,” she said. “That’s all.”
She felt immediately a brick being shifted. “Please,” she said. “Please believe me.” She held her toes on the brick for as long as possible, even as it was pulled backwards, falling painfully, almost missing the one brick that remained. Her shoulders screamed in pain, her chest ached, but on he went, probing her about what she’d known and when. AAG, she wanted to shout. AAG. But she stayed silent. She was polite. She answered his questions and those of the other two. And then, without warning, he kicked away the other brick. It was so sudden, the pain so sharp, she thought for a moment her shoulders had dislocated. Her toes scrabbled desperately for purchase as her arms took all her weight for a fraction of a second. She felt as though she couldn’t breathe, a few coughing gasps all she could manage until she managed to take at least some of her weight on her toes. She was stretched, the balls of her feet only just on the ground.
Her head tipped forwards. The pain was awful. Her breath came in short agonised gasps. The questions continued. She could barely process them, so great was her discomfort. She left his hands on her breasts, finger nails scraping her nipples. “On June 4 last year,” he said, “you met a woman in a café on Calle Moreno. Who was she?”
What? Where had that come from? She had no idea. June 4? It could have been anybody. “Who was it?” he said, grasping her hair and twisting to force her head up. “I’ve no idea,” she said. “I… June 4?... I don’t…” And then it dawned on her. She had met a contact around then on Moreno, a woman who had links to la Resistencia: Maria Soler. She couldn’t hand her over, though. For one thing, she had no idea how well connected she was. For another, she was only a student, 20, 21 at most. She couldn’t give them her name and know that she would undergo this. “I don’t remember,” she said, but it didn’t sound convincing even to her. The thought of what might happen to anybody she betrayed, though, gave Juliette new strength. She wouldn’t let them arrest a pretty, delicate brave girl like that, strip her naked and pump electricity into her. She just wouldn’t.
She is one tough woman!!!
Secret Keeper
Executioner
Wow! 
I can imagine someone from the Argentine dirty war coming on here and thinking, 'We should have tried that.'
I can imagine someone from the Argentine dirty war coming on here and thinking, 'We should have tried that.'
King Diocletian
Magistrate
Hartmann had clearly been suffering badly, Diaz thought. Well, good; that’s what she was here for. He could tell Garcia was getting frustrated as she answered his questions with difficulty, whimpers of pain interrupting her speech. It was about two hours after lunch when Hartmann was finally unfastened. She collapsed, hugging herself and moaning, curled in a ball on the ground. She was given no more than a minute’s respite. The blindfold was wrenched off and she was dragged to the bath, made to stand and watch as it slowly filled. Her face was a blank mask. He imagined there was fear behind the eyes, but she stood looking numb, unresisting as her wrists were shackled behind her. “Well?” asked Garcia.
She just looked at the bath. When it was full and Garcia ordered her to get in, she did, obediently lying face down. And so the cycle began again. Fifteen times they dunked her, in three sets of five. She seemed genuinely distressed, her breathing difficult, her face grey, shivers and shudders passing through her as she coughed up water she’d swallowed, but she said nothing. Diaz wondered if she were becoming desensitised. They hauled her, shaking, to the bench. She seemed to resist just as little as she was strapped down again. The doctor examined her, holding a stethoscope to her wondrous chest, the nipples erect and the skin goosepimpled with cold, before pronouncing her fit to take more shocks. She groaned at that but otherwise remained silent. Diaz was worried. Was she somehow gaining the upper hand?
Garcia, though, remained calm. Slowly, he positioned the trolley beside her, then reached into a box on the bottom shelf, withdrawing a ball of wire wool. He smiled, and held it so Hartmann could see it. She squealed. “No….! Oh God, no…!”
Diaz didn’t quite understand. What was it that provoked such fear in her? Wire wool? Then Garcia took the copper wire that previously he’d twisted round her toe and pushed it through the ball, looping it back so it was secure. Diaz still didn’t get it, but he saw Hartmann did and that her terror had increased. Garcia bent over her and reached his left hand between her thighs, stroking them gently. Then he opened her labia with thumb and forefinger and Diaz realised what he was doing. It appalled him, yet it also thrilled him.
“No! Oh God no! Please!”
She struggled but the bonds held her tight. Garcia paused, patted her genitals and turned back to his trolley. Slowly, so she could see, he unscrewed the top of the jar of ointment and tipped the wire-wool in. “Nearly forgot,” he said with a smile.
“Please, please, please….”
Garcia held up the ball of wire, now smothered in the ointment, and bent over her. She looked away, clenching her fists as he parted her lips with one hand, and inserted the wire-wool with the other. Her body went tense, her face twisted in – in what? In pain? Or in shame? Or terror? Or all three? – as Garcia poked it inside her. She was sobbing, chest heaving, and Diaz was struck by the contrast between her composure when she used to hector him and her humiliation now. Garcia, working with almost mocking slowness, returned to his trolley and took up a narrow pair of pliers. “Stop! Stop this…” she wailed as he returned and carefully, using the pliers, pushed the wire-wool as far inside her as it would go.
*
Garcia picked up the picana. Hartmann was whimpering. He knew they were getting to a critical stage. It was a matter of balance. You ground them down with discomfort and shame and you terrified them with pain. She was near the edge, scared and humiliated. He would take her even closer but it was important not to go too far. Too much pain could destroy her. He would give her no more than four or five more shocks today, then he’d make sure her night was miserable and it would probably be the morning when they cracked her. If not, he might have to give her a couple of days’ break from torture and then get her back down here.
“The initials?”
He could almost see her thinking. She was staring at him, fear written all over her face. She wanted to give in, was fighting with herself. He stepped up. He began playing the picana over her breasts, enjoying their firmness. She looked away, turning her head to the right. He moved the picana up, tracing it up her chest and neck, over her jaw and her lovely cheekbone to her ear, the dark hair swept above it. He pressed.
Her whole body tensed. He saw the muscles in her neck stand out, the strain in her face. She pulled at the bonds, hopelessly. A low, keening whine left her mouth, spittle flying. He held her like that for a count of four, then lifted the picana. She panted, her body shiny with sweat, a series of moans escaping her lips. She closed her eyes and lay as though exhausted. A little blood, Garcia saw, had escaped from between her legs.
“You know we can keep doing this?” he said. “You know this will go on till you give in?”
She just looked at the bath. When it was full and Garcia ordered her to get in, she did, obediently lying face down. And so the cycle began again. Fifteen times they dunked her, in three sets of five. She seemed genuinely distressed, her breathing difficult, her face grey, shivers and shudders passing through her as she coughed up water she’d swallowed, but she said nothing. Diaz wondered if she were becoming desensitised. They hauled her, shaking, to the bench. She seemed to resist just as little as she was strapped down again. The doctor examined her, holding a stethoscope to her wondrous chest, the nipples erect and the skin goosepimpled with cold, before pronouncing her fit to take more shocks. She groaned at that but otherwise remained silent. Diaz was worried. Was she somehow gaining the upper hand?
Garcia, though, remained calm. Slowly, he positioned the trolley beside her, then reached into a box on the bottom shelf, withdrawing a ball of wire wool. He smiled, and held it so Hartmann could see it. She squealed. “No….! Oh God, no…!”
Diaz didn’t quite understand. What was it that provoked such fear in her? Wire wool? Then Garcia took the copper wire that previously he’d twisted round her toe and pushed it through the ball, looping it back so it was secure. Diaz still didn’t get it, but he saw Hartmann did and that her terror had increased. Garcia bent over her and reached his left hand between her thighs, stroking them gently. Then he opened her labia with thumb and forefinger and Diaz realised what he was doing. It appalled him, yet it also thrilled him.
“No! Oh God no! Please!”
She struggled but the bonds held her tight. Garcia paused, patted her genitals and turned back to his trolley. Slowly, so she could see, he unscrewed the top of the jar of ointment and tipped the wire-wool in. “Nearly forgot,” he said with a smile.
“Please, please, please….”
Garcia held up the ball of wire, now smothered in the ointment, and bent over her. She looked away, clenching her fists as he parted her lips with one hand, and inserted the wire-wool with the other. Her body went tense, her face twisted in – in what? In pain? Or in shame? Or terror? Or all three? – as Garcia poked it inside her. She was sobbing, chest heaving, and Diaz was struck by the contrast between her composure when she used to hector him and her humiliation now. Garcia, working with almost mocking slowness, returned to his trolley and took up a narrow pair of pliers. “Stop! Stop this…” she wailed as he returned and carefully, using the pliers, pushed the wire-wool as far inside her as it would go.
*
Garcia picked up the picana. Hartmann was whimpering. He knew they were getting to a critical stage. It was a matter of balance. You ground them down with discomfort and shame and you terrified them with pain. She was near the edge, scared and humiliated. He would take her even closer but it was important not to go too far. Too much pain could destroy her. He would give her no more than four or five more shocks today, then he’d make sure her night was miserable and it would probably be the morning when they cracked her. If not, he might have to give her a couple of days’ break from torture and then get her back down here.
“The initials?”
He could almost see her thinking. She was staring at him, fear written all over her face. She wanted to give in, was fighting with herself. He stepped up. He began playing the picana over her breasts, enjoying their firmness. She looked away, turning her head to the right. He moved the picana up, tracing it up her chest and neck, over her jaw and her lovely cheekbone to her ear, the dark hair swept above it. He pressed.
Her whole body tensed. He saw the muscles in her neck stand out, the strain in her face. She pulled at the bonds, hopelessly. A low, keening whine left her mouth, spittle flying. He held her like that for a count of four, then lifted the picana. She panted, her body shiny with sweat, a series of moans escaping her lips. She closed her eyes and lay as though exhausted. A little blood, Garcia saw, had escaped from between her legs.
“You know we can keep doing this?” he said. “You know this will go on till you give in?”