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Liberty

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Juliette barely knew what was happened. Hands lifted her from the frame and when they let go she crumpled, falling to the concrete floor. She lay, too weak to move, her brain itself seeming to ache. She was aware of feeling desperately cold, of her buttocks burning, and yet at the same time there was something comforting about the concrete, about lying on it, consciousness drifting away. Somebody kicked her, hard, in the ribs. She was lifted off the ground a couple of inches, then slumped back. A voice cautioned against breaking any bones. She coughed, winded. She ached everywhere. Even breathing hurt. Hands pulled her to her feet. Her head fell forwards. She could see her breasts and her feet and a patch of concrete, framed by her hair as it fell over her face. Nothing quite felt real. Her body seemed tremendously heavy. Her head was yanked back by the hair and she saw her torturer’s face, although she couldn’t focus on it. She felt his hands on her breasts, first stroking them and then gently slapping them. She knew she should feel revolted but she was too tired. She felt the hood being pulled over her head, her wrists being cuffed and the next she knew she was lying on the floor of her cell.


She was still naked, but they’d draped her shirt over her. Had she been asleep? She had no idea. She pulled the shirt on, stiffly. Her head ached dreadfully. It took an age to force her fingers to button the shirt. Her buttocks were sore, her ribs ached, the burn at the base of her spine was a constant pain. What more could they do to her? She was shaking and she still felt exhausted. She stood, slowly. Her body was agonisingly stiff. She felt the pain in her vagina where the steel wool had grazed her tenderest parts. She began to cry. She stretched, then lay down again. A disturbed sleep soon overwhelmed her again.

*

Garcia looked at Diaz. “What do you want?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s done. There’s nothing else. We can check some details, maybe make her confess some crimes, but basically she’s finished. She’s given up what she knows.”

Diaz nodded. Garcia was irritated by him. These politicians were all the same. They never took responsibility. Maybe they could squeeze her for more. “What do you want me to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“We can keep torturing her. If you want her to suffer, we can keep going. Or we can give her medical attention and get her ready for trial. Or we can have her commit suicide if that’s easier.”

Diaz looked blank. “Or maybe you’d like some time with her alone?” Garcia said spitefully.

*

Juliette had lost all sense of time. All she knew was that she had the hood back on and was being dragged down a corridor again. She’d given up her efforts to work out the layout of the building. She just wanted it to be over. A door opened, and she realised to her horror she was back in the torture chamber. The hood came off, and she saw the bath being filled, saw the bench lying empty, the straps hanging down, the trolley and the picana standing by. Her legs felt suddenly weak. She turned away, as though there might somehow be an escape, but the soldiers were there.


“Strip,” the main torturer said, unemotionally. She turned back and saw the three of them standing alongside Diaz and the doctor.


“What else do you want?” she said, but she’d broken down into tears before the end of the question. She had nothing left.


“Strip,” he said again, but she fell, her legs giving way. She couldn’t bear any more. At first there’d been a heroism in resistance, in denying them knowledge, but now she had no more knowledge to give. The soldiers seized her arms and pulled her to her feet. The torturer walked up to her. “When I give you an order,” he hissed, “you obey. Or do you want more time in the punishment room?”


What was the difference? It was all pain. But Juliette was too exhausted to follow through the logic. Her fingers went reluctantly to the buttons of her shirt and she undressed, letting the shirt fall slowly from her shoulders. They wrenched her arms back and cuffed her wrists. He slapped her, hard, on the outside of her left breast, then on the outside of her right. He gave a thin smile and then repeated the action. “Your tits are marvellous,” he said, then gestured with his head towards the bath. Juliette resisted, but it was pointless. Four soldiers simply picked her up and dropped her in.
 
Diaz knew this was his doing. He had demanded they carry on the torture. He knew Garcia thought it pointless, and he knew Garcia knew this was personal. But he wanted to see her suffer. After all the times she’d embarrassed him, this was his revenge. They were strapping her down to the bench ready for the picana. She was shivering violently, her breathing coming in desperate gulps after the longest session in the bath yet. Her skin was a sickly purple, her nipples bright red, mucus oozing from her nose and yet still she struggled as they fastened her down. She was terrified, and he relished that, her composure gone, panic setting in. What had Garcia meant when he asked if he wanted time alone with her? Would he let him rape her? Is that what he meant?


The doctor checked her and nodded at Garcia. He’d barely asked her anything as the dunking had gone on, but now he stepped up to her. “Anything more to confess?” he asked.


“No!” she shouted, her voice hoarse. “I don’t know what you want. Tell me what you want.”


“Tell me about the bombings at the Interior Ministry.”


“I told you. Gaston Hernandez arranged it.”


He kept asking, when had she known, why had she done nothing, who else was involved. She seemed to know nothing more. There’d been rumours a week or two beforehand: that was it. Garcia took up the wire-wool and slowly dipped it in the gel. “Please,” she shouted. “I don’t know anything. Pleeeaaseee!” She began to cry. Garcia slipped the wire through the wool. He parted her labia and inserted it. She howled in pain. Diaz didn’t care if she knew anything more. He just wanted to see he suffer some more. He moved closer, staring down at her breasts, flattened slightly against her chest but still wonderfully pert.


Garcia took up the picana and coated the tip. “Please…” she begged. “Please…” Diaz saw the terror in her eyes. Garcia stroked the picana over her stomach, up and down. “No…..!” she begged.


“More names…” said Garcia. He pressed the button and released, pressed and released, pressed and released. She jolted three times and then he touched the picana to her belly button and pressed again, holding it this time. Diaz saw how every muscle tensed, back arching as the electricity flowed through her. Garcia held it for what seemed an eternity – ten, twelve seconds – before he let her down. She trembled, panting, eyes closed. As her breath returned, she whimpered. “No more..” she whispered.


Diaz looked at Garcia. “May I...?” he asked. Garcia shrugged. Diaz reached out and placed his hands on her breasts. It was the second time he’d felt them, but this time he was determined to get the full sensation. He ran his fingers around the undersides, feeling the smooth firmness of the skin. He let his fingers trace the areolae. He knew she was looking at him. He tried to smile at her but he could sense how he disdained him. Surprising himself, he punched her, hard, in the pit of her stomach. She lurched up against the straps then fell back, retching. Diaz slapped her hard on the outside of her left breast with his right hand and then on the outside of her right breast with his left. She gave a sob of exhaustion. Garcia motioned him away and pressed the picana against the sole of her foot.
 
Juliette saw him pick up the leather bit and she knew what was coming. She knew it was hopeless but she began begging again. “What do you want?” she gabbled. “You want me to confess to things?”


“I don’t know,” said Garcia. She saw Diaz polishing his glasses behind him. “What have you done?”<p?


“I lied in my newspaper. I made things up. I covered for la Resistencia. I’m probably guilty of being an accessory to murder…”


“I know,” he smiled. “Open wide.”


“What do you want? What? You want me to say I planted bombs myself?”


“Did you?”


“No.”


“Open your mouth.”


“Yes. Yes, I planted bombs.”


“Think very carefully, Miss Hartmann. If I find you’ve been lying, it’s 100 strokes of the palmatoria.”


“No, then, I didn’t.” What the fuck did they want?


He shoved the bit between her teeth. She felt terror. She thought she might piss herself. She bit on the leather, tasting the sourness. She realised there was one thing left, one thing she hadn’t told them. Maria Soler. She hadn’t handed her up. Not that she’d protected her deliberately; her name just hadn’t come up. Her one victory. The doctor stepped over and listened to her heart with his stethoscope, casually stroking her breast as he did so. She closed her eyes. “Level five, Miss Hartmann,” said the torturer. “Very few get this far. You should be very proud.”


He tapped her cheek with his left hand. “Last chance,” he said. She couldn’t answer even if she knew what he wanted. Would it help to give them Maria? Sweet, naïve Maria. Or would that just mean they thought she had more information she was holding back? He walked back to the trolley and took up the picana. He applied the ointment carefully to the tip and approached. “Level five,” he said teasingly.


She turned her head away from him. Exhausted as she was, she didn’t want him to see the terror in her eyes. Slowly, he brought the picana down on her left nipple. He waited. Then he pressed. The pain was like nothing she’d ever felt before. It surged through her, liquid fire on her nerves. Her body tensed and juddered, a solid mass of agony. She felt her eyes would burst. Her teeth felt on the brink of shattering. She saw only white light and then, mercifully, there was nothing.
 
Garcia let her sleep. There was no urgency now. They were just hurting her to hurt her. His job was to get information and confessions and he’d done that. Now his job was to do what Diaz told him, and Diaz just wanted her to suffer. Level five was dangerous. It could kill her, even with the doctor on hand. “What do you want me to do?” he asked the minister.


“She may be holding out,” he said. “What do you suggest?”


“She’s not holding out,” Garcia replied. “She’s broken.”


“One more session,” said Diaz. “Just to make sure.”

*

Garcia had never thought he could feel sorry for her, but that last session had been terrible. Even after a night’s sleep, she’d seemed dull-witted, and she’d been sobbing in terror almost before they’d made her strip. He thought of her standing there naked, hunched over, pitiable, shivering with fear as the bath filled. Of her begging for mercy, literally kneeling, clinging to his knees before the guards had dumped her in the ice water. Of her terrified eyes as her soaking, shivering figure, gasping for breath, retching was dragged to the bench. Of the way she pleaded with him for mercy, panting, long arms wrapped across her chest, whimpering as he made her wait at the end of the bench. In fact that was the image of her he knew he’d remember, wet hair clinging to her scalp, a couple of strands across her face, knees bent, utterly wretched.


He’d had the doctor check her over and then had confirmed with Diaz that he wanted the torture to continue. And so she’d been strapped down and almost mechanically he’d dipped the wire-wool in the gel and shoved it inside her. She bled freely, so chafed was the inside of her cunt. She was too beautiful, her breasts too magnificent, for him to say he hadn’t enjoyed working her over again and of course he knew what she’d done, but he couldn’t taunt her as Diaz did, mocking her convulsions under the shocks. He’d built up slowly on level one: two seconds, four, six, eight, ten until she lost consciousness on the way to twelve.


The doctor had given her an injection and they’d given her another soaking in the bath, and then they’d worked her over again, shorts blasts of level one, then a level two, more level one, then a three. She’d been babbling by then, inchoate noises of pain and terror before passing out. And this time, finally, it was all over.

*

How long was it since they’d stopped torturing her? A couple of weeks, maybe? Three? She’d spent a couple of days – more maybe, given she’d been sedated - in a hospital cell, and then had been returned to her own room. They’d dropped the bed for her, restored the mattress and blanket, and she’d assumed a daily routine: breakfast, exercise, lunch, exercise, shower, dinner, sleep. She couldn’t really remember the last sessions after she’d given them the initials. She had vague memories of being beaten, of endless electric shocks, of Diaz’s hands on her breasts. Had she given up Maria? She didn’t even know. She knew she’d suffered, knew they’d done something irrevocable to her that would haunt her always, but for now she was resolved to recover, to make herself as hard as she could, to endure. That was how she could defeat them. Already her strength was returning. She had terrible dreams and she was overwhelmed at times by an ill-defined sense of terror, but she was determined, quietly, to fight back. She would go to the camps. She would survive and she would tell the world what they had done to her.
 
King Diocletian said:
She would survive and she would tell the world what they had done to her.
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She failed in her first task of keeping her secrets.

To succeed in this second task will not be easy, the whole state apparatus will be against her, but it once again gives her life meaning. That will be a powerful motivator to keep her going.
 
This is not pollitical correct post on this forum. I dont't understand sense of this story. I very like KingDiocletian flogging stories but this one is contrived and has too much strange humililation at the xpense of beating. I understand that everybody want to grow and make changes but this road isn't good. Don't go there King;).
 
The Beast said:
This is not pollitical correct post on this forum. I dont't understand sense of this story. I very like KingDiocletian flogging stories but this one is contrived and has too much strange humililation at the xpense of beating. I understand that everybody want to grow and make changes but this road isn't good. Don't go there King;).
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I don't agree with you at all- the complexity of the story and the steady destruction of Miss Hartmann are inspired, wonderfully written and deeply believable. It is one of King Diocletian's very finest stories, and the bar for that accolade is set very high indeed.
 
The Beast said:
This is not pollitical correct post on this forum. I dont't understand sense of this story. I very like KingDiocletian flogging stories but this one is contrived and has too much strange humililation at the xpense of beating. I understand that everybody want to grow and make changes but this road isn't good. Don't go there King;).
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The beauty of the site if there is thread you don't like you don't have to read it!!!
 
thehangingtree said:
The beauty of the site if there is thread you don't like you don't have to read it!!!
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The irony of your statement is delicious. Nuff said on that.

But I have to disagree with the proposition that negative comments on a story are out of place on CF. As a writer, I don't expect everyone to like my stories, nor even for those who do like many of them to like every one equally. I see threads where there are comments pretending that the story is the greatest work of literature since "War and Peace". If I get such comments on my own stories, I chuckle.

FWIW, KD is one of my favorite writers here, but I stopped reading this story some time ago, finding it repetitive and lacking in plot. Simply describing torture or crucifixion over and over does not for me a readable story make. My wish, as a fellow writer, is that KD either wrap this up or introduce some interesting plot twists. For example, the names Juliette gave up would likely have either gone underground or tried to flee the country. Why not an exciting chase scene involving one or more of them? I would love to see what a writer of KD's talents could do if he broke the mold and stepped out of the narrow genre a bit.

But whether you like this story or not, let's not trash someone for expressing an honest opinion of a story. We should be able to disagree without being disagreeable.
 
windar said:
The irony of your statement is delicious. Nuff said on that.

But I have to disagree with the proposition that negative comments on a story are out of place on CF. As a writer, I don't expect everyone to like my stories, nor even for those who do like many of them to like every one equally. I see threads where there are comments pretending that the story is the greatest work of literature since "War and Peace". If I get such comments on my own stories, I chuckle.

FWIW, KD is one of my favorite writers here, but I stopped reading this story some time ago, finding it repetitive and lacking in plot. Simply describing torture or crucifixion over and over does not for me a readable story make. My wish, as a fellow writer, is that KD either wrap this up or introduce some interesting plot twists. For example, the names Juliette gave up would likely have either gone underground or tried to flee the country. Why not an exciting chase scene involving one or more of them? I would love to see what a writer of KD's talents could do if he broke the mold and stepped out of the narrow genre a bit.

But whether you like this story or not, let's not trash someone for expressing an honest opinion of a story. We should be able to disagree without being disagreeable.
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You 'over-read' my post. I too like constructive criticism and Beast's post was polite and I even agree somewhat with. I have been working at getting my own stories shorter.

Just a different way of saying (mostly) the same thing...
 
The more Garcia saw of her, the more she impressed him. What they’d done to her, those last sessions, had been pure sadism. They’d taken her close to death, but now, a month later, she was exercising, redeveloping the muscle she’d had when they’d arrested her. She had extraordinary mental strength. Should they maybe have tortured her more? Part of the point of torture, after all, was to break the victim, and she clearly wasn’t broken. Maybe he should suggest that: get her naked on the bench again, heat up the irons, give her a couple more shots of level 5, another hundred strokes of the palmatoria. But he knew to do so would be to admit failure on his own part. And, besides, she was booked in for trial.

*

Hartmann looked at the four officers behind the desk with a degree of hatred. It was they who would determine her fate. Would she die, or would she be sent to the camps? She wasn’t even sure which was worse. It was all very well to have resolve here, she knew, quite another slaving in the jungles, the threat of beatings and rape hanging always over her. One of them, who she recognised as General Osorio, looked at her over his half-moon glasses. “We have read your confession, Miss Hartmann,” he said, his tone stern. “Can you confirm it was freely given?”


She glanced at Diaz, who sat in the front row of the audience, next to her main torturer. “It was, sir,” she said. This was farcical. She wore just the shirt and stood anxiously in the dock, one had gripping the wrist of the other arm, trying to cover herself as much as possible.


“Is there anything in your confession you wish to amend?”


“No, sir.”


The general nodded. “It has been decided, then, that, based on your testimony, you will be charged on four counts of treason, eight of conspiracy, thirteen of sedition, sixteen of failing to report anti-government activity, thirty of collusion with banned groups, eighty-two of libel and 114 of propagating misleading information. You will further be charged with being accessory to 382 murders and with sexual deviancy. Do you wish to contest any of these charges?”


She paused, but what was the point? She wondered what on earth she’d said that had made them charge her with sexual deviancy, but it hardly mattered. She knew it was a slur on her name designed to turn people against her but, really, who cared? Anybody with any sense knew this trial was a sham, a way of legitimising either hanging her or sending her to the camps. She could contest them, but she’d just be taken back to the torture chamber until she decided to plead guilty. “No, sir,” she said.


“You are pleading guilty on all counts?”


“Yes, sir.”


“Take her away. Sentence will be announced in the morning.”

*

Diaz hadn’t slept much. Hartmann bothered him. He stood next to Garcia outside the cafeteria, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other. “Will it be death?” he asked.


“I don’t know,” Garcia said. He sounded irritated. “Probably.”


“And that’ll be it?”


“What do you mean?”


“Well, hanging seems a little… a little easy,” he said. “Painless.”


Garcia stubbed out his cigarette and looked sharply at him. “What would you do?”


“Flog her, maybe? Give her one last session with the picana. Make her suffer for her crimes.”


“I’m sure you can arrange what you want,” said Garcia and walked smartly away.


Diaz looked down. Garcia was right, he supposed; he was just after revenge for how she’d humiliated him, but he wanted to see her suffer, wanted her dignity shredded before she died.
 
King Diocletian said:
The more Garcia saw of her, the more she impressed him. What they’d done to her, those last sessions, had been pure sadism. They’d taken her close to death, but now, a month later, she was exercising, redeveloping the muscle she’d had when they’d arrested her. She had extraordinary mental strength. Should they maybe have tortured her more? Part of the point of torture, after all, was to break the victim, and she clearly wasn’t broken. Maybe he should suggest that: get her naked on the bench again, heat up the irons, give her a couple more shots of level 5, another hundred strokes of the palmatoria. But he knew to do so would be to admit failure on his own part. And, besides, she was booked in for trial.

*

Hartmann looked at the four officers behind the desk with a degree of hatred. It was they who would determine her fate. Would she die, or would she be sent to the camps? She wasn’t even sure which was worse. It was all very well to have resolve here, she knew, quite another slaving in the jungles, the threat of beatings and rape hanging always over her. One of them, who she recognised as General Osorio, looked at her over his half-moon glasses. “We have read your confession, Miss Hartmann,” he said, his tone stern. “Can you confirm it was freely given?”


She glanced at Diaz, who sat in the front row of the audience, next to her main torturer. “It was, sir,” she said. This was farcical. She wore just the shirt and stood anxiously in the dock, one had gripping the wrist of the other arm, trying to cover herself as much as possible.


“Is there anything in your confession you wish to amend?”


“No, sir.”


The general nodded. “It has been decided, then, that, based on your testimony, you will be charged on four counts of treason, eight of conspiracy, thirteen of sedition, sixteen of failing to report anti-government activity, thirty of collusion with banned groups, eighty-two of libel and 114 of propagating misleading information. You will further be charged with being accessory to 382 murders and with sexual deviancy. Do you wish to contest any of these charges?”


She paused, but what was the point? She wondered what on earth she’d said that had made them charge her with sexual deviancy, but it hardly mattered. She knew it was a slur on her name designed to turn people against her but, really, who cared? Anybody with any sense knew this trial was a sham, a way of legitimising either hanging her or sending her to the camps. She could contest them, but she’d just be taken back to the torture chamber until she decided to plead guilty. “No, sir,” she said.


“You are pleading guilty on all counts?”


“Yes, sir.”


“Take her away. Sentence will be announced in the morning.”

*

Diaz hadn’t slept much. Hartmann bothered him. He stood next to Garcia outside the cafeteria, coffee in one hand, cigarette in the other. “Will it be death?” he asked.


“I don’t know,” Garcia said. He sounded irritated. “Probably.”


“And that’ll be it?”


“What do you mean?”


“Well, hanging seems a little… a little easy,” he said. “Painless.”


Garcia stubbed out his cigarette and looked sharply at him. “What would you do?”


“Flog her, maybe? Give her one last session with the picana. Make her suffer for her crimes.”


“I’m sure you can arrange what you want,” said Garcia and walked smartly away.


Diaz looked down. Garcia was right, he supposed; he was just after revenge for how she’d humiliated him, but he wanted to see her suffer, wanted her dignity shredded before she died.
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Surely someone from her embassy could do something for her!!!
wc 2.jpg
 
Now that she’d been found guilty, they left her in chains, wrists shackled behind her as she stood on the raised platform that served as a dock, horribly aware how much of her legs she was exposing. There was a solider either side of her and two behind her, and the small courtroom was full, of military, of police, of politicians and a couple of tame journalists who, she was sure, would report how she had begged pitifully for mercy.


Osorio read though the charge sheet again, confirming she had been found guilty on all counts. Then he addressed her directly. She felt her heart thump, fear as she waited to find out what they would do to her next. “Your crimes,” he said, “are of an extremely serious nature. If you were to be punished for each of them, you could be executed twelve times and serve a hundred or more life sentences. So it was with some difficulty that the tribunal reached a decision.”


This was it. She swallowed, heart thumping, but she knew what the sentence would be. “Juliette Hartmann, the sentence of this tribunal is that you be put to death by hanging.”


She closed her eyes and looked down. Part of her knew that the camps would have meant constant agony and shame, that they’d have taken every opportunity to beat her and humiliate her, but the major part of her was terrified of dying. “Sentence will be executed four days from today,” he went on. “Had you been sent to the camps, you would have been whipped before departure. It is customary for those under sentence of death to be spared flogging. However, your crimes are so severe I see no reason to be merciful.”


Fuck. Whipping. She’d seen the backs of those who’d been whipped, the scars, the grooves, the tales of agony on the post. “Before you are hanged you will receive upon your naked back 60 lashes of the grade three bullwhip.”


She began to weep. It might kill her, but she knew they didn’t really care if it did. Sixty lashes. She’d heard of twenties and thirties. Sixty was monstrous. “Before then,” the colonel went on, “I encourage the prison authorities to take action against you for any breaches of discipline of which you have been guilty while in their custody.”


What did that mean? She knew what it meant. It meant he was giving them carte blanche to hurt her again, to make up offences she had committed and punish her for them. Essentially she had been sentenced to be tortured to death for four days. Hands took her arms. “Take the prisoner away,” he said.
 
Very good that is a verdict of jury and conclusion of this story, finally. But I think King will play with us very long with too much sadistic and for me boring description of modern tortures and raping by this latino degenerate soldiers;).
 
Diaz adjusted his tie. He felt strangely nervous. He straightened the white tablecloth. The door opened and two soldiers escorted her in. He felt his chest tighten as he saw her. He’d ordered them to wash her and have her wear the dress she’d been wearing when she’d been arrested. He stood up and pulled back a chair. Come and sit down, he said. She looked stunning. She was barefoot, but other than that she looked as she had at the New Year’s gala: the blue dress with the silken navy slip beneath, her hair pulled away from her face. She wore a look of disgust, but sat as he indicated. The soldiers took positions by the door. “Wine?” he said, lifting a bottle of chablis from the ice-bucket.


She said nothing but he poured her a glass anyway. He sat down and smiled at her, his eyes drawn to the very slight vale of cleavage visible above the silk. “You look ravishing,” he said.


“What are you doing?’ she asked, her voice angry and weary.


“I’m having dinner with you,” he said. “And after dinner you can join me in my room, or you can go back to your cell and see what the boys do with a prisoner on death row.”


She looked away, disgusted. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I imagine it’s pretty painful.”

*

What could she do? She ate. It was good food – a fish mousse to start, then good steak with an excellent malbec – but she could barely swallow. They were going to kill her in four days and they put her through this parody of a date. She loathed him, but how could she resist? She just resolved to make sure he had as little fun as possible. She barely spoke, barely listened to his idle chatter. He finished his malbec, set down his glass and smiled. “I don’t think I want any dessert,” he said. “You can be my dessert.” She shuddered.


He got up and stood behind her, his hands slowly massaging her shoulders. She felt revulsion. He stroked her bare arm, then took her hand. “Come on, my dear,” he said. She stood. What came next? He led her out of the room and along a corridor. The soldiers followed. He took her into another room, where a bed had been made up. A bottle of champagne sat in an ice-bucket. The soldiers closed the door behind them so she was alone with Diaz. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck. Instinctively, she turned away.


“Don’t be like that,” he said, drawing his fingers through her hair.


He slid the dress from her shoulder, pulling it down. She stood perfectly still as it fell at her feet, leaving her in the silk slip. He ran his hands over the outside of her breasts. “Are you wearing anything under that?” he asked.


“No,” she said.


He stood in front of her and placed his hands under the thin straps. He smiled at her. She felt a rush of loathing. She should kick him, she thought, but she knew that would lead only to punishment. He peeled the straps down over her arms and stepped back, watching as the slip slid off and left her naked. He’d seen her naked in the torture chamber of course, and in the tank and in the punishment room and when they’d first stripped her, but this was different. This was just the two of them. What a sight she was. She gave a slight toss of her head and stared back at him, arms held by her sides, no attempt to cover herself. He reached out and ran his fingers over her breasts, then down her toned stomach. He placed his hands on her arms, feeling the firm muscle of her biceps and pushed her gently towards the bed. She fell limply on her back and closed her eyes. He lowered himself onto her, his hands exploring her smooth skin. He pushed back her hair from her face and kissed her softly on the forehead. He let his fingers run over her features and then fall to skirt her flanks and grasp her waist then her buttocks as he kissed her firmly on the lips. How he’d desired to do that when she’d sat with him in his office. He squeezed the taut muscle of her ass as his tongue forced her mouth open before coming up against the solid wall of her teeth.


“Kiss me,” he said.


“Fuck you,” she replied.


He punched her, hard, in the stomach, a sharp downward blow. She jerked up, instinctively, but he shoved her down, hands on those smooth shoulders. She was winded, struggling for breath, and her open mouth allowed him to kiss her. His tongue pushed against her tongue and he wondered if she might try to bite, but the struggle to breathe seemed too much. His cock was hard, pushing against the waistband of his trousers, and he fumbled to unfasten his belt. He got his trousers and shorts down and knelt over her, one knee either side of her waist. His hands returned to her breasts and she raised her hands, pushing at his arms. He slapped her, but she kept writhing. He put his hands on her wrists and pushed them down above her head, but that was no good – he wanted to play with those breasts. He kneed her in the stomach. His position meant he couldn’t get much purchase, but it dulled her resistance.


“What are you doing?” he asked. “Do you want me to hurt you?”


She spat in his face. Diaz was stunned, and not a little humiliated. “Fuck me and the next four days will not be hell,” he said, plaintively. She spat again. He slapped her, but she wriggled, trying to get free. He pushed himself up and, glad he was still wearing his shoes, kicked her between her legs. But she was up and off the bed. What should he do? He didn’t want to call for help. That made him look weak. He pulled up his trousers and fastened them. He lunged for her, but she was too quick. He couldn’t let her do this to him. He made a decision and headed for the door.
 
Against four soldiers, she was helpless. She hadn’t even had time to begin to dress when they came in and overpowered her. They carried her out of the room, along a couple of corridors and into a bare cell. They fastened her wrists in front of her, clipped a chain to the cuffs and hoisted her so she was stretched, standing on the balls of her feet. Diaz thanked then. “I You can have her when I’m done,” he said.


He waited till they’d gone, then approached her. She wondered whether to kick him, but she knew her position meant she would get little purchase. Already her arms and shoulders were beginning to ache. He ran his hands over her ribs. She shuddered at his touch. “Such a beautiful figure,” he said. “Such a silly girl.” He spat in her face.


She blinked and shook her head and watched as he walked to a cupboard at the back of the room. He opened it and she saw inside were a number of palmatorias and canes. Shit. She should have just let him fuck her. When he returned, though, he was carrying a small black plastic box from which two copper probes protruded: some kind of stun gun, she realised. Shit.


“I’ll fuck you,” she said, hurriedly.


“Yes,” he said coldly. “You will.” He touched the machine against her ribs, she heard a crackle and she was suddenly hit with an intense pain. She jerked violently, momentarily winded. It had been a fraction of a second, and it perhaps hadn’t been as bad as even the level one shocks from the picana, but the effect had been disabling. He looked at the stun-gun, then at her, then touched it to her belly.

*

He wanted to make sure she was broken, but he didn’t want her to pass out. He shocked her again and again. Her breasts, perter than ever as she hung, her cunt. He measured her screams, the volume slowly dropping as she became exhausted. Finally, as she stopped begging for mercy and was reduced to little more than whimpering, he decided she had enough. But he still felt anger. She’d denied him his night with her when he could pretend she was his lover and she’d humiliated him. He stepped back and looked at her, dangling limply, strain showing in her shoulders and upper arms, body damp with sweat. He punched her, hard, in the ribs with his right fist, and then again with his left. She grunted, but hardly reacted apart from that. Her beauty suddenly overwhelmed him, even as she hung, hair lank across her face. He stripped, rapidly, then threw himself at her, pawing and biting, mauling her breasts. He seized the buttocks that had always fascinated him, remembered how they’d flogged her on the day she’d arrived, and then pulled her legs around his waist.


He found his way inside her, fingers digging deep into her buttocks as he thrust back and forth. It wouldn’t take long he knew, but this wasn’t just about his own gratification. He wanted her to know he’d won. He slowed and holding her waist with one arm, lifted her chin with the other hand. Her eyes radiated shame. He smiled. He kissed her lips, unresponsive now, no attempt to draw away. “Tell me about your human rights,” he said. She just kept staring down. He seized her buttocks again.

*

Juliette hung, legs no longer strong enough to bear her weight. The pain in her wrists was dreadful but she could do nothing to relieve it. And far worse was the pain where he’d fucked her. That man, that fucking pathetic creature whom she’d beaten in debate after debate, had raped her. Not once, but three times. First quickly and brutally and then, after a spell of squeezing her tits and slapping her around, more carefully. It would have been bad enough anyway, but she was still tender from the wire-wool. It had been agony, burning inside her. And then, after disappearing for a few minutes he’d returned, given her a few more shocks and fucked her from behind. She felt broken, revolted, truly defeated for the first time. And she knew what was coming next.


She’d been left alone for what seemed like an eternity but was probably about an hour when the door opened again. There were six of them, laughing, joking. She heard the door lock and then they were on her, touching and squeezing, taunting and probing. “You’re ours for the night,” one said, holding her by the cheeks so she couldn’t help but look into his rat-like face. “You did us a favour, fighting him because that meant he needed us, and that means we get you as a reward.” Juliette considered spitting on him but even as the thought crossed her mind, he punched her hard in the pit of her stomach.
 
King Diocletian said:
Juliette considered spitting on him but even as the thought crossed her mind, he punched her hard in the pit of her stomach.
Click to expand...

Yum. A lack of immediate resistance is no reason not to inflict pain to demonstrate their dominance. Exhaustion is no excuse for not satisfying them... There's certainly enough of them to have someone afflicting her and keeping her lively while waiting their turn.

In case it wasn't clear- enjoying this immensely, sadist that I am.
 
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