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State Of Emergency Book Two - The Camp

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Rebecca sobbed into the blindfold. What had she done to deserve this? Her shoulders and chest ached, her wrists were in agony and the pain in her feet was terrible. There were men in the room, she knew, looking at her, leching over her, thinking about hurting her, thinking about raping her. She knew from his face that the grizzled one would rape her before she left the camp. Become her fourth rapist. She almost wanted to go back to the inspector’s office at the police station. At least he’d been gentle with her. Or he had until he’d fucked her in the ass after she’d been flogged.


What did the plump one want? Was there anything else she could tell him? She shifted slightly and new pain stabbed through her feet. The door opened. She smelled the aftershave and knew it was the interrogator, the plump one, with his ridiculous quiff. She heard him approach. He walked around her and as he approached the desk, she heard the order to remove her blindfold and lift her. She whimpered as the strain intensified on her wrists and shoulders. She blinked away the tears.


He looked at her suspiciously. “Had you heard the name Roberta Stafford before you got here?"


“No,” she said. “I met her on the train.”


“Did McCormack give any indication of having met her or known her before?”


“I don’t think so, no.”


“Donohue?”


“No.”


Her arms were trembling with the strain. The pain in her chest was getting worse. She could see him thinking. Thinking whether he should keep hurting her.


“What do you know about Stafford? About her background?”


“Nothing much.” Even speaking was difficult. “She was a teacher, I think. Or at least she was doing some teaching at some school in the hills. She’s English.”


“Do you know why she’s here?”


“No.”


“You didn’t ask?”


“She said she tried to reveal a priest had been abusing pupils at the school where she worked.” She paused for breath. The pain was awful. “That the school didn’t believe her and they caned her. That she ran away but was arrested and whipped and sent here.”


“And did you believe her?”


“Yes. I mean, she’s been caned and whipped. Why would she lie?”


“Why do you think?”


Did he want her to answer? She blinked.


“Why?” he asked again.


“I don’t know…” She shook her head. The only thing she could think of was ridiculous.


He stood up and began to walk towards her. Shit. He stood in front of her. The smell of his aftershave was overwhelming. He placed his hands gently on her hips and pushed down. She shrieked as intense pain shot through her chest and shoulders. “Why?” he said, more forcefully.


“To hide something,” she gasped.


“To hide what?”


“I don’t…” He pushed down again. The pain was excruciating. For a moment she could see nothing.


“If she was a spy,” she sobbed.


“Exactly,” he said. He turned and walked back to his desk.


“Do you think she is?” he asked as he sat down again.


“No.” Her voice sounded like squawk. He nodded slowly, then gave an order to let her down. She could have wept with relief. The soles of her feet throbbed as they touched the ground but she didn’t care. Rather that than the agony in her chest and arms. They unfastened her wrists. She lowered her arms slowly, the pain terrifying as the circulation rushed back into her joints. She stood uneasily, massaging her sore wrists, eyes watering with the pain, wondering what was coming next. Was it over? Or was there a different kind of torture?


“Come here,” he said, and she hobbled forwards, conscious of all their eyes of her nakedness.
 
Uppal stood up. What a pretty little thing she was. He walked to meet her. She looked petrified. He lay his hands on her shoulders. She flinched at the touch. “Look at me,” he said and slowly she raised her gaze so those deep brown eyes settled on his.


“Do you want to help me?” he asked.


She glanced down at her nakedness, at her bloody feet, then lifted her eyes again. “Yes, sir,” she whispered.


“Good girl,” he said. “I want you to watch and listen. I want you to tell me what Stafford says. I think she may be very dangerous. Maybe she isn’t, but I fear her. I want you to find out what she’s been up to. Ask her about her work with the rebels. Ask her about her anti-government activity. Ask her about her sedition. Be careful. Be subtle. She mustn’t suspect. But I want you to find out the truth. Is that clear?”


“You want me to be your spy?”


“Just find out the truth. About McCormack. About Donohue. But mainly about Stafford. Is that clear?”


She blinked, her mouth half-open.


“You can refuse, of course.” He smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “But imagine what might happen if you did.”


He kept his hand in her hair, cupping the back of her head with one hand and gently stroked her cheek with the other. “You know what a proper flogging feels like,” he said. “Don’t put yourself through that again. And we have plenty of other ways of making your life unpleasant.”


She opened and closed her mouth, half-shaking her head.


“Will you do that for me?”


Tears rolled down her face as she nodded.


“Say it.”


Her voice was flat and quiet but she found the words. “I will try to find out the truth for you sir.”
 
Beth heard the door open. She smelt him before she saw him.


Uppal smiled at her. “How are you getting on?” he asked.


She couldn’t look at him. How she hated his unctuousness. “I’ve finished,” she said and handed him a sheaf of paper. She felt ill. All those people betrayed.


The interrogator took the sheets and glanced at them. “Finished?” he said with surprise.


“It’s a simple substitution cipher,” she said. “Made a bit more complicated by using digits as well as letters to represent certain common letters and representing numbers by letters with dots over them.”


He read with interest. “Good,” he said. “Very good.”


Beth looked down. Her name, Steve’s name and five others. One she recognised as a journalist but about the other four she had no idea. Three men, two women. None of them local.


‘What’s this between the names and contact details?” he asked.


“It’s garbage,” she said. “It’s there to confuse. It’s lorem ipsum, some Latin words publishers use to show how text would look on a page.”


“You’re sure?”


“Yes. You can check my working.”


“Excellent,” he said. “You can have another day in here if you like, warm water, warm food before I hand you back over to the camp.”


“They’ve sentenced me to five nights in the punishment cell.”


“I’ll see what I can do.”
 
KD- I hope you won't mind me saying this, but I feel I must. You know I like your writing a lot; I've said so here and on the GIMP and in emails to you. And I particularly liked Book One of State of Emergency, all 4 parts. They are amoong my all-time favorites of the genre.

So I was very much looking forward to Book Two. But, honestly, I'm having trouble reading it and I'll confess that I've stopped; and judging by the likes on recent posts, I'm not the only one. I think it's the chopped up nature-before I get into an episode it ends. I realize that stories on CF generally are serialized, but most of them have a chapter structure with natural stopping points. This one doesn't and that makes reading it in bits very frustrating.

So will I read it? Yes, but I'm going to wait until you're done and download the pdf.
 
A story with four main characters each with their own sub-plot is difficult to keep in the memory when serialised like this, not helped by using surnames and forenames in thier respective settings. It's less than a year since I read all Book 1, but now cannot remember the girls' backstories, so can't get involved emotionally with them.

Each episode morphed into "A girl is tortured".

Now with the code-breaking and spying on compatriots an interesting new twist is emerging, so I am glad I stuck with it. But as windar says, the whole thing probably lends itself better to a complete book format.
 
King Diocletian said:
Well, this is exactly why I was doubtful about the wisdom of posting like this. Shall I stop and just post the whole thing when it's done?
Click to expand...

I certainly don't mind episodic stories; they are the norm here and that's how I post mine. I think the problem is that you are posting snippets rather than complete chapters. Each victim's (or whatever term you prefer) entire interrogation would best be presented as a chapter in one post, IMO.
 
Megan shivered. How much of this night was there left? She hugged herself, rubbing her arms and looked up through the grating at the stars. Was this the coldest night they’d had? She was frozen. But there was a part of her that almost preferred being in the punishment cell to the hut, waiting to see if Chaudry’s lot would rape her again. To think she’d thought she might thrive in here, that she might be able to lead them. It was just a matter of survival. Beth hadn’t been seen for three days. Rebecca had come back from being tortured hardly able to lift her arms above her head and with her feet covered in scratches. And Bobby could barely lift her head or meet anybody’s eye she’d been stripped and humiliated so often. She rubbed her feet, trying not to let them get numb. Could she get frostbite?


A shadow fell over the grating. Shit. It opened with a creak and hands were pulling at her, helping her up. It wasn’t morning and that was bad news. She could smell alcohol. They threw her down onto the hard earth. There was laughter. She looked at the boots that surrounded her. At least eight of them. A hand pulled her hair and she was forced up to a kneeling position.


“Strip!” said a female voice. There was laughter. A boot prodded her backside. She couldn’t resist. Her hands shaking, she unbuttoned her shirt and slipped it off then stood and pulled down her trousers. A shove in the back sent her tumbling back down to her knees. It was terribly cold. Mechanically she wrapped one arm over her chest and hooked a hand between her legs. Her nipples were rigid in the icy air. She felt utterly defeated.


“Bottle-fucker!” somebody said and there was laughter, a push with the sole of a boot against her shoulder. She remained kneeling, a terrible emptiness in her gut. There were at least 10 of them, she realised, a couple of women but mostly men.


Agarwal stared at the naked girl, shivering in the moonlight. Her breasts were like nothing he’d ever seen, full and firm. They were breasts he’d imagine might exist but never really believed, so round, so perfect, so smooth. He’d seen her on arrival when they’d hosed her and had watched her with her shirt wet with sweat, of course, had observed the strain her breasts placed on her shirt, their wobble beneath the cloth, but the full magnificence had slipped from his mind.


It was Puri’s 30th birthday. They’d all had a few beers and some whisky and then they’d asked him what he really wanted. And he’d said her. He wanted Donohue to dance naked for him. Agarwal had wondered if it was a matter of ease: she was in the punishment cell so easy to get. He’d wondered as well if this was Amitab’s doing: Puri was one of the guards who took payment from her gang and everybody knew Amitab had targeted Donohue. But he looked at Donohue’s nude body, at the smooth skin and the perfect curves and he suspected Puri just wanted to enjoy her.


Led by Dayal, they dragged her across the yard, past the huts to the guard’s accommodation. Megan tried to take in what she saw, tried to gain information, but she was cold and scared and humiliated and they kept shoving her. They went through some double doors into a corridor and suddenly it was warm which came as a relief. Her clothes had been left by the cell. They got to a door and paused. One of the female guards approached her. “It’s Puri’s birthday,” she said. “You’re his gift.”


What the fuck did that mean? A red paper hat was pulled onto her head. There was laughter. “Go in there,” the female guard went on. “He’s sitting in a chair with a blindfold on. Go over to him. Sing ‘Happy Birthday’. Take the blindfold off him. Dance for him. Make him feel good. He’s 30. Make him happy. Do that and you can have a drink and some cake. Fuck it up and we’ll work out how you can entertain him.”


Fucking hell. Was she meant to give him a lap-dance? “Do you understand?”


“Yes,” she said, her throat dry.


“Look sexy,” one of them said, and a hand groped her ass.


“Are you ready?”


The door opened and she was pushed in. It stank of stale beer and cigarette smoke. There were several dozen guards there, men and women. She could feel sticky linoleum beneath her feet. She saw a guard, blindfolded on a chair straight in fort of her, perhaps seven or eight yards away. She hesitated but the toe of a boot urged her on. There were cheers and wolf-whistles as she advanced, laughing faces everywhere. She’d never felt so naked. But she could do this. In fact the only way to get through this was to act up to it. She tossed her hair and set her mind to it. She wasn’t sexually inexperienced. She knew what men liked.


She strode over to him, trying to ignore the cat-calls and whistles. She placed her foot on his crotch and gently pushed, feeling him stiffen instantly. There were cheers as she straddled him and stroked his face. She pushed her breasts against him, then stood, stroking his groin again with her foot and moving behind him. Breathily, doing her best impression of Marilyn Monroe, she began to sing. She pushed her breasts into his back and began to unbutton his shirt. She reached inside and felt his soft pectoral. “Happy birrrthhhday, Private Puriiii…” she drew her nails over his nipple and felt him shudder with pleasure. She untied his blindfold and moved in front of him. “Happy birthday…” She pulled his face into her breasts. “To… yououououo.”


They applauded. She felt a flush of shame, then kissed him firmly on the mouth, tasting garlic on his breath. What should she do now? She stood, tossed her hair back and walked towards the door. Her way was barred by a female soldier. “Whore!” she said.


Agarwal had barely been able to contain himself. He didn’t know that Puri had. That was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. But Kirin was jealous or something and Donohue was being dragged out of the building. He hurried after the golden skin and after Kirin. There were four of the women guards, Kirin foremost among them, berating Donohue, calling her a slut, slapping her and kicking her, and there was a group of male guards following excitedly. The cold hit him as they stepped outside. What must it be like to be naked in that? She stumbled and fell and they were on her, Kirin almost dragging her by her hair. Kirin had a bitchy side, they all knew that, but he couldn’t work out what had enraged her. There were more guards joining them all the time, having pulled on coats for the icy weather. Where were they going? Not to the punishment cells. Donohue was shrieking. As they hurried her gazed at her flailing legs, those peachy buttocks. He wanted her to dance for him.


The showers. Megan suddenly understood where they were going. Her feet scrabbled for purchase as they pulled her by the arms, the hair. It was bitterly cold. They got her through the door and hauled her through the changing area then threw her down on the tiles. She slid forwards, the floor icy against her skin. She felt a pain in her knee where it had slammed into the tiles, swelling, getting worse and worse. Hands were on her, pulling her up, turning her round, pushing her back against the wall. There were shouts, a kick to her thigh, and then her hands were being cuffed together above her head, the chain looped behind a pipe so she squatted awkwardly. They backed off and she looked at them, a couple of dozen guards in a semi-circle surrounding her. She pushed her knees together, trying to regain some dignity, but she was naked and bound and she knew what was coming.


Agarwal stared at her breasts, wanted to press his head between them. Her skin was unbelievably smooth, gloriously lickable even in the cold.


“You are filthy,” Kirin screamed at her. “A filthy, disgusting whore.”


She turned on the shower. Megan shrieked as the water struck her. The force was much greater than usual, presumably because only one head was activated rather than the 20 that were usually turned on. The jets hammered down on her. She twisted, got her head out of the way, but the water strummed on her chest. She squirmed desperately. It was ferociously, bitterly cold. She could feel her heart thumping. Her head ached. Her body came out in goosebumps. And all she could see, though the pounding water, was a mass of mocking faces above their khaki uniforms.


Her skin had gone from golden to pink to a sickly purple. Her nipples were rigid. She’d stopped fighting and just hung, legs apart, the crinkle amid the tawny hair clearly visible. Agarwal was enjoying this almost as much as seeing her dance, although there was a part of him felt sorry for her. It wasn’t her fault Kirin was in love with Puri. He hadn’t realised himself till she’d reacted like this.


Kirin pushed past him, her plaited hair bouncing. She held a broom that she must have gone to collect from the supply hut. She jabbed it at Donohue and began to scrub, the hard bristles scouring her soft flesh. Donohue screamed as it scraped her icy skin, her belly, her ribs, her chest and then, inevitably, her breasts and her cunt, Kirin all the while hurling abuse at her.


How long had it gone on for? She had no idea. Megan just knew pain. A minute? Two? Five? Eventually it was over and they turned the water off. They unfastened her hands and slung her forwards so she sprawled, shivering, on the tiles between their feet. They pulled her up, by her arms and her hair so she stood, hunched and trembling, her breathing coming in gulps, arms hugging herself to try to generate some warmth. A hand grabbed her hair and twisted so she was forced to look into the face of the female guard who’d caused all this.


“You’re a filthy little whore,” she said. “What are you?”


Megan bit her lip. “I’m a filthy little whore,” she said, snot running from her nose. There was no point in defiance.


“Are you going to try to seduce a guard again?”


“No, ma’am,” she said. The end of the broom handle suddenly jabbed between her legs. “No!” she shrieked. Not again.


“If you do,” said Kirin, “we ram this inside you and give you such a good time you’ll never feel like sex again. Do I make myself clear?”


“Yes, ma’am.” It was amazing, Agarwal thought, how she’d gone from such confidence and, well, sexiness in the mess room, to this snivelling figure, dripping and shaking, skin red and scratched in places where the broom had broken the skin.


They hustled her, shivering desperately, back to the punishment cell and threw her in, still naked. A few guards drifted off, but Agarwal stayed, staring down at her nakedness as she curled up on the concrete. Eventually someone dropped her clothes down on top of her and then, as an act of mercy, they tossed her a blanket. But it was still going to be a very uncomfortable night.
 
Uppal couldn’t believe how well this had gone. He had the list of names. Thanks to McCormack, he had the Rainbow Group in his hand. He had Harris primed to spy on Stafford – and that was the big thing he didn’t understand. What was Stafford’s role in this? How did she fit in? Was she not part of the Rainbow Group? Was she above it, somehow, directing them? Or not connected at all? The fear nagged at him that McCormack had been telling the truth, that people had just named her because they were told to. Anyway, he had five years to break her if need be.


He’d put out arrest warrants for the other five names: David Berg, Lucie Clement, Christopher Ellison, Emma Swann, Marco van der Meyde. He’d searched for them in the files and on the internet. He had pictures. If they were still in the country they were in big trouble. McCormack had claimed not to have heard of any of them and he was inclined to believe her, although he probably would work her over again just to be sure. He’d managed to get Mistry to suspend her nights in the punishment cell. She must be grateful to him.


His next job, though, was to go through the files on those five, to cross-reference, to work out time-lines, to work out who was where when. It would take time. He considered calling Patel for help. He would be able to do research at the university, find out what connections they had there.


Or at least, that should be his next job, except he’d been called back to the capital to discuss his findings. He wondered if he should let Narayan loose on Stafford, soften her up for a few days before he returned but he was worried he’d go too far. His method, after all, had worked: a little persuasion and they were working for him.


*

Rebecca didn’t know why she’d woken. The siren hadn’t gone off. It was still dark and nobody was stirring in the hut. She shuffled on her mat, trying to find a more comfortable position. Her shoulders still ached from being strung up and her feet were in constant pain from the footreat but a sense of normality had fallen over the camp. For a start all four of them were together in the hut, which offered some sense of security after what had happened to Megan. She’d heard what the other prisoners said had happened. Jesus, it didn’t bear thinking about: raped with a Coke bottle. And then something had happened on her second night in the punishment cell but she’d say only that they’d stripped her and given her a cold shower.


And Beth had returned from the Secpol centre the day after her, looking tired and haunted but strong enough to work despite the electric shocks she said she’d taken. Rebecca moaned softly and turned over, still stiff and sore. Through half-closed eyes she saw a pair of boots and somehow she knew. She stifled a gasp and pulled back, then slowly looked up. It couldn’t be. But it was.


“Hello, Rebecca,” said his voice. “Is this how you greet an old friend?”


Rao. Fuck. What the fuck was he doing here?


“Get up,” he said.


She struggled to her feet. She dared not resist. Thoughts of him beating her, humiliating her, raping her in the capital flickered in her mind. She was aware of others waking around her. She saw his bulk, his grinning face and stood, head bowed before him. He took her hand and she followed him, heart thumping. He led her out of the hut. Where were they going? As soon as they were outside, in the cold, he stopped and blindfolded her. Then he took her hand again and led her behind the hut towards the guards’ barracks. What was it? Rape? Spanking?


It was warm in his room. It wasn’t much, just a bed, a wardrobe, a desk and a washbasin, but at least he had privacy. He locked the door behind him, then took her blindfold off. He hung his coat and his jacket on the back of the door. She blinked awkwardly, biting her lower lip. She was just as pretty as he remembered. He stroked her, first her face then her hair, so delicate so lovely. He sat on the end of his bed and began to unbutton her shirt.


“How have they treated you?” he asked.


She looked blankly at him and gave a slight shake of the head.


“Is it tough here?”


“Yes, sir,” she muttered, as he peeled back her shirt to reveal her slender torso, her breasts, just as soft and pert as he remembered them.


“Have they hurt you?”


“They’ve flogged me and tortured me.”


Her shirt fell to the ground. He let his hands fall to her breasts. “I can protect you,” he said. “If you’re well-behaved.”


He pushed his head between her breasts, feeling the soft pressure on his forehead, then pulled down her trousers. He pushed her away from him so she stepped away from her clothes and was naked. “Let me have a look at you,” he said. He took in the delicate form, her fear, her shame. He’d spent weeks dreaming of this as he’d negotiated a transfer from Patel’s unit. This was his reward.


“You’ve lost a little weight,” he said.


She gave a slight snort. “The food’s not great,” she said. What was he doing here? She stood with her hands loosely by her sides, resisting the urge to cover herself for she knew that would antagonise him. She couldn’t look him in the eye. She saw the shirt straining over his belly, his cock pushing at his trousers. Fuck.


“Don’t lose too much,” he said with a smile. “I don’t want a sick insect for a girlfriend.”


“I’m not your girlfriend,” she said, and regretted it immediately. Why had she said that? He was off the bed in an instant, and cuffed her hard round the back of the head. She stumbled and he grabbed her by the hair, shaking her violently. She shrieked, grasping at his hands. He threw her down. She sprawled on his rug, looking back desperately over her shoulder. He was taking his belt off.


“Please,” she said. “I’ll fuck you. I’ll suck you off. But I’m a prisoner. I can’t be your girlfriend.”


It was too late. He was furious. “Stand up,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm.


She obeyed. “Bend over.”


Fuck. There was nothing she could do. “You know the rules,” he said. “Twelve lashes and you count them.”


‘Thank you, sir,” she said, voice unsteady. Fuck.


Rao was going to teach the little bitch a lesson. You didn’t treat him like that. She would pay. He looked at the quivering naked form, the buttocks streaked and bruised. He doubled over his belt, snapping together the two halves, enjoying how she flinched. He hit her, hard. She gasped. “Thank you, sir. One.”


That was calmer than he’d expected. He walked past her, seeing the tremble of her legs as she held the position. There wasn’t really room in here. He lashed her backhanded. “Thank you, sir. Two.”


This wasn’t working. “On your knees,” he ordered and she obeyed. He blindfolded her, then put on his jacket and overcoat. He’d flog her in the showers. He hooked his belt around her neck. “You remember this, bitch?” he asked. She said nothing, but got down on all fours. He picked up her clothes, gave her a prod with his foot and led her out on the leash.


Blindfold, she followed him uncertainly. He kept pulling her, enjoying the sense of power. The bitch. He was going to make her life hell. He pulled her into the shower block by which time she was shivering. He took his coat off – he wanted a clean swing. He removed her blindfold and ordered he to take up the position.


Rebecca bent over, eyes closed. She grasped her ankles. Fuck, it was cold. Why hadn’t she just fucked him? He lashed her. She grunted. “Thank you, sir,” she coughed. “Three.” Was it three, or one again? He seemed happy enough, walking round her then hitting her again, on her thighs this time. The force almost knocked her off balance but she adjusted. The sting on her cold skin was horrible – although nothing like even the caning she’d taken in the camp. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “Four.”


He wasn’t getting through to her. The camp had toughened her up. He remembered her sobbing and bawling in the mess room in the capital. Now she was just reluctantly submitting. Five, six, seven, eight. At last a proper yelp of pain but she stayed down and thanked him. How could he make this worse?


The burn was getting worse. It was desperately cold. He waited for what seemed like an age before delivering the ninth and when it landed, slap across the middle of her buttocks, it was ferociously powerful. On the bruised flesh it was horribly painful, but she managed to stay in position. “Thank you, sir,” she said, her voice a weak croak. “Nine.” He backhanded her: ten. Nearly there.


What had happened to the bitch? Rao swept up, deliberately flicking between her legs. Most of the force was taken by her inner thigh but her squeal told him he’d hurt her. But she thanked him and called out the number. One more. Of course he could beat her again for something else but that would seem like defeat. He lashed hard across her lower buttocks. “Thank you sir,” she said defiantly. “Twelve.” Maybe it was just that the canings had been fresher the last time.


“Up,” he said.


She stood. He approached and gently cupped her left breast in his right hand. With the other, he smoothed a strand of hair away from her face. “You’ll soon be begging to be my girlfriend,” he said, and slapped her cheek. “Report to the governor tomorrow evening.”


He forced her to her knees and led her like a dog back to the hut, throwing her clothes in after her.
 
Another new twist, this story getting more interesting but even more complicated by each episode.
 
When would it stop? Mistry looked at Harris, at her serious face and sad eyes. He knew he’d flogged her once but now the new sergeant said she’d spat at him. She denied it, of course, but she would. She looked so pathetic snivelling in front of him but what could he do? He couldn’t have prisoner spitting at guards, trying to take advantage of somebody new, feeling their way into the job.


He pushed his glasses up his nose. “There’s a lot of prisoners here who’ve never been punished by me,” he said. “And now you’re here for the second time in less than two weeks.”


She looked down, didn’t say anything. She seemed terrified.


“I’m not going to have you spitting at guards,” he went on. She half-lifted her head as though to protest but then thought better of it.


“You’ll be flogged.” She swallowed but said nothing, “Grade two cane on your shoulders. Twelve lashes.”


He peered over his glasses. She seemed absurdly slender to be having beaten like that. “And if you’re before me again, it’ll be really serious.”

*

Rao stood with his arms folded. It was a chill damp morning. He still hadn’t got used to the changes in temperature in this place. Harris been called forward and now stood, trembling on the platform. He would do this to her again and again until she wanted him.


Desai, the stern fat female sergeant, announced the sentence. Twelve lashes for gross insubordination. He didn’t know what a grade two cane was. He suspected it wasn’t going to be as severe as the caning he’d watched her take in the capital. And they were using women to flog her. Three days a week he would have control of the beatings and when he did, he would have men carry them out. Still, these looked like tough women.


The order came for her to strip. He’d seen her naked for far longer than he’d seen her with clothes on, of course, but that didn’t lessen his enjoyment as, with a great weariness, she undressed. When she was naked, the guards spun her round and pushed her resisting body towards the frame. Rao had never seen anyone beaten on their back before. Her wrists and ankles were cuffed, a strap passed over her waist. She seemed entirely passive and then they stretched her out, which seemed only to emphasise how small she was. There was a pinkness to her buttocks where he’d beaten them, although it was the purples and greens for her previous canings that were more noticeable.


She raised her head slightly and he saw terror even in the shape of her body. From where he stood, he couldn’t see her eyes but he knew what they looked like. His cock was rigid at the sight of her. His eyes fixed on the side of her right breast, pushed away from her body slightly by the angle forced on her by the crossbar. The two guards charged with flogging her approached, each flexing their canes. They were perhaps four feet long, pale and threatening. They had a quick discussion, about who was going first, he reasoned, and then the left-hander touched her cane to Rebecca’s back. She flinched at the touch and there was some laughter. A lot of the prisoners clearly were quite happy to see her beaten.


There was a blur and whoosh, a dull thwack and an anguished gasp. Her breasts jumped, her head shot back and her mouth opened wide, her little teeth bared. “One,” called Desai and Rao was transported back to watching her caning in the prison yard in the capital.


Mistry regarded floggings as necessary evils. It was like butchery. He wanted the animal on his plate but didn’t much like to think about how it had got there. There was a need for discipline in his camp but the punishments needed to achieve that tuned his stomach. But he wanted to know what made this girl such a particular offender. He checked his thought: she was not a girl. She was a woman and a criminal: to think of her as a girl, however young and slight she seemed, was to misrepresent the threat she presented.


From the window of his office he looked over the yard, over the heads of the prisoners, to the punishment platform where Harris was being flogged. She’d looked terrified as she’d stripped, exhausted and humiliated. It made no sense to him. Why was she not better behaved? He watched Malhotra and Sai lashing her, saw how hard they struck, saw how her slender body twitched and bucked under the assault. He didn’t like that he’d had to order them to do that to such a pretty young thing, but what choice had he had? She’d made him do it. She was the one who’d spat at a sergeant. And if she was brought before him again he’d have to order a really severe punishment. Not that 12 strokes with a grade two cane wasn’t serious. He probably should have given the order for two days in the infirmary not just one. But that was his soft heart speaking. Just because she was young and pretty he was thinking of mercy when there was something wicked about her.


Bobby was the only other one of them to have been flogged in the camp. She felt she knew what it was like. But she was well aware that the grade two cane was a far more fearsome instrument than the grade two strap she had taken. It was more fearsome than the cane they’d used on her at the school, and probably worse even than the knotted whip she’d taken in the police station. Poor Rebecca. The lashes were brutal, the welts the canes left vicious, marking her tiny back with evil purple stripes. By the fourth lash she was screaming unrestrainedly, twisting hopelessly in her bonds, looking over her shoulder again and again at the guards flogging her. But there was no mercy, of course. Bobby turned away, but the noise was almost as bad, the canes whooshing through the air, the thud on cold skin, the shout of pain, the laughter and cheers from other prisoners. Why did Chaudry’s mob hate them so much?


Rebecca wanted to die. The seventh stroke smashed into her lower back. Her head flicked up. She saw her arms stretched above, the stark frame, the icy blue of the sky. How could she take five more? How? She turned, looking over her left shoulder. Face blank, the guard took two paces and with clear effort lashed her. It hit high on her shoulders, a terrible pain. She shuddered, shaking with the cold and the agony, and began to retch. They just kept lashing her. It wasn’t drawn out like the punishment back in the capital. There wasn’t that awful wait between the lashes, just pain added to pain.


There was a doctor standing on the platform, arms folded. Rao was troubled by him. There was a self-satisfaction about him he didn’t like. And he saw a glance he’d shot her, lascivious and complacent. Were they fucking? Was that why she’d rejected him? Was she fucking the doctor? She was suffering now, shaking and screaming, panicking and thrashing as the tenth blow landed. He admired the skill of the floggers: they hadn’t drawn blood but had left a series of parallel stripes on that slender back. The eleventh was delivered just below the middle of her back. Her whole body jolted and she howled again, her head jerking back and then falling forward. He was consumed by his desire for her. He wanted her on her knees in front of him, her little tongue working on his cock as he played his hands on the soft bruised skin of her back. She shrieked again as the final lash was delivered.


She was left quivering, bawling, tears rolling down her face clearly in a state of shock. He watched as they loosened her bonds and the doctor, with a smile he hated, gave her a cursory check before pointing to the infirmary. Her legs seemed barely to function as the guards dragged her away.


Mistry wondered if there was any other way of maintaining discipline.
 
Fine whip-writing! It's not easy to get it right, just enough detail for us to feel the pain as the strokes blend into one stream of agony.
 
Two days had passed. It was Wednesday, Rao’s first night on duty. He was irritated by how much he had to do, supervising them washing and roll call, paperwork, checking supplies, making sure the dogs had been fed and that the guards manning the outer fence were alert. It was almost three hours before he got to do what he wanted to do and walk through the huts, looking for pretty girls. Rebecca had been the main reason he’d got his uncle to swing him this job, of course, but what man wouldn’t take advantage in the circumstances?


He paced up and down, occasionally prodding one that took his fancy to wake them and get a better look. He left Rebecca’s hut till last, but she wasn’t there, still in the infirmary. He stood by her empty space, looking at the other three white girls. Should he have some fun with one of them? He looked at Beth and thought of taking his belt to her. She was bigger than Rebecca, taller, stronger, larger tits, but he might enjoy that. But he decided to wait. He knew Mistry hadn’t been impressed by his demand that Rebecca be beaten. It was probably best to be a little cautious.

*

On the Friday night, Rao was presented with his opportunity. It was almost too perfect. It was almost 1.30 and he was sorting out a change in the rota because Reddy needed time off to visit his mother. There’d been a knock on the door. And two soldiers had dragged Rebecca in. At first held feared they were mocking him but it turned out they’d caught her wrestling with another prisoner over a blanket.


“Well?” he said, smirking at her.


“It was my blanket, sir,” Rebecca said, resentfully. “She stole it.”


He turned to the guards. “Her blanket was on her mat,” one said.


“They put it there to get me into trouble,” Rebecca blurted. She was almost crying.


“That doesn’t sound very likely,” Rao said with great relish. “Now, what should we do with you?”


She bit her lower lip and looked away. “I think maybe you’d better do punishment detail tomorrow,” he said. “I’m supervising the afternoon so you’d better look sharp.”


His first day overseeing punishment detail was going to be fun.

*

Rebecca was horribly weak. Her back was still on fire and she felt nauseous when she ate. The doctor had raped her three times although she’d been barely conscious on the first occasion. But the worst thing as she set to work digging was the pain in her feet. The soles were still scratched and scarred from standing on the spikes. They hadn’t really recovered from the beatings she’d taken when they’d tortured her back in the capital. Trying to push on the shovel was hell.


It was dreadfully hot and humid. She was drenched within minutes, blinded by sweat. It was hopeless. She couldn’t do this. She pushed herself on, grateful that in the morning at least the sergeant supervising punishment detail was a relatively reasonable woman in his fifties.


She survived but by the time they walked back for lunch, she was exhausted, her feet bleeding. She felt dizzy and Megan had to help her. Water and lunch helped but as they were taking their plates and bowls to be washed up, the sergeant approached. It was the grey-haired one, the one who’d made her strip naked on punishment detail, the one who’d got her the first caning here. There was something in his stride that scared her. He was angry about something. As he walked past her she felt a sense of relief, but he turned on Megan. “Punishment detail this afternoon,” he snapped at her. Megan look baffled. “You know why,” he said, but Rebecca was sure Megan didn’t. At least she’d have support for the afternoon with Rao.
 
Two of them. All the better. Rao watched intently as Rebecca and Megan worked. Rebecca looked exhausted already, shirt stained with salt and grime and sweat. Megan was taller, rounder, breasts pushing at her shirt. She was blonde and beautiful and he would enjoy watching her, but there was something in Rebecca’s fragility that appealed to him.


There were guards shouting at the both almost constantly, abusing them, taunting them. He let them tire themselves. Whatever fun he had, he had to make sure they did some digging. Just after three hours in he made his move. “Harris,” he said, and beckoned. She staggered over. Her face was red, her clothes wet. “Take your shirt off,” he said. Hands trembling with exhaustion, she obeyed. He smiled as he watched her set to work again, smooth skin exposed, back streaked with welts, gentle breasts quivering in the sun. She seemed almost too exhausted to express emotion.


He saw Megan shoot him a look of disgust. Perhaps his relish had been too great. Still, he had the power. “You can take your shirt off as well,” he said. He saw the smirks on the faces of the two guards. He thought for a moment she might refuse, but she slowly stripped. Her skin was smooth and golden, her breasts full and round. One of the guards gave her a shove. “Come on, bottle-fucker,” he said. What was that about? Rao stood and watched the two pairs of breasts. He was in heaven. Quarter of an hour later, he made Megan strip naked. It was good to exercise his power, good to teach them who was in control.

*

Bobby pushed a wet tendril of hair from her brow. It had been a stifling, humid day and she was exhausted. The sun was setting and the temperature beginning to drop as they trudged back to the camp. She picked her damp shirt away from her skin. This was hideous. She didn’t know how she could keep going. Rebecca had been like a zombie since they’d flogged her again and Megan had retreated into herself, all the more so since Rao had made her do punishment detail naked the previous day.


She walked with her head down. There was suddenly a flurry of shouting. She looked up. She saw Beth rushing forward and, beyond her, scrabbling in the dust, Megan and Chaudry. Soldiers piled in and pulled them apart, dragging them to their feet. Megan was bleeding from her nose but Chaudry’s shirt was torn. “She attacked me,” Chaudry shouted. “She’s crazy, mad. She’s dangerous.”


The sergeant, a cold woman in her fifties with her hair pulled back in a tight bun. approached. The guards still held Chaudry and Megan. “What happened?” she said to one of them. “I’m not certain, ma’am,” he replied. “I just saw this one,” – he pointed at Megan – “throw herself at the other one.”


Bobby’s heart sank. She could imagine all too easily what had happened, Chaudry tormenting Megan who’d finally snapped. There was no way she’d avoid a flogging. Other prisoners joined in, denouncing Megan. The sergeant sighed. “Cuff her wrists,” she said to the guards. “Put her in the punishment cell till the governor’s ready to see her.”

*

Wrists shackled behind her, Megan stood before the governor’s desk. How could she tell him why she’d attacked Chaudry? How could she begin to explain her pent-up rage? The thought of the bottle being shoved inside her shamed her on a level she couldn’t begin to express and she was disgusted now by the way she’d danced for Puri. There were easy buttons for Chaudry to press and she’d pushed them expertly. She’d started by suggesting she would introduce Rebecca to the bottle, picking on their weakest link. When Megan had tried to defend her, she’d asked if she was jealous. And then Chaudry had suggested that if she kept showing her body off to guards the bottle was going to move on. “If I had a body like yours,” Chaudry said, “I’d be a whore as well.” At that, the red mist had come down. Because she was right: with Puri she had acted like a whore. She had tried to seduce him. She thought of rubbing her naked breasts against him and was appalled. And of course it had only made the situation worse.<


The governor was furious. “What is wrong with you?” he said, his voice radiating anger. He slapped the desk. “You’re lazy. You spit at guards. You fight with other prisoners.”


By you, she realised, he meant the four white prisoners. There was a trickle of blood running from Megan’s nose but she didn’t point it out. “I have no option,” he went on. “No option. You must be severely punished.”


She’d expected that. She braced herself. “You’re so unruly you have to be brought to me in chains. Well, no more. No more. From now on there will be a zero tolerance approach. No giving you the benefit of the doubt.”


He took a breath. “Flogging,” he said. “Tonight, the punishment cell, naked. Then in the morning, grade two cane on your buttocks. Twenty-four strokes. Then three hours on the frame. You will learn discipline.”
 
Agarwal hadn’t quite been able to believe the sentence when they’d heard it. There were a dozen of them now by the punishment cells watching as Donohue stripped. He couldn’t remember Mistry ever ordering a prisoner to be naked. It wasn’t the coldest night but it would still be deeply unpleasant for her. And then 24 strokes. Nobody got that with a cane. She took off her shirt with obvious humiliation. Her lower lip was trembling and he could see tears glinting in her eyes. The contrast to her sexy dance for Puri was astonishing. Her tits were just as amazing as he remembered them. She loosed her trousers and stepped out of them, her skin still lovely and creamy. But this time there was shame. She covered herself as they stared at her before Kirin – who else? – took charge.


She held a pair of handcuffs. “This one’s dangerous,” she said, shoving her hard on the chest. Donohue staggered backwards into a couple of guards. They grabbed her, twisting her arms behind her and turning her so Kirin could shackle her hands behind her. Agarwal stared at the firm round buttocks and thought of the damage they’d sustain the following day. They pushed her around, laughing at her. She fell to her knees and Agarwal was one of those who grabbed her, pulling her to her feet. As he took her right arm with his left hand, his right hand somehow landed on her right breast. He felt its soft firmness, the nipple like rubber in the cold and he realised what power they had. This beautiful woman was entirely in their grasp. They could do what they wanted to her.


Kirin had further plans. She took a dark cloth from her pocket, folded it in three and tied it over Donohue’s eyes. Blindfolded she was even more helpless. They began pushing her between them, laughing as she staggered. Somebody made the noise of a cane and there was more laughter. Kirin slapped her hard on the buttocks. “It’ll be a million times worse than that,” she said, then spat in her face. They all spat, Agarwal deliberately directing his onto her breasts, then, finally, they pulled her to the cell.


Kirin had one more modification. A couple of the cells had hooks fixed almost at ground level. They’d shoved her in, enjoying her discomfort stepping blindfolded into the hole and then they’d yanked her wrists up and fastened the cuff over the hook, meaning she was bent awkwardly forward, strain on her shoulders. Then they’d closed the grating, pressing her head down between her knees and with more spittle had left her to the night.

*

Megan had never felt worse. Not when they’d beaten her in the capital, not when they’d flogged her with hosepipes, not even when she’d licked Amitab out with a bottle up her cunt. She was desperately cold, her shoulders were in agony and all she could think about was the caning they were about to give her. She understood there was no respite. A lot of the prisoners hated her and most of those who didn’t were too scared of the ones who did to do anything other than look on. A lot of them were just glad it wasn’t them being abused. And of course the guards were only too glad to abuse her. She understood she was an attractive woman. She understood she had a good body. She understood the history of empire. She understood why humiliating and hurting a beautiful white woman might be fun for them. And she hadn’t even been tortured yet, although she had no doubt that would come. There was no escape. For the next 42 weeks it was pain and abuse. There was nothing she could do about it.


At least she only had 42 weeks left. Rebecca and Beth had another year after that. Bobby three years after that. Rebecca, she knew, used a small stone to mark each day on the floor beneath her mat. She’d drawn 104 boxes for each week she’d be there and in each one she counted up to seven. 728 days of abuse.


She shifted to try to relieve the pain in her back and shoulders. Her buttocks only just touched the ground but she felt grit and dirt against her bare flesh. It was so cold. She tried to pull her thighs as close as she could to her chest for warmth but that just increased the strain on her arms. She didn’t know how she’d take the flogging. She’d seen what the grade two cane had done to Rebecca’s back and she was getting double that. And then three hours on the frame. And then the infirmary where, she had no doubt from what Rebecca had said, she’d be raped. Well, better a rape from a doctor in a warm bed than with a bottle on a cold concrete floor.


She heard voices. There was more spittle, cold on her back and shoulders, laughter, guards making the noise of a cane. She wept into the blindfold.

*

Mistry wondered if he’d been too harsh. He pulled his overcoat tighter around him. The girl looked devastated as she stood on the platform, shivering, head down and shoulders hunched. The guards turned her and led her to the frame. She didn’t resist, just shuffled, stiff and cold. They bent her over the bar, hips against the blanket, fastened her ankles to the base and her wrists to the back support. The two floggers took their positions either side of her. A sense of silent expectation fell over the foggy yard.


Agarwal had got himself in a perfect position. He could see her face, which bore a mixture of tired resignation and fear, and he could see how her breasts hung down, beautifully round and tipped with the firm cones of her frigid nipples. She was going to suffer horribly. He had no great desire to see her lovely buttocks ruined but he wanted to see her tits jumping and the pain on her face.


Rebecca knew what it was to be naked up there. She knew what it was to be bent over awaiting agony in front of a crowd. She knew what the grade two cane was. She shuffled her feet on the cold earth. She’d decided not to look. She felt a hand laid gently on her shoulder and turned to see Beth’s concerned face. She shrugged. “It’s not me up there,” she said, but she was grateful for the sympathy. Bobby was staring grim-faced at the platform. Rebecca heard the cane land, head Megan’s gasp, heard the low appreciation of the crowd, heard the announcement of “one” and felt utterly defeated.


Megan stared straight ahead, at the fence and the Secpol building behind it. She as shocked by how painful it was. This was far worse than the hosepipe, far worse than fists. The second stroke landed. Her hips ground into the rough blanket. She grunted with pain. This was fucking awful. The sense of helplessness, her immobility, made it worse. The third landed. She clenched her teeth, hearing the hiss of anguish leave her mouth. An officer in Secpol uniform stood outside the building, smoking, a wry grin on his face.


Narayan felt his cock rising. Those tits were amazing. He hoped Uppal would let him loose on her. At each stroke she jerked and her tits bounced, beautiful firm, round tits. She seemed tough as well. All the better. He liked a challenge. Well, he liked them sobbing and begging as well. He wasn’t bothered. But he knew he wanted her, with her smooth golden skin, and he wanted to break somebody who could take five, six blows like that without crying out.


Mistry was shocked. Shocked by how hard they beat her and shocked by how well she stood up to it. Only after nine strokes did she cry out and by then her buttocks were a deep red. By then she was clearly suffering terribly, twisting and writhing as the lashes landed on flesh that was already bruised. He wondered if he should stop it but he knew this had to be an exemplary punishment, that everybody had to understand that fighting was not to be tolerated. Why had she made him do this to her?


The cane smacked into the lower part of her buttocks, clipping the bottom of the mark left by a previous stroke. Krishnamurthy understood how that magnified the pain. Her face twisted in anguish as she was thrown forward by the force of the blow, but she managed to emit no more than a grunt, clenching her teeth, eyes bulging. Her breasts rippled. He would enjoy them over the next couple of days.


How many more? How many more? Megan screwed up her face. She was shaking, the effort of not screaming, of retaining control, immense. She’d screamed once but had otherwise kept it in even as her thighs betrayed her. Another blow landed. She felt nauseous. She spat loose saliva. She focused on her breathing and listened for the count. “Twelve.” Fuck! She was only halfway and she was in more pain than she’d believed possible. This was inhuman.


The thirteenth landed. “Grrrrraaaaaaahhh!” Despite the cold, sweat had formed on her brow. Her heart was thumping. She willed herself to stay strong. She heard the dreaded whoop of the next lash, braced herself and heard herself roar. She tipped her head back but in the white sky there was no comfort.


Bobby knew this pain. Her caning had been with a lighter rod but she knew what it was to be in agony waiting more agony. Megan was tough. Tougher than any of the others of them, anyway. She knew she’d been bawling by that stage, thrashing around hopelessly. Megan was suffering, that was clear, but she was maintaining some level of self-control. Another lash landed. She heard the strike and Megan’s gasp but then she gave a slight toss of the head and set herself again. The rhythm was awful: lash, shout, number, silence. She could hear sobs near her: Rebecca. Beth sympathetically took her hand. She felt a flash of irritation. Rebecca wasn’t the only one who was suffering. She wasn’t the only one who’d been beaten. And Rebecca wasn’t serving five years.


What a job, where watching this could be counted as work! Agarwal knew he should feel some sympathy for her but he was turned on. He knew she’d fallen in Chaudry’s trap, that the punishment was ridiculous, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the sight of her golden body trembling and bouncing on the frame. He thought back to her gyrations for Puri. He wanted that. But for now, this would do. Another blow landed, a shudder went through her and she gave a grunt that was almost sexual as she hips pounded the bar and torso bounced up, sending her tits wobbling and shimmering. “Eighteen,” came the count.


He scanned the prisoners for Chaudry. There she was, arms folded, surrounded by her acolytes, a smirk on her face. What a victory this was for her. She was almost licking her lips watching Donohue take the flogging.


Desai was much happier with this beating. She’d had Malhotra practise after the ham-fisted caning of Harris and she was much better. More rhythm in the stroke, good power and accuracy. She’d have liked Donohue to be in more distress, but she was tough. The flogging itself was being administered well enough. She knew Rao wanted them to use men to administer the punishments but that was never the way it had been done, and she suspected Rao just liked the idea that he could cane girls. She had no sympathy for these prisoners but there was something wrong about the way he looked at them, Harris in particular. That was one of the problems with male guards in a women’s camp: they started thinking with their penises.


Krishnamurthy relaxed. He had done research into floggings and he knew the theory. Unless the cane were heavy or significant amounts of blood was being drawn, these lashes didn’t really do much more damage. For the first eight or ten the pain slowly grew, and striking bruised flesh hurt more than fresh skin, but once it was bruised it was bruised. The challenge at that stage was mental, the sense of pain going on and on. Unless the skin began to split it would take a lot more blows before the muscle was seriously damaged. After a dozen he could be confident she wasn’t going to go into shock. The question was whether she could keep enduring the pain. She was suffering, that much was clear but she was holding it together pretty well. He watched another blow land, saw her groin thrust into the blanket and then the shoulders arch back. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on her tits.


“Twenty-two,” Megan heard. Two more. She could do this. She was panting, desperately trying to get air into her lungs, and her thighs were shaking but she could take two more. The twenty-third landed with its familiar whump and she felt the pain well, felt her body go taut. She saw the posts to which her arms were bound and the sky beyond and she felt agony wash over her again and she heard her own grunt and a couple of breaths that sounded like whimpers and then she fell calm again, her breath rasping. She waited. The last one. She could do this. She could survive it. The lash was low, whipping the top of her thighs rather that the buttocks themselves. The pain was dreadful but there was also the sense that it was over. She had survived. She spat a globule of stringy saliva from her mouth and breathed deeply. Her buttocks still burned. And now the next stage.
 
She’d been hanged by her wrists before and that had been worse. That’s what Megan told herself. And it was true. It had been longer than for three hours and it had been accompanied with a beating. And at least here she could alternate, taking the strain on her calves and then on her arms. But back then she’d been fit. She hadn’t spent weeks doing hard labour with poor food and not enough sleep. She was hurting. She closed her eyes and let her head fall forward, encouraging her brain to drift away, to let the time pass.


The next she knew was a sharp pain in her ass. She snapped alert and saw Chaudry’s grinning face in front of her. She reached round and slapped her again. “Bottle-fucker!” she said with a giggle then spat in Megan’s face. Megan stared at her. There was nothing she could do. Her buttocks had numbed slightly but the pain her been reawoken. Chaudry drew her nails over the wounds, clearly relishing the pain she was causing. “Amitab wants you,” she said. “Hurry up and get better.” She spat on her again and left to join her work detail.


Megan raised her head. She had to think. She couldn’t endure this. Her arms and shoulders ached. Her calves ached. Her buttocks throbbed. There had to be a way to get out. She looked around the camp: the fences, the watch-towers, the guards, the dogs. It was hopeless. Then she saw the train track. That must be how supplies were delivered. But when? Was there any way she could hide herself on the train? Or perhaps she could follow the line? That at least would be a way of not getting lost in the desert.


The doctor approached. The little shit. “I’ll just check your heart,” he said with a leer. Of course it involved a lot of playing with her tits. Fuck him. Something in her manner must have irritated him. He stepped back a little and smiled at her. “Don’t be like that,” he said. He reached out and stroked her cheek. “We’ll have some fun tonight.”


She glared at him. “You don’t get medication for free,” he said. “You have to give me something in return.”


He ran his finger down her nose, blew her a kiss and walked away.


Fuck him. She would take another flogging rather than fuck him.


The sun was up by then and for a while the warmth was pleasant. Her whole body was in pain. She alternated taking her weight on her calves then her arms, trying to count to 30 before switching. Her buttocks throbbed dully. Another guard, one she recognised from the night she’d been made to dance in the mess room, approached her. For a while he just stood looking at her, then he began caressing her, running his hands down her ribs to her waist, drawing his fingers over her belly. He gave a slight groan and then pressed his head between her breasts. She swallowed. It was no great revelation men wanted to fuck her but this obsessiveness surprised her. She supposed there weren’t many accessible women around. The guard took her right nipple into his mouth and then seemingly thought better of it, giving her a rough shove and walking away quickly.


She felt disgusted. Was that all she was? A sex object? And tonight, she knew, she’d be fucked by the doctor. But as she stood there she realised something quite profound. Not only was there no way of avoiding fucking him, but fucking him was an opportunity. She had at least two days in there, maybe more. She could give him the best time he’d ever had. It might have worked with Puri if that woman guard hadn’t got jealous. She could make it work here. She didn’t know what the endgame was but she knew this was the only chance she had. There was nothing else. She couldn’t fight her way out. No help was coming. She couldn’t survive another eleven months. But she could gain an ally and see where that took her. She had to be careful. She couldn’t make it too obvious. But she could seduce him. She could make him want her. She just had to get in the right frame of mind, had to put her shame behind her and get under his skin.

*

Uppal was frustrated. Just as he’d been getting somewhere, called to the capital for more fucking meetings. Didn’t they understand the importance of rhythm? He’d cracked the cypher. He had the names of the Rainbow Group. He had arrest warrants out for them. He had Harris terrified into being a spy. He’d been about to start on Stafford, to find out her connection to the plot. And then a call to the Ministry to discuss what held found, to talk about the future direction if his investigation. Fucking politicians, always desperate to stick their oar in, to claim credit where none was deserved. Didn’t they understand this was him? He’d broken this? What if McCormack spoke to the others? What if the trail was contaminated? What if Harris admitted she was spying?


All the way down on the train he’d been thinking. Should he isolate Stafford? He had no idea how long this would take. Maybe he should get Narayan to start on her. But he knew this needed subtlety. He knew it needed his touch. It was entirely possible that Narayan would beat her into a coma. Or at least hurt her so badly she started lying just to stop it. And he was a moron. He never read the files.


He loved his job, but there were times when he hated the people he had to work with.

*

Rebecca lay sleepless on her mat. Every time she closed her eyes the image of Megan being thrashed came into her head. And when she thought of that she thought of her own caning, the shame, the agony, the sense of helplessness. Not the beatings she’d taken here, bad as they were, but of the flogging back in the capital when the crowd hadn’t been a group of prisoners who had no choice but of people who’d actively sought to be there.


Which had been worse, her caning or Megan’s? How did you quantify such things? Megan had taken double the lashes but the cane had been lighter. Megan had spent a night shivering naked in a punishment cell and had then been hung on the frame for three hours. How did you calculate? All she knew was that Megan had taken her flogging better, that she hadn’t been screaming and bawling and begging for mercy.


She wished Megan was here now. Megan was tough. Things didn’t seem quite so bad when she was there. She knew what Chaudry and her mob had done to her. What if that had been her? She couldn’t do that. She couldn’t take it. She lifted her mat and looked at the scratches she’d made on the floor. 104 boxes: ten of them now were filled with seven marks and there were two in the seventh. So long still to go. So long.


She heard the door open and dropped the mat, lying still to feign sleep. It was never a good idea to let them see you were awake. She heard boots, perhaps three or four pairs, the tread heavy. These were men. They moved purposefully. This wasn’t the guards looking for a victim to have some fun with. They were getting closer. She knew before they got there they were coming for her. A kick to the back of her calf confirmed it. “Up!” a voice shouted and she opened her eyes to see four men in Secpol uniforms, one carrying cuffs and another a hood.
 
Megan woke as the door closed. She looked up and saw him, the doctor. He carefully locked the door and smiled. “Time for you to pay your bill,” he said and approached with lascivious grin.


She pushed herself up from the mattress. “Doctor,” she said, breathily, “I can’t fuck you now. My ass is too sore. We can do that in a day or two.” He began to speak but she cut him off. “But I’ll give you the best blow-job you ever had,” she said.


He looked at her with interest. Why not? He could always fuck her if he wasn’t satisfied. Awkwardly she clambered off the bed, clearly still in a lot of pain. She grabbed his tie and pulled him close, kissing his lips gently. She had lovely, full lips and neat white teeth. She backed off and smiled at him then smoothed her fingers through his hair, pulling him close again and kissing him hard. She began to unbutton his shirt.


“You first,” he said. “Let me see you naked.”


She backed away, running her finger down from his hairy chest to just brush over his cock, semi-erect in his trousers, before removing her clothes. She did it without fuss – let him know that if he wanted sexiness it had to be on her terms – gave her hair a slight toss and returned to undressing him. The pain in her buttocks, the sense her legs might give way, was constant, but it was also a reminder why she was doing this. It kept her in character. He was not fat exactly but pudgy, his chest a mass of thick curls. There was something almost cuddly about him. She took his glasses off and kissed him again, scratching his back with her nails, teasing him with her breasts, slowly working her way down his body till the tip of her tongue touched his tumescent cock. Her nails dug in to his buttocks as, with an effort of will, she closed her lips over the foul warmth.


She was good, unbelievably good. Krishnamurthy had had blow-jobs before, plenty of them, from girlfriends and prisoners, but nothing remotely approaching this. She toyed with him, gently running her teeth up his shaft, pretending she was going to bite, playing games with her tongue. She kept bringing him to the point of climax then dropping back to use her nails on his thighs. And when he eventually came, she took him deep into her mouth and gulped his cum down. And even then she wasn’t finished, gently teasing his chest hair with her fingers before dressing and lying back, face down of course, on the bed. He rewarded her with extra painkillers and an instruction to give her fruit at breakfast. When he left, she gave him a wave. Tomorrow he would fuck her properly, take possession of that magnificent body.


Almost as soon as he’d gone, Megan retched. She dressed with tears in her eyes and swallowed the painkillers he’d given her. She could do this. He was a little fat but he wasn’t bad-looking. She could do this. She would give him the best time he’d ever had and she would get them out of this mess. She had to use the one weapon she had and that was her body. She would not feel guilty.


A few minutes later, a nurse came in. Without speaking, she peeled down Megan’s trousers and applied balm to her buttocks. Megan could sense her disgust. Fuck her. She wasn’t the one being beaten and raped with bottles. She wept again.
 
Narayan sat behind the desk and looked at the girl. He’d have given her much harder time than Uppal had. Hanging her and making her stand on the footrest was hardly torture. But it had worked, he supposed. She looked scared now, standing head bowed before him. He wondered what he could justify. Very little, he feared. And Uppal, annoying as he was, was important and become more so.


“Harris,” he said. “You agreed to spy on Stafford. What have you learned?”


“Nothing, sir,” she murmured.


“What? Speak up!”


“Nothing sir,” she repeated. “Nothing yet.”


She was trembling, although that might have been the cold. “What?” he snapped.


“Nothing yet.”


“You’ve had a week.”


“I’m trying to be subtle, sir.”


“Or maybe you just lied. Maybe you said you would help but always intended to say nothing.” He stood up. “Was that your plan?”


“No, sir.”


“Tell me why I shouldn’t have you whipped for disobedience and dishonesty?”


“Sir, I’m working on it.” She was blinking back tears.


If it had been up to Narayan, he would have stripped her naked and taken a bullwhip to her. But Uppal’s instructions had been precise. “You have two more days,” he said. “If you have nothing by then, I’ll tell Stafford you’re spying on her.”


“I’ll get something...” she said, quickly. “I promise…”


Narayan approached her, amused by her fear. “Good,” he said. “Now, we don’t want anybody finding out that you’re working with us, do you? So you’d better send the night in a cell here. And we probably should make it look like we’ve hurt you.”


“Please….”


He smirked. “We could take your shirt off and give you a couple of dozen with the cane.”


“No! No! Please….”


“Then stand still.”


He placed the flat of his right hand on her left cheek, tapped a couple of times, measured his blow and then slapped her so hard he felt the sting on his fingers. The sound was extraordinary and she fell with a shout. He gestured and the guards were on her with the hood and the handcuffs. He would have made her spend the night naked in a bare cell, but Uppal had instructed she be given a bed and a heater, that the carrot should follow the stick.
 
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