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State Of Emergency Book Two - The Camp

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Rao walked along the lines. Roll-call was over but he was enjoying making them wait. They’d washed and were ready for bed and it was getting colder. Every now and again he would berate a prisoner for the slovenliness of their dress. But it was all about the white girls. There were only three of them, the blonde Australian missing, still in the infirmary 36 hours after she’d been flogged.


He stood in front of McCormack, laid a hand on her soft cheek. She almost flinched at the touch. “Stand up straight,” he said. “Shoulders back.” He looked approvingly at the way her breasts swelled beneath her shirt. He moved along to Stafford and straightened her shirt, letting his fingers probe the gentle valley of her chest. Then Harris. There was a bruise on her cheek, a slight swelling to her lip. “What happened?” he asked.


“Secpol, sir,” she said. The Secpol. Fuck. That complicated things. He weighed up his options. He had to be careful if the Secpol were interested in her. He wanted to have fun. He wanted to hurt her. He wanted to play with McCormacks’s tits and stroke Stafford’s flat belly. He wanted to use his belt on them. He wanted to have them screaming as he took his cane to them. But he would wait. He dismissed the lines.

*

Beth was woken by Rebecca talking to Bobby. She lay still, at first because she was tired and just wanted to sleep, but then because she wanted to hear what was said. Rebecca was explaining that the Secpol wanted her to spy on them, on Bobby in particular. She said that if she didn’t give them something by the following night they’d whip her. Bobby seemed baffled. Shit. This was bad. Rebecca went on to ask about the Rainbow Group. Fuck. This was her fault. What could she do? Should she tell them she was responsible? What would they think of her? But she couldn’t let Rebecca be whipped. She couldn’t let them torture Bobby thinking she was part of it.


In the end she compromised. She told them they’d asked her about the Rainbow, that she’d been part of it and that they’d asked her about Bobby. But they still couldn’t think of anything for Rebecca to tell the Secpol.

*

Narayan understood the orders. He’d done this many times before but this, he knew, was more important than any of the others. And he would enjoy it more than any of the others. Uppal had been clear on the phone: take Stafford and put her on the programme. Humiliate her, make her life uncomfortable, scare her but don’t hurt her. Not badly, not yet. Uppal would be away for two more days but when he got back he wanted her ready for him and it was Narayan’s job to prepare her.


He waited till they were asleep, then sent four men to get her. He followed at a slight distance. They were rough, of course, needlessly so, pulling back her blanket and yanking her up by the hair, giving her a couple of slaps before they cuffed her wrists and hooded her. She didn’t resist as they dragged her out of the hut, across the yard and into the Secpol building, but that didn’t stop them shaking her and prodding her. They dumped her in a cell. He would come back for her in a couple of hours. Let the tension build.


He summoned Harris, that terrified little mouse. She was visibly shaking as the guards removed her hood.


“What have you learned?” he asked.


“Nothing,” she whispered.


“What?”


“Nothing, sir,” she said louder.


“What?” he bellowed, enjoying how she flinched.


“Nothing, sir. I don’t think…”


“You don’t think what?”


“I don’t think she knows anything.”


“Liar!”


She closed her eyes. Her fear was an aphrodisiac to him. He wanted to crush her, like a sparrow in the trap.


“What do you think’s going to happen now?” he asked.


She said nothing. “I asked you a question,” he said.


“I think you’re going to punish me.”


“Take her to a cell,” he ordered. “I’ll deal with you later.” And he would enjoy it. He heard her whimper as they hooded her and watched her small frame being marched out of the room.


He had a drink, then sent the boys to get Stafford. This was where it really began. He settled back behind the desk. He had two days, two days where he was in charge.

*
 
Even from the way she walked Narayan could sense her terror. That surprised him. If she really was the linchpin they seemed to think she was, he’d have thought she’d have been tougher than that. She shuffled as the four guards marched her across the room, shoulders slightly bent. She was taller than Harris, even slimmer, but just as pretty, just as scared. They pulled the hood off and, as they unfastened her cuffs, he examined her.


She was thinner than he liked, not much in the way of tits, but there was beauty in her weary face, a spark in her eyes still. She nibbled at her lower lip, glancing anxiously around. “Take your clothes off,” he said eventually.


She swallowed, breathed out and began to unbutton her shirt. It was cold in there, as Uppal demanded. Make them feel their nakedness. She fumbled a little, then slipped it off, tossing it to the ground. Her trousers quickly followed. Narayan stood up and approached her. She shrunk away from him, covering herself with her arms, bending forward.


“Stand to attention,” he said. She closed her eyes and swallowed, but obeyed, dropping her arms to her sides, straightening her shoulders. He walked slowly round her, letting her feel his appraisal. She was slender, delicate, breasts shallow but beautifully smooth. Her back bore the odd pinkish brown mark and there was a bruise on her collar bone but that aside her skin was beautifully pure. He’d read in the file she’d been caned before she arrived but her buttocks showed no obvious sign. They were high and firm, perfect for the cane.


He circled her three times then paused in front of her. There was a pleasing glow to her cheeks, a couple of freckles that in another context might have suggested health. With his right index finger he flicked at her left nipple. She whimpered. He flicked it twice more. He could sense her shame, see tears sparkling her remarkably brown eyes. “Tell me about your breasts,” he said.


“What?”


“Tell me about your breasts. Do you like them? Are they big? Small?”


“They’re what I have, sir,” she croaked. “This is just the shape I am.”


“You know they’re small, then. You’re pathetic. You disgust me.” He flicked her right nipple, watched the breast quiver, made sure she saw him sneer. He walked slowly back to the desk and took a pair of rubber gloves from the draw. He put them on, ostentatiously. “A quick search,” he said.


Her lower lip began to quiver. “What could I possibly have hidden?” she asked.


He smiled. “We’ll find out,” he said, snapping a glove against his wrist. He stepped close to her. “Lift your left foot,” he said with a smirk.


Bobby was cold and she was humiliated. She’d thought they’d run out of ways to shame her but standing there naked being so overtly examined was dreadful. He’d searched her with clear relish, lifting each foot in turn, prying between her toes, then looking at each hand, opening her fingers one by one, then her arm-pits, her breasts, her ears, her nose, her mouth. The sense of intimacy was horrible, his gloved fingers poking inside her, all the time clearly enjoying her discomfort, his sense of power. He’d run his fingers through her hair and she knew the worst bit was yet to come. He made her bend over, then his finger was inside her. She squirmed as he stroked her clitoris.


“Stand still,” he said. “Anybody would think you had something to hide.” He resumed his probing. Bobby closed her eyes tight, biting her lip as she forced herself to remain calm. Then abruptly he jabbed the finger into her anus. She shouted in pain and staggered forward a half-step.


“Stand still or I’ll whip you,” he shouted and with a half-sob she checked herself. He waggled his finger about, clearly relishing her discomfort.


“Up,” he snapped as he withdrew it and she stood again.


He smiled at her. She hated him. “I’m just going to check your mouth again,” he said, and pressed the finger that had just been in her arse between her lips. She gagged instinctively and he laughed.


He removed the glove and tossed it aside. He lay a hand on her cheek. She shuddered. “Now, a little preparation,” he said. She saw him nod and in seconds she’d been blindfolded and her wrists chained behind her. They marched her out of the room and she felt a renewed surge of panic. She knew what they were preparing her for. This was the beginning of her torture.
 
Rebecca heard footsteps in the corridor. Four or five sets, she thought. Fear submerged her. She was still bound and still blindfold, huddling in the corner of the cell where she’d been for a couple of hours. Was this her punishment? What would they do to her?


The door opened. She pulled her knees to her chin, backing away. Hands grabbed at her, hauled her to her feet. The hood was taken off. She blinked in the grey light. Five men: the main one and four others. “Punishment,” he said with a grim smile. She swallowed. A guard took each arm and shoved her towards him. She stumbled towards him, hands still bound. He turned her round and smashed a fist into her kidneys. Lights flashed in her head and she collapsed, retching. She felt the burn of vomit on her throat.


She was pulled to her feet, dazed, fragile. The chains were removed. They stripped her. He punched her again, in the pit of her stomach, feeling the softness of her skin against his fist. She sprawled on the ground, gasping for air.


“Get up!” he shouted, but she couldn’t. She just lay on the concrete sobbing, exhausted. Their hands were on her again, on her arms, in her hair. She was dragged up, her body unable to resist.


Narayan smiled. She was whimpering, pathetic. He swung another fist, hard under her ribs. She collapsed again, little legs flailing. He felt the lust come over him to keep smashing her and he knew he had to restrain himself. She was retching, the slender shoulders heaving. He grabbed an ankle and lifted her, fascinated suddenly by the soft smooth skin of her calf. He seized her other leg and held her out, hanging her upside down, hair tumbling to the floor, arms draped limp. He stared down at her nakedness, her exposed cunt, the trim stomach, the breasts that wobbled delightfully as he shook her.


He swung her up, amazed at her lightness, then tossed her to the boys. She fell into them, shrieking and they grabbed at her, slapping her and poking her. He wanted to hang her up and use her as a punchbag but he knew Uppal would be furious if he went too far.


They carried her into the corridor. Rebecca knew she should have tried to concentrate now they’d taken the hood off but she was too dazed, felt too sick. She was taken into a room with a tiled floor that contained a cage, about six feet cubed, in its centre. Was this the box Beth had talked about? They shoved her in and she slithered over the tiles, clasping her arms around herself. They locked the gate to the cage and the cell door and she was left standing naked, scared, cold and wanting to be sick. She wondered if she should sit down when she heard noises above her. She looked up and realised with horror what this way of hurting her was. The room was high and about nine feet up there was gallery running round the whole cell. He was there, her tormentor, as were the four guards, each of whom held a hose. They took positions on each of the four walls and then, at the lieutenant’s command, turned them on.


The water was icy cold, the jets powerful. She fell to the tiled floor, shrieking as the water thundered into her, slithering and sliding in hopeless attempts to escape. Eventually she just curled into a ball, huddled over as her body was pummelled. And of course they focused on her tenderest areas, playing the stream between her legs, aiming at her face and her breasts, enjoying tormenting her.


Narayan watched with satisfaction. What a pathetic creature she was. He’d let her feel his fist a few more times before sending her back, but this would do for now. For five minutes her had them blast her, then gave orders they were to repeat the dose every second hour for the rest of the day. He left her shivering and sobbing, and decided it was time to clock off. He’d be back that evening to finish the punishment of one girl and continue the torture of the other.
 
Bobby shuffled across the room. She touched the wall, turned round and shuffled back again. Two Secpol officers watched her, looking bored. She was exhausted. Her feet hurt. Her knees hurt. She felt sick. For hours, she didn’t know exactly how long, she’d been kept in chains, blindfold in that box. It had been horrific. Cold then hot then cold then hot, always uncomfortable, sirens wailing, drills throbbing, terrible pop music played at full volume. Every now and again they’d pulled her out and held a water-bottle to her lips, fumbling at her breasts, prodding her and slapping her and then dropping her back into the box. It was hell, an assault on her psyche. It was impossible to relax in there, impossible to do anything other than curse the noise and the temperature. And when she did for a second have some clarity of thought, it was to realise that this was the prelude to torture.


And yet when they’d finally taken her out of that room it had been to bring her to this long cell. They’d removed her shackles and returned her clothes and then she’d been told to walk up and down. There’d been guards there holding canes, looking menacing and so she’d starting walking. That had been hours ago. And so it went on, grinding her down.


As she turned she paused, but immediately there were shouts. “Keep moving, you lazy bitch.” One officer made as if to stand, raising his cane, and she picked up her pace slightly. What did they want? She didn’t even know what they thought she was guilty of. All that stuff about the Rainbow Group. What was that? Beth had been given electric shocks. Would they do that to her? She’d said it was the worst pain she’d ever felt. But then she hadn’t had a proper beating. Would they flog her again? She couldn’t take another one.


*


At last the water stopped. Rebecca didn’t move. She couldn’t move. She was so cold, so sore. She just lay face down on the tiles, shivering, her body reddened by the cold and the pressure, covered in goosebumps. Eventually she pulled her knees to her chest and began to rub at her upper arms, trying to restore the circulation. What was that? Five times they’d hosed her? She wanted to die. She heard the door. Was that it? Was it over? She heard the cage door opening and hands were on her. They were shouting, pulling her by her arms. She couldn’t understand what they were saying, but she was dragged back into the corridor, dripping, sobbing. They took her back into the cell where she’d been before. She saw her clothes on the floor. But he was there. The lieutenant.


They pushed her towards him and she stood uncertainly, wet, cold and scared. He smiled and then, without warning, punched her, hard, on the right breast. She collapsed, the pain terrible. “Get up!” he yelled, and she scrambled to obey, but barely had she got to her feet when he hit her again, this time on the left breast. She fell, instinctively rolling away from him. Her eyes were watering with the pain. He grabbed her hair and lifted her them hit her again, his time in her kidneys. Her vision went black and she dropped to her knees. She began to retch and then she vomited.


It wasn’t much: she hadn’t eaten in almost 24 hours, although they had shoved a bottle of water through the bars of the cage every now and again. But in three heaves she emptied her stomach. She knew instinctively that that would mean more pain and looked guiltily over her shoulder at him.


“You disgusting creature!” Narayan roared. “You filthy sow! How dare you? How dare you?”


“She pissed in the cage as well, sir,” said one of the guards.


“She did what?” he shouted, although he was well aware she had. Of course she had. They hadn’t let her out for eight hours.


“Take her to the discipline room,” he ordered, and was gratified by the look of terror on her face. The feel of her firm breasts beneath his fists had been good. She had a lovely trim body, wonderfully smooth skin. He would enjoy punishing her some more. “Prepare her to be whipped,” he said, barely able to keep the smirk from his face.


But before that, he had to watch Stafford strip again and put her in the box for the night.

*

It was late, getting on for midnight, when Krishnamurthy finally was able to see her, his gorgeous Australian. This was the night he would fuck her properly. She was asleep when he went into the room and for a few seconds he watched her, blonde hair falling over her face as she lay on her right side. Gently, he lay his hand on her cheek. “Megan,” he said. She woke, and smiled. She reached up for his tie, pulled him down and kissed him. “Krishy,” she said. “How was your day?”


“Busy,” he said. “How are you?”


“OK,” she said, pushed herself up. “Considering.”


Immediately he was wary. “Will we…”


“Can we wait?” She reached out and lay a hand on his cheek. “It was 24 lashes. It still hurts a lot.”


His face must have betrayed his disappointment. “When we do it I want it to be special, not painful,” she said.


Was she stringing him along? He wondered if he should just take her, but then she clambered out of bed and began to undress and he forget everything apart from her breasts and her creamy skin and her extremely skilful lips and tongue and fingers.
 
Narayan had thought hard about Harris’s punishment. He would have liked to have her properly whipped, with heavy bullwhips, but he was aware of her delicacy. Who knew how many lashes she could take? He didn’t want her collapsing after three or four. Plus Uppal had warned him not to go too far, stressed she still had a role to play.


He walked into the discipline room and smiled. What a sight she was. As he’d instructed, they’d fastened her to the concrete post towards the back of the room, wrists in front of her at around stomach height so she seemed to be embracing the pillar.


He approached her, contemplating the pure narrow back still marked by red streaks from her caning, the firm rounded buttocks that still bore the shadows of her flogging in the capital. She glanced up at him over her smooth shoulder and he saw the utter terror in her dark eyes. He lay his fingers on her satiny shoulder, looking down at her breasts which just brushed the concrete. “Punishment,” he said. She whimpered, trembling at his touch.


Why her? What had she done to deserve this? A couple of demonstrations and now this, eternal pain and humiliation. She shifted her cold feet on the floor and sniffed, blinking back the tears. She saw the grinning faces of the four Secpol officers looking down at her: they were all much bigger than her of course. She still felt sick from the punches. She adjusted her arms, but the thick leather cuffs held her wrists tight.


The lieutenant went to a large cupboard at the side of the room. It was filled with canes and whips of varying weights and lengths. He took out a pair of thin straps, each perhaps half an inch in width and two and a half feet in length. Part of him wanted to use the heavy rubber truncheons, to smash this delicate little to pulp, but a lengthy beating, stinging rather than crushing, would probably be more fun. He knew she was watching him, so let his hand linger on a couple of the heavier canes before returning to her.


He stroked her fine neck, gently pushing her wet hair over her shoulders. “You lied to us,” he said. “You said you’d help and you didn’t.”


Her skin was cold to the touch, astonishingly fine-grained. He knew it would mark up beautifully. He put his hands on her shoulders, marvelling at how slender she was, the straps dangling against her ribs. He lowered his mouth to the level of her ear. “How many lashes do you think you deserve or disobedience?”


“Sir,” she squawked, “I don’t think Bobby knows anything.”


“And still you lie,” he said, pushing her so she stumbled into the post. “I had thought of being merciful.” He handed one of the straps to one of the guards, then stepped back to her left. Let the other guard backhand her. “Fifty lashes,” he said.


“No! No! You can’t. Please…” She tailed off into tears.


“You will count the lashes,” he said. “Is that clear?”


She whimpered.


“I said, ‘Is that clear?'”


“Yes, sir.”


“Count properly, or we’ll have to start again.”


She was visibly shaking as he measured the lash. The strap landed with a satisfying thwuck across the middle of her back. She shouted and, as he’d expected, the welt was almost instantly visible, a pink line quickly darkening into something angrier amid the older marks. “One,” she gasped.


Fuck, it stung. It was surface pain, nothing like as terrifying as the heavy canes, but it still hurt. The second landed, biting at her left shoulder. “Two,” she grunted. She hated having to count. It made her focus. She couldn’t let her brain drift away. The lieutenant hit her low around her waist “Three.” Fuck. Fifty. Fuck. She couldn’t. “Gaaaah! Four.” No. No, no, no. “Aaaaaaargggghhh! Five.”

*

Narayan had known it would be good but he hadn’t expected it to be quite this good. Her back was soon pink, but it was her screaming that got him, higher and higher pitched, more and more terrified, until it just went on, constant howling broke only by her attempts to say the numbers. She was shaking and sobbing, body pressed against the post. “Nnnyyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaarrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh,” she roared as the twentieth stroke landed. “Twe-aaahhhhh-twen-aaaahhhh-ny.” He paused. Her legs seemed to be buckling so her knees almost touched. Slowly her moans subsided to a whimper, torso heaving. He reached a hand between her legs. “Stand up straight,” he said, poking a finger inside her and eliciting a squeal. “Count the numbers nice and loud.”


She glanced over her shoulder, eyes wet with tears, dread etched across her face. He stepped back, admiring the pale roundness of her buttocks beneath the pink back. Then he lashed her and immediately the screaming began again.


Rebecca shuffled on the cold floor. She pushed her forehead against the pillar. There was no respite. Lash after lash, pain and the prospect of more pain, the sting, the burn, getting worse and worse. Mechanically she counted. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, always with the knowledge of how many still to come. She couldn’t stop shaking or sobbing. And the worst thing was the sense of helplessness, the sense that he could do absolutely what he wanted to her. Thirty-three, thirty-four. Part of her brain shouted that she couldn’t take any more, but the far greater part of her knew that she would, that there as no escape from the straps, slapping onto her already anguished back. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine.


Her back was red now, from a pale pink line perhaps three inches above her waist, through a vibrant scarlet around the centre of her back and shoulders, the red streaked with darker purple lines. She’d half-collapsed, leaning on the pillar, shaking. Forty-two. Narayan struck her again, just above the centre of her back, where the inflammation was at its worse. Through her sobs she yelled in pain. “Forty-three,” she gasped as her legs gave way. She fell to her knees, embracing the post, top of her head pushed against ht. He held up a hand to stop the flogging.


“On your feet,” he said, “or there’ll be extra punishment.”


She glanced back at him, terrified and reproachful, over her shoulder, then slowly pushed herself up, legs trembling. “How many have you had?” he asked. He knew very well, but he wanted to make her engage to understand her penalty. “Forty-three, sir,” she whispered.


“Can’t hear you. How many?”


“Forty-three, sir.”


He nodded, and the flogging continued. He wondered if, when it was over, he could justify thrashing her lovey round buttocks as well.


Rebecca hugged the post. “Forty-five.” She was terrified that he would add more if she fell again. She needed to piss. “Forty-six.” She wailed but her brain was telling her there were only four more. She could take this. She would survive. “Forty-seven.” The slap sent a sheet of fire from her shoulders to her waist. “Forty-eight.” She ground her forehead into the concrete. Nearly over. Two more. ‘Forty-nine.” It flicked across her back, reaching towards her breast. It stung and she yelped and it was over. “Fifty,” she said but she didn’t dare relax.


Narayan gave the order to unfasten her. “Turn around,” he ordered and she shuffled to face him, hunched, tears marking her face. He placed his hands on her narrow shoulders, relishing the smooth skin. “Come,” he said, and led her to the cupboard.


She gnawed at her lower lip, terrified as he showed her what was inside. He lay his hand on her back, feeling the heat from the beaten skin. “Look,” he said. “Heavier straps. Canes. Whips. Truncheons.”


He moved behind her and pulled her close to him. He reached around and lay his hands on her breasts, enjoying their softness. He lay his chin on her silken shoulder and spoke gently into her ear. “I will have you whipped,” he said. He pointed at a black length of leather, stiffened with whalebone. “That will cut you,” he said. “Ten of those and you’d be bleeding like a sheep at the slaughterhouse. I’d give you twenty. Maybe more, if you annoyed me.”


He squeezed her breasts. “So what will you do to make me happy?” he asked.


“I’ll keep listening,” she said. “I’ll keep asking questions.”


‘Good,” he said. “So long as we understand each other.”


He slapped her hard on her sore back and, as she collapsed, ordered them to take her to the infirmary. She seemed to flinch at the very idea of it.
 
Narayan had thought hard about Harris’s punishment. He would have liked to have her properly whipped, with heavy bullwhips, but he was aware of her delicacy. Who knew how many lashes she could take? He didn’t want her collapsing after three or four. Plus Uppal had warned him not to go too far, stressed she still had a role to play.


He walked into the discipline room and smiled. What a sight she was. As he’d instructed, they’d fastened her to the concrete post towards the back of the room, wrists in front of her at around stomach height so she seemed to be embracing the pillar.


He approached her, contemplating the pure narrow back still marked by red streaks from her caning, the firm rounded buttocks that still bore the shadows of her flogging in the capital. She glanced up at him over her smooth shoulder and he saw the utter terror in her dark eyes. He lay his fingers on her satiny shoulder, looking down at her breasts which just brushed the concrete. “Punishment,” he said. She whimpered, trembling at his touch.


Why her? What had she done to deserve this? A couple of demonstrations and now this, eternal pain and humiliation. She shifted her cold feet on the floor and sniffed, blinking back the tears. She saw the grinning faces of the four Secpol officers looking down at her: they were all much bigger than her of course. She still felt sick from the punches. She adjusted her arms, but the thick leather cuffs held her wrists tight.


The lieutenant went to a large cupboard at the side of the room. It was filled with canes and whips of varying weights and lengths. He took out a pair of thin straps, each perhaps half an inch in width and two and a half feet in length. Part of him wanted to use the heavy rubber truncheons, to smash this delicate little to pulp, but a lengthy beating, stinging rather than crushing, would probably be more fun. He knew she was watching him, so let his hand linger on a couple of the heavier canes before returning to her.


He stroked her fine neck, gently pushing her wet hair over her shoulders. “You lied to us,” he said. “You said you’d help and you didn’t.”


Her skin was cold to the touch, astonishingly fine-grained. He knew it would mark up beautifully. He put his hands on her shoulders, marvelling at how slender she was, the straps dangling against her ribs. He lowered his mouth to the level of her ear. “How many lashes do you think you deserve or disobedience?”


“Sir,” she squawked, “I don’t think Bobby knows anything.”


“And still you lie,” he said, pushing her so she stumbled into the post. “I had thought of being merciful.” He handed one of the straps to one of the guards, then stepped back to her left. Let the other guard backhand her. “Fifty lashes,” he said.


“No! No! You can’t. Please…” She tailed off into tears.


“You will count the lashes,” he said. “Is that clear?”


She whimpered.


“I said, ‘Is that clear?'”


“Yes, sir.”


“Count properly, or we’ll have to start again.”


She was visibly shaking as he measured the lash. The strap landed with a satisfying thwuck across the middle of her back. She shouted and, as he’d expected, the welt was almost instantly visible, a pink line quickly darkening into something angrier amid the older marks. “One,” she gasped.


Fuck, it stung. It was surface pain, nothing like as terrifying as the heavy canes, but it still hurt. The second landed, biting at her left shoulder. “Two,” she grunted. She hated having to count. It made her focus. She couldn’t let her brain drift away. The lieutenant hit her low around her waist “Three.” Fuck. Fifty. Fuck. She couldn’t. “Gaaaah! Four.” No. No, no, no. “Aaaaaaargggghhh! Five.”

*

Narayan had known it would be good but he hadn’t expected it to be quite this good. Her back was soon pink, but it was her screaming that got him, higher and higher pitched, more and more terrified, until it just went on, constant howling broke only by her attempts to say the numbers. She was shaking and sobbing, body pressed against the post. “Nnnyyyyyyyyaaaaaaaaarrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh,” she roared as the twentieth stroke landed. “Twe-aaahhhhh-twen-aaaahhhh-ny.” He paused. Her legs seemed to be buckling so her knees almost touched. Slowly her moans subsided to a whimper, torso heaving. He reached a hand between her legs. “Stand up straight,” he said, poking a finger inside her and eliciting a squeal. “Count the numbers nice and loud.”


She glanced over her shoulder, eyes wet with tears, dread etched across her face. He stepped back, admiring the pale roundness of her buttocks beneath the pink back. Then he lashed her and immediately the screaming began again.


Rebecca shuffled on the cold floor. She pushed her forehead against the pillar. There was no respite. Lash after lash, pain and the prospect of more pain, the sting, the burn, getting worse and worse. Mechanically she counted. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, always with the knowledge of how many still to come. She couldn’t stop shaking or sobbing. And the worst thing was the sense of helplessness, the sense that he could do absolutely what he wanted to her. Thirty-three, thirty-four. Part of her brain shouted that she couldn’t take any more, but the far greater part of her knew that she would, that there as no escape from the straps, slapping onto her already anguished back. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine.


Her back was red now, from a pale pink line perhaps three inches above her waist, through a vibrant scarlet around the centre of her back and shoulders, the red streaked with darker purple lines. She’d half-collapsed, leaning on the pillar, shaking. Forty-two. Narayan struck her again, just above the centre of her back, where the inflammation was at its worse. Through her sobs she yelled in pain. “Forty-three,” she gasped as her legs gave way. She fell to her knees, embracing the post, top of her head pushed against ht. He held up a hand to stop the flogging.


“On your feet,” he said, “or there’ll be extra punishment.”


She glanced back at him, terrified and reproachful, over her shoulder, then slowly pushed herself up, legs trembling. “How many have you had?” he asked. He knew very well, but he wanted to make her engage to understand her penalty. “Forty-three, sir,” she whispered.


“Can’t hear you. How many?”


“Forty-three, sir.”


He nodded, and the flogging continued. He wondered if, when it was over, he could justify thrashing her lovey round buttocks as well.


Rebecca hugged the post. “Forty-five.” She was terrified that he would add more if she fell again. She needed to piss. “Forty-six.” She wailed but her brain was telling her there were only four more. She could take this. She would survive. “Forty-seven.” The slap sent a sheet of fire from her shoulders to her waist. “Forty-eight.” She ground her forehead into the concrete. Nearly over. Two more. ‘Forty-nine.” It flicked across her back, reaching towards her breast. It stung and she yelped and it was over. “Fifty,” she said but she didn’t dare relax.


Narayan gave the order to unfasten her. “Turn around,” he ordered and she shuffled to face him, hunched, tears marking her face. He placed his hands on her narrow shoulders, relishing the smooth skin. “Come,” he said, and led her to the cupboard.


She gnawed at her lower lip, terrified as he showed her what was inside. He lay his hand on her back, feeling the heat from the beaten skin. “Look,” he said. “Heavier straps. Canes. Whips. Truncheons.”


He moved behind her and pulled her close to him. He reached around and lay his hands on her breasts, enjoying their softness. He lay his chin on her silken shoulder and spoke gently into her ear. “I will have you whipped,” he said. He pointed at a black length of leather, stiffened with whalebone. “That will cut you,” he said. “Ten of those and you’d be bleeding like a sheep at the slaughterhouse. I’d give you twenty. Maybe more, if you annoyed me.”


He squeezed her breasts. “So what will you do to make me happy?” he asked.


“I’ll keep listening,” she said. “I’ll keep asking questions.”


‘Good,” he said. “So long as we understand each other.”


He slapped her hard on her sore back and, as she collapsed, ordered them to take her to the infirmary. She seemed to flinch at the very idea of it.

King Diocletian, your writing is just getting better and better. Thank you!
 
There was a hand in her hair, shaking her violently. It hurt. Everything hurt. It hurt her scalp, it hurt inside her head and it worsened her feeling of nausea. Bobby’s teeth clicked against each other so she told herself to clench them. Even that seemed to hurt. She was thrown down, landing heavily on the floor, too tired to protect herself. She was blindfolded and her wrists chained. Hands pawed at her breasts and probed between her legs. They tossed her between them, taunting her as they hustled her along a corridor. Even walking was difficult.


Finally they got her to a cell. The blindfold and chains were removed and she was given her clothes. She dressed, slowly, her fingers reluctant to accept the messages from her brain. She knew the lieutenant was watching her, a smirk on his face. “Ok,” he said, when she was wearing her uniform again. “Walk.” She’d dreaded that.


“Please…” she said. “Please let me sleep.”


“Walk or I’ll have you flogged.”


And so she began a desperate shuffle up and down the cell.

*

Megan knew this was it. There was no delaying it any long. She’d been preparing all day, but it seemed earlier than usual when he came in. She hurried to him, and pulled him by the tie to the bed. She carefully took off his glasses and began to undress him. It was important it looked as though she wanted this, that he wasn’t begging her. He smiled at her, reached in the pocket of his white coat for a condom and then unbuttoned her shirt.


She pushed him back onto the bed and eased his trousers down. He was stiff already. He patted anxiously at her breasts, then yanked down her trousers. “Gently,” she said, giving his wrist a playful slap. When they were both naked, she knelt over him. She let her fingers play in the thick hair of his chest, ran her nails over his nipples. His hands went to her waist. She took the condom from where he’d lain it by the pillow, tore the packet and slid it down over his cock. It would at least be mercifully brief, she thought. She closed her eyes and thought of the English journalist she’d had a couple of dates with in the capital. He was a wiry, slender man, not at all like Krishnamurthy but it helped a little as he pulled her down on to him.


It was over in less than a minute. It hadn’t been enjoyable, but it was over. He lay back with a sigh. She leant over him, letting her breasts caress his face. He snapped at them, grinning, and she pushed down on his shoulders. “Are you early today?” she asked.


“Yes,” he said. “The Secpol need me. They’re giving somebody electrics tonight.”


Megan felt cold. “Oh,” she said, feigning a lack of concern. “Do you know who?”


“No,” he said. “But we’ve got one of your friends in here.”


She was suddenly alert, her nails pressing into his flesh.


“Harris,” he went on. “Secpol gave her a pretty nasty strapping. Came in last night. She’s got at least another day here.”


Something about his manner troubled her. She tapped his nose in mock annoyance. “No sleeping with her,” she said. “You’re mine.”


She kissed him then pulled away. “Is that clear?” she asked.


“Of course,” he said, and she fell to kiss him properly.
 
Uppal was tired, but more than that he wanted to get to work. Those meetings infuriated him. What was the point? To hurry him along? It would be quicker if he could just get on with it. And was he not doing good work? Had he not got a list of names and addresses of the Rainbow Group? It was maddening. But it was as though what he’d done meant nothing. Always on to the next thing. What about Stafford? How did she tie in? Well, he was about to find out. He gave the order for her to be brought in.


He took a sip of coffee. It was just after eight in the evening. He’d got back about three hours ago, read the files again to refresh his memory and had a briefing from Narayan. Harris had given them nothing – he suspected she needed his gentle probing rather than Narayan’s head-on approach. A day of being hosed in the cage and then a severe strapping was more than he’d have given her but it wasn’t disastrous – it would get her properly scared – and at least he hadn’t left her needing weeks of care.


And Narayan had followed his instructions absolutely with Stafford. Two nights in the box with a day of walking in between, clothes off, clothes on, clothes off, clothes on. Then today she’d walked for three hours, been stripped again and given six hours in the cage, being hosed down every half hour so she got a little sleep but not too much, been dressed again and made to walk for four hours before being stripped and give another hosing just to get her clean. He couldn’t abide the smell of sweat. And then she'd been dressed again.


The door opened and she was hustled in, a slight figure, obviously terrified. The guards pushed her down onto the chair, released her hands and pulled off her blindfold. One of them clipped her round the back of the head as he backed away. Uppal’s instant reaction was that he’d gone too far. He’d overestimated her. She was shaking, eyes red-rimmed, pretty face haggard. She sat forward on the seat, hunched, head bowed, looked up at him with fear. As she reached a hand up to smooth a tendril of wet hair away from her face, it trembled violently. He hadn’t realised how girlish she was, how slim. He’d given her a softening up process appropriate for a soldier, for somebody physically and mentally tough, somebody who’d been trained to resist.


But maybe she had. Maybe this was her skill. To look like a pretty, naïve girl. He had to steel himself to the job in hand.


“Miss Stafford,” he said. “I’m Colonel Uppal of the Secpol. I hope we’ve looked after you well.”


She said nothing, a shudder passing through her. He saw how the uniform, too large for her, clung in patches to her damp body. “Just a few questions,” he said, “then you can have a nice warm shower, some dinner and bed. We have some very good rooms here. We can give you a few days off work if you’re co-operative.”

Waves of nausea washed over her. Bobby’s head throbbed. Her vision kept on blurring. She tried to concentrate on what he was saying but it was hard. She needed sleep and she needed food. She hugged herself, trying to stay warm. She tried to relax, but the chair was hard and bolted to the floor and she suspected she could be fastened to it for torture. Electric shocks, they’d given Beth. Was that worse than being flogged? Her mind kept drifting. She tried to concentrate. He was asking her about the Rainbow Group.


“Sir,” she said. “I don’t know anything about it.” Speaking was a terrible effort. His face was plump, self-satisfied.


“You’ve never heard of it?”


“Rebecca asked me about it a few… I don’t know how long… a few days ago.”


“And that’s it?”


“Beth said something, I don’t know. I think Beth was part of it. Something to do with the university. I don’t know.”


“Do you know what it was?”


She shook her head and regretted it. Her headache throbbed from behind her right eye backing into her skull. “Some sort of political group? I don’t know. About human rights?”


“A group dedicated to bringing down the government? To supporting the separatists? Terrorists?”


“I don’t know. I never heard if it till Rebecca…”


“And did you participate in demonstrations?”


“No.” She was exhausted.


“Did you oppose the government?”


“No.”


“Did you know anybody who did?”


She sighed. “At the school. Staff talked. Pupils talked. But actively, no, not till I got here.”


“What do you think?”


“Think? About what?”


“About the government. About the separatists.”


“I don’t know enough about it.” A flicker of resistance sparked in her, raged at his smugness, at what he’d done to her. “But I know torture is wrong,” she said.


Narayan would have had her whipped for that. He thought of her slender body, the feel of those gentle breasts, bound as Harris had been earlier, but taking a proper lash. But Uppal just laughed and asked one of the boys to get her a bottle of water.


Uppal asked her what she had been doing at the school, asked her about her studies. Narayan never understood this bit of interrogations. Just ask her about the Rainbow Group and if she didn’t answer get her down the corridor and onto the bench so they could get started with the electric shocks.


He was being unbelievably gentle. This wasn’t fun at all. Why wasn’t she naked? It was almost as though he believed her. He asked her why she thought she was there, then ordered a pot of coffee. She said she didn’t know but thought it was something to do with the priest. What the fuck was that about? Maybe he should have read the file again.


She was clearly exhausted. She kept tailing off as she explained what had happened, having to go back and pick up a sentence again. The priest had been molesting pupils. She’d printed a notice about it and pinned it on a board. The school hadn’t believed her. They’d had a governors’ meeting and decided to cane her. Thirty-six times. Fuck, these British schools. Then she’d tried to run away so they’d doubled it and made her stand there naked between the two halves of her caning. Fuck. Was that in the file? Surely he’d have remembered that. She told the story in a low monotone, her eyes blank. Was that exhaustion or something to do with repression? That was the kind of thing Uppal would be interested in.


Then she’d fled the school, only to be arrested in the capital and whipped in a police station while the priest watched, before being put before a tribunal and sentenced to five years here. Narayan was just thinking of her bent naked in front of the school, being caned. Seventy-two lashes was a lot, even if the cane was light and the people applying it unskilled.


The coffee arrived. Uppal left it for a moment on his desk, enjoying the aroma and seeing how much Stafford wanted some. He poured himself a cup and then poured a second. He stood up and carried it towards her, seeing her get her hopes up, thinking it was for her. But he walked past her and handed it to Narayan. He walked back past her, gently laying his hand on her damp blonde hair as he did. She looked up at him, her deep brown eyes reproachful, scared. He wondered about her guilt, he really did.


He sat back behind his desk. “So you think the priest framed you?”


“Yes,” she said.


“You deny any contact with any opposition group.”


“Yes.”


“You knew nobody at the university?”


“I don’t think so.”


“Had you heard of Donohue, Harris or McCormack before you met them on the train?”


“No.”


She was either very, very good or innocent.


“It’s a lovely story,” he said, taking an ostentatious drink. “You tell it well. I would like to believe you. I’d like to give you a cup of coffee, let you sleep. But I have a problem. Six other prisoners have implicated you.”


She looked at him wearily.


“How do you explain that?”


She shrugged. “I can’t,” she said.


Uppal leaned back and took another sip. There was nothing for it. “Take your clothes off,” he said.


It took a moment for the order to register. Bobby felt the corners of her mouth turn down, her lower lip begin to wobble. She’d thought this one was reasonable, nice even. She stood up, uncertainly. Even that simple act made her feel dizzy. She swayed for a moment then her hands went, again, to the buttons of her shirt. She could feel them watching her, Uppal, the lieutenant, the others. Six of them, dressed in uniform, armed, and her about to be naked and defenceless again. Why did they keep doing this? But she knew somehow that they knew the act of stripping was more humiliating than just being naked, that it emphasised their power over her. She let the shirt fall from her shoulders, taking it in her right hand as it slid from her body. Her breasts were exposed again. She same the lieutenant smirk, saw Uppal’s eyes flick up and down her body as he sipped his coffee. She dropped the shirt and pulled down her trousers. She was naked. The tears began to fall from her eyes. She was terrified. What now? More pain?


A guard took her clothes and disappeared behind her. “Sit down,” the colonel said. She hated him, hated his ingratiating manner, but she obeyed. Half-heartedly she hooked an arm across her breasts, tucked a hand between her legs. The wooden seat was cool against her skin. She looked at him, with his absurd quiff, felt a new wave of anger as he took a sip of his coffee. On his desk were a number of files, a phone, and his coffee. Behind him was a blank wall, dull grey concrete. What were they going to do to her?


“Six prisoners,” he said. “That’s a lot, don’t you think?”


“Were they tortured?” she asked, insolence swelling beneath her shame.


He smiled. “I wouldn’t push it,” he said. “I like your spirit, but there gets to a point where I’d have to punish you.”


There was a silence. She felt very naked, very alone.


“Put yourself in my position,” he said. “Six people, one of them a member of the Rainbow Group, six of them all say, six independent people have told us that the great leader of the resistance, the real power, the person pulling the strings, is Roberta Stafford. What would you do?"


She pushed her lips together and shook her head.


“If you were me, what would you do?”


“I’d find me and strip me naked and torture me,” she blurted. “Is that what you want me to say?”


“I want you to tell me the truth, Miss Stafford.”


There was a silence. She wondered if she should speak. “Why were you whipped in the capital?” he asked.


“Father Johal said school rules meant I should have been whipped for blasphemy, not caned. So the police picked me up. They took me to a basement, stripped me, tied me up and whipped me. 24 lashes.”


“What did they whip you with?”


“The old school whip. Father Johal had kept it, I think.”


“Can you describe it?”


“Five thongs, hard little knots. It stung terribly.”


“Tell me about your friend Steve McCoy.”


She paused and thought. Her brain was woolly but she couldn’t remember a Steve McCoy. “What? Who? I don’t know a Steve McCoy.” This was hell.
 
It had taken about an hour, but finally Uppal had given the order. Narayan, gleefully, had overseen her being chained again and blindfolded and, against her terrified struggles, dragged down the corridor to be fastened on the bench for electric shocks.


She looked impossibly thin, arms pulled down behind her, legs apart and fastened at the ankle, the broad strap across her waist making her look even thinner. Her breasts lay almost flat against her chest, but the nipples stood up, red and firm in the chill. She was still blindfolded. He flicked at a nipple, smirking at her yelp. He ran a hand down the shallow valley between her breasts, noting a small freckle, then let his hand play on her flat silken stomach. He liked them bigger that this, more flesh, but there was no doubting her beauty.


The doctor checked her over, barely more than a cursory glance before he pronounced her healthy.


Uppal came in. She was doused with water, moaning softly as the hose played on her. He removed the blindfold and she blinked in the light, her eyes a rich, deep brown. Narayan wheeled over the trolley on which the generator stood ready. It was all part of the ritual. Let her see the instrument of her agony. When she saw it she began pleading. “Please…,” she sobbed. “I know nothing. Not this. Please...”


He took the pot of gel. Where should he put it? He looked down at her slender body, beads of water standing out on the goosepimples, her fine golden hairs catching the light as they stood up in the cold. She had lovely lips, and he was tempted to apply one there, but that would make it harder for her to speak. He settled on her delicate breasts. As Uppal gave his speech about aiding conductivity and stopping the burning, Narayan gleefully applied the gel, caressing and teasing the nipples. She whimpered in terror.


Bobby couldn’t believe this was happening. What could she do? The position was degrading. She was exposed, utterly. Arms and wrists bound, the strap over her waist, just about all she could move was her head. She peered down her body at the lieutenant. He seemed to have finished with her breasts and was returning the pot to the trolley. She saw the generator, saw him pick up a wire that ended in crocodile clip. It was obvious where it was going. She wailed in fear as he approached.


He tweaked her left nipple up, pinching it painfully. She hated the way he tormented her, the way he’d caressed her, mockingly playing on a perverse sense of intimacy. He snapped the clip open and shut in front of her, letting her see the teeth, sense the power of the spring, then he fixed it on the breast. The pain was awful. She gasped and held her breath, but there was no respite. It bit savagely so badly she wondered if it might slice the nipple off. She raised her head a little and looked at the clip fastened on the nipple, and felt again her shame and defencelessness. He returned with the other clip. She was panting in pain and fear. He taunted her again and fixed it. She had to bite her lip to prevent herself crying out in pain.


He backed away and Colonel Uppal stood over her. She looked up at his ridiculous quiff and the cracked ceiling beyond. She smelt his aftershave. “Miss Stafford,” he said, laying his hand on her stomach. “I need you to cooperate with me. I need you to tell me everything you know. If you don’t, then I’m afraid we’ll have to give you a series of electric shocks. It will be painful, but if you are difficult there is no choice.”


“I don’t know anything.” She was pleading now. “Sir, I don’t.”


“Tell me about the Rainbow Group.”


“Sir, I told you. Beth was part of it, I think. McCormack. But I never heard of it before I got here.”


“OK,” he said, with a resigned nod. She heard a click and pain flashed through her, terrible pain that took her breath away. Even when it was over her body was rigid, desperate whimpers pulsing from her throat.


She stared at the ceiling. What could she do? She knew nothing. Should she lie? He was talking again. She tried to concentrate but her brain was melting. “That’s one shock,” he said. “One. We can give you as many as we want. That was level one. There are five levels. We can cause you a lot of pain. Or you can co-operate.”


She let her eyes flick to him. Their eyes, starting at her nakedness. “How did you communicate with the capital?” he asked.


She was confused. Communicate? “I didn’t…” she said, and the pain surged through her again for a second or two. She was panting, her breath coming in shallow gulps. She felt intensely cold, but her body was damp with sweat. Her shoulders ached from the strain of pulling against the bonds. Her mouth was dry. She closed her eyes. Tremors passed through her. How could she take more?
 
Uppal walked around the bench, looking down at the sobbing girl. How could she be resisting him? She was so delicate: he should have been able simply to crush her and yet after two days of sleeplessness, two days without food, two days of the box, forced walking and hosing, two days of being stripped repeatedly, she somehow had the strength to resist. He hadn’t expected her to be able to endure a second shot, but she’d taken six with no sign of cracking. Yes, she was crying. Yes, her slender body was shaking with the strain. But she’d given him nothing.


Usually there was at least a panicky defence, an excuse, a name. Or from professionals, perhaps a prepared lie. But she just kept saying she didn’t know. He wondered if he should let Narayan loose on her: beat her to kingdom come and try again tomorrow. But this was his reputation. This was his entire method at stake. He wondered if he should try with a list of names. But he didn’t want to reveal his hand. He decided to move away from his investigation entirely, one of Patel’s favourite tricks.


He sat down, the chair level with her breasts, facing her head.


“Do you have a boyfriend, Miss Stafford?”


“No,” she croaked.


“I don’t mean in here. I mean on the outside.”


“No.”


“Really? But you’re a pretty girl. Or are you lesbian?”


“No.”


“You’ve had a boyfriend, though?”


“Of course.”


“How many?”


“Please…” she whimpered.


“What? What are you ashamed of? Are you a slut?”


She closed her eyes. He was surprised by the effect this line of questioning was having. “Tell me,” he sad gently. “Who was your first kiss?”


“Kevin Simpson,” she murmured. “I was at school with him.”


“How old were you?”


“Fourteen.”


“So young.” He drew a finger over the underside of her left breast.


“Did you fuck him?”


“Yes.” It was a croak.


“At fourteen?”


“I was sixteen,” she said.


“How old was he?”


“The same.”


“What happened?”


“Why do you need to know?”


Uppal nodded, and she screamed as the electricity ripped through her again.


Narayan had no idea why they were talking about this but she was clearly uncomfortable. A school dance, illicit alcohol, a fumble in the bushes. But they’d broken up because this Kevin found somebody else. She was openly sobbing as she described it: emotion plus tiredness plus fear.


“Why did he dump you?” Uppal asked, his fingers teasing her belly button. This wasn’t his usual approach. Narayan hadn’t realised he had it in him to humiliate somebody quite so effectively.


“Karen was sexier than me, I suppose.” She sounded almost sarcastic. “More fun, more bubbly, bigger tits. You know, I worked hard. I was head girl. I got into Oxford. I played football. I was too serious for him.”


“Does it worry you, the size of your tits?”


“They seem big enough for your purposes.”


Uppal laughed and withdrew his hand. He nodded and Narayan dutifully flicked the switch, holding it for a count of two in his head. She flopped, gasping and trembling. He had high hopes for her feistiness: it might persuade Uppal to let him have her for a night. Small tits or not, he would enjoy that. In fact there was something in her delicacy he would enjoy smashing.


“Don’t be silly, Miss Stafford,” Uppal said. “We’re having a nice little chat. Don’t spoil it.”


There was silence punctuated only by the rasp and puff of her breathing. “So Kevin dumped you because you were boring,” Uppal went on. To Narayan’s surprise, he reached a finger into her cunt and began slowly circling it. “Were you a bit frigid, maybe?”


She closed her eyes. “I’m sure he thought so,” she said.


“A picture emerges,” Uppal said. “So who was next? Who next entered the ice cave?” His finger went to her clitoris and gently began teasing.


“At university,” she said, her voice notably tense, higher-pitched. “Please stop that, sir.”


“No,” Uppal said. “Carry on.”


“It was near the end of first year. Somebody else on my history course. Adam Dawson. We spent a lot of time together and one night at a ball… Please, sir, stop.”


“Am I turning you on? This and Adam. What was he like? Big? Muscular? Handsome?”


“Good-looking, yes. But he was an intellectual. Glasses. Not sporty. We were outside, both drunk, and he very nervously asked if he could take me for dinner. I said yes.”


“And did you put out straightaway? I bet you did. There’s a fire inside you.”


She began crying again. Slowly she told the story between sobs, Uppal effectively masturbating her the whole time. A slow and gentle romance that had blossomed over two years before falling apart as they worked for their finals. How she’d hoped they could get back together again afterwards. Uppal was good there. “What happened?” he asked. “Did he find somebody with bigger tits? Somebody who was better at sex? Less frigid?”


She wailed at that. He had found somebody else.


“So you came over here to forget?”


“Yes,” she breathed.


“Oh dear,” Uppal said. “Then you fucked Steve McCoy?”


“No! I never even heard of him.”


Uppal stood and nodded and Narayan flicked the switch. This time he held it for five seconds as she bucked against the straps. He knew it was the last of this session.
 
Beth was relieved. A day of being alone was awful. She sensed them looking at her, plotting, planning. She’d barely slept, terrified they’d do to her what they’d done to Megan. But at roll call, Megan and Rebecca were back. Both were still in a bad way, Rebecca particularly, but just the fact there were three of them was a comfort. Although not for poor Bobby. Was it her fault? She’d done what she could to put her fault right. The thought of the electricity made her feel sick.


In the showers she saw their wounds: Megan’s buttocks still bruised and swollen, Rebecca’s back a savage red, so sore that even water running over it seemed to hurt. “Shouldn’t you have stayed in the infirmary” she asked, but Rebecca just shook her head and wouldn’t say anything.


As they had breakfast, Rebecca explained what had been done to her, her punishment for not spying effectively. What could they do? Who knew when they may come for Rebecca again, give her a worse flogging? Beth thought of Rebecca on the bench, taking electric shocks. She couldn’t take that. No way. And then she thought of Bobby, who might be going through that now. What could they do? All they could do for now was work and keep their heads down.

*

Uppal was tired. He should have gone to bed when he’d finished with Stafford, sending her to a cell. He’d ordered she be kept naked and in chains, so she could sleep a little but not well, and then be returned to the box at 6am. He’d see her at four – after she’d been hosed down, of course. Only then would he let her dress and give her some food and coffee. Make her rely on him. But he hadn’t gone to bed. Instead, he’d replayed the tape of her being questioned and sent off some inquiries. He’d got to bed at about six and had been up by 11.


She worried him. It made no sense. She was clearly terrified and clearly suffering and yet she had given him nothing. There hadn’t even been a flicker of weakness in her cover. She had behaved exactly as an innocent woman would. He gulped down his coffee and gave the order for her to be brought in. He poured another cup.


She was shivering and wet. He looked her slender body up and down. Was this really a separatist kingpin? “Unchain her,” he said.


Her head was bowed. She was snivelling, body pink and goose-pimpled with cold, the nipples swollen and red from the clips. “Where are the girl’s clothes?” he asked, in mock anger. “Let her get dressed.”


A guard hurried out. He stood and walked over to her. She instinctively shied away from him. He lay a hand on her thin upper arm. “Don’t be like that,” he said. “Come and sit down while we wait for your clothes.” He led her to the chair. “Now,” he said with a smile, gently kneading the cool flesh of her shoulders, “you must be hungry. What would you like? Some hot soup maybe? Some coffee?”


She was crying as she nodded. “Thank you, sir,” she said.


*
 
Bobby had known it was a trick. He’d tortured her yesterday and now he was giving her soup. He’d kept her naked for however long it was and just because he’d got her clothes back didn’t change that. She hated him, his stupid hair and his heavy aftershave, but at that moment she wanted him to hug her. He, at least, was better than the thug of a lieutenant. She needed a hug. Just somebody to tell her it wasn’t hopeless.

The soup was hot and tasty. It was the first food she’d had in she didn’t know how long. The coffee was strong and sweet. She needed this. Even after the lack of sleep, all the time in the box, she could feel her mind clearing. As she ate he talked to her. Was it interrogation? She didn’t know. He talked about life in the camp, how difficult it was, whether the other prisoners accepted the white girls. He asked her about football, what position she played, who she supported. He was nice. And then, when they took the bowl and the mug away and he gave her some water to drink, he opened a file.

“There are just one or two things to clear up,” he said, and she felt a world of dread settle on her again.

“You never met Steve McCoy?”

“No,” she said.

“You never met Elizabeth McCormack until when?”

“The train up here.”

“When did you last speak to Kevin Simpson?”

She shook her head. Why the fuck did that matter? She thought of his fingers inside her, teasing her as he’d asked about him the previous day and shuddered. “I don’t know, sir. At the end of school. Before university.”

He nodded. He took a sheaf of perhaps 20 photographs and carried them over to her. “Have a look at these,” he said. “Tell me who you recognise.”

They were pictures of demonstrations, meetings. She saw Beth and Rebecca in a couple and pointed them out. But that was it.

“Have you ever been approached by MI5?”

“What?” The question was ridiculous.

“Have you ever been approached by MI5?” he asked again.

“No,” she said. “Of course not.”

“Stand up.”

She obeyed. What was coming? What was next?

“Place the sole of your left foot against the inside of your right knee.”

What the fuck was happening? She obeyed, slowly, uneasily.

“It’s a position that helps memory,” he said. “Stay in that position or you’ll be punished. You can hold your arms out if you need to, for balance.”

There was a pause. Bobby was terrified. She knew they were building to more pain. He carried on.

“Let’s test this, shall we? How about you tell me about a night you must remember well. Tell me about when you lost your virginity.”

It was excruciating. She went through it and he kept asking more and more questions, drawing out more and more detail. The dance. The vodka that she’d bought earlier in the day. Her giggling, leading Kevin into the bushes. Them kissing. His hand groping at her dress. Her hand down the front of his trousers, feeling his erection. The sense of abandonment, pulling up her dress, pulling down his trousers. The act, those few seconds of excitement and warmth and the pain and the sense of vague disappointment and his confusion and apologies and them hugging and dressing and hugging some more and promising never to be apart. The fear the next day and the day after and the week after that. The relief when her period came. Telling a room of men these humiliating details as they smirked and she stood on one leg.

Uppal nodded. Was this over? She was aching. She wobbled a little. “See?” he said. “Good for the memory. It helped, didn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” she said flatly.

“There’s just a couple of minor problems. Firstly, you were under-21. Drinking alcohol is an offence. Probably three months in a camp. Buying alcohol as an under-21, a year in a camp. Supplying alcohol to under-21s, two years in a camp and probably a flogging. You’re in trouble, aren’t you, Miss Stafford?”

“Sir-” Fuck. What could she say?

“Oh, I hadn’t finished. Theft from the school, let’s say five years. Trespassing, three years. Malicious falsehoods against the priest, ten years and a flogging.”

“I’ve already been flogged for that,” she blurted. This couldn’t be happening. She stared open-mouthed. He couldn’t be doing this. It was absurd.

“And sex outside marriage, public indecency… you’re a whole, Miss Stafford. Flogging and maybe another ten years.”

“I think we’re talking another twenty, twenty-five years in here, plus five years left to serve and probably two floggings. Maybe a total of 40 strokes, 50 perhaps. Who knows these days? Maybe more. How old are you now?”

“Twenty-two,” she whispered.

“Well, you’d be out at 50,” he said. “That’s not so bad.”

She began to sob and put her foot down unthinking. “I’d die,” she said.

“Yes, you probably would. So you probably should co-operate. Clothes off.”
 
Narayan had supervised her being manhandled naked to the electric room and strapped down to the bench. Krishnamurthy had checked her over and pronounced her fit. He’d teased her, playing with her breasts, laughing about how they hadn’t been enough for Kevin. He touched the electrodes together, sparking them. He’d told her they’d move her up a level.

Eventually Uppal came in, looking weary, yet another coffee in his hand. He moved to the chair. This was when he had to act.

“Sir,” he ventured. “She must be punished for putting her foot down without permission.”

He saw Uppal’s mouth tighten. “I suppose so,” he said but his reluctance was obvious. “Turn her over.”

The guards were on her in an instant. She struggled, hopelessly, as they unfastened her, turned her to lie on her stomach and then reattached the straps over her wrists and ankles, then over her waist. “Be quick about it,” said Uppal, stepping back. Narayan looked at the pale expanse of her back and buttocks. He thought of 72 strokes on that pert arse: what a sight that must have been. “Ten with the grade one cane, sir?” he asked.

Uppal nodded and approached her. Narayan sent a guard to get the canes from the punishment room. Uppal gently stroked her hair. “I’m sorry, Miss Stafford,” he said. “But you put your foot down without permission and you have to be punished for that. I did warn you.” As he stepped back he continued. “This is what happens when you don’t co-operate. It ends up hurting.”

She clenched her teeth. Narayan could almost see the struggle in her not to plead, before she pay her right cheek against the bench, looking away from Uppal. Her fists balled and she prepared herself.

The flogging was brief but satisfying. Her slim buttocks were firmly muscled, evidence of the sport she’d played as well as the work in the camp. Narayan lay on strokes from the right, the other officer from her left. They showed no mercy, working her swiftly from the top of her ass to the bottom, each stroke applied with a swift vigour and landing with the dull whump that indicates a lash well-applied. She took the first four in silence but by the end was roaring in pain, buttocks streaked with burgundy. Narayan would have liked to have carried on, and to have made her count the strokes, but Uppal was a professional. As soon as it was done, he had her turned onto her back and fastened again.
*
Why was she not breaking? Uppal didn’t understand. The girl was exhausted. Over the course of the past hour, he’d given her a level one shot, a level two and six more level ones. She was shaking, sobbing, begging, but she had told him nothing. How could she keep up her cover story this well? Not a slip, not a hint, nothing. Her brain couldn’t be working properly and yet she was outflanking him at every turn. And that was after a flogging. Not a serious flogging, but ten with a grade one was bad enough. She’d need a day or two in the infirmary before she could work again. The longer it went on, the more his doubts troubled him.

He gazed down at her trembling nakedness, wires leading from her left ear and her right labia. He let his fingers wander across her breasts to the fading bruise on her collar-bone. “Where did you get that?” he asked, in part because he was intrigued and in part because it was essential to get her talking, saying anything other than, “I don’t know.”

“In the police station,” she said, her voice weak. “Before they whipped me. I asked for clothes. They said… said I was disobeying them.”

“Disobedience does seem to be a trait,” he said. “Were you indulged as a child?”

She didn’t answer. He tried to quell a surge of anger. He stood up and took the leather bit in his hand. “The Rainbow Group?” he said.

She shook her head gently. “Level Two, then. Open wide.”

She obeyed and closed her teeth on the leather. He looked at the reddened lobe of her ear, the white crust of the ointment. How could somebody as delicate and pretty as this be involved in that? He nodded at Narayan and was already out of the room when they cut the current, her rasps of pain echoing after him.
 
Narayan had supervised her being taken to a cell. They’d unchained her and thrown her down. She just lay, naked and exhausted on the concrete, trembling and moaning. He told the boys to wait half an hour or so and give her a drink of water and then to leave her. He’d been about to go to bed when Uppal asked him to join him in the kitchen.

They stood drinking more coffee, leaning on the counter.

“What do you make of her?” the colonel asked

Narayan didn’t know how to answer. He thought she was an arrogant bitch who should be punished severely, even if she was flatter-chested than he’d have liked. “What do you mean? She’s the head of all this isn’t she?” he said, but even as he did so he thought of how unlikely it sounded that that girl could be the head of anything.

“What if she’s telling the truth?”

“What?”

“What if she is just a student who came back to help out at her old school, who tried to expose a lecherous old priest and ended up getting beaten as part of a cover-up?”

“But six testimonies?”

“McCormack was tortured and asked to give her name. You know how it happens. An officer gets a list, he goes through it. If he gets corroboratory evidence it looks good for him. What if all six of them did the same?”

“No, surely not. Not six.” It didn’t make sense.

“If the priest knew people, which he clearly did… he gets her whipped, totally without justification. He gets her imprisoned under the emergency laws. He gets her name put near the top of those lists. It’s a hell of a revenge.”

Narayan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He wanted to hurt her some more. “I can’t-” he began.

“Why has she not showed up in any photograph of a demonstration? Why did we know nothing of her till, what, three, four months ago? And you really think a top intelligence officer gets caned by a school?”

That was a horribly persuasive argument. “Cover?” Narayan suggested.

“What, to get into one of these camps?”

“Why not?”

Uppal shook his head. “Maybe she was working with rebels in the hills. That’s what we have to work on next.”

Narayan decided to plunge in. “Maybe I could give her a beating, sir. Work her over for a night. Humiliate her. Maybe she’s trained for electricity.”

Uppal screwed up his mouth. “Not yet,” he said. “Get yourself to bed. We’ll start again tomorrow.”

*

Megan had been pulled aside at roll-call and taken to the infirmary. “The doctor wants to check your wounds,” the sergeant had said to her. She felt a moment of panic but she also knew this was what she needed.

She’d had to wait about an hour before he’d come in, smiling, with flask of hot tea and a basket of warm bread. He really thought she liked him. Well, good. They chatted. He asked about her bruises. She asked him about his life outside. As subtly as she could she asked about Bobby. He seemed unsurprised by the question, told her she was being tortured, that they were blasting her with electricity.

After they’d eaten, they fucked, slowly and, if not enjoyably then at least not in such a way that it revolted her. He applied balm to her buttocks. They had more tea. They fucked again. And then, as they lay together, her head resting on his chest, she asked about the possibility of maybe getting a message to somebody on the outside. It was just to let them know it was OK, she insisted. He seemed hesitant, but she suspected it was more that he couldn’t be bothered than that the idea outraged him.

He left her after about three hours, allowed her sleep in a warm bed, before she was returned to eat lunch with the other prisoners. She should feign illness, he said, so he could have her spend more time in the infirmary.
 
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