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The Interrogation And Punishment Centre For Girls

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Eulalia

Eulalia

Poet Laureate
Staff member
Now I've finished breaking Faith,​
I'll start sharing with you my 'near future' fantasy.​
If you like it, I can promise you there's lots of it!​
The background will become clear as it goes along,​
sufficient to say:​
Place: somewhere in the "civilised" world​
Time: any day now. ​



THE INTERROGATION & PUNISHMENT CENTRE FOR GIRLS​
​
Chapter I​
​
'Abandon hope, all girls who enter here ...'​
​
1​

The bus drew up, tyres crunching on gravel. From our crouching-cell in the darkness, we could hear people disembarking, luggage being unloaded. The lock in the hatch-door opened, light flooded in. "Out!" The Guard grabbed Eva and Caterina by their arms and hauled them out to stand blinking in early daylight, I clambered out with them. We stood, legs apart, hands on buttocks, like we'd been trained. We were in a wire-fenced yard overshadowed by a huge, unlovely building, stark, rust-coloured walls pierced by blank, black-barred windows. A few passengers paused to look us up and down as we waited, bewildered. They were mostly young men, some in the uniforms of élite Officer Cadets, others wearing the dreaded lightning-flash insignia of the Military Security Police. The bus-guard handed each of us a folder, with our number, name and ID photo on the front. "In there! They'll tell you what to do."

He pointed up steps leading to a pretentious entrance in a curved tower that formed the centre of the building. As we walked briskly up, above the sound of crows cawing and the bus driving off, a shrill, piercing shriek made us start. It came from a narrow, horizontal barred slit-window to the left side of the steps. Other high-pitched cries mingled with men's shouts and sharp cracks came from a similar window on the other side. By the time we reached the doorway, such sounds were ringing in our ears, shaking us with dread.

And the inscription on the porch above the doors did nothing to reassure us, those few fearful words, INTERROGATION AND PUNISHMENT CENTRE FOR GIRLS, told us we had arrived at the place where our worst nightmares would seem trivial.

We entered a grandiose marbled foyer, where screams from below still echoed. In the centre stood a desk behind which sat a pretty yet hard-faced young woman, wearing a female version of MSP uniform. Beside the desk, bantering with her, stood a Cadet. I noticed a short, gleaming black, leather whip clipped to his belt. The woman held out her hand without a word. I gave her my folder, she glanced at it and at me, tapped briefly on a keyboard, returned the folder, did the same for the other two, then pointed to a door behind her, to the left. "Through there, along the walkway, into the Stripping Room."

My heart was pounding with fear, I could hear Caterina was sniffing, struggling to fight back tears. Our animal urge to flee was almost overwhelming our reason, yet so disoriented were we by our night-long journey in the bus-hatch, indeed by the whole long nightmare of our rendition, we had no idea which way to run. And the glimpse of that shiny whip was enough to tell me what kind of power now controlled our fate.

The door led to a covered way alongside a courtyard, visible through a metal-barred screen. In the centre of the sandy quadrangle stood a platform on which was a great wooden scaffold, two uprights, a crossbar, chains hanging from angle-bars at the top corners. And to our right were cages, metal-barred like lion cages in the zoo. In the shadows I could make out human figures, naked girls, lying, sitting, kneeling, crouching, deathly-pale faces, wide hopeless eyes gazing at us through the gloom. I hurried the two younger girls along, Caterina was close to hysterical, and Eva's expression was wild, demented.

Through a door at the end of the walkway, we came into an area where several men were standing, chatting. Their eyes all turned on us girls as we entered. A burly MSP Sergeant with a battle-hardened face was evidently in control of the space. His whip was in his hand, with it he pointed to a window in a wall to his right. There we handed our folders to another young woman, who did much the same as the first but didn't return them. Behind her I could see an office in which several like her were busy, all dressed in a smart MSP rig that included, below the regulation police shirt, a little black skirt and nice shiny knee-high boots.

"In here!" The Sergeant summoned us now through a cage door into an area partitioned off by another barred screen. The male audience could and did observe us through it. "Strip!" We all froze, the moment we knew was coming yet could not guard against! "STRIP!" he yelled, hitting the wooden table beside him with a sharp whiplash. "You can keep your knickers and bras on for now. Everything else OFF!"

No more delay, we ripped off our kit, tossed it on a bench running along the side wall. There was a chorus of whistles and glee when I pulled down my shorts to reveal my thong. I'd worn my lightest briefs for Corrective Labour, more comfortable than anything else for toiling at trash-picking in the slimy ooze of the Tip, and since the night of the riot when we were rounded up and I was picked out for Rendition, that's what I'd been wearing. There was excitement too when it became apparent that poor Caterina was wearing no bra, only a camisole – she looked pleadingly at the Sergeant, he just growled "Get that off!" and flicked his whip again.

"Untie your hair!" I unclipped my pony-tail, Caterina was fumbling to untie her plaits, I helped her, wondering if we'd be in trouble, but the Sergeant permitted this. "Now, all jewellery, watches, anything else. Give me that!" He'd spotted my watch, a good one, my eighteenth birthday present from Mum and Dad,. That went into his pocket, the other things - Caterina's necklace with its silver cross, Eva's ear-studs and bangles, all our hair-grips - into a cardboard box on the table.

Nearly naked, we stood "at the ready" once more, the Sergeant eyeing us up and down with obvious satisfaction. After he'd drunk in his fill, he gestured us out through the cage-door and across to one that opened onto the yard. He pointed across to the far side, "Down the steps there, into the Waiting Area. You'll be called to the Courtroom." We hurried across, passing close to the platform with the threatening scaffold, down a flight of steps and into the basement of the building. A tall young black Cadet lounging at a desk paused from reading a comic and waved us to a bench where we sat, silent, anxious.

We were near the source of the screams again, very near now. To our right, a passageway led to a brightly-lit place, and the cries of agony were coming from there. It was not just one voice, there were at least three, all young females, sometimes yelling, sometimes yelping, sometimes pleading, sometimes sobbing, often – and this was most terrifying of all – letting out long, high-pitched wails of unearthly desperation that cut through us as if we were being drawn into whatever unimaginable horrors they were experiencing.

We waited a long time. At one point, a girl came along the passageway from the place of horror. She was dressed in her undies like us, her face was ghostly white, she was visibly trembling. The Guard waved her to sit on another bench, opposite us. I gazed at her, trying to exchange at least a glance, but she just stared down at her quivering bare thighs, her hands clutching at the edge of the bench as if something was about to hurl itself at her slim, frail body.

At last the Guard's pager bleeped, he glanced at it and snapped "381152!" My number, I jumped to my feet, "Eulalia Merida, Sir!" He pointed to stairs at the end of the Waiting Area, I scuttled up them and found myself in the centre of a large, high room lit by large windows through which the morning sun was now shining. In front of me sat a man behind a desk, wearing a civilian suit and tie. To his left behind another desk a man in MSP uniform, and opposite him another man in civvies. Behind me I was aware of some more men. I stood at the ready.

The man in front of me was reading some papers, doubtless about me. At length he looked up. "381152 Eulalia Merida?" "Yes, Sir!" "You have been brought to the Interrogation and Punishment Centre for Girls. Do you understand what that means?" "Yes, Sir," I answered a little feebly, I didn't understand, but I knew it meant something very bad for me. "For the time being, you will be held in the Interrogation Unit, while your case is being investigated. As long as you behave correctly, obey all orders given you by any IPCG personnel instantly, and co-operate when you are questioned, you will retain your rights as a citizen and the protection of the Ministry of Justice. When the case against you has been prepared, you will be tried in this Court and sentenced to Punishment under the Civil Code. However, if you are disobedient or uncooperative, you will be stripped of your citizenship, deprived of the protection of the Ministry of Justice, and handed over to the Military Security Police for interrogation by a Special Interrogation Squad," (I quivered sharply at the mention of the notorious SIS) "tried by Tribune-Martial, and sentenced under Military Law. The choice is yours, I advise you to reflect on it very carefully. Do you understand?" "Yes, Sir, I understand." My voice was tense, hoarse. "Very well Eulalia, you will return now to the Stripping Room, where you will be registered as a prisoner and then you'll be directed down to the Interrogation Unit cells, where you will stay while you await interrogation."

A Cadet got up from behind me and opened a glass door in the side of the courtroom to let me out to the yard again. I crossed back past the scaffold, reflecting on how nonchalantly the authorities here assumed that I – and no doubt all their girl-prisoners – would obey their orders, without needing any Guards to trouble with escorting us. It's proof, humiliating proof, from the very moment we arrive at the IPCG, of their absolute control over us. I opened the door on the far side of the yard, and reported again to the Sergeant.
 
thehangingtree said:
obviously, dear eulalia had time on her hands as she hung crucified by the IMF to cook this one up...

THT
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she ia a wonder Tree:D you could know that.
 
Eulalia said:
This has been my "main" fantasy for a long while,​
well before I discovered CruxForums and all its joys!​
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you forgot Tree?
 
:D
 
Hello,
I am Miss Creak (The one with the cane) and I wish to apply for a job at your Interrogation and Punishment Centre.
Your's Faithfully
Miss Creak
 

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jonesygirl said:
Hello,
I am Miss Creak (The one with the cane) and I wish to apply for a job at your Interrogation and Punishment Centre.
Your's Faithfully
Miss Creak
Click to expand...
I'm pleased to see you're wearing the MSP (female) uniform,​
that will certainly get you on the shortlist!​
 
I'm looking for a job in that nice maidenschool is A very special Prison a possibilty for the shortlist too
 
Dream on, Julie! I might meet a few cruel women in the IPCG, but as you'll see, it's a man's world. The Junta in control since the Military coup have put men firmly back in the saddle, any murmur of insubordination even from" free" women will be cruelly crushed. Forget women's rights, equality, liberation, the IPCG exists to snuff out any lingering sparks of such delusions ....

2​

The Sergeant, now sitting on the bench, smoking a cigarette, beckoned me into the Stripping Room. With him a young woman from the office was waiting for me, holding some fabric strips. I stood at the ready as she plastered one of the strips, bearing my number and name, across my collar-bone, pressing it firmly onto my skin, I could feel it was backed with tough adhesive, if it was pulled it would rip my skin off with it. A smaller one, with a barcode, went on my left wrist. While she was labelling me I noticed, below her very short skirt, brand-marks on her thighs – the 'fylfot' cross of the Military Security Council and the lightning flash of the Military Security Police, with strings of numbers between them and her knees. Under the new Law, the very fact these office-girl's heads, arms and legs were uncovered was enough to signal what those livid marks confirmed, they're slaves - albeit very fortunate and privileged ones!

Next I had to stand, still at the ready, in a booth in a corner of the room, several flashes indicating that I was being photographed for up-to-date ID. That done, the Sergeant directed me down a flight of stairs, "Straight ahead at the bottom!" As I descended, then walked along a passageway between rows of blank steel doors, I felt a growing sense of sickening dread. I was getting closer and closer to the source of the dreadful, never-ending screams. I was approaching a brightly lit space, I guessed it was the one we saw from the Waiting Area. I walked down two or three more steps into a wide circular room, the basement of the Tower. Four doors were at equal intervals around the perimeter wall, marked SW, NW, NE, SE; it was from behind these hefty metal doors, through narrow ventilators above them, that the cries were coming. Torture Chambers, of that I could have no doubt.

I stood, trembling, at the ready, in front of a counter surrounding a well-equipped console where a young Guard was viewing several screens, on each of which I could see girls, several on some, alone on others, some naked, some dressed as I was in underclothes. He wore headphones and was flicking the images, zooming in on some, panning over others, evidently monitoring, and doubtless savouring, what there was to see in the various cells. It was a few moments before he noticed me. When he did, he swung round on his seat, took off his headphones, and snapped, "Show me your wrist, cunt!" I held out my left wrist with the barcode sticker, he scanned it with a reading pen. This was how my whereabouts would be constantly recorded from now on. He glanced at a computer screen, pressed a control, and ordered me, "Cell 6, end one on the left!"

I turned and marched briskly back along the passage to where one of the steel doors had slid open, turned and entered. It immediately closed behind me, the automatic lock clunking loudly as it sealed. I gagged at the warm, foul-smelling air in a narrow cell, with minimal two-tier bunks on either side on which four girls were lying, while another three were sat on the floor. All were dressed, rather undressed, like me, in scanty, dirty, sweat-soaked rags of underwear. They glanced up at me, each with eyes strained by terror and despair. One, a sturdy-looking lass with a shock of black curls, pointed to the corner to my right, the only vacant space. I sat down, the girl next to me, a slender blonde, looked at me briefly, put her finger to her lips, then pointed to a small device in the ceiling, obviously the means by which the Guard was monitoring any movement, any sound. She turned her head away from me quickly, as if afraid to be caught in even wordless communication with a fellow-prisoner.

So we sat, gazing blankly into space, sharing the scanty oxygen in this confined space, sweating profusely in clammy heat though it was still only early morning, exchanging the smell of each other's fear. All the time, there were noises outside, footsteps, men's shouts, doors creaking as they open and closed, locks clunking, and all the time the high, shrill shrieks echoed from those four Chambers.

After what seemed hours, one tall brown-skinned youngster stood up, stretched, exercised her limbs as well as she could in the cramped space, evidently this is permitted. Then she took a metal bowl from the sill of the high, barred, slit window, the only ventilation for the room. She drank from it and replaced it, then sat back down. I realised how desperately thirsty I was, but dared not ask if I could have any water. Some while later, one of the girls dozing on the bunks awoke and made her way to the far corner of the cell to use what must be the toilet, a hole in an iron grid that ran across the floor below the wall, covering an open drain.

I noticed that both the girls who'd moved had old, private owners' brand-marks on their thighs. They must be slavegirls – rebels, runaways, or ones who'd just failed to give themselves up when the Military régime restored slavery. Looking around, I could tell we'd been renditioned not just from Elmeda, but from the Union of Civilised States, and all parts of the world-wide empire now ruled by the Military Security Council. Even if we'd been allowed to speak, we'd have probably had eight different languages, and the slaves among us could have been captured anywhere on the planet, such are the grasping tentacles of the MSC. White, brown and black, fair or dark, we had one thing in common, I thought ruefully – we're a pretty good-looking coffle of captives! A plain or downright ugly girl would probably get off with a thrashing and a few weeks of Corrective Labour, to get renditioned to the IPCG you need curves in the right places!

Suddenly, I felt fingers gently stroking my back, the girl on the bed behind me. I dared not turn to look at her, but very cautiously I put my left hand behind me, she clutched it tightly, like a frightened child clutching her teddy-bear, and held it to her warm cheek. After a few minutes, I felt her kiss it silently, then let go. I brought it back and laid it on my bare thigh, feeling glad I'd been able to give a tiny bit of comfort.

Just then, there was a sudden wailing sound through speakers above the door, I hadn't noticed them and was frightened out of my skin. My cellmates leapt to their feet, the two on top beds jumping straight to the floor. I stood, the door before me slid open, and, gently prodded by the girl behind, I led the file out into the passageway, where we stood at the ready, facing the Torture Chambers. In front of me was a long row of similar girls, for cell 6 is the farthest from the Guard's console.

A group of men moved slowly along the line of prisoners, inspecting them closely. An officer, a Captain by the stars on his shoulder, was evidently in charge, he carried a cane, with which he prodded or flicked several of the captives, I heard a few yelp piteously. As he approached, I could see he was a strikingly handsome man, tall, with carefully coiffured blonde hair, pale blue eyes in a strangely soft, chubby, almost babyish face. I felt a twinge of recognition, where had I seen that face before?

At last he reached me, and looked me up and down I stared straight ahead. " I like the panties!" he said, flicking the elastic of my thong with his cane, "Have you put them on specially for me, eh?" He seized my chin making me look into his icy cold eyes. "Is this a newbie?" "Yes, Sir," replied the Guard, "accessioned this morning." With the tip of the cane he flicked my nipples under my flimsy bra. For all my fear and disgust, I was throbbing with excitement, he leered at my involuntary sigh of pleasure as my tits grew hard. "Make sure this one's on my list," he commanded. "Yes Sir, I'll see to that. Sir."

The Guard paused, then added as an afterthought, "Sir, she's the daughter of Santiago Merida." "Aha! Yes, so I see," he peered at the label on my neck, "381152 Eulalia Merida! Well, well! This surely is my lucky day, I feel like I've won the lottery!" He poked the cane between my thighs, rubbing it back and forth on my vulva till my hips were wiggling in helpless excitement, then threaded it right into my thong so it touched my clitoris, I gasped in arousal. "We'll have such fun with Merida's brat, won't we – eh, my beauty?" He pulled the cane back sharply and thwacked my bum with a ferocity that made me stagger forwards. Hastily I resumed 'at the ready', legs wide, hands on now burning buttocks. He moved on to view the rest of the cell 6 girls.
 
N8Dreams said:
Eulalia understands to make a story extended......:(
Click to expand...
This one could well go on and on - it's not fast-moving, more a diary of a girl's descent deeper and deeper into the Hell of the IPCG,​
and at this stage I'm just setting the scene, as I get to grips with this nightmare of an authoritarian male-run system for breaking rebellious women ​
maybe not to everyone's taste, but there's quite a lot of eulalia stuff in different styles on the Forum! ​
​
mymartinet said:
So whens the next episode Eulalia?
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You're a true martinet, martinet, 'a strict disciplinarian'​
that's what this slavegirl needs!​
​
3​
​
After the inspection was finished, the tall, sallow-faced girl at the end of the row collected the metal bowls from the cell and handed them out to us. As she did so, a trolley wheeled by two girls in white tee-shirts and blue shorts brought our food, one ladled it into our bowls, the other handed us chunks of dry, greyish bread. Their branded thighs showed they were slaves, but they went about their work briskly, the ladling one even managing a twinkle-eyed smile as she filled my bowl with a sort of soup or stew – bits of fat and gristle, vegetable peelings, other unidentifiable objects, kitchen waste and canteen left-overs cooked up for us no doubt, but I was ravenous and gobbled it greedily, wiping the bowl with the stale bread to relish every drop. Could be worse, I thought, they'll keep us captives fit to be tortured!​
​
While I was eating, I began to take in what was going on across the passage. There were more cells on that side, doors closer together, and only single girls stood outside them. I noticed they were completely naked, not even underclothed like us. The one directly opposite me, a well-built blonde, squatting as I was to eat her meal. There was a distant, unearthly look in her blue eyes, the left one was heavily bruised. She had black metal manacles on her wrists, short chains dangling from them tinkled against her bowl; ankle-irons, too. I glimpsed her full breasts, horribly marked with livid scars. The Captain and the other men were now further along the line, he was groping and fingering the young nudes lasciviously, making them squirm and squeal, but they remained standing, legs apart, obviously rigid with terror. All their backs were marked with crimson weals, purple bruises, deep red burns, forming the pattern across their shoulders and buttocks that I'd later learn they call "the red bikini," the badge of the Torture victim. One was on her knees, her wrists manacled behind her back. After she'd been kicked several times by the Captain, her food was given her on the floor, she had to lap it up like a dog. Some of the doors had no girl outside, it was all too easy to guess where the occupants were, their screams continued to echo down the passage from the Torture Chambers.​
​
When we'd quickly finished up our food, we filed back into the cell and lined up for water. A tap in the far corner opposite the toilet hole only worked at set times. Each of us pulled up the lever, rinsed our bowl, filled it with water to drink, and hastily splashed our grubby faces and bodies for a few moments before the it shut off after about thirty seconds, then it was the next girl's turn. I drank most of my water, set the bowl at the end of the row on the sill, and followed the others out to the passage.​
​
A Guard was yelling "Come on, hurry up!" We shuffled into line as he flicked our legs with his whip. We were facing the stairs now, and marched off up them. through the Stripping Room, and out into the yard. We lined up in six rows, cell by cell, facing the platform with the scaffold. The Guard stood on there, flanked by a pair of young girls in white shirts and shorts. He began shouting orders, exercise movements, which the two white-clad slavegirls demonstrated and we had to follow, old-fashioned gymnastic exercises, yoga positions, all manner of bending and stretching, jumping, squatting – with my ballet school background, I had no problem with them, and felt quite exhilarated by the exercise, but some of the girls were obviously less gymnastic, and they weren't helped by three or four young cadets, mere boys no older that us prisoners, who cavorted between the rows flicking their whips viciously at our bodies and legs while yelling obscenities and trying to outdo each other in the cries they drew from their victims. I saw they wore the gold badge of the World Military Academy - a tour of duty in the IPCG is evidently part of élite training, no doubt engaged in with enthusiasm, knowing that those who show themselves to be most ruthless and sadistic will be picked out for fast-track promotion!​
​
The exercise lasted about half an hour. The sun was high in the sky, beating down on our bare bodies, sweat cascaded down our skin. As well as the Cadets, a good many spectators were enjoying the sight from the walkway, peering at us through the grid. Nearly all male, but not all in uniform, members of the public are admitted to the walkway and the foyer by the Stripping Room to enjoy the sight of naked or scantily clad young women being put through their paces, it's a popular entertainment. As we were marched back indoors, they greeted us with jeers and whistles. Downstairs, we returned to our cells. The little girl who'd been lying on the bottom bunk behind me gestured to me that it was my turn to rest there. I smiled at her, she was a pretty little thing, with a mass of dark hair and big dark brown eyes in a finely-featured face. As I got on to the bed, she whispered "Marie", I detected a French 'r' so responded very softly "Eulalie." Then I lay my head on the small lumpy sack that served for a pillow and promptly fell asleep, my first sleep for more than 36 hours.​
​
I didn't feel I'd had enough rest when the wailing alarm woke me sharply and we were out for another inspection, a fairly cursory one this time, by a couple of NCOs, though they had a good look at my assets, "Nice legs." "Mm, tits a bit undersize, though." My body, especially my breasts and genitals, were tingling as they ogled and fingered me, and it wasn't embarrassment, I was past caring what men said or did with my body, I even – though I hardly dared admit it to myself – felt some rush of pleasure when I received such attention. Something I didn't know then was that our food was laced with hormonal stimulants, formulated to keep our oestrogen flowing, our organs in a constant state of animal heat. No wonder the atmosphere in the cell was so heavy with female pheromones!​
​
We were allowed water again, then it was Marie's turn to rest on the bunk, I sat on the floor beside her, dozing fitfully. Eventually the speakers wailed and we filed out for another inspection. This time a different Officer came along the row, an ugly, scarfaced easterner, perhaps Japanese. He showed interest in me, rubbing his cane against my thighs in a way I found very sensuous, grinning at my involuntary quiver of pleasure. "Is this one free?" he asked with a lecherous leer. "I'm afraid she Sir, Captain Zeta fancies her, she's on his list." "Ah!" His tone angry, he hit my thigh hard in his frustration, but it was not the pain of that blow that made me start with shock – Zeta, that name! Now I remembered. Months back before the coup, a girl student activist named Carola complained that she'd been abused and raped by an officer when she was arrested on a demonstration. Lieutenant Zeta he was then, the story was big for several days, she was a good-looking girl, he's a handsome man, and his arrogant behaviour was breathtaking, he more or less announced that he'd fucked her and he'd do the same to any trouble-making slut he managed to get his hands on. Dad and other Libertarian politicians demanded he be brought to justice, but the Military rallied round and his triumphantly sneering face was on television and the front pages of papers for days, he was a big hero for the Right, and another nail in the coffin of the Libertarian government, the Military had shown they were completely above the law. After the coup, Carola was "disappeared", they say the Wheel is the preferred end for girls who really get up the noses of the Military. And now I meet him here, with Captain's stars on his shoulders, and I'm on his list. A sick feeling of dread gripped my stomach, yet another part of me was feeling it was a kind of destiny, something that's meant to happen....​
​
I was gradually learning the tedious routine of life in the Interrogation Unit. Inspection and water every four hours, food every eight, early morning, midday and evening, exercise once a day after midday food, otherwise the ghastly boredom and constant fear of waiting, waiting, till the time came for the screams along the passageway to be mine. The bright light in the ceiling stayed on day and night, through the narrow slit window it was just possible to see whether it was light or dark outside, footsteps often passed by – I guessed it looked out onto the walkway we'd come along when we arrived. This confinement, eight of us together in this narrow, stuffy hell-hole, not daring to speak or communicate in any way, hardly daring to look at each other, was even worse than solitary, we seemed to just reinforce each other's gnawing terror and hopelessness.​
​
During my second night, when I was sleeping on the bunk, there was a different interruption, an ID number was suddenly shouted through the speaker system. I blinked awake to see the strapping youngster with tight dark curls leap from the top bunk opposite and position herself in front of the door. It was her number, her time had come. She looked surprisingly perky, glanced down at me and winked, I gave her a quick thumbs up, the door creaked open and she was gone. The next time I saw her was four or five days later, during an inspection, she came along the passageway from a Torture Chamber, crawling, hardly able to drag herself along the floor, her naked body dripping blood as a pair of Guards kicked and beat her, swearing, tugging at her curls, till that got her to her cell across the way and thrown her inside.​
​
This was the pattern, every few days – in fact, nearly always at night – a girl's number was called and off she went, whether boldly like that first one, evidently relieved that something, even Torture, was happening at last, or shaking and tearful, as was the next to go, a mousy little creature with freckles and reddish brown hair. A few hours later, usually in the morning, a new girl arrived, and so my position in the cell 6 queue gradually moved up.​
​
 
4​

One morning, the sound of a whip, whistling through the air and lashing bare skin, and the sharp, agonised shriek it draws forth, came from a new direction, not from the Torture Chambers but through the slit window, some poor creature was being flogged outside. She got a couple of dozen lashes, then things were quiet for a while, but then we heard cries, piteous pleading, followed by another dozen or so whipstrokes. When we paraded out for exercise, we saw the victim, a pretty, slim, blue-eyed blonde, naked, shackled by her wrists to the chains that hung down from the top corner-braces of the Scaffold. The marks of her ordeal were clearly visible on her delicate pale skin, deep purple-red weals, some trickling blood. She sobbed as she saw us. The Guard and slavegirls mounted the platform and stood in front of her, completely ignoring her, and we began our routine. It was noticeable that the walkway was crowded with spectators this afternoon, more Cadets than usual came to torment us as we performed, several other off-duty Military strolled into the yard and stood watching us, smoking, chatting, enjoying the spectacle.

Towards the end of the session, the Guard suddenly shouted "Stop!". A small group of men had come from a door in the corner of the yard, when she saw them the poor victim on the Scaffold started to scream, "No! No! Please, please, no more! Please!" The Guard left the platform, and the two young gymnast-slaves hopped down too. Their place was taken by an Officer, a Medical Inspector in a white coat, a thuggish Torturer bare to the waist, revealing powerful muscles and a slavegirl in white vest and red knickers carrying for him his vicious-looking rhino-hide sjambok. While the whimpering youngster was briefly examined by the MI, the Officer turned to us and announced, "This little brat, Lucretia, was caught stealing blackberries from bushes on Military land. Sixty-six lashes and four years hard labour, then she'll be sold as a slave!" Sixty-six lashes and four years hard for picking blackberries! If it wasn't so sickening you could almost laugh at the absurdity of it. This scaffold is evidently the one used for punishing "minor" offences, imagine what happens to those of us whose "crimes" are much more serious than blackberry-picking!

The Torturer had shackled his victim's legs wide apart now, to chains from the bottom corner. His colleagues left the platform, the slavegirl knelt in a corner out of his way, the thrashing began. First on her shoulders, ribs and buttocks, each blow drawing a shrill cry. He took his time, pausing between strokes to watch her squirm and hear her whines. He strolled round to face her, her eyes round, helpless, watched him swing back his arm to land a blow right across her breasts. She shrieked so the yard rang with echoes, her body writhing, tugging at the four chains, while the male audience roared their approval. A lash over her thighs encouraged this vigorous dance, another one wrapped around her hips. He paused again while she continued to struggle, gasping. He took careful aim and cut right across her pudenda, so the tip of the thong flicked into her groin. She leapt with another huge shriek, her feet well off the bottom bar of the scaffold. More applause from the excited spectators. He watched to enjoy the pained jerking and shaking of her hips, then walked behind her again to give her three more around her loins to encourage her frantic ballet of suffering, urged on by the delighted throng.

At last, he signalled to the slavegirl to unshackle the victim's ankles. She kicked feebly, continuing to writhe as her body absorbed this ration of pain. The Medical Inspector checked her again, the punishment party then departed, and we completed our exercises. The audience mostly dispersed, though a good many stayed to enjoy our performance. At last we returned to our cells. During the afternoon and into the evening, we heard poor Lucretia receiving three more bouts of whipping. Her cries were weaker each time, but the lashing just as cruel, and the last lot, only half a dozen, set her screaming continuously for a good half an hour. She probably never even got to eat those blackberries, I thought cynically!

In the cell, Marie and I bonded, very, very cautiously. Trying to hide from the all-seeing eye in the ceiling, we'd sometimes hold hands, or stroke some part of the other's body. On our way out or back from inspections, we'd managed a brief moment of loving contact, pressing our bodies together. She was so helpless, so vulnerable, I longed to hug her and comfort her, but this was the best I could do. And even this proved too risky. One evening as she lay on the bunk and I sat beside her, I positioned my arms so I could gently stroke her cheek for a few moments, sure I wouldn't be seen. But suddenly a voice boomed through the speaker, "Stop that, you two!" All the girls in the cell looked up, shocked. "Yes, you two little lesbian slags, bottom right bunk. Stand up, hands on your heads!" I stood as commanded, nodding to Marie to warn her to do the same. The door slid open. "Come to the Guard Office! Keep your hands on your heads!" We walked along the passage, not daring even to exchange glances.

"Stand there!" yelled the Guard when we reached the step, "Turn round!" We turned to face back along the passage. He spoke some instructions into a mike, soon we heard light footsteps, a slavegirl probably, a clink of metal. He stood behind me, said "Hold these!" Into my hands he put a pair of exercise weights. "Hold them up above your head! Arms straight!" I obeyed. He gave another pair, smaller I hoped, to Marie, and the same command. For a long time we stood, trying to keep stock still, our arms rigid. The weights weren't impossibly heavy, perhaps 2 kilos each, but of course holding them up as we were soon became painful. He remained behind us and began chastising us with his light whip, again not an especially violent weapon compared to the sjambok we'd seen used on Lucretia, but a sharp and cruel cutting pain to bare thighs, buttocks, loins, ribs and shoulders. Marie yelped at each blow, I managed to stay quiet, trying not to add to her terror.

At last he let us lower the weights to our shoulders, but then he commended, "Knees bend!" and we had to squat down, still holding the weights. He returned behind the console, back to his duties, but we were conscious that he was watching us. After about ten minutes, Marie suddenly fell forward, her small frame unable to hold the position any longer. "Stay there!" yelled the Guard. He bounded out from the console and started thrashing the poor girl, I longed to use the weights as a weapon to hit him with, but my better sense prevailed, they'd only punish me and Marie in some hideous, unthinkable way.

When he'd hit her enough to start her screaming for mercy, he ordered us both to kneel, still holding the weights on our shoulders. So our punishment continued, sometimes kneeling, sometimes squatting, sometimes standing, sometimes holding the weights high. Men came and went, each of them taking the opportunity to flick us with his whip as he passed. At one point, a naked girl staggered up the steps between us and limped along the passageway to her cell, her fresh bruises and fierce red burn-marks showed she'd just come from a Torture Chamber. Not long after, two Guards emerged from a staff lift near where we were and made there was to a cell door which opened for them to extract another bare, trembling little wretch to be brought to the Chamber to take her place. And all the time, from the other three Chambers, the screams of agony continued.

At last it was inspection time, the speakers wailed, the doors opened, girls filed out and stood at the ready, facing us two miscreants. The Inspector, as luck would have it, was Zeta. When the Guard had told him what I'd been doing, he turned on me, slapped my face then spat in it snarling, "You whore, you little slag's cunt! You'll pay for this, on top of all the other things I've got on my list. You've already got plenty to suffer for, now you've made things even worse for yourself – sow's turd!" He whacked his cane across my lower abdomen, I staggered forward, nearly dropping the weights, but managed to steady myself. "Right, put the weights down now, you sluts, scurry back to your cell. I shan't forget you're a lesbian whore, Eulalia Merida!"
 
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