Ah yes, that would be relaxing.
But perhaps I've discovered even I've got a little sadistic streak,
cruelly leaving you in suspense for nearly a fortnight after this
3
I wriggled to get myself as comfortable as I could in my bondage. I thought of trying to roll over, but I'd have probably hurt myself more if I'd managed it at all. I was lying in a narrow space on the concrete floor, alongside a small bed. A big black spider crawled out to inspect its new companion. The cell was no more than a cupboard, hot and airless as an oven, reeking of my body smells and the blood and urine of previous occupants. A bright light in the roof shone straight on my upturned face, a spy-camera beside it. And screams from the Torture Chambers continued their fanfare – as Zeta had said, the victim he's torturing now is a good screamer, a high, piercing, persistent shriek ringing out above all the other cries and groans. My thighs, forcibly splayed to 90 degrees by my bondage, quivered in anticipation of his coming attention. But I was weary, quite exhausted, by my long ordeal in the Interrogation Room and my bruising "softening up". It's considerate of Captain Zeta to let a girl rest before he tortures her, I was thinking whimsically as I drifted into an uncomfortable doze.
At one point the siren wailed, the door slid open. I couldn't move, of course, just lay there with my head thrown back, gazing out into the corridor. A Guard eventually came on his inspection, just looked down at me and spat on my face. He turned to go, but then relented, called the slave-girl to climb over me to a tap in the far corner of the cell, and pour me water in a rusty old mug that was provided. He tugged me up by my hair and held me balancing on my knees while the ginger-haired, freckle-faced youngster put the mug to my lips with a mischievous grin. I drank furiously, easing a desperate thirst, feeling delight in the slave-kid's spirit even in this worst of places. Then the Guard dropped me back on the floor, my head hitting it painfully hard. They went, soon the door glided shut and I dozed again.
Next time I woke, the door was opening again, but not for an inspection. Two of the Cadets in my Interrogation Team were outside. One tugged me out into the passage by my hair, hauled me up and flung me face-forward onto the corridor floor, kicking me gratuitously in the groin as I fell. The other knelt down and disconnected my shackles, then snapped "Up!" I staggered to my feet, stood legs apart, facing along the way to the Torture Chambers, from which exceptionally loud screams were bursting, one after another. I held my arms back for my escorts to grab and jerk up in the way I knew they liked. Co-operate, that's the only way now, no point in struggling or trying to play the heroine, the time for that's past, just co-operate as much as I can - but don't betray!
And so I was marched briskly along to the Guard console. He pressed a button, the door of the South-West Torture Chamber slid open, I was thrust in. "Stand there cunt, and watch!" Zeta's voice roared through loudspeakers. I stood at the ready, taking in the scene. The Chamber floor was tiled, but in the centre was a concrete platform about two metres square and about 15cm above the floor. On it, illuminated by a very bright lamp above, lay a naked girl, her legs stretched wide apart, shackled by ankle-irons to heavy chains which in turn connected with a pair of iron rings near the corners of the platform furthest from me. Her shoulders lay over the edge nearest me, her arms stretched out were similarly linked to a pair of iron rings, these in the floor either side of where I was standing. Her head was thus thrown back, lying in a mass of golden curls, her pale face with light blue eyes gazed up at me with an expression of utter horror and despair.
I could see she'd just been beaten, her torso was twisting jerkily as she absorbed the continuing pain, weals were visibly reddening across her fine breasts, forced upwards and outwards by the pressure of her shoulders against the platform edge, and over her ribcage, lower abdomen and thighs, one of the half-naked thugs had just handed his whip to a naked slavegirl with a wild shock of fair hair, she wiped it carefully with a polishing cloth before placing on a table by the right-hand wall.
In the far wall of the Chamber was a line of windows, behind which in a brightly lit control room sat three men, and I could see an office girl at a keyboard behind them. The middle one was Zeta. He spoke again, "Connect her up" The girl started to moan, "Oh no, please Sir, please... I've told you ... I've told you everything Sir...." Her voice was amplified through the speaker system, there was a small microphone placed in a point in the floor above her head, under where I was standing. The two Cadets were at work as she pleaded, taking wires that ran from a point in the far wall below the window where Zeta was visible, and connecting them to the girl's sensitive parts with crocodile clips, one pair on her nipples, one pair on her labia, she winced sharply as she felt them bite. The slavegirl then poured water into a bucket from a tap in the far left-hand corner and brought it over to the platform Using what must have been her own red slave-knickers, she swabbed the victim's breasts and pudenda, and wetted the whole of her torso.
Now questioning began, the man to Zeta's left was the Interrogator. He was demanding that Sali (that's what he called her) say what classified documents she had accessed and copied, who had she transmitted them to. She just kept moaning, "No, no, Sir, I didn't see any other files, honest Sir..." Suddenly she shrieked, her whole body leapt up, her buttocks lifting right clear of the platform surface (which I noticed was crossed by a series of copper strips), she continued shaking violently, issuing a high-pitched continuous screech, for thirty or forty seconds, then dropped sobbing and gasping. The Interrogator repeated his question, but before she could even respond, she was thrown into another convulsion, again and again, a series of half a dozen or more inflictions with short pauses in between. Sali was panting, sweat streaming off her, her head thrashing from side to side. Even when the Torture ceased, she continued screeching, kicking and jerking her torso violently for two or three minutes. Now she was gabbling, hardly coherently, trying to offer something, some sort of answer, that might satisfy her tormentors. The interrogator ignored her, continued with his line.
As the interrogation proceeded, and Sali was subjected to further bouts of electrical torture, I pieced together something of the story: She had been working, a very junior intern, in some State office. She'd accidentally got to see some documents that showed her boss was syphoning off money for purposes that had nothing, so far as she could tell, to do with the work of his department. She told a friend about them – bad move, the "friend" was an MSP informer, now Sali's in the Torture Chamber being bullied to confess that she's a spy! She was putting up a good fight, trying to stick to her story, constantly protesting her innocence, but the constant pressure, the frequent, repeated infliction of violent electric shocks, the sheer helplessness she was experiencing stretched naked on the platform of pain, were remorselessly breaking her down.
As she lay there, sometimes begging for mercy, sometimes yelling defiance and hatred, sometimes dissolving into hysterical crying, I was secretly urging her with my thoughts, "Go on Sali, stick to your story!" but my rational mind understood her situation was hopeless, she'd do better to confess to being a spy and hope they'd give her some clues as to what they wanted to frame her with, what kinds of secrets she was supposed to have passed to enemies of the State.
After a time, there was a break, most of the Squad were relieved, though Zeta remained, as did the slavegirl, who was sent out and came back a few minutes later with cans of beer for the staff. After she'd run this errand, she poured herself a mug of water from the tap, and then brought some for me. Again I drank gratefully. Sali gazed up at us with hopeless eyes. She was allowed no water to drink, only to swab her body to make the burning electric charge sweep across her bare skin. The incoming Cadets now adjusted the positions of the electrodes on Sali's nipples and genitals, only slightly, just enough to ensure she didn't become numb and so be spared a little of the pain. Then one of the Torturers brought an additional instrument, again on a cable from the Control Room, a metal probe about six inches long. He knelt down and inserted it between Sali's thighs, she cried out in horror as she felt it pushing into her.
Questioning resumed, more extensive now, about Sali's other activities, her friendships, her interests and beliefs. She was answering more and more faintly, her replies were often confused, incoherent, trailing off into nothing. Suddenly another burst of electricity sent her shrieking and leaping with even more violent convulsions to her pelvis, and shocks of agony seizing the whole of her torso and thighs.
At last, the Interrogator gave her an opportunity for submission, "Sali, do you admit that you were spying?" The girl shook her head but said nothing, just lay there sobbing. "Go on, Sali," I was thinking, "Don't make it any worse for yourself. Let them have what they're wanting now, they're bound to make you say it in the end." Still she was speechless, weeping like a child. I feared another spasm of torture was coming any moment, when, in a voice so quiet even the amplifiers hardly made it audible, she whispered "Yes Sir, I was spying .... eeeeeh!"
To my horror, instead of accepting her "confession", Zeta immediately inflicted yet another series of shocks. The poor creature was flung up and down in eight more inflictions, with barely enough time between them for her to draw in breath in preparation for the next. When they ceased, she was whining, "No more! Please, I've confessed ... I can't...." The questioning went on, now bullying her to name her friends, her contacts, who she was passing information to. She made a pretty good job of resisting these demands, though when they mentioned some names she admitted she knew them, yes they were her friends, but no, she didn't know they had anything to do with the Resistance....
She was tortured two or three more times before the Interrogator commanded her, "Repeat your confession!" At this, Sali reeled off, hoarsely and half-audibly, a rigmarole of crimes she must have already admitted and been made to memorise. She was then made to repeat her final confession, that she was a spy, and an enemy of the State. Now Zeta took charge. "Sali," he said, in metallic hard tone, "You've given us a lot of trouble, wasted a lot of our time, haven't you?" "Yes, Sir," she croaked, "I'm sorry Sir." "You should be sorry. You deserve to be punished, don't you?" "Y-yes, Sir..." "Say it then." "Sir, I deserve to be punished." "That's right, Sali, and punished you will be. Slavegirl, heat the irons!"
At this Sali let out another despairing cry, "Oh no Sir, please! Not, not the irons, please!" The slavegirl went to a cupboard in the far corner of the Chamber and brought out a handful of long metal tools. She took them to a stove alongside the left-hand wall, lit a range of gas burners on the top, and laid the irons on the flames. The Torturers and the Cadets knelt down, one astride Sali's body, holding her hips, two beside her legs, gripping her thighs and lower legs, the fourth between her legs, holding them apart by grasping her knees. Zeta came through a door in the far wall into the Chamber. The slave girl handed him a cloth, then one of the irons, which he held with the cloth to protect his hand. The iron was not glowing, but it was smouldering, I could smell the acrid stench. Sali was whimpering, her face a terrible image of something far worse than death, utter despair. Zeta knelt down, the other men moving to give him room. I couldn't see from where I stood exactly where he placed the instrument, but it was all too easy to guess. Sali's scream was unearthly, like some ghost from Hell, her head shook frantically, the only part of her body that was free to move and respond to the hideous agony been inflicted in her most precious parts.
There were four more irons. Each one was applied by Zeta to ratchet up the victim's suffering to the highest pinnacle, When he'd completed the final infliction, he and all the other men stood, leaving Sali still stretched between the chains, but able to writhe – and writhe she did, twisting vigorously and violently as the fires he'd ignited ate deeper and deeper into her most sensitive flesh. They watched for a while, satisfied with their work. Then Zeta nodded, the Cadets unclipped the wrist and ankle restraints from the chains, Sali flung her arms across her body, stretching her hands down to clutch her tormented groin. Her legs flexed, she rolled on her side and lay in a foetal position, still howling in agony.
Zeta turned to me. "Your turn now, Merida's cunt!"
