Chuckbruder
Assistant executioner
Not Torture
The terrorists had captured Rachel, a young Israeli military intelligence officer. They took her to a hidden destination, a warehouse, for questioning.
Rachel Loefler was 24, an attractive brunette with long black hair in a ponytail. She was tall and slender with an athletic tight bottom and rather small breasts. She resembled a younger Sarah Silverman.
She was wearing fatigue pants and a military green tee shirt. Her face showed defiance, not fear, as they led her over to a sturdy tripod, made of heavy wood beams, and with a padded waist-high bolster. She was moved up and against it. The men tied her wrists up high to the peak of the tripod. They pulled her slacks down over her boots and off, and put them on a desk nearby. Her ankles were then affixed to the lower legs. She still had on her tee shirt and bra, which they left in place. Her white cotton bikini panties fit her cute bottom, outlining her lovely buttocks. She looked like a school girl about to be punished.
The leader of the men, Raheem, was a big tall man with a full black beard. He came over and scolded her. He said, “We may have a few questions for you. You will answer them promptly and accurately, or….” He held up a heavy riding crop. He then pulled down her panties to her knees and tucked the tail of the tee shirt under her bra strap. “You will feel this across your backside.”
Rachel snorted, “You can’t torture me. It is forbidden by the Geneva Convention.”
He laughed and replied, “We are not going to torture you. This will be punishment for the harm you have done. I am going to punish you by lashing your bottom with this crop and that.” He pointed to a heavy leather prison strap with wood handle, hanging on the wall.
“You will suffer for your wrongdoing, lieutenant. And will we continue for quite some time. But when we feel you have suffered enough, we will release you.”
Rachel just stared at him with hate. In spite of herself her pussy began to tingle, puff up, and ooze. She had gone to a strict private school in her early teens, where she had received severe corporal punishment spankings by a sadist headmaster. The experience of those punishments had created a powerful erotic imprint on her psyche, an enduring one.
At the moment, she did not equate his threat of what he was about to do to her experience at school and her fetish. This was different. She vowed to resist and tell him nothing, no matter how painful it would become. She would try not to cry out. She would try not to give him any satisfaction that he was hurting her.
As she waited, and in spite of her resolve, the painful memory of her school spankings in the specially equipped punishment room came back to her—hard paddle swats on her tender young buttocks, while she was bound firmly to a trestle and with her skirt gathered up and underpants down. And then there was the realization at the time that the headmaster enjoyed beating her, when she saw the tall erect bulge in his trousers. She hated him to this day for what he was and what he did to her. She resented him for the guilt she felt over her spanking fetish.
Raheem was a dedicated fighter, but he also enjoyed acting out his spanking fetish on Jewish women and teens, when the opportunity to do so came. He came up close to her and put his hand on her buttock. He squeezed it firmly and said, “Oh yes. You have been such a bad girl.”
He told the other men in the room to leave. The door was latched shut. He rolled up his right sleeve high, revealing a powerful muscular arm. He positioned himself to Rachel’s left and raised the crop up and back.
The terrorists had captured Rachel, a young Israeli military intelligence officer. They took her to a hidden destination, a warehouse, for questioning.
Rachel Loefler was 24, an attractive brunette with long black hair in a ponytail. She was tall and slender with an athletic tight bottom and rather small breasts. She resembled a younger Sarah Silverman.
She was wearing fatigue pants and a military green tee shirt. Her face showed defiance, not fear, as they led her over to a sturdy tripod, made of heavy wood beams, and with a padded waist-high bolster. She was moved up and against it. The men tied her wrists up high to the peak of the tripod. They pulled her slacks down over her boots and off, and put them on a desk nearby. Her ankles were then affixed to the lower legs. She still had on her tee shirt and bra, which they left in place. Her white cotton bikini panties fit her cute bottom, outlining her lovely buttocks. She looked like a school girl about to be punished.
The leader of the men, Raheem, was a big tall man with a full black beard. He came over and scolded her. He said, “We may have a few questions for you. You will answer them promptly and accurately, or….” He held up a heavy riding crop. He then pulled down her panties to her knees and tucked the tail of the tee shirt under her bra strap. “You will feel this across your backside.”
Rachel snorted, “You can’t torture me. It is forbidden by the Geneva Convention.”
He laughed and replied, “We are not going to torture you. This will be punishment for the harm you have done. I am going to punish you by lashing your bottom with this crop and that.” He pointed to a heavy leather prison strap with wood handle, hanging on the wall.
“You will suffer for your wrongdoing, lieutenant. And will we continue for quite some time. But when we feel you have suffered enough, we will release you.”
Rachel just stared at him with hate. In spite of herself her pussy began to tingle, puff up, and ooze. She had gone to a strict private school in her early teens, where she had received severe corporal punishment spankings by a sadist headmaster. The experience of those punishments had created a powerful erotic imprint on her psyche, an enduring one.
At the moment, she did not equate his threat of what he was about to do to her experience at school and her fetish. This was different. She vowed to resist and tell him nothing, no matter how painful it would become. She would try not to cry out. She would try not to give him any satisfaction that he was hurting her.
As she waited, and in spite of her resolve, the painful memory of her school spankings in the specially equipped punishment room came back to her—hard paddle swats on her tender young buttocks, while she was bound firmly to a trestle and with her skirt gathered up and underpants down. And then there was the realization at the time that the headmaster enjoyed beating her, when she saw the tall erect bulge in his trousers. She hated him to this day for what he was and what he did to her. She resented him for the guilt she felt over her spanking fetish.
Raheem was a dedicated fighter, but he also enjoyed acting out his spanking fetish on Jewish women and teens, when the opportunity to do so came. He came up close to her and put his hand on her buttock. He squeezed it firmly and said, “Oh yes. You have been such a bad girl.”
He told the other men in the room to leave. The door was latched shut. He rolled up his right sleeve high, revealing a powerful muscular arm. He positioned himself to Rachel’s left and raised the crop up and back.