Rabbit71
Assistant executioner
OK, so I've been putting off posting for many moons now and I trust that you will all forgive my stumbling first attempt at a story (or the beginnings of one). Many thanks to those who have had an input to this (they know who they are) to them I am deeply indebted not just for their help on this but for the pleasure of reading their writings in the past.
Our tale begins in an unnamed city at an unspecified time under a nameless fascist dictatorship.....
The 'Teacher'
It was a bitterly cold day and you were annoyed to have received a call from a fellow "activist" that meant you needed to take one of the blank passports to a meet at the station. Bothersome as it was it was just another routine task in your surreptitious campaign against the fascist regime. 2 years in the underground had brought confidence, you knew the risks but equally you felt above suspicion, unbeknownst to you, you had become complacent.
You failed to notice the tail on you as you left your apartment, as you arrived at the station you paid scant attention to the secret police who were routinely present everywhere anyway, but they noticed you! They waited until you took your seat in the coffee bar next to your contact, as you reached for the envelope inside your long coat however, they pounced....
In that moment your world seemed to fall through your stomach, this couldn't be happening to you right now, no, no, it's just a bad dream.....
Their guns are drawn, brutal hands grab your arms, the commotion around you was mainly caused by the sudden influx of 20 or more members of the secret police, you are pinned to the table, your arms twisted behind your back, the hand cuffs go on. It is dreamlike, the voices distant, you barely notice as your sister in arms is dragged away, cuffed as you are, you will probably never see her again....
All that fills your mind now is all that you have spent the last 2 years driving from it. The anonymous grey office block in the centre of town, its basement and everything you have heard happens there to people the secret police regard as enemies of the state.
And now they have you, they have an accomplice of yours and they have the blank passport from your coat pocket. You nearly throw up. Your life is over, you know that right now even as they are throwing you, cuffed into the back of the unmarked, unremarkable dark blue transit van, you're finished. All that remains is pain. They shoot traitors, but that day, when it comes, will still be preferable to this day, right now, with all that you know lays before you. You throw up.
The short journey to that grey desolate building, that place where dreams of freedom and justice are ground to a pulp, is spent in a whirlwind of terror in your mind, the biting pain of the cuffs on your wrists not even registering as you begin to unravel at the terror of it all. Oh, why had you been so careless, how had you let them capture you so easily with such damning evidence barely concealed. You can conceive of no possible way out and the dread, fear and horror of what they were going to do to you grows by the second.
The abrupt and immediate beating brought you around, dragged out of the van whilst the blows from the truncheon rain down on you, your most vulnerable and painful targets ruthlessly sought out. Then right there in the underground car park of that place of dread, they strip you, tearing, pulling, cutting, your lovely long coat is gone, the jeans, the most comfortable pair of boots you had ever owned your jumper T shirt and now they cut the waistband of your sensible pants and the strap of your sports bra.
Hands are in your hair, forcing your head up lifting you off the ground from your face down position and your humiliation is complete as you are forced to your knees before the assembled gathering of these monsters, all them feasting their eyes on your perfectly formed pert breasts, the cold and the fear has swelled and puckered your nipples and cuffed as you are you cannot hide your shame. Lewd comments are made about what they do with treacherous scum like you, comments are passed about your unshaven cunt and you know that you are about to experience the first rape as all around you men start loosening belts, unbuttoning trousers, they are going to take you here, in this awful car park amongst the smell of damp and diesel fumes....
.......
They showed no mercy or pity, they left you with bloodied knees, blackened eyes and covered in the ejaculate of many men, your pussy is sore but your arse is agony, they took particular delight in buggering your arse as you begged and pleaded with them not to. It is over.
You lie on the wooden bench that passes for a bed in the cell, 8' x 8' with a bucket in the corner for a toilet, they didn't even give you the regulation thin sponge mattress or paper thin blanket. You are naked, alone and covered in your own vomit and the slime of the opening acts of the rest of your life.
You would cry but already the dehumanisation has begun and tears do not come, instead a numbness overwhelms you as you contemplate the horror that awaits as the first sounds of inhuman suffering from a torture chamber nearby reach your ears. An unwelcome realisation dawns upon you; your turn to scream will come soon enough.
........
You awake with a start and for the slightest of split seconds, you are unaware of your predicament but the bite of the metal cuffs to your chafed wrists brings home reality with horrifying clarity. The stench of this wretched cell, the cold hard bench, your bruised and stiffened joints, your sore pussy and ravaged arse, the duo-tone grey of the walls and floor, the filthy smell of your rapist's semen encrusting your pale slim body, the monotonous blue white glare emanating from the hardened light fitting, the sense of dread filling your otherwise empty guts.
How had you even fallen asleep with such terror all around you, within you, eating you one breath at a time? You shiver whether from cold, fear or misery you can no longer tell. Footsteps approach, echoing from hard surfaces outside your cell. They come for you, you are helpless to prevent what is to happen next and you already just want it to be over, you just want to die.
The sound of the door being unlocked, the levers metallic grate quickening your heart rate, the hairs on your neck and arms go up, goose bumps, even your nipples pucker.
The two men wordlessly enter the cell, one takes a firm hold of your ankles. The second takes your cuffs in one powerful hand whilst the other has you painfully by the hair and you exit the cell much as you had arrived in it, painfully. Into the wide, harshly lit corridor they carry you like they were shifting a cadaver, they are shifting a cadaver, just one with a lot of screaming, pleading and suffering to do, an open door, you arrive, your ankles released you are forced to kneel.
The room is another harshly lit two tone grey anonymous box 20' x 12' the bare concrete soffit 10' off the floor and the winch is the first thing you notice, above you, bolted to the ceiling its cold, hard metal hook hanging, your eyes are quickly scanning the room for threats as you kneel there, the sound of your blood pumping ever harder and faster by your racing heart fills your ears as dread once again fills your mind, this is it, this is where they will make you suffer, make you scream in agony and eventually, once they have broken you completely, make you talk!
To your left a metal frame, single bed like in dimensions but perhaps 8' long, another electric winch, smaller than the one above you, chains, cuffs... it is a modern day rack, no time to dwell: a desk, just a plain, rather small desk, a gynecological chair with straps a buckles for arms, torso and ankles, a trolley stacked with equipment of various sorts.
Footsteps approach from behind, you have been kneeling there for seconds but it seems much longer. These footsteps are not shod in the squeaky rubber boots of the guards who brought you here, these have a hard heel that clicks as they swiftly approach, the owner passes you as you lower your eyes to the floor his freshly polished, hand crafted Italian leather ankle boots pass you, the hand in your hair jerks your head back to face your destiny head on.
The owner of the nice boots is 5'10" stocky with wide, powerful shoulders, short cropped greying hair, a goatee beard striped through with white grey whiskers. He leans nonchalantly against the front of the desk facing you. In his right hand is a passport which he is tapping against his thigh, THE passport. He is wearing brown chord trousers, a blue blazer over a pale pink shirt, he looks for all the world like a benevolent history teacher, but you know that he's here to teach an altogether different sort of lesson.....
He looks down at you as a teacher might look down at a pupil who forever fails to produce their homework and his address to you opens with a tone that would befit such an occasion but with a chillingly blunt message:
"Right, I'm not going to beat around the bush here; you've no doubt heard the rumours of what we do, well, they're all true. In fact the reality is probably far worse, especially for someone in your current position. You see this?" he raises the passport, you acknowledge it with the slightest of nods, he goes on "This is your death warrant, simple as that, and you know it. Now you have a simple choice: You can tell me everything you know right now, and I do mean EVERYTHING, right NOW, I'll check out what you tell me, most of which I probably already know, after all, you're here aren't you? I will act on the intelligence and provided you were telling me the truth I will enter your cell in around a weeks’ time and end it all; put a bullet through the back of your head, no more pain, no more suffering. The worst you’ll endure will be a week of the muck they serve round here for food…. I won't even allow the men to rape you.... again." He pauses for effect, as if to emphasise just how good a deal the betrayal of your comrades and a bullet to the back of the head actually was. "Alternatively, I’ll make you tell me what I want to know, whether it takes 4 hours, 24 hours or longer, you WILL tell me everything, it will just hurt a lot more doing so, and when you're done telling me, I will hurt you some more just for being so stupid and making me torture you. And then you'll wait in your cell for what comes to treacherous, belligerent scum, and if you've lied to me, the next round of far worse torture. You see, we do not warehouse traitors, communists or whores here, we educate them….painfully, put them to our own purposes, whatever we deem those to be, and then, when we’re done using them, when we’ve squeezed and rinsed every last drop of humanity from them, then we eliminate them, all of them! You have no future beyond the walls of our facilities! Now don't be silly, don't make the mistake the others made, do the right thing, it is your choice, choose now but choose wisely."
He stops talking, he looks down at you kneeling, helpless, naked, defeated before him. The words those terrible words, "death warrant", "no future", "bullet through the back of your head", “what comes to treacherous, belligerent scum”, “squeezed and rinsed every last drop of humanity” he has pronounced you dead and far worse has been threatened, and now he awaits an answer, what will it be?
Your mind racing the moments drag out, seconds, a minute, maybe more, you cannot tell.
Your 'teacher' examines you, looking you up and down: She's a mess, they always are, dried spunk all over her, in her bedraggled hair, over her small pert breasts that carry the signs of the previous day’s mauling, her bruised and battered limbs covered in the grime of the car park in which she was hazed and raped as he had watched on CCTV from the control desk, her pits and legs show signs of hair growth, she clearly wasn't expecting such close examination, her full natural bush of dark pubic hair is matted with the signs of her assault, and she smells....badly! Of rape, vomit and torture block cell.
The impasse is broken;
"I'm so sorry" your 'teacher' says, feigning embarrassment at his lack of good manners as a host "I haven't offered you a drink or a chance to freshen up. I'll tell you what, you just mull that decision over while we make you a little less comfortable" he speaks the words warmly, as if he were inviting his maiden Aunt to take a shower before dinner but that only makes it all the more sinister. He addresses the guards for the first time and all such pretence evaporates instantly "Hose the filthy stinking bitch down and....give her a drink", they reply as one "Yes Sir".
The one who has you by the hair only tightens his grip, you hear the squeak of the other guard's boots on the painted floor as he goes to the wall behind you, out of site, you hear the sound of a tap being turned.
The first blasts of water hit you between your shoulder blades and you gasp, the water is freezing cold and the jet is powerful, indenting your flesh where its icy touch assaults your senses. You struggle momentarily, involuntarily trying to escape the freezing water but the guard gripping your hair simply tightens his hold, raising you off your knees slightly and forcing your head backward, tilting your face to the ceiling and that winch.
The dousing goes on, the jet played over your back systematically working down to the crack of your peach like buttocks, played over and around them before delving between. Your legs, the soles of your feet, your ribs, the guard holding you grabs your cuffs, raising your arms to allow them and your pits to be scoured by the unforgiving flow, your cuffs released and you are lifted and jerked backwards to allow the 'shower' to move to your front from your feet, up your legs, you thatch of pubic hair is thoroughly de-spunked and the jet moves to your womanly slit, so abused, the probing finger of water playing with the folds of your labia before penetrating you its icy cold causing you to gasp once more as it is played around you clitoris and inside you again and again, emphasizing your helplessness before moving to your belly, your tits, your now bullet like nipples, your décolletage, your neck, face, hair and ears, you struggle for breath as it is played around your nose and mouth, you gape like a fish out of water and the jet is directed down your throat, you cough and sputter, your eyes closed against the pressure of that hose as it batters your face and head.
You don't see the large plastic funnel and with your mouth wide open to allow you to breathe it is down your throat before you realise what your 'teacher' meant when he said "give her a drink" his direction now all too apparent as the jet of water is directed into that funnel and you begin to gulp the contents down involuntarily. You cannot breathe, you need a breath, you start to struggle, your eyes now wide open bulge and search for a face, someone to notice that you cannot breathe but all you can see is the underside of that funnel, oh the devilish simplicity of it! On and on it goes until you cannot hold out any longer and you inhale the water, coughing, choking, writhing. The funnel is withdrawn, your head thrust forward and down as you vomit water, you cough water up, you gasp for air, filling your lungs as your airway clears and then your head is once again pulled back the hose is blasting you square in the face you open your mouth to breathe, desperate for oxygen and the process is repeated.
You lose count of the number of times, your belly is distended by the volume of water you now hold, you feel like you're going to burst, it feels like there is water all the way up your gullet. You are in full panic, you have to stop them or you fear you will drown "Please, please, no more, no more, I can't take any more". Their response is to remove the funnel and wordlessly deliver a hard, sharp kick to your drum tight belly which sees a jet of water emitted from your throat, you gasp, winded and the funnel goes back in for yet more "drink".
Your ordeal with the hose goes on in this cyclical manner until you are fully saturated, now when they kick you water erupts from your painfully full bladder, your sore and battered throat and most embarrassingly of all; your rectum, carrying with it a thin stream of watery shit to the drain in the middle of the room.
Your 'teacher' has looked on impassive throughout but with this latest indignity he knows he has you where he wants you for your next 'lesson'. "Alright, that's enough, clean up" he finally declares. "Yes Sir" come the replies of his goons as they wash the vomit, piss and shit from you and then the floor working it toward and down the drain.
"Get her up on her toes, I want that answer now!" the command he gives prompts a flurry of activity as your cuffs are finally removed from your raw wrists only to be replaced with leather suspension cuffs, fitted tightly to your delicate arms encasing them snugly, unyieldingly. The hook from the winch above you is lowered with an electrical-mechanical whirring sound, it comes to a halt with a loud ‘clack’ 4' from the floor and you are forced to your feet and in a single motion the D rings of your suspension cuffs are latched into the hook behind you which has now reversed direction as it returns to the ceiling with its latest payload....YOU.
The sheer efficiency of this well-rehearsed, slick operation is terrifying. Barely a word is spoken and yet the actors within it know exactly what to do to extract the maximum of pain, discomfort and sheer terror. The tools they use are so simple, mundane even; and yet as your wrists rise toward the ceiling your water laden body exerts a pressure at your already bruised shoulders; the pain is rapidly becoming excruciating, you shift your feet to try and find a position that doesn't involve the slow dislocation of your shoulders but none is to be found and relentlessly you rise until your toes barely touch the floor and you gasp and moan in agony.
"Now that’s better isn’t it, I'm sure you're feeling refreshed after your ablutions and that thirst of yours must be quenched by now?" the 'teacher' addresses you sarcastically as if enquiring as to whether his maiden aunt's shower had been to a temperature of her liking and the Earl Grey was to her taste.
"Now, I need an answer. We cannot put this off any longer" His voice is more matter of fact, gentle even, but as he finishes talking he turns to look for something on the desk, your eyes alight on it as do his, he picks it up and holding it in his hand he looks you straight in the eye: "Are you going to talk to me now, or shall I begin what I do best?" and with that softly spoken question he presses the button and a large blue arc erupts from the prongs of the electric baton he is holding with a loud snapping sound that fills you with terror, he knows it, he can see it, he has seen it a thousand times before, and yet these terrified victims rarely make the right decision at this point and regardless of the answer, he will let them taste the delights the tools of his trade have to offer.......
"What's it to be then?"
From the next room you can make out faint voices through the thick walls, one is female shouting something, the other, a man, is to be heard begging before his pitiful screams are carried to your ears as if a final warning; your 'teacher' hearing this, raises an eyebrow and keeps the button depressed as he moves towards you, that snapping blue arc of agony getting ever closer to your...
Our tale begins in an unnamed city at an unspecified time under a nameless fascist dictatorship.....
The 'Teacher'
It was a bitterly cold day and you were annoyed to have received a call from a fellow "activist" that meant you needed to take one of the blank passports to a meet at the station. Bothersome as it was it was just another routine task in your surreptitious campaign against the fascist regime. 2 years in the underground had brought confidence, you knew the risks but equally you felt above suspicion, unbeknownst to you, you had become complacent.
You failed to notice the tail on you as you left your apartment, as you arrived at the station you paid scant attention to the secret police who were routinely present everywhere anyway, but they noticed you! They waited until you took your seat in the coffee bar next to your contact, as you reached for the envelope inside your long coat however, they pounced....
In that moment your world seemed to fall through your stomach, this couldn't be happening to you right now, no, no, it's just a bad dream.....
Their guns are drawn, brutal hands grab your arms, the commotion around you was mainly caused by the sudden influx of 20 or more members of the secret police, you are pinned to the table, your arms twisted behind your back, the hand cuffs go on. It is dreamlike, the voices distant, you barely notice as your sister in arms is dragged away, cuffed as you are, you will probably never see her again....
All that fills your mind now is all that you have spent the last 2 years driving from it. The anonymous grey office block in the centre of town, its basement and everything you have heard happens there to people the secret police regard as enemies of the state.
And now they have you, they have an accomplice of yours and they have the blank passport from your coat pocket. You nearly throw up. Your life is over, you know that right now even as they are throwing you, cuffed into the back of the unmarked, unremarkable dark blue transit van, you're finished. All that remains is pain. They shoot traitors, but that day, when it comes, will still be preferable to this day, right now, with all that you know lays before you. You throw up.
The short journey to that grey desolate building, that place where dreams of freedom and justice are ground to a pulp, is spent in a whirlwind of terror in your mind, the biting pain of the cuffs on your wrists not even registering as you begin to unravel at the terror of it all. Oh, why had you been so careless, how had you let them capture you so easily with such damning evidence barely concealed. You can conceive of no possible way out and the dread, fear and horror of what they were going to do to you grows by the second.
The abrupt and immediate beating brought you around, dragged out of the van whilst the blows from the truncheon rain down on you, your most vulnerable and painful targets ruthlessly sought out. Then right there in the underground car park of that place of dread, they strip you, tearing, pulling, cutting, your lovely long coat is gone, the jeans, the most comfortable pair of boots you had ever owned your jumper T shirt and now they cut the waistband of your sensible pants and the strap of your sports bra.
Hands are in your hair, forcing your head up lifting you off the ground from your face down position and your humiliation is complete as you are forced to your knees before the assembled gathering of these monsters, all them feasting their eyes on your perfectly formed pert breasts, the cold and the fear has swelled and puckered your nipples and cuffed as you are you cannot hide your shame. Lewd comments are made about what they do with treacherous scum like you, comments are passed about your unshaven cunt and you know that you are about to experience the first rape as all around you men start loosening belts, unbuttoning trousers, they are going to take you here, in this awful car park amongst the smell of damp and diesel fumes....
.......
They showed no mercy or pity, they left you with bloodied knees, blackened eyes and covered in the ejaculate of many men, your pussy is sore but your arse is agony, they took particular delight in buggering your arse as you begged and pleaded with them not to. It is over.
You lie on the wooden bench that passes for a bed in the cell, 8' x 8' with a bucket in the corner for a toilet, they didn't even give you the regulation thin sponge mattress or paper thin blanket. You are naked, alone and covered in your own vomit and the slime of the opening acts of the rest of your life.
You would cry but already the dehumanisation has begun and tears do not come, instead a numbness overwhelms you as you contemplate the horror that awaits as the first sounds of inhuman suffering from a torture chamber nearby reach your ears. An unwelcome realisation dawns upon you; your turn to scream will come soon enough.
........
You awake with a start and for the slightest of split seconds, you are unaware of your predicament but the bite of the metal cuffs to your chafed wrists brings home reality with horrifying clarity. The stench of this wretched cell, the cold hard bench, your bruised and stiffened joints, your sore pussy and ravaged arse, the duo-tone grey of the walls and floor, the filthy smell of your rapist's semen encrusting your pale slim body, the monotonous blue white glare emanating from the hardened light fitting, the sense of dread filling your otherwise empty guts.
How had you even fallen asleep with such terror all around you, within you, eating you one breath at a time? You shiver whether from cold, fear or misery you can no longer tell. Footsteps approach, echoing from hard surfaces outside your cell. They come for you, you are helpless to prevent what is to happen next and you already just want it to be over, you just want to die.
The sound of the door being unlocked, the levers metallic grate quickening your heart rate, the hairs on your neck and arms go up, goose bumps, even your nipples pucker.
The two men wordlessly enter the cell, one takes a firm hold of your ankles. The second takes your cuffs in one powerful hand whilst the other has you painfully by the hair and you exit the cell much as you had arrived in it, painfully. Into the wide, harshly lit corridor they carry you like they were shifting a cadaver, they are shifting a cadaver, just one with a lot of screaming, pleading and suffering to do, an open door, you arrive, your ankles released you are forced to kneel.
The room is another harshly lit two tone grey anonymous box 20' x 12' the bare concrete soffit 10' off the floor and the winch is the first thing you notice, above you, bolted to the ceiling its cold, hard metal hook hanging, your eyes are quickly scanning the room for threats as you kneel there, the sound of your blood pumping ever harder and faster by your racing heart fills your ears as dread once again fills your mind, this is it, this is where they will make you suffer, make you scream in agony and eventually, once they have broken you completely, make you talk!
To your left a metal frame, single bed like in dimensions but perhaps 8' long, another electric winch, smaller than the one above you, chains, cuffs... it is a modern day rack, no time to dwell: a desk, just a plain, rather small desk, a gynecological chair with straps a buckles for arms, torso and ankles, a trolley stacked with equipment of various sorts.
Footsteps approach from behind, you have been kneeling there for seconds but it seems much longer. These footsteps are not shod in the squeaky rubber boots of the guards who brought you here, these have a hard heel that clicks as they swiftly approach, the owner passes you as you lower your eyes to the floor his freshly polished, hand crafted Italian leather ankle boots pass you, the hand in your hair jerks your head back to face your destiny head on.
The owner of the nice boots is 5'10" stocky with wide, powerful shoulders, short cropped greying hair, a goatee beard striped through with white grey whiskers. He leans nonchalantly against the front of the desk facing you. In his right hand is a passport which he is tapping against his thigh, THE passport. He is wearing brown chord trousers, a blue blazer over a pale pink shirt, he looks for all the world like a benevolent history teacher, but you know that he's here to teach an altogether different sort of lesson.....
He looks down at you as a teacher might look down at a pupil who forever fails to produce their homework and his address to you opens with a tone that would befit such an occasion but with a chillingly blunt message:
"Right, I'm not going to beat around the bush here; you've no doubt heard the rumours of what we do, well, they're all true. In fact the reality is probably far worse, especially for someone in your current position. You see this?" he raises the passport, you acknowledge it with the slightest of nods, he goes on "This is your death warrant, simple as that, and you know it. Now you have a simple choice: You can tell me everything you know right now, and I do mean EVERYTHING, right NOW, I'll check out what you tell me, most of which I probably already know, after all, you're here aren't you? I will act on the intelligence and provided you were telling me the truth I will enter your cell in around a weeks’ time and end it all; put a bullet through the back of your head, no more pain, no more suffering. The worst you’ll endure will be a week of the muck they serve round here for food…. I won't even allow the men to rape you.... again." He pauses for effect, as if to emphasise just how good a deal the betrayal of your comrades and a bullet to the back of the head actually was. "Alternatively, I’ll make you tell me what I want to know, whether it takes 4 hours, 24 hours or longer, you WILL tell me everything, it will just hurt a lot more doing so, and when you're done telling me, I will hurt you some more just for being so stupid and making me torture you. And then you'll wait in your cell for what comes to treacherous, belligerent scum, and if you've lied to me, the next round of far worse torture. You see, we do not warehouse traitors, communists or whores here, we educate them….painfully, put them to our own purposes, whatever we deem those to be, and then, when we’re done using them, when we’ve squeezed and rinsed every last drop of humanity from them, then we eliminate them, all of them! You have no future beyond the walls of our facilities! Now don't be silly, don't make the mistake the others made, do the right thing, it is your choice, choose now but choose wisely."
He stops talking, he looks down at you kneeling, helpless, naked, defeated before him. The words those terrible words, "death warrant", "no future", "bullet through the back of your head", “what comes to treacherous, belligerent scum”, “squeezed and rinsed every last drop of humanity” he has pronounced you dead and far worse has been threatened, and now he awaits an answer, what will it be?
Your mind racing the moments drag out, seconds, a minute, maybe more, you cannot tell.
Your 'teacher' examines you, looking you up and down: She's a mess, they always are, dried spunk all over her, in her bedraggled hair, over her small pert breasts that carry the signs of the previous day’s mauling, her bruised and battered limbs covered in the grime of the car park in which she was hazed and raped as he had watched on CCTV from the control desk, her pits and legs show signs of hair growth, she clearly wasn't expecting such close examination, her full natural bush of dark pubic hair is matted with the signs of her assault, and she smells....badly! Of rape, vomit and torture block cell.
The impasse is broken;
"I'm so sorry" your 'teacher' says, feigning embarrassment at his lack of good manners as a host "I haven't offered you a drink or a chance to freshen up. I'll tell you what, you just mull that decision over while we make you a little less comfortable" he speaks the words warmly, as if he were inviting his maiden Aunt to take a shower before dinner but that only makes it all the more sinister. He addresses the guards for the first time and all such pretence evaporates instantly "Hose the filthy stinking bitch down and....give her a drink", they reply as one "Yes Sir".
The one who has you by the hair only tightens his grip, you hear the squeak of the other guard's boots on the painted floor as he goes to the wall behind you, out of site, you hear the sound of a tap being turned.
The first blasts of water hit you between your shoulder blades and you gasp, the water is freezing cold and the jet is powerful, indenting your flesh where its icy touch assaults your senses. You struggle momentarily, involuntarily trying to escape the freezing water but the guard gripping your hair simply tightens his hold, raising you off your knees slightly and forcing your head backward, tilting your face to the ceiling and that winch.
The dousing goes on, the jet played over your back systematically working down to the crack of your peach like buttocks, played over and around them before delving between. Your legs, the soles of your feet, your ribs, the guard holding you grabs your cuffs, raising your arms to allow them and your pits to be scoured by the unforgiving flow, your cuffs released and you are lifted and jerked backwards to allow the 'shower' to move to your front from your feet, up your legs, you thatch of pubic hair is thoroughly de-spunked and the jet moves to your womanly slit, so abused, the probing finger of water playing with the folds of your labia before penetrating you its icy cold causing you to gasp once more as it is played around you clitoris and inside you again and again, emphasizing your helplessness before moving to your belly, your tits, your now bullet like nipples, your décolletage, your neck, face, hair and ears, you struggle for breath as it is played around your nose and mouth, you gape like a fish out of water and the jet is directed down your throat, you cough and sputter, your eyes closed against the pressure of that hose as it batters your face and head.
You don't see the large plastic funnel and with your mouth wide open to allow you to breathe it is down your throat before you realise what your 'teacher' meant when he said "give her a drink" his direction now all too apparent as the jet of water is directed into that funnel and you begin to gulp the contents down involuntarily. You cannot breathe, you need a breath, you start to struggle, your eyes now wide open bulge and search for a face, someone to notice that you cannot breathe but all you can see is the underside of that funnel, oh the devilish simplicity of it! On and on it goes until you cannot hold out any longer and you inhale the water, coughing, choking, writhing. The funnel is withdrawn, your head thrust forward and down as you vomit water, you cough water up, you gasp for air, filling your lungs as your airway clears and then your head is once again pulled back the hose is blasting you square in the face you open your mouth to breathe, desperate for oxygen and the process is repeated.
You lose count of the number of times, your belly is distended by the volume of water you now hold, you feel like you're going to burst, it feels like there is water all the way up your gullet. You are in full panic, you have to stop them or you fear you will drown "Please, please, no more, no more, I can't take any more". Their response is to remove the funnel and wordlessly deliver a hard, sharp kick to your drum tight belly which sees a jet of water emitted from your throat, you gasp, winded and the funnel goes back in for yet more "drink".
Your ordeal with the hose goes on in this cyclical manner until you are fully saturated, now when they kick you water erupts from your painfully full bladder, your sore and battered throat and most embarrassingly of all; your rectum, carrying with it a thin stream of watery shit to the drain in the middle of the room.
Your 'teacher' has looked on impassive throughout but with this latest indignity he knows he has you where he wants you for your next 'lesson'. "Alright, that's enough, clean up" he finally declares. "Yes Sir" come the replies of his goons as they wash the vomit, piss and shit from you and then the floor working it toward and down the drain.
"Get her up on her toes, I want that answer now!" the command he gives prompts a flurry of activity as your cuffs are finally removed from your raw wrists only to be replaced with leather suspension cuffs, fitted tightly to your delicate arms encasing them snugly, unyieldingly. The hook from the winch above you is lowered with an electrical-mechanical whirring sound, it comes to a halt with a loud ‘clack’ 4' from the floor and you are forced to your feet and in a single motion the D rings of your suspension cuffs are latched into the hook behind you which has now reversed direction as it returns to the ceiling with its latest payload....YOU.
The sheer efficiency of this well-rehearsed, slick operation is terrifying. Barely a word is spoken and yet the actors within it know exactly what to do to extract the maximum of pain, discomfort and sheer terror. The tools they use are so simple, mundane even; and yet as your wrists rise toward the ceiling your water laden body exerts a pressure at your already bruised shoulders; the pain is rapidly becoming excruciating, you shift your feet to try and find a position that doesn't involve the slow dislocation of your shoulders but none is to be found and relentlessly you rise until your toes barely touch the floor and you gasp and moan in agony.
"Now that’s better isn’t it, I'm sure you're feeling refreshed after your ablutions and that thirst of yours must be quenched by now?" the 'teacher' addresses you sarcastically as if enquiring as to whether his maiden aunt's shower had been to a temperature of her liking and the Earl Grey was to her taste.
"Now, I need an answer. We cannot put this off any longer" His voice is more matter of fact, gentle even, but as he finishes talking he turns to look for something on the desk, your eyes alight on it as do his, he picks it up and holding it in his hand he looks you straight in the eye: "Are you going to talk to me now, or shall I begin what I do best?" and with that softly spoken question he presses the button and a large blue arc erupts from the prongs of the electric baton he is holding with a loud snapping sound that fills you with terror, he knows it, he can see it, he has seen it a thousand times before, and yet these terrified victims rarely make the right decision at this point and regardless of the answer, he will let them taste the delights the tools of his trade have to offer.......
"What's it to be then?"
From the next room you can make out faint voices through the thick walls, one is female shouting something, the other, a man, is to be heard begging before his pitiful screams are carried to your ears as if a final warning; your 'teacher' hearing this, raises an eyebrow and keeps the button depressed as he moves towards you, that snapping blue arc of agony getting ever closer to your...
