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Vanubati - A Story

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KageKamen

Governor
In the dim light I could perceive at least a dozen of women huddled on the floor, naked and in chains like me. There was the sound of stifled sobs and clinking chains.
Good strong start. They seem quite supplied with condemned women - was there a mass escape or something?

The torture gag comes across powerfully, if not quite clearly (but then, I was skimming.)

“This gag will not come off again before we take your lifeless body from the cross. You’ve spoken your last intelligible words, slave. They were your slave registration number. How pathetic! How do you feel about that? This cruel torture device has already been in the mouths of dozens of worthless slaves like you when they took their last breaths. Do you taste their desperation? The physical pain from this device will increase by every minute. But, believe me, the psychological torture will be way worse.”
This bit sounds... kind of overegged. But perhaps he rehearses it.
 

y__

Guard
PART 4

I awakened from my own silent scream, retching in panic. The muscles in my lungs tried to draw a breath with all their strength, but in vain. In a last-ditch effort I instinctively blew the little remaining air through my nostrils, and a thick, slimy clot of snot and blood landed on my thighs. I was gasping for breath, but finally I calmed down a bit. Why had I done that? Just a couple of seconds more, and I might have lost consciousness. The ordeal could have been over.

From what did I even “awaken”? Surely not from sleep. A part of my consciousness had shut down, but the pain hadn’t stopped for a single second. My brain was overtaxed with processing the pain. It had short-circuited all other functions. I had become pain itself.

My lower lip was entirely numb. I tried to purse my lips, but I couldn’t. Every single muscle in the lower half of my face had been stretched or squeezed. They had been cramping for hours. Without sufficient blood flow, they must have started to die off. Oh God! I tried to move my lips again, my tongue, my jaws. Nothing. God help me! Parts of me were dying already!

Unfortunately, the numbing didn’t mean that the pain had gone. It had just moved, to my throat, to the roof of my mouth, into the nasal cavity and behind my eyeballs. The agony would wreak its havoc there too, spreading more partial death, cell by cell. Fucking bastards! This gagging device was so simple. Just a few pieces of metal, a few screws. But it was the baton of death, passed on from victim to victim. It was not only killing me, but it connected me to a long chain of meaningless suffering beyond all bearing. The guard had been right. The psychological torture wasn’t any less than the physical one.

Almost ridiculously, I became obsessed with my increasing urge to pee. But such trifles seemed to be the handrail the mind uses to drag itself along. There was a metal toilet bowl in the nearest corner. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months. I didn’t know if any of my cellmates had used it. There had been some stumbling around, but I wasn’t aware of my surroundings most of the time.

Every movement hurt. It’s not the right word. I don’t have a word for it. The urge just to let go on the spot was almost overwhelming. By the sickening smell of ammonia wafting through the air, some women had given in the temptation. To my own surprise, my spirit hadn’t been broken totally yet. On the contrary, I felt defiance which gave me some strength. The fucking assholes out there were dehumanizing us and killing us. I would fight for my dignity for as long as I could! I wouldn’t sit in my piss for the last hours of my life.

Brave thoughts that I couldn’t deny, but that I immediately regretted. Getting up was a struggle. Half upright, bend like an animal, I made agonizing progress step by step. I started to pee prematurely; it ran down my legs. With my last ounce of strength, I reached the toilet. The price for preserving a shred of dignity had been high. I sank down, right next to the disgusting bowl. I couldn’t imagine I would ever get up again. But I knew they would make us.

My mind was surprisingly clear at this moment. I looked around the room. There were more than a dozen female bodies, interwoven with each other and a jumble of chains. This mound of suffering meat groaned and grunted incessantly. Squealing like a group of oversized rats. Vermin. That’s what was we were to them, and that was what they made us. I could see some blonde hair, some brown, some red. Almost translucent marble white next to dark ebony black skin. All of their bodies were hauntingly beautiful, even in the knot of torment they’d been tied together in.

What was happening on this island was absolutely insane. At the beginning of the 21st century! It was a stain on the face of humanity that would never go away. It needed to stop! But I wouldn’t be able to stop it. I was just an insignificant piece in a jigsaw of unspeakable cruelty.

– – –​

During the passage to Vanubati I had plenty of time to think. Why was it important that I had insisted on a lawyer and contact to the embassy? They told me they were about to relocate me to Radagar. There I could have done that until I was blue in the face. I started to question if this jungle prison even existed. They tortured me physically and threatened sexual abuse and hard labour to make me sign a stupid legal document, including the renunciation of all basic human rights?

The whole story didn’t make sense at all. I had been skilfully trapped from the very beginning. Maybe even Mr. Omenill was in on the plan. He had wanted to lay people off. Maybe this was a convenient way to save the compensation.

Even if Radagar existed, my treatment on the transport ship under the flag of Vanubati made me question whether it really would have been the worse choice. My cell was nothing more than a regular container. Two holes had been drilled close to the ceiling for ventilation. In the night it was pitch dark, during daytime I could scarcely see my hand in front of my face. I had to sit and sleep on the bare steel floor.

Occasionally they threw plastic bottles of water and some rotting fruit into the container. I had only a plastic bucket to relieve myself. The filthy smell and heat were nearly unbearable. The only variety from the endless days in the dark were the short trips to empty the plastic bucket every few days. The beauty of the Pacific Ocean was in sharp contrast to the misery of my desolation. I tried to initiate conversation with the crew members who guarded me during these occasions. But all they replied, was “Shut up, slave!” and “Hurry, slave!”

Finally, we arrived. The anchor chain rattled, and the engines stopped. After a while there was a loud noise from the roof of my container, metal scratching against metal, and I felt like I was in a slow elevator. My prison was set on the ground again. Hours passed. Then more noise, another elevator ride in the dark, and then I fell on the hard metal floor, knocked over by an unexpected acceleration. Lastly, the prison container arrived at its destination.

The door was opened, a dockworker entered, and immediately began to shout and hit my naked exposed body with a thin cane.

“Up! Up! Up! Out! Out! Out! Out! Move! Move! Faster, you lazy slave! Move!”

The strokes fell in the staccato rhythm of his words. I hurried towards the door and outside. I was blinded by the bright light after all this time in the dark, but the docker was relentless. He drove me to a small building which turned out to be a simple shower room.

“Clean yourself, dirty pig!”

It felt refreshing to get the filth of my body, even though the dockworker was watching and screaming to better hurry. He switched off the water.

“That’s enough. Move!”

The cane stung more on my wet skin. I screamed. The docker seemed to be encouraged by that and a hailstorm of cane strokes swept across my back.

“Move!”

He drove me with a flurry of blows to a fenced area, and he pushed me in.

“Wait here! Don’t talk to the other slaves. It is punishable by death!”

My eyes widened. Capital punishment for talking to another person? Oh, “person”. I was still thinking in my old categories.

There were about twenty-five young women scattered over the area. Most of them were sitting on the floor, some were striding up and down. They all looked emaciated and shaken up. I sat down and felt the warm wind on my skin, drying the drops that ran from my wet hair. It was my first pleasant experience since the fateful day at the airport of Melbopan. Or maybe I had already changed to the point where such a small thing could bring me solace.

By and by more women arrived. Alone, in groups of two or three, a group of six. Women from around the world, all naked, in chains and with marks of the cane. Three dockworkers patrolled among the captives. Every few minutes an officer in an eccentric red uniform appeared from the other side of the entrance, picked a woman, and took her inside a building at one end of the fenced area. I hoped that it would be a while before it was my turn.

But it was not long before the officer stopped in front of me and pointed his finger.

“You! Follow me, slave!”

I obeyed. At least this guy wasn’t using the cane he carried on his belt by default. From behind he looked like a Mountie. A Mountie in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It didn’t take long before I learnt to hate and fear this inappropriately colourful uniform. But maybe the colour of blood was apt after all.

Inside the building I was led before a wide desk with five men in the same uniform behind it. Appraising glances, whispering, nodding.

“Squat slave!” – “Kneel, slave!” – “Turn around, slave!”

Glances, whispering, nodding.

“B!” the man in the middle declared.

Another officer took over and led me to a desk to the side of the room.

“B” he said to the clerk behind the desk as if he hadn’t heard it from the other guy already.

“B. 4905-9268.”

He handed me a card with the letter B, the number, and a barcode on it.

“That’s your slave registration number. Memorize it! Failure to identify correctly is punishable by death!”

I stared at the number. 4905-9268. 4905-9268. 4905-9268. Forgetting a number: another insignificant transgression that led to capital punishment. I hoped that they weren’t serious but just trying to intimidate the new arrivals. But every time I thought they weren’t serious, it turned out they were serious. Deadly serious. 4905-9268. 4905-9268.

I was led to the next desk.

“Nationality?”

“American.”

“Not any more. Your American citizenship is declared void. You’re a Vanubatian slave from now.”

The three exits from the building were labelled “Eng”, “A–C”, and “D”. The system of slave castes was never explained, but it wasn’t difficult to understand. At least the categories “A”, “B”, and “C” were. “Eng” I assumed meant “English” and was applied to new slaves with insufficient proficiency in this language. But “D”? Well, there were rumours.

“D” slaves apparently were regarded as not attractive enough to serve in the other castes. I overheard conversations that they were immediately disposed of on arrival, converted into fish food for the numerous big fish farms around the island. Some whispered that they were just pushed into a giant meat grinder. This seemed far-fetched, even for such a horrendous place as this. It would have been bad business either. I thought it was more likely that “D” slaves were sold internationally as cheap prostitutes.

“C” slaves were considered more attractive, but not attractive enough to serve the locals and the rich who had moved here. They were given as maids and no-limit sex slaves to tourists and the foreign workers. Initially, foreign construction workers had been enslaved too, but the government soon realized that it was more effective to give them a slave than to enslave them. Applications for work permits were numerous.

If “C” slaves were lucky, their temporary owners just liked to be waited on hand and foot. But word-of-mouth advertising attracted a specific kind of visitors: the cruel and sadistic ones who paid well for the opportunity to live out their fantasies. Hotels in other countries had pools and bars and gyms; hotels in Vanubati offered all-inclusive torture chambers. “C” slaves quickly became scarred in body and mind, and were demoted to “D” slaves.

“A” slaves, as you probably suspect, were the most beautiful women when they arrived on the shores of this hellish island. When the locals became wealthy from the oil industry, they wanted to show off their new riches. It became a fashionable trend to buy models and present them as party decorations or living statues. Others started to use body modifications to optimize the slaves or to transform them into their living dream body. It didn’t take long, and the absolute deprivation of rights and the tolerance of treating the slaves as their owner saw fit led to an influx of rich sadistic people from all around the world. The most beautiful women under absolute control of the most sadistic men: heaven on earth for some, a living hell for the others. Historians will report about the atrocities committed. Once the slaves showed a minimal flaw, a lost tooth, a scar, or a branding that wasn’t absolute perfect in the eyes of their owner, an absurd crime was fabricated and the innocent victim sentenced to death. If they were lucky, they were hanged. But usually they were crucified. And a new slave girl would be ordered.

The island was small and overpopulated. On the day I was unloaded, at least twenty-five new arrivals were brought to Vanubati. If that was a usual business day, more than 5,000 newly enslaved women came to the island every single year! Throughput needed to be quick to make the business flourish and keep the sadists happy. Not only currency undergoes inflation, so does the value of human life and suffering. People got used to the screams of the tortured and the sight of mass executions. The beautiful island of Vanubati became a pitiless bone mill.

“B” slaves had the easiest among the cruel fates. They were used as domestic service slaves. Doing all kind of menial tasks, they were rarely abused sexually. They were just treated like living household appliances and worked to exhaustion. Always naked and in chains, always humiliated. My days were an endless series of work from before dawn to late at night, always in fear of not completing an order to my owner’s satisfaction. I’ve been whipped bloody for forgetting an item on the shopping list. I’ve been told I would be killed if I broke a piece of porcelain. Even the “B” slaves wouldn’t last long.

But my downfall didn’t come from a job done badly. When I served at a party a guest, a former compatriot approached me, seemingly outraged about the atrocities committed on this island.

“Why does our country allow it to happen?” I whispered.

“Government! You know how it is. They are happy to get oil without sticking their fingers into the mess in the Middle East. So, they turn a blind eye.”

He looked around whether someone was listening, and then whispered: “Do you think it would be possible to get away on a boat?”

“I don’t know. Security is said to be pretty tough.”

“So you want to escape, eh?”

Two officers in red uniform appeared, and I was petrified.

“You heard her. She’s trying to flee from this wonderful country that allows us to treat this scum like it needs to be treated.”

I didn’t even contradict. They wouldn’t care. I should have known better. I had been betrayed before.

“We need some evidence for the trial”, one of the red uniforms said.

“Sure.”

He took a scrap of paper and wrote: “4905-9268 has confessed she was planning to flee from Vanubati.”

My death by crucifixion was assured.
 

montycrusto

Slave Trader
PART 4

I awakened from my own silent scream, retching in panic. The muscles in my lungs tried to draw a breath with all their strength, but in vain. In a last-ditch effort I instinctively blew the little remaining air through my nostrils, and a thick, slimy clot of snot and blood landed on my thighs. I was gasping for breath, but finally I calmed down a bit. Why had I done that? Just a couple of seconds more, and I might have lost consciousness. The ordeal could have been over.

From what did I even “awaken”? Surely not from sleep. A part of my consciousness had shut down, but the pain hadn’t stopped for a single second. My brain was overtaxed with processing the pain. It had short-circuited all other functions. I had become pain itself.

My lower lip was entirely numb. I tried to purse my lips, but I couldn’t. Every single muscle in the lower half of my face had been stretched or squeezed. They had been cramping for hours. Without sufficient blood flow, they must have started to die off. Oh God! I tried to move my lips again, my tongue, my jaws. Nothing. God help me! Parts of me were dying already!

Unfortunately, the numbing didn’t mean that the pain had gone. It had just moved, to my throat, to the roof of my mouth, into the nasal cavity and behind my eyeballs. The agony would wreak its havoc there too, spreading more partial death, cell by cell. Fucking bastards! This gagging device was so simple. Just a few pieces of metal, a few screws. But it was the baton of death, passed on from victim to victim. It was not only killing me, but it connected me to a long chain of meaningless suffering beyond all bearing. The guard had been right. The psychological torture wasn’t any less than the physical one.

Almost ridiculously, I became obsessed with my increasing urge to pee. But such trifles seemed to be the handrail the mind uses to drag itself along. There was a metal toilet bowl in the nearest corner. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months. I didn’t know if any of my cellmates had used it. There had been some stumbling around, but I wasn’t aware of my surroundings most of the time.

Every movement hurt. It’s not the right word. I don’t have a word for it. The urge just to let go on the spot was almost overwhelming. By the sickening smell of ammonia wafting through the air, some women had given in the temptation. To my own surprise, my spirit hadn’t been broken totally yet. On the contrary, I felt defiance which gave me some strength. The fucking assholes out there were dehumanizing us and killing us. I would fight for my dignity for as long as I could! I wouldn’t sit in my piss for the last hours of my life.

Brave thoughts that I couldn’t deny, but that I immediately regretted. Getting up was a struggle. Half upright, bend like an animal, I made agonizing progress step by step. I started to pee prematurely; it ran down my legs. With my last ounce of strength, I reached the toilet. The price for preserving a shred of dignity had been high. I sank down, right next to the disgusting bowl. I couldn’t imagine I would ever get up again. But I knew they would make us.

My mind was surprisingly clear at this moment. I looked around the room. There were more than a dozen female bodies, interwoven with each other and a jumble of chains. This mound of suffering meat groaned and grunted incessantly. Squealing like a group of oversized rats. Vermin. That’s what was we were to them, and that was what they made us. I could see some blonde hair, some brown, some red. Almost translucent marble white next to dark ebony black skin. All of their bodies were hauntingly beautiful, even in the knot of torment they’d been tied together in.

What was happening on this island was absolutely insane. At the beginning of the 21st century! It was a stain on the face of humanity that would never go away. It needed to stop! But I wouldn’t be able to stop it. I was just an insignificant piece in a jigsaw of unspeakable cruelty.

– – –​

During the passage to Vanubati I had plenty of time to think. Why was it important that I had insisted on a lawyer and contact to the embassy? They told me they were about to relocate me to Radagar. There I could have done that until I was blue in the face. I started to question if this jungle prison even existed. They tortured me physically and threatened sexual abuse and hard labour to make me sign a stupid legal document, including the renunciation of all basic human rights?

The whole story didn’t make sense at all. I had been skilfully trapped from the very beginning. Maybe even Mr. Omenill was in on the plan. He had wanted to lay people off. Maybe this was a convenient way to save the compensation.

Even if Radagar existed, my treatment on the transport ship under the flag of Vanubati made me question whether it really would have been the worse choice. My cell was nothing more than a regular container. Two holes had been drilled close to the ceiling for ventilation. In the night it was pitch dark, during daytime I could scarcely see my hand in front of my face. I had to sit and sleep on the bare steel floor.

Occasionally they threw plastic bottles of water and some rotting fruit into the container. I had only a plastic bucket to relieve myself. The filthy smell and heat were nearly unbearable. The only variety from the endless days in the dark were the short trips to empty the plastic bucket every few days. The beauty of the Pacific Ocean was in sharp contrast to the misery of my desolation. I tried to initiate conversation with the crew members who guarded me during these occasions. But all they replied, was “Shut up, slave!” and “Hurry, slave!”

Finally, we arrived. The anchor chain rattled, and the engines stopped. After a while there was a loud noise from the roof of my container, metal scratching against metal, and I felt like I was in a slow elevator. My prison was set on the ground again. Hours passed. Then more noise, another elevator ride in the dark, and then I fell on the hard metal floor, knocked over by an unexpected acceleration. Lastly, the prison container arrived at its destination.

The door was opened, a dockworker entered, and immediately began to shout and hit my naked exposed body with a thin cane.

“Up! Up! Up! Out! Out! Out! Out! Move! Move! Faster, you lazy slave! Move!”

The strokes fell in the staccato rhythm of his words. I hurried towards the door and outside. I was blinded by the bright light after all this time in the dark, but the docker was relentless. He drove me to a small building which turned out to be a simple shower room.

“Clean yourself, dirty pig!”

It felt refreshing to get the filth of my body, even though the dockworker was watching and screaming to better hurry. He switched off the water.

“That’s enough. Move!”

The cane stung more on my wet skin. I screamed. The docker seemed to be encouraged by that and a hailstorm of cane strokes swept across my back.

“Move!”

He drove me with a flurry of blows to a fenced area, and he pushed me in.

“Wait here! Don’t talk to the other slaves. It is punishable by death!”

My eyes widened. Capital punishment for talking to another person? Oh, “person”. I was still thinking in my old categories.

There were about twenty-five young women scattered over the area. Most of them were sitting on the floor, some were striding up and down. They all looked emaciated and shaken up. I sat down and felt the warm wind on my skin, drying the drops that ran from my wet hair. It was my first pleasant experience since the fateful day at the airport of Melbopan. Or maybe I had already changed to the point where such a small thing could bring me solace.

By and by more women arrived. Alone, in groups of two or three, a group of six. Women from around the world, all naked, in chains and with marks of the cane. Three dockworkers patrolled among the captives. Every few minutes an officer in an eccentric red uniform appeared from the other side of the entrance, picked a woman, and took her inside a building at one end of the fenced area. I hoped that it would be a while before it was my turn.

But it was not long before the officer stopped in front of me and pointed his finger.

“You! Follow me, slave!”

I obeyed. At least this guy wasn’t using the cane he carried on his belt by default. From behind he looked like a Mountie. A Mountie in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It didn’t take long before I learnt to hate and fear this inappropriately colourful uniform. But maybe the colour of blood was apt after all.

Inside the building I was led before a wide desk with five men in the same uniform behind it. Appraising glances, whispering, nodding.

“Squat slave!” – “Kneel, slave!” – “Turn around, slave!”

Glances, whispering, nodding.

“B!” the man in the middle declared.

Another officer took over and led me to a desk to the side of the room.

“B” he said to the clerk behind the desk as if he hadn’t heard it from the other guy already.

“B. 4905-9268.”

He handed me a card with the letter B, the number, and a barcode on it.

“That’s your slave registration number. Memorize it! Failure to identify correctly is punishable by death!”

I stared at the number. 4905-9268. 4905-9268. 4905-9268. Forgetting a number: another insignificant transgression that led to capital punishment. I hoped that they weren’t serious but just trying to intimidate the new arrivals. But every time I thought they weren’t serious, it turned out they were serious. Deadly serious. 4905-9268. 4905-9268.

I was led to the next desk.

“Nationality?”

“American.”

“Not any more. Your American citizenship is declared void. You’re a Vanubatian slave from now.”

The three exits from the building were labelled “Eng”, “A–C”, and “D”. The system of slave castes was never explained, but it wasn’t difficult to understand. At least the categories “A”, “B”, and “C” were. “Eng” I assumed meant “English” and was applied to new slaves with insufficient proficiency in this language. But “D”? Well, there were rumours.

“D” slaves apparently were regarded as not attractive enough to serve in the other castes. I overheard conversations that they were immediately disposed of on arrival, converted into fish food for the numerous big fish farms around the island. Some whispered that they were just pushed into a giant meat grinder. This seemed far-fetched, even for such a horrendous place as this. It would have been bad business either. I thought it was more likely that “D” slaves were sold internationally as cheap prostitutes.

“C” slaves were considered more attractive, but not attractive enough to serve the locals and the rich who had moved here. They were given as maids and no-limit sex slaves to tourists and the foreign workers. Initially, foreign construction workers had been enslaved too, but the government soon realized that it was more effective to give them a slave than to enslave them. Applications for work permits were numerous.

If “C” slaves were lucky, their temporary owners just liked to be waited on hand and foot. But word-of-mouth advertising attracted a specific kind of visitors: the cruel and sadistic ones who paid well for the opportunity to live out their fantasies. Hotels in other countries had pools and bars and gyms; hotels in Vanubati offered all-inclusive torture chambers. “C” slaves quickly became scarred in body and mind, and were demoted to “D” slaves.

“A” slaves, as you probably suspect, were the most beautiful women when they arrived on the shores of this hellish island. When the locals became wealthy from the oil industry, they wanted to show off their new riches. It became a fashionable trend to buy models and present them as party decorations or living statues. Others started to use body modifications to optimize the slaves or to transform them into their living dream body. It didn’t take long, and the absolute deprivation of rights and the tolerance of treating the slaves as their owner saw fit led to an influx of rich sadistic people from all around the world. The most beautiful women under absolute control of the most sadistic men: heaven on earth for some, a living hell for the others. Historians will report about the atrocities committed. Once the slaves showed a minimal flaw, a lost tooth, a scar, or a branding that wasn’t absolute perfect in the eyes of their owner, an absurd crime was fabricated and the innocent victim sentenced to death. If they were lucky, they were hanged. But usually they were crucified. And a new slave girl would be ordered.

The island was small and overpopulated. On the day I was unloaded, at least twenty-five new arrivals were brought to Vanubati. If that was a usual business day, more than 5,000 newly enslaved women came to the island every single year! Throughput needed to be quick to make the business flourish and keep the sadists happy. Not only currency undergoes inflation, so does the value of human life and suffering. People got used to the screams of the tortured and the sight of mass executions. The beautiful island of Vanubati became a pitiless bone mill.

“B” slaves had the easiest among the cruel fates. They were used as domestic service slaves. Doing all kind of menial tasks, they were rarely abused sexually. They were just treated like living household appliances and worked to exhaustion. Always naked and in chains, always humiliated. My days were an endless series of work from before dawn to late at night, always in fear of not completing an order to my owner’s satisfaction. I’ve been whipped bloody for forgetting an item on the shopping list. I’ve been told I would be killed if I broke a piece of porcelain. Even the “B” slaves wouldn’t last long.

But my downfall didn’t come from a job done badly. When I served at a party a guest, a former compatriot approached me, seemingly outraged about the atrocities committed on this island.

“Why does our country allow it to happen?” I whispered.

“Government! You know how it is. They are happy to get oil without sticking their fingers into the mess in the Middle East. So, they turn a blind eye.”

He looked around whether someone was listening, and then whispered: “Do you think it would be possible to get away on a boat?”

“I don’t know. Security is said to be pretty tough.”

“So you want to escape, eh?”

Two officers in red uniform appeared, and I was petrified.

“You heard her. She’s trying to flee from this wonderful country that allows us to treat this scum like it needs to be treated.”

I didn’t even contradict. They wouldn’t care. I should have known better. I had been betrayed before.

“We need some evidence for the trial”, one of the red uniforms said.

“Sure.”

He took a scrap of paper and wrote: “4905-9268 has confessed she was planning to flee from Vanubati.”

My death by crucifixion was assured.
Fabulous work @y__ ! :clapping:

Every single muscle in the lower half of my face had been stretched or squeezed. They had been cramping for hours.
So cruel, this metal gag (I love it)
the baton of death, passed on from victim to victim
Yes, nice!!
There were more than a dozen female bodies, interwoven with each other and a jumble of chains.
Sounds like my bedroom (I wish) :babeando:
I stared at the number. 4905-9268
Love this moment. No more name, just a number.
Throughput needed to be quick to make the business flourish and keep the sadists happy.
CF needs to buy this island..or at least book a group holiday there
My death by crucifixion was assured.
Oh boy are you on the right website! :devil:
 

xso

Tribune
PART 4

I awakened from my own silent scream, retching in panic. The muscles in my lungs tried to draw a breath with all their strength, but in vain. In a last-ditch effort I instinctively blew the little remaining air through my nostrils, and a thick, slimy clot of snot and blood landed on my thighs. I was gasping for breath, but finally I calmed down a bit. Why had I done that? Just a couple of seconds more, and I might have lost consciousness. The ordeal could have been over.

From what did I even “awaken”? Surely not from sleep. A part of my consciousness had shut down, but the pain hadn’t stopped for a single second. My brain was overtaxed with processing the pain. It had short-circuited all other functions. I had become pain itself.

My lower lip was entirely numb. I tried to purse my lips, but I couldn’t. Every single muscle in the lower half of my face had been stretched or squeezed. They had been cramping for hours. Without sufficient blood flow, they must have started to die off. Oh God! I tried to move my lips again, my tongue, my jaws. Nothing. God help me! Parts of me were dying already!

Unfortunately, the numbing didn’t mean that the pain had gone. It had just moved, to my throat, to the roof of my mouth, into the nasal cavity and behind my eyeballs. The agony would wreak its havoc there too, spreading more partial death, cell by cell. Fucking bastards! This gagging device was so simple. Just a few pieces of metal, a few screws. But it was the baton of death, passed on from victim to victim. It was not only killing me, but it connected me to a long chain of meaningless suffering beyond all bearing. The guard had been right. The psychological torture wasn’t any less than the physical one.

Almost ridiculously, I became obsessed with my increasing urge to pee. But such trifles seemed to be the handrail the mind uses to drag itself along. There was a metal toilet bowl in the nearest corner. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months. I didn’t know if any of my cellmates had used it. There had been some stumbling around, but I wasn’t aware of my surroundings most of the time.

Every movement hurt. It’s not the right word. I don’t have a word for it. The urge just to let go on the spot was almost overwhelming. By the sickening smell of ammonia wafting through the air, some women had given in the temptation. To my own surprise, my spirit hadn’t been broken totally yet. On the contrary, I felt defiance which gave me some strength. The fucking assholes out there were dehumanizing us and killing us. I would fight for my dignity for as long as I could! I wouldn’t sit in my piss for the last hours of my life.

Brave thoughts that I couldn’t deny, but that I immediately regretted. Getting up was a struggle. Half upright, bend like an animal, I made agonizing progress step by step. I started to pee prematurely; it ran down my legs. With my last ounce of strength, I reached the toilet. The price for preserving a shred of dignity had been high. I sank down, right next to the disgusting bowl. I couldn’t imagine I would ever get up again. But I knew they would make us.

My mind was surprisingly clear at this moment. I looked around the room. There were more than a dozen female bodies, interwoven with each other and a jumble of chains. This mound of suffering meat groaned and grunted incessantly. Squealing like a group of oversized rats. Vermin. That’s what was we were to them, and that was what they made us. I could see some blonde hair, some brown, some red. Almost translucent marble white next to dark ebony black skin. All of their bodies were hauntingly beautiful, even in the knot of torment they’d been tied together in.

What was happening on this island was absolutely insane. At the beginning of the 21st century! It was a stain on the face of humanity that would never go away. It needed to stop! But I wouldn’t be able to stop it. I was just an insignificant piece in a jigsaw of unspeakable cruelty.

– – –​

During the passage to Vanubati I had plenty of time to think. Why was it important that I had insisted on a lawyer and contact to the embassy? They told me they were about to relocate me to Radagar. There I could have done that until I was blue in the face. I started to question if this jungle prison even existed. They tortured me physically and threatened sexual abuse and hard labour to make me sign a stupid legal document, including the renunciation of all basic human rights?

The whole story didn’t make sense at all. I had been skilfully trapped from the very beginning. Maybe even Mr. Omenill was in on the plan. He had wanted to lay people off. Maybe this was a convenient way to save the compensation.

Even if Radagar existed, my treatment on the transport ship under the flag of Vanubati made me question whether it really would have been the worse choice. My cell was nothing more than a regular container. Two holes had been drilled close to the ceiling for ventilation. In the night it was pitch dark, during daytime I could scarcely see my hand in front of my face. I had to sit and sleep on the bare steel floor.

Occasionally they threw plastic bottles of water and some rotting fruit into the container. I had only a plastic bucket to relieve myself. The filthy smell and heat were nearly unbearable. The only variety from the endless days in the dark were the short trips to empty the plastic bucket every few days. The beauty of the Pacific Ocean was in sharp contrast to the misery of my desolation. I tried to initiate conversation with the crew members who guarded me during these occasions. But all they replied, was “Shut up, slave!” and “Hurry, slave!”

Finally, we arrived. The anchor chain rattled, and the engines stopped. After a while there was a loud noise from the roof of my container, metal scratching against metal, and I felt like I was in a slow elevator. My prison was set on the ground again. Hours passed. Then more noise, another elevator ride in the dark, and then I fell on the hard metal floor, knocked over by an unexpected acceleration. Lastly, the prison container arrived at its destination.

The door was opened, a dockworker entered, and immediately began to shout and hit my naked exposed body with a thin cane.

“Up! Up! Up! Out! Out! Out! Out! Move! Move! Faster, you lazy slave! Move!”

The strokes fell in the staccato rhythm of his words. I hurried towards the door and outside. I was blinded by the bright light after all this time in the dark, but the docker was relentless. He drove me to a small building which turned out to be a simple shower room.

“Clean yourself, dirty pig!”

It felt refreshing to get the filth of my body, even though the dockworker was watching and screaming to better hurry. He switched off the water.

“That’s enough. Move!”

The cane stung more on my wet skin. I screamed. The docker seemed to be encouraged by that and a hailstorm of cane strokes swept across my back.

“Move!”

He drove me with a flurry of blows to a fenced area, and he pushed me in.

“Wait here! Don’t talk to the other slaves. It is punishable by death!”

My eyes widened. Capital punishment for talking to another person? Oh, “person”. I was still thinking in my old categories.

There were about twenty-five young women scattered over the area. Most of them were sitting on the floor, some were striding up and down. They all looked emaciated and shaken up. I sat down and felt the warm wind on my skin, drying the drops that ran from my wet hair. It was my first pleasant experience since the fateful day at the airport of Melbopan. Or maybe I had already changed to the point where such a small thing could bring me solace.

By and by more women arrived. Alone, in groups of two or three, a group of six. Women from around the world, all naked, in chains and with marks of the cane. Three dockworkers patrolled among the captives. Every few minutes an officer in an eccentric red uniform appeared from the other side of the entrance, picked a woman, and took her inside a building at one end of the fenced area. I hoped that it would be a while before it was my turn.

But it was not long before the officer stopped in front of me and pointed his finger.

“You! Follow me, slave!”

I obeyed. At least this guy wasn’t using the cane he carried on his belt by default. From behind he looked like a Mountie. A Mountie in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It didn’t take long before I learnt to hate and fear this inappropriately colourful uniform. But maybe the colour of blood was apt after all.

Inside the building I was led before a wide desk with five men in the same uniform behind it. Appraising glances, whispering, nodding.

“Squat slave!” – “Kneel, slave!” – “Turn around, slave!”

Glances, whispering, nodding.

“B!” the man in the middle declared.

Another officer took over and led me to a desk to the side of the room.

“B” he said to the clerk behind the desk as if he hadn’t heard it from the other guy already.

“B. 4905-9268.”

He handed me a card with the letter B, the number, and a barcode on it.

“That’s your slave registration number. Memorize it! Failure to identify correctly is punishable by death!”

I stared at the number. 4905-9268. 4905-9268. 4905-9268. Forgetting a number: another insignificant transgression that led to capital punishment. I hoped that they weren’t serious but just trying to intimidate the new arrivals. But every time I thought they weren’t serious, it turned out they were serious. Deadly serious. 4905-9268. 4905-9268.

I was led to the next desk.

“Nationality?”

“American.”

“Not any more. Your American citizenship is declared void. You’re a Vanubatian slave from now.”

The three exits from the building were labelled “Eng”, “A–C”, and “D”. The system of slave castes was never explained, but it wasn’t difficult to understand. At least the categories “A”, “B”, and “C” were. “Eng” I assumed meant “English” and was applied to new slaves with insufficient proficiency in this language. But “D”? Well, there were rumours.

“D” slaves apparently were regarded as not attractive enough to serve in the other castes. I overheard conversations that they were immediately disposed of on arrival, converted into fish food for the numerous big fish farms around the island. Some whispered that they were just pushed into a giant meat grinder. This seemed far-fetched, even for such a horrendous place as this. It would have been bad business either. I thought it was more likely that “D” slaves were sold internationally as cheap prostitutes.

“C” slaves were considered more attractive, but not attractive enough to serve the locals and the rich who had moved here. They were given as maids and no-limit sex slaves to tourists and the foreign workers. Initially, foreign construction workers had been enslaved too, but the government soon realized that it was more effective to give them a slave than to enslave them. Applications for work permits were numerous.

If “C” slaves were lucky, their temporary owners just liked to be waited on hand and foot. But word-of-mouth advertising attracted a specific kind of visitors: the cruel and sadistic ones who paid well for the opportunity to live out their fantasies. Hotels in other countries had pools and bars and gyms; hotels in Vanubati offered all-inclusive torture chambers. “C” slaves quickly became scarred in body and mind, and were demoted to “D” slaves.

“A” slaves, as you probably suspect, were the most beautiful women when they arrived on the shores of this hellish island. When the locals became wealthy from the oil industry, they wanted to show off their new riches. It became a fashionable trend to buy models and present them as party decorations or living statues. Others started to use body modifications to optimize the slaves or to transform them into their living dream body. It didn’t take long, and the absolute deprivation of rights and the tolerance of treating the slaves as their owner saw fit led to an influx of rich sadistic people from all around the world. The most beautiful women under absolute control of the most sadistic men: heaven on earth for some, a living hell for the others. Historians will report about the atrocities committed. Once the slaves showed a minimal flaw, a lost tooth, a scar, or a branding that wasn’t absolute perfect in the eyes of their owner, an absurd crime was fabricated and the innocent victim sentenced to death. If they were lucky, they were hanged. But usually they were crucified. And a new slave girl would be ordered.

The island was small and overpopulated. On the day I was unloaded, at least twenty-five new arrivals were brought to Vanubati. If that was a usual business day, more than 5,000 newly enslaved women came to the island every single year! Throughput needed to be quick to make the business flourish and keep the sadists happy. Not only currency undergoes inflation, so does the value of human life and suffering. People got used to the screams of the tortured and the sight of mass executions. The beautiful island of Vanubati became a pitiless bone mill.

“B” slaves had the easiest among the cruel fates. They were used as domestic service slaves. Doing all kind of menial tasks, they were rarely abused sexually. They were just treated like living household appliances and worked to exhaustion. Always naked and in chains, always humiliated. My days were an endless series of work from before dawn to late at night, always in fear of not completing an order to my owner’s satisfaction. I’ve been whipped bloody for forgetting an item on the shopping list. I’ve been told I would be killed if I broke a piece of porcelain. Even the “B” slaves wouldn’t last long.

But my downfall didn’t come from a job done badly. When I served at a party a guest, a former compatriot approached me, seemingly outraged about the atrocities committed on this island.

“Why does our country allow it to happen?” I whispered.

“Government! You know how it is. They are happy to get oil without sticking their fingers into the mess in the Middle East. So, they turn a blind eye.”

He looked around whether someone was listening, and then whispered: “Do you think it would be possible to get away on a boat?”

“I don’t know. Security is said to be pretty tough.”

“So you want to escape, eh?”

Two officers in red uniform appeared, and I was petrified.

“You heard her. She’s trying to flee from this wonderful country that allows us to treat this scum like it needs to be treated.”

I didn’t even contradict. They wouldn’t care. I should have known better. I had been betrayed before.

“We need some evidence for the trial”, one of the red uniforms said.

“Sure.”

He took a scrap of paper and wrote: “4905-9268 has confessed she was planning to flee from Vanubati.”

My death by crucifixion was assured.
Great! I especially appreciate the last sentence........ :)
 

y__

Guard
PART 5

My head felt like the inside of a huge church bell. No matter how carefully I attempted to avoid any movement, the clapper hit the sides. The chimes tore at my eardrum and made my whole skull vibrate. For hours I hadn’t opened my eyes. The pressure on my eyeballs seemed so huge, it felt they might pop if I did. It took me a while to realize that the agonizing sounds didn’t come from inside my head. A guy was standing in the hallway and banging a metal rod against the bars of our prison cell.

“The time has come, slaves! Get up! Up! Up! Up!”

His shouts echoed painfully in my head.

“Up, lazybones! You know we have our little friends to encourage you if you don’t hurry up! Up!”

With grunting and groaning the pile of the soon to be dead began to untangle. The shackles clanged and clattered. The muscles in my legs were cold and stiff after hours on the bare concrete floor. The ground was slippery from the constant flow of tears and snot and spit and pee. And likely blood. Pressing my back against the wall, I inched my way upward until I stood, bent forward and unsteady. “Why did you do that, stupid?” my tired mind cursed myself. “Why not die here?” But instinct drives us to any relief, even if it’s for just a few seconds, even if it leads to more torture later.

We all had experience with the “little friends”. That was a euphemism for the cruellest everyday torture device on Vanubati. Every free citizen, even the women, seemed to have one handy. It was an upgrade of a cattle prod, with additional electrodes. I could never figure out how this thing worked, but people said it was not only delivering shocks, but it was measuring responses too. Skin resistance maybe? In any case the shocks the “little friends” dealt out were more painful than any strike with cane or whip, even if it was tearing the skin. But in contrast, the “little friends” never allowed the relief of passing out.

The key squealed in the lock, the door swung open, and more red uniforms started shouting and pulling and prodding.

“Get out!” “Forward!” “Move!” “Chop chop!” “That way!” “Hurry, you herd of pigs!”

Everything was a blur. I somehow managed to put one foot in front of the other. Inch by inch getting closer to the light at the end of the hallway. I barely made out the distorted faces of the guards. Just a chaos of skin, red fabric and shouts. Tiny step by step. Just don’t stop. No more little friends. The increasing brightness hurt my swollen, barely opened eyes. When I stepped through the two-winged metal door into the prison yard I screamed. Even the sun, giver of life, had converted into a torture device. I froze for a second, but a bout of pain in my lower body drove me forward.

“I said move, you dumb slave!” the guard ordered as he pushed the prod against my thighs a second time.

A loud noise to my right startled me. A u-shaped piece of metal had landed on a pile of other metal pieces. A group of emaciated slave women were lifting bodies on the loading platform of a truck after removing the gagging device. Yesterdays’ harvest of death had not even been brought in, and the new batch of seed was already sown. Female bodies for torture and execution were a rapidly regenerated raw material in Vanubati. Even the discoloured bodies of the dead revealed how beautiful they’d been when they were alive.

“Inspection line!” one of the red uniforms shouted.

Even after hours of torture, despite how every movement hurt like hell, we did what had been drilled into us relentlessly. We formed a straight line, with equal spacing between us, and stood as upright as possible. Surely, some of us were swaying precariously. But, please, no more little friends. Just let it be over soon. After a couple of minutes another red uniform appeared in my field of view, quite close to me, scrutinized me, then moved out of my sight again. The strange golden pom-poms on his uniform identified him as a senior officer.

“Good morning!” his voice echoed across the wide-open courtyard where our crosses were waiting for us. They lay on the ground, two rows of ten or twelve crosses made from light wood. The beautiful material contrasted with the reddish-brown stains on the beams.

“Today is another great day for our proud and beautiful country! We have the privilege and pleasure to make this world a better place. We are removing a tarnish on humanity by wiping out this sub-human trash. Posterity will owe us thanks for this bloody but necessary work. Even you, the condemned, will appreciate the opportunity to serve as a cautionary example.”

The officer was handsome in an old-fashioned way, like he was from a Fifties movie. His voice was clear and confident as if he really believed the nonsense he was spewing. I had seen some of his type. It was always like this. There were a few people like him who genuinely enjoyed demeaning, degrading, dehumanizing, torturing, and killing. Then there were the people who had no compunction to make a profit from providing the victims. And then there was the large number of people who were just part of the machinery, closing their eyes, doing what “is required”, numbed to the pain around them.

“You will be even happier to hear that one of you has the generous and special opportunity to repent from your unspeakable crimes. One of you may choose exclusive treatment to wash some of your sins away. So, is there a volunteer? Take a step forward!”

The row of the moribunds stood motionless, of course.

“Disgraceful cowards! Just as I expected.”

His rough laughter echoed over the court.

“You know, if there are no volunteers you will all get the honour of this special treatment! So, do I have a volunteer now? Final chance!”

In the back of my mind I remembered the promise I had made to myself in the holding cell. “I would fight for my dignity as long as I could.” For our dignity. For the dignity of the innocent victims. My body screamed not to do it. Just stand still! My mind was fired up in a bout of rage and pride. Step forward! Show them you’re not broken yet! Do it! Don’t fucking do it! Make the step! My overwhelmed mind made my body make a tiny step forward, cursing at itself and at the world.

“Well, look at that! We really have a volunteer! Courageous, I have to admit.”

The officer climbed from the podium and came over. He scrutinized me again.

“Courageous, but stupid! I’m looking forward to seeing the regret in your eyes! But for now, I just need a reminder …”

He took the cane from his belt and struck over my stomach with full force. I collapsed, unable to breathe, unable to scream. The heat from my lower body competed with the pain in my head and the panic in my mind. The officer gave me a swift kick against my shoulder, nodded and laughed.

“Really stupid. That nice red welt will remind me.”

He turned to his men.

“Get her to the podium and process the rest of the scum! She surely doesn’t want to miss that spectacle.”

Two red uniforms picked me up, dragged me to the podium and up the few steps. My sight was blurry, but I could see the whole courtyard from here. After another order of the senior officer hustling and bustling started. The red uniforms consolidated into smaller knots, groups of four and five. Every movement was perfect. They had had ample opportunity to practice.

Each group dragged one of the condemned in front of her designated cross. One man removed the shackles from the wrists of the victim, but they were immediately grabbed by other men. The tormented bodies were pulled down on the cross. After a few seconds of illusory freedom, the wrists were tied up again, this time with leather straps stretched to the crossbeam. A few hammer blows to the left, a few hammer blows to the right. The shackles were removed from the ankles. Then one of the men sat down on the lower bodies of the doomed, pulling up and fixing their feet. A few hammer blows. A few more hammer blows. One of the men lifted his hand to give the signal. A kind of crane-truck drove up and down behind the rows of crosses, hooking into an eyebolt at the top of the crosses, and swiftly raising them up. Metal rods were pushed through holes in a u-shaped metal profile and the beam, securing the cross. The ground beneath them were stained with fresh blood, slowly concealing stains of older blood.

I had lost any sense of time, but the whole process didn’t seem to take more than a few minutes per victim. Five groups of men were nailing the victims simultaneously. One cross was raised after the other after the other after the other. Terrifyingly, there were no screams. Just the rattling of chains, the blows of the hammers, the motor of the winch and the truck, the occasional shout from one of the men “Hold her down!”, “Raise it up!” I didn’t know if I would have been able to scream. My whole mouth was swollen. It was a fight to catch even a breath. Soon two rows of crosses and bodies were casting their shadow in the morning sun.

The senior officer appeared by my side.

“Well now, that’s that. It’s a sight to behold, isn’t it? But that’s only half of it.”

He moved his face very close to mine.

“I promised you special treatment. And I’m hell-bent on keeping my end of the bargain.”
 

montycrusto

Slave Trader
My head felt like the inside of a huge church bell
Great image.. you manage to find a sort of poetry in this material, which makes it much more impactful.
a cattle prod, with additional electrodes.
Oh.. I think I have one lying around here somewhere..
A loud noise to my right startled me. A u-shaped piece of metal had landed on a pile of other metal pieces. A group of emaciated slave women were lifting bodies on the loading platform of a truck after removing the gagging device
Brilliant (and brutal) detail; you are expert at evoking sounds and sights, making an almost cinematic experience..
The officer was handsome in an old-fashioned way, like he was from a Fifties movie.
nice detail, it adds so much to give secondary characters a little personality and individuality.
Step forward! Show them you’re not broken yet!
Yes! Her final act of will, her last fragment of power over her own fate! And also, she becomes complicit in her own suffering... A beautiful moment..
Metal rods were pushed through holes in a u-shaped metal profile and the beam, securing the cross
this kind of practical detail is fantastic. I just KNOW you must have actually been to Vanubati, to describe it so well!
 

y__

Guard
PART 6

“Look at the scum nailed to their crosses! Executed in the cherished Vanubatian way. Tortured for hours by a cruel device. Nailed with their legs close to their disgusting asses. They are already half-dead when the cross is raised. The gag makes it difficult to breathe. They don’t have much opportunity to fight their demise by standing on their nailed feet in agony. They die too quickly. They just don’t suffer enough.”

The sadistic senior officer stood close before my face again. If I could have I would have spat in his face.

“What’s the appropriate way to take such miserable lives though? Inflict the greatest pain? No. I think we should maximize pain over the longest possible time! Don’t you agree that human trash like you should suffer longer?”

Why argue with this monster? I gave a hint of a nod. His face got red in anger and he grabbed my hair.

“When I ask a question, I expect a clear answer, you stupid defiant slave slut! Do you mean “yes”?”

He jerked my head up and down. At this moment, my skull cracked. At least that’s how it felt. But when he let go of me, I could still stand. Maybe it wasn’t my skull, but my jaw. No, he had broken off some of my teeth in the lower jaw. I could feel the splinters cut into my swollen lower lip. Ironically, loosing some of my front teeth was making breathing a bit easier.

“I’m glad you agree. Let’s make you suffer more.”

The senior officer gave a sign to his aids and they approached the podium with some wooden pieces. They both were in the shape of a wide-angled “v”, but one was double as thick as the other one. Two men grabbed my arms and bend my upper body forward. Two other men held the device against my chest, just above and below my breasts. The fifth man pushed threaded rods through both parts and started to tighten the wing nuts.

“A tit compactor”, I thought. “How unimaginative.”

But this thing quickly proved as evil as the metal gagging device. As the nuts tightened my tender flesh was squeezed relentlessly. Turn after turn after turn. I wriggled from the increasing pain, only to find that I increased the pain in my head that way. My tears were running dry. Even not being able to cry was painful.

I couldn’t believe that the guy was still tightening the nuts. My tits felt like they had been flattened to a newspaper between the wooden slats. What stood out in front turned dark violet. My nipples turned even darker. They felt like they would explode.

The senior officer watched me very carefully during this ordeal and I couldn’t help noticing that he was rubbing his cock through his pants.

“Very nice!” he said with a wide smile on his suntanned face. “I want to try an experiment!”

He grabbed his cane again and smashed it over my tits as hard as he could. Everything turned black and I would have fainted if the red uniforms hadn’t supported me. The stroke had torn the skin and blood seeped out of the wound.

“Meh!” The senior officer seemed to be disappointed. “Not a nice welt. Do you suffer more now, slave?”

Remembering the last time he asked a question, I nodded as distinctly as I could.

“But it’s still not enough. Not by far. I have more surprises for you.”

He smiled proudly.

“What’s special about crucifixion? Right, the nailing! Your pathetic tits are squeezed. That’s painful I imagine. You don’t need to answer. I see it in your tormented face. But I think we should nail them too!”

“Nail my tits?” I thought in horror. How would this even work?

But the red uniforms had been well instructed. They pulled me from the podium, towards a small platform and pushed me against it. It was just tall enough so that the lower part of the tit press rested on top of the platform. Then I saw them! Four nails, sparkling in the sun. They looked obscenely thick and long.

But just as with the other victims everything happened so quickly. There were holes drilled in the upper part of the device, and I just felt the spike of the first nail against my tender flesh when the hammer went down for the first time. The nail pierced through the compressed part of my left breast in a single blow, and after two more blows it stuck firmly in the lower part. I tried to scream, but I only loosened another part of a tooth. I think I fainted because I didn’t feel the other three nails ripping into my breasts. But when the men pulled me back from the platform and the tit device was no longer supported its weight tore on the nails. I couldn’t feel where pain was coming from anymore. Pain was the only thing I could feel. It was everywhere. There was only pain. Nothing else.

But the senior officer made himself noticeable. He relied on the help of his little friend which he pointed directly at my swollen breasts. Again, two men had to hold me while my body twitched in helpless agony.

“Very, very good!” The senior officers’ eyes sparkled. “This step is checked off. To the next!”

Two red uniforms approached with a single beam, made from the same wood as the other crosses apparently. They unloaded the beam on the platform. Another guy took out his keyring and before I knew what was happening my hands were free for the first time in days. But the relief lasted only for a few seconds. The two men grabbed my arms and pushed me against the platform again, this time with my back to it. With a few well-rehearsed movements my wrists were tied spread out to the beam with leather straps. Some additional straps were pulled tight close to my shoulders.

When the men pulled me away from the platform I staggered like a drunk. The weight of the beam, although huge, wasn’t the worst thing. But now with my hands tied outwards, they pulled on my nailed breasts. The weight of the breast press pulled them downwards, my tied arms pulled them back. But they were nailed in place and couldn’t move a bit. All they could do was send pain through all available nerves to the overloaded brain.

“Please, finish me off!” I said. I must have said it in my head because I couldn’t say it out loud. Of course, nobody heard it. And if they had, they wouldn’t have cared.

“What a magnificent sight!”

The senior officer twirled on his moustache.

“You see, when we first started bringing scum like you to justice, we did it publicly in the town square. It was a day of rejoicing for the whole population. But now we need to execute criminals like you every single day. People started to get bored with it. We moved the crucifixions to the prison courtyard where they could be done efficiently. But you wouldn’t want to miss the experience of carrying your cross, would you? After all, one is crucified only once.”

He laughed at his own quip. His men seemed to laugh more to be polite. I could barely hear his words though the veil of pain and torment.

“So, you have the great honour to be crucified publicly! In front of our population and our esteemed foreign visitors. This will be a special occasion, a rare spectacle that people will remember and appreciate. And you even get the opportunity to carry your own cross to the town centre. Well, part of it. But you can’t expect too much. After all, a specially made cross is waiting for you in the square.”

He gave a sign and the crane-truck started to move towards the prison gates.

“Let’s go. Enjoy your final walk, slave!”

He smiled sadistically.

“And by the way: You better not stumble. If you do, we will drag you up by your nailed tits. If we have to, we will drag you all the way to the town square by your pathetic tits. I guess you don’t want that. Move, slave!”

With his last word his cane landed on my exposed ass. I swayed, made a tiny step, another stroke, another tiny step. It was always warm in Vanubati, but now it was approaching noon and the sun burnt down without any remorse. I could barely breathe. The air was thick, almost viscous. Strands of my hair were hanging into my bloodshot eyes.
 

JoeyRainbow

Executioner
There were a few people like him who genuinely enjoyed demeaning, degrading, dehumanizing, torturing, and killing
Guilty as charged :sisi1 . I'm loving your suffering (and your writing). The only thing I'd change? I'd be there in person to witness your gruesome demise.
 

y__

Guard
PART 7

It seemed like it took hours to even reach the prison gates. When they opened, our procession was greeted by maybe a dozen Vanubatian citizens. “There she is, the callous monster!” “Traitor!” “That crazy bitch murdered innocent children!” “The cross is too good for this repulsive piece of shit!” “Let her starve while whipped without a break!” “Skin her alive before you crucify the beast!” The turnout wasn’t great but those who had showed up were on fire. The majority of spectators and cheerleaders of my demise would wait at the town square.

The island was small, and it wasn’t far from the prison to the execution site. But I could barely move. No matter how hard the cane was used to get me moving faster. There were people on the streets going about their lives. Also, some slaves furtively passed me by. We all had seen scenes like this, scenes of unspeakable abuse, and we tried to ignore it. There was always the danger of getting drawn in. We also didn’t want to be reminded of what was in store for us.

But one slave girl, a beautiful blonde one with the body of a model and a face of an angel stopped in her tracks. She reached inside the grocery bags she was carrying. Her face was taut with rage when she threw a can of tuna at me. It hit me on the thigh, but what did that matter?

Then she approached me and gave me a slap across my face. It was surprisingly forceful, and I lost my balance. I collapsed to my knees, only held up by the beam leaning into the ground. The blonde angel spat on my face.

“How could you do this to us? To your own people? You’re worse than all of them!”

The red uniforms easily overpowered the slave girl.

“You’re under arrest! Talking to another slave is punishable by death by crucifixion!”

She turned and spat in my face a second time.

“Totally worth it!”

I had no idea what absurd propaganda story the government had disseminated. But people believed it apparently. In another slave it had incited so much hate she had willingly chosen death just to humiliate me. Another innocent victim. The irony! I was here because I wanted to relieve a tiny bit of the suffering of “my people”, and they made them turn against me. My sacrifice seemed so senseless. When I was dragged to my feet again by my nailed breasts, I was just an empty shell. I felt numb. Even though I screamed in horrendous pain and broke another part of a tooth.

Finally, noises were getting louder and louder, an increasing babble of voices. I had reached the town square. I was greeted with an unintelligible flood of vilification and intense rain of stones.

“Stop that!” the senior officer shouted. “We don’t want to kill her prematurely! She must suffer!”

The crowd cheered.

“Yes, torture that bitch!” the shrill voice of an old lady shrieked. Soon the whole crowd chanted “Torture the bitch! Torture the bitch!”

In the middle of the square a stage had been erected. And at its centre the counterpart of the beam I was carrying was reaching into the sky. But it wasn’t a single vertical beam. It had another horizontal beam halfway up. At the point where this beam was fixed, another timber jutted out forwards, to which was fixed another horizontal beam parallel to the first, about two and a half feet in front. Yes, I had gotten a special cross.

The cheering got even louder when I was forced to climb up the steps to the stage. “Torture the bitch! Torture the bitch!” When the senior officer gave a signal, the crowd fell silent immediately. The victim’s final moments before the inevitable. Even the noises in my head stopped. One would have heard a pin drop. There were cameras all around me. A huge screen would show every little detail of my torture. They really made my demise a spectacle.

The crowd started cheering again when I was pulled over onto my back. The executing officer held the first nail into the camera.

“Nail the bitch! Nail the bitch!”

The exultation of the crowd drowned out the noises of the hammer blows. My hands clenched into fists. The crane-truck lifted the crossbar onto the vertical bar. It probably only took a few seconds, but I felt everything in slow motion. Even the pain trickled into my brain in small but devastating portions. My feet kicked helplessly into the air. The crowd went mad. I passed out.

When I reluctantly regained consciousness, the crossbar had been lowered down and fixed to the tenon in the vertical beam. I was squatting awkwardly with my feet now resting on the front horizontal beam, allowing me to alleviate some of the pull on my arms and shoulders. But of course, that was not my final position.

A work platform was pushed in front of my cross. And, as I soon found out, another one behind it. More red uniforms, more cameras. My left foot was pulled from behind and dragged backwards. One man in uniform stretched my leg to the side as widely as possible. They had to reposition. This part apparently was new. Then my left knee rested on the front beam while my left foot rested on the other one. Suddenly I felt my foot was being nailed to the beam like this. With my sole facing upwards and the top of my foot to the beam.

I almost was surprised there was a part in my body that could add more pain. The crowd cheered again. Performing in front of such a cheering crowd is everybody’s dream. But they all had come to see me tortured and killed.

The procedure was repeated with my right leg. Right knee on front beam, foot nailed to the other one. I was kneeling, legs spread widely apart, nailed to a cross. My final, ultimate bondage. I didn’t have to fight for breath. My legs didn’t push into my abdomen like they usually do during crucifixions. I was just utterly immobilized. With my soles pointing upwards I had absolutely no chance to relieve any of my weight from my knees. And they hurt like hell almost instantaneously. Spread my legs a bit further or a bit less. That was all I could do. A camera took a close up of my exposed pussy.

Another piece of wood was passed onto the working station. It was a triangular-shaped beam, and I immediately knew what its purpose was. The crowd went into ecstasy as this new torture device was inserted and fixed under my pussy.

My special cross was a wooden horse cross. Nailed and pussy tortured at the same time. As I had absolutely no leverage, my delicate flesh was pushed onto the sharp edge without the slightest chance of relief. The golden pompoms appeared again, although my eyes were not able to focus anymore. The oculocephalic reflex stopped working. But I still could hear the sadist’s voice.

“I promised you a special treatment, slave. What do you think? Well. I don’t care. I like it. The crowd likes it. And we will enjoy it for days.”

He laughed his characteristic rough laughter.

“But I have another surprise for you. Do you remember I told you what’s special about crucifixion? The nailing. And there is one part of your worthless pathetic body that has not been nailed yet. A part I’m very fond of. I guess you already know what I’m talking about. Lucky you! I will nail your cunt myself!”

He grabbed one of my outer labia, pulled it tight over the wooden horse beam, and with decisive hammer blows and more laughter he forced a nail through the twitching flesh. I lost consciousness again, but he was patient enough to wait until my muscles began to twitch once more. Then he nailed the other side of my pussy. Finally, six nails pierced my most tender parts. Three to each side.

“Now that’s all done. Oh, one minor detail!”

His index finger reached for my clit, carefully pushing the hood upwards, and started circling. My heart skipped a beat. I was in a delirium, but this was impossible. I was immobilized in the most painful position imaginable; I had been tortured without mercy for a day now; I was close to death; I loathed this man. But he knew was he was doing and wondrously my body reacted. No, not that! Don’t give him that victory! But in a few seconds my treacherous nailed cunt spasmed and gushed over the hand of my abuser.

“Well, that was fun! Now you can die pondering what a dirty nasty slave slut you are! It might take a few days though! Good riddance, you filthy piece of shit!”



So, this is how I got here. I’ve told the story that nobody is ever going to hear. Now there is no past left for my mind to retreat to. No future either. Just the here and now with its seemingly endless expanse of torment.

But in all their effort to maximize my agony, they miscalculated. They overdid it. You can’t add torture to torture to pain to anguish indefinitely. I was very weak. My mind had almost stopped working. I hadn’t drooled any more for hours. I was severely dehydrated. No, it wouldn’t take a few days. As death approached, he didn’t feel the need to be cruel. My fellow humans have taken over his birth right.

– – – – – I raise my head a tiny bit. The light of the setting sun gets warmer and brighter. The silhouettes of the people disappear; their vilifying shouts fall silent. My half-opened eyes look into a bright, yet soothing white.

– – – – – – – – – – Mr. Omenill floats up until he’s very close to my face. He wears a light blue romper suit. “Awwww. Poor thing. I liked you a lot. I hired you because I thought you were easy. But you always insisted on being professional. Look where it got you.” I chuckle. Maybe you should have chosen a different outfit?

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – Mr. Omenill swirls around my head like an angry hornet. “I have a postcard for you from your friend in Belize. Shall I read it to you?” As if you need my permission, boss. I have a few minutes to spare left, so please go ahead. “Hello, gringo slut! I’m sorry you didn’t go to Radagar. I would have liked to have visited you there. But, well, I guess you’ve gotten the fate you deserve.” My officer, you don’t know it yet. We all get the fate we deserve. The same night is waiting for us all. We all take a path we go only once.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – I can’t move. But I need to. I just have to. I tear on my nailed feet. Harder. I have to move. I tear as hard as I can. And really, I tear off my right foot from the nail that pinned it down. I jerk at the other foot. It’s free too! My feet are a mess of torn flesh, and blood is dripping down. But they are free! Triumphantly I stretch out my legs in front of me. I move my body weight forward. I retract my legs, and move my body weight backwards. And again. And again and again. My whole cross begins to shake. I reach for the chains to my left and to my right. I shout out for joy and cry from pain. I extend my legs high into the air, into the wonderful blue sky, swinging back and forth as high as I can. My summer dress flutters.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – I stop. I jump from my swing. Through the lush green Kansas grass I run to the porch. “Mum, I’m so thirsty!” She pours a glass of iced tea. I drink and smile; my eternal thirst is quenched. My head sinks onto my chest. And nothingness pulls its blanket over me.
 

montycrusto

Slave Trader
PART 7

It seemed like it took hours to even reach the prison gates. When they opened, our procession was greeted by maybe a dozen Vanubatian citizens. “There she is, the callous monster!” “Traitor!” “That crazy bitch murdered innocent children!” “The cross is too good for this repulsive piece of shit!” “Let her starve while whipped without a break!” “Skin her alive before you crucify the beast!” The turnout wasn’t great but those who had showed up were on fire. The majority of spectators and cheerleaders of my demise would wait at the town square.

The island was small, and it wasn’t far from the prison to the execution site. But I could barely move. No matter how hard the cane was used to get me moving faster. There were people on the streets going about their lives. Also, some slaves furtively passed me by. We all had seen scenes like this, scenes of unspeakable abuse, and we tried to ignore it. There was always the danger of getting drawn in. We also didn’t want to be reminded of what was in store for us.

But one slave girl, a beautiful blonde one with the body of a model and a face of an angel stopped in her tracks. She reached inside the grocery bags she was carrying. Her face was taut with rage when she threw a can of tuna at me. It hit me on the thigh, but what did that matter?

Then she approached me and gave me a slap across my face. It was surprisingly forceful, and I lost my balance. I collapsed to my knees, only held up by the beam leaning into the ground. The blonde angel spat on my face.

“How could you do this to us? To your own people? You’re worse than all of them!”

The red uniforms easily overpowered the slave girl.

“You’re under arrest! Talking to another slave is punishable by death by crucifixion!”

She turned and spat in my face a second time.

“Totally worth it!”

I had no idea what absurd propaganda story the government had disseminated. But people believed it apparently. In another slave it had incited so much hate she had willingly chosen death just to humiliate me. Another innocent victim. The irony! I was here because I wanted to relieve a tiny bit of the suffering of “my people”, and they made them turn against me. My sacrifice seemed so senseless. When I was dragged to my feet again by my nailed breasts, I was just an empty shell. I felt numb. Even though I screamed in horrendous pain and broke another part of a tooth.

Finally, noises were getting louder and louder, an increasing babble of voices. I had reached the town square. I was greeted with an unintelligible flood of vilification and intense rain of stones.

“Stop that!” the senior officer shouted. “We don’t want to kill her prematurely! She must suffer!”

The crowd cheered.

“Yes, torture that bitch!” the shrill voice of an old lady shrieked. Soon the whole crowd chanted “Torture the bitch! Torture the bitch!”

In the middle of the square a stage had been erected. And at its centre the counterpart of the beam I was carrying was reaching into the sky. But it wasn’t a single vertical beam. It had another horizontal beam halfway up. At the point where this beam was fixed, another timber jutted out forwards, to which was fixed another horizontal beam parallel to the first, about two and a half feet in front. Yes, I had gotten a special cross.

The cheering got even louder when I was forced to climb up the steps to the stage. “Torture the bitch! Torture the bitch!” When the senior officer gave a signal, the crowd fell silent immediately. The victim’s final moments before the inevitable. Even the noises in my head stopped. One would have heard a pin drop. There were cameras all around me. A huge screen would show every little detail of my torture. They really made my demise a spectacle.

The crowd started cheering again when I was pulled over onto my back. The executing officer held the first nail into the camera.

“Nail the bitch! Nail the bitch!”

The exultation of the crowd drowned out the noises of the hammer blows. My hands clenched into fists. The crane-truck lifted the crossbar onto the vertical bar. It probably only took a few seconds, but I felt everything in slow motion. Even the pain trickled into my brain in small but devastating portions. My feet kicked helplessly into the air. The crowd went mad. I passed out.

When I reluctantly regained consciousness, the crossbar had been lowered down and fixed to the tenon in the vertical beam. I was squatting awkwardly with my feet now resting on the front horizontal beam, allowing me to alleviate some of the pull on my arms and shoulders. But of course, that was not my final position.

A work platform was pushed in front of my cross. And, as I soon found out, another one behind it. More red uniforms, more cameras. My left foot was pulled from behind and dragged backwards. One man in uniform stretched my leg to the side as widely as possible. They had to reposition. This part apparently was new. Then my left knee rested on the front beam while my left foot rested on the other one. Suddenly I felt my foot was being nailed to the beam like this. With my sole facing upwards and the top of my foot to the beam.

I almost was surprised there was a part in my body that could add more pain. The crowd cheered again. Performing in front of such a cheering crowd is everybody’s dream. But they all had come to see me tortured and killed.

The procedure was repeated with my right leg. Right knee on front beam, foot nailed to the other one. I was kneeling, legs spread widely apart, nailed to a cross. My final, ultimate bondage. I didn’t have to fight for breath. My legs didn’t push into my abdomen like they usually do during crucifixions. I was just utterly immobilized. With my soles pointing upwards I had absolutely no chance to relieve any of my weight from my knees. And they hurt like hell almost instantaneously. Spread my legs a bit further or a bit less. That was all I could do. A camera took a close up of my exposed pussy.

Another piece of wood was passed onto the working station. It was a triangular-shaped beam, and I immediately knew what its purpose was. The crowd went into ecstasy as this new torture device was inserted and fixed under my pussy.

My special cross was a wooden horse cross. Nailed and pussy tortured at the same time. As I had absolutely no leverage, my delicate flesh was pushed onto the sharp edge without the slightest chance of relief. The golden pompoms appeared again, although my eyes were not able to focus anymore. The oculocephalic reflex stopped working. But I still could hear the sadist’s voice.

“I promised you a special treatment, slave. What do you think? Well. I don’t care. I like it. The crowd likes it. And we will enjoy it for days.”

He laughed his characteristic rough laughter.

“But I have another surprise for you. Do you remember I told you what’s special about crucifixion? The nailing. And there is one part of your worthless pathetic body that has not been nailed yet. A part I’m very fond of. I guess you already know what I’m talking about. Lucky you! I will nail your cunt myself!”

He grabbed one of my outer labia, pulled it tight over the wooden horse beam, and with decisive hammer blows and more laughter he forced a nail through the twitching flesh. I lost consciousness again, but he was patient enough to wait until my muscles began to twitch once more. Then he nailed the other side of my pussy. Finally, six nails pierced my most tender parts. Three to each side.

“Now that’s all done. Oh, one minor detail!”

His index finger reached for my clit, carefully pushing the hood upwards, and started circling. My heart skipped a beat. I was in a delirium, but this was impossible. I was immobilized in the most painful position imaginable; I had been tortured without mercy for a day now; I was close to death; I loathed this man. But he knew was he was doing and wondrously my body reacted. No, not that! Don’t give him that victory! But in a few seconds my treacherous nailed cunt spasmed and gushed over the hand of my abuser.

“Well, that was fun! Now you can die pondering what a dirty nasty slave slut you are! It might take a few days though! Good riddance, you filthy piece of shit!”



So, this is how I got here. I’ve told the story that nobody is ever going to hear. Now there is no past left for my mind to retreat to. No future either. Just the here and now with its seemingly endless expanse of torment.

But in all their effort to maximize my agony, they miscalculated. They overdid it. You can’t add torture to torture to pain to anguish indefinitely. I was very weak. My mind had almost stopped working. I hadn’t drooled any more for hours. I was severely dehydrated. No, it wouldn’t take a few days. As death approached, he didn’t feel the need to be cruel. My fellow humans have taken over his birth right.

– – – – – I raise my head a tiny bit. The light of the setting sun gets warmer and brighter. The silhouettes of the people disappear; their vilifying shouts fall silent. My half-opened eyes look into a bright, yet soothing white.

– – – – – – – – – – Mr. Omenill floats up until he’s very close to my face. He wears a light blue romper suit. “Awwww. Poor thing. I liked you a lot. I hired you because I thought you were easy. But you always insisted on being professional. Look where it got you.” I chuckle. Maybe you should have chosen a different outfit?

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – Mr. Omenill swirls around my head like an angry hornet. “I have a postcard for you from your friend in Belize. Shall I read it to you?” As if you need my permission, boss. I have a few minutes to spare left, so please go ahead. “Hello, gringo slut! I’m sorry you didn’t go to Radagar. I would have liked to have visited you there. But, well, I guess you’ve gotten the fate you deserve.” My officer, you don’t know it yet. We all get the fate we deserve. The same night is waiting for us all. We all take a path we go only once.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – I can’t move. But I need to. I just have to. I tear on my nailed feet. Harder. I have to move. I tear as hard as I can. And really, I tear off my right foot from the nail that pinned it down. I jerk at the other foot. It’s free too! My feet are a mess of torn flesh, and blood is dripping down. But they are free! Triumphantly I stretch out my legs in front of me. I move my body weight forward. I retract my legs, and move my body weight backwards. And again. And again and again. My whole cross begins to shake. I reach for the chains to my left and to my right. I shout out for joy and cry from pain. I extend my legs high into the air, into the wonderful blue sky, swinging back and forth as high as I can. My summer dress flutters.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – I stop. I jump from my swing. Through the lush green Kansas grass I run to the porch. “Mum, I’m so thirsty!” She pours a glass of iced tea. I drink and smile; my eternal thirst is quenched. My head sinks onto my chest. And nothingness pulls its blanket over me.
A great ending to a great story!
Applause: :clapping::clapping::clapping::clapping:
I really liked the delirious ending, it rounded things off beautifully. I’ll certainly be choosing Vanubati for my holidays in future.. (I wonder if I can apply for a job as ambassador..?)
A richly inspiring vision, I’m working on some art based on this :razz:
 

montycrusto

Slave Trader
I had no idea what absurd propaganda story the government had disseminated. But people believed it apparently.
Huh ..fake news/ alternative facts are everywhere.. :eek:
intense rain of stones.

“Stop that!” the senior officer shouted
“she didn’t even say “Jehovah”!” ;)
huge screen would show every little detail of my torture. They really made my demise a spectacle.
It’s not real unless it happens on TV.. I like this detail though, making sure the crowd gets to see everything..
My special cross was a wooden horse cross. Nailed and pussy tortured at the same time.
Fantastic combination.. especially with the extra nails..
His index finger reached for my clit, carefully pushing the hood upwards, and started circling

.. complete humiliation; even her own body is forced to betray her..:babeando:
Triumphantly I stretch out my legs in front of me.
This fantasy of escape in the moments before death.. a really nice conceit. I read a story called “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” where a guy was being hanged, and imagined a whole elaborate fantasy about escaping and returning to his home in the couple of seconds it took for him to drop.
Great story Y__ thanks so much for creating this sadistic utopia and showing us around. :thumbsup:
 
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