Bring Out the GIMP (Girls in Merciless Peril)


By Kirsten Smart

Part One

They called in Sydney… when the truth is, we weren't doing anything wrong. At least, not in our view.

Granted, we were breaking the law. There is no question of that. We were also performing acts of calculated sabotage that was costing tens of millions of dollars. We had our reasons, and they were good reasons, but that didn't wash with those who recruited her.

She managed to infiltrate our headquarters. Then she killed Mike, who was a good, enthusiastic recruit; to her, he was one of those nameless guards who happened to be in the way, so she killed him. She also accessed our computer network and set about copying our files.

Naturally enough, her presence was noted – especially after she broke poor Mike's neck – so it was a simple matter to cut off her escape route and detain her at gunpoint. I oversaw the process from our security operations room; then, when she was captured, went downstairs to the storeroom to confront her.

Sensibly, Sydney had been well-restrained; her wrists had been handcuffed to the bracket of an overhead pipe, and my guards were standing beyond her legs' reach. She looked surprisingly vulnerable, in her trademark black jogging pants and sports tank top. She wore her usual baleful pout, eyeing me with what I could only presume was latent hatred. I knew not to take it personally; it was mostly unrealised baggage from past trauma.

“Well. Fancy meeting YOU,” I said casually. “You've earned quite a reputation among us fiends of the criminal underworld.”

Sydney frowned at my words, unsure how to react. Eventually, she snarled, “you won't get away with this.”

“Oh, please!” I couldn't help laughing. “Just how would you like me to respond to that?”

“Let me go,” she said.

“Ooh, um, I'll have to think about that,” I said. Then, “um, no.”

Sydney tipped her head back to look up at her handcuffed wrists. “Sooner or later they'll be coming for me, and when they do -”

“When they do, they can have you,” I said. “We'll be gone by then, and you won't be much use to anyone.”

“If you kill me, they'll -”

“Who said we were going to kill you? Please! We're not like that. I'd have thought you'd know that, by now.” I stepped a little closer – with caution. I knew she had no qualms about violence towards other women, and my kick boxing skills were nil. “Tell us who hired you. We know it was one of five possibilities, but we need names.”

“Forget it,” Sydney growled.

I looked at my watch. We probably only had ten hours or so before they came for her. Plenty of time. To the guards: “guys, set her up … I'll be along in an hour.”

On cue, I arrived in the room we had prepared.

Sydney was secured on a machine in the middle of the room. It was, basically, a rack; but exquisitely designed and built. Stainless steel, it had four 'arms,' each independently mounted, so that the victim could be placed in any position – spreadeagled, limbs straight up-and-down, crucifix-style, and similar variations. The torso-support could be raised or lowered, arching the prisoner's back and increasing the strain. It worked by means of a small winch at the end of each arm of the rack, to which Sydney's shackled wrists and ankles were connected by high-tensile steel cable.

The wheel to operate the winches was mounted halfway along the rack: like the wheel of a submarine hatch, with ergonomic rubber grips. Beside it was an array of levers like bicycle gears: at the lowest setting, the reels would wind in a mere two millimetres of cable for every full turn of the wheel. At the highest, two full centimetres. I could even select individual reels, stretching one limb at a time.

I had a feeling that Sydney had already dwelt on the potential of this machine by the time I arrived; she looked at me anxiously, though was trying hard to hide her fear. Spread out on the machine, the muscularity of her bare arms was impressive; but we both knew that she was only flesh and bone, and no amount of gym workouts or combat training would make any difference once I got to work.

I stepped, quite casually, to the wheel that would operate the winches. On the highest setting, I gave it an experimental turn. With a smooth, fluid clicking sound, the four reels turned slowly, winding in their cables. By the gleaming shackles at her wrists and ankles, Sydney was involuntarily extended. Her limbs lengthened, her ribcage rose a little higher.

“Easy as that,” I told her.

“What do you want from me?” she asked shakily. I could see from looking at her that she was afraid. I crossed to a table near the doorway, picked up a small book and flicked its pages.

“You know what this is?” I asked, an indirect reply to her question. She shook her head where she lay.

“It's an instruction manual for that machine you've been shackled to.” I opened it at a page. “'Warning – dislocation.' 'Warning – nerve damage' … 'spinal damage' 'torn diaphragm,' and so-on, and so-on. You get the picture?”

“I get it. It's a torture rack, and you're going to torture me,” Sydney said shakily.

I turned to the back page. “'Made in the U.S.A.,” I read. “That's my point, Sydney. This machine was designed by Americans, built by Americans, and is sold by Americans to countries all around the fucking globe! ”

“I don't believe you,” Sydney said.

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” I was feeling exasperated. “My team's whole reason for existence is to undermine companies supplying third world dictatorships with weapons and technology like this rack. We're working to protect the innocent.”

“You're evil, and you have to be stopped,” Sydney hissed, tugging on the shackles.

“Keeping coming up with cliches like that, and I will torture you!” I warned.

“You don't have the guts,” Sydney said.

What was she, a masochist?

I moved closer. “You just don't get it, do you? You're completely helpless. Just by turning this wheel, I can cause you more exquisite agony than you've ever experienced in your whole life, and there you are still playing the tough guy!”

“You know what? I feel sorry for you,” Sydney said.

It was very hard to like this girl. I put my hand to the wheel. I saw Sydney's fists close. Firmly, I cranked the handle around. The four winches clicked over, and the steel cables were drawn in another two centimetres. Sydney's body stretched visibly.

Another turn. The winches clicked over again, more cable drawn in; Sydney's long limbs were drawn tighter, her muscles lengthening. I heard a muffled pop as her spine stretched out to accommodate the tension.

“Listen, Sydney,” I warned. “I'm going to give you another hour to change your mind about telling me who hired you. If you don't give me the information I want by then, we're going to see what this little machine is capable of.”

“Fuck you,” Sydney snarled.

From the operations room, I regarded the spreadeagled spy via security cameras, then consulted the instruction book in my hand. “Turn down the aircon,” I told Sam , my Technical Guy. “See if you can get it below fourteen Celsius … that's about fifty-six Fahrenheit. Keep her cool for an hour or so. According to the manual, the colder she is, the more it'll hurt.”

“You got it, Ma'am,” Sam said.

It has been said there is something intoxicating about having absolute power over another human being, and I began to realise how true that is. For the next hour, I found myself thinking constantly about Sydney, and what I was going to do to her. I was buzzing, aroused, like when I'd promised my first boyfriend a blowjob: it felt wickedly delicious.

Finally, it was time to return to my prisoner.

The moment I stepped into the room, I wished I'd worn more than a tank top and jeans myself: it was freezing. Poor Sydney lay spread out, held taut by the tension, but shivering violently. Her skin was rough with goosebumps, her breath was visible. Being stretched out like that made her chest look almost boyish. Condemned to A-cups myself, I could sympathise. But in the cold, Sydney's nipples stuck out like bullets through the fabric of her top, and it occurred to me that they would make perfect anchoring points for a couple of electrodes …

I quickly thought about something else.

Despite the cold, Sydney was sweating. There were wet streaks running from her underarms, a ragged patch down the front of her top. She was terrified.

“So,” I said. “You'd had some time to think about your situation. Come to any decisions?”

“You can go to hell,” Sydney said through chattering teeth.

“Okay, that's not the sort of answer I wanted to hear,” I told her firmly. “For that, you get five turns.”

I chose the lowest wheel-to-winch ratio; no point pulling her apart before we'd even had a decent conversation. Sydney watched in growing angst as I grasped the wheel. Smoothly and easily, it turned; one, two, three, four, five. Four little winches cranked dutifully over, and Sydney's helpless body was extended by a centimetre. Her spine popped like she was having a session with her chiropractor.

At this point, according to the manual, Sydney had reached what they called “yoga max-out.” The maximum extension of the body – meaning tolerable pain, “a good hurt.” The difference was that I wasn't going to let her ease off the stretch: it was only going to get worse. She knew it, and she was getting very scared.

“Who hired you?”

“I don't know.”

I gave the wheel another two turns. Sydney's body stretched again, and this time, she groaned. It was the sexiest thing: she tipped her head back and let out a deep, breathy groan. I bit my lip to hide my excitement, instead mustering the sternest expression I could.

“Do you want more?” I challenged.

“You don't have to do this,” Sydney said.

You don't have to do this. She had just betrayed her fear with those words. She was hoping to find some way to save herself from a whole lot of pain. She hadn't yet been driven to the point of throwing aside her pride and actually begging me to stop, but it was only a matter of time, and we both knew it.

“I don't have to do it. I could stop right now. If, say, you told me who hired you?”

Sydney's eyes went at once to my hand on the wheel. She knew that the wrong response would earn her another turn; and more than anything, she wanted to avoid that. But she wasn't at the stage where she was prepared to rat on her employer.

“I don't know,” she finally said. “And that's the truth.”

“I – don't – like – liars,” I said, and for each word, gave the wheel a full turn. Sydney gasped as she stretched, then gritted her teeth, releasing her breath slowly. Her muscles were really starting to hurt, now.

God, I was getting so turned on!

I circled the rack slowly, watching Sydney where she lay. Her chest was lifted by the tension, moving rapidly up and down. Her hands were squashed down into their shackles, turning purple already. I could see the muscles and tendons of her arms, taut like cables. “Now,” I said at length, returning to the wheel. “Let's try that again. Who hired you?”

Sydney looked into my eyes. “I really don't know,” she said.

I turned the wheel once. She only stretched two millimetres, but it was enough to make her gasp again, and screw up her face in pain. She was trying so hard not to betray her suffering.

“Sooner or later I'll break you,” I assured her. “Why not make it easy on yourself?”

“Because I don't know anything,” Sydney panted desperately.

I turned the wheel again. The winches shifted, Sydney's body creaked audibly as she was stretched. “Ahh – shit!”

The word had just slipped out, but it was a clear sign that she was hurting. That was my cue to leave. “I'll be back,” I told her. “In that time, see if you can remember anything. Okay?”

I took the chance to warm myself up, and had a coffee. I needed the break; I had been getting irrational. Sydney's continued defiance, and the thrill of having such power over her, were a dangerous combination. I needed to reign myself in. The idea was to get information without injuring her too badly. As far as I knew, nobody in the complex knew how to re-set dislocated joints.

Of course, that did pose a problem. Women tended to have a high pain threshold; if we could cope with being sliced by a scalpel from vagina to anus just to push a baby out, a few popped joints weren't going to be an issue.

The manual recommended allowing plenty of time for the rack to work its magic, and that, I realised, would be the key to breaking her. People could handle intense pain over relatively short periods of time; but over the course of a whole night, it was a different matter.

With that in mind, I gave Sydney two hours before returning to resume my interrogation. The change in her was remarkable: she really looked like she was suffering. Her face and arms and upper chest were shining wet. Her small breasts were heaving with rapid breath. There was steam rising from her wet tanktop. She slowly turned her eyes towards me as I drew close: her expression left no doubt that she was in serious discomfort.

“Okay, Sydney,” I said. “Let's get serious. Let's discuss some names.”

“I don't know any names,” Sydney said weakly.

I grasped the wheel, and turned it. The winches rolled, Sydney stretched, and some very disturbing creaking noises came from her body. She gave a sound that was halfway between a groan and a squeal, her eyes squeezing shut. It was remarkably similar to the sounds of orgasm, but I knew there was a world of difference for her.

“Who hired you?”

“Please, can't we talk about this?” Her voice full of urgency and pain, Sydney was at the point of wanting to negotiate. It meant I was closer to breaking her than I had realised. “Maybe we can come to some arrangement?”

“The only 'arrangement' I'm interested in is you giving me the names of the people who hired you,” I told her. “Now spill!” With that, I turned the wheel again. The stretching – and the surge of pain that resulted – caught Sydney by surprise, and she gave a shout. Without hesitation, I gave the wheel another full turn – Sydney cried out again, this time longer.

“Stop! Stop!”

It was really hurting. Her muscles and joints were obviously in a great deal of pain. Unless she was pretending. Just to make sure, I turned the wheel one more time.

It was only two millimetres, but Sydney's body made a creaking noise as it stretched, and this time she gave a scream. Even when the scream was finished, she had her head tipped right back, her mouth wide open. Her hands were jammed hard down into the shackles, her arms pulled tight over her head, her legs drawn towards the winches.

“Now you know I'm serious,” I told her. “Right?”

“Yes, yes I know,” Sydney gasped, nodding her head desperately. “Loosen it! Please! Oh – oh God …”

“I thought now we might have some meaningful dialogue?”

“Anything you say!” Sydney panted.

“Tell me who hired you.”

“I – can't,” she wailed.

I turned the wheel.

Sydney screamed out to God again. It was amazing how such a tiny stretch could cause such a huge amount of pain. It was her body trying to warn her of imminent damage, and she had to make a choice – betray her client, or suffer some real injuries.

“I'm going to take another break,” I hissed at her. “When I come back, you're a in a whole new world of trouble. You get me?”

“Please … no …” Pain drew absolute terror from Sydney's voice. “Don't leave, don't leave me like this, please!”

“Think,” I told her, and left.

We were getting somewhere.

From the control room, I watched her on the monitor. Her head twisted and turned endlessly. It was the only part of her body she could move. It was evidently hurting a lot, and I could now see the merits of taking my time over her questioning. She might endure a few more hours of this; but would she last the night? It didn't seem likely. Part of me felt a tinge of sympathy for her – but then I remembered Mike, who wouldn't be going home tonight because she had killed him. She would never be brought to justice, her actions were 'sanctioned' by the powers that be, so the least we could do was inflict a little rough justice of our own.

I gave her two more hours before returning to the torture room.

Sydney had undergone another transformation by the time I returned. She looked ten years older; there were dark circles under her eyes, and as she turned her face towards me, her mouth curled downwards into a sob.

“Please, stop the pain,” she moaned.

I was impressed. Not an inch of her remained dry of sweat, despite the cold. She lay, drawn out on the rack, and began crying. Quite literally, she was sobbing, gulping air, tears streaming from her eyes. I almost felt sorry for her.

“So, are we ready to discuss some names?”

“Anything,” she wailed. “I'll do anything, please!”

“Who hired you?”

Sydney's face screwed up. “I can't tell you that!”

“Then I'm going to stretch you some more.”

Terror and panic flew into her eyes. “No! No, please, please! Don't! Please don't do it!”

I turned the wheel. Sydney gave a horrible scream as her body was stretched again between the four pulleys. She tipped her head back and shrieked at the ceiling, a groaning sound coming from her limbs. I was amazed that she kept stretching – surely something had to give, sooner or later? Part of me even hoped she wouldn't talk – just so I could see how far she might be stretched.

Sydney howled in pain.

I was amazed at how unmoved I felt by her suffering. Instead, I felt a sense of excitement, a thrill that was increasingly sexual. For a start, Sydney looked sexy – her body spread in an X-shape, drawn incredibly taut, her ribcage lifted and her tiny breasts straining against the steaming fabric of her tank top, her bare arms and throat shining with sweat … But there was also the power-play, the utter control I had over her, the humiliation she must have felt at begging me for mercy, her helplessness at receiving none.

Almost without thinking, I gave the wheel another turn …

Part Two

Almost without thinking, I gave the wheel another turn. Sydney cried out as her limbs were pulled a fraction further towards the extremes of the rack. I had an awful feeling she was nearing the limit of how far she could be stretched without injury. It left me with a decision; keep stretching, or try something else? Unless there was a breakthrough soon, I was going to have to work harder to get her to talk.

I felt slightly awed by the electro-torture unit, as I wheeled its trolley into the torture room. Sydney, dazed by the agony of the rack, barely registered my return. “God it's cold in here!” I grumbled. On my bare arms, the little hairs were bristling in the aircon's chill.

I unpacked the electro-torture gear carefully, laying it out as described in the instructions, chatting to keep myself warm. “This unit … 'attach green wire to outlet A' … is on Amnesty International's blacklist. 'Attach red wire to outlet … B!'” It took about ten minutes to get it all set up, and to calibrate the settings.

Carefully, I inspected one of the wires. It was insulated, but terminated in a crocodile clip, serrated jaws and spring-loaded. I tested its strength – it creaked open only with effort. “Sheesh! That's nasty!” But my curiosity had been aroused, and, turning away from both Sydney and the security camera, I lifted my tanktop over one breast, and gingerly pinched the clip onto my own nipple.

“Yowch! Fuck!!” The clip bit hard, chewing brutally into my nipple. I removed it at once. My nipple had hardened in protest, and I quickly covered my breast again. For a moment, I had second thoughts about putting the clips on Sydney. It really hurt: my nipple was still smarting from the squeeze.

But Sydney chose her moment to taunt me. In reaction to my squeal of pain, she rolled her head towards me with a look of satisfaction. “Suffer, bitch,” she muttered.

It took me two minutes to find a box-cutting blade and return to the torture room. Sydney had no recourse but to protest with a moan as I firmly sliced the front and shoulders of her top and ripped the soaked fabric away.

“I don't believe it! A bra? Why?”

Sydney gave no answer. I cut her bra away also, baring her tiny, wet breasts. The effect of the rack had been to draw them completely flat on her lifted ribcage. But her nipples were something else: erect with cold, they looked sensitive and vulnerable. Her belly was hollowed, taut with worked muscle, shining with sweat. “Wow. You're cute.”

“Fuck you,” Sydney gasped.

I was getting a little sick of her insolence. Since I had the knife and the opportunity, I began slicing through the fabric of her pants, too. I ripped them away, leaving her spreadeagled and stretched out in nothing but a black g-string.

“Goddamn! You bitch!” I exclaimed. Her legs were incredible. Maybe it was just the stretching effect of the rack, but they were long, lean and defined; shining wet and smooth. I contemplated removing her g-string, too – but decided to allow her at least those few square centimetres of dignity. “Now. Let's reassess. You're in a lot of pain, and it's about to get a hell of a lot worse. Give me the names, and we won't take this any further.”

“I told you -”

''Fuck you,' yes I got that,” I said grimly, grabbed one wire and attached it to her left nipple. Sydney made no sound as the clip sank into the sensitive stub of flesh, but sucked her lip hard, fresh tears squeezing from her eyes. I pinched the second clip to her right nipple, and her face twitched, a whimper escaping her.

“I don't know if it interests you,” I said as I put my hand to the control unit, “but each of those clips is an independent circuit. Which means much of the shock will be focused in the nipple and breast, rather than flowing through your chest. Good for your heart … but bad for your tits.”

“You can go to hell,” Sydney hissed, squeezing her eyes shut. Her nipples were already turning purple with the pressure of the clips, the wires laid across her shining chest. I activated the charge-box, and we both listened to the whine of a charging regulator.

Next, I eased off the rack a few centimetres. Sydney gave a groan that sounded almost orgasmic, her body visibly retracting. The tension was still cruel, but no longer damaging; lessening the risk of her doing serious injury to her own joints when she thrashed about under torture. Now, she was ready.

“Shall we begin?”

“Fuck y-”

I pressed the button. Despite the tension on her racked body, Sydney's back arched, straining for the ceiling. I counted one … two … three … then released the button, and she fell back, her squeal becoming a long cry of pain.

“Ohhh god!”

I hit the button again. This time, sparks cracked on Sydney's nipples, and as her spine arched, she let out a scream. Every muscle was rigid, her mouth was wide.

I released the button, and Sydney dropped, her chest heaving. Sweat was running on her skin. A trickle of urine dripped steadily to the floor.

“Please,” she was panting, her voice thick with dread, “please stop!”

“Stop? I've only just started! That first shock was fifty: the second was sixty-five. I thought we'd go up in increments of fifteen until you talk.”

Sydney could only wail in response, so I turned up the current and hit the button. Sparks flew, Sydney's small breasts swelled visibly as her whole body arched off the table. She was screaming, helpless to stop the torture. When the flow stopped, she fell dazed.

“Ninety-five volts.” I hit the button.

Cr-crack! A blue arc flashed, and Sydney's body thumped off the table in a spray of sweat, accompanied by a scream that hurt my ears. The clips seemed to lift her nipples into the air.

The shock ceased. She fell back. Steam curled from her crushed nipples. I could imagine her breasts bursting like microwaved eggs. She rolled her head with a wail of pain and misery as I set the current higher yet. “One hundred and ten volts. Talk to me.”

“I can't,” Sydney sobbed.

Her shoulder blades and buttocks lifted clear off the rack, her spine creaking, nipples straining for the ceiling as current surged into them, sparks crackling and sputtering, and she gave a long scream.

She flopped back.

I keyed the switch again, and Sydney bucked off the rack, screaming, electricity snapping at her clamped nipples. I released her, then electrocuted her again, holding the current so that her spine popped loudly, her steaming, wired breasts straining upwards. Her shrieks of pain were terrible

She fell. I felt my expression become predatory. I gave Sydney a few moments to recover, increased the current to a hundred and twenty-five, and let her have it. It was so easy: a nudge of a switch, and Sydney was jolting upwards off the rack, muscles straining, sparks snapping and arcing around her swollen nipples, sweat flying off her body like mist. She held nothing back, shrieking and yelling.

When I stopped the current, Sydney flopped down heavily, panting hard.

“Please,” she wailed. “Please stop hurting me! I'll do anything you say …”

“I want information,” I said.

“I can't,” Sydney moaned. “Oh, please, let me up!” Stretched as tightly as she was, she couldn't move her limbs, but she tipped her head back, looking along the 'V' of her own wet arms, as if she might somehow see the means to escape. Her face was wet with tears, her torso with sweat. Her nipples had grown dark, clamped within the spring jaws of the clips, wires draped across her gleaming chest. Her muscles looked pumped from all the strain, the involuntary spasms from the electric shocks. She was helpless. She couldn't escape, stretched cruelly on the rack with no way to save herself.

“Now,” I said coolly, “are we ready to continue?”

The thump of electricity was accompanied by the snap of sparks as Sydney's body bowed up off the rack. Her ribcage looked ready to burst. She screamed and screamed.

I zapped her again, and again. Each shock hit with a sound like a sledge-hammer slamming her chest, jerking her body into a splayed, spreadeagled arch. Sparks snapped viciously at her nipples, her skin steamed.

I released the button, and Sydney fell to the rack.

“Stop,” she wailed, tears streaking her face. “I'll tell you, I'll tell you!”

Finally! I lifted my hands from the control unit. “Go ahead, then. I'm listening.”

“She was lying.” The verdict came from Francis, our group commander.

“Oh, shit, are you sure?”

“None of the people she named exist. She's stalling for time.”

I pushed my hair back with a frustrated sigh. “Dammit! I thought I was there!”

Frances returned his attention to the security screen. Over the small speakers, Sydney's laboured breathing was easy to hear. “She's a tough one. She'll hold out for as long as she can.”

“She's pissed me off now,” I growled. “I'll break her.”

“Good luck. I think she just passed out.”

I got sick of waiting for Sydney to wake up, so I fetched a fire extinguisher and gave her a blast, full in the face. She woke with a shriek, torn from oblivion. I'd taken the clips from her nipples, but they were obviously still throbbing from the torture, and her head lolled, fresh tears dribbling from her eyes.

“Back to business, Sydney,” I told her, and gave the wheel of the rack two full turns. Her body stretched, and she gave a long, hoarse scream of agony.

“Stop! Please, oh God, please stop,” she begged through her pain.

“I'll stop when you stop feeding me bullshit,” I told her.

“It was the truth!” she protested.

“You lied, and you know it.”

“That's all I was told. That's all I know, believe me.”

“Sydney, listen to me. This is supposed to be a civilised nation – and yet we're selling equipment used for the torture of innocent people, whose only crime happens to be a belief in democracy. Do you know what they're doing to female students in China? Shackle them, spreadeagled like you are now, for months at a time, before executing them, simply because they dare to speak out against Communism.”

“You're full of shit,” Sydney said weakly. “You're doing the exact same thing to me.”

“You're a professional killer who murders with impunity. I have no problem with torturing you.” And to prove it, I turned the wheel again. Sydney threw her head back and screamed as her body was pulled longer by wrists and ankles; her spine popped again, her shining breasts were lifted higher, her belly hollowed by the strain.

“My job is to find the bastards who are making machines like this, and stop them. Your job is to tell me what I need to know, to find them. So talk – or it's about to get a whole lot worse for you!”

“Fuck you,” Sydney gasped in pain.

She began screaming the moment I turned the wheel; and I gave it three full turns. As the winches wound in their cable, I saw her lean, stretched body drawn even tighter. The sound that followed was like snapping a fresh carrot; and her left armpit seemed to lengthen and distort, as her shoulder dislocated. A few seconds later, her right shoulder popped out of joint. The impact of pain stole her breath, and for the longest time, she made no sound at all, just lay with her head tipped back, her mouth and eyes wide in agony.

I took the chance to read from the manual. “Following dislocation of the shoulders, the subject will be in extreme distress. The likelihood of obtaining information from this point onwards is greatly increased. Permanent injury will not result at this stage, although a cautious approach to further stretching is advised.”

I glanced at Sydney. Her face was pale, covered with a sheen of sweat, but she still hadn't made a sound. So I turned the wheel again.

That fixed things. As if her dislocated shoulders weren't already hurting, I wrenched the injury further, and the pain must have been phenomenal. She finally gave a scream of agony, her head flung from side to side.

“Stop! Sto-op!”

“Only when you talk,” I replied, and turned the wheel again. Only two tiny milimetres, but it was enough to make her scream again. From somewhere in her abdominals I heard a low, grassy tearing sound, and I realised I was slowly ripping her muscles apart.

“God, I love this machine!” I bubbled, and turned the wheel again. Sydney's screams were frantic, and as her body lengthened again, I heard a distinctive creaking sound from one hip. A few seconds later, there was a wet “pop” and her leg jerked violently as the whole joint dislocated.

For the second time, she stopped screaming. This time, she gave a watery cough, and threw up on herself.

“That's gotta be hurting really bad,” I noted. In between screams, Sydney was fighting for air, her ribcage so tautened by the racking that she could scarcely draw breath. I watched her for a while, waiting for her screams to subside, but, oddly, she seemed to be getting more and more frantic. Her eyes grew even wider – and, suddenly, her right hip popped out of joint. She threw her eyes shut and howled in agony.

I figured by this stage that every joint was on fire, and that Sydney was experiencing agony beyond endurance. And yet, she was still holding out on me. More than anything, that pissed me off. What was the use of a high-tech interrogation device like this, if it didn't actually make the bitch talk?

Maybe I was being too soft on her? Maybe I just needed to wrench the information out of her? Slow-racking hadn't worked, electric shock torture hadn't worked … now she was lying there with all four limbs dislocated, she still wouldn't talk, and we were running out of time.

I bent close to her shining, tortured face. “Think carefully, Sydney. I'm not going to stop stretching you. If I have to, I'll break every joint in your body and rip every muscle and tendon. If it doesn't kill you, it'll cripple you for life.

She seemed incapable of reply, just gasped at the ceiling like a fish out of water. “Fuck it, I need a break,” I decided.

My fellow operatives had continued to watch the process over security cameras. I accepted a hot coffee gratefully, still shivering from the torture room's icy air, and regarded the view with interest. Sydney, half-naked, disjointed and elongated in an X-shape on the rack. Bare arms and bare legs shining. Only her head could move, rolling from side to side in her unceasing agony.

“She refuses to talk,” I explained.

“Maybe it's because she doesn't know?” The thought came from Francis.

“She knows, she just refuses to reveal it. But don't worry, I'll break her.”

“Too late. We have to be out of here in two hours. Just finish her and get ready to leave.”


Frances held his sidearm towards me. “Kill the bitch, and we'll go.”

“I can't kill her!”

“Why? She's halfway there already, thanks to you – just put a bullet in her mouth and we'll leave. We can't risk leaving her alive, she's seen your face, she knows too much.”

“Her whole fucking agency knows my face. And yours. And everyone else here! Sure I'll hurt her, but I'm not going to kill her.”

“Then leave her there. We're not going to get the information from her.”

“Give me one last attempt,” I said, and hurried from the room.

“We're back in business, Sydney,” I said as I returned to the room. It had grown even colder; now it felt like the inside of a refrigerator. Sydney, naked except for her black g-string, still shone with sweat, wrenched and suffering on the high-tech rack. Her eyes were dark with pain as she turned her face towards me, still unable to speak.

“I want information,” I said bluntly. Sydney saw my hands close on the wheel, and a wail of dread rose from her. But I cranked the wheel; the winches wound in cable, Sydney's body stretched and she gave a long yell of agony. While she howled, I picked up the cutting-blade and finally sheared through the hip-string of her underwear, ripping the scrap of fabric away.

I figured she was in too much pain to notice what I was doing, but as I reached for the first wire, she managed to beg through her wails of pain, “no! Please! Anything but that!”

“You don't give me any choice, Sydney,” I said.

As a woman, I was reluctant to go to this final stage. It was the ultimate violation, and yet I could think of nothing that would be quite as persuasive. I noted with a sense of irony that this was the first time I had touched another woman's pussy; and it was not in order to pleasure her. She felt soft, warm – and very wet, though I knew it was sweat, and not arousal, that was the cause. With two fingers, I parted her pussy lips, exposing the sensitive nub of her clitoris, and pinched the first crocodile clip onto it.

For all her agony, Sydney was lucid enough to realise what had happened, and shrieked, “God – no!” But stretched so hard that her joints were dislocated, she could not even struggle, let alone resist. She was utterly helpless to my whim. I took the second clip, and pinched it onto the puckered surround of her anus.

When I stood, her eyes were fixed on me, her dread and horror evident through the pain.

“It's time to get serious,” I told her grimly. “We'll start with seventy-five volts.”

I stabbed the button. Sydney's body jolted, though she was too tautly stretched to arch. Tiny sparks sputtered down between her legs, and she gave a terrible scream of pain. I gave her five seconds' worth, then released the button.

Steam wisped up from her tortured pussy, and Sydney's scream became a long cry of abject suffering.

“Talk,” I instructed. “And this time, I want the truth.” I didn't bother waiting for a response: I turned up the voltage and hit the button. Though it should have been physically impossible, Sydney's pelvis rose up off the rack, in a mockery of orgasm, as electricity sizzled in her clitoris and asshole. She screamed like she was insane, and I caught the distinct aroma of searing sweat. I let her drop, then put my hand to the wheel and gave it a turn. Sydney threw her head side to side in agony as the cables stretched her another few millimetres. Torn muscles were wrenched further, ligaments and tendons pulled beyond their ability to resist.

I gave her time to scream, then upped the voltage and hit the button. Blue-white sparks flared against her clitoris and anus, her hips bucked in a spray of sweat, and her screams were frantic.

I released the button


Somehow, through her agony, she found words.

“Tell me what I want to know.”

“Yes! I'll talk!!” she begged. “Please, stop! Oh, God!”

I paused, one finger over the button, one hand on the wheel. “I'm listening.”

Sydney gave me the names.

In the long minutes that followed, I watched her endless suffering. Disjointed and agonized, she lay groaning, her head rolling, her eyelids strobing, sweat pouring off her body. I toyed with the idea of finishing her, seeing how many turns of the wheel or how many shots of electric shock torture it would take to kill her: but something prevented me.

Finally, the door behind me opened. Francis. “It all checks out. She told you the truth.”

I sighed, put my hand to her wet and strained ribcage. “Sydney, it's all over. Thank you.” She didn't seem to hear me, but as I began cranking the wheel in its reverse direction, and the winches paid out cable, she gave a cry of release. I took the clips off her clitoris and anus – there were purple marks where they had crushed her tender flesh.

As the pain subsided to a more tolerable level, her small breasts heaved breath, and she fell into semi-consciousness. I smiled. It's not everybody who gets to break Sydney, but I had done it, and with only minutes to spare.

“Until next time, sweetheart,” I said, and left her where she lay.

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