The office was a smaller than one would expect for a full colonel. It only had room, albeit comfortably, for a medium sized desk, one book case, two file cabinets and three wooden chairs. Vera sat on one of those chairs.
She was dressed in a cotton prison dress, a gray shift that was draped over her shoulders and fell to a point high above the knees. Her long black hair hung loosely about her slender neck and shoulders. She was barefoot and her wrists were tightly manacled behind her back. She was in no way fettered to the chair but a guard stood directly behind her, ready to push her back in the seat if she tried to rise. Two others stood less than a meter to either side. Vera was keenly aware of her helplessness.
It had been almost 72 hours since her seizure, although she had no idea as to how much time had actually passed. The secret police had been waiting inside her apartment, and had grabbed her the minute she walked in. The door had not even finished closing when a hand went over her mouth and she was pinned against the wall. There were four of them and they made quick work of disabling her. She was handcuffed, gagged and a black bag pulled over her head in nothing flat, and then led out of the apartment building, squirming in the grasp of two of the men who held her by the biceps. They did not care whether they were seen; in fact they made their arrests quite publicly, hoping the power of the state would be on display as a discouragement to others.
After being stripped, searched and given the prison garb to wear, her wrists were cuffed behind her and she was led to a cell. Her wrists were bound to a chain that hung from the ceiling. One of her guards turned a crank on the far wall and the chain rose, pulling her wrists with it. As her arms were pulled up behind her back forcing her to rise to the balls of her feet and her body was bent forward until it was almost parallel with the floor. As a final touch, a thin cord was tied around her long hair and fastened to the chain, pulling her head back and arching her throat.
Vera was left to suffer in that position for more than two days. She moaned and cried almost continually. Four times a guard gave her thick liquid nourishment to drink through a straw, sort of a cross between cold soup and a milk shake. It was heavily salted. The cell door was left open with a guard stationed directly outside. If she closed her eyes and appeared to be dozing, he immediately woke her with a shout or sharp slap or a dowsing of cold water.
Now she was seated across from the Colonel in charge of interrogation of suspected revolutionists. Perhaps seated is the wrong word; collapsed might fit her condition better. It was the first time she had been allowed to sit since her incarceration. She had been forced to stand at attention for the previous six grueling interrogation sessions, each of which lasted between two and three hours. In between she remained in the office on her feet.
The Colonel said nothing, just stared at her and watched her head begin to loll forward. He let her sleep for five minutes, and then nodded to one of the guards who woke her by slapping her smartly across the face.
Vera awoke with a cry, bleeding from the lip where the guards backhand had caught her.
"Who are the members of your cell," the Colonel shouted at her.
She did not come close to blurting out anything, and simply shook her head "no."
The Colonel did not bother asking any more questions. "Put her in the cage," was all he said.
Vera was taken out of the office, one guard on each side firmly grasping her upper arm while a third led the way to a staircase that took them down one flight. She did not resist; it would have been useless. The lead guard unlocked a door and switched on the light.
The room was half again as big as the Colonel's office. The floor was of cement with a drain in the middle. There were no windows. The only "furniture" was the cage.
The cage stood about seven feet high and less than a foot and a half wide. The vertical bars were spaced six inches apart, with horizontal bars every foot. It was two feet deep.
Vera's heart began to pound. With the sight of the cage she realized her interrogation was going to reach a new level. Exactly what she did not know but she could be certain it would not be pleasant. Before she could think past that, one of the guards grabbed her prison dress at the neck and pulled down violently. She staggered forward as the flimsy material tore away from her body, leaving her naked.
Before she could react a belt had been tightened around her torso and arms, pinning the latter hard against her back. A ring gag was forced into her mouth and tied behind her head. Finally her ankles were lashed together with a thin nylon tie. Bound like this she was pushed in front of the cage. She watched with mounting fear as the roof of the enclosure was lowered to below shoulder level and locked in place. The final addition to her bondage was made before she was thrust inside, an iron collar with a short chain that ended in a karabiner hanging from the front.
They forced her to bend forward at the waist before shoving her inside the cage, then closed the door behind her. It banged against her buttocks, pushing her face against the front bars. Quickly, the karabiner was snapped to the joint of the bars directly in front of her. Before she could utter even a groan of protest the guards were gone.
Vera managed to flex her knees a couple of inches, trying relieve the pressure on her back, but it didn't take long before her thighs began to tremble with the strain and she had to revert to her former position – legs straight and back almost parallel to the floor.
Vera spent the next few minutes twisting and squirming in the cage, trying to relieve the pain that was beginning to shoot up her spine. It was useless. Between the collar and the tight dimensions of the cage she was forced into a half squatting position with her back bent forward. The best she could do was wedge herself between the bars to help take some of the pressure off her quivering knees and improve the angle of her back a few degrees. But even then the bars pressed painfully against her knees and buttocks.
It hurt. And within minutes the hurt turned to unmitigated pain. No matter how she struggled to ease her position, the pain stabbed at her contorted body. Soon she was panting with it, saliva dribbling from her mouth. The room was oppressively hot and humid. Sweat dripped off her naked body. She couldn't suppress her constant moaning or silence the grunts that accompanied her efforts to relieve the cramps that racked her body.
Thirst joined the list of Vera's torments. Her perfuse perspiration intensified her need for water. She hadn't had a sip of water since hours before her seizure. Now every muscle in her body seemed to be cramping violently, screaming their demand for liquid on top of the unbearable position she had been forced into. "Water," she moaned, "water, please, water." But there was no one to hear the pleas garbled through her gag.
Soon the burning thirst was almost forgotten. She was totally exhausted and the only thing keeping her awake was the constant throbbing pain of her twisted body which was punctuated by cramps that threatened to tear the very fiber of her muscles to pieces.
Slowly the need for sleep overcame all else. In spite of her continuing pain she felt herself drifting off. There also seemed to be a cool breeze that had started wafting across her bare skin but she was too tired to give this welcome relief from the heat a second thought.
Vera slept for no more than a few minutes before the agony tearing at her lower back woke her. The room was cooler. She could feel the temperature steadily dropping. She began to shiver. It couldn't have been more than 40°, not a temperature that seems excessively cold, unless you're bound naked in a cage. She began to weep; how long could she stand up under this pressure – this slow, unrelenting torture – before she broke?
Torture. She never would have considered this treatment torture. Torture was the tearing out of your fingernails, the branding iron pressed against your breast, the bullwhip snaking around your hips. But now she knew, and what was even more horrifying, the whip, the pliers and the hot iron still awaited her if she did not talk. Still Vera swore she would not betray her compatriots no matter what they did to her.
But the interminable torture went on, slowly sapping her strength and resolve. If only she could sleep, even for a few minutes. She was past tired, past exhaustion. Sleep would bring respite from the agony of the cage.
Time moved so slowly. Her fatigue became an agony in itself. Her naked body quivered continually from the cold. "Oh God, let me sleep," she prayed, but God could not warm her shivering body or ease the cramped torture of the cage.
Vera felt the iron collar dig into her neck and realized her head had slumped forward. She had been out, for how long she did not know, but probably only a few minutes at most, because her eyes immediately began to close again. Her extreme exhaustion had finally overcome her pain.
She awoke with a start, again after only a minute, at first unsure of what had brought her around. But seconds later she realized there was water coursing over her head and down her neck, back and breasts. It was icy cold and did not stop. By twisting her head back and up as far as the collar would allow she could make out the edge of the shower head that was pouring the water down on her.
Vera began to sob. Where would it end? She was shaking violently, her teeth chattering audibly. She thrashed about in her cage to the degree her bonds would allow her. "Stop it! Stop it!" she screamed, the ring gag muddying her words beyond recognition.
As though it were an answer to her unintelligible demands, the water stopped beating down on her. But a moment later it started to flow over her head at a greatly reduced rate. For the next two hours the cold water continued to flow over her in a steady stream, covering every inch of her nudity. The cold stabbed into her flesh like a hawk's claws and her moans of agony could barely be heard over the chattering of her teeth. The violent shaking of her twisted cramped body added to her torture. Yet in spite of the unrelenting pain, after a time she was overcome by her need for sleep.
She awoke to a sharp pain in her right foot. She looked down and saw a clamp with a wire running from it attached to her middle toe. Her eyes followed the wire to where it disappeared along with other wires into a metal box sitting on a table in front of her cage. Another clamp was attached to her left foot. When they fixed the clamps to her breasts she saw they were saw-toothed with strong springs. She cried out in pain when they bit into the delicate flesh of her nipples. A hand reached into the cage and wrapped itself in her hair, holding her head steady as the last two clamps were fixed to her ear lobes.
For the first time since she had been locked in the cage, one of Vera's captors addressed her. "We will be watching you on TV. If you shut your eyes for more than three seconds, you will receive an electrical shock." And with that they left the room.
It took Vera a few moments to understand the water was no longer falling on her. It took a few minutes more before she recognized that the room had warmed. They want me to fall asleep, she thought. But despite that realization and the warning about the shocks, she was asleep in less than a minute.
Vera was jolted awake by the fire of an electric current running through her legs and hips. It continued for three impossibly long seconds and was followed by a short blast that seemed to fry her brain. Unable to breathe, she didn't scream until after the electricity had ceased coursing through her body. Then she screamed like a mad woman.
She was wide awake now. She couldn't let herself doze off again, couldn't face that atrocious pain again. Time dragged on. What seemed like hours was little more than five minutes. She felt herself slipping under once again. She fought it, mumbling aloud "Stay awake. Stay awake. Stay awa..."
Five seconds through her legs and hips. Then a quick blast between her ears. She screamed, inhaled to scream again, but before she could, the electricity tore at her breasts. Five seconds, ten seconds, while she thrashed about in the cage.
She tried to cry out to them, to tell them she surrendered, that she would talk. But all that emerged from her gagged lips were incomprehensible shrieks.
The electricity stopped. She sobbed. She began to drift off. She fought it. The exhaustion threatened her sanity. She could not stop sobbing. She did not know when she fell asleep, but she did know when she awoke with her nipples on fire.
The last time they woke Vera it was not with an electric shock, but with a splash of cold water in the face. She was no longer in the cage but bound to the same chair in which she had sat not twelve hours ago. She felt a sharp stinging pain in her groin and her rectum throbbed around a hard wide object. When she looked down between her legs she saw a pair of wires that disappeared beneath her crotch.
She let out a frantic scream and began pulling desperately at the ropes that bound her wrists to the arms and her ankles to the legs of the chair. "Don't! Don't! Don't!" she shrieked, and as the words echoed through the room she realized that she was no longer gagged. "I'll talk! I'll talk!" And talk she did.
The first time I saw Ilene she was sitting in the chair. Since I was standing behind her, there was not very much to see, merely a slim figure whose arms were pulled over the back of the chair. Her wrists were locked into metal cuffs that were part of the chair's construction and could be slid up and down a rail that ran up from the seat to the top of the back. The cuffs were set low enough to pull her arms straight and dig the back of the chair into her underarms. Her shoulders were hunched forward a bit, about as much as the strict bondage would allow, and her neck was bent so that her chin rested on her breast bone, or so it seemed from my point of view from the rear.
I walked around to the front. From here I could see she was dressed in a cotton short sleeved blouse and khaki slacks. She was barefoot and her ankles were locked into shackles that were set into the bottom of the chair legs. Long luxurious auburn hair fell over her downturned face so I could see nothing of her features. Because her feet were bare I could see that the toenails of her right foot had been removed, and not too long ago. The nail beds still oozed blood.
I placed my forefinger under her chin and slowly tilted her head up. Her eyelids fluttered, and then opened. She looked at me but, for a long moment her eyes did not focus. When they did she stared into my eyes, unblinking and unflinching.
The photo of her in the folder did her no justice. Her type of beauty defied capture by a lens. Perhaps it was because so much of it resided deep in her eyes. In those eyes I could see bravery and intelligence, compassion and dedication. She was a woman one could easily fall in love with.
She twisted her head away from my hand but continued to stare at me defiantly. "It says here," I said, "that you did not answer any of my colleague's questions. That in fact you did not utter one word." She said nothing, just continued to watch me, revealing none of the emotions that must have been tumbling over in her brain – fear, hate, anxiety. I smiled as sweetly as I could. "Please, say one word for me, any word, just so I can tell him I succeeded where he failed."
The merest hint of a smile crossed her lips and then was gone. "It also says that the entire time he was tearing your toenails out you never once screamed. Very impressive. It says you pulled at your bonds, grunted and panted and snorted through your nose, but never gave in to a scream. (I made this last part up, but I knew that no one could have sat silently through such torture.)
"Well, Ilene, you are going to talk for me. I can even tell you what your first words will be, something like ‘Stop. Please stop.' Or ‘No more pain. I can't stand anymore.'" Her jaw tensed and I saw the hatred bloom in her eyes. "Yes Ilene, you are going to beg me to stop torturing you. Of course first you will scream, scream as no woman has ever screamed before. Then you will beg. And then you will tell me everything I want to know. And only then will your torture stop."
I put the sole of my shoe on her ruined toes and began to apply some pressure. Not much, but enough so it hurt. She turned her head away but I grabbed her chin and forced her to look up at me. I slowly increased the pressure. A moist film clouded those beautiful hazel eyes, but no tears fell. I leaned my full weight on her foot, heard her sharp intake of breath, then lifted it no more than an inch before I brought my heel down on her big toe.
The air rushed from her lungs in a long low "ahhhhhhh." Nowhere near a scream, but at least a beginning. And the film of moisture had resolved itself into tears that ran down her cheeks. I walked to the table against the wall without looking back at her and picked up a fabric shears. When I came back to the chair she had regained her composure.
"Do you think that hurt?" I said. "Do you really think that hurt? Do you think having your nails pulled from your toes hurt?" I yanked her shirt open, buttons flying. Without hesitating I cut the material joining the cups of her bra, revealing a perfectly formed pair of breasts that seemed made by God to compliment her slim torso. I cut her blouse from sleeve to sleeve across her shoulders and the straps of her bra, then removed them leaving her stripped to the waist. She didn't move or utter a sound.
"Do you think your toes are the most sensitive parts of your body? And by sensitive I mean the most susceptible to torture." Using the point of the shears I lightly drew a circle around the aureole of her left nipple, and then pressing just a bit harder, her right.
As I cut away her slacks I continued my monologue. "Do you think a plier is the only instrument I have at my disposal? I assure you it is not. Let your imagination run wild and you still won't come close to guessing the number of ways I have of hurting you."
She was nude now but for her panties. I put my hand beneath the elastic and snapped them back to her belly. Her jaw was quivering, not from fear as one would have thought, but with revulsion. She wasn't afraid of me as any sane person would have been, she was revolted by me! Disgusted with me! Under different circumstances I could have fallen in love with her very easily.
I cut away her panties, snipping the sides away. Slowly I pushed the shears into her vagina, not far in, only an inch or two, then moved it up and pressed it against her clitoris. She turned her face away. At last, a reaction! I leaned down and put my lips close to her ear. "There is no place on your young body that I can't reach; no place I won't torture to make you talk." I pressed the shears a little harder against her clit. "Think what a plier would do here, or a red hot needle, or sulfuric acid. But I will save your pussy for last, give you something to think about and anticipate.
"But first we have some unfinished business to take care of." I looked toward the two guards that had been standing silently off to the side, enjoying, I think, my leisurely denuding of our beautiful prisoner. "I will be taking the toenails from her left foot. Get her ready."
The chair Ilene was bound to was one of a kind, designed specifically to hold a victim for torture. Nothing fancy, you understand, constructed of steel tubing with a with a metal mesh seat, that of course, could be removed. There were no arms, but arms could be inserted, and there were a number of other additions that could easily be fastened or inserted to the frame to better hold a captive helpless for various procedures.
In this case it was a simple shaft two inches wide that could be snapped onto the top of one of the chair legs. When attached it would extend straight out from the chair a bit more than midway down Ilene's calf. Not very big, but when her leg was strapped into it at the knee and lower calf, she would not be able to move her leg, or more importantly in this case, her foot.
The first guard unlocked Ilene's ankle and pulled her leg to the side so guard number two could affix the shaft to the chair. She began to struggle trying to free her leg from the guard's grip. It was a natural reaction to being handled by an aggressor. OF course it did her no good and within a minute her leg was strapped tightly down, her leg held straight out for my attention.
"Why do you struggle?" I asked her, "You must know it is useless. And it won't delay your torture even a second. I think you should accept the fact that you are totally helpless, and that I can do anything I wish to you. Anything."
I thanked the guards and told them they could stay and watch if they wished. They made no move to leave. Ilene looked at me with pure hatred. If she had spoken one word I am sure it would have been "monster."
I turned back to her. "There is a variation of this," I said, pointing to the shaft that held her leg. "That is somewhat longer, and either this one or that can be fixed to the chair at an angle, to spread your legs wide apart for easy access to your sex."
I walked to the closet on the far wall and removed my suit jacket, hanging it carefully, and removed a long white coat, the type a butcher might wear. "This is going to get a little bloody," I said, and sat down on a chair that stood near her extended foot.
We stared at each other for a long moment and then I said, "I'm sure there is no need to tell you this, but I am going to start torturing you. I am going to do it very slowly, milking the last ounce of pain from each procedure. I am going to make you scream. I am going to make you beg. I am going to make you talk. You might not believe me, but I will. There is no way you can stop me.
"One other thing I will tell you that you probably won't believe – I take no joy from this. No joy that is, other than that of a job well done. I will get no erotic thrill from making you scream and beg. In fact, I would much rather be your lover than your torturer. But it is the job I was assigned to do, and I accept it." This last portion was not entirely true, but partly so.
I turned in my chair and selected a stiletto-like knife from the table of tools behind me. Stiletto-like because it was only a little more than three inches long. But the point was needle sharp and widened quickly to a one inch width. The sides were razor sharp and the blade was razor thin.
The look on Ilene's face was one of grim determination, but she was beginning to squirm in her bonds. She was pulling rather violently at the straps that held her leg, with no success of course, but she was able to move her foot perhaps an inch to each side. "I see you remember the pedicure of your left foot. You are ready to go through that agony again? Very brave. But this time it will be worse. Much worse."
I moved my chair forward until her heel rested on my thigh. I grasped her foot tightly with my left hand, my thumb under her little toe. "I believe my colleague used a plier," I said. "I prefer this. It's a lot more painful."
I placed the flat of the blade against the tip of her little toe so the point touched the bottom of her nail. Then I slowly tilted the blade upward until it was parallel with her toe and the point perhaps a quarter of a centimeter under the nail.
Ilene's body went stiff and her perfect breasts began rising and falling rather quickly as her breathing quickened. I pushed the blade in another fraction, then moved it from side to side, beginning the agonizing process of freeing the nail from the bed. Again, another quarter millimeter in, then side to side. She was panting now, the breath rushing from her lungs audibly. I looked up. Her head was thrown back, her back arched away from the chair, mouth open wide and eyes squeezed shut, as she fought the pain.
When the knife found the base of the nail I levered it up and the nail popped free. Ilene gave a final grunt of pain and collapsed back onto the chair, breathing as though she had just run a hard mile. I sensed a wave of relief sweep over her, and I knew that although consciously she knew her torture had really just begun, emotionally she felt as though she had won a battle by surviving without breaking.
I didn't give her a chance to draw any strength from this illusion. Immediately pushed the stiletto under her fourth toenail and started sawing the blade back and forth. She gave a yelp of pain and began to writhe in her bonds, twisting wildly trying to free herself from the straps and shackles. I slowed the torture to draw out every possible ounce of pain, once again finishing by prying the nail free with the knife.
I stood up and took her face in my hand. Tears were running freely now down her cheeks. She was weeping, I thought, not only from the pain, but also from the realization that her resistance was hopeless.
"Why are you crying," I said softly. "You can end this anytime you wish. This is of your own doing. A few words, a few names, and this will all be over. Why suffer like this for nothing? You can't hold out, no one can."
She shook her head. I raised my voice, feigning anger. "Don't you understand? In an hour or two you will have no nails left, not on your toes, not on your fingers. And then I will start on your teeth. The pain will be excruciating. Much, much worse than the mere discomfort you have suffered up till now. There is no way that you – that anybody – could survive that without breaking." She simply shook her head again and I started on the nail of her third toe.
By the time I had pried off the nail on her large toe she had fainted twice. Both times a glass of cold water thrown in her face had revived her for more torture. I must admit I did admire her fortitude. She still had not screamed. True, the noises escaping from her throat through her nose and clamped together teeth were as sure a sign of distress as an outright scream would have been. But she still had not given into that primal urge.
I had her left foot rebound to the chair leg. She showed very little interest as thick iron arms with straps were bolted on to seat. Across the two arms was a wooden plank attached at the end, with shallow indentations where a victim's fingers would go. When her wrists were freed from the cuffs that held them behind the back of the chair, she stirred, her head lolling on her chest.
First her biceps and forearms were strapped to the arms and then her wrists were strapped to the plank. She was fully conscious now and staring up at me, still a little disoriented and a little confused. When the iron bar came down across her fingers, pinning them to the board, she understood fully.
"Are you going to talk to me?" I asked. She looked away from me and shook her head. "Then since you have nothing to say…" I glanced at my aides. "Gag her."
The gag was a cylinder of hard rubber attached to straps that fastened at the back of her head. She threw her head from side to side trying to prevent the gag from being put in place. One of the men finally had to grab her head and hold it steady. She clamped her mouth shut until she was punched hard in the belly and her mouth flew open.
Gagged now and strapped naked in the chair with her fingers stretched out and pinned to the wood, Ilene was ready for her torture to resume. She stared up at me with hate burning in her eyes, hate I knew she was stoking it in an effort to choke back the terror of her impending ordeal.
"I am going to remove your finger nails now. There is no way you can stop me from finishing since, gagged as you are, you cannot give me what I want. I will stop half-way through and remove your gag and give you one opportunity to talk to me. If you decide to continue to play the martyr, the gag will go back in and the remaining fingernails will come out.
"Just for variety's sake I will use a somewhat different method of prying your nails loose. I will work around the edges, digging under the cuticles. Once that is done I will repeat the process, this time digging deeper under the sides of the nails and levering them up, little by little. The disadvantage to me is that this takes a lot more time and effort. The disadvantage to you is that the pain will be unbearable. Ready?"
I had barely started on the third nail when she started screaming. "Now then, doesn't that feel better?" I asked. She yelled something at me which I of course couldn't understand, so I simply continued her torture and she simply continued screaming.
She didn't faint, not once, and the question occurred to me – was there some connection between her screaming and her staying conscious? She didn't stop screaming as I worked on her finger nails, pausing just long enough to suck in enough breath to let out her next shriek of pain. I wondered whether, after I had broken her and she had betrayed all her secrets, while I was slowly torturing her to death, could I devise an experiment that would answer my question?
When her gag was removed she tried to say something but all that came out was a thin croak. I fed her a few swallows of water and she regained her voice.
"Stop. Please, no more. Stop. For the love of God stop," she begged. I said nothing. "Please, I beg you, no more. No more pain. No more torture. I can't stand any more pain."
"Who are your contacts?"
"Ve…Ve…Vera F.," she finally managed to croak out.
"All of them."
"She…she was my only contact." I motioned with my head and my two aides walked toward her with the gag.
"NOOOOOO!" she screamed. "I swear it! She wa…"
The gag was in place and all Ilene could do now was stare down in horror at her fingers and wait for her torture to begin again. I took her chin in my hand and tilted her head up to look at me.
"I don't give a shit about Vera F. We have her already. You must know that. She's the one who gave you up. I want to know who you report to. And when I am done working on you, you will beg to give me their names."
She fainted four times by the time I finished digging out the third nail, her left index finger. I had to give her a stimulant to keep her awake. I don't like to use them, there is always a small chance of the victim's heart giving out, and so I used a minimum dosage. Nonetheless, it kept her awake through the removal of the rest of her fingernails.
She was in bad shape. Drool was running down her chin, her body was twitching and her head was rolling slowly from side. I didn't know how much more she could take, but I knew I was so close to breaking her I didn't want to stop. I had her gag removed.
She managed to lift her head to look at me. "Have mercy on me," she managed to whisper. "Please, I'm begging you, have mercy on me."
"Give me the names."
"I…I can't. I can't." She started to sob. "Please, understand. No matter what you do to me I can't, I can't."
"Then your torture must continue. Heat up the needles."
"No. No. You can't. I can't tell you. Please. I can't tell you. Have mercy. Have mercy."
I gave her another half dose of stimulant, then scraped my fingernail hard along the length of the exposed nail bed of her left middle finger. She screamed.
"This is where the first hot needle is going," I said.
"I can't!" she shrieked. "Oh God I can't! Have mercy on me. Have mercy." Ilene's voice trailed off to a whimper as she begged me to stop, and rose into a scream as I inserted the first needle.
The injection seemed to give her new strength. With each hot needle I drove into her nail bed she heaved against her bonds with such vigor I actually thought for a moment she might snap the straps. She bucked and twisted and screamed with each insertion. Her naked body glistened with sweat, reflecting the bright light of the chamber as she writhed in the torture chair. When she wasn't screaming she was crying out "Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!" over and over in a crazed plea for me to stop her torture.
"This is getting us nowhere," I said after I had finished with the fingers of her left hand. "I think we will forego the right hand and move directly to your teeth."
"I can't tell you," she moaned. "I can't. Just kill me please and end this senseless torture. I am begging you, just kill me."
I ignored her. She felt something behind her and tried to twist her head to see one of my men inserting an iron headrest in the chair. She knew what was coming and began a frantic struggle to keep her head from being immobilized, fighting with all her strength to free herself from my man's iron grip.
"Why bother to fight it?" I asked. "There is nothing you can do to stop me from doing what I want with your body."
Despite Ilene's bondage it took both of my aides to get her head strapped to the backrest. Still she fought. She couldn't move an inch in any direction but she grunted with the effort and gasped for air as every muscle in her firm young body strained against her fetters.
When she saw one of the guards coming toward her with a steel circle that she knew was going inside her mouth, she clamped her jaw shut. Guard number two simply forced a metal bar with a hooked end between her teeth and forced her jaw down.
I approached her clicking the ends of the dental forceps together. "What does it feel like, to be tightly restrained in a chair, naked and totally helpless, unable to move a muscle, unable to even shut your mouth or close your legs to protect your vagina, in front of a man who is going to destroy your soul with unspeakable tortures?"
Tears were running down Ilene's cheeks and she gabbled unfathomable gibberish through her gag. I closed the dental tongs around one of her labia and squeezed until she shrieked in pain. "Later," I said, "and it won't be that easy. Right now I need to work on your mouth."
I peered inside her gaping mouth with a pen light. "I see you have all your wisdom teeth. Bad luck for you. I think I will start with them."
She was screaming so loudly I could hardly bear it, being literally inside her mouth. I backed away a slapped her across the cheek. She stopped her screaming for a moment, but as I approached her again she started again, and I could understand the garbled word "NO!" repeated over and over.
I locked my plier on her upper right wisdom tooth and started to pull and twist from side to side, but the tooth was deeply rooted and I was making little headway. Her shrieks of pain were unbelievable and her body was jerking and shaking uncontrollably.
I stepped back for a second. She was trying to speak, begging me with her eyes to understand her. And I did. "No more. I'll talk. I'll talk."
I had Ilene brought to Vera's cell. They shackled her wrists behind her, then grasped her by her upper arms, pulling her along and forcing her to walk between them. With every step she cried out in pain from the pressure on her mangled toes.
Vera was chained to the far wall of her cell, three links running to an iron collar around her neck. Her wrists were manacled behind her. When Vera saw Ilene she moaned loudly, then gave a short scream when she saw Ilene's bloody feet.
I gave the guards instructions. The girls were gagged and their wrists fastened to chains that ran from winches set in the concrete ceiling. The chains were cranked up, and as they rose they pulled the captive girls' arms high behind their backs, forcing them to bend forward to relieve the strain until their heads almost touched. Both had long hair which the guards pulled back into ponytails that were tied with wire at the base. The wires were then drawn back and fastened to the chains, arching the girl's backs and necks so they stared into each other's eyes, less than a meter apart. Finally their legs were spread wide and their ankles shackled to staples set in the cement floor. This forced them up on their toes, which was especially agonizing for Ilene, who could not stifle her cries of pain.
I could see the guards were getting quite aroused at the sight: two young beauties, their naked bodies straining at the chains that held them open and helpless, moaning in pain. I would have liked to have stayed to watch the girls raped from behind, perhaps anally; to hear them scream through their gags and as they were pushed forward by each thrust, their faces so close their tears would join together.
I was seized at eight in the morning. I opened my door to leave for my "day job" when three of them jumped me. They had obviously been waiting for me. I was hit in the stomach with a baton, and before I had a chance to resist or even cry out, I was pushed back into my flat.
I was still gasping for breath when the gag was shoved in my mouth and my wrists cuffed behind me. A heavy black cloth bag was pulled over my head. Some sort of belt or strap was secured around my neck. It served two purposes: the bottom of the black hood was caught and held fast by it and there was a rope or leash attached to the front by which I could be pulled forward.
I was led down the stairs, two of my assailants holding me by the elbows and the third pulling me forward by the leash. I was blind and dumb and all I could hear was the crazy beating of my heart. They had me, and the "they" were the vilest people on the face of the earth.
I had joined the underground three years before, almost to the day. I was no hero, but my poor country had been ground under the heel of this regime that only knew how to rule by terror. I had known enough innocent people who had been dragged away from their homes never to be heard of again. Innocent by any decent standards that is. Perhaps they had read the wrong book, talked to the wrong person, or owned something that one of the junta especially admired. Whatever, they were lost.
We had lost a number of our people as well, although we were all very careful to keep a low profile and do nothing to arouse anyone's suspicion, or even annoy a petty local official. Still, occasionally on of ours would disappear. I always suspected it was a coincidence because usually nothing followed, and if the prisoner was suspected of being an underground member, he or she would have been horribly tortured. And since there were never any other partisans picked up directly after, I had to believe we had the bravest people in the world in our organization or they had not been interrogated.
That was until almost a week ago when Vera had been pulled in that the pattern had changed. Four days later, Ilene disappeared. Since Ilene reported directly to Christie and knew Christie worked for me, we were both more than a little worried.
Christie was my lover. She was my first lesbian affair. I had always enjoyed sex with men, but my encounters always left me unfulfilled in a way I couldn't quite define. Even my two longer relationships had never given me the satisfaction I felt when I was with Christie.
When we met the night Ilene went missing we made a decision and a pact. Since we could not be sure Ilene had been taken – it was just that we had not heard from her for twenty-four hours – we would wait until the following evening before we went underground, which had its own dangers. And even if she had been swept up, there was a good chance she would die under torture before she talked. Ilene was the strongest person either of us had ever met, man or woman.
The pact was that if we were captured, no matter what they did to us, we would never betray the other. If one of us broke, we would give up someone else, but never each other. Even though we both thought that we were probably worrying about nothing, that night our love making took on urgency it never had before. Instead of staying the night, Christie said she would stay at her sister's and I promised her to leave my flat first thing in the morning.
All this went through my mind as I sat in the back seat of the car that was taking me to be interrogated and undoubtedly tortured when I refused to talk. We drove at a moderate rate, the pressure of my manacled wrists against the small of my back a constant reminder of my hopeless situation. I felt the cuffs digging into me because the two thugs on either side of me leaned their considerable weight against my shoulders and chest, pressing me into the back of the seat. I expected them to be squeezing my breasts and probing my belly, growling descriptions into my ears of the torments that awaited me. But they did nothing but sit there saying nothing. The only sound inside the car was the occasional groan muffled by my gag.
Then the one thought that I had been trying to ignore rushed to the front of my brain; if they had me they must already have Christie. If they had broken Ilene, Christie would have been the first name she would have given up. No, Christie was at her sister's. The delay in finding her would give her time to escape, to go underground. Or so I prayed.
When the car stopped and I was pulled out, I followed meekly. Blindfolded by the hood, I had no choice. We were in an underground garage; I was sure from the smell, the dank air and the echoes of footsteps I could hear through the filter of the hood. We went up in an elevator. I heard voices but could not make out what they were saying. I realized the thick cloth of the hood made hearing difficult. We went up a short tier of stairs, then down two long ones, the guards holding my elbows was the only thing that kept me from falling.
A door opened and I was led forward by my leash. After a dozen steps they spun me around and pushed me backwards. The back of my legs hit something and I started to fall. I gave one short cry before my buttocks hit the seat of the chair.
They worked quickly. My head was pushed forward until it touched my knees, and my arms lifted straight behind me. They removed the manacles and pulled my arms over the back of the chair where my wrists were locked into a new set of cuffs. As this was happening, my ankles were being shackled to the chair legs. Straps went around my biceps, my thighs and beneath my breasts, pinning me to the chair.
They left me there, for how long I have little idea. I am pretty sure it was for hours, but for how many, I don't know. It seemed like an eternity. I sweltered in the thick black bag, which also made breathing difficult, especially in conjunction with my gag which forced me to breathe solely through my nose. Sweat poured from my forehead, soaking the tightly fitting hood until it clung even more closely to my face. It ran from my underarms down my sides and drenched my blouse and skirt and underwear.
It was not only the stifling heat under my black cowl that made me sweat, it was also my fear. To say I was anything less than terrified would be a lie. I tried to tell myself that this was all part of the psychological component of my interrogation, a tactic to help break me. True, but knowing that didn't make it much easier. I was gagged, blindfolded and bound so tightly in a chair I could hardly move. I didn't know where I was or what exactly awaited me. All I did know was that I was totally helpless and in the hands of the enemy; that I had information that they wanted and that I wasn't going to give them. All of which meant I was surely facing tortures I could barely imagine.
At what point I started to weep I am not sure. But I did manage to finally get control of myself. One thing I knew for sure, I could not show weakness. So I just sat, strapped into the chair, terrible thoughts gnawing at my brain. How would they torture me? I heard electricity was the worst. Would they torture my breasts? My vagina? When would they strip me naked? So far they had only taken my jewelry, two rings, earrings and a pendant on a chain. Would I be raped? Would it be part of my torture? Gang raped by twenty men?
It came with an unexpected suddenness. The hood was torn from my head before I knew anyone was there. I was blinded by the light in the room and could not open my eyes enough to see anything for ten or twenty seconds. In that time the collar had been removed from around my neck and the gag pulled from my mouth.
A man stood before me dressed in a business suit. He was obviously not one of the goons that had seized me. He spoke with the diction of an educated man. I immediately recognized him as being the one in charge.
"Before we start working on you I think you should probably drink this," he said, showing me a large glass of clear liquid. I pulled my head back and he laughed. "It isn't drugged. If I wanted to drug you I wouldn't have to resort to deception. It's just water. I think you will find it hard to talk after having that rag stuffed in your mouth for so long and being a bit dehydrated." He tipped the glass carefully against my lips and I slowly emptied it.
"I will not say anything." Even after the water speaking was difficult. My throat was raw and my voice raspy. He gave me another half glass which I drank. "I have nothing to say."
"So you do not deny being a member of the movement. I am glad, that would be so tiresome. We know who you are and only wish you to cooperate with us. If you don't, well, you know where you are and you know what happens to people here when they are difficult. You will talk. You all do."
"You pig," I snarled, "Torture me. It will do you no good. I will never talk."
"Torture you?" He smiled. "No, I am not going to torture you. At least not yet."
As if on cue the door of the room opened and two of the guards came in hauling a struggling young woman between them. Her wrists were bound behind her and they pulled her by her elbows, as they had me. Her head was encased by a black cloth hood, fastened by a collar around her neck.
My first thought was: That's the way I must have looked. Except I hadn't struggled against my captors and no one was pulling her by a leash, which hung down between her full breasts. That thought lasted less only a moment.
"Christie!" I shrieked. "Oh God no!"
At the sound of my voice, she stopped her writhing and turned her head toward me. I heard a muffled cry through the hood and she redoubled her efforts, bucking and kicking against the guards.
My interrogator stepped behind her and pulled off the one ring she wore, then reached down the front of her blouse and tore away her pedant. It was the same as mine, as was the ring. He held them up for me to see and nodded. "As I suspected. This will be interesting."
Two meters in front of me stood a metal frame about three meters high and two meters wide, set on a low wooden platform, less than ten centimeters off the ground. The frame itself had slots running up the side members with rings and bolts that could be slid up and down and locked in position. Set into the cross member close to the ends were two steel manacles that hung from chains attached to electric winches. It was here they dragged the struggling Christie.
She flailed out blindly with a foot and managed to kick one of the guards sharply in the shin. He punched her hard in the stomach, and that forced her to her knees. Angrily he pulled her shoes off and the two of them freed her from her handcuffs. They pulled her, still gasping for air, to her feet and stretched her arms above her to where they could lock her wrists in the manacles. Then the hoists were engaged and the chains raised just enough to pull Christie up on her toes.
The whole time they were securing Christie to the frame I watched, sobbing "Don't hurt her. Please, don't hurt her."
The interrogator grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head back. "Hurt her? That's hardly the word for what I'm going to do to her. I am going to torture her in front of you and you're going to watch every second of her agony and hear every one of her screams. I am going to make her suffer like no woman has ever suffered before, until you tell me what I want to know, which is basically everything.
"And you will be the only one who can end her torture. Not even she will be able to, because she will be gagged. So, how much do you really love her? We are going to find out."
They unfastened Christie's collar and pulled the hood off. Her long black hair was matted to her head and her face shone with moisture. A cloth gag that distended her cheeks had been tied in place. Still she was more beautiful than any woman I had ever seen. Her tall slender body was stretched to its utmost, her full breasts in magnificent contrast with her flat stomach.
"It looks like she has a beautiful set of tits under that shirt. Let's start with those. Strip her to the waist."
"NOOOOOO!" I screamed as they pulled her blouse from her jeans and began cutting it off her back. "Not that! You can't! Not her breasts! Oh please God not her breasts!"
I pulled with all my strength at my fetters. Christie saw me writhing helplessly in my bondage and shouted to me but nothing understandable emerged from her gag. All I could think of was they were going to torture those sweet breasts, those beautiful breasts I used to softly stroke, those sensitive nipples I used to gently kiss.
She was naked now from the waist up. Her low slung jeans rode on her hips, exposing her lean stomach that was stretched taut as she strained to balance on her toes. I couldn't bear to see her like this, totally helpless waiting for them to start working on her breasts. Our eyes met. "Be brave Christie," was all I could say. She couldn't answer through her gag but her eyes said it all. I'll try. They're going to torture me but I'll try. She looked down at her bared breasts, then closed her eyes and groaned.
"You know, I don't think it will be half as much fun if we can't hear you scream. So what I am going to do is take out your gag. Then you are going to stick out your tongue and I am going to lock this on it." He held up clamp that was no more than two thin pieces of wood the length of a middle finger, attached at the ends by thick elastic bands. "That way you will be able to scream but not talk."
The gag came out and the interrogator stepped up on the platform. "Don't talk!" Christie cried, "No matter what they do to me don't talk!" They grabbed her head. One of them had a forceps. She managed to shake her head free for a moment. "If you love me don't talk! No matter what they do to mm mm…" The forceps had her tongue and minute later the clamp was in place.
"Anytime you want to talk to me," said the interrogator. I dropped my head to my chest and slowly shook it no. By the time I looked up the guards had already started preparing Christie for her torture.
A flat metal bar twice the width of a man's hand was fitted into the slots that ran up the sides of the frame. Before it was inserted, the guard made sure we both saw the tiny spikes that dotted the surface. The bar was then moved up until Christie's breasts rested on the surface, and it was locked into place.
We both knew what was coming next. I called out to her, "Christie I'm sorry, I'm sorry," as the top half of the vise was laid on top of her breasts and the screws fitted into the threaded holes on the bottom. Christie tried to pull back but stretched out as she was she couldn't move without losing her precarious balance on her toes. Still, one of the guards pushed on her back to make sure every inch of flesh was trapped in the vise.
"One half turn," the interrogator ordered. The two guards moved to the sides and in unison turned the wheels that tightened the screws and pressed the halves of the vise together, trapping Christie's soft breasts between them.
She didn't make a sound but I saw her jaw quiver. She didn't look at me but stared straight over my head, bracing herself for what was to come. The interrogator stepped next to her and placed the palm of his hand gently on her belly. "Quarter turn," he said, "Four clicks."
Christie tossed her head to the side and grimaced. He flicked each of her nipples in turn with his forefinger, then patted her buttocks. At this point I knew her humiliation at being helpless before this monster was worse torture than pressure on her breasts. "Quarter turn."
I heard Christie suck in her breath and then release it in a slow "ahhhh." I started to weep. The interrogator looked over at me. "Stop it," I begged, "Don't do this to her."
"Another four clicks," he said. As the screws were turned, Christie groaned loudly. She was breathing rapidly now, her flat stomach pulsing above the waist of her jeans. The interrogator turned to me. "This is just the beginning; it's going to get a lot worse." I shook my head. He simply shrugged and the screws turned again. Christie's back arched and a strange sound came from her throat. I saw her bite down hard on the wooden clamp to keep from screaming. They turned the screws tighter.
Our eyes met. We were both sobbing now. "Ang. Ang," she moaned through her gag, the words distorted but my name recognizable. Her beautiful face was distorted in agony. Blood dripped from the sides of the vise where the spikes had taken hold. Another turn and a strangled cry arose from her lips as she choked back a scream. She didn't want me to hear the evidence of her suffering.
I didn't see the whip until it cracked across Christie's back. Her eyes flew open in surprise and panic. A moment later the six tailed flogger tore at her again and this time she could not hold back her scream.
A new pattern in Christie's torture emerged. The turns of the screws were reduced to the smallest possible increment, one click, so they could prolong the torment of her breasts. Between turns she was whipped, three, four, five or more lashes. At first they whipped only her back, but after three rounds the interrogator had her jeans stripped off. He left the skimpy v-string she wore that barely covered her pussy and offered no protection against the lashes.
The flogger was replaced with a split bamboo stick. The strokes were delivered, not only to her back, but most often to the fresh flesh of her buttocks, the back of her thighs and even her calves. Each one was met with a sharp cry of pain, and an occasional full throated scream. But they were nothing compared to the shrieks that accompanied the incremental turns of the screws.
The crushing of her breasts had taken on an almost ritualistic nature. The two guards took their positions and waited until it had penetrated Christie's pain scrambled brain that it was time. With her tongue barely able to function her pleading for mercy was reduced to the repetition of the word "No." over and over accompanied by the vigorous shaking of her head. The single click of the screw barely moved the vise, but Christie's scream told of agony beyond measure.
When they stopped Christie hung from her wrists, unable to support herself on her toes any longer. Her screaming had stopped, replaced by a pitiful groaning. "Let's give this one a chance to rest up before the next session, and this one," the interrogator said indicating me, "A chance to reconsider what she is doing to her friend."
Drool ran down Christie's chin and blood dotted the platform behind her where it had been sprayed by the lashing. But it was the condition of her beautiful breasts that tore at my soul. The flesh that swelled out of the vise was purple and streaked with rivulets blood from where the spikes had done their work. The aureoles and nipples had been stretched taut by the compression that had squeezed her breasts to less than half their normal size. More frightening was that there were many, many more turns of the screw left before they were mashed to a pulp.
"Take her gag out. She's in no shape to coordinate their stories," he said to one of the guards. "But stay. If they try to check their stories, burn her nipples off with the soldering iron."
Christie hung limply from the frame, head lolling on her chest, eyes closed; the only signs of life a fluttering of her stomach muscles and the low moans as she struggled to breathe. I said nothing, just gazed at her, my brain having trouble understanding what I was seeing. One night ago the sight of her lithe body naked but for the black v-string that begged to be torn off so I could press my lips to her sex, would have filled me with lust. When that last covering was removed now I knew I would be forced to watch them torture her pussy.
I had actually dozed off, my total exhaustion overcoming my terror, when I heard Christie's voice. It was nothing more than a hoarse whisper of "Angie. Angie." I opened my eyes, disoriented. I saw Christie and started to rise. It was only when the straps that bound me to the metal chair held me fast that I realized where I was. Her lips were trembling and her eyes spoke of nothing but pain and defeat.
"Angie. It…it hurts. It hurts…so…bad."
"Christie," I wailed, "Oh God Christie." What else could I say? What else could I do? I was as helpless as she.
She could hardly speak, each word was agony. It was taking all her strength just to hold her head up. "I'm trying…to…be brave. But it hurts…so much. I can't stand much…more. My breasts…the pain. Oh God. The pain. They're going to…break me… make me beg." Her head fell back on her chest. "Oh God…my breasts…my breasts…God help me…pain…Oh God." Her voice trailed off and I screamed her name, my body heaving with sobs.
Time passed before she lifted her head once again. I saw a determination in her eyes missing before. "Angie. They're coming back... to torture me more…to make you talk. They're going to…torture me until…I beg you to talk. I'm almost ready…to beg you…now. Don't. No matter how… I beg…don't… talk."
"I can't!" I screamed. "I can't watch you die like this!"
"You asked me. Now you be brave." Unbelievably for a brief instant a smile crossed her lips. Then she said, "Once they have what…they want…they are going…to make you…watch me…tortured to death."
I knew what she said was true. What she didn't say was that I would be tortured too, that we would both die under torture; for nothing more than their pleasure and revenge.
"It won't help. Don't talk."
I nodded back to her and we both smiled at each other for the two seconds before the door opened.
They used a new whip on Christie, longer with three tails, two weighted, the one in the middle barbed. They used it on her belly. The first stroke tore her v-string off and finished her denuding. Two more followed each drawing a shriek of pain from the helpless girl.
The two guards moved to the screws. Only then did Christie start to beg. "No more. Please, I can't take anymore. Have mercy. Have mercy on me." The same pattern followed except this time they lashed her stomach, ribs and the front of her thighs. She screamed nonstop, pausing only to take in great gulps of air, but never looking in my direction. Finally one of her torturers tapped the whip handle across her tightly stretched nipples.
Christie went mad with fear, screaming and begging, "Not there! Oh God not there! I'll do anything, not there!"
"Anything?" She nodded frantically. The interrogator had her wrists unchained and the breast crusher lowered carefully with two guards supporting the helpless beauty to a kneeling position. Her wrists were then rebound behind her.
The interrogator was the first to push his dick into her mouth. He was followed by six guards. Christie worked feverishly to bring them all to climax. When they were done with her, she was raised back to a standing position, but this time with her feet flat on the floor. I could see the ray of hope light up her face. Maybe it was over. Maybe the torture would stop. It didn't matter how impossible that would be to a sane person, Christie was half out of her mind with pain and fear.
"Now," the interrogator said, "I want you to tell your friend tied to the chair over there to answer all my questions. If she doesn't, your torture will continue."
"It doesn't matter!" I yelled. "She can beg me all she wants I will never talk."
Christie looked at him and shook her head. He simply nodded and the guards moved the press up the frame another couple of notches until Christie was perched once more on her toes, but this time her wrists were bound behind her and she did not have the chains from her wrists holding her stable.
"I will be leaving you now. Perhaps by the time I return you will reconsider." And they were gone.
I took only a moment for me to realize the diabolical nature of Christie's bondage. The vise crushing her breasts pulled her up on her toes; with wrists bound behind her it was a dreadful struggle to keep her perilous balance. And after only a minute or two the strain on her calf muscles would begin to tell. It was obvious to me she was fighting a losing battle and it would not be long before her foothold on the platform gave way, leaving her hanging from her tortured breasts.
I heard her groans of pain turn to sobs and then to a pathetic pleading, "Oh God help me. Help me." I saw her calves cramp and every muscle in her taut young body strain to keep her toes on the floor. Her nudity shone in the light of the torture chamber, reflected in the drops of sweat that oozed from every pore.
Her pleas changed. "Angie. Help me. Help me. I can't hold on any more. Angie, please please…" But I didn't realize she had lost her purchase until I heard her agonized shriek. Christie had been screaming since they started to whip her, but this was more horrific than those that had preceded it, not only a scream of pain but of surrender.
She spent five minutes hanging from her breasts, screaming and begging me to save her. Our torturers returned. I shrieked at them, pleading with them to stop her torture. They ignored my pleas and her screams, spread her legs, tied off her ankles and began whipping her pussy. The last sounds I heard before I passed out were Christie's agonized screams of "Stop! Stop! Stop!"
I came to just as Christie's limp body was being dragged from the torture chamber. Before they were out of the door my interrogator had a razor sharp knife in his hand and was cutting the clothing from my body. Bound as I was there was nothing I could do to prevent, or even delay, my denuding. He took his sweet time, holding up each garment for my inspection. His smile said, See how I am taking away your clothes, how slowly and carefully I am baring the most intimate and sensitive parts of your body? That is how slowly and carefully I am going to torture them.
When I had been stripped naked, the two thugs who had done the dirty work on Christie came for me. I opened my mouth to scream at them to keep away from me, but before I had uttered one word, the interrogator had stuffed my panties between my lips.
Would anyone have come to my rescue if I had screamed for help? Of course not, but I tried to push the gag, my thong, out of my mouth with my tongue. My interrogator simply pushed another piece of cloth into my mouth, Christie's skimpy v-string. He then finished the job by passing a piece of rope between my lips and wrapping it around my head twice before tying it off, fixing the gag in place.
Would struggling against them do any good? Would I be able to escape by fighting them? Not a chance, but I did struggle with all my strength, driven by my abject horror of what I had seen them do to Christie and what I knew they were going to do to me.
When my arms were freed from the cuffs that bound them behind the chair, I flailed them around for the briefest on moments before my wrists were captured and held in the iron grip of one of the torturers. My left leg was freed first and I tried to kick out at the other thug but I had no leverage and soon he held both my ankles.
I was lifted off the chair and carried face up between them across the room, my naked body bent in a shallow arch between my outstretched limbs. I thrashed and twisted against their unyielding grasp, unwilling to be meekly hauled to my torture. I tried to scream curses at them but even that insignificant relief was denied me by my gag. I was totally helpless; there was nothing I could do to resist the horrors they were going to visit on my body. I became acutely aware of my nudity, how my bared breasts heaved as I struggled to be free and how my parted legs exposed my pussy.
I was dumped onto a large metal table, the impact knocking my breath from me for a moment. I felt a weight on my chest, one of my captors leaning across me to fasten my wrist in a steel manacle. He had to let go of my other wrist to do this and I flailed ineffectually at his back with my fist. The other thug held both my ankles down until my wrists were both tightly locked, and his partner could walk to his end of the table. Together they spread my legs wide, so wide I felt my hip joints catch and I had to arch my back to pop them back into position.
I lay there fighting for air, the simple job of breathing made difficult by my tightly stretched body and the underwear gag that filled my mouth. I turned my head to the side and looked up my extended arm. My wrist was pinned palm up in a cylindrical two inch wide cuff that looked strong enough to hold a gorilla. Still I pulled once with all my strength at my arm restraints, no matter how useless the effort might be.
I was stretched so taut that I could barely lift my head. When I did and looked down my body I registered only three things before collapsing back on the table: that a hundred drops of sweat sparkled in my neatly trimmed pubic hair, that my ankles were spread far apart by shackles identical to those that imprisoned my wrists, and that my breasts were stretched almost flat on my distended ribcage.
I lay there with my eyes closed waiting for my torture to begin. What would they do to me? Why was I gagged? How long could I hold out? The thought came to me – I'd be better off dead. That was my only chance, that they would make a mistake and kill me before I broke. I started to weep, tears seeping from beneath my eyelids. I didn't want to cry, to show my weakness even before they started on me. But I didn't want to die. I didn't want to be tortured.
I lay there waiting, listening. I heard nothing. I sensed I was alone, that they had left. I opened my eyes and tried to look around the room. Bound as I was I couldn't see everything, but I saw nobody. I pulled once more at the fetters that held my wrists and ankles, arching my back for leverage. It only made me hurt more.
That was when I first noticed the mirror that covered the ceiling above me. Of course, it wasn't the mirror I saw, but my reflected image. The shock of seeing myself there, tightly spread-eagled, naked and helpless, made me scream in terror. I was stretched taut; the gyves that held my wrists and ankles were unbreakable. I couldn't move, couldn't escape. I was gagged. I could taste myself, taste Christie. The rope held it all in my mouth. I screamed again. Nothing came out but a muffled groan. I couldn't talk. They would torture me and ask me questions. But I couldn't answer. I couldn't tell them. So they would torture me more. They would torture me forever. I couldn't stop them.
How would they torture me? I saw it up there in the mirror. My thighs were spread wide, so very wide. I struggled to close them but I couldn't move. Between my thighs was my pussy. They had spread me open so they could get at my pussy. They were going to torture my pussy. My lips. My clit. Deep inside me. They were going to torture my pussy. And I couldn't stop them. Gagged. I couldn't talk.
I was sobbing hysterically, pulling frantically at my shackles, screaming into my gag. Oh God I'm going to be tortured. Oh God stop them. Somebody stop them. Not my pussy. Oh God not my pussy.
I felt a hand on my hip. I opened my eyes. A woman was standing over me. "Shhhh," she said in little more than a whisper, "Now there, shh, shh, shh."
She was a tall woman, large boned with broad shoulders and thick long fingers that were patting me rather gently on my hip. Not especially good looking, but not pig ugly either. She was wearing a white lab coat and her hair was brown and close cropped.
"Look at all the trouble you've gotten yourself into. Would you like me to help you out?"
I didn't know what to make of her, or what she said, or any of it. But she seemed my only hope. I craned my neck toward her and pushed my chin up in a short nodding motion, hoping she would understand I needed my gag removed. She did.
"You want your gag out? Oh, I'm afraid I can't do that, at least not right at this moment. You unfortunately will have to just listen to me for a little while at least. Blink your eyes twice if you understand."
I blinked as she instructed. What else could I do?
"Good. Here is the situation. Right now your girlfriend is spilling her guts to the Captain in an office down the hall. When he has heard, if not all of it, enough to know whether or not you are telling the truth, he will come back and start questioning you."
I stared back at her. My eyes must have told her something.
"Do you think I am lying to you? After what you saw her put through? Oh, and she was also told you had confessed and were answering all our questions. Don't look at me like that, of course she believed it. Not only because there was no reason not to but mostly she wanted so badly to. It was proof you loved her and more importantly, a way to end her torture.
"We can now check your story against hers. I must say I think I would believe her version if there are any inconsistencies. I was there. I heard her scream when she was told that if she lied we would burn her nipples and clit off with a soldering iron and make her watch you tortured to within an inch of your life. I saw her beg to talk and swear to tell us everything.
"Which leaves me with one question for you – are you ready to talk?"
So there was the question. If I had been asked a few hours before, when I had been captured, I would have answered "Never," and meant it. But now after seeing what they had done to Christie and watched her crack – and knowing that they had broken Ilene whom I thought would never talk – I knew I would never survive whatever horrors they had in store for me. They would break me as well, that was without question, so I nodded furiously at the woman who stood over me.
She laughed. "Too bad," she said, "I am not read to listen."
"No!" I screamed into my gag and shook my head desperately from side to side. She laughed again, not the cackle of a madwoman but the throaty laugh of someone who has just seen something quite humorous.
She moved to the side of the table and turned a crank that protruded from the center. Immediately I felt pressure at the small of my back. Then more, and my hips began to rise from the table. The immediate sensation was my spread-eagled body being slowly stretched, my wrists and ankles locked to the surface, my limbs taut, and my torso slowly pulling them tighter. The effect was to rack me tighter and tighter, just as if I was spread out on that medieval engine of torture.
I screamed in pain, and she turned the winch another revolution. The pain was incredible, unendurable, and I went to scream again but found I didn't have enough air in my lungs, nor could my heaving chest bring in any more than what was necessary to breathe.
"Look how wide your eyes are," she marveled, "Are you scared? Well, don't worry I am not going to tear you apart. I believe you are stretched enough for me to proceed."
With those words I knew what she was going to do to me, if not exactly, at least in the broad sense. I looked up at my reflection in the mirror above the table upon which I was spread and saw my naked flesh glistening with sweat, my fingers clenched into fists, my toes curled in pain and my hips thrust upward bending my body into a graceful arc with my pubis at the apogee. She was going to torture my pussy.
She leaned over me smiling for a moment before she walked out of my sight. I tried to crane my neck to see where she was going, but I was stretched so tightly I couldn't lift head more than an inch or two. My only view was the mirror, and the sight of me bound spread-eagle so tightly, so helplessly and so suggestively made me weep.
Even crying hurt. With every sob that shook my body, pain lanced through my chest, and from there raced down my outstretched limbs. But I couldn't stop. All I could think of was Christie screaming and begging me to make them stop torturing her. Now what were they going to do to me? How were they going to torture me? They could do anything they wanted and there was no way I could stop them. She wouldn't even let me confess. Images flashed through my mind. Images of her fucking me with a barbed dildo, slowly scraping the flesh from the inside of my vagina; of her sticking hot needles into my labia and clitoris; of my lips being pulled wide and acid being dripped into my sex.
I didn't realize my newest tormentor had returned until I felt her hand on my cheek brushing away my tears. "There, there," she cooed. I began screaming at her through my gag, and shaking my head violently despite the pain it caused my over-stressed body. "Sorry dear, but there is nothing for it. You have been a bad girl and must be punished. Besides, you wouldn't want to go without when all your friends have suffered so, would you? That wouldn't be fair. Now let me show you something."
The something she showed me was what was called, I was to learn momentarily, a pear. It did look like a pear, an elongated metal pear with a handled protruding from the narrower end. She explained, and then demonstrated, that by turning the handle, the pear could be made to expand to almost three times its girth. "And do you know where this is going?" she asked coyly, moving her eyes from mine, down to my groin and then back to my face.
"NO!" I screamed. "Not there!" She was turning the screw to bring the pear back to its original size. Even contracted it would barely fit in my pussy, and once inserted it would be expanded turn by turn, slowly stretching the walls of my vagina until they were torn apart.
She spread a lubricating jelly on the pear and then moved to where she could reach between my thighs. With my back arched and my legs widely spread my sex was an inviting target. I pulled against my shackles with all my strength but of course it was useless. Still I fought to close my thighs; there was a part of my brain that refused to accept the fact I was totally helpless and at the mercy of my enemy who wanted nothing less than to hurt me in the most obscene way possible.
The cold slick tip touched my perineum and I braced myself for the atrocity that was seconds away. But to my astonishment the instrument of my torment slid downward and pressed against my anus. My surprise, and brief moment of relief, must have been obvious, because me torturer laughed and said, "Don't worry, we'll get to your pussy shortly," before starting to steadily push the pear into my bowels.
I screamed. The pain was excruciating and the pear wasn't halfway in. "You know, there really is no reason to leave you gagged. And I really would like to hear you screaming and begging." She removed the gag from my mouth.
"Stop!" I cried. "It won't fit! It won't fit!"
"Oh I think it will," and she slowly pushed the pear in up to the hilt.
I had never felt such pain in my life. And it didn't subside. The pear was a part of me. It filled me. It felt like it was alive and throbbing inside me. I was panting for breath, my head rolling from side to side. "Take it out," I begged. "Take it out. I'll tell you everything." She said nothing, just simply turned the screw. And when I stopped screaming, she turned it again.
She didn't turn it much each time, just enough for me to feel the agony of the pear expanding in my bowels, to make me scream with the new pain. How many times she turned it I couldn't tell you. She actually timed the intervals on her watch, "Ten minutes," she told me, "That way it reduces the trauma, but not the pain. If I did this all at once, it would probably kill you. And this way I get to enjoy your anguish all the more. I just love the way you beg and scream for mercy. I've cum twice already."
"You're…a…monster," I managed to gasp, "You're…not…human."
"Oh, not human. Perhaps that deserves an extra turn."
"Nooooooo!" I shrieked. "Nooooooo! Don't! I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry."
"Then beg. Beg me for all you're worth even though it will do no good."
So of course I begged and pleaded and cried. And of course it did no good. "Whoops," she said, "Ten minutes is up."
When I could no longer scream or beg or cry or even whimper; when the only thing coming out of my mouth was drool (which she gently dabbed away with a cotton rag), she stopped turning the handle of the pear. She started to walk out of the room and my first impulse was to beg her not to leave me like that. But even if I had wanted to I couldn't speak, and when she decided to give the crank on the table another turn, raising my buttocks and stretching my already taut body even further, all I could manage was a gurgling wheeze.
The door closed. I was alone. I sobbed with relief; she could not hurt me anymore. She left the light on so I could look up and see myself in the mirror. My nude body stretched spread-eagle by the chains, arched and covered in sweat. I couldn't help but stare at my loins thrust upward by the table, with the handled of the pear protruding from my anus and my pussy held open in invitation by my wide spread thighs. Even though I knew it was hopeless I strained with all my strength to close my legs. She had promised to torture my pussy and all I knew was I couldn't let that happen.
I was wrong, she could still hurt me. You would think that the pain would lessen as time passed, but no, it increased with each minute I lay there on my rack. At first it was the horrible stretching of my body. It felt like hot nails were being hammered into my every joint. But soon even that ungodly torture was submerged beneath the growing agony of the pear. I felt it trying to push itself through my belly, pushing harder and harder until I could bear it no longer and managed one agonized scream.
I don't know how many hours passed. Why couldn't I faint? Why couldn't I die? I was being torn apart, my body excruciatingly stretched by my taut limbs while the pear threatened to tear through my stomach. My whole body throbbed, I was beyond mere pain. Besides my agony the only thing I was conscious of was the shackles that pinned my wrists and ankles to the table and spread me open helplessly. I would do anything to stop the torture.
The door opened. Moments later my original interrogator was staring down at my prostrate figure.
"Help me," I gasped. I could barely make myself heard, my voice shaken and diminished by my constant struggle to breathe. "Make her…stop."
He said nothing, but after only a few seconds I began to talk. I told him everything I knew about our group. I betrayed everyone; my comrades and my friends, people I loved and had sworn I would die for. It took forever to spill out the information because I could hardly speak. When I had nothing else to say, when I had sentenced my closest friends to torture and death, he said nothing, asked me no questions. He knew I was totally broken and totally his. He knew there was no more information I could give him.
He turned and started to leave. I cried after him not to go, not to leave me like this. But a minute later he was at my side staring down at me, and she was at my other side, smiling broadly.
"No," I moaned, "don't let…"
"Shhhh. She is not going to touch you." He loosened the crank on the table two turns and then did the same with the pear.
"More," I pleaded. "Take it out."
"I'm afraid not," he said. "This is only so you can breathe a little better. The interrogation is over. Now comes the punishment."
Then his hand was on my belly. In the mirror I saw he was holding a thick black tube, a hose, which he forced into my vagina. It was much too wide to go in easily and he had to force it. Normally, it would have hurt like hell; with my groin stretched beyond the limit and the pear expanded in my bowels it was agony.
"No more," I begged him. "For the love of God stop."
I heard an electric motor begin to hum, and then a rhythmic thumping. Immediately there was a rush of air into my sex. I gasped in horror. It didn't hurt any more than the tube pushed into my vagina, not even with the rack and pear stretching my groin, but I knew this was just the start. I could see him in the mirror turning a dial. The pressure grew and the pain started.
"Fasten the straps," he said. We don't want it blown out of her cunt."
I was shaking my head wildly from side to side, sobbing "No. Oh God no. No. No. Please no. Don't"
She cinched a belt around my waist and attached two straps that ran to the device. He slowly increased the air pressure rushing into my pussy. I screamed. My belly was beginning to balloon and the air was pounding into my cervix, up my urethra. It filled my bladder and my womb. I screamed again and he turned the pressure up more. I tore wildly at my shackles until I fainted.
I awoke to a hypodermic being pushed into my neck. A stimulant. They didn't care if I died now, they had what the information they wanted. Now all they wanted was for me to suffer.
He played with me for an hour, changing the pressure up and down, sometimes blasting me for a second before turning it to low. I screamed and begged mindlessly until finally it was over and I was as broken as a human being can be.
They dragged me out of the torture chamber to a cell where Christie was chained to a wall, her wrists in manacles and her neck in an iron collar. They had fixed the length of her chains so she could neither straighten up nor bring her body down to even a squatting position. She was forced into a half kneeling position when she hung from her wrists, or a semi-crouch when she straightened up as far as her chains would allow. I was pushed against the opposite wall and chained identically to Christie.
Our bondage made it impossible to rest. I would fall into an exhausted stupor for short intervals, but then my cramping muscles would wake me. It was of course the same for Christie. We were both gagged so all we could do was stare at each other and weep to see a mirror image of our own suffering portrayed by our precious lover.
Not long after we were chained to the wall, IV bags were wheeled in and inserted into our veins: saline solution and nourishment I assumed. Periodically upon their emptying they were replaced. They wanted to keep us alive. Our torture was not over.
I don't know how much time passed – perhaps a day – before they hauled Vera into our prison. They pushed her through the cell door and she stumbled to her knees. She was naked and her wrists were cuffed behind her back; she was not gagged. She looked up and saw us chained to the wall. She had no idea who we were but it took her but a few moments to figure out we were members of the underground. "Oh God," was all she said.
They freed her arms for but a moment before fixing them to a cable they lowered from the ceiling and raising her until her toes were a few inches off the floor. She groaned from the strain on her arms. It was when they attached the spreader bar to her ankles that she began to beg.
They flogged her to death while Christie and I watched from where we were shackled to the wall. They drew it out, pausing for up to five minutes between lashes with a long single tailed whip. The whipping took hours. Whenever she fainted they revived her with a bucket of icy salt water.
The next day we were taken out of our cell to a room where Ilene lay stretched out on a rack. Our wrists were bound to chains that hung from hoists at the foot of the rack. Side by side and we were winched up until we stood, our arms touching, on the balls of our feet. We had been given a front row position to observe Ilene's suffering.
They kept her alive for eight hours. I know because they counted the passing time for us. They stretched her body until it was so taut she could no longer scream. They would keep her there for a while, and then release the machine a degree or two to let her recover a bit. While she lay there, still drawn tight as a drum head, moaning and pleading for mercy, they pressed red hot needles into her nipples and the soles of her feet, dripped acid onto her belly and breasts, and used a wire brush to savage her pussy. Then once again she would be drawn taut and her screaming would give way to tortured gasps for air.
At the end, after we had been brought back to our cell and once again chained to the wall, Christie was told, "You're next. And it will make what you have seen today look like child's play."
I was so totally broken and overcome from the horrors I had seen, that Christie's screams and pleas for mercy hardly penetrated my dazed senses. It took her three days to die from the meticulous flaying of the skin from her body.
They spread-eagled her in chains between the floor and ceiling, stretching her so taut she couldn't move a muscle. It was of course torture in itself but in truth merely preparation for what was to follow. The first day they did her back, buttocks and the back of her thighs, making long razor thin cuts little more than a centimeter apart and then stripping off the thin line of flesh between. After each incision salt crystals were rubbed into the open wound. The second day it was her calves, the soles of her feet and her sides from the top of her armpits to the bottom of her hips. The third day they did her breasts, belly and the inside of her thighs. She shuddered and died just as they started on the lips of her pussy.
They released me. They gave me some other poor soul's clothes that were two sizes too big for me and turned me out to the streets. I had no place to go, no money, nothing to eat. I sleep in the parks and in doorways. I beg. I have learned not to tell my story, that I was tortured by the regime; people tend to scurry away. By now everyone knows it anyway. I will survive a bit longer, but the weather is getting cooler and I will probably die of exposure in the next month or so. In the meantime I am doing the regime's work as an example of one of the lucky ones who had run afoul of their interests and survived.