With a brutal shove it opened her anus and dove within on jerking jolts, sheathing its caustic tip in her tracts. As she hung there, the hard shaft holding her open, her penetrated rear clutching and seeking to expel the intruder, she begged for mercy, knowing that the activation of the prod would now cause her infinitely more havoc.
“Then tell us the name.” was the only response.
Lydia paused to try and concoct a plausible one but then the prod leapt into merciless life. Wailing, she sought to haul herself free of the object, but only succeeded in riding upon the shaft and distributing its fulgent touch freely about her tracts, her very soul aflame from such internal wrath. Her neck stretched forward, her maw wide as she illustrated her anguish with a keening screech, her hands flung open into tensed claws.
With a twist and a yank the rod came free, making her burning sphincter throb with added anger at such inconsiderate attention.
Her phased mind was wondering what more they could do to her when she heard the soft mutter of a zipper lowering, and she knew then that they were going to do anything they could to force her into talking.
The torturer’s hands began to caress her aching rear as the tip of his tumescent member rubbed against her abdomen, graphically indicating his desires.
“Tell us,” offered the voice, presenting her a final opportunity to confess before she was penetrated.
“Please, I don’t know anything, I’m telling the truth. Don’t do this, I’m begging you,” she sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks as she addressed the halo of light before her, the glittering pearls of moisture falling from her slack chin.
With a cry of revulsion and horror she felt her sex being pierced. The man slid himself all the way in and began to ride back and forth, his hands reaching forward to massage her hanging breasts, making her scream afresh in torment.
She spewed forth names, places, concocting anything to stop the assault, but the voice remained silent, ignoring her words, sensing the deception within them but not her innocence.
The human beast quickened in pace, sensing climax, and she too increased the rate of her excuses and lies, desperate to stall the culmination she dreaded.
With a final series of quivering thrusts she felt him ejaculate within her, his hands gripping her breasts and squeezing them in rapture as she let out a keening groan of disgust and sorrow.
Withdrawing, the feel of him sliding from her womb made her shudder in loathing, and as he wiped his length across her buttocks to clean it, she hung limp, torn by despair.
“Must we continue this, or will you confess?”
“Fuck you! Fuck you all,” she sobbed, her hatred brooking no tolerance of their control over her.
“This is useless, she will not give in,” said her abuser with a satisfied sigh.
“Then we will hold her until she does. Either she is truly innocent, in which case she cannot be allowed to divulge what has transpired here, or she is a spy. Either way she should be held until we know. But first, dispose of this fake.”
The flying passport danced upon the light before landing under her hovering gaze. Her oppressor leaned down, took up the small dark red booklet and held it before her eyes. Opening it, he flicked through the pages to the last and ensured she saw that it was the genuine item before applying his lighter to it.
“NO, STOP!” she yelled, writhing afresh as she watched her only means of identity and escape blacken under an ascending sheet of flames. Dropping the precious document he laughed as her face was consumed with anguish upon witnessing its utter destruction, the warmth of the small bonfire soaking into her taut limbs.
“Interrogation of subject alias Lydia Brooks suspended at 23:35, transferring to prison facilities pending further investigation,” reported the man to the audio equipment.
Deprived of all vitality she could offer no resistance when she was set free and dragged by her bound wrists out of the room. Her captor drew her forth into a dim corridor, her inability to move leaving her legs to sustain abrasive burns and grazes from passage across the rough stone floor.
Hauled out into the depths of the night she peered into the blackness, trying to distinguish her surroundings as her eyes strove to accustom to the midnight veil. Confused and unable to focus, she was forced onto metal, a door slammed shut, and an engine rumbled into life. Lowering to the ground in anticipation she slipped back as the vehicle lurched forward.
When her sight started to return, she found herself upon the open back of a military truck, the usual canopy of thick canvas replaced by the meshed walls of a fenced cage.
The chill in the air soaked swiftly into her hide, penetrating to the bone until she could barely feel her own body. Staring up at the skies while she shivered, she watched the overhanging branches and vines speed past, the truck cruising out into the jungle upon a rough and uneven road.
She was to be imprisoned, that was all she knew, and from the tales told of such places she knew it would a hellhole. The only glint of salvation she had was her fellow passengers. If they reported her arrest and if her disappearance was looked into, the process offering freedom might begin. It was a vain hope considering the volatile nature of this new country but it was the only hope she had, so she clung to it with all her devotion.
The truck continued to dash recklessly along its route for hours, time dragging spitefully as she sat quivering from the cold. When she first spied a glow in the distance she assumed it to be a city or large town, so only when the golden rays began to cast back the night and give way to an unblemished sheet of blue did she notice just how long she had been traveling. It also gave her cause to wonder just how far she was being taken.
A jungle locale as deep as this smashed any chance of escape, for there was no way anyone could travel such a vast distance on foot, leaving her doomed to her mysterious jail.
The morning blossomed in full and she wished only for her journey to end so she might gain some clothes, her nakedness troubling her greatly until the full muggy wrath of the day started to descend, making the thought of clothing an alien one in such humid and sweltering temperatures.
Chapter Three
The lush vegetation suddenly gave way to an open field of wild grasses, the moat of green surrounding a squat and ugly building. The road wound a ragged path up to a set of large wooden gates, where a small, crude shack leant against the wall beside the portal, a machine gun nest skulking on the opposite side. The large gates were set within a high perimeter wall, the top adorned with curled rolls of barbed wire. Beyond this towering defense arose watchtowers, the steel skeleton of their frame bearing a small wooden hut, the roof a woven mesh of straws to grant the armed guards within shade from the merciless sun.
At the heart of the compound rose a large dwelling, its structure akin to some kind of manor house that had been converted to suit a far more sinister purpose. The many windows were barred or bricked shut, and the outer surfaces were cracked and peeling from exposure to the elements and a lack of any attention.
The truck rocked up the road towards the gates, slowing and then halting as two soldiers emerged from the shack to check the driver’s papers. Their conversation occurred in their mother tongue, denying her access to the topics or any clue as to her fate.
Announcing the verified identity over a hand radio, the gates opened inward, drawn back by armed troops. With a salute the driver kicked the truck into gear and rumbled forward with his passenger.
The compound was large and open, a sun scorched field of dust. A wooden barracks sprawled beside the gate, the guards lounging idly beside the only route in and out of the camp. Further in could be seen rows of small steel boxes, their riveted bands, sturdy locks and frugal breathing holes testifying to their use as locales of punishment. These were not the only devices ready to correct the prison populous, for a range of other constructs had been prepared, some of them archaic and terrible. Stocks of several descriptions lay ready to hold and confine the wayward, one of them trapping a naked femal
e by her wrists and neck, stooping her over as she sweated in the hot sun, her murmuring cries soft and despairing. Others were far less fortunate, for three women hung by their ankles, inverted upon individual gallows, weights affixed to their manacled wrists to stretch them out. They were all naked save for the leather collars about their necks and the intricate plexus of angry weals that laced their backs. Clearly the guards of this domain tolerated no disobedience and meted out stringent chastisement to enforce their will.
The truck stopped by the solid metal doors that entered the prison, the windows of ground and first floor bricked shut to deny her any clue as to the conditions within.
The heavy doors slowly opened, their hinges groaning at this unaccustomed use and from within the shadows two prison guards emerged. The women were tall and shapely, their peaked gray caps granting them a fierce countenance. Their uniform was stark and strict comprised of a buttoned close fitting gray tunic with a white pristine shirt and black tie affixed meticulously beneath. The tunic ceased just beneath a heavy utility belt that bore several pouches, a set of steel handcuffs, a side handled baton, a radio and a holstered pistol. Black Lycra leggings flowed down into polished jackboots and leather gloves covered their clenched fists, completing their stark attire.
One of them removed a bunch of keys from a pouch and unlocked the cage door. Snagging their target’s ankle they dragged Lydia forth and held her between them, clasping her arms tightly and calling the driver to remov the handcuffs. Once one set of shackles fled, her arms were dragged behind her back and another set applied. Then a second pair were taken up, the intentions of her guards to confine Lydia still not fully developed.
A silver cuff was snapped just above her elbow and the opposite joint was dragged painfully back, contorting her shoulders and making her chest stick boldly out as she winced and felt the other metal ring close about the flesh to link her elbows. Any flexing of her arm now made the muscles strain against the strangling band, dissuading any struggles as well as efficiently curtailing them.
With their charge under full and satisfactory control the guards began marching her into the building.
The interior was sweltering hot, the heat causing an instant sweat to rise upon her naked flesh and her exhausted dizziness to acquire fresh ferocity. Acclimatized and untroubled by the heat, the guards drew her down the shadowy corridors, bringing her to a reception desk wherein sat a dour faced, plump guard, her uniform stretched to accommodate her voluptuous physique and ample cleavage.
The woman regarded Lydia with a scowl and drew a form and pen from beside her before asking the questions upon it.
“Nombre?”
“Pardon? I…I don’t speak t—” she began.
“Name,” continued the woman with a sneer of irritation.
“Ly—”
“Don’t address me standing up, get on your knees,” barked the woman, jabbing a finger at the ground.
“What?” asked Lydia with a frown, wondering if she had heard this correctly and hoping that it was some manner of joke.
“On your knees, Porqueria,” confirmed the receptionist, and then waved to the guard with an impatient huff of irritation and disapproval.
“Guarda, mostrala.”
The woman to her right suddenly kicked out, catching Lydia in the backs of her legs, the sudden pain and the folding of her limbs causing her to drop to the floor and cower before the desk. The large woman leaned over and stared down at her.
“Now, let’s start again. Name.”
“Lydia Brooks,” she whimpered, stunned by this level of maltreatment.
“What’s her status here?” the receptionist asked of the guards, speaking in English to make sure Lydia knew her fate.
“The Secret Police have sent her,” answered the one responsible for subduing her.
“So what shall I put as length of sentence?” quizzed the administrative guard.
“Indefinite, I guess,” chuckled the woman, bringing a snort of amusement from the other women.
Shocked by what she had heard, Lydia started to rise so she might plead her case. The woman who had attacked her stepped forward and slapped down into her face, slamming Lydia to the stone floor before putting a boot to her ribs and holding her there.
“Don’t move unless we tell you to. This is nothing to do with you. Understand?” spat the woman, raising her palm threateningly to make her captive cower in anticipation of another offensive.
Lydia nodded softly, trying to stroke her throbbing cheek onto her shoulder, her arms still locked under her felled body. She tried to shield herself from any more abuse but bound as she was, and sprawled on the floor, there was no way she could defend herself from the harridans.
The woman spitefully ground the heel into Lydia’s chest, digging into the skin and making her scowl and squirm under the pinning foot.
“I asked if you understand, Ramera?”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” she winced.
The pressure increased, threatening to snap her ribs as her mouth dropped open and she tightly closed her eyes, gasping for breath under the sudden extra pain.
“I understand, Mistress. Now say it properly before I crush you underfoot like the maggot you are.”
“Yes Mistress, I understand, Mistress,” she rambled hastily.
“Good. Now shut up and lay there while we process you.”
With her identity given, the guards diverted their attention to filling in the papers, guessing her height and weight and detailing her appearance and the circumstances of her arrival and incarceration.
Once the questions were answered, the receptionist rummaged in a sack and handed over a stout leather collar, like those she had seen upon the other prisoners without, revealing that it was no mark of punishment but a standard piece of attire. Fingers locked into her hair and yanked back, exposing her neck so that the other guard might thread the implement around her throat, tighten its twin buckles to a snug fit and then padlock them in place.
“Que es su humero?” inquired the viper at the desk.
The guard behind her twisted further back, making her roots shriek as she grimaced and strove to endure the derogation. The guard before her cupped her chin and lifted up, examining the small plate riveted to the side of the collar.
“Seis-uno-nueve-dos,” she announced, the receptionist entering her serial code and then slotting the papers into a folder before handing it to the guards.
“I think that is everything. Take her up to the Warden for the standard welcoming speech. She is expecting you,” came the accented English reply, the woman at the desk leaning back and granting her a wicked knowing smirk.
The women yanked Lydia to her feet and drew her onwards and onto a set of ascending stairs. After quickly clearing three floors they stopped at a metal gate where another guard on the opposite side sat behind a small desk, reading a book.
“New prisoner to see the Warden,” one of them declared rigidly.
Without further need of explanation the guard slipped in a mark to keep her page and wandered around to open the gate. After granting ingress she closed the reinforced portal behind them and returned to her position.
The corridor was cool and fragrant, the stink of sweat and moisture having been eradicated by strategically placed overhead fans that turned slowly, carrying a soothing breeze through the passages.
Turning a corner she found herself staring at a dead end, a polished mahogany door at the end bearing a gold plaque, the words Warden Folter embossed upon it in black. A bench lay to one side, flowing along the wall opposite to an alcove in which lay a small desk.
A pale skinned woman sat at the table, her blonde hair tied back with a black ribbon, her slender physique dressed alarmingly in a latex dress. The plunging neckline revealed her cleavage in full, her breasts contained within sculpted cups. Despite this bizarre choice of attire she seemed a normal secretary, sitting quietly and browsing through several documents. A typewriter and potted plant adorned her desk, wit
h a variety of files and cluttered office paraphernalia.
Glancing up at the new arrivals she returned to her work, completely at peace with Lydia’s nakedness and the marks of ill treatment.
“New prisoner, the Warden’s expecting us,” announced the guard.
“She will be with you in a moment. In the meantime, take a seat,” replied the woman with a slight American accent, not even bothering to look up from her work.
The guards stepped back and lowered, but as Lydia attempted to join them she was shoved upright and a sweeping kick stripped her legs out from under her. The harsh fall drove the wind from her lungs and left her reeling from the sudden harsh impact.
“She didn’t mean you!” spat one of the guards.
As she languished upon the floor, trying to recover her breath, the guards dropped their feet upon her spine and the arms sealed upon it, using her as a footrest. Incensed, she tried to slough them off, an action deemed rebellious and worthy of correcting so the guards rose and dropped their heels, jabbing into her back and limbs, making her shout and squirm under the volley of descending kicks.
“Stay still!” they demanded, and returned to a resting position once she had been hammered into compliance beneath their jackboots.
Battered and bruised, aching and twisted in the humiliating pose they had placed her in, Lydia felt tears growing in her eyes, her despair rising up and flooding her mind with the injustice of her lot.
A buzz issued from the secretary’s table. Completely unmoved by the brutality unfolding before her, the woman smiled sweetly and informed the guards that the Warden was ready to see them.
Hoisting Lydia up by her hammered arms, they opened the door and entered the plush office within, her feet fumbling beneath her body.
The room was large and the polished floorboards were carpeted by a number of decorative rugs. A large dark wood desk lay directly before them, a window behind it letting sunlight stream in, the smaller chairs placed before the table humbling all those who sat down, lowering them before the high backed chair that rose like a brooding throne on the other side. The pads, lamps, pens and trinkets upon the desk were arrayed with detailed precision, as were the book-adorned shelves and the framed Guenerrian flag that spread itself proudly across a large section of wall. The grim uniform of the Secret Police hung upon a skeletal mannequin, the medals and braids polished and scrupulously clean, the awards revealing the owner to be an accomplished operative.
Condemned to Slavery Page 5