House of Gord BD-031 - Condemned to Slavery
Condemned to slavery
By Bruce Mclachlan


During a trip to a vacation paradise, Lydia’s flight stops briefly in the newly
formed, war torn country of Guenerros. The decision to take a few pictures as
mementos has her arrested as a possible spy. Stripped, searched, and brutally
interrogated, she is sent to a female only prison where male and female leather-
clad sadistic guards and naked inmates help themselves to the nubile tourist.
Here the Warden keeps a helplessly rubber-entombed puppy girl and takes
delight in punishing prisoners, while in the darkest depths of the place a cruel
Mistress dwells in her fiendish dungeon, secretly preparing and viciously
training those sent to her for dispatch to lifelong slavery.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.
Prologue
The entire room was a merry cacophony of tinkling bell chimes, the levity in
the peels of sound negated by the torments that were responsible for creating
them.
Six pairs of women were lined by one wall, their identities completely hidden
by the meticulously engineered garments of rubber and steel. One of each pair
hung in the air, her hopelessly contorted form shivering and wriggling against
the suit that held her there.
A complete sheath of skintight latex folded each of the six dangling females
into a drastic hoop, their legs bent back to arch their fronts towards the ceiling
and connect the sides of their feet to the sides of their hooded head via a plexus
of stout straps. Arms were folded high up their backs and locked within a
single triangular sleeve, which anchored itself to the comprehensive cat suit by
several tight buckles. The featureless bulb that was all that remained of their
hands rippled with the fight of fingers as they fought the stringent
compression.
A metal hoop was set at the apex of the six arched chests, the dense mooring
ring nestling just below their breasts. A stout chain led from this ring up to the
ceiling, keeping them elevated at waist height, the six forms shimmering as
muscles flicked and struggled to escape the impossible confines in which they
were all so hopelessly embroiled.
Their mouths were visibly stretched into silent imploring wails, a vast penis
gag having been plunged into their maws to stifle all protest. The plate
responsible for the device connected into the same weave of straps that kept
their feet pressed to their heads.
From the supporting hoist spat three lengths of slender chain, the silver links
snapping to nipples and exposed clitorises with clover clamps, the taut lengths
causing any movement to increase the havoc of the implements upon these
most vulnerable zones.
From the ceiling drooled a line of insulated cable that swung beneath their
vaulted backs and connected to the long dildo sheathed in their rears. The
flashes of voltage havoc that rocked their sphincters and tracts was the prime
motivation for the slave girls to dance, and it was this dance that brought eerie
music to their air.
Every jolt and spasm they unleashed, no matter how subtle, caused the
numerous bells of varying size to rattle and release their chaotic tune. Fastened
to the septum ring that escaped with their nostrils to grant air, they were also
added to toes, crown, knees, hips, arms and flanks, turning each woman into a
veritable one-man band devoted solely to this instrument.
The compelling orders of the electrified rod were given new strength because
of each woman’s partner. The other women stood between the straining legs of
the elevated female, the two of them sealed together by several elasticized
straps that ran from hip to hip, the give of the rubber strips allowing them to
work but not escape.
These women were condemned within a crushing second skin that held their
legs together into a single featureless line, perching them on a single stiletto
shoe that held both feet at once and afflicted their balance most severely. None
of them could actually fall because a chain ran from the top of their hooded
heads to the ceiling, the slightly slack chain hurling down a secondary pair of
slender links to snatch their nipples with more of the grievous clamps. Should
they even slightly lose their balance, the nipple clamps would encourage them
to recover it, and if that failed, the hood chain would finally stop them
suffering a complete tumble.
Their arms were again twisted up behind them, sealed within the same awful
sleeve that so afflicted their partners. This was not the only similarity between
the two, for a cable descended behind them and plunged an identical dildo into
their rear, the shocks galvanizing them into motion to ring the bells affixed all
over their latex-smothered bodies. They were gagged with the same
trespassing artificial length, and their pierced nose jingled with chimes as they
swayed and fought their awful and strict containment.
The second female was erect in more ways than one, for a swollen ribbed
phallus of opaque jelly had been attached at her crotch, the monster manhood
plundering the womb of the suspended female. The beast was of such a length
that should the woman fall to the limits of the chain, she would still not be able
to pull it out, a demand that was additionally enforced by the hip straps.
Although it could not be seen, a similar length burrowed deep into the
pussypussy of the woman responsible for wielding it, every shove and pull
serving to manipulate her own shaft. The incentive to ravish her partner was
undeniable, for against the oppressive bondage it was their only genuine means
of pleasure, the stealing of hampered and simulated coitus helping ease their
plight and again assist in ringing their various bells.
The ruler of the chamber stood and watched the show with an iniquitous
gleam in his eyes. To see such organized displays of feminine captivity never
grew old to his desires, He relished in implementing the new concept stoking
his libido to raging levels.
It was a moment of pride and achievement to see twelve of his slaves lost
within latex suits, turned from statuesque beauties into whimpering objects that
one simply watched to rouse the behemoth of perverse lust. It made his skin
quiver with glee to know that each could do nothing to prevent her fate, that
she was controlled, her own will and wishes removed, her body commanded
completely by the contrivances he had chosen to install.
Dressed solely in his white military trousers and tall leather boots, his robust
physique bore his stern albino cap and leather gloves, his gaunt features
panning slowly from woman to woman in a never-ending assessment of their
harrowing ordeal. His dog tags rattled sedately upon his hairless burly chest, a
trophy from his days with the US Special Ops unit that had been sent to assist
his rule. The world virulently condemned his overthrow and revolt from the
South American mother country, but secretly many powers supported him.
Who cared what the media thought anyway? Bloated citizens would mewl
from their couch and murmur at the television before switching back to the
latest re-run of their favorite show and instantly forget their moral indignation.
The real powers behind the governments were on his side and with some of
them even visiting his little decadent paradise to freely indulge their most
hidden vices, there was little chance of him being deserted.
The slaves before him would be freed eventually and would be all the more
appreciative of their more mundane duties, and certainly none would dare
repeat the crime that had sentenced them to correction here.
Most of the time he had his various aids and assistants handle such
chastisement of recalcitrant serviles. His daughter especially enjoyed handling
this task. The lithe beauty found intense enjoyment in taking the post of self-
appointed executioner of all chastisement.
Her skill at making her own gender suffer was legendary amongst the slaves
and few dared risk irking their owners lest they again taste that which had left
other slaves pale and shivering with shock for weeks thereafter. Sometimes he
had video taped her tutoring of a slave, and this long running series was highly
popular as erotic entertainment for his guests.
As though summoned by his thoughts the door behind him slid aside with a
hydraulic purr and the girl entered. His daughter was eighteen now, forming
wonderfully into the sumptuous curves of true womanhood. Even though she
was adopted, sired accidentally by a slave and one of his guests (he had no clue
as to which one), there was a strange uncanny resemblance between them. He
suspected she had covert fears that she was not a true heir, but she kept them
suppressed and clearly refused to acknowledge her illegitimacy.
Her long sable hair fell about her slender features, her countenance
accentuated by subtle applications of dark makeup to give her a more saturnine
demeanor. Her smooth dusky skin lay beneath a tight-fitting mesh top, the
sleeves vanishing beneath tall opera gloves. Under the fishnet, a satin bra
cupped her budding breasts into a delicious cleavage, casting slender straps up
over her shoulders.
A studded choker encircled her slim throat and she sauntered into the room
within gloss leggings that hugged her long limbs, the merge between knee-
high, patent boots and the vinyl almost undetectable. Her stilettos clicked
against the tiled floor and she tugged at the leash she held, causing a naked girl
to stumble after her, the wide-eyed and choke-chained slave distracted by the
mortifying vision she assumed she would be shortly joining.
The slave was young and delicate, her short blonde hair hanging as a bob
about her aghast features. With tears in her blue eyes the completely naked
woman dropped to her knees before him.
“Oh please, Master, please, I’m sorry, I’ll never do it again, I swear. I’ll be
good from now on!” she whimpered, clutching his boots, the feel of her
shaking fingers reaching through the polished leather.
“Bad pet!” snarled his daughter and yanked the chain, causing her sobs to
croak to an abrupt end as the chain squeezed her neck and jerked her away.
Dropping onto her rump, she curled up, fearful of whether she could withstand
the physical trials ahead of her.
Stepping forward he lowered into a crouch and lifted her chin with his gloved
hand.
“You were aware that you are expected to obey all my guests, weren’t you
slave?” he asked softly, almost with consideration. This girl was a little too
afraid. He took little joy from genuine suffering. If the girl would enjoy it, even
in retrospect it made the events more of a treat for him.
“Yes, Master,” she uttered dejectedly.
“So either you deliberately flaunted the rules, or my daughter failed to
enlighten you sufficiently about the rules and the consequences of
transgression. Is that it, slave?” he continued.
The humbled woman span her head around and glanced to the girl as the
young dominatrix stiffened and glowered viciously back, making it clear that if
the slave tried to shift blame to her then she would be more than a little angry.
“No, Master, she taught me well, I…I just couldn’t do it,” she whispered
softly, already regretting having refused to submit and serve.
“So what is her crime?” he petitioned of his offspring.
“Volodia demanded a performance of her and another slave. She refused. He
was quite furious,” she reported with grave tones.
“Upsetting one of my most powerful Russian backers was very bad of you,
slave. You have no clue as to what powers that man represents. Even I only
know snippets of his true value in world politics,” he revealed.
“I…I’m sorry, Master,” she said, her eyes wide and glistening with sorrow.
“You didn’t want to perform with another woman? Why?” he asked with
gentle tones to coax her into truth.
“I’ve never…I mean I—”
“Ssssh, that’s okay, slave,” he interjected, putting a finger to her lips to stop
her confession. “There is no morality here. There are no expectations. If you
had tried, that would have been enough. You need to forget about all these
foolish notions of what is right and wrong, this is a place of sensual fulfillment.
If you would just surrender yourself to the role, you would see just how
wonderful such an existence can be,” he added, and then arose, snagging her
chain to bring her up with him.
“These women are suffering for their lack of obedience. But they know that
they are cared for, that someone wishes to keep them, own them, ensure their
education. They have no responsibilities, no burdens, no obligations. They are
freer as slaves than they ever were as free women. Do you understand, slave?”
he said, turning back to her after indicating the menagerie of bondage subjects.
“I…I think so, Master,” she replied with a frown, unsure if she did or not, but
the seed had been sown in her psyche, whether or not it germinated was up to
her. If she fed her submission, she would find her lot here a delight. But if she
let it wither and perish, her life would remain the same and would be resented.
He tried to encourage his slaves to exhibit such willing servility, but many
refused steadfastly, obeying from fear rather than love. It mattered not because
he needed resistant slaves as much as obedient ones.
“Then you agree that this session of discipline is necessary? So that next time
you feel the bite of regret, guilt or conscience, you will recall this duress and
allow yourself to truly submit?” he questioned, running a hand down her back,
the soft hairs being brushed to have her shiver and stiffen.
“Yes, Master,” she muttered, the concept alien to her but linking to hidden
feelings and wants, an unexplored and ignored side to her.
“Shall we see if she has assimilated this lesson before we give her another,
daughter?” he asked.
The girl smiled broadly and nodded before giving a slight downward yank to
the chain, the wrench to the slave’s neck brought her back to her knees before
the slender dominatrix.
“Lick my boots, then my leggings, then you’ll service me, slave,” she stated
with unwavering authority.
The girl swallowed and looked up across the vinyl-clad form before glancing
to her owner and then down to the girl’s burnished boots.
“Begin!” snapped the dominatrix and gave another slight tug to squeeze at her
throat and inspire her to work as demanded.
With hands across his chest he watched the show with a licentious appetite.
The naked rear of the girl wiggling in the air was charming his libido like a
snake charmer would a serpent, the graceful motions and pert smoothness
causing his mind to fill with the projected thought of how it would feel to ease
himself into that proffered orifice.
Running her tongue upon the vinyl boots, she alternated from one to the
other, slowly working her way upwards. It was a gradual build up to the deed
she had previously resented, allowing her to mull over his words and hope that
by a sterling performance she might actually earn herself a pardon.
The image of the bare slave fawning diligently on the gloss skin of his
adopted daughter made him swell against his trousers, the urge to indulge her
body being held in check lest it ruin the lesson.
The girl gradually continued her ascent, the recipient glaring down at her,
relishing in the feel of a humbled tongue working its way upon the PVC,
adoring her, fearful of the consequences should she disappoint. Every
millimeter of altitude she gained brought her closer to what she feared, the
paranoia and diligent dissuasion concerning lesbianism was fighting against a
distinct submissive streak, the undeveloped side to her psyche bolstered by the
fear of extreme bondage.
“Good slave, now don’t forget my butt,” commented the girl, turning around
to offer the shiny hillocks of her rear, the material stretched tight across it,
every wrinkle vanishing as she offered her buttocks to the kneeling slave.
The girl worked her tongue in swirls around the mounds and once she reached
the summits, she was sufficiently aroused to delve into the cleft and lick for
longer than was necessary, finally finding a sense of enjoyment in her lot.
“Now for the finale,” she muttered, unfastening the leggings and lowering
them to expose her naked, shaven sex. Threading the leash between her thighs,
she reeled the slave in, the cold chain sliding against her crotch before pulling
the worried face into her pussy. A moan of stress was muffled my intimate
flesh and a vinyl-gloved hand closed into the slave’s hair, adding an extra reign
to keep her under control.
“That’s it, slave. Now get that tongue all the way in me, I want to feel how
long it is,” ordered the girl, her eyes drifting shut as she felt warm breath
snorting against her belly.
It took a moment for the girl to obey, the act of obeisance being physically
revealed as the dominatrix tightened her frame, her head draping back on a
loose neck, her mouth yawning wide with a long, libidinous gasp.
“Oh yessss, that’s it slave, now ride it into me, fuck me with your tongue,”
she ordered, bestowing small pulls to the leash to encourage the girl and to
stimulate her own loins with the passage of the chill links of steel against her.
The slave girl looked up and saw the bliss she was granting the dominatrix,
and it melted her resentment a little more, for she could see how much pleasure
she was bestowing, how well another was responding to her efforts. The sense
of selfless generosity gathered in her heart and she started to allow herself to
find hesitant joy in her cunnilingus.
“Now, use the flat of your tongue. Pour it against my clit, slave,” murmured
the dominant, running her fingers though the girl’s hair, soothing her as she
complied.
“That’s it. Oh God yes. Keep going, don’t you dare stop, slave!” she warned
with a wide smile of rapture.
Devouring the sex of the girl, the slave shuddered with glee, the image of the
shivering dominatrix filling her vision, a sense of covert power coursing
through her, for was she not in charge of the woman’s bliss? The approach of
orgasm hung solely on the efforts of her tongue, giving her a hint of authority.
“Suck at me a little, slave,” petitioned the girl, rotating her fist to work the
face around her crotch. “Mmm, that’s good, keep going, oh I’m soooo close.
Don’t stop, slave,” she murmured, her words issuing on speeding pants.
The slave continued her homage, her eyes fixating on the heaving chest of the
girl as she rasped and sobbed with rhapsody, her body quaking the closer she
drew to climax.
“Oh yes! Here we go! Oh! Slave! Go! Work that tongue!” She cried, and after
a few more laps she flashed to straining attention, her body quivering and
jolting in fits as she yelled onto the air, riven with ecstasy.
The nubile dominatrix feasted on the pleasure until she could take no more
and had to push the slave back, her legs trembling beneath her. His daughter
enveloped herself in her own arms, hugging herself as she melted into the
embrace and murmured with fulfillment.
“Not bad. Not bad at all, slave,” she acknowledged softly.
“You see, slave,” he advised. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You
pleasured one of your owners. You should be proud. You did well.”
The girl looked to him and gave a flicker of a smile.
“So are you ready to undergo your treatment?” he asked, melting the warmth
in the girl’s smile. Her head now hung low and she sighed with resignation.
“Yes, Master.”
Having gained at least a token acceptance of her need for discipline, he turned
and drew a large box from the corner. Flipping the latches, he opened the chest
and started to remove the interior as his daughter refastened her clothing.
A latex top was drawn onto the girl, her arms sliding down the sleeves into
firm mittens. The molded breast cups had straps at the base that when
tightened made the assets swell and bulge into a spheres of discomfort. Metal
sockets at each tip covered her entire aureole and bore fittings for as yet
unknown additions.
The buckles at the hem were fastened, the waist bands drawing in at her hips
as others were attached to her back, bending her arms up her spine and locking
the mittens to the dense rubber collar that forced her head up and to attention.
She whimpered and grimaced as she was slowly enveloped, whole portions of
her body been stripped from her as the two tyrants locked her in the required
configuration. Already she could see that she was being prepared for
something other than the fate of the other women, and the mystery both excited
and frightened her.
Her expression was lost as a latex hood was drawn down over her head. The
barren dome was comprised of two dense layers. One clutched her face while
the other remained loose upon it. A wide pipe fed into her mouth to grant her
breath, and the neck attached to her collar to prevent any hope of getting rid of
the sheath.
Lost in oblivion, she became more docile with so many of her senses
removed. Stockings were pulled onto her legs, the buckled tops tightening
them onto her skin, perching her atop the incorporated ballet boots, their
absurd heel making her shiver with pangs of cramp as her foot was stretched
out.
Proceeding to a panel in the floor he lifted it out to expose a subdued section
beneath, the shallow indentation place right before the door. The new area of
ground was fitted with row upon row of illuminated plastic discs all placed
close together. Each was of a size where her toe and heel could fit within one,
and flicking a switch he brought motion to both floor and ceiling, setting
covert mechanisms in motion as the discs glowed more brightly.
From the middle of the panel arose a sizable phallus. The bulbous slick tip
started to rise up, the ridged length giving way to two coils of slender cord that
hung loose from the long metal pole supporting it. Simultaneously, from a
covert hole in the ceiling came a metal-segmented pipe with two wires hanging
along it, all three ending in a locking seal.
As the shaft was still rising, his daughter drew the girl to her feet and
supported her fledgling steps as she was brought to the pole, her stance in the
boots being highly unstable. Steered into position, the rounded head grazed her
loins and she bucked with concern. Before she could escape, the phallus
speared her womb, shuffling into her, making her jolt and writhe, fighting the
latex bondage as she tried to get free, the width of the slimy dildo hauling her
open far wider than she could accept in comfort.
The cords were quickly tied about her thighs, stopping her from achieving the
unlikely ability of leaping free of the trespassing scepter that now plundered
her very depths. The rod only stopped once it was pressed as deep as it could
go without causing damage.
Tottering on her heels, shaking with distress, a series of whinnying cries
seeped through the helmet as her plight continued to worsen.
The large pipe was locked to a fixture at the crown of her hood and the two
wires were drawn out and mated with the devices on her nipples.
Stepping back, the pair of them admired their handiwork as the mechanism
engaged and began to reveal the truth of her containment.
The hood rustled and started to swell, the pipe pumping it up swiftly so that it
squeezed her head in a tight clinch.
The discs on the floor started to flicker as she trod on them, the panels
sending their programmed response into her form. Each activated either the
voltage nip to her nipples, to her womb, or added to the inflation of her hood.
Some of them decreased the inflation, or switched to a more pleasurable series
of pulses into her speared sex.
It was up to her to discern where and how to place her feet to acquire a relent
in the gathering pressure on her head, or the snap of electrical bites to her
womb and teats.
Every ten minutes they would automatically reset themselves, changing to a
new pattern so that she would have to start again in discovering the new
locations, and by a process of elimination and experimentation she would
endure the more despicable settings of the mechanism to find those that were
less harsh.
Squealing and prancing on the shaft she stepped from disc to disc, desperately
seeking assistance in her plight. Even when she found one, she was so torn by
her panic that she often moved on and had to struggle to reverse and find it
again.
Both of them watched with heated passion as she started to slowly
acclimatize to the position, falling into the demanded rota of constant
searching, lines of wetness running down the shaft as she bounced and slid
upon it.
Sufficiently pleased that she would recall this experience for a very long time,
they turned and departed the room, leaving the thirteen women to their private
tuition.
“I think we need some more slaves,” he commented. “We have several
important personages due this year and I want some exceptional specimens
ready for them. I’m growing tired of the same old faces and this girl was the
first new specimen in a few months. She’s definitely convinced me we need
some new blood to refresh our little harem. Where did she come from, by the
way?”
“Folter’s prison. She was caught smuggling heroin. She claimed she was
framed, was found guilty, and given life. Folter had her sent to her dungeon for
training and then she was sent here,” reported the girl.
“Ah, Folter and her dominatrix are a wonderful team. They’ve given us some
stunning results,” he mused.
“Indeed, father. Any particular recruitment method?” she wondered.
“Abduct some and ship them here via the usual methods, see what we have in
the prisons, and recruit from any local sources. I wish I could afford something
from Volodia’s sources, but that will have to wait for a few more years, despite
the fringe benefits of such ownership,” he considered with disappointment, for
even his vast wealth was currently insufficient to afford such a creature. But
once he had established his new rule, then he could start saving the inordinate
sums required.
“As you wish, father,” replied the girl, and turned into a separate branch,
leaving the ruler to brood and dream, wondering what sort of recruits he would
find in his care and how they would react to their training and the heady dark
delights of his palace.
Chapter One
“This is your captain speaking. Due a minor problem in the cargo
compartment, we will be making an unscheduled stop at the Guenerros airport.
Passengers are advised not to leave the airport grounds as we hope to be
underway again within the hour.”
After focusing her attention on the announcement, Lydia rolled her head aside
to regard the view from the window. The fractured pane of white clouds
opened to offer wispy glances of the land below. It was a sea of uneven lush
green, the surface rising and falling drastically with the great peaks and
valleys, but no matter how savagely the ground bucked it never succeeded in
sloughing off the tropical forests riding upon its back.
With a premature landing imminent, she decided to assess and repair her
appearance, her vanity overcoming the desire to simply lay back in her soft
seat and watch the land drift by beneath her languid gaze.
Hauling the articulated door aside, she slipped into the cramped interior, the
anemic light flickering into life with her entry. Checking herself in the mirror
Lydia straightened her wreath of neck length black hair so that it fell neatly
around her angular features. Flicking her fringe into a tidier row, she
straightened the line it formed across her eyebrows, the plucked slender
threads flicking up towards the end to grant her features the constant wicked
glint that had so often been remarked upon. Her body was slender and shapely,
her devotion to exercise granting her an athletically curvaceous form that many
had found captivating, but which she maintained for her own self esteem as
opposed to a desire to pander to anyone else’s vision of beauty.
Emerging from the toilet, she started to walk back down the aisle, only to
have a stewardess emerge before her, the woman beaming with a permanent
broad grin hat had been firmly in place since she boarded the flight.
“Miss, if you would take your seat and fasten your seatbelt,” she asked
sweetly, indicating the vacant spot with both hands as though she were
conducting a display of safety procedure.
“What’s wrong?” asked Lydia, settling in with a shuffle and accepting the belt
as it was handed to her.
“An animal that was being shipped has gotten loose in the cargo hold and
they want to land to secure it. After all, we wouldn’t want the little fellow
nibbling through any hydraulics now would we, miss?” Said the woman, and
walked off, leaving Lydia considerably less reassured.
Easing back into her seat, she turned her gaze once more back to the lofty
vision. The scene seemed so tranquil and it was hard to envisage the bitter war
that had raged there, though according to the news reports it was now reduced
to little more than a few random skirmishes and isolated fire fights.
The flaring of yet another small war had gained the fleeting interest of the
press who had meticulously studied the machinations within before their
flitting enthusiasm for mayhem found a fresh middle east squabble to
concentrate upon lest they risk boring their viewers by exceeding a whole
fortnight of coverage. In a few weeks people would have forgotten about the
topic and just assume it was all resolved.
The political feud between communist and capitalist had been infecting the
entire region since the last world war, and was responsible for prompting the
delivery of vast arsenals of weapons and the creating of whole armies of
paranoid fanatics via propaganda. The men and women of this scheme were
ready to kill and die for the causes their shadowy superpower paymasters had
indoctrinated them into following. But when the economies of these mighty
backers began to falter and domestic problems took precedence over foreign
support, the idle warriors had to find new sources of animosity to quell their
thirst for battle. In a repeating echo of so many other instances, a civil conflict
broke out, fueled with the refuse of the Cold War. The fighting was fierce and
relentless, as it always was when such sanguinary troops were guiding the
beast of war. With no-one willing to dirty their hands or empty their pockets
with intervention, and because the country had no valuable resources to attract
the greedy eye of the mightier nations, the death toll was left to inflate as the
world watched with insipid interest from its couches, bars, and office desks.
Two weeks ago the country of Guenerros had been born amidst fire and
blood, gouging out its territory from the flesh of a larger and negligent parent.
The foe were driven out and hunted down, the droves of unoccupied soldiers
turned to policing duties, and to bear the cost of this massive military the
citizenry were squeezed for everything they had.
The new regime was exceptionally cruel and paranoid, reporters and aid
workers had been killed or imprisoned on trumped up charges, few of them
ever being released because most met with ‘regrettable accidents’ while in the
care of the police. No one knew the identity of the ruler of the country, or even
if there was one. The generals were passing their orders to their troops as
though it were they who were responsible for issuing them. The borders were
closed and fortified, and all traffic vigorously scoured, while torture and
execution were used to create the cloud of fear that helped keep such tyrants in
power. The entire situation seemed no different to the other examples of such
revolution, but there was something else to the story of Guenerros, a secret that
hovered just out of the limelight. It could be sensed, lurking behind the stories,
the reporters aware that a great secret existed, but it was one they were unable
to locate or unearth.
The plane bathed briefly in the layer of curling clouds and broke through. The
lights calling for the fastening of seat belts pulsed again and the intrigued
chatter of the passengers was accompanied by soft peals of compliant metallic
clicks. Slipping elegantly down towards the soil, the city began to whizz past
as they cleared its perimeter. The houses zipped past underneath and were
suddenly replaced with the wide expanse of the runway. With a soft jolt the jet
brushed its wheels to the tarmac, sending a shudder through the interior as they
slowed and started to maneuver along the wide roads towards the main
building.
The airport was small and dilapidated, the runways encompassed by a tall
mesh fence with barbed wire rolls laid atop it and watch towers rising up along
the entire length. The troops manning them glared with a paranoid intensity at
the streets beyond, their heavy machine guns following their stare.
Disturbing clusters of holes pockmarked the exhaust-tainted walls of the main
building and small nests of sandbags cradled uniformed figures and tripod
mounted machine guns or anti-aircraft batteries. There were few persons in the
main structure, the quantity of troops easily outnumbering both staff and
customers put together.
At a lethargic pace the massive jet wheeled and slotted itself amidst a
selection of antique planes and grimy attendants with cigarettes drooping in
their lips, flaunting the existence of the fuel trucks nearby. The sour faced
lackeys brought forth flights of rust-flecked steps to permit exit, slamming
them carelessly to the side of the plane and wandering off.
The hatches hissed and yawned, granting the passengers opportunity to
stretch their legs as the sealed and carefully regulated environment was
compromised. Instantly a wash of oppressively humid air rolled throughout the
cool interior of the cabin. The tropical heat devoured the comfortable
temperature and kindled a sudden sweat across every passenger. It was an
ardent heat, the kind that could be detected with each inhale of air, which
demanded complete inactivity and plenty of iced drinks in the shade.
Several guides awaited outside to escort the flow of unexpected visitors to the
airport lounge and gift shop where they could be parted from their money for
some worthless indigenous trinkets, the tensed fake smiles of the escorts worn
like customary masks.
Donning her sunglasses, Lydia removed her jacket and braved the glaring eye
of the day, quickly trotting across the open zone and into the welcome shade of
the proffered hall. Parking herself directly beneath one of the overhead fans,
she regarded her surroundings, intending to recall every detail so that when she
returned home she could boast I was in Guenerros, a place currently regarded
as a truly pernicious locale.
Customs officials waited at the gates leading on into the country itself, the
will of the pedantic guardians being enforced by the armed soldiers arrayed
randomly about the scene.
A little more accustomed to the heat, she wandered back outside, intending to
gain a few pictures to back up her boasts of braving this nightmarish war-torn
country, the images conjured by sensationalist headlines strong in her mind and
quite contrary when placed against the tensed serenity about her.
Peeking down the lens she filled the rectangular frame with a watchtower and
captured the vision. Inspired to regarding herself as some sort of courageous
photojournalist she continued taking in the military sights, snapping off shots
until her entire roll of film was exhausted.
With such evidence to back her claims she could gain attention and awe from
those about her at work, and perhaps it would allow her to slot herself more
easily into one of the social circles. Her feeble ability at conversation and
interaction had left her fairly isolated throughout most of her life, and
condemned her to craving attention and importance from afar. She didn’t mind
being on her own, in fact she liked that sense of independence, but it would be
nice to have people to talk to. Since changing jobs she had been an outsider at
her new firm, ignored and spurned because of her timid quietness. These
pictures would change all that, they would give her the opening she needed, to
simply tell her story and show the shots, let people get to know her a little.
A hand clamped to her shoulder and spun her about, bringing her face to face
with the enraged countenance of a soldier. Rambling loudly in his native
tongue, Lydia was left startled and confused, unable to discern what he wanted.
When he made a grab for her camera she instinctively shied away. Trying
again, he caught the flailing strap and in response she hauled at the instrument
with a shout, determined not to give it up until she could explain what she had
innocently been doing to someone who could actually understand her. For a
few seconds they wrestled as she tried to keep her possession away from the
soldier, while he sought to remove it from her grasp without employing the full
brute force a male opponent could have expected.
A pair of troops entered the fray, having been drawn by the sight of struggle.
Before Lydia noticed them they each snagged an arm and drew it back, forcing
her into relinquishing her hold. The soldier yanked away the camera with an
irritated snarl, slipped it over his shoulder and drew a pair of handcuffs. Lydia
suddenly found fresh energy to fight her captors, seeing herself being arrested
for no more than failing to speak the local language.
Images of all the horror stories she had ever heard about such imprisonment
in fragile dictatorships flashed across her thoughts, prompting desperate flight
and rash action.
The kick she swept up into her assailant’s groin was more nervous spasm than
intended attack, though its effects were just as debilitating. With a croaking cry
the soldier doubled up, clutching his traumatized genitalia and sinking down
onto his knees. The pinioning troops increased the strength of their hold,
seeking to subdue her resistant mood.
The pained soldier began to arise, a vindictive scowl playing across his curled
lips. With a frantic lunge she attempted to fell him again but he was not to be
fooled by the same mode of attack a second time. With a burst of speed he
blocked her foot and swung the defending arm around in a wide arc, his
backhand slap jerking her face aside and filling her cheek with throbbing heat.
With a swift motion he drew his side arm, cocked the pistol, and put the
muzzle to her temple. Lydia squeaked in mortal shock and closed her eyes,
bracing for execution, petrified by this sudden application of deadly jeopardy.
As the click of the hammer being drawn back filled her ears, she was brought
to an expectant and dread saturated silence, holding her breath, the only sound
being her thumping heart beat as it through itself against her ribs.
The muzzle fell sharply away as a young man jumped onto the soldier’s back,
causing the trooper to stagger aside under the added weight and imbalance.
The firearm dropped from his grasp and rattled upon the ground, removing the
threat.
Lydia recognized the heroic savior as being from the plane, a face she had
seen in the crowd but never really noticed until now, at a time when he was
bravely risking his own life to preserve hers. For a moment the two grappled,
striving to defeat the other’s grip as Lydia sought to take advantage of her
captor’s distraction and slip loose, fighting their clenched holds but unable to
escape.
With an animal growl the soldier thrust his elbow back, catching the man’s
ribs and winding him, causing his frame to slacken and thus be easily sloughed
off against the wall with a stern shove. The passenger struck the grimy surface
with a jarring crack and began to sink down, dazed. Airing a scowl of
contempt, the soldier reached down and lifted the pistol in a loose grasp.
“NO!” shrieked Lydia, seeing what was to follow as she battled to get free.
The pistol spat a brief flare of light and a single cartridge that jumped free and
chimed merrily upon the tarmac. A tiny group of warm spots touched her face
and she froze in aghast horror, paralyzed as her attempted savior jerked back,
the rear of his head opening amidst a plume of red and black that splashed
across the walls in an abstract collage of gore. Twitching, the lifeless cadaver
slumped down and fell onto its side, his face screwing up into a grimace before
going slack. A pool of red began spreading swiftly out from the gaping exit
wound and the neat hole that had been punched in his forehead.
The soldiers holding her addressed the killer in severe and worried tones,
snapping him from his gloating and causing him to step towards Lydia.
Thinking herself to be eliminated as a witness to this crime she screamed in
manic calamity, bucking and whirling against the grapples. Her struggles
escalated with every step the killer took towards her, leaving her unprepared as
he suddenly pressed the pistol into her hand. Lydia gasped in alarm and tried to
drop the smoking murder weapon, but they were holding her firmly and
ensuring they kept the gun in her hand with their crushing fists.
Other troops ran from around the corner, assault rifles trained on them as
those about her wrestled the firearm from her grasp and twisted her arms back
to be caught in handcuffs, capturing her squirming frame as she wailed her
innocence.
“Madre de Dios! Que ha pasado agni, solado?” yelled one.
“Tenemos uma espia, Capitan,” replied the killer.
Without pause they frog marched her towards the side of the building, where
a rough door was opened and a brief passage down a long, dark corridor
brought her to a small room. The interior was decrepit and barren save for a
rough wooden table and an overhead light bulb dangling upon its life
supporting cable.
The soldiers shoved her against the wall as they entered and closed the door
behind them, the impact winding her slightly for she could not cushion herself
with her arms locked behind her back.
Spinning around, she straightened and yelled her protests.
“I demand to see someone in charge!” she roared.
The trio of soldiers merely looked at her blankly as two of them lit cigarettes
from a match. The wielder wove out the flame and tossed it on the floor.
“Do any of you even speak English? Get me an interpreter or something.
Now!”
The venom in her voice suggested an insult, a mistake that caused one of
them to remove the cigarette from his lips and flick it at her. Lydia gave a yelp
as the hot tip struck her bare shoulder and she responded with increased rancor,
her words muddled from sheer indignation at such treatment.
“Bastard! You…you, I’ll—”
Unable to string coherent words together she charged forward, only to be
snared and held with an amused chuckle.
“Oye, chica, quieres divertirte? Las gringes no pueden resistra a los hombres
que llevan uniformes!” he muttered in her ear, his hand suddenly grabbing her
breast and massaging it roughly. Lydia bucked against the hold, yelling for
help as the troops laughed heartily and mocked her impotent antics.
The door opened and a dour faced official walked in, another behind him
bearing her luggage. After a brief exchange in their native tongue her cuffs
were removed and she was cast back towards the corner, whereupon all the
soldiers save the felon with her camera departed.
Rubbing her chafed wrists she viewed the bronzed faces with a morose glare.
The man bearing her suitcases placed them up on the table, side by side and
looked upon the numbered wheels beside each lock.
“What are the combinations?” he asked tonelessly without even looking up,
his voice corrupted by a heavy accent.
“Fuck you. I want to speak to someone in charge. Your butcher there just
killed someone and tried to blame it on me. I want him arrested! I want to be
let out!” she hollered, pulling at the restraining shackles.
“What are the combinations?” he repeated in the exact same tone, his eyes
never leaving the sources of his inquiry as though by looking long enough he
would discern them himself.
With a sigh she looked to the ceiling, her eyes welling with tears, her heart
pounding and her limbs quivering.
“This isn’t happening,” she muttered to herself, repeating the words as a
cracked mantra to soothe her nerves.
The official removed a screwdriver from within his coat and pried open the
locks, snapping them and bringing Lydia’s attention back.
“Hey! That’s mine, you f—” she protested, stepping forward only to have her
words cut off by being rudely shoved back away from the vandal as he
continued to work.
The other locks were broken and the two officials began to go through her
possessions, the guardian soldier watching her closely as she helplessly
observed the desecration of her privacy. Once the examination of the contents
was complete, they moved onto a more thorough repeat.
Small knives began to dissect the cases, the hems and seams of her clothes,
even her toiletries were gouged open and their gels and pastes scanned. Heels
were wrenched off, buttons smashed, even souvenirs were broken to allow
internal scrutiny and she could only watch in pathetic dismay as they destroyed
everything she had brought with her and valued.
Their search ended in failure, so they turned to her.
“Remove your clothes,” they demanded.
Startled by this bluntness, her jaw dropped open before she refused. A search
was an unwelcome enough thing with normal customs, but at least they
provided a screen and female attendants. To be nonchalantly processed by
these vermin was an abhorrent prospect she could not acquiesce to, no matter
what the consequences might be.
As they closed in she screamed for aid and sought to fight them off, but they
were too strong. Not only was she outnumbered, but nobody beyond the
ruinous walls cared for her plight. Held upright to the decaying surfaces, the
soldier and a customs official held her under her armpits, watching
casually.Suddenly Lydia shrieked as the third lifted his knife towards her torso.
A burly hand clamped across her lips, muffling her signal of distress to a
gurgling murmur.
When the edge of the weapon winked in the dull glare of the chamber she
became more passive, realizing that any struggles would give rise to chance of
the blade cutting at more than her clothing. The accidental running of it across
her skin terrified her even more than the stripping.
As she panted in fright and hung against her pinioning captors, the blade was
employed with casual jerking slashes to cut away her skirt. Then her shirt, her
bra, and her underwear, the rip of the parting materials and the coolness of
exposed skin making her close her eyes and weep with self pity and worry.
The laces of her shoes were gouged open and the footwear removed, leaving
the commissioned thief to gather the assorted piles of ribbons and carry the
mangled shreds to the table for investigation, and again, nothing was found.
Lydia’s tears flowed freely as she saw the man remove a rubber glove and slip
it onto his hand. Fighting all the more sternly against her bonds, she could only
watch as he interlocked his fingers to push the tight sheaths fully onto the
digits and then brushed the shredded articles and luggage from the table to
provide space for their owner.
The restraining tyrants dragged her from the wall and slammed her face down
onto the tabletop. Her arms were dragged up and the handcuffs were captured
by a length of slender rope. A knot at the chain links let the twin excess lengths
be tugged up and fastened about the table legs by her head. With her arms
twisted up her spine and held there, the metal edges of the cuffs dug sharply
into her joints. Lydia grimaced and fought them as they continued to forcefully
manipulate her body.
Taking an ankle each they hauled back, splaying her legs and making the
shackles bite at her skin as she gasped and whimpered. The parting of her legs
made her feel horribly vulnerable, the exposing of her naked loins starting her
pulse racing with fright.
Lydia was unable to conjure how this situation had arisen but subconsciously
she was resigned to getting it over with in the hope of being on her way as
quickly as possible.
Frozen like a timid rabbit, she mewled and begged, unable to believe that this
was actually happening to her, the imploring requests gaining no response or
delay.
Latex-coated fingers brushed her rear and she clenched with all her might,
strengthening her muscles to bar entrance. Employing added force, her
molester dug the probing digits into the fortified cleft and wormed his way
onwards, parting the sphincter and then clawing his way inside. Lydia wailed
with revulsion and then from pain as he forced his entire fist onwards, the
ramming extremity stretching her almost beyond tolerance. She writhed
against the table, her hands clasping and clawing at the metal cuffs from the
effects of this outrageous profanity.
Whether it was satisfaction in his work or a methodical nature he lingered for
a long time, fully exploring her until she was sobbing for him to desist.
Withdrawing his intruding hand, she was given a moment’s respite before a
finger reached out and rubbed along her sex, pushing through the tangle of hair
and riding through the valley of her pussy.
“Oh God! Stop! Please!” she howled, and was taken aback with a gasp when
it reached her clitoris and began to swirl, the smooth bulbous dome of the digit
swirling slowly. The expert masturbation made her stiffen against her bonds,
her mouth dropping open with surprise and shock.
“Wh…what the hell are you doing? Stop that you bastard!” she exclaimed,
appalled by what he was doing, an act that was well beyond any reasonable
excuse in a search.
But the officer merely continued, his finger beating whirls of pleasure on her
belly, making her shiver with bursts of tickling delight. She couldn’t believe
she was responding to the touch, that the man was encouraging her breath to
quicken, her body to shudder with small flickers of rhapsody, her mouth to
hang open on a panting snarl.
Lydia screwed her eyes shut and tried to fill her mind with disgusting images,
to remind herself where she was, to stop her arousal in any way she could.
The continuing touch soon started to melt the resistance, her body tensing as
she was brought methodically towards orgasm.
It was bad enough being made to writhe like some wanton slut for the
amusement of these men, but to climax under their gaze was a hideous notion.
With tears welling in her eyes, she strained to kick her libido into submission,
but the continual rubbing of the finger to the roused bud of her sex was
relentlessly defeating her attempts.
“Please! Don’t make me do this!” she implored, teeth clenched as she
continued her fight against her own animal instincts. Her breath was jumping
in and out, her hands wringing into tight knots as the warmth of release started
to manifest more distinctly in her loins, growing stronger every second. It was
soon at a level that would have had her beg him to continue if he stopped, the
presence of such a tempestuous orgasm seducing her, making her heedless of
any consequence or appearance she might give. Why was she so turned on?
She had been abducted and bound by these villains, and yet she was at a level
of bliss no coitus or masturbation had ever acquired for her.
Jerking against her bonds, she let out gurgling croaks of stress, the eruption of
delight making her bounce on the table, fighting to break free of her restraints.
“Stop! I can’t…I can’t take…any…more!” she cried in stalled moans, the
man pushing her deeper into the scintillating fires of climax, deeper than she
had ever gone before. The sensations were overwhelming her, her system
scrambled by the input he was bequeathing. If he didn’t stop she felt like she
would explode.
The digit continued until she was screaming incoherently, her body quaking
violently, the pleasure starting to melt into a chafed and irritating pain, her sex
growing raw as he continued to manipulate it.
Suddenly he stopped and wiped his hand across her dripping pussy,
moistening the glove in readiness for the delayed search.
Lydia lifted her head, strands of damp hair hanging across her sight as she felt
him start to enter her damp womb. The bunched fingers began to drive inward,
kindling far greater pain as he forced a full entry. Lydia wailed and continued
to fight her bonds, the intrusion as severe in pain as the masturbation was in
pleasure. The tender tract erupted with burning mayhem at being stretched so
acutely, the feel of his fingers squirming within her turning her stomach as he
probed within her.
Having conducted a thorough search and finding nothing, he departed and
removed the glove with a sharp elastic snap.
With her abdomen resonating with its own pulse, she listened as her garments
and possessions were stuffed haphazardly into the cases. A blade sliced the
ropes at her legs and the trio of violators departed with her confiscated
luggage.
The door slammed shut and she realized that they intended to leave her naked
and bound. A few shouts for their attendance to rectify this oversight yielded
nothing, and rather than remain on lewd display she chose to slip from the
table.
Wriggling her legs free of the cut strands, she winced as her arms were
twisted and pulled with her motions. It took a few attempts to find out that she
could not get upright without snapping her arms, the tries making her croak
and whimper. Swinging hips around, she pushed a leg forward and tried to pick
at the knots with her toes, her arms still folded up her back, preventing her
from easy access. The extremity proved useless for such work. With a hiss of
frustration she kicked at the table leg and the rope, cursing it before lying slack
on the table, her mind trying to figure a way out.
Writhing forward along the tabletop, she scowled as her arms straightened
themselves, gaining slack to fold back down her spine. Turning onto her flank,
she moved to one side and blindly located a knot. Her fingers traced it,
examining its structure, and after several laborious and infuriating attempts she
finally started to open it. With one side of bonds freed, the other was relatively
easy to handle. Once free of the ropes she climbed down off the table and
pulled her linked wrists under her rear so she could have her hands at her front.
Sneaking over to the door she placed her ear to the wood and listened onto
the silence. Satisfied that all was empty without, she took hold of the handle
and turned it slowly, trying to keep the noise to a minimum. The door failed to
open, dashing her hopes of escape.
Her surreptitious calm was washed away on anger and she slammed her
shoulder to the portal. It failed to move, the sudden riot of pain in the battering
joint inspiring her to greater excesses. Smashing her feet to the door she
screamed and roared, trying to break free until her soles were raw and weak.
Sobbing uncontrollably she dropped and huddled in the shadows of a corner,
wondering as to what might possibly happen next.
If they came soon and set her free she would still be able to catch her original
flight. She did not care about her destroyed items anymore, she just wanted to
get away from here. She was terrified. Her heart was stamping out a tremulous
beat in her chest and cold sweat coated her as her stomach knotted upon itself
like a cup of worms. Guilt and shame added to her personal ordeal, the
realization of her climax under their eyes, her licentious dance at their
command making her feel ruined and befouled.
Chapter Two
Tense hours passed and as she hovered in a light snooze, the sound of the
door being unlocked and opened brought her round to total and stark
awareness.
Two soldiers entered, carrying a metal box between them. They set down the
weighty cube with a glad sigh and stepped back to permit respectful passage
for a gaunt man, dressed in a dark uniform with unfamiliar insignia set across
it. The peaked hat, jacket, trousers and tall boots had a rigid appearance and a
distinct fascist quality. Could this be one of the secret police that the news so
often mentioned as being responsible for disappearances and atrocities?
Such a possibility suddenly caused her to be riven with fresh fear, for they
were accorded with many of the same monstrous tactics as all who had gained
this nefarious title, and the crimes for which they were accused were numerous
and terrible.
Without a word the soldiers moved towards her, making her quail in terror
and clutch at her corner as though it were her sole refuge and defense.
As their hands snatched her she jolted and wriggled in their grasp, shrieking
in abject despair. The officer lifted the dense lid of the box and waited.
Realizing that this tiny chest was to be her prison, Lydia’s body responded all
the more ferociously to the soldier’s designs, causing them to steer her with all
the greater strength.
Howling in dismay, her feet were forced in and before she could step out they
dropped their weight onto her, forcing her to kneel down within and then fold
at the middle, her joints staunchly protesting at their enforced twisting. She
clawed wildly but her escaping arms were merely tucked in, the lid dropped,
and the lock sealed.
Confined within the close fitting tomb, claustrophobia gnawed upon her with
rabid verve. Her screams and panting breath heated the air, making it stuffy,
stifling, choking inky blackness that promised slow asphyxiation. The meager
air holes were woefully inadequate to support distraught struggles and cries,
and as the construction intended she started to regulate her respiration,
subduing her voice, straining to breath slowly.
Trembling with fright she waited as the box was taken up and carried out, the
wheeze of her breath drowning out most of the external sounds while the thick
metal walls muffled the rest.
A jarring impact dropped her and the growl of an engine preceded
uncomfortable lurching and jarring as she was ferried out and across the
uneven roads of the city.
Possibilities as to destination ran unchecked through her mind, the only sure
thing being that her freedom was not going to be won easily or quickly.
After an encyclopedia of varied city songs the noises gave way to a similar
menagerie of country sounds. Her body ached terribly, the pose in which she
had been forced made her muscles, joints, and ligaments creep with internal
stress. Desperate to ease the frustration of being held in a tight ball, she flexed
herself against the walls, trying to break free. The box remained secure,
driving her to cries of panic, tears flowing freely as she clawed weakly at the
impenetrable steel interior.
When the vehicle ground to a halt with the protesting squeal of parched
brakes, the sudden deceleration banged her crown against the metal.
Without any care, her cell was taken up and she was borne away again, the
journey lasting long minutes with only the metronome stomp of her courier’s
timed march as a rival to her trembling breath. With a deafening clang she was
set down and the lid opened. Unable to react due to the petrifying stiffness now
ruling in her joints, the soldiers had no trouble in hoisting her nude form out
and dumping her in a sturdy wooden chair.
In the classic tradition a bright light was shining directly in her face and her
sight, having grown used to the blackness, pained her immensely. Even her
eyelids gave little refuge from the harsh glare, forcing her into rolling her head
left and right, trying to avoid the impossibly brilliant beams.
Squinting, she felt her ankles being tied to the front legs, while her hands
were drawn behind the back of the chair and shackled, the interlocking chain
wound thrice about the central strut. The procedure was completed before she
could even respond and as she sat restrained and helpless, utterly vulnerable,
she tugged and hauled at her bonds, trying halfheartedly to get free, the use of
such a well-versed and even cliché scenario leaving her even more
disbelieving of the entire event. It felt like a nightmare, something out of scary
story or urban legend. Such things didn’t occur in reality, they stayed in films
where they belonged.
The soldiers departed without saying a word to her or even acknowledging
her in any real capacity, closing a heavy door behind them and leaving her
surrendered to whatever fate was planned for her.
From the darkness beyond the dazzling bulb a sinister voice emerged as one
of the grim uniformed figures stepped out to tower over her side. A red light
flicked on upon the table as the adjacent lens of an active video recorder
refracted the powerful light, her naked skin luminescent in the glare and
reflected in the tiny round mirror against a midnight backdrop.
“What is your name?”
“What?” she stammered, ceasing her futile bid to gain freedom and trying to
make out the features of the face behind the voice, the glow obscuring almost
every aspect. The man at her side removed his military jacket and set it aside,
leaving himself in his black trousers and boots, a black shirt and tie, the sleeves
rolled up. His eyes were lodged in shadow beneath the stern peak of his cap,
his strong jaw clenched, his lips filled with a morose scowl.
“What is your name?” he repeated in tones so akin to the first it could have
been a tape recording. The voice was dull, without emotion or inflection and
testified that this was a man who was unmoved by the sight of her in nude
bondage.
“I want to-”
Her words were suddenly cut off and she was looking to the extreme right,
the left side of her face throbbing with the harsh slap that had spun her head
around.
“What is your name?” came the even response.
Tasting the warmth of blood on her lip she lowered her head timidly and
whispered her response, her tolerance for such abuse having already been
exceeded.
“Lydia Brooks.”
“What is your name!” demanded the voice, an impatient tenor in his words.
Risking an irked glance to her impassive assailant, she looked back to the
silhouette beyond the radiance.
“Ly—”
Her sight swiveled as she was struck again, the blow throwing her head
violently aside before lolling back, dazed by the strike. Her hair was grabbed
in a rigid fist and used as a reign to jerk her head from side to side, scrambling
her equilibrium and making her scalp erupt with hot riots of pain.
“Lydia Brooks!” she cried, struggling against her trammels. “It’s in my
passport, check it!”
The man threw her head forward and stepped back, leaving her in shock and
riven with indignation at this barbaric treatment.
“A forgery to hide your true identity,” proposed the enigmatic interrogator.
“What?” she blurted without thinking, the ridiculous nature of his words
inspiring further outrage. “Of course its not, why would I need a—” she began
with turbulence in her voice, and as the man at her side took a step forward she
wilted, cringing in anticipation of another slap and lowering her tones to a
meek whisper.
“Why would I need a forgery?”
“To conceal your nature as a spy for a foreign power,” came the insipid retort,
the words an imprecation that was delivered with stern earnest, a conviction
that was almost laughable because of the absurd nature of the accusations.
“A spy? Me! You’re insane! This is ridiculous! I demand to see the ambassa
—”
Her order became a bright crack of skin meeting skin as another truculent
slap was delivered to her features.
Lydia lounged in her chair, shaking, her face bruised and battered, her senses
scrambled by the physical and psychological assault. Soft sobs of misery
escaped her quaking lips and she trembled with fright.
“If you are not such an agent, then explain these pictures,” he offered, and her
attacker presented glossy portraits for her perusal after retrieving them from
behind the blazing light source. They were hers, the pictures still with the
pungent scent of developing fluids about them.
The man ran through the selection, showing her the snapshots of military
might. Awareness of just how damning these pictures could seem dawned
quickly, and suddenly Lydia knew the true gravity of her predicament. With
quaking fear starting to blossom throughout her heart and soul, she stammered
and urgently offered her excuses.
“They aren’t what they seem. I was just taking a few photos to prove I was
here, to impress my friends.”
“A convincing enough lie, but one we have seen through,” answered the
hidden officer.
“Its not a lie!” she yelled.
A pause followed as the man at her side took a long cylinder from the
darkness. He held it as a club, ready to beat her, but instead he merely moved
the tip inward towards her shoulder. It was then that she spied the two tiny
prongs at the end, the nodules humming with power. Before she could object,
they touched her skin and a keening yowl exploded from her throat as she
jerked against her bonds, the voltage making her entire body burn.
The shock passed, leaving her to slouch back down, loose and drained by the
mordant session.
“What is your name?”
“Please, stop,” she croaked weakly, barely able to lift her head.
Rigid life returned to her body as the prod was applied again, sending agony
thundering out through her entire system before leaving her an indolent wreck.
“What is your name!”
“What do you want me to say?” she wheezed slowly, wishing only to escape
the torture, her physique shaking from the scrambling of her nervous system.
The twin prongs jammed against her breast, sending lightning ripping back
through her body, returning her to unendurable plateaus of searing torment
where she launched herself against her restraints, jiggling and jolting as her
features remained locked in a twisted howl. Her shriek filled the room almost
as a physical force, the rigid face of her torturer unmoved and unaffected by
her travail.
“Who sent you?”
They wanted answers and she had none. The only way out was to invent what
they wanted to hear. Sagging against her bonds, breathing via deep sobbing
gasps, her body pounding with residual mayhem, she swallowed for strength
and formulated a hasty response.
“The…the…CIA?” she uttered, the words having a distinct lack of
conviction.
“What?” growled the voice, clearly skeptical as to the declaration of
allegiance.
“KGB?” she wept, hoping to be believed, lines of salty sorrow running down
her cheeks.
“Do not toy with us, woman. We want the name and location of your contact.
Where is he!”
“I…I…” she blubbed, trying to shy away as the prod was swayed before her
petrified gaze, promising that she would be feeling it again unless she satisfied
their answers in full.
“Ple…please…no!” she whimpered, the head working its way in slow waves
towards her body, making her wrench at her restraints and try and evade it.
The tip ducked in and touched her stomach, making her stiffen with a savage
jump and wail, the cry riding onward until she had expended all her breath.
The shock ended, and a slap skimmed across her cheek, flicking her head aside
before reversing and throwing her features in the other direction.
“Tell us where and who he is!”
The pause as she tried to assimilate the words in her concussed and breathless
state prompted renewed attention. Another smack sent her senses reeling,
preceding a volley of oscillating sweeps and then the jamming of the prod into
her naked loins, the touch of the prongs to her most sensitive parts bringing a
pain that eclipsed all other applications. Tensing against her bonds in a full and
violent throe, every muscle flexed simultaneously and remained rigid, her
tendons rose like cables beneath her sweat sodden skin and she shrieked and
vibrated until she was a blur of harried movement.
“Tell us!” shouted her nemesis, and the prod came away for a brief moment
before stabbing back and restoring her to a shuddering, shrieking maenad of
suffering.
The instrument slipped away to have its ailing battery replaced, leaving her to
slouch in her confines, staring indolently at her lap as drips of blood fell from
her lips onto her naked inner thighs, the disturbing vision falling in and out of
focus as her sight swam. Her body trembled from the after effects of the most
profound shock, a light glaze of cold sweat creeping from her pores and
making her hair hang down in damp strands. As she trembled from the
reverberating voltage, she could feel a bruised ache in her wrists, the pains
unleashed from her fight to break the uncompromising bonds. Nausea held
reign within every particle of her being, and her attacked pussy felt as though it
were on fire, the numbed skin resonating with its own hideous pulse.
A hand cupped her slack chin and lifted her tear-streaked face upwards for the
mysterious interrogator’s assessment.
“Wake her up,” decreed the voice and her head flopped back as the support
withdrew.
A moment later a deluge of arctic water fell across her, startling her awake
with a gasping inhale. The chill waters banished the hazy lethargy and numbed
her punished skin. Spitting the excess from her mouth as it ran down her face
she looked up, realizing once more where she was.
“Please, I don’t know anything,” she murmured with distraught pleading.
A rustle of plastic issued from behind her and a distorting translucent sheet
dropped before her eyes. The plastic bag was dragged down over her head and
tugged back, pressing the impermeable pane to her face and cutting of all air.
The tight reign denied her breath and she fought to rip free of his hold and
throw the bag away. Spasming in the chair, battling the grip that was keeping
the bag in position she again heard the muffled demand for her answers, the
glare of the light and the obscuring veil of plastic leaving her all but blind.
Craning her mouth open as far as possible in an effort to find access, her face
burned and her mind screamed from suffocation. Her lungs strained to haul in
a breath but no chink existed which she might exploit. Her hampered sight
began to waver and she gnashed her teeth in a bid to bite and tear the barrier
that was far too taut to allow hope of purchase.
The bag came away, leaving Lydia to gasp, cough and sob, banishing the fire
of her ordeal with exaggerated respiration.
“Who is your contact?”
“Pl..ple—” she began, shaking her head weakly from side to side.
The bag dropped back down and stifled her words, dragging her head back
and making her squirm in animal panic. Holding on with one hand, the torturer
grabbed the prod and jammed it into the base of her spine, the resulting scream
causing the bag to billow out for a brief moment with her acute exhale. The
attack stripped her of her reservoir of air and brought asphyxiation closer in
leaping bounds.
On the verge of blackout she was released, her semi-comatose state making
the fight to recover all the more trying this time for she could only wheeze and
suck in small gulps to recuperate.
“Tell us what we want to know and this will all be over,” offered the voice,
and as she failed to respond, a backhand swing carried a harsh slap into her
face, the severity jerking her aside and toppling the chair.
With a crash she landed on the floor, still attached to the felled furniture.
Hands began to unfasten the bonds but as she came free her arms were re-
secured to a ring in the floor, the restraints being locked to deny her any chance
to claw her way to freedom. Her ankles were dragged forward before her
lethargic body acquired enough power to resist and they too were attached to
the ring, leaving her extremities anchored to this one spot by steel shackles.
Stepping back, the torturer snatched a belt from within the darkness. The
thick leather band bore a metal hoop that had been riveted in the center and
had rope tied to it, the woven coils snaking off into the darkness from where
the garment had been taken. The belt was buckled tightly about her waist and
the rope drawn out and threaded through what could only have been a hook in
the ceiling.
Taking up the slack, the man wound the strand about his palm and began to
haul her up. The yank at her waist made Lydia grimace, her torso being tugged
into the air, the loop at her back carrying her up in jolts until her legs and arms
were stretched down beneath her.
With her limbs gathered into a bundle by the ring in the floor she was racked
by the suspending belt, dangling helplessly as her oppressor tied the rope off,
leaving her hopelessly trapped.
“We could end this right now if you would tell us?”
With her most vulnerable parts so obviously exposed, she could face no more
attention and concocted a name and some spurious data. The near incoherent
information was ignored, deemed a figment of imagination to hide the truth.
They knew the answer and the chances of her guessing it were too remote to
even contemplate, and should she try, the wrong answers would only irk them
more.
The prod grazed her flank, making her spasm with a brief shock. A touch to
her thigh caused a greater response and the contusions upon her ankles and
wrists began to ache again from her sudden struggle, the testing response
proving that she was securely bound.
As the cold tip of the prod slipped between her buttocks, the metal rolled back
and forth, moistening itself with her own sweat. Lydia detected their intentions
and yelled in denial of the violation, clenching with all her might to try and
prevent it.
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 female 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, with 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.
The Warden stood by the window, looking out over the compound and into
the jungle. Tall and exquisite of frame, her slender body was held within the
tight clinch of a halter neck Lycra top, the black shimmering garment dropping
into gray jodhpurs and tall black boots. Her short blonde hair was held beneath
a peaked military cap, the braids upon it signifying rank, the black design and
badge confirming her as Secret Police.
“Guards, deposit the file on my desk and prepare her before you leave,” she
growled, her accent distinctly west coast American.
Without word they forced her down onto her knees and snapped cuffs to her
ankles, threading the chain over her wrist restraints to hog-tie her in this
supplicant upright pose. Setting down the folder upon the desk they turned and
departed, closing the door behind them.
After a few moments of silence the Warden addressed her while still gazing
upon the green canopy.
“My name is Warden Folter. For whatever crime you have committed you
have been sentenced to imprisonment at my facility. Conditions are harsh, and
rightly so, for the criminals here are here to atone for their felonies and only
through suffering and hardship can this be achieved. However, submission to
the will of my guards and the rules of this prison will make your time more
tolerable. Resist or disobey and you will be punished severely. As a reminder, I
will now give you an example of the most minor form of correction you will
come to expect,” she explained blandly.
The woman removed a long and slender crop from a drawer and approached
Lydia, prompting her to start shouting for help, clawing at her metal bonds in
fright, the energetic wriggling toppling her balance so that she landed heavily
on her front. A booted toe dug under her chest and flipped her onto her back,
trapping her limbs beneath her torso, leaving her arched upward and eager to
accept the bite of the poised weapon.
Lydia’s words rose to a defiant cry as the crop lifted high into the air and
paused to bring dread before descending with a whistling hiss, turning the cry
into a wail of pain as a searing line was laid upon her thigh. The blow had
Lydia jerk and squirm upon the floor, hauling at the defiant cuffs.
Another hack ate into her inner thigh, the sensitive skin bringing an even
sterner wash of suffering, the mordant stripe it laid making her shriek and
buck, trying to flip over and shield the delicate regions currently under attack.
Her plan was foiled as the Warden’s gleaming boot stepped onto her stomach,
the weight resting upon it forcing her to the floor. Her arms and legs were
squeezed between floor and foot, her joints starting to churn with internal
mayhem as the pressure was increased, the Warden leaning over and letting her
body pin down the prisoner before her.
With her victim secured she commenced the beating with added speed and
strength, lashing into Lydia’s cleavage and thighs, laying down a plexus of
flushed purple welts that throbbed with a residual pulse for many minutes after
their birth. Contused lines were continually drawn across her by the sanguinary
frenzy that ruled her persecutor. The Warden was goaded into increased
ferocity at the sight of Lydia squirming beneath her boot, her flesh rippling as
the looped tip of the crop slammed to it or skimmed briefly across the tip of a
striped breast. The sound of her imploring desperate yowls gave the woman
malevolent pleasure, the Warden delighting in her work.
Gasping for air as she screamed in response to the crop, Lydia could only
strain against her shackles, her mind thumping with her racing heartbeat and
the animal panic that called only for her to evade the blows. Suddenly the
deluge abruptly ended and the Warden addressed her while steadying her
panting breath.
“You are no longer a person. You are a piece of property owned by
Guenerros. You no longer have a name. You have a code number. You will
know this number. It will be used to refer to you, call to you, you will answer
to it, and you will forget your name. If you use your name, you will be severely
reprimanded. Do you understand?”
Lydia said nothing, still lost in her daze of pain, twitching in continual fits.
The crop flashed down and restored her will to shriek.
“Say, yes, Warden Folter, if you understand?” she growled, and once more
applied her switch with equal verve.
“Yes, Warden Folter, I understand!” Lydia howled, the pain bestowing ample
volume.
“What is your name?” the woman asked.
“Ly—” she started and then paused suddenly, realizing the slip of her tongue.
Before she could apologize or correct her error, the crop was once more
streaking through the air and applying half a dozen fierce strokes across her
thighs, crisscrossing the previous marks and restoring their old intensity. The
beating stopped and the Warden leant more heavily onto her squirming captive.
“What is your name?” the Warden repeated.
“I have no name, I am property, Warden Folter,” Lydia wheezed, tears spilling
from the corners of her eyes to trickle into her hair.
“What is your designated code number?” she hissed.
“I…I…don’t know, they said it in another language,” Lydia whimpered.
“Hmmph,” vented the Warden, stepping away and throwing an underarm
flick into Lydia’s lewdly presented pussy. The heinous stroke made her arch up
and yowl, her body thrashing madly as the woman deserted her to recovery
from the swat.
Turning the folder round to face her with the hooped tip of the crop, the
woman ran the end of the weapon down the cover.
“You are six one nine two,” she declared, and began to saunter back to her
grizzling student.
The boot once more dropped onto Lydia, squashing her again.
“What is your name?” asked the woman, lifting the crop in warning.
“Six one nine two, Warden Folter,” blurted Lydia.
“Say it again. Quicker this time,” demanded the woman, skimming the tip of
the crop across her assets to make her breasts quiver and her mouth drop open
and air a cry.
“Six one nine two,” she rambled with speed.
“Keep saying it,” growled the woman.
Lydia started to chant the number again and again, and each time she did, the
dull thwack of the thin weapon was sung against her body, the Warden
applying a merciless stroke each time she declared her new identity, the pain
burning the digits into her very soul. Soon she was choking the words, fighting
to get them out, her level of endurance left far behind, her fright of disobeying
this grand sadist the only encouragement to keep her going.
“Say it backwards!” the Warden ordered, changing the nature of the lesson.
Lydia paused, trying to concoct the reconfigured litany, receiving several
ghastly stripes into her sex for her failing, the Warden increasing the
metronome precision of her drum roll, using the added suffering to stall
Lydia’s efforts until finally she yelled out at the top of her lungs.
“Two nine one six!”
The assault ceased suddenly, cutting off without warning, leaving her an
enfeebled husk, her body rolling within a fog bank of tortured befuddlement.
The boot slipped aside, lodged under her hip and turned her onto her front
where she let out a gurgling croak when she was laid down onto her bruised
breasts and thighs, the revitalized welts singing aloud under the slight weight
of her frame. Scowling, she clenched her teeth and endured the added woe, her
body damp with fevered perspiration, her face stained with trails of tears,
saliva and sweat.
“In gratitude for this lesson you may kiss my boots, six one nine two,” smiled
the woman, presenting a polished toe to Lydia’s face.
Without delay she nuzzled forward and adored the footwear, wondering to
herself why she was giving in so easily and licking the leather rather than just
kissing it. Lydia told herself that she was just trying to overcompensate in her
task to avoid any more chastisement, but there was something else. The
severity of the whipping, the harsh treatment that had been so meticulously and
thoroughly meted out to destroy her identity had left her strangely aroused.
Fawning on the leather, she ran her tongue back and forth.
“That’s very industrious of you, six one nine two,” stated the Warden, taking
the boot back and presenting the second one.
Lydia craned her head forward and started to lap at the second boot, shivering
slightly as her loins started to become damp. What was happening to her? Why
was such subjugation kindling her libido?
“Seeing as you have such an affinity for boot cleaning, you may handle the
soles as well,” she ordered, turning one of the chairs around.
Grabbing Lydia’s shoulders she pulled her back up onto her knees and sat
back into the chair. Crossing her legs, she lifted the bottom of a boot to Lydia’s
face, staring into her eyes with a lustful grin.
Lydia closed her eyes and moved forward, putting her mouth to the tread, her
tongue spilling along it, her sense of excitement raging through her form.
“Open those eyes, six one nine two. Look at me,” warned the officer.
With hesitation she complied, meeting the libidinous stare of the Warden as
she studied Lydia’s submission.
“Good girl,” beamed the Warden, watching intensely as Lydia completed her
task.
Before offering her the other boot, she lifted herself up and peered down at
Lydia’s crotch. The untouched boot moved in and nudged her knees.
“Spread yourself for me,” she ordered, making Lydia stiffen with a snort of
surprise.
“Do it,” slurred the Warden with grave tones.
With a slow shift of her thighs she moved her legs apart, the kneeling pose
offering her naked loins to attention. The boot instantly moved in and nuzzled
into the cleft, rubbing against her whipped pussy, making her stiffen with
discomfort and a flash of pleasure, the tickling of her sex by the leather rousing
her appetite.
The Warden moved the boot back and regarded the lines of new moisture
upon the fabric.
“Lick it off and then do the sole you wanton little bitch,” decreed the Warden
with a smile and shake of her head, amused by Lydia’s reaction.
Dropping her head forward, she tasted her own arousal and lapped it free
before being offered the sole of the boot. Again she diligently attended her
duty, her eyes fixed to the stern icy glare of the Warden, the exchange melting
her into her task. The feelings were alien within her, set lose since her capture,
as though the ordeal had dislodged some secret nugget of her psyche that she
herself had not even known was there.
“That will do, six one nine two,” she stated, standing up and moving back
around the desk, leaving Lydia kneeling, her heart racing, the taste of leather
and feminine fluid controlling her palate.
Addressing the intercom, the Warden called for the guards to return and
having been patiently waiting outside, they entered instantly.
“Remove it,” she said with disinterest, slipping the crop back into the drawer.
Sitting down behind her desk to study Lydia’s file, she decided to examine the
details of the individual she had just so viciously abused and coerced into an
act of debasement that had left her sparkling with bizarre concupiscence.
Chapter Four
The guards removed her fetters and grabbed a bicep each before hauling up,
dragging her forward as her legs flopped vainly, the beating and delightful
derogation having stripped her of energy. In the uncomfortable grasp of the
villains she was drawn out of the area and back down the stairs, her giddy ears
still ringing with her own screams while she listened to the guards laughing
and conversing in their own language, keeping their words out of her
understanding.
Continuing deeper into the prison the surfaces became laden with flaking
tongues of paint, the sheets spewing out ragged tears as the walls shed the
layer in untidy strips. The ceiling was a shifting mass of such blistered neglect,
the stone floor being flecked with small discharged segments. The pipes that
ran along the corridors were old and rusted, leaking their cargo of water in
places, the seepage spilling down the mildewed wall and filling the section of
passage about them with a pool of stagnant water. The molds that thrived about
such ruptures added the only color to the palette of gray and mottled whites
that formed the dreary penitentiary, the sporadic lights overhead being weak
and dirty, their grimy rays only making the prison seem all the more unsanitary
and ramshackle.
The last stretch of corridor was sealed by two barred gates, the short safety
zone between them housing an open door through which could be spied a
number of guards lounging in comfort to drink, eat, and distract themselves
with irreverent chat and diversions. Two morose and whip marked prisoners
acted as servants and saw to their needs, their wild eyes and hidden masks of
subdued terror testifying to the fear of irking their jailers But it was not the
sight of these prisoners being demeaned by their use as waitresses, nor the
hands that often strayed to their bare skin to grope and molest freely, it was
that a fair portion of the guards were men. The realization that some of her
oppressors would be licentious males, with all the terrible possibilities of usage
by them that such a discovery presented, caused her to find a sudden and
consuming dread of her captivity.
“Vesson! Come and join the game, we have an extra seat,” shouted one of the
guards from his position at a card table.
“Maybe later,” replied the escort who had been so ready to brutalize Lydia for
even the slightest misdeed.
“Ah, so you’re scared I’ll rob you of your week’s wages are you? Afraid to
face the great card shark?” he grinned, tossing another chip onto the poker pot.
“Scared? Of your inept talents? Luck is the only thing on your side, and from
the size of those winnings, you can’t have that much left,” she laughed,
indicating his sizable reserve.
“Oh, a challenge.”
“First I’ll put this wretch away, and then I’ll destroy you. By this evening I’ll
own you,” she snorted.
“You wouldn’t know what to do with a real man even if you had one,”
retorted the man, grabbing his own crotch in a crass display.
“You? A real man? You aren’t fit to kiss my boots,” derided the guard.
“In your dreams, Vesson, in your dreams. I’ll leave you to your unattainable
fantasies, so you might as well take the new prisoner below,” he dismissed
with a casual wave.
“I don’t see any need to rush, she’ll not last five minutes. You know how
feeble these foreigners are,” the woman mumbled, wandering onwards as the
interior gate was opened.
The last gate was opened and the guards dragged her into a towering hall. The
expanse of the circular chamber rose up to the height of the building, the five
stories rimmed with a wide balcony and sealed in by a sturdy fence that ran
from each floor to the next. Through the tiny gaps she could see barred doors,
the cells whirling around to pack every level. A spiral staircase rose at a low
gradient to access each story, the steps fenced in and devoid of handrail. The
skylight directly above was choked by a metal mesh, the sunlight that managed
to pierce the dirty, filth-encrusted pane being stained and dissipated, barely
augmenting the paltry lights that rolled along outside the fence, placing them
beyond the reach of the prisoner’s within the caged balconies.
The smell of compressed bodies was cloying, the hot stink of sweat and
pressed flesh, the aroma mixed with the pungent reek of mold and rot, of
stagnant air and filth. To be confined in such appalling conditions, with
nothing save the sadistic guards to sustain her life was a ghastly concept. How
had she come to this foul end?
There were no telephone cables entering this complex, so she had no means
to contact anyone. She was here until the Secret Police drew her out. Would
they even remember her? If she slipped through the gaps of their chaotic
bureaucracy, she might end up spending her life sealed amidst this decaying
squalor.
Having regained some lost vitality she managed to stumble up the steps rather
than be dragged, and after ascending to the third floor a nearby cell door was
unlocked and she was freed of shackles before being cast rudely in, the portal
slamming back into secure place in her wake.
Hauling her weary form upright, she found herself in a small cell, the space
almost entirely taken up by a bunk bed that lacked a mattress, leaving only a
hard wooden slat and a coarse blanket. There was no window, and the only
added furnishings were a slop bucket and a pale of water below a rust flecked
tap. But there was an error here, for two women already occupied the cell - laid
upon their bunks, naked save for their collars. Both originated from this
country or at least one near to it, their tanned skin and sable hair clearly
identifying their nationality.
One was perhaps in her mid- twenties, her short locks hanging about a slender
face and wiry body, while the second was slightly older and more powerful in
build, her hair cropped short, her face rigid and sour in expression.
The women stirred from their rest and looked up, regarding her without
interest. She was lost for a response. What could she say? Did they even speak
English? As she stammered her first words, trying to fumble for something to
say and start conversation, the slender female interrupted her.
“No espera tu que dormiras en una cama, extranjera.”
“Wh…what?” Lydia frowned, her fingers tracing her collar.
The woman rolled her eyes and sighed at Lydia’s inability to understand her
native language.
“I said don’t think you’re getting a bed. You can sleep on the floor like the
filth you are,” she hissed, her heavy accent making the words difficult to
comprehend.
Outraged, Lydia readied to revile this slander, but as the first syllables left her
lips the woman again cut her off with a petulant snap.
“Just shut up and sit in the corner before we start hurting you.”
Taken aback by the demand, Lydia stood frozen, her lips starting to mouth a
response but failing to air it. In the pause of her disbelief the other female
unfolded her burly frame from the bunk and approached her, causing Lydia to
shy back, a sudden intuitive sense of imminent danger filling her.
Before she could react, a heavy slap danced across her face, spinning her
aside and slamming her to the bars of the entrance. A solid metal tone rang out
and as it faded she dropped to her knees, cradling her injuries.
Strong hands snatched her collar and flung her aside. Ricocheting from the
wall she dropped onto her front and lay wheezing and dazed, helpless as a
naked foot pushed into the small of her spine and fingers clenched into her hair
before pulling back, twisting her up and making her scalp and vertebrae ignite
with effulgent blooms of pain.
Mixing gasping respiration and moans of discomfort, she watched as the
younger of the two crouched down before her enforced gaze and reached out to
cup her chin.
“You belong to me, understand…” she began, pausing to look at her collar,
taking in the number she found there. “Six one nine two. Whatever I tell you to
do, you do it, or five three zero five here will make you pay.”
To prove her point the woman hauled back, making Lydia cry out, her arms
flailing wildly, unable to dislodge her brawny attacker.
“I am nine two four three. The guards may rule you, but I own and control
you. Is that understood?”
The woman twisted further, making Lydia splutter out her words amidst her
groans.
“Yes, yes, please, I understand!”
“I understand, what?” she uttered.
“Mistress, I understand Mistress,” corrected Lydia.
“No, you ignorant fuck, its I understand….” she started, delaying her
response as she concocted a suitably humbling title before a broad and wicked
smile crept across her lips. “Divine Supreme Goddess. Now say it all. Like you
mean it.”
“I understand, my supreme divine go—”
A truculent smack stung her cheek, followed by another.
“Divine supreme you idiot, not supreme divine. Get it right. And don’t say
my. I own you, not the other way round, now say it properly before I have my
friend break your neck,” growled the woman.
“I understand, Divine Supreme Goddess,” whimpered Lydia.
The hold at her hair came away, letting her flop forward as the women
withdrew.
“Now get up on your hands and knees. You will be my stool. Does that make
you happy?”
Silence was Lydia’s response, her mind too distracted by the indignity of her
actions to formulate a reply.
“I said - does-that-make-you-happy,” she roared, every word of the repeated
question being accompanied by a heavy spank to Lydia’s buttocks or body.
Winded and battered, on the verge of physical and emotional collapse she
burbled her words, mortified at the befouling treatment she was receiving.
“Yes, Divine Supreme Goddess, it makes me happy,” she wept, and lifted
herself up as the woman settled down upon her back, leaning to the wall and
sighing loudly with satisfaction as her comrade laughed heartily, amused by
the entertaining debasement.
“Vea usted como desisten los extranjeros debilos? No tienen ganas!”
“See how easily these foreigners fold. No stamina,” crooned her enslaver.
The measured tread of a guard approaching resounded through the air, lifting
Lydia’s spirits. Looking up, she stared through the bars, waiting to see the
officer walking past before making her imploring request for succor.
The stark countenance of the woman entered into view, her baton in hand,
slapping the tip into her gloved palm as she glared ferociously into each cell,
quelling sedition with her glower. The sight of Lydia beneath the woman did
not even draw a flicker of acknowledgment, prompting a desperate recourse.
“Help me, please,” Lydia whimpered, only to have the guard ignore her and
continue the strolling pace until out of sight.
“Wait! Help me, get me out of here, I—”
The words vanished as a hand clamped across her mouth. Manic with rage
she bit the flesh, making the impious woman squeak and leap back, clutching
the wound as Lydia ran to the bars and screamed for assistance. How could the
guards just leave her here? Had they no care for their charges?
A deep thud filled her ears as a punch slammed into her side, crippling her
with a debilitating pain. Her knees turned to jelly and she began to sag,
clutching at the bars, her eyes filling with tears as she croaked for the
impassive guard, praying to eke some sort of pity and aid.
Another vicious jab struck the opposite side and her collar was snatched.
Spun around in the strong hold she was slammed to the wall, her front bursting
with pain at the stern impact upon her many welts.
Hauled back, she hung loose in her attacker’s grasp, her head lolling as the
bitten female regarded her with boiling hatred, rubbing the mild injury with
tenderness.
“You think that was funny?” she spat, every syllable dripping with rage “Well
I hope you find this just as amusing!”
The woman’s hand whipped out to skim knuckles across her features, the
hand returning as a backhand slap before continuing, raining ten oscillating
slaps into the drooping captive. The world was left spinning about Lydia and
her body remained unable to answer any calls for movement as incarnadine
drool slipped from her swollen lips.
Massaging her rosy tinted hand, the woman ducked in and grabbed Lydia’s
breast, squeezing tight and then ducking in to sink her teeth into the whip
contused flesh.
As teeth tore into her skin, threatening to bite free a great chunk from her
bosom, Lydia wailed and struggled in her captor’s arms, her opposition
increasing with the continuation of the attack, making the containment of her
throes too difficult in an upright position and forcing a change. Casting her
violently to the floor, they repositioned themselves to hold her more effectively
before she could muster enough coherent action to resist. The slender woman
sat upon her legs, facing the cleavage she was intending to chew upon as her
comrade knelt on Lydia’s arms while they lay by her side. The bony knees
crushed her biceps while Lydia gazed up through her watery vision at the
naked rear hovering directly over her face.
The woman grabbed the wriggling wrists as they flapped from having their
upper arms squashed, then the naked loins descended slowly, graphically
illustrating the robust woman’s intentions, giving Lydia a generous duration in
which to let her angst bloat.
Fighting with increasing verve, her arms and legs beginning to tickle
internally from impeded circulation, she could do nothing as the looming rump
floated down. In her last moments of freedom she screamed for help and denial
of this action, the high pitched wail being dropped into a muffled murmur as
her face was smothered with her captor’s rear. Lydia strained to draw breath
through the suffocating flesh, succeeding in squeezing in only the most meager
influx.
The fight to respire was made infinitely more strenuous as teeth ripped into
her nipple, chewing and grinding upon the soft teat as she bucked and writhed,
her screams echoing into the stifling cushion of flesh pressing down.
The eager jaws clamped to her flesh again and again, squeezing and gnawing
to tenderize the mamilla, while the virulent harridan also began to deploy her
nails across the bare torso, the deep scratches leaving a rosy trail, one pock-
marked with crimson where they had successfully slit the skin.
Riven with excruciating duress, Lydia could only buck and writhe, her foolish
notion of gaining aid in this nightmare domain having brought her the most
vindictive reprisals. When the biting stopped, it was so the clawing nails might
rip at her sex, scratching at the sensitive tracts and flesh, the woman
demonstrating her implacable capacity for whimsical torture. The violation of
the nails brought levels of havoc she could barely tolerate, the plunging stabs
and exits making her spasm and yowl into the cushioning rear.
The woman straddling her face arose with her partner’s instructions, elevating
the pressure on Lydia’s pinned arms which had suffered the stifling of blood
flow for so long that her free forearms could do nothing now save twitch, all
feeling in them gone. Gasping for breath, Lydia tried to apologize, her eyes
shut tight as she felt her body pounding with the after effects of the torture.
But they were in no frame of mind to end their entertainment just yet, and her
words went without answer.
“She sounds out of breath, and she looks hot. Maybe a cool drink of water
will soothe her nerves,” crooned the woman.
Snapping her eyes open, Lydia saw the water bucket before her eyes, cradled
by the lithe criminal. The prospect of this episode of mock drowning drew
disturbing parallels to the suffocation of her interrogation, and that had been
harrowing enough to prompt her into evading a repeat at any cost.
“Please, no, I’m fine. Honestly, I’m not—”
The manacling hands deserted their charges, their task pointless when all
effective use had been destroyed by the robbery of her circulation. Her words
were canceled by a palm clamping to her chin, the fingers and thumb opposing
each other and digging into a cheek as the other hand applied extra aid, sinking
digits onto their brethren and then hauling apart with brute force.
“Stop! Please! I’m begging of you! I’ll do anything you want!” she
whimpered, her words distorted massively by the grasp of her oppressors.
Unable to even delay the breaching of her jaws, Lydia’s mouth was drawn
wide open and held immobile. Aiming the lip of the bucket above the opening
the container tilted and Lydia closed her eyes, wailing in abject despair as she
tried to pull her head aside, battling the iron grip without success. As the first
trickle splashed into her maw, she gurgled and retched, her howls having left a
vent open to her lungs, the intrusion crippling her. Fighting her bonds all the
more fervently, the prying fingers came away and established a pinch to seal
her lips, leaving her with a reservoir in her maw that she could only expel as a
slim drool from the corners of her mouth. A second pinch sealed her nostrils,
cutting of her air, demanding that she swallow.
Gulping down, they refilled the bucket from the tap and opened her mouth
once more and applied a steady stream, the flow filling the volume of her maw,
spilling over the edges, denying her any access to air as she frantically gulped
down the sparkling cascade. Coughing and spluttering she tried to whimper for
mercy, but the women simply held her tightly and continued to force-feed her
the reservoir.
The heat that started to well in her face and lungs as she strained to draw
breath grew in intensity with every second, as did her nausea, the waters
engorging her belly growing with pressure. The constant influx prevented her
from ejecting it, the struggling force welling until she felt she might burst.
“This is all too much effort. Let’s just push her head in, let her drown or
finish it,” declared the bearer of the bucket, setting it aside as Lydia was
flipped over, her efforts to scamper away blocked as her arms were pinned
behind her back and twisted up into a painful lock.
Bare flesh squatted upon her shins and her hair was used as a reign to steer
her face into the cold depths.
The wail of complete appalled aversion ended when she was submerged, her
face churning the cool waters as she was kept beneath them, the burbling cry
rising up as a faint and pitiful sound to be ignored until she had obeyed and
fulfilled her quest.
Unable to defeat the strength trapping her within, she parted her lips just a
little and with her dignity held back by the pure instinct for survival, she
yielded to their wicked authority and began to drain the level in frantic gulps.
Her speed was maintained by her ebbing consciousness, her only objective
being to once more access air.
With a gasp she devoured a deep lungful, breaking into retching coughs and
revolted hacks as small flecks intruded in her lungs. The holds came away and
she dropped to the floor, curling into a ball, grizzling in her misery, venting the
occasional jerk of shock.
“You forgot to thank me for the drink,” chuckled her oppressor, nudging the
vilified prisoner with a conceited smugness.
Mentally shattered from her ordeal, Lydia could not find the words, all she
could think on was the powerful, restless presence bloating her stomach and
the awful lingering throb prevailing in her mind.
“Thank me unless you want us to force a bucket down you every hour on a
permanent basis.”
The menace in the voice hauled her from her apathy, and with all her
composure splintered, her mind and sanity in blackened ruins, Lydia responded
without thought.
“Thank you for the drink, Divine Supreme Goddess.”
“Good, now let’s prepare you for the night,” announced the woman.
Pulled to her feet, Lydia was laid face down on the bottom bunk, her features
placed just over half way towards the top. The ripping of cloth preceded the
application of long strips torn from a blanket, the ribbons used to tie her
elbows and her wrists together behind her back. Her wrists were snared and
lifted, making her describe her pain with a cry as they were misused to drag
her torso into the air. Hovering a few inches from the bed, the bonds where
quickly knotted to the planks above and her legs splayed, her knees being tied
to the posts, trapping her in this depreciating format.
The malevolent female slipped into the bunk, sliding her loins beneath the
suspended face.
“You know what to do, so get on with it, Puta!” she declared, and locked her
thighs about the prisoner’s head, crushing the snared and suspended features
into her sex. Lydia was petrified with alarm and bewilderment, her mind
unable to process this level of depravity.
Gurgling and striving only to get free, the woman maintained her trapping
embrace, restricting Lydia’s breath to a few meek hisses through the splayed
lips.
The lack of action was not tolerated for long and while Lydia spasmed and
fought to pull away, the woman reached forward and forced her face deeper,
entirely cutting of her prisoner’s air with one hand. Snagging Lydia’s fingers
with the other the woman bent them back and made her wail into the
smothering pillow of femininity.
Goaded into activity, she began to perform the desired and perfunctory
cunnilingus with a sloth borne of inexperience and unwillingness. With her
wishes finally being undertaken the woman threw herself back, writhing upon
the probing tongue and drinking deeply of the pleasures she had commanded.
Afraid of what consequences would befall her should she cease, Lydia
continued for what seemed like hours, for no matter how much or how wildly
the woman performed beneath her flitting tongue, she did not permit an end,
her appetite for such devotion seemingly insatiable.
Only once the instrument of intimate devotion was strained and aching, her
body raw from its cruel confinement, did the woman slip out from beneath
Lydia’s face.
With a weary sigh Lydia’s head lolled forward, only to have fingers clench
within her hair and raise her lethargic features to accept the other woman as a
new customer. With a groan of despair she was drawn back down and her
complicity demanded.
Again she strove to perform, mentally detaching herself from her body, trying
to let it run on automatic while she slipped into a distanced dream-like haze,
escaping from the reality of her predicament, her psyche defending itself in the
only viable way it had. There was to be no defeating this harrowing battle of
degradation, so retreat was the only option and thus she fled into the shadowy
recesses of her mind at a full gallop.
The burly female quaffed her fill of attention and then shoved Lydia’s head
away, leaving her to hang slack, dejected and diminished, her spirit ragged and
torn from her ordeal. Her only desire was to escape this terrible event, to
awake and find herself at home, asleep on the plane, anything, anywhere but
here.
Exhausted, her body ignored the tangled confines in which she was cocooned
and drifted into a hesitant sleep of recuperation, the slumber rising to
occasionally brush awareness, reminding her of her position and infecting her
dreams with the contagion of nightmares. This was an easy enough feat for it
merely projected a slice of the real world, such straits being more than
adequate fare to serve as a terror for her dreams.
The gentle jingling titter of the keys in the lock roused her slightly and she
looked up to see a guard forging access, the jailer looking idly over both
shoulders in a most suspicious fashion.
The cell door swung open and the tall woman entered, moving over to the
bunk and prodding the top occupant with her baton. The onerous prisoner
awoke with a groggy haze and as though sleepwalking slid down and shuffled
from the room. The guard followed and shut the cell door behind her, locking it
and then departing with the woman. What had happened? Was she being
transferred? Singled out for participation in something nefarious? Lydia’s mind
whirled with possibilities, the dwelling on the villain’s fate proving a ready
distraction from the rigors of her bondage.
Within the hour the pair returned, save that now the girl was staggering
slightly, her legs stiff, while the guard bore a wide satisfied grin, suggesting
that this midnight rendezvous had been a carnal affair and not a gentle one.
The girl was escorted in and left to haul herself back into her bunk before the
guard locked a hand about the drained woman’s neck and dragged her forward
for a deep kiss. The passion on the prisoner’s behalf was forced and given to
defuse anger rather than any affection wrought by their acts.
As the officer stepped back, she noticed Lydia for the first time and peered
under for a better look. The guard glared at her intensely, keeping Lydia quiet
with the severity of her gaze as it wandered across her dangling body, some
soft frowns revealing the desire arising in her mind. The jailer leant in and
cupped her chin with gloved fingers, turning her face for perusal before
smiling broadly and departing at a swift march.
Perplexed and more than a little anxious, Lydia tried to soothe her addled
thoughts and frayed nerves by seeking solace in the soft daze of her
deprivation.
Chapter Five
Warden Folter leant back in her soft chair, her legs parted, her thighs resting
on the rubber clad shoulders of her pet as the girl nuzzled and lapped at her
sex.
The girl had been broken to her will a couple of years ago and had been her
faithful hound ever since. Like Lydia, she had been a tourist that had been
arrested in the former country, before Guenerros had been born. Heading for
Europe she had been caught smuggling opium, resulting in a compulsory life
sentence.
Her inability to speak the native language or English had left the Italian girl
bewildered and lost, unable to communicate with virtually anyone. This more
than anything had caused her to be singled out by the Warden, for it made her
like a true puppy, an animal unable to speak or understand, one that had to be
trained by gesture and harsh punishment to obey her commands.
Sprinkles was encased in a form hugging latex body suit. The sleeves ran
down her slender arms and locked her hands within featureless tight bulbs, the
interiors filled with an array of wickedly sharp spines to further dissuade any
use of her hands. The limbs had been twisted up behind her and several stern
straps locked them to her body, depriving her of movement. Two apertures
allowed her impressive breasts to emerge, the elasticized hoops at the base
making them swell taut and proud. The silver rings transfixing her nipples
sparkled in the sunlight pouring through the window. The crotch band bore a
slit at the front, permitting her clit ring to emerge into view as the rear bulged
with the push of the large dildo that filled her tracts. Each morning she was
given a long and deep enema to flush her out, allowing her to ride the massive
intruder perpetually.
The waist of her suit dropped several sturdy rubber suspenders that locked to
the hem of her stockings, the sheaths condemning her feet within paw shaped
shoes that were connected via a short chain to the base of the dildo. Whenever
she moved in her eternal crouch, the dildo rode against her.
The final part of her attire was a close fitting hood that ran over her head and
dropped into a high leather collar, the front bearing a name tag on a small chain
and her leash. The chain links swung up into the Warden’s hand, keeping the
girl under firm control as the small mouth slit allowed her to throw her tongue
out and into her owner. Snorting through her nostril vents, two buckles on her
cheeks were ready to grab the deep penis gag she was forced to perpetually
wear, the black shaft resting on the table for now, the saliva upon it slowly
drying in the warmth of the office.
Molded ears were pricked and alert on her head, and she peered through two
acute plastic eyepieces, her eyes glazed and near vacant from her ordeals under
the Warden’s hands. Despite her level of training, bondage and punishment still
formed a large part of her life.
Drinking the heady delights of the cunnilingus, the Warden caressed her own
breasts, feeling the stiff nipples as she luxuriated and listened to the soft
lapping sounds between her legs.
Lydia’s hideous trials with two of the most vicious women in the prison were
a necessary horror for the poor captive. The Warden knew she would not
break. Either Lydia was genuinely innocent, or was such a crafty operative that
there was no way the stringent ordeals that were constantly heaped upon her
would ever break her.
Lydia would have to be sent downstairs to be truly rendered truthful for sure.
None ever resisted after they had been sent into the lower levels. The Warden
was going to leave Lydia in the prison awhile longer though, soften her up a bit
more, let her be used and abused before the succulent fate of dispatch to below
the prison was inflicted.
She would of course come to love such a sentence, that after all was the point,
it was the very reason that confessions afterwards were so utterly flawless of
error. But hardship and strife would speed the process, make her more
malleable.
Tensing, Folter started to give into delicious orgasm, her loins rubbing against
the rubber smothered face of her pet, her hands clenching to the arms of the
chair as she dreamed of Lydia bound and helpless before her. The image of that
nubile woman weeping and torn by anguish was a tempting one, convincing
Folter that before she was sent to be broken, she would take one last
opportunity to interrogate the hapless girl.
Chapter Six
A bright metallic peal of ringing clatters began to ascend in volume as a guard
ran her baton along the bars, the steel xylophone awakening everyone with its
stuttering din.
Lydia came to, her body adorned with pearls of sweat, the heat of the day
already rising to make the tiny cell a box of withering heat. The very air was
saturated with moisture and raised to a temperature where the humidity could
be discerned in every breath, the fires warming the lungs.
The tropical climate had her dizzy and feeling weak, her skin tickling and
riven with flushes that crept along her spine. It was only morning and already
she was being cooked. What would she do when the midday sun had finished
lashing the walls of this communal oven? She had never been able to adapt to
heat, and had always loathed the coming of summer for this very reason. Yet
she had chosen to send herself to warmer climates for her vacation, but she
could handle idleness in the heat, the lazing around in the sun with cool drinks,
watching the world about her battle to work in the heat. It was toil she could
not face. Would she be called upon to perform chores or labor in this prison?
Or was she to simply lounge here in the insufferable hell, contemplating her
supposed crime, sweating out her guilt?
The guard passed her and failed to even grant a second glance to her position,
uncaring as to what the prisoners did to each other.
The two tyrannical criminals stretched and yawned, slipping from the crude
beds and removing the stiffness in their bodies before bothering to release the
enfeebled captive. Lydia crumpled into a lifeless heap, her frame deprived of
vigor and unable to support itself after its lengthy entrapment.
Sounds of locks being opened took up the path of ascending sound as the
guard charged with their awakening moved out of earshot and another opened
the doors and used no more than an intimidating aura to herd out the denizens
of this bleak penitentiary. Listening as they drew closer, Lydia tried to rise and
failed as her limbs suddenly gave out and she slipped back down. Again she
attempted, applying more effort, straining to defeat her intense lassitude and
get to her feet before the guard arrived, knowing that she would incur painful
wrath if she could not comply with the evacuation.
The rigid uniformed officer stepped out and slotted a key into the lock. There
was only one, not a bunch, indicating that one sole key opened everything
along this line. Already Lydia was pondering escape, and though her mind was
dulled from its straits, it was alert and sharp when offered clues that might
augment and facilitate her break out.
Turning the lock, the guard slid back the door and with a sharp jab from her
thumb indicated for them to leave. The two females skipped quickly in
response, leaving Lydia trailing, her legs shuffling. The sloth of her passage
inspired retribution and the baton sprang into the guard’s hand before
skimming into the backs of her legs. The crushing impact drove out all feeling
in favor of a nova burst of pain that crippled her balance and dropped her into a
crouch with a shout of shock. As she clasped the aching joints, a booted foot
shoved her shoulder, sending her sprawling forward onto her hands and knees,
the baton following in the wake of this push to batter her rump. Goaded
forward with a scampering flurry of limbs she sought to evade the continuing
abuse. With the inmate out of her range, the guard ceased her attack and moved
on to the other cells.
With a hateful scowl splashed across her visage, Lydia trembled with rage
and used the bars of the adjacent cell to help aid her rise before staggering in
pursuit of the others, keeping herself close to the walls for extra support and
balance. The stream of naked females were heading along the balcony and
down through the curling stories to the ground floor, where several guards
stood like adamant sentinels, ushering the flow of bare flesh into an open
portal.
Mindlessly following the meek flock, she pursued the several dozen captives
and entered a short corridor. The air was more heavily laden with water here,
the walls caked in mildew and mold, the fungi having thrived on the damp to
embellish the rotten paint as though they were furry jewels, making Lydia
reluctant to lean against them.
Suddenly the passage opened into a large chamber, the shower block a stark
and filthy affair. The large tiled room was divided in half by a wall with an
aperture at either end, the openings entering a slender corridor where rows of
overhead and wall mounted shower nozzles awaited to pelt the convicts with
water. Mildew and mold served to paint the cracks surrounding and weaving
crazily through the tiles a deep and furry black. The pipes dripped and were a
mass of dangling damp strands of paint, while a most disconcerting shuffling,
scuttling sound could be heard wafting up through the drains.
The herd of prisoners were driven forward and into the showers where hot
water suddenly erupted to scorch those too close to the source. Lydia leapt
away as her skin was seared, her body gently bumping another convict who
turned and shoved her angrily away, pushing her deep into the boiling flow.
The wet tiles conspired to make her slip and careering unsteadily through the
scorching rain she struck the occupant of another shower. With a hiss of
outrage and a mumbled insult in her native tongue, the woman lashed out,
driving a slap across Lydia’s face. The stinging blow span her head and
removed all balance, making her feet skid and her wet body slap to the ground.
A kick swept into her stomach, ripping the wind from her chest and leaving her
curled in a coughing ball, spluttering as the torrential downpour thundered onto
her.
There was a soft chuckle and she felt her wrists being snatched. Before she
could respond, her arms were pulled fully back and held as a knee sank into
her spine, the full weight of the attacker pining her down and making hot
suffering play within her torso as it was crushed to the slick tiles. With a cry
she tried to slip free, but no sooner had the first sounds slipped from her mouth
than a hand clamped across her lips, muting the sounds of distress as the
guttural conversation of the prisoner’s shared their plan and mocked her with
gleeful titters.
Her pumping legs were fastened down and she fought with all her depleted
strength to try and break free of the grappling holds. The wild brawl to cease
this bullying became all the more frantic when she felt her rear being touched,
and her look of shock and alarm screwed up into a shriveled yowl as a cake of
soap was shoved into her. The rounded orb made use of the lubricating waters
to slither in unopposed, the substance burning her insides, its presence
unexpectedly and intensely caustic.
While the fiendish heat of the intruder continued to spread through her
insides, she changed her tactics and applied all her determination into ejecting
the baleful object. Her muscles gradually excreted the searing block, only to
have it halted as it began to emerge by the application of a second that was
brutally crammed into her, pushing the first back in and giving it the company
of another.
Laughing merrily as though this was the most entertaining spectacle, the
attackers waved a third bar before her eyes and then handed it over to be
roughly driven in. Screaming into the smothering hand, the barbarous
introduction of yet more had her spasming hysterically in their grasp, the
violation and captivity leaving her in a tempest of indignation. How could this
be happening to her? Only a short time ago she was heading to Brazil for some
lazy days under the sun after her vacation in Florida. Now she was a prisoner
and had been demeaned, violated, tortured, all through a mere
misunderstanding and a lot of paranoia.
The guards barked the order for them to leave the showers and with a
heartless chuckle the women disdainfully deserted their holds and swiftly
marched out, leaving Lydia to force out the inserted soap bars, tears streaming
down her cheeks to become lost amongst the pounding waters. While each
lump rode through her sphincter she grimaced, the fiery passage of the
scathing orbs making the tender flesh light up with new waves of heat.
“Lo veo pero no lo creo!” spat one of the guards in a revolted murmur.
Snapping her gaze up, Lydia saw that the prisoners were all gone, leaving her
alone in the passage, desperately trying to eject her infernal companions.
Another guard stepped out and sneered in contempt as the other beamed with
amused fascination.
“Perverso sucio!” growled the nauseated guard before turning and indicating
for the water flow to be stemmed.
With a cranking grind the pipes protested and strove to accustom to the lack
of pressure, the metal shuddering before the waters slowed to a slight trickle
and then stopped. The echo of dripping dregs resounded through the acoustics
of the barren chamber, accentuating the ambient sense of dread as the last piece
of soap came away and was cast aside with a sickened and angered sweep.
Footsteps closed upon her and as two more jailers arrived, the guards moved
around, scrutinizing her while she remained on her knees, too intimidated to
dare risk rising.
“I didn’t do it, they did it to me,” she protested in a meek whisper.
“Don’t lie, you filthy degenerate. We’ve seen your kind before,” barked a
guard.
“And we know just how to deal with you,” added another.
“But I—”
Her words ascended into a shrieking pip of pain as she jerked forward, her
muscles flicking to attention when an electrical jolt blasted through her frame.
For a moment she simply lay upon the wet tiles, quivering, her body frail, the
unexpected deployment of a shock prod leaving her unable to respond. Gloved
hands grabbed her hair and used the strands as a terrible anchor with which to
haul her to her feet, her face scowling while she croaked and tried to reply
more aptly to the pain as sensation returned in slithering whispers.
The bright clatter of handcuffs drew her attention to her wrists and she
watched impotently as the metal shackles were used to affix her to a shower
pipe, her arms held high, her feet folded and draped flaccidly beneath her.
The confinement was not pleasant, but it became a mild thing when the
second part of it was installed. Her ankles were snatched, and in her physically
enfeebled form she could do nothing when they were towed up and a fresh set
of handcuffs used to affix them to a nozzle on the other side of the shower
corridor. Stretched between the two sides, the metal rims of the cuffs digging
in, she moaned in apathy. The showers sprang into hesitant half-life, their
meager flow serving to spit a slow dribble across her frame while remaining
insufficient to drench her amassed persecutors.
The throbbing agony in her extremities felt as though it were gnawing to the
very bone, but despite her begging protests and imploring requests to be set
free, the men and women ignored her.
After savoring her song of stress, one of them presented a rectangular black
device to her gaze. Through the veil of water that ran down her face she saw
the two prongs extending from the top, and as the side button was depressed,
crackling arcs of blue lightning played about and between the two conductive
antenna.
Lydia’s wail of despair was met with hearty laughs and the prod was turned
off before being lifted out of her field of vision.
Time seemed to dawdle while she panted and strained to listen in for some
clue as to where they would strike, her body stretched terribly and running
with conductive sheets.
Lydia prayed that they only be seeking to intimidate, that they not intend to
electrocute her, but when she heard the sizzling cackle of the prod sparking
into life, her hopes of mercy drifted away upon the cold hurricane winds of
reality.
The touch of the prod threw a wash of fire into her body, the single touch
succeeding in instantly filling her entire body, the current lavishly aided by the
receptive waters and the metal shower pipes that served to ground her. A wild
dance made her bounce upon her bonds, the shackles causing deeper bruises,
the pain of this contusion lost as every fiber of her form was assailed by a level
of excruciating horror beyond anything she had imagined possible. Hauling at
her bonds she sought only to evade the biting touch that pumped suffering into
her with gusto, sparing nothing in the assault of her nervous system.
The shock ended and she fell limp, the voltage having plundered her vitality,
leaving her a wheezing, drained wreck, a shell that could only unleash the odd
quiver in sympathy for the deceased current. She did not think it possible for a
body to sustain such agony without passing out, yet she was still conscious, a
trait she bitterly regretted and would have seen reversed in an instant.
As though it held her very essence, the return of the prod restored her
strength, the punishment making her squirm and shriek with all her previous
enthusiasm and when it stopped after an eternity of unendurable hell, she
dropped back into her role as an inanimate husk. She could not face anymore
of this, all she wanted was for them to stop, or her awareness of it to end, be it
from a faint, or from blessed demise, the ordeal leaving her careless as to
which.
The shock commenced again, repeating the abuse until her whole body was
alternating between a burning blazing purgatory of unimaginable harrowing,
and a pulsating shattered carcass that served only to echo the screaming
current, the faded chorus reverberating within her. On and on went this torture,
the straits of the impromptu punishment stretching time to an eternity, each
moment of recovery or application extending beyond calculation or endurance,
her dirge of woe sung to an accompaniment of pattering water and malevolent
laughter.
“That’ll do it I think,” said one of the guards.
“What shall we do with this foul little pervert now?” questioned another.
“I’ll take her back to her cell and meet the rest of you in the barracks,”
offered a male voice.
“See you soon, we’ll save you a seat,” came a cheery response, and the
guards began to withdraw.
The booted feet disappeared in volume until they finally vanished, and then
Lydia felt her knees being parted. Too weak to resist as she felt the truth of his
reason for staying, she could only hang between the cuffs, her head sagging
upon a loose neck, able only to stare at a glazed and blurred floor. Her hair
hung around her vision in damp strands while drips fell from her features and
plunged down into the puddles.
Gloved fingers traced a route into her belly, scouting ahead and revealing the
entrance he illicitly sought. The tip of his rigid member brushed against her
pubic hair, and with a few testing jabs, he found his goal and slowly inserted
himself, forcing an entry into her slack orifice. Lydia’s weak breath rose to a
soft groan, and her eyes clenched shut, her body recovering some small nugget
of power to respond to this violation. She tried to operate her body and haul
herself free, but her mind no longer held the reigns to her flesh, the electric
shocks had flung them from her grasp and it would take more than a few
minutes to recover them.
Hands closed upon her hips and the guard began his defilement with a soft,
casual rate, his grip strengthening in spasms as he reveled in the feel of the
dangling inmate loitering upon his eager penis. The waters had made the entry
far less painful than the other times, and the feel of a hard shaft riding deep
into her was a hesitant pleasure. With the anguish of her form, her body
responded to the soft joy with sudden enthusiasm, trying to counter the distress
with the relish of coitus. The warmth in her belly helped soothe her, and
swiftly she was offering small moans, the pounding throb in her body, her utter
defeat adding to her arousal, her libido biting onto her debasement and turning
it into an aphrodisiac.
“Tanto como piense,” announced a female voice, one that Lydia recalled as
being one of the guards that had supposedly left.
Instead of fleeing or seeking to cover up his crime, he continued, too close to
climax to stop now.
“Get lost, Rosalinda. This is nothing to do with you,” he barked through
clenched teeth.
“Quiero Solamente mirar el espectaculo,” she uttered meekly, the false air of
child like innocence a monstrous and radical lie.
“No! You can’t! Go away!” he panted.
In rejection of her words the woman walked closer, moving around to Lydia’s
face and closing a gloved hand into her hair.
“Rosie! Will you get out!” he ordered.
“Ssssh! Keep quiet or you’ll cause someone else to come before you do. Now
don’t worry, I’m not looking and I won’t tell,” advised the guard, switching to
English as she lifted up Lydia’s enfeebled features and put her lips to those of
the hapless prisoner, opening Lydia’s lips and stealing a kiss from them.
Unable to respond amorously due to her objection and denial of their rule, her
lack of reaction had the woman whisper into her ear.
“If you don’t do as I wish, I will leave you here until the next shower is due,”
she warned, and returned to the tender exchange, this time meeting Lydia’s
cold response, the fright and trepidation proving more exciting for the guard
than any genuine trace of passion.
Fingers brushed her nipples, tickling them and causing the tips to swell and
stiffen against the teasing flicks and strokes. The ability of the guard to change
from monstrous sadism to loving care was strange and disturbing, only
testifying to the validity of their capacity to do and act as they wished in this
domain.
The caresses melted the token reluctance and Lydia let her tongue emerge and
meet the woman’s, the two organs curling on each other as the kissed
wantonly. Panting with strain and lust, Lydia murmured and writhed on the
impaling sex that was still thrusting into her as a tongue ran the perimeter of
her mouth and then dove back in, the two of them exploring the depths of each
other’s maws. Their kiss was wet and slippery from the waters coating Lydia
and running down her face, the anguish of her bondage almost forgotten by her
raging prurience.
The male guard broke into a series of spasmodic twitches, his thrusts uneven
and corrupted by the blast of orgasmic fervor ripping into him. An injection of
warmth was set within her, the feel of him swelling with climax and filling her
causing Lydia to erupt with orgasm, sobbing into the woman’s smothering
mouth as she endured intense spires of pleasure. The man slowed and stopped,
pausing for a moment, his fingers tracing her supple body as it lay stretched
and demeaned before him before he chose to withdraw. The exit made Lydia
spasm wildly, a flash of ghost sensation ripping through her from his sudden
departure.
The officer stepped around to the other side to hide himself while the woman
continued with the kiss.
There was a soft click and a crackling growl from beneath her, the sound
chilling her soul with its familiarity. The kiss broke away and before she could
respond, the prod grazed her breast, making her shriek and cavort afresh within
her prison, plundering her remaining vitality and reducing her to a shuddering
dazed carcass.
The only reason she noticed her release was because of the stabbing pound of
the shackles leaving her welt encircled wrists and ankles, the metal having
painted itself a deep furrow of flushed purples and blues in which to reside.
The trauma had removed all sensation in her fingers, leaving them dead,
unable to move or do anything save remain limp and crooked.
Semiconscious, her senses wavering, her sight slipped into focus for a brief
moment and then dropped back into blurred haziness as she was dragged from
the waters, her skin testifying to being hauled across rough stone, the heat of
the tropical locale rapidly drying her insensible body.
The air seemed to cool and the light seemed to dim and as she dropped onto
blissfully chilled stone she stirred to find herself laying in a small barren
chamber, devoid of all furnishings, with sturdy rings set in floor and ceiling.
The brick room bore no windows and the only light that entered was pouring in
from the corridor without. A wooden chest lay in the corner, and at the foot of
one wall ran a row of equally spaced, small circular hatches with holes in the
center and weighty padlocks sealing them.
Without word or explanation the guards dragged her over to this area and
unfastened a lock. The hatch reluctantly parted at the center like the block of a
guillotine and exposed a thin dark pit, the bottom lost within the blackness.
Barely able to struggle against their designs, she was threaded feet first into the
slender tube, her body just fitting into the narrow confines, the pencil thin
prison trapping and compressing her tightly. Her forearms were lifted up
before her torso was entered so that she would not be able to lower them, the
length of her arms too long to negotiate the diameter of the prison and descend.
Seizing her head in a fixed grasp, they dropped her further, her entire frame
hanging from this hold as the metal slats were slipped back. The aperture shut
snugly about her neck, gripping her throat and holding her up as the modified
pillory was locked into position, leaving her trapped in a tiny cell, dangling by
her neck, unable to alleviate the stress of such suspension in any way. Her head
was free, but it was able only to peer only at the feature-free chamber. The
guards turned and marched from the cell, leaving her to the callous mercies of
isolation. They shut the solid door and complete and impenetrable darkness
was added to her sentence, removing a valued sense to disorientate and
bewilder the captive.
At first she was glad of the chance to rest. Even though her body was
shrouded in contusions that let their presence be felt with even the slightest
movement. Plus the drag at her neck from her cruel confinement made
breathing a chore, stretching her already tender frame abominably, yet she was
able to find a small sliver of comatose slumber.
Her iniquitous jailers had sealed her in here to keep the legacy of their actions
in the shower secret from their fellows, to stop her talking and perhaps
informing on them, but also they had removed her from the evil attentions of
her cellmates. The two twisted psycho lesbian sluts were firmly intent on
making every second of her incarceration a chapter in misery. Only by being
allocated punishment by the guards did she find reprieve and finding bondage
and abuse to seek refuge from the same was a strange paradox she could not
untangle.
Despite her initial amiable attitude to this discipline, after a period of furtive
repose the true measure of her ordeal began to manifest and grow with every
passing hour. The featureless void of her surroundings, the strangling
confinement, the isolation, all started to conspire and etch deep cuts into her
sanity. Delirium arose like a specter from a restless grave and played freely
with her mind. Shrieking for attention, trapped in an oblivion, lost and
terrified, Lydia voiced her distraught wails in vain.
Fighting against her bonds she pounded and clawed her hands to the metal
sheath in which she lay until the skin was raw and she was hoarse from her
pitiful keening lament.
The darkness was steadily devouring her with its blank, terrifying canvas, her
eyes finding no distinction between when they were open and when they were
closed. The sense of consuming exiled separation, the lack of any outside
stimuli save the strain of her incarceration and the pull at her throat, all of it
was eating at her mind, leaving her in a fit of panic and desperation. The all-
consuming need to escape from this hell began to fill every harried thought.
All desire to remain stalwart against this trial was useless, there was to be no
weathering of this hateful entrapment.
Time limped out of her ability to keep track of it, becoming forgotten and
camouflaged in the eternal monstrous night that was her sole existence. Days,
perhaps weeks were passing, and she could not recall what was real and what
was deranged conjuration, for many times she pictured her release, of being
fed, of drinking a cup of cool, crystal water, of being free to stretch and move
without impediment. The realization that they were but illusions left her
weeping in frustration once the fanciful truth was snatched from her.
Starvation gave her a pitiless and pernicious companion who conversed with
her through the growling murmurs of her belly and the withering ache in her
limbs, the language plain and easily understood. The gnawing drought of her
throat began to leave her parched, unable to swallow, her lips dry, her throat
barren.
Several times she gathered a memoryhat bore greater clarity than the others,
the figments so strong that they may have actually been true. The image of a
guard was always corrupted, the light sheathing it from the corridor making the
overseer appear almost angelic, or when the shadows caught her face they
reduced her to a sinister demonic beast. The amounts she was given seemed
meager and sparse, maintaining her life, but doing nothing to replenish her
strength or beat back the ghosts of starvation.
Chapter Seven
After what seemed like years of purgatory, she was enduring another episode
of feeding, the sensation of a waterfall of icy nectar pouring down her gullet
making her quiver in rapture. The amount increased, the waters stinging her
desiccated lips, reviving her, bringing the person feeding her to increasing
clarity until she detected that this was a true form and not a being pieced
together by her fractured reason.
The need to beg for her release could not be fulfilled, the influx of water and
her body’s desire to guzzle it preventing her from addressing her captor. The
flow increased beyond her capacity to ingest and as excess began to trickle
over her lips, running down her body, she tried to raise her hands and protect
herself, the influx starting to clog her nose, staining her breath with flecks as
she tried to avoid the deluge.
The act of mercy that was her feeding had become an ordeal, the drowning
driving her into paroxysms. Pummeling the prison, spinning, trying to escape,
the guard giggled as she continued to assail the trapped head with a dogged
stream. Lydia spluttered and spat, seeking to open a clear path to a decent
inhale. The flow ended and she was reduced to coughing fits while she
recovered from the attack, the guard setting aside the pitcher and rising.
Straightening her jacket with a tug to the hem the woman looked down and
presented her toe to the head on the floor, her footwear a set of jackboots with
a stiletto heel.
“Lick my boots,” she demanded, pushing the gloss tip to Lydia’s cracked lips,
but she was still crippled by her lengthy stay in the pit, the waters having
refreshed only to have the smothering cascade steal all that had been imparted.
A leather palm slapped her cheek, drawing her attention while the command
was repeated.
Her tongue lolled weakly from her mouth, the tip grazing the toe, her
contorted pose unable to properly attend the task desired of her.
“Pathetic!” grumbled the guard, and lodged the toe under the trapped chin,
lifting it up as she leaned in to put an elbow across her knee and scrutinize the
prisoner.
“I think its time for a change of position. Would you like that?”
Lydia gave a flimsy nod, the pressure under her chin escalating, her thoughts
assuming the guard meant to release her.
Dark sheathed digits began to unlock her prison, opening the jaws to a slight
degree. Before she could fall, the guard snatched her throat and hauled her out,
dropping her lifeless frame to the floor. Instantly she began to sag, her body
having wasted from its denied use. The guard left her in this tangled heap and
proceeded to the chest, wherein she began to prepare the new locale for Lydia’s
restraint, the offer of freedom denied and a change in the nature of her solitary
confinement promised.
Laying upon the floor, she looked at her wrists, the injuries now reduced to a
mere discolored line of skin, the extent of her recovery testifying just how long
she had been incarcerated in this segregated domain.
The polished boots of the guard stepped before her gaze, the gleaming fabric
glittering like jet.
“Lick them,” came the terse demand, and a toe edged forward within her
reach.
The straits of her seclusion had left her thoughts scrambled, her mind
functioning slowly, and it was this delay in responding to the villain’s wishes
that prompted a sudden flurry of truculent slashes into Lydia’s exposed back.
The slender cane fell from a great height with the added ferocity of frenzied
exertion behind it, making the illustrations of pain it carved into her flesh all
the more deep and agonizing. The blows made her yelp and jolt, unable to
forge her own evasion of the attack because of her feeble state. At least a
dozen were deposited before a respite was granted, and so as to repeat the
objective the guard pushed the toe of her boot to the grizzling wretch’s lips.
“Worship my boots you maggot, or I’ll beat you senseless before I tie you
up.”
Defeated and desperate, she opened her dry lips a little and let her tongue fall
from slack jaws, running the shaking organ across the smooth plains of the
footwear, the humiliation tearing at her with notched blades.
“That’s it, keep going, you know you love it,” crooned the tyrant, turning her
foot slightly to expose fresh zones to Lydia’s slobbering attentions. “Don’t rush
it, and do a good job or I’ll make suffer, worm.”
Her devotions left the foot and began to circle the upper reaches of the tall
boot, the wearer grinning broadly, totally enthralled by this act of degradation.
There was a hiss of air parting on a thin strip, and a bolt of fiery torment was
laid into her flank, the blow making Lydia jerk and release a croak as she
stopped in her task. Wondering what she had done wrong she screwed up her
face and waited for the pulsating heat of the injury to subside to less vibrant
peaks.
“Just to make sure you’re keeping your mind on your job,” purred the guard,
and viciously applied another overhead lash, this one goading Lydia back into
her allotted task with increased speed. “After all, I don’t want your thoughts
wandering, I want them fixated on doing this right.”
Lydia used her aching limbs to rise into a crooked squat, fighting to keep
herself elevated so she could finish the top of the boot before moving herself
back into the infinitely less taxing position of a sprawled pile.
“All done?” asked the guard.
Lydia nodded sedately, her eyes held low in humbled fury.
“You are sure? If there is a single mark…” warned the woman, granting her
opportunity to question her work and fear that she had missed something.
“Very well, start on the other one then.”
The second boot was moved forth for her to attend, and shuffling forward
Lydia repeated her toil in the same manner, slowly coating the saliva-slickened
panes with a lapping vigor to remove any smudge or mark that might exist.
Without any real care or enthusiasm for her task she finished quickly and
backed away, deeming herself debased enough.
“Finished already? My that was quick, your tongue just flew across that boot.
You must really enjoy this work,” announced the woman and then stepped
back, looking over her footwear in the light, examining Lydia’s efforts, and
suddenly her rampant smirk of glee dropped into a frowning scowl that had
Lydia quailing in fright.
“But that does not excuse the fact that there is a giant smudge on my right
toe,” she growled, and stepped towards Lydia with menace in mind, her body
rigid and tensed, making Lydia cower away.
“Do you see the smudge?” she spat, and pushed the tip of her sole onto
Lydia’s face, forcing her head to the ground and then squashing it underfoot
while she applied more of her body weight to the limb.
“See the smudge!” she repeated with asperity, slipping the boot away and
jabbing it into Lydia’s features, the light kicks feeling akin to heavy-handed
slaps. The chastisement made her fight to back away, only to have her abuser
follow and continue the attack until she had been backed to a wall. The boot
moved up and pinned her to the stone, the heel digging in and readying to
pierce her breast while Lydia gurgled and scowled.
“I told you to take care! I warned you! I gave you a second chance, so instead
you insult me with your botched efforts and lack of proper respect,” the
woman said with rigor, closing her gloved hands about either end of the cane
and flexing the supple rod in her grasp. Tightly clenching her jaw, she spoke
again through bared teeth, the severity in her voice making Lydia burble her
pleas and apologies.
“Well I’ll teach you respect, worm. I’ll teach you not to insult me with your
lazy ways.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll do a proper job, just give me a chance, I couldn’t see, it was
dark, I’m exhausted, I can’t think straight, pl—”
Lydia barely saw the stroke fall because it came so quickly, the woman
hacking into her with such lightning speed that the assault was reduced to a
blur of movement and the sudden white heat of her form being torn into by
sanguinary blows. The cane whistled through the air, the dull thwack of it
slamming to her flesh filling her ears, her screams saturating the air with its
hellish din of suffering. She bucked and tried to cover herself as she remained
anchored to the wall, but the guard simply assailed whatever bare flesh she
could find, distributing the horrendous impacts across the entire arena of
Lydia’s frame. Her arms pawed with frailty at the boot trapping her, her
fingertips brushing the rigid leather and the smooth Lycra, the flesh beneath
taut from its applied pressure.
The guard savored the feel of the inmate’s vain struggles, drawing delight
from the vision of her dominance over the prisoner and stepping suddenly back
she let Lydia try and find shelter. In the shuffling gait of a crippled invertebrate
Lydia ambulated to try and escape the torrential downpour of vindictive
bamboo, slithering until she was herded into a corner and trapped. Curling into
a wailing, sobbing ball, she covered her face, pressed her cheek to the stone
and shrieked constantly until the woman ceased the stinging amerce.
Panting from her satisfying exertions, the guard loomed over the weeping
wreck and looked over the zebra-stripped flesh quivering beneath her, perusing
the portrait of ghastly physical correction she had so hastily and zealously
sketched.
“Now, what are we to do about this smudge?”
Lydia groaned inwardly with despair, the confirmation that this horrendous
little play was to continue filling her with worry.
“Suck the toe,” came the abrupt command.
Rather than inspire further capricious abuse simply to get her to comply,
Lydia removed herself from her corner and flopped outward and onto the floor,
her bruised and battered flesh giving her flashes of discomfort as her flushed
hide was moved.
Extending her tongue, she tried to find the evidence of her supposed crime
and rectify her oversight, wondering if perhaps the entire thing had been
conjured simply to make her a viable victim for the jailer’s brutal remedy.
The cane chanted its dull tune upon the air and bit into her thigh, freezing
Lydia with the eruption of heat in the tenderized skin.
“Don’t lick them, I said to suck. It’s too late by far to simply redo your work,
so don’t compound your error with disobedience!”
Another blow swung down and crossed the site of the previous, elevating the
effects of the merciless swipe by vast degrees.
“Listen to what I say or I’ll really make you suffer. Now, what did I say?”
growled the woman.
Riding out the greatest peaks of ferocity from the beating, Lydia swallowed
and over quavering lips mumbled the initial command.
“To suck the toe of your boot, Mistress.”
“Speak up, wretch,” snapped the guard, and threw a skimming flick across
Lydia’s rump, making the flesh jiggle and Lydia to repeat her words with
strained volume.
“To suck on the toe of your boot, Mistress!”
“Good, so do what I say!” she said, and added another cut of the cane to
banish all levity from her words.
Putting her mouth to the tip, Lydia swallowed as much of the toe as possible,
and then rolled her tongue across the sheathed tip, her mouth dry from her
scourging and unable to fully coat the entire thing as was presumably required.
In the back of her mind arose a debauched presence. At first she thought
herself still delirious, but as she suckled on the toe, her body whipped into
submission to the imperious guard, she began to give into a wicked sense of
lascivious relish.
The boot slipped from her maw and stepped back, leaving Lydia to close her
eyes and weather the storm of residual pains coursing through her harried
frame and mull over the flavor of the boot.
“Put your wrists up to your neck,” ordered the guard, causing Lydia to obey
without even a conscious thought, her instant compliance now becoming
second nature, her body responding to avoid wounding before her mind
decreed otherwise in the interests of preserving something as obsolete as
dignity.
Rope encircled her throat, looping around the neck and wrists, squeezing
them into a single tight bundle where any attempt to struggle or draw her hands
free only made the coils squeeze.
“Now roll onto your belly and open your legs.”
Again, her obedience was performed with perfunctory haste, her will to resist
a shattered icon. The parting of her legs, of opening herself to attention for the
will of the officer grabbed the reigns of her masochism and pulled on them,
escalating her dissolute satisfaction in this act. She was going to be bound
again, made to suffer, yet rather than resenting it she was finding a faint sense
of eagerness to experience it afresh. In the moments of her release, the memory
of her cruel containment in the tube had metamorphosed. When it was
happening she loathed it with every particle of her being, but now she would
have actually petitioned a return if she were not so looking forward to another
variant.
“Wider!” barked the guard, and applied a lick of encouragement to make
Lydia splay her limbs to a degree where the ligaments and muscles ached.
The toe of the offending boot brushed the cleft between her legs and was
suddenly trying to force an entry. Snapping her legs back, her buttocks grabbed
the invading toe, denying easy access. A truculent wrench tore free the boot,
the fabric clinging to the skin and ripping away to make her air a pip of high-
pitched pain.
“Again you disobey,” growled the officer, stamping her boot onto Lydia’s
offending rear, the heel nearly punching through the soft skin.
“I said get those legs wide!” she spat, and started to flog the erroneous limbs
with sharp searing blows.
Lydia squealed and threw them open, the tensed muscles receiving pitiless
devotion from the pliant stave.
“Wider!” roared the woman, increasing the impetus of her strokes.
Striving to increase the gap, Lydia forced herself to strain onward, her
ligaments tearing from their overexertion.
“Wider you pathetic slut, or I’ll nail your rear to the floor with my heel,” she
said, driving the spike deeper, forcing the skin into a large flushed crater,
promising far harsher results if she did not conform.
Fighting onward, Lydia continued to cry out even when the beating abruptly
ended, the strain within her legs driving her mad.
“Good, now stay like that.”
After a short pause to ensure Lydia was maintaining the correct position, the
guard returned and started to nudge her toe into the splayed cleft. The near dry
leather dragging her skin, the lack of lubrication making the forced attempt
pull at her tender orifice and have her yelp and shudder, frantically trying to
keep the required pose.
“This is your own fault, I told you to suck the toe, and if you had done it
properly, this would be sliding in easily enough. But no, you disobey again,
and so you suffer for your own idleness,” absently muttered the guard, seeking
entry with her foot, making the targeted sphincter burn and ache as the wide
intruder fought for access.
Gasping and panting, Lydia strove to endure, her pains being held at bay by
her fear of irking her jailer even more.
“Do you like being fucked by my boot?” asked the woman, the question
seeming an innocent enough one, but Lydia knew it was but a cloak to trick her
into yet more torture.
“Yes, Mistress, yes I do,” she strained through clenched teeth, a particularly
virulent shove gaining the boot another few millimeters of entry.
“You don’t sound like it! Maybe I should force the entire thing in if this isn’t
stimulating you enough?” warned the sadistic guard, darting her semi-
immersed foot forward to make Lydia scream as she was almost torn open by
the battering ram attack.
Surely the woman could not attempt something so heinous. It was physically
impossible and would mutilate her terribly, perhaps even prove fatal. But no
rules or law governed these austere villains, they had complete autonomy and
could kill or maim at their own discretion, their gross deeds bound only by
their individual and apparently absent conscience and infinite capacity for
atrocity.
Heedless of the base and embarrassing spectacle she might make of herself,
Lydia took a deep breath of courage and began her act, straining to compensate
for the pain of her violation while she tried to give a convincing performance
of ecstatic delight. Writhing upon the impaling boot she groaned and grunted
like a whore, desperate to forestall anymore horror, trying to conjure the
illusion of finding this havoc the most intense bliss she had ever known.
“That’s better, but you still seem a little unfulfilled, perhaps I should give you
the entire thing just to be sure,” muttered the guard, throwing Lydia into
calamity, and causing her to merge herself into the part with even more
desperate devotion, cavorting upon the boot in orgasmic merriment. The fear
brushed her dark desire and stirred it once more, the forced act actually making
her start to revel in the forced play. Made to demean herself by riding this boot,
she felt a strange sense of enjoyment, and her performance became all the
more convincing because of it.
“You want me to stop?” asked the guard, the ploy so transparent that Lydia
knew instantly that it was a ruse to expose her fake enthusiasm for this
violation.
“No, no. Don’t stop, please. Carry on, I beg of you. Give it to me. Fuck me,
fuck me please,” she groaned, the words bringing sickened bile to her throat,
but even as she professed her hatred of this action, the hidden facet behind her
conscious thoughts made the expressed words ring with a hint of truth.
The guard laughed merrily, making Lydia burn with shame as she continued,
the woman continuing to ride her boot into her, turning it to make the display
of rhapsody even harder to maintain. Pushing Lydia’s skill at bogus reactions
to the very limit, tears of suffering and derogation flowed from her tightly shut
eyes.
With an angry twist the boot was torn free, deserting Lydia as a prostrate
emotional and physical mess.
“That’s enough of that. My boot is clean at last, and seeing as you love this so
much, I’ll have to come back sometime and carry on,” giggled the guard,
examining her foot with a wicked grin. “Now come over here,” ordered the
guard, making Lydia crawl on her knees to the center of the room before
wandering over to the chest and returning with a length of rope and a set of
leather manacles and fetters.
The thick bands of polished hide were buckled about her wrists and ankles,
and then padlocked before the D rings were lifted up to stand exposed and
proud, ready to accept their full restraints. Casting the length of rope through a
ring in the ceiling, the woman formed a hangman’s noose with alarmingly
practiced ease and slipped the hoop over Lydia’s neck, closing it solely about
her throat and carefully avoiding snagging the snared hands.
“Kneel up straight,” she commanded, and took in the slack before untying her
hands and removing the previous loop that had laid about her neck and wrists.
Snatching the freed limbs, she lifted them high over Lydia’s head, making her
stretch them as high as she could and then pulling on them to gain those extra
few centimeters Lydia could not comfortably achieve. Slipping the other end of
the rope through the awaiting D rings, she hauled even tighter, the other end of
the coil tightening about her throat, revealing that any pulling or even sagging
of her arms would now start to strangle her. A swift knot sealed the ropes and
she hung impotently as the woman fetched a pair of monstrous clamps.
The clover clamps sparkled like diamonds in the light, their round jaws a
dense array of small rubber spines. Lydia closed her eyes in dreary angst when
she saw them, the guard snapping them in front of her eyes before clipping
them to her nipples. Lydia gritted her teeth and mewled as her teats were
compressed, her breasts shuddering from the effects.
With an additional hiss and murmur of response she quivered as they had thin
cord applied to their rears and then flung over the opposite shoulder so she
could not slough them off. The pulls to the cord made the clamps bite all the
harder, elevating the churning heat in the tips of her cleavage, the morsels of
flesh pounding with an icy fire. Her ankles were lifted up until they touched
the tops of her thighs and their rings readily accepted the cord, which was
knotted sternly into place.
Lydia whimpered in alarm as she became aware of what her position was to
do to her. She was balanced precariously on her kneecaps, and any sway would
cause her to hang herself, for any pull to maintain balance would cause the
noose to squeeze tighter. Any attempt to lower her legs, or even relax them
from their enforced position would now drag at her nipples and elevate the
already insufferable bite of the clamps.
“Well I had best get back to my duties. Let this teach you to not trifle with us,
you little foot-screwing slut, and maybe I’ll be back in a few days to set your
free,” announced the woman.
Swaying unsteadily, Lydia’s wavering balance caused her to sink forward and
prompt a pull with her arms to straighten herself once more, a pull that made
the noose shrink drastically and severely curtail her breath until she was once
more stable. Quickly working the rope a little looser with careful twisting and
shaking of her head she eased the restriction on her respiration. By the time she
had regained her posture, the door was slamming shut, plunging her into
blackness once more. She called out in desperation, trying to move, the shift of
her legs making her squeak in shock and jolt them back upright as her nipples
bellowed their pain. It was a violent reaction that afflicted her scant
equilibrium once more, re-instigating the struggle to defeat the strangling rope
and regain the neutral stance that was the least painful of them all.
Weeping in the blackness, she started to scream into the void, bellowing for
aid until the theft of her voice was committed by a contracting noose.
The blackest frustration and monstrous fury possessed her, the total inability
to affect her predicament in any way was driving her insane with furor, her
reason slithering away as she hung trapped and helpless. The slightest
movement almost killed her, every second of this inferno a surging desperate
battle to stay alive. Yet she had not the courage to end it. Several times she
gave up on her situation and tried to cripple her balance to a degree where she
would perish before her survival instincts regained her posture. But all these
sessions served to do were make her suffer even more, for the bondage
permitted easy restoration. No matter how vigorously she tried, she could not
think of a suicide for herself that was painless enough to go through with all
the way, and this added yet more grief and repressed bitterness to her
nightmare captivity.
The delirium returned like a relentless nemesis, this arch-villain of her psyche
embracing her with its loving shroud and making her wretched misery all the
more eerie and acute, offering her dreams of freedom or release and then
snatching them away.
Lost in the depths of oblivion and pure woe, she hung upon her bonds for the
centuries time dawdled into, extending like elastic, the pain and harrowing
hauling time further and further out, making the misery rise until she was
drowning in an ocean of its sewage.
If only she could be rescued, to be drawn from this prison and restored to
freedom. But there were few people to care about her fate. She had no true
friends, no relatives left to be concerned, even her employer would simply
write her off as a dissatisfied soul who never bothered coming back. Her
landlord was a greedy sleaze whom she suspected of having accessed her
bedsit and pawed through her possessions. With her overdue rent rising beyond
natural levels, he would obviously weigh the reporting of her missing against
the recuperation of the debt through the sale of her luxuries, and the
confiscation of her effects for personal use. She could spend the rest of her
days locked within this loathsome and unscrupulous dominion and never be
missed.
Within the sticky folds of her wild dream state, she felt hands touch her. The
reality of the event slowly slithered to the forefront of her mind as the
sensation grew more acute and continued for far longer than her usual mental
conjurations.
Cool leather gloves were massaging her breasts, the fingers working around
the clamps, slowly clenching and releasing the soft flesh while she whimpered
and gasped, a flicker of pleasure in the gentle caress contrasting radically to the
numb pounding ache that ate through her frame.
The hands began to wander in ever wider and meandering routes, following
her bound contours, reveling in the feel of her helplessness, her raised arms
letting him run his fingers along her pronounced ribs and then across the taut
zone of her abdomen.
“Do you want to be set free?” asked a deep male voice, the heavy accent
betraying the origin of her partner.
“Yes, yes, for God’s sake set me free, I’m loosing my mind,” she mumbled,
her dry lips and parched throat corrupting her words.
“Tell me you want me,” he whispered softly in her ear, his hands reaching
down to her sex, stroking across her vulva, combing her pubic hair through
rigid digits.
Lydia shivered from the sudden fierce pleasure of his stroking touch, yet to
actively solicit intercourse just to be set free? It was akin to prostitution, but
such morality was annihilated in a split second when faced against the horror
of her confinement.
“Make love to me,” she muttered, his hot breath issuing onto the back of her
neck in swift pants.
Silence greeted her petition, making her wonder whether he had reconsidered.
She repeated her request with greater earnest, trying to fill the hollow words
with a libidinous purr.
“Please, make love to me. I need you.”
The fingers slipped into her belly, exploring her as his arms folded around
her, probing her sex as she shuddered in his scissors grip, her wavering body
causing more strain to afflict her throat. Swallowing with difficulty, she
unleashed a soft groan of rapture, his hand swirling his fingers upon her
clitoris. Closing her eyes, she let herself be supported against his body, her
breasts pulsating with their crushed bite, her belly becoming alive with lust.
The sound of moisture as his digits worked arose and suddenly the fingers
withdrew.
A metallic rattle of a zip lowering issued over the heady pant of her breath,
and she felt the tip of his shaft brush her pussy. Her raised feet were parted
slightly, elevating the drag at the cords and causing the virulent effects of the
clamps to increase in a sudden jumping bound. His hands took hold of her
buttocks, the flesh rigid with trepidation and the strain of maintaining this
demeaning verticality.
“Relax,” he demanded, but she was having too much difficulty in keeping
upright to comply just yet.
“Relax or I’ll leave you here,” he added, and with a firm hand he opened the
barring flesh, the deployed might exacting a brief note of tearing shock. The
sound of her distress became a choking gasp, his length reaching forward and
plunging up into her, hauling her orifice open as he dove deep before slowly
withdrawing and then repeating his jabbing dive. Lydia choked with delight at
the feel of his attention, wriggling in her bonds as she surrendered herself to
the pleasure of bound intercourse.
Having stolen enough lubrication, he moved back and kissed her sphincter
with his length before driving in again, parting the tender opening and rolling
himself through her rectum. The shock of initial entry faded into relish once
more, the warm glide of him into her rear a delightful experience after all her
dismal confinement.
The lethargic withdrawal was accentuated by the rending thrust of his entry,
the motion causing her sphincter to light up with friction wrought heat, the
tender skin clinging to his shaft, elevating the strain of his ravishment.
The hands of the guard returned to massaging her buttocks, skipping up on
occasion to paw at her assets, the movement of the flesh making the havoc of
the clamps increase in short bites. But at least his grip helped keep her steady,
for his pounding thrusts kept forcing her back and forth and cause the restraint
at her neck to constrict her breath.
“Does this feel good?” he uttered on ragged breaths as his pleasure grew ever
more potent.
“Yes,” she croaked, feeling him accelerating towards climax, the trespass of
his rigid shaft causing her to quake with stolen pleasure.
“Do you want me to play with your clamps?” he continued, adding the
knowledge that should she decline, he might use it as justification to withdraw
from his promise of granting freedom. Was he obliged to set her free? Was her
sentence up? If so, her ordeal was fictitious, simply a ruse to gain her
compliance. But if she resisted, would he not just concoct some lie to justify
the reinstallation of her sentence?
Obedience was her only salvation, as it was in the prison in general. If her
sentence continued at such a tyrannical pace, she would have to spend her time
a whimpering servile automaton just to try and alleviate her torment and
preserve her sanity from the full wrath of her harrowing sessions.
“Yes, do it for me, I need to feel them,” she murmured, worried as to how the
manipulation of the implements would affect her.
With a dark chuckle he began to flick and turn the cruel toys, making her teats
stab with new riots of discomfort, banishing the numbness the compression
had imparted. Spasming in his grasp, gasping and trying to keep her spluttering
squeaks in the realms that could permit them to pass as pleasurable responses,
she endured his spiteful play.
Suddenly he snatched them and began to apply a steadily ascending pull,
making her grit her teeth and struggle to keep her screams buried in her lungs,
but as he neared fulfillment of his quest, the pangs he was inflicting continued
to spiral. Her wail rose in her throat, being fed with every new centimeter he
pulled, the guard dragging her nipples up in the pinch as her face reddened
with the battle to remain stalwart.
A quick jerk of his hand when she felt a splash of warmth inject into her rear
had Lydia throwing open her teeth and venting her piercing holler. Shuddering
jabs of his sex continued, increasing the distinct feeling of his seed within her
as more was deposited. The grip on her clamps suddenly let go, letting her fall
slack within her bonds, the hold on her neck keeping her upright as the
stabbing flashes in her hide started to gradually subside. Gliding free, he
moved back and stepped away from her.
With beads of sweat winding paths down her face, she listened to the silence
and started to feel concern when no hands touched her restraints.
“Can I be set free now?” she petitioned earnestly.
Footsteps sounded and the guard walked before her, towering over her, his
form revealed only in subtle hints from the meager light slipping in through the
partially open door.
“Kiss me first,” he smirked, lowering down and lifting her chin with his hand,
presenting her lips to his.
The guard opened her mouth with a probing tongue and sought to kindle a
reaction from her. It was a difficult intimacy to reciprocate, but Lydia could
only think of her freedom and forced herself into using her tongue as an
instrument for his pleasure. Slithering upon each other, she exchanged a long
and deep kiss with the guard, letting him cup the nape of her neck as he drew
her deeper. His other hand moved back to her body, fully appraising himself of
her body as though to remind his closed gaze of her pleasing and salacious
visage.
Drawing his lips back, he smiled with an evil grin, his teeth winking in the
feeble light.
“No,” he stated flatly, and laughed as her face dissolved into a mask of
incensed dread.
“But, but you promised,” she begged.
“Did I?”
“Please set me free, I’ve done as you ask, I’ll do it again, just tell me what to
do,” she burbled, frantic to find exit from the web of torment.
“No, you were not as entertaining as I hoped. So I think I shall leave you
here,” he pronounced, and turned to depart.
“Bastard! Bastard!” she yelled, her voice saturated with rancor as she fought
against her uncompromising bonds, striving to break free with all her might.
“Be silent!” he snapped, and suddenly a crop whistled and etched an
illustration of contused fire into her rear.
Lydia’s curses evolved into a howl, a signal of her manifested pain that
repeated thrice more as he applied the crop to her with added savagery,
chastising her for her verbal crime. Her kicking legs tore at her teats, the
mission of her arms to drop and protect her causing the noose to choke her
yelps.
“Stop! Stop! I’m sorry!” she cried out as he continued to ravage her thighs
and rear with the stout fiberglass stick, the leather hoop clapping as the shaft
sent ripples through her flesh and left angry mauve stripes.
The lambasting ceased suddenly.
“Have you anything else to say?” he said with irked tones.
“No! No! I apologize, I didn’t mean it. Just stop, no more,” she blurted,
hanging heavily by her collar of woven rope, the close clinch making her voice
deep and croaking.
Another hack drew a line across the rounded aching cheeks of her rear.
“Stop!” she screamed. “I’m begging you, show pity, I haven’t done anything
wrong!”
The shrill smack of the rod against her skin echoed and drew out another
wail, dragging Lydia into a sobbing fit where she incoherently groveled,
unable to tolerate any more, whimpering pathetically, all dignity lost, the goal
of stopping the beating paramount. The words found reception and no more
blows came, though it was probably due to an amused sense of attainment as
opposed to pity.
“I shall leave you here for now, and I hope the renewal of your sentence helps
soothe that disposition of yours. If it does not, I shall whip that attitude out of
you, understand!” he stated.
Lydia closed her eyes, the truth of being kept here in this awful confinement
rolling through her psyche.
“I asked a question!” he shouted, and applied another hot lick.
“Yes! Yes! I understand! I’ll do better! I swear it!” she sobbed, tears rolling
down her cheeks at the tragedy of her lot.
“You had better do, the other guards are not as lenient as I,” he professed, and
with a leisurely, satisfied stride, he left her in darkness as the door slammed
shut and was locked.
Lost once more to her tumultuous storms of insanity, she felt the residue of
his attention leaking from her as the far more distinct presence of his blows
continued to keep her rear and legs aglow with the welts he had used to
discipline her for her outburst.
Chapter Eight
When the door finally opened, making her shrink against the harsh wall of
dazzling illumination, she thought herself dreaming again, and it was only
when the bonds and restraints were taken away did she dare believe her release
had finally come.
Lydia was overjoyed, her glorious thanks to her saviors editing the fact that it
was they who had been responsible for it. Her smile of gratitude vanished
however when the clamps were removed, the sudden influx of feeling into the
long compressed teats making them explode with bursts that had her filling the
entire room with a reverberating yowl.
The guards dragged her forward and dropped her to the floor, the promise of
freedom and the awful concept of being returned to her cell with the villainous
females being dispelled as one of them pushed the door shut and flicked on a
small torch.
The male guard sat down before her, closing a fist into her hair and drawing
her forward on hands and knees until his back was to the wall. The woman
stepped to Lydia’s side and put a boot onto her spine, pinning her down into a
compacted ball, her legs folded beneath her, the pressure of the heel in her
back gaining her full and immediate attention.
“Before we take you out of here, you will perform for us. If you do not do
well, we will simply restore you to the arms of your allotted discipline. Do you
understand?”
“Yes,” Lydia affirmed weakly.
“What was that?” the woman snapped, digging the heel in after the prisoner’s
response was deemed too quiet to hear.
“Yes! Yes, Mistress,” she shouted, the flare of discomfort magnifying her
efforts.
“Excellent. Now keep still and do as you are told. I am going to punish you,
and you in turn will use that treasonous mouth of yours to pleasure my partner
there for as long as he wishes. Now get to it!”
A hot rectangle was bored into her buttocks, a heavy strap having been
applied with potency, the encouraging shock making her squeal. From her
lowly position her hands instantly slipped forward and grabbed the man’s
zipper, tugging it down as she reached hesitantly in. For a moment she
vacillated her hindquarters upon feeling the bulging coiled phallus within, but
another harsh stripe from the woman settled her decision and she hauled it out,
working mostly by touch. The darkness of the room was thankfully coating the
scene in anonymous depths, the torch fixating upon her quivering, targeted rear
as the female sought to see her work in all its glory while she continued to
paint the pale canvas with angry flashes of flushed pink.
Swallowing up the length, Lydia closed her lips to it and began to rock her
head, her movements and rhythm being broken whenever the weighty strap
was laid sharply to her flesh. She wanted to try and cover herself, but she knew
the price of perfidy. Steeling her mind to the task, she endured the jolts of pain
and continued to perform the demanded fellatio, his sex sinking deep into her
mouth as she continued for his pleasure. The sense of abiding delectation in
her was growing more distinct as the woman continued to force her onwards,
Lydia’s lips riding upon the man, his grumbling hums of pleasure a wonderful
song to her ears.
Under the arousing attention of the harried inmate, it was not long before he
stiffened and shot a measure of warm viscous residue into her palate, the salty
tang pervading across her taste buds as more was deposited with her
continuing motions. With a sensual hunger, Lydia’s mouth extracted all he had
to offer, but with hints of her rebellion still fighting against her submission she
let it remain in her maw until she could spit it out.
“Swallow it!” hissed the woman, adding a particularly nasty strike into
Lydia’s inner thigh as she saw her partner exhibit the telltale signs of his
fulfillment.
Closing her eyes for strength, she gathered the thick reservoir and gulped, the
shot of semen rolling down her gullet with lethargy, her belly tensing and
squirming with demeaned rapture.
“Clean him,” she ordered, adding a further taste of the strap to have Lydia
flap her tongue around his shaft, the slurping and sucking noises filling the
gaps of silence where the strap was poised for attack. With a quivering sense of
joy she completed her task, and the guard arose from his seat before stepping
back, dusting off his trousers and accepting the strap from his comrade. To
Lydia’s acute dole and hidden jubilation, the woman took the man’s place,
hauling down her tight leggings and slotting the shivering head of Lydia
between the gathered folds and her exposed pussy.
“You know what to do, so get on with it,” stated the man, and added a heavy-
handed attack, the strap being used to punish the already well-warmed regions.
The greater strength of the male caused far more pain, more than she thought
she could stand, but with the possibility of a return to bondage still looming,
she found resolve enough to stand against it.
Lowering her face into the shaven sex, Lydia flitted her tongue to the
woman’s clitoris, taking long lingering explorations with her tongue and
concentrating upon this exposed bud. The female shuddered and gasped under
Lydia’s pandering. Her companion continued to punish her with a savoring
intensity until the woman was croaking in rapture, extracting all the delight she
wished before pushing Lydia’s head brusquely aside as though she were a mere
sexual toy to be used and then dropped aside once its purpose was served.
Rising, the woman pulled up her leggings and tidied her appearance and
together the two jailers lifted her up at the shoulders. Keeping her locked
between them, they left the room with Lydia, her eyes wide, her mind tainted
by the seductive charm of having been used by the corrupt guards. Lydia was
also slightly disturbed by how her periods of enjoyment in her captivity were
getting more frequent and more powerful, her need to feel the savaging of her
body becoming a more pressing desire.
Chapter Nine
The two guards changed their grip to hold her arms and drag her onward, her
feet scraping across the floor, her legs unable to support her as she was towed
down the winding corridors and back up to the main penitentiary. The stories
passed by and she was placed before her previous cell, the small prison
unchanged, the two women lounging upon their bunks. They looked up as the
door was opened, and with a rough shove Lydia was hurled within, her legs
folding until she collapsed across the ground.
The door shut with a damning clang and the creaking tread of the guard’s
jackboots started to fade. With weak limbs she hauled herself to the side and
settled into a tight ball, seeking recovery and trying to come to terms with the
insane desires curdling in her mind like infected sores.
“Look, the little baby’s tired,” crooned the youth, her burly compeer snorting
with derision at the spectacle Lydia presented.
“Maybe she needs something to liven her up,” pondered the muscular
prisoner, sliding out from her solid bunk now that their primary source of
amusement was back.
Lydia tried to move back, afraid of the instigation of even more capricious
sadism before she had recovered fully from her solitary hell.
A hand took a dominant bunch of her hair and used it like a leash, dragging
her upright as the slender prisoner jumped spryly down from her lofty perch
and began to apply the slither of torn blanket to her elbows. Hauling the joints
back she connected them together, forcing her chest out in mockery of some
brazen deportment stance while she hung in the other oppressor’s grip, her
scalp flicking with riots of suffering.
“Stop, I—” she began with a whimper, her words vanishing as they were
crippled and metamorphosed into a sudden gasping hiss, her hand being
grabbed and turned, bending the wrist painfully.
“You forgot my title and you didn’t ask permission to speak!” snapped the
woman, rotating the afflicted joint further and making Lydia gurgle and cavort
upon the supporting grip in her hair.
A casual fling cast her face first onto the bottom bunk, the loose drop onto the
thick planks making her cleavage and chest yell their pain throughout her
body, the dazing tumble depriving her of breath. Left stunned and helpless,
Lydia could do nothing as they renewed their quest to make her life
unbearable.
The full significant weight of the tyrant’s eager enforcer sat herself across
Lydia’s back and snared arms, squashing her into the bunk and making every
breath a laborious struggle under the new burden. After taking up her slack
wrists the woman leant back and turned, dragging the limbs against their bonds
and turning them in an unnatural and ligament tearing direction, pushing them
to their limits where they flared with prickly fires and made her croak and cry
against the planks. Lydia’s legs pumping frantically, kicking wildly around as
she fought to slip free.
The brittle crunch of parting wood pierced the sounds of distress and she saw
the woman removing a single slender slat of timber from above. Tearing free
this slim strip she stepped back out of Lydia’s reduced vision and aimed into
the exposed and vulnerable legs and rear.
“What is my title?” she quizzed, and threw a powerful swatting blow into the
opened rump, the beam of wood striking across both her cheeks with a brutal
clap, the blunt and heavy weapon proving to be most adept for causing
mayhem.
Another stroke fell, catching her thigh and depositing a great flushed bruise
that left the entire lower leg numb and insensible, the blow seeming to slay the
limb, for as it received its punishment while cavorting maniacally, it dropped
and remained indolent, twitching slightly as it lay defeated.
“My title!” demanded the woman.
Lydia howled through clenched teeth as the onslaught targeted the subdued
leg, dropping onto her thigh again as she desperately tried to recall the words.
Dredging in her mind it seemed like years ago when this act of derogation had
been started, and she could barely recall the title this iniquitous cellmate had
demanded of her.
“Divine Queen?” she spluttered, and dropped her head onto the bunk with a
yowl as her energetic leg acquired a trio of manic impacts, the solid wooden
paddle banishing all feeling from the limb while in no way diminishing its
capacity to reveal the pain.
“Wrong! Try again.”
“I can’t remember, please stop,” she sobbed.
“That wasn’t it!” came the demur response, followed by another
reprimanding heavy-handed spank into her rear.
“Supreme Goddess? Divine Goddess? Mistress? I don’t know!” she wept.
“No - no - no - no - no - you - retarded - foreign - slut,” murmured the
woman, every word of her insult being delivered with an intemperate strike of
the plank, the ruthless turpitude readying to start snapping bones should it
continue for much longer.
“Supreme Divine Goddess!” she blurted with expectant yearning, the words
seeming correct.
“Close, but wrong,” derided the woman.
The words suddenly came to her and she started to air them, but before she
could finish the attack had begun, making her words incoherent as the rain of
five steady blows crippled her offered respect.
The pummeling ended, leaving her lethargic under her human cargo, barely
able to respire as she hung in shocked and concussed apathy.
“What do you call me?”
A dozen responses more apt and suitable arose in her mind, but instead she
voiced the desired one, befouling her tongue with its very utterance.
“Divine Supreme Goddess.”
“At last,” she announced and added a final arbitrary lick of the plank across
her empurpled buttocks before putting the slat back where it had come from.
The oppressive onus upon her torso lifted and moved away, leaving her to be
brusquely brushed aside to collapse onto the floor and be ignored while the
women laid back down, leaving Lydia bound and almost unconscious.
The sweltering heat of the day continued to trail by and Lydia simply
remained in her tangled pile, too weak to move. Deep sleep held her tight as
her fatigued body and mind both hid in the darkest depths of awareness,
clinging to this sanctuary for as long as possible.
A wail rent the air, followed by shouts and sounds of a struggle. The din of a
frenzied battle drew her from her sleep and attracted her cellmates to the bars.
When they stared out through the metal grille Lydia chose to lay motionless,
listening to the bone gnawing terror in the woman’s voice. She was screaming
in absolute mortal calamity, a high-pitched infantile squeal that pained her ears
and numbed her thoughts at the prospect of what hideous fate could be
prompting such a ghastly signal.
“Sounds like another one has been assigned to la Sima,” dolefully attested the
slender female.
“That’s the fifth this year. What do you think happens to them down there?”
“Whatever it is, once they go down there, they don’t come out.”
“Never?”
“Not even a body. Either they are imprisoned down there for good, or there’s
a lot of dead inmates in that hole.”
“What gets them picked?”
“Big offenders mostly. Traitors and stuff.”
The last words froze Lydia’s heart, for they announced her to be an eligible
and likely candidate for this mysterious doom.
The sounds of woe increased and rose to a deafening pitch until the woman
responsible was dragged past, a guard on each limb, holding her as she howled
and fought with inhuman severity to escape their bonds. The sounds began to
fade as she was taken down to the ground level, her cries degenerating into
grizzling solicitation, her sobbing drifting slowly into silence as she vanished
beneath the surface and into whatever belated depths were arrayed beneath this
Stigean prison. The incarcerated populous left this eerie quiet unbroken, each
of them reduced to a mournful quiet, not in respect for the condemned, but in
pity for themselves for having been reminded of what could happen to them.
In the wake of this funereal atmosphere came a soft tickling smell of food, the
glorious scent caressing her nose and animating her frame. Lifting up, she
moved towards the bars, beguiled by the odors as they soaked the air, her
stomach growling loudly in anticipation, calling for the meal in gurgling tones.
The soft squeak and metallic clatters of the dispersal of food started to draw
close, and Lydia’s mouth flooded with saliva at the prospect of finally eating,
and only then did she realize she was still bound. Wriggling against the
ribbons, she found them too strict in their hold, negating any movement of her
arms. Closing her eyes and pausing for strength she readied to importune the
removal of the bonds.
Turning, she lowered to her knees and looked up at the young woman who so
methodically made her life more miserable than it should have been, for the
guards were criminal enough in their behavior, the addition of the prisoner’s
spite was something she could well do without.
“Please, Divine Supreme Goddess, can you untie me so I may eat,” she
uttered with polite earnest, her face burning with shame, but her starvation was
ruling her senses and she needed food more than anything else and was willing
to commit any befouling act to gain sustenance.
“No,” came the blunt response, the denial momentarily leaving Lydia agape.
“I shall see to your feeding,” she attested, and suddenly her obedient partner
snatched her from behind, dragging her back and down onto the floor, fixing
her bonds to the far end of the bunk so she was held in a sitting position. Lydia
began to stammer her protests, but was hushed by the gloating female.
“Now sit still and be quiet or there’s nothing for you,” promised the tyrant,
and moved to the cell door to collect the imminent meals.
How could this be happening to her? What was motivating such unjust
persecution? She would have to sit here and suffer the indignity of being fed at
their leisure like some domesticated pet. Swallowing her fury, she clenched her
jaw and strove to keep silent, unwilling to provoke them and give them cause
to deny.
The trolley ground to a halt before them and the pair moved to the door. The
overseeing guard opened the portal and handed out the plates before letting the
trustee ladle out the thick sludge and add some bread.
The cell door was slammed shut and they moved on, the two of them
devouring their portions with swift gusto. Lydia could only watch with
frustrated rancor as they neglected her, the portion prepared for her set aside
and forsaken as they attended their own needs first.
Once they finished their plates, soaking up every drip with the bread before
stuffing it in, they walked over to her with her dinner.
“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” smiled the vixen that was bearing
her fare, and willing to brave the foul consequences such trust could cause, she
complied with hesitant speed.
Instead of the thick porridge, the dry coarseness of a blanket was crammed
into her proffered maw, causing her eyes to jolt open and bulge as it was forced
deeper, filling her mouth and puffing out her cheeks, stretching her jaw
unbearably while she choked and squirmed.
The gag was tied off and the two women sat back out of the reach of her legs
and began to laugh and devour her dinner as she squealed and vented her rage.
Shuddering and slamming herself against her bonds, her patience snapped, her
choler unleashed but constrained by her bonds.
Tears fell from her imploring eyes when she watched this precious currency
vanishing down the gullets of the two monstrous inmates, and only when it had
almost all vanished did they stop.
“I suppose we had best give her some, it’s only fair,” chuckled one of them
and set down the near expended dinner.
Taking hold of her legs they dragged back so that she was on her knees, her
arms still locked to the bed, her mouth still full of cloth.
The slender persecutor rose and set down the dish far from Lydia and then
with a satisfied smirk, stepped into the remains, trudging upon the thick lumps
until her feet were coated in them.
Sitting down, she lifted her feet and shuffled forward, presenting the
extremities to Lydia as the blanket was removed.
“There you go. Enjoy,” mocked the woman, her voice dripping with
fulfillment at Lydia’s subjugation.
With her soul aflame and raging in a tempestuous storm, Lydia slapped back
the tide of seething resentment and leaned in to begin lapping at the presented
feet, removing her food from the woman’s skin with desperate speed. With
eyes closed she tried to forget the manner in which her food was being served,
relishing only the taste and feel of the frugal amount slipping down into her
vacant belly, an added salty tang imparted to it by human sweat.
The brawny prisoner drew her partners attention as the last came away and
proceeded to sit in the remainder, shuffling her rear upon the dish before
turning onto her hands and knees and reversing until her rear was within
Lydia’s reach. This presented meal took a few moments to accept, her hunger
taking longer to overcome her revulsion and contempt for their crimes. But
heedless of her appearance and actions she moved in with eyes tightly shut and
began to remove the dregs that decorated the woman’s skin, the pair happily
ridiculing her.
With the few pitiful leftovers consumed, her teased stomach roared for more
and as the pair left her in her misery, she lowered to the floor and prayed for
salvation, unable to take anymore of this ignoble evil.
Vitiated, she remained a mere bound ornament in the cell, unable to move or
respond as the day slipped into night and the prisoners bedded down once
more.
Chapter Ten
The cell door cranked open with a soft squeal of dry wheels, revealing the tall
guard who had stolen away the hated prisoner an eternity of debasement ago.
The woman stirred and lifted up, readying to get off the bunk and follow her
guide, only to gain a harsh slap to the face that threw her back onto the wood
with a jarring knock.
“You presume too much, nine two four three, I’m not here for you. I want this
European whore tonight.”
Strolling over, she untied Lydia and lifted her up to her feet. Leading her like
a hound, the guard towed her out and into the corridor, shutting the cell and
wandering off to a small wooden door further along the same story. After the
guard unlocked the portal, Lydia was shown into a short passage, the cramped
length leading to a set of stairs and then up to two doors.
Beyond one of them lay a tiny box room, empty save for a few vacant crates
with canvas over them and a thin veneer of dust that permeated the air and
tickled her nostrils. The weak overhead bulb created a soiled amber light that
presented the scene in sepia shades. There was also a strange smell, a
succulent, intangible hint of roasted meat that played with her craving and
made her notice that she was so hungry and desperate for food that she was
conjuring scents to appease her needs.
The guard pushed Lydia in and closed the door behind them. After examining
the meager contents, she looked back to the guard who was already removing
her weaponry and unbuttoning her tunic.
Shocked, Lydia moved back until her spine bumped the wall, her sudden
knowledge of why she had been singled out fully dawning on her.
The woman assessed her reluctance and extended the bribe that gained her the
compliance she sought.
“Do what I want and this is yours,” she uttered absently, as though the offer
could not be refused when she flung back a sheet of tarpaulin to reveal a
spread of meats and fruits across one of the crates.
Lydia’s mouth dropped open, the fee for her acceptance exceeding anything
she would have expected, her notions of refusing any payment for such
prostitution vaporizing the instant she saw the luscious food.
The last of her uniform came away and the guard was presented outside of
her stark garments in a facet that could not have been more different.
Her curvaceous form was elegantly sealed in a lace and satin Basque, the
luxurious materials a pristine angelic white. A matching thong and stockings
flowed about her smooth shaven legs, the sheen of the fine denier hose
catching the light with every ripple of her muscles beneath the delicate,
gossamer thin garments. It was a provocative ensemble contrasted only by the
guards brooding expression and short mane of sternly swept back hair, the jet
black and lascivious fire in her eyes contrasting totally with the innocent white
of her apparel.
Reaching into a crate she drew out a padded blanket and cast it down across
the floor before slipping her feet into white court shoes, perching herself atop
lofty heels.
“Now put these on,” she commanded, and indicated her shed uniform before
removing the gun and keys from her utility belt and moving across the room to
sit down upon a crate for a better view.
The ambivalence pertaining to this scenario made her giddy and uncertain.
Lydia did not want to involve herself in this grim little fantasy setting, but this
was her best chance to get access to decent food, and perhaps, if she performed
well, a steady supply of favors from this satisfied guard. A shot at escape was
also a tantalizing notion once she had lulled the jailer into a comfortable
routine where she could let her defenses drop with her compliant prisoner and
partner.
With her mind set upon her higher goal, justifying any means with the
eventual destination of freedom, Lydia fought off her tiredness and went to the
clothing.
Taking up the leggings, she hauled up the snug sheaths and then slotted her
feet into the jackboots. The shirt was a little big, but the firm embrace of the
jacket reduced the ill fit and her collar helped meet the demands of the starched
neck. Dragging her hair back, she set the cap straight and then pulled on the
leather gloves. The last part of the ensemble was the belt, which she buckled
on and ran her fingers around, feeling the shock prod, the baton, the handcuffs
and pouches, armaments she could so easily use on the woman if she
succumbed to a submissive role.
The clothes felt so strange, and the wearing of such things seemed an almost
distant daydream, a vague memory that she could only recall through similarity
to the current sensation of being clothed.
The door opened and another guard entered, this one shorter and less blessed
with voluptuous curves.
“Soy tarde, lo siento,” she mumbled, and moved over to Lydia, pacing around
her in scrutiny. “Bueno, esta es la extranjera? Muy bren!” she muttered with
approval before making for the far wall to slouch down and lean back,
removing a small video camera from behind the wooden box.
“Ha explicadala lo que ella tiene hacer?”
“Todavia no,” replied the lingerie clad female before the guard turned to
Lydia and addressed her in accented English.
“Well it’s quite simply - do what I say without pause or hesitation, and you’ll
be rewarded. Understand?”
Lydia nodded.
“In the crate next to you are the tools you will be using.”
The guard lifted up the camera and began to record as her comrade sank
down onto her knees and crawled over to where Lydia stood in the alien garb.
With slavering devotion she began to lick the boots, acting willingly in the
manner Lydia had been forced to, and stunning her with the degree of revelry
she displayed in this cowering role.
The guard continued to adore the footwear with lingering attention until the
camerawoman spoke, her voice whispering with glee.
“Handcuff her,” she demanded.
Reaching back, Lydia tugged free the shackles and stepped behind the
kneeling woman, taking a wrist and bringing it back with a gentleness that
vexed the observer.
“Be rough with her! She is a whore, not a nun!”
Grabbing the other hand, Lydia succumbed more readily to her role and
yanked the other arm firmly back, making the woman gasp as she had her
wrists sealed within the steel jaws.
“Now spank her,” came the crooning call for action.
Obediently lowering, Lydia placed a knee to the servile’s back and raised her
palm in readiness. She paused for a moment, looking over the squirming body
before her, lost in rapture from her subservience.
With a strong sweep her gloved hand clapped to the proffered rear, sending a
joyous shudder through the flesh beneath her and wringing a hiss of satisfied
lust from the voyeur.
“More. Harder and faster, keep going,” spluttered the woman from behind her
peering lens.
Lydia commenced her attack with increasing satisfaction, relishing even this
mild chance to punish in response to all the times she had been so
horrendously misused.
Her hand rose and fell as a smudge of speed, coating the quaking rump with a
rosy glow while she smacked harder and harder, trying to get a response other
than licentious enjoyment, because she wanted to cause suffering, not find joy.
Lydia wanted to make someone endure as she had been forced to, yet this
woman simply grew more wanton the sterner her attack grew.
“Now roll her over, make her lie on her back.”
With a frustrated shove Lydia tumbled the woman and let her spread herself
upon the blanket, her arms trapped beneath her torso.
“Rip her underwear off and gag her with it. There’s a belt in that crate,” stated
the guard, indicating which box she meant with a nod of her head.
Strolling over, Lydia fished amongst the various sex toys and implements of
corporal punishment, restraint and chastisement, to drag out a short belt before
returning to the prone form. Dropping a foot onto the lace front of the basque,
she closed her fist around the soft material of the thong and yanked with all her
might. The woman gave a grunt of pleasure as her hips left the ground and then
fell back as the flimsy garment was torn from her. Without care Lydia forced it
over her lips and deep into her mouth before applying the belt to her rictus
with a similar lack of tenderness.
“Excellent, just excellent. Now pleasure her with the big dildo,” muttered the
woman with excitement.
Leaning over, she snatched the vastly bloated dimensions of the replica
phallus and held it like a weapon. Stepping over the woman, Lydia disdainfully
kicked apart the loose legs and sank down between the splayed limbs.
Taking the lengthy rod in both hands, she drew aim and shoved, cramming
the wide intruder deep into the submissive sex, the sudden violent entry
wringing a shriek from her mouth as her abdomen arched up. Instantly the
woman writhed like an eel upon the swollen phallus, her thighs clamping to
Lydia’s sides. Trying to deny this woman any hint of pleasure, Lydia jerked the
replica with harsh movements, forcing it to the limits of her tracts and seeking
to continue while pivoting and turning the device with cruel motions, seeking
to hurt her. Yet all the subject did was gasp and moan, wriggling in bliss while
she was brutally violated.
Inspired to cause havoc, Lydia drew her baton and presented the bulbous tip
to the woman’s lips and keeping the dildo sheathed with a pressing knee she
hauled out the gag and flung the moist garment aside.
“Suck it,” she demanded, the woman’s eyes glistening with enthralled delight
at this unexpected turn of events.
“I said suck it, you bitch,” Lydia hissed impatiently, and rammed the dildo
deeper with a jab from her knee, making the woman’s mouth drop open and
accept the wooden tip. Her tongue flowed across the polished material, the
mock fellatio coating the weapon with saliva before it was dragged away and
transferred to a new orifice. A rude jerk forced it into her rear, impaling her on
the cold rod, the spit serving as the lubricant for an easy entry, Lydia
plagiarizing the incident from her earlier ordeals.
The woman vent a squeak of rapture and shuddered upon the twin trespassers,
her delight starting to crack as Lydia churned the baton viciously, punishing
her insides to a degree she could not so readily enjoy.
The exceeding of her partner’s endurance only thrilled the camerawoman all
the more, and from the corner of her eye, Lydia could see the guard shaking
from covert masturbation her gloved hand massaging the smooth front of her
Lycra leggings.
“Take the stun gun and shock her,” she whispered hoarsely, her words
unheard by the groaning submissive.
Removing the black box from her belt, Lydia gripped it tightly in cogitation,
pondering what to do. As she meditated personally on whether she could do
this, the woman looked up to see why the dildo was slipping from her belly.
When she saw the electrical weapon poised in Lydia’s hand her face became a
mask of fright. The mortified alarm convinced Lydia of her true course and
squeezing the button she listened as the device cackled and bathed her face in
pulsating strobe flashes before she plunged it into the woman’s newly vacated
pussy.
A wild throe silenced the welling words of dissension and the woman jiggled
to impossible degrees as the voltage soared through her flesh.
Removing the instrument, the body went slack, twitching slightly as the
woman panted and wheezed, her eyes closed, her teeth chattering.
“Do it again!” hissed the woman, lifting from her perch and closing in to
capture the detail in full.
With an angry stab Lydia shoved the twin prods into the exposed sex and
thumbed the button, the spewing current making the woman flail and bounce
wildly before falling slack with the end of the shock.
Turning to regard the approaching woman, she saw a flash of white and
dropped across the stunned submissive, the pugnacious slap having dazed her.
The stun gun was cast aside and the camerawoman pounced onto Lydia’s
startled frame, shoving her down supine over the limp body of the electrocuted
female. A gloved hand locked about her throat and the guard’s face was before
her, her cap having come away, her cropped hair wild as she kissed Lydia in a
passionate frenzy. The other hand clapped between her legs as the fingers
about her throat squeezed, the digits at her loins stroking her fondly. Fearful of
the consequences of denial, she opened her mouth and frigidity returned the
kiss, their tongues meeting as the woman caressed her intimately. The touch
was dragging out an intense and powerful pleasure that made Lydia
considerably more amiable to the lips of the guard, the prevalent attitude of
dissolute hedonism infecting her thoughts.
Throwing Lydia aside, the guard rummaged in the box and grabbed a strap on
phallus, the bulbous dildo formed from a translucent blue jelly, the shaft
comprised of plunging rings.
The guard acted with panting breath, fixing the straps to her girth, the pliant
toy bobbing gently with her motions.
“Te voy a chingar tanto, gringa.”
Moving forward, she flipped Lydia over and lifted her rear into the air. With
rough hands she pulled down Lydia’s leggings and placed the wilting tip of the
ridged toy to Lydia’s wet sex, the passionate kisses having kindled her
lecherous desire.
“You want this?” spat the woman, rubbing the round cool head against
Lydia’s vulva, teasing her with it.
“Yes! Yes! Ram it into me!” she snapped, her gloved hands clawing at the
ground, her cheek to the blanket as her hindquarters quivered with ravenous
need.
Lydia’s head jerked up and a rattling droning cry poured out of her throat as
the intruder was jammed into her, the mountainous design bouncing her tracts
upon the ridges and trenches. The construction sent exquisite shudders through
her, the soft material pressing to her depths but causing no pain only an
overwhelming pleasure.
“Ooooh yes!” she howled, the woman holding tightly to her and starting to
thrust in and out, retreating almost to the point of departure before billowing
Lydia’s sex outward with another lethargic drive.
“Fuck me! Fuck me harder! Please God! Harder, as hard as you can!” she
crooned desperately, shifting her face over to the limp lingerie-clad form.
Willingly she sank her face into the woman’s exposed genitals, fawning on
them, drinking of her juices and thrusting her tongue into the moist slit.
“Oh such a whore!” barked the guard, her pelvis rippling as she rode her toy
into Lydia. “I bet you want this in your ass to! Don’t you!” she added, slapping
the sides of Lydia’s rump, the hot flashes of pain drowning her in a licentious
haze.
“Yes! Yes! Shove it in!” she moaned, her hands running up and down the
nylon stockings, the rustling tickle across her fingertips adding to the banquet
being heaped on her senses.
Lydia quaked and grizzled with stress as the awesome tool emerged from her
dripping sex and then hammered her anus, the lissome material causing no
distress as the clench of her rear squeezed its giving dimensions. The feel of it
rocking into her made her squeal, the toy filling her acutely, dancing her tight
sphincter across its bumping length.
Lydia plunged her tongue back into the woman, who was starting to come to
and was now laying back, drinking of the cunnilingus, relishing the feel of
Lydia’s wild and frantic tongue as it worked on her.
Vehement climax started to beckon even from the anal play and spying this
the guard quickly transferring back to a more receptive orifice. As the woman
launched back through her sodden womb, Lydia fawned with rabid motions on
the other woman’s sex, her hunger for carnality possessing her. As release
beckoned, her body rose and tensed, her mind reeling as it drew close, her
thoughts scrambling from the ever-escalating feeling. The woman beneath her
bucked and jolted from her own climax, thrashing and thrusting her belly
across Lydia’s features as they sought to keep track of her and maintain the
inmate kisses. Moments later her own orgasm struck, the pounding of her sex
by the artificial manhood of another woman crippling Lydia with pleasure,
pillaging her strength and leaving her a slack heap.
Wild throes gouged through her as the rippling length ran free of her,
bouncing an erect and hyper-tender clit on its ridges before the toy popped
free. Lydia settled back into a loose sprawl, her eyes fluttering her body
flickering with bursts of tension, the feel of the toy still incredibly distinct
within her tracts.
As abruptly as the exchange had begun it ended just as swiftly, the guard
moving away and leaving Lydia sprawled on the woman. Lying panting and
torn by the conflicting emotions within her, Lydia spied the camera fixed on
her, the woman removing the strap on and returning to autoeroticism while
peering down the viewfinder.
After capturing the image and confusion of Lydia for a few minutes, she set
aside the camera and leant down to attend her crippled comrade.
“You can eat now. While you get undressed,” she absently permitted, causing
Lydia to snap her eyes to the food and dart over to it.
Like an animal she began to shovel the gorgeous fare into her mouth,
guzzling it as quickly as possible lest some whim change her benefactor’s
mind. She began to remove the attire, peeling it away while cramming more
sustenance into her maw as soon as there was room.
The last pieces disappeared down her gullet and she slumped aside, her
stomach bloated and full to capacity. Drawing her leggings off she restored
herself to a nude appearance, and when this bare state was restored the guard
arose from her partner and goaded Lydia from the chamber, marching her back
to her cell where she was shoved in and the door slammed shut.
The corrupt guard marched off, leaving Lydia to return to her hard floor
mattress.
Chapter Eleven
Lydia was just settling down when a voice issued from the top bunk.
“So you think you can steal my position do you?”
Lydia turned her face up to regard the source of this contempt and suddenly
fell back as a harsh kick descended, slamming a heel to her brow and
catapulting her to the floor with a crunch.
Her senses lifted from a static haze to see the woman jumping down, her face
a mask of fury and pent up rage, her anger at being replaced making her frame
quiver.
Advancing with clenched fists, she sneered and addressed the kneeling
prisoner.
“Well you won’t be taking any more midnight meals after I mess up those
looks!”
With her moment of dominance lending her fresh energy to resist, Lydia
suddenly charged forward, shoulder barging the woman and slamming her to
the bars, just in time to see a guard wandering past on her rounds. The
jailertopped suddenly and regarded the conflict with surprise.
An elbow dropped into Lydia’s shoulder blade, the woman slamming the joint
down and causing the grappling hold to falter. Snatching Lydia’s shoulders in
her stunned moments, she forced Lydia off and threw a knee up into her
crouching stomach, causing her to crumple with a gasping exhale, clutching
the punished area as she fell to her knees, her legs giving out beneath her.
The sound of the guard calling for assistance was drowned out as the woman
approached with grim intent, only to fill the air with a cry of anguish as Lydia
punched out from her felled position. The open handed strike caught a kneecap
and released a moist pop that preceded the leaden collapse of her adversary.
The woman clutched the assailed joint and spat curses in her native tongue,
continuing the list of obscenities while Lydia arose to continue her attack. In
her passion to make this harridan suffer she forgot about her compeer and the
moment solid knuckles pile drived into her side, she bitterly regretted her
oversight.
Arching back, Lydia grabbed the bunk for support before she fell, her balance
failing as the debilitating wash of pain from the punch spread its insidious
tendrils throughout her system. She was just coming to terms with it when the
burly form appeared beside her, the image of the woman’s visage being
replaced by a momentary vision of speeding knuckles.
The punch jerked Lydia back and left her dizzy and helpless, but still she held
to the bunk, keeping herself upright as her body started to wilt, her knees
turning to jelly, her eye pounding with heat.
A stern grip locked to her throat and pinned her to the top bunk, throttling her
as her sight cleared enough to reveal a clenched fist being drawn back like a
coiled spring to repeat the blow.
Instinct kicked in and drew on long forgotten minutiae to have her hand
snatch the loose board from the top bunk and bring it round in a bilious
horizontal swing. The wood met the surprised temple of the attacker amidst a
deep resonant crack and the brittle snap of parting timber. The hold at her neck
came away as the woman flew aside to smack harshly against the bars with a
deep tone. The ringing signal of the sundered half of the plank rattling upon
the ground occupied the sudden silence that fell as the woman sank down, a
single line of red dripping from her head.
With a victorious bellow, Lydia reaffirmed her grip on the broken plank and
skipped forward to finish them both, every indignity and atrocity that had been
visited on her in this foul place suddenly rising to the forefront of her thoughts
and fueling her bestial wrath.
Suddenly the wiry form of her prime adversary filled her peripheral vision
before dropping onto her, grabbing the plank while her partner rose from her
concussed state to renew the attack, leaping forward to try and wrestle the
weapon free. Together they collapsed back as a writhing jungle of limbs and
fists, all seeking the makeshift weapon for a massive advantage over the
others.
The cell door slashed aside, the steel curtain allowing a sudden wash of stark
uniforms to merge with the melee, their rubber batons descending with
sanguinary force. Clubbing the struggling combatants with hideous force,
Lydia felt the holds upon her loosen when the women were subjected to
punishing blows and dragged aside. Before she could react, a slightly pliant
stave slammed to her stomach, crippling her with suffering as further impacts
from rubber rods and boots fell upon her torso, slamming her to the ground and
making her shout and gasp as they continued to beat her.
The attack ceased and Lydia swayed for a moment and then dropped,
consciousness fading as her testy contusions started to darken.

Chapter Twelve
A dazzling burst of light struck her eyes and stirred her from the concussion,
her mind swimming while she sought to regain awareness. The light poured
through her eyelids, hurting the pupils as they frantically sought to adapt to the
new glare. With tentative wariness she lifted her lids and squinted, regarding
the courtyard.
Her dazed mind tried to discern the motives of the guards, but she was too
stunned to think straight and could only hang in the hold of her pinioning
oppressors and watch as she was dragged over to the gallows. The engines of
punishment were wreathed in the shadows of the dawn, the sun a long
forgotten force that brought startled pain to her eyes.
Several guards were taking down the stolid forms that had previously hung
there, the bodies colored with a deep tan from their prolonged exposure to a
hateful sun. The slack females were dragged back towards the main building as
the three new specimens were presented to the vacated constructs.
Both her ankles were grabbed and a leather shackle buckled firmly to each
joint. Her right ankle was bent back and a sudden fierce pinch grabbed her
loins, pressing her lips together before the clamp established a compressing
hold she could not break. Crying out, she found that the short chain of the
vicious clamp was connected to the fetter, making any movement of the
doubled up leg apply increasing havoc to the tender sex.
Her wrists were snatched before they could trouble the restraints and were
locked together before being affixed to a large concrete block. The last portion
of the confinement was a gag, the leather plate plunging a fat orb into her
mouth that was held in stringent place by a mesh of thick buckles that
traversed her head, squeezing it within their impossibly tight hold.
A harsh pull to the ropes took her ankle into the air, and another pulled her
abdomen up to join it, her twisted leg swinging, increasing the bite of the
clamp and making her jolt with angst. Another tug wrenched her torso up,
leaving only her head and arms upon the ground. With a final volley of yanks,
the slack was drawn in and she was dragged fully aloft, the final part of the
ordeal being the lifting of the weight.
Lydia’s arms were towed until they were taut, and then as she wailed into the
gag, her joints aflame and feeling as though they were going to spring from her
sockets, the weight entered the air with her, swaying gently beneath her tear
filled and chagrin stare.
Crying into her muffling gag, rivulets of saliva drooled about the thick plate
as the ground continued to drop away, her body entering the weak early
morning rays. The rope was securely tied off, leaving her stretched between
the weight and the noose, her body aching under gnawing teeth of travail.
As she turned in the slight breeze, she could see the others in suspension, their
faces contorted by their pains, each trapped in the same pose as herself, their
eyes wide, regarding her with hatred while they blamed her for this duress.
Although the pose was one that had her whimpering in strain, she was at least
glad to be free of her close fitting cell.
The grim form of the statuesque Warden stepped out before them, unfurling
the long knotted strands of a many cat in her grasp. The weighty weapon
swung its pendulous tongues with her oscillating sweeps, the leather tentacles
whistling through the air when she warmed the weapon up for its coming
labors. The sight of her ferocious swings struck terror into the hearts of the
convicts.
Without expression the gaunt tyrant stepped up to the first target, handing the
whip to a guard and unthreading herself from her military jacket. Instead of the
Lycra top that Lydia had first seen her in, she wore only a black satin bra, the
strapless affair holding her breasts open for easy adoration. Tensed in this
underwear, her jodhpurs, boots and leather gloves, she exchanged the jacket for
her whip.
The slender prisoner murmured and gurgled in fear, only to receive a brutal
hack, the slash of the cords ending in a loud crack and a greatly subdued wail
of agony. The strokes continued in speed and ferocity, the Warden ripping into
the suspended form without any measure of clemency until several dozen
blows had been applied and the sounds of distress from the prisoner had
become a dazed burbling.
The burly woman was next, her strong frame responding energetically to the
horrors of the cat. Because she was Lydia’s neighbor, she could see the weapon
eating deep welts into the woman’s flesh, the weals installed deep into the skin
and releasing thin lines of meandering red that ran her torso. The weight lifted
and danced, her muscles swelling, the veins standing out as she battled to get
free and escape the blizzard of terrible blows.
The Warden continued her attack evenly, applying her caresses across thighs,
belly and torso, paying lingering attention to the exposed breasts and opened
loins, the tug of her legs in an attempt to shield the region making the clamp
chew upon the tender morsel with renewed verve.
With her victim glazed by sweat, her body stained by an intricate zebra striped
mesh of weals, the Warden ceased. The prisoner went slack, wheezing slowly,
her body shaking, damp strands of hair hanging before her face as she wept
and clenched her hands to weather the throbbing burn of her wounds.
Lydia’s pulse quickened as the Warden moved back away from the assailed
target, straightening her uniform and dragging the whips eager thongs through
her gloved palm as though petting the weapon like a favored and well behaved
animal.
With a flick of her wrist the long tails snaked out and laid beneath Lydia’s
inverted gaze, her heart starting to pound in her chest, her limbs trembling
involuntarily as she anticipated the first lash.
No matter what she envisaged, nothing compared to the full truth as it
dawned upon her just how painful the lick of this pernicious weapon was. The
stripes that ran her back made her jerk and wail, the fiery lines embellished
with such excruciating fervor that she felt as though the tool of pain had
stripped the flesh from her spine.
Barely had the wail left her lips when the scourge cut back, depositing
another network of fulgent streaks across the first set. Hauling at the weight,
she desperately tried to shield herself, her arms being torn by rending pain as
the muscles were pulled and wrenched from her struggle. The cords descended
in unceasing droves, lapping at her body, making the flesh respond with such
waves of suffering that she was cavorting madly in her frenzied fits, her mind
and senses scrambled. The sensation of warm perspiration and occasional
stains of red running down her body filled her with a sense of mortal jeopardy,
the addition of the sweat to the dampness tricking her into thinking the flow
was infinitely greater than it was.
Lydia kicked to try and defend her genitals when they were scourged, and
despite knowing the consequences, the pain of having such an area whipped
made her suffer the increasing bite of the clamps in a bid to end it.
When the last blow came and none followed it she was turning slowly upon
her heel, drips of tainted incarnadine perspiration spattering the weight and the
dry dust beneath her. She could barely move, her breath laborious to draw from
the sheer berserk power of her exertions.
Winding back the long leather thongs, the Warden looked over her work with
an air of satisfaction and fulfillment, and with a light stride she took her jacket
and sauntered back into the main building.
The ordeal was far from over, the suspension and the agonies of the whip a
brief dalliance when held up in regard to the prolonged attention of the sun.
When the baleful orb rose higher into the sky it scorched them with its rays,
the desiccating effects leaving them desperate and sore, their throats parched,
their bodies burned. Then when the sun fell below the horizon they froze, the
cold of the night seeping into their bones, making them pray for warmth. Of
course, when it came, they could only wish for a return to night, the abuse of
the day more than they could take.
Lost within the ravages of a tempest of insanity she burbled and muttered for
deliverance, her mind filled with the struggling pressure of her inverted pose.
There seemed to be no end to the grim realities of her sentence, and she knew
she was to perish here, assured that there was to be surviving this horrendous
maltreatment.
When the guards came to grant them water it was a chore that she could
barely achieve, for her body was virtually dead, unable to swallow. Being
upside down made the act of sucking in the most precious substance all the
more difficult, the sight of valued drops falling from her loose lips and
pattering upon the baleful weight and the dusty ground having her weeping in
distress. In addition, no food was to be granted, the continuing starvation
hastening her enfeeblement.
After eons of the relentless ordeal, the guards finally declined the granting of
water and instead began to lower them to the dirt as the morning sun caressed
the courtyard as it had done many times to signal another day of their woe
upon the gallows.
Removed from the trappings of the ordeal, their listless bodies were dragged
back and cast into the vacant cell, the three of them too weak to renew the feud
that had brought about this ignominy. For hours they simply chose to lay still,
forsaking all movement until they were touched by the faint scent of
approaching food.
The food cart began its slow trek along the row of cells, the smell preceding
its dithering arrival, the scent making the ravenous prisoners ache for its
attendance, their mouths watering in anticipation of the food they had for so
long been denied.
When the trolley stopped before them they slid from their bunks and gathered
by the door. The attending guard opened the portal and issued the plates before
letting the trustee ladle the thick sludge onto the dishes and then added some
bread.
Stepping back they began to attack their meals, guzzling the coarse fare as the
cell door slammed shut and was locked.
Lydia settled into a crouch and fed her hunger, the taste of this bland meal
divine to her tongue that for so long had only felt the passage of screams and
the crushing presence of the gag.
A shove to her arm sent the plate toppling from her grasp as the young
woman kicked her elbow. Lydia stared in horror as her meal splashed across
the floor and she turned with a snarl to seek vengeance.
A rampant smirk of spiteful glee greeted her, the sight being incredibly
infuriating. The girl obviously thought that Lydia would do nothing in response
and would accept this bullying, thus she was left utterly unprepared when
Lydia’s offensive began.
With a shriek of outrage Lydia hurled a punch into the smiling features,
swinging into the girl’s cheek and spinning the villainess aside so that she
struck the wall and then flopped to the floor, dazed. The other woman
responded without pause, acting in defense of her partner, her sudden rise
carrying a driving fist into Lydia’s stomach, the ferocious impact lifting her
from her feet before dropping her back down.
The crippling wash of pain made Lydia’s legs buckle when she landed and
she fell back, landing squarely on her rump. The woman closed in to continue
the attack.
Knuckles lanced at her face, the fist meeting only air when Lydia ducked
aside and let them smash into the wall behind her. There was a soft chorus of
pops as the dull thump of flesh striking unforgiving rock resounded and the
woman gave a startled yell.
Lydia responded instantly, grabbing the dislodged plate and swinging it up,
the metal dish skimming across the woman’s temple, flinging her aside and to
her knees. Fighting off the effects of the punch to her gut, Lydia struggled to
her feet. With anger thumping in her chest she skipped forward and smashed
the plate down onto the exposed crown, slamming the woman to the ground
before ducking low and sweeping the weapon up and into the down turned
face. Flipping the target up, the woman was sent tumbling to the wall as twin
lines of red ran from her nose and slender arcs started to weave thin paths from
her lips.
The sound of movement behind her alerted her to the rise and renewed
attentions of the other tyrant, and while the woman was still groggy from the
unexpected assault, Lydia moved to initiate a preemptive strike. Throwing
back an elbow to meet her archenemy’s brow, there was a clap of brittle shock
that cast the slender form to the bars, where a metallic chime echoed and she
collapsed clumsily.
Exhilarated by her battle Lydia took up their plates and finished their meals
before setting them aside and laying out on the top bunk.
“Que paso agni?” yelled a guard, opening the door and stomping in as the
trolley awaited without.
No response came from the unconscious forms. From the tone of the guard
she knew she was in trouble and Lydia spilled startled burbles of excuse. She
had placed herself in great jeopardy for having merely defended herself, the
truth of the situation lost on the guard as Lydia failed to construct the excuses
plausible enough to spare her the punishment.
“No has aprendido tu leccion? Lo reparamos ahora mismo!” said the guard,
and grabbed Lydia’s hair, yanking her off the bed before hurling her towards
the door, sending her roughly through and against the fence beyond.
“But I was—” Lydia began, her words ending upon a vicious slap stripped her
aside and to the floor, where she paused to recover her senses, only to have her
arms twisted forcefully back and snared in handcuffs.
“Get up! You have an appointment with the box, Perra!” growled the woman,
hauling Lydia to her feet and frog marching her along the balcony.
Slamming her to the wall, the guard turned and addressed the awaiting
trustees, this interruption in their duties leaving them confused as to what they
were to do. Their incarceration had left them unwilling to take the initiative in
case they presumed too much or erred and were reprimanded for their
enthusiasm.
“Limpien ustedes este suciedad antes de yo retorno, o juntaran a ella!”
Once more Lydia was drawn out onto the courtyard, and struggling against
her jailer she tried to resist while she was moved towards the tiny boxes. Her
body had wasted considerably in her inverted confinement and she was no
match for the robust and brutality tempered guard.
Whimpering her words of imploring Lydia tried to talk her way out of the
sentence, the cell too much alike to the first box she had been shipped in
following her capture, but the guard just ignored her.
Dragging her to the small steel device the gloved hands of the female opened
the tiny hatch before grabbing the nape of Lydia’s neck and forcing her down
and into the box. Lydia fought to escape the cramped interior, but the rough
hands of the guard drove her in and molded her until she was pressed against
the interior, the stern walls holding her into a compacted and impossibly tight
ball.
“No! Please! Not this!” she wailed against the metal wall her cheek was
pressed against, and then squealed as the leather palm of the woman swung
down and slapped to her rear.
“No dime esta respuesta insolente, perra.”
Lydia cried out for the guard to stop as she swiftly spanked her rear, applying
her hand with ruthless swats. The sound of loud slaps rung through the
courtyard as Lydia was mercilessly chastised. The heat in her buttocks grew
with each impact, the guard attacking the same spots numerous times, raising
the fires in her skin, making it throb, leaving her tensed and fighting the dense
walls of her cell.
Exploiting her quiescent state after dozens of strikes, the guard threw the door
shut with a deep booming note of malediction. The scratching of the locks
sealing Lydia in filled the shrunken cage, the sound being drowned out by her
sobbing fits while she cried out and fought to break free.
Condemned within this minute shell, she strained her body against the riveted
metal walls, fighting to break free, her exertions heating the cramped interior
with frantic breath, the metal becoming slick with her fevered condensation.
Screaming in panic, she fought for her breath, the token array of holes able to
sustain normal respiration but little else, her despondent howls eating away at
the air, leaving her wheezing at the stagnant reservoir that remained, a supply
barely replenished by the exchange through the holes. The more heated and
foul the air became, the more she was lowered into a well of animal panic, the
process spiraling until her rasping voice started to ebb and fade, shriveling as
she was drawn into black out. The process was so uncannily like death that her
dread flared afresh when she felt her consciousness withering. She had no
pressing belief in any form of afterlife, but even cold oblivion would be
preferable to this. If her afterlife warranted a sentence to hell, and her trials
here did not make up for any sins in her earthly life, then surely such satanic
realms would prove pleasant and perhaps mildly uncomfortable when
compared to the savagery of her current diabolic abyss. Perhaps she was truly
dead, perhaps her plane had crashed, or the soldier at the airport had indeed
shot her, and this was her punishment. It amused her to think this, for at least it
applied some shred of righteous endorsement to an otherwise unjust lot.
Chapter Thirteen
Chill droplets fell upon her frame as rain pummeled the box like a stampede
of hooves, the drumming upon the metal filling the interior with sound as cool
trickles wove through the breathing holes and ran down her body.
Stirring from her swoon she tried to straighten, the box curtailing her attempt
and making her strain afresh against its fortified walls. The urge to panic was
snatched and held at bay, the consequences of letting her fright run amok were
now known to her and she had no wish to tempt fate a second time. She had no
real love of her life at present, but the hope of freedom was still there and
made her hold on.
The waters were refreshing and glorious, allowing her to twist her head
slightly and drink from the thin flow, banishing her drought. While she had
lain as an insensible heap the sun had desiccated her with its rays and now the
night was numbing her flesh to the very bones.
Shivering, she tried to do something to keep herself warm but she could not
even move, and any attempt at increasing her breath in order to cast out the
chill would only promote another session of self-suffocation.
The metal had gathered the cloak of night and now radiated the cold superbly,
filling her entirely, stripping away the warmth that had been such a dogged and
relentless enemy during the day.
Lydia wept softly to herself, knowing that she could not cope with this plight
again. The last time under the sun had been trying enough, but to endure it
again so soon after the previous torment! There was no way she could maintain
her reason, she was sure to go mad this time.
Cramps suddenly manifested in her feet and shins, squeezing the ligaments
in a monstrous fist, making her scowl and shudder while she tried to find a way
to get rid of this bane. Again, there was to be no succor, the box being a prison
to which mercy was an unknown element.
The bursts of cramping pain started to spread, becoming a vindictive demon
that possessed her body and made her straits even more harrowing because of
its attendance.
Freezing, she whimpered and remained steadfast in her tiny cell, unable to
move or act, her howls held at bay. In her renewed delirium she started to
converse with herself, simply to hear a voice, to reassure herself that she was
still alive and sane, mumbling at first, and then speaking aloud by the time the
first golden rays of the sun were touching the courtyard.
The blanket of rain was struck by the heat, rising up as a thin mist before
being fully evicted. The puddles vanished and the temperature began to rise
swiftly, quickly entering a warm, cozy aura that helped alleviate the
horrendous bite of the night’s arctic fangs, and all too hastily started to become
uncomfortable, then unbearable.
The ferocious heat within the box was far worse than that experienced on the
gallows, for the metal gathered the rays and clung to them, radiating its heat
from every angle, turning the barbaric cell into a small oven.
Sweat rolled down her body, the beads of water gathering on the inner
surfaces to be evaporated by the fires of the day while her quivering breath
continued to feed them.
The day seemed to linger with perpetual intent, threatening never to end until
finally the shadows began to lengthen and the heat started to perceptibly drop.
The night attacked afresh and then relented to the day, the monstrous battle to
slowly slay her running with casual patience.
A straw was forced through a breathing hole and to her lips, allowing her to
drink. The act was no concession to kindness, but a sadistic consideration to
keep her alive so she might endure even more of the box’s unique and singular
gift. Ruled by her instincts she blithely accepted the sustenance.
The process ran on without change, repeating again and again, the inferno of
day, the cold of night, and the brief bliss of offered water. Idly she clawed at
her sturdy cuffs, trying to scratch through them, to wear the metal away with
continual clawing, her addled mental state making the rationale seem sound.
The time began to merge and she swiftly lost track of how long a sentence she
had served in her coffin, her mind submerged in dementia, her thoughts addled,
her rationality boiled and frozen away.
Chapter Fourteen
Warden Folter looked down from her window onto the courtyard, her eyes
fixating on the tiny metal cell which held Lydia. The box seemed almost
incandescent, the sun beating on the steel, making it glow like a star as it was
heated by the savage rays.
Folter could feel her loins growing hot and humid as she contemplated the
stark fate of the woman within. The thought of Lydia all locked up tight,
unable to move, weeping and being driven insane by the impositions on her
body was a luscious one to the sadistic ruler of the prison. She loved to see
women suffering, to see them struggle and writhe, weeping and screaming,
begging for mercy. She reveled in the image of a glaze of fevered sweat, of
lines of salty tears and a stretched agape maw, shuddering flesh, tensed
muscles and sobbing croaks and piercing screams. Finally of course there was
the relish of breaking a slave, of having them grovel at her boots, doing
whatever she bade of them without hesitation, unable to resist her will,
rendered amiable puppets to whatever vice or deed she asked of them.
Lydia had been in the box for days now, and dozens of times the Warden had
masturbated herself while staring at the plain steel box, dreaming of the
woman folded up and contained within. Another day and she’d have her
released. Folter couldn’t hold off anymore, she had to have Lydia now.

Chapter Fifteen
The door swung open and her handcuffed wrists were snatched, the limbs
used as levers by which she was pulled free of her metal coffin.
Spilling onto the dusty ground she looked up into the weak light of the dawn
and found herself at the feet of two impassive male guards.
The two men took up a shoulder and dragged her back towards the building,
passing the impassive voluptuous receptionist and entering a small room
devoid of all save a table with three wooden stools about it. Upon the table lay
a proper meal, with a pitcher and glass of iced water.
Dropping her into the stool before it, her cuffs were released and they
indicated to the feast before leaving without having uttered a single word.
Baffled, but ravenous, Lydia began to devour the sumptuous dinner,
marveling at the divine tang while she wolfed down all she could, eating with
haste in case there was a time limit to this unprecedented favor.
After having glutted herself with the entire feast, she moved over to the wall
and slipped down, feeling uneasy about occupying the center of the room, for
she felt too exposed, too open to attention.
The door was unlocked and opened and the guards marched in, grabbing hold
of her as she tried to shy away to hide in the shadows where they might not see
her. Before she could resist she was being hauled out onto the corridor once
more and taken in a new direction.
This new section of the prison was dark and moody, the lights rare and the
passages even more decrepit than usual. A door was thrown open and Lydia
was moved inside with a shove to her back as the guards followed after her.
Stepping into the blackness she looked around, trying to distinguish what
awaited her here. Could it possibly be that she was being released? Had
something changed in her situation and prompted the end of her confinement
in the box, and perhaps a culmination to her unjust sentence? She hoped so
with all her heart.
The fetus of this prayer perished in her chest as the light was switched on, the
dim bulb revealing a small, low ceilinged box room with the skeletal metal
frame of a double bed bolted upright across the far wall. Dense wire mesh
filled the interior and was fixed to the rust flecked frame with stout springs,
stretching it taut. The only other furnishings were a rough cupboard, a table in
the very center of the chamber, and a roll of chicken wire leant in the corner.
Gloved hands snapped a handcuff to each wrist and used the silvery shackles
as reigns to draw her towards the bed, overcoming her trepidation with brute
force.
Maybe she should resist them, but this would only have her punished and
then they would do whatever they intended anyway. No, it was far simpler to
just comply, her education in being a prisoner one she had gathered through the
agonies of her mistakes.
Presented to the bed, her back was put to the cold steel wire and her arms
lifted up and spread so they could be locked to each overhead bedpost. The roll
of fencing was taken up and together the men unfurled the rigid sheet, placing
it up to her body before turning to the cupboard to gather bags of small metal
clips.
With one on each side they held the chicken wire so that it covered the bed
like a sheet, the dimensions of the metal blanket identical to those of the bed.
Then the man on her left began to apply the clips down the vertical side,
locking one end of the wire to the bed before moving over to join his partner.
The bulge of Lydia’s body had drawn back the fence, and together the guards
hauled at it, squashing her between the two sheets as they sandwiched her and
began to clip the two halves together, sealing her within the stifling embrace.
Their muscles rippled with effort as they leant their brawn to the task, wringing
her in the perforated steel jaws of wire.
The steel fishnet was pressed firmly to her flesh, the skin of her breasts,
thighs and face squeezed up into flushed mounds through the diamond vents in
the intricate weave.
Having completed their task, the two guards checked over their toil and made
sure she was secure before leaving their handcuff keys on the table and then
vacating the room.
As soon as the door closed, Lydia began to struggle against her bondage,
trying to find a way to get out of the painful grip, every move of her bound
frame making the wires grate terribly against her, their rough and crude
construction leaving many sharp edges and pointed ends.
Eventually she was forced to give up, her efforts having done nothing save
leave her skin chafed and her body laced with fatigue and numerous shallow
scratches from her tiny shuffling movements within the cage.
The door swung open and unveiled the unforgiving countenance of Warden
Folter. The woman was dressed in her usual uniform, the Lycra top catching
the feeble light and the shadows of the overhead bulb leaving a shadow
beneath her peaked cap to hide her piercing eyes. The mere sight of the woman
terrified Lydia, for she knew how much the tyrant valued sadism after having
seen her brandishing both the crop in her office and the whip at the dreadful
gallows.
The door was closed and Lydia watched in silence as the tall female
rummaged in the cupboard and then brought out a car battery, the cube cradled
in her hands, a mesh of leads entwined about it.
Setting the store of energy at Lydia’s feet, crocodile clips ran forth from a
gray plastic box atop the modified battery and were snapped onto the awaiting
strings of wire, touching both layers and declaring the Warden’s intent to
electrocute her captive.
Lydia’s breath devolved into shaky gasps as the process of preparation
continued, her mind weak and numb, unable to think of any coherent words to
say, her will to dissent and rebellion long crushed.
A fist sized control box was slipped from the source of the leads, the small
dial and single button upon it clearly to be the source of all Lydia’s woe.
Unraveling the slender cable that connected to the control, the Warden backed
up and sat down upon the table, crossing her legs and taking a loose grip upon
the device. Her leather-clad thumb idly brushed the innocuous red tab, her
boots twinkling in the light, her wicked glare hidden in darkness, her chest
heaving against the Lycra with an excited rate, making the refractions upon the
shimmering fabric ripple.
“The time you have spent here has been a valid explanation of what the rest
of your life will be like unless you choose to cooperate, six one nine two. Do
you want to remain an inmate of this facility?”
Lydia tried to shake her head with solemn defeat, but the wire held her in too
firm a clinch to permit such a display, making her announce her denial, to
which the Warden gave a slim smile.
“Then all you need do is tell me who your contact is, and where we may find
this individual,” she offered pleasantly, causing Lydia to close her eyes as her
heart sank. They would never let her leave their clutches until she had
disclosed the information she did not bear, nor could ever provide. They would
torture and confine her for the rest of her life and there was no means to gain a
reprieve.
Sobbing uncontrollably, imploring the Warden to be believed, Lydia wept her
excuses.
“I swear I don’t know. I’m just a tourist. We stopped here for a few minutes. I
just took some lousy pictures to prove I was here, to show what it was like. I
haven’t done anything wrong. Please believe me, I am not a spy. Contact my
family, my friends, anyone, they will all tell you I’m just a bloody computer
programmer.”
“I can see why others have been fooled by your deception. You give a
convincing act, but I am here to gain a name and location, not your convoluted
lies,” announced the Warden, lifting the control so that Lydia could see her
thumb upon the button.
“I’m not lying! Please, for God’s sake believe me!” she yelled in fright.
The button gave a soft click and suddenly she was held between two metal
hands of scintillating energy. Her body jumped to a fully tensed cruciform, her
frame fighting the grapple of the wire, making her skin rise through the holes
as it forced itself against it. A howl of agony spewed from her lips as she
started to shake and haul at her confines, the lucid fangs of the voltage ripping
through her helpless body while the Warden watched her with detached glee.
The attack ended and she slouched in the shell, her body quivering slightly
from the aftermath of the initial shock.
“Speak, or I shall continue until you confess,” warned the woman, listening
for a moment to Lydia’s dazzled panting before thumbing the button once more
and returning her to the intolerable mounts of excruciating suffering that the
battery so freely carried her to.
Shrieking and writhing, Lydia felt as though the infernal current were
dissolving her, for each time the Warden blasted her with the offspring of the
battery, more of her body was left numb and insensible, the areas lethargic and
unwilling to respond to the commands of her shattered mind.
The session was repeated dozens of times for increasing duration’s and with a
steady turn of the dial that increased the issue of the battery. The harrowing
event continued without reprieve until she was simply hanging from her cuffs,
unable to move, barely able to breath, her only periods of animation being
when the battery gave her the power and vitality to dance for the Warden’s
pleasure.
The touch of a gloved digit upon her arm drew away some of the haze and the
lingering echo of her own screams. Opening a tear and sweat bleared eye she
saw the Warden before her, tracing her upraised limb and then massaging her
fingers onto the sweat she had scooped from Lydia’s fever-drenched frame.
Lydia’s hair hung in damp strands and her skin was sheathed in a thin sheen
of dampness, her cold shivers causing the odd droplet to fall to the floor. The
only true sensation she had was her heartbeat as it thumped weakly in her
chest, thudding against her ribs and sending a ripple of her pulse through her
mind so that each thud of the beleaguered organ rang in her ears like a dying
drumbeat.
“All you have to do is give me one name, one address, and all this will be
over. You could go home. Back to your own country. Wouldn’t you like that?
To sleep in your own bed, surrounded by luxury. To eat properly. To see all
those friends and relatives that care for you so much?” whispered the woman,
the seductive litany making Lydia weep in longing, wishing this with all her
soul. But she knew she couldn’t give the only key to grabbing this halcyon
dream that didn’t actually exist in reality, but which was bliss compared to the
horrors of her prison life.
Motivated only by her desires, she started to blubber names again, hoping to
be believed, but they knew whom she was supposed to name, otherwise they
would at least check. They wanted her to confirm the identity they sought, they
believed she knew it, and they would do anything to get it. Would her accurate
confession condemn a true covert agent? If she truly knew the name she would
have surrendered it long ago, but the vital data was not hers to give and
without it she was damned.
“Your stubbornness is remarkable, but futile,” sighed the Warden, and leant
down to start removing the clips from the metal.
Closing her eyes to recover, she stiffened as she felt soft wet flesh touch her
nipple. Jerking open her eyes, Lydia found the Warden leaning down, her lips
grazing the teats as they pushed through the wire. Her breath quickened as she
felt the delicate tickling lap of a tongue upon the points, and then some soft
suckling hauls as the woman locked her mouth to them. The teats stiffened
against the deft tongue and she detected the leather sheathed digits of the
torturess running along the uneven plains of her form, traveling across
alternating terrain’s of strangling wire and small fleshy hillocks, appraising
Lydia’s physique as she remained in stringent bondage.
Lydia gave a soft wheeze of relief, only to have her belief that the torture was
over crushed as the sharp fangs of the clips were sunk onto her actual flesh.
She cried out as the brutal pinches fastened themselves to her inner thighs and
aroused nipples, the ferocious compression of the tender flesh elevating the
peak of mayhem they wrought. The clamps were going to be a harbinger of far
worse anguish, the electrical flood now having unequaled opportunity to pour
its virulent spawn directly into her.
“I offer you a chance at freedom again,” muttered the Warden, sitting back
down and fixing her gaze to the approaching spectacle.
Lydia closed her eyes and clenched her teeth in reply.
The searing distress of the first application had been horrendous and she had
thought nothing could have eclipsed it, but the ravaging of her body by direct
current was greatly worse and her form seemed to vanish amidst incendiary
doom as the voltage ripped into every fiber with meticulous zeal. Lydia
screeched in inhuman tones, her body alive with an internal blast wave of
agony, the points of pinched skin becoming the epicenters for quaking
nightmare sessions of torment. The deadly grief was more intense than
anything she could have predicted or endured. Her organs seemed to melt, her
heart promised to explode from her chest, her lungs were aflame from her
keening yowls, and all coherent thought vanished into a single spot of purest
pain.
With the sudden flight of the voltage she was left in acute shock, unable to
fathom the keen zenith of suffering she had somehow managed to survive.
Burbling her words, unable to string together any shred of coherence she
gibbered as the control was stroked once more.
Her blood curdling pitch again tore the quiet of the room, mesmerizing the
evil Warden as the prisoner spasmed in her bondage, torn by atrocious torture.
The diabolic overseer repeated the application numerous times, no longer for
any interrogation purposes, for Lydia had long since been rendered incapable
of speech or thought. Now the woman was continuing for her own diabolic
amusement, her longing merely to see another suffer to such extremes.
Held within the arcs of savage lightning that played within her nerves,
Lydia’s frozen scream remained as a petrified mask, her lungs having expelled
all air but remaining unable to draw fresh breath for her pain demanded only
her wails. Squeezing against the limits of her chest, her eyes flitted closed and
rolled back, and with a rattling gurgle she fell silently into the arms of a faint,
her body unable to tolerate anymore and finally deciding to detach itself from
the abuse.
Chapter Sixteen
The stab of returning feeling to the pinches of flesh the clamps had used as
points to inject their electrical punishment lifted her from the blank haze,
leaving her to ponder just how long she had remained in dreamless coma, and
whether her loss of consciousness would end the session.
The clips began to release the sheet of wire and as the roll came loose and the
cuffs were unfastened, Lydia dropped to the floor with a bright clap, unable to
even stand after her maltreatment.
Lying shivering upon the floor, Lydia listened through ringing ears and
occasionally looked through hazy vision as the Warden removed a meter tall
tube of concrete from within the cupboard and placed it in the gap between bed
frame and wall. A coil of rope was threaded through the hollow center of the
pipe and tied off, lassoing the weighty tube before the rest was cast over the
thick pole that was the head of the grim bed.
Dragging this elevated rope outward she dropped it by Lydia and began to
reaffix the chicken wire across the bed. Two strips of rope had nooses tied into
their tips and the hoops were placed over Lydia’s slack neck and tightened.
Baffled as to what was occurring, Lydia was rolled over onto her front by the
push of a boot and her hands cuffed behind her back before the other set were
used to grab just above her elbows. Lydia mewled as the cuffs contorted her,
her arms dragged back and rendered useless to her. The chain links were
grabbed and used as a handhold to lift her to her feet, the tearing twist on her
limbs making her comply with a scowling hiss.
The Warden ignored her imploring stare and shoved Lydia back onto the bed
before tying the rope that she had anchored to the weight upon the front of her
collar. A final pull lifted her to tiptoe, the burden serving to hold her aloft
while she refused to try and shift away and lift the weight.
With Lydia laying face first against the wire, the excess lengths from the
nooses were taken up and one was tied to each bedpost. Their slack was
sufficient to let her pull away, but not enough so that she could move around
and access the rear of the bed or the battery. Suddenly she compiled the truth
of the situation and started to try and fathom a means out of it.
The Warden took up the leads from the battery and snapped them to the
metal. The wires hummed with the charge and cast Lydia backwards with a
shriek, the brief jolt making her haul the weight into the air to escape the
electrified grating.
Straining at the solid burden hanging from her neck she fought to back up,
her vision filled with the faintly growling bed before her. After a few short
strides the nooses at her neck twanged taut, trapping her.
“Think about your fate, and I shall return at some point to see if you have
changed your mind,” the Warden offered, and with a soft chuckle she left the
room, leaving Lydia in a terrified predicament.
Her limbs began to shake with the strain of holding aloft such a load, and
occasionally she stumbled and was dragged nearer to the bed, the concrete tube
descending with her approach. If it touched the ground, or even came close,
she would be held fully to the voltage sodden mattress. This forced her to fight
against her weariness and hold it aloft, unable to slip aside and remove it
because of the nooses at her neck that strangled every time she attempted to
negotiate a path behind.
Terrified hours began to elapse, her body slowly succumbing to fatigue as she
strove to keep away from the bed. She ran through countless positions to try
and make the task easier, but none helped, and she knew she could not keep
this up forever.
The drag at her neck rose from a discomfort to a crooked throb, a pain that
started to migrate down her straining spine, spreading through her back and
making her efforts harder with every passing second. Her knees trembled and
shook, the muscles hot and throbbing from their labors and her wrists ached
from their reckless bid to slip the cuffs responsible for leaving her helpless to
this fiendish plot to break her.
As her last dregs of energy began to fade and she was delivered closer in
occasional shuffles, she wailed and hauled afresh, trying to restore herself to a
safe distance, but it was taking all her effort to just maintain her decreasing
distance.
Hours passed and she was gradually brought to within inches of the humming
mattress, the faint tickle of voltage upon her hairs intimidating her to the point
of hysteria. Every tiny measure she was slipped forward bloated her malaise,
until in a distraught haze of jeopardy her limbs gave out and she was hugged
lovingly to the cold metal.
With a shout she was delivered into the web, her scream ripping through the
air when she was savagely rocked by the voltage. The shredding agony made
her fight afresh and retreat whence she came, gaining a distance that soon
began to shrivel as her depleted vitality conspired to return her to the site of
electrical venom.
The cycle of her quest to keep a sacred distance and the subsequent reeling in
onto the mattress continued to repeat itself with incredible accuracy, making
the shocks more frequent when her already exhausted frame was pushed
beyond all limits of endurance.
Finally, the door opened and the Warden strode in, moving to the cupboard
and removing a stout leather strap while Lydia regarded her with a frightened
anguish.
“Please, I can’t take anymore. I’ll do anything you want, just stop this.”
“Then tell me the name,” absently replied the Warden, taking firm grip on the
short weapon and closing in behind Lydia.
“I don’t know! I swear it! Why won’t anyone believe me?”
A short silence followed as Lydia awaited an answer, only to have the strap
speak to her through brief stinging applause across her rear. The initial blows
made her jump with shock, her balance being crippled by the weight and
before she could stop herself she was cast back to the mattress. With a wail of
pain she tore herself back, fighting to shuffle away and moving straight back
into the Warden’s range where the strap slashed from side to side, its leather
tongue shading in her flesh with rich flushed red.
Torn between the voltage and the oscillating blows of the Warden, Lydia was
left in blistering persecution, unable to choose between the two banes to her
existence and denied the means to end either one of them.
Swatted between scourge and mattress, she was insane with fury and frantic
fear, unable to even speak while she was pushed onward, tortured without
pause to make her relent and inform.
When a silver blade flashed up and cut the ropes at her neck she dropped back
and collapsed, her body so long accustomed to a massive burden at her throat
that she could not balance properly without it. Floundering on the floor, the
Warden towered over her and spoke with subdued fury.
“Obviously it will take more than physical duress to crack you. Fortunately
we have just the weapon to use, and though it will corrupt your very soul, you
will tell us what we want to know. The chance for freedom is gone, we will
have this information extracted, and you will be condemned to your new lot for
the rest of your life,” growled the woman with a libidinous smirk, pressing her
boot onto Lydia’s form to revel in her position of power over the helpless
victim.
“Guardas!” roared the Warden, making Lydia flinch from the sudden volume
of this bellow.
Two guards entered instantly and looked to the woman as she ground Lydia
beneath her sole.
“Tomenla abajo.”
The moment the words left the Warden’s grinning lips, the two men marched
forward and grabbed Lydia, lifting her lifeless frame up and dragging her off,
her feet scraping along the floor as she hung as a stolid shell.
She was vaguely aware of passing rows of cells, where wretched figures
hovered like damned specters and the stench of despair, misery, sweat, and
filth was overwhelming.
A banded metal door was unlocked and drawn back, the massively thick
entrance like a vault. Lydia’s feet rattled down a set of steps and along a
ragged, roughly hewn tunnel where sporadic lighting did little to banish the
gloom. Another iron portal was hauled open with difficulty and a light
switched on, the flare of dimly unveiled detail causing her to gasp and struggle
in mortified alarm at the sight of the Stigean torture chamber. The nightmare
apparatus was arrayed with precision upon every wall, the engines of agony
skulking amidst the copious shadows, the lack of light granting them an even
more malignant appearance.
Her bearers drew her to the side where a row of eight metal panels followed
the wall, their lids given fat hinges and a padlocked bolt. The cuffs at her
elbows were released and the officers opened the locks and lifted the thick
sheet to expose a crude stone pit. The dimensions were sufficient to keep a
resident low with space enough for a brief shuffle in any one direction and the
small grille of a drain in the center to permit sanitation. Casting her in, she
landed heavily and awkwardly. Unable to use her cuffed hands to cushion her
fall, she almost broke her arm from dropping upon it.
Without word the cover fell back into place with a near deafening clang, the
sound of the weighty closure ringing in her ears. The prospect of confinement
once more was abhorrent, her mind having developed a loathing and deep
phobia for this mode of close incarceration. Frantically flipping over onto her
back, her arms held beneath her, she threw her enfeebled legs up, pushing to
the steel roof, trying to stop the guards from sealing her in. Lifting the lid a
short way, she stopped them from throwing the bolt and for a moment her heart
leapt with joy. The brief sense of victory she eked was stolen as the tyrant’s
simply stamped onto the lid, the officer’s lending their weight to defeat Lydia’s
chagrin efforts.
The locks were re-secured and the sound of booted feet began to fade until
they were lost after the deep pounding slam of the vault door being shut.
With free flowing tears she speedily threaded her shackled wrists under her
rear and over her feet, bringing them before her and banging her fists to the lid
in unison as she begged for justice. The calls went unanswered and she sank
into a despondent mire, rocking softly in a bid to comfort herself in this most
heinous hour.
The minute sealed pitllowed her to reach a stooped squat and no higher and
gave lease to a single shuffle in any direction before the rough teeth of the
rocky confines denied any more. Despite numerous attempts to force herself
upright and burst the locks she could not achieve this Herculean objective, the
attempts further serving to make off with her energy. Surveying her prison with
her fingers in the absence of light, she found only air holes and the small drain
at the very bottom of her cell. Was this to be her cage from now on? Had they
returned her to isolation with the threat of torture hanging over her until she
was removed to be subjected to the purposes of the chamber beyond?
Curling up into a ball she vent her misery with sobs and weeping, her
emotions in shambles, her mind reeling, her body numb from the abuses
visited upon it.
Meditating on what her fate might be, she let herself drift into a shallow
sleep, her thoughts afflicted with anguish as to the prospect of real torture.
What were they intending to do to her? Would it be an inquisitional hell, with
brands and racks, fire and knives, or were they more evolved in their torment,
pushing their expertise into surgical abuse? What was to befall her? How long
would she last? Hundreds of nightmarish possibilities crept through her
thoughts, the fear eating at her from within, the sheer dreadful terror of what
inhumane atrocities were to be inflicted upon her helpless flesh. She had
wanted to be in a cell of her own, to be freed of her harridan companions, but
now that it had been granted she only wished a return. At least with the two
jungle born bitches she knew were she stood and what to expect, whereas here
only slow and ugly death hung in loitering expectation.
The sound of heels clacking upon the stone floor under a measured tread
stirred her from her worries, and she thought perhaps she was to be set loose,
the threat being the means to make her talk. Instead, another of the pits was
opened and the occupant drawn out.
Intrigued, she put her ear to the cool metal and listened, having been unaware
that others dwelt here. She was inclined to find out what was to be done to
them and thereby gain insight into what was to be her own destiny.
The sound of trammels being affixed about limbs had a quality distinct
enough to recognize, and while she continued to listen, she heard a momentary
whistle of displaced air and the loud crack of a whip biting into flesh. The
gagged feminine cry that followed was an interlude between the next lash, and
the beating continued without remorse or relent, a savage flogging that had the
damned prisoner squealing against her muting gag.
Anguish flooded Lydia’s thoughts at the prospect of such archaic methods,
and she was soon pressing her palms to her ears in the hope of fending off the
hated sounds of torture—the pitiful scream, the whiplash snap of the weapon
being employed, the metallic clatter of a struggling body as it writhed against
unforgiving restraints.
The signal of the scourge passed, but the maimed shrieks continued as other
means were employed. The malaise she felt was all the more grave for the
mystery of the acts being deployed to coax forth such howls, leaving Lydia to
conjure her own possibilities, to concoct the deed that were drawing out such
harrowing wails. Her imagined afflictions had her cowering in alarm, her belly
fluttering as her mind swam with nausea from the prospect of being mutilated
thus, her thoughts showing her no mercy and bringing forth visions of acts so
nightmarish she almost swooned.
The subject was eventually set free and dragged back to her cell, where the
thump of a leaden form had her pondering whether or not they had survived
the ordeal.
Chapter Seventeen
The tune of the locks above her being played filled the shallow pit with noise
and her heart bloated with trepidation. The creak of metal issued as the veil
was removed, exposing her jailer and imminent torturer. Shielding her eyes
with her hands, the shackles clinking softly as she peered up from her dark
dwelling, Lydia was not surprised to find that a female was to be her nemesis.
She had a curvaceous figure, one she had little concern about flaunting, either
to tease her prisoners or to pander to her own ego. Her shapely legs were bare,
her feet slipped into patent court shoes with stiletto heels. A peplum latex
miniskirt clutched tightly about her abdomen, giving way to a matching zip
front bodice which vanished beneath the cropped hem of a gleaming rubber
biker jacket. Her long sable hair fell about a stern visage and her gaze was
piercing and intense, the stare adding to the aura of intimidation she generated
like a physical force.
In her hands she clutched an elegant riding crop, a weapon with which she
indicated for Lydia to exit with a whistling wave.
When she did not move, the instrument flashed downwards, leaving behind a
deep purple welt and a storm of pain.
“Out!” spat the woman, and threw up the crop in preparation for a fresh
strike.
Cowering with her linked arms raised for shelter, Lydia scuttled from the pit,
permitting the woman to throw down the lid and scrutinize the new captive in a
stronger light.
Lydia knelt and cringed, her manacled hands between her knees as the
woman paced thrice around the naked form, her eyes taking in the details of
the prisoner, conjuring schedules and torments, horrors to inflict and abuses to
instigate.
Reaching down, fingertips brushed Lydia’s cheek before skipping back to
close about her hair, the grip pulling at her roots and making her scalp burn.
Instinctively her hands leapt up to try and remove the hold, only to receive
stinging blows from the crop until they ceased their interference and moved
away. Wincing from the severe hold, Lydia gritted her teeth and paused,
gripping her palms between her knees to help defeat any more instinctive
responses.
With a sharp pull she was led aside, forced to crawl and keep up the
demanded pace to ease the strain. Shown to a rounded pole that ran from floor
to ceiling, her captor hauled upwards until Lydia was erect and then placed her
back to the wood.
Afraid to resist for fear of the consequences and knowing that any attempt at
escape would be useless while she was naked and bound, she did nothing,
allowing herself to remain as a passive subject. Her elbows were maneuvered
back until the chain of her cuffs was taut across her belly, the metal edges
sawing painfully into her joints. A rigid leather manacle was applied above
each elbow and connected to its fellow via a short coil of rope. With a stern
pull they were dragged up to be secured to a protruding hook on the far side of
the pole. Her shoulders throbbed with a deep ache from the twisted position,
but there was little she could do, the elevation of the hook was far too high for
her to get off of it. Still not satisfied with Lydia’s helplessness, the woman
began to buckle thick fetters to her ankles, the feel of the suede interior upon
her skin causing Lydia to believe that they were a tool to trap her feet to the
base of the pole. When rope was threaded through the D rings of the cuffs, she
still continued with this notion until a yank to the rope hauled her feet into the
air. The villain dragged them up and slipped the length of rope connecting her
feet over the same hook that held her elbows, suspending her upon the anchor,
her limbs contorted painfully to hold her as the pole pressed firmly to her spine
and rear. Gasping, she gritted her teeth and held to her silence, intending to
deny this woman the pleasure of her begs or howls.
However chilling the bondage was, her resentment of this affair only boiled
over when she saw the woman set aside her crop and select a short brass pole.
Over a foot in length, a leathery waterfall of yard long strips spewed from the
tip, the impassive torturess combing them through her fingers, the metal stave
that was the hilt sparkling in the weak light.
“You can’t do this, I’m innocent, I—” she began, her dissent being
transformed into a croaking yowl, the whip having laid a plexus of angry weals
following a capricious though heavy-handed flick.
Another followed, and another, the flat leather tentacles making her breasts
and belly reverberate with pounding waves. Lydia stretched her fingers out
onto her chest to take away some of the assault, but the weapon afflicted such a
large area with its searing touch that she only really succeeded in opening her
hands to harm.
Throwing herself wildly in her bonds, her wrists were plagued with gnawing
agony, the cuffs responding to her dance with mordant intensity. Her legs
kicked into her bonds, the muscles straining, the flesh rippling with her battle
to evade the methodical targeting of her body, her breasts bouncing wildly, her
eyes clenched shut within her mask of duress.
The flogging ended abruptly and Lydia sank upon her bonds, torpid and
phased, having wrenched her muscles and ligaments with her fight upon her
bonds.
Hanging upon the hook, her body held like a stringed puppet awaiting use,
she dimly noticed the woman fetching something new, and then as the fires of
her trial started to ebb, her hair was being smoothed back before being trapped
in a stern pony tail. The sides of a latex hood were gathered in and the garment
forced down over her head with careless intensity. As the contours of the
molded item were steered to the correct positions and her mane hauled from
the designated opening with a brutality that made her wince, she found that it
offered no sight.
“Open your mouth,” demanded the woman, cradling Lydia’s chin and lifting
up her slothful head upon a curled forefinger.
Rendered cooperative by the abuse, she willingly parted her jaws, her chest
still possessed of penetrating rawness. The opening was not satisfactory so the
woman sank her fingers into Lydia’s cheeks and squeezed, forcing her maw to
its limits, the nails digging spitefully into her cheeks to leave flushed
indentations.
A flaccid balloon slipped in, borne upon a plate of metal. The riveted straps
that were thrown from this barrier were cast about her skull and tightened by
degrees until she feared her head would implode, the leather creaking with the
heavy stresses being placed upon it. The restraints were secured and then
locked to prevent any interference, each buckle and strap ready and able to
provide such security.
Lydia detected the application of something to the exterior nozzle and
suddenly the trespasser was welling in her mouth under a steady rhythm of
pumps. As her tongue was ground beneath the globe and her jaws were
strained against the straps, panic set in and she began to jolt against her limb-
warping cuffs, her fingers clawing at her skin as sheer panic descended within
her. After imposing a slight crimp to her breathing from its bloated bulk
pressing against the back of her throat, the procedure stopped.
Battling to find a way to defeat the gag, she wheezed through her nose and
listened as her captor spoke, her senses reduced to this last one, for it was
certain that her sense of touch would be occupied with trauma at any moment.
Drool started to escape the gag and stretch from her chin, her body
reverberating with discomfort and heat, her skin growing damp with sweat.
“I am your Mistress. I do not care if you are innocent or guilty. I am not here
to determine verdicts I am here to break the enemies of our country. Now, you
will eventually be conditioned to adore me. The program works just as well for
women as for men, and once you are groveling at my feet in worship, we will
determine your final fate.”
The song of metal being moved permeated the muffling hood and she felt
some sort of full steel helmet being closed about her head. The item fitted
snugly, its structure sculpted delicately to follow the contours of human
features. Hinged at the crown into two halves—that of the face and the back of
her skull, the seams of the device closed over her ears and the latches were
firmly and irrevocably locked at her neck. It was light, but the added weight
was still unwelcome in her current suspended predicament.
It was only in the quiet after it was installed that she heard the whispers. Just
at the very limit of her hearing she could detect words, a seductive litany that
continued without pause. As she slowed her breathing and listened to the
audio-education she began to discern the sentences contained therein. The
subliminal brainwashing was not to pledge her allegiance or give up her
supposed secrets, it was to inspire devotion to this woman.
“You can feel your lust burning when you look upon my body. The contours
that entice, presented in latex to shield me from your worthless presence. You
will do anything to grovel at my feet, to abase yourself and lap at my heels, to
taste the gleaming fabrics that coat my frame. I am a goddess, a divine empress
who you will do anything to please, endure anything to gain the most meager
favor from. You are a worm beneath contempt, lower than a slave, and you are
blessed beyond measure when I give you attention, and you will obey without
pause or question to show how much you love me. You w—”
She shook her head to dispel the sounds, so offensive did she find them.
Noticing the excessive volume, the Mistress decreased the tune slightly,
reducing it to an almost inaudible murmur in the background, a weapon to
assail her subconscious without relent.
A cry left Lydia’s lips as the woman grabbed her ankles from behind and stole
away yet more rope, lifting her feet higher from the ground and then fastening
them at this increased height, her buttocks being splayed against the beam. The
ascent in twisting pain gnawed at her joints and her teeth chattered
uncontrollably upon the gag, her breathing quickening into uneven rasps.
A jolt traversed her hovering form as a terrible bite drilled into her nipples,
the clamps the torturess applied being drawn tighter by the effects of a leaden
weight that dangled from their chains, stretching the pert assets downward, the
cold burden chilling her whip-marked torso. She spasmed again with greater
motion as another set of cruel jaws nipped her clitoris, the sensitive morsel
throwing out more pain than she could stand and maintain her silence. Her
shaking fingers clawed for the implements, the one hanging from her sex far
out of her range. When she reached for the ones blighting her mamilla, all she
could do was snag the weight and its chain to bring more pain as she tugged on
it, failing to get access to the actual clamp or any chance to get the terrible
tools off.
Gurgling upon the gag, she cried desperately to get free, all to no avail, the
woman being a veteran of such abuses and so her callous heart was as stone to
them. The sharp initial shock of the clamps began to settle into a dull heat that
bore its own lethargic pulse, one that was slowly starting to ascend in potency.
The mechanisms were stashing away a secret reserve of anguish that they
would save for her when they were removed, each minute they remained with
her boosting this stash.
Blind, mute, and near deaf, Lydia’s first awareness of the incoming strap was
gained only when the stiff appliance impacted upon her presented belly, the
smooth surface applauding the virulent blows with thunderous claps and a
vehement maelstrom of havoc.
Under such attention her skin adopted a flushed rosy glow as though it were
the very manifestation of the fiery heat within the tissues. Squealing and
suffering abominably, Lydia’s addled thoughts were concentrated solely upon
prayers for an end to the ordeal and when the attack stopped after an infinity of
harrowing, she almost gave a sigh of gratitude to the villainess responsible.
The clamps were starting to swell with a more intense discomfort, their pinch
serving to make her squirm. To free herself of them she cast her cleavage from
side to side, quickly discovering that this made them ache all the more. With
this increase in pain she foolishly renewed her fight to get them off. This
caused the effects to spiral until she was forced to give up, having failed to
dislodge them and having magnified the rigor of the baleful parasites as well as
harming her elevated limbs all the more grievously. All the while the woman
merely studied the effects of her torment.
The rope at her ankles was cut at the hook and her feet fell to the floor,
stubbing her toes, the shock almost unnoticed for it was such a paltry one
compared to her current levels. With some ailing shuffles she propped herself
back up, only to have the joints snagged yet again. This time she fought the
pull, knowing that it was useless but determined to show her lack of
submission to this lot.
The affixed ropes were used as reigns and hauled upward until her knees
almost touched her pinched breasts. The strain upon her arms was now beyond
anything she could have imagined and it felt as though they were sure to snap
from this diabolic contortion.
The limbs were tied off upon the pole, the severed laces being knotted on the
opposite side, trapping them in this impious and lewd pose. The hope that this
sadist had finished her deeds was annihilated as a leg spreader was employed,
the latches on either end of the wide rod clipping to the manacles to form a
most stringent set of restraints that forced her bound legs apart.
With legs splayed, she gurgled and listened as the Mistress drew forth a chair
and sat down before her suspended frame, the squeal of wooden legs and the
creak of timbers being burdened explaining all in the absence of Lydia’s
vision. Noticing just how vulnerable her loins had been rendered was a cause
for even greater concern, and Lydia trembled with consternation at the prospect
of what might come.
Some sort of soft plastic tube was screwed onto the vents of her nostrils, the
helmet having the necessary means to forge an airtight seal. She needed to
breathe more ferociously to respire because of these tunnels that extended each
route to air, but it was clear that the Mistress merely wanted an easier control
over the workings of her lungs.
The tube suddenly denied intake, the pipe having been blocked or squeezed
shut. Lydia sucked with all her might, gaining pitiful hisses of air from the
chinks in her hood, but these measures were woefully inadequate for her needs.
The strain for respiration was lost as she spent her reservoir on a howl, the
Mistress having reached forward and armed with some manner of tweezers she
had yanked out a tuft of pubic hair. The intensity of the removal made it feel
like a chunk of flesh had been stolen, the eruption of heat within the afflicted
roots being more than she thought possible from this mere act of plucking. Her
legs jerked and her body bent itself more acutely against its trammels, her
crotch wiggling as it sought to rid itself of the mordant sensations coursing
through the tiny bald patch.
Breath was restored and she gasped in as much as she could, expending some
on prolonged muffled cries while the plucking continued. At sporadic intervals
her respiration was cut off, leaving her to the effects of scorching suffocation,
her very essence aflame from this dreadful maltreatment. Spasming on her
bonds she shrieked for a way to evade this atrocity, her mind bellowing for it to
end.
Only once the clefts of her loins were fully cleared did the attacks stop, the
brutal shearing no doubt having left her bald skin aglow and flecked with spots
of red from the more savage removals.
Even this gave no end to the session, for the snap of surgical gloves reached
her ringing ears and thumping mind, a sound that was followed by the
smearing of a cool cream across the punished regions. Volcanic lances of fire
drilled deep into the flesh, the embrocation cream making every pore and
nerve shriek their hatred of the substance. Lydia bounced upon her bonds, the
baking touch beyond all concept of endurance. The pain was so severe that her
hindquarters could have been dissolving in flames for all she knew, and the
reaction to a mere medicinal cream was impossibly acute.
The rounded bulbs of her tormentor’s fingers evaded the clamp and carried
the smears of gel into her sex, depositing it upon the tender tracts to have them
join the chorus of outrage. They were accompanied in turn by her rear as more
of the caustic substance was laid down internally.
There seemed to be no end to this woman’s need to cause agony, a conclusion
amply supported when she moved away and returned to begin basting Lydia’s
exposed and upturned soles with a cane.
The soft flesh releasing nova bursts of excruciating misery with each stroke,
the softness of the arches and toes responding to the thin staff with a vivid
clarity that even rivaled those times her sex had been targeted.
After a dozen or so strokes that had her wailing and wriggling impotently
within her stark confinement, the weapon was set aside, leaving her to hang
limp. The cream had lessened its harsh effects, and as her head hung forward,
salty drips ran through the interior latex, her sweat mingling with the lines of
saliva that dripped from her slack and bloated mouth.
The clamps were removed swiftly and while carefree feeling skipped blithely
back into the pinched mamilla, the nerves reported on the pain they had
suffered but which the compression had thus far stifled. The ache escalated in
an instant to a potent pinnacle that had her casting her head back and
screaming into her gag, the flow of drool extending on viscid strings from the
hem of her hood and helmet. Jolting as her nipples broiled, she weathered the
storm of pain and calmed as the mayhem slowly dwindled away, taking her
energy with it and leaving her an apathetic husk of hopelessly bound
femininity.
The rope tethers on her ankles were loosened, letting her enforcibly parted
legs drop heavily to the floor, the joints still parted by the spreader. Several
agonizing hacks of the cane into her opened pussy became a prelude to the
removal of the clamp there, the woman grabbing the implement ant pulling it a
few times to scorch the nugget before taking the contraption away.
The throb of the welts slithered away and was replaced by the sanguinary stab
of agony that the loss of the clamp slipped in to replace it. As Lydia scowled
within her enforced bleak world, trying to endure this flare of biting sensation,
the breathing tube was removed and her elbows finally set free. The opening of
the handcuffs was terribly ferocious, her trials having caused them to badly
bruise her skin, her limbs dropping by her sides, robbed of vitality.
The procedure of being released was unpleasant in itself, her twisted frame
responding to movement with a testy attitude, but compared to the torture it
was a most blessed relief. When she was finally rid of the upright beam, she
crumpled into a loose heap, her helmet clanging upon the stone as her abused
form twitched, the last remnant of the ordeal still keeping her legs in a wide
split.
Her grief knew no bounds when her arms were turned and folded up behind
her back, the application of an arm lock giving way to bondage as leather
shackles gripped the discolored joints and flicked a short chain up her spine to
snag the crown of her helmet. With both arms affixed, her head drawn back by
the extreme altitude of her hands, she murmured pitifully as chains were
clipped to her ankles. Any pull of her head or arms afflicted the other anchor,
her neck smarting unbearably, swallowing being almost impossible against the
rigors of the pose.
The cranking grind of cogs forged a testing tug and slowly the leg spreader
ascended, lifting her up until only her face and chest were left touching the
floor, the weight of her body crushing her contused breasts beneath her own
torso. Kicking her legs, she writhed her body against the cold stone, the helmet
scraping against it, her form unable to defeat the bondage.
A plastic rod dove into her rear before she could resist, the smooth lubricated
shaft sliding through her cheeks and piercing her anus. With a squall of
violated dismay she flung her muscles against it, trying to eject the plastic rod.
There was a cackle of tape that warned her before the item was secured, and
the adhesive strips were placed to her raw rear, keeping the intruder stable and
sheathed. Frantic maneuvering of her internal muscles failed to dislodge the
interloper and as she heard water being run, she could guess what the Mistress’
intentions were.
Water drummed from a jug into the bag of an enema, filling it until its own
weight turned the flow out of the nozzle from a squirt into a torrential jet.
The chill flood washed into her, flushing into her body unchecked. Every
clench caused a swell to develop and through the engorging pain of this she
was encouraged to give the waters free reign to fill her. But the quantities
being introduced were too much, her innards could not cope with the glut. It
seemed her stomach were about to rupture, and as chill wrought cramps made
her groan, she tried to force out the volume. No more than a few icy trickles
escaped and they wound paths down her belly, soothing the burning skin when
they passed over the brutalized regions. Writhing in her restraints, Lydia spread
her rolling weight across her front and shuddered as the sensation grew ever
more forceful.
Whimpering mewls emanated from the helmet, her dreadfully bend arms
fighting their bonds as she tried to find some way in which to overcome the
internal pressure.
The dregs of the contents entered her body and the tube was wrenched free,
the tape tugging briefly at her skin, ripping out the soft pelt of hair by the root
and leaving her with turgid innards. Striving to break out, she could not stop
herself from making the futile attempts, her body was running on instinct
alone, her mind too occupied by the pain of her predicament to issue any
legitimate orders.
“If you let one more trickle escape before I say, slave, I will force a sea of
water into you until you burst like a balloon. Is that understood? Slave!” she
growled, putting her shoe onto Lydia’s helmet and tapping the dagger heel
against the metal to gain her full attention. The spike sent a deep tone through
the interior, causing Lydia to shuffle her head as best she could, nodding to a
tiny measure that would have been imperceptible had not the Mistress been
looking for it.
The fetters were opened and her legs dropped lifelessly to the floor, the
twinge of pain from the harsh landing causing a brief squirt of her volumes to
emerge despite all her efforts to stop it. A hand grabbed the chain between
helmet and hands before pulling, dragging her back to the pit as she strained to
hold on, her beleaguered rear fighting a losing war. The lid was raised and she
battled to hold off the ocean of force pressing down on her harried sphincter.
Without care, Lydia was shoved into her diminutive prison, the woman lifting
a leg and using the painful prod of her stiletto heel to thrust out and catapult
Lydia forward.
Rolling down the steep side and into the depths, her sudden tumble agitated
the douche and made it all the more restless within her. The waters seemingly
alive with their own awful intent, ready to rip through her belly unless she
quickly presented them with another alternate access to the world. The ceiling
was restored and the locks set, but Lydia had little time to consider her
confinement as she frantically sought the drain. If she unleashed the douche
now she would be condemned to wallowing in it, and the thought repulsed her
enough to lend her strength to endure.
Her teeth were clenched to the gag, her face a burning mask of strain, her
arms rigid with exertion as she held to the gurgling sea in her rectum. Prayers
for strength against this abuse poured through her mind, followed by frantic
pleas that she find the drain quickly and accurately.
With her hands secured high behind her back she had to use her toes and she
wept with calamity from trying to find the small hole, her stomach ready to
explode, the flow already starting to emerge despite her best efforts to hold the
dam. Praying that she was properly positioned she dropped down, her buttocks
resting on the cold steel bars of the grate. Shuffling across, she assured herself
she had found the center and let herself expel the soiled fluids. The rank odor
choked her as it filled the tiny cell, the stink seeming to replace the air as it
made breathing difficult. The sighs of relief as the spurting jet poured from her
were broken with spasming retches, her belly turning over as she was assailed
by the grotesque odor of her flushed bowels.
The woman was enacting despicable acts of the grossest kind to damage her
psyche, to bruise it and leave it more readily vulnerable to her teachings. Like
a piece of meat she was being tenderized, pummeled to make her more open to
the will of the chef, save that her cook was deploying hardship and indecent
vice rather than mallet and spices.
The enema had been done to break her spirits, to demean her, humiliate her.
The woman was showing Lydia that she had full control over all her bodily
processes, that Lydia was nothing more than a possession, such lines of
thought impressing such a caste on her via these grotesque deeds. She wanted
to destroy Lydia and create a slave via her debauchery, the lessons in control
and humiliation breaking away Lydia’s psyche and converting her into the
configuration the malevolent bitch wanted.
Lydia convinced herself that she had to remain focused on this aspect if she
were to evade the results it was designed to generate. Only by cold clinical
examination of the things done to her and the methods employed would Lydia
be able to survive and keep Lydia the slave safely hidden in the depths of her
mind.
She remained seated upon the tiny grille for what seemed like hours, her
intention to preserve the meager sanitary nature of her cell being a paramount
concern. The occasional hiss against her ears declared the speakers to be laying
their indoctrinating cargo at the periphery of her hearing, and while she
squatted she tried to damage the instrument of her assured corruption.
Banging the steel cask against the interior wall, the booming tones punched
her eardrums and bruised her skull, the ringing notes of her attack rolling
through the interior and unleashing stunned white flashes of shock as she
battered herself in an attempt to save her mind from the programming. The
helmet was solid and any impact of it upon the walls only served to daze and
deafen her. It was secure and could not be removed or broken. She was trapped
within it.
The words wanted her to become some slavering beast, subscribing to being a
pathetic being and obsessed with gaining the Mistress’ favor and abuses. How
long would it be before she would willingly call for a beating just so she might
lick the woman’s heels? The thought made her heedless of the trauma and
smash the helmet to the wall with added verve. Having again caused no
damage to her target, and having concussed herself further, she slouched back
against the stone and grizzled in abject self-pity.
Sleep was near impossible to acquire, for the gag, the awkward position of
her arms, the cramped cell, her ravenous hunger and thirst, and the prospect of
what horrors lay in wait for her future all assured that she could find no refuge
in slumber.
Time sailed out of all ability to track in the impenetrable night of her hoods.
Her starvation bloomed once more within her like a weed whose roots never
left, and each time the plant was removed it always grew back. The conspiracy
of lack of sustenance and from being confined were gradually weakening her
again. How long would she be left in this Draconian hellhole?
The isolation was hard to endure, the various protests of her body making it
even harder. How she wished to be set free, to see her Mistress again and be
granted the honor of her ministrations. Lydia paused in horror, the dawning of
what she had been thinking making her heart sink. As she had been dwelling
on such things she had visualized the woman, not for hatred’s sake, but to
stoke a prurient lust, to dream of crawling at her feet, of kissing her rear or
clasping a latex stockinged leg. The allure of the fetishistic material was
strong, and alien. She had never before found it so stimulating, so attractive,
and to detect such thoughts riled her with impotent rage as she knew then that
she was not immune from the subliminal education she had been promised.
The conscious mind slept and could be distracted, the subconscious was
always awake and was a gullible entity, believing whatever was told it. The
earphones were speaking to it endlessly, and had told it what to think, re-
sculpted it and left her changed. The foundations of her mind had been altered,
and it was only a matter of time before the changes crept like a cancer upwards
into the forefront of her thoughts, affecting her conscious mind after having
totally overwhelmed and suffused the subconscious with its programming
litanies of depravity.
The discovery was terrifying, to think that she could be ruled by her devotion,
that already they were infecting her during her delirium, and that the tainting of
her waking world was inevitable.
Lydia tried to keep the tumorous thoughts away, but they were not so easily
subdued because her starvation, pains, and the sensory deprivation were
feeding the growing submissive beast, making it stalwart and intractable.
There was nothing she could do, she was being reformed as an adoring rubber
slave, eager for being smothered in the fabric or worship it on her owner. How
could this be happening? What was the prison doing to those it sent here? Why
were they reprogramming the prisoners no one would miss? Such questions
were pressing for they were her fate, and though she feared it immensely,
simultaneously, Lydia ached to find out what was waiting for her.
Lydia’s training and seduction into adoring her fate continue in Book Two:
Condemned to Torment.
Here she finds herself in a world devoted to the bizarre whims of others.
Rubber bird-women fill aviaries, latex mermaids swim in pools, impossible
bondage subjects hang as decoration, rubber pets dwell at the side of master
and mistress as they make use of female furniture and maid alike. Willing sex
slaves serve every lewd whim, all of them trained by regular punishment to
ensure their cruel owners are satisfied in every way.
