Part 2: Abigail Takes the Nails
The captain put his gloved hands on Abigail's head, the crotch of his trousers
just inches from her face, "Hmm, it's rare we make a collection from you of a
girl in such good condition!" he remarked to the lieutenant, "I see that you have
subjected her to the Pantene Procedure. I suppose they told her it was
experimental, didn't they? Isn't it amusing to see them squirm and hear them
squeal, when you are really doing them a favour?"
"Yes, sir. My squad watched with great amusement."
"Who's idea was it to put this ring in her nose?" the captain asked.
"That was Corporal Kayode, sir. He shall be dealt with if it displeases you."
"On the contrary, I think that it is a fine addition. I think he will make Sergeant in
the next round of promotions for this. And her body hair has been removed.
How was this done?"
"The eggheads in the Research Block dipped her in one of their chemicals, sir.
They say that the effect is permanent."
"Very good. I shall recommend greater funding for their work next year for that.
If anyone had touched her to shave her, there would have been trouble. And
the beating across the breasts, who did this?"
Proudly, "I did, sir!"
"Then you had better hope that the stripes fade quickly, or there will be some
very angry top brass, and your name will be mentioned! We told you that there
were special plans for her. Well, we shall have to make do as best we can."
He gestured to one of his men.
"Abigail, stand up!" he ordered, and Abigail did as she was told, finding it
harder without the use of her hands.
"Your name leaves you now. You are 16017. What number are you?"
Abigail mumbled back, "16017"
"Remember that. It will be your only identity until told otherwise. Do you
understand, Abigail?" She nodded her head meekly, and instantly received a
slap across her cheek.
"Do you understand, Abigail?" She kept still.
"Do you understand, 16017?" She nodded again.
"Quick learner this one. I suppose that's the product of the American
schooling system, eh?" said the lieutenant, and the captain shared the laughter
of the gathered men.
The man to whom the captain had gestured had come back. He held two
things, the first was a folded up bundle that looked like leather, the other was a
small syringe. Abigail panicked, but could do little. As the syringe was
revealed, somebody had gripped her legs tightly, and someone else held her
shoulders. A small spurt from the tip of the needle proved that there were no
air bubbles, and it was jabbed into her upper arm and depressed just a small
way before being drawn out again. The sharp sting of the injection almost
immediately started to fade away. Abigail's limbs suddenly seemed to be
unwilling to respond, and she felt as though the world was seen through a
grease-smeared window. The men around her supported her. She could
make out that the leather bundle was like a bodybag, but open at the head.
The men gently manoeuvred her into it, the zipper drawn up over her belly and
right to her throat, where a small padlock was used to make sure that it stayed
done up. Her legs were forced together and unable to flex much. Her still-
cuffed arms were held against her back by the tough material. A strip of black
tape was placed over her mouth, reaching practically from ear to ear.
Once Abigail was thus secured, she was placed in the hands of the captain's
men, who carried her under their arms like an awkwardly shaped parcel, and
still the feeling and movement would not return, and the world still seemed
fuzzy and grey.
The Special Compound van was parked not far away, but Abigail had not had a
chance to look at it. It was a plain white van with high sides, uninteresting to
the casual observer and obviously (had Abigail's brain been functioning
properly) intended to avoid catching attention.
The inside of the van was lined with soft foam padding, which struck Abigail in
her drugged state as being a nice and comfortable thing to be. But it was not
for her benefit. The Special Compound guards knew their business and
opened the back of the van, climbing up and sliding Abigail inside. The
bodybag had a number of strong loops built into its back, and these lined up
with a set of hooks on the wall of the van, from which the bag and its contents
would hang. There was not quite enough height for Abigail to be completely
vertical, so the roof forced her to bend her head forwards so that she faced the
floor. Her feet were off the floor of the van, but not by much: her toes easily
reached it. Around her ankles, a metal bar swung closed and latched into
place.
By now, the effects of the tiny dose of the drug were already wearing off. Abigail
was once more becoming alert to her surroundings. She saw first that she
was not the only woman restrained as she was and hung on the sides of the
van. Three more were there before her. All had fared far worse than Abigail.
Their faces were bruised, and one of them had had her head shaved and there
was dried blood on her face. One of them had stains of what looked like urine
and semen in her hair. Abigail suddenly felt absurdly guilty and ashamed that
she had been spared these atrocities, while those around her had not.
The roads on this second journey were just as bad as on the first. Now it was
not her face and chest that bore the brunt of the bouncing van, but Abigail's
head that frequently banged against the roof. The soft foam padding spared
her the worst of it, although she guessed that its true purpose was to keep the
muffled squeals of the unwilling passengers from being heard outside. The
worst part was the way that the rough inside of her bag was rubbing against
her sore, punished breasts, aggravating them horribly. But the roughness was
also rubbing against her sex with each rut or pothole in the road, and it was
maddeningly arousing in a way that she would never have imagined while she
was in the hands of the lieutenant and his men.
With her hands captured behind her back, and no freedom of movement,
Abigail could not do anything to relieve her aroused state except close her eyes
and think back to that wonderful evening that seemed so long ago, and yet had
only been last night. The evening whose price this was, spent in the presence
of a modern-day African queen, whose tongue had expertly rasped upon
Abigail's tender, erect clitoris just as the lining of her cocoon was doing now...
But each heavy bump in the road would jolt Abigail back to the present, her
head knocking against the padding that now seemed far too thin, allowing the
hardness of the metal roof to be clearly felt anyway. She could feel mile on
mile the growing wetness between her legs, but there was nothing that she
could do to stimulate herself further, and no way to stop the reaction. She
moaned in her frustration, hoping that the involuntary sound would be mistaken
for an altogether different sort of suffering. She had no idea if the comments in
the native tongue of this part of Africa had anything to do with her or not, but she
recognised their laughter, and imagined that the soldiers had guessed all too
accurately what she was feeling.
It took over two hours to reach their destination, and by the end Abigail was
sweating not just from the heat, but from the sustained state of sexual
stimulation in which the motion of the van had kept her, while never allowing
her release.
Suddenly, she found herself at a steep angle as the van went down an incline.
Dangling from the wall, only the bracket around her ankles stopped her from
swinging towards the front of the van. It was not a long slope, and the
slowness of the vehicle enabled Abigail to deduce that they were in some sort
of underground car park or garage. This had to be where she would face the
next stage.
The soldiers disembarked via a sliding door in the side of the van, closing it
behind them and leaving the captives temporarily in darkness. They opened
the rear door and lifted out the first of their cocooned women, and closed the
door again. Nothing could be heard inside the van of what was happening, but
it was less than a minute before the door opened again, and another of
Abigail's fellow prisoners was removed. Another minute, and then Abigail was
left alone in the darkness.
Finally, the door opened for the last time and Abigail's tightly wrapped body was
lifted from her hooks. She was placed on her feet, and found herself in a dingy
underground garage, lit by pale strip lighting. The other prisoners were naked
now, standing in shackles on wrists and ankles that were linked by chains too
short to allow the wearer to stand up straight. Abigail could see the welts
where they had been caned.
Without hesitation, one of the guards unzipped her front, and pulled the bag
down around Abigail's knees. Abigail could see distinctly where the lining had
soaked up her dampness, and she knew instantly that the soldiers had seen
the same thing. The captain looked more closely, and pulled off the glove of
his left hand. He gently stroked his fingers around Abigail's vulva, feeling for
himself the lubrication that had leaked from her pussy, and sending an
involuntary shiver of delight through her spine. He dipped his index finger a
little way between her labia and showed to his men the glistening tip.
"It looks like little 16017 really enjoyed the ride!" he remarked to the coarse
laughter of his men, "I think she should have one last thrill before we let the
Boss men take care of her, don't you?"
"You know what they said, though, sir: no touching. You could get into trouble!"
said the youngest member of the team.
"Who's going to tell? There's only you, me and her will know, and she looks
smart enough to know that she'll come of the worst if anyone finds out she
came when she came here!" He smeared Abigail's dew around her areolae
and removed his other glove. His left hand went back between Abigail's legs,
that were still held tightly together by the bodybag, and his right hand started to
play gently with Abigail's nipples, already hard from her long arousal on the
journey. He gently turned her into a position so that all the guards and the
three other prisoners could see exactly what was happening to her.
The captain was clearly experienced in this, and his fingers were surprisingly
soft and gentle as he stroked Abigail's clitoris and teased her left breast.
Abigail closed her eyes and sighed as the captain's expert digits did their work,
stroking and soothing and driving her onwards.
"Mmmm!" she moaned behind the tape that was still stuck over her mouth. But
the captain wasn't happy with her, and stopped, leaving her shocked and
unfulfilled again.
"Open your eyes!" he demanded, and Abigail did, and the relentless build-up
continued, but now Abigail was fully aware of the eight other people watching
the captain administering his care upon her. She breathed another deep sigh
of pleasure, feeling the shame of such blatant enjoyment of her captor's
advances, but unable to stop herself; the shame itself heightened the
sensations in her nether regions.
The captain switched so his left thumb was now gently brushing her clit from
side to side and up and down, stroking it and teasing it as his right hand was
doing to her nipple. Now, he gently slipped the four fingers of his left hand
between the lips of her pussy, and stroked her from inside as well as out. He
did not have long to work before he triggered her climax.
"Mmm!" Abigail groaned her pleasure, her knees suddenly weak and unable to
support her, and she buckled towards the ground under the wave of pleasure
that engulfed her, "Mmmm! Mmmm! MMMM!" From both sides came the
applause of the men, both at their captain's skill and at the wonderful
performance that Abigail had given them. She could feel the disapproving
stares of the other prisoners, but she was grateful to the captain for giving her
at last some release. Knees still shaking, she stood upright again. The
captain did not look at her, but merely wiped his hands of Abigail's juices on
her breasts before putting his gloves back on. He waved his hand in her
direction: "Get her locked in." Her feet were removed from the leather bag, and
very soon Abigail was chained up just as the other women were.
A set of double doors faced the captives, and one by one they were led through
them into what looked like a kitchen of some kind. Another man, obviously not
a soldier, awaited them. He looked like some sort of clerk, with a clipboard
and a pen with which to mark things down. Indeed, he went along the line of
prisoners, ripping off the tape across their mouths and asking their names.
The stooped women each mumbled something in their native tongue, Abigail
couldn't tell what they said, but assumed it was the numbers they had been
given. When the clerk reached her, she mumbled her own number, "16017."
The clerk looked at her for a moment, and then slapped her cheek with the
back of his hand.
"I asked for your name, stupid whitey! What is your name?"
"Abigail," she whimpered.
"Hmm," the clerk pondered, "Ah, yes. The captain's been playing his little tricks
again. 1s for the capital 'I's, a 6 for the capital 'G', 7 is obviously an upside
down 'L', and because the 'A' doesn't look like much, it became a zero. I
thought you Americans were supposed to be smart, but if you fell for such a
simple trick as that, then it can't be true!" He marked a tick on his clipboard, to
show that all the expected women had arrived as scheduled. Then he looked
at his watch.
"It's now 2pm, so I guess you bitches must be hungry!" Abigail realised that
she had not eaten since before she visited the First Lady last night, and her
tummy rumbled as if in affirmation. She was dismayed when she saw that the
clerk had put four bowls on the floor, and proceeded to pour some form of soup
into them. As one, the girls bent into a crouch, and went to lift a bowl each to
their lips. The clerk drew open a drawer and pulled forth a riding crop even as
they did so, and whistled it through the air to attract the prisoners' attention.
"No! The bowls stay where they are. Anyone who lifts their bowl, or spills their
soup, will pay for it with this on her behind!" And the crop whistled again for
emphasis. The safest method is to rest your knees and forearms on the
ground, and either slurp or lap the soup."
Abigail did as the man described, and soon found that, while she was unlikely
to spill her soup, as long as she did not reach forwards too far, she was certain
to get it in her hair and on her nose and chin, all over her face, in fact. Neither
lapping nor slurping was a very quick way of transferring the soup from the
bowl to her mouth, but it was better than the alternative. Her posture forced her
ass high into the air, and the clerk was afforded a perfect view of her anus and
her newly bald crotch. She and her fellows greedily tried to suck the soup into
their bellies while they had the chance, Abigail always conscious of her
conspicuous nudity.
The clerk used his riding crop to lift Abigail's head from her bowl, and with his
foot he brushed the dish to one side. He forced Abigail to raise her chin until
she was sitting on her haunches, the chain from ankles to wrists now resting
cold and hard in the cleft of her vagina, reminding her again of the captain's
firm and adept fingers, even as she was made to look into the eyes of this
clerk.
"Look at you, you filthy creature!" he said, and spat to one side, "No wonder they
brought you here to be straightened out!" He went back down the line of
prisoners, and went through the same performance with each, although he
used the native language to the others, who clearly from their faces understood
every word. The clerk went over to the kitchen sink and stared to fill it with
water.
"You are all such filthy bitches that you will have to have your faces washed
before you go any further!" he announced. He dragged the first of the African
women to the sink, and without giving her a chance to draw breath, he plunged
her face into the water, letting her struggle for a moment before using a flannel
to wipe her face, still under water. Then he let her up.
He did the same for the others, and then it was Abigail's turn. As he drew her
nearer to the sink she could see that the water was now murky with the soup
and other grime that had been rinsed off the other women's faces. She tried to
draw breath, but the clerk was surprisingly quick and she had to close her
mouth halfway through. The primeval fear of drowning took hold and she
struggled helplessly as the others before her had done, hating the flannel that
scoured her face but thankful the instant that air returned to her lungs. The
whole experience did not last more than twenty seconds, but it had felt like
forever while her head was in the sink.
The clerk rubbed each of them with a separate towel each, drying off their faces
in rough fashion. Abigail welcomed it in a way, as the remnants of the grease
and grime left in the water still clung to her face until the towel wiped it off.
Now, he tied thick blindfolds over their eyes, and Abigail found that she could
see nothing at all. She heard as one by one the other prisoners were made to
shuffle across the room. A sliding, grating noise seemed to indicate a door or
lift of some kind. Then, last again, it was her turn. It was indeed a lift, and she
briefly felt her weight increase as the lift rose, and then decrease when it came
to a stop. Two pairs of hands guided her from the lift on whatever floor this
was, and made her turn several times to disorientate her. Then she was led
away, down a corridor perhaps. A key grated in a heavy lock, and she was
propelled forwards and made to kneel. The blindfold came off and Abigail saw
that she was in a tiny prison cell. The cell was lit only by a weak lightbulb in the
centre of the ceiling, surrounded by a wire cage. It was just long enough for
her to lie straight (if they would remove the shackles) and a narrow, grimy and
decaying mattress posed as a bed. The cell had only the width of the "bed"
plus the width of the door. A filthy-looking bucket stood at the other end of the
room. Just in case there was any doubt in Abigail's mind, the only instruction
her guards issued were: "You piss, you shit, it goes in the bucket!" They
departed, locking the door behind her.
Left alone to contemplate her condition, Abigail sat on the cold, hard floor and
wept.
* * * * *
Hours later, Abigail heard a key in the door. It opened slightly, and a hand
threw in a large hunk of bread. The thrower was obviously aiming for the
bucket, but thankfully he missed this time. Abigail picked up the loaf from the
dirty floor and hungrily began to gnaw at the coarse, brown sustenance. Once
she was done, a flap at the bottom of the door opened and a bowl of water was
pushed through it. Remembering her lesson at lunchtime, Abigail saw that
she would lose her balance and spill the water if she tried to sip it from the side
of the bowl. Once again, she would have to go down on all fours and slurp at it
like that. She was so thirsty that she managed to drink almost all of it, but the
final effort to reach the last half-inch or so only resulted in her tipping herself
forwards, her face going straight into the bowl and spilling the last remnants.
Soon afterwards, there was again the sound of a key in the lock. This time the
door opened fully, and the captain who had brought Abigail to this prison
entered, closing and locking the door behind him.
"You owe me a favour, Abigail," he said sternly. Abigail looked back at him
blankly. "I could have left you aching and unsatisfied," he continued, "But out of
the kindness of my heart I decided that you should be allowed your final climax.
Now, one kindness deserves another, wouldn't you agree?" He held Abigail's
chin in his hand and turned her face to look upwards at his. "They would
notice if I screwed your pussy or your ass, but your mouth can swallow all the
evidence and no one would be any the wiser - unless you told, of course, but
then the whole sorry tale would come out and you would suffer far more than I
would! Don't you agree that I deserve something in return for bringing you off?
Don't you think that you have a duty to suck my cock and swallow my semen?"
Abigail just looked back at him, knowing that she really would have no choice if
he wished to force himself upon her. He could see the look of feeble
acceptance and acknowledgement of the inevitable in her eyes. He laughed.
"I think you do agree, even if you will not say so. Come on, in position!" He
made Abigail kneel upright, and press her hands to her belly. This brought the
cold, hard chain back into contact with her sex. To aggravate it further, he used
his boot to force Abigail's knees wider apart. Although this only shortened the
chain a little, its effect was amplified by its pressure on her sensitive vulva.
Abigail whimpered, but parted her lips as instructed.
At first, the captain was gentle, allowing Abigail to do all the work, moving her
head and using her lips and tongue to stimulate the captain's cock. She was
thankful that he did not personify the stereotypical image of a black man with
huge member, but was actually quite modestly endowed. It was far more of a
relief when he became more excited. He started to twist his fingers in Abigail's
hair, and he was controlling her movements now, and becoming more and
more frantic until Abigail was sure that she was going to choke on him if he
didn't stop... Then her mouth was full of his slimy cum, and she swallowed
desperately, not only to please him but because she needed to breathe and it
was the only way that she could.
"Well done! You American sluts really know how to suck cock! I wish we had
more like you in here," the captain exclaimed as he did up his flies. Then he
departed, and Abigail was locked in, alone once more in her tiny cell. The light
went out, and all was blackness.
* * * * *
Eventually, she slept on the mattress in her hunched up position, despite the
discomfort of the steel around her wrists and ankles, and the chain against her
bare skin. She was woken, she had no idea how much later, by the bulb being
switched on and the sound of the door being unlocked. She could not quickly
lift herself from her lying, almost foetal, position, and the two guards who
entered gave her no time to try. They lifted her bodily by the arms until she was
standing on her feet, the whole thing done in silence. They did not speak to
each other or to the prisoner, but went about their business in a calm and
practised manner. Once on her feet, Abigail was urged by firm hands into the
hobbling, high-stepping gait that was the quickest that could be managed in
the chains. The guards directed her out of the cell and along the corridor,
which was lined by many doors just like the one from which Abigail had just
emerged.
She had noticed that these guards wore different uniforms to the soldiers she
had seen so far: they marked them out as being somehow more serious and
involved in the purpose of this prison, while the others were there to fetch, carry
and escort prisoners, and beat them up if they stepped out of line. If the term
"Special Crew" had any meaning then it had to be these men who were its
lowest rank. Abigail would soon find out why she had been spared the awful
treatment that she had seen inflicted on others, and why her guards had all
been told "no touching", and been so afraid to disobey.
Even at her quickest pace, she could barely manage walking speed for a free
person. It took a long time for her guards to guide her through the complex
corridors. Eventually, they came to a corridor that seemed cleaner than the
others: it had the air of a hospital or a research laboratory, and Abigail began to
wonder what they were going to do to her here. Maybe it would be a full
medical exam, and that was how they would have spotted it if the captain had
fucked her for real.
Finally, Abigail was brought to a spotless room where two people in full
surgeons' wear were waiting. The guards saluted the first of these, and one of
them silently removed the chains, carefully placing them in a plastic bag, while
the other held his gun covering Abigail. In later days, she thought that she
should have run for it then, and saved herself a lot of suffering, but she also
remembered that she had still believed that while she had life, she had hope.
In the corner stood what looked like a shower cubicle. As soon as the
shackles were gone, one of the doctors put a pair of goggles over her eyes and
ordered her inside. The spray hit from all sides as well as from above, and
smelled horribly of disinfectant, which explained the goggles but also set her
coughing nastily. Thankfully, the spray turned to water fairly soon, and she
could breathe again. Then one of the doctors approached her with a squeezy
bottle in one hand.
"Face the wall!" he ordered her, and she did not hesitate to obey. She cowered
from what she knew would come, the memory of her last shampooing vividly
brought back to her. The rubber-gloved hands of the doctor worked swiftly to
massage the lather into her head, and make sure that she had a thoroughly
clean head. Then he backed away, and closed the cubicle again. The water
continued for a bit, then some more disinfectant and finally, they rinsed her with
cool water.
If anything indicated that this was special, it was the fact that she was not
expected to be towel-dried, but hot streams of air swirled around Abigail's body
from six discreet nozzles in the shower wall. The doctor made her face the
wall, and brushed her hair in the gale of hot wind. He was taller than her, and
wearing thick-soled shoes, so it was easy for him to manage. This was not
the torturous brushing of yesterday, but a methodical, efficient way of neatening
her hair and keeping it tidy.
Very soon, she was dry and the heat stopped, a cool breeze now emanating
from the nozzles to relax her skin, turned livid by the temperature of the wind
before. It was not long before she regained her natural hue, and she was
suddenly feeling very well and cheerful: this was almost five-star pampering
(except for the disinfectant). Abigail was afraid to ask, but had to: "Why are you
doing this?"
"We want you to look your best for your audience!" was the cryptic reply. Abigail
felt faint, though: audience, she thought, that means I am to be executed. But
in that case, why the disinfectant?
"Let's have a look at you!" the doctors said, and turned her to face them again,
"Ah, yes. That lieutenant the captain told us about has been very lucky: the
welts have faded completely. He cannot have hit her very hard! Yes, she will
do very nicely." They each took an arm and pulled Abigail from the shower
cubicle, and very soon her wrists were cuffed again, in front instead of behind
this time.
Abigail was marched from the preparation room through a set of double-doors
and into what looked more like a film set of an operating theatre than the real
thing. There were three cameras that she could see, and instead of light from
directly above, there were floodlights set up around the room for the cameras to
use. In the centre of the room was an operating table, but it seemed to be a
very strange shape, cross-shaped for some reason. Abigail started to struggle
again, because she knew that whatever they would do to her, it would be
horrible and permanent. The two "doctors" were very strong, and impassively
dragged their impotent charge to the table. Abigail's struggles kept them from
placing her on it immediately, but a well-aimed kick to the back of her knees
subdued the frightened woman long enough for them to take an arm and a leg
each and lift her bodily onto the table. One of the doctors used his weight to
hold Abigail down while the other fastened a broad leather strap across her
ankles and another one over her lower thighs. Abigail's legs were completely
immobilised. Then they stretched out Abigail's arms along the arms of the
table, and further straps went across her wrists, lower arms and upper arms.
She was spread across the table, her head searching wildly for some clue as
to what would happen now, her naked body shivering uncontrollably from terror.
A gag was placed in Abigail's mouth, but it was not the usual type seen in the
"damsel in distress" scenes. This one was just a broad ring that forced
Abigail's jaw wide open, effectively preventing coherent speech but allowing her
full vent of her screams.
A door opened, and a woman in a wheelchair was brought in, and positioned
behind the cameras. Abigail could see that she was slim, and her ankles
were tied with some black cloth, almost invisible against the woman's ebony
skin. Her wrists were tied also, and lay in her lap. Her identity was hidden, for
a dark hood had been placed over her head. The man behind her was a
colonel judging by his uniform. He removed the hood, and revealed the face of
Anagelike, the First Lady.
"Abigail, you have been found guilty of committing perverse sexual acts with the
First Lady. You are here to begin your punishment. The First Lady will be
punished if such is thought necessary. What will happen is this: if the First
Lady wishes, then she can take upon herself the punishment that you are
about to receive, and you will be sent to prison for the rest of your life.
Alternatively, if she truly loved you, then the pain of watching your suffering may
be punishment enough. Of course, if she did not love truly you, then she need
not be punished at all. Your fate lies in how much love Anagelike feels for you.
Doctors, you may proceed."
The doctors strapped Abigail's head back against the table, carefully brushing
her hair back so that it fell over the end of the table. Then one of them went
and collected a horrendous nail from somewhere, and his companion
produced a giant hammer. They showed the nail to Abigail: it was enormous.
She thought it might even be as thick as a quarter. It had a vicious tip, like the
head of a Philips screwdriver only sharper, longer and pointier. The head was
almost as large as Abigail's palm. The doctors took their inhuman implement
and placed the tip very carefully over the centre of Abigail's palm. Abigail's
hands were quite small, and the nail dwarfed her helpless hand, that was
pinned like some paralysed insect beneath the microscope.
The doctor raised his hammer high and prepared to strike.
"Stop!" cried Anagelike, "I beg you!"
"Ah, so you did love her!" crowed the Colonel, "Will you then accept these nails
in her place, First Lady? They are the latest development in punishment
engineering, and are called Brava Nails. I have another five of them to use in
this experiment. Will Abigail take them, or will you?"
Anagelike looked from the pathetic figure of Abigail, whose eyes were now
forced to stare straight up and could not make contact with her so recent lover,
and the face of the Colonel. She looked back at the hideous Brava Nail.
"I do not want to take the nails," she said weakly.
"Louder, and tell me who will take them instead."
"Let Abigail take the Nails, I don't want to!" sobbed the First Lady to the room.
Abigail gasped on horror, knowing that her lover had condemned her.
"Good! Now, I think we want no more interruptions from you," said the Colonel,
and he revealed a ball gag that had been hidden on the back of the chair. This
he fastened tightly into Anagelike's mouth, and it was a large gag that forced
Anagelike's jaw as wide as it would go. Only unintelligible whining issued
forth as the First Lady tried to protest this treatment. The hammer rose once
more, and Anagelike once more tried to cry out, but she was so effectively
muffled that barely a whimper emerged. The hammer struck the nail's head.
Abigail screamed with all her might as the steel crashed through her skin, and
between her hand bones, blood oozing from the wound and welling up into the
cup of her palm. Abigail could feel bones cracking and splintering as the nail
forced them apart, she could feel muscle tearing and flesh being destroyed
under the brutal assault. Her fingers twitched involuntarily, never to move
again as the metal annihilated the muscles and tendons that controlled them.
Abigail's entire hand was a pit of tearing pain.
The hammer struck again, and Abigail screamed again as her bones were
pushed beyond any natural force, grating against other bones that had not
been touched by the nail itself and damaging them, opening yet more agony all
across her hand, paralysing every single finger. She did not stop screaming,
but kept on throughout as the hammer drove the nail further and further through
Abigail's outstretched hand, rasping and grating her bones with every blow,
driving her insane with agony. Her left hand was twitching in sympathy with her
paralysed right hand, perhaps her unconscious knowing that it would not be
long before they balanced out the pain.
And so it was, for after a few more hammer blows, the head of the first Brava
Nail was flush against Abigail's palm, pressing tightly down upon it and coving
almost the entire surface. Then the second Brava Nail was produced, and
without any hesitation they drove it through Abigail's left hand just as they had
done with her right. Abigail screamed time and again as her left hand suffered
all the same damage as her right, her bones splintering and grating and
grinding with each hammer blow just as they had done before. Tears blinded
her and agony wracked her body that was so tightly fastened down. There was
nothing that could be worse than this. In her heart she repented of ever having
been with another woman if only the pain would stop, if only the men would
leave her alone.
And then it was over. Her hands were pinned down firmly against the table -
or more accurately, against a waxy resin that replaced the hard tabletop at a
certain distance from her body. But that was irrelevant. It was over. A tiny
voice at the back of her mind whispered, "They have four more, and the Colonel
said he would use them all..." Abigail ignored it, glad that the men had
stopped. Her hands were still extremely painful, and her fingers had
seemingly gone numb, but now that the hammering was gone, she could cope,
almost. She had stopped screaming and was just whimpering in anguish.
She could hear similar sounds from behind the First Lady's gag, and imagined
the tears that ran down Anagelike's face, streaking that royal countenance with
sorrow and suffering. The men seemed to extract the nails, but Abigail could
feel the metal still in her hands, even when they showed her one that they had
done.
Then the resin seemed to have dissolved, though Abigail had no idea how it
was done. She was unfastened and retied face down on the cross. The nails
now stood proudly into the air above the backs of Abigail's hands. Then she
heard the faint roar of a blue gas flame, the super-hot cutting flame that would
go through metal. It was accompanied by the sound of the gagged Anagelike
trying to yelp in fear.
Abigail's eyes were forced to look at the wall in front of her head, and so she
could not see what was happening, but she felt it as the metal that was still in
her hands began to heat up rapidly. The doctors were cutting through the
nails, close to her skin and she could feel also the direct heat from the burner.
The heat built and built in her hand, until the whole inside of her palm seemed
to be caught in a white-hot blaze of fire and pain. She screamed more horribly
than ever, as metal seared itself onto her flesh. One of the doctors started to
hammer the softened metal into a wide ring on the back of her hand to match
the smooth one on her palm, and each blow jarred the broken bones in her
hand and brought more red-hot metal into contact with her ruined flesh. Her
hand was rendered utterly useless.
The same performance exploded into Abigail's other hand, heat and fire
melding with shattered flesh and bone into a crescendo of suffering
unimaginable to a woman who had lived the life of a professional, middle-
class American for most of her life.
And then it was over. They had put their hideous rivets, or "Brava Nails",
through Abigail's hands and seared them home.
"I think we should let her recover her wits for an hour. Then we'll come back for
her feet," announced the Colonel. "She and the first Lady have plenty to
discuss, I am sure!" He laughed, for neither woman's gag was to be removed.
In the silence that followed the men's departure, Abigail and Anagelike made
no sound for some time. Abigail could not see Anagelike at all, and all
Anagelike could see of Abigail were her outstretched arms, shapely legs and
naked back. They tried to communicate, but the sounds to which they had
been restricted could not convey enough information or emotion to make it
worthwhile. They each knew far too well what the other was experiencing, and
the attempts at expressing empathy were futile and unnecessary. They lapsed
into anguished silence again, and waited.
The Colonel had said an hour, but it stretched until it seemed like an aeon of
suffering and impotence for the two women. They wished nothing more than
freedom, and to talk to one another, but these were both denied them. Finally,
the guards and the doctors returned. They turned Abigail onto her back once
more, and strapped her down as before.
"Are you sitting comfortably?" the Colonel asked the First Lady, and Abigail
guessed from the furious noises that emanated from Anagelike's gag that he
was fondling her in some obscene fashion; "Never mind, we will just have to
start the show anyway," the Colonel concluded. The doctors started to
reposition Abigail's feet.
Her ankles and knees were strapped together, and one of the doctors held her
ankles firmly as he placed her feet flat upon the table. They were also
positioned on a slab of the waxy resin. Abigail could no longer see what was
happening to her because her raised knees blocked her view. But she knew
when the doctors brought out the first Brava Nail, because Anagelike reacted to
it with pitiful sounds of pleading and terror.
The tip of the barbarous instrument was placed on the roof of her foot, and
traced around until the doctor found precisely the point that he wanted.
Abigail's feet were not large by any means, and she hated to imagine what it
would feel like, what would happen as the giant metal spike drove through.
Imagination ceased as the hammer fell, Abigail's urge to kick still not quite
strong enough to break free of the second doctor's grasp. The point was
positioned at a junction of four bones, and each one crunched and cracked as
they were driven apart, the effect transmitted throughout her foot so that it felt
like a thousand nails driven into every part of the stricken extremity. Her
scream tore the air like an explosion ripping through a great stone wall. Her
arms jerked involuntarily, triggering further pain in hands that had seemed
briefly dead to the world.
The hammer blows rained down upon the merciless nail, and each one
cracked her bones and tore her flesh a little more, until she felt the point pierce
the base of her foot, in the hollow arch. The nail was driven right through until
its top was flush with her skin as the nails in her palms were. Her toes were
beyond her feeling, and would not respond to any will of hers; her foot was
mangled inside so that walking would forever be a challenge from now on.
Then they started again in the same way with her other foot. She cried and
screamed, screams that turned to wails and inarticulate pleas for mercy that
was non-existent, and all the while accompanied by the weeping and choking
protests of Anagelike, whose horror at what her innocent liaison with Abigail
had brought about was all too clear.
And then the nails were through, and the resin was being dissolved. The
doctors removed the cores of the nails and then turned Abigail onto her front
again. Again they fired up their burner to cut the nails and to hammer them into
shape. The flame came even closer to Abigail's skin as the burner had to
negotiate the cup of each foot, and Abigail felt not only the burning of the heated
metal through her feet, but also the inescapable terror that her skin itself would
be burned directly, making her even more of a cripple, and giving her even
greater agony. She had no strength left to scream, it seemed to her, and all
that emerged from her voice was a moan of pure pain as the doctors produced
their metalwork in her feet. But at last it was done, and her feet each had top
and bottom a metal plate that would gradually cool to become permanent
additions to her anatomy.
At last they are done, she thought to herself, and I will be able to rest and wait
or the pain to subside. But it was not true. Although the straps came off her
again, it was only to find a new position for her. Her cooled metal additions to
her hands were used to bolt her hands together behind her back, and they
were stretched out behind her. Her legs, still bound together, were further
strapped down so that she was lying on her side. One of the doctors held her
firmly in that position. She could at last see the face of Anagelike, see the
streaks of many tears that had traced their way down her lover's face, see the
horror and helpless pleading, "Please forgive me!" in Anagelike's eyes.
Through her own pain, Abigail tried to show with her eyes that, yes, she did
forgive Anagelike. It was not she who had forced the women to this pass, but
the President and the Colonel, and who knew how many others who had
colluded in this inhuman punishment.
Then a blindfold was placed over Abigail's eyes, as she saw the second doctor
twirling a fifth Brava Nail. There were two more to come, Abigail now realised,
but where would they be placed?
In the end, it was perhaps obvious. The doctor with nail and hammer pressed
the nail firmly against Abigail's chest. Her right breast crushed against her
ribcage, the point of the nail was aimed right into the fleshiest part of her left
breast. Behind her ring gag, Abigail cried "No!" The consonant was lost
because of the ring, and the vowel changed as the nail was driven in, from
"Oh!" to "Argh!"
The nail slid through the boneless flesh with ease, as blood welled up from the
wound. The doctor wiped it away a couple of times before the head of the nail
was flush against the side of Abigail's breast and thus stopping further flow.
From the other side, more blood was seeping out. The doctors rolled Abigail
onto her other side, and wiped away the warm red liquid from the exit wound,
before starting the burner again, and using it as before. The scorching heat
passed through Abigail's breast just as it had done with her hands and feet,
and she was screaming again as she had thought herself incapable of doing
just a minute earlier. And the worst part of all was that she knew that she
would have to suffer it all again on her right breast.
And so it was: the doctors had a little trouble positioning the second breast nail,
because of the hardness of the first being in the way, but that part of the female
form proved sufficiently flexible as to allow them the access they required.
Unable to see what was happening, the whole preparation was conveyed to
Abigail purely through her sense of touch, as the doctors manoeuvred her body
to the position they desired. Finally, the shifting, pushing and adjusting
stopped, and behind her blindfold she winced in anticipation of the blow. And
then it came, and she could not keep herself from screaming again, each time
the nail was driven further into her breast.
They turned her over again in order to cut and shape the metal, and then they
were done. Abigail had six hollow tubes of metal permanently embedded in
her flesh. They laid her on her back and strapped her down again, without
removing the blindfold.
"We will leave you to cool off now, Abigail," the Colonel said, "But do not think
that this is all that you will have to endure. This was only the punishment for
your indiscretion with the First Lady. Your links with the Women's rights
movement are also a crime and of great interest to us. You will be interrogated
with extreme measures if necessary, and only then will we determine a
suitable punishment. Meanwhile, you have landed the First Lady in deep
trouble. I think that she will suffer some more conventional form of
punishment for her part in this illicit and immoral activity, before the President
will accept her back into his Palace this evening.
"I am looking forward to questioning you. We very rarely have an American at
our mercy!"
Abigail was left alone once more, mute and blind amidst the ruin of her once
athletic body.
