Casablanca, An Alternate Version

Casablanca, An Alternate Version

Part II

She was walked forward a few steps then turned and walked forward a few more steps. The handcuffs were removed and her arms were being raised and stretched out in front of her. She felt her hands encounter a rough surface. Brick, she thought. Without being told to she spread her fingers and placed her palms against the brick wall. She felt cuffs, leather by the feel, being strapped around her wrists. When her escorts' hands were removed she tested her bonds. The cuffs were fastened to the wall by no more than one or two links of chain.

Now her escorts' attention turned to Ilsa's legs. Each ankle was grasped by a pair of hands. She was forced to take several short steps backwards, then move her feet outward until they were somewhat more than shoulder width apart. Cuffs were strapped around her ankles. Ilsa was left in a standing, spread position, leaning against the wall.

There was a small noise behind her, the sound of something being moved. Then she felt a slight rush of air between her legs. It stopped. Momentarily it brushed by her again. An oscillating fan, she thought. How clever of them. It was obviously not for her comfort, because it was already a bit too cool in this basement room for her comfort. The intermittent flow of air between her legs was a reminder of how exposed and vulnerable she was.

She heard the scuffling of footsteps on the concrete floor behind her. Then there was a click and a flash of light that was just visible through the open bottom of the hood. Someone was taking pictures. The sound of a camera being wound filtered through the hood and then another click-flash. And another sound, not heard much anymore, the crinkly sound of a flash bulb. Whoever was taking the pictures was using an old-fashioned flash camera. They took several more shots, then there was silence again.

The first blow came as surprise, with only the lightest of whirring sounds to alert her. It caught her on the buttocks, raking across the top of each fleshy mound. She yelped, more from surprise than from pain. It wasn't a particularly hard blow, more of a quick swipe. She braced herself for the next blow.

And she waited. And she waited. And waited some more. The anticipated whizzing sound followed by the sting did not come. She started to relax.

And then it came. Without warning. Ilsa jerked forward as something bit into her right at the sensitive fold where left buttock met upper thigh. She deduced immediately what their plan was. They would play on her nerves, keeping her in a state of anticipation. Instead of a straightforward flogging they would deliver randomly timed blows, so that she could never anticipate and prepare for them.

And a devilish plan it was. Ilsa, in her usual persona as Yvette Delaune, Captured Resistance Fighter and Spy, had been flogged before, sometimes rather severely. But this nasty little variation frazzled her more than those earlier ordeals.

She tried to distract herself by counting between strokes, setting her mind to trying to establish a pattern. But there was no pattern. A stroke would land on one buttock of the other, or on her shoulder blades, the small of the back. Sometimes on upper thigh or calf. Occasionally straight up between her legs. And they seemed to be using different implements, riding crops and leather straps interspersed with perhaps a rattan cane and some sort of particularly vicious little whip with a painful bite to it. Oddly enough, the variety of implements helped her endure the punishment. She played a little game inside her head, guessing what had been used for each stroke and keeping count.

But even the little tricks she'd learned to increased her endurance began to lose their effectiveness as what seemed to be hours dragged by. Ilsa began to fear that she would soon receive that final stroke that would prove too much for her. She would be extremely embarrassed to have to end the scene so soon, but it was looming as a definite possibility.

Then Ilsa heard the sounds of footsteps, someone entering the room, followed by quiet words. Her ankles were unfastened, then her wrists, and she was helped to stand upright. She nearly collapsed but hands caught her under the arms and supported her. As soon as she had her feet her wrists were taken behind her back and tied.

Hands grasped her upper arms and she was being walked again. Back through the door she had entered by she thought. Her bare feet padded along cold concrete, then up a flight of stairs, the metal steps even colder and the non-slip pattern of the surface hard on her soles. Then through another door and down a hallway. Again she had the feeling she was being paraded naked before strangers.

They paused briefly. Ilsa heard the faint sound of a door opening, then they entered. After the chill of the basement the room was comfortably warm. She felt herself being forced to sit, on a hard wooden chair she thought. Her wrists were untied and her arms taken behind the straight back of the chair. Her wrists were strapped into leather cuffs. Then her legs were spread so that her ankles could be strapped into leather cuffs fastened to the chair legs. Leather straps were then tied around her legs below the knee and also fastened to the chair legs, keeping her legs apart. Not a good sign, she thought.

The hood was removed. Ilsa blimked at the light, then looked around the room. It was the same room where she had been stripped and inspected. The same older man was standing, looking at her.

"My apologies, fraulein," he said, trying to sound avuncular. "I was so excited to meet you that I entirely forgot my manners and failed to introduce myself. I am Major Strasser." He used the German pronunciation of the 'J' so it came out as 'mai-yor'.

"You see, Ilsa, we've been watching you for a long time. We know you're intimate with Victor Laslo. We know Victor works for the so-called Resistance. We also know that you were once close friends with Rick Blaine, who is now posing as a small time restaurant and casino owner here in Casablanca. A flimsy cover for one who is so obviously an American agent, don't you agree?

"And the three of you together here now. How convenient. How sweet. Just like old times, eh?"

Major Strasser paused and strokedhis chin, eyes boring into Ilsa

.

"Tell me what Mr.Rick is cooking up in his restaurant, Ilsa," he said, his voice commanding, full of threat.

Ilsa looked up at him, trying her best to put on an innocent, confused face, trying to look like Ingrid Bergman, playing Ilsa, would look in this situation. Major Strasser looked intently at her for a few long moments, then turned and took a few steps away. He turned again to look at her, his face now changed, pleasant again.

"But tell me, Fraulein Ilsa, do you like hard boiled eggs?" Major Strasser asked. "I'm quite fond of them myself. In fact, I have one just about ready."

He walked across the room. Ilsa followed him with her eyes, wondering what he was up to.

A sideboard stood against the wall to Ilsa's left. A hotplate sat on the sideboard, a small saucepan on top it. Major Strasser went to the sideboard. He picked up a pair of tongs and fished around for a moment, then withdrew an egg. Picking up a tea towel from the sideboard he transferred the egg to the towel. He put the tongs down and touched the egg with a tentative finger.

"Yes, I believe this one is quite ready," he said brightly. "Amazing how hot they get. And how long they hold their heat."

He returned to Ilsa, stopping directly in front of her.

"Well, Ilsa, since you don't feel inclined to engage in conversation perhaps you'd like to join me in a hard boiled egg. Eh?"

He held the egg up, cradled in the tea towel, for her to see.

"So, Ilsa, one more time. What can you tell us about Victor Laslo and your friend Rick?"

"Nothing," Ilsa said quietly, hoping her apprehension at what the Major was about to do didn't show in her voice. "I can tell you nothing."

"Very well, Ilsa," Major Strasser said. "As the French say, bon appetit."

Ilsa suddenly realized what the Major was up to. She remembered reading once that a torture the infamous Black and Tans practiced on Irish rebels was to place a hot hard boiled egg under an armpit. But it wasn't Ilsa's armpit the Major was going for. Her pulse quickened as he reached for her crotch.

Deftly the Major slipped the egg between Ilsa's thighs, pushing it back in so that it pressed against her labia. Ilsa whined and struggled to push upwards against her bonds to escape the heat.

"Franz," the Major said to the man in the SS uniform, "I don't think she's fully enjoying her treat. Why don't you help her."

"Certainly, Herr Major," Franz said.

He picked up a pillow and stuffed it between the small of Ilsa's back and the back of the chair. This forced her belly forward and, with her legs bound in place, forced her to rotate her hips so that her pussy was more fully in contact with the egg. Tears began streaming down Ilsa's face as she wiggled and squirmed in a futile effort to escape the heat.

When the Major decided that the egg had cooled down enough that it was no longer having the desired effect he signaled to Franz, who withdrew the offending object. Major Strasser placed a hand under Ilsa's chin and lifted up her tear stained face. With his other hand he first fondled her nipples, then reached between her legs and gently stroked her cleft.

"Talk to me, Ilsa," he said softly. "You have such a beautiful body. It would be a shame if we did a permanent injury to it. And you know we will if we have to, don't you?"

To emphasize his point his fingers found her clit and seized it between thumb and forefinger. He squeezed lightly, gently stimulating her. Then he began to squeeze harder and harder.

"Save yourself unnecessary pain, Ilsa. Talk to me."

Gradually he reduced the pressure on her clitoris, then in sharp contrast to his previous action he began to gently stroke her sex. Almost involuntarily Ilsa began to respond.

"Ilsa, Ilsa," Major Strasser said with a sigh. "What can I do to change your mind, eh?" He paused for a few long moments. "Perhaps..."

He raised his left hand and snapped his fingers. The young SS man was immediately there, placing an object in the Major's hand. The Major held it up for Ilsa to look at. It was of highly polished metal, composed of two curving arms each about four inches long. At one end they were joined by a hinge. The opposite ends were formed into flat jaws, their bearing surfaces lightly checkered. A tightening screw was set a third of the way back from the jaws.

"Excellent workmanship, don't you think?" Major Strasser said brightly. "A small specialist machine shop in Dusseldorf makes them for us. There is nothing like a good German craftsman for fine metalwork, nein?"

He switched the device to his right hand. With his left he reached out and seized Ilsa's left nipple between thumb and forefinger. He kneaded it gently at first, then harder. He stretched it out, once, twice, then a third time. He stretched it once more and slipped the jaws of the clamp over the tender pink flesh. He squeezed them together with just enough finger pressure to prevent her nipple from escaping then followed up by slowly tightening the screw. The tiny hatch marks on the inside of the clamp started feeling much larger as they dug into her flesh.

Major Strasser was watching Ilsa's face as he tightened the clamp even farther. Ilsa realized he was watching for her reaction and tried to maintain a poker face, though the clamp was starting to bring more tears to her eyes. She wondered just how flat he intended to crush her nipple.

The Major finally stopped turning the screw. When he had slipped the clamp on he had come down from his right, Ilsa's left, so that now the end of the clamp was pointed at the one o'clock position as he looked at it. He was supporting it with a fingertip. The clamp was of rather heavy construction.

"Talk to me, Ilsa," he commanded.

She stared past him. His mouth formed a tight, wicked smile as he released the end of the clamp, which fell with a twisting motion. Ilsa yelped at the sudden pain, but then quickly recovered and resumed her silent, impassive facade.

"Well, as they say in the theater, encore."

The Major held out his hand and the SS man gave him a second clamp. He repeated the procedure on Ilsa's right nipple. This time the clamp was set pointing up at the eleven o'clock position. Again, once it was almost unbearably tight he allowed it to drop and twist. Ilsa bore the pain better, being prepared for it, but tears were trickling down her face again.

"Not very pleasant, is it?" Major Strasser asked.

He waited for a reply but Ilsa only looked past him, focusing on a stain on the wall behind him. In response Major Strasser place a finger below the end of each clamp and began to rotate them back up until he reach the point where Ilsa's nipple were no longer being twisted. But then he continued, using the clamps as little levers to twist her nipples in the opposite direction.

"You can at least have the courtesy to answer my simple question, can't you Ilsa?" he continued twisting. "Not very pleasant, is it?" he asked again.

"No," Ilsa finally said, trying not to turn it into a sob.

Major Strasser returned the clamps to their original positions.

"Good," he said with a smile. "Now we are communicating. So, once again, Ilsa, what do you have to tell us about Rick? And Victor Laslo as well? What is the connection between them? We know Victor wants something from Rick. What is it?"

He waited expectantly, but Ilsa remained silent. He let the clamps drop again, gave them an added further twist. But Ilsa was prepared for it this time and took the pain stoically. He gave a shrug of his shoulders and began releasing pressure on one clamp. Ilsa fidgeted and bit her lips as the pins and needles sensation of blood returning to the tortured nipple struck her.

Major Strasser waited for the pain to subside, then released the second nipple. He handed the clamps to the SS-man, then stepped back and put a hand under his chin. He stared at Ilsa for a long time before he spoke again.

"Very well, Ilsa," Major Strasser said, a trace of sadness in his voice. "You give me no choice. In a short time you will realize that so far I have been very lenient with you. Up until now."

To be continued.......

Copyright 2005 by von Hentzau. Permission is granted to copy for personal use only providing all disclaimers and copyright notices are retained. This work may not be reproduced or distributed in any form in any media without permission of the author.