BDSM Library - Story: State of Emergency, Chapter: Part 3 The Medic

STATE OF EMERGENCY

Part Three

The Medic

King Diocletian

1) The Airport

The official looked at her passport and back at her. Beth gave him a half-smile but he remained stern. He glanced at her visa and back at her. “What have you been doing in our country, Miss McCormack?” has asked.

“I’m a student,” she said. “Post-grad.”

He looked down and swiped her passport. He tapped at his keyboard. “What are you studying?” he asked.

“Medicine,” she said. “Tropical disease.”

“And you are heading to?”

“New York,” she said. “Via London.” Did they usually ask this many questions? She felt suddenly anxious.

“A very fine city,” he said. Two policemen suddenly appeared by the booth. “If you could just accompany these officers,” he said. “Just a couple of little details.”

She felt uneasy, but she followed them. Realistically, what choice did she have? They took her through a door on which was pinned an official-looking notice in the local language. Beth had tried to learn it, but she found even the basics of the script difficult to decipher. They led her along a grubby narrow corridor, saying nothing, not touching her, but making it clear whether she should go. Another policeman unlocked a door and they went through it, then down some steps, and along another corridor. They paused by an open door, through which Beth could see a small and chaotic office, piles of paper and files everywhere. A tired-looking officer in glasses sat behind a desk and exchanged a few words with one of the policemen. The other lay his hand on her arm, just above the elbow, and gently encouraged her further along the corridor.

They opened a door. She saw a few people inside, sitting on plastic chairs. A couple of them looked up at her entrance. “Stay here,” one of the officers said and they both left, shutting the door. Beth looked about her. There were twelve seats arranged in two rows of six in the middle of the room, three of them empty. The people sitting there looked weary, as though they’d been waiting a long time. Only one of the nine was a woman, and they all looked local. She took a seat, pushing her shoulder bag under the chair, feeling awkward as everybody started at her. She saw by the door two policemen, their expressions of utter boredom. It was chilly, the air-conditioning turned up high, and she was glad she’d worn her cardigan.

*

Inspector Gopal was exhausted. He’d been working twelve hours but it felt like more, endlessly processing suspects. The state of emergency had increased his workload enormously. Every time somebody whose name had been flagged came through the airport, his department had to interrogate them. It was his job to decide what should be done: most turned out to be cases of mistaken identity or they’d been flagged for trivial reasons: those he let go, and normally took an earful of abuse for making them miss their planes. Some he passed on to the state police for further investigation. And a tiny handful he deemed serious risks he handed over to the Secpol. He had little doubt what they did to prisoners but sometimes he had no option.

He took a swig of Red Bull and asked his secretary to send in the next one. He called up his file on his desktop computer. Raj Gupta, a 42-year-old computer programmer. He yawned.

*

Beth took her phone from her pocket. It was 1837; her flight left at 2000.

“Put the phone away,” one of the policeman said.

She obeyed. “I’m just worried about missing my flight,” she said. He looked at the other policeman and they laughed.

She guessed she’d been there about half an hour, during which time they’d taken out only one of the other people in the room. At that rate she had no hope. She wondered what she could do about rearranging the flight. Presumably there was some facility through her insurance; after all, this was hardly her fault.

*

Inspector Gopal looked up wearily as Amala, his secretary, lay a cup of tea on the desk. “How many more?” he asked.

“Three that have been allotted to you,” she said. She sounded disapproving, but then she always did, glaring out from beneath her thick glasses. Why couldn’t he have got pretty Mira, with her glossy hair and mischievous smile? Instead, just this fortysomething harridan who seemed to have no home life at all.

He glanced at his watch. Just after half past 10. He wouldn’t get home till after midnight again. He scratched at his stubble. “Send the next one in,” he said, turning to his computer screen.

*

Beth had tried once more, just after seven, but there’d been no respite. Wait. Wait your turn. They didn’t care that she’d miss her flight. She sensed the others waiting were amused by her impatience. She was left till last. She was weary, bored and irritated. She had a slight headache. She hadn’t eaten or drunk for hours. It was a little before quarter to midnight when they finally came for her, two officers walking with her along a corridor till they got to a polished wood door. They knocked and she noted how scratched it was, badly in need of a polish.

She heard a voice snappishly telling them to enter. They went in and she saw a balding man with thick glasses seated behind a desk. He looked up at her and blinked. He took a sip from a cup of tea and gestured to a wooden chair. Glancing at the officers she walked forward and sat down.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked. He sounded exhausted. “Tea?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, thank you.” He picked up the telephone on the desk and ordered a cup.

*

Gopal could feel his heart racing. The girl’s beauty had taken him by surprise. He looked at his computer screen but really he was staring at her, dark hair pulled back in a pony-tail to leave an unhindered view of a face of remarkable purity. She was tall as well, taller than him, he thought, perhaps 5’9” or 5’10”, her legs impossibly long in a pair of jeans.

The notes on his computer were sparse. Beth McCormack, American, student, 25, studying tropical diseases. Suspected of spreading anti-government propaganda and organising dissent at her university. Serious offences if true and something he needed to get to the bottom of, but no details. He suspected she’d either been seen at a demo or two or somebody had given her name under interrogation. But he had to find out, and that meant she wouldn’t be getting the next plane home.

Amala came in and handed a cup of tea to McCormack. There was something brusque about her manner but the girl thanked her. As she took the cup, the sleeve of her cardigan slid up and Gopal saw a smooth expanse of lower arm. He felt a pang in his chest and as unnerved: he’d never found a wrist sexy before. He swallowed. He had to begin but he wasn’t quite sure where to start. He picked up her passport and turned to the information page.

“You are Beth McCormack?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. She seemed respectful, a little nervous.

He went through her details then nodded.

“Your name has been flagged,” he said. “Have you any idea why that could be?”

“Flagged?” she said. She sounded genuinely puzzled. “What does that mean?”

“It means somebody somewhere has decided you might be a threat to this country.”

She didn’t say anything, but her eyebrows shot up.

“Have you any idea why?”

She shook her head but there was something a little mannered about the gesture. Gopal was intrigued. There was something.

“Have you ever attended a demonstration?” he asked.

She blinked. “Y-y-yes,” she stuttered. His heart leapt. That alone would justify holding her overnight.

“How many?’

She shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “A few.”

He nodded. This had suddenly become very interesting.

“You weren’t part of any organised group against the regime, or protesting for human rights, were you?” He kept his voice calm, gentle.

“A human rights group,” she said, her voice hoarse. He knew she knew she was in trouble.

“OK,” he said. “It’s late. I’m tired and I’m sure you are. I need to call up your file, so let’s reconvene in the morning.”

*

2) The First Interrogation

Beth sat on the thin mattress, back against the wall, knees up to her chin. She was tired and frustrated and found herself passing through phases of terror and phases when she couldn’t believe anything was actually going to happen to her. The officer last night had been perfectly reasonable, she thought. At least until he’d ordered her to be locked up overnight. They’d made her hand in her phone, wallet and jewellery, they’d taken her boots, her socks and her belt, and she’d been given a cursory pat down by some female guards, and then she’d been escorted along a corridor to a cell. It was grimy, empty apart from the stained mattress and a plastic bucket, and it was unpleasantly warm – no air-conditioning here. She’d taken off her cardigan, figuring she could use it as a pillow if she ever reached a point at which sleep seemed possible.

She couldn’t work out if she was really in trouble or whether this was a coincidence. Of course she’d criticised the regime: it brutally repressed dissent. They’d all heard the news reports, they’d all heard from Amnesty about what happened to the dissidents, they’d seen the pictures of demonstrations being broken up with water-cannon and batons. Surely they couldn’t blame her for that?

But she knew that wasn’t the issue. She knew the issue was Steve.

Steve was always the issue. Had she ever loved him? She thought maybe at first she had but he’d been with Nina and she’d never acted on it. But that had been an attraction when she’d started going to demonstrations. Then as time had gone by she’d realised how cold and manipulative he could be, how he used people, how, she suspected, he was using the human rights movement to promote himself. And, of course, as she’d started to realise that, so he’d made his move on her.

Again and again, he’d almost begged her for sex and then, as he got more desperate, just to touch her breasts. Normally she’d have got away from him, cut him off, but she felt she had a responsibility to the organisation, to arranging the leaflet hand-outs for the human-rights movement, for publicising the demos and arranging for students to get there. There’d been nights when they’d ended up working together late, just the two of them, when it had been desperately awkward.

But now she wondered if it had been worse than that. She knew he was deeply connected with local resistance groups. If they thought she was connected with him, then…

What did she know, really? She did, she supposed, have information that would be useful to them. But what could she tell them?

*

Gopal sipped at his tea. He still felt tired, but he was rather less resentful today. Before he’d gone home, he’d rung his superior, Chief Inspector Tagore, who’d given him the go-ahead to investigate McCormack further. Then he’d requested her files. By 8am, he’d been back in his office reading them. So far as he could tell, she’d been involved in a fairly minor way at university with organising groups to go to protests, distributing leaflets and the like – worth investigating, certainly, and perhaps to send her to a camp for a few months if the courts were feeling vindictive and brave enough to jail an American – but there was also the final page. It had been added recently: four days earlier, in fact, and it recounted some testimony from another American student, a Rebecca Harris, that seemed to implicate McCormack in something far bigger.

He had to think carefully. This could be his big break. But he had to act quickly before anybody else got wind of this. Especially Secpol. What Secpol would do to her was unthinkable. He needed more information, but he needed to get it without putting in a request that would send ripples through the bureaucracy. Then his eye caught the initials at the bottom of that last report. RSP. Surely it couldn’t be Ravi Patel, could it? He’d played cricket with Ravi at cadet school. He picked up the phone.

“Amala?” he said. “Can you get me a line for Inspector Patel at Central?”

*

Beth was a little scared, but mainly she was bored. She paced as much as she could in the small cell. She was thirsty. They’d given her a bottle of water and some sort of dumplings that morning, but hours had passed since then. She’d had to relieve herself in the bucket, which now stank. What was going on? She could hear footsteps passing by her cell occasionally, but they never stopped by her door. She wished she could speak to somebody, anybody. Just let her explain. But nothing, just this endless silence, this waiting. Was this part of some process she wondered? Grinding her down?

*

“Sit down, Miss McCormack,” Gopal said. She looked weary. She pulled her cardigan tighter around herself and gave a defiant look to the two guards who’d escorted her to his office. Her feet were bare and she walked uncertainly over the concrete to the chair. She took a breath and sat down.

“Can I see a lawyer, please?” she asked. “I wish to contact my embassy.”

That was annoying. “Of course,” he said and gestured at the phone.

She half stood but then sat again. “I don’t know the number,” she said.

“Oh,” he smiled. He picked up the receiver and pressed a couple of buttons. “Hello?” he said to the ring tone. “Yes. Would you mind getting in touch with Miss McCormack’s embassy?” He looked up at her. “The US embassy?” he asked. She nodded. “The US embassy, please.” He paused, and looked up at her. “Any contact name?” She shrugged. “No, whoever seems relevant.”

He put the phone done. He’d played that well, he thought. “Now, then,” he said. “We can probably get this sorted before they arrive. Shouldn’t be long.”

He opened the file and tapped away at his computer keyboard. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking up at her. “Have we treated you well? You’ve had enough to eat and drink?”

She seemed surprised. “I’ve had no lunch,” she said. “And could I have some water, please?”

“Of course, of course.” Gopal smiled again. He found himself wanting to please her. That was the problem with beautiful women. He picked up the phone again and this time hit the correct two digits. ”Amala?” he said. “Yes, could you bring some water and some lunch for Miss McCormack?” A pause. “Samosas and chickpeas?... I’m sure that’s fine.” He looked up at her. She nodded. “Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you.”

“There’s just a couple of issues, Miss McCormack,” he said, consulting the file. His heart was thumping. It was ridiculous, but he didn’t dare look at her in case his desire overcame him. “What can you tell me about this human rights group you were part of?”

*

Beth was frustrated. She sat back against the wall of her cell. She was tired. She just wanted to leave. She didn’t understand what was going on. The inspector had been polite – nervous almost – asking her mundane questions about university. He ‘d barely pressed, just listened and made notes. He seemed nice enough. He’d given her food and drink. He’d got them to call the embassy. There was little sense of threat, and yet she was still in this cell. How long had he questioned her for? An hour? An hour and a half, maybe? What was that? Was that it?

*

Patel shook Gopal’s hand. “Good to see you,” he said. “Are you still playing? Still bowling those leggies that don’t turn?”

He’d come straight over when he’d got Gopal’s message. This was an extraordinary turn of events. Harris was awaiting flogging, but already there was another one. Beautiful, Gopal said. And Harris herself had spoken of McCormack’s figure, how McCoy had lusted after her. And now they had her here. Of course he wanted to assist in the interrogation. Not just because, well, because it would be fun, but because it was just possible there was a serious threat, that he could help bring down some ring of foreign subversives.

He’d explained to Gopal what had happened with Harris. Explained how he’d stripped her, put her in stress positions, beaten her, hung her from the ceiling, given her electric shocks, how he’d got the truth out of her. How she’d been sentenced to two years in a camp and 12 strokes of the cane. How she was a minor cog, an irritant. He explained about Indigo and Violet, how he suspected McCormack was a bigger fish.

Gopal seemed nervous. He asked what would happen to Harris next. “She’ll be flogged on Saturday,” he’d replied.

“Flogged?”

“Yes. Internal discipline, it’s known as. No official record.”

“This happens a lot?”

“It’s part of the emergency procedures. To keep discipline in the camps, really.”

“To girls?”

“Sometimes.”

“Westerners?”

“Yes.”

Patel was intrigued by the look on Gopal’s face. He was clearly fascinated but some scruple prevented him admitting as much. “So what do we do with McCormack?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Gopal. “Maybe we should just hand it over to Secpol.”

“I don’t think it would hurt for us to have a preliminary probe around,” he said. “Why should those bastards get all the fun?”

Gopal looked anxious. Patel smiled. ”I’m joking,” he said. “We’ll question her and if she is Violet, this would be a big feather in our caps. Just talking… if she co-operates.”

“Where?”

“What?”

“Where should we do this? My office is quite, err, public.”<p?

“You don’t have an interrogation room?”

*

Gopal stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another one. He was nervous. He sat behind the desk in the interrogation room, a cell he’d never even been in before, with Patel sitting on a chair to his left. A guard stood either side of the door and between him and the door was another seat, a sturdy hard-backed wooden chair that was bolted to the floor. There was a clip on the back to attach handcuffs to and straps on the front legs to fasten around a prisoner’s ankles. He couldn’t quite believe what Patel had told him. Of course, he’d read the memos but it had never really occurred to him what the emergency powers meant in practice. From what Patel had said, they could pretty much do what they liked to prisoners if there was reasonable suspicion they’d collaborated with separatist groups. And in this case there was clear suspicion.

The door opened and two guards brought McCormack in. She’d been blindfolded, her wrists cuffed behind her, and she struggled a little as they hustled her through the door. Gopal nodded at the chair and the guards manoeuvred her over, forcing her to sit. They clipped the chain to the back of the chair, forcing her shoulders back and her breasts out. He stared at the firm curve as they pressed at her shirt. His wife’s had never looked like that, never had that definition. She seemed furious. Should he had her ankles fastened? He didn’t know. He stared at her feet, bare below the jeans: it gave her a hint of vulnerability, but she still had a power. She intimidated him, but the beautiful women always had. He glanced at Patel, who nodded. He was glad he was there. He took another drag of his cigarette and began.

*

What were they doing? She’d been back in her cell perhaps two hours when they’d come for her again, this time forcing her to lie face down as they shackled her wrists. For what? Did they think she was dangerous? Had she not complied with everything they’d asked of her. And then they’d blindfolded her, a piece of black cloth doubled over and bound tightly round her eyes. For the first time then she’d felt a real pang of fear.

She sat on a hard chair, wrists fastened uncomfortably behind her, still blindfold. The same officer as before, she thought, questioned her, but she had the sense someone else was there. The same questions, over and over, about university, the people she knew, the demonstrations she’d been to. She shifted uncomfortably, wishing she knew what they wanted. Then abruptly, the blindfold was removed and she found herself blinking into two terrifyingly bright lights.

Another voice began. She peered into the light but it was hopeless. The lights burned into her retina. At first, it was the same again, variations on the theme of the demonstrations she’d attended.

And then, from nowhere, his voice unnervingly calm, “Tell me the colours of the rainbow.”

“What?”

“The colours of the rainbow, Miss McCormack.”

She felt the ground fall from beneath her feet. They knew. “Red, orange, yellow,” she said, her mouth feeling suddenly dry. “Green, blue… indigo… violet.”

She hoped she’d remained calm, bit she suspected she hadn’t. She suspected her voice had betrayed her.

“Do those colours mean anything to you?”

‘Like what?”

“Don’t try to be clever, Miss McCormack,” said the voice. “We know.”

Shit. Steve McCoy and his silly games. What should she do? Steve had gone. He was back home and safe. She could give them his name. They clearly knew something so there was no point hiding it.

*

Patel watched her sweat. If he’d been conducting the interrogation, she’d have been naked by now, but this was Gopal’s call and Gopal seemed worryingly timid. He hoped he could persuade him to be tough with her. She knew. Her hesitation told him everything. Whether she was Violet or not he had no idea, but she knew something about the network, that was clear.

“Look,” she said. “There’s no point lying. I had a friend, Steve McCoy, who was involved with some people. I don’t know much about them, but they had colour-coded names – like you say, the colours of the rainbow. Steve was Indigo. He wanted me to be more involved, and he gave me the name Violet. I think they just needed a seventh person. But I really wasn’t involved. I never asked for the name. I never wanted to be involved more than handing out leaflets and attending demonstrations. That was all. But Steve wanted more. I don’t know anything.”

Patel smiled to himself. “You were codename Violet?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “But it was nothing.”

“Just answer the question. You were codename Violet?”

“Yes.”

Patel nodded at one of the guards, who stepped forward and blindfolded her again. He heard her give a little whimper. Good, she was clearly afraid. He gestured to Gopal and the two of them left the room.

“We’ve got her,” he said when they were alone in the corridor. “Now we have to act quickly. You have to be prepared to use advanced techniques.”

“Torture her?” Gopal sounded in awe of the word.

“Frighten her, hurt her if she obstructs us. This is important stuff.”

“But what if she reports us? She’s American.”

“She’s going to the camps. What she’s told us already she’ll get at least a year.”

“What if… what if we don’t mark her? Then we can deny anything happened.” Really? Was that it? Patel suddenly saw what was happening. Gopal was genuinely scared, but actually wanted this to happen. He wanted to torture her but was terrified of being caught. Or did he just want to see her naked? Maybe that was it. Was he in some perverse way in love with her? She was an extremely striking girl.

“I’ll call the electrician,” Patel said. Kapoor would be only too happy to oblige.

They came back in. Beth was properly scared now. Of course her explanation wouldn’t satisfy them. She heard their chairs scrape back on the concrete floor. She smelled their cigarettes. The blindfold was removed and she was staring again into the brightness. The questions went on – mainly the new officer but occasionally the first one. Her beliefs, what she thought of the government, her understanding of the situation in the north, where she’d been and when. She’d been honest. She’d told them what she knew, which wasn’t a huge amount. She’d told them she thought the repression of demonstrations was wrong. Told them she disapproved of torture. That that was why she’d been involved with the human rights group. She told them she’d met a woman – she refused to give her name – who’d been raped and beaten by the police in the north, that she knew torture was commonplace. All the way through they’d been calm and patient. There’s been no attempt to frighten or intimidate her.

“Give me names,” said the new one. “Who was involved with the group at the university?”

She hesitated. Was she just giving up her friends to be interrogated? Did she have much choice? “Steve McCoy was the leader,” she said. “He was by far the most active. I’ve told you that.”

“You have. You can tell me later whether you fucked him. But for now I want other names.”

How did he know? Was that a lucky guess or did he know more? She hadn’t fucked him, but… but she wasn’t going to enjoy explaining that.

“He had a girlfriend,” she said. “Nina Connelly. She’s Australian. She went to meetings and demonstrations but I’m not sure she was that committed.”

He nodded. ”More?”

“Lars Nielsen. He did a lot for the human rights groups.”

She gave him half a dozen names. The people she suspected he knew anyway. Most of them she thought had gone home. Maybe not Nina, but he’d find out about her with even the most cursory investigation.

“OK,” he said. “Let me give you some names.”

She swallowed. How much had they been watching them?

“Keith Gladwin?”

“He was in my philosophy class. I’m not sure he ever went to a meeting or a demo.”

“Peter Djurovski?”

“The same.”

“Michelle Carter?”

“I don’t think… I don’t think I know the name.”

“Michael Robinson?”

“He went to some meetings but I didn’t know him. I’m not sure I ever spoke to him.”

“Rebecca Harris?”

Rebecca? She felt a new wave of panic. “I didn’t know her well, but she came to some meetings. She was quite shy. But she went missing a couple of weeks ago.”

“Yes, she did. I’ve been seeing quite a lot of her recently. She’s told me some very interesting things. Very interesting indeed.”

*

Gopal was fascinated to watch Patel at work. He saw how he led McCormack, hinting at how much he knew without ever revealing the full extent. And he enjoyed staring at her, squinting into the light, the outline of her bra just visible through her thin shirt. The collar was cut low, not low enough to reveal any cleavage, but enough to show a smooth triangle of chest. He wondered when they’d get to the point – if they’d get to the point – at which he’d get to see her breasts. What a thing, to have an American girl as fresh and beautiful as that and to humiliate her, to see breasts as firm and round and youthful as her seemed to be.

Patel’s mobile beeped. He looked at the message, nodded at Gopal and they left the room. They didn’t bother to blindfold her: she’d see them soon enough, he explained in the corridor. It was important when they got round to what he called “the real business” that she could see her tormentors and important that they could see her eyes, so they could judge how she was reacting. A plump, greying man wearing a white coat joined them, carrying a small box. Patel introduced him to Gopal: this was Kapoor, the electrician. They had a quick chat, made their plan.

*

A third man had joined then, Beth saw as the door opened again, this one wearing a white coat and carrying a box. This time they didn’t hide behind the lights. The new one leant against the wall, the other two perched on the front of the desk.

“Tell me about Steve McCoy,” said the one she hadn’t seen before. He was tall, his greying hair side-parted. She told him the story: how she’d had a crush on him and how he’d then become obsessed with her. He asked for more and more detail, seeming to relish her discomfort. “And you never fucked?”

“No,” she said.

“Did he touch you?”

“No.”

“Did you masturbate about him?”

“No,” she said. He smiled and lit up a cigarette.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Who was close to Steve McCoy?”

“I’ve told you,” she said, and listed the names again. He nodded.

“You see, Miss McCormack,” he said. “I think you’re playing a clever game, here. I know most of the people you’ve named have left the country. You’re trying to pretend you’re co-operating with half-truths and truths that aren’t useful.” He tapped some ash of the cigarette into an ash-tray and took another drag. “So,” he said. “Let’s try again. Who else was involved?”

She looked him open-mouthed. She shook her head. “I’ve told you,” she said.

“Very well.”

*

Gopal stood up slowly. This was his moment, the moment he’d dreamed of since he’d first laid eyes on Beth McCormack. He stepped forward, determined to savour every moment. He stood in front of her, drinking in her scared, beautiful face, the dark hair pulled back in a pony-tail, the big brown eyes staring at him. He placed his right hand on her left cheek and felt her flinch as his fingers caressed the soft, firm warmth, falling to trace the line of her jaw. “Fasten her ankles, please,” he said to the guards behind her, stepping away. She squirmed, but there was no escape. The guards grabbed a leg each, pushing up her jeans to reveal the smooth skin of her lower shins, then buckled the straps. His heart was thumping. He could hear her breathing, see her breasts rising and falling. He stared at the point where the two sides of her shirt met, just above the line of her breasts. Open that button and he’d see the valley he dreamed of.

When her ankles were secured, he moved in again. He started at the bottom, his fingers just brushing the waistband of her jeans as he unbuttoned the lowest button of her shirt. She whimpered. “Please…” she whispered, twisting hopelessly to try to escape him. He let his fingers touch the silken flesh of her belly. He unfastened the second bottom button, carefully parting the shirt to reveal her tawny skin and her belly button. His hands trembled a little. He’d never seen a girl this beautiful naked before; his wife was the only woman he’d ever fucked and her breasts were like udders, saggy and huge even in her late teens.

He unfastened the third button, and the fourth so only one remained. He could see the underside of her bra – white, with a lace design. He paused and took another look at her face, now horrified, staring at him, her heart thumping so hard he could feel it. He took a breath and unfastened the top button, pushing the shirt back off her body, his hands lingering on her smooth chest and the warmth of her shoulders. He looked down at her breasts, their curves under the bra, the most alluring sight he’d ever seen. She turned away and he walked behind her. He ran his hands over her upper back, athletically firm, and he thought of using a whip on her. He pulled the shirt back so it rucked on her elbows and then, reaching forward tentatively, he unhooked her bra. She gave a slight sob and he walked back in front of her.

He looked at the inner curves of her breasts, the cups of her bra still covering the nipples. He admired the smooth shoulders and unblemished skin. He looked at her face, the jaw set, teeth clenched in fury. He pushed the shirt back as far as it would go, the guards behind helping pull it down so it hung about her wrists. He put his hand to her face, lifted her chin, gazed into to her deep brown eyes and then, his heart thumping, he took the straps of her bra. He pulled it down, over her nipples, the breasts springing up, full and ripe, so it was gathered across her belly, leaving her topless. He walked back to the desk, and sat on it, lighting up a cigarette, staring at the glory he’d revealed.

*

Beth was shaking. How could they do this to her? What had she done?

“Now,” said the side-parting,, “Steve McCoy?”

Her heart thumped. She felt sick. Her mouth was dry. “I didn’t know what he was involved in,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I didn’t.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he said, calmly. “You’re Agent Violet.”

She shook her head in horror. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“That’s not what Miss Harris said.”

“What did you do to her?” She was angry suddenly. Rebecca was nothing, a quiet pretty girl who … had she rented Steve’s room? “Did you expose her breasts when you questioned her?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “She was very talkative eventually.”

“You tortured her?” She almost spat out the question.

“I questioned her. She’s been convicted.”

“You tortured her! You monsters!”

“Now, Miss McCormack, that’s a very silly attitude to take. You will start to show some respect. You will address each of us as sir if you speak to us. If you are insolent, you will be punished.”

He looked at the man in the white coat and nodded.

Beth felt the tension rise inside her. He opened his box and took out a stethoscope. He placed two fingers to the side of her neck. She flinched. He pressed the stethoscope to her heart. It was cold to her skin and she gave a sharp intake of breath. The doctor, if that’s what he was, nodded. “Strong girl, aren’t you?” he said. “Play plenty of sport?”

“Yes, sir,” she croaked. He turned away and she heard him fiddling with his box. When he turned back, he held a crocodile clip in each hand, from the ends of which stretched black wires. Her eyes widened and she reared back in the chair. “Oh my God, no,” she shouted. “No, no, no, no, no…”<p.

“Ah,” he said. “You know what these are.” He touched the clips together and there was a sharp crackle, sparks leaping up. He approached her. “No,” she cried. “No, no, no, no, no…”

He touched them to the outsides of her breasts. Her body went tense. The pain was extraordinary. She couldn’t breathe. He held them for just a second and then withdrew them and her body slumped. She gave a high-pitched moan.

*

Patel was intrigued and a little puzzled. With Harris, he’d been pretty certain early on that she wasn’t a major player, that she’d been a little silly and knew almost nothing. He’d lost his temper when they’d found the leaflets – in retrospect the caning they’d given her hadn’t been justified – but she was a nobody. Not that that was a reason not to punish her. He wondered if they really would flog her: the new legislation permitted it, but to do it to an American girl would be astonishing and he wondered if they’d really go through with it. But McCormack: maybe she was telling the truth, but maybe she was a major player. He had to find out.

“Anything?” he said. She just stared at him. She swallowed, but already Kapoor was moving in. He touched the clips together a few inches from her face. She looked away as they fizzled, leaving a slight sell of burning. Her jaw wobbled but she said nothing and Kapoor reached down, touching them to the undersides of her breasts. Her jaw clenched and her body stiffened. She lifted a little from the chair, legs straining at the bonds. Kapoor held them there for a second, no more, and then removed them. She fell limp with a shout.

*

Gopal couldn’t take his eyes away from her. He smoked quickly, staring at the smoothness of her skin, the delicious curves of her breasts. He felt a sense of regret for all he’d missed out on in life and he felt a thrill at her fear. She seemed unable even to understand Patel’s questions, tried to back away in the chair as Kapoor approached again, tapping the clips together, taunting her with the sparks.

“Really, Miss McCormack? We have to do this again?” Patel seemed utterly calm, slowly, patiently asking her the questions. It had been five minutes since her last shock. She shrunk in the chair. “I don’t know…” she said. “Please… pleeeaase. No.”

Kapoor looked at Patel who nodded. He touched the leads to her nipples holding them steady as she bent back, muscles tight, straining at her bonds, thrusting her chest up, which only made it more alluring. Finally he lifted them and she fell forwards, shaking, her breath coming in pained gasps. Gopal felt Patel’s eyes on him. “Go on,” he mouthed and Gopal remembered it has his turn. He stood and walked over to her, determined not to seem to be hurrying. He seized a hank of her hair, a little surprised by how glossy to still felt, and pulled so she looked up at him.

“Think very carefully,” he said, trying to speak with menace. “You will go back to your cell now and think. And in the morning you will come back here and be co-operative or we will strip you naked, fasten you on this chair and pump electricity through you all day. You will talk. The only question is when.” He threw her head forward and motioned to the guards.

*

3) The Second Interrogation

Beth stood and stretched. She couldn’t sleep. She was sick with fear. What had she got involved in? She couldn’t bear more electricity, she knew that. The pain had been horrendous, the sense of her muscles tightening, acting beyond her control terrifying. What could she tell them? What did she know? What the fuck had Rebecca told them? What did she know? She had to think, but panic assailed her. Even the thought of them looking at her breasts was awful, but she could see no way out. A memory came of his hands pushing her shirt back and she shuddered.

What had they done to Rebecca? Had they tortured her? Torture! They were going to torture her. She had to think. Think of anything to tell them.

*

Gopal smoked hard. He was uneasy but excited. He didn’t know if what they were doing was right, whether they might get into trouble for it, but the thought of her tensing, arching her back as the electricity hit her was dominant. They needed to get something out of her that day: Patel would be away the following day. He sat behind the desk, Kapoor to his right, Patel to his left. The door opened and they brought the girl in, blindfolded, wrists shackled behind her.

At his order the soldiers unchained her and removed the blindfold. She looked tired and stood with her head bowed, holding her hands in front of her, slowly rubbing her wrists.

“Good morning, Agent Violet,” he said.

“I want to speak to my embassy,” she said.

“Tell me about Steve McCoy.”

“I have a right to speak to my embassy.”

“Tell me about Rebecca Harris.”

“I have a right to speak to my embassy.”

“Tell me about how you organised demonstrations.”

“I have a right to speak to my embassy.”

“Miss McCormack,” he said. “You were warned yesterday what would happen if you did not co-operate. Now, who was your contact with the rebels?”

“I have a right-“

Patel was on his feet and across to her in a fraction of a second. He put his face close to hers and shouted, “You have no rights. This is a state of emergency.” He slapped her round the back of the head, hard. She yelled and fell to her knees. ‘Get up!” he ordered, and slowly, uncertainly, she stood, blinking in confusion.

Patel backed away. Gopal lit another cigarette. “Tell me about Steve McCoy,” he said.

She bit her lower lip. “I don’t know,” she said. “I was attracted by him for a while. I wanted to impress him. I started going to meetings, just at the university. We handed out leaflets. We put up posters to tell people when the demonstrations were on. That’s all. I never spoke to anybody apart from him. That’s all.”

Gopal was intrigued. There were a lot of loose ends here. He wanted to see her naked but he had to be professional. “Who was at the meetings?” he asked.

“I don’t know… Steve. Rebecca. Michael Robinson.” She thought and gave a few more names, some of them familiar, some not. He’d need to check them with Patel.

“You said you were attracted to him? Past tense?”

She looked down. “Yes,” she said. “I realised he was too intense, that he used people for his cause. At first… at first I thought he was just passionate, but then… then I realised there was something cold about him. He used people. But by then he wanted to sleep with me.”

“And did you? Sleep together?”

“No.”

“Not even once?”

“No.”

“Did he force himself on you?”

“No.” She looked away.

“But he made advances?”

“Yes.” Her voice was unsteady. “He was persistent.”

“A sex pest? He harassed you?”

“No, nothing like that. He just… just kept giving me gifts, asking me out.”

She seemed embarrassed. “And your contact with the rebels?”

“I don’t know. Steve knew somebody. Not me.”

Gopal lit up another cigarette. “What was your role?”

“I arranged for leaflets to be printed. I sorted out distribution. I put up posers for demonstrations.”

“I see.” He looked at Patel, who gave the faintest of shakes of the head. “You wrote the leaflets?”

“Some of them, yes. I checked them for spelling and grammar.”

“And you arranged distribution?”

“Yes. I gave the boxes to people to hand out, made sure they were doing it properly, not throwing them away.”

“Names.”

“I’ve told you. Steve. Michael...” She listed some others.

“Rebecca Harris?”

“I… no… I don’t think she ever did. She wasn’t a regular, anyway.”

“Too scared?”

“Perhaps.”

“Not like you, bravely taking on the regime?”

She said nothing. For several seconds there was silence, then finally she broke it. “Can I speak to my embassy, please?”

Gopal ignored her. “And you arranged printing?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Who?” she repeated, a flicker of irritation passing over her face.

“Who printed them?”

She hesitated. “I don’t… I don’t… some contact of Steve’s.”

Patel nodded. This was it.

Gopal cleared his throat. “Strip!” he said.

She looked at the ceiling, looked at him and sighed. Her tongue played over her lips and then, slowly, reluctantly she started to obey. Gopal leaned back and lit a cigarette, relishing the spectacle. She unbuttoned her jeans and slowly, awkwardly, slid them off. Her legs were impossibly long. He couldn’t believe how toned and smooth they were. He took a long drag on his cigarette.

*

Beth felt sick. She held her jeans uncertainly in front of her, feeling the air on her legs.

“Fold them,” said one of the officers.

She forced herself to breathe deeply and obeyed, then dropped them on the ground in front of her. Her hands went slowly to her shirt. There was to be no respite. She could feel the three of them staring at her, leching over her, enjoying her embarrassment. She unfastened the top button. Her fingers seemed numb. There was a silence over the room, the smoke from their cigarettes drifting in the lights. Slowly, inevitably, her shirt came undone. She shucked it off and roughly folded it too before dropping it at her feet so she stood in just her bra and panties. She felt hideously exposed.

She waited for a moment, but she knew there would be no reprieve. She reached round behind her. They’d seen her breasts yesterday: why was this so bad? She unclipped the bra and with a jerky, unnatural movement shuffled it off, adding it to the pile of clothes. Quickly, before she had time to think, she stepped out of the panties, and so she was naked. She raised her hands to cover herself but the other officer, the one who’d only arrived the day before, ordered her to drop them. She stood, hunched, arms limp by her sides, head bowed. She was burning with shame. What happened next?

One of the soldiers took her clothes away “to be searched” and she felt even more vulnerable.

“OK,” said the original officer. “We’ll go on.” He lit yet another cigarette. “Who printed the leaflets?”

“I don’t know.” It sounded like a squawk.

He went on, asking what boxes they’d arrived in, what time of day, where they’d stored them. Part of her knew she shouldn’t be telling him, but what else could she do? He asked her other questions, mundane questions about life at university. All the time she felt their eyes on her. She could barely lift her head, the sense of shame was so intense.

“And your meetings with the other members of the Rainbow Group?”

Fuck. She really knew nothing about that. She looked up and saw the three of them leering at her. “I don’t know anything about that,” she said, wearily.

The other officer stood up and walked towards her. He moved behind her and she knew something was about to happen. He hit her, suddenly, hard with his open hand, striking the top of her ear and the side of her head. She fell with a shriek, sprawling on the concrete floor. She gasped, struggling for breath. “Get up!” he yelled, and prodded her lower back with his foot. She felt dazed, but slowly struggled to her feet. She heard him walk away, but didn’t dare raise her head. “Turn around,” he said. She obeyed, suddenly aware of the four soldiers lined up against the back wall who were now staring at her breasts. ‘Bend over!’

What? What was this? Were they going to beat her?

She leaned forward, her right arm automatically reaching to protect her breasts. “Legs straight,” he said. “Touch your toes.”

She pushed back to straighten her legs, feeling a slight tension in her hamstrings. She was glad she was fit, supple, but the position was degrading. She realised now they could see her most private parts.

“When were you given the name Violet?” the other one asked.

*

Gopal couldn’t quite believe how long her legs were, how taut that ass. He stared at her cunt as he continued the interrogation, trying to imagine the shame of being stripped and forced to display yourself like that. Patel was obviously experienced in this sort of thing and a part of him envied him. Her answers had become quiet, barely more than whispers. She continued to maintain she knew nothing. He wondered how long he should go on. He peered at the side of her breast, hanging from her chest and pressed against her thigh. What a remarkable body she had.

She began to tremble. “Legs straight,” Patel snapped. She pushed her knees back, but her shaking was clear. “OK,” said Patel. “Stand up.”

She obeyed and turned, uncertainly, to face them.

“Hands by your sides, head up, back straight.”

Gopal could see the effort of will it took but she stood to attention, which only thrust her tits out. He saw the flatness of her stomach, the faint trace of her stomach muscles, the neat little strip of pubic hair. He cleared his throat. “I think the time has come for us to jog your memory,” he said. She bit her lower lip.

Kapoor stood up, the scrape of his chair making her flinch. He walked to the back of the room and returned with a bucket of water, which he set down by the interrogation chair. Calmly, meticulously, he opened his box and withdrew a towel, dropping it into the bucket, pushing it down so it was soaked. When he was satisfied, he withdrew it, folded it and placed it on the seat. Gopal saw the girl watching in grim fascination. Kapoor beckoned to her. “Sit down,” he said.

She looked uncertain, her lower lip clearly wobbling, but slowly she took the few paces required and sat on the wet towel. Her tongue flicked over her lips and she shuffled uncomfortably. Guards took her arms and pulled them behind her, cuffing her wrists and then clipping the chain to a hook on the back of the chair. She was forced to sit more upright, pulling her shoulders back, pushing her breasts out. She whimpered as the soldiers fell to work on her ankles, fastening them to the legs of the chair. Gopal stood and moved round to perch on the edge of the desk. He looked down at her, drinking in her nakedness. He lit up another cigarette as Kapoor took up the bucket and emptied it over her. She shrieked and sat shivering, mouth open as though in shock. Patel joined him on the desk.

Kapoor seemed in his own world, methodically preparing for the torture, but Gopal could feel his heart beating faster and faster. He gazed between her thighs, at the strip of hair and the lips below, rising out of the wet towel. Kapoor approached her and held a stethoscope to her chest. She shuddered at its cold touch. “Lovely and strong,” he said, running his fingers along her collar-bone. He took a glass jar from the pocket of his white coat and unscrewed the lid. “I think this might be a long one,” he said, “so I’ll put some of this on, just in case.” He scooped some ointment out with two fingers of his right hand then bent close to her, taking her left breast in his left hand. How Gopal envied him at that moment. She pulled back, staring in horror as he smeared a little ointment on her nipple. “It aids conductively a little,” he said with a smile. He moved to her other breast and repeated the process. “Should stop your skin burning.” He patted her cheek as he stepped away, wiping his fingers on a cloth.

*

Beth blinked, trying to see through her tears. She was terrified. She could barely breathe. She looked at the two of them, one tall and austerely handsome, the other balding with his thick glasses, both staring at her nakedness. She’d never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. They could see everything. She shuddered. The balding doctor approached, holding the crocodile clips. She felt a wave of nausea. Not again. “Please…” she said softly, her voice no more than a croak..

He touched them together and the crackle of electricity made her flinch. “Remember this?” he asked and despite herself she watched as the sparks flicked between the electrodes. She caught a whiff of fire through the cigarette smoke. She swallowed. She couldn’t take this again. What could she say to them to make them stop? She looked at the two sat smoking on the desk and she had a dreadful sense that nothing she could say would make them stop, that they just wanted to torture her. “What do you want to know?” she asked, realising how desperate she sounded. “I want to help.”

“The truth,” said the good-looking one. “The whole truth.”

The doctor pushed the electrodes together once more, making that awful crackle, the returned to his box. “Miss McCormack,” he said softly, “let me talk you through this.” Reluctantly she turned to him as he crouched on the ground. “There is a dial, here, that let’s me adjust the amperage of the current. High amps means high pain, but it won’t kill you. Volts are what kill you and we’ll keep the voltage the same. We’ll start low. Yesterday you were on the minimum setting. It can get much worse.”

Worse? How could that be possible?

“Now,” he went on, holding up a black plastic tube, that at first she thought might be a small torch until she saw the wires leading from it, “I’ve added this switch so instead of pressing the electrodes against you, we can clip them on and whenever I press this button, you get a shock. Much neater.”

He took up the clips again and stepped forwards. She shouted, “Don’t!” but she knew he was going to fasten them onto her nipples.

*

Kapoor didn’t often get to torture women. He enjoyed it: it was more fun to be fiddling about with tits or a cunt than a cock or a ballsack. And he very rarely got to torture white women and turn the usual order on its head. How he hated the tourists and the businessmen who filled the best restaurants in town with their snootiness, always looking down on his country, his people. The one he’d tortured a couple of weeks ago had been good, a slim little thing, but it had been over too soon, the girl already broken by the time he got to work on her. This one was different, though, bigger tits, firmer muscles, less obviously terrified. And she hadn’t been beaten or hung from the ceiling. This one might last a while.

He placed his left hand under her right breast and lifted, admiring the firm curve of its underside. He teased the nipple with finger and thumb and then raised his right hand, holding the clip a few inches in front of her eyes. He opened it and let it shut with a snap. He saw how she stared at the serrated edges, the teeth that would bite into her flesh.

“Who is Agent Red?” Patel asked.

She shook her head, teeth gnawing at her lower lip. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

Patel nodded and Kapoor carefully squeezed the nipple with forefinger and thumb before attaching the clip, making sure as many of the teeth bit as possible – it had to remain attached. She gasped with the pain, pulling away, but the electrode held firm and he moved across to her other nipple. When he backed away, she was breathing through clenched teeth, as though determined not to cry out.

Kapoor took a roll of tape from his box and returned to her. He took up the wires that ran from the clips to meet perhaps eight inches below and gently jerked. She gasped in pain, her breasts distending slightly, but the teeth held. Good. He tore off a piece of tape with his teeth and fastened the wire to her belly. It was important she couldn’t jerk so violently she ripped her nipples off. He added another piece of tape so they formed a cross just above her belly button, allowing his fingers to linger on her soft skin, noting the firmness of the muscle beneath. He backed away and took up the switch.

*

Patel stood up and walked behind her. He placed his hands on her wet shoulders, staring down at her nakedness, at the clips biting into the nipples. “Don’t do this to yourself,” he said. He could feel her fear, the tension, the shallow breathing. “Tell us the truth and you can go.”

“I have told you the truth,” she whispered. “I don’t know any more.”

He slammed his hands against her ears: the telephone. She coughed and as he returned to the desk her saw her eyes open wide in shock and disorientation. As she blinked and gasped for breath, He nodded at Gopal, who looked strangely nervous. What was wrong with him?

Gopal lit up another cigarette and took a drag. “Give us names,” he said. “Any of them. Red, yellow, green, whatever.”

She shook her head pitiably. “I told you,” she said. “ I don’t know.”

Gopal looked at Kapoor, who pressed the button. The girl gave a stifled grunt and stiffened as the electricity hit her, her shoulders arching back, teeth clenched firmly together. Kapoor held her for only a second and then released the pressure on the button. She slumped and gave an agonised pant.

They’d talked about this, the best way to time the shocks, Patel telling him to start slow, build up the horror, then wait. Gopal slowly smoked. There was silence. She straightened herself and he enjoyed the quiver of her tits. “Please,” she said. “Please, I…”

“Shut up,” said Gopal, sternly. He was learning. “Names?” Gopal went on.

“I don’t kn-“

The nod came and it was followed immediately by the shock. Two seconds this time. When it was over she seemed on the verge of tears, gasping for breath. She sat with her head bowed, whimpering.

Patel got to his feet and grabbed her ponytail, yanking her head up. “Look at an officer when he’s speaking to you,” he hissed. She stared at him, imploringly. “Please, sir, please… I don’t know anything. Please…”

Gopal stood up as well so they both loomed over her, staring down at her trembling nakedness. “How many demonstrations did you attend?”

She looked blank for a second and shook her head. “A dozen? Fifteen?”

“Did you chant?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever refuse to move when police instructed you to do so?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“So you obstructed police?”

She said nothing, just stared at the ground. He clipped her round the back of the head. “Did you obstruct police?” Gopal said.

“Yes,” she croaked.

“Good,” Gopal said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” He exhaled a lungful of smoke. “Did you ever shout abuse or offensive slogans?”

She closed her eyes and turned her head away. “Did you?” Gopal asked.

Silence.

“Look at me,” he said sternly and slowly she obeyed. “Did you?”

“Yes,” she said.

Patel shook his head sadly. “You are a very foolish woman,” he said. “You’re looking at a long time in jail.”

There was a pause. “Unless you co-operate,” Gopal said. He lifted her chin. “Tell me the names.”

*

She didn’t know any names. Why wouldn’t they believe her? She looked up at the one with glasses. He’d seemed so gentle before, but now he shook his head in irritation and stepped back. “Please…!” she shouted, but she knew it was no good. She saw the one in the white coat press down with his thumb and the pain hit her, raging through very part of her body. She tensed, teeth clenched, eyes wide, back arching as the electricity took over. How long was it going on for? The pain was terrible, the sense that she no longer had control just as bad. On and on it went and then finally he lifted his thumb. She slumped. She panted. She felt cold, the pain lingering. She was aware she was sweating. Her breath came in shallow gasps. She felt weak, her head lowered.

“That was two seconds on the second-lowest setting,” the one with glasses said. “We can make this much worse for you.”

She could barely take in the words. Her mouth was dry. “Are you going to co-operate?” he asked.

“I don’t know anyth-“

The electricity surged through her again. She felt her body lifting, felt the fire in every synapse, felt the tightening of every muscle as though her body would snap. When they stopped it, she dropped back heavily onto the chair. He head fell forwards. She was soaked in sweat, gasping for breath. A hand grabbed her ponytail and jerked her up, shook her painfully. “You are running out of chances,” said the handsome one. “We can do you a deal. We can get you out of here. Mess us around and you’re going to the camps.”

Beth needed to think. What could she tell them? What did she know? But the one in the coat was turning the dial up. His words didn’t fully register, but he said something about the next level.

“Let’s go through people you know,” said the original one. “Rebecca Harris?”

*

They were getting somewhere. Patel didn’t trust the girl. He felt there was more there even if she wasn’t an active agent, but she was starting to crack, confirming a lot of what they already knew about activity at the university. He’d seen the dilemma in her: she didn’t want to betray her friends or people she regarded as doing the right thing, but she was terrified. Harris had been scared and pathetic from the start; this one was tougher. She still hadn’t even given them the name of the printers. She talked about Harris, though, accused her of having a leading role, of being a provocateur. Maybe she was more important than he’d thought, but he suspected McCormack was lying, giving them material on Harris because she knew she was already going to a camp. Well, if the Secpol decided to work her over some more, so be it. It wasn’t his problem.

He looked at Kapoor and Kapoor nodded before unclipping the electrodes from her nipples. “Unfasten her,” Patel ordered and soldiers hastened forward to unbuckle the straps that held her ankles and unfasten the cuffs from the chair.

“Stand up,” he said, and she obeyed, a look of hope evident on her face. That would soon disappear. The soldiers shoved her down to her knees, took up two buckets of water and tipped them over her. She shouted in shock and dismay as the water drenched her, realising what this meant. They carefully soaked the towel and replaced it on the chair. As the guards dragged her back to the chair, she struggled desperately. “Please!” she shrieked. “Please don’t do this.” But they were far too strong and soon, as she wailed in fear, Kapoor was smearing the gel on her nipples again and attaching the electrodes. “No! No! No!”

“Turn up the power,” Patel ordered.

*

Beth knelt on the hard concrete. She was blindfold and had her hands clasped behind her head. Her knees hurt but she was upright. She hadn’t dared move since they’d ordered her into position. She felt weak, disoriented. She didn’t know how many shocks they’d given her but they’d twice unfastened her to soak her again and reapply the electrodes. She couldn’t take any more. She knew medically that they could probably keep shocking her for days before there was serious damage done, but the pain… the pain was awful, a blinding agony that burned along every nerve, that racked her body with cramps. She had to come up with a story they’d believe.

“Kneel straight, whore,” sapped a voice close behind her. As she’d thought, there were still guards in the room. She obeyed, feeling the discomfort in her knees and hamstrings. She tried to think, but a hand lifted her chin.

“So the table are turned,” said the voice. “You’re not so powerful now.”

What did he mean? What tables?

“Maybe your great American government will come to save you.”

“World police,” said another voice.

They laughed. Two of them.

“Payback for your exploitation.” This was so unfair. She’d come here to study tropical medicine. She was here to help.

“How have you found our country, between the airport and your nice hotel? Have the taxis been OK for you?”

She bit the inside of her lower lip. “Too important to speak to us, eh?” He cuffed her behind her left ear. They laughed again.

“I can’t wait till they’re finished with you,” the other said. “Because when they finish, we get you. A night in the mess room.”

“Do you like sex?”

*

Gopal opened the door. What a sight it was. She knelt, pale in the gloom, her skin pure and smooth, the half-light emphasising the curve of her buttocks, the pert roundness of her right breast where it protruded beneath her armpit. He walked over to her, Kapoor and Patel close behind him. He could sense her fear. He stood close. “Tell me the truth, Agent Violet,” he said, his mouth a couple of inches from her ear.

Her head rocked back. “I’m telling the truth,” she said, her voice despairing.

He brushed his fingers through her hair, still damp from the soaking, until his fingers caught on the blindfold. He pulled and she grunted as the cloth tightened over her eyes. “Don’t be silly,” he said.

They took their positions behind the desk and turned the lights on. They had the blindfold removed and ordered her to stand. She did so awkwardly, legs clearly stiff. She stood with shoulders hunched, a picture of humiliation and fear. A guard put down two buckets of water on the ground next to her.

“Please,” she said, “I don’t know what you want. I don’t know anything.”

He began again. The same questions, the same probing. She gave the same answers, voice dry. More about Steve McCoy. More about the workings of the university. More about the minimal contact with rebel groups. For about an hour he pounded her, looking for discrepancies. Finally he looked at Patel, who shrugged.

“Miss McCormack,” Patel said. “Do you know a Roberta Stafford? Bobby Stafford?”

She looked surprised and shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,” she said.

Gopal was a little taken aback himself, but gave the order to soak the towel. He probably shouldn’t have had the Red Bull. He felt jittery. She immediately began to beg. Why was Patel concerned about Roberta Stafford? They’d got a memo through at lunch to seek any evidence against Stafford, an English girl who’d been teaching in the north, but he didn’t see what that had to do with McCormack. She sobbed, pulling back as the soldiers dragged her to the chair. “I can’t…,” she wailed. ‘I can’t…”

*

Patel stood over her, looking at how the droplets of water beaded on her breasts. She was wailing in terror, the electrodes attached to her nipples.

“Shut up,” he said, blowing cigarette smoke into her face. “Roberta Stafford. Bobby Stafford. Tell me about her. Was she your leader?”

McCormack shook her head. “I’ve never heard of her,” she said.

Gopal puffed away, looking confused. Patel understood the code but he realised Gopal didn’t. The bulletin meant they had somebody called Roberta Stafford they knew was guilty but needed something to incriminate her. Get the evidence, put her away then let the Secpol sort out the truth in the camps.

“Why do you continue to obstruct us?” he asked. “Why?” He turned to Kapoor and nodded. She shouted but it was too late. Her words were cut off as she jerked stiff with electricity flowing through her.

Patel signalled for Gopal to carry on and he did, in that painstaking way he’d always had. He’d drive her mad with the persistence of his questions. He made her list every demonstration she’d been at, list every person she’d seen there. Then every person she mentioned, he asked her about: who were they, who were their friends, what did they believe, what had they done? Information was flowing out of her. He was fairly sure she was hiding nothing. She looked exhausted, sitting with her head lowered, her voice a croak. Gopal, he realised, was good at this: patience had always been his skill. He wrote a note on a slip of paper and pushed it over. Gopal glanced at it and nodded.

“Who printed the leaflets?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Somebody Steve knew. It was in the east part of the city. I never went there. I never dealt with that.”

Patel believed her. Gopal went on: how were they delivered? Who distributed them? Patel stood and walked behind her. He ran his fingers through her hair, pulling it back from her face. He placed his hands on her shoulders and began softly to knead the muscles. Gopal went on with his mundane questions. She was tense, but her skin felt glorious, so smooth, so soft, so firm. Patel clapped his hands suddenly either side of her head. She shouted with pain and rocked forwards as far as her bonds would allow. He cupped his hands under her breasts and pulled her upright, careful not to disturb the electrodes.

“Roberta Stafford,” he said. “Was she one of the colours? Was she red or yellow or orange?”

“I don’t know…”

“Think very carefully,” he said and glanced meaningfully at Kapoor.

“Please…”

“Turn up the power,” Patel said and Kapoor turned the dial up to around 40%.

“Five seconds, Miss McCormack? Can you take that?

“Pleeeeassse…” she was begging him.

He ran his hand down her jaw, lifted her head by her chin. He could see the terror in her eyes. “You are being very silly,” he said. “Why not just co-operate? Tell us about your guilt. Tell us everything you’ve done wrong. Tell us about the other criminals. That’s all we want.”

“I don’t know anything,” she blurted and he shrugged, stepping back. He heard the hum of the generator, a guttural groan and then the rattle of chains as she bucked on the chair. He watched her body tense, her head tipping back, her breasts lifted up towards the ceiling, her groin raised from the towel. Finally Kapoor cut the current and she dropped, shivering, gasping for breath, eyes wide. Small tremors continued to flow through her muscles. She coughed and retched, gulping in air.

“Ten seconds?”

“No,” she could hardly speak, her heart visibly thumping, her skin wet with sweat.

“Then co-operate. Did you commit acts of subversion?”

She looked at him, her lower lip wobbling. “Yes,” she whispered.

“What?” he slapped her, suddenly, across her face and her head fell to her right. It was a tap more than anything else. He didn’t want to mark her. “I can’t hear you. Speak up.”

“I committed acts of subversion,” she said.

“Again.”

“I committed acts of subversion.”

“Good,” Patel said. “We’re getting there.”

“Did Roberta Stafford also commit acts of subversion?”

A look of panic crossed her face.

“I don’t know,” she said despairingly.

He slapped her left handed this time, a hard crack that caught her right ear. She yelped.

“Think very carefully,” he said. “Did Roberta Stafford also commit acts of subversion?”

“Maybe,” she said. “It’s possible.”

Patel sighed and looked meaningfully at Kapoor. “I never heard the name but maybe she was Agent Yellow.”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I thought all the colours were very silly. I didn’t really pay attention.”

“What if I told you Agent Yellow is a 40-year-old man sitting in a cell on the other side of the city?”

She burst into tears. “You disgust me,” said Patel. He looked at Kapoor. “Turn it down to 30 and give her ten seconds.”

“No!” she shouted. “Please… please…”

“You lied to me,” said Patel. She was desperate now, ready to say anything.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t know. Maybe she was one of the colours. I had no idea how serious it was. I’m sorry. I paid no attention.”

“Let’s talk about your crimes, then,” he said.

*

Beth looked up at the three men staring at down at her and suddenly felt another wave of shame at her nakedness. How long had she been talking? She had no idea. Several minutes. Quarter of an hour maybe. Her mouth was dry. They were all smoking, all looking at her with evident relish. She swallowed and looked down at the floor. What else did she have? She’d told them about every demonstration, every meeting she’d been to, every leaflet she’d proof-read and distributed. Everything.

“Is that it?” asked the tall one, his tone one of impatience.

She looked at him in horror. What else did he want?

“Unfasten her,” he said, and in an instant the doctor was unclipping the electrodes and the soldiers were unfastening her wrists and her ankles. Was that it? She felt a glimmer of hope, but they simply threw her down and tipped another two buckets of water over her. She sobbed and watched as they dipped the towel in another bucket before folding it and placing it back on the chair.

“Nooooo….!” She wailed as they pulled her to her feet and shoved her down on the cold wet towel. The clip went on the handcuffs and they fastened her ankles again. The doctor stepped forwards with the electrodes, but the tall one stopped him.

He swept her wet hair back from her face. “Anything else?” he said.

“What do you want?” she shouted. “What?”

He shook his head sadly and the doctor stepped forwards. Slowly, he unscrewed his jar and began applying the ointment to her nipples. Beth began to talk. The doctor stepped back. She’d told them everything about the group at the university, everything. Names, roles, opinions, where they met, everything. Terror made her eloquent.

“Nina Connelly?”

God, poor Nina. But she told him. What else could she do? They knew about Steve so Nina was in trouble whatever. She talked about how Nina went along wherever Steve did, how she didn’t think she was really that motivated.

“Tell me about Roberta Stafford,” he said when her well had at last run dry.

“I never heard the name,” she said and immediately the doctor was upon her and the electrodes were fastened to her nipples.

“Please,” she begged. “Pleasssse…”

The tall one bent over her, put his face close to hers. “Ten seconds on 30 per cent,” he said. “Or shall we get your confession signed?”

“Yes!” she shouted. “I’ll sign.”

*

Gopal felt, well, what? A sense of relief that she’d agreed to sign, but also a sense of disappointment. He wanted to see her take the shock, wanted to see her twitching and screaming. She’d been unfastened from the chair and left blindfolded and kneeling, while the three of them waited for a clerk to type up their notes into a confession. They drank tea and smoked.

“Do you want to come and watch them flog Harris tomorrow?”

“Is that allowed?”Gopal was surprised. The emergency regulations were a mystery to him.

“Why not? She’s a pretty little thing: twelve strokes.”

“She’ll be naked?”

Patel laughed. “Of course. Lovely tight little body.”

Gopal’s mind drifted. Should he see if they could get McCormack flogged? Did he want to see that? “Yes, I’ll come,” he said.

*

4) Confession and Beyond

Patel sat back and looked at the girl. She was standing on the chair, still naked, the angle making those long lean legs seem even longer and leaner than before, her confession in her shaking hand.

“Read it out,” Gopal ordered. Patel hadn’t realised he had such a cruel streak in him, but this was a masterstroke. Uncertainly, she began to read.

“Speak up!” Gopal ordered.

“I, Elizabeth Victoria McCormack, freely confess that I have conspired against the legitimate government of this state,” she began, her voice unsteady. “I have assaulted police officers. I have destroyed property. I have produced and distributed seditious literature. I feel sorrow and shame for my actions and accept I deserve serious punishment.” Her voice wavered again. Patel decided he would do this next time he got a pretty girl to confess. He stared beyond the papers she held uncertainly at the toned stomach and the swelling breasts. What a figure she had. He wondered if Gopal would get round to fucking her. He shouldn’t have fucked Harris, he knew, and part of him regretted that he had, but there was something about her compact prettiness he’d found irresistible. This one was much taller, had a better figure in some ways, bigger breasts certainly, and was certainly beautiful with her flowing hair and perfect teeth, but he knew he wouldn’t fuck her. Still, those breasts… he gazed at them, wavering slightly as she read, the nipples red and sore now.

She went on, listing her crimes, the demonstrations she’d attended, the leaflets she’d printed and handed out. On and one it went. She’d get 18 months minimum, he thought, maybe more. And then she began accusing others. She broke down in tears until a sharp word from Gopal got her going again. She condemned Harris and others from the university, and then finally this Roberta Stafford, whoever she was. By the end, she was sobbing almost uncontrollably. When she’d finished, Gopal made her wait, standing naked, uncertain, on the chair, flashed with humiliation. Finally, he allowed her down.

*

Sleep wouldn’t come. Beth lay on the thin mattress, dressed again in her own clothes. Her nipples felt raw, but her whole body ached and she had a headache and her mouth was dry. She feared they hadn’t finished, that one session wouldn’t be enough for them, but she had nothing else to say. Nothing. They’d already made her betray everybody. Could she have held out longer? Should she? Part of her felt she could have done, but then she remembered the horror of the electricity, the pain, the sense of being fried from the inside out. She couldn’t. Nobody could blame her.

She turned over, unable to find a comfortable position. She thought of standing there naked on the chair, reading out the confession, then being made to bend over the desk demeaningly to sign it – they relished her humiliation, that was what made it so hard to bear. Surely they’d know that was a farce. Surely people would realise she hadn’t really meant that?

What would they do to her? She’d confessed to conspiracy, to the production and distribution of seditious literature, to attending and organising illegal demonstrations and, surely only to degrade her, to gross indecency and immorality. Might she get away with a fine and deportation? She doubted it.

And what of those she’d betrayed. Betrayed? Was that too strong a word? Steve was OK so long as he didn’t return. Roberta Stafford, whoever she was, was in big trouble. Who else? Rebecca Harris they already had. Michael Robinson they already knew about. Raj Patel – but they must know about him. Sartish. Mayur. Kundan. She couldn’t remember implicating anybody else. And they had to know about them already. What would Rebecca have told them?

Rebecca. Poor girl. What had they done to her?

*

Ostensibly, Gopal had gone to visit Patel to pick up a file so he could check through photographs of demonstrations to see if he could find McCormack in them and then challenge her about those around her – a final stage in wrapping up her case before sending her to trial. But in reality, he’d gone to watch the flogging. It had been remarkable: Harris, so slight and pretty, led naked before a crowd and brutally thrashed. She had been so helpless in her chains, there’d been such a contrast between her delicacy and the frame and the huge men beating her. He wondered if he could get McCormack caned. Humiliate her properly in front of a crowd and stripe that magnificent arse.

He found McCormack in only three of the photos. He had her brought in. It was three in the afternoon: she’d had plenty of time to rest, but she looked tired, dishevelled when the blindfold was removed. He had them uncuff her and she sat, resentfully, on the wooden chair where they’d given her the electric shocks. He sat for a moment and looked at her. Should he strip her immediately? No, better to wait, to give her something to fear.

“How did you sleep?” he asked.

She stared resentfully at him. “Fine, thank you,” she said.

“Good.” He smiled. “There’s just a couple of points we need to check with you.”

He handed her the first photograph. It showed a demonstration with seven protestors walking holding a banner beside a blonde-haired photographer. On the far left of the seven was McCormack, and he guessed the others were all students as well.

“You agree that’s you? On the left?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. And who else do you recognise?”

She went along the line. “That’s Steve,” she said. Next to him was Nina. Should she give her up? They must know. “That’s Nina. That’s Raj. Michael. Sartish. That’s a young guy – I think he does chemistry, or physics, I don’t know. And that’s a photographer, an Australian. Megan somebody. Donnelly? Donohue? Something like that.”

“No Roberta Stafford?”

“No.” She was worried that lie would be found out, and worried too about Nina.

He handed her another photograph. It showed a mass of people passing under a bridge. There was Steve again. And Sartish. Lars Svensson. Keith Gladwin. Was that Rebecca? It was hard to tell. She went slowly through the names for him, but she’d seen something else. On the bridge, half-turned from the camera, a hooded sweatshirt up so she wasn’t quite sure it was her, was Emma Swann. What was she doing there? But she didn’t name her.

A third photograph, badly blurred. Another shot of a demonstration. She was clearly discernible despite the lack of focus, arm raised, clearly chanting something. She pointed out Steve and Keith, but there was nobody else there she knew. The interrogator smoked, waiting, making the silence asked the question. Where was his friend?

He ground the butt into an ashtray then returned behind his desk. He drew out a copy of her confession. “OK,” he said. “Let’s go through this one last time.”

But she was thinking about Emma Swann.

*

Gopal made sure he was painstaking. He wanted to annoy her. He checked every detail. With every name mentioned brought half a dozen follow up questions. Nina Connelly, he realised, was an area they’d only begun to explore.

“She was McCoy’s girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“They were serious?”

“I suppose so.”

“You were jealous?”

“Not jealous, no, but it was awkward at times because he was pursuing me even though he was with her.”

“You didn’t fancy a threesome?”

“No.”

Gopal thought of her long limbs writhing in sexual ecstasy. He wanted them around him. He wanted her.

“She manipulated him?”

“No. She was just… she hung around. She did it for him.”

“Whereas you were committed?”

“I think this is wrong. I think torture is wrong. I believe in human rights.”

Gopal laughed. “Strip naked,” he said.

She looked at him wearily, then stood up and began to undress. He sat back and watched with great satisfaction. This was his right; he was allowed to do this to her. She peeled off her jeans, exposing those long slender legs. She unfastened her shirt and took it off and he saw the toned belly, her underclothes pale against her olive skin. She paused for a moment then removed her bra, then slid down her panties. She stood naked before him, one hand over her pudenda, the other crossed over her breasts.

He stared at her, relishing her shame. He should put her in a stress position, he realised. He tried to think back to his training. “Bend your knees,” he said, seeing the look of concentration on her face as she reluctantly obeyed until her legs were bent at about 60 degrees. “Hold your arms straight out in front of you.” Her breasts became visible again. “Back straight.”

He walked slowly around her. There was part of him still uncertain; he wished Patel were still here, but he knew he had to make clear he was in charge. He gazed at her lovely body, at the flat smoothness of her back, the pale swell of her breasts, the slender muscularity of her legs. He needed something to strike her with. He needed a cane. His belt, perhaps? But even as he began to look down, he knew how amateurish that would look, and knew also his belt was old and worn, that it would be too soft to use as a whip. What was there in the building? Could he order a belt from one of the shops in the airport terminal? That felt absurd. A cane or a stick; there must be something somewhere. Or a piece of rope? Maybe a length of hosepipe? He kept walking. He hoped he was making her nervous.

“Don’t move,” he said to her. He looked at the two guards. “If she so much as flinches,” he said, “let me know and we’ll give her the mother of all beatings.”

He walked quickly down the corridor. He must have something. Something flexible but with enough weight to hurt. What the hell could he use? There was a store-room opposite his office. There must be something in there. He was going to flog her. The thought excited him. Who cared about leaving marks? He thought of Harris, bound and screaming, and he thought of Beth and what he would do to her.

He reached the store-room and fumbled with his keys. He unlocked it and flicked on the light although it was so dim it barely made a difference. He couldn’t believe how much rubbish there was. All he needed was a length of something, anything he could smack down on that smooth back and those high taut buttocks. Harris’s little legs kicking against the straps, the brutality of using such canes in a girl so small. He sifted frantically through the shelves. Helmets, shields, cartridges, staples, paper, boxes of rubber bands. Then he checked himself. This was absurd. He took a breath and then he saw a length of electrical wire. That would work, he thought. He reached for it, pulled it and realised it was attached to something behind a box of those tags you used to fasten papers that had been hole-punched. As he freed it, he realised what it was: a cattle prod.

Immediately, his plan changed. Beating her would leave marks and that still unnerved him. But with this, he could control her, hurt her. He weighed it in his hand. It was black, perhaps 18 inches long, coated in rubber. There was a button on the handle and, at the tip, two copper prongs. There was no dial, no way of upping the dose, but he wasn’t sure how important that was. In fact, given how little he knew about electricity, it was probably a bonus.

By the time he returned, she was shaking with the strain. He walked round her, enjoying her discomfort. “If you move, this gets much worse,” he said. He relished how menacing he sounded. As he walked around her for a third time, he kicked the back of her knee. She fell and lay, for a moment, dully on her back, legs still slightly bent. “Oh dear,” he said, then directed the guards to fasten her to the chair.

*

What was this? What did she have left to tell him? She watched as he plugged in the cattle-prod. She pursed her lips and stared straight ahead as he approached her. He stood behind her. She could hear his heavy breathing. He touched the two metal tips against her left hand. She tensed instinctively. He moved the prod slowly over her arm, to her elbow and then up over her bicep to her shoulder. He traced it along the top of her back and then, as he reached her neck, he pushed the button.

Was the pain as bad as the clips on her nipples? Probably not, but it was bad enough. Her muscles bunched as she tried unsuccessfully to drag herself away from the pain. After a couple of seconds he released the button and began again tracing it over her skin. She was panting, breath uneven. The second shock came at her right elbow. It was a terrible pain, cutting inside her. He moved in front of her still saying nothing. He began low on her right shin, working the prod up, caressing, taunting, and then discharging on the outside of her thigh. She looked down beyond the swell of her breast at his concentration as he held the twin points there.

“What do you want?” she shouted. “What do you want?”

He ran the rod up and over to her belly, then pressed again. Her head shot back as she strained against the bonds. She was covered in a film of sweat now and felt intensely cold.

“Please!” she rasped. “What do you want? Do you want to fuck me?”

She didn’t even see his hand, he moved so fast. She just felt the slap on her right cheek, and tasted blood. The prod touched the underside of her right breast, lifted it slightly, and then she felt the shock. He held it and held it and held it and she roared with pain, unable properly to scream because of the tension of her muscles. When he finally turned off the current she slumped, panting in the chair, sweat coursing over her body.

*

Gopal felt exhausted. He walked away from her. He wanted her desperately but she knew that. And he was also concerned about the consequences. If he raped her, everybody would know. An interrogation was one thing but fucking her something else.

“Unfasten her,” he ordered, walking back to his desk, taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Slapping her had felt good. But he didn’t want to mark her. What had he been thinking of, looking for something to beat her with? The electricity was far better. But what of her heart? What if she died while he was shocking her?<p

“Stand up!” he ordered, and she obeyed. “On your knees! Hands behind your head!”

What was he doing? He had no idea. But she looked good like that, breasts thrust out. He walked over to her. He stroked her cheek. He smoother her hair back from her head. He stood behind her. He kneaded her shoulders. Her skin was cold but smooth and firm. Her breathing was slowly returning to normal.

“What were your duties, Agent Violet?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. He lowered his hands to her breasts. From the moment he’d first seen her he’d wanted to do this but had never quite dared. He cupped them, feeling how soft they were, how light and yet how firm. He felt her disgust but that only encouraged him. He squeezed gently, ran his hands down her ribs and then returned to the breasts. “Tell me the truth,” he said. He wanted to kiss her breasts, to bury his head between them. He wanted to fuck her more than anything in the world. He cuffed her round the side of her head. He couldn’t let the guards see his desire. He went back to his desk and lit up another cigarette.

He questioned her for another half-hour then had her taken back to her cell. He would have his time later.

*

Beth lay on the mattress is a state between sleep and wakefulness, tense and in pain. The door of her cell opened. “Lie face down,” came a voice and she obeyed. Her wrists were cuffed and she was blindfolded, then she was led out. When the blindfold was removed, she was in the interrogation room. There was nobody there but him. He uncuffed her hands.

“Get undressed,” he said.

She glanced around. Were there really no soldiers around? Was this an opportunity? She unbuttoned her jeans. The door would be locked. What could she do, realistically? She slid her jeans off and looked at him.

“Throw them over there,” he said gesturing to the side of the room. She obeyed, then took off her top. There was no point resisting. Was he going to rape her? She slipped off her underclothes and felt a familiar sense of shame. He chained her hands behind her. He seemed to be breathing heavily. This was something different. He stepped in front of her and looked her up and down, eyes blinking nervously behind his glasses.

Gopal could barely contain himself. This was wild and reckless, completely out of character, but he had to act now if he was going to. The order had come through to deliver her for trial the following day. He checked the cattle-prod, plugged in and laid on the desk in case she got out of hand; he had no doubt that even after torture she was probably strong enough to fight him. He could feel his heart beating, his cock stiffening. She was so beautiful. He’d never seen legs that long. The distance from her knees to her hips seemed impossible. His gaze rose from her trim stomach to the breasts, so smooth, so firm, so full of goodness. He stepped forward and kissed her belly. He could feel her distaste. He licked her, tasting the salt of her sweat. He moved up, so his face came between her breasts. His glasses pressed against the softness. He should have taken them off. He backed off and cupped her breasts in his hands, weighing them, squeezing them, kneading them. He slapped the right side of the right one and watched it knock into the left breast, then knocked it back again.

Had he never seen tits before? What was he doing? Beth stared straight ahead, trying to remain impassive. She could sense his anxiety and didn’t want to provoke him. He knocked her breasts back and forth, again and again, seemingly mesmerised. Was he going to rape her? She wondered if she could seduce him, if she could use his obvious desire to her advantage. He pressed his face between her breasts – no glasses this time to dig in painfully. But his stubble scraped on her tender skin. His hands grasped at her ass and she instinctively squealed. She looked at the far wall, and the grimy paintwork. He took her left breast in his mouth, began to suck and lick. She could have shaken him off. Even in chains, she suspected she could have kept him away, but for what? To have him work her over with the cattle-prod? To have him summon help? Should she offer to give him a blow job? Would that calm him? He was sucking at her nipple, desperately. She realised he had no experience, that he was deeply clumsy.

Gopal moved behind her. Her shoulders fascinated him. Strong but round and feminine. His hands fell again to her breasts and he began to kiss her neck, parting her soft dark hair. He couldn’t remember when his cock had last been this hard for this long. Through his trousers it pushed against the cleft of her buttocks. He nuzzled along the smooth skin of her upper back. He could feel her muscle but also her delicacy. His fingers dropped from the softness of her breasts to trace the firm flatness of her stomach. He felt the slender curve of her waist and then his fingers fell to trace up the inside of her long thighs.

It was coming, she knew. As he kissed her right shoulder the fingers of his right hand lingered on her labia, before two made their way inside her. His left hand, suddenly, was pawing at her breasts again. She stiffened and gave a slight whimper. She could feel his cock pushing against her buttocks through the coarse material of his trousers. He pushed his fingers deeper, painfully. She yelped in pain, her body taut.

He was close, he knew. He couldn’t hold it much longer. He pulled his fingers out and fumbled awkwardly at his trousers, his left hand still cupping the round firmness of her breast. He got the button undone, but he was too late. With a great rush he came, soaking his underwear and marking his trousers. The bitch! He slapped her buttocks hard and then, his trousers flapping open, dragged her to the chair. He clipped her cuffs to the back and slapped her round the head.

He hurried out of the room, trousers still loose. He’d got about five yards down the corridor when he decided he ought to lock the door and turned back. He prayed nobody would see him. He hurried off to the toilet, where he washed himself down. The cum had gone everywhere, all over his Y-fronts, marking his trousers. He tried to clean himself up as best he could but when he finally pulled up his trousers again, he could feel the chill stickiness against his lower belly. The bitch!

She’d been laughing at him, he was sure. She knew how awkward he was, how he’d never slept with anyone but his wife and how he hated her. Well, she’d suffer.

*

Beth flinched as the door slammed. She could sense his fury without turning round. He walked over to her and fastened her ankles to the legs of the chair. She dreaded what was coming. “What do you want?” she asked. She couldn’t believe she was about to say this but she was terrified. “I’ll give you a blow job. Whatever you want. Fuck me. I’ll kiss you. I’ll dance for you. I’ll lick your balls.” He silenced her with a hard slap to the face. She could taste blood.

He disappeared behind her and she heard the tap being turned on. She knew he was going to use the cattle prod. What could she do? Think! Think! He tipped two buckets over her. They were icily cold and she was left gasping, her skin pimpling. He smoothed her wet hair away from her face, then took her face on his hands. “You are the most beautiful girl,” he said, “but you don’t fool me. You won’t seduce me. Maybe that’s how you live your life, persuading men with your charms, but it won’t work on me. He ran his thumbs over her cheekbones, then he kissed her, hard. She gagged as his tongue pushed inside her, and she tasted his breath, foul and meaty, laced with Red Bull . His glasses pushed into her cheeks but she overcame her instinct to recoil and kissed him back, pushing her tongue against his teeth. For a moment he responded, but then he pulled away. “No, you don’t,” he said and stepped back. “I’m immune. Go on, shake your tits. It won’t stop what’s coming to you.”

He lit up a cigarette. “Go on,” he said. “Shake your tits.”

What option did she have? She looked away and then, as much as she could with her hands chained to the chair, jerked her shoulders up and down. “More!” he shouted and she tried, but the position was too difficult. He stepped forward and, his cigarette clenched between his teeth, began slapping them from side to side. “Much better,” he said, blowing smoke into her face. Then he returned to his desk and came back with the cattle-prod.<p?

There was no warm-up this time, no foreplay. He simply held it against her left nipple and pressed. Agony flooded her again, body snapping taut. Her head flew back, her eyes bulged, her back arched. On and on it went, seemingly without end. When he eventually stopped the current, she slumped, sweat beading instantly on her skin as she gasped for breath. But the respite was only temporary as the prod moved to her right nipple.

*

In a frenzy, Gopal worked her over. Breasts, nose, belly-button, ears, breasts again, mouth, the top of her nose between her deep brown eyes. Then finally, as she begged him hoarsely to stop, he slid the prod between her thighs. “Noooo..” she moaned, but he pressed on, parting her lips and inserting the prod. She squirmed as it entered her lifting from the seat as he pushed further, until perhaps four inches were inside her. He smiled at her and kissed her, firmly, on her mouth, moved back, and pressed the switch.

Her reaction was one of great violence, whole body jerking, her eyes filled with terror. He counted to five and then turned it off, by which time she was almost unconscious. His penis began to stir again. Her head lolled. He could see her heart fluttering. He had to stop. Almost without thinking he unfastened her ankles. Her body was clammy with sweat. He unclipped her wrists. She slumped on the chair. He filled the bucket and threw cold water over her. She stirred and moaned a little. He seized her hair, pulled her to her feet and threw her down on the floor. Wrists still shackled, she landed heavily on her shoulder and sprawled on the concrete with a moan and he admired again her long, smoothly sculpted form. He unbuckled his belt and lowered his trousers and Y-fronts. His penis was semi-erect. He shuffled over to her and prodded her with his foot. “OK,” he said. “Blow me and we’re done.”

Awkwardly and with clear effort she rose to her knees. He saw her swallow, saw her distaste, saw the delicious mounds of her breasts. He grabbed her wet hair and pulled her close, then he felt her tongue caress the tip of his cock. She teased him into erectness, licking his shaft, then took his penis into her mouth. The minute or two that followed were among the best of his life. He stroked his fingers through her hair, gazed down that honeyed back between the V of her shackled arms and she took him to places he’d never so much approached with his wife. With a shudder of pleasure, he came, pushing deep into her throat, feeling her teeth gently press on his shaft. “Swallow it!” he demanded, holding her close even as he detumesced. He felt the cold of her nose touch his lower belly through his public hair and he knew it was over, but he remained inside her as she desperately sucked. He withdrew and pushed her away, seeing the look of disgust on her face, eyes closed as she tried not to vomit.