STATE OF EMERGENCY

Part One

The Student

By

King Diocletian

1) Arrested

Rebecca stared at the stains on the wall above the door. How long had she been here? Two hours, three? She had no idea. There was no window and the only light came from a flickering bulb set behind thick mesh in the ceiling. Her head ached and her stomach was knotted with apprehension. It was chilly and she rubbed her bare arms trying to encourage some warmth.

Part of her wished they would come so they could get it over with, at least get her out of this stinking cell with its peeling paint and stench of sewage. They’d picked her up at the demonstration, one of a few dozen arrested, packed onto buses and brought to the prison. There, everybody had been forced to lie on the ground and in batches of seven or eight, police had taken them out. She’d been there about an hour, waiting anxiously, when her name had been called. A guard had prodded her with his toe, and she’d been pulled to her feet. They’d taken her boots, her sweatshirt and her jacket, leaving her in just a white tank-top and a pair of canvas trousers, blindfolded her and marched her through the jail to this cell.

They’d pulled off the blindfold and shoved her in, so she slipped on the greasy floor and fell awkwardly, grazing her wrist as she went down. She heard them laughing as they’d slammed the door, the bolts echoing in the silence as they were rammed shut.

What would they do with her? Going to the demonstration, she knew, had been stupid, but she was an American: surely they’d just let her go. She’d asked to speak to her embassy when she’d been bundled into the bus, and again as they’d brought her to the cell, but they’d ignored her. Was it illegal to go to a demo? She didn’t know that either. All she knew was that was thirsty, tired, cold and nervous. While she assumed her citizenship would protect her, she’d also heard the rumours about what the police got up to in this frontier province. That was one of the things she’d been protesting about.

She heard the bolts being slid back, and a wave of fear swept over her. Instinctively she stood, backing away from the door. She saw two guards come in, another two blocking the doorway.

“Up,” one shouted. “Turn round. Against the wall.”

She obeyed, pushing herself against the peeling paint.

Her arms were yanked back and her hands fastened in cuffs behind her. A dark sack was pulled over her head. They spun her round and gave her a shove, sending her stumbling into the other guards. A guard took each arm, and she was hustled out. She tried to focus and remember the route, but it was impossible as they marched her along corridors, through numerous doors and then down a short flight of stairs, a nightmare as she felt with her toes for each step, the guards hurrying her on.

2) The first interrogation

She was terrified: why blindfold her and chain her if they were going to release her? Would they beat her? Torture her? She knew the stories, of brutal thrashings and electric shocks, of dissidents who just vanished. But surely they couldn’t do that to an American, could they? A hand ran across her ass and she yelped, jerking away. The guards laughed. “Ooohh,” one mocked. “Don’t touch.”

Eventually they stopped. She heard a door opening and she was pulled through and forced down onto a stool. The door closed, and she heard a key turning in the lock.

The sack was yanked off, but for a moment she saw nothing. Two arc lights shone in her face, and she blinked uncertainly aware only that there were two figures seated behind a desk facing her. There was silence, the only noise her frightened breathing. The chains were removed and she drew her hands in front of her, rubbing her wrists where the cuffs had chafed.

“Miss Harris,” came a cold voice from behind the desk. “Do you know why you’re here?” His accent was educated.

“No, sir,” she said, her voice scarcely more than a croak.

“I can’t hear you. What did you say?”

“No, sir.”

He sighed. “Really? Miss Harris, please don’t take me for a fool.”

“I was... I was near the demonstration.” Her heart was thumping in her chest.

“Near it? So not leading it, not filling bottles with petrol to throw at the police?”

“No, sir.” 

She could feel her lip quivering; she felt on the verge of tears. She hadn’t even realised petrol bombs had been thrown. She looked down. Set into the floor she could see two small iron ringlets, scratched as though something metal had been passed through them. Were they to tie prisoners down?

“So what were you doing near the demonstration?”

“I... I went to see what was happening, sir.”

“You were curious?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see. You know what curiosity did to the cat?”

“It killed it, sir.” A tear rolled down her cheek.

*

What he was curious about was what was under that vest, but there was plenty of time for that. Inspector Patel was used to interrogating prisoners and a lot of the time it bored him. He knew there were sadists in the force who enjoyed hurting people, who got a kick from administering beatings or electric shocks, but to him it was just a job. If you got a woman in, though, that was different, especially a young pretty one like this. And the fact she was American only made it sweeter. He hated their arrogance, the way they swaggered around telling them how to police the frontier. Like they had any idea what these subversives were like. When they were bombing buses you had to break some rules, get the electrodes out and crack some heads. But they kept coming to the university and making their protests about human rights and the like. What about the human right not to be blown up?

“What are you doing here?” he asked, puffing away on his cigarette.

“I’m studying at the university, sir.” Her voice was unsteady; she was clearly terrified. It wouldn’t take long to get her to start naming names, telling him who was organising the protests.

She was a postgraduate, doing a bit of teaching and studying postcolonial Indian writers. She relaxed a little as she talked about it, perhaps thinking the worst was over. Patel stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. He glanced at his fellow officer, Rao, and he nodded. He knew he was as eager as he was to move this along.

Slowly he walked from behind the desk, watching her all the while, seeing her scared brown eyes following him as he walked round, staying always in the shadows. He moved behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She flinched as he ran his fingers under the straps of her vest, gently kneading the soft skin. She was delicate and beautiful and, as he’d thought, she wasn’t wearing a bra, relying on the elasticated nature of the vest to keep her shapely breasts in place.

Standing behind her, he took a strip of coarse black material from his pocket and folded it in three. She twisted in her seat, desperate to know what he was doing, but not daring to turn fully. As he placed it over her eyes, she gasped and gave a slight whimper. He caught a waft of coconut – her shampoo, he guessed. He crossed the ends behind her head and pulled tight, the cloth pressing her wavy hair tight against her head. He pulled again, eliciting a slight gasp as the pressure increased, then knotted the blindfold. He could sense her growing more tense, ran his hands over her shoulder again, savouring the anxious tightness of the muscle.

He wafted a hand in front of her. She didn’t move; the cloth was doing its job.

“Put her in position,” he said, knowing the ambiguity of the phrase would unnerve her. Two soldiers pulled her up by her bare arms, and hustled her to the back of the room, pushing her against the peeling paint of the wall. They placed her hands flat against the wall next to her shoulders and stepped away.

Patel walked up to her left side. She’d placed her right cheek against the wall so, although it was hardly relevant given the blindfold, he felt he was talking to her. “Keep your hands on the wall,” he said. There was something almost doll-like about her beauty, the gentle curve of the forehead, the beauty spot on her left cheek. “Walk backwards.” She shuffled her feet back across the dusty concrete. He’d never really noticed feet before, but hers, so small and delicate, so, well, pretty, captivated him. Soon she was leaning, all her weight on her palms. She paused.

“Keep going,” he said. She kept shuffling back until she was stretched, her toes bent and her weight on her fingers. “Feet shoulder width apart,” he said, and she obeyed.

He walked behind her, admiring her slightness. She was girlishly small: no more, he thought, than 5’3” or so, and delicate with it. “This is what we call the stress position,” he said. “You stay like that until you answer my questions. If you disobey, well... well, then things get interesting.”

Patel could see the tension in her already. Her head was bowed and her breathing unsteady. It was the fingers that would hurt first, he knew, then the toes, before the muscles of her arms and to a lesser extent her calves would ache. He’d probably overstretched her, misjudging it a little with her lack of height, but he wasn’t bothered: no harm in speeding this along. There was always the danger that his bosses would make him go easy on an American girl.

“Now,” he said, “what were you doing at that demonstration?”

She lifted her head. “I’ve told you,” she said uncertainly. “I just went to look.”

“So you regard my county’s problems as a spectator sport?”

“No.”

“So why did you go?”

“I was curious.”

He saw a tremor pass along her arms. “Were you reporting to anyone?”

“Reporting? No.”

“You’re not a journalist?”

“No.”

“Do you work for the CIA?”

“No. Of course not.”

She was trembling continuously now, flexing her fingers. Patel decided on a different tack.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.” She sounded puzzled. Her head was dipped again. He stepped close behind her, and sensed how she stiffened as he realised how close he was.

“A pretty girl like you? Why not? Are you looking for a good Indian husband?”

She gave a sob, and her left hand gave way. She pushed herself back into position but her palm had clearly slapped against the wall, her feet slithered two or three inches forward. He stepped even closer, and reached round her waist. She flinched. Slowly, calmly, he unbuckled her belt. Her whole body stiffened.

“Please...” she whimpered, as he pulled the pin from the eye hole and let the belt slide loose. His fingers reached for the button. She seemed to be drawing her belly away from him, but stayed in position, her breath coming in short shallow jerks. He popped the button, and then stepped away, drawing the waistband slowly down over her hips. Slowly, her trousers slithered down to bunch around her ankles, revealing slim, lightly-muscled legs and round buttocks that, although covered by the pale pink cotton of her panties, Patel knew would be the smoothest, tautest he’d ever seen.

*

Rebecca wished she’d worn a bra, but she never did with this top. It was a perfect fit, the elastication giving her breasts perfect support. She wasn’t flat-chested, not by any means, but neither were her breasts so big that they needed much in the way of lift; a benefit of youth. But if he took off an item of clothing each time she fell, well... Well, she knew it didn’t really matter. What was an extra five or ten minutes if he was going to strip her anyway? But it mattered because she worried it made her look sluttish, and that was the last thing she was.

“Have you ever attended any other demonstrations?” he asked.

She tried to think what the best answer was, but the strain on her fingers and toes, her arms, her fear, made it difficult. She had, but she didn’t think she should admit it.

“Yes, sir,” she said. What else could she do?

“Really?” He was closer to her now, on her right side. She hated not being able to see, felt incredibly vulnerable. She felt his breath on her cheek as he leaned in. “When?” he asked.

At least he wasn’t standing behind her, staring at her ass. Was he really going to strip her naked? Was that the plan? Would he do that to an American citizen? Maybe he’d just strip her to bra and panties, just too shock her. But then she wasn’t wearing a bra. Did he realise that? Or might he expose her by accident?

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I can’t think like this.” The position he’d let her take up after she’d slipped the first time wasn’t as bad. An extra three or four inches made a big difference, but she knew she couldn’t hold out much longer.

“We could always think of a way to aid your memory.”

She gave an involuntary sob. She fingers were in real pain now, beginning to wobble. Her head hung loose below her arms.

“Two weeks ago,” she said. “On the campus.”

“And what were you demonstrating about?”

“Human rights abuses.”

“How ironic.”

He said nothing for a moment. “You can tell us more about that later. Other demonstrations?”

She gave a whimper of pain. Her hands were shaking violently now. “Yes. I don’t know, seven or eight...” She had to hang on, delay this as long as possible. She lifted her head, gritting her teeth, but it was no good. She fell to her knees. She bit her lower lip, but couldn’t stop it quivering. She felt hands on her arms, and she was pulled to her feet, the trousers yanked from round her ankles, and hustled back towards the stool.

*

Patel sat back. This was it. He could hear Rao’s breathing, heavy with anticipation. Two soldiers, dwarfing her absurdly, held her arms. As he flicked on the arc lights again, another removed her blindfold. She blinked rapidly, and turned her head.

“Look at me,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. The guard behind her gave her a shove and she raised her head to face the light. She looked utterly terrified.

“I told you to stay in position,” he said. “You failed.”

She pressed her lips together, shrinking away from him. The guards held her arms, but her feet shuffled back so she bent forward slightly, making her seem even smaller than she already was.

“Strip her,” he said.

She gave a squeak, a half-bark of “No!” as they fell on her. Two guards on her arms and four others around her. When they stepped away, she was naked.

She cowered in the light, hunched in humiliation, her right arm hooked across her breasts, her left cupped between her legs. She was visibly shaking, her head lowered, chin pressed to chest.

“Sit,” he said.

She looked at him, glanced around as though seeking a way out, saw the stool a little behind her and to her left, and then moved towards it. It was only a couple of paces, but such was her embarrassment that it became an awkward stumble. He admired her smooth skin, pale in the light, saw her flat, firm right buttock as she half turned. She sat, facing the officers, bent forwards as she tried to cover herself. Others would have chained her wrists so that everything was on show, but he suspected leaving her unchained caused more humiliation. Now she had a chance to protect herself; if he saw her breasts or her pudendum, it was her fault.

“Why did you go to the demonstration>?” he asked.

She burst into tears. “God, I’ve told you,” she said through her sobs. “I was curious.”

Patel turned to one of the guards. “Take her clothes away and search them,” he said.

*

The tears wouldn’t stop. With them and the light shining straight at her she may as well have been blindfolded. Her cheeks were burning, her throat dry, and he kept hammering questions at her. She had her legs crossed, her left hand clamped over her genitals, her right arm slung across her chest. Tears dripped off her face onto her chest, a horrible reminder of her nakedness.

“Who organised the demonstration?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who told you about it?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“You don’t know?”

“Everybody was talking about it.”

“And yet you didn’t report it to the police?”

“No.”

On it went, question after question, always insinuating, demanding names, making veiled threats, lighting up cigarette after cigarette. She squirmed on the stool, the way the light was directed at her seemingly to highlight how she was the focus of every stare. She’d never been so ashamed. She tried to stay calm, to answer sensibly, but constantly she could hear a voice inside her head yelling out that she was naked. She huddled forward, trying to make herself small, struggling to keep her right arm high enough to cover both breasts. Her arms ached, but she knew to switch over and relieve the tension would leave her exposed even if only for a second.

“Is there a dissident movement at the university?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Nothing? Nobody says anything?”

“About what, sir?”

“About resistance to the law? About opposing the government?”

“People say things but I don’t know how serious they are.”

“Who? Who says what?”

Why had she said that? She blinked back more tears and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said softly.   

*

Rao was stiff, his cock aching as it pressed against his over-tight trousers. This was by some way the most fun interrogation he’d conducted – not that he’d conducted many. He’d only been in frontier force for four months and most of his fellow officers had treated him as he’d been treated at school and university: with barely disguised contempt. He was a fat, burdened with coarse, patchy stubble, and prone to sweating at moments of tension. Women barely paid him any attention, let alone women as pretty as this. To say she was the best-looking girl he’d seen naked wasn’t saying much, but he couldn’t think even of a better-looking girl he’d seen naked even on the internet.

He still couldn’t believe Patel had had her stripped. He’d only interrogated two women before – one in her fifties he wouldn’t have wanted to see naked anyway, the other a teacher in her thirties who had had a certain tough charm. They’d shouted at her for a day or so, put her in the stress position and slapped her around a bit, but nothing more. Why Patel was so intent on humiliating this one he had no idea, but he was loving it.

Patel stood, slowly. Rao saw the girl’s face harden, fear intensifying. That she was so terrified, so helpless only made it better. He prayed Patel would have her beaten, might even let him use a strap or a cane on that slender body. Staying in the dark so he couldn’t be seen, Patel walked behind her. She twisted to follow his movement, one arm still locked across her chest. Gently but firmly, Patel placed his hands on the sides of her head and turned her so she faced forward. Rao stared at her, drinking in the terror in her brown eyes, desperately peering to see beyond the arm and catch another glimpse of her sweet round breasts.

Patel painstakingly folded the blindfold again then, without warning, slipped it over her eyes, pulling it tight and knotting it. She gasped instinctively and for a second her arms twitched. She kept them still, though, and Rao was thwarted. He knew what was coming, though, and knew he would see her fully nude before long.

Patel waved a hand in front of her face. She didn’t move, at which he nodded to two of the soldiers. Rao found himself holding his breath. They seized her arms from behind her and yanked her to her feet. She yelped, as they pulled her arms away from her and she was naked for all to see. She backed away instinctively, so she bent forward slightly, her breasts hanging slightly from her chest, her clear humiliation only increasing Rao’s desire. It wasn’t just her breasts, creamily smooth and high as they were, but her whole pale slenderness, the taut perfection of her tiny body. They turned her and dragged her to the back wall. Even her thin back turned him on, never mind her pert round buttocks. What would he give to slash a cane across them? To mark their round purity with a purple wheal?

*

It was as if there were a band tightened around her chest. She had to concentrate to breathe properly and she wanted to be sick. Her fingers ached, her arms ached, her legs ached, she was cold and her head was throbbing but the worst thing was she was naked. Utterly naked. Exposed to them. Everything was black, but she could sense them there staring at her buttocks and, with her legs slightly spread, at far more. She knew they had walked to the side to leer at her breasts and she knew that, however bad it had been when they’d stripped her, what was waiting if she slipped from the stress position this time would be far worse.

She answered his questions mechanically, struggling to understand where they were leading. The reality was she couldn’t think so she answered truthfully. She didn’t know anything. She wasn’t a spy or a journalist. But of course she did know who had told her about the demonstration, she did know what certain other students had said about it and about the authorities: she just wasn’t going to tell him, to condemn them to who knows what for a couple of offhand comments.

Her head dropped between her shaking arms. She willed herself to hold out a little longer. What would it be? Now she was naked what else could they do to her?

“Tell me about your friends at university,” he said.<p.

“What about them?” she said with a low moan.

“Are they political?”

“No.”

“Are your friends mostly white? Or do you have local friends?”

“Both.”

“Who’s your best friend?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I have a best friend.”

“You have a problem with a boy. Who do you speak to?”

“I don’t know. Kate, maybe. Kate Dryden.”

“Does she go to demonstrations?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you discuss politics with her?”

“No.”

“Did she know you were going to the demo?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“So she’s an accessory? Should I have her in here and interrogate her as well?”

“Why? What has she done?”

“What have you done?”

“Nothing.”

The strain was unbearable. She’d have given anything just to curl up into a ball, to hide herself from them, to wrap herself in a blanket and sleep. She was shaking now, her fingers screaming in pain.

“Is she a pretty girl, your friend Kate?” His voice was mocking

Her arms gave way and she fell. She sobbed as she knelt on the floor, her arms once more hooked across her breasts and genitals.

“You were told to stay in position,” he snapped.

A hand grabbed a hank of her hair and jerked her so she knelt upright. She cowered and wept, dreading her punishment, but when it came it was wholly unexpected. Sharply, two palms clapped into her head, smacking both ears simultaneously. The impact hadn’t been especially hard, but she felt an oddly intense pain inside her head and a wave of nausea swept over her. Instinctively her hands went to her head but as they did so she was hauled to her feet.

“Back in position,” came the order.

“No,” she cried. “Please. I’m exhausted.”

She stumbled, her balance seemingly gone, but their insistent hands forced her against the wall, forced her back into position. Immediately she felt the pain again, began the struggle to stay up a few more seconds. “Please,” she begged. “Please, sir. I don’t know what you want from me.”

*

Patel stared at her trembling body and took a long drag on his cigarette. She wouldn’t last long, he knew. That was the beauty of stress positions; once you broke them once, they were broken. And she was so slight there was no muscle to hold her up. She was sobbing, begging for mercy, but he just carried on with the questions. “Who organised the demonstration?” he asked, walking to the side to examine again her breast. It was gloriously smooth and pert, too small to hang pendulously but large enough to swell perfectly from her chest, the nipple erect in the cold.

“I don’t know,” she sniffed.

“Who told you to go to the demonstration?”

“Nobody.”

Her head hung down, her wavy hair covering her face. She let out a strangled scream and fell to her knees. “Please, please...” she begged turning towards him. The soldiers seized her arms and dragged her over the floor to him, lifting her to a kneeling position. He nipped out his cigarette and tossed it aside.

“No... No...” She whimpered, but he paid no heed and, walking behind her, slapped her ears firmly. There was technique to this, and Patel knew he was good. Do it too weakly and it had no impact; do it too hard and you could burst the prisoner’s ear-drum. He got it just right and she lurched forwards, her hands going to her ears even as the soldiers lifted her and placed her hands flat against the wall.

She was dizzy, he knew, probably nauseous, and her muscles were exhausted, laced with lactic acid. “It’s called the telephone, that technique,” he told her. “Drop your head between your knees and you recover quite quickly.”

He walked behind her, seeing the tension in her straining legs, taking in the smooth tightness of her buttocks and the plump pinkness of her cunt just visible beneath. “Names,” he said. “Just give me names. If it’s not you arranging all these disturbances, who is it?”

“It’s not me,” she squawked, but even as she did so her arms gave way and she fell.

The soldiers pulled her up, her head hanging limp. Patel nodded to them and the lifted her not to a kneeling position but until she stood uneasily between them. “Go on,” he said to Rao. The kid was idiot, but that was no reason to deny him his fun. He’d seen the way he’d been looking at her, knew he was desperate to get involved. He doubted Rao had even seen a naked woman before, never mind one as beautiful as this.

Rao stepped forward gleefully, a look on his face midway between a grin and a leer. He dwarfed her; it was almost comical to see this fat moron, uncomfortable in his uniform, towering over her slender nakedness. Rao drew back a meaty fist and smashed it into the pit of her belly. She gave a noise that was half retch, half scream as the breath was knocked out of her, and slumped, coughing as she tried to get breath back into her lungs.

“Chain her up,” Patel said, signalling to Rao to return behind the desk.

*

Rao was in heaven. It had felt so good, her soft skin beneath his fist. He knew they laughed at him. He knew he was awkward, but if Patel just let him join in he could be something. He wanted to slap her, to put his hand across her cheek so she had a bruise where that beauty spot was. He wanted to punch those delicious tits, to cane those firm buttocks, to make her scream and howl. He watched as the soldiers tightened a pair of handcuffs over her wrists.

A chain, controlled by a pulley near the door, was lowered above her until the hook attached to the end hung just above of her blindfolded eyes. She seemed exhausted, numb, as they then lifted her arms and clipped the chain of the cuffs into the hook. The solider by the door turned the handle, raising her arms until they were not quite taut above her head. She was utterly exposed now, her slender body offered no protection, naked in the arc lights. Rao was captivated by her beauty, the trim figure, the flat pale stomach, the neat strip of pubic hair, the pert round breasts just a little stretched and flattened by her posture.

Patel walked behind her and unfastened the blindfold. She blinked, her eyes red and puffy from sobbing. As if only then becoming truly aware of her nudity, she whimpered, pushing her knees together. Patel returned to his place behind the desk. He sat down next to Rao and sighed.

“Miss Harris,” he said. “Why are you being so obstructive?”

She shook her head, her breasts quivering as she did so. “I don’t know what you want,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Then I’ll make it simple for you. I want to know who organises the demonstrations. I want to know about seditious elements at the university. I want to know about American elements destabilising our country.”

“I don’t know.”

“Then we must proceed.”

Rao was only half-listening. He didn’t care about the questions; he just cared about her, her terror and her nakedness. He knew there was some strategy to Patel’s questions, but endless inquiries about clubs and societies and other people at the university just seemed dull to him. Eventually, Patel stood up again and went to the cupboard behind the desk. He unlocked it and from the selection inside, took out a cane. Rao instantly felt his cock stiffen again; was he really going to thrash her?

Rebecca, of course, couldn’t see what it was. She just knew he was moving behind the light, but Patel walked slowly, purposefully, towards her, making sure the beams always obscured her vision of him. The cane was about four feet long, about as thick as a man’s finger. Rao watched as Patel flexed it. He hoped beyond anything that he got the chance to use it on her. Then Patel, standing about two yards to her left and two yards in front of her, still hidden by the light, swished it through the air. The sound was unmistakable, terrifying. She whimpered.

Patel slowly walked behind her, whipping the cane through the air as he went. She shook visibly, her knees pressed together. She twisted to try to see him, but he kept going, far enough behind her to remain always out of sight. Slowly, deliberately, he completed the circle until finally he came into view, standing directly in front of her, blocking Rao’s view. He moved his seat to the side to see past him.

*

Blinking away the tears Rebecca saw him for the first time. Her interrogator. Her torturer. He was a tall man, probably in his late forties, side-parted hair just turning grey. In another context she might have thought him not attractive exactly, but sternly handsome. He wore a khaki uniform, the top button on his shirt undone beneath the jacket. But what she really focused on was the cane. It was pale and terrifying and he held it by its ends, flexing in purposefully. “Please....” she began, but he silenced her by holding out with the cane, lowering it slowly until one end touched the inside of her left ankle.

She flinched instinctively, closing her eyes as he carefully ran the tip of the cane up the inside of her shin. When he reached the knee he tapped it, forcing her legs apart, and then moved to the right leg, again, slowly running the cane up the shin. This time, when he got to the knee, he didn’t stop, but kept going. The cane ran up the inside of her thigh. Her whole body was tense and she realised she was holding her breath. He stopped and withdrew the cane. He swished it in front of her, forehand and back, and then touched it to her left knee again. She bit her lip, closing her eyes again as he stroked the cane up the firm flesh of her inner thigh. He said nothing and she felt the whole room must be able to hear her heart thump in the silence. He reached her groin and stopped, and she dared open her eyes again. Her body, though, remained taut with tension. He flicked his wrist and tapped the cane twice against her mound. It sent a tremor through her and, to her horror, she began to piss.

Once it had started she couldn’t stop it. She pressed her legs together but it just kept pouring out, hot on her legs and cool by the time it puddle around her feet. She kept her head bowed, unable to look at him for shame.

“You disgust me,” he said when her bladder was at last empty.

She felt the tension in the chain slacken and her arms fell. “Lick it up,” he ordered.

She stared at him. He couldn’t make her do that, could he? “No, no, no, no...” she cried. “Please...”

He whipped the cane menacingly through the air and she dropped immediately to her knees. She knelt on the wet concrete, lowered her head. The smell alone made her nauseous. She pushed her tongue between her lips, lowered it towards the spreading pool, and stopped. She looked up at him through the hair that had fallen over her face but he stood impassively, flexing the cane. She dropped her head again and, sharply, to force herself to do it, licked at the floor. The taste wasn’t as bad as she’d feared, a little salty but that was all, but the point was it was her piss. She pulled back but she heard the cane swish and began lapping, mechanically, feeling the grit and dirt on her tongue and in her mouth. She began crying again, but didn’t dare raise her head, just kept licking the floor.

With her eyes down and her hair tumbling forward, she didn’t see what they were preparing till it was too late. A jet of icy water struck her face and she jerked back instinctively. As she blinked, she saw a soldier holding a hosepipe. He sprayed the floor in front of her and then turned it on her. She shrieked, slithering backwards and holding her cuffed hands out in front of her to try to deflect the jet. It wasn’t just the cold; the force of the water stung as it played over her belly and chest and then, with what was obvious deliberation, her pubic area. She curled up on the floor, turning her back to the water, but even then he aimed at her buttocks, spraying it between her legs.

Finally the water was turned off. She half sat up, shivering and sniffing, hugging herself to try to regain some warmth her back still turned to the soldiers and interrogators. She heard a scratching noise and realised a soldier was swilling the floor, brushing the water towards a small drain. Her body was pink, covered in goose pimples. She rubbed her arms, unable to stop shaking, yet more tears rolling from her eyes. Then, suddenly, the soldier was standing over her, thrusting his broom between her legs, dragging the stiff bristles back and fourth. She shrieked in shock and pain and jerked away, whimpering with humiliation. She heard them laugh and the next she knew she was skidding over the floor, scraping painfully on the wet concrete as they winched up the cuffs. They didn’t stop till she was almost hanging, only the balls of her feet touching the ground.

*

She looked pathetic, so small and delicate, stretched out by the chains, shivering with cold and fear and shame. At times, as the strain on her calves became too great she hung, but then the pain in her wrists and arms became too great and she would force her exhausted muscles to work again. Her answers to his questions were little more than croaks now as he went through people at the university and asked her to talk about them. He was pretty sure she was what she seemed: naive and self-righteous but essentially innocent, terrified to be in a situation nothing in life had ever remotely prepared her for. But still, he’d have another day at her tomorrow just to be on the safe side.

She’d been stretched out like that for around half an hour when Patel stood up again. When he walked behind her she was too tired even to turn. He moved in close and reached round to do what he’d been waiting to do since he’d first seen her. He ran his hands over her chest and then cupped her breasts. They were cold to the touch, the nipples firm and rubbery, but they were the softest things he’d ever held. He felt her whole body tense as he gently massaged them, pulling her body against his so her silken skin rubbed against the coarse cloth of his uniform. He pushed his face into her mass of curls, smelling again that faint aroma of coconut, and nuzzled the side of her neck. When his lips reached her ear, he whispered, “Tomorrow we’ll start the real torture.”

Then her gave her buttocks a firm pat and signalled to the soldiers to let her down.

*

3) The First Night

Rebecca lay on her left side on the cold concrete, her knees pulled up to her chin to warmth, her hands hugging her shins. Her wrists were bruised and grazed and if she wasn’t crying it was only because she’d run out of tears. After they’d let her down she’d been given a grey prison dress. It was threadbare and not especially clean but she’d pulled it on like the finest silk, grateful for any protection from their stares. It stopped a few inches above her knees and was sleeveless, the armholes exposing the sides of her breasts unless she kept her hands by her sides.

She knew they were watching her because she kept hearing the peephole in the cell door being opened and shut. She knew they were laughing at her, enjoying her discomfort. They’d brought her here with her wrists shackled behind her, a hood covering her face. They’d made her kneel at the back of the cell before removing the hood and then unfastening the chains and making her place her hands behind her neck. “When we knock on the door three times,” one said, “you take up this position. If you don’t, we punish you.” He tweaked her hair to make his point. “And you stay like this when we’ve gone till we knock three times. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

When they’d left they’d made her kneel like that for about 10 minutes before finally giving the knock. The cell was bare: drab concrete floor, drab concrete walls, only a grubby light fitting in the ceiling and small drain near one wall breaking the monotony. That, she’d realised, was her toilet. It stank, and a few flies buzzed around it.

She’d sat in the corner, knees pulled up to chin, wondering what time it was. With the constant dull light it was impossible to know if it was night-time. How long had she been here? She had no idea. She’d been in the cell for she guessed around half an hour when they’d knocked. She’d rushed into position, kneeling obediently against the wall.

“Here’s your dinner, bitch,” one of the guards had said.

When they’d knocked again she’d turned to see a bowl of watery dhal, a chapatti and bowl of water.

She’d eaten it more because she knew she had to keep her strength up that anything else. She gulped down the water, surprised by how thirsty she was. They’d come back for the bowls half an hour later, one of them patting her head as she knelt against the wall, mocking her. “Good girl,” he said.

Eventually she’d lain down and tried to sleep, but she was cold and scared. She looked up at the light, and the rusting wire that crises crossed the grimy bulb. How long had they kept her there for, naked? Hours. It must have been hours, sitting and standing as they stared at her. She shuddered at the thought of their gaze. She felt exhausted, yet she was too terrified too sleep. What had he meant when he’d said they would start the real torture tomorrow? What had today been, stripping her and slapping her and punching her and turning hosepipes on her and hanging her by her wrists? Putting her in stress positions and threatening her with a cane? And making her drink her own piss. Making her drink her own piss... she started to cry again. She looked at her wrists, at the way the cuffs had chafed the skin to draw blood. What was that but torture?

There was a knock at the door. She rolled instantly to her feet and knelt as she’d been told. But nobody came in. She kept kneeling, too scared to move. Five minutes passed, ten, twenty and then, to hoots of laughter, she heard them knock again. She lay down, still desperately cold and waited for sleep.

*

Patel knew he pretty much had one more day with her. He could justify that and he already had enough to get her a few months in the camps on a charge of sedition. If he went into a third day, though, they’d start asking questions - especially given she was American. He went in early and arranged for her room at the university to be searched. Rao, to his surprise, was already there when he got there, reading through the thin file they had on her. He obviously wanted to get on with the day’s fun as well. It turned out her appearances at other demonstrations had drawn attention. There were some photos of her, both at the demos and at the university and, best of all, three testimonies from witnesses saying they thought she was part of an anti-government cell. It was almost certainly nonsense, desperate prisoners screaming out names under torture, but it gave him leverage over her.

He saw the head of the night guard in the staff room. “How did Harris pass the night?” he asked.

“Barely slept,” he said. “Not sure I’ve ever seen anybody look so terrified. She was crying most of the night. You sure we shouldn’t give her a blanket?”

Patel was pleased. He suspected she would collapse at the slightest prod today. He took a thick sheaf of blank printer paper and slipped it into the middle of her file, then set off for the interrogation room.

*

Her head thumped. She’d been woken by the knock and was momentarily disoriented. Cold and stiff, she hurried to take up her position. Three soldiers came into her cell, shutting the door behind them. Her teeth chattered.<p.

“You little fucking bitch,” one shouted. He slapped her round the back of the head. “When we knock you kneel ready. Is that clear?” He slapped her again.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she sobbed, her head ringing as his blows aggravated her headache. “I was asleep.”

“Asleep?” he screamed, grabbing a hank of her hair. “It’s a prison, not a fucking holiday camp.” He lifted her by her hair and threw her down next to a bowl of dhal and a cup of water.

She squatted there on all fours, absurdly wondering how much of her ass was visible. The soldier hawked up phlegm and spat into the water. He snorted in through his nose bringing more catarrh into his throat and spat into the dhal. She looked up at him. “You’re a bitch,” he said, sneering. “Now eat like one.”

“What?” she sobbed. “Please.”

“Eat. Like a dog.”

She bent over the bowl. The three soldiers laughed. “Go on.” A boot prodded her ass. “Eat – or we  get that dress off you and you entertain us.”

Rebecca looked up at them, saw the uniforms, saw the mocking faces, and then, squatting like a dog, she put her face to the bowl and began to lap at the dhal. The phlegm sat, green and stringy, in the centre of the bowl. She lapped carefully around it, trying to ignore their jeers. “Is the bitch enjoying her dinner? ... Go on, lap it up.... Shall we get you a bone?”

“I’ve a bone I’d like to give her,” said one of the others and gestured lewdly as they laughed.

She kept eating, too scared to look up until she was all but down, the phlegm, edged by dhal, sitting in the bowl. “Eat it, you ungrateful bitch,” one said. “There’s people starving in this country. Don’t you know how lucky you are?”

Rebecca looked at him and thought of pleading, but knew it would make no difference. Instead, she lowered her head, summoned her courage and brought it with her tongue into her mouth. She gagged, but forced herself to swallow raising herself to her knees. Tears rolled down her face.

“She likes it,” the one who had spat said. He picked up her cup and held it in front of one of the others. “Give her some more.” They each spat and then gave her the cup. She knew not to argue and drank it down in one go. She coughed and wanted to wretch, but she forced the reflex down. “Good girl,” one said and patted her head, ruffling her hair. “Enjoy your torture.”<p.

*

4) The Second Interrogation

Rao had never been so excited before a day’s work. He sat next to Patel just waiting to see her naked again, desperate to know what they would do to hurt and humiliate her. The soldiers dragged her in. She was cuffed and hooded, which seemed a little ridiculous given how slight she was compared to the guards. They pushed her down onto the stool, unfastened the cuffs and pulled off the sack. She blinked in the lights, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. She looked exhausted, her hair flat. And she looked terrified.

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

Her voice sounded pathetic, barely more than a whisper. Patel laughed out loud. “Yes,” he said sarcastically. “We’ll do that.”

“I insist. It’s my right.”

“Oh, if you insist, that’s different. Because we’re big on rights here as you’ll have noticed. Now shut up or I’ll have you whipped for wasting my time.”

Her lower lip wobbled and she began to cry again. “Now, can we get on?” Patel asked. He dropped the file on the desk with a thump, then opened it.

“Let’s start at the beginning. You arrived in this country on August 17. What did you do?”

*

Rebecca kept her head down so she didn’t have to look into the light. She had a bad enough headache already. She’d felt nauseous since being forced into drinking their spittle and she was desperately cold. The stink of cigarettes only made her feel worse.  They’d brought her a bucket of water and allowed her to wash after breakfast, but after splashing some water on her hair she’d barely dabbed at her swollen eyes when they’d come for her again to bring her to the interrogation room.

She was terrified. She had no doubt they intended to torture her. To strip her and humiliate her and beat her and who knew what else. She sat on that stool just waiting for the order to take the dress off so they could gawp at her nudity again. That fat one especially. He’d kept always in the dark but there was something about him, even the way he breathed, that told her he was getting off on her shame.

But then he’d thumped the file down on the table. Even through the light she could see it was huge. Was that all about her? Had they been watching her? And then the questions, taking her in painstaking detail through her first day in the country. What time had she arrived? What flight? How long had it taken at immigration? Had she brought local currency with her? Which hotel had she stayed in? Has she taken a taxi? Who had she met? Detail upon detail. This was going to take days.

He kept jotting things down, nodding and grunting significantly. Much of what he asked she didn’t know; she just couldn’t remember, but he didn’t especially seem to mind. Maybe, she thought, yesterday had been to scare her and this was the debrief. She began to answer more fluently. For an hour, maybe more, he questioned her. And then he stood up and walked towards her. He held a photograph in his hand. He showed it to her and she recognised the first demonstration she’d been to. There she was, to the right of frame, wearing a black shirt and jeans.

“That is you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who are the other people in the picture?”

She looked at him to see if he was joking. The photograph was a little out of focus. There were maybe 20 or 30 other people in shot. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Really? None of them?”

She scanned the photo again. She knew nobody. “I don’t know any of them, sir.”

“I see.”

Without warning he grabbed her by the hair, lifted her from the stool, shook her a couple of times and threw her to the ground. She fell painfully, sprawling on the concrete. She lay face down, not daring to move. He grabbed her hair again and pulled her up, hurting her scalp. He twisted her head round until it was next to his. Her hands instinctively went to her head, but she didn’t dare touch him.

“I’ve been nice to you,” he said and she stared into his hard eyes. “Co-operate or things are going to get very unpleasant.”

He shoved her away and she fell into a sitting position on the floor. She sat, stunned, holding her hands to her scalp. In a daze, she realised, her legs were open and with her short dress she was probably giving the fat one a view she didn’t want him to have. She brought her knees together and realised the other one had gone to that cupboard behind the desk. Was that where he’d got the cane from the night before? Was he going to cane her? She couldn’t imagine what that would be like. Intense pain calmly administered every few seconds. He came back from beyond the lights and he was holding the cane. Oh God.

He swished it back and forth. She hated that noise. Where would he lash her? On her back or on her buttocks? She thought back to references to caning she’d read, of – what was it called, the pandybat? – in Portrait of the Artist or of sadistic schoolteachers dealing out four or six strokes. The horrible phrase “on the bare” came to mind, for when the beatings were really serious. She’d be bare, of course: he’d strip her before lashing her and for him that would be half the point. But he didn’t cane her. Instead, he lay the cane on the ground and ordered her to stand on it.

She looked at him in surprise. Was this a trick? Was he going to say she was disrespecting his cane then lash her? “Stand on it,” he said again. So she stepped forwards, obeying him as he made sure her feet were touching the ground on both sides of the cane.

*

Rao was getting restless. He wanted to see her naked again, to get on with hurting her, to put that cane to proper use. He knew Patel was toying with her, but still. She’d been standing on the cane for a little over half an hour, slowly answering Patel’s painstaking questions, blinking in the light. He looked at her dainty little feet, arched over the cane. He knew they must be hurting now, bent unnaturally in that position. He saw a slight twitch and wondered if they were close. Patel droned on, asking about the other students in her seminars. She wobbled. “Miss Harris,” Patel said. “If you come off the cane, there’ll be punishment.” She nodded, pursed lips pressed together. “Now, tell me more about Karim Ali.”

It was about five minutes later when she finally stumbled, her right foot slipping. She quickly stood back on the cane, but too late. “You know the rules, Miss Harris,” Patel said. “Take your dress off.”

She stepped back off the cane. There were tears in her eyes, her lower lip wobbling, but she was obedient, pulling up the dress and, in one sudden movement, yanking it over her head. She held it for a moment in from of her body, but a soldier soon snatched it from her, leaving her naked. She cowered, right arm across her breasts, left hand over her strip of pubic hair.

“Go on,” Patel said softly to Rao. “But maybe a couple of slaps rather than a punch.”

Rao couldn’t believe this. This was beyond his wildest dreams. “To her belly?” he asked, determined not to get this wrong. Patel nodded.

He walked forward. He felt anxious, his mouth a little dry. “Take her arms,” he said to the soldiers and two of them seized her, holding her elbows with one hand and pushing her shoulders with the other as she cowered backwards. She was shaking at his approach, fear and incomprehension written across her pretty face. “No...no...no...” she sobbed, although she couldn’t have heard what Patel had told him to do to her.

He looked into her brown eyes, wide with terror, small creases leading up from the top of her nose into her gently rounded forehead. Then he looked down at her trembling body, the small domes of her breasts, the slender waist. And the stomach. The smooth flat stomach. He placed his hand on it, just above the belly-button, barely able to believe how tiny she was, how soft and smooth the skin. She shuddered at his touch and he smiled, looking at how his fat fingers covered her. With the heel of his hand on her right ribs, his fingers curled round her rib cage on the left side.

He drew back his hand and smashed the flat palm into her belly. The slap was far louder than he’d expected. Her knees snapped together and her buttocks jerked back and her breasts jumped as she pulled her arms against the soldiers’ grip. She gave a sharp gasp and looked at him, open-mouthed, her breath coming in sharp, incredulous pants. She was small enough that the soldiers could straighten her just by lifting, forcing her shoulders back and her stomach forward. Rao lay his hand on her belly again. His palm smarted slightly so her knew he must have hurt her. The soldiers had one hand under each armpit, lifting her so she was on tiptoes. She struggled back, kicking desperately, but she was helpless. He rubbed, delighting in the way her face crumpled as she looked at him. He drew the hand back and, with all his might, slapped her again.

This time she’d been expecting it and this time she’d tensed her stomach muscles. The sound of the slap was even louder. She gave an agonised cough, her legs kicking hopelessly. A red patch had developed on her stomach and he put his hand on it again. Patel has said a couple but he didn’t want to stop now. “Please... no... please...” she could barely even say the words. There were tears caught on her eyelashes as she blinked desperately at him. Her eyes, he saw, were flecked, not a pure deep brown but a fascinating pattern of greenish browns. He brought back his hand slowly and, as the soldiers stretched her so her belly was taut, smashed his hand into her.

This time the soldiers let go of her arms and she fell to her knees, coughing as she tried to catch her breath. Rao walked back to his seat. Patel nodded at him approvingly. Rao beamed; he just wanted her to get something else wrong so he could do it again.

*

“Up,” ordered Patel and hesitantly she stood, huddled in the familiar pose, arms trying to hide her nakedness. “On the cane.”

Her face creased as she tried not to cry she obediently stood. He could see how it hurt already, the forced arching of those pretty little feet. “Arms out,” he ordered. “Make a cross shape.” He had her naked, he reasoned; he might as well look at her.

She reached out her arms reluctantly, exposing her smooth round breasts. “Stretch out,” he said, and so she raised her arms further, reaching out so her shoulders went back and her breasts sat pertly on her chest. He started going through her classmates again. “Tell me about Meera Zinta,” he said, admiring her slenderness and the large red mark Rao had left on her belly. The kid was an idiot, but he was good at slapping bellies.

He’d gone through four names, getting her usual banal answers, when she stumbled again. Rao looked expectantly, but Patel shook his head. This time he walked behind Harris and, even as she cringed, clapped her ears. Her head rocked back and as he sat down again he saw her swaying, blinking as she tried to regain her balance. Rao would have his opportunity again soon enough.  “On the cane,” he said on a bored voice. She stumbled towards it, clearly disoriented. She got her feet on, but was swaying as he started the questions again. It was only about 30 seconds later when she pitched off, falling to her left and only just preventing herself from falling over. This time he nodded at Rao.

*

The soldiers seized her arms. She twisted but what could she do? They were much, bigger than her, much stronger than her and so they held her, her toes just touching the ground. The fat one was coming towards her, that stupid grin on his face. “No... no... no... please,” she heard herself saying. “Why are you doing this?”

He put his hand on her stomach and she could have been sick. She tried to tense the muscles, to resist. The hand went back, then slapped powerfully into her belly. It stung horribly and winded her, but almost what was worse the clear pleasure he took from it. He slapped her again. The skin of her belly felt strangely rubbery, a little numb. She let herself dangle, limp in the soldiers’ arms, and he slapped her again. They let her go and she fell to the ground here she curled into a ball, her knees to her chin, praying they would leave her alone.

They didn’t.

“Miss Harris,” the thin one said. “Take your time. Get your balance back. Kneel and put your head down; that helps.”

Part of her wondered if he were mocking her, but she was too terrified to object. She rolled to her knees and lowered her head. She stared at the concrete floor between her knees, trying to forget where she was or what was happening. He let her stay like that for a minute or two then told her to get back on the cane. She stood, aware of the roll of her breasts as she walked the pace or two to the cane. Her feet were sore, but she got in position, raising her arms as she been instructed.

“Arms straight,” he snapped.

She stretched out. She knew he was doing this to make her feel more naked, to raise her breasts, but what could she do? Her fear and humiliation was evident in her breathing - short, shallow breaths. She bit her lower lip. “Why did you go to those demonstrations?” he asked.

She looked into the lights. This again. “To see what was going on,” she answered. “Because I was curious.” Her feet were in agony and her calves felt numb.

“Did you throw anything at the police?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you shout anything?”

“No, sir.” Her feet were screaming in pain.

“Who did you talk to?”

“Just people who were there.” Her legs began to tremble with the strain.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. They were just people near me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.  You know how it is; you just start talking to people.” She was sobbing again. The pain was getting worse.

He sighed and opened the file again. He seemed to be doing it deliberately slowly. He flicked through some pages, took out a photo, put it back.

She couldn’t help it. The pain was too bad. She sat down and started massaging her right foot. She knew it would infuriate him, knew it would bring more punishment, but she just couldn’t stand there any more.

For a time he did nothing. She began to massage her left foot. She was aware suddenly of how ridiculous she must look, sitting their naked. He said something she didn’t understand to the guards. They came forward and grabbed her, throwing her to the floor so she sprawled over the concrete. They took her legs and fastened the cuffs over her ankles then lowered the chain from the ceiling and attached the chain linking the cuffs to it.

What were they doing? Were they going to hang her by her feet? They pulled her by her arms, dragging her painfully so she lay facing the desk. A short length of chain was produced, she guessed from that cupboard behind the lights. They lay it over the backs of her knees. She twisted to see what they were doing and saw them fixing the ends of the chain to loops in the floor, pulling the chain tight to pin her knees to the floor.

*

Rao’s day was getting better and better. They were going to use the cane on her. They’d cuffed her hands to the loops in the floor and pulled up her ankles so she was spread, flat to the floor to her knees, which were bent at right angles so the soles of her feet were fastened parallel to the floor. He couldn’t get over how small she was, even stretched out like that. Her back seemed tiny, her buttocks small and pert. He wished they were flogging them, but it would be bastinado first.

Patel picked up the cane from the floor and swished it a couple of times. Rao watched Rebecca’s terror. She twisted to turn and stare over her left shoulder, writhing hopelessly in fear. Patel lay the cane over the feet and she whimpered. “You silly, arrogant girl,” he said. “Two strokes for stepping off; eight for insolence. Ten strokes.”

“Please,” she wept. “Please. I’m sorry.”

He raised the cane, and whipped it down across the soles of her feet. She yelled, her whole body seeming to twitch. Rao stepped forward and grabbed her by the hair, lifting her head so he could see the terror and pain. Her mouth was open, her eyes wide, her breath coming in short rasps. The cane landed again. She gave a strangled yelp. Her legs quivered. Patel raised the cane again. Whistle. Whump. “Aarrccghh.” Where Rao really wanted to be right now, he decided, was lying underneath her, to feel her little body bucking on his.

*

There were three deep red streaks across each foot. They were tiny and delicate and amazingly soft and, Patel knew, the muscles must be sore from standing on the cane. He whipped her again, cutting across the arches where her heel began. Her toes curled and her legs jerked, but the chains held her in position. “Four,” he said. Her feet were so small that he knew he would end up crossing the welts even in giving her just ten. He also knew that the bruising would make even standing on a flat surface excruciating – and he intended to make her stand on the cane again. He lashed her a fifth time, just beyond the balls of her feet near the toes. She shrieked, her pert buttocks trembling delightfully. Patel had every intention of making sure they felt the cane before the end of the day.

He knew that his position to her left meant the right foot was taking the brunt of the punishment so he walked round to the other side. The room was silent but for her sobs. If she was some sort of spy or activist, she was far from being a tough one. Rao still held her hair, preventing her from turning. The boy was an idiot, but his undisguised lust for her, his clear sadistic glee at her pain, was a bonus here; it could only, surely, add to her sense of shame and self-disgust to know someone like him was taking such pleasure in it.

She waited, knowing the sixth lash was coming. She was cold, the concrete icy against her breasts and belly. Her feet were in agony. There was a swish and the sixth blow landed across her heels. She grunted with the pain. She wanted to disappear, to curl up into a ball to somehow take her mind somewhere else while he finished thrashing her, but she couldn’t because the fat one was holding her, practically salivating at her pain. The seventh struck across the arches and she jerked, his grip hurting her scalp.

Her ankles were hurting as well as she jerked against the cuffs. She tried to stay still, but how could she? She waited and waited. Three more and it would be over. She heard the whistle and flinched. The lash cut into her heels. She yelled and kicked, the cuffs cutting into her ankles. She saw the fat one’s grin, his eyes flicking from her chest to her face and she began to cry again. Why were they doing this? What did they think she knew? She clenched her teeth, waiting for the next blow, waiting, waiting. Why couldn’t he just hit her twice and get it over with? The fat one shook her head and she looked at him, smelling his stinking breath. She was looking into his eyes when the cane landed across the balls of her feet. She shuddered. The pain was atrocious, not just the impact of the cane but the ache afterwards. The whole of the soles of her feet hurt from toe to heel. How could she stand again? The final lash landed, whipping across the arches again. The fat one eventually let her go and she slumped, sobbing on the cold concrete floor as they unfastened the chains.

*

Rao looked at her as she lay there, shivering and crying. Her buttocks were wonderfully pert and round: he wanted to cane them as well. Her ankles were chafed, her pretty little feet streaked with welts. “Get up,” Patel shouted. He gestured at the soldiers and they pulled her to her feet. She seemed to have shut down - as though she didn’t quite know what was going on. The soldiers released her arms and she staggered forward, moaning with the pain in her feet, arms clutched across her chest. She looked around in a daze and then down at her feet, as though she couldn’t quite believe how much pain she was in. Patel, seated behind his desk again, lit up a cigarette.

Rao sat down beside him. “On the cane, please,” Patel said. She looked at him and she looked at the cane and, as though the words took time to register, shuffled forward. Every step was clearly agony. She paused by the cane and then, with what seemed a great effort of will, stood on it. She whimpered even as she pushed her toes forward to touch the floor. “Arms out,” said Patel.

She looked at him, the expression on her face full both of horror and disgust at being made to expose herself fully again. She raised her arms slowly and dropped her head. “Why did you go to the demonstrations?” Patel asked. She started sobbing again and looked up.

“I’ve told you,” she cried. “I was curious.”

“Who told you about them?”

“I don’t know.”

She sounded desperate, resigned. Her breasts trembled as she wept, her nipples semi-erect in the chill. Patel opened her file and sighed. He flicked through a few pages. Her face was crumpled, lower lip wobbling as she looked at how many pages there were left to go through. He puffed on his cigarette. “Who was in your seminar group?” he asked.

She gave a list of eight names: six male, two female. Two, a male and a female, didn’t sound local. Patel slowly wrote them down. “This first one,” he said. “Kevin Stiles. American?”

“Canadian, sir.” She was shaking with the pain.

“Describe him.”

She shook her head and gave a sob. “I don’t know... Tall, beard. He’s very bright. Quiet. Nice guy.”

“Did he talk to you about politics?”

“Not really, sir, no. He played guitar and sometimes he’d bring it to the common room.”

“A hippy?”

“Not really.”

“Did you fuck him?”

“No! What? No.” She flushed.

“Did you want to?”

Rao didn’t know why Patel was asking about this but it amused him. Her pain was obvious and she was struggling to focus even on the most mundane questions and this talk of her sex life clearly made her uneasy. She was naked and suffering but she was still embarrassed to talk about that side of her.

“No, sir.”

“Then why have your nipples stiffened just at the thought of him?”

“They haven’t,” she said, clearly looking down at her breasts, which in turn reminded her of her nakedness and led to a fresh wave of sobs. “Please, pleeaasse...”

Patel simply lit up another cigarette. “It’s just cold, sir,” she said. The shaking was growing more violent.

“OK, then. Sarah Walker? What’s she like?”

“She’s very studious. Works very hard. Reads all the time. Always in the library, never goes out hardly.”

“Political?”

“Not really, no.”

“But a little?”

“She talked about the frontier situation, yes.” Her tone of voice made it sound like she’d confessed something.

“With you?”

“Sometimes.”

“And what were your conversations about?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and gave a definite wobble. “General stuff. How complicated it is.”

“I see. Is she pretty? Would I enjoy having her down here?”

She just shook her head, a look of disgust on her face. “Is she pretty?” Patel repeated.

“Not really, I don’t think,” she replied. “I don’t know. She’s a little fat, big glasses.”

“Are you pretty?”

She shook her head again, almost shrugged. And then she unbalanced and fell off the cane, yelling in pain as she did so. Rao looked at Patel and Patel nodded at him. He bounded over to her as the soldiers held her up so her belly, still a little pink, was stretched for him. He caressed it, felt its silky smoothness, and then slapped her, hard. She gasped as the air was knocked out of her and began begging him. It felt unbelievably good. He lay his hand on her again. He could feel her disgust and he hated her for it. The skin was warm where he’d hit her. He allowed his hand to move a little lower, over her belly button to the cool below. He pulled back his hand and smashed it down. She’d tried to back off but they held her too high. She was dangling, crying, looking at him and pleading. There was snot smeared from her nose.

He let his hand go higher. He didn’t dare just grope her, but he brushed his thumb against the underside of her right breast. It was amazingly soft. Were all breasts like that? This was the first he’d ever touched – not that he’d have admitted that to Patel. He looked at her and caught her stare. It was terrified, but was there something else? Was there contempt there? Did she know? Did she realised she was the first girl he’d touched naked? That he’d needed to get a girl in chains under torture before he’d caressed a breast? He drew back his hand and hit her harder than he’d ever hit anything before. He felt the sting in his palm, almost felt the breath being knocked out of her. The soldiers let go of her and she fell to the floor.

*

What did they want with her? She half sat, half lay, huddled on the cold floor. Her belly felt like it was burning, her calves moaned in pain and her feet were agony. Instinctively she hooked her right arm across her breasts. Even as she did it she wondered what the point was: if they wanted to see her naked, they would. The main interrogator stood up. “Get her up,” he ordered, and the soldiers seized her arms. They pulled her to her feet and she felt again the pain as her feet took her weight. “Give her three more.”

No. It couldn’t be. How could he be so cruel? As the soldiers lifted her until just her toes touched the ground, she saw the grin on the face of the fat one. He placed his hand on her belly again. “No!” she shouted. “No! What do you want from me? Plea-“ And he slapped her. It burned on the already tender skin and knocked the wind from her. He laid his hand on her again. She cringed; his clear enjoyment of her pain was hideous. He rubbed gently, taunting her, his little finger just brushing her belly-button. Then he smacked her again. She felt sick, and fell limp, held up only by the soldiers. Her head dropped. She was cold and exhausted, the sting in her chilled skin unbearable. At that moment she would have done anything, said anything, to get out of there. The third slap landed and she collapsed as the soldiers let go of her.

She sprawled across the concrete. All she could see were boots. She heard him shout: “Get her up!” Her feet screamed in pain, her belly ached. Her arms were yanked back and she was hauled up. She sat dumbly as they cuffed her hands in front of her. They dragged her back a foot or two and they fixed the hook to the chain. Briefly she sat, too exhausted to move, arms straight out in front of her. Then they lifted her, hoisting her to her feet. Her arms initially took the strain but then she was forced to stand and pain shot through her feet again. When her body was taut, her heels just on the ground, they stopped. Everything hurt, from the muscles in her arms and shoulders to her battered belly and her caned feet. She wept, astonished she still had tears in her and the questioning continued.

On and on it went, details of her daily life, opinions on her classmates and teachers, the persistent insinuating questions about who had persuaded her to go to the demonstrations. When the pain in her feet became too great she relaxed and hung for a few minutes until the cuffs, digging into her wrists, and the weight on her muscles became too much and she let her feet take the strain again.

And then he started on her personal life again. Did she have a boyfriend? No. Who had she slept with while she was in the country? Nobody. Why not? No reason. Was she lesbian? No. At last it ended. She saw him speaking to the fat one but she didn’t really pay attention. She was just grateful for the respite. Then she saw the fat one coming towards her with a huge grin on his face.

He stepped behind her. She turned to try to see what he was doing, but it was soon clear. He pushed against her. She could smell his rank breath and the coarseness of his uniform against her soft skin. She turned back to face the thin one. The fat one suddenly grabbed her breasts. She shuddered with loathing as he cupped them, squeezing greedily. She squirmed. Her body had gone tense. She could feel his erection pressing against her spine.

“So, you had no sexual inclinations towards any other student?” the thin one said.

“No,” she squawked. “What is this? Why is he touching me?”

“It’s a test. I say a name and he sees if you’re aroused by it.”

“This is ridiculous.” The fat one squeezed her breasts sharply and she yelped. He relaxed his grip and placed his palms over her nipples.

“Javinder Singh,” said the thin one. She couldn’t even think who that was. She pictured a tall thin Sikh in the basic Sanskrit class she did. Was that him?

“Nothing,” said the fat one.

“Kevin Stiles.”

She thought of Kevin with his beard and his guitar. “Nothing,” said the fat one.

God, his hands. His slimy, sweaty hands. She shuddered. How was this happening?

“Amir Khan.”

Who was that? She had no idea. On the names went and all the time his hands cupped her breasts. They could have had George Clooney seducing her and she wouldn’t have responded.

*

Rao couldn’t believe how soft her breasts were, how gentle, how delicate. Were all breasts like that? He held them gently, but he wanted to squeeze them, to poke them, to knead them, perhaps even to punch them. He wondered if he’d be allowed to rape her, to hold those slim hips down and thrust inside her. Her terror only made her more alluring.

Patel finished reading down his list of names. He turned the page in his file and looked up. “Sarah Walker?” he said. There was nothing but Rao caught the tone. “A slight stiffening,” he said.

“Really?”

“No!” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not a lesbian.”

Patel stood up and lit a cigarette. He strode towards her. “How does it work?” he asked.

“How does what work?”

“Being a lesbian. How do you pleasure each other?”

“I’m not a lesbian. I don’t know.”

“How do you think it might work?”

“I don’t know.” She’d flushed. She couldn’t hold his gaze.

“I think you’re not as naïve as you pretend. You’re not a virgin are you?”

She shook her head. “What?” Patel shouted. He was standing right by her now. “I can’t hear you.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I’m not a virgin, sir.”

Rao released her tits and walked round to stand by Patel. He wanted to see her face.

“How does a boy pleasure you then?”

She looked up, her pretty face red with shame, her eyes flashing with disgust and anger. “You know,” she said.

“Yes. But I don’t know that you know.” He blew smoke in her face.

Her head dropped again. “He touches me down there.”

Patel reached out two fingers and touched her between the legs. She jolted as though shocked by electricity. “Down there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So how might a girl pleasure you?”

“She could touch me down there,” she said, her voice just a whisper.

“Or?”

“Or lick me down there,” she said with sudden fury. “Is that what you want me to say? That I want to be eaten out by a woman?”

Patel smiled. “Dear, dear,” he said. “We are feisty.” He patted her cheek and she began to cry.

Patel seized her hair in his left hand and twisted her face towards him.  He held the cigarette in his right hand and causally blew on the lit end so it glowed orange. Rao heard her whimper. There was a mole or a dark spot on her left cheek and he brought the cigarette towards it. She gave a strange bark of terror and tried to pull away. Patel held the cigarette an inch or so from her skin. Rao realised she must have been able to feel the heat from it.

“Plee..eaaa….se,” she sobbed and Rao heard a splash. She was pissing herself, he realised. Patel slapped her hard and returned to his desk. Rao saw a purplish bruise swelling from the right edge of her lower lip, topped by a trace of blood. Patel order them to turn the hose on her and her sobs became shrieks as they worked her up and own with the jet of water. For five minutes they sprayed her, the water playing on her breasts, her genitals, her legs, her belly and then her face. When they’d finished she was shivering, knees pressed together, her body pink and goosepimpled. The noise that came from her, a whimpering groan, was barely human. Rao joined Patel behind the desk.

Patel began again with the more detailed questions, about who had said what, about which students opposed the crackdowns and which showed signs of supporting the rebels. Rebecca seemed barely aware even of what was going on, mumbling answers through her tears. Eventually Patel stood up again and walked over to her. She seemed broken, her legs only partly supporting her. “Lunch,” he said, and fastened the blindfold over her eyes again.

*

5) New Information

Patel knew the signs. She’d be singing within an hour or two. An hour standing naked and blindfolded, getting hungrier and colder, and more and more tired, thinking of what they might do to her next and she’d be ready to tell him everything. She’d be so desperate to be released that she’d reveal even the most trivial details of conversations, to condemn her friends. She still hadn’t actually told him who’d told her about the demonstration but that would come and then the university would be open to him. There probably wasn’t any great organised ring of militants there, but it wouldn’t hurt to crack down on sympathisers.

He probably had four or five more hours after lunch before he’d have to hand her over and start working on one of the others. He doubted he’d have to hurt her much more. She was petrified. He might give her a couple of lashes with the cane or hang her for a while, let Rao slap her about a bit but realistically she was gone already, a silly little American girl out of her depth.

He unfolded his copy of the newspaper and placed it on the table next to his rice and vegetables. She had a beautiful face, he reflected. Lovely skin, the tiny mole on each cheek, deep brown eyes, a sweet little nose. And that pert little bottom. Such smooth skin. And those pretty little feet. How he’d enjoyed caning them. Patel settled in to reading the cricket report.

“Sir!”

He looked up. There was an urgency in the voice. “Sir, we searched her room.” The tone alarmed him,

“Yes?”

“And we found these under the bed.” The officer placed a leaflet on the table. Patel looked it. It was a fairly crude photocopy detailing so-called abuses by the security forces. Bullet-points listing modes of torture, the use of plastic bullets, detention without trial. And the details of an organisation called Students for Human Rights.

Patel stood up. “How many?”

“Twelve boxes.”

“How many in a box?”

“A couple of thousand.”

He looked at Rao and beckoned, then stormed out of the canteen and back to the interrogation cell.

*

The door slammed back and Rebecca flinched. She was freezing, her arms ached, her feet were in agony. She just wanted to lie down, to wrap herself in a blanket, anything to warm up, get her feet off the ground. Why were they doing this to her?

Her hands were lowered and for a moment she felt relief in her stiff shoulders. But the hands seized her. One cuff was released so the bracelet hung from her right wrist. Another cuff was snapped on her left wrist. They were rough, dragging her forward and she was slammed into the desk, the edge banging painfully into her hips and lower belly, winding her. Her arms were yanked forwards and out, bending her over the wooden surface, and the cuffs snapped around legs of the desk so she was spread out, bent at the waist, her toes just touching the ground, her buttocks in the air.

A hand grabbed her hair and her head was yanked back. The blindfold was pulled off and she saw the thin one’s face an inch from hers.  He spat and she flinched as the spittle hit her eyes, hurting her scalp as she pulled back. “You think you can take the piss out of me?” he hissed.

Her mouth fell open and she blinked desperately. “What?”

“You little bitch.” He spat again. “Playing the innocent. Well, you’ll pay now.”

She watched as he walked to the cupboard behind the desk and unlocked it. She saw a series of canes and straps hanging up. He selected a cane, and took it down, flexed it and swished it viciously through the air. “No!” she squawked. “Please… what have I done? Please…” He whipped it down again then tossed it to the fat one. He weighed its three feet in his meaty hands, bending it almost double before lashing it through the air. It was the most terrifying sound she’d ever heard. The boss took another cane and went through the same ritual of testing it.

“What have I done?” she asked. “Please…”

*

Rao couldn’t believe his luck. He stood behind her admiring the firm round arse. Almost without thinking he ran his left hand over the smooth curve of her left buttock. She whimpered with terror. She was trembling. He took the cane up in his right hand and stroked it over her lower back. She shook and stiffened, moaning and begging.

Patel grabbed her by the hair, twisting his hand cruelly in her curls, forcing her to look at him. “Twenty strokes,” he said.

He walked behind her so he and Rao stood either side of her, each holding a cane. She twisted to look at him, mouth twisted in terror. Rao swished his cane again and she flinched. Patel stepped forward and lay the cane across the centre of her buttocks. “Please…” she cried again. Patel stepped back, took the cane in two hands again, flexing it. His eyes were fixed on her arse. He raised the cane in his right hand, took and skip forward and then lashed her with the wristy action of a squash player. The cane whistled through the air, stopping with a dull whump in the flesh of her buttocks.

She shrieked, her body tensing, fell silent for a moment and then let out a low quavering moan, a shudder passing through her. Across the centre of her backside lay a white line, edged with purplish red. Rao could see her panting, her torso rising and falling desperately. This was his time. He glanced at Patel who nodded, and he placed his cane just below the weal. He wasn’t naturally left-handed, but he was strong enough on that side. He stepped into the blow, rather than skipping, and caught her lower than he’d intended, across the very base of her cheeks.

Rao felt the cane enter the flesh, felt the cheeks yield before the cane met resistance. She jerked up as far as the cuffs would allow, a sharp yelp coming from her mouth. Her legs shook, knees almost knocking together before she slowly subsided and collapsed back across the desk. And across the base of her arse he saw the pale line edged with purple that he had caused. She was quivering, weeping with pain and terror, a pitiful sight. Yet all he wanted to do was to lash her again.

“How many?” Patel asked sharply and Rao was about to answer when he realised he was talking to Harris.

“What?” she sniffed.

“How many have you taken?”

“Two, sir.” She turned to look at him, her jaw offset to the left as she bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears. Her jaw visibly wobbled.

“Good. Now you will announce how many you’ve taken after each stroke or it won’t count. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” she squawked. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.”

She looked away, and lay her head down on the desk.

Patel waited until she lay still. Then he whipped her. If anything, the lash was even harder than his first blow. It set her thighs thrashing back and forth, almost as though she were somehow trying to shake out the pain. “Grnnnnoooyyyghhh,” she yelled but then, after two breaths that were more moans, she whispered, “Three.”

“What?” Patel snapped. “I can’t hear you.”

“Three, sir,” she said more certainly.

Patel nodded. Rao looked at the three streaks across the buttocks. He raised the cane and, with all his might, brought it crashing into her arse, higher than his first blow but lower than Patel’s two.

*

The force of the blow was astonishing. Patel almost cringed himself. Rao was coming into his own today. It was a little clumsy, and didn’t really use the whippiness of the cane, but he’d put a tremendous amount of force into it. It lifted the girl and sent her sliding a few inches across the desk, leaving a welt that turned a ferocious purple almost immediately. “Fuck!” she shouted. “Fuck! Fuuuuucckkk!” Her feet slowly dropped back to the floor but the shaking wouldn’t stop and nor would her snivelling sobs. He’d never seen a stroke delivered with quite such venom; no wonder she was crying.

“You don’t swear at officers,” he said. “Four additional strokes for obscenity.”

She turned sharply. “No!” she shouted, her face red, mucus and spittle clinging around her mouth and nose. “Please! Please! Oh, please! I can’t… please!”

He waited till her cries had died away. “How many?” he asked.

She sniffed and Patel saw her trying to stop her moaning long enough to speak. “Four,” she eventually blurted, but her breathing was coming in gulps.

“Good,” he said. “If I have to ask you again, the stroke doesn’t count. Is that clear?”

“Yes... Sir.”

He’d never seen a girl look so defeated. She couldn’t stop crying and moaning. Giving her the extra four was a needless cruelty, he knew, a way of humiliating her, of emphasising how she was in his power. He touched his cane to her cheeks and she was beset by trembling. He almost felt sympathy for her and then he remembered how she had conned him with the leaflets. He didn’t know if this fear were an act or whether she somehow retained a cunning amid her terror but either way she had made a fool of him. He stepped back and lunged forwards, whipping her a fraction lower than his first two strokes.

She flinched far too late, her legs kicking up. She screamed, one long howl and then a wavering shout as she tried to control herself. Her breath came in grunts and then eventually she whispered, “Five.” She wept, tears dripping from her face. Rao touched her buttocks with his cane and she whimpered. He stepped back and brought it crashing down, just clipping the upper edge of the bruise he had left with his previous stroke. Both legs flipped up so it seemed for a moment that she was swimming on the desk, her cunt lips openly displayed. She howled, screaming for so long she twice had to take a breath. Slowly her legs came back down. “Six,” she croaked. Rao, taking the initiative for once, lay down his cane, stepped up to her and took her by the waist, straightening her on the desk. “Stay still,” he shouted. His fat hands looked ridiculous against her slender hips, emphasising just how delicate and small she was. He ran his hands down the outsides of her thighs. “Stay there,” he said.

Rao picked up his cane again and swished it a couple of times. She was trembling but holding herself perfectly still, legs together, arms stretched, head up, apparently staring at the wall. The six deep red lines were clear on her buttocks. Three thin ones where Patel had struck a little below her waist and three fatter ones, two of them running together, lower towards her thighs. Between them was an unblemished strip maybe two inches wide. It was there that Patel aimed. He struck the lower part of the stripe. Her right leg seemed to collapse at the knee and she sagged to that side, her upper body jerking upright then subsiding. “Seven,” she sobbed, her low moan returning.

*

This was hell. Each stroke was a line of fire, each one a greater pain than anything she’d ever suffered before. Her mind tried to drift away. She wanted to lie there and forget, to surrender to the pain, but she had to count, had to force herself not to swear. And now she was focused on staying still; she didn’t know how much power the fat one had but she didn’t dare risk more lashes. She let his cane touch her and clenched her teeth in anticipation. He swished the cane a couple of times, toying with her, and then he smacked it down almost exactly where the seventh blow had landed.

The pain was extraordinary. Her legs kicked and her back arched, she lifted from the desk and then fell, banging her hips. She screamed. A high-pitched shriek that came from deep within her and went on for three or four seconds. She took a breath and as she gasped each exhalation came as a rasping moan. She tried to stand straight, to stop wriggling, but her feet were in agony as well. Eventually she fell still. “Eight,” she said. Eight? Only a third of the total. “Please,” she begged. “Please. Whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll say whatever you want. Please.”

“You’d better not be trying to bribe me?” the thin one said.

“No. But please…”

He struck her again. Her head flashed back. He wasn’t as brutal as the other one. It hurt, but not as badly. She was shaking. Her wrists, she saw, had been rubbed raw by the cuffs but the pain was nothing compared to that in her ass. “Nine,” she said. “Please. I don’t know what I’ve done. I don’t know what you want. Pleeeaasse…” She broke off into desperate whimpers. She couldn’t take any more. The fat one hit her again. She screamed and screamed. He’d struck across the top of her ass where the thin one had been whipping her, striking bruised flesh. The pain was hideous, the worst yet. She felt nauseous, the burn welling through her body. Her heart was thumping. As her howls subsided, she realised her teeth was bared, her lips curled back, a low moan keening from her.

The thin one touched her again with his cane. She shuddered. “Did you feel that one?”

“Yes. YES!”

“Then count it or you’ll get it again.”

“Ten.” She hated him. How could he be this cruel? “I’m sorry. Sorry, sir. Ten.” She sniffed, trying to clear her nose. When she breathed again it came as an agonised groan

*

Her buttocks weren’t just streaked with red, but in a patch on each buttock, where the strokes had crossed, there were lines of deep purple, so dark it was almost black, crowned with an ashy grey. It was there, Patel knew that further blows would draw blood. He drew back and whipped low, into the crease where buttock met thigh. She yelped, right leg kicking up. “Eleven,” she sobbed.

He looked at Rao, a grin on his fat face.  He was staring lustfully at her buttocks as she wriggled. He lay his cane across the worst of the bruising and she tensed. He stepped back and drove the cane down. Her shriek was hideous, legs kicking, body lifting off the desk and then flopping back hard. She kept moaning, her legs shaking and Patel saw a thin trickle of blood running down her left buttock. He swished his cane. “Stop!” she shouted. “Stop… twelve!” He whipped immediately across the bruised patch on her right buttock. She bounced up again, head snapping back. She roared in pain, legs kicking.

“If we have to tie your legs, we’ll double the lashes,” Patel said. “Stand still.”

She turned to look at him, face twisted in pain, mucus smeared from her nose across her mouth. “Please….” He saw the effort in her face as she forced her legs down. Rao stepped up and lashed her hard across the top of her buttocks. “Gnnnnaaaagggggghhhhhh!” she shouted. “Fourteen.”

“No,” Patel said. “You didn’t count the last one. How many?”

“Please…” she begged him. “Please….”

“How many?”

“Thirteen,” she said and started weeping again.

Patel lashed at the base of the grey area. Her scream seemed a little less intense, as though she’d started to go numb. “Fourteen,” she sniffed. And then Rao hit her again.

*

Rao watched her legs kick up, stunned by how high she lifted, her legs snapping almost horizontal before her feet clattered back to the ground. There was blood smearing her left buttock now and her screams had become higher and high pitched. “Fifteen,” she shouted, frantically getting the number out before Patel lashed her again. Her legs were trembling so hard that her knees literally knocked. He wanted to take her in his arms and fuck her as she sobbed, to hold that little, compact body.

She twisted as Patel struck her again, leaving a dark purple line across the base of her buttocks. “Sixteen.” He saw her face, flushed and covered with tears and mucus, her forehead creased with terror. Patel, he realised, wasn’t drawing blood. Was that deliberate? He had no idea. He didn’t care. He just wanted to make her scream.

She was turning, he realised, presenting her right buttock to him. The tip of his cane, smacking into the left buttock, was what was doing the damage. The cunning little bitch. So he hit her low, across the middle of her thighs, where she wasn’t expecting the lash. Her legs gave way and she slumped, hanging by her wrists. Her little feet kicked desperately trying to stand up properly again and through her scream her heard a soft, “Seventeen.”

Patel waited until she was still. This time, at last, he cut across the centre of her buttocks. She screeched as the blood welled, but her body didn’t kick as it had done. Perhaps, Rao thought, she was exhausted. Her body slithered a little way up the desk then fell back. He waited. “Eighteen,” she murmured. He made her wait. He touched the cane against her. She shuddered. Then he hit her. Hit her hard, driving the cane down with all his might onto the bruised flesh. There was blood and a howl and her legs kicked and then she was turning and shouting at him. “Please stop this! Please!” He saw terror and pain and anger but most of all he saw a slender little body that he wanted to hurt and to fuck.

The shudders in her legs fell still and she reset herself. “Nineteen,” she said and fell calm. Patel whipped her quickly and it was almost as though the fight had gone out of her. The cane struck low and she yelped, but there was no thrashing, just a flinch and a sob and then, force hoarsely through her teeth, “Twenty.”

But Rao wanted her to suffer. He wanted her howling and twisting. He took a run at her and lashed, but his contact was poor, skimming off the rounded top of her buttock and just grazing her back.

“Twenty-one,” she said, terrified they’d decide that one didn’t count. She felt exhausted, her buttocks screaming with pain. The next one landed. Her knees banged together. She felt the familiar wave of pain, the lurch of nausea, but she was too tired to writhe. She could feel a line of blood dribbling from her right buttock down her thigh. “Twenty-two,” she murmured. Just two more. She’d almost survived.

The fat one again. He waited. She imagined he was furious about the last blow. She feared how hard he would strike her. She’d told herself to lie flat, to look straight ahead, but as he waited she felt compelled to turn and look over her right shoulder. She saw him, a terrible leer on his face, running five paces, teeth clenched as he brought his arm down with all his power. The pain was intolerable. It was as though white lights had exploded in her head. Her hips were driven into the edge of the desk, both feet kicked up. She heard herself screaming and beyond that laughter. He threw the cane onto the desk alongside her and she saw it had snapped. Some survival instinct within her forced her to whisper, “Twenty-three.”

“What?”

“Twenty-three,” she said more clearly.

Patel caressed her buttocks with his cane. The weals were worse than he’d expected, but then he hadn’t expected Rao to be quite so brutal. Still, they’d heal; even though there was a substantial amount of blood on the left cheek, canes that light left only superficial damage. He lay his cane at the bottom of the grey area on her right buttock, just beneath the bleeding welts he’d left. He whipped her. She flinched, but seemed to have strength for no more. She sobbed and sobbed, trembling. A new bubble of blood seeped from the skin. She said nothing.

Patel shrugged. He handed his cane to Rao. Still Harris said nothing. Patel nodded. Rao flexed the cane and lashed her. It was low, in the crease where her buttocks met her thighs. She howled, legs quivering. “Twenty-four,” she shouted. “Twenty-four!” he waited for her to swear so he could give her four more, but she just slumped back to the desk.

*

The bastards. The utter bastards. To give her the extra one.  She felt dazed, pain everywhere. There were rough hands on her, unfastening her wrists, but she was only vaguely aware of them compared to the agony in her ass. Her wrists were shackled together again; she was aware of how ridiculous it was – did they really think she was dangerous? -  and hauled her back to her familiar position in front of the desk. She watched dumbly as the hook was lowered and she realised they weren’t finished with her. Her wrists were raised and they lifted her so high she had to stretch even to rest the balls of her feet on the ground.

She began to sob again. Her buttocks were boiling, but this reawoke the agony in her feet and the tightness in her shoulders. Her stomach felt sore, it meant she was hanging by her raw wrists and she was taut enough to strain everything. And she felt again very, very naked.  He walked up to her. He flicked her left nipple, erect in the cold and standing out from a breast flattened by being stretched.

“What’s this?” he said, and held a pamphlet in front of her face. She looked at it, struggling to take it in. It was white with blue writing. She blinked. “It’s a pamphlet,” she said.

“Do you want another 20 for insolence?” he spat.

“No,” she yelped. She could feel her face twisting in terror, her teeth biting her lower lip. “I don’t know what you want me to say. Please…”

He held it in front of her face again. She read in a panic… human rights… victims… unconscionable abuses… a blurred photo of a blindfolded and shirtless man chained to a wall. “What is it?” he asked.

“It looks like it’s from one of the groups that question government policy,” she said, her voice dry and flat.

He shoved it into her face. “Are you telling me you don’t recognise it?”

What should she say? She knew she might have seen it. Pamphlets were handed out all the time at the university. “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe. I don’t remember seeing it.”

She saw his face tighten with fury. “Lift her,” he snapped and she was lifted so she hung six inches off the ground. She whimpered as her arms took the strain.

“I’m losing patience,” he said. “You can have 40 with the cane if you like.” He punched her, hard, at the top of her belly. She coughed, winded, swinging back.  As momentum brought her back her caught her round the waist and pulled down. She howled at the increased pain in her shoulders. “We found 2000 of these in your room,” he said. “Don’t play the fucking innocent.”

*

Patel was a little surprised. Given the way she’d been howling, he’d though she’d have cracked straight away. But her mouth dropped open and she shook her head disbelievingly. She seemed genuinely confused. “In my room?” she said incredulously. He walked to the desk and picked up the cane. He walked back towards her, swishing it and she pissed herself again. She sobbed as the urine dribbled down her legs and dripped onto the floor.

“Where?” she asked. She was almost incoherent. “Please. I don’t know anything, sir. Please.”

He tapped her ribs. “Under the bed.”

“Oh please, no,” she mumbled. He drew back the cane and she flinched, lifting her knees high. “They were there when I took the room. Please. I got the room from another American and he asked if he could leave them until he came back. Please believe me. Please. He’s called Steve. Steve McCoy. You can check the records.”

“How convenient. You really expect me to believe that?” He whipped her, striking her ribs. She screamed and fell to sobbing again.

“It’s true. It’s true!” she shouted. Her head fell.

Patel turned away. “What should we do with her?” he asked Rao.

Rao who was grinning, scratching himself, shifted his gaze from her nakedness to Patel. “Give her 100 lashes, sir.”

“No… No…” she squawked.

Patel perched on the edge of the desk. “Look at me,” he said.

She raised her head slowly, blinking desperately. Her jaw was visibly wobbling. “You’re in very serious trouble,” he said. “Those pamphlets will get you ten years in a labour camp. You’re a little girl. You will suffer horrendously. You will not keep up with the work schedule. They will dock your rations. They will strip you and lock you in punishment cells. They will put you in punishment details that you won’t cope with. They will flog you. You’re a pretty girl. At nights they’ll fuck you. Then they’ll put you back in the cells and your cell-mates will have their way with you. And before that you have to convince me you’re telling the truth or I will give you 100 lashes. So if you want to think up a better story I’d do it now.”

She face was twisted in horror, chest heaving, breasts trembling. “I don’t know anything,” she sobbed. “Nothing.”

He looked at the soldiers. “Hose her down,” he said.

“Please!”

The water struck her. She shrieked, twisting, legs kicking as the jet worked over her breasts and belly. For two minutes they worked her over and then shut off the water to leave her gasping and shivering.

“Tell me how you got the room,” Patel said.

“When I was accepted I asked the accommodations office for help,” she said, teeth chattering. “They gave me Steve McCoy’s details. I got in touch with him and he said I could have his room while he went back to the States. But he asked if I minded if he left some boxes.”

“And you didn’t?”

“No, sir. Why would I have? They were under the bed.”

“And you didn’t look in them?”

“No.”

“Did he leave anything else?”

“No.” There was a hesitation. Patel again felt puzzled. Maybe she was telling truth about the boxes but there was something here.

“Did you ever meet him?”

“No.” She was decisive again.

“Who were his friends?”

“I don’t know.”

“Miss Harris, I’ve had you caned once today. Don’t make me do it again. Who were his friends?”

“I never knew him, sir…”

He stood up and walked over to her. She shrunk at his approach. He could see she was trembling with the strain as she hung. “Who were his friends?” he said, placing his hands on her hips.

She gave him a couple of names, both Americans. He ordered Rao to check them. “Are they still there?”

“No, sir. They finished when he did.” He pulled down and she shrieked as pain shot through her shoulders.

“Give me names of his friends who are still there.”

“Why? So you can torture them as well?”

He smiled at her. She looked a little shocked herself at her insolence. “Silly girl,” he said. “I know your tactics. You rile me so I hurt you so badly we can’t interrogate you. You try to make me lose my temper. Well, that’s not going to happen. But I will note this down. When we’ve finished with you, you’ll be punished, properly flogged for your cheek.” He took his notebook from his pocket and wrote in it.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I… I didn’t mean it... I’m so sorry.”

“You will be. The punishment canes are much thicker and heavier than the ones we just used on you.” He walked back to the desk and sat on it.

*

Rao wanted her whipped there and then but he supposed Patel knew what he was doing. And the thought of her being beaten with the punishment canes was magnificent. They would rip her little arse apart. He drank in the sight: the beautiful white girl hanging from the ceiling, her little body looking pathetically frail as she dangled limply in the spotlights. She was unbelievable slender, her breasts stretched to shallow cones, tipped by nipples erect in the cold. Her hair clung lank and wet to her face. She shivered, chest heaving in pain. He wished he could do something to her, lash her again or slap her, but Patel was going through one of the long questioning phases. She was answering in a dull monotone as though exhausted, her head slumped on her chest. He kept asking for names and she kept saying she didn’t know. Why wouldn’t he cuff her over the desk again and let him cane her? 

She’d been hanging an hour or so, Rao thought, when Patel let her down. Her wrists were uncuffed. She looked at them stupidly and Rao saw the chafing. She began to whimper again, a look of confusion and horror on her face. She raised her arms across her breasts and began patting and squeezing her shoulders. “It hurts when the circulation comes back,” said Patel, smiling at her. He put a hand reassuringly on her shoulder. “It’s OK, it’ll pass.”

Rao didn’t understand this. Why was he being nice to her? Why not just hurt her till she broke? And then hurt her some more. Patel stood behind her and gently massaged her shoulders, then he took the cloth again and blindfolded her. She gave a brief whimper. “Place your hands behind your head,” Patel said. She obeyed. It pushed her tits out a little, Rao noted. “Lift your right foot and place the sole against the side of your left knee.” She obeyed again, wobbling slightly. “OK,” he said. “Don’t move or I’ll have to punish you.”

He looked at Rao. “Look after her,” he said, and left the room.

Was he in charge? What could he do? Rao walked to the desk and sat on it, staring at her. He drank in her taut little body, the smooth skin goosepimpled with cold. Her nipples stood erect and she shivered slightly. What should he do if she fell? He went to the cupboard behind the desk and looked through it. There were canes of different lengths and thickness, straps of varying weights and two coiled bullwhips. He took one of the thicker canes down and swished it, hearing her whimper at the sound of it cutting through the air.

He walked up to her. He whipped the cane through the air twice. She gave a squawk of fear. “Go on,” he said. “Put your foot down and see what I do.”

“Please! Please, I beg you… Please! I don’t know anything.”

He put the cane down on the desk and walked over to her. He extended two fingers on his right hand and touched the underside of her left breast. She tensed. He ran his fingers up and over the hard cone of her nipple. “Oh please, please….” She begged, the tears coming once again. “What do you want?”

*

She couldn’t hold this much longer. She could feel her left leg going numb and her foot was in agony from the beating but she was terrified of what would happen if she put her other foot down. This was the fat one who was left, she knew, and she was terrified of him. The thin one she felt at least was rational but this one seemed to take sadistic pleasure from hurting her. And she was cold, so cold. Her position was ridiculous, seeming to emphasise her nakedness by making her expose her genitals. His hands played over her breasts. She felt sick. He caressed them, took her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. She hated him. She could hear him breathing, smell his sweat. She was revolted. And then she swayed. Her balance deserted her. She tried to recover, but fell backwards, landing painfully on her ass even as she thrust her hands back. She shouted and lay there, huddled over, knees tight together and pressed up to her chest. He grabbed her hair and hauled her up. She shrieked at the pain in her scalp, raising her hands. “What should we do with you?” he shouted. “Should I flog you? You want to taste the cane again?”

“No! No!” she squawked.

“Then stand still. Hands behind you head.”

Terrified, she obeyed. He placed a hand on her stomach. “Three slaps,” he said. “But you have to stand still. And you will thank me after each one. And count them.”

She bit her lip and stood as straight as she could. She felt his hand on her already sore stomach. He slapped her. It knocked the breath from her. “Thank you, sir. One,” she coughed as the burn spread across her skin.

This was hell. She forced herself to stand straight, too terrified to disobey. He slapped her and she fell back. “Thank you, sir. Two.” The pain was awful. She whimpered. But at his command she forced herself to present her belly again.

*

Patel put the telephone down. They wanted answers, of course they did. They didn’t want an American running about complaining of torture if they had nothing to present. And if there was anything serious going on, they wanted her handed over to the Secpol, the security police whose remit had increased since the state of emergency had been declared. He ran his fingers through his hair. He had to be sure – and he didn’t want to give her up. This was his chance for promotion. And that’s why he’d called for the electrician for the following day. He suspected she was telling the truth. He suspected she had inadvertently stored the leaflets under her bed. Her terror seemed plausible. He shouldn’t have lost his temper. Caning her had probably been a mistake – that would leave marks. He needed to get enough out of her that they could put her before a secret tribunal with a confession in place. Then she could be carted off to the camps and the Americans only needed to know about it when they started asking where she was. By then, after a few weeks of hard labour, she’d be bruised and battered anyway.

But there was something that still niggled him. Terrified as she appeared, she seemed remarkably good at not incriminating anybody else. What he needed was evidence of a group of foreign students working with the rebels – because he knew some of them were. Then he could round them up, send a couple to the camps and deport the others and everybody would think they were acting in proportion. Electricity, he hoped, might get that out of her. Surely with shocks coursing through her she’d give the something. Really he needed more now; needed to show that he’d got something out of her and that the electrician had merely finished off the job.

He got a cup of tea and returned to the interrogation room. He wondered what Rao might have done to her. His relish at hurting her slightly alarmed him; that caning had been vicious, brutal. She was standing trembling on her right leg, pretty little left foot pressed against her right knee, buttocks horribly striped. He could hear her whimpering immediately. He walked round to the desk. Her belly was bright red; she’d clearly been slapped again and again. Rao stood beside her. “You little whore,” he shouted. “You bitch! You slut! Go on, fall over again and I’ll smash the life out of you.” Her lower lip wobbled piteously. She shook, breasts quivering deliciously. He could see the effort in her face to stay upright, forehead creased above the blindfold, but eventually she succumbed, staggering and staying upright only by dropping her left foot to the floor. Rao strode up to her, hand raised and she seemed almost instinctively to straighten ready for the blow. Patel stopped him.

He walked over to her and gently kneaded her shoulders. Her skin was cold to the touch, clammy with fear. He unfastened her blindfold and guided her to the stool. “Sit down, Miss Harris,” he said. Patel sat down behind his desk and turned the arc-lights on again. She sat awkwardly, buttocks clearly sore, thighs pressed together and arms crossed over her chest. She still felt degraded by her nakedness, then, which was good. The light, of course, enhanced it, emphasised that she was the centre of attention. She was shaking visibly.

“Miss Harris,” he said. “You are being annoyingly uncooperative. Unless you start telling us the truth soon there are going to be severe consequences.”

She looked at the floor, biting her lower lip.

*

Rebecca didn’t know which one scared her more. The fat wild one or the thin calm one. The thin one at least had stopped the fat one slapping her but she didn’t know what he wanted. The fat one just seemed to enjoy hurting her. She stared at the floor. Everything hurt. Her buttocks still felt like they were on fire. Her feet burned with a dull ache. Her belly smarted. Her shoulders were so exhausted from hanging that she could barely keep her arms up to cover herself. Why was she even doing that? They’d seen her naked most of the day. Somehow letting them see her breasts or her genitals when it was possible for her to hide them seemed wrong. Even her face ached from crying. And she was cold, so cold.

He began again with the endless questions. “Look, maybe you weren’t part of it, but did you have any suspicions that any of the students supported the insurgency?”

“No, sir.”

“Nobody talked about the demonstrations? I know that’s a lie.”

“Of course we talked, but nobody was for or against.”

“That’s a lie. Who? Who encouraged you to go to demos? Who handed out the leaflets?”

“Nobody.”

“We know there was a ring of foreign students. We have names. We have other informants. Just tell us the names and you can go.”

“I don’t know anything.”

On and one the questions went. Should she give them names? Should she just lie? Maybe if she gave them names of students who weren’t even there any more they would let her go and she could flee. But what if they found she was lying? They’d cane her again and she couldn’t take that. She thought of how it had felt, chained like that, waiting for another stroke.

“Who were Steve McCoy’s friends?”

“I didn’t know him.” But she knew a few people who had known him. Should she give up their names? She knew even a girl who might be his girlfriend, an Australian called Nina. They would love to have her down here, blonde and blue-eyed, pretty and bubbly. She couldn’t do that to her.

“You must know who his friends were?”

“No.”

She heard his chair scrape back, saw behind the light that he was moving towards her. She hugged herself tighter and lowered her head, knowing pain was coming. He stood in front of her. “Stand up,” he said. She obeyed, covering herself as best she could. He walked behind her, pulled her arms back and snapped handcuffs over her wrists. She didn’t resist.  He moved in front of her again. He placed his hands on her breasts and pushed her back. She hated him; she cringed at his touch. She shuffled awkwardly over the floor until he stopped and moved behind her again. He ran his fingers over her bruised ass and she shuddered with pain and humiliation.

The chain was lowered from the ceiling. She realised with horror what he was going to do. “No….” she whimpered. “Please….”

“You had your chance,” he said. “Now we hurt you.”

She heard the clip fastening over the chain. “Please…..” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. She’d thought she had no more tears left but they came again, her lower lip wobbling uncontrollably.

*

Rao didn’t really understand. What was she so terrified of? But he wasn’t too bothered. He drank in the sight of her, cowering naked in the light, wrists bound behind her so he could enjoy an unrestricted view of her, the round swell of the breasts, the slender waist, the strip of pubic hair.

“Tell me more about Steve McCoy,” Patel said.

“He studied some kind of philosophy or Buddhism,” she said. “I’m not sure.”

“Who else was in his class? Who that’s still at the university? Which westerners?”

“I don’t know… Keith Gladwin, I think. Peter Djurovski… Sven Karlsson. Nina Connelly. Beth McCormack. Anna somebody, she’s Swedish… I don’t know… Lars… he’s Scandinavian as well.”

Patel nodded, writing down the list of names. “Which ones were his friends?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know them. I don’t know them.”

Patel nodded to the soldier by the door. The chain began to rise and Rao suddenly understood what this torture was. Her arms were lifted only about a foot but even that caused her to bend forward a little, breasts dangling away from her chest. Patel lit another cigarette. “Really?” he said.

“I didn’t know him…” she was sobbing again.

“Which ones?”

She shook her head. Patel shrugged and nodded at the soldier by the door. Her arms were lifted another few inches. She was bent fully now, tits hanging off her chest, swelling out a little before tapering in again around those sweet soft pink nipples. Patel walked around her, puffing on his cigarette. He sized a hank of her hair and twisted so she was forced to look at him. He blew smoke in her face.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” he asked. “We monitor the university. We know things. We have informers. We know who you know. I have a file on you. I have a file on everybody. We know you’re not telling us everything. Why are you putting yourself through this?”

“Sir,” she begged, “I don’t know anything.”

“Don’t lie to me! We know!” He took his cigarette from his mouth and blew on the end so it glowed orange then moved it slowly towards her face. Rao saw her terror, her attempts to pull her head away, but Patel’s grip was too strong. The cigarette got closer to closer and her eyes opened wider and wider. Surely he wasn’t…? He got to within an inch of the end of her nose and paused, then moved the glowing end up, following the line of her nose then ending the cigarette closer, bringing it within a fraction of the crease that began between her eyes.

She stared at it, face taut, but Patel just flicked ash at her and stepped back. He nodded at the soldier by the door and her arms were raised again. Her feet were still flat on the floor, but she was bent painfully forward, the gentle muscles of her shoulders taut. Rao could hear  her breathing coming unsteadily , a slight whimper  on every breath. “Why?” shouted Patel. “Who are you protecting?”

Rao didn’t care. He was just enjoying seeing her fear, the breasts dangling. He wanted to take them in his hands, to knead and squeeze and crush them. He wanted to beat the shit out of her, to make her scream, to make her suffer for everything her country had done to his. And, if he were honest, for everything pretty girls had done to him. 

*

Patel was baffled and angry. Why was she giving him nothing? He’d go through the files thoroughly that night, find out things she must know. He looked down the list of friends of McCoy she’d given him.

“Keith Gladwin. Tell me about him?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. He’s a little older. Thirties maybe. British. I don’t know him.”

“Peter Djurovski?”

“American. Nice guy. But he’s away now. Down in the south for a few weeks.”

“Politically active?”

“I don’t know.”

He nodded at the soldier by the door. Her arms moved up. She gasped in pain as she was lifted off her heels, her weight taken by her exhausted shoulders or the soles he’d whipped earlier. She shook with the strain, clenched her teeth against the pain.

“Sven Karlsson?”

“Swedish. Tall. Very clever. I know him a little. But I know he hasn’t been to demos. He once told me not to go, that we shouldn’t get involved in other country’s affairs. He opposed liberal intervention.”

“Good.” He was getting somewhere, he could feel it. He thought back to how the names had been offered. Four names offered hesitantly, then Beth McCormack rushed in, then the ones she claimed not to know the full names of. Why? Why no hesitation for the fourth name? Unless she were trying to hide something. This was interesting.

“Look at me.” She glanced up, her curls falling over her face. “Beth McCormack?” he said. Her tongue flicked out and darted over her lips.

“I… I… don’t really know her,” she said.

Patel looked across at the solider by the door and raised his hand. Slowly, the chains lifted her until her arms were almost vertical and only her toes and the balls of her feet gave her any support. She whimpered in pain, looking at him disbelievingly. “Don’t lie to me,” he said and reached out, lifting her chin so he looked into her eyes. He saw terror and pain and perhaps even disbelief. “Lift her,” he said.

She’d barely barked, “No…” when chain began to turn over the pulley, lifting her. Her body stretched, her toes scrabbling for purchase as she left the ground. She shrieked, an agonised, petrified rasp as her shoulders took her weight, twisting horribly. When her feet were about 18 inches off the ground, Patel gave the order to lower her. She kicked, desperately stretching her toes down to make contact with the concrete. He took her down far enough to stand with her feet flat on the ground, but with her back still bent. Her tits looked wonderful like that, hanging down like ripe soft plums. She panted, shaking. “Nina Connelly?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I think, maybe… maybe… they were an item.” And as she said it, the tears came. She sobbed and sobbed. Patel smiled. He had a name and a link. This was the chink he needed. “Tell me more,” he said.

She just kept crying. He grabbed her hair and twisted until she faced him. “Tell me more about her,” he said. “Tell me about McCoy’s slut. Did they plot together? Did she recruit you?”

“No!”

“Is Nina Connelly a friend of yours?”

“Not really, no.”

“Did she talk about demonstrations?”

“Not really, no.”

“Not really? So she did?”

“No.” The tears dripped from her cheeks.

“Never? Not at all?”

“We all did. We knew they were happening. Of course we talked about them.”

“Did she encourage you to go to them?”

“No.”

“Who told you to go to this demonstration?”

“Nobody.”

“You’re lying.” He caressed her breast. “You want to go up again?”

“No.”

“So tell me.”

She looked at him, helplessly, blinking furiously. Patel shrugged and stepped back and gestured to the soldier by the door.

The chain tightened, her arms were pulled straight and slowly she was lifted. Patel could see the strain on her thin arms. She screamed, a horrible scream from deep inside her that rasped on her throat. She was lifted, legs kicking in terror, face contorted in pain. When her toes were 18 inches off the ground, Patel signalled for the soldier to stop. He let her hang. One second, two seconds, three… Her howls went on. “Let me down… let me down… please…” Four seconds, five. He nodded at the soldier. Slowly she descended, feet scrabbling for the concrete.

When she was standing again, shaking, Patel seized her face, pushing his thumb painfully into one cheek, his fingers the other. He forced her to look at him, stared at the beauty spot on her cheek, at her sweet nose and her brown eyes. “What else did McCoy give you?” he asked. “And tell me more about this Beth.”

*

How did he know? How? She had to tell him. Had she already betrayed Beth? Would they torture her? But she couldn’t let him lift her again. She couldn’t. The pain was atrocious. Her shoulders would dislocate. She stared at her torturer. She could see the anger in his eyes. He pushed her face away and she staggered slightly, sending new bolts of pain shooting through her upper back. She looked at him, blinking away the tears. “Please…” she whispered, but she knew she sounded pathetic.

She stood, bent forward, breasts dangling from her chest, arms cruelly twisted behind her. She couldn’t take more. She hadn’t asked for that. Why was she defending him? She didn’t even known him. But she knew Beth and she didn’t want to hurt her. But they knew about her, they’d torture her anyway if they wanted. “What was it?” he said. He stroked her cheek then tapped the bone with his open palm. He drew his hand back as though to slap her and she cracked. “A file,” she said, weeping. “He gave me a file.”

“A file?” he said, lighting up another one of his filthy cigarettes.

“Yes,” she said, feeling defeated, her head hanging low. And then she felt the chain begin to rise, her arms lifting. “What are you doing?” she shrieked. “I’m telling you…”

The chain stopped, leaving her perched on the balls of her feet, hers arms twisted painfully straight. “You’re not telling me, though, are you?” he said. “You’re squeezing out minimal amounts of information to try to stop the pain.”

“I’ll tell you. I am telling you about the file…”

“Good. Carry on.”

*

It spilled out of her. How McCoy had given her a file, telling her to keep it safe and not let anybody know about it. She’d been reluctant but he’d said it contained personal letters from an old girlfriend who’d died. That he didn’t want Nina to know about it but couldn’t throw them out. So she’d hidden it, slipping it between other files in a drawer in her desk. No, she hadn’t ever looked at it. It was sealed and she hadn’t wanted to know. She wept as she told him; she clearly knew it was a lot more serious than old love letters. Had she ever believed that? He didn’t know.

“You promise me it’s in the second drawer down?”

“Yes… please… please… yes.”

“If it’s not, I’ll flog you so hard you won’t even know how to count the strokes by the end. Is that clear?”

“Yes. It’s there, sir. It’s there.”

“So who told you to go to that demonstration?”

She looked at him in horror. She shook her head slowly. “Lift her,” he ordered. Even as she shouted “No!” her feet left the ground. She shrieked and shrieked, kicking desperately. What lovely little feet she had. He waited till her feet reached eye-level, her screams reverberating around the room. He let her hang for a couple of seconds and then slowly lowered her. Her howls never ceased. He unfastened her wrists and she collapsed, curling on the floor, shaking and clutching her shoulders.

“Get up,” he said and slowly, painfully, she did. She stood, hunched in front of him, snivelling, her arms clasped awkwardly together in front of her, covering not her breasts but her stomach. She looked terrified, unsure what to do. He was struck again by how small she was, how slim, how girlish.

“Get dressed,” he said. She looked about her uncertainly, then saw the dress on the floor. She darted to it, as if determined to put it on before he changed his mind but she stumbled, the pain in her feet evidently too much. She picked the dress up and moved to put it on, but she couldn’t lift her arms, her shoulders too badly bruised from the strappado, and ended up standing pathetically, sobbing, the dress clutched in front of her. Slowly, painfully, she dropped her head and raised her arms high enough that she could get it over her neck and then shuffle her hands through the armholes.

“Come here,” he said, and she shuffled across the room. “Today was a taster,” he said. “You’d better think very carefully about what you need to tell me because tomorrow is going to be a whole lot worse. And don’t forget: I know about Beth McCormack.”

He nodded at the soldiers and the grabbed her arms, fastening her wrists behind her. The hood was pulled over her head. “Good night,” he said.

*

6) The Second Night

Rebecca lay on the concrete floor, huddled into a foetal position. She was cold and exhausted, her whole body aching. After giving her some water, the soldiers had made her kneel for several minutes before giving the knock that allowed her to leave the back wall and as soon as they had she’d collapsed. She had no more tears left to give but she felt like crying. What could she do? Her position was hopeless. Nobody even knew she was here; they could do what they wanted to her.

She examined her feet, the sole of each striped with ten pink welts. Putting any pressure on them was agony. She lifted the dress and twisting, tried to look at her buttocks. All she could see was a mess of weals, purple and black and red. In four or five spots the skin was broken. She shuddered and dry sobs shook her. She hugged her shins and tried to bring some warmth into her body but she was freezing, shivering with cold and terror. Even that action hurt, her shoulders and back in agony from the strappado. What next? What else could they do to her? She had to give in. She had to give them everything they wanted. Give them Beth if that’s what they wanted. After all, it was her friend who’d landed her with the leaflets, that had earned her the flogging.

She needed to sleep but it was too cold. Everything hurt. She hugged herself tighter. She was hungry as well. She couldn’t take any more. She thought of her nakedness, how they’d revelled in her nudity, the fat one especially. His hands on her breasts. She shuddered just at the thought of it, could feel her cheeks flushing with shame. How long had she been naked? Hours and hours being stared at and poked and prodded and beaten and hung. She would give in. What other option did she have?

The door crashed open.  She leapt and hurried awkwardly to the wall. They hadn’t knocked; it wasn’t fair. She knelt as she’d been told. Would they punish her for not kneeling? She closed her eyes, pushed her forehead against the wall. “Stand up!”

Even as she stood she knew who it was. She knew what was about to happen to her. Her lower lip began to wobble again. “Turn around!”

She obeyed and saw the fat one. He closed the door behind him and smiled at her. “Strip!”

She froze. She hadn’t meant to disobey him but her brain just stopped. She looked at him, shaking her head slowly, mouth wide with fear. “Plee…eeeaaa..seee…” she muttered but he was on her. He slapped her hard on the side of her head and she fell heavily. He kicked her hard in the belly and, as she lay, coughing, grabbed the bottom of the dress, yanking it up, She tried to resist but her shoulders were too weak and it came off. She cowered naked on the ground. He grabbed her hair and pulled her to her feet, then threw her towards the door. She fell, painfully, and lay, shaking and watching, as he opened the door. He pulled her up by the hair and dragged her into the corridor. She was shrieking, running after him, clawing at his hand to try to ease the pain, horribly aware of her nakedness.

He hauled her down what seemed like endless corridors and then finally opened another door. She felt the warmth first of all and then she was flung down again, only a sticky carpet. She heard laughter and looked up and saw she was in some sort of mess room.  She thrust an arm across her chest and another between her legs and curled as tight as she could. She closed her eyes but she knew maybe twenty or thirty policemen were staring at her.

*

“Get up,” Rao shouted. Slowly she stood, bent over, head bowed, arms covering herself. His penis was rigid. This was perhaps as excited as he’d ever been. He didn’t know if he should be doing this but he was and it felt great. “You do not disobey me! Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.

“Speak up!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll be punished.”

She glanced up, nervously chewing her lower lip, face flushed. He unfastened his belt, slowly pulling it from the loops on his waistband. He knew the soldiers didn’t much like him but he knew they respected him now. He was letting them see the American girl naked. He was going to let them watch him flog her. “A dozen lashes,” he said. “Bend over.”

Uncertainly she turned away from him, and bowed, her right arm still across her chest, left over her pubic hair. Her buttocks were streaked purple from her caning but the sight was still magnificent: a beautiful naked white girl in the centre of a circle of chairs and sofas, surrounded by police, cowering before being flogged.

He walked up to her and placed his hand on the top of her smooth back. “Right down,” he said. “Hands around your ankles.” She gave a sob but obeyed, straightening her legs so her welted buttocks were thrust out. But best of all, her breasts hung loose, drawing laughter and mocking comments from the soldiers. He doubled the belt over and walked around her, delighting in her fear.

“Legs straight,” he said, taking up a position behind her. She straightened. He drew back the belt and smashed it into her buttocks. The force made her jerk forwards, stumbling, her hands instinctively lifting to where the strap had struck across the welts left by the cane. “Stay down!” he shouted. “Do that again and you’ll take the stroke again.”

She bent uncertainly, weeping with shame. “How many?” he asked.

“One.”

“And what do you say to me for taking the time to teach you discipline?”

“Thank you.”

“Better. Now keep your manners.”

She waited, tears dripping to the floor, aware of the laughing faces around her, enjoying her nakedness and degradation. She heard the whoop of the belt again and flinched as struck the top of her buttocks. She controlled herself, though and stayed bent over. “Two. Thank you,” she sniffed.

“Straighter,” he snapped and she forced her buttocks higher. He waited and waited, enjoying her fear, then whipped the belt across the centre of her buttocks, catching the worst of the welts left by the canes. She shrieked, snapping upright before instantly bending again “Three,” she said. “Thank you.” She felt sick. She couldn’t take this. She couldn’t. The pain was too bad.

“You will stay down,” he ordered. “If we have to tie you I’ll double the punishment.”

He’d never felt better. She was trembling and sobbing, the soldiers who usually – he knew – mocked him were laughing at her. He was in control. He struck her again. Her legs shook violently but she stayed bent over, a roar of pain coming from deep inside her. “Four. Thank you.”

Her knees were knocking together, thighs quivering. This was inhuman. She glanced up and saw the grin on the face of one of the soldiers. This was sport for them. This was fun. She heard the belt coming and flinched, so it clipped high on her bottom, just below her waist. She twitched, half-rising before collecting herself ad falling back into position. The pain reverberated through her. “Five. Thank you.”

He walked over to her and put his hand on her small round shoulder, pulling her up. “That was flinch. No flinching,” he hissed. Her eyes were filled with tears. She bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry…. But it hurts.”

“Of course it hurts. It’s punishment,” he snapped, pushing her down. “I’ll let you off this time but from now on you hold the position. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“Hands down. Legs straight. Bottom out.”

She forced herself to stand as he ordered. She heard him snap the two halves of the belt together. She knew they were staring at her, enjoying her shame and pain. She forced herself to thrust her buttocks out against the blow. She heard their laughter, their comments about her most private areas. And then the belt landed, square across the centre of her ass. The slap was like pistol shot. She yelped and her knees banged together. She stumbled slightly but was quickly back in position. “Six,” she said. “Thank you.”

The pain was throbbing through her. She waited and waited for the next one. He walked round her, circling, enjoying her pitiful shaking. He bent to stare at her dangling breasts, making sure she saw him looking. More and more soldiers were packing around, seeing him dominate her. He backhanded a lash to her left buttock, catching her low. Her head snapped back, eyes wide; he saw the breasts quiver. “Seven,” she said. “Thank you.” He moved back to stand on her left, waiting, waiting, dragging it out, making her anticipate the stroke, the smashed the strap hard into the welts Patel’s cane had left on her right buttock.

She shrieked and jumped, clutching her buttocks and howling, her legs shuddering with the pain. “Eight,” she said. “Thank you.” But she stood, hands on her bottom, looking at the men around her, seeing their grins, the way they pointed and stared.

“No,” he said. “You will stay down.  That one doesn’t count and you will take a penalty stroke as well. Bend over.”

She looked at him, her arms now clutching herself, hugging her ribs. “Please sir, please,” she begged. “Pleeeaaaase…”

“Get down.”

She turned and bent, holding her ankles.

“Legs straight. Bottom out.” She obeyed slowly. This was the most fun he had ever had: her shame and the way the boys were enjoying it, respecting him for letting them humiliate an American. He slashed the belt low into her thighs. Her knees banged together but she stayed down.

“Thank you, sir,” she said. “Do I call that eight or is that the penalty?”

He grinned and considered punishing her for that. He saw a red mark appearing midway down that right thigh. “The next one is number eight,” he said, and lashed her hard, downwards, deliberately clipping the welts from earlier. She yelped, and her hands made instinctively for her buttocks before checking. “Eight,” she said. “Thank you.”

“I’ll let that one count,” he said. “But from now on you keep still.” He grabbed her hair and twisted so she looked at him. “What do you say?” he asked.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind to me.”

He stepped back and shook out the belt. She bent, legs straight, and he drove the strap hard into the centre of her buttocks. He could see the strain as she pushed back, desperately trying to stand still as spasms passed through her. “Nine,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

He walked to the other side and back-handed her. The blow was low, across the crease between buttock and thigh. She yelped and started forward, but kept her hands down. The pain was awful. She was shaking. “Ten. Thank you.” Her knees knocked. She told herself she had just two more to take. She straightened and thrust her buttocks towards him. He swished the belt and she flinched, prompting a gale of laughter. He walked back to stand to her left and whipped the belt up, so the folded portion cracked onto her perineum as the flat part wrapped itself around the side of the top of her left thigh. She screamed and stood, hands grabbing at the source of the pain. She knew instantly what she’d done. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, bending again. “I deserve a punishment stroke.”

“Good girl,” he said, and struck her calmly across the centre of her buttocks. Her eyes bulged with the pain but she stayed calm. “Thank you for the punishment stroke,” she said.

Rao walked round her again, erection pressing against his trousers. She was so small, so slight, so pathetic, sobbing there naked in front of them all.

This was hell. All she wanted to do was curl up, to cover herself and get away from all these leering, laughing faces. She realised he’d stopped. Another was coming. She braced herself, tried to stay calm and push her buttocks up but she was shaking. He caught her low, along the crease between right buttock and thigh. Her legs snapped together and her head flicked up, but she managed to keep her back still enough. “Eleven,” she croaked. He placed his hand in the centre of her back, pushing her down so her buttocks thrust out more. One more. Just one more.

He walked around her slowly, swishing the belt. She swallowed and closed her eyes. One more. Just one more. She was trembling, her legs tight with the strain. She heard a whoosh and flinched instinctively, opening her eyes to see half a dozen jeering faces. He whipped the air again and she felt the air over her back. Why was he taunting her? Why couldn’t he just lash her and be done with it? When the lash came it was sudden, exploding across the centre of her ass. Every instinct told her to leap and scream and clutch at the pain, but she just shuddered. “Twelve,” she said.

“No,” he said. “You didn’t thank me after number eleven. You have two to go.”

She looked at him in horror. “No,” she said, and threw herself at his feet, hugging his legs. “Please, please… I can’t… I can’t…” She dissolved into tears. How could he be so cruel? What did he want? She’d abased herself utterly. What more could she do? He seized her hair and pulled her up. She shrieked at the pain in her scalp. He looked her up and down and she saw the lust in his eyes. “Bend over,” he said, throwing her down. She landed heavily and looked pleading up at him. “Up, now!” he shouted and she rose, taking up the position. He struck her quickly, across her left thigh, before she was ready and she lurched forward, but she kept her hands down and rapidly straightened. “Eleven sir,” she said, her throat sore and rasping. “Thank you.”

And then he began to tease her again, walking round her, feinting to strike. When he finally did, it was a backhand blow to the left buttock, landing smack in the middle of the worst welts he’d left earlier. The pain was horrendous. She howled and leapt up, hands clutching at her ass, breasts leaping and then slapping down. She saw the laughter of the soldiers in front of her and knew what she’d done. Her hands covered her face and she wept. She fell to her knees and begged. “Please, no more… No more…”

Rao stared at her. This was better than he’d ever dreamed of. She was praying to him. “You have one to take and a penalty stroke,” he said. “We can tie you down and give you four if you’d prefer.”

She stared at him, her brown eyes red-rimmed. “No,” she said at last. “Just two.”

“Bend over.”

Awkwardly, she stood, turning from him and bending. He drank in the sight: her tight buttocks streaked with welts, breasts hanging delightfully from her chest, her cunt clearly visible as he stood behind her, the ribs and lower vertebrae standing out, making her seem all the more vulnerable. He straightened the belt, snapping the two halves against each other. She flinched, a shudder passing through her. He took up the familiar position behind her, flicked the belt a couple of times, then struck hard across the top of her buttocks.

She yelped but remained in position. He saw her gulp air and finally whisper, “Thank you for the penalty stroke.” He began walked round her again. He stood in front of her, staring at her slender back, exposed by the way her hair fell forward, its smoothness a shocking contrast to the beaten backside. He moved to her right, aimed a backhander at her, but let it pass harmlessly high. She quivered and then he did strike her, lashing just above the worst of the welts he had left earlier with his cane. She gave a half swallowed roar, and her knees knocked but she was able to gather herself. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “Twelve.”

“Stand up,” Rao ordered. She obeyed, blinking uncertainly. She glanced around. There were perhaps forty officers there now staring at her, amused by her nakedness and her shame. Pathetically she held an arm across her chest but she knew they’d all seen her breasts.

“Jump,” he said. “Give me star jumps.”

She looked at him, saw the belt still in his hand, and began hesitantly, to obey. She looked at the rows of mocking faces and slowly moved her arms away from her chest. “Squat down and spring up,” he said. She began to bend, lowering her ass no more than three or four inches and then, pathetically, she jumped, waving her hands to the side. She felt herself flush and she heard their laughter as her breasts wobbled on her chest.

“Proper ones or I’ll have to strap you again,” he said. “Right down in a ball and then right up, stretching as far as you can.” He’d hated star jumps in training; and he hadn’t been naked. She lowered her head, bent her knees a little and jumped, no more than three inches. It was enough to set her breasts, pert as they were, wobbling, but he wanted more.  She was utterly degraded, face bright red, arms hugging herself. “You want another 12 lashes? You want me to really make you scream?”

She shook her head. She squatted, perhaps halfway down, and jumped. But it was half-hearted. Rao stride over to her and grabbed her by the hair. He pushed her down, right down, until her buttocks almost touched the ground. She sobbed, hands clutching at the sides of her head. “Now,” he said. “You will jump and you will jump high and you will spread your arms and legs and if you do not I will thrash you.”

He let go and stepped back. “Ten star jumps,” he said. “Go.”

She jumped. She kicked out her legs and her arms and felt her breasts, pert as they were, slap up and down. Her face boiled with shame. She could hear their laughter, their crude comments. Her feet, still sore from the beating, rebelled against the effort. Her shoulders, aching from the strappado, hurt as she threw her arms out. And her buttocks burned. She jumped again, not quite as high.

“Higher,” he shouted. “Higher or I’ll flog you.”

Shame overwhelmed her. She crouched, hugging her shins, knees to chin. The belt suddenly snaked out and slapped across her back. She yelped – the pain wasn’t as bad as when doubled over and crashed into her buttocks but it came as a shock. She sprang up, through the pain, and leapt, stretching out. The next time she went even higher. They could see everything, she knew. They were relishing the dancing of her breasts but she could do nothing. When she completed ten, she fell, panting and sobbing, in a heap on the ground.

Her head was yanked up by the hair. Her face was drenched in tears, mucus ran from her nose. He smiled at her, then looped his belt around her neck, pulling the end through the buckle until it was tight. Was he going to strangle her now? Hang her? She whimpered, but as her hands went to try to ease the pressure, he pulled. “Come on, bitch,” he said. “Walk.” She crawled after him as he pulled, shamefully aware of the jokes about her breasts, wobbling as they dangled from her chest.

A couple of soldiers kicked at her as he led her out of the door and into the corridor. She crawled obediently behind him; she knew that to resist would earn a flogging, and she was glad initially simply to be out of that room, away from the jeers and the taunts. It was cold out here, though, and she knew a night back in her cell would be uncomfortable. They got back to her cell and he pulled her to her feet as a guard unlocked the door. She felt oddly humiliated standing there naked, waiting, as though the naturalness of the action emphasised the unnaturalness of the fact she wasn’t wearing any clothes. He lifted the belt over her head and then shoved her through the open door. She fell heavily, sprawling on the cold concrete and, when she looked up, she realised her shame had only just begun.

*

Rao had been desperate for this since he’d first seen her naked. He grabbed her hair, lank now and greasy, and pulled her to face him, then pushed her down. She barely resisted as he positioned himself between her legs and held her down by the shoulders. He couldn’t believe how slight she was, how delicate. Kneeling on her stomach, he unbuttoned his trousers.

“Please,” she said, softly, despairingly. “Please don’t do this.”

He put a hand on her throat, forcing her back against the concrete. “We’ll do this,” he hissed. “And you’ll enjoy it, and if you don’t you’ll be back in the guardroom taking 40 lashes and servicing anyone who wants you.”

He felt her body relax as she gave up. He pulled his shorts down to his knees. His penis was already rock hard. He reached clumsily for her labia, spread them and inserted himself. He felt her body go tense as he thrust deep inside her. She was tight, delightfully so. He placed his hands under her buttocks and pushed hard. She whimpered but didn’t resist. He moved his hands up her body, caressing the soft skin beneath her ribs, then reaching for her breasts. He pawed them, enjoying their soft smoothness, the slightly rubbery quality of her nipples in the cold. He pounded up and down, then grabbed her hair. “Look at me,” he shouted and she opened her eyes. Her mouth was tight shut, lips clamped together and trembling. He lifted his right hand to her face and stroked it, his fingers running over the beauty spot on her left cheek even as his left hand ground her breast.

*

Was this affection? Did he actually think this was how to treat a woman? Rebecca felt nauseous and yet beyond that she was baffled by the combination of brutishness and gentleness. His warmth inside her sickened her, the thrusts hurt and she dreaded the thought of his semen spurting inside her and yet almost more disturbing was his striking and caressing. His thrusts gained in pace and his hands moved to her legs, lifting them and pushing behind her knees , bending them back as he pumped back and forth. She wished she could just let him beat her till she was unconscious, insult him and make him flog her, but she knew she was too weak for that.

He slowed down and she looked at him, seeing a grin on his face. He ran his fingers over the welts on her buttocks, clearly enjoying the tremors of pain that passed through her, then began clawing at her breasts again. His pace increased and he came. She felt appalled and the tears came to her eyes again. What had she done to deserve this?

She felt his penis shrinking, sliding out of her, the semen dribbling over her perineum and then, as he let her legs fall, her thighs. She looked to her right, trying not to see him. She could hear him panting, smell his breath. His uniform was rough against her skin. He rolled off her, trousers and shorts still around his knees. He sat against the wall, leaning back. She lay on the floor, pulling her knees to her chin, hugging herself, trying to stem her tears. She was cold, horribly cold.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. Pain from the strappado shot through her torso. He leaned back against the wall and put his arm around her shoulders, hugging her to his chest. Her cheek rested on the lapel of his jacket, her breasts squeezed against his fat belly. Gently, he stroked her hair. What was this? Did he think there was some connection between them, that she was somehow his. Her right hand, naturally, fell across his left breast but she was terrified of letting him think there was some affection there. She lay stiff, aware the semen was now oozing from her to mingle with the hairs on his flabby thigh.

He moved to kiss her and, smelling the food on his breath she recoiled. Immediately she knew he knew. She tried to kiss him but she was too late; he was already standing up. Grabbing her by the hair, he threw her across the room, and she slid painfully over the concrete. “Twenty star jumps,” he shouted. She could hear the anger in his voice and moved instantly to obey.

She crawled to the centre of the cell, squatted and jumped, ignoring the pain in her feet, the humiliation of feeling her breasts leap on her chest and slap back down, the ache in her bruised buttocks, the semen dribbling down her thighs. When she was finished, she stood, exhausted and panting. “Come her,” he ordered, and she limped to him. He stood now, his trousers and shorts still round his ankles, penis flaccidly hanging below his shirt. “Turn around.” She faced away from him, terrified as to what he would do next. He slapped her buttocks hard and she yelped, jumping, hands instinctively clutching at the pain.

“Hands on your head,” he ordered. She obeyed, and he slapped her again, five, six times in quick succession. She was sobbing again by the time he ordered her to turn around. He looked her up and down, admiring her nakedness and she felt acutely again her shame. “Suck my cock,” he ordered. She fell to her knees and, with a great effort of will, placed her hands on his hairy buttocks and took his penis, foul-tasting and still coated with semen, between her lips. “If this isn’t the best blow-job I’ve ever had,” he said, “you’ll be back in the guardroom to practise – after we’ve given you 50 lashes.”

It occurred to her he may never have had one before but she said nothing, suppressing her distaste to tease his penis with her tongue. It soon began to stiffen and she took it into her mouth, sucking and licking, pressing gently with her teeth. He began to thrust, pushing deep. She gagged as he reached the back of her throat, but he seemed not to notice and she kept going, trying to make him come as quickly as possible. She could sense his excitement rising and then he grabbed the back of her head, pulling her into him as he pushed. The tip of his penis pushed deeper and deeper until she thought she was going to choke, then at last he came. She kept sucking; she didn’t have to be told to swallow.

He pushed her away and she fell back, feeling sick and disgusted as he pulled up his trousers.  He walked over to her, grinning inanely, and fasted the belt around her neck again. “Come on,” he said. “A little walk.”

“No,” she begged. “No, you promised…”

“Just to clean you up,” he said. “You were very good. You’ll be popular in the camps.”

He kicked her backside, walked in front of her and dragged her again out of the door. She crawled after him, struggling to keep up, horribly aware of the stickiness oozing from her vagina. They went a different way this time and she was finally convinced he wasn’t taking her to the guardroom to be gang-raped. Another soldier unlocked a door and she found herself crawling outside, over icy compacted mud. It was a dark, clear night and, cold as it had been inside, it was even worse in what she saw was some sort of prison yard.

Rebecca shivered as she scuttled behind him to a long low building constructed of breezeblocks. He opened the door and hauled her in, flicking on a light switch. The floor was covered with stained and uneven tiles; looking up, she realised she was in a shower block. He pulled her to her feet and removed his belt. He pushed her under one of the shower heads. “Wash,” he ordered, his breath steaming in the cold. She was trembling, her skin covered in goosebumps, but she welcomed the opportunity to wash him off her.

She placed her hands on the two taps. They were icy to the touch. Her feet, her poor bruised feet, throbbed with the cold of the floor. She turned the hot tap and skipped back, holding out a hand to test the temperature. It was barely above icy, but his belt flashed out and caught the side of her right buttock. As she yelped, he shouted, “No hot. We’re not wasting money heating water on filth like you.” Nausea welled in her and she obeyed, turning off the hot tap and turning on the cold. She willed herself to stay still, but couldn’t help but shriek as the freezing water struck her. She rubbed her arms and ribs briskly, but even that sent spasms of pain through her shoulders.

“Wash,” he ordered as she saw him pointing at a soap dispenser on the wall. Stepping out of the icy jets, she took a small blob of green liquid soap on her hand. It reeked of disinfectant but she began smearing it on her red, goosepimpled skin. “Face me,” he shouted and she turned, shivering, so he could watch her soap her breasts. She could see the rapt grin on his face as washed her pubic hair and then her vagina, desperately trying to remove each last trace of him from her.

“Now your hair.”

Her body was covered in a fine lather. Where her skin was broken from her caning the soap stung desperately. She knew washing her hair meant more time in the cold water that still pounded form the shower head but she had no choice. She ran the soap through her lank curls, horribly aware of how the movement caused her breasts to wobble on her chest. She wondered with horror if he’d become so aroused he’d make her pleasure him again.

“OK. Under.”

Rubbing vigorously, she stepped into the water, wiping the lather off as quickly as she could. He scalp began to ache with the cold, as she tossed her hair violently, desperate to get the lather out as soon as possible to give her some relief. Her skin had gone through red to purple. She was half-bent forward, knees together, shivering uncontrollably. The pain in her head was getting worse and worse. Her teeth chattered. She kept rubbing for the sake of doing something. Her head felt numb, her fingers made of rubber. Her breath came in quavering whimpers. “Pleeasse…” she sobbed.

“Keep washing.”

She took her head out of the water, letting it pummel her chest and shoulders instead. She felt sick. “I’ll blow you again…” she said, hating herself.

“I know,” he said. “You’ll blow me when I tell you to. But if you’re trying to seduce me, I’ll flog you.”

Her head fell, defeated. She hugged herself and waited and finally, after another minute or so, he ordered her out. “Down like a bitch,” he said, and she dropped onto all fours. He fastened the belt around her neck, and yanking hard, walked her outside.

*

Rao walked around her. She stood to attention in the middle of her cell, naked. “Shoulders right back,” he ordered, swishing his belt. She was shivering and he could hear her teeth chattering but she obeyed. He still couldn’t quite believe how small she was, how slight, how pretty. He wanted to eat those breasts, so pert and smooth. He loved the way her wet hair fell on her slender shoulders. He loved the smoothness of her back and the pertness of her red, welted arse. He loved the way he could see her ribs and yet she wasn’t skinny.  He wanted to fuck her again but he didn’t have time – not if she was to wash and hide the evidence. They both had to be ready for her torture in the morning. Still, another grope of those tits couldn’t hurt, he thought, grabbing them and squeezing, feeling their icy lightness, the firm resistance of the nipples.

He stroked her cheek, letting his fingers linger briefly on her beauty spot, then spun her around, pushed her to the back of the cell. “Kneel,” he said. “You know the rules.”

She obeyed him and he loved that as well, the way she now just did what he told her. She looked pathetic, shivering there on her knees, head pressed against the wall, back creamy and smooth, taut buttocks inflamed. He tossed her dress at her and left the cell banging on the door as he left.

*

It seemed like barely minutes before she was in the corridor again, hooded and cuffed. “Come on Mrs Rao,” one of them said mockingly and she realised they knew she’d been raped; she also learned the fat soldier’s name. If she ever had the chance to try to bring him to justice she knew who to name as her rapist. Her rapist! Even the word sent a shudder through her. As they hustled her along the corridors she was dimly aware that she’d seen all this the previous night, that Rao hadn’t blindfolded her. She wished she’d paid more attention, cursed herself, but she’d been naked and terrified.  Rao was incompetent, she realised, but it didn’t really seem to matter.

They took her up steps and she banged her toes repeatedly. She was confused. She seemed to have been walking forever. Another flight of steps and another door and the cold concrete gave way to something else. Something still hard but warmer. In fact there was a general sense of heat. Another door opened, she was pushed through and she felt carpet. She was pushed onto a chair, a wooden chair but one with a padded seat, and the hood was removed. Blinking, she saw she was in a well-appointed office. Behind a desk in front of her sat the thin torturer. Filing cabinets lined one side of the room and behind him were a series of shelves packed with folders and files. There were even, she saw, about a dozen classic novels and a book on the history of art.

He shooed the guards out of the room and walked over to her. The warmth seemed almost painful sweeping through her frozen body. She closed her eyes at his approach, terrified at what he was going to do. Would he rape her as well? At least it would be rape in a warm carpeted office rather than on an icy concrete floor. But all he did was take off the handcuffs. When she opened her eyes again, he was holding out a mug of tea for her.

She took it from him. “Thank you, sir,” she said. No point getting flogged for something like that. Her buttocks ached even on the padded seat. She cupped her hands around the mug, feeling the warmth spreading into her fingers.

Patel returned to his desk. “Miss Harris,” he said. “I don’t think you are an evil girl. I think you are young and silly and naïve and have got caught up in things you shouldn’t have. I think you are being loyal to your friends and I admire that. But maybe you should just tell me the truth. Tell me what’s going on in that university and we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

She looked at him. She felt so tired and he seemed so nice. Maybe she should just be honest. Tell him everything she knew. Had he found the file? What was in it? But then she thought. Even though it was Rao who had raped her, even though it was Rao who had flogged her harder, it had been this one who’d beaten her feet, who’d ordered the caning, who’d systematically humiliated her.

She realised she’d been silent for several seconds. “Miss Harris,” he said. “I have power over you. I decide if you wear clothes. I decide if you’re flogged. I decide if you sleep in a bed or are hung from the ceiling. I decide whether to release you for trial or whether you spend today naked downstairs with the electrician pumping electricity into you. And if you think the cane hurts, then let me warn you that electric shocks are far, far worse.”

Rebecca was sobbing again. She had a terrible realisation that this was never going to end, or rather, that there were two ways it could end: with her giving in or with her dying. She’d gone through about a day and a half of abuse and it already felt as though she’d been pushed beyond her limits. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. A lie, she thought; he was loving it. “You are a pretty girl, a clever girl. We should be working together. You shouldn’t be in a prison. You’ve been caught up in things beyond you understanding. And believe me, there are bad people here, people who like nothing more than ripping young American girl to pieces.” And you’re one of them, she thought. “But let me protect you from them. Let me save you from the electrician and send you not to a labour camp but to your home.”

She said nothing. She just clasped the tea, sipping at it, feeling the warmth swelling in her throat and her gut. “In the labour camp they’ll work you to the bone,” he said. “You’ll clear jungle or drag carts from dawn till dusk. It’s backbreaking. The toughest men find it hard; you’re a little girl. They’d flog you for laziness three or four times a week, strip you naked in front of your fellow prisoners and lash you with bullwhips, a dozen, two dozen lashes at a time. They’ll use you for their entertainment at night, a pretty thing like you – they’ll make you satisfy them: they’ll fuck you front and back. They’ll make you swallow gallons of their cum. You’ll debase yourself in ways you can’t even dream of. You’ll be dead in two months – a horrible, humiliating, agonising death. Is that what you want?”

She didn’t say anything. “Is it?”

“No sir.”

For a while he didn’t say anything. He stood up and walked slowly behind her. She dreaded what he might do to her. But all he did was push his hands gently inside the neck of her dress and begin massaging her shoulders. “I don’t hate Americans,” he said. His thumbs actually brought relief. “I like your films. Who’s your favourite director?”

This was crazy. She shook her head. “Frank Capra,” she said.

“Ah, a sentimentalist. An idealist…”

*

7) The Third Interrogation

Patel sat behind his desk in the torture chamber. Rao had already been there when he’d got there; he’d never seen him so keen. And Kapoor, the electrician, was there, in his white coat with his little box of tools. The girl stood before them, terrified. She’d been dragged in by two soldiers whose size made him again realise just how slight she was. The blindfold had been removed so he could see her red-rimmed brown eyes blinking in the intense light. It was only an hour since he’d sent her out of his office after a discussion about Capra. He’d somehow managed to avoid stripping her then, a decision that made his heart thump as he’d seen her tight ass pushed against her dress and the compact legs as the soldiers had led her back to her cell.

They’d found the file. It was revealing, explosive stuff. It gave names and contact details, plans for future operations, concrete evidence of collusion between student groups and the radicals. He’d have to hand it over to the Secpol, and they would almost certainly be able to work out better than he could who was who, but it said nothing about her. It did reveal two foreigners in the university were heavily involved – codenamed Indigo and Violet: he guessed Steve McCoy and one other – but he believed Harris when she said she’d had no idea about the contents.

She was still in chains – what absurd precautions they seemed – and trembled as he spoke to her. “Do you want to tell me the truth?” he asked. “Or shall we hurt you some more?”

“Sir, please, please, please… I’m trying. I don’t know… I don’t know what you want.”

Patel was inclined to believe her but the fact she’d hidden the file and the leaflets troubled him still. Was this just an act? He had to be sure.

“What was in the file?”

“I don’t know.” She seemed sullen.

“Did you have personal contact with any rebel group?”

“No!”

“Did you organise demonstrations?”

“No!”

“Did you liaise with other student groups?”

“No.”

The key question, “Tell me about the colours of the rainbow.”

“What?” She seemed genuinely baffled.

“The colours of the rainbow. What are they?”

“Red, orange, yellow…” he could see her working through the rhyme in her head. “Green, blue, indigo, violet.” There was no hesitation or embarrassment over the last two. She was clean.

“Who told you about the demonstration?” he asked.

“Oh God. I don’t know.”

“Strip her!”

“Nooo… noooo…. Please….”

Eagerly the soldiers pounced, unfastening her wrists and yanking the dress over her head. She bent forward, sobbing as she tried to cover herself. It was absurd; they’d all seen her naked the day before. “Hands by your sides! Shoulders back!” Slowly she obeyed and he drank in the sight of her delicate nudity; the perfect tiny body, the gentle round breasts. Patel stood and slowly walked to the cupboard behind him. He took out a cane, flexed it and approached her. She saw her cringe and swished it through the air, enjoying her shudder of fear. He tapped her cunt with it. She was biting her lower lip hard, utterly terrified. He lay the cane on the ground. “Stand on it,” he ordered and she shuffled forwards. It would be painful, he knew, after the beating. He walked behind her. “Arms out,” he said, and she slowly raised her arms until they were horizontal to the ground. He placed his hands on her buttocks, feeling the welts and ridges and the smooth pertness beneath. She squirmed at his touch and he realised as he examined her that somebody had taken a belt or a strap to her overnight. He slapped her, not hard, and she shrieked.

*

Rebecca talked. She told him everything. She told him who had slept with whom. She told him what she thought everybody thought politically. She told him about local students and foreign students. She gave him information he couldn’t possibly have wanted to know. She told him about her own social life. For an hour, it poured out of her. Her feet were in agony. Her legs and arms trembled with the strain and yet he gave her no relief.

“Who told you to go to the demo?

“Nobody, sir. Please. I just went.”

He shook his head and said something to the soldiers, who suddenly grabbed her and pulled her off the cane. She was dragged back to where the chains hung from the ceiling. Leather cuffs were fitted over her narrow wrists and tightened sharply. Rebecca watched dumbly as they worked on her. Her legs felt so weak she felt she would have fallen had the soldiers not been holding her arms. She heard the pulley turn and her arms were raised. They backed away and for a moment her legs did give way, so all her weight was taken by her arms. New pain shot through her back, chest and shoulders until she adjusted and stood, her feet in awful pain from the flogging and from standing on the cane.

The interrogator walked up to her and lifted her breasts, weighing them in his hands, circling his thumbs over the nipples. “If you will not cooperate,” he said, “I’ll have to introduce you to the electrician.” He ran his hands down her ribs, before hooking them under her buttocks, kneading the sore flesh. And then he punched her, hard in the pit of her stomach with his right hand. She lurched backwards, mouth stupidly open, a look of shock on her face. For a moment she seemed unable to breathe and just gawped, eyes getting wider, until finally she coughed and began to gasp for air. Patel nodded to Kapoor.

*

Rebecca at that moment would have told them anything to stop the torture. She was prepared to lie, to incriminate herself, but she couldn’t work out what they wanted. The one in the white coat, a plump man in his fifties, thinning hair greying at his temples, stepped towards her. She tried to back away, but the chains held her arms too high so she began to beg.

He held a stethoscope to her chest, the metal cold against her skin, then took her pulse. “Nice fit girl,” he said, smiling and squeezing her left bicep. He opened his box. Rebecca saw wires and dials and realised what it was for. “Please, pleeeeaasse… I don’t know anything more,” she wailed. She was panicking now. “No, no, no, no, noooo….” She sobbed as she watching him fit an electrical wire into a socket in the box, drawing it out so she saw it split into two ends, each capped with a crocodile clip.

“What do you want? What do you want?” She was almost incoherent now. The electrician took up the crocodile clips and advanced towards her. He held them in his left hand and she found herself unable to stop staring at them, an inch and a half long, the teeth serrated and glinting. With his right hand, he caressed her left breast, tweaking the nipple with thumb and forefinger as his other three fingers caressed the underside. “Small breasts,” he said, “are more sensitive. This’ll hurt.”

“Please, please…!” she was bawling, staring not at the electrician but at the senior torturer. But he just stood, arms folded, looking on impassively. The electrician took up a clip and snapped it open and shut in front of her face. “No…! NOOOO! NOOOOOOO!! Please…”

*

Rao was anything but impassive. He was enjoying this enormously, although he would have liked to take the cane to her again, maybe to her back. He watched her terror and her helplessness as Kapoor took up her left breast in his right hand and teased the nipple that was semi-erect anyway in the cold. In his right hand he held the crocodile clip. He lifted it in front of her face and held it just in front of her eyes. He opened it, and let it snap shut, which it did with a vicious click. She stared, her face a picture of terror. He opened it again and let it close. “Decision time, Miss Harris,” said Patel. “Co-operate or face real pain.”

She looked petrified. She stared at Patel and then glanced around the room, as if any of the others were going to help her. Her mouth, the corners turned down, opened and closed as her eyes skipped over Kapoor, the two soldiers by the door, the two by the tap and the pulley handle and even the two behind her. Finally, her gaze rested on Rao and she began to sob. “What do you want? Please… anything. What do you want?”

“Are you in the pay of the American government?” asked Patel.

She turned sharply to look at him, her face a picture of disbelief. “No!” she shouted. “Is that what you think?”

“Then tell me about anti-government activity in the university.”

“I’ve told you…” But she didn’t finish the sentence. Kapoor teased out her nipple, and let the clip shut on it.

*

Rebecca couldn’t stop staring at her breast. The pain was awful, a constant throbbing. Her nipple didn’t seem to be bleeding, but waves of agony radiated from it, the teeth of the clip biting horribly into the soft tissue. She was vaguely aware she was making a constant moaning sound but she couldn’t help it. Why wouldn’t they listen? “I don’t know what you want,” she moaned, her voice weak. “I don’t know what you want…” The one in the white coat lifted left right breast. “No…!”, weighed it, teased it, began to toy with the nipple. She cried, but it was as if she had no tears left to give, emitting a terrible wailing.

“Tell me about the revolutionary activities at the university,” the interrogator asked.

“I don’t know… I don’t know… I didn’t know of anything… maybe… please…”

The one in the white coat fastened the clip to the nipple. She shrieked. The electrician pulled at the wire, watching her breasts stretch toward him. He jerked the wire, making her breasts bounce.

*

Patel knew this was gratuitous. The girl knew nothing but he might as well make absolutely sure. Kapoor took some tape from his box and used it to fix the wire to her soft stomach – an important precaution to make sure any thrashing about when they gave her shocks didn’t tear off her nipples. Her terror was palpable. She made a constant moaning sound and kept pleading, “No... no... no…”. He gave the order to lift her. The chains tightened, her arms straightened and slowly she was raised off the ground. When her feet were about 18 inches from the floor he had them stop. He walked over to her. Her face was soaked with tears, her mouth twisted with fear. “Co-operate,” he said.

“I don’t know what you want…” she whispered, her voice quavering with pain.

Patel nodded at Kapoor, who took up a small black plastic tube from his box. A wire hung from the bottom of it and he fixed it into the generator. He showed it to Harris – pointing out the red button on the top. “When that button is pressed,” Patel said, “the connection is joined and you get a shock.”

She whimpered.

“Tell me about the revolutionaries at your university.”

She looked hopelessly about for help, emitting a couple of terrified sobs. Patel nodded. Kapoor pressed the button. Harris jolted in the chains, leaping several inches and falling, muscles tense, eyes bulging, jaw locked. She twitched and then, after no more than two seconds, the connection was cut and she relaxed. Only then did she scream, a wail of terror and disbelief that went on far longer than the shock had. She seemed stunned. As she fell silent, her head drooped. Patel stepped up to her. She was sweating profusely, a gauze of moisture coating her flat stomach around the tape. He lifted her chin and she yelped. There was a wildness in her eyes.

“Please! I don’t know anything.”

She was shaking. Patel shook his head. “Tell me!” he shouted and she jerked back in fear.

“Please, please, please…!”

He stroked his finger along her jawline, then smoothed back her hair from her forehead. “Calm down,” he said. “Just tell me the truth.” He could see true terror in her eyes.

She couldn’t take another shock. She couldn’t. The pain was too awful. The sense of her body being out of control, of fire in every synapse was too terrible. “I am telling the truth,” she screamed. “I am.”

She saw him step back and nod. “Nooooooo!” she howled before the electricity hit her. She was lifted, pain reverberating through her body, every muscle snapped tight, and then, almost as bad, the consciousness of the pain still going on. It cut out and she felt herself fall until the chains arrested her collapse, jolting her shoulders, breasts bouncing. She could feel her muscles relax and, as they did so, a terrible sense of coldness came over her. She was soaked with sweat but her skin was goosepimpled. The interrogator placed his hands on her ribs, letting his thumbs play on the outside of her breasts. “Tell me the truth,” he said.

She hated him. She wanted to spit at him or curse him or something but she was terrified. “What can I say?” she yelled, her mouth dry. “That there’s a resistance cell at the university? Is that what you want me to say?”

“Is it true?”

“No.”

Patel stepped back and nodded. Kapoor pressed the button and her body was lifted by the force of the shock, twitching and jerking and then dropping suddenly as the current was turned off. She hung, limp and shivering, drool hanging from her mouth. He stepped close, placed his hand between her legs and inserted two fingers into her cunt. She squirmed but seemed too tired really to resist. “Tell me,” he said.

“I don’t know about revolutionary activity,” she said hoarsely. “I don’t know. We talked about politics. About the demos. We did. That’s true.”

“Who?” he asked, jabbing sharply upwards.

She paused. Patel stepped back and nodded to Kapoor. “Nooooo…..!!” She lurched like a puppet dancing awkwardly before finally slumping. She hung with her head down, moaning and sobbing.

“Take her down,” Patel ordered.

*

Rebecca was only vaguely aware of the clips being taken off her nipples, of being lowered, of the chains being removed from her wrists. She found herself sitting, uncomfortably given the welts on her buttocks, on the stool, the lights turned full beam upon her. Knowing the gesture was ridiculous given what she’d gone through, she crossed her legs demurely and folded her arms across her chest.

“Miss Harris,” said the interrogator’s voice. “You were telling us about your revolutionary activities. Do go on.”

She knew this was her chance. Mess this up and there was more pain. And so she talked. She told him she hadn’t really been involved, that she’d heard only whispers, that she didn’t know how serious it was, and then she began offering names. She hated herself. She told him about Nina Connelly – they knew about her already. But she knew they needed more. So she said Stephanie Allen had been part of their discussions. She knew Steph a little and she knew she had been to demos. If they checked up on her they’d find her photo. It would check out. She couldn’t stop crying. She hugged herself. In a dry flat voice she went on. “There was Beth McCormack,” she said. “She was very critical of the government.”

“Any more?”

“Alex Badillo.” Why had she given him up? He knew nothing, Rebecca was sure. It was just a name, somebody she didn’t really know.

“Tell me more.”

Sobbing, she told him most of the foreign students hated the government. She told him there were always discussions, plans, petitions. But she told him most of all about Beth, strong athletic Beth who was always trying to mobilise them to protest. Beth who hadn’t fucked Steve McCoy but who had worked with him. Beth the New Yorker with her height and her great figure who Nina was desperately jealous of, for the time she spent with Steve.

*

Patel sent the names to be checked: could Beth McCormack be Violet, he wondered. He was almost certain Harris knew nothing more but it wouldn’t hurt to be sure. And when you had a pretty one, you may as well make the most of it. “Stand up,” he ordered. She obeyed. “Hands by your sides.” Slowly she dropped them and stood, head bowed in the light, palely naked. He walked up to her and took her breasts in his hands. They were astonishingly soft and smooth. She whimpered as he gently caressed them, teasing the nipples, now puckered with pinpricks of blood. He walked behind her, and pulled his hands back through her hair, drawing it back from her face. He could feel her fear.

“Now,” he said. “You’d better not be messing me around.” He ran his hands over her ribs and her flat soft stomach, then cupped her smooth breasts. “I’m going to have your feet flogged now and then we’re done. A dozen strokes.” She gave a half-stifled sob. “Unless you have anything else to tell me. If you do, then maybe we can avoid another beating.”

She trembled but said nothing. “Nothing?”

“No, sir.”

“If I find you’ve lied, if you’ve kept anything back, then believe me, what you’ve suffered in the last couple of days will seem like a picnic. I will whip you and give you electric shocks and make you wish you’d never been born. Is that clear?”

“I don’t know anything more, sir. Please…”

“Then get in position for your feet to be beaten. Show your obedience.”

He lowered his hands and watched in amusement as she glanced hastily about the floor to the rings, walked awkward over to them, clearly aware of how her little breasts quivered, and lay down, reaching out her hands. At his nod, the soldiers fell on her, roughly fastening her wrists, and locking the chain over her knees. The cuffs were lowered and buckled around her ankles then raised until her feet were parallel to the floor. Patel walked to the cupboard behind his desk and selected a cane, swishing it through the air as he approached her. She was crying again, he saw, her little shoulders rising and falling. Her buttocks looked hugely enticing like that, tiny and pert, welted but still lovely. And her feet. She had the most delectable feet he’d ever seen, streaked with the previous day’s lashes but somehow delightful in their tininess.

“I think you should count these, don’t you?” Patel said.

She said nothing. He knelt beside her, took a fistful of hair and twisted her to face him. “Well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” He held the cane, four feet long and as thick as a finger, in front of her. “Twelve strokes.” He swished it as he stood, then took his position behind her.

“Ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

He lashed hard across the balls of her feet. She yelled, body bucking. “One, sir. Thank you,” she shouted, then clenched her teeth, a little spittle flying from them as she tried to control her breathing. He loved her feet, so delicate, so small. He struck at the base of her toes. “Graaaaaaaahhhhhh!” she shouted, her pelvis jerking suggestively. Her pert little buttocks looked fantastic. “Two, sir. Thank you.” She curled up her toes, stretching her fingers out. He struck across the arches. Her palms beat the ground as spasms passed through her body. “Acchhh! Accch! Accchhhh!” She writhed. “Three… sir. Grrraaahhhhh! Thank… you.”

*

Rao wished they were beating her buttocks. He wished this weren’t coming to an end. He wished they could keep her in here for a week. He wondered if he might be able to engineer a visit to her cell again. Thhhwwwwwuppp! “NnnnggggaaaaaAAAAAAARRRRGHHHHH!!” He wished he was lying under her as she thrashed, holding her tight little body against his rather larger, rather flabbier one. “Four, sir. Thank you.” He stood to the side, watching as her smooth calves twitched, staring at the flattened flesh of her breast against the concrete floor. He’d been part of enough interrogations to know that, for the day or two after they’d given in, prisoners were treated rather better. First came the stick and then the carrot: once the confessions had been signed it was a different matter but with a foreigner it might be different.

The fifth stroke landed. Her whole body seemed to lift and as she landed she ground herself into the concrete. After the scream came whimpers and, for a moment, he thought she was going to fail to announce the number. Finally, though, it came, and with it her sobbed thanks. Patel lashed the balls of her feet again. There was a little blood now on her right foot, but she managed the count well enough through her tears. Patel moved to the other side and Rao walked to stand by her head, to see her face screwed up in pain. She was shaking and moaning, her feet lined with the purple blows of the day before and the red lines of today’s thrashing.

*

The pain was incredible. Her right foot was on fire. She knew he’d moved. She knew the worst of the next blow would come on her left, and she almost welcomed the change. It smacked down across the centre of the arches. She kicked furiously, the sting growing in her left foot, the right burning anew. “Seven,” she whispered. “Thank you, sir.” She blinked back the tears and lay her cheek on the floor again, facing away from her tormentor. Just five left. He struck across the base of the balls of her feet. The pain was awful. She writhed, her pelvis grinding into the concrete. “Eight,” she said. “Thank you, sir.” She saw Rao grinning at her and turned away, pushing her nose into her left shoulder. The floor was horribly cold. The ninth landed almost exactly where the seventh had. She spasmed, retching in pain, but she was able to croak the number.

Just three left, thought Patel. The girl was getting stronger even if she was trembling. He whipped hard, catching the ball just above the line where the skin had split. She squealed, thrusting against the chain that help her knees down, affording him a clear view of her labia. He had to have her somehow. He waited. “Fuuuuuccckkkkk!” she yelled after he scream. Immediately she knew she’d made a terrible mistake. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she shouted. “Ten, sir. Thank you sir!”

“Swearing under punishment? This is very serious,” he said, turning to Rao. “How shall we punish her?”

“Flog her backside,” Rao said promptly.

“I’m sorry, sir. So sorry. Please…”

“Shut up!”

She whimpered. “I’ll be merciful,” said Patel. “Two additional strokes. And that one didn’t count. Five to come.”

She clenched her fists. Patel lashed her, aiming at that same spot where a little blood was collecting. Her body jumped, but she managed not even to scream, stifling her howl to nothing more than “Mmmmphh!” She took a breath. “Ten, sir. Thank you, sir,” she said. Patel waited. He could see the strain and wanted to make her endure more. Finally, he whipped her heels. “GrraaaaaAAAAAHHHHHH!” she yelled. “Eleven, sir. Thank you sir.”

Three left to take. It was hell. Her feet were screaming in pain and she knew they were willing her to fail. The next one cut across the centre of her feet. She went through the familiar ritual. A moment of excruciating pain as she writhed in the bonds and then, slowly, an ebb, until she could find the composure to speak. “Twelve, sir. Thank you, sir.” She waited and waited and then, finally, he slashed near her toes. She squealed but the pain was less bad there. “Thirteen, sir. Thank you, sir.”

He swished the cane through the air and walked to the other side of her. The last one. Was this really it? One more and it was over? He touched the cane over the balls of her feet, where the pain was worst. She flinched even at a touch. He raised the cane and flogged her, hard. The pain was horrendous and she thought she might vomit, but she held on. “Fourteen,” he gasped. “Thank you, sir.”

“Well done,” he said and she felt hands unfastening her. She was dragged to her feet and made to stand before his desk, an agony in itself. She trembled, cold and anxious, as he slowly sat down and looked her up and down. She was suddenly acutely conscious of her nudity – absurdly given how long she’d been naked in front of them – and she moved to cover herself. “Hands down,” he snapped and she obeyed, feeling her face flushing.

“Final chance to tell me anything?”

“Nothing, sir. I’ve told you everything.”

She saw him gesture to a soldier, and the dress was handed to her. She looked at him and he nodded. Gratefully she pulled it over her head, her shoulders still stiff and sore. Her wrists were cuffed behind her and she was hooded. They tried to march her back to her cell, but her raw feet couldn’t manage it, so they ended up dragging her.

*

7) The Trial

She heard the footsteps - four guards, she estimated – then the knock on the door. She dragged herself into position, biting her lip with apprehension. They hadn’t spat in her food either the previous night or that morning, and she’d actually slept reasonably well despite the cold. Her wrists were cuffed behind her and the hood pulled over her head. Surely it wasn’t going to be more torture? She shuffled, her feet swollen and sore and they seemed to delight in hurrying her, pushing her and laughing at her awkward gait. She heard a door open and realised she was being taken outside. The thought leapt into her head that they were going to shoot her but she realised she was being taken to the shower block.

The hood and cuffs removed and she stood among half a dozen female guards. Four men, the ones who had brought her from her cell, lounged against the wall. “Strip,” one of the women said and, after a moment’s hesitation, she obeyed. Even now she felt humiliated, a flush rising to her cheeks despite the cold. They pushed her forwards towards a tiled wall. A shower was turned on and she was ordered to wash. The water was at least luke-warm but she was soon shivering. She closed her eyes, letting the water run over her hair and over her body. She squirted some soap from the dispenser onto her hand and scrubbed hard, desperate to wash off the sense of disgust she felt from the rape. Tears flowed again. When her hands touched her breasts or genitals, she heard the hoots of laughter and mocking comments from the guards.

The water was turned off and she was handed a small threadbare towel. Facing away from the guards she began to dry herself. “Look at how she hides herself,” one jeered, shoving her shoulder. “Like we don’t know she’s sucked off every man in the regiment.” She felt terrible shame. Did they know?

“Look at that little whipped ass.” A hand slapped her and she yelped.

“She enjoys it. She begged them to spank her before she fucked Rao.” She sobbed.

“She’s Rao’s girlfriend. She loves him. She begged him to spank her then fuck her.”

“Whore!”

“What does Rao’s cock taste like?”

“Slut!”

Hands spun her round. The towel was yanked from her hands. She stood with her head bowed, shoulders hunched, arms hanging loosely in front of her, cheeks burning with shame. One of them shoved her and she stumbled forwards. “Look how small her tits are!” One of them flicked at the underside of her right breast. “Whose tits are bigger? Hers or Rao’s?”

As they laughed one of them handed a bag. She took it and held it uncertainly. “Get dressed,” came the order. She opened the bag and found her clothes, or at least her clothes less her jacket. Hastily she dressed, grateful for the softness of her vest against her skin, for the cover it offered.

“She doesn’t wear a bra,” one of the women said.

“Slut!”

“Nothing to put in it,” said one of the men, to general laughter. She put on her panties. “Pink,” one of the said. “Sexy.”

“A slut’s panties.”

Quickly she pulled on her trousers and sweatshirt, before easing her thick socks over her bruised feet. The relief from the cold concrete was extraordinary, but putting her boots on was a whole new agony, squeezing the swollen flesh into the leather. They’d pulled her hair back, fastening it in a loose pony-tail, and then they’d hooded her again and shackled her wrists behind her.

*

Patel stood over her as she knelt before his desk. The hood had been removed but she was still chained. It surprised him how good she looked, even in sloppy casual clothes.

“This is a warning,” he said. “Mess this up and the consequences will be severe. If you think your interrogation before was tough, it’ll seem like a picnic compared to what we’ll do you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will be given a written statement – your confession. In an hour a representative from your embassy will come here. We will take your chains off and let you sit in a chair. You will tell him about your activities. You will agree with the statement. You will say you have been treated well. You will not mention torture. You will admit you deserve punishment.  Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.” She sounded resigned, tired rather than scared.

“Good. If you let me down, I will have you whipped. I will run electricity through your breasts until you can use them to light a room. I will hang you by the wrists for days. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

He handed her the typewritten confession.

*

Rebecca looked at the interrogator – Patel, she now knew he was called - as he closed the door behind him, smiling and shaking the hand of Graham Reid, the polite young man from the embassy, as he escorted him off the premises. She desperately hoped she’d performed well but part of her hoped Reid had realised she was lying, that they’d stripped her and tortured her and that she needed help.

She hadn’t said much, had just agreed that the statement was correct, that she had been part of a political group, that she had gone to demonstrations, that she had protested against the government. She’d confirmed that all the others she’d listed were involved and she’d insisted she’d been treated well. Reid had asked if they’d hurt her. She’d said no, even as she shuffled in her chair, trying to find a position in which her buttocks didn’t hurt. When he’d first entered she’d barely been able to stand without wincing such was the pain in her feet. Had he noticed? She doubted it. He seemed young, no more than 30, enthusiastic, and keen not to cause a fuss. The only awkwardness had come when he’d asked if they’d stripped her. She’d said no, at which he’d expressed surprise. “Not even to search you?”

“Yes,” she’d said. “Of course.” And then she’d hastily added, “But it was women guards and it was over very quickly.”

He’d told her that she’d have to suffer the consequences and that he’d do what he could at her trial, but that she’d broken the law and that he couldn’t promise anything. She asked him what she was facing and he’d shaken his head sadly. “We’ll do what we can,” he’d said, “but it might be difficult to spare you a few weeks in prison.”

Prison? How could she cope in prison? Patel returned.  “Good,” he said, turning and locking the door. “That went well.”

She sat, unsure as to what would happen next. “Stand up,” he said, walking towards her. She obeyed, feeling the pain in her feet. “Take your clothes off.”

What? She blinked, her mouth falling open. “Sir, I’ve confessed,” she whispered. “Plea-”

“Shut up!” he snapped. “Strip naked or I’ll have you flogged.”

She knelt and clumsily untied her laces, slowly taking off her boots then her socks. She stood barefoot on the rug and looked at Patel. He stood, arms folded, a half-smile on his face. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head, tossing it down. Face crumpling, she unbuttoned her trousers and let them fall, unsteadily stepping out of them, her feet in agony. She was crying again, left in just her tank-top and her panties. Closing her eyes, she pulled up her top. Its tightness made it difficult in her anxiety, but she peeled it over her breasts and forced her arms through the holes. Feeling nauseous, she wrenched down her panties so she was naked.

“Come here,” he said.

She hobbled towards him, horribly aware of how her breasts trembled on her chest. She knew there was no point antagonising him, so she kept her arms by her sides despite her shame. He made her stop a couple of yards from him. She stood, head bowed, knowing he was staring at her, enjoying her nakedness even though he’d spent so much time with her nude before him. Stripping again seemed to have intensified the feelings.

He moved towards her excruciatingly slowly. She knew what was coming. He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her in to his body, holding her naked chest against his coarse uniform. He ran his hands over her back and she whimpered. He stroked her hair, holding her tight, then pushed her away, still clasping her shoulders, dropping his face and pressing it between her breasts. She heard him groan and he kissed her chest and then her breasts. She felt disgusted, grateful he wasn’t just pumping away but humiliated, terrified her body might begin to respond to his fondling.

He pushed her down and she closed her eyes. For a couple of moments nothing happened. She lay naked on his carpet, waiting and when nothing came she opened her eyes again. She saw him lowering himself, his trousers round his ankles, a condom on his erect penis. Gently, still stroking her, he fucked her. She tried to pretend it wasn’t happening but his warmth was unignorable as he thrust up and down inside her. When he final came, he lay on her, his head nestled against her shoulder, his hand playing with her nipple.

*

Patel wasn’t proud of himself. There was something about her, though. She was captivating. Her prettiness attracted him, but her delicacy made him want to destroy her. And she was an arrogant American. He looked at her as she lay there whimpering, half-huddled into the crook of his shoulder. What did she know of hardship? How dare she preach to him about how this country should be run? He felt himself stiffening again, anger and desire increasing together. He rolled over so he knelt above her. She trembled, eyes closed. He slapped her, not too hard, but firmly enough to generate a pleasing sound as his hand met her cheek.

Her eyes opened, and he saw her fear, her resignation, heard her short gasps. He struck her again, this time with his left hand. She bit her lip, tears welling. He smoothed back her hair, thinking how astonishingly pure the skin of her forehead was, and kissed the little crease above her nose. He dropped his hands to her tiny shoulders, thinking again how extraordinarily small she was. He pushed her down hard and gently caressed her breasts, running his fingers down her ribs and then taking hold of her narrow hips. She was so thin. He could feel how tense she was and it irritated him, so he slapped her breasts, right hand, left hand, right hand, left. They were so light, so perfect, so round. He pushed his face between them, feeling the cool pliability of each on either side of his eyes, then reached down with his hands. Her pubic hair was softest he’d ever known. He parted her labia, checked the condom, and entered her. She whimpered as he gripped her slender waist and fucked her in a frenzy he’d rarely known.

*

How long had passed? She had no idea, but she thought it was some days, perhaps weeks. Sometimes she slept, sometimes she seemed to spend hours on end awake, bored and scared. Sometimes she would spend what seemed like days lying on the concrete floor, stiff and sore and cold, unable to think of anything other than being tortured or raped, then they’d knock and she’d rush to kneel at the back of the cell as they provided her food. Other times it felt like only minutes between the visits. There was some mockery of her, lewd comments, the odd hand poking a breast or between her legs, but nothing to the brutality of the first couple of days. Twice women had taken her to let her shower – in water that was barely warm but in relative privacy. They’d even largely stopped spitting in her food. Were they bored of her?

Then that day she’d woken – although if it was morning or not she had no idea – to a hammering on the door. She’d hurried to take up her position at the back of the cell, kneeling with her hands behind her head. They’d lain down the food and told her she was to be tried later on that day. What did that mean? She had no idea. At least, though, it probably meant she would at last leave this freezing cell.

She sat, hugging her shins. She paced about. She lay. There was no comfort anywhere. She was cold, hungry and thirsty. Every time she closed her eyes, she thought of the rapes, of them, in their differing ways, forcing themselves inside her. Her dreams were haunted by the thought of them, and by flashbacks to the torture, writhing naked on the desk as they caned her, or hanging there as they fired electricity through her, or the dreadful strapping in the mess room with mocking faces all around. There was a knock at the door and, almost instinctively, she hopped up, turned around and knelt at the back of the room.

*

Patel sat in the front row of seats. There was a chance he would be called as a witness but he doubted it. Harris sat in the dock, dwarfed by the soldiers who flanked her and two white men: Reid, that charmless idiot from the embassy, and an older man who he guessed was probably her lawyer. Her wrists were chained behind her, her head was bowed, and her hair fell over her face. She’d been allowed to put on her own clothes – the vest and the sweatshirt - but she still looked pathetic, glancing nervously about. Patel just hoped the judge wouldn’t let her appearance make him merciful; although he wondered whether the casualness of her dress might count against her.

The judge strode briskly from his room along the dais that stood at one end of the court. He tossed down a file and then, with what seemed an effort, lowered himself into his chair. Everybody in the room stood and then, at his brusque signal, sat. He was typical of his kind: a colonel of about 50, slightly overweight, with thinning hair side-parted and gold-rimmed glasses that were a little too large even for his round face. He opened the file, read from a couple of seconds and, with a hint of impatience, glanced at Harris.

“You have confessed to crimes of sedition, taking part in illegal demonstrations, forming illegal societies and the distribution of defamatory literature,” he said. “Do you stand by your confession?”

She glanced at Reid and he nodded. Harris stood up uncertainly. “Yes, your honour,” she whispered.

“What?” he snapped. “Speak clearly. I can’t hear you.” No sympathy there.

“Yes, your honour,” she said, her lower lip wobbling.

“So you plead guilty?”

Again she looked to Reid and the lawyer for assurance and again they nodded. “Yes, your honour.”

The judge peered at her over his glasses. “I appreciate your co-operation,” he said. “All that remains for me to do is to pass sentence.” He paused. She gave a slight whimper. “I’ve considered your youth and the fact that you have confessed,” he said, “but these are still grave offences, and so I sentence you to two years of forced labour.”

She looked horrified, jaw trembling as though she were only just holding back tears. “I understand,” he went on, “that there is also a minor internal disciplinary matter, but we can deal with that later.” Pate was intrigued; did that mean the complaint he had filed was going to be considered?

*

Rebecca was confused. She’d been allowed to shower that morning and had been given her clothes back, and had been given some time with Mr Reid from the embassy and a lawyer, a Mr Bannerjee. They’d advised her just to plead guilty and had seemed certain she would be deported. And then she’d got two years in a labour camp. She couldn’t endure that. She couldn’t.

They’d let her have five minutes with Reid and Bannerjee after the trial – the trial! What an overblown term – and they’d promised to appeal, and then she’d been forced to change back into her prison smock. They’d taken her back to her cell, but she couldn’t have been there more than an hour when they’d come for her again. She hadn’t been allowed to change this time and she’d been offered no representation, so now she stood, wrists manacled behind her, dressed in just the prison garb, back in the dock again.

The judge looked at her. “Miss Harris,” he said. “Your file notes that you were insolent and deliberately obstructive under questioning, that you wasted the time of police officers. Do you deny that?”

She thought back. What was he talking about? Something specific? And then she recalled the senior officer threatening to have her flogged for insolence, accusing her of trying to annoy him, making a note in his book. Should she deny that? Was it better just to accept whatever they had planned for her?

“Miss Harris? Do you deny the charge?”

She saw Patel in the front row, a smug smile on his face. He shook his head. “No, your honour,” she said, her voice scarcely more than a croak. She cleared her throat. “No, your honour,” she said.

The judge nodded. “I thank you for your candour,” he said, closing a file on the table before him. “It’s appreciated that you have contested neither charge, but at the same time there must be a level of punishment. So, on these charges, I sentence you to be flogged.”

Flogged? It felt as though her guts had been ripped out. She staggered forwards, only the table in front of her preventing her from falling. “Twelve strokes of the cane to be administered on Saturday at 9am.”

Rebecca thought she was going to be sick. Twelve strokes? Twelve more? She wanted to howl but there was no air in her lungs. Saturday? What day was Saturday? She had no idea. Two soldiers took her arms and, as the judge walked out, held her upright. Then she was led away.

*

8) The Punishment

Time passed. She sprawled on the concrete floor of the cell, not knowing how long she had. It had been clear from the way the judge had spoken that it was Saturday that week, and she couldn’t believe they’d have tried her on a Sunday. So that was a maximum of five days before they flogged her.

She was going to be flogged. Again. And probably worse this time. She’d done everything they asked of her and still they were going to tie her up and beat her. She assumed the blows would be inflicted on her ass, and she was sure that meant they would bare her buttocks again. Sobs passed through her. Would they strip her completely? Nothing they had done suggested they wouldn’t take any opportunity to humiliate her. How many people would be there? Would there be a crowd? She was terribly cold. She thought of being chained to the table as they thrashed her. Could it be worse than that? She was going to be flogged.

She turned onto her side, pulled her knees to her chin and tried to sleep.

*

Rao was delighted. He wasn’t on duty that Saturday but he had made sure there would be space for him. Twelve lashes was a lot for a girl – maybe not that many in the great scheme of thing, but enough to have her howling. And there was the spectacle of it. Her naked, bound on the bench, helpless in front of an audience. He couldn’t wait.

He hadn’t seen her in over a week so, on the Thursday night, he decided to pay her a visit. He knew the doctors would be examining her to make sure she was fit enough to be lashed, so he was wary of raping her again, but he found one of the old punishment canes – the ones that had begun to splinter and lost their spring through repeated use and drying out – and went down to her cell.

He knocked on the door and heard her scrambling, rushing to kneel against the back wall. He threw the door open and saw her, obediently on her knees. He shut the door, seeing how she flinched at its clang. “Stand up,” he said and she obeyed.

“Turn around.” She did so. She was shaking, clearly terrified of him. He saw her eyes go to the cane as he lay it on the floor. “Strip!” he said. There was only a moment’s hesitation before she obeyed. She dropped the dress at her feet and stood, hands by her sides, head bowed, naked. She was a wonderful sight, her breasts so delicate, her body so thin, her skin so smooth. Her nipples stood out in the cold, reddened by the chafing of the dress. He approached her, pushed back her curled hair and looked into her terrified brown eyes. He could sense her fear, the uneasy breathing. He stroked her cheek and walked behind her. He ran his hands down her slim back, feeling her vertebrae. He felt the slenderness of her waist and then ran his hands over her cool smooth buttocks, pale pink lines still marking where he’d flogged her. “These won’t feel like this for much longer,” he said and she began to cry. He kneaded them, feeling the tightness of the skin, the firmness of the flesh. “Twelve lashes,” he taunted, and made the noise of a cane swooshing through the air with his mouth. He slapped her, not too hard, then pulled her against him, holding her breasts and burying his face in her hair.

Abruptly, he pushed her away from him. “You’re a whore,” he said, as she stumbled and fell. “Think you can seduce me?” The truth was, he was desperate to fuck her again and his cock stood hard again the waistband of his trousers. “Get up,” he ordered, and slowly she stood. “Pick up the cane.”

She obeyed, holding it with terror. It was almost six feet long and about three quarters of an inch in diameter, designed to cause severe bruising. “Try it,” Rao said. She swung it uncertainly, but even that cause a dreadful whoop through the air. “Harder,” he ordered. The tears began again as she whipped it through the air, breasts jiggling. “No…” she murmured, shaking her head. “Harder,” he said, smiling, as she made a clear effort, the sound horrifying her, her breasts bouncing. He took it from her, and lashed it down, once, twice, three times, enjoying the terror on her face.

He handed her the cane back. “Fellate it,” he said, feeling his cock groan. “Show me your technique.” She took it uncertainly, staring at him, blinking away the tears, almost begging for a reprieve, but he just started. She held the cane vertically in both hands and raised it to her mouth. She felt ridiculous, but closed her lips around it. She licked it, kissed it, sucked it, exaggerating her actions to try to satisfy him, feeling her face burning. She closed her eyes and continued the pantomime and then she felt his hands on her shoulders. He pushed her down to her knees and took the cane from her. “Now on me,” he said.

She felt sick, but what could she do? She unbuckled his belt – the belt he’d whipped her with – and unhooked his trousers. She slid them down. She could see the great bulge of his penis in his briefs and eased the elastic waistband over the swelling, pulling them down to his knees. She could barely see through the tears as she placed her hands on his buttocks and took his erect cock into her mouth. The smell of sweat was abominable and she gagged instinctively, but he grabbed her hair and forced her close. “You’ll swallow every last drop,” he said. Mechanically she began to work on him, running her tongue up and down his shaft, kissing the tip. She licked the underside and she noticed him tremble. He grabbed the back of her head, fingers gripping her hair and pulled her closer so his cock touched the back of her throat. She wanted to vomit, but closed her mouth and sucked. He thrust back and forth and couple of times and then he came, jets of semen squirting into the back of her mouth. She swallowed desperately and kept sucking, draining everything she could. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she wished she could gulp down a glass of water to clear the sticky taste from her mouth, but it was done. Slowly, he detumesced and withdrew his cock from her mouth.

He pushed her away from him and dressed. She lay sobbing on her side, revolted and ashamed. He prodded her with the cane. “I’ll see you at your flogging,” he said.

*

Rebecca wanted to die. It was desperately cold and the blanket offered little relief. She felt sick. Sick from the bad food. Sick from sucking his cock. Sick from being raped. And sick because the next morning she’d be taken from her cell and flogged. They would take a long stick and smash it into her ass 12 times. She didn’t know what time it was, just that she’d had dinner, which they’d spat in. She knew she wouldn’t eat again before being caned. What did you do when waiting to be flogged?

She tried to think of something else but all she could see in her head was herself naked, tied on some kind of frame as guards laughed at her and thrashed her. She thought of the caning during the interrogation, the hideous pain, and she thought of how much thicker these canes were than then. How many people would be there? She thought of her nudity in the guard room, the humiliation of all those laughing faces as Rao had belted her. Would they all be there? The judge? Who else? She began crying again.

She pulled the blanket tighter around her. She was freezing. Her feet ached from the cold and the beatings. She thought of the cane Rao had made her swish through the air and suck. She thought, with another shudder of disgust, of his foul cock, the smell and taste of sweat and piss even before he’d come into her mouth. It had almost been better when he’d just raped her. That cane. It was taller than her. It was thick. It would destroy her. And her buttocks were still bruised from her two previous beatings. Why? Why her?

*

Patel wasn’t a cruel man. He’d turned down the chance to see women flogged before. He’d seen some as well, of course, although none as pretty as Harris. But there was something about her, something that made him want to see her suffer. He’d watched as they’d brought her, hooded and shackled, into the small cell next to the correction room. There was no mockery now, no hands fondling her, no taunts. Just two guards, escorted by four others, marching her along the corridor. The hood was removed but she barely reacted, standing with her head bowed by the whitewashed wall, her thin arms chained behind her, making her look astonishingly delicate.

The flogging was overseen by the prison administrator, a tough, steely-haired man in his fifties, Dhawan. He gave the order to unchain her. Harris slowly brought her arms in front of herself, rubbing her wrists as though in a daze. “Miss Harris,” Dhawan said. “We will leave you here for a little while and then you will be visited by the doctor. Please remove your clothes and ready yourself. Any disobedience, of course, will be dealt with severely.”

She didn’t look up or seem to react in anyway. Patel knew she’d been showered that morning, and imagined the guards had been particularly mocking. Dhawan left the room and he had little option but to follow, although he wanted desperately to watch her undress again, leaving just two soldiers guarding her.

The soldiers stood impassively by the door through which she’d entered. Rebecca turned away from them. The cell was perhaps eight feet by six, a door in each of the shorter sides, with a bench against the far side, pegs set in the wall above it. She turned away from the soldiers. She was going to be caned. It was ridiculous, medieval. Slowly, she lifted up the hem of the dress. She had to strip. There was no point antagonising them. Her hands felt weak, numb, but she pulled the dress up, and slid her arms out. She was naked, standing with her back to the soldiers. She held her dress for a moment, then hung it on a peg on the wall. Clamping her left hand over her genitals and her right arm over her chest, she turned and sat awkwardly on the edge of the bench, angled away from the soldiers, who didn’t seem to move, to register the fact that there was a naked woman in the room.

Why did she care? She’d been naked a lot over the past two or three weeks. She stripped, they laughed at her, they felt her and they tortured her. That’s what life had become. So why did she still feel shame, huddled on this bench, trying shield the side of her right breast from their stares? She wondered if that other door led to the punishment room. How many people would be there? When they’d showered her that morning, taunting and laughing, male and female guards clustering round to mock her, they’d told her it would be thousands, but she knew they were just trying to upset her. That had been hideous, as they all made the noise of the cane, counted slowly to twelve, and ran their hands over her buttocks, telling her that they’d never be that smooth or pale again. Why? What had she done to them?

The door behind her opened and she heard the soldiers snapping to attention. “Miss…. errr… Harris?” said a voice that sounded slightly anxious. She looked over her shoulder and saw a plumpish man of no more than thirty in a white coat peering through round glasses at a clipboard.

“Yes, sir,” she croaked.

“Stand up,” he said, approaching, lifting a stethoscope that had been draped round his neck and inserting the ends in his ears.

She obeyed. What else could she do?

“Shoulders back,” he said. “Head up.” She felt a new wave of humiliation. “A little more,” he said. “Nice deep breaths.”

He peered at her, lay down the clipboard and held the end of the stethoscope to her chest. She flinched at its coldness. She wondered if she should beg him to pronounce her unfit but had hardly managed to articulate the thought when he smiled. “Nice young girl like you, no problems,” he said, running his hand over her breast as he took the stethoscope away. Her heart sank.

“Turn around,” he said. “Place your hands flat against the wall.”

Numbly she obeyed. “A little lower.” She was bent at 45 degrees, just enough for it to feel her buttocks were sticking out, her breasts hanging a little from her chest . “I’m just going to put some antiseptic on, just in case they break the skin,” he said. She looked fearfully over her shoulder and saw him take a bottle from his pocket and squeeze some clear gel from it onto his hands. Then, he slapped his hands onto her buttocks, and roughly applied it. She gave a gasp at the coldness and closed her eyes, biting her lip as she sensed his relish at patting and pummelling her pert cheeks. “Nice,” he said. “Good definition, good spring.” Then his right hand slipped under her perineum and he shoved two fingers roughly between her lips. “Can’t be too careful,” he said, prodding her a couple of times. She flinched at his touch, hearing the smirk in his words. He gave her ass a final slap then stepped away. “It hurts less if you keep your buttocks relaxed,” he said.

The doctor stepped away. “You can sit down,” he said as he opened the door. “Make the most of it while you still can.” She turned and sat, turning again away from the soldiers, whose expressions remained unchanged.

*

Patel took his seat in the front row. There were probably about 150 people here to watch the flogging, more than he’d ever seen packed into this hall before. There were four rows of about a dozen chairs, occupied by diginitaries – the judge, the prison governor, a few senior police officers, some local politicians keen to watch a white girl being flogged, even a few religious leaders – then behind them a mass of police and a few others who’d sneaked in. At the front of the hall was a low stage, and on that was the frame on which she’d be beaten. It was painted an incongruous pale blue, but the cold brutality of its purpose was clear. The basic structure always reminded Patel of the frames that swings hung from in the park, an inverted V at either end linked across the top by a single broad bar. The important section was lower: a plank about two and a half feet across on which the prisoner would kneel, with straps to restrain the knees and ankles, then an adjustable beam that the prisoner would bend over to elevate the buttocks, with a padded section to support the hips. At the far side, joining the upright supports about a foot off the ground, was a pole to which handcuffs were attached. Male prisoners could usually grip the pole, at least until their strength deserted them, but Harris, he suspected, would be too short to reach and so would be stretched taut – and that in turn probably increased the stress on her buttocks and would make the lashes hurt more.

There was activity behind him. Patel turned with the rest of the crowd and saw the door to the changing room open. Two soldiers walked out and behind them, escorted by a soldier on either side and a further two behind, with Dhawan behind them, there she was, naked, wrists shackled behind her. She looked pathetically small, dwarfed by the six guards, and she was clearly terrified. Her jaw was wobbling, she kept glancing from side to side, eyes wide, and her cheeks were red with shame. He looked again at her lovely breasts, wobbling on her chest as she jerked around, and at that impossibly slender, neat waist. He was filled with a desire to fuck her once again. She walked slowly, dragging her feet as though her legs were numb. As she passed him, he saw how she took rapid short gulps of air, and was struck by the grace and beauty of her face: that smooth round forehead and the sweet little nose. They almost had to push her up the steps onto the stage, such was her terror. The rear view was almost as good as the front, the slender back beneath the curls, the smooth legs and, between them, the round pert buttocks, still bearing the odd streak from where he and Rao has beaten her. He heard her whimper when she saw the stack of white canes beside the frame, then they turned her to face the crowd, pushing her to her knees.

*

It was all so unreal. They had a frame to flog people on and a hall in which to do it. She was naked. She looked at the crowd: men in suits and uniform, sitting, maybe four or five women among them. Then behind them men standing, the majority in uniform. They were there to watch her being flogged. Was that entertainment for them? To see a naked girl tied down and caned? She saw Rao in the front row of those standing and, even though she broke eye contact as quickly as she could, she saw him blow her a kiss. Others seemed to be discussing her, pointing and gesturing as they chatted to those around them.

“Kneel straight,” snapped a voice behind her, and she instinctively obeyed. The voice, though, wasn’t satisfied.  “This is an official occasion,” it went on. “Shoulders back, head up.” She obeyed, horribly aware of how her new position put strain on her knees and seemed to emphasise her breasts and the strip of pubic hair. “Rebecca Harris,” the voice continued. “For insolence, you have been sentenced to 12 strokes of the cane, these to be administered with full force to your naked buttocks.” Her face crumpled. There was an insanity to this. “Secure the prisoner.”

The soldiers pulled her to her feet and turned her to face the frame. She saw the stern man in his fifties holding a clipboard and beyond him two huge men in khaki uniforms, one wearing a turban. She hung back but the soldiers pushed her forward. “If you disrupt the execution of your sentence, Harris,” the man with the clipboard said, “I will add penalty strokes.” The tears were flowing freely by then and she didn’t resist as they led her to the bench. She saw the two men in khaki select canes and flex them, slashing them through the air. These, she realised, were far more supple than the one Rao had taunted her with.

Her legs were like rubber. She thought she might faint. Breathing was difficult. The edges of her vision seemed to blur. Orders were being given to her but she couldn’t understand them. The frame was there, in front of her and she sank onto it, the soldiers positioning her knees on the bench, about a foot apart, holding her, then buckling straps over the tops of her calves. They pulled them tight so she was held in a kneeling position, then metal cuffs were locked over her ankles and adjusted so her shins here held on the bench, feet held slightly wider than her knees. A wave of panic overwhelmed her. They were going to flog her. She jerked, as though she could stand up and run away, but she was held fast. Other soldiers adjusted the beam in front of her until the leather padding pushed against the lower part of her hips. Hands took her upper arms and pulled her forwards: there was an expertise to this. They held her shoulders down so her thighs were straight, at right angles to her calves, her buttocks raised, breasts dangling. She gave a strangled moan: she knew the position was obscene, showing her most intimate areas to the audience, but it also stretched the muscles. The doctor had told her to relax, but her buttocks were going to be taut.

A thick strap was pulled over her waist and fastened tightly: there would be no chance of moving her buttocks. Only then were her wrists uncuffed, the soldiers pulling her arms smartly forwards, stretching her out and, with some difficulty, snapping her wrists in another pair of cuffs that had been nailed to the lower rung. She was too small for this, she realised. The strain on her arms and back was awful, the cuffs biting into her wrists, and it was like that because their equipment was designed for people at least four or five inches taller than her. Everything apart from her head had been immobilised. She whimpered in terror as the soldiers went over her bonds. “Please,” she murmured, lifting her face to the guard checking her wrists. “Please…”

“Silence!” came the voice. “Speak again and I’ll add penalty strokes.”

She began to sob. The humiliation was terrible: she wasn’t just naked, but was displayed before them, ass up, pussy visible, breasts hanging. And soon she’d be in agony.

*

Rao could hardly breathe. He wished he was wielding the cane but other than that, this was a dream. He stared at her pert buttocks and the smooth thighs, just able to make out the marks of his own cane. He’d somehow forgotten how slim she was, what a graspable waist she had. He would visit her again before she went to the camps, fuck her and beat her. Her shame and terror were perfect; he was glad they hadn’t gagged her. He wanted to hear her screaming and begging, to see an American destroyed.

The floggers took up their positions either side of her. Harris was making a high-pitching keening sound of raw fear, but the rest of the room was silent. “Twelve strokes,” said the official – Dhawan, Rao thought his name was. “Begin.”

She clenched her fists, tried to make herself small, but it was hopeless. She was bound immobile from the waist down. The right-handed flogger lay his cane across her ass. She flinched. He tapped once, twice, then stepped back. She closed her eyes, but the noise was horrifying enough. In a blur of white, the cane swept down. There was a dull thwap, and she felt her hips being driven into the bolster. For a moment that was the worse pain, but then the numbness of shock lifted and she felt the line of fire across her buttocks. Her head jerked up and her hands lifted, jarring her wrists painfully against the cuffs. A tremor passed through her. “Noooooooo!” she howled. “Stop this! Stop this! Pleaeaaseee…..!”

Rao smiled. A streak of deep red cut across the centre of her ass, the lash expertly landed so the tip just caught the very edge of her right buttock. It was like somebody had taken a ruler and drawn on the welt with an extremely thick pen. Her reaction was wonderful as well, as she twisted and thrashed. “One,” called Dhawan eventually, after waiting for her to calm. Except she wasn’t really calm. She was still writhing hopelessly as the left hander marked his spot.

This was terrible. This was worse than she’d expected. This was worse pain than the electric shocks. They were going to kill her. Her body couldn’t take another lash like that. Rebecca pulled hopelessly at the bonds, but from the waist down she couldn’t move. She felt the tap of the cane and braced herself. She knew she was tensing her muscles when that was the exact opposite of what the doctor had told her, but how could she relax? The cane swept in and there was an explosion of pain.  Her head snapped up, jarring her shoulders, and loud scream roared from her lungs. It subsided slowly until it was just a quavering wail, but her thighs trembled. The pain went on and on. She gritted her teeth and roared again. “Stop!” she shouted, “Please stop!” She looked about desperately, looking for somebody who might be able to end this. But she just saw the man with the clipboard, who waited until she’d fallen silent and calmly announced, “Two.”

She looked over her left shoulder as the soldier with the turban prepared to lash her again. She blinked away the tears. “Please…” she said, but even as she spoke she saw the crowd and her humiliation checked the words in her throat. She was naked and bound with her ass in the air and they were enjoying seeing her pain. “Please…” she said again and this time her words were overtaken by a low wail. She watched him intently as he touched the cane to her buttocks, just below the two strokes she’d taken. His face was calm, utterly focused. His sleeve was rolled up to the elbow, his forearm broad and hairy. “Please,” she shouted. “Don’t do this…” But he was impassive. He tapped her twice, then stepped back and, his eyes still fixed on her buttocks, ran in three paces, sweeping the cane down. She saw the effort on his face and the cane struck just where he’d aimed. Her head jerked up and she howled, mouth wide, the muscles in her neck straining.

*

Her thighs were quivering, shudders passing through her body, a constant moan pouring from her lips. The slowness was exquisite, making her wait, making her anticipate the pain. Three stripes, half an inch apart, streaked across her buttocks. Patel watched the left-handed flogger line up the fourth, tapping the crease where the curve of her buttocks met the straight of the thigh. Subsequent blows would inevitably hit bruised flesh and her suffering would be intensified. Harris had stopped begging and was staring at her hands, which trembled in their chains. The left-handed flogger drew slowly back, then swept in, his movements fluid and powerful. The cane struck right at the base of the cheek with a whistle and a crash. Her whole body seemed to lift, jerking at the bonds. Her howl was dreadful: three or four seconds of the purest agony, settling to sobs and moans and a constant begging plea. “Stop this… stop this…. stop this…” She was shaking constantly, opening and closing her fists, wailing hopelessly. “Four,” Dhawan called.

Patel wondered if her mind might have gone. He’d never seen anybody so utterly broken. There would be no reprieve, though. And he knew the next stroke was when the real pain would begin, when the cane began landing on bruised flesh. What a sight she was, so compact, so perfectly proportioned, everything so smooth and perfect apart from those four purple streaks across her pale skin. They were flogging her unbelievably slowly, making her suffer, dragging it out. The right-hander finally measured his stroke, tapping twice, prompting renewed sobs, and raced in. The power was awesome, that muscular right arm thrashing the cane into the buttock with a practised snap of the wrist. The cane was just a white blur until the whump of it striking taut flesh. Her scream was like nothing Patel had ever heard before, a howl of high-pitched primal agony. Her head had snapped up and he could see how the muscles in her shoulders and back had tensed. For several seconds it went on, broken only as she gulped in breath, and slowly it subsided to a rasping sob. She shook violently, the chains around her wrists and ankles jangling. “Five,” Dhawan announced at last.

Her heart was thumping. Her throat was sore with screaming. Her wrists bled. They weren’t even halfway. How could they give her seven more? She would die. She wanted to die. She felt the tap of the flogger lining up the sixth stroke. She began screaming again. Tap, tap. Just below the centre of her buttocks. The tapping stopped. There was a moment of silence, then the shuffle of his feet and the tremendous whoop of the cane as it swished through the air. As the blow struck, her vision seemed to go dark. There were spots of light. Slowly her eyes focused and she was staring at the painted brick of the back of the hall, roaring in pain. Her whole body shook. Her buttocks were in agony. Slowly, her screams subsided into barks of pain. Mucus hung from her nose. Saliva hung from her mouth, the two combining, smearing her face and clinging to her chin.

“Six,” came the voice, It was only half. She had to take the same again. On flesh that was already bruised. Her heart was beating faster than she’d ever known. Her thighs were quivering. Couldn’t they see she was broken? That they’d destroyed her? The cane tapped her again. Even that caused her to shriek in pain.

*

Rao glanced around him. Everybody was staring, transfixed, by the scene before them, this American girl bound naked and howling, forced to confront her crimes. The Sikh, merciless, slashed the cane across the bottom of her cheeks. Her feet flicked up before the chains restricted them and she screamed, head snapping back. Rao wondered how he could get the Sikh’s job, but he knew this was a rare pleasure: women were rarely flogged and ones as pretty as this almost never. She fell back to an incoherent mumbling, begging and sobbing, her strength seeming to diminish. “Seven.” Her thighs continued to shake as violently as ever, though, as the left hander began measuring his stroke.

He seemed to wait for ever, waiting for her to fall calm. The cane lay across the centre of the buttocks. She fell silent. The room was hushed, expectant. Slowly the flogger stepped back and then he uncoiled. The dull thud as the cane struck flesh seemed louder than ever. She jolted forwards, the straps around her knees all that held her back. Her scream was atrocious and across her buttocks, Rao saw blood. He’d split the skin of the left cheek. Harris began to retch, her body lurching with each heave, terrible sounds coming from her mouth: sobbing screams interspersed with rasps from deep within her. “Eight.”

*

Rebecca had never dreamt anything could hurt like this. Slowly the spasms passed and she slumped exhausted, head hanging down between her arms. She looked back along her body, her breasts dangling from her chest and beyond them her thighs forming a triangle, tufts of hair at the top, through which she could see them, the audience, the dignitaries who’d come to watch her be flogged. Sweat and tears dripped from her. She spat the phlegm away from her mouth, but it still hung around her lips and chin.

She saw the Sikh approach, his expression blank. He touched the cane against her buttocks. Even that was enough to send waves of agony radiating through her. She gave a sharp gasp, he tapped, once, twice, three times, each touch making her yelp. It was coming. She waited. She moaned in terror. Then there it was, the soft shuffle of his steps, the whoosh of the cane and the extraordinary pain as the cane smacked into her. Her shoulders shot up until the handcuffs restrained her and she shrieked. More spasms passed through her and as she slowly collapsed back down she saw her wrists had been rubbed bare, blood welling around the joint. She felt nothing but the fire in her ass, though. She screamed again, her thighs wobbling pitiably. How could this go on? “Nine.”

*

It was taking around a minute between strokes, Patel estimated. It was true that she was writhing a lot, but still, this seem a special cruelty, drawing out the pain, making her anticipate the next stroke. Her small, tight buttocks were streaked from top to bottom with deep purple stripes, red showing across the middle of her left cheek and a little lower on her right were the skin had been broken. The left hander slowly stepped up. She seemed to cringe as she sensed him there. She was shaking and hyperventilating, moaning incoherently. He lay the cane across the top of her ass. She twitched, opening and closing her hands. Back he went and in a blur of white the stroke was delivered. There was a slight downward angle to the blow and it seemed to travel even quicker, the noise of the impact a sharp tthhwt. She sounded exhausted as she screamed, her head dropping as soon as the initial upward jerk caused by the lash had passed.

*

It was too much. Rebecca found her strength had left her. She hung over the bolster, arms held up only by the chains. Her head fell between her shoulders, which meant she had that view again of her own nakedness and, framed by her thighs and her pussy, the crowd, staring at her. She sniffed, trying to clear her nostrils, and spat out mucus. She saw the Sikh approach, felt the touch of the cane as he measured the stroke, then saw him disappear. She raised her head in anticipation, corners of her mouth turned down, heart pounding as her breathing came in rapid shallow gulps. She heard the whoosh and then the pain exploded again. Her head rocked back and she screamed, took a breath and screamed again. She fell forwards and felt waves of nausea pass over her. She retched, shudders gripping her. She felt intensely cold and retched again, spitting out the stringy salvia that gathered in her mouth.

*

That was the third stroke to split her buttocks, Rao noted. He wondered how they’d heal. The wounds didn’t look deep and it wasn’t as though they’d concentrated the blows on one part of her buttocks, as he knew they sometimes did to make the wound too wide ever fully to recover. One more. She flopped limply over the bolster. He could see her right breast hanging away from her chest, the nipple a deep red cone. He was seized suddenly with an urge to hold her again, to squeeze those breasts until she shouted with pain, to make her perform for him. Slowly, almost casually, the left-handed flogger took his place, touching the cane to the top of the buttocks. Her whimpering was audible again. The flogger stepped back then charged in: it was clear he was putting extra effort in to the last stroke, transferring his weight fully through the shoulder, snapping the wrist. The cane slashed into the flesh. Her head and shoulders jerked up, the chains rattled and she gave a weak cough of agony before slumping again, shaking and sobbing.

*

Rebecca didn’t understand what was going on. It was over, so why weren’t they releasing her? She was draped over the bolster, her buttocks in unbelievable agony, but her wrists and ankles red raw, her hips bruised by being driven into the frame, shoulders and back aching from her gyrations in the chains. She didn’t know what came next, but she just wanted to get of that hall, to get off that frame. Eventually, four soldiers were around her. Her wrists were unfastened, the guards holding her arms tightly, twisting them behind her back and cuffing them together again. What was this? Did they really think she was a danger to them? They were rough with her, holding her shoulders down until the wrists were fastened, and only then unbuckling the strap around her waist.  They yanked her into a kneeling position, uncuffed her ankles and unfastened the straps around her knees. She’d thought there would be relief in being released but everything felt numb.

The officer with the clipboard was shouting at her but she couldn’t make out what he was saying. Everything was a blur. The soldiers grabbed her arms and spun her round. Her legs didn’t seem to work, so she was held up only by the soldiers. They each had one hand under her armpit, the other on her forearm and she dangled between them, shins limp on the stage. Facing the audience, she suddenly felt intensely naked again. What was this? How could they do this? How could they strip a girl naked in a room full of men, tie her down and beat her so hard her buttocks bled? She felt tears welling in her eyes again and bit her trembling lower lip. She spat away the drool that hung from her mouth: she couldn’t even wipe her mouth. As they led her down the steps and along the aisle, she could feel their eyes staring at her, drinking in her nudity and shame. She gazed numbly at them, her legs uselessly dragging behind her.

*

Patel forced his way into the ante-room where she’d been stripped. She was there again, lying face down on the bench, which had been moved away from the wall to run down the centre of the room. She was surrounded by politicians and local bigwigs who had forced or bribed their way in to examine her wounds close up. A man wearing an expensive suit with slicked back hair was bent right over, his nose no more than six inches from her buttocks. Where was Dhawan? Patel took charge and managed to clear a space for the doctor.

Dhawan arrived at last and ordered everybody out. “You can inspect her when the doctor’s seen her,” he said. Having shuffled everybody bar the doctor, four soldiers and Patel through the door, he approached the girl. He looked closely at her buttocks, then gently ran a finger over her right cheek. His touch was light, but she shrieked in pain. He stepped away and nodded at Patel, who softly lay his hands on her buttocks. She tensed and shouted and he was struck by the astonishing heat her arse gave off. He could almost feel the swelling, as well, of course, as the welts where the skin was broken. He patted her lightly and she roared in agony.

He stepped away as the soldiers approached. They’d done this before, perhaps not with a girl this slight or pretty, but they knew the procedure. They split, two on either side. One held her shoulders, one her back, one her knees and one her ankles. The doctor approached, holding a large brown bottle. He uncorked it, unleashing a pungent smell of antiseptic. He took a sponge in his right hand, the bottle in his left, and poured. When it was soaked, he approached her and began softly patting at her buttocks with the sponge. Patel saw her tense at the first touch, the clear pain at even that level of contact. And then the sponge touched the raw welt where the skin was broken. Her howl was otherworldly and it took all the strength of the soldiers to hold her down as she thrashed about. The doctor abandoned his gentleness, dabbing quickly, seemingly keen to be finished. When he was done, she was left panting and sobbing, her body trembling.

Dhawan was merciless. Barely had the doctor stepped away when he gave the order for her to be taken into the corridor. The soldiers pulled her up and hauled her through the door. She seemed numb, her legs unsteady. Dhawan had them unfasten her hands and he ordered her to place them on the whitewashed wall in front of her. When she hesitated, the soldiers grabbed her and pushed her hands roughly against the bricks. They backed away and she stood, shakily, bent slightly at the waist, legs apart, a look of fear and confusion on her face. Patel sympathised. This was desperately cruel, but the politicians wanted to see her. They’d been taken to have tea while the doctor saw to her and it was several minutes before they appeared in the corridor in a fug of cigarette smoke and laughter. They clustered around her, a dozen of them, the majority smoking. They made coarse jokes and taunted her in the local language, making a show of inspecting her, peering close to her buttocks. Her head dropped and she began to cry again. Then one prodded her and she yelped, even as Dhawan moved in to ask them not to touch. Another bent, stooping under her outstretched arm, so he face was next to hers. “How do you like our justice?” he asked in English, then blew smoke in her face, laughing as she coughed. “Are you going to keep fighting?” he went on. “The brave little American girl battling injustice?” He laughed again and grabbed her breast, at which Dhawan began to move them on.

*

Rebecca woke. She pushed herself up uncertainly and looked around. She was in a cell that was covered from floor to ceiling in tiles, as she had been the last three times she’d woken up. She was lying face down on a thin mattress on a cot, dressed in a light gown, a sheet covering her. Her head ached and felt heavy. She blinked. She realised she must have been sedated. She tried to push herself up onto her side, and discovered her left ankle was shackled by a length of chain to a rail at the base of the bed. Her buttocks ached terribly. She heard footsteps and instinctively cringed, but when the door opened, a woman in a nurse’s uniform came in. She locked the door behind her.

“How are you feeling, Harris?” she asked.

Rebecca said nothing. She couldn’t quite work out was happening. The nurse helped her to push herself up into a half kneeling position, so her weight wasn’t on her buttocks, and gave her water and a bowl of gruel. When she’d eaten – using a spoon, a rare pleasure – she lay back on her front, the nurse flipped up her gown and applied some sort of gel to her buttocks. Soon she fell asleep again.

*

Patel waited impatiently. They’d agreed that Harris should be given two weeks in the clinic to recover before she went to the camps: she’d leave tomorrow, but he intended to enjoy her last night. There was a knock at the door. He ordered the guards to enter. Four surrounded her. She was hooded, with her wrists cuffed behind her. He had them unfasten her, remove the hood and leave.

She looked baffled and beautiful, some of the greyness having left her skin. The pale gown accentuated her delicateness. She blinked and looked at him. “Take it off,” he said. She barely hesitated. She stood, arms by her sides, resentful and nude before him. What a fragile little thing she was, how round and pert and perfect those breasts. “You know what to do,” he said.

She looked at him, shame and resignation written on her face, walked slowly towards him and knelt down. She unbuckled his belt, unhooked the waistband, unzipped the fly and pulled his trousers down. She lowered his boxer shorts, took his penis in her mouth and began to pleasure him. He wondered if she considered biting him, but she must know what the consequences of that would be. He grew hard swiftly, trying to calm himself as her little tongue fluttered up and down his shaft. He looked down at her, at the brown hair and the smooth narrow back and the buttocks. Her poor buttocks. They were still streaked a deep purple: he wondered if they’d ever heal. It had been a dreadful flogging and he knew it was his doing. He stroked her hair and she glanced up at him. He smiled at her, encouraging her to go on. She was good. He wondered if, under other circumstances, they might have been lovers, but the thought made him angry. She almost certainly thought herself too good for him and she was a subversive. He wondered, even now, as he came slowly to climax, whether she might somehow be seducing him.

“Drink it,” he said as he came, thrusting deep into her. “Keep sucking. Make sure you get it all.”

He felt her tongue working over the tip of his cock, felt he sucking as she eased herself off. He watched as she forced herself to swallow.

“Good girl,” he said.

He backed away and pulled up his trousers. “Stand up,” he ordered.

She obeyed and stood before him, head bowed, arms uneasily by her sides. “Head up, shoulders back,” he ordered. Biting he lip, she raised her head and straightened her back, pushing her tits forwards. She still felt shame – that was good. What a sight she was, so sweet and compact. “Come here,” he said. Hesitantly she walked forwards. He ran his hands over her body, delighting in the smoothness of her skin. He still couldn’t quite believe how slim she was, how narrow that back. He held her to him, feeling her resistance, his palms tracing her shoulder blades and her vertebrae and the satiny skin between. He let his fingers play on her ribs and over her taut stomach and then, inevitably, they closed on those pert breasts, the softest, most delicate things he’d ever touched. He lowered his face to them and began to suck and nibble, chewing gently on her left nipple. He felt her tense and begun to pull away and her clear disgust overwhelmed him. He grabbed her buttocks, hard, grinding his fingers into the soft tissue. She yelped in pain, arching her back and pulling away from him. Abruptly he reached for her chest and pushed her, so she fell back onto the carpet.

She looked up at him, scared and resentful. “How dare you back away from me?” he hissed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she gasped. “Please…”

“I could hand you over to be flogged again.”

“No,” she shouted, scrambling to her knees. “I’m sorry. Whatever you want… Please…”

Her hands were clasped in prayer in front of her.

“Stand up,” he said.

She obeyed and stood servilely, with her arms by her side.

“Come here!”

She walked slowly to him. He began playing with her breasts again. She stood absolutely still. “Unfasten my belt.” She did so. He made her take down his trousers and boxer shorts. His penis was begin to swell again.

“Press your breasts on either side of my penis,” he said.

She looked nervously at him, then lowered herself. He felt the softness against his prick. He stroked her hair. “Masturbate me with your breasts,” he said. Uncertainly she moved up and down, but gradually she got into the rhythm of it. It was, for him, a wonderful feeling. He’d never known breasts entrance him as hers did – not huge, not flat, just pert and smooth and perfect. He felt himself about to come and shoved her head down. She understood, taking the tip of his penis in her mouth as he spurted. She swallowed hurriedly then looked up at him.

He patted her head. “Good girl,” he said.

He had a decision to make. He knew if he sent her back to her cell that the men would have their fun with her. She’d go through hell: multiple rapes and beating. Rao probably had plans.  Or he could wait, keep her here until he’d recovered a little vitality and fuck her again. He liked the idea of fucking her up the ass, of squeezing himself between those bruised and swollen buttocks. He’d never done that, fucked a girl who’d been flogged.

*

Rebecca didn’t really understand what was happening. He’d made her kneel on the rug in front of his desk and now he was doing paperwork, occasionally glancing up at her with a smile. At last an hour had gone by since he’d made her squeeze his cock between her tits. She was still naked – of course – and her knees were complaining, but she supposed this was at least better than being handed over to Rao. And at last she was warm.

He stood up, slowly, snapping the lip back on his pen. “Right,” he said. “I think I’m ready again.”

He was going to fuck her again? He’d just been regathering his energy? She hated him.

“Come here,” he said.

She walked forward, heart thumping again. “Round to this side of the desk.”

He cleared away his folders, leaving a space. “Bend over,” he said. No! He couldn’t flog her again. “Please…” she murmured, but she knew resistance would only make things worse. She lowered herself onto the wood.

“You may want to grip the far side,” he said.

Her hands grasped at the opposite edge, stretching her little body so her feet only just touched the floor. She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip, laying her right cheek on the varnished surface. She heard him unbuckling his belt. “Do you want me to count, sir?” she croaked.

There was a pause. Then he laughed. “Oh no,” he said. “I’m not going to beat you.”

Suddenly she understood. “No!” she shouted. “No!” She started to stand, but he was on her, his body pushing down on hers. She felt his hands parting her buttocks, the touch still painful, her anus being spread. She felt his fingers probing and then, with a sudden thrust, his cock inside her, carefully sheathed, she knew, in a condom. The pain was dreadful; the shame somehow worse. Her whole body tensed, her fingers gripping desperately at the edge of the desk as he forced his way inside her. Slowly he pulled back, and then he hammered hard into her. She yelled, clinging to the desk, praying for it to be over. How long did it take? She had no idea. She was in blind pit of humiliation, his hands grasping her waist, his mouth panting into her curls, his boots pushing against the insides of her ankles. Finally, with a grunt, he was done.

*

Patel was sweating. That had been magnificent. He stood up from the desk and looked at her quaking form. He ordered her to kneel. Staring at the floor, unable to look at him, she did, stiffly, clearly in pain. He led out the fingers of his left hand that he’d used to locate her anus. “Lick them,” he said. After a momentary hesitation she did, seemingly making a point of thoroughly cleaning them. With his right hand he slipped the condom off his detumescig penis, then made her clean that, too. As he felt her little tongue caress the tip he wondered if he might manage to come a fourth time, but he knew he was too old for that. He withdrew and stepped back, pulling up his boxer shorts and his trousers.

He looked down at her. She knelt, hands clasped together, resting between her knees, looking demurely away from him. He ordered her to her feet and pulled her close to him. He ran his fingers through her hair, slid his hands over her smooth narrow back, and grabbed for the final time the firm bruised globes of her buttocks. “I have to hand you over now,” he said as she whimpered, “but you’ve been a good girl tonight. I won’t let the men have you.”

He let her dress, cuffed her wrists behind her, pulled the hood over her head and took her away to await her transport to the camps.

STATE OF EMERGENCY

Part Two

The Photograher

By

King Diocletian

1) The Demonstration<p>

Megan could smell tear gas on the air. The demonstration had been peaceful, but the riot police had reacted with the ruthlessness that had become increasing common in recent weeks. She applied some drops to her eyes to lessen the effects of the gas and looked across at the line of armour-clad police. She’d got a handful of shots of two of them laying into a defenceless old man that she was sure the newspapers would use if she could ever get out of here. As the demonstrators had fled the tear gas, she’d followed a group of perhaps two dozen of them, but as police had closed in, she’d found herself trapped down a cul- de-sac. The police had made them all sit on the road and, three hours later, it wasn’t clear exactly what they had planned.<p>

She’d approached the officer in charge and shown her credentials, but had brusquely been told to sit down. So she’d obeyed, zipping up her camera in her bag. She drank water, sipping from her bottle, rationing what she had. Who knew how long they’d keep them there? <p>

But she was bored. The officers didn’t seem to be paying much attention so, discreetly, she took a few pictures of the scene, of the protestors, most students, and of the riot police surrounding them. Not discreetly enough, it turned out. The heel of a palm clattered into the back of her head. She pitched forward, the camera falling from her grasp. She had it on a strap around her neck, but as she fell forward that couldn’t protect it and the lens scraped along the ground. <p>

Hands seized her and pulled her up. The camera was yanked from over her head. She was disoriented, but she thought there were two of them behind her, their hands holding upper arms tightly, forcing her upright. She blinked, trying to focus. A grinning face appeared in front of her. It moved back, and she saw he wore a sergeant’s stripes and that he was holding her camera. He raised it high in the air. “No-“ she murmured but she knew it was too late. Laughing, he dashed it on the ground. Pieces of plastic flew off. That was thousands of dollars-worth of equipment. She wondered if anything might be salvageable, but even as the thought crossed her mind, she saw him raise his truncheon and smash it down again and again, pulverising the camera. He shouted to another officer who carried her bag over to him. Slowly, methodically, he lay each lens, her other base unit, her tripod and her light meter on the ground. Then he smashed them all. <p>

“You bastard,” she hissed, and regretted it immediately. He stepped over to her and jabbed the end of his truncheon into her belly. <p>

*<p>

Megan sat in the back of a van. She was uncomfortable and hot, crowded in with a couple of dozen protestors. She was also in chains, unlike any of the others. After the sergeant had hit her, she’d fallen to her knees, coughing as she tried to regain her breath, and they’d forced her to the ground, cuffing her wrists behind her. She didn’t know how long they’d kept her there like that, lying face down, but it had seemed like a couple of hours before one of them had yanked at her pony-tail. The hands of two or three soldiers had seized her arms and pulled her to her feet, hustling her to the van. Nobody spoke. They’d all been warned about that, and the presence of three policemen made sure they obeyed.<p>

She looked at the others in there. A couple of white faces, but mainly locals. And only two women. Why had they chained her? Just because she’d taken a photo? It was ridiculous. And smashing her cameras? She felt sick to think of it. How could she replace that? She knew she’d need a police report to get the insurance, but how could she get that. Fuck them.<p>

The van came to a halt. The doors opened and suddenly there were shouts. Megan heard dogs barking. Officers were pulling people out of the van, throwing them down. She stood, stooping, trying to obey. Hands pulled her forwards. Another officer shoved her. “Out! Out! Out!” She jumped but it was hard to see what she jumping onto, especially with the guards all around pushing and shouting, prisoners stumbling and falling. She landed heavily, her balance not helped by having her wrists chained, but she stayed on her feet, almost running forwards with the momentum.<p>

They were in some kind of yard, drab whitewashed concrete all around. A prisoner fell in front of her and she saw two police officers kick him, bawling at him to get up, and they hustled them towards a door. Then somebody saw her cuffs and she was pulled aside. They made her stand facing a wall. She could see nothing, just hear the shouts of the guards and the occasional yelp of pain. Slowly the noise subsided as all the prisoners were forced inside. There was silence and she wondered if there was anybody else in the yard. She didn’t dare turn to look though and stood for what seemed an age, staring at the shabby whitewash. Then, quite suddenly, there were guards around her. She was shoved, hard, from her right, and stumbled. Somebody grabbed her arm and she was manhandled forwards and though a doorway.<p>

They unfastened her cuffs, then her hoodie was pulled off, leaving her in a tight-fitting grey vest, beneath which she was glad she was wearing a sports bra. She was pushed to the ground, and a blindfold fastened over her eyes as her trainers and socks were removed. They hauled her to her feet, shouting and pushing. Her wrists were cuffed together again, this time in front of her, and she was hustled along a corridor, feeling dusty concrete beneath her feet. She heard a door being unlocked and, as it was, guards went through the pockets of her jeans. She squirmed as fingers prodded and poked, hands spending far longer than necessary on her ass.<p>

She heard the door open and she was bundled in. There were four pairs of hands, she decided, on her bare arms, positioning her, shouting. She heard a chain unravelling above her and her arms were lifted in front of her. The cuffs were clipped to the chain and her arms raised above her head. Finally, just able to keep her feet on the ground, they stopped. A hand slapped at her denim-clad ass and there was laughter and then she heard them trooping out, leaving her stretched out, the position already uncomfortable.<p>

*<p>

2) The First Interrogation<p>

Sergeant Sharma took note of the breasts first. It was hard not to. He walked over to her and stared. Even with her arms extended above her head, flattening them inevitably, it was clear they were magnificent, round and firm, pushing against her grey vest. She’d been there about two hours when he walked in. She’d be tiring by now, for sure. Her arms would be aching, her shoulders sore. He looked at her passport. Megan Donohue. Australian. Twenty-eight. He looked at the photograph. Pretty, blue eyes. He looked at the prisoner in front of him, saw her blonde hair pulled in by the blindfold, the slim body, the exceptional breasts. He looked at her skin where her vest had ridden up, exposing a strip above the waistline of her jeans: smooth, flat, lightly tanned. He punched her.<p>

She coughed, gasping for air. Sharma nodded at the two officers by the pulley. They turned the handle slowly and she was raised, not high, just six inches or so off the ground. Her legs kicked, her toes stretched for the ground and she grunted as her shoulders took the strain.<p>

Sharma took a pace or two back to take in the sight. He wished they’d told him how pretty she was. He took his place behind a desk in the corner of the room and began the long slow process of interrogation.<p>

*<p>

Megan tried to remain calm. They had training, of course. No agency or magazine would send a photographer somewhere like this without training. They even practised being questioned, although those sessions were conducted sitting on a chair, not hanging by your wrists. She was strong, worked out a lot, surfed back at home but her shoulders had been in agony even before he’d hoisted her. Her wrists were numb, her chest and back now hurting as well and that was before the punch, a hard blow to the pit of her stomach.<p>

His questions went over and over the same ground. Who did she work for? Why was she here? Who did she sell her pictures to? How much money did she make? Where did she live? She had no idea how long it went on for. She just felt the pain in her arms growing worse.<p>

“You see,” he said. “My problem is that your photographs seem very negative. It’s as though you’re trying to paint a picture of this country as an unpleasant place. Is that what you’re doing?”<p>

“No,” she said, and suddenly a fist smashed into her ribs from her left. She hadn’t even realised there was anybody here. She gasped at the impact, swaying, moaning softly as she slowly returned to equilibrium. She breathed deeply. Calmness, she told herself, was vital.<p>

“Why not take pictures of nice things? Is our country not beautiful? Do we not have happy people?”<p>

“Of course,” she said, “but that’s not news.”<p>

She was punched again, from the right this time. She’d half-expected the blow, but that didn’t make it hurt any the less. “Who pays you?”<p>

She explained she’d used to work for an agency but now was freelance. On and on it went. Questions about which demonstrations she’s attended, whom she knew connected with organising them, who she’d seen at them. Had she actually demonstrated herself, or just taken pictures? She lost count of how often she was hit, a dozen times, perhaps more, always in the ribs or the stomach.<p>

*<p>

Sharma was frustrated. He’d questioned her for over two hours and he’d got nowhere. There was nothing at all that could get her convicted, not even by one of the emergency tribunals. Her head hung limply and she was clearly in pain but he had nothing. He gestured at the soldiers to lower her and walked out. He had to report to his superior. It wasn’t supposed to take this long.<p>

He took a deep breath, knocked on the wooden door and entered. Inspector Srinivasan was a thin old man with an almost entirely bald head to which a few tufts of white clung around the lower slopes. He looked up from behind his desk. “Have you got anything yet?” he asked.<p>

“Nothing, sir,” Sharma said.<p>

“Nothing?”<p>

“She’s a photographer but she doesn’t actually seem to have done much wrong.”

“Well, find something! If we arrest a white woman and rough her up, we have to convict.”<p>

Sharma looked uncertain. “You want me to have a go at her?” asked Srinivasan.<p>

“I think that may be a good idea, sir.”<p>

Srinivasan lay down his pen and stood up.  ‘She’s very beautiful, sir,” Sharma said.<p>

“Good. Then we should enjoy it.”<p>

*<p>

There’d only been a few minutes respite, in which Megan had lain awkwardly on the concrete, wrists still cuffed to the chain which had been lowered to a couple of feet above the ground. Her ribs and belly ached, her shoulders, arms and chest throbbed. Every breath hurt. She didn’t know what they wanted. She tried to think, to work out a way of getting out of this. She heard the door open and instinctively stiffened.<p>

“Get up!” a voice ordered. A different voice, she thought, older, more used to giving orders. He didn’t shout, just spoke with authority. Slowly she rolled onto her knees and forced herself to her feet, although the pain in her torso was intense. She heard the chain begin to rattle and braced herself as her arms were raised, lifting her until she could just reach the ground with the balls of her feet. They stopped there, which was at least some relief. Were they going to beat her again? She didn’t know if she could take any more.<p>

The older voice began questioning her. He seemed calmer than the previous one, more in control. He wasn’t aggressive, he didn’t shout at her. He asked who she worked for, seemed interested in how freelancing worked, probed around what she’d photographed, who for, and who had told her about demonstrations. He asked about who she knew who was involved in demonstrations, other photographers, journalists, people she knew in the expat community. He suggested names, some of which she knew and some she didn’t. She grew tired, her calves aching with the strain so she let her wrists take the weight until they and her arms became too tired and she stood again on her toes. Her stomach ached. Her mouth was dry, her head thumped; it was still very hot.<p>

*<p>

“Get a bottle of water,” Srinivasan ordered. She looked exhausted, her head hanging forward, strands of blonde hair spilling over her face. He walked over to her and gently placed his fingers under her chin, lifting her face. He took in the dusting of freckles across her cheeks, the perfect white teeth. “Miss Donohue,” he said. “Let me explain how serious your situation is.”<p>

With his other hand, he smoothed her hair back from her brow, clammy with sweat. “You were arrested at an illegal demonstration,” he said. “You illegally took photographs of police action with an intent to distribute. You resisted arrest. These are offences under the emergency legislation. You’re looking at a year or two in jail. Maybe more. Five years maybe.”<p>

A guard handed him a bottle of water. He screwed the cap and held it to her lips. “Here,” he said. “Drink.” She hesitated. “It’s bottled,” he said. “You’re OK.”<p>

Megan drank thirstily until he pulled the bottle away. “Slowly, slowly,” he said.<p>

“Now, here’s the deal. You give us some names. You tell us your contacts. You tell us who you saw at the demonstration, and we get you a ticket back to Australia. If you don’t, the unpleasantness continues and you go to prison for a very long time. Hard labour, maybe.”<p>

He held the bottle to her lips again and she drank. Suddenly, he jerked it away and poured the water than remained over her chest. “Whoops,” he said and, dropping the bottle, let his hands fall on her breasts. “Let me pat that dry,” he said. Her tits were extraordinary, round and full and deliciously firm. For almost a minute, he played with her, feeling her fury and fear. “Have a little think overnight,” he said. “Years in the camps or a plane ticket home?”<p>

He stepped away and gestured to the guards. “Put her in a cell,” he ordered.<p>

He walked back over to join Sharma and they watched as her arms were lowered. Srinivasan wondered if she’d collapse, but she had the strength to stay standing as they unfastened her wrists and the recuffed them behind her before hustling her out of the room.<p>

“Gorgeous, isn’t she?” Sharma said.<p>

“She’s a criminal,” Srinivasan said sharply. “She just happens to have magnificent breasts.”<p>

“What happens now?”<p>

“I think the best thing might be if we have her flogged. Prepare the punishment room, but let’s give her three or four hours.”<p>

*<p>

3) The Flogging<p>

Megan lay awkwardly on her side on the hard concrete floor, wrists cuffed behind her. She was still blindfold, but from what she could make out she was in a small cell, perhaps three feet across and seven or eight feet long. The walls, an exploration with her feet had determined, were also concrete and the door was just a set of bars on a hinge. She ached: her shoulders, her stomach, her ribs were all bruised and she felt both hungry and thirsty. Every now and again she heard the tramp of boots in the corridor and she’d wonder if they were bringing her water, but the only attention they paid her was to prod her through the bars, as though they had orders to prevent her sleeping. Not that she’d probably have slept anyway. She’d heard rumours of what happened in police stations since the state of emergency had been introduced but she hadn’t really believed it could happen to a foreigner, not even after that student – what was her name? – had gone missing. Harris, was it? Rebecca Harris. After all, she’d done nothing wrong. Every now and again she heard somebody being marched or dragged one way or the other: bare feet sounded different on the floor, there were shouts or sobs, occasionally the sound of a fist or baton striking flesh. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wishing she didn’t feel as terrified.<p>

She must have fallen asleep because she started when the door opened. Hands gripped her legs and pulled her out into the corridor and she was hauled to her feet. A slap on her buttocks and rough hands on her arms encouraged her to walk. What was this? More torture?<p>

*<p>

Srinivasan was irritated by how many people were there. He could understand why but the reason he was flogging her in the middle of the night was to try to keep it quiet. The punishment room was a bleak place and often he found the beatings carried out there tawdry. He accepted the necessity of breaking the traitors but there was rarely anything uplifting about watching terrified men being beaten to a pulp, particularly not when the enjoyment of those inflicting the beatings was so apparent. This time, he was looking forward to it, and not only because he wanted to see her breasts. Her manner had irritated him, and he wanted to hear her scream.<p>

The room was large, the walls and a square section of the floor covered in grimy tiles. In the centre of the square was a concrete cube about three feet high – a ventilation unit or something originally, he assumed.  In its centre had been set two chains, slightly rusted now, each a foot long and ending in a steel manacle. It was over that that she would be fastened. To either side of the block stood a soldier, each holding a length of rubber hosepipe around four feet long. They left painful red welts but rarely broke the skin and shouldn’t bruise too badly.<p>

The guards brought Donohue in. He could sense her unease, her fear. They took her to stand in front of the block, facing away from it, towards him, beneath the only light in the room, and pushed her to her knees. She kept her head upright, clearly aware there were other people in the room. “Kneel up straight, Miss Donohue,” Srinivasan said. She obeyed, moving her shoulders back so her breasts were even more pronounced. “Remove the blindfold.”<p>

Off it came. He wanted her to see what was happening, to know how many were witnessing her flogging. That, he thought, would enhance her humiliation without her really being able to recognise those inflicting the beating. She blinked, even in the gloomy light that he knew meant she would barely be able to see him. He could see her, though, the blue eyes he had admired on her ID card peering and the clutch of figures in the shadows.<p>

“Megan Donohue,” he said, sounding as stern as he could. “Under the emergency legislation I am empowered to pass judgement upon you for certain offences. You resisted arrest and for that offence I sentence you to 20 lashes.”<p>

“What?” she said sharply, but even as she did so soldiers were pushing her to the floor. Her chains were removed and her arms yanked in front of her, a soldier holding each. Others held her legs and another two grabbed her vest. Realising what was going on, she gasped and wriggled, but there were too many of them and it came off, revealing smooth, tanned skin and a white sports bra. The hands grabbed eagerly at that. “No!” she yelped, but it was hopeless. It too was yanked over her head, and Srinivasan saw the side of her left beast hanging free before she was shoved back to the floor, two guards kneeling on her smooth golden back as others began to work on her jeans. She struggled, but there were enough to them to unfasten the button and pull the waistband down. He saw white lycra stretched tight over firm buttocks, then her bare thighs. The jeans bunched around her knees but she couldn’t resist and they were soon lying alongside her vest and her bra. The pants followed, her screams and kicks useless against their strength.<p>

The soldiers pulled her to her knees, two on each arm, and her nakedness was revealed to them. She glared in fury in Srinivasan’s direction, teeth gritted, but he was concerned only by the sight of her body. Her skin was gloriously smooth, a rich honeyed hue, but it was her breasts that captured the attention, round and full, a little paler than her best ad belly and deliciously firm. They had promised much under the vest and they delivered fully. “Fasten her to the block,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as he could. The soldiers spun her round and shoved her down, cuffing her wrists so she knelt, bent over the concrete cube.<p>

“Take her clothes away and search them thoroughly,” he ordered, and waited while a soldier complied. She glanced over her shoulder, her face a mixture of fear and anger. One of the floggers stepped forward and smoothed her hair off her back, so the majority of it hung over her left cheek.<p>

Srinivasan nodded. Her back was incredible – a golden tablet. The first flogger stepped back, raised up his hosepipe and with tremendous force smashed it down across her smooth skin. She gasped as it struck with a dull whump and a couple of seconds later gave a sharp cough as she tried to breathe again. “One,” he called.<p>

Around 10 seconds passed. She waited, hunched forwards, as though she were trying to hide her breasts behind the post. The second blow landed and she yelped. “Two,” he said. These beatings could be such gruesome affairs, a snivelling old man or a fat teenager having the resistance smashed out of them, but this was something remarkable, a beautiful white girl naked in the lights as two uniformed men flogged her. What a figure she had, what pure skin. She flinched as the third blow landed, her ass lifting so he got a splendid view of her creamy buttocks. <p>

*<p>

The air was driven out of Megan’s lungs again. “Six!” came the call. She stared at her hands, restrained by the rusting cuffs, and at the coarse concrete her arms rested on. She knelt awkwardly, grit on the floor digging in to her knees, pressing her breasts down into her thighs, keeping her head low between her arms. She was willing her brain to work. What was the best way of minimising the damage? Her back smarted but she knew there was bruising as well; this was a pain that would last. Did it make sense to change the angle, even if it meant showing her breasts?  A seventh blow landed, low, around the base of her ribs. She pushed herself up, so her back was at perhaps a 45 degree angle to the ground. Her breasts felt suddenly vulnerable, exposed on her chest. The lash struck across her shoulder blades. Her head snapped back, her breasts bounced and she shouted in pain. That had been a mistake. She had to curl up again. But she was still blinking in shock, recovering her breath when the next blow struck. It hit hard under her right armpit and knocked her sideways so her weight went onto her right hip. That left her left side exposed and the tenth thudded into her ribs. She coughed, winded, unable to move. <p>

There was a slight pause and she heard an order being given, although the precise words were indistinct to her. Hands grabbed her waist and her thighs and she was pulled out, unable to resist as they stretched her out so she lay straight on the rough concrete, head hanging down between her arms. The next blow smashed across her thighs. Her legs felt numb. It was agony. She screamed, and another lash thudded into her buttocks. This was awful, somehow more demeaning than being beaten on her back. She wanted to draw her legs up, but another blow, across the top of her calves, stilled her.<p>

*<p>

Sharma watched in awe as they flogged the lower half of her body. A lash into those magnificent buttocks, the flogger driving down hard, grunting with effort, the flesh yielding then springing back, marked by broad purple welt. “Fourteen,” said Srinivasan. He’d never seen a woman with a body like that, so perfect, rounded exactly where it was supposed to be, yet firm. But it was the skin that really got him: it seemed to glow with health, so smooth, so golden. They lashed her thighs, shudders passing down her legs. She was tough, though, resisting. She wasn’t howling for mercy, although she was obviously in pain, most blows drawing anguished grunts. The seventeenth was back across her ass and he watched in fascination as two welts crossed. On the slightly paler skin of the buttocks, the bruising seemed particularly savage, deep purple stripes. They returned to her back for the final three, leaving her panting, head hanging below her arms, blonde hair trailing on the concrete.<p>

On Srinivasan’s order, soldiers blindfolded her again, then her wrists were chained behind her. Still naked, they pulled her to her feet. She seemed stunned, stumbling as they hustled her towards the door. Sharma couldn’t take his eyes off her, the firm round breasts trembling as she was propelled across the room. Even beaten, being manhandled like that, there was a grace to her. As the light from the corridor fell on her, her saw the livid streaks across her shoulders, back, buttocks and thighs.<p>

*<p>

4) The Second Interrogation<p>

Megan stretched put again, trying to find a position of comfort. After they’d flogged her, they’d brought her back to the cell and shoved her down so she fell hard onto the concrete floor, hands chained so she couldn’t protect herself.  She’d landed heavily on her right knee, scraping the skin, adding additional discomfort. There was no position in which she didn’t hurt. Her belly and ribs ached from the beating, her back, buttocks and thighs still throbbed from the flogging. She tried to sit, knees to chin to shield her body from the guards she was sure were staring at her through the door, but the pain in her ass was too much. She lay curled on her side but her arm soon went numb. In the end she lay face down, feeling the girt of the cold floor against her breasts and the side of her face, but that made her neck ache. And all the time her brain was racing: what was she going to do? How long would they keep beating her before they gave up? Did they have worse in store? They all knew the stories about electric shocks. They’d been told on their training course there was no surviving them, that eventually they’d break you so you may as well give in straight away.<p>

Every time she heard footsteps in the corridor she shuddered. She was desperate to get away from here, desperate to put some clothes on, but she knew that while she was in that cell they weren’t torturing her. She tried to think. Whose names could she give them that they must already know? Who did she know that they would know and that they would know she knew?<p>

The truth was her contacts were only ordinary. A French photographer would tell her when something was about to go off. She got the emails from the official groups. She thought most of those at the university were poseurs but she knew and liked a couple of them. Lars was a good man, devoted to exposing human rights abuses. She’d met Nina a few times mainly because she was another Aussie. Then of course there was Steve McCoy, who she found overbearing, far too sure of himself. And that medical student who worked with him. What was she called? Always seemed very sensible and bright, far sharper than McCoy. Beth something, was it?<p>

The footsteps stopped. She heard voices. She felt a wave of fear. The door opened. She instinctively shuffled back, but there was nowhere to go. Hands grabbed her. There were four of them, she thought. They pulled her to her feet and unfastened the cuff from her left wrist. She was shoved forwards into the grille of the door. Her hands were pulled through the bars and the cuffs refastened so she was locked, standing, naked. They opened the door again, forcing her to walk back, still blindfold, still unsure what was going on, then filed out and slammed the door shut, jerking her forward. There was laughter as she stumbled and hands pawed through the bars at her breasts but they soon went away and she was left to contemplate the full horror of her situation, chained naked and blindfold in an upright position. Sleep would be impossible and she was utterly at their mercy.<p>

*<p>

Srinivasan was irritated. This Australian photographer shouldn’t even be his responsibility but Sharma was a fool so he’d taken charge – and now it was him getting the grief for it. Sharma would probably have just kept beating her till her ribs were jelly and got nowhere. He knew he would break her in time – and, given how she looked and how magnificent her breasts, held have enjoyed it – but now he was getting calls from on high. The cells were needed, they said. Why had some photographer been put in one of the isolation cells that were meant to be reserved for senior political prisoners? The message was clear: get her to confess, get her out of there and get her to a camp where the Secpol could work on her if they needed to. That was always the way these days – no chance for ordinary officers to work on a prisoner, no chance to build a proper base of knowledge.<p>

He pushed the door open hard so it slammed into the wall, and saw her flinch. Good. He’d had them bring her two hours earlier to the interrogation cell, fastening her wrists, still chained behind her, to the wall about five feet off the ground so she could neither stand comfortably nor sit. She’d been squatting awkwardly but aware of a presence in the room, she stood, apparently aware how her previous posture had exposed her cunt. Standing bent forward, though, simply emphasised her breasts, full round and as magnificent as he remembered them.<p>

“Fasten her up,” he said.<p>

Soldiers seized her and hauled her to the centre of the room, unfastening one wrist and with a brutal expertise refastening her wrists in front of her. The ceiling chain was attached and she was raised until she was stretched out, her heels raised just a little off the ground. What a body she had, the skin so soft and smooth, the breasts so round and firm. Srinivasan walked around her, admiring her. She must be exhausted, he thought, chained to the door of her cell for eight hours before being brought here. He performed a full circuit, inspecting the deep red marks on her back, buttocks and thighs. He stood behind her and ran a finger over a bruise across the middle of her back. She gave a slight grunt of pain. “They flogged you?” he asked. Never let them know anything.<p>

“Yes, sir,” she whispered.<p>

“What for? What did you do wrong?”<p>

“I don’t know, sir.”<p>

He placed his hands on her buttocks, admiring their firm curve. “I see,” he said, and squeezed so she yelped.<p>

He moved his hands up to cup her breasts. They were wonderfully full and firm. He pulled her to him, smelling her hair, relishing the sense of her femininity against his uniform. He would have loved to work her over for days but he knew there was no time. Gently massaging her breasts he spoke calmly into her ear. “Let’s do a deal,” he said. “I would love to interrogate you for hours. As you must be aware, you have a very special body. I would like nothing more than to admire it at my leisure. But my bosses need results, so if you don’t co-operate, there’ll be a need for encouragement. They’ll beat you. Not just with their hands or the rubber hosepipes they used last night, but with their truncheons. They’ll smash you to pulp. They’ll break your ribs. It would be a terrible waste of your beauty.”<p>

He let his hands run to her hips and pulled her against him. “Let’s not do that. Just confess. You will tell me what I want to know. The only question is how much pain and what sort of pain I have to inflict to get you to cooperate. Confess you acted against the government and we’ll give you your clothes back and put you before a tribunal. No more beatings, no more questions. Just a simple confession and the names of a couple of your contacts – people we already know about – and you’ll be getting a fine and a ticket on a plane home.”<p>

He patted her bottom. “What do you say?”<p>

She said nothing. He let his fingers play between her legs. She squirmed. “Really? Nothing?” He jabbed two fingers between her lips and she gasped. “Think how unpleasant this could become,” he said. “Have a think.” He stepped away and signalled for them to lift her.<p>

*<p>

She hung. She ached. Her arms and her shoulders and her chest felt numb, each slight movement sending spasms of pain through her. Her wrists hurt where the chains dug in. Her back, buttocks and thighs hurt where they’d flogged her. She even ached in her quads from the awkward position they’d held her in before hanging her. She’d been tired even before that. Breathing was difficult.  And she was terrified. What could she do? She tipped her head back to try to relieve some of the tension in her shoulders, but it just increased the discomfort in her chest.<p>

She had to give in. She had to confess. Say she’d deliberately undermined them. Give them names. Nobody could blame her. They must know about Steve McCoy. She’d give them his name. How long had she hung here? She had no idea. It might have been 15 minutes, it might have been three hours. She just wanted to be let down.<p>

The door opened with a crash. She heard shouts. Men. Four, five of them at least. She heard their feet approach her. Something hard and cold touched her belly.<p>

A truncheon.<p>

The tip ran down her stomach and paused at her belly button. She tensed as the truncheon ran down further, pressing on her labia. “Please…” she whispered. The truncheon fell away and then sharply tapped her. She yelped. Another truncheon was laid across the small of her back. It pulled away and she heard a great whoosh. She flinched, but there was no contact. There was laughter, then the taunting began again, the truncheon running down the inside of left leg before tapping painfully on her ankle.<p>

“We’ll thrash you with two of these,” one said. “Then we’ll stick one up your arse and one up your cunt so far you’ll taste them.”<p>

She felt terrified. The truncheon was laid against her ribs and she felt terribly vulnerable. Again they tapped her, the percussions reverberating through her. “Beat you here? Fracture your ribs so you can’t even breathe without pain?” She felt nauseous. “Or maybe start with your fleshier parts?” The truncheon dropped to her thighs. “Here,” the voice taunted. “Or here,” it moved to her buttocks. “Or…” she knew where it was going. “Here.” He flicked the undersides of her breasts. Then, with a gentle swat at her buttocks, he was gone. She heard their boots departing, heard the door open and close again and she was left sobbing into her blindfold.<p>

*<p>

Sharma followed Srinivasan into the cell. Donohue hung, naked and gorgeous, blindfolded and clearly terrified, the back of her body striped by the flogging of the night before. Four soldiers followed. He felt a lurch in his heart. He wanted to eat her. Instead, as Srinivasan had told him, he directed the soldiers to beat her. With a cold efficiency, they did so: a punch to the left ribs, a punch to the right, punch to the kidneys, a punch to the middle of her back. She shouted in fear and pain, and they struck her twice more in the pit of her stomach.<p>

She retched, each heave of her stomach causing her arms to shudder. She reached desperately for breath, mouth opening and closing, neck muscles standing out. One of the soldiers hit her again in the kidneys. Srinivasan had been standing there all along, but he opened and shut the door. “Stop!” he said and walked over towards her. Sharma saw how she reacted: she thought Srinivasan offered hope. He stopped in front of her. “Miss Donohue,” he said. “I apologise for the over-eagerness of some of the boys.” He caressed the underside of her left breast, his gnarled fingers a marked contrast to the pale smooth skin.<p>

“Have you thought about what I said?” he asked. “Will you co-operate?”<p>

“Yes,” she blurted. “Yes, please…”<p>

“Good,” Srinivasan said. “But let me warn you: if you’re wasting our time, if you don’t co-operate, if you have to be brought back here, the consequences will be very severe. They will thrash you and I wouldn’t be able to stop them. They will pulverise you so you’re a bleeding bag of broken bones. Am I clear?”<p>

“Yes.” She sounded exhausted.<p>

“You will confess your crimes and you will tell me the names of others,” Srinivasan went on. “Is that clear?”<p>

“Yes,” she whispered.<p>

“Let her down.”<p>

*<p>

5) Confession<p>

Megan shuffled on the hard wooden chair. Her buttocks were sore, her head throbbed and her arms, shoulders and torso ached, but at least she wasn’t naked any more. She watched a trail of smoke drift from the cigarette in the ash-tray up into the light of a simple desk-lamp, behind which sat a youngish officer with gelled hair just long enough to curl on his collar. She was pretty sure he wasn’t the one who’d done the deal with her, but he may have been the one who carried out the first interrogation.<p>

After they’d let her down she’d been blindfolded and taken, still naked, still subject to the eager hands of the soldiers, to a small cell. They’d removed the blindfold and made her wait there, huddled awkwardly on the concrete floor, for perhaps half an hour before a woman had come, accompanied by two soldiers, and tossed a coarse smock at her. It was a dark grey and far too big, fastened by two buttons at the back, but at least it covered her. And then, after another hour or so, they’d blindfolded her again and brought her to this interrogation room. They’d shoved her down onto a chair, taken off the blindfold and then the questions had begun. <p>

Her eyes stung, her head pounded. She’d been here at least two hours, she estimated, maybe more. She’d told him about her work, told him about the photographs she took, who she sold them to, who told her where the demonstrations were happening. She told them about people at the university, about Steve and Beth and a couple of others, names they must already know. Her mouth was dry. The questions kept coming and he kept noting down her answers. <p>

Eventually, he stood up, the scrape of his chair on the floor causing her to flinch. He took his papers and, without a word to her, left the room. For a couple of minutes she sat were she’d been, then she decided to stand up, to stretch. She looked around the room. It was bare, the walls a dull cream, the paint cracked and peeling, but other than that there was nothing in the room but the desk, on which were placed a lamp and an ashtray, and three chairs: her hard wooden one and two padded seats in the other side of the desk.<p>

What should she do? She paced about. She rubbed her sore buttocks. She waited. Should she sit on one of the comfortable chairs? Finally the door slammed open, crashing into the wall.<p>

“Sit!” snapped a voice; the one who’d done the deal with her that morning. She obeyed and saw a balding old man with straggling white hair. The younger officer was behind him.  She obeyed as the two sat in the chairs on the other side of the desk.<p>

The old one slammed a folder onto the desk. “What the hell’s this?” he demanded.<p>

Megan flinched. “Well?” he shouted.<p>

Her eyes wide, she opened her mouth but found there were no words there.<p>

“We had a deal,” he said. “You promised me full cooperation. And you give me this?”<p>

“I have cooperated,” she blurted.<p>

“This?” he was on his feet. “You call this cooperation?” He was approaching her. “I should have you whipped for insolence.” He cuffed her round the back of the head. She raised her hands to protect herself and he grabbed her neck, lifting her then throwing her back so she and the chair clattered to the ground. As she scrambled away from him, her grabbed her by her hair and lifted her, shaking her violently. She shrieked, grabbing at his arms. “Do you want me to send you back there?” he hissed. “Do you want to be raped with a truncheon that’s then used to beat you to a pulp? Do you?”<p>

He threw her down. She landed heavily on her knees and elbows. “Do you?” he shouted.<p>

“No sir,” she sobbed. <p>

“Good.” He returned behind the desk. “Now, pick your chair up, sit down and start talking.”<p>

Slowly she obeyed. She was terrified. What did he want?<p>

She sat and looked at the two of them, both glaring at her, through the cigarette smoke that swirled blue in the light of the desk lamp. There was, for three or four seconds, an awkward silence.<p>

“Well?’ he said.<p>

“I don’t… I don’t know what you want.”<p>

He started at the first page of the folder. “You arrived here 18 months ago?”<p>

“Yes, sir.”<p>

“Who sent you?”<p>

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Nobody sent me,” she said. “I’m a photographer. I came to take pictures to sell them.”<p>

There was a silence. He stared at her. “It’s the truth,” she said.<p>

“What was the first picture you sold?”<p>

She thought hard. “It was at a concert, sir. For a monthly magazine.”<p>

“And when did you start getting politically involved?”<p>

“There was a demonstration, maybe two weeks after I got here. I saw it on TV and went out into the streets. Like I said before.”<p>

*<p>

Slowly Srinivasan worked down the page. Sharma really should have checked some of this himself, but it never hurt to go through the same questions again, to make sure the story stayed the same. She sounded tired and scared, those big blue eyes red-rimmed. <p>

He took a sheaf of photographs from the file. He stood and approached her. She almost cowered away from him. He ran a finger down her nose, examining how the freckles were scattered over it, emphasising his power over her. What an extraordinary looking woman she was. He handed her a photograph of a demonstration. She took it, hand trembling slightly. She was in the lower left corner, camera in her hand. “Who do you know here?”<p>

She looked at it. There were a mass of people there, perhaps 20 of them in sufficient focus to be identifiable. She shook her head. “Nobody,” she said.<p>

He handed her another photograph. Another demonstration, a different day. Her blonde hair, under a baseball cap, was visible towards the back of a group of protestors running. “Nobody,” she said.<p>

He handed her a third shot. “No,” she said and handed it back. He hadn’t expected her to be so defiant.<p>

“OK,” he said. “Play it that way.”<p>

He hit her, hard, on the side of the head, so hard she fell from the chair. She lay, huddled, looking up at him in fear. “Get up,” he said. Slowly, she obeyed. <p>

“Strip,” he said, making sure his voice remained steady, calm. He saw a smirk on Sharma’s face. But this wasn’t about having another look at her beautiful body, it was about finding the truth. She hesitated, fear on her face.<p>

“I thought you didn’t want to go back to that room,” he said. “I thought you didn’t want broken ribs and a truncheon up your cunt.”<p>

She pulled the dress up over her head and he was struck again by the smooth creaminess of her skin. He took the dress from her and tossed in casually into a corner. “On your knees,” he said. “Face the desk. Hands behind your neck.”<p>

She obeyed and he walked back to the desk to take in the sight: the firm, round breasts, the look of humiliation. He approached her again and held the first photograph in front of her. “Tell me names,” he said.<p>

*<p>

Megan stared at the picture. The focus wasn’t good. She didn’t think she knew anyone. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I don’t know anybody.”<p>

“Look closely.” She did. It was just a mass of people, some with faces covered, some in hoods. She didn’t know any of them.<p>

“No, sir.”<p>

He nodded and held up the second picture. Because the protestors were running, there was a blur on a lot of the faces. She examined each one individually. “I don’t know, sir.”<p>

He sighed and held up the third picture. There was a group of perhaps a dozen protestors passing under a pedestrian bridge on which she could be seen, leaning over. “I remember the day,” she said. “I think that was two months ago. A lot of the university students were there. But I don’t know anybody on this picture.” <p>

“Don’t make me send you back,” he said.<p>

“I’m doing my best!” she shouted. “Please!”<p>

He held up another picture. A group of students. It wasn’t even clear they were at a demonstration. “That’s Steve McCoy in the middle,” she said. “I think he was the most senior… the most important at the university. And the blonde woman next to him is Nina Connelly, his girlfriend. And with the dark hair on the left is Beth McCormack. I don’t know the others.”<p>

On and on it went, more and more photographs. Some where she knew people, some where she didn’t. There was a woman – English she guessed from appearance and dress – cropped up in a couple of pictures who intrigued her: never at the centre but somehow significant, but she didn’t know her. Every now and again he would shout at her to kneel straight or to lock her fingers again but although her knees ached, he seemed to accept her answers. Finally he got to the end of the stack of photos.<p>

“Stand up,” he said and walked behind her. She happily obeyed, glad to relieve her knees. She could feel his breath on her then he moved even closer, reaching his hands around and cupping her breasts. She stiffened, feeling the rough fabric of his uniform against her skin, and then his stubble on her shoulder as placed his cheek next to hers. Was this it then, was this when they raped her? “Think very carefully,” he said. “We’ll do this one more time and if I’m still not satisfied, you’ll be back with those monsters.”<p>

She pursed her lips and made herself stare straight ahead, over the head of the younger officer as he sat at the desk.<p>

*<p>

Sharma wondered if the old goat was finally showing some human emotion. Srinivasan was known as a great professional, a man who got results. He didn’t mind inflicting pain, but he wasn’t a sadist, and he’d never been known to rape prisoners. This woman, though, with her golden skin, her fabulous breasts and her strangely pretty little nose, seemed to have got to him. He watched as Srinivasan pressed himself against her, his hands fondling her breasts: how he wished he could be in that position.<p>

Srinivasan ran his hands over her flat belly to her hips, then pushed her away. “Get down as though you’re doing press-ups,” he said. She closed her eyes briefly and half-turned away then dropped, obediently, to the floor, holding herself up with her arms. Her breasts fell away from her chest, nipples reaching for the floor. Sharma marvelled at the smooth muscles of her shoulders. Srinivasan beckoned him over. “Show her the pictures,” he said, and Sharma realised he was too old to get down. So he squatted beside her and held the first photograph out in front of her face, a tendril of blonde hair brushing against his arm.<p>

“Who are these people?” Srinivasan asked.<p>

Dry-mouthed, she gave the same answers as before.<p>

“Again,” he said and she repeated her answer.<p>

And so it went on. Picture by picture. Making her give her answer twice. Slow, meticulous. Her arms began to tremble. “Fall and I’ll beat you,” he said.<p>

Sharma could feel the heat from her skin, sense her breath. He’d never been this close to such a beautiful woman. Occasionally he let his hand brush her breast, enjoying her obvious shame. She was struggling. He could see her toes making minute adjustments, hear the change in her breathing. Her arms trembled. Srinivasan slowed down even further. Eventually, inevitably, she collapsed. She lay, flat on the concrete floor, panting. Srinivasan kicked her, between her hip and her ribs. Not too hard, but hard enough. She moaned, and rolled into a ball.<p>

“Stand up!” he said. Slowly, she obeyed. He nodded to the two soldiers by the door. They hastened forward and seized her arms. Srinivasan looked at Sharma. “Beat her for 30 seconds,” he said. She moaned in horror. Sharma, eagerly, stepped forwards, rolling up his sleeves. Srinivasan looked at his watch. “Go!” he said.<p>

Sharma punched her in the pit of her stomach. She was backing away, twisting desperately and he didn’t connect as firmly as he would have liked, but she gave a satisfying grunt. He felt the softness of her skin on his knuckles, the firm muscle resisting. He moved in closer, punched right hand, left hand, right hand into her belly. She retched. He didn’t stop, just kept pounding away. It felt satisfying to work her over like this, yet at the same time he felt he could have been doing more, felt he wasn’t hitting her hard enough. By the time Srinivasan stopped him, he was gasping for breath, sweating. How often had he hit her? Twenty times, maybe? She was opening and closing her mouth, gulping at air, heaving as though she were about to vomit.<p>

The soldiers threw her down and she sprawled on the floor, moaning and coughing. “Stand up,” Srinivasan said calmly. In clear pain, she obeyed.<p>

He waited a minute or so. Sharma saw how she trembled, too scared even to cover herself. “Get down in position again,” Srinivasan said.<p>

*<p>

6)  Endgame<p>

Megan’s core was in agony. She felt her arms shaking. She tried to focus on the photograph he held in front of her but she couldn’t. Her arms gave way and she slumped again to the ground. She began to beg, but already the soldiers were pulling her up to take her beating. This was the fourth time the young one with the ridiculous gelled hair had laid into her. He didn’t hit as hard as the soldiers in the other room, but a 30-second pummelling was bad enough. He was out of shape and panting, but he stuck to his task, driving his fists again and again into her belly as she coughed and retched. When they let go of her arms, she collapsed.<p>

And each time he beat her, of course, it reduced the time she could stay in the press-up position. Her core couldn’t support her so the pressure immediately went on her arms, which were already exhausted. She didn’t think she could last even a minute if he made her take the position again. The old one walked up to her where she sprawled and lifted her by her hair. “One more time?” he asked, mockingly.<p>

“Please,” she rasped. “I know nothing more.”<p>

“Or maybe we use the truncheons on you?”<p>

“I know nothing…”<p>

He shook her by the hair and she screamed at the pain in her scalp, her hands reaching up to try to loosen his grip. Even as she did it she regretted the act. He threw her down.<p>

“You do not touch me,” he said. “Take her to the punishment room.”<p>

“No! Please, sir… Please…!”<p>

Her wrists were cuffed, the blindfold placed over her eyes. Firm hands gripped her arms. She wondered if she should mention the girl in the pictures. How could they flog her? Everything was agony already.<p>

When they took the blindfold off, she was shackled, kneeling, over the concrete post. She could hear the guards swishing the hosepipes through the air, knew they were taunting her. Then suddenly his face was next to hers. She could smell the cigarettes on his breath, see the white hairs of his stubble. “How many should I give you?” he asked mockingly. He ran a hand over her back, pressing painfully on a welt. She glared at him. She steeled herself. She had taken 20. She could take more.<p>

He ran his fingers gently through her hair, smoothing it away from her forehead and off her shoulders. “Assaulting me is very serious,” he said. “How about 30?”<p>

She set her shoulders. She would take his punishment. “Or…” he said. “You could tell me all you know about Roberta Stafford.”<p>

Who? Roberta Stafford? Megan thought and thought. Who was that? The name meant nothing. But was this an opportunity? “I’m not sure…” she said. “I think…”<p>

“Yes?”<p>

“Look, I don’t think I ever met her, but the name…” She was careful not to overplay her hand.<p>

“The name…?”<p>

“Others spoke of her. She… Look, I don’t know. But she was some sort of leader. She arranged things.”<p>

“What sort of things?”<p>

“Demonstrations. Leaflets. Money, maybe. I don’t know. She was a shadowy figure.” Was he buying this? A thought dawned on her: was Roberta Stafford the English woman in the pictures?<p>

“Was she at the university?” <p>

Megan thought. She knew most of the westerners at the university, or at least had heard of them. “I don’t think so. She was…” She took a gamble. “British, I think. Maybe American.”<p>

“Ok,” he said. “We’ll talk about this back in the other room.”<p>

*<p>

Srinivasan was surprised. The memo had come through to probe any prisoners about Roberta Stafford, but he hadn’t expected anything. Her answers seemed convincing though. She sat now in front of him, wearing that baggy dress, drinking a mug of sweet tea, calmly admitting how little she knew, just offering the odd detail. Donohue knew Stafford was British – that seemed very telling. He’d quite have enjoyed watching her flogged again, but she’d given him what he wanted and she’d already taken quite enough. This might be quite the feather in his cap. He didn’t really understand why Stafford was important, but the powers that be clearly thought she was; they didn’t put out these bulletins for anybody. He knew how it worked: the pieces of information slowly accumulated, building a bigger picture. He couldn’t see it, but somebody else would. <p>

Besides, much as he’d have liked to have kept interrogating her, kept playing with those remarkable breasts, he had to hand her over for trial. He’d recommend further interrogation in the camp, of course, but essentially, he’d broken her. Perhaps his greatest achievement, though, during her brief incarceration, was to prevent the men raping her. <p>

She was an outstandingly beautiful creature. When she was naked, it was her breasts and her creamy skin that stood out, the sense that she was a living statue, but dressed, huddled on the chair as she was, he was taken by just how sweet her face was: the blue eyes like a cat’s, the scattering of freckles over her nose and cheeks. Other officers, he knew, would have taken advantage. The state of emergency permitted all manner of breaches of discipline, but he was of the old school. His job was to get information. He had no problems with hurting or humiliating prisoners to get it, but his job wasn’t about satisfying his own lusts.<p>

He could still have had her beaten. There was talk even that they’d caned an American girl a couple of days ago. There was a part of him, he acknowledged, that would have liked to see her naked, bent over the block or fastened on the frame, howling in terror. But he respected her too much for that. She had retained her dignity. She was strong. And they had done a deal. What they did to her in the camps was another matter.<p>

Still, he had one more chance to see her naked. When she’d finished her tea, he blindfolded her and led her to a small holding cell on the corridor where the makeshift courtroom was located. There was a narrow bed and a bucket and not much else, other than a bag containing her clothes. He removed the blindfold and ordered her to strip She obeyed slowly, reluctantly, but without resistance and he drank in again the sight of her honeyed body, battered and bruised but undeniably lovely. He made her stand for a couple of minutes while he looked at her, then left, allowing her to dress in her own clothes once again.<p>

*<p>

Megan lost all track of time. Dressed again, fairly confident her torture was over, and given a bed, she slept. She wondered sometimes about Roberta Stafford, whether there was a woman with that name she’d condemned, but mainly she felt she’d done her best. There were some at the university she could have denounced but had avoided doing so. She had, essentially, got away with it, although getting away with it had entailed severe beatings.<p>

Sometimes two women guards came in and left food for her, always dal and rice, and once they took her to shower, but she had no idea how long she’d been there. She thought perhaps two or three days had passed when male guards came for her again. Her body still ached from the beatings but she was in a much better state than she had been when they cuffed her wrists behind her and led her into a large room. There was a long table at one end, behind which sat a tired looking man in a colonel’s uniform. A series of benches, on which a handful of men sprawled faced him. <p>

She was led to the front. The colonel looked at her, his eyes watery and red. It seemed an effort for him even to speak. He glanced down at a file and then back at her. “You are Megan Donohue?” he said.<p>

“Yes, sir,” she replied. She wondered if she should ask for a lawyer, but glanced at the soldiers who flanked her and knew it would be pointless.<p>

She shuffled on her bare feet. This felt ridiculous, standing in a courtroom in jeans and hoodie, barefoot and chained.<p>

“I have read through the notes from your interview. You admit you took photographs of anti-government activity and disseminated them and that you knowingly concealed details of seditious activity from the authorities. Do you deny these offences?”<p>

She thought for a moment. There was no point resisting. “No, sir,” she said.<p>

“You wish to plead guilty?”<p>

She could hear his tiredness. Denial could only antagonise him. “Yes, sir.”<p>

“Very well. You are sentenced to one year of forced labour.” She felt her heart lurch. He stifled a yawn as he closed the file. “Next,” he said as the soldiers led her away.<p>

STATE OF EMERGENCY

Part Three

The Medic

By

King Diocletian

1) The Airport<p>

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.<p>

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

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

“Medicine,” she said. “Tropical disease.”<p>

“And you are heading to?”<p>

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

“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.” <p>

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. <p>

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.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

*<p>

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

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

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

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.<p>

*<p>

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

“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.<p>

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.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

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

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

*<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

“You are Beth McCormack?” he asked.<p>

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

He went through her details then nodded.<p>

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

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

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

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

“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.<p>

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

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

“How many?’<p>

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

He nodded. This had suddenly become very interesting.<p>

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

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

“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.”<p>

*<p>

2) The First Interrogation<p>

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.<p>

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? <p>

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

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.<p>

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. <p>

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…<p>

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

*<p>

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.<p>

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. <p>

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

*<p>

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?<p>

*<p>

“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.<p>

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

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

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

“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.”<p>

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.”<p>

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?”<p>

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

“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.”<p>

“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?”<p>

*<p>

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?<p>

*<p>

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

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.<p>

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.<p>

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

“Flogged?”<p>

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

“This happens a lot?”<p>

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

“To girls?”<p>

“Sometimes.”<p>

“Westerners?”<p>

“Yes.”<p>

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.<p>

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

“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?” <p>

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.”<p>

“Where?”<p>

“What?”<p>

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

“You don’t have an interrogation room?”<p>

*<p>

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. <p>

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.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

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. <p>

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. <p>

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

“What?”<p>

“The colours of the rainbow, Miss McCormack.”<p>

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.”<p>

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

“Do those colours mean anything to you?”<p>

‘Like what?”<p>

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

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.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

“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.”<p>

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

“Yes,” she said. “But it was nothing.”<p>

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

“Yes.”<p>

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.<p>

“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.”<p>

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

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

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

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

“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.<p>

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

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. <p>

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

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.”<p>

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

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.<p>

“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.”<p>

He nodded. ”More?”<p>

“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.<p>

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

She swallowed. How much had they been watching them?<p>

“Keith Gladwin?”<p>

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

“Peter Djurovski?”<p>

“The same.”<p>

“Michelle Carter?”<p>

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

“Michael Robinson?”<p>

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

“Rebecca Harris?”<p>

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.”<p>

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

*<p>

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. <p>

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.<p>

*<p>

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.  <p>

“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?”<p>

“No,” she said.<p>

“Did he touch you?”<p>

“No.”<p>

“Did you masturbate about him?”<p>

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

“Do you have a boyfriend?”<p>

“No.”<p>

“Who was close to Steve McCoy?”<p>

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

“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.<p>

“Very well.”<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

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.  <p>

*<p>

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

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

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.”<p>

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

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

“That’s not what Miss Harris said.”<p>

“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?”<p>

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

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

“I questioned her. She’s been convicted.”<p>

“You tortured her! You monsters!”<p>

“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.”<p>

He looked at the man in the white coat and nodded. <p>

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?”<p>

“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…”<p>

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.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

“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.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

“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.”<p>

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.<p>

“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.<p>

*<p>

3) The Second Interrogation<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

“Good morning, Agent Violet,” he said.<p>

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

“Tell me about Steve McCoy.”<p>

“I have a right to speak to my embassy.”<p>

“Tell me about Rebecca Harris.”<p>

“I have a right to speak to my embassy.”<p>

“Tell me about how you organised demonstrations.”<p>

“I have a right to speak to my embassy.”<p>

“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?”<p>

“I have a right-“<p>

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. <p>

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

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.”<p>

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.<p>

“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.<p>

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

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.”<p>

“And did you? Sleep together?”<p>

“No.”<p>

“Not even once?”<p>

“No.”<p>

“Did he force himself on you?”<p>

“No.” She looked away.<p>

“But he made advances?”<p>

“Yes.” Her voice was unsteady. “He was persistent.”<p>

“A sex pest? He harassed you?”<p>

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you arranged distribution?”<p>

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

“Names.”<p>

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

“Rebecca Harris?”<p>

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

“Too scared?”<p>

“Perhaps.”<p>

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

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

Gopal ignored her. “And you arranged printing?”<p>

“Yes.”<p>

“Who?”<p>

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

“Who printed them?”<p>

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

Patel nodded. This was it.  <p>

Gopal cleared his throat. “Strip!” he said.<p>

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.<p>

*<p>

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

“Fold them,” said one of the officers. <p>

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.<p>

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?<p>

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

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

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

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.<p>

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

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.<p>

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!’<p>

What? What was this? Were they going to beat her?<p>

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

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.<p>

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

*<p>

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.<p>

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

She obeyed and turned, uncertainly, to face them.<p>

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

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.<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>.

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.”<p>

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.”<p>

Worse? How could that be possible? <p>

“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.”<p>

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.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

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. <p>

“Who is Agent Red?” Patel asked.<p>

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

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.<p>

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.<p>

*<p>

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.”<p>

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

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?<p>

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

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

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.<p>

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…”<p>

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

“I don’t kn-“<p>

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.<p>

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…”<p>

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

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

“Did you chant?”<p>

“Yes.”<p>

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

She sighed. “Yes.”<p>

“So you obstructed police?”<p>

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

“Yes,” she croaked.<p>

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

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

Silence.<p>

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

“Yes,” she said.<p>

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

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

*<p>

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. <p>

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

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

“I don’t know anyth-“<p>

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.”<p>

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. <p>

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

*<p>

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.<p>

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. <p>

“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!”<p>

“Turn up the power,” Patel ordered.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

“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. <p>

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

What did he mean? What tables? <p>

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

“World police,” said another voice.<p>

They laughed. Two of them. <p>

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

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

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. <p>

“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.”<p>

“Do you like sex?”<p>

*<p>

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. <p>

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

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.<p>

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. <p>

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

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.<p>

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

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

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…”<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

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

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

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.<p>

“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.<p>

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.<p>

“Who printed the leaflets?” he asked.<p>

“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.”<p>

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. <p>

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

“I don’t know…”<p>

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

“Please…”<p>

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

“Five seconds, Miss McCormack? Can you take that? <p>

“Pleeeeassse…” she was begging him.<p>

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.”<p>

“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.<p>

“Ten seconds?”<p>

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

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

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

“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.”<p>

“I committed acts of subversion,” she said.<p>

“Again.”<p>

“I committed acts of subversion.”<p>

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

“Did Roberta Stafford also commit acts of subversion?”<p>

A look of panic crossed her face.<p>

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

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

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

“Maybe,” she said. “It’s possible.”<p>

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

“Maybe?”<p>

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

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

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

“No!” she shouted. “Please… please…”<p>

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

“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.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

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

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

“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.<p>

“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.<p>

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

“What do you want?” she shouted. “What?”<p>

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.<p>

“Nina Connelly?”<p>

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.<p>

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

“Please,” she begged. “Pleasssse…”<p>

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?”<p>

“Yes!” she shouted. “I’ll sign.”<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

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

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

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

“She’ll be naked?”<p>

Patel laughed. “Of course. Lovely tight little body.”<p>

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.<p>

*<p>

4) Confession and Beyond<p>

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.<p>

“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.<p>

“Speak up!” Gopal ordered.<p>

“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.<p>

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.<p>

*<p>

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. <p>

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?<p>

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.<p>

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?<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

“How did you sleep?” he asked.<p>

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

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

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.<p>

“You agree that’s you? On the left?”<p>

“Yes, sir.”<p>

“Good. And who else do you recognise?”<p>

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.”<p>

“No Roberta Stafford?”<p>

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

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.<p>

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?<p>

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.”<p>

But she was thinking about Emma Swann.<p>

*<p>

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. <p>

“She was McCoy’s girlfriend?”<p>

“Yes.”<p>

“They were serious?”<p>

“I suppose so.”<p>

“You were jealous?”<p>

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

“You didn’t fancy a threesome?”<p>

“No.”<p>

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

“She manipulated him?”<p>

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

“Whereas you were committed?”<p>

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

Gopal laughed. “Strip naked,” he said.<p>

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.<p>

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.”<p>

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.<p>

“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.”

<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

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.

*<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

“What do you want?” she shouted. “What do you want?”<p>

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.<p>

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

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.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

“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!”<p>

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.<p>

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

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.<p>

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

*<p>

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.<p>

“Get undressed,” he said.<p>

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.<p>

“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.<p>

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.<p>

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. <p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

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.<p>

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!<p>

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.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

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.”<p>

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

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.<p>

*<p>

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.<p>

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.”<p>

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.<p>