Abigail's Ordeal

Abigail's Ordeal

Part 1: Abigail's Capture

Abigail was a struggling reporter from the USA, posted by her newspaper to 
some godforsaken country in the middle of nowhere, where nothing much 
happened that would ever make even an inch of column space back home.   
Even the terrible human rights abuses were of no interest to editors who had 
tastier tales from the "Axis of Evil" and such examples to chase.   Africa was 
nothing to them, a non-entity unless the event was too big to be ignored.   
"Disappearances" of trade-union agitators and women's rights protestors were 
a part of the background noise not just from this part of the world, but from 
everywhere, it seemed sometimes.

The indifference of the people of the "Land of the Free" to what was going on 
here had soured Abigail's outlook on her profession and her life.   A few 
months ago, she had decided that, in between writing up the daily releases 
made by the military oligarchy on behalf of their appointed dictator, she would 
start to do something about the injustices she saw every day meted out to 
members of her sex.   Only her obvious American heritage and her press 
credentials protected her from the same treatment, and that only worked in the 
day.   She would never have dared to go out at night before she joined the 
Revolutionary Women's Freedom Party.   Some of the Marxist texts espoused 
by these resistance fighters she found disturbing and contrary to the ideals that 
she believed upheld the greatest democracy in the world, but she could not 
deny their power to mobilise a unified force for change.   The politics may be 
wrong, but it would have the right effect here, she was sure.   Besides, even 
Nelson Mandela had read Marx when he was fighting for equal rights in South 
Africa - and wasn't South Africa a democracy now?

Her editor had told her three things: "Don't cause any trouble, keep your head 
down, and do as they tell you - you'll be fine!"   He was a lying bastard, a hard-
nosed businessman who basically considered his most junior foreign affairs 
reporter as expendable.   He was sending a woman into a nation with an 
appalling record on its treatment of women, simply because he wanted to give 
the cushy jobs to his junior male staff.   Abigail's decision to sign on with the 
equal-rights protests was as much a blow against the chauvinism in her own 
world as the abuses in this land.

She was hardly a major player in the high-profile activities, but she was useful 
to the team as a friendly ear in the media, who could write the truth about what 
happened when others would take the official line, or just ignore it altogether.   
Her media credentials were also useful in reaching places and information 
inaccessible to her black sisters in the movement.   Abigail now knew 
personally many members of the top ranks of the organisations responsible for 
running the campaigns.

She knew she had to be careful in how she made use of her privileged position 
as a presswoman, not only because of the consequences to herself but also 
for the movement as a whole, with all the information about it that she carried in 
her brain.

However, when she managed to wangle an interview with the First Lady 
herself, she thought she might have a good chance of persuading the fabled 
woman of the justness of her cause.  She would test the water with a few non-
committal questions, and then if it looked safe, she would dive in.

Dive in she did, but not in the way that she had anticipated.   The First Lady, 
Anagelike (pronounced AN-a-G-el-i-kay), was an attractive young African 
woman, who had effectively been bought by the President as a trophy wife, the 
traditional dowry system being utilised.   Anagelike refused to take any form of 
political view: it was not her place as the dutiful wife of the leader to do so.

But Anagelike was not 100% traditional.   She had seen Abigail's appreciative 
glance at the long, supple body of an African princess, and saw in those deep 
brown eyes a kindred spirit.   For Anagelike had discovered while still a young 
girl that she preferred the bodies of girls to those of boys, and only lay with her 
husband out of her sense of duty.   Abigail had been with both sexes, but never 
with someone as elegant and highly placed as the First Lady.   To be hit on by 
her, just as they were parting, was a heady experience.   How could she 
refuse?   This was not only a once-in-a-lifetime chance, it was also tantamount 
to a Royal Command!

Their fingertips lingered as they parted, and their farewell kiss, had anyone 
noticed, was not cheek-to-cheek but lip-to lip.   There was an exotic flavour to 
the kiss of the First Lady, Abigail decided, and one that she would have to taste 
properly later that night.

That night, the president was being entertained by a concubine rather than his 
wife, and she was banished to her own chambers.   Ferried to the presidential 
palace in the first lady's state vehicle, Abigail was brought discreetly to those 
chambers, dressed beneath her carefully wrapped blanket against the cool air, 
only in her most revealing underwear.   Anagelike was reclining naked on a soft 
bed, waiting for her lover to arrive.

Hungrily they grabbed at one another, caressing and fondling each and every 
curve of the other's body.   Abigail realised how sex-starved she really was, for 
she had too many doubts about the attitudes of the men in these parts to go 
with any of them, and her friends in the protest movement were too busy or else 
already partnered.   The urges long pent-up could now flow free.

Abigail had no idea how it could have come about, but either Anagelike was 
just naturally gifted or else she had become a skilled lover with much practice 
in her short years.   She took the lead and directed the unfolding encounter, 
choosing when and where to use her hands or tongue, and instructing Abigail 
in those matters also.   It was like a conductor of an orchestra, and on their two 
bodies she composed a symphony of sensation that culminated in a delicious 
soixante-neuf that brought them both to climax.

As they lay in each other's arms, savouring the flavour of the moment and of 
each other's mouths, Abigail raised again the subject of the women's rights 
movement, "Why do you not want to be free to choose this lifestyle?"

"I have all I need here," Anagelike replied, "Why should I change it?   And what I 
cannot get here I seek out in people like you who need the same thing."

They parted with a promise that the next time that the First Lady needed a 
female tongue, she should call on Abigail.   "I'll tell my women's lib friends 
about you," Abigail commented, "They'll never believe a word of it!"

*     *     *     *     *

The telephone rang in Abigail's rented house, stirring her from warm, erotic 
dreams of being a white slave in an African queen's palace, commanded to 
pleasure her majesty with tongue or fingers, in any way her majesty desired.

The telephone was a luxury item in this country, and most people who would 
need to contact Abigail would do so by sending a messenger or coming in 
person.   Her editor required that she use a satellite computer link to submit 
her copy, about the only thing of any value he had entrusted to her.   So who 
could be ringing her at dawn in Africa?   She hurried to answer the phone and 
find out.

"There is a tape of our meeting last night!" gasped the voice of Anagelike as 
soon as Abigail had the handset to her ear, "They heard everything!   You will be 
arrested for treason: you must flee!   Now!"

"But..."

"Go!   I will survive, but you may not.   Go!"   And the telephone went dead.

Abigail's head was in a whirl of emotion.   She had not only transgressed 
against the president in sleeping with his wife, but she had revealed beyond 
doubt in that encounter that she knew of the identities and whereabouts of 
many women labelled enemies of the State.   She wished that she had heeded 
her editor's advice and stayed clear of the whole business, but it was too late to 
do anything about that now.   She had to get dressed and find a way out of the 
city before they came for her.

She had only managed to put on a bra and panties when there was a crashing, 
splintering sound from the front door.   They were here already.   Without 
thinking, she grabbed her wallet and press ID, and ran semi-naked into the 
backstreet behind the house.   This was not a well-off area, but better than 
most of the slums around the city; even so, there was no protection to be 
offered by her own kind.   The wealthy Europeans and Americans who lived 
here effectively had their own city, walled in against the tide of Natives and 
Barbarians that still haunted their dreams, an inherited memory of the revolt 
against colonial rule.

Barefoot along the dusty street she pelted, thankful that she had managed to 
stay fit and healthy, keeping up her fitness regime even here.   Her long 
chestnut-coloured hair streamed behind her as she ran, her supple arms 
pumping, her breasts bouncing and making her wish fervently for the sports 
bra that she had had to leave behind in the house.

Behind her, she could hear the booted feet of the pursuing soldiers.   As she 
steered her way through the grimy passageways, she knew that she was 
headed deeper into the poorer areas, and people with no love and great 
resentment of the white man were watching her desperate race with glee, both 
at her fear and at the sight of her naked flesh.

It might have been planned that way: she had only taken a few corners from her 
starting point when she took a wrong one: a police van blocked her route.   She 
turned to run the other way, choose another path, but already the crossroads 
behind her was filled with her pursuers.   Frantically, she looked about her for a 
friendly face, a way out of the trap.   But all around were eager eyes, anxious 
only to witness the humbling of a cornered American bitch.

The police did not want witnesses to their deeds, however, and a quick 
shotgun blast into the air scattered the onlookers who scurried back from their 
windows and hid inside.   Abigail looked desperately about her for a means of 
escape.   She thought that she could squeeze between the truck and the near 
wall, and darted for it.   It was a mistake, because it brought her within range of 
the men hidden in the truck itself.   One of them, a guy who might have made an 
excellent defensive linebacker in America, burst from the back of the van and 
tackled her, slamming her against the mud wall and throwing her to the floor.

Dust filled the hapless American's mouth and nostrils as the linebacker 
expertly took her wrists and put plasticuffs on her, brutally tight and painful.   
The five who had broken into her house and had chased her from there soon 
caught up, and they were joined by two more men from the van.   The runners 
seemed to resent the chase on which Abigail had led them, for they each took it 
in turns to spit in the dirt by her head until a muddy paste of saliva and dust had 
formed.   Then they grabbed Abigail by the hair and rubbed her face in the sticky 
soup as she spluttered and gasped at their rough treatment of her.   While they 
did it, her ankles were plasticuffed together as well.   The leader, who had run 
the hardest in the chase aimed a kick at Abigail's stomach and winded her with 
the fore of his steel-tipped boot.   Limp from the effect of that savage attack, 
Abigail could not even struggle as the soldiers hoisted her between them, and 
threw her facedown onto the floor of the van.   Her breasts were crushed 
beneath her body, her hair splayed in tangles around her head.   The eight 
soldiers piled in, sitting along benches on either side of the van.   There 
seemed to her to be ample room for their feet, but all of them chose to place 
their feet upon the prone body of their captive.   Abigail didn't mind the boots on 
her back or her thighs so much, but a pair from each side was firmly pressed 
into her buttocks, and two more pairs were wiped in her hair and on her head, 
and left there, pressing her face into the filthy floor of the van.

It was a bumpy ride and lasted well over an hour.   The processing facility for 
political prisoners like Abigail was well outside the city limits, and the roads 
were of poor quality.   The boots were firm in keeping Abigail to the floor, but 
every time the road suddenly rose and the van jolted upwards, the floor crushed 
ever harder into Abigail's face, bosom and body.   Her nose had bled after one 
particularly severe bump, and her bladder felt like it was going to burst with 
each one.   A wet snivelling was the only sound she could make, and her salty 
tears were mingling with the dirt and dried blood matted into her hair.

Considering her destination, relief would have seemed a strange emotion for 
her arrival, but Abigail did feel it, thankful to be lifted from the stinking floor of the 
truck and carried into open air, however briefly it might last.

The plastic around her ankles was severed, and she was dragged from the 
truck onto the ground before being hoisted bodily to her feet by two of the 
guards.   They frogmarched her rapidly to a metal door in the building where 
they had arrived.   In the bright morning light, Abigail saw only that it resembled 
a large warehouse, and that there was more than one, arranged in a courtyard.   
Then she was in the relative darkness of a corridor, being forced along at a 
tough pace.

It was not a long walk, even so, and then they were in what appeared to be the 
room where these guys spent their spare time together.

"Right, let's have some fun with this whore!" one of them started, placing a 
meaty slap across Abigail's buttocks and making her jump forwards slightly, 
with a gasp.

"No, I told you, this one's scheduled for the Special Compound - they want her 
whole until then.   And that means no poking, either!" said the senior officer, 
wearing a lieutenant's emblems.

Abigail got her voice back, "Hey, you!   I want to be put on the phone to the 
American Embassy this minute!" she cried at the lieutenant, playing her one 
high card, and hoping it was a trump.

The lieutenant snapped around to face her.   He marched right up to her and 
stood inches away, his face glowering down at hers.   Keeping his eyes firmly 
locked on hers, he held her by the throat with his right hand while is left roamed 
easily to her bra and her right breast.   He found no difficulty in squirming his 
way under the cup, as though he had practised the move many hundreds of 
times.   "You arrogant Americans are all the same, always believing to the last 
that the letter of the law can save you when its spirit is far away.   You have no 
nationality, no identity, no existence, since you entered this building.   When you 
are finally reported missing, we will trace you as having left the country hours 
ago, and nobody will ever find you again."   He squeezed hard with his fingers 
gripping round her nipples, and Abigail saw the savage pleasure he took in her 
expression of horror and outrage at what he did, and her terror at what his 
words implied.

"This cow stinks!" he announced to those present, "Give her a good 
showering."   And he shoved Abigail so that she staggered backwards, unable 
to keep her balance with her hands behind her back.   Fortunately, there were 
two of the soldiers waiting to catch her.   One of them produced a knife, making 
Abigail shrink away in fear.   Two more came from the front.

The reason for the knife, and the two extra men, was soon clear.   The knife 
made short work of Abigail's bra straps while the two men had no trouble 
pulling down her panties and making her step out of them.   One of them went 
to finger her pussy, but the lieutenant smacked his hand away: "What did I tell 
you about the Special Compound?   They said no touching!"   Another, the guy 
with the knife, was examining his prize: "Look, a D-cup, it says!"   He reached 
around to have a feel of Abigail's breasts.   "Hmm, a little bit ambitious if you 
ask me!"   The eight men in the room laughed uproariously at this, "Eyes bigger 
than your tits, love?   Just like a Yank to buy things bigger than they can use!"   
All of them wanted a go at measuring, and for a few moments Abigail's tits 
were at the centre of a free-for-all, through which could be heard comments 
like, "Barely even a 'B' if you ask me!" and similar suggestions as to Abigail's 
correct choice of bra.

It didn't take them all long to declare that her tits were massively undersized, 
and then she was being marched along another corridor and through a door 
marked "Shower Room".   It was exactly what it said, a room with a shower in it, 
and little else that Abigail could see.   A drainage hole was in the centre and the 
guards shoved Abigail to stand over it.   The lieutenant was last into the room, 
and he threw a lever by the door.   Icy water instantly sprayed down from the 
ceiling in a wide circle while the soldiers, who knew intimately the properties of 
the room, stood back near the walls.

Abigail clutched her arms to her chest, and shrank down to the floor to protect 
her modesty and her skin from the lecherous stares and the freezing droplets.   
Disgusted, the lieutenant threw the lever back again and gestured to two of the 
soldiers.   They knew what it meant, and from a high shelf produced two 
nooses.   Two men on either side of Abigail came forward and grabbed her 
arms, slipping a noose over each wrist.   They reeled the rope out behind them 
as they went to the side, and by the simple means of one providing a step for 
the other, they fed the ropes through two pulleys hung from the ceiling, that had 
escaped Abigail's attention when she entered the room.   Her eyes had been 
turned downwards, trying to make sure that she did not stumble.   Now, when 
the lieutenant reactivated the shower system, Abigail tried again to curl into a 
ball on the floor, but the soldiers pulled on the ropes, and her arms were 
yanked akimbo and at an angle above her head.

Her body glistened under the cold, stinging jets of water, and her nipples were 
erect under the influence of the low temperature.   Her matted hair was 
plastered across her face and shoulders.   The air was full of water and 
breathing was hard, every intake causing her to gasp and splutter as wetness 
flooded in with the life-giving oxygen, and her mouth was left hanging open 
under the torrent.   Water streamed off her shoulders, her elbows, her breasts 
and her cheeks.   Above all, eight macho men were appreciating the contours 
of her fit and toned 36-26-38 body and (nearly) D-cup breasts.

"A free day to spend with the family, to the man who can throw a ball of 
soap into the bitch's mouth!" announced the lieutenant, "One go each!"

The first three throws were wild, thrown hard and with no accuracy.   One 
struck Abigail on the forehead, another on the shoulder, and another just 
above her nipple.   They all stung and made her flinch, but the last one was 
hardest and brought a yelp from her lips.   She tried to close her mouth to 
stop their game, but she couldn't get enough air and had to open it again.   
Just then, the fourth contender took his shot, and he was directly on 
target.   At the last second, Abigail turned away and it struck like a harsh 
slap on her cheek.

"Hey, not fair!   She moved!" the thrower cried.

"Those are the rules," said the lieutenant, "I said nothing about her being a 
willing participant for our challenge.   You may punish her afterwards, with 
one action of your choice.   Next thrower!"

The fifth struck her on her eye, but fortunately Abigail had blinked at the 
crucial moment or she might have been blinded.   The sixth caught her 
chin, and the seventh her nose.   All of them were painful, but none hit the 
target.

"Very well, I shall have to show you all how it's done!" the lieutenant 
sighed, and took the last of the eight small soap pellets.   He made a rapid 
movement as if to throw, and Abigail flinched.   As she regained her 
posture, he made the real throw and Abigail was too slow in reversing her 
head movement.   The lieutenant scored a direct hit.

Abigail coughed and spat, shaking her head desperately in order to 
dislodge the chemical missile from her mouth.   But it was cleverly 
designed to be just the right size that it was big enough to get a good 
froth, but small enough to dissolve before the target could eject it from her 
mouth.   Braving the water jet, the lieutenant went up to her and forced her 
head back and her mouth open so that the water poured from the ceiling 
directly into her mouth.

"We want you clean on the inside as well as the outside.   Whatever filth 
you've been speaking had better be eradicated now!"

Abigail gargled under the water spray, unable to struggle or avoid the 
suffocating water because of the lieutenant and the ropes around her 
wrists.   She was sure that she was going to drown if the lieutenant held 
her there a moment longer.   A moment passed, and another, and the 
drowning sensation grew until at last his painful grip on her throat and chin 
was released and he went back to the lever and switched it off.

"You may punish her now," he told the guard whose soap ball Abigail had 
avoided.   The man looked at her for a moment, and then used his great 
spade of a hand to plant a smack directly over her right nipple.   It would 
have hurt under any circumstances, but with a film of water as well, the 
impact was magnified and mutated into an incredible sting.   Abigail 
howled in anguish under the blow.   Jeers and laughter followed from the 
men watching, and congratulations to the man who had dealt the awful 
blow.   Then they filed out, anchoring the ropes somehow.   The lieutenant 
smiled nastily at her: I am going to get a change of clothes and a towel.   
You can try to get dry where you are!"

Abigail hung there, shivering as the icy water evaporated and transferred 
her body heat away.   There did not appear to be any form of heating here, 
and it appeared that "try" had been the operative word in the lieutenant's 
instruction.   She could only shiver, and wait for somebody to untie her.

It might have been ten minutes or ten hours before anyone came to the 
Shower Room.   Abigail started as the door began to open, and then began 
to plead, "Please let me out of here!"

But it was pointless.   It appeared that quite a few other soldiers on the 
base had heard that a "whitey" had been brought in, to be sent to the 
Special Compound, and they wanted a look themselves.   Every couple of 
minutes a new black face would appear at the door, and its owner step into 
the room.   He would then nod appreciatively, and wander all the way 
around the spread-eagled woman, taking in her pussy and her ass, and 
any other features he deemed noteworthy.   Then, because Special 
compound demanded that she remain untouched, he would leave and 
shortly afterwards a new face would appear.   Abigail felt like an exhibit in 
a museum, and she knew that each and every one of those men would be 
fantasising about her and what they would have done to her if she had not 
been destined for this "Special Compound", whatever that might be.

She was still damp when the soldiers responsible for her came back; she had 
lost track of time, and the number of men who had ogled her naked body, but 
not nearly as much could have passed as she imagined.   They had rough, 
scratchy towels that they used to rub her vigorously, except around the privates, 
where they were extremely careful.   Abigail was thankful in the short-term, but 
the concern that this Special Compound showed over her sexual organs could 
only mean that they would be more severely punished later.

No restraints were applied to her this time, but four strong Africans were more 
than enough to prevent her from making any effective struggle or bid for 
escape.   They marched her back to the team's waiting room, where the 
lieutenant was waiting with the other team members.

"It appears that there has been a slight delay in our colleagues at the Special 
Compound's plans!" announced the lieutenant.   It appears we have the 
pleasure of," he consulted a piece of paper on a clipboard, "Abigail's company 
for another couple of hours after all.   I think we should start by reading out the 
charges for which she has been brought in: '1: Unnatural acts with another 
woman!'   She's a filthy lesbian slut-whore, gentlemen, and we got to clean her 
up a bit for the Special Crew!   '2: Treasonous acts within the Presidential 
Palace', no less!   So she's a seditious, filthy lesbian slut-whore to boot!   '3: 
Conspiracy to commit terrorist atrocities!'   She's a seditious violent Marxist 
filthy lesbian slut-whore, boys!   '4: Crimes against the person property of the 
President!'   You know what that means, men!   She's a seditious violent 
Marxist filthy lesbian slut-whore who seduced and raped the First Lady!   No 
wonder the Special Crew bunch are after her so bad!

"But I'll tell you what gets me the most, and it doesn't appear on this here 
sheet.   She's a white Yankee uppity reporter bitch seditious violent Marxist filthy 
lesbian slut-whore who seduced and raped the First Lady!   We now what 
Special Crew want with her, but there's no reason why we shouldn't have 
ourselves a bit of justice, too!   Now, I counted eighteen words in the 
description of her crime, 'White Yankee Uppity Reporter Bitch Seditious Violent 
Marxist Filthy Lesbian Slut-Whore Who Seduced And Raped The First Lady'.   
Here's what we do.   Each of us takes a particular area of her body, and an 
implement to use on it.   Then we each take in turns to beat her 21 times, telling 
her just what she is accused of being, starting with, 'You are a...'"

The lieutenant produced a short cane, a leather belt and a broad paddle from 
somewhere.

"Two people use each item.   The fourth implement is the hand," he explained.   
Then he handed out targets for each of his people: "You, left breast, you, right 
breast, you, stomach, you, back, you left buttock, you, right buttock, you, cheeks.  
I'll choose one of the above for extra treatment!"

While the lieutenant was quickly and efficiently organising the impromptu 
punishment session, Abigail was unable to do anything.   Still held firmly by two 
of the men, all she could do was shake her head and whimper, "no, no, no!"   
But the situation would not be denied.

The first man was going to strike her cheeks, with his hand.

"You."   Slap.   "Are."   Slap.   "A."   Slap.   "White."   Slap.   "Yankee."   Slap.   
"Uppity."

He paused only long enough for her to take a breath to try to speak or scream, 
then he struck again, alternating cheeks and hitting harder each time.   As well 
as the bruising, Abigail thought that she could feel her teeth being loosened in 
her jaw, and could taste blood in her mouth.

"Seduced."   Slap.   "And."   Slap.   "Raped."   Slap.   "The."   Slap.   "First."   Slap.   
"Lady."   Slap.

And it stopped.   Abigail swallowed, and then burst out, "That's not true, it's a 
lie!" and she struggled again against the men holding her.   The men just 
shrugged and said, "They all say that!"   The second man had the belt and her 
stomach.   Each blow whipped across her taut physique like a pistol-shot, and 
winded her as he worked his way through the ridiculous phrase that the 
lieutenant had concocted.   The stinging pain brought tears over and over again 
to Abigail's eyes until finally it was over.   She sagged, exhausted by the 
impossibility of holding a breath for more than a second under the barrage of 
blows across her belly.   The men holding her simply gripped tighter and 
adjusted their grip.   They held her firmly as the next man stepped alongside 
her.   His duty was her right breast, and his implement the paddle.

He swung hard at her, pounding, mashing, flattening her poor tit as he also 
recited the phrase.   Abigail was yowling now with each stroke, hearing the 
taunting laughter from the men each time she let another agonised cry into the 
room.

The worst part was that it wouldn't stop, and that each new approach was a 
different sort of pain and a different area of her body.   Tears streamed down 
her face, and she went through every noise of pain and anguish that the human 
voice will make.   The beating continued: her back was whipped with the cane; 
her right buttock was spanked by hand; her left buttock succumbed to the 
paddle, and her left breast was flicked viscously twenty-one times by the leather 
belt.

She had survived, it was over.   The whirling maelstrom of pain had ceased and 
she could mentally reawaken and take in more of what was around her again.

But no!   The lieutenant had reserved the last beating with the cane for his own 
delivery, and he had a free choice of the already punished areas.

"The left breast, I think," he announced, and went to work, expertly placing the 
stick across the nipple in his stroke.   Abigail writhed under his skilful 
application of the weapon, while the men behind her held on firmly.   She was 
beyond noises of protest, it seemed, just gargling with slack jaw under the 
extreme pain meted out on her.   And then the lieutenant stopped, and walked 
away.   She relaxed again, at last they were truly finished.   But the lieutenant 
stopped, and turned.

"There is one person here who has not recited the charge.   Abigail herself!   
She must be made to recite it also, and she must begin, 'I am a...'   I will 
administer the required blows to her right breast.   Every time she goes wrong, 
we start at the beginning again.   Do you understand, filthy slut-whore?"

Abigail dumbly nodded her head.   She could not refuse to cooperate, for the 
lieutenant would keep on striking her, and after the frightful pain that still burned 
in her left tit, she would save her right tit as much as possible.

"Speak steadily," the lieutenant told her, "And I will keep pace with the cane.   
Begin!"

Abigail paused only a moment, girding herself to speak the hateful words.   It 
was too long for the lieutenant, who placed warning-shots on either side of her 
nipple.   "Begin!"

"I am a White Yankee Uppity Reporter Bitch Seditious Violent Marxist Filthy 
Lesbian Slut-Whore Who Seduced And Raped The First Lady"

But it was not as smooth as that, for under the beating of the cane she lost her 
place reciting the phrase from memory, and each time she had to start from the 
beginning.   It was closer to fifty strokes of the cane that had landed on her right 
nipple or close by, by the time that she had completed the phrase to the 
lieutenant's satisfaction.   Gratefully, she sank to the floor as the men holding 
her recognised that her punished and beaten body would not be taking her 
anywhere for a while.

"See?" Crowed the lieutenant, "She admits it!   Let the Special Crew do it their 
way, but we know the truth!"   And the laughter was as much at the Special 
Crew as at the suffering woman in their midst.

Their fun over for the time being, the men ignored her, talking their usual 
business and macho swaggering tales of their deeds in or out of uniform.   
Every so often, one or other of them would wander past the curled-up figure on 
the floor and aim a kick at her, but it was nothing hard, just a reminder that she 
was surrounded by eight hard men who would not let her go until they were 
ordered to.

*     *     *     *     *

One of the men had a word in the lieutenant's ear.  He seemed to be showing 
him something shiny, but Abigail couldn't make out what as she lay in anguish 
on the floor.   Whatever it was, the lieutenant pocketed it and sent the man on 
some errand.

When he came back, he handed some tool or other to the lieutenant, but what 
he held in his other hand made Abigail tremble in fear.   It was some kind of 
gas burner, and apparently very hot, like a miniature welding torch.

"Corporal Kayode here as pointed out that all real women know that their place 
is no different to that of a beast of burden.   He just so happens to have a ring 
that we can use to teach it to this uppity white Yankee bitch."

What could they mean, wondered Abigail, but she had little time to ponder such 
matters because the men had grabbed her and were swinging her across and 
laying her down face-up on their wooden bench.

It was a well-planned operation it seemed, with the lieutenant directing his men 
like a conductor of a well-rehearsed orchestra.   Abigail's wrists were tied using 
tough string to the bench's legs, while other men held her legs down with their 
full body weight to stop her kicking.   Someone else was leaning on her belly to 
stop her twisting or writhing during the proceedings.   Another man held her 
forehead down.   She was utterly helpless and immobilised by their efforts.   
The man who had fetched the equipment stood beside the lieutenant as he 
bent down beside Abigail.   He drew the tool from his pocket and showed it to 
her.   It was a simple spike, used for marking holes that would make drilling 
easier.

"What are you doing?" she stammered, but he ignored her.   Instead, with the 
thumb and index finger of his left hand he grabbed the ridge between her 
nostrils.   The right hand holding the tool moved in, and he rested the cold 
metal tip against the septum itself.   With a single, excruciating movement he 
plunged the spike through the fleshy wall.   Abigail's cry was cut short by a cloth 
gag provided by one of the men holding her down.   The lieutenant drew from 
his pocket a first-aid kit and found a cotton bud to which he applied anti-septic, 
which he dabbed in each nostril as the blood began to flow.   The anti-septic 
itself was a fearfully stinging concoction on the open wound, and Abigail found 
herself biting into her gag, thankful for its existence.

The lieutenant reached into his pocket again and pulled out the shining thing 
that Abigail had seen him take earlier.   It was a copper earring, in a circle about 
3/4" across its inside, and its circular cross-section was probably 1/8" thick.   
He opened the ring and pushed it firmly through the hole he had made in 
Abigail's nose.   He closed the ring, and twirled it through the hole until the 
fastening was now clearly visible on the outside.

Then he fired up the burner, and turned it to its hottest flame.   Very carefully, he 
turned it down to just a very short length of blue fire showed, and he held the 
ring in gloved fingers as he played the heat across the join in the ring.   The 
copper began to melt and fuse together, while Abigail's nose seemed to be 
doing the same as the heat was transferred quickly and easily around the 
copper ring and into her flesh.   Behind the gag, she was screaming and 
howling with the pain, a muffled wail all that could be heard on the outside.   But 
it did not last long.   With the join in the ring irrevocably fused, Abigail was now 
fastened with a nosering just like a farmyard animal.

"I say we let it cool a couple of minutes more, and then we take her over to the 
labrats to show them what we wanted their gear for!" the lieutenant said, and 
there was a general murmur of agreement among the men.   A couple of them 
wandered off, now that there was not so great a need to hold down the captive.   
Just a couple of the men were needed for it now that they had successfully and 
painfully inserted her nosering.

The lieutenant looked down into Abigail's dark brown eyes.

"You know," he said, "That ring was going to be a birthday present for Kayode's 
wife.   But he decided that you were in much greater need.   I think you ought to 
thank him on bended knee for putting it in your nose instead of his wife's ear."

The men holding Abigail forced her into the right position, and Abigail looked up 
at the big black man.  Gulping, she spoke, sullenly and hesitantly, "Thank you, 
Corporal Kayode, for putting this ring in my nose instead of giving it to your 
wife."

"I'm not happy with that, she sounds like she doesn't mean it!" Kayode 
complained.   The lieutenant kicked her in her ribs, and she tried again, with 
more feeling and more fluently.

"Believe me, filthy lesbian slut-whore, it was my pleasure!" Kayode told her.

The lieutenant put his index finger through the ring, and pulled upwards 
steadily, forcing Abigail to her feet.

"Looks like it's cooled down enough," he announced, "Let's go and show of our 
good deed!"

Just then, one of the men came forward with a length of thin chain, "I think we 
could lead her with this," he suggested.

"Where did you get it?" the lieutenant asked.

"That toilet that won't flush properly?   I took the chain from that, and here it is!"

"That's good thinking, Private.   I'll remember your resourcefulness in my next 
report."

Corporal Kayode looped the chain through the nosering, and got ready to lead 
Abigail out, but the lieutenant stopped him.

"We don't want her hands left free if we're leading her," he said, "better get 
some cuffs on her!"   The deed was done as the lieutenant ordered, and Abigail 
felt not the plastic of her capture, but the real thing: biting steel ratcheting 
closed around her wrists.

Kayode gave a short, sharp tug on the chain, and Abigail stumbled forwards as 
he led her back down the corridor by which they had entered and out into the 
bright sunshine, making Abigail blink.   With her wrists behind her back, her 
bosom jutted out prominently and she was on full display in her nudity to any 
who might be looking.   Kayode set a quick walking pace, and led by her nose, 
Abigail struggled to keep up the rapid, long strides that the man leading her 
could manage.   She was forced to stumble, and the biting pain in her nose 
kept being given extra teeth as she lost momentum and the chain tightened 
briefly.   As they crossed the courtyard, she soon adopted a jogging gait; it set 
her bruised, beaten breasts bouncing heavily, but it was the only way that she 
could keep pace.

Wolf whistles surrounded her suddenly, as a platoon of men came marching 
from a gap between the warehouses.   Her jogging was giving them a 
magnificent display of young, fit and sexy American womanhood, and there was 
nothing she could do about it.  The platoon leader brought his men to a halt so 
that they could feast their eyes on the wonderful sight of a white slave being led 
by a black NCO.

Kayode would not slow down, ignoring the newly arrived audience, and Abigail 
was for ten to fifteen seconds the full focus of the soldiers' attention before 
Kayode reached the door for which he had been heading.   Abigail slumped as 
the Corporal worked the latch, and there was a ragged cheer from the men who 
had relished her performance.   They, too, would be imagining what they could 
do to a girl like Abigail, if only she were not scheduled for the Special 
Compound.

Another short corridor, and another door.   There they waited, and Kayode 
fondled Abigail's asscheek idly as they stood there, his other hand keeping the 
chain short and lifted, so that Abigail had to lift her head and look into his eyes.   
His eyes showed the kind of propriety lust that had disgusted Abigail in so 
many macho men back in the States, and she had seen so many bimbo 
girlfriends of bikers revelling in just such a caress as he had on her at the 
moment.   Some types of men were the same the world over.

They were only waiting for the other members of the lieutenant's team to turn 
up: they all wanted to join in showing off their newest toy.   They opened the 
door and walked into what looked just like a school science lab, where a 
number of African men in the traditional white coats of the scientific caste were 
apparently working on a project of some kind, brewing up a mixture of 
chemicals.   These were not the big, macho build, and some even were 
wearing the stereotypical scientist sort of glasses.

As one, they wolf-whistled when Abigail was dragged into their lab.

"This is what we wanted your stuff for, boys!" crowed the lieutenant, "But 
remember, she's destined for the Special Compound, so hands off.   But take a 
good look!"

The scientists gathered round to examine not only Abigail's lithe and attractive 
body, and the welts that were showing from her session of punishment (they 
were most appreciative of these); but also the handiwork of the men who had 
put in her ring.   They were anxious that they had used anti-septic and sterilised 
the wound, because if she got an infection then the Special Compound 
personnel would not be happy.   They were also very interested in the 
mechanism of the procedure.   The lieutenant returned the equipment that they 
had used in putting in the ring, and then they were ready to head back to the 
processing building.   But one of the scientists had a suggestion for the 
lieutenant that he whispered in the lieutenant's ear.

"Wait a second, boys!" the lieutenant said, "This here egghead's noticed 
something about our Yankee lesbian slut-whore, and that is that the view down 
below is somewhat obscured by a bush!"   He stalked over to Abigail, and held 
the chain close to her nostrils and pulled her upwards so that she was almost 
looking at the ceiling.

"Don't you Yankee bitches always have the bikini waxing done?   What's wrong 
with you, you dyke?   Come on!   Answer me!"

Abigail stammered, "There aren't any clinics here that I can afford."   Really, it 
was in accordance with her preference, and she didn't mind at all that there 
weren't really supplies or facilities in this country for that particular part of the 
female grooming process.   But she now felt absurdly ashamed of her pubic 
hair, and tried to excuse it.

"I think we should help you out with that!" the lieutenant laughed in her face.

One of his men objected, "But Special Crew say no touching!   How are we to 
do it?"

"Apparently, the eggheads have recently cooked up something that can clean-
shave a woman head to toe without the need for touching at all!"

"Let's do it!" and there were affirmative cries all around.   The lead scientist of 
the group took charge of Abigail's chain and led her out through another door, 
followed first by the soldiers and then by the other scientists: in all there would 
be about fourteen witnesses to the next stage of Abigail's treatment at the 
hands of the authorities.

In the room, there were just two bathtubs, one of which was empty, the other 
was filled with some foul-smelling chemical.

"We can't touch her head, Special Crew will spot something is wrong then," 
one of the scientists pointed out, "So we'll have to use the cap."   Pressure on 
her shoulders forced Abigail to her knees and the chain was removed from her 
nosering.   The scientist who had spoken began coiling her hair into a rope that 
he held pinned up onto her head.   "Size D, I think," he informed one of his 
colleagues, who handed the hair-coiler something that Abigail couldn't see.

"Now, Yankee slut-whore, take a deep breath and hold it, otherwise this is 
going to be a lot more painful for you than it needs to be," the scientist told her.   
Abigail didn't argue, but did as she was told, closing her eyes and holding her 
breath.

Instantly, she felt a rubber cap being pulled over her hair, obviously to protect it 
from their chemicals.   But it didn't stop there.   Just a second later, the rubber 
attached itself firmly right across her face, trapping her mouth and her nose, 
pressing the copper nosering painfully into her philtrum and smothering her 
entirely.   One of the other scientists was at her throat, tightening the suffocating 
mask by means of a strap.   Abigail struggled wildly, uncontrollably, uselessly, 
with her hands cuffed behind her back, there was nothing she could do but 
stare into the translucent yellow that filled her universe.   The cuffs were 
whipped off and about a dozen rubber-coated hands lifted her bodily and she 
was dunked headfirst into the evil liquid, sliding all the way under and held 
there with her lungs burning and bursting for want of a fresh batch of air.   It was 
only ten seconds that she was under, but it seemed like a lifetime with the 
fingers that held her under shifting every so often.   The fluid horribly tingled 
across her naked skin, and she did not know what it was doing to her.

Then the rubber-coated hands lifted her and turned her over, putting her face-
up in the empty bath.   The strap was undone and the mask lifted off her face 
(though it still clung to her head, covering her hair).   But only in time for a water-
jet from a hose to strike her straight in the mouth.   Kayode was in charge of the 
hose, and scored a huge laugh as Abigail spluttered from the effect.   Then he 
began to play the powerful stream of water over every inch of Abigail's body.   
The scientists and the lieutenant had been wearing the rubber gloves, she saw 
when the jet passed towards her feet, and were standing by again.   This was 
so that they could turn her onto her front for Kayode to repeat his rinsing 
procedure on her back.   It was as she was lying on her front that Abigail 
noticed what felt so strange.   Her pubic hair was gone, washed away in the 
water spray.   She reached to feel what had happened, but the rubber-clad 
hand of the lieutenant spanked her ass, hard, "Special crew say no touching, it 
means no touching!   What makes you think that doesn't apply to you!?"   Abigail 
returned her hands to where the lieutenant could see them and where they 
could also receive the rinsing treatment.

They turned Abigail over for another rinse on each side of her body, and while 
she was lying on her back she was able to see down her body.   She had been 
rendered completely bald from her neck to her toes.   Not a single hair 
remained on her livid skin, made red not just by the nasty hair-removal 
chemicals, but also by the cold pummelling of the water.

When they put her on her belly again, the scientists removed the rubber mask 
completely, exposing her hair to the water spray as well.   Abigail could see 
nothing of what went on behind her, but she heard enough:

"What have you got there?"

"Shampoo that's not been tested on animals.   Uppity Yankee bitches are 
meant to like that stuff, and we want her to look her best for Special Crew, don't 
we?"

"What has it been tested on, if not animals?"

Abigail could hear the smirk in the reply, "Nothing, yet.   We're testing it on 
Yankee slut-whore here!"

Through the water pouring off her, Abigail began to wail.   She was nothing to 
these people, on a par with a farmyard beast, or an animal in some cosmetics 
research lab.   She had no idea what would happen to her, would it sting, would 
they put it in her eyes, what horrible effects would it have?

She felt the squirt of shampoo on the back of her head, and rubber-clad fingers 
working it in all across her scalp.   Salt-water tears of fear and humiliation 
joined the soapy water of her enforced hair washing.   She wept through eyes 
kept tightly closed against the suds that scoured her head and flowed with the 
rinsing water down her cheeks and round her face.

But it seemed that this one was one that could go onto the supermarket 
shelves, and that Abigail had been lucky enough to be the guinea pig for a 
successful hair treatment.   She felt no horribly itching scalp, no burning 
eyeballs or scarified skin.   Just clean hair.   The water cascade stopped, and 
the lieutenant, having removed his rubber gloves, hoisted Abigail out of the bath 
with the aid of a couple of his men.   He put her on her feet and shoved her into 
a corner, where she found a large mirror staring back.   Somebody threw a 
couple of large towels at her as the lieutenant commanded, "Dry yourself off!   
And don't forget, no touching!"   To emphasise his point, he revealed another 
element of this room's equipment, a vicious looking bullwhip that he cracked 
expertly in the air.

Abigail did as she was told, standing bare footed on a cold stone floor and 
rubbing herself with the towels provided.   She could see that no matter which 
way she turned, she had to provide a full view of her newly exposed pussy to all 
the watching men, which was obviously the whole reason for putting the mirror 
there.   If she tried to cover herself with the towel, the bullwhip would crack 
nearer and nearer until she opened out her arms and continued the job.

She could see that the remarkably effective hair-remover had lived up to its 
promise.   It had also rendered her labia as angrily red as the rest of her 
chemical-soaked body, and the temptation was great to reach gently down ad 
find out how tender she really was down there.   But she had absolutely no 
wish to be on the receiving end of the lieutenant's whip.

She dried her body first, but the lieutenant wasn't satisfied and indicated that 
she should do her hair as well.   The reason for this was very clear when she 
lifted her arms with the towel to do so, for it meant that her breasts were 
displayed in all their glory, and whichever way she turned, they had a full-frontal 
view of her tits and her hairless crotch.   Even so, she did not want to disappoint 
the lieutenant while ever the threat of that whip hung in the air, and she could 
not hurry the job of drying her hair if she wanted to avoid it.   She had to do it 
thoroughly, and that merely prolonged the show, and made it more interesting 
for the watching soldiers and scientists.   For in order to dry, she had to rub, 
and whether she rubbed fast or slow, her tits would jiggle appealingly, in time 
to the vigour of her actions.

When the lieutenant finally signalled that she could stop, she gratefully lowered 
her arms and instinctively went to wrap the towel around her, as she might 
have done at home.   But she was not at home and the whip cracked just 
inches from the point were her hands holding the towel would have met to 
cross over.   She yelped, and dropped the towel completely, amidst further 
laughter from the soldiers.

"To the salon!" cried one of the scientists, "Follow me!"

Intrigued, the soldiers grabbed Abigail by her arms and the troupe of guards 
and scientists followed as they marched her down the corridor again, to yet 
another room.

In the room was a chair with metal bracelets, and to Abigail it resembled 
pictures of the electric chair, but with no high back and no skullcap.   The 
soldiers needed no instruction from the scientist whose idea this was, and she 
was strapped down into the chair in peremptory fashion.

"Now what?" they asked the man who had led them here.

"We have washed her hair, but it is all matted and tangled.   That will never do 
for our friends from the Special Compound!   We must brush it."

The looks on the soldiers' faces said it all, incredulous at the mundane notion 
of brushing a prisoner's hair.   Where would the fun be in that?

"Watch, listen, and learn!" said the scientist, and he produced a brush that 
might have been designed by the devil himself, as Abigail discovered as he 
dragged it from her scalp down the length of her knotted hair.   This brush, it 
seemed, was intended to gently ease out the knots but to catch in them and 
pull them until either the knot gave way or her hair did.   Abigail's head was 
pulled back and the top of her head seemed to be caught by a million 
fishhooks so that she could not help but cry out in pain.

Again and again the demonic hairbrush did its work, seeming to pull out as 
much hair as it straightened, and drawing cries of pain from Abigail with each 
stroke.

When he had done, the scientist brought the brush around to show Abigail the 
enormous knitted clump of her hair that was stuck in the evil bristles of his 
brush.   He stroked Abigail's hair, and she was surprised to find that it now felt 
silky, smooth and luxuriant, and all the other words used on the commercials.   
Everyone queued up to take a feel of her mane, intimately caressing her hair 
and suddenly making Abigail feel more helpless than ever, as though they 
were fingering her private parts instead.

Suddenly, a messenger burst into the room.

"Special Crew are here, and they're asking for you," he told the lieutenant.

"Ah, well, playtime's over, boys; it's back to the old grindstone now!   Come on, 
we'd best bring the slut-whore with us, it'll be her they want."

Abigail's hands were cuffed behind her back again, and the chain looped 
through her nosering once more.   They led her back through the lab, where the 
scientists thanked the soldiers for the fun they had had.   Finally, just as Abigail 
was leaving, the lead scientist called out, "By the way, Yankee bitch, that 
chemical is great, it means your hair won't ever grow back, ever!"

The team of eight men lined up outside, and Abigail was made to kneel in front 
of them.   The chain was quietly hidden as a man wearing a captain's uniform 
marched across.

This must be the Special Crew.

END OF PART ONE

Part 2: Abigail Takes the Nails

The captain put his gloved hands on Abigail's head, the crotch of his trousers 
just inches from her face, "Hmm, it's rare we make a collection from you of a 
girl in such good condition!" he remarked to the lieutenant, "I see that you have 
subjected her to the Pantene Procedure.   I suppose they told her it was 
experimental, didn't they?   Isn't it amusing to see them squirm and hear them 
squeal, when you are really doing them a favour?"

"Yes, sir.   My squad watched with great amusement."

"Who's idea was it to put this ring in her nose?" the captain asked.

"That was Corporal Kayode, sir.   He shall be dealt with if it displeases you."

"On the contrary, I think that it is a fine addition.   I think he will make Sergeant in 
the next round of promotions for this.   And her body hair has been removed.   
How was this done?"

"The eggheads in the Research Block dipped her in one of their chemicals, sir.   
They say that the effect is permanent."

"Very good.   I shall recommend greater funding for their work next year for that.   
If anyone had touched her to shave her, there would have been trouble.   And 
the beating across the breasts, who did this?"

Proudly, "I did, sir!"

"Then you had better hope that the stripes fade quickly, or there will be some 
very angry top brass, and your name will be mentioned!   We told you that there 
were special plans for her.   Well, we shall have to make do as best we can."   
He gestured to one of his men.

"Abigail, stand up!" he ordered, and Abigail did as she was told, finding it 
harder without the use of her hands.

"Your name leaves you now.   You are 16017.   What number are you?"

Abigail mumbled back, "16017"

"Remember that.   It will be your only identity until told otherwise.   Do you 
understand, Abigail?"   She nodded her head meekly, and instantly received a 
slap across her cheek.

"Do you understand, Abigail?"   She kept still.

"Do you understand, 16017?"   She nodded again.

"Quick learner this one.   I suppose that's the product of the American 
schooling system, eh?" said the lieutenant, and the captain shared the laughter 
of the gathered men.

The man to whom the captain had gestured had come back.   He held two 
things, the first was a folded up bundle that looked like leather, the other was a 
small syringe.   Abigail panicked, but could do little.   As the syringe was 
revealed, somebody had gripped her legs tightly, and someone else held her 
shoulders.   A small spurt from the tip of the needle proved that there were no 
air bubbles, and it was jabbed into her upper arm and depressed just a small 
way before being drawn out again.   The sharp sting of the injection almost 
immediately started to fade away.   Abigail's limbs suddenly seemed to be 
unwilling to respond, and she felt as though the world was seen through a 
grease-smeared window.   The men around her supported her.   She could 
make out that the leather bundle was like a bodybag, but open at the head.   
The men gently manoeuvred her into it, the zipper drawn up over her belly and 
right to her throat, where a small padlock was used to make sure that it stayed 
done up.   Her legs were forced together and unable to flex much.   Her still-
cuffed arms were held against her back by the tough material.   A strip of black 
tape was placed over her mouth, reaching practically from ear to ear.

Once Abigail was thus secured, she was placed in the hands of the captain's 
men, who carried her under their arms like an awkwardly shaped parcel, and 
still the feeling and movement would not return, and the world still seemed 
fuzzy and grey.

The Special Compound van was parked not far away, but Abigail had not had a 
chance to look at it.   It was a plain white van with high sides, uninteresting to 
the casual observer and obviously (had Abigail's brain been functioning 
properly) intended to avoid catching attention.

The inside of the van was lined with soft foam padding, which struck Abigail in 
her drugged state as being a nice and comfortable thing to be.   But it was not 
for her benefit.   The Special Compound guards knew their business and 
opened the back of the van, climbing up and sliding Abigail inside.   The 
bodybag had a number of strong loops built into its back, and these lined up 
with a set of hooks on the wall of the van, from which the bag and its contents 
would hang.   There was not quite enough height for Abigail to be completely 
vertical, so the roof forced her to bend her head forwards so that she faced the 
floor.   Her feet were off the floor of the van, but not by much: her toes easily 
reached it.   Around her ankles, a metal bar swung closed and latched into 
place.

By now, the effects of the tiny dose of the drug were already wearing off.   Abigail 
was once more becoming alert to her surroundings.   She saw first that she 
was not the only woman restrained as she was and hung on the sides of the 
van.   Three more were there before her.   All had fared far worse than Abigail.   
Their faces were bruised, and one of them had had her head shaved and there 
was dried blood on her face.   One of them had stains of what looked like urine 
and semen in her hair.   Abigail suddenly felt absurdly guilty and ashamed that 
she had been spared these atrocities, while those around her had not.

The roads on this second journey were just as bad as on the first.   Now it was 
not her face and chest that bore the brunt of the bouncing van, but Abigail's 
head that frequently banged against the roof.   The soft foam padding spared 
her the worst of it, although she guessed that its true purpose was to keep the 
muffled squeals of the unwilling passengers from being heard outside.   The 
worst part was the way that the rough inside of her bag was rubbing against 
her sore, punished breasts, aggravating them horribly.   But the roughness was 
also rubbing against her sex with each rut or pothole in the road, and it was 
maddeningly arousing in a way that she would never have imagined while she 
was in the hands of the lieutenant and his men.

With her hands captured behind her back, and no freedom of movement, 
Abigail could not do anything to relieve her aroused state except close her eyes 
and think back to that wonderful evening that seemed so long ago, and yet had 
only been last night.   The evening whose price this was, spent in the presence 
of a modern-day African queen, whose tongue had expertly rasped upon 
Abigail's tender, erect clitoris just as the lining of her cocoon was doing now...

But each heavy bump in the road would jolt Abigail back to the present, her 
head knocking against the padding that now seemed far too thin, allowing the 
hardness of the metal roof to be clearly felt anyway.   She could feel mile on 
mile the growing wetness between her legs, but there was nothing that she 
could do to stimulate herself further, and no way to stop the reaction.   She 
moaned in her frustration, hoping that the involuntary sound would be mistaken 
for an altogether different sort of suffering.   She had no idea if the comments in 
the native tongue of this part of Africa had anything to do with her or not, but she 
recognised their laughter, and imagined that the soldiers had guessed all too 
accurately what she was feeling.

It took over two hours to reach their destination, and by the end Abigail was 
sweating not just from the heat, but from the sustained state of sexual 
stimulation in which the motion of the van had kept her, while never allowing 
her release.

Suddenly, she found herself at a steep angle as the van went down an incline.   
Dangling from the wall, only the bracket around her ankles stopped her from 
swinging towards the front of the van.   It was not a long slope, and the 
slowness of the vehicle enabled Abigail to deduce that they were in some sort 
of underground car park or garage.   This had to be where she would face the 
next stage.

The soldiers disembarked via a sliding door in the side of the van, closing it 
behind them and leaving the captives temporarily in darkness.   They opened 
the rear door and lifted out the first of their cocooned women, and closed the 
door again.   Nothing could be heard inside the van of what was happening, but 
it was less than a minute before the door opened again, and another of 
Abigail's fellow prisoners was removed.   Another minute, and then Abigail was 
left alone in the darkness.

Finally, the door opened for the last time and Abigail's tightly wrapped body was 
lifted from her hooks.   She was placed on her feet, and found herself in a dingy 
underground garage, lit by pale strip lighting.   The other prisoners were naked 
now, standing in shackles on wrists and ankles that were linked by chains too 
short to allow the wearer to stand up straight.   Abigail could see the welts 
where they had been caned.

Without hesitation, one of the guards unzipped her front, and pulled the bag 
down around Abigail's knees.   Abigail could see distinctly where the lining had 
soaked up her dampness, and she knew instantly that the soldiers had seen 
the same thing.   The captain looked more closely, and pulled off the glove of 
his left hand.   He gently stroked his fingers around Abigail's vulva, feeling for 
himself the lubrication that had leaked from her pussy, and sending an 
involuntary shiver of delight through her spine.   He dipped his index finger a 
little way between her labia and showed to his men the glistening tip.

"It looks like little 16017 really enjoyed the ride!" he remarked to the coarse 
laughter of his men, "I think she should have one last thrill before we let the 
Boss men take care of her, don't you?"

"You know what they said, though, sir: no touching.   You could get into trouble!" 
said the youngest member of the team.

"Who's going to tell?   There's only you, me and her will know, and she looks 
smart enough to know that she'll come of the worst if anyone finds out she 
came when she came here!"   He smeared Abigail's dew around her areolae 
and removed his other glove.   His left hand went back between Abigail's legs, 
that were still held tightly together by the bodybag, and his right hand started to 
play gently with Abigail's nipples, already hard from her long arousal on the 
journey.   He gently turned her into a position so that all the guards and the 
three other prisoners could see exactly what was happening to her.

The captain was clearly experienced in this, and his fingers were surprisingly 
soft and gentle as he stroked Abigail's clitoris and teased her left breast.   
Abigail closed her eyes and sighed as the captain's expert digits did their work, 
stroking and soothing and driving her onwards.

"Mmmm!" she moaned behind the tape that was still stuck over her mouth.   But 
the captain wasn't happy with her, and stopped, leaving her shocked and 
unfulfilled again.

"Open your eyes!" he demanded, and Abigail did, and the relentless build-up 
continued, but now Abigail was fully aware of the eight other people watching 
the captain administering his care upon her.   She breathed another deep sigh 
of pleasure, feeling the shame of such blatant enjoyment of her captor's 
advances, but unable to stop herself; the shame itself heightened the 
sensations in her nether regions.

The captain switched so his left thumb was now gently brushing her clit from 
side to side and up and down, stroking it and teasing it as his right hand was 
doing to her nipple.   Now, he gently slipped the four fingers of his left hand 
between the lips of her pussy, and stroked her from inside as well as out.   He 
did not have long to work before he triggered her climax.

"Mmm!" Abigail groaned her pleasure, her knees suddenly weak and unable to 
support her, and she buckled towards the ground under the wave of pleasure 
that engulfed her, "Mmmm!   Mmmm!   MMMM!"   From both sides came the 
applause of the men, both at their captain's skill and at the wonderful 
performance that Abigail had given them.   She could feel the disapproving 
stares of the other prisoners, but she was grateful to the captain for giving her 
at last some release.   Knees still shaking, she stood upright again.   The 
captain did not look at her, but merely wiped his hands of Abigail's juices on 
her breasts before putting his gloves back on.   He waved his hand in her 
direction: "Get her locked in."   Her feet were removed from the leather bag, and 
very soon Abigail was chained up just as the other women were.

A set of double doors faced the captives, and one by one they were led through 
them into what looked like a kitchen of some kind.   Another man, obviously not 
a soldier, awaited them.   He looked like some sort of clerk, with a clipboard 
and a pen with which to mark things down.   Indeed, he went along the line of 
prisoners, ripping off the tape across their mouths and asking their names.   
The stooped women each mumbled something in their native tongue, Abigail 
couldn't tell what they said, but assumed it was the numbers they had been 
given.   When the clerk reached her, she mumbled her own number, "16017."

The clerk looked at her for a moment, and then slapped her cheek with the 
back of his hand.

"I asked for your name, stupid whitey!   What is your name?"

"Abigail," she whimpered.

"Hmm," the clerk pondered, "Ah, yes.   The captain's been playing his little tricks 
again.   1s for the capital 'I's, a 6 for the capital 'G', 7 is obviously an upside 
down 'L', and because the 'A' doesn't look like much, it became a zero.   I 
thought you Americans were supposed to be smart, but if you fell for such a 
simple trick as that, then it can't be true!"   He marked a tick on his clipboard, to 
show that all the expected women had arrived as scheduled.   Then he looked 
at his watch.

"It's now 2pm, so I guess you bitches must be hungry!"   Abigail realised that 
she had not eaten since before she visited the First Lady last night, and her 
tummy rumbled as if in affirmation.   She was dismayed when she saw that the 
clerk had put four bowls on the floor, and proceeded to pour some form of soup 
into them.   As one, the girls bent into a crouch, and went to lift a bowl each to 
their lips.   The clerk drew open a drawer and pulled forth a riding crop even as 
they did so, and whistled it through the air to attract the prisoners' attention.

"No!   The bowls stay where they are.   Anyone who lifts their bowl, or spills their 
soup, will pay for it with this on her behind!"   And the crop whistled again for 
emphasis.   The safest method is to rest your knees and forearms on the 
ground, and either slurp or lap the soup."

Abigail did as the man described, and soon found that, while she was unlikely 
to spill her soup, as long as she did not reach forwards too far, she was certain 
to get it in her hair and on her nose and chin, all over her face, in fact.   Neither 
lapping nor slurping was a very quick way of transferring the soup from the 
bowl to her mouth, but it was better than the alternative.   Her posture forced her 
ass high into the air, and the clerk was afforded a perfect view of her anus and 
her newly bald crotch.   She and her fellows greedily tried to suck the soup into 
their bellies while they had the chance, Abigail always conscious of her 
conspicuous nudity.

The clerk used his riding crop to lift Abigail's head from her bowl, and with his 
foot he brushed the dish to one side.   He forced Abigail to raise her chin until 
she was sitting on her haunches, the chain from ankles to wrists now resting 
cold and hard in the cleft of her vagina, reminding her again of the captain's 
firm and adept fingers, even as she was made to look into the eyes of this 
clerk.

"Look at you, you filthy creature!" he said, and spat to one side, "No wonder they 
brought you here to be straightened out!"   He went back down the line of 
prisoners, and went through the same performance with each, although he 
used the native language to the others, who clearly from their faces understood 
every word.   The clerk went over to the kitchen sink and stared to fill it with 
water.

"You are all such filthy bitches that you will have to have your faces washed 
before you go any further!" he announced.   He dragged the first of the African 
women to the sink, and without giving her a chance to draw breath, he plunged 
her face into the water, letting her struggle for a moment before using a flannel 
to wipe her face, still under water.   Then he let her up.

He did the same for the others, and then it was Abigail's turn.   As he drew her 
nearer to the sink she could see that the water was now murky with the soup 
and other grime that had been rinsed off the other women's faces.   She tried to 
draw breath, but the clerk was surprisingly quick and she had to close her 
mouth halfway through.   The primeval fear of drowning took hold and she 
struggled helplessly as the others before her had done, hating the flannel that 
scoured her face but thankful the instant that air returned to her lungs.   The 
whole experience did not last more than twenty seconds, but it had felt like 
forever while her head was in the sink.

The clerk rubbed each of them with a separate towel each, drying off their faces 
in rough fashion.   Abigail welcomed it in a way, as the remnants of the grease 
and grime left in the water still clung to her face until the towel wiped it off.

Now, he tied thick blindfolds over their eyes, and Abigail found that she could 
see nothing at all.   She heard as one by one the other prisoners were made to 
shuffle across the room.   A sliding, grating noise seemed to indicate a door or 
lift of some kind.   Then, last again, it was her turn.   It was indeed a lift, and she 
briefly felt her weight increase as the lift rose, and then decrease when it came 
to a stop.   Two pairs of hands guided her from the lift on whatever floor this 
was, and made her turn several times to disorientate her.   Then she was led 
away, down a corridor perhaps.   A key grated in a heavy lock, and she was 
propelled forwards and made to kneel.   The blindfold came off and Abigail saw 
that she was in a tiny prison cell.   The cell was lit only by a weak lightbulb in the 
centre of the ceiling, surrounded by a wire cage.   It was just long enough for 
her to lie straight (if they would remove the shackles) and a narrow, grimy and 
decaying mattress posed as a bed.   The cell had only the width of the "bed" 
plus the width of the door.   A filthy-looking bucket stood at the other end of the 
room.   Just in case there was any doubt in Abigail's mind, the only instruction 
her guards issued were: "You piss, you shit, it goes in the bucket!"   They 
departed, locking the door behind her.

Left alone to contemplate her condition, Abigail sat on the cold, hard floor and 
wept.

*     *     *     *     *

Hours later, Abigail heard a key in the door.   It opened slightly, and a hand 
threw in a large hunk of bread.   The thrower was obviously aiming for the 
bucket, but thankfully he missed this time.   Abigail picked up the loaf from the 
dirty floor and hungrily began to gnaw at the coarse, brown sustenance.   Once 
she was done, a flap at the bottom of the door opened and a bowl of water was 
pushed through it.   Remembering her lesson at lunchtime, Abigail saw that 
she would lose her balance and spill the water if she tried to sip it from the side 
of the bowl.   Once again, she would have to go down on all fours and slurp at it 
like that.   She was so thirsty that she managed to drink almost all of it, but the 
final effort to reach the last half-inch or so only resulted in her tipping herself 
forwards, her face going straight into the bowl and spilling the last remnants.

Soon afterwards, there was again the sound of a key in the lock.   This time the 
door opened fully, and the captain who had brought Abigail to this prison 
entered, closing and locking the door behind him.

"You owe me a favour, Abigail," he said sternly.   Abigail looked back at him 
blankly.   "I could have left you aching and unsatisfied," he continued, "But out of 
the kindness of my heart I decided that you should be allowed your final climax.   
Now, one kindness deserves another, wouldn't you agree?"   He held Abigail's 
chin in his hand and turned her face to look upwards at his.   "They would 
notice if I screwed your pussy or your ass, but your mouth can swallow all the 
evidence and no one would be any the wiser - unless you told, of course, but 
then the whole sorry tale would come out and you would suffer far more than I 
would!   Don't you agree that I deserve something in return for bringing you off?   
Don't you think that you have a duty to suck my cock and swallow my semen?"

Abigail just looked back at him, knowing that she really would have no choice if 
he wished to force himself upon her.   He could see the look of feeble 
acceptance and acknowledgement of the inevitable in her eyes.   He laughed.

"I think you do agree, even if you will not say so.   Come on, in position!"   He 
made Abigail kneel upright, and press her hands to her belly.   This brought the 
cold, hard chain back into contact with her sex.   To aggravate it further, he used 
his boot to force Abigail's knees wider apart.   Although this only shortened the 
chain a little, its effect was amplified by its pressure on her sensitive vulva.   
Abigail whimpered, but parted her lips as instructed.

At first, the captain was gentle, allowing Abigail to do all the work, moving her 
head and using her lips and tongue to stimulate the captain's cock.   She was 
thankful that he did not personify the stereotypical image of a black man with 
huge member, but was actually quite modestly endowed.   It was far more of a 
relief when he became more excited.   He started to twist his fingers in Abigail's 
hair, and he was controlling her movements now, and becoming more and 
more frantic until Abigail was sure that she was going to choke on him if he 
didn't stop...   Then her mouth was full of his slimy cum, and she swallowed 
desperately, not only to please him but because she needed to breathe and it 
was the only way that she could.

"Well done!   You American sluts really know how to suck cock!   I wish we had 
more like you in here," the captain exclaimed as he did up his flies.   Then he 
departed, and Abigail was locked in, alone once more in her tiny cell.   The light 
went out, and all was blackness.

*     *     *     *     *

Eventually, she slept on the mattress in her hunched up position, despite the 
discomfort of the steel around her wrists and ankles, and the chain against her 
bare skin.   She was woken, she had no idea how much later, by the bulb being 
switched on and the sound of the door being unlocked.   She could not quickly 
lift herself from her lying, almost foetal, position, and the two guards who 
entered gave her no time to try.   They lifted her bodily by the arms until she was 
standing on her feet, the whole thing done in silence.   They did not speak to 
each other or to the prisoner, but went about their business in a calm and 
practised manner.   Once on her feet, Abigail was urged by firm hands into the 
hobbling, high-stepping gait that was the quickest that could be managed in 
the chains.   The guards directed her out of the cell and along the corridor, 
which was lined by many doors just like the one from which Abigail had just 
emerged.

She had noticed that these guards wore different uniforms to the soldiers she 
had seen so far: they marked them out as being somehow more serious and 
involved in the purpose of this prison, while the others were there to fetch, carry 
and escort prisoners, and beat them up if they stepped out of line.   If the term 
"Special Crew" had any meaning then it had to be these men who were its 
lowest rank.   Abigail would soon find out why she had been spared the awful 
treatment that she had seen inflicted on others, and why her guards had all 
been told "no touching", and been so afraid to disobey.

Even at her quickest pace, she could barely manage walking speed for a free 
person.   It took a long time for her guards to guide her through the complex 
corridors.   Eventually, they came to a corridor that seemed cleaner than the 
others: it had the air of a hospital or a research laboratory, and Abigail began to 
wonder what they were going to do to her here.   Maybe it would be a full 
medical exam, and that was how they would have spotted it if the captain had 
fucked her for real.

Finally, Abigail was brought to a spotless room where two people in full 
surgeons' wear were waiting.   The guards saluted the first of these, and one of 
them silently removed the chains, carefully placing them in a plastic bag, while 
the other held his gun covering Abigail.   In later days, she thought that she 
should have run for it then, and saved herself a lot of suffering, but she also 
remembered that she had still believed that while she had life, she had hope.

In the corner stood what looked like a shower cubicle.   As soon as the 
shackles were gone, one of the doctors put a pair of goggles over her eyes and 
ordered her inside.   The spray hit from all sides as well as from above, and 
smelled horribly of disinfectant, which explained the goggles but also set her 
coughing nastily.   Thankfully, the spray turned to water fairly soon, and she 
could breathe again.   Then one of the doctors approached her with a squeezy 
bottle in one hand.

"Face the wall!" he ordered her, and she did not hesitate to obey.   She cowered 
from what she knew would come, the memory of her last shampooing vividly 
brought back to her.   The rubber-gloved hands of the doctor worked swiftly to 
massage the lather into her head, and make sure that she had a thoroughly 
clean head.   Then he backed away, and closed the cubicle again.   The water 
continued for a bit, then some more disinfectant and finally, they rinsed her with 
cool water.

If anything indicated that this was special, it was the fact that she was not 
expected to be towel-dried, but hot streams of air swirled around Abigail's body 
from six discreet nozzles in the shower wall.   The doctor made her face the 
wall, and brushed her hair in the gale of hot wind.   He was taller than her, and 
wearing thick-soled shoes, so it was easy for him to manage.   This was not 
the torturous brushing of yesterday, but a methodical, efficient way of neatening 
her hair and keeping it tidy.

Very soon, she was dry and the heat stopped, a cool breeze now emanating 
from the nozzles to relax her skin, turned livid by the temperature of the wind 
before.   It was not long before she regained her natural hue, and she was 
suddenly feeling very well and cheerful: this was almost five-star pampering 
(except for the disinfectant).   Abigail was afraid to ask, but had to: "Why are you 
doing this?"

"We want you to look your best for your audience!" was the cryptic reply.   Abigail 
felt faint, though: audience, she thought, that means I am to be executed.   But 
in that case, why the disinfectant?

"Let's have a look at you!" the doctors said, and turned her to face them again, 
"Ah, yes.   That lieutenant the captain told us about has been very lucky: the 
welts have faded completely.   He cannot have hit her very hard!   Yes, she will 
do very nicely."   They each took an arm and pulled Abigail from the shower 
cubicle, and very soon her wrists were cuffed again, in front instead of behind 
this time.

 Abigail was marched from the preparation room through a set of double-doors 
and into what looked more like a film set of an operating theatre than the real 
thing.   There were three cameras that she could see, and instead of light from 
directly above, there were floodlights set up around the room for the cameras to 
use.   In the centre of the room was an operating table, but it seemed to be a 
very strange shape, cross-shaped for some reason.   Abigail started to struggle 
again, because she knew that whatever they would do to her, it would be 
horrible and permanent.   The two "doctors" were very strong, and impassively 
dragged their impotent charge to the table.   Abigail's struggles kept them from 
placing her on it immediately, but a well-aimed kick to the back of her knees 
subdued the frightened woman long enough for them to take an arm and a leg 
each and lift her bodily onto the table.   One of the doctors used his weight to 
hold Abigail down while the other fastened a broad leather strap across her 
ankles and another one over her lower thighs.   Abigail's legs were completely 
immobilised.   Then they stretched out Abigail's arms along the arms of the 
table, and further straps went across her wrists, lower arms and upper arms.   
She was spread across the table, her head searching wildly for some clue as 
to what would happen now, her naked body shivering uncontrollably from terror.

A gag was placed in Abigail's mouth, but it was not the usual type seen in the 
"damsel in distress" scenes.   This one was just a broad ring that forced 
Abigail's jaw wide open, effectively preventing coherent speech but allowing her 
full vent of her screams.

A door opened, and a woman in a wheelchair was brought in, and positioned 
behind the cameras.   Abigail could see that she was slim, and her ankles 
were tied with some black cloth, almost invisible against the woman's ebony 
skin.   Her wrists were tied also, and lay in her lap.   Her identity was hidden, for 
a dark hood had been placed over her head.   The man behind her was a 
colonel judging by his uniform.   He removed the hood, and revealed the face of 
Anagelike, the First Lady.

"Abigail, you have been found guilty of committing perverse sexual acts with the 
First Lady.   You are here to begin your punishment.   The First Lady will be 
punished if such is thought necessary.   What will happen is this: if the First 
Lady wishes, then she can take upon herself the punishment that you are 
about to receive, and you will be sent to prison for the rest of your life.   
Alternatively, if she truly loved you, then the pain of watching your suffering may 
be punishment enough.   Of course, if she did not love truly you, then she need 
not be punished at all.   Your fate lies in how much love Anagelike feels for you.   
Doctors, you may proceed."

The doctors strapped Abigail's head back against the table, carefully brushing 
her hair back so that it fell over the end of the table.   Then one of them went 
and collected a horrendous nail from somewhere, and his companion 
produced a giant hammer.   They showed the nail to Abigail: it was enormous.   
She thought it might even be as thick as a quarter.   It had a vicious tip, like the 
head of a Philips screwdriver only sharper, longer and pointier.   The head was 
almost as large as Abigail's palm.   The doctors took their inhuman implement 
and placed the tip very carefully over the centre of Abigail's palm.   Abigail's 
hands were quite small, and the nail dwarfed her helpless hand, that was 
pinned like some paralysed insect beneath the microscope.

The doctor raised his hammer high and prepared to strike.

"Stop!" cried Anagelike, "I beg you!"

"Ah, so you did love her!" crowed the Colonel, "Will you then accept these nails 
in her place, First Lady?   They are the latest development in punishment 
engineering, and are called Brava Nails.   I have another five of them to use in 
this experiment.   Will Abigail take them, or will you?"

Anagelike looked from the pathetic figure of Abigail, whose eyes were now 
forced to stare straight up and could not make contact with her so recent lover, 
and the face of the Colonel.   She looked back at the hideous Brava Nail.

"I do not want to take the nails," she said weakly.

"Louder, and tell me who will take them instead."

"Let Abigail take the Nails, I don't want to!" sobbed the First Lady to the room.   
Abigail gasped on horror, knowing that her lover had condemned her.

"Good!   Now, I think we want no more interruptions from you," said the Colonel, 
and he revealed a ball gag that had been hidden on the back of the chair.   This 
he fastened tightly into Anagelike's mouth, and it was a large gag that forced 
Anagelike's jaw as wide as it would go.   Only unintelligible whining issued 
forth as the First Lady tried to protest this treatment.   The hammer rose once 
more, and Anagelike once more tried to cry out, but she was so effectively 
muffled that barely a whimper emerged.   The hammer struck the nail's head.

Abigail screamed with all her might as the steel crashed through her skin, and 
between her hand bones, blood oozing from the wound and welling up into the 
cup of her palm.   Abigail could feel bones cracking and splintering as the nail 
forced them apart, she could feel muscle tearing and flesh being destroyed 
under the brutal assault.   Her fingers twitched involuntarily, never to move 
again as the metal annihilated the muscles and tendons that controlled them.   
Abigail's entire hand was a pit of tearing pain.

The hammer struck again, and Abigail screamed again as her bones were 
pushed beyond any natural force, grating against other bones that had not 
been touched by the nail itself and damaging them, opening yet more agony all 
across her hand, paralysing every single finger.   She did not stop screaming, 
but kept on throughout as the hammer drove the nail further and further through 
Abigail's outstretched hand, rasping and grating her bones with every blow, 
driving her insane with agony.   Her left hand was twitching in sympathy with her 
paralysed right hand, perhaps her unconscious knowing that it would not be 
long before they balanced out the pain.

And so it was, for after a few more hammer blows, the head of the first Brava 
Nail was flush against Abigail's palm, pressing tightly down upon it and coving 
almost the entire surface.   Then the second Brava Nail was produced, and 
without any hesitation they drove it through Abigail's left hand just as they had 
done with her right.   Abigail screamed time and again as her left hand suffered 
all the same damage as her right, her bones splintering and grating and 
grinding with each hammer blow just as they had done before.   Tears blinded 
her and agony wracked her body that was so tightly fastened down.   There was 
nothing that could be worse than this.   In her heart she repented of ever having 
been with another woman if only the pain would stop, if only the men would 
leave her alone.

And then it was over.   Her hands were pinned down firmly against the table - 
or more accurately, against a waxy resin that replaced the hard tabletop at a 
certain distance from her body.   But that was irrelevant.   It was over.   A tiny 
voice at the back of her mind whispered, "They have four more, and the Colonel 
said he would use them all..."   Abigail ignored it, glad that the men had 
stopped.   Her hands were still extremely painful, and her fingers had 
seemingly gone numb, but now that the hammering was gone, she could cope, 
almost.   She had stopped screaming and was just whimpering in anguish.   
She could hear similar sounds from behind the First Lady's gag, and imagined 
the tears that ran down Anagelike's face, streaking that royal countenance with 
sorrow and suffering.   The men seemed to extract the nails, but Abigail could 
feel the metal still in her hands, even when they showed her one that they had 
done.

Then the resin seemed to have dissolved, though Abigail had no idea how it 
was done.   She was unfastened and retied face down on the cross.   The nails 
now stood proudly into the air above the backs of Abigail's hands.   Then she 
heard the faint roar of a blue gas flame, the super-hot cutting flame that would 
go through metal.   It was accompanied by the sound of the gagged Anagelike 
trying to yelp in fear.

Abigail's eyes were forced to look at the wall in front of her head, and so she 
could not see what was happening, but she felt it as the metal that was still in 
her hands began to heat up rapidly.   The doctors were cutting through the 
nails, close to her skin and she could feel also the direct heat from the burner.   
The heat built and built in her hand, until the whole inside of her palm seemed 
to be caught in a white-hot blaze of fire and pain.   She screamed more horribly 
than ever, as metal seared itself onto her flesh.   One of the doctors started to 
hammer the softened metal into a wide ring on the back of her hand to match 
the smooth one on her palm, and each blow jarred the broken bones in her 
hand and brought more red-hot metal into contact with her ruined flesh.   Her 
hand was rendered utterly useless.

The same performance exploded into Abigail's other hand, heat and fire 
melding with shattered flesh and bone into a crescendo of suffering 
unimaginable to a woman who had lived the life of a professional, middle-
class American for most of her life.

And then it was over.   They had put their hideous rivets, or "Brava Nails", 
through Abigail's hands and seared them home.

"I think we should let her recover her wits for an hour.   Then we'll come back for 
her feet," announced the Colonel.   "She and the first Lady have plenty to 
discuss, I am sure!"   He laughed, for neither woman's gag was to be removed.

In the silence that followed the men's departure, Abigail and Anagelike made 
no sound for some time.   Abigail could not see Anagelike at all, and all 
Anagelike could see of Abigail were her outstretched arms, shapely legs and 
naked back.   They tried to communicate, but the sounds to which they had 
been restricted could not convey enough information or emotion to make it 
worthwhile.   They each knew far too well what the other was experiencing, and 
the attempts at expressing empathy were futile and unnecessary.   They lapsed 
into anguished silence again, and waited.

The Colonel had said an hour, but it stretched until it seemed like an aeon of 
suffering and impotence for the two women.   They wished nothing more than 
freedom, and to talk to one another, but these were both denied them.   Finally, 
the guards and the doctors returned.   They turned Abigail onto her back once 
more, and strapped her down as before.

"Are you sitting comfortably?" the Colonel asked the First Lady, and Abigail 
guessed from the furious noises that emanated from Anagelike's gag that he 
was fondling her in some obscene fashion; "Never mind, we will just have to 
start the show anyway," the Colonel concluded.   The doctors started to 
reposition Abigail's feet.

Her ankles and knees were strapped together, and one of the doctors held her 
ankles firmly as he placed her feet flat upon the table.   They were also 
positioned on a slab of the waxy resin.   Abigail could no longer see what was 
happening to her because her raised knees blocked her view.   But she knew 
when the doctors brought out the first Brava Nail, because Anagelike reacted to 
it with pitiful sounds of pleading and terror.

The tip of the barbarous instrument was placed on the roof of her foot, and 
traced around until the doctor found precisely the point that he wanted.   
Abigail's feet were not large by any means, and she hated to imagine what it 
would feel like, what would happen as the giant metal spike drove through.

Imagination ceased as the hammer fell, Abigail's urge to kick still not quite 
strong enough to break free of the second doctor's grasp.   The point was 
positioned at a junction of four bones, and each one crunched and cracked as 
they were driven apart, the effect transmitted throughout her foot so that it felt 
like a thousand nails driven into every part of the stricken extremity.   Her 
scream tore the air like an explosion ripping through a great stone wall.   Her 
arms jerked involuntarily, triggering further pain in hands that had seemed 
briefly dead to the world.

The hammer blows rained down upon the merciless nail, and each one 
cracked her bones and tore her flesh a little more, until she felt the point pierce 
the base of her foot, in the hollow arch.   The nail was driven right through until 
its top was flush with her skin as the nails in her palms were.   Her toes were 
beyond her feeling, and would not respond to any will of hers; her foot was 
mangled inside so that walking would forever be a challenge from now on.

Then they started again in the same way with her other foot.   She cried and 
screamed, screams that turned to wails and inarticulate pleas for mercy that 
was non-existent, and all the while accompanied by the weeping and choking 
protests of Anagelike, whose horror at what her innocent liaison with Abigail 
had brought about was all too clear.

And then the nails were through, and the resin was being dissolved.   The 
doctors removed the cores of the nails and then turned Abigail onto her front 
again.   Again they fired up their burner to cut the nails and to hammer them into 
shape.   The flame came even closer to Abigail's skin as the burner had to 
negotiate the cup of each foot, and Abigail felt not only the burning of the heated 
metal through her feet, but also the inescapable terror that her skin itself would 
be burned directly, making her even more of a cripple, and giving her even 
greater agony.   She had no strength left to scream, it seemed to her, and all 
that emerged from her voice was a moan of pure pain as the doctors produced 
their metalwork in her feet.   But at last it was done, and her feet each had top 
and bottom a metal plate that would gradually cool to become permanent 
additions to her anatomy.

At last they are done, she thought to herself, and I will be able to rest and wait 
or the pain to subside.   But it was not true.   Although the straps came off her 
again, it was only to find a new position for her.   Her cooled metal additions to 
her hands were used to bolt her hands together behind her back, and they 
were stretched out behind her.   Her legs, still bound together, were further 
strapped down so that she was lying on her side.   One of the doctors held her 
firmly in that position.   She could at last see the face of Anagelike, see the 
streaks of many tears that had traced their way down her lover's face, see the 
horror and helpless pleading, "Please forgive me!" in Anagelike's eyes.   
Through her own pain, Abigail tried to show with her eyes that, yes, she did 
forgive Anagelike.   It was not she who had forced the women to this pass, but 
the President and the Colonel, and who knew how many others who had 
colluded in this inhuman punishment.

Then a blindfold was placed over Abigail's eyes, as she saw the second doctor 
twirling a fifth Brava Nail.   There were two more to come, Abigail now realised, 
but where would they be placed?

In the end, it was perhaps obvious.   The doctor with nail and hammer pressed 
the nail firmly against Abigail's chest.   Her right breast crushed against her 
ribcage, the point of the nail was aimed right into the fleshiest part of her left 
breast.   Behind her ring gag, Abigail cried "No!"   The consonant was lost 
because of the ring, and the vowel changed as the nail was driven in, from 
"Oh!" to "Argh!"

The nail slid through the boneless flesh with ease, as blood welled up from the 
wound.   The doctor wiped it away a couple of times before the head of the nail 
was flush against the side of Abigail's breast and thus stopping further flow.   
From the other side, more blood was seeping out.   The doctors rolled Abigail 
onto her other side, and wiped away the warm red liquid from the exit wound, 
before starting the burner again, and using it as before.   The scorching heat 
passed through Abigail's breast just as it had done with her hands and feet, 
and she was screaming again as she had thought herself incapable of doing 
just a minute earlier.   And the worst part of all was that she knew that she 
would have to suffer it all again on her right breast.

And so it was: the doctors had a little trouble positioning the second breast nail, 
because of the hardness of the first being in the way, but that part of the female 
form proved sufficiently flexible as to allow them the access they required.   
Unable to see what was happening, the whole preparation was conveyed to 
Abigail purely through her sense of touch, as the doctors manoeuvred her body 
to the position they desired.   Finally, the shifting, pushing and adjusting 
stopped, and behind her blindfold she winced in anticipation of the blow.   And 
then it came, and she could not keep herself from screaming again, each time 
the nail was driven further into her breast.

They turned her over again in order to cut and shape the metal, and then they 
were done.   Abigail had six hollow tubes of metal permanently embedded in 
her flesh.   They laid her on her back and strapped her down again, without 
removing the blindfold.

"We will leave you to cool off now, Abigail," the Colonel said, "But do not think 
that this is all that you will have to endure.   This was only the punishment for 
your indiscretion with the First Lady.   Your links with the Women's rights 
movement are also a crime and of great interest to us.   You will be interrogated 
with extreme measures if necessary, and only then will we determine a 
suitable punishment.   Meanwhile, you have landed the First Lady in deep 
trouble.   I think that she will suffer some more conventional form of 
punishment for her part in this illicit and immoral activity, before the President 
will accept her back into his Palace this evening.

"I am looking forward to questioning you.   We very rarely have an American at 
our mercy!"

Abigail was left alone once more, mute and blind amidst the ruin of her once 
athletic body.

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