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day 717

      She returned to shoveling.  The short water break at 10 o’clock, then they went back, advancing to another series of dirt piles and another truck.  She was in the middle of the line, distinguished by her nudity and by being the only one using her shovel left-handed.  She noticed that this was the sixteenth time during her captivity that they had done this earth-moving work; and the fifth time this month.  Judging from the bus routes, the locations were all close to each other.  She also knew that earthen barriers were used in the nuclear reactors that this country was suspected of building.

 

        The ability to observe minutely, and to remember what she observed, were critical to her mission and she continued to use her professional capabilities while an inmate.  She had been noticing that the guard for her wing (she thought of her as “Tasha”) did not like being given orders by her boss, a kind of sergeant (whom she thought of as “Natalya”).  And that Natalya seemed to be in bad graces with the Assistant Warden.  And that Natalya seemed to come to work with a hangover a few times recently.  A guard with an alcohol problem, disliked by the others and afraid of losing her job, could perhaps be cultivated.  The nude prisoner had noticed that Tasha had not been at her post a few times.  Last month the nude had looked, with a calculated degree of surprise, at the empty station on the wing -- so that Natalya noticed her face and then the empty station.  Natalya no doubt put Tasha on report, and was grateful for the tip.

        The high heat of the day arrived before the 1 o’clock lunch.  The nude prisoner was sweating profusely but so were the rest in her coffle, possibly more so in their uniforms.  Sweat dripped from the nude’s chin, from the downward slopes of her tanned jiggling breasts with big sun-darkened nipples, and rivered from her saturated pubic bush down each muscular leg to the bare insteps.  Now lunch: water, coffee and a sandwich.  She ate alone, the prisoners sitting apart, conversing quietly.

 

        Now the truck left and the prisoners were led over a small hill.  There was a large field of corn, then further on what looked like a ravine.  The next task was to pluck the ears and throw them into rolling bins pulled by the guards in little motorized carts.  It seemed too early in the season to be doing this and the plants were green and hard to pick.  But she efficiently grabbed the ears and bent and snapped them from the stalks, glad she didn’t have to husk them.  The bare ears of corn, their shape and their regular bumpy rows, would remind her of the “interrogations”.

        Because there was one thing she could not get used to, and it was those interrogation sessions that were announced seemingly at random.  That special room, that x-shaped table to which she was cuffed, the female tongues, the dildos . . . the tongues . . . !  She was not in the least lesbian inclined, for one thing.  She cringed in the pit of her stomach as she tried to banish the sessions from her mind, but she couldn’t.  She had heard from experienced commandos that one could get used to physical torture, one could disengage one’s mind from what was happening to one’s body, even get used to it.

 

        But try as she might, she could not get used to an unwanted orgasm.  And it was here that she discovered, for the first time, that she had the capacity for orgasms that were multiple.  A surprising blessing for most women, but for her a curse, a terrible curse. . .  The special guards, three or four a time, stationed at her nipples, her pussy, her anus . . .  With each of her orgasms they reached into her soul, into her innermost private mental space, and squeezed her and shook her to the core.

 

        The questioning itself, conducted by a man in a business suit with a notepad, was mundane.  During her undercover work she had found out some surprising things that the regime would have wanted to know.  But he was not interested in that; he simply wanted false confessions, as to matters she knew nothing about, to use against political opponents.  She knew the answers he wanted but refused to give them.  Don’t become a pawn of the regime.  On that, her instructions had been very clear: Don’t become a pawn . . .

 

        So after each explosion of her nude, sweating body she was allowed to catch her breath, and the questions were asked again, with the threat of further “techniques” if she refused, and she would again refuse, and again the tongues and dildos would attack her, and again she was dragged up over the crest of a loathsome orgasm, the spasms jerking her body one after the other as the rasping tongues kept on and would not stop . . .  After a dozen or so orgasms she could not help but sob, and after a few more cry and howl like a baby.  Finally she was uncuffed and pushed back to her cell, her bare feet slapping against the cold concrete floor as she staggered, her legs like jelly.

 

        None of this, of course, left any marks on her body.

 

        Three o’clock break.  It so happened that Natalya was the one who passed out the water today.  She did not look the tanned, sweating nude in the eye.  More “cultivation” of her would have to be done, probably.

 

        The next two hours brought her bare footsteps to a drier field where the corn was sparse.  She toiled on, followed by Natalya in her little cart.  The dust kicked up and stuck to the nude’s sweat all over.  She looked and smelled disgusting, but she was used to it by now.

 

        It was five o’clock, when she was beginning to dread the approach of the Interrogation, when Natalya said, “Stop,” in the native language.  She appraised the prisoner’s gross appearance from head to toes, like a dirty sweaty animal, then motioned for her to follow.  Natalya drove the cart to the edge of the little ravine and pointed to the creek at the bottom.  “Five minutes.”

 

        There was a little creek running down there.  She supposed she should be grateful.  It was always a relief to shower after a hot day in the fields, but for her it was usually done in the most humiliating way possible, shooting a fire hose at her in the prison yard as dirt and grime were blasted away.  Evidently Natalya decided that today she was too disgusting to sit on the bus and should be cleaned now.  At least in the ravine she would be free from the jeering stares of the guards, and the other inmates.

 

        She slipped into the cool water with relief.  She stayed under as long as possible to cool her head, which felt especially hot, then emerged and rubbed herself all over as the dirt sluiced off her body and made little brown clouds in the water.  For five minutes she was alone . . .  She allowed herself to close her eyes for a moment and think, “Aaaaahhhhh. . .”

        After five minutes she was expected back up at the field, so she climbed up the ravine, fingers and toes digging into the dirt wall to get traction, and poked her head up so that she could see the field again.  She saw everyone else far away, hardly in sight.  Natalya had left something hanging on a stick, like she would do in the prison yard.  But -- instead of the usual rough gray rag that she would scrape herself dry with, before it was immediately snatched away -- here was a big, fluffly, clean white towel!

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Prison is such a perfect setting for ENF/OON. Hope you revisit in the future!

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