interrogations

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.