Bring Out the GIMP (Girls in Merciless Peril) Stories

STATE OF EMERGENCY: THE STUDENT



By King Diocletian



PART ONE: The Student 1) Arrested Rebecca stared at the stains on the wall above the door. How long had she been here? Two hours, three? She had no idea. There was no window and the only light came from a flickering bulb set behind thick mesh in the ceiling. Her head ached and her stomach was knotted with apprehension. It was chilly and she rubbed her bare arms trying to encourage some warmth. Part of her wished they would come so they could get it over with, at least get her out of this stinking cell with its peeling paint and stench of sewage. They'd picked her up at the demonstration, one of a few dozen arrested, packed onto buses and brought to the prison. There, everybody had been forced to lie on the ground and in batches of seven or eight, police had taken them out. She'd been there about an hour, waiting anxiously, when her name had been called. A guard had prodded her with his toe, and she'd been pulled to her feet. They'd taken her boots, her sweatshirt and her jacket, leaving her in just a white tank-top and a pair of canvas trousers, blindfolded her and marched her through the jail to this cell. They'd pulled off the blindfold and shoved her in, so she slipped on the greasy floor and fell awkwardly, grazing her wrist as she went down. She heard them laughing as they'd slammed the door, the bolts echoing in the silence as they were rammed shut. What would they do with her? Going to the demonstration, she knew, had been stupid, but she was an American: surely they'd just let her go. She'd asked to speak to her embassy when she'd been bundled into the bus, and again as they'd brought her to the cell, but they'd ignored her. Was it illegal to go to a demo? She didn't know that either. All she knew was that was thirsty, tired, cold and nervous. While she assumed her citizenship would protect her, she'd also heard the rumours about what the police got up to in this frontier province. That was one of the things she'd been protesting about. She heard the bolts being slid back, and a wave of fear swept over her. Instinctively she stood, backing away from the door. She saw two guards come in, another two blocking the doorway. "Up," one shouted. "Turn round. Against the wall." She obeyed, pushing herself against the peeling paint. Her arms were yanked back and her hands fastened in cuffs behind her. A dark sack was pulled over her head. They spun her round and gave her a shove, sending her stumbling into the other guards. A guard took each arm, and she was hustled out. She tried to focus and remember the route, but it was impossible as they marched her along corridors, through numerous doors and then down a short flight of stairs, a nightmare as she felt with her toes for each step, the guards hurrying her on. 2) The first interrogation She was terrified: why blindfold her and chain her if they were going to release her? Would they beat her? Torture her? She knew the stories, of brutal thrashings and electric shocks, of dissidents who just vanished. But surely they couldn't do that to an American, could they? A hand ran across her ass and she yelped, jerking away. The guards laughed. "Ooohh," one mocked. "Don't touch." Eventually they stopped. She heard a door opening and she was pulled through and forced down onto a stool. The door closed, and she heard a key turning in the lock. The sack was yanked off, but for a moment she saw nothing. Two arc lights shone in her face, and she blinked uncertainly aware only that there were two figures seated behind a desk facing her. There was silence, the only noise her frightened breathing. The chains were removed and she drew her hands in front of her, rubbing her wrists where the cuffs had chafed. "Miss Harris," came a cold voice from behind the desk. "Do you know why you're here?" His accent was educated. "No, sir," she said, her voice scarcely more than a croak. "I can't hear you. What did you say?" "No, sir." He sighed. "Really? Miss Harris, please don't take me for a fool." "I was... I was near the demonstration." Her heart was thumping in her chest. "Near it? So not leading it, not filling bottles with petrol to throw at the police?" "No, sir." She could feel her lip quivering; she felt on the verge of tears. She hadn't even realized petrol bombs had been thrown. She looked down. Set into the floor she could see two small iron ringlets, scratched as though something metal had been passed through them. Were they to tie prisoners down? "So what were you doing near the demonstration?" "I... I went to see what was happening, sir." "You were curious?" "Yes, sir." "I see. You know what curiosity did to the cat?" "It killed it, sir." A tear rolled down her cheek. * What he was curious about was what was under that vest, but there was plenty of time for that. Inspector Patel was used to interrogating prisoners and a lot of the time it bored him. He knew there were sadists in the force who enjoyed hurting people, who got a kick from administering beatings or electric shocks, but to him it was just a job. If you got a woman in, though, that was different, especially a young pretty one like this. And the fact she was American only made it sweeter. He hated their arrogance, the way they swaggered around telling them how to police the frontier. Like they had any idea what these subversives were like. When they were bombing buses you had to break some rules, get the electrodes out and crack some heads. But they kept coming to the university and making their protests about human rights and the like. What about the human right not to be blown up? "What are you doing here?" he asked, puffing away on his cigarette. "I'm studying at the university, sir." Her voice was unsteady; she was clearly terrified. It wouldn't take long to get her to start naming names, telling him who was organizing the protests. She was a postgraduate, doing a bit of teaching and studying postcolonial Indian writers. She relaxed a little as she talked about it, perhaps thinking the worst was over. Patel stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. He glanced at his fellow officer, Rao, and he nodded. He knew he was as eager as he was to move this along. Slowly he walked from behind the desk, watching her all the while, seeing her scared brown eyes following him as he walked round, staying always in the shadows. He moved behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She flinched as he ran his fingers under the straps of her vest, gently kneading the soft skin. She was delicate and beautiful and, as he'd thought, she wasn't wearing a bra, relying on the elasticated nature of the vest to keep her shapely breasts in place. Standing behind her, he took a strip of coarse black material from his pocket and folded it in three. She twisted in her seat, desperate to know what he was doing, but not daring to turn fully. As he placed it over her eyes, she gasped and gave a slight whimper. He caught a waft of coconut - her shampoo, he guessed. He crossed the ends behind her head and pulled tight, the cloth pressing her wavy hair tight against her head. He pulled again, eliciting a slight gasp as the pressure increased, then knotted the blindfold. He could sense her growing more tense, ran his hands over her shoulder again, savouring the anxious tightness of the muscle. He wafted a hand in front of her. She didn't move; the cloth was doing its job. "Put her in position," he said, knowing the ambiguity of the phrase would unnerve her. Two soldiers pulled her up by her bare arms, and hustled her to the back of the room, pushing her against the peeling paint of the wall. They placed her hands flat against the wall next to her shoulders and stepped away. Patel walked up to her left side. She'd placed her right cheek against the wall so, although it was hardly relevant given the blindfold, he felt he was talking to her. "Keep your hands on the wall," he said. There was something almost doll-like about her beauty, the gentle curve of the forehead, the beauty spot on her left cheek. "Walk backwards." She shuffled her feet back across the dusty concrete. He'd never really noticed feet before, but hers, so small and delicate, so, well, pretty, captivated him. Soon she was leaning, all her weight on her palms. She paused. "Keep going," he said. She kept shuffling back until she was stretched, her toes bent and her weight on her fingers. "Feet shoulder width apart," he said, and she obeyed. He walked behind her, admiring her slightness. She was girlishly small: no more, he thought, than 5'3" or so, and delicate with it. "This is what we call the stress position," he said. "You stay like that until you answer my questions. If you disobey, well... well, then things get interesting." Patel could see the tension in her already. Her head was bowed and her breathing unsteady. It was the fingers that would hurt first, he knew, then the toes, before the muscles of her arms and to a lesser extent her calves would ache. He'd probably overstretched her, misjudging it a little with her lack of height, but he wasn't bothered: no harm in speeding this along. There was always the danger that his bosses would make him go easy on an American girl. "Now," he said, "what were you doing at that demonstration?" She lifted her head. "I've told you," she said uncertainly. "I just went to look." "So you regard my county's problems as a spectator sport?" "No." "So why did you go?" "I was curious." He saw a tremor pass along her arms. "Were you reporting to anyone?" "Reporting? No." "You're not a journalist?" "No." "Do you work for the CIA?" "No. Of course not." She was trembling continuously now, flexing her fingers. Patel decided on a different tack. "Do you have a boyfriend?" "No." She sounded puzzled. Her head was dipped again. He stepped close behind her, and sensed how she stiffened as he realized how close he was. "A pretty girl like you? Why not? Are you looking for a good Indian husband?" She gave a sob, and her left hand gave way. She pushed herself back into position but her palm had clearly slapped against the wall, her feet slithered two or three inches forward. He stepped even closer, and reached round her waist. She flinched. Slowly, calmly, he unbuckled her belt. Her whole body stiffened. "Please..." she whimpered, as he pulled the pin from the eye hole and let the belt slide loose. His fingers reached for the button. She seemed to be drawing her belly away from him, but stayed in position, her breath coming in short shallow jerks. He popped the button, and then stepped away, drawing the waistband slowly down over her hips. Slowly, her trousers slithered down to bunch around her ankles, revealing slim, lightly-muscled legs and round buttocks that, although covered by the pale pink cotton of her panties, Patel knew would be the smoothest, tautest he'd ever seen. * Rebecca wished she'd worn a bra, but she never did with this top. It was a perfect fit, the elastication giving her breasts perfect support. She wasn't flat-chested, not by any means, but neither were her breasts so big that they needed much in the way of lift; a benefit of youth. But if he took off an item of clothing each time she fell, well... Well, she knew it didn't really matter. What was an extra five or ten minutes if he was going to strip her anyway? But it mattered because she worried it made her look sluttish, and that was the last thing she was. "Have you ever attended any other demonstrations?" he asked. She tried to think what the best answer was, but the strain on her fingers and toes, her arms, her fear, made it difficult. She had, but she didn't think she should admit it. "Yes, sir," she said. What else could she do? "Really?" He was closer to her now, on her right side. She hated not being able to see, felt incredibly vulnerable. She felt his breath on her cheek as he leaned in. "When?" he asked. At least he wasn't standing behind her, staring at her ass. Was he really going to strip her naked? Was that the plan? Would he do that to an American citizen? Maybe he'd just strip her to bra and panties, just too shock her. But then she wasn't wearing a bra. Did he realize that? Or might he expose her by accident? "I don't know." "You don't know?" "I can't think like this." The position he'd let her take up after she'd slipped the first time wasn't as bad. An extra three or four inches made a big difference, but she knew she couldn't hold out much longer. "We could always think of a way to aid your memory." She gave an involuntary sob. She fingers were in real pain now, beginning to wobble. Her head hung loose below her arms. "Two weeks ago," she said. "On the campus." "And what were you demonstrating about?" "Human rights abuses." "How ironic." He said nothing for a moment. "You can tell us more about that later. Other demonstrations?" She gave a whimper of pain. Her hands were shaking violently now. "Yes. I don't know, seven or eight..." She had to hang on, delay this as long as possible. She lifted her head, gritting her teeth, but it was no good. She fell to her knees. She bit her lower lip, but couldn't stop it quivering. She felt hands on her arms, and she was pulled to her feet, the trousers yanked from round her ankles, and hustled back towards the stool. * Patel sat back. This was it. He could hear Rao's breathing, heavy with anticipation. Two soldiers, dwarfing her absurdly, held her arms. As he flicked on the arc lights again, another removed her blindfold. She blinked rapidly, and turned her head. "Look at me," he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. The guard behind her gave her a shove and she raised her head to face the light. She looked utterly terrified. "I told you to stay in position," he said. "You failed." She pressed her lips together, shrinking away from him. The guards held her arms, but her feet shuffled back so she bent forward slightly, making her seem even smaller than she already was. "Strip her," he said. She gave a squeak, a half-bark of "No!" as they fell on her. Two guards on her arms and four others around her. When they stepped away, she was naked. She cowered in the light, hunched in humiliation, her right arm hooked across her breasts, her left cupped between her legs. She was visibly shaking, her head lowered, chin pressed to chest. "Sit," he said. She looked at him, glanced around as though seeking a way out, saw the stool a little behind her and to her left, and then moved towards it. It was only a couple of paces, but such was her embarrassment that it became an awkward stumble. He admired her smooth skin, pale in the light, saw her flat, firm right buttock as she half turned. She sat, facing the officers, bent forwards as she tried to cover herself. Others would have chained her wrists so that everything was on show, but he suspected leaving her unchained caused more humiliation. Now she had a chance to protect herself; if he saw her breasts or her pudendum, it was her fault. "Why did you go to the demonstration>?" he asked. She burst into tears. "God, I've told you," she said through her sobs. "I was curious." Patel turned to one of the guards. "Take her clothes away and search them," he said. * The tears wouldn't stop. With them and the light shining straight at her she may as well have been blindfolded. Her cheeks were burning, her throat dry, and he kept hammering questions at her. She had her legs crossed, her left hand clamped over her genitals, her right arm slung across her chest. Tears dripped off her face onto her chest, a horrible reminder of her nakedness. "Who organized the demonstration?" "I don't know." "Who told you about it?" "I don't know." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. "You don't know?" "Everybody was talking about it." "And yet you didn't report it to the police?" "No." On it went, question after question, always insinuating, demanding names, making veiled threats, lighting up cigarette after cigarette. She squirmed on the stool, the way the light was directed at her seemingly to highlight how she was the focus of every stare. She'd never been so ashamed. She tried to stay calm, to answer sensibly, but constantly she could hear a voice inside her head yelling out that she was naked. She huddled forward, trying to make herself small, struggling to keep her right arm high enough to cover both breasts. Her arms ached, but she knew to switch over and relieve the tension would leave her exposed even if only for a second. "Is there a dissident movement at the university?" "I don't know, sir." "Nothing? Nobody says anything?" "About what, sir?" "About resistance to the law? About opposing the government?" "People say things but I don't know how serious they are." "Who? Who says what?" Why had she said that? She blinked back more tears and shook her head. "I don't know," she said softly. * Rao was stiff, his cock aching as it pressed against his over-tight trousers. This was by some way the most fun interrogation he'd conducted - not that he'd conducted many. He'd only been in frontier force for four months and most of his fellow officers had treated him as he'd been treated at school and university: with barely disguised contempt. He was a fat, burdened with coarse, patchy stubble, and prone to sweating at moments of tension. Women barely paid him any attention, let alone women as pretty as this. To say she was the best-looking girl he'd seen naked wasn't saying much, but he couldn't think even of a better-looking girl he'd seen naked even on the internet. He still couldn't believe Patel had had her stripped. He'd only interrogated two women before - one in her fifties he wouldn't have wanted to see naked anyway, the other a teacher in her thirties who had had a certain tough charm. They'd shouted at her for a day or so, put her in the stress position and slapped her around a bit, but nothing more. Why Patel was so intent on humiliating this one he had no idea, but he was loving it. Patel stood, slowly. Rao saw the girl's face harden, fear intensifying. That she was so terrified, so helpless only made it better. He prayed Patel would have her beaten, might even let him use a strap or a cane on that slender body. Staying in the dark so he couldn't be seen, Patel walked behind her. She twisted to follow his movement, one arm still locked across her chest. Gently but firmly, Patel placed his hands on the sides of her head and turned her so she faced forward. Rao stared at her, drinking in the terror in her brown eyes, desperately peering to see beyond the arm and catch another glimpse of her sweet round breasts. Patel painstakingly folded the blindfold again then, without warning, slipped it over her eyes, pulling it tight and knotting it. She gasped instinctively and for a second her arms twitched. She kept them still, though, and Rao was thwarted. He knew what was coming, though, and knew he would see her fully nude before long. Patel waved a hand in front of her face. She didn't move, at which he nodded to two of the soldiers. Rao found himself holding his breath. They seized her arms from behind her and yanked her to her feet. She yelped, as they pulled her arms away from her and she was naked for all to see. She backed away instinctively, so she bent forward slightly, her breasts hanging slightly from her chest, her clear humiliation only increasing Rao's desire. It wasn't just her breasts, creamily smooth and high as they were, but her whole pale slenderness, the taut perfection of her tiny body. They turned her and dragged her to the back wall. Even her thin back turned him on, never mind her pert round buttocks. What would he give to slash a cane across them? To mark their round purity with a purple wheal? * It was as if there were a band tightened around her chest. She had to concentrate to breathe properly and she wanted to be sick. Her fingers ached, her arms ached, her legs ached, she was cold and her head was throbbing but the worst thing was she was naked. Utterly naked. Exposed to them. Everything was black, but she could sense them there staring at her buttocks and, with her legs slightly spread, at far more. She knew they had walked to the side to leer at her breasts and she knew that, however bad it had been when they'd stripped her, what was waiting if she slipped from the stress position this time would be far worse. She answered his questions mechanically, struggling to understand where they were leading. The reality was she couldn't think so she answered truthfully. She didn't know anything. She wasn't a spy or a journalist. But of course she did know who had told her about the demonstration, she did know what certain other students had said about it and about the authorities: she just wasn't going to tell him, to condemn them to who knows what for a couple of offhand comments. Her head dropped between her shaking arms. She willed herself to hold out a little longer. What would it be? Now she was naked what else could they do to her? "Tell me about your friends at university," he said. "Are they political?" "No." "Are your friends mostly white? Or do you have local friends?" "Both." "Who's your best friend?" "I don't know. I'm not sure I have a best friend." "You have a problem with a boy. Who do you speak to?" "I don't know. Kate, maybe. Kate Dryden." "Does she go to demonstrations?" "Not that I know of." "Do you discuss politics with her?" "No." "Did she know you were going to the demo?" "Maybe. I don't know." "So she's an accessory? Should I have her in here and interrogate her as well?" "Why? What has she done?" "What have you done?" "Nothing." The strain was unbearable. She'd have given anything just to curl up into a ball, to hide herself from them, to wrap herself in a blanket and sleep. She was shaking now, her fingers screaming in pain. "Is she a pretty girl, your friend Kate?" His voice was mocking Her arms gave way and she fell. She sobbed as she knelt on the floor, her arms once more hooked across her breasts and genitals. "You were told to stay in position," he snapped. A hand grabbed a hank of her hair and jerked her so she knelt upright. She cowered and wept, dreading her punishment, but when it came it was wholly unexpected. Sharply, two palms clapped into her head, smacking both ears simultaneously. The impact hadn't been especially hard, but she felt an oddly intense pain inside her head and a wave of nausea swept over her. Instinctively her hands went to her head but as they did so she was hauled to her feet. "Back in position," came the order. "No," she cried. "Please. I'm exhausted." She stumbled, her balance seemingly gone, but their insistent hands forced her against the wall, forced her back into position. Immediately she felt the pain again, began the struggle to stay up a few more seconds. "Please," she begged. "Please, sir. I don't know what you want from me." * Patel stared at her trembling body and took a long drag on his cigarette. She wouldn't last long, he knew. That was the beauty of stress positions; once you broke them once, they were broken. And she was so slight there was no muscle to hold her up. She was sobbing, begging for mercy, but he just carried on with the questions. "Who organized the demonstration?" he asked, walking to the side to examine again her breast. It was gloriously smooth and pert, too small to hang pendulously but large enough to swell perfectly from her chest, the nipple erect in the cold. "I don't know," she sniffed. "Who told you to go to the demonstration?" "Nobody." Her head hung down, her wavy hair covering her face. She let out a strangled scream and fell to her knees. "Please, please..." she begged turning towards him. The soldiers seized her arms and dragged her over the floor to him, lifting her to a kneeling position. He nipped out his cigarette and tossed it aside. "No... No..." She whimpered, but he paid no heed and, walking behind her, slapped her ears firmly. There was technique to this, and Patel knew he was good. Do it too weakly and it had no impact; do it too hard and you could burst the prisoner's ear-drum. He got it just right and she lurched forwards, her hands going to her ears even as the soldiers lifted her and placed her hands flat against the wall. She was dizzy, he knew, probably nauseous, and her muscles were exhausted, laced with lactic acid. "It's called the telephone, that technique," he told her. "Drop your head between your knees and you recover quite quickly." He walked behind her, seeing the tension in her straining legs, taking in the smooth tightness of her buttocks and the plump pinkness of her cunt just visible beneath. "Names," he said. "Just give me names. If it's not you arranging all these disturbances, who is it?" "It's not me," she squawked, but even as she did so her arms gave way and she fell. The soldiers pulled her up, her head hanging limp. Patel nodded to them and the lifted her not to a kneeling position but until she stood uneasily between them. "Go on," he said to Rao. The kid was idiot, but that was no reason to deny him his fun. He'd seen the way he'd been looking at her, knew he was desperate to get involved. He doubted Rao had even seen a naked woman before, never mind one as beautiful as this. Rao stepped forward gleefully, a look on his face midway between a grin and a leer. He dwarfed her; it was almost comical to see this fat moron, uncomfortable in his uniform, towering over her slender nakedness. Rao drew back a meaty fist and smashed it into the pit of her belly. She gave a noise that was half retch, half scream as the breath was knocked out of her, and slumped, coughing as she tried to get breath back into her lungs. "Chain her up," Patel said, signaling to Rao to return behind the desk. * Rao was in heaven. It had felt so good, her soft skin beneath his fist. He knew they laughed at him. He knew he was awkward, but if Patel just let him join in he could be something. He wanted to slap her, to put his hand across her cheek so she had a bruise where that beauty spot was. He wanted to punch those delicious tits, to cane those firm buttocks, to make her scream and howl. He watched as the soldiers tightened a pair of handcuffs over her wrists. A chain, controlled by a pulley near the door, was lowered above her until the hook attached to the end hung just above of her blindfolded eyes. She seemed exhausted, numb, as they then lifted her arms and clipped the chain of the cuffs into the hook. The solider by the door turned the handle, raising her arms until they were not quite taut above her head. She was utterly exposed now, her slender body offered no protection, naked in the arc lights. Rao was captivated by her beauty, the trim figure, the flat pale stomach, the neat strip of pubic hair, the pert round breasts just a little stretched and flattened by her posture. Patel walked behind her and unfastened the blindfold. She blinked, her eyes red and puffy from sobbing. As if only then becoming truly aware of her nudity, she whimpered, pushing her knees together. Patel returned to his place behind the desk. He sat down next to Rao and sighed. "Miss Harris," he said. "Why are you being so obstructive?" She shook her head, her breasts quivering as she did so. "I don't know what you want," she said, her voice cracking. "Then I'll make it simple for you. I want to know who organizes the demonstrations. I want to know about seditious elements at the university. I want to know about American elements destabilizing our country." "I don't know." "Then we must proceed." Rao was only half-listening. He didn't care about the questions; he just cared about her, her terror and her nakedness. He knew there was some strategy to Patel's questions, but endless inquiries about clubs and societies and other people at the university just seemed dull to him. Eventually, Patel stood up again and went to the cupboard behind the desk. He unlocked it and from the selection inside, took out a cane. Rao instantly felt his cock stiffen again; was he really going to thrash her? Rebecca, of course, couldn't see what it was. She just knew he was moving behind the light, but Patel walked slowly, purposefully, towards her, making sure the beams always obscured her vision of him. The cane was about four feet long, about as thick as a man's finger. Rao watched as Patel flexed it. He hoped beyond anything that he got the chance to use it on her. Then Patel, standing about two yards to her left and two yards in front of her, still hidden by the light, swished it through the air. The sound was unmistakable, terrifying. She whimpered. Patel slowly walked behind her, whipping the cane through the air as he went. She shook visibly, her knees pressed together. She twisted to try to see him, but he kept going, far enough behind her to remain always out of sight. Slowly, deliberately, he completed the circle until finally he came into view, standing directly in front of her, blocking Rao's view. He moved his seat to the side to see past him. * Blinking away the tears Rebecca saw him for the first time. Her interrogator. Her torturer. He was a tall man, probably in his late forties, side-parted hair just turning grey. In another context she might have thought him not attractive exactly, but sternly handsome. He wore a khaki uniform, the top button on his shirt undone beneath the jacket. But what she really focused on was the cane. It was pale and terrifying and he held it by its ends, flexing in purposefully. "Please...." she began, but he silenced her by holding out with the cane, lowering it slowly until one end touched the inside of her left ankle. She flinched instinctively, closing her eyes as he carefully ran the tip of the cane up the inside of her shin. When he reached the knee he tapped it, forcing her legs apart, and then moved to the right leg, again, slowly running the cane up the shin. This time, when he got to the knee, he didn't stop, but kept going. The cane ran up the inside of her thigh. Her whole body was tense and she realized she was holding her breath. He stopped and withdrew the cane. He swished it in front of her, forehand and back, and then touched it to her left knee again. She bit her lip, closing her eyes again as he stroked the cane up the firm flesh of her inner thigh. He said nothing and she felt the whole room must be able to hear her heart thump in the silence. He reached her groin and stopped, and she dared open her eyes again. Her body, though, remained taut with tension. He flicked his wrist and tapped the cane twice against her mound. It sent a tremor through her and, to her horror, she began to piss. Once it had started she couldn't stop it. She pressed her legs together but it just kept pouring out, hot on her legs and cool by the time it puddle around her feet. She kept her head bowed, unable to look at him for shame. "You disgust me," he said when her bladder was at last empty. She felt the tension in the chain slacken and her arms fell. "Lick it up," he ordered. She stared at him. He couldn't make her do that, could he? "No, no, no, no..." she cried. "Please..." He whipped the cane menacingly through the air and she dropped immediately to her knees. She knelt on the wet concrete, lowered her head. The smell alone made her nauseous. She pushed her tongue between her lips, lowered it towards the spreading pool, and stopped. She looked up at him through the hair that had fallen over her face but he stood impassively, flexing the cane. She dropped her head again and, sharply, to force herself to do it, licked at the floor. The taste wasn't as bad as she'd feared, a little salty but that was all, but the point was it was her piss. She pulled back but she heard the cane swish and began lapping, mechanically, feeling the grit and dirt on her tongue and in her mouth. She began crying again, but didn't dare raise her head, just kept licking the floor. With her eyes down and her hair tumbling forward, she didn't see what they were preparing till it was too late. A jet of icy water struck her face and she jerked back instinctively. As she blinked, she saw a soldier holding a hosepipe. He sprayed the floor in front of her and then turned it on her. She shrieked, slithering backwards and holding her cuffed hands out in front of her to try to deflect the jet. It wasn't just the cold; the force of the water stung as it played over her belly and chest and then, with what was obvious deliberation, her pubic area. She curled up on the floor, turning her back to the water, but even then he aimed at her buttocks, spraying it between her legs. Finally the water was turned off. She half sat up, shivering and sniffing, hugging herself to try to regain some warmth her back still turned to the soldiers and interrogators. She heard a scratching noise and realized a soldier was swilling the floor, brushing the water towards a small drain. Her body was pink, covered in goose pimples. She rubbed her arms, unable to stop shaking, yet more tears rolling from her eyes. Then, suddenly, the soldier was standing over her, thrusting his broom between her legs, dragging the stiff bristles back and fourth. She shrieked in shock and pain and jerked away, whimpering with humiliation. She heard them laugh and the next she knew she was skidding over the floor, scraping painfully on the wet concrete as they winched up the cuffs. They didn't stop till she was almost hanging, only the balls of her feet touching the ground. * She looked pathetic, so small and delicate, stretched out by the chains, shivering with cold and fear and shame. At times, as the strain on her calves became too great she hung, but then the pain in her wrists and arms became too great and she would force her exhausted muscles to work again. Her answers to his questions were little more than croaks now as he went through people at the university and asked her to talk about them. He was pretty sure she was what she seemed: naive and self-righteous but essentially innocent, terrified to be in a situation nothing in life had ever remotely prepared her for. But still, he'd have another day at her tomorrow just to be on the safe side. She'd been stretched out like that for around half an hour when Patel stood up again. When he walked behind her she was too tired even to turn. He moved in close and reached round to do what he'd been waiting to do since he'd first seen her. He ran his hands over her chest and then cupped her breasts. They were cold to the touch, the nipples firm and rubbery, but they were the softest things he'd ever held. He felt her whole body tense as he gently massaged them, pulling her body against his so her silken skin rubbed against the coarse cloth of his uniform. He pushed his face into her mass of curls, smelling again that faint aroma of coconut, and nuzzled the side of her neck. When his lips reached her ear, he whispered, "Tomorrow we'll start the real torture." Then her gave her buttocks a firm pat and signaled to the soldiers to let her down. * 3) The First Night Rebecca lay on her left side on the cold concrete, her knees pulled up to her chin to warmth, her hands hugging her shins. Her wrists were bruised and grazed and if she wasn't crying it was only because she'd run out of tears. After they'd let her down she'd been given a grey prison dress. It was threadbare and not especially clean but she'd pulled it on like the finest silk, grateful for any protection from their stares. It stopped a few inches above her knees and was sleeveless, the armholes exposing the sides of her breasts unless she kept her hands by her sides. She knew they were watching her because she kept hearing the peephole in the cell door being opened and shut. She knew they were laughing at her, enjoying her discomfort. They'd brought her here with her wrists shackled behind her, a hood covering her face. They'd made her kneel at the back of the cell before removing the hood and then unfastening the chains and making her place her hands behind her neck. "When we knock on the door three times," one said, "you take up this position. If you don't, we punish you." He tweaked her hair to make his point. "And you stay like this when we've gone till we knock three times. Clear?" "Yes, sir." When they'd left they'd made her kneel like that for about 10 minutes before finally giving the knock. The cell was bare: drab concrete floor, drab concrete walls, only a grubby light fitting in the ceiling and small drain near one wall breaking the monotony. That, she'd realized, was her toilet. It stank, and a few flies buzzed around it. She'd sat in the corner, knees pulled up to chin, wondering what time it was. With the constant dull light it was impossible to know if it was night-time. How long had she been here? She had no idea. She'd been in the cell for she guessed around half an hour when they'd knocked. She'd rushed into position, kneeling obediently against the wall. "Here's your dinner, bitch," one of the guards had said. When they'd knocked again she'd turned to see a bowl of watery dhal, a chapatti and bowl of water. She'd eaten it more because she knew she had to keep her strength up that anything else. She gulped down the water, surprised by how thirsty she was. They'd come back for the bowls half an hour later, one of them patting her head as she knelt against the wall, mocking her. "Good girl," he said. Eventually she'd lain down and tried to sleep, but she was cold and scared. She looked up at the light, and the rusting wire that crises crossed the grimy bulb. How long had they kept her there for, naked? Hours. It must have been hours, sitting and standing as they stared at her. She shuddered at the thought of their gaze. She felt exhausted, yet she was too terrified too sleep. What had he meant when he'd said they would start the real torture tomorrow? What had today been, stripping her and slapping her and punching her and turning hose pipes on her and hanging her by her wrists? Putting her in stress positions and threatening her with a cane? And making her drink her own piss. Making her drink her own piss... she started to cry again. She looked at her wrists, at the way the cuffs had chafed the skin to draw blood. What was that but torture? There was a knock at the door. She rolled instantly to her feet and knelt as she'd been told. But nobody came in. She kept kneeling, too scared to move. Five minutes passed, ten, twenty and then, to hoots of laughter, she heard them knock again. She lay down, still desperately cold and waited for sleep. * Patel knew he pretty much had one more day with her. He could justify that and he already had enough to get her a few months in the camps on a charge of sedition. If he went into a third day, though, they'd start asking questions - especially given she was American. He went in early and arranged for her room at the university to be searched. Rao, to his surprise, was already there when he got there, reading through the thin file they had on her. He obviously wanted to get on with the day's fun as well. It turned out her appearances at other demonstrations had drawn attention. There were some photos of her, both at the demos and at the university and, best of all, three testimonies from witnesses saying they thought she was part of an anti-government cell. It was almost certainly nonsense, desperate prisoners screaming out names under torture, but it gave him leverage over her. He saw the head of the night guard in the staff room. "How did Harris pass the night?" he asked. "Barely slept," he said. "Not sure I've ever seen anybody look so terrified. She was crying most of the night. You sure we shouldn't give her a blanket?" Patel was pleased. He suspected she would collapse at the slightest prod today. He took a thick sheaf of blank printer paper and slipped it into the middle of her file, then set off for the interrogation room. * Her head thumped. She'd been woken by the knock and was momentarily disoriented. Cold and stiff, she hurried to take up her position. Three soldiers came into her cell, shutting the door behind them. Her teeth chattered. "I'm sorry, sir," she sobbed, her head ringing as his blows aggravated her headache. "I was asleep." "Asleep?" he screamed, grabbing a hank of her hair. "It's a prison, not a fucking holiday camp." He lifted her by her hair and threw her down next to a bowl of dhal and a cup of water. She squatted there on all fours, absurdly wondering how much of her ass was visible. The soldier hawked up phlegm and spat into the water. He snorted in through his nose bringing more catarrh into his throat and spat into the dhal. She looked up at him. "You're a bitch," he said, sneering. "Now eat like one." "What?" she sobbed. "Please." "Eat. Like a dog." She bent over the bowl. The three soldiers laughed. "Go on." A boot prodded her ass. "Eat - or we get that dress off you and you entertain us." Rebecca looked up at them, saw the uniforms, saw the mocking faces, and then, squatting like a dog, she put her face to the bowl and began to lap at the dhal. The phlegm sat, green and stringy, in the centre of the bowl. She lapped carefully around it, trying to ignore their jeers. "Is the bitch enjoying her dinner? ... Go on, lap it up.... Shall we get you a bone?" "I've a bone I'd like to give her," said one of the others and gestured lewdly as they laughed. She kept eating, too scared to look up until she was all but down, the phlegm, edged by dhal, sitting in the bowl. "Eat it, you ungrateful bitch," one said. "There's people starving in this country. Don't you know how lucky you are?" Rebecca looked at him and thought of pleading, but knew it would make no difference. Instead, she lowered her head, summoned her courage and brought it with her tongue into her mouth. She gagged, but forced herself to swallow raising herself to her knees. Tears rolled down her face. "She likes it," the one who had spat said. He picked up her cup and held it in front of one of the others. "Give her some more." They each spat and then gave her the cup. She knew not to argue and drank it down in one go. She coughed and wanted to wretch, but she forced the reflex down. "Good girl," one said and patted her head, ruffling her hair. "Enjoy your torture." * 4) The Second Interrogation Rao had never been so excited before a day's work. He sat next to Patel just waiting to see her naked again, desperate to know what they would do to hurt and humiliate her. The soldiers dragged her in. She was cuffed and hooded, which seemed a little ridiculous given how slight she was compared to the guards. They pushed her down onto the stool, unfastened the cuffs and pulled off the sack. She blinked in the lights, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. She looked exhausted, her hair flat. And she looked terrified. "I want to speak to my embassy, please," she said. Her voice sounded pathetic, barely more than a whisper. Patel laughed out loud. "Yes," he said sarcastically. "We'll do that." "I insist. It's my right." "Oh, if you insist, that's different. Because we're big on rights here as you'll have noticed. Now shut up or I'll have you whipped for wasting my time." Her lower lip wobbled and she began to cry again. "Now, can we get on?" Patel asked. He dropped the file on the desk with a thump, then opened it. "Let's start at the beginning. You arrived in this country on August 17. What did you do?" * Rebecca kept her head down so she didn't have to look into the light. She had a bad enough headache already. She'd felt nauseous since being forced into drinking their spittle and she was desperately cold. The stink of cigarettes only made her feel worse. They'd brought her a bucket of water and allowed her to wash after breakfast, but after splashing some water on her hair she'd barely dabbed at her swollen eyes when they'd come for her again to bring her to the interrogation room. She was terrified. She had no doubt they intended to torture her. To strip her and humiliate her and beat her and who knew what else. She sat on that stool just waiting for the order to take the dress off so they could gawp at her nudity again. That fat one especially. He'd kept always in the dark but there was something about him, even the way he breathed, that told her he was getting off on her shame. But then he'd thumped the file down on the table. Even through the light she could see it was huge. Was that all about her? Had they been watching her? And then the questions, taking her in painstaking detail through her first day in the country. What time had she arrived? What flight? How long had it taken at immigration? Had she brought local currency with her? Which hotel had she stayed in? Has she taken a taxi? Who had she met? Detail upon detail. This was going to take days. He kept jotting things down, nodding and grunting significantly. Much of what he asked she didn't know; she just couldn't remember, but he didn't especially seem to mind. Maybe, she thought, yesterday had been to scare her and this was the debrief. She began to answer more fluently. For an hour, maybe more, he questioned her. And then he stood up and walked towards her. He held a photograph in his hand. He showed it to her and she recognized the first demonstration she'd been to. There she was, to the right of frame, wearing a black shirt and jeans. "That is you?" "Yes, sir." "Who are the other people in the picture?" She looked at him to see if he was joking. The photograph was a little out of focus. There were maybe 20 or 30 other people in shot. "I don't know, sir." "Really? None of them?" She scanned the photo again. She knew nobody. "I don't know any of them, sir." "I see." Without warning he grabbed her by the hair, lifted her from the stool, shook her a couple of times and threw her to the ground. She fell painfully, sprawling on the concrete. She lay face down, not daring to move. He grabbed her hair again and pulled her up, hurting her scalp. He twisted her head round until it was next to his. Her hands instinctively went to her head, but she didn't dare touch him. "I've been nice to you," he said and she stared into his hard eyes. "Co-operate or things are going to get very unpleasant." He shoved her away and she fell into a sitting position on the floor. She sat, stunned, holding her hands to her scalp. In a daze, she realized, her legs were open and with her short dress she was probably giving the fat one a view she didn't want him to have. She brought her knees together and realized the other one had gone to that cupboard behind the desk. Was that where he'd got the cane from the night before? Was he going to cane her? She couldn't imagine what that would be like. Intense pain calmly administered every few seconds. He came back from beyond the lights and he was holding the cane. Oh God. He swished it back and forth. She hated that noise. Where would he lash her? On her back or on her buttocks? She thought back to references to caning she'd read, of - what was it called, the pandybat? - in Portrait of the Artist or of sadistic schoolteachers dealing out four or six strokes. The horrible phrase "on the bare" came to mind, for when the beatings were really serious. She'd be bare, of course: he'd strip her before lashing her and for him that would be half the point. But he didn't cane her. Instead, he lay the cane on the ground and ordered her to stand on it. She looked at him in surprise. Was this a trick? Was he going to say she was disrespecting his cane then lash her? "Stand on it," he said again. So she stepped forwards, obeying him as he made sure her feet were touching the ground on both sides of the cane. * Rao was getting restless. He wanted to see her naked again, to get on with hurting her, to put that cane to proper use. He knew Patel was toying with her, but still. She'd been standing on the cane for a little over half an hour, slowly answering Patel's painstaking questions, blinking in the light. He looked at her dainty little feet, arched over the cane. He knew they must be hurting now, bent unnaturally in that position. He saw a slight twitch and wondered if they were close. Patel droned on, asking about the other students in her seminars. She wobbled. "Miss Harris," Patel said. "If you come off the cane, there'll be punishment." She nodded, pursed lips pressed together. "Now, tell me more about Karim Ali." It was about five minutes later when she finally stumbled, her right foot slipping. She quickly stood back on the cane, but too late. "You know the rules, Miss Harris," Patel said. "Take your dress off." She stepped back off the cane. There were tears in her eyes, her lower lip wobbling, but she was obedient, pulling up the dress and, in one sudden movement, yanking it over her head. She held it for a moment in from of her body, but a soldier soon snatched it from her, leaving her naked. She cowered, right arm across her breasts, left hand over her strip of pubic hair. "Go on," Patel said softly to Rao. "But maybe a couple of slaps rather than a punch." Rao couldn't believe this. This was beyond his wildest dreams. "To her belly?" he asked, determined not to get this wrong. Patel nodded. He walked forward. He felt anxious, his mouth a little dry. "Take her arms," he said to the soldiers and two of them seized her, holding her elbows with one hand and pushing her shoulders with the other as she cowered backwards. She was shaking at his approach, fear and incomprehension written across her pretty face. "No...no...no..." she sobbed, although she couldn't have heard what Patel had told him to do to her. He looked into her brown eyes, wide with terror, small creases leading up from the top of her nose into her gently rounded forehead. Then he looked down at her trembling body, the small domes of her breasts, the slender waist. And the stomach. The smooth flat stomach. He placed his hand on it, just above the belly-button, barely able to believe how tiny she was, how soft and smooth the skin. She shuddered at his touch and he smiled, looking at how his fat fingers covered her. With the heel of his hand on her right ribs, his fingers curled round her rib cage on the left side. He drew back his hand and smashed the flat palm into her belly. The slap was far louder than he'd expected. Her knees snapped together and her buttocks jerked back and her breasts jumped as she pulled her arms against the soldiers' grip. She gave a sharp gasp and looked at him, open-mouthed, her breath coming in sharp, incredulous pants. She was small enough that the soldiers could straighten her just by lifting, forcing her shoulders back and her stomach forward. Rao lay his hand on her belly again. His palm smarted slightly so her knew he must have hurt her. The soldiers had one hand under each armpit, lifting her so she was on tiptoes. She struggled back, kicking desperately, but she was helpless. He rubbed, delighting in the way her face crumpled as she looked at him. He drew the hand back and, with all his might, slapped her again. This time she'd been expecting it and this time she'd tensed her stomach muscles. The sound of the slap was even louder. She gave an agonized cough, her legs kicking hopelessly. A red patch had developed on her stomach and he put his hand on it again. Patel has said a couple but he didn't want to stop now. "Please... no... please..." she could barely even say the words. There were tears caught on her eyelashes as she blinked desperately at him. Her eyes, he saw, were flecked, not a pure deep brown but a fascinating pattern of greenish browns. He brought back his hand slowly and, as the soldiers stretched her so her belly was taut, smashed his hand into her. This time the soldiers let go of her arms and she fell to her knees, coughing as she tried to catch her breath. Rao walked back to his seat. Patel nodded at him approvingly. Rao beamed; he just wanted her to get something else wrong so he could do it again. * "Up," ordered Patel and hesitantly she stood, huddled in the familiar pose, arms trying to hide her nakedness. "On the cane." Her face creased as she tried not to cry she obediently stood. He could see how it hurt already, the forced arching of those pretty little feet. "Arms out," he ordered. "Make a cross shape." He had her naked, he reasoned; he might as well look at her. She reached out her arms reluctantly, exposing her smooth round breasts. "Stretch out," he said, and so she raised her arms further, reaching out so her shoulders went back and her breasts sat pertly on her chest. He started going through her classmates again. "Tell me about Meera Zinta," he said, admiring her slenderness and the large red mark Rao had left on her belly. The kid was an idiot, but he was good at slapping bellies. He'd gone through four names, getting her usual banal answers, when she stumbled again. Rao looked expectantly, but Patel shook his head. This time he walked behind Harris and, even as she cringed, clapped her ears. Her head rocked back and as he sat down again he saw her swaying, blinking as she tried to regain her balance. Rao would have his opportunity again soon enough. "On the cane," he said on a bored voice. She stumbled towards it, clearly disoriented. She got her feet on, but was swaying as he started the questions again. It was only about 30 seconds later when she pitched off, falling to her left and only just preventing herself from falling over. This time he nodded at Rao. * The soldiers seized her arms. She twisted but what could she do? They were much, bigger than her, much stronger than her and so they held her, her toes just touching the ground. The fat one was coming towards her, that stupid grin on his face. "No... no... no... please," she heard herself saying. "Why are you doing this?" He put his hand on her stomach and she could have been sick. She tried to tense the muscles, to resist. The hand went back, then slapped powerfully into her belly. It stung horribly and winded her, but almost what was worse the clear pleasure he took from it. He slapped her again. The skin of her belly felt strangely rubbery, a little numb. She let herself dangle, limp in the soldiers' arms, and he slapped her again. They let her go and she fell to the ground here she curled into a ball, her knees to her chin, praying they would leave her alone. They didn't. "Miss Harris," the thin one said. "Take your time. Get your balance back. Kneel and put your head down; that helps." Part of her wondered if he were mocking her, but she was too terrified to object. She rolled to her knees and lowered her head. She stared at the concrete floor between her knees, trying to forget where she was or what was happening. He let her stay like that for a minute or two then told her to get back on the cane. She stood, aware of the roll of her breasts as she walked the pace or two to the cane. Her feet were sore, but she got in position, raising her arms as she been instructed. "Arms straight," he snapped. She stretched out. She knew he was doing this to make her feel more naked, to raise her breasts, but what could she do? Her fear and humiliation was evident in her breathing - short, shallow breaths. She bit her lower lip. "Why did you go to those demonstrations?" he asked. She looked into the lights. This again. "To see what was going on," she answered. "Because I was curious." Her feet were in agony and her calves felt numb. "Did you throw anything at the police?" "No, sir." "Did you shout anything?" "No, sir." Her feet were screaming in pain. "Who did you talk to?" "Just people who were there." Her legs began to tremble with the strain. "Why?" "I don't know. They were just people near me." "Who?" "I don't know. You know how it is; you just start talking to people." She was sobbing again. The pain was getting worse. He sighed and opened the file again. He seemed to be doing it deliberately slowly. He flicked through some pages, took out a photo, put it back. She couldn't help it. The pain was too bad. She sat down and started massaging her right foot. She knew it would infuriate him, knew it would bring more punishment, but she just couldn't stand there any more. For a time he did nothing. She began to massage her left foot. She was aware suddenly of how ridiculous she must look, sitting their naked. He said something she didn't understand to the guards. They came forward and grabbed her, throwing her to the floor so she sprawled over the concrete. They took her legs and fastened the cuffs over her ankles then lowered the chain from the ceiling and attached the chain linking the cuffs to it. What were they doing? Were they going to hang her by her feet? They pulled her by her arms, dragging her painfully so she lay facing the desk. A short length of chain was produced, she guessed from that cupboard behind the lights. They lay it over the backs of her knees. She twisted to see what they were doing and saw them fixing the ends of the chain to loops in the floor, pulling the chain tight to pin her knees to the floor. * Rao's day was getting better and better. They were going to use the cane on her. They'd cuffed her hands to the loops in the floor and pulled up her ankles so she was spread, flat to the floor to her knees, which were bent at right angles so the soles of her feet were fastened parallel to the floor. He couldn't get over how small she was, even stretched out like that. Her back seemed tiny, her buttocks small and pert. He wished they were flogging them, but it would be bastinado first. Patel picked up the cane from the floor and swished it a couple of times. Rao watched Rebecca's terror. She twisted to turn and stare over her left shoulder, writhing hopelessly in fear. Patel lay the cane over the feet and she whimpered. "You silly, arrogant girl," he said. "Two strokes for stepping off; eight for insolence. Ten strokes." "Please," she wept. "Please. I'm sorry." He raised the cane, and whipped it down across the soles of her feet. She yelled, her whole body seeming to twitch. Rao stepped forward and grabbed her by the hair, lifting her head so he could see the terror and pain. Her mouth was open, her eyes wide, her breath coming in short rasps. The cane landed again. She gave a strangled yelp. Her legs quivered. Patel raised the cane again. Whistle. Whump. "Aarrccghh." Where Rao really wanted to be right now, he decided, was lying underneath her, to feel her little body bucking on his. * There were three deep red streaks across each foot. They were tiny and delicate and amazingly soft and, Patel knew, the muscles must be sore from standing on the cane. He whipped her again, cutting across the arches where her heel began. Her toes curled and her legs jerked, but the chains held her in position. "Four," he said. Her feet were so small that he knew he would end up crossing the welts even in giving her just ten. He also knew that the bruising would make even standing on a flat surface excruciating - and he intended to make her stand on the cane again. He lashed her a fifth time, just beyond the balls of her feet near the toes. She shrieked, her pert buttocks trembling delightfully. Patel had every intention of making sure they felt the cane before the end of the day. He knew that his position to her left meant the right foot was taking the brunt of the punishment so he walked round to the other side. The room was silent but for her sobs. If she was some sort of spy or activist, she was far from being a tough one. Rao still held her hair, preventing her from turning. The boy was an idiot, but his undisguised lust for her, his clear sadistic glee at her pain, was a bonus here; it could only, surely, add to her sense of shame and self-disgust to know someone like him was taking such pleasure in it. She waited, knowing the sixth lash was coming. She was cold, the concrete icy against her breasts and belly. Her feet were in agony. There was a swish and the sixth blow landed across her heels. She grunted with the pain. She wanted to disappear, to curl up into a ball to somehow take her mind somewhere else while he finished thrashing her, but she couldn't because the fat one was holding her, practically salivating at her pain. The seventh struck across the arches and she jerked, his grip hurting her scalp. Her ankles were hurting as well as she jerked against the cuffs. She tried to stay still, but how could she? She waited and waited. Three more and it would be over. She heard the whistle and flinched. The lash cut into her heels. She yelled and kicked, the cuffs cutting into her ankles. She saw the fat one's grin, his eyes flicking from her chest to her face and she began to cry again. Why were they doing this? What did they think she knew? She clenched her teeth, waiting for the next blow, waiting, waiting. Why couldn't he just hit her twice and get it over with? The fat one shook her head and she looked at him, smelling his stinking breath. She was looking into his eyes when the cane landed across the balls of her feet. She shuddered. The pain was atrocious, not just the impact of the cane but the ache afterwards. The whole of the soles of her feet hurt from toe to heel. How could she stand again? The final lash landed, whipping across the arches again. The fat one eventually let her go and she slumped, sobbing on the cold concrete floor as they unfastened the chains. * Rao looked at her as she lay there, shivering and crying. Her buttocks were wonderfully pert and round: he wanted to cane them as well. Her ankles were chafed, her pretty little feet streaked with welts. "Get up," Patel shouted. He gestured at the soldiers and they pulled her to her feet. She seemed to have shut down - as though she didn't quite know what was going on. The soldiers released her arms and she staggered forward, moaning with the pain in her feet, arms clutched across her chest. She looked around in a daze and then down at her feet, as though she couldn't quite believe how much pain she was in. Patel, seated behind his desk again, lit up a cigarette. Rao sat down beside him. "On the cane, please," Patel said. She looked at him and she looked at the cane and, as though the words took time to register, shuffled forward. Every step was clearly agony. She paused by the cane and then, with what seemed a great effort of will, stood on it. She whimpered even as she pushed her toes forward to touch the floor. "Arms out," said Patel. She looked at him, the expression on her face full both of horror and disgust at being made to expose herself fully again. She raised her arms slowly and dropped her head. "Why did you go to the demonstrations?" Patel asked. She started sobbing again and looked up. "I've told you," she cried. "I was curious." "Who told you about them?" "I don't know." She sounded desperate, resigned. Her breasts trembled as she wept, her nipples semi-erect in the chill. Patel opened her file and sighed. He flicked through a few pages. Her face was crumpled, lower lip wobbling as she looked at how many pages there were left to go through. He puffed on his cigarette. "Who was in your seminar group?" he asked. She gave a list of eight names: six male, two female. Two, a male and a female, didn't sound local. Patel slowly wrote them down. "This first one," he said. "Kevin Stiles. American?" "Canadian, sir." She was shaking with the pain. "Describe him." She shook her head and gave a sob. "I don't know... Tall, beard. He's very bright. Quiet. Nice guy." "Did he talk to you about politics?" "Not really, sir, no. He played guitar and sometimes he'd bring it to the common room." "A hippy?" "Not really." "Did you fuck him?" "No! What? No." She flushed. "Did you want to?" Rao didn't know why Patel was asking about this but it amused him. Her pain was obvious and she was struggling to focus even on the most mundane questions and this talk of her sex life clearly made her uneasy. She was naked and suffering but she was still embarrassed to talk about that side of her. "No, sir." "Then why have your nipples stiffened just at the thought of him?" "They haven't," she said, clearly looking down at her breasts, which in turn reminded her of her nakedness and led to a fresh wave of sobs. "Please, pleeaasse..." Patel simply lit up another cigarette. "It's just cold, sir," she said. The shaking was growing more violent. "OK, then. Sarah Walker? What's she like?" "She's very studious. Works very hard. Reads all the time. Always in the library, never goes out hardly." "Political?" "Not really, no." "But a little?" "She talked about the frontier situation, yes." Her tone of voice made it sound like she'd confessed something. "With you?" "Sometimes." "And what were your conversations about?" "I don't know," she said, and gave a definite wobble. "General stuff. How complicated it is." "I see. Is she pretty? Would I enjoy having her down here?" She just shook her head, a look of disgust on her face. "Is she pretty?" Patel repeated. "Not really, I don't think," she replied. "I don't know. She's a little fat, big glasses." "Are you pretty?" She shook her head again, almost shrugged. And then she unbalanced and fell off the cane, yelling in pain as she did so. Rao looked at Patel and Patel nodded at him. He bounded over to her as the soldiers held her up so her belly, still a little pink, was stretched for him. He caressed it, felt its silky smoothness, and then slapped her, hard. She gasped as the air was knocked out of her and began begging him. It felt unbelievably good. He lay his hand on her again. He could feel her disgust and he hated her for it. The skin was warm where he'd hit her. He allowed his hand to move a little lower, over her belly button to the cool below. He pulled back his hand and smashed it down. She'd tried to back off but they held her too high. She was dangling, crying, looking at him and pleading. There was snot smeared from her nose. He let his hand go higher. He didn't dare just grope her, but he brushed his thumb against the underside of her right breast. It was amazingly soft. Were all breasts like that? This was the first he'd ever touched - not that he'd have admitted that to Patel. He looked at her and caught her stare. It was terrified, but was there something else? Was there contempt there? Did she know? Did she realized she was the first girl he'd touched naked? That he'd needed to get a girl in chains under torture before he'd caressed a breast? He drew back his hand and hit her harder than he'd ever hit anything before. He felt the sting in his palm, almost felt the breath being knocked out of her. The soldiers let go of her and she fell to the floor. * What did they want with her? She half sat, half lay, huddled on the cold floor. Her belly felt like it was burning, her calves moaned in pain and her feet were agony. Instinctively she hooked her right arm across her breasts. Even as she did it she wondered what the point was: if they wanted to see her naked, they would. The main interrogator stood up. "Get her up," he ordered, and the soldiers seized her arms. They pulled her to her feet and she felt again the pain as her feet took her weight. "Give her three more." No. It couldn't be. How could he be so cruel? As the soldiers lifted her until just her toes touched the ground, she saw the grin on the face of the fat one. He placed his hand on her belly again. "No!" she shouted. "No! What do you want from me? Plea-" And he slapped her. It burned on the already tender skin and knocked the wind from her. He laid his hand on her again. She cringed; his clear enjoyment of her pain was hideous. He rubbed gently, taunting her, his little finger just brushing her belly-button. Then he smacked her again. She felt sick, and fell limp, held up only by the soldiers. Her head dropped. She was cold and exhausted, the sting in her chilled skin unbearable. At that moment she would have done anything, said anything, to get out of there. The third slap landed and she collapsed as the soldiers let go of her. She sprawled across the concrete. All she could see were boots. She heard him shout: "Get her up!" Her feet screamed in pain, her belly ached. Her arms were yanked back and she was hauled up. She sat dumbly as they cuffed her hands in front of her. They dragged her back a foot or two and they fixed the hook to the chain. Briefly she sat, too exhausted to move, arms straight out in front of her. Then they lifted her, hoisting her to her feet. Her arms initially took the strain but then she was forced to stand and pain shot through her feet again. When her body was taut, her heels just on the ground, they stopped. Everything hurt, from the muscles in her arms and shoulders to her battered belly and her caned feet. She wept, astonished she still had tears in her and the questioning continued. On and on it went, details of her daily life, opinions on her classmates and teachers, the persistent insinuating questions about who had persuaded her to go to the demonstrations. When the pain in her feet became too great she relaxed and hung for a few minutes until the cuffs, digging into her wrists, and the weight on her muscles became too much and she let her feet take the strain again. And then he started on her personal life again. Did she have a boyfriend? No. Who had she slept with while she was in the country? Nobody. Why not? No reason. Was she lesbian? No. At last it ended. She saw him speaking to the fat one but she didn't really pay attention. She was just grateful for the respite. Then she saw the fat one coming towards her with a huge grin on his face. He stepped behind her. She turned to try to see what he was doing, but it was soon clear. He pushed against her. She could smell his rank breath and the coarseness of his uniform against her soft skin. She turned back to face the thin one. The fat one suddenly grabbed her breasts. She shuddered with loathing as he cupped them, squeezing greedily. She squirmed. Her body had gone tense. She could feel his erection pressing against her spine. "So, you had no sexual inclinations towards any other student?" the thin one said. "No," she squawked. "What is this? Why is he touching me?" "It's a test. I say a name and he sees if you're aroused by it." "This is ridiculous." The fat one squeezed her breasts sharply and she yelped. He relaxed his grip and placed his palms over her nipples. "Javinder Singh," said the thin one. She couldn't even think who that was. She pictured a tall thin Sikh in the basic Sanskrit class she did. Was that him? "Nothing," said the fat one. "Kevin Stiles." She thought of Kevin with his beard and his guitar. "Nothing," said the fat one. God, his hands. His slimy, sweaty hands. She shuddered. How was this happening? "Amir Khan." Who was that? She had no idea. On the names went and all the time his hands cupped her breasts. They could have had George Clooney seducing her and she wouldn't have responded. * Rao couldn't believe how soft her breasts were, how gentle, how delicate. Were all breasts like that? He held them gently, but he wanted to squeeze them, to poke them, to knead them, perhaps even to punch them. He wondered if he'd be allowed to rape her, to hold those slim hips down and thrust inside her. Her terror only made her more alluring. Patel finished reading down his list of names. He turned the page in his file and looked up. "Sarah Walker?" he said. There was nothing but Rao caught the tone. "A slight stiffening," he said. "Really?" "No!" she said, shaking her head. "I'm not a lesbian." Patel stood up and lit a cigarette. He strode towards her. "How does it work?" he asked. "How does what work?" "Being a lesbian. How do you pleasure each other?" "I'm not a lesbian. I don't know." "How do you think it might work?" "I don't know." She'd flushed. She couldn't hold his gaze. "I think you're not as naive as you pretend. You're not a virgin are you?" She shook her head. "What?" Patel shouted. He was standing right by her now. "I can't hear you." "No." "No, what?" "No, I'm not a virgin, sir." Rao released her tits and walked round to stand by Patel. He wanted to see her face. "How does a boy pleasure you then?" She looked up, her pretty face red with shame, her eyes flashing with disgust and anger. "You know," she said. "Yes. But I don't know that you know." He blew smoke in her face. Her head dropped again. "He touches me down there." Patel reached out two fingers and touched her between the legs. She jolted as though shocked by electricity. "Down there?" "Yes, sir." "So how might a girl pleasure you?" "She could touch me down there," she said, her voice just a whisper. "Or?" "Or lick me down there," she said with sudden fury. "Is that what you want me to say? That I want to be eaten out by a woman?" Patel smiled. "Dear, dear," he said. "We are feisty." He patted her cheek and she began to cry. Patel seized her hair in his left hand and twisted her face towards him. He held the cigarette in his right hand and causally blew on the lit end so it glowed orange. Rao heard her whimper. There was a mole or a dark spot on her left cheek and he brought the cigarette towards it. She gave a strange bark of terror and tried to pull away. Patel held the cigarette an inch or so from her skin. Rao realized she must have been able to feel the heat from it. "Plee..eaaa....se," she sobbed and Rao heard a splash. She was pissing herself, he realized. Patel slapped her hard and returned to his desk. Rao saw a purplish bruise swelling from the right edge of her lower lip, topped by a trace of blood. Patel order them to turn the hose on her and her sobs became shrieks as they worked her up and own with the jet of water. For five minutes they sprayed her, the water playing on her breasts, her genitals, her legs, her belly and then her face. When they'd finished she was shivering, knees pressed together, her body pink and goosepimpled. The noise that came from her, a whimpering groan, was barely human. Rao joined Patel behind the desk. Patel began again with the more detailed questions, about who had said what, about which students opposed the crackdowns and which showed signs of supporting the rebels. Rebecca seemed barely aware even of what was going on, mumbling answers through her tears. Eventually Patel stood up again and walked over to her. She seemed broken, her legs only partly supporting her. "Lunch," he said, and fastened the blindfold over her eyes again. * 5) New Information Patel knew the signs. She'd be singing within an hour or two. An hour standing naked and blindfolded, getting hungrier and colder, and more and more tired, thinking of what they might do to her next and she'd be ready to tell him everything. She'd be so desperate to be released that she'd reveal even the most trivial details of conversations, to condemn her friends. She still hadn't actually told him who'd told her about the demonstration but that would come and then the university would be open to him. There probably wasn't any great organized ring of militants there, but it wouldn't hurt to crack down on sympathizers. He probably had four or five more hours after lunch before he'd have to hand her over and start working on one of the others. He doubted he'd have to hurt her much more. She was petrified. He might give her a couple of lashes with the cane or hang her for a while, let Rao slap her about a bit but realistically she was gone already, a silly little American girl out of her depth. He unfolded his copy of the newspaper and placed it on the table next to his rice and vegetables. She had a beautiful face, he reflected. Lovely skin, the tiny mole on each cheek, deep brown eyes, a sweet little nose. And that pert little bottom. Such smooth skin. And those pretty little feet. How he'd enjoyed caning them. Patel settled in to reading the cricket report. "Sir!" He looked up. There was an urgency in the voice. "Sir, we searched her room." The tone alarmed him, "Yes?" "And we found these under the bed." The officer placed a leaflet on the table. Patel looked it. It was a fairly crude photocopy detailing so-called abuses by the security forces. Bullet-points listing modes of torture, the use of plastic bullets, detention without trial. And the details of an organization called Students for Human Rights. Patel stood up. "How many?" "Twelve boxes." "How many in a box?" "A couple of thousand." He looked at Rao and beckoned, then stormed out of the canteen and back to the interrogation cell. * The door slammed back and Rebecca flinched. She was freezing, her arms ached, her feet were in agony. She just wanted to lie down, to wrap herself in a blanket, anything to warm up, get her feet off the ground. Why were they doing this to her? Her hands were lowered and for a moment she felt relief in her stiff shoulders. But the hands seized her. One cuff was released so the bracelet hung from her right wrist. Another cuff was snapped on her left wrist. They were rough, dragging her forward and she was slammed into the desk, the edge banging painfully into her hips and lower belly, winding her. Her arms were yanked forwards and out, bending her over the wooden surface, and the cuffs snapped around legs of the desk so she was spread out, bent at the waist, her toes just touching the ground, her buttocks in the air. A hand grabbed her hair and her head was yanked back. The blindfold was pulled off and she saw the thin one's face an inch from hers. He spat and she flinched as the spittle hit her eyes, hurting her scalp as she pulled back. "You think you can take the piss out of me?" he hissed. Her mouth fell open and she blinked desperately. "What?" "You little bitch." He spat again. "Playing the innocent. Well, you'll pay now." She watched as he walked to the cupboard behind the desk and unlocked it. She saw a series of canes and straps hanging up. He selected a cane, and took it down, flexed it and swished it viciously through the air. "No!" she squawked. "Please... what have I done? Please..." He whipped it down again then tossed it to the fat one. He weighed its five feet in his meaty hands, bending it almost double before lashing it through the air. It was the most terrifying sound she'd ever heard. The boss took another cane and went through the same ritual of testing it. "What have I done?" she asked. "Please..." * Rao couldn't believe his luck. He stood behind her admiring the firm round arse. Almost without thinking he ran his left hand over the smooth curve of her left buttock. She whimpered with terror. She was trembling. He took the cane up in his right hand and stroked it over her lower back. She shook and stiffened, moaning and begging. Patel grabbed her by the hair, twisting his hand cruelly in her curls, forcing her to look at him. "Twenty strokes," he said. He walked behind her so he and Rao stood either side of her, each holding a cane. She twisted to look at him, mouth twisted in terror. Rao swished his cane again and she flinched. Patel stepped forward and lay the cane across the centre of her buttocks. "Please..." she cried again. Patel stepped back, took the cane in two hands again, flexing it. His eyes were fixed on her arse. He raised the cane in his right hand, took and skip forward and then lashed her with the wristy action of a squash player. The cane whistled through the air, stopping with a dull whump in the flesh of her buttocks. She shrieked, her body tensing, fell silent for a moment and then let out a low quavering moan, a shudder passing through her. Across the centre of her backside lay a white line, edged with purplish red. Rao could see her panting, her torso rising and falling desperately. This was his time. He glanced at Patel who nodded, and he placed his cane just below the weal. He wasn't naturally left-handed, but he was strong enough on that side. He stepped into the blow, rather than skipping, and caught her lower than he'd intended, across the very base of her cheeks. Rao felt the cane enter the flesh, felt the cheeks yield before the cane met resistance. She jerked up as far as the cuffs would allow, a sharp yelp coming from her mouth. Her legs shook, knees almost knocking together before she slowly subsided and collapsed back across the desk. And across the base of her arse he saw the pale line edged with purple that he had caused. She was quivering, weeping with pain and terror, a pitiful sight. Yet all he wanted to do was to lash her again. "How many?" Patel asked sharply and Rao was about to answer when he realized he was talking to Harris. "What?" she sniffed. "How many have you taken?" "Two, sir." She turned to look at him, her jaw offset to the left as she bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears. Her jaw visibly wobbled. "Good. Now you will announce how many you've taken after each stroke or it won't count. Is that clear?" "Yes," she squawked. "Yes, sir." "Good." She looked away, and lay her head down on the desk. Patel waited until she lay still. Then he whipped her. If anything, the lash was even harder than his first blow. It set her thighs thrashing back and forth, almost as though she were somehow trying to shake out the pain. "Grnnnnoooyyyghhh," she yelled but then, after two breaths that were more moans, she whispered, "Three." "What?" Patel snapped. "I can't hear you." "Three, sir," she said more certainly. Patel nodded. Rao looked at the three streaks across the buttocks. He raised the cane and, with all his might, brought it crashing into her arse, higher than his first blow but lower than Patel's two. * The force of the blow was astonishing. Patel almost cringed himself. Rao was coming into his own today. It was a little clumsy, and didn't really use the whippiness of the cane, but he'd put a tremendous amount of force into it. It lifted the girl and sent her sliding a few inches across the desk, leaving a welt that turned a ferocious purple almost immediately. "Fuck!" she shouted. "Fuck! Fuuuuucckkk!" Her feet slowly dropped back to the floor but the shaking wouldn't stop and nor would her sniveling sobs. He'd never seen a stroke delivered with quite such venom; no wonder she was crying. "You don't swear at officers," he said. "Four additional strokes for obscenity." She turned sharply. "No!" she shouted, her face red, mucus and spittle clinging around her mouth and nose. "Please! Please! Oh, please! I can't... please!" He waited till her cries had died away. "How many?" he asked. She sniffed and Patel saw her trying to stop her moaning long enough to speak. "Four," she eventually blurted, but her breathing was coming in gulps. "Good," he said. "If I have to ask you again, the stroke doesn't count. Is that clear?" "Yes... Sir." He'd never seen a girl look so defeated. She couldn't stop crying and moaning. Giving her the extra four was a needless cruelty, he knew, a way of humiliating her, of emphasizing how she was in his power. He touched his cane to her cheeks and she was beset by trembling. He almost felt sympathy for her and then he remembered how she had conned him with the leaflets. He didn't know if this fear were an act or whether she somehow retained a cunning amid her terror but either way she had made a fool of him. He stepped back and lunged forwards, whipping her a fraction lower than his first two strokes. She flinched far too late, her legs kicking up. She screamed, one long howl and then a wavering shout as she tried to control herself. Her breath came in grunts and then eventually she whispered, "Five." She wept, tears dripping from her face. Rao touched her buttocks with his cane and she whimpered. He stepped back and brought it crashing down, just clipping the upper edge of the bruise he had left with his previous stroke. Both legs flipped up so it seemed for a moment that she was swimming on the desk, her cunt lips openly displayed. She howled, screaming for so long she twice had to take a breath. Slowly her legs came back down. "Six," she croaked. Rao, taking the initiative for once, lay down his cane, stepped up to her and took her by the waist, straightening her on the desk. "Stay still," he shouted. His fat hands looked ridiculous against her slender hips, emphasizing just how delicate and small she was. He ran his hands down the outsides of her thighs. "Stay there," he said. Rao picked up his cane again and swished it a couple of times. She was trembling but holding herself perfectly still, legs together, arms stretched, head up, apparently staring at the wall. The six deep red lines were clear on her buttocks. Three thin ones where Patel had struck a little below her waist and three fatter ones, two of them running together, lower towards her thighs. Between them was an unblemished strip maybe two inches wide. It was there that Patel aimed. He struck the lower part of the stripe. Her right leg seemed to collapse at the knee and she sagged to that side, her upper body jerking upright then subsiding. "Seven," she sobbed, her low moan returning. * This was hell. Each stroke was a line of fire, each one a greater pain than anything she'd ever suffered before. Her mind tried to drift away. She wanted to lie there and forget, to surrender to the pain, but she had to count, had to force herself not to swear. And now she was focused on staying still; she didn't know how much power the fat one had but she didn't dare risk more lashes. She let his cane touch her and clenched her teeth in anticipation. He swished the cane a couple of times, toying with her, and then he smacked it down almost exactly where the seventh blow had landed. The pain was extraordinary. Her legs kicked and her back arched, she lifted from the desk and then fell, banging her hips. She screamed. A high-pitched shriek that came from deep within her and went on for three or four seconds. She took a breath and as she gasped each exhalation came as a rasping moan. She tried to stand straight, to stop wriggling, but her feet were in agony as well. Eventually she fell still. "Eight," she said. Eight? Only a third of the total. "Please," she begged. "Please. Whatever you want. I'll do whatever you want. I'll say whatever you want. Please." "You'd better not be trying to bribe me?" the thin one said. "No. But please..." He struck her again. Her head flashed back. He wasn't as brutal as the other one. It hurt, but not as badly. She was shaking. Her wrists, she saw, had been rubbed raw by the cuffs but the pain was nothing compared to that in her ass. "Nine," she said. "Please. I don't know what I've done. I don't know what you want. Pleeeaasse..." She broke off into desperate whimpers. She couldn't take any more. The fat one hit her again. She screamed and screamed. He'd struck across the top of her ass where the thin one had been whipping her, striking bruised flesh. The pain was hideous, the worst yet. She felt nauseous, the burn welling through her body. Her heart was thumping. As her howls subsided, she realized her teeth was bared, her lips curled back, a low moan keening from her. The thin one touched her again with his cane. She shuddered. "Did you feel that one?" "Yes. YES!" "Then count it or you'll get it again." "Ten." She hated him. How could he be this cruel? "I'm sorry. Sorry, sir. Ten." She sniffed, trying to clear her nose. When she breathed again it came as an agonized groan * Her buttocks weren't just streaked with red, but in a patch on each buttock, where the strokes had crossed, there were lines of deep purple, so dark it was almost black, crowned with an ashy grey. It was there, Patel knew that further blows would draw blood. He drew back and whipped low, into the crease where buttock met thigh. She yelped, right leg kicking up. "Eleven," she sobbed. He looked at Rao, a grin on his fat face. He was staring lustfully at her buttocks as she wriggled. He lay his cane across the worst of the bruising and she tensed. He stepped back and drove the cane down. Her shriek was hideous, legs kicking, body lifting off the desk and then flopping back hard. She kept moaning, her legs shaking and Patel saw a thin trickle of blood running down her left buttock. He swished his cane. "Stop!" she shouted. "Stop... twelve!" He whipped immediately across the bruised patch on her right buttock. She bounced up again, head snapping back. She roared in pain, legs kicking. "If we have to tie your legs, we'll double the lashes," Patel said. "Stand still." She turned to look at him, face twisted in pain, mucus smeared from her nose across her mouth. "Please...." He saw the effort in her face as she forced her legs down. Rao stepped up and lashed her hard across the top of her buttocks. "Gnnnnaaaagggggghhhhhh!" she shouted. "Fourteen." "No," Patel said. "You didn't count the last one. How many?" "Please..." she begged him. "Please...." "How many?" "Thirteen," she said and started weeping again. Patel lashed at the base of the grey area. Her scream seemed a little less intense, as though she'd started to go numb. "Fourteen," she sniffed. And then Rao hit her again. * Rao watched her legs kick up, stunned by how high she lifted, her legs snapping almost horizontal before her feet clattered back to the ground. There was blood smearing her left buttock now and her screams had become higher and high pitched. "Fifteen," she shouted, frantically getting the number out before Patel lashed her again. Her legs were trembling so hard that her knees literally knocked. He wanted to take her in his arms and fuck her as she sobbed, to hold that little, compact body. She twisted as Patel struck her again, leaving a dark purple line across the base of her buttocks. "Sixteen." He saw her face, flushed and covered with tears and mucus, her forehead creased with terror. Patel, he realized, wasn't drawing blood. Was that deliberate? He had no idea. He didn't care. He just wanted to make her scream. She was turning, he realized, presenting her right buttock to him. The tip of his cane, smacking into the left buttock, was what was doing the damage. The cunning little bitch. So he hit her low, across the middle of her thighs, where she wasn't expecting the lash. Her legs gave way and she slumped, hanging by her wrists. Her little feet kicked desperately trying to stand up properly again and through her scream her heard a soft, "Seventeen." Patel waited until she was still. This time, at last, he cut across the centre of her buttocks. She screeched as the blood welled, but her body didn't kick as it had done. Perhaps, Rao thought, she was exhausted. Her body slithered a little way up the desk then fell back. He waited. "Eighteen," she murmured. He made her wait. He touched the cane against her. She shuddered. Then he hit her. Hit her hard, driving the cane down with all his might onto the bruised flesh. There was blood and a howl and her legs kicked and then she was turning and shouting at him. "Please stop this! Please!" He saw terror and pain and anger but most of all he saw a slender little body that he wanted to hurt and to fuck. The shudders in her legs fell still and she reset herself. "Nineteen," she said and fell calm. Patel whipped her quickly and it was almost as though the fight had gone out of her. The cane struck low and she yelped, but there was no thrashing, just a flinch and a sob and then, force hoarsely through her teeth, "Twenty." But Rao wanted her to suffer. He wanted her howling and twisting. He took a run at her and lashed, but his contact was poor, skimming off the rounded top of her buttock and just grazing her back. "Twenty-one," she said, terrified they'd decide that one didn't count. She felt exhausted, her buttocks screaming with pain. The next one landed. Her knees banged together. She felt the familiar wave of pain, the lurch of nausea, but she was too tired to writhe. She could feel a line of blood dribbling from her right buttock down her thigh. "Twenty-two," she murmured. Just two more. She'd almost survived. The fat one again. He waited. She imagined he was furious about the last blow. She feared how hard he would strike her. She'd told herself to lie flat, to look straight ahead, but as he waited she felt compelled to turn and look over her right shoulder. She saw him, a terrible leer on his face, running five paces, teeth clenched as he brought his arm down with all his power. The pain was intolerable. It was as though white lights had exploded in her head. Her hips were driven into the edge of the desk, both feet kicked up. She heard herself screaming and beyond that laughter. He threw the cane onto the desk alongside her and she saw it had snapped. Some survival instinct within her forced her to whisper, "Twenty-three." "What?" "Twenty-three," she said more clearly. Patel caressed her buttocks with his cane. The weals were worse than he'd expected, but then he hadn't expected Rao to be quite so brutal. Still, they'd heal; even though there was a substantial amount of blood on the left cheek, canes that light left only superficial damage. He lay his cane at the bottom of the grey area on her right buttock, just beneath the bleeding welts he'd left. He whipped her. She flinched, but seemed to have strength for no more. She sobbed and sobbed, trembling. A new bubble of blood seeped from the skin. She said nothing. Patel shrugged. He handed his cane to Rao. Still Harris said nothing. Patel nodded. Rao flexed the cane and lashed her. It was low, in the crease where her buttocks met her thighs. She howled, legs quivering. "Twenty-four," she shouted. "Twenty-four!" he waited for her to swear so he could give her four more, but she just slumped back to the desk. * The bastards. The utter bastards. To give her the extra one. She felt dazed, pain everywhere. There were rough hands on her, unfastening her wrists, but she was only vaguely aware of them compared to the agony in her ass. Her wrists were shackled together again; she was aware of how ridiculous it was - did they really think she was dangerous? - and hauled her back to her familiar position in front of the desk. She watched dumbly as the hook was lowered and she realized they weren't finished with her. Her wrists were raised and they lifted her so high she had to stretch even to rest the balls of her feet on the ground. She began to sob again. Her buttocks were boiling, but this reawoke the agony in her feet and the tightness in her shoulders. Her stomach felt sore, it meant she was hanging by her raw wrists and she was taut enough to strain everything. And she felt again very, very naked. He walked up to her. He flicked her left nipple, erect in the cold and standing out from a breast flattened by being stretched. "What's this?" he said, and held a pamphlet in front of her face. She looked at it, struggling to take it in. It was white with blue writing. She blinked. "It's a pamphlet," she said. "Do you want another 20 for insolence?" he spat. "No," she yelped. She could feel her face twisting in terror, her teeth biting her lower lip. "I don't know what you want me to say. Please..." He held it in front of her face again. She read in a panic... human rights... victims... unconscionable abuses... a blurred photo of a blindfolded and shirtless man chained to a wall. "What is it?" he asked. "It looks like it's from one of the groups that question government policy," she said, her voice dry and flat. He shoved it into her face. "Are you telling me you don't recognize it?" What should she say? She knew she might have seen it. Pamphlets were handed out all the time at the university. "I don't know," she said. "Maybe. I don't remember seeing it." She saw his face tighten with fury. "Lift her," he snapped and she was lifted so she hung six inches off the ground. She whimpered as her arms took the strain. "I'm losing patience," he said. "You can have 40 with the cane if you like." He punched her, hard, at the top of her belly. She coughed, winded, swinging back. As momentum brought her back her caught her round the waist and pulled down. She howled at the increased pain in her shoulders. "We found 2000 of these in your room," he said. "Don't play the fucking innocent." * Patel was a little surprised. Given the way she'd been howling, he'd though she'd have cracked straight away. But her mouth dropped open and she shook her head disbelievingly. She seemed genuinely confused. "In my room?" she said incredulously. He walked to the desk and picked up the cane. He walked back towards her, swishing it and she pissed herself again. She sobbed as the urine dribbled down her legs and dripped onto the floor. "Where?" she asked. She was almost incoherent. "Please. I don't know anything, sir. Please." He tapped her ribs. "Under the bed." "Oh please, no," she mumbled. He drew back the cane and she flinched, lifting her knees high. "They were there when I took the room. Please. I got the room from another American and he asked if he could leave them until he came back. Please believe me. Please. He's called Steve. Steve McCoy. You can check the records." "How convenient. You really expect me to believe that?" He whipped her, striking her ribs. She screamed and fell to sobbing again. "It's true. It's true!" she shouted. Her head fell. Patel turned away. "What should we do with her?" he asked Rao. Rao who was grinning, scratching himself, shifted his gaze from her nakedness to Patel. "Give her 100 lashes, sir." "No... No..." she squawked. Patel perched on the edge of the desk. "Look at me," he said. She raised her head slowly, blinking desperately. Her jaw was visibly wobbling. "You're in very serious trouble," he said. "Those pamphlets will get you ten years in a labour camp. You're a little girl. You will suffer horrendously. You will not keep up with the work schedule. They will dock your rations. They will strip you and lock you in punishment cells. They will put you in punishment details that you won't cope with. They will flog you. You're a pretty girl. At nights they'll fuck you. Then they'll put you back in the cells and your cell-mates will have their way with you. And before that you have to convince me you're telling the truth or I will give you 100 lashes. So if you want to think up a better story I'd do it now." She face was twisted in horror, chest heaving, breasts trembling. "I don't know anything," she sobbed. "Nothing." He looked at the soldiers. "Hose her down," he said. "Please!" The water struck her. She shrieked, twisting, legs kicking as the jet worked over her breasts and belly, before dipping to wash off the urine. For two minutes they worked her over and then shut off the water to leave her gasping and shivering. "Tell me how you got the room," Patel said. "When I was accepted I asked the accommodations office for help," she said, teeth chattering. "They gave me Steve McCoy's details. I got in touch with him and he said I could have his room while he went back to the States. But he asked if I minded if he left some boxes." "And you didn't?" "No, sir. Why would I have? They were under the bed." "And you didn't look in them?" "No." "Did he leave anything else?" "No." There was a hesitation. Patel again felt puzzled. Maybe she was telling truth about the boxes but there was something here. "Did you ever meet him?" "No." She was decisive again. "Who were his friends?" "I don't know." "Miss Harris, I've had you caned once today. Don't make me do it again. Who were his friends?" "I never knew him, sir..." He stood up and walked over to her. She shrunk at his approach. He could see she was trembling with the strain as she hung. "Who were his friends?" he said, placing his hands on her hips. She gave him a couple of names, both Americans. He ordered Rao to check them. "Are they still there?" "No, sir. They finished when he did." He pulled down and she shrieked as pain shot through her shoulders. "Give me n