interrogation – Not A Real Doctor

It wasn’t a real border crossing detention center; she’d figured that out when they stuffed the ball gag between her teeth. It had cut off the sputtering protests about her passport and questions about where they’d taken her friends quite effectively. Something told her that there would come a time soon when they’d start asking pointed questions; they just probably wouldn’t care what she answered.

In the meantime, though, they had dragged her off into one of the cinder-block cells for the “courtesy” of a private pat-down. The agent assigned to her seemed much more concerned with some areas than others. At one point, he rummaged in his pocket, pulled out a little plastic bag with a foil packet in it, and tossed it nearby.

“Oh, it was very unwise to try to import this particular substance,” he purred, holding her squirming body against the hot concrete. “The minimum sentence is five years of labor. Labor for which you will need very thorough training. And if we find anything else tucked away inside you, tourist girl…” He shoved her dress up and adjusted the glove on his fingers, grinning. “There may be a corporal element to your sentence as well.”

Panting in fear, knees trembling, undeniably dripping with things other than sweat, she got the distinct feeling that she’d find one particular thing tucked inside her very soon.

“Nineteen hours. How is our little prisoner holding up?”

“Oh, she’s broken. Has been since late yesterday. At this point the only thing keeping her from babbling every secret we could possibly want is the gag in her mouth.”

“She certainly exhibits all the signs. Pupil dilation, rhythmic groaning, humping the toy like an animal. Has she been permitted to come yet?”

“She almost got there once, but we think we caught it in time. A bucket of ice water brought her back. No slip-ups since then. She’s been held at the edge so long she’s practically putty.”

“So do we plan to ask her any questions?”

“We ask plenty, we just don’t let her answer. Increases her desperation, plus we’re recording the whole thing to prove to her bosses that she hasn’t given away anything sensitive. She’s a much more valuable for barter if she hasn’t been unsealed, so to speak.”

“How long will it take to get the recording to them?”

“A few more days. And they’ll need a week to decide on terms after that.”

“Nineteen hours. I wonder what she’ll be like by the time she finally leaves.”

“If her predecessors are any indication, Ma’am, in her own mind she’ll never really leave at all.”

They wanted her to see the hook: Annika had figured that out pretty early. It hung directly above the table and its stirrups, attached to a chain wound up around a heavy-duty winch. It looked like it could pull a car out of a lake. And it was positioned directly above her wide-spread thighs.

They had a whole medical theme here; the current vogue in oppression was the idea that dissidents were “sick,” and needed treatment to become proper citizens. It was just a veneer on the same brutality the regime had always longed to inflict. Annika had been passing information for two years now, and knew the risks, but of course she had thought she was invulnerable. Then someone had ratted her out.

Staring at the winch, stripped, shivering and strapped down tight, she tried to convince herself she’d never do the same, never turn on any of her friends.

Not that she’d have much opportunity if they kept the gag in place.

“Good afternoon, Annika,” said the monster when he walked in, lab-coated, pleasantly flipping through a chart. “You can call me Doctor. I see we’ve got a little issue with your political loyalties! Not to worry, we get cases like yours all the time. We’ll get you patched right up.”

She rolled her eyes at him, not that she could do much else. The body straps were tight enough that even breathing was an effort, and she’d already tired herself out testing the others. They clearly had experience here with immobilizing girls.

“Let me give you a little run-down of our standard treatment plan,” he said affably, pulling a rolling stool up to the head of the table and perching on it as he tugged on a latex glove. “Right now all areas of your body with lots of nerve endings–areas you instinctively try to protect–are exposed to me.” He pulled her lips back from her teeth and probed under her tongue; Annika trembled with the humiliation of it, as if she were a sick animal. “I’m going to work on those areas–stimulate them, provoke response. Meanwhile I’m going to hook up some sensors to your wrists, throat, underarms and heart. They’ll let me watch your body’s response in real time.”

Annika stared at him. This was their pretense? This was how they tried to justify imprisonment and torture? He wasn’t giving the faintest excuse about “curing” her at all.

He caught her eye and smiled. “That’s just the diagnosis stage–and it will take a little while. But it will let us identify exactly where in your body this subversive sickness resides.” He leaned in closely. “I have a hunch–just a hunch–that it’s either here…” He tapped her nipples casually, making her flinch. “Or here.” This time he patted her pussy in a horribly familiar way.

“And once we have found it for certain, our real work begins.” He turned to the wall and flipped on a large monitor. To Annika’s horror, it was a video of her former contact Liliya, dangling from that awful hook in a cruel hogtie as this man forced his slippery, gloved hand inside her, while the other pressed a buzzing steel-pronged tool of some kind against her clit.

“Annika!” Liliya was squealing, jerking desperately in her bonds. “Her name is Annika, she lives at 2240 Gerstin, that’s all I know! PLEASE!”

“That’s how we know the treatment has begun to take hold,” said the monster brightly, turning it off again. “Well, Annika. Why don’t we get started making you better?”

They’d caught her probably six or seven hours ago, though this windowless room made it hard to keep track. Jane had tried everything she could to play innocent–she was just an innocent guest who got lost; okay, no, she’d been bribed to carry something but she had no idea what it was–but once they’d searched her (quite roughly) and found the little microdrive, there was no question of escape.

In a last-ditch attempt, she’d made an attempt to seduce the man who caught her, whispering in his ear and grinding herself against his rough hand. He’d just laughed and spun her around, locking her wrists behind her back as he pushed her into the elevator and escorted her to the interrogation room. “Sweetheart,” he said, “by the time he’s done with you you’ll do a lot more than that.”

Then he’d walked in, and with a quiet, businesslike attitude, began to work her.

She had expected torture: electricity, waterboarding, stress positions, sleep deprivation. Jane had been trained to handle that, and while she was scared, she believed she could handle it until an extraction squad arrived to get her. She had not expected this.

He’d stripped her to the waist in total silence, then he’d yanked down her panties from under her skirt and forcibly began to manipulate her pussy. Over her inarticulate cries of protest, he’d controlled her like a simple machine, turning her frantic resistance into helpless squirming of another kind entirely. She didn’t want to like this, to take pleasure in her assault. But her body had other ideas.

He seemed to know everything about her cunt–when she wanted pressure, when she wanted penetration, how fast to grind against her and when exactly pain began to become something that wasn’t necessarily bad. She had stopped shouting, saving her breath for the struggle, but she was still surprised when a little moan slipped out of her mouth instead.

That was when the band of leather slipped around her throat.

He edged her. Jane would freeze, stiffen, arch and open her mouth, and he’d tighten his grip, restricting and then cutting off her breath as he slowed the hand using her clit until she felt she was tingling and aching and painfully close to coming–and then he’d stop and hold her there, struggling to breathe and not even realizing she was moving her hips against the empty air. He’d keep her there for two heartbeats, three, four, on the verge of a forced orgasm, before he released the strap and let her gasp in lungfuls of air. And as she collapsed forward, his hand would find her clit and start driving her up again.

This was the part where Jane started to lose track of time. She could have struggled to fight him off; soon she was only struggling to get more from his infernal hand. Everything he did made her want to lift herself against him and squeal with need. She could barely think. And that was before he yanked her back down and began to punish her breasts.

It hurt. Of course it hurt. It just hurt in a way that made her cunt clench and her back arch and her whole body flush with heat. Jane ground her dripping pussy against the chair and forgot her code name, her mission, her training, everything except her body and her need and the gasping breaths of air he allowed her.

Forgetting wouldn’t be all bad, she told herself as she edged again on the pain of his slap on her breast. After all, eventually he might start asking questions.

With her hands tied behind her back, Cassie can just about manage to support herself and keep her face above the surface, though she strains and trembles with the effort. They’ve left her there to just float, sometimes, feeling the water cool slowly around her as she listens to them going through her things, inspecting her computer.

Then one or two of them will come back in and resume their little game.

She’d call it an interrogation except that they long ago stopped asking questions. They just grip her hair–or sometimes, with an odd tenderness, touch her forehead–and begin to push her under. She used to take the deepest breath she could manage. By now she’s almost stopped trying.

They play with her while they hold her down, squeeze or grope her breasts (nipples wet, cool and stiff) or her belly, her hip or throat. At first she convulsed and thrashed and tried to throw them off, to absolutely no effect except that her oxygen ran out faster–and for every time she splashed them, they started dropping in a tray of ice cubes. Now she just tries to ride it out, wait for the panic to rise in her throat and her body to start arching desperately upward for air. It’s going to happen every time. It’s going to keep happening. They’ll take all the time they want to make sure the conditioning sets.

And it is conditioning, and the conditioning works. Down at the other end of the tub, where her knees are doubled and locked tight to keep her from getting out, dangles the shower head. It’s an expensive one. It can spray, or stream, or send a stuttering thud of water pressure wherever they point it. Every time they push her under, they aim it at her clit.

At least, she tells herself as the older one strokes the gently waving hair from her forehead, it’s not easy to see that she’s wet.