Uh, Sir? You been making porn without me?
interrogation
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?”
Did you…
Did you just…
Did you just what I think you…
Continued from here.
From the cabinet, Penthouse took out a string of plastic clothespins, spaced out on a thin piece of rope. “Do you know what this is?” He asked, shaking it a bit to try to untangle it. I groaned behind the ballgag, starting to feel drool well up on the sides of my mouth.
At the beginning of keeping me gagged, he had slid a buzzer from a Taboo game into my hand and told me to squeeze it if anything was starting to cross a boundary, as a sort of surrogate for a safeword. He told me to test out the buzzer once more before sitting down between my legs and clipping one of the clothespins to my labia.
I squealed into my gag, whining softly as he tried to untangle the line of clothespins, or zipper, with one attached to me. Once he had the next untangled, he clipped it onto my other labia and I winced. “You ready to tell me?” He asked.
I looked over the clothespins still on the line and smirked, shaking my head. I was enjoying how much it hurt. The rest went up to my chest, pinching the skin of my breasts and then my nipples. I whimpered softly as he gave the line a tentative tug and, when he saw I wasn’t going to push the buzzer, he gave a much harder one, pulling all of the clothespins off of me quickly.
I squealed loudly and he grabbed the nipple clamps, sliding them tightly onto my nipples before duct taping over them. I raised an eyebrow as picked up the riding crop and started cropping my taped nipples. “If you don’t tell me,” he said through my squeals, “I’ll move down to your cunt.” He taped it shut and moved between cropping it and cropping my clamped nipples.
Finally, I gave in, tugging hard on my bonds and telling him in a gagged slur that I would show him where the wallet was. He untied me and, with my nipples still clamped, had me fetch it for him and bring it to him.
“Good girl,” he said when I dropped it into his lap. “Now, was that so hard?”
Continued from here.
Penthouse tied me down to his bed, pushing my shirt up and tugging my pants off. He slapped my face and I groaned into the gag, feeling the spit start to build up behind the ball. My arms tugged hard at my bonds and I glared up at him as he slapped my breasts through my bra.
“Are you going to tell me where my wallet is?” He asked. He had passed the threshold of annoyance into sternness.
I shook my head and he reached down, slapping me once more.
“Ivy,” he squeezed my nipples. “Where is it?” I shook my head and he reached to the side of the bed, grabbing his knife and flicking it open. Almost instantly, I grew still as he started to run it over my skin. “Are you ready to tell me?” Despite the goosebumps that rose on the back of my neck, I shook my head once more.
He brought the knife down to my stomach and, pushing just hard enough to just leave a mark, wrote the word “whore” on my stomach in thin, capital letters. I’ve never been written on with a knife before and having to hold still through the entire thing was insanity.
“Now, let’s hear where that wallet is,” he said. I just smirked around the ballgag and he shook his head before getting up and walking over to one of his cabinets. “All right, let’s see what I can do to persuade you.”
(Blah blah my queue spat this out too early blah blah I guess I can start this story.)
Penthouse and I share an interrogation fantasy. I had articulated it to him for a while and had shared that the only time I had tried it, the guy was really half-hearted and was basically like, “one question now blowjob.” Which, I’m sorry, I love sucking dick but that killed it.
We were hanging around and I was messing with Penthouse’s wallet. “What are you doing?” He asked.
I smirked, “oh, I was thinking of hiding it when you weren’t looking so you’d have to ask me where it was.”
“Oh,” he replied, “I suddenly have something to do…elsewhere.” We both laughed and he got up and went to the other room.
Practically giddy with the fact that this was going to happen, I hid the wallet and waited for him to come back. When Penthouse returned, he feigned surprise at his wallet being gone.
“Sweetheart,” he asked in that Daddy-type voice that makes me blush. “Have you seen my wallet?" I just smirked and shrugged. He grabbed my arm, "did you hide it?” I shrugged again and he pushed me up against the wall. “Where is it?” I shook my head.
Suddenly, I felt him pull the ballgag between my teeth and buckle it at the back of my head. “Fine, when you’re really to tell me, I’ll take this off.” He shoved me towards the bed.
Interrogation scenes kind of make me swoon. Also, that warm expression on his face and the way he’s gently, yet firmly, touching her back are just killing me in the best way possible.
I told you everything. I swear.
#LadyCheeky