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jeriendhalThis is about as explicit as I can get with this without moving it to a separate journal...
She gave the leash a yank as one of the guards gave him a shove between the shoulders. He was led through the door to the interrogation area, a concrete lined hallway with several separate rooms. She unlocked one with the keys at her belt and pulled him inside. It was a circular chamber, the walls lined with white medical tiles, with a pair of metal cabinets to one side, a laundry sink opposite and a chain hanging from the ceiling over a padded wooden sawhorse. Ominously, the chain and horse were directly over a drain. Drain for what, he suspected he was going to find out.
He was positioned in front of the sawhorse, the chain lowered by a pulley and clipped to his handcuffs and his legs reshackled to rings on the floor, holding them over an arm apart. Then the chain was pulled up, his wrists perforce with it, forcing Rolas to double-over the sawhorse to relieve the strain on his shoulders.
“Zis is called a strappado position, Prisoner Beta,” Softpaw purred. “It iz quite effective at holding even the most recalcitrant subject still. Otherwise they risk havink their arms pulled from their sockets.”
“What are you going to do to me?” Rolas gasped.
“Do? I don't haff to do anything. I can just leave you like this and in a haff-hour you'll be weeping for your mother to be let down.” She pulled up a stool and sat beside him, her leather gloved hand scratching him behind the ears like he was a cub. When he tried to snap at her hand with his fangs she merely gripped him by the ruff and held his head back. “You are a disagreeable fellow, aren't you? Vhy can't you just go along and make things easy on yourself?”
“I am an officer of the Mother Country Air Corps. It is my duty to resist you.”
“That iz your choice.” She unbuttoned her leather coat and set it aside, rolling up the sleeves of her cream colored shirt to reveal the black fur of her forearms. Rolas bit his lip as the tip of her riding crop slide down his spine. “Let's start with something easy, eh? What is your name and rank, Prisoner Beta?”
“My name is Flight Leftanant Lord Rolas Darktail, ident number 125-847,” he said, trying to ignore the crop, which she was circling around the base of his tail, making the hairs bush out.
“Oh, your serial number too. See, you're volunteering information already.”
“Fragg... hrm... off...”
The riding crop snapped down, swatting him on the ass. He let out a grunt of pain, his skin stinging from the blow even through his pants and fur.
“Mind your language, prisoner,” she warned. “Or else I might find reason to muzzle you.”
“I'd say “you wouldn't” but I don't think I'd put anything past a Gerwart torturer.” Rolas grimaced and tried lean downwards a little more to relieve the growing pain in his shoulders.
“I am not a torturer,” she purred. “I am a specialist in enhanced interrogation techniques.” The crop began running under the curve of his buttocks and he gritted his teeth. “Of course I don’t think I’ll get everything immediately. It will take several sessions to break you, to make certain you are telling ze truth and not just vhat I vant to hear.” She swatted his bottom again, causing him to jump in pain, and then cry out in more pain as he came back down and pulled his wrist chain taut, yanking his already aching shoulders.
“I won’t tell you… ahh… anything…”
“Liar. You are strong, but that just means you are more brittle. Your muscles will betray you in the end, I promise.” She stood up and pulled the chain tighter. Rolas closed his eyes and bit down on his lip to keep from crying out again.
He kept his eyes closed and concentrated on breathing. He could hear the major's boots tapping around the chamber and then the sound of the faucet running. Cleaning her hands likely, before torturing him some more. Then suddenly her arms were circling his waist, her paws pulling at his belt buckle, pulling it free of the belt loops. Rolas' eyes flew open as she ran her finger through his tail, tugging and brushing out tangles of fur with her claws.
“What... ahhh.... are you doing?” For answer she unsheathed the ceremonial dagger, closer to a shortsword really, at her belt. Slowly she brought it to his waistband. Then with one sharp motion she cut through the right leg of his pants from hip to ankle, then the left, leaving it in tatters on the floor. He kept silent and suddenly very still as she performed similar surgery on his undershorts, leaving him utterly naked in the white tiled chamber. “Please... Why are you doing this?”
“Surely you do not want to get your pants soaking wet?” she purred. She unhooked the chain and let it slide through the pulley mounted on the ceiling. Released, Rolas flopped forward, falling across the sawhorse, letting out another pained cry as his arms were allowed to drop down. The pain shot up his arms as the major uncuffed him, pulling his arms around to wrap his wrists in leather cuffs clipped to the legs of the sawhorse.
She took the bucket from the sink and poured warm, soapy water across his legs, back and shoulders. It poured out over down his neck and head, leaving him sputtering and blinking as the soap got into his eyes. “What do you think you're doing?!”
“Why bathing you, Prisoner,” she replied. “Wasn't your fur getting itchy with all that salt in it?”
He didn't answer her, merely breathing in and out as the warm water soaked his fur, blinking as his eyes burned from the soap. Then he felt her body lean down against his, pressing his hips against the sawhorse, her fingerpads kneading his aching shoulders...
* * *
An hour later Rufus stood suddenly from his bunk, as four guards emerged from the door marked INTERROGATION, Rolas' naked, half-conscious body lying a blanket they held between them. They rolled him off onto his bunk, to leash and lock him inside once again, leaving him lying there, moaning softly.
“Leftenant.... Rolas, are you all right?” Rufus demanded.
Rolas lifted his head, blinking at him with reddened eyes, his face sodden. “She didn't even ask any questions,” he murmured, before falling unconscious once again.
End Chapter Three
She gave the leash a yank as one of the guards gave him a shove between the shoulders. He was led through the door to the interrogation area, a concrete lined hallway with several separate rooms. She unlocked one with the keys at her belt and pulled him inside. It was a circular chamber, the walls lined with white medical tiles, with a pair of metal cabinets to one side, a laundry sink opposite and a chain hanging from the ceiling over a padded wooden sawhorse. Ominously, the chain and horse were directly over a drain. Drain for what, he suspected he was going to find out.
He was positioned in front of the sawhorse, the chain lowered by a pulley and clipped to his handcuffs and his legs reshackled to rings on the floor, holding them over an arm apart. Then the chain was pulled up, his wrists perforce with it, forcing Rolas to double-over the sawhorse to relieve the strain on his shoulders.
“Zis is called a strappado position, Prisoner Beta,” Softpaw purred. “It iz quite effective at holding even the most recalcitrant subject still. Otherwise they risk havink their arms pulled from their sockets.”
“What are you going to do to me?” Rolas gasped.
“Do? I don't haff to do anything. I can just leave you like this and in a haff-hour you'll be weeping for your mother to be let down.” She pulled up a stool and sat beside him, her leather gloved hand scratching him behind the ears like he was a cub. When he tried to snap at her hand with his fangs she merely gripped him by the ruff and held his head back. “You are a disagreeable fellow, aren't you? Vhy can't you just go along and make things easy on yourself?”
“I am an officer of the Mother Country Air Corps. It is my duty to resist you.”
“That iz your choice.” She unbuttoned her leather coat and set it aside, rolling up the sleeves of her cream colored shirt to reveal the black fur of her forearms. Rolas bit his lip as the tip of her riding crop slide down his spine. “Let's start with something easy, eh? What is your name and rank, Prisoner Beta?”
“My name is Flight Leftanant Lord Rolas Darktail, ident number 125-847,” he said, trying to ignore the crop, which she was circling around the base of his tail, making the hairs bush out.
“Oh, your serial number too. See, you're volunteering information already.”
“Fragg... hrm... off...”
The riding crop snapped down, swatting him on the ass. He let out a grunt of pain, his skin stinging from the blow even through his pants and fur.
“Mind your language, prisoner,” she warned. “Or else I might find reason to muzzle you.”
“I'd say “you wouldn't” but I don't think I'd put anything past a Gerwart torturer.” Rolas grimaced and tried lean downwards a little more to relieve the growing pain in his shoulders.
“I am not a torturer,” she purred. “I am a specialist in enhanced interrogation techniques.” The crop began running under the curve of his buttocks and he gritted his teeth. “Of course I don’t think I’ll get everything immediately. It will take several sessions to break you, to make certain you are telling ze truth and not just vhat I vant to hear.” She swatted his bottom again, causing him to jump in pain, and then cry out in more pain as he came back down and pulled his wrist chain taut, yanking his already aching shoulders.
“I won’t tell you… ahh… anything…”
“Liar. You are strong, but that just means you are more brittle. Your muscles will betray you in the end, I promise.” She stood up and pulled the chain tighter. Rolas closed his eyes and bit down on his lip to keep from crying out again.
He kept his eyes closed and concentrated on breathing. He could hear the major's boots tapping around the chamber and then the sound of the faucet running. Cleaning her hands likely, before torturing him some more. Then suddenly her arms were circling his waist, her paws pulling at his belt buckle, pulling it free of the belt loops. Rolas' eyes flew open as she ran her finger through his tail, tugging and brushing out tangles of fur with her claws.
“What... ahhh.... are you doing?” For answer she unsheathed the ceremonial dagger, closer to a shortsword really, at her belt. Slowly she brought it to his waistband. Then with one sharp motion she cut through the right leg of his pants from hip to ankle, then the left, leaving it in tatters on the floor. He kept silent and suddenly very still as she performed similar surgery on his undershorts, leaving him utterly naked in the white tiled chamber. “Please... Why are you doing this?”
“Surely you do not want to get your pants soaking wet?” she purred. She unhooked the chain and let it slide through the pulley mounted on the ceiling. Released, Rolas flopped forward, falling across the sawhorse, letting out another pained cry as his arms were allowed to drop down. The pain shot up his arms as the major uncuffed him, pulling his arms around to wrap his wrists in leather cuffs clipped to the legs of the sawhorse.
She took the bucket from the sink and poured warm, soapy water across his legs, back and shoulders. It poured out over down his neck and head, leaving him sputtering and blinking as the soap got into his eyes. “What do you think you're doing?!”
“Why bathing you, Prisoner,” she replied. “Wasn't your fur getting itchy with all that salt in it?”
He didn't answer her, merely breathing in and out as the warm water soaked his fur, blinking as his eyes burned from the soap. Then he felt her body lean down against his, pressing his hips against the sawhorse, her fingerpads kneading his aching shoulders...
* * *
An hour later Rufus stood suddenly from his bunk, as four guards emerged from the door marked INTERROGATION, Rolas' naked, half-conscious body lying a blanket they held between them. They rolled him off onto his bunk, to leash and lock him inside once again, leaving him lying there, moaning softly.
“Leftenant.... Rolas, are you all right?” Rufus demanded.
Rolas lifted his head, blinking at him with reddened eyes, his face sodden. “She didn't even ask any questions,” he murmured, before falling unconscious once again.
End Chapter Three
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Date: 2010-06-26 03:48 am (UTC)