Day 1
At first, everything went exactly to plan. I travelled to the capital on a normal commercial flight and booked into my hotel without any trouble. Our contacts had arranged a room that overlooked the head-quarters of The Organisation, which I had been sent to penetrate and destroy.
I freshened up with a shower and changed into my combat pants, ready for action that evening, then I took up position at the window and observed the comings and goings. My plan was to wait until midnight and then enter through a service door at the rear, which it had been arranged would be left unlocked for me.
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| 1 |
Night had begun to fall, and the office staff were leaving, but the real work of the Organisation would continue after the exodus, in the so-called 'Orange Rooms' where they would be interrogating suspects, out of sight. Many of our men had gone through those doors and never been seen again. I was about to risk joining them. A cold shiver ran up my spine, but I quickly dismissed the negative thought.
I rang Room Service for a snack and while I waited and diverted myself by wondering if it would be brought by a handsome waiter in a cute, tight-fitting outfit. There was time for a little relief before I commenced my mission. Or so I thought. But when I answered the knock on the door, I found four, ugly goons waiting outside. They barged in, seized me and took me down with professional ease. I felt the sharp stab of a needle in my neck and within seconds lost consciousness.
Day 2
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| 2 |
When I woke, I was stretched out on a bare table with my wrists handcuffed above my head and my feet shackled together. Above me, an orange light burned. My stomach immediately churned with fear as I realised where I was. Beside me, an interrogator was already waiting, stroking my body appreciatively, like a trainer examining a fine stallion or a butcher selecting his meat.
His touch was ice-cold and I shuddered.
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| 3 |
Seeing that I was awake, he introduced himself with the strange, polite formality that still persists in that part of the world. He explained that he was searching my body for hidden electronic devices, adding that anything he found embedded beneath my skin would be prised out with his favourite tool - a commonplace screwdriver. He showed it to me, wondering if I might like to direct him to the hiding places and so avoid unnecessary pain.
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| 4 |
I had no hidden devices, I was totally alone. But he would expect me to say that, so I stayed silent and tried to prepare myself for indiscriminate butchery. He laughed as if reading my fear and swapped the screwdriver for a brush-like scanner device. It would detect and disrupt any electronics, he said, but as it passed scratchily over my body I was subjected to burning stabs of electricity that seemed to pepper my flesh like shotgun pellets. I'm ashamed to say that I cried out in pain and surprise.
That seemed to please him.
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| 5 |
Then suddenly he stopped and said, “Ah, what have we here?”
“Nothing!” I gasped through the pain, as he crushed my seared pectoral with his tools.
He looked at me and nodded, registering my first moment of weakness. Then he proceeded to probe the area with his tools for several minutes, in search of subcutaneous gadgetry that didn't exist. I squirmed in agony, anticipating the crude rupture of my flesh. But he was just playing games with me, eventually he laughed, then put down his tools and left, saying that he would send someone else to examine my inner cavities.
~
I can hardly bear to describe what followed. After a long wait stretched out, shivering on the table, a man dressed like a Doctor came to me. He put his hand and various instruments into my mouth to search inside. Then he pulled down my pants and repeated the process between my legs. I could feel him inside me. My ears and eyes and even my penis were probed by his instruments. His searches were both thorough and lengthy, but there was nothing for him to find. Eventually, he left.
After he'd gone, it wasn't long before the guards took the opportunity to assess their new prisoner and gloat. Multiple invasive humiliations followed, peppered with slaps and punches, long into the night. I had sampled many such things during my training, but now discovered that even the most determined of my instructors had not to managed to simulate the profound depths of sleazy, violent lust unleashed on me that night. When they finally tired of abusing my unresisting body, they abandoned me to exhaustion. But there was little chance of sleep for me, tightly restrained on the hard table.
Just the dismal knowledge that I was quite, quite alone.
Day 3
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| 6 |
Early the next morning, I was released from the table and taken to another cell, where I was strung up by my wrists. There the guards soused my body with water, cleaning away the residue of their abuse.
A short time later, my original interrogator returned.
He made his intentions clear by knocking me off my feet with a hard punch in the solar plexus before even a word had been spoken. The blow caught me by surprise and I collapsed in great pain. But as I tried to get back on my feet, fearing he would start kicking me, he grabbed my hair and held me down, ridiculing my attempts to stay strong.
He said he expected me to stay loyal to my unit, but assured me that eventually I would break and talk. His arrogance re-kindled my resistance, as he knew it would. He told me the higher I rode, the further I would fall - for fall I most certainly would.
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| 7 |
When the first lash of the whip landed squarely on my back, it was almost a relief. I had been trained for this and knew how to endure it. But my training also told me, from the first blow, that my torturer was using a heavily weighted one. The sheer force of its impact jolted my body. I would have been knocked down if not for the restraints digging into my wrists. I sensed he was an expert with his weapon too, and he proceeded to prove it as he whipped my helpless body with a slow, measured pace. He spaced each blow, allowing none of the searing, penetrating pain to be submerged by over-enthusiastic overlays. Despite my agonised bucking and twisting, he made not a single miss-hit.
Eventually the interrogator, who had been watching my performance closely, signalled the torturer to stop. He asked if I was ready to talk, but it was a formality, we both knew that. There was a long way to go. He simply nodded at my silence and left me hanging to contemplate the raging pain of my ravaged back. I watched the whip man cleaning his weapon as best he could, feeding its suppleness with oil, so it was ready to embrace another body, probably mine again. He looked at me occasionally as he worked, showing neither emotion nor pity. I imagined he was measuring me against all the other men who had danced under his fiery kiss.
Eventually, he carefully wound his whip up and packed it into its bag. He left me, hanging alone in the darkened cell and there I stayed until nightfall was announced by the return of my lecherous guards who silently pawed my weary body and bathed my wounds with their rasping tongues.
