Warm breath against my cheek. An intriguing smell, sweetish, a complex fragrance half human, half artificial, a remote smell of lemongrass. Male, I knew, as he moved closer, examining me, brushing against my back. Hands touching my breasts through the blouse, feeling them, cupping them, weighing them. Then his hands moved to my chin, to my lips, a finger slipped inside my mouth, a nail grazing my tongue, withdrew, out again the humid finger passed over my cheeks.
I could hear the sound of the unknown man’s breathing and the warmth radiating out from his body.
Goosebumps.
The hand retreated from my cheeks, neglecting my eyes and forehead. To be quickly replaced by the cold feel of metal against my throat. A blade.
I knew this was a test and was careful neither to move or utter a single sound.
The sharp metal edge drew a slow line down from my neck, over my white blouse between the valley of my breasts, then further along past my stomach, over my crotch and disappeared into the open triangle of my stretched grey skirt. It reached the lower edge of the garment and I felt the zip being pulled, either by the person wielding the knife or another protagonist. The skirt came loose and fell to the ground. The tip of the knife moved up and was inserted behind the taut elastic band of my black knickers and swiftly cut through the material like butter. The underpants were pulled from my body to facilitate the journey of the knife through them from front to back. The bisected knickers were then swiftly pulled away from the suspender belt, leaving me bottomless.
The cold air moved against my bare genitals and posterior.
A long, thin finger, certainly a woman’s, journeyed through my pubic curls and brutally pushed past my lips and entered my vagina.
I swallowed hard and held my breath as the finger explored my innards, drawing moisture as my body reacted uncontrollably, lasciviously, to the intrusion by releasing its natural secretions. She moved her finger around inside, enjoying the warmth and the growing humidity, her nail brushing slowly against my clitoris. My whole body trembled and I knew my cheeks must have turned red for all to see.
“Thirsty?” the woman’s kindly voice enquired.
I nodded, careful not to say anything.
“Good,” she replied.
Almost simultaneously, a man’s voice, hard and authoritative:
“Hold your arms up,” it ordered.
I stretched my arms toward the invisible ceiling, my face still hot and red because of my embarrassing posture, standing there as if crucified, my bare bottom thrust outwards at the unknown spectators, the woman’s digit still burrowing inside my cunt, my juices accumulating inside, ready to pour out shamefully over my thighs once she pulled her finger out, no doubt.
Both my hands were seized and manacled to pulleys which had been lowered down from on high in the hall. At first, the traction on my wrists was slack, but someone quickly reduced the slack in the ropes and I was forcibly pulled up and my feet barely adhered to the ground in my high heels.
The mockery of being crucified.
The woman’s finger retreated out, soaking with my juices. My lower lips remained wide open, dilated, sticky.
“Drink.”
A plastic bottle was placed against my lips and up-ended. It was only lightly carbonated mineral water. Couldn’t quite place the taste. Not Perrier; another brand.
Initially, it was welcome and refreshing, cooling down my dry mouth before gurgling down my throat. Then it was enough, but the bottle wasn’t moved away and I had to swallow the liquid faster to avoid choking as the water swam rapidly through my lips and straight down my throat. As soon as the bottle was empty, it was replaced by another. And yet another. The third bottle was Badoit; I could recognize the chalky background of its taste. They allowed me a minute or so’s break before emptying the fourth bottle inside me. I felt ill, now. My belly was bloated. I must have looked as if I was a few months pregnant, held there on display, the ropes imposing such an undignified stretched-out position, open, vulnerable.
What’s all this water in aid of, I wondered, as the final drops from the fourth bottle travelled past my tongue in a direct trajectory to my stomach?
I expected another bottle to be placed against my lips, but this was it. No more.
The silence returned.
I was forced to move my body slightly as cramp was reaching my left foot, and the water inside me sloshed from side to side.
Christ! I realized what they were up to. And the moment I did, there was nothing I could do to stop it. Or slow it down.
With my legs wide apart and my cunt still splayed open, there was no holding back the urine and it roared out of me like a jet, splashing loudly all over the stone floor. My face must have been redder than beetroot at that moment, as I suffered this impossible humiliation. Would it ever end? My pee kept on coming and coming, its stream still gushing out like a geyser, splashing my thighs and my stockings, cascading over my shoes. On and on and on. Finally, my bladder exhausted itself and the stream came to a spluttering end.
I felt bad, used, dirty. What would they do next? I already imagined the most diabolical perversions. And something in me, deep inside, was already looking forward to it, while the more sensible – civilized? – part of me was damn angry, eager for revenge. I had never been able to control my anger well. It had always done me much disservice.
“Isn’t she just beautiful?” I heard my lover say.
“Yes,” replied another man. “Great arse. Just love that dark mole right on the bottom curve of those cheeks. I’d love to bite it off.”
I shuddered.
Another: “That cunt seems nice and tight.”
“But it’s quite accommodating,” my lover said. “She’ll take a lot.”
“And at the rear,” a woman asked, “has she any experience?”
“Not with me,” my lover said. “She never wanted to. But when she betrayed me with the other, I know they tried it.”
“And that is why you want her punished, is it?” an older man’s voice asked.
“Yes,” my dark lover said. “And don’t even tell me it’s petty, I know that already.”
“So be it,” the older man said.
I heard steps, and a door close. They wanted me to believe my lover had left, but I knew he would stay and watch. I could still feel his silent presence and his eyes feasting on the indecent spectacle of my bare flesh. Brightly conscious of the pornography of the fact that my upper body was still fully clothed, while my lower half wantonly displayed itself, wet stockings stuck to my legs, the strong smell of urine and fear surrounding me, held apart like a sacrificial offering, like a piece of meat, devoid of all will…
“Ready her.”
A regiment of hands trooped over my body. The soiled stockings were peeled off, and the high-heeled shoes. The ropes were lengthened somewhat so that shoeless, I was still forced to stand on the tip of my toes to support myself. Scissors cut through the garter belt and the blouse and the brassiere strap, and the remaining flaps of shredded material were pulled away from me.
I was totally nude.
They tightened the band across my eyes. There was no hint of light.
The whip came first.
I’d read the books, seen the films, I know. This I somehow expected. But the pain was still hard to bear and I knew that my rear by the end must be a garish spectacle of crisscrossed red Mondrian patterns. I counted the blows. Thirty in all. Then a few gentler ones against my breasts, making my tips now impossibly erect. I think I even managed to pee a bit more when the last few lashes of the whip caught the outer edge of my crotch.
“She can take the pain,” someone said.