Condemned to Slavery (7 page)

“Nombre?”

“Pardon? I…I don’t speak t—” she began.

“Name,” continued the woman with a sneer of irritation.

“Ly—”

“Don’t address me standing up, get on your knees,” barked the woman, jabbing a finger at the ground.

“What?” asked Lydia with a frown, wondering if she had heard this correctly and hoping that it was some manner of joke.

“On your knees, Porqueria,” confirmed the receptionist, and then waved to the guard with an impatient huff of irritation and disapproval.

“Guarda, mostrala.”

The woman to her right suddenly kicked out, catching Lydia in the backs of her legs, the sudden pain and the folding of her limbs causing her to drop to the floor and cower before the desk. The large woman leaned over and stared down at her.

“Now, let’s start again. Name.”

“Lydia Brooks,” she whimpered, stunned by this level of maltreatment.

“What’s her status here?” the receptionist asked of the guards, speaking in English to make sure Lydia knew her fate.

“The Secret Police have sent her,” answered the one responsible for subduing her.

“So what shall I put as length of sentence?” quizzed the administrative guard.

“Indefinite, I guess,” chuckled the woman, bringing a snort of amusement from the other women.

Shocked by what she had heard, Lydia started to rise so she might plead her case. The woman who had attacked her stepped forward and slapped down into her face, slamming Lydia to the stone floor before putting a boot to her ribs and holding her there.

“Don’t move unless we tell you to. This is nothing to do with you. Understand?” spat the woman, raising her palm threateningly to make her captive cower in anticipation of another offensive.

Lydia nodded softly, trying to stroke her throbbing cheek onto her shoulder, her arms still locked under her felled body. She tried to shield herself from any more abuse but bound as she was, and sprawled on the floor, there was no way she could defend herself from the harridans.

The woman spitefully ground the heel into Lydia’s chest, digging into the skin and making her scowl and squirm under the pinning foot.

“I asked if you understand, Ramera?”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” she winced.

The pressure increased, threatening to snap her ribs as her mouth dropped open and she tightly closed her eyes, gasping for breath under the sudden extra pain.

“I understand,
Mistress
. Now say it properly before I crush you underfoot like the maggot you are.”

“Yes Mistress, I understand, Mistress,” she rambled hastily.

“Good. Now shut up and lay there while we process you.”

With her identity given, the guards diverted their attention to filling in the papers, guessing her height and weight and detailing her appearance and the circumstances of her arrival and incarceration.

Once the questions were answered, the receptionist rummaged in a sack and handed over a stout leather collar, like those she had seen upon the other prisoners without, revealing that it was no mark of punishment but a standard piece of attire. Fingers locked into her hair and yanked back, exposing her neck so that the other guard might thread the implement around her throat, tighten its twin buckles to a snug fit and then padlock them in place.

“Que es su humero?” inquired the viper at the desk.

The guard behind her twisted further back, making her roots shriek as she grimaced and strove to endure the derogation. The guard before her cupped her chin and lifted up, examining the small plate riveted to the side of the collar.

“Seis-uno-nueve-dos,” she announced, the receptionist entering her serial code and then slotting the papers into a folder before handing it to the guards.

“I think that is everything. Take her up to the Warden for the standard welcoming speech. She is expecting you,” came the accented English reply, the woman at the desk leaning back and granting her a wicked knowing smirk.

The women yanked Lydia to her feet and drew her onwards and onto a set of ascending stairs. After quickly clearing three floors they stopped at a metal gate where another guard on the opposite side sat behind a small desk, reading a book.

“New prisoner to see the Warden,” one of them declared rigidly.

Without further need of explanation the guard slipped in a mark to keep her page and wandered around to open the gate. After granting ingress she closed the reinforced portal behind them and returned to her position.

The corridor was cool and fragrant, the stink of sweat and moisture having been eradicated by strategically placed overhead fans that turned slowly, carrying a soothing breeze through the passages.

Turning a corner she found herself staring at a dead end, a polished mahogany door at the end bearing a gold plaque, the words
Warden Folter
embossed upon it in black. A bench lay to one side, flowing along the wall opposite to an alcove in which lay a small desk.

A pale skinned woman sat at the table, her blonde hair tied back with a black ribbon, her slender physique dressed alarmingly in a latex dress. The plunging neckline revealed her cleavage in full, her breasts contained within sculpted cups. Despite this bizarre choice of attire she seemed a normal secretary, sitting quietly and browsing through several documents. A typewriter and potted plant adorned her desk, with a variety of files and cluttered office paraphernalia.

Glancing up at the new arrivals she returned to her work, completely at peace with Lydia’s nakedness and the marks of ill treatment.

“New prisoner, the Warden’s expecting us,” announced the guard.

“She will be with you in a moment. In the meantime, take a seat,” replied the woman with a slight American accent, not even bothering to look up from her work.

The guards stepped back and lowered, but as Lydia attempted to join them she was shoved upright and a sweeping kick stripped her legs out from under her. The harsh fall drove the wind from her lungs and left her reeling from the sudden harsh impact.

“She didn’t mean you!” spat one of the guards.

As she languished upon the floor, trying to recover her breath, the guards dropped their feet upon her spine and the arms sealed upon it, using her as a footrest. Incensed, she tried to slough them off, an action deemed rebellious and worthy of correcting so the guards rose and dropped their heels, jabbing into her back and limbs, making her shout and squirm under the volley of descending kicks.

“Stay still!” they demanded, and returned to a resting position once she had been hammered into compliance beneath their jackboots.

Battered and bruised, aching and twisted in the humiliating pose they had placed her in, Lydia felt tears growing in her eyes, her despair rising up and flooding her mind with the injustice of her lot.

A buzz issued from the secretary’s table. Completely unmoved by the brutality unfolding before her, the woman smiled sweetly and informed the guards that the Warden was ready to see them.

Hoisting Lydia up by her hammered arms, they opened the door and entered the plush office within, her feet fumbling beneath her body.

The room was large and the polished floorboards were carpeted by a number of decorative rugs. A large dark wood desk lay directly before them, a window behind it letting sunlight stream in, the smaller chairs placed before the table humbling all those who sat down, lowering them before the high backed chair that rose like a brooding throne on the other side. The pads, lamps, pens and trinkets upon the desk were arrayed with detailed precision, as were the book-adorned shelves and the framed Guenerrian flag that spread itself proudly across a large section of wall. The grim uniform of the Secret Police hung upon a skeletal mannequin, the medals and braids polished and scrupulously clean, the awards revealing the owner to be an accomplished operative.

The Warden stood by the window, looking out over the compound and into the jungle. Tall and exquisite of frame, her slender body was held within the tight clinch of a halter neck Lycra top, the black shimmering garment dropping into gray jodhpurs and tall black boots. Her short blonde hair was held beneath a peaked military cap, the braids upon it signifying rank, the black design and badge confirming her as Secret Police.

“Guards, deposit the file on my desk and prepare her before you leave,” she growled, her accent distinctly west coast American.

Without word they forced her down onto her knees and snapped cuffs to her ankles, threading the chain over her wrist restraints to hog-tie her in this supplicant upright pose. Setting down the folder upon the desk they turned and departed, closing the door behind them.

After a few moments of silence the Warden addressed her while still gazing upon the green canopy.

“My name is Warden Folter. For whatever crime you have committed you have been sentenced to imprisonment at my facility. Conditions are harsh, and rightly so, for the criminals here are here to atone for their felonies and only through suffering and hardship can this be achieved. However, submission to the will of my guards and the rules of this prison will make your time more tolerable. Resist or disobey and you will be punished severely. As a reminder, I will now give you an example of the most minor form of correction you will come to expect,” she explained blandly.

The woman removed a long and slender crop from a drawer and approached Lydia, prompting her to start shouting for help, clawing at her metal bonds in fright, the energetic wriggling toppling her balance so that she landed heavily on her front. A booted toe dug under her chest and flipped her onto her back, trapping her limbs beneath her torso, leaving her arched upward and eager to accept the bite of the poised weapon.

Lydia’s words rose to a defiant cry as the crop lifted high into the air and paused to bring dread before descending with a whistling hiss, turning the cry into a wail of pain as a searing line was laid upon her thigh. The blow had Lydia jerk and squirm upon the floor, hauling at the defiant cuffs.

Another hack ate into her inner thigh, the sensitive skin bringing an even sterner wash of suffering, the mordant stripe it laid making her shriek and buck, trying to flip over and shield the delicate regions currently under attack. Her plan was foiled as the Warden’s gleaming boot stepped onto her stomach, the weight resting upon it forcing her to the floor. Her arms and legs were squeezed between floor and foot, her joints starting to churn with internal mayhem as the pressure was increased, the Warden leaning over and letting her body pin down the prisoner before her.

With her victim secured she commenced the beating with added speed and strength, lashing into Lydia’s cleavage and thighs, laying down a plexus of flushed purple welts that throbbed with a residual pulse for many minutes after their birth. Contused lines were continually drawn across her by the sanguinary frenzy that ruled her persecutor. The Warden was goaded into increased ferocity at the sight of Lydia squirming beneath her boot, her flesh rippling as the looped tip of the crop slammed to it or skimmed briefly across the tip of a striped breast. The sound of her imploring desperate yowls gave the woman malevolent pleasure, the Warden delighting in her work.

Gasping for air as she screamed in response to the crop, Lydia could only strain against her shackles, her mind thumping with her racing heartbeat and the animal panic that called only for her to evade the blows. Suddenly the deluge abruptly ended and the Warden addressed her while steadying her panting breath.

“You are no longer a person. You are a piece of property owned by Guenerros. You no longer have a name. You have a code number. You will know this number. It will be used to refer to you, call to you, you will answer to it, and you will forget your name. If you use your name, you will be severely reprimanded. Do you understand?”

Lydia said nothing, still lost in her daze of pain, twitching in continual fits. The crop flashed down and restored her will to shriek.

“Say, yes, Warden Folter, if you understand?” she growled, and once more applied her switch with equal verve.

“Yes, Warden Folter, I understand!” Lydia howled, the pain bestowing ample volume.

“What is your name?” the woman asked.

“Ly—” she started and then paused suddenly, realizing the slip of her tongue. Before she could apologize or correct her error, the crop was once more streaking through the air and applying half a dozen fierce strokes across her thighs, crisscrossing the previous marks and restoring their old intensity. The beating stopped and the Warden leant more heavily onto her squirming captive.

“What is your name?” the Warden repeated.

“I have no name, I am property, Warden Folter,” Lydia wheezed, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes to trickle into her hair.

“What is your designated code number?” she hissed.

“I…I…don’t know, they said it in another language,” Lydia whimpered.

“Hmmph,” vented the Warden, stepping away and throwing an underarm flick into Lydia’s lewdly presented pussy. The heinous stroke made her arch up and yowl, her body thrashing madly as the woman deserted her to recovery from the swat.

Turning the folder round to face her with the hooped tip of the crop, the woman ran the end of the weapon down the cover.

“You are six one nine two,” she declared, and began to saunter back to her grizzling student.

The boot once more dropped onto Lydia, squashing her again.

“What is your name?” asked the woman, lifting the crop in warning.

“Six one nine two, Warden Folter,” blurted Lydia.

“Say it again. Quicker this time,” demanded the woman, skimming the tip of the crop across her assets to make her breasts quiver and her mouth drop open and air a cry.

“Six one nine two,” she rambled with speed.

“Keep saying it,” growled the woman.

Lydia started to chant the number again and again, and each time she did, the dull thwack of the thin weapon was sung against her body, the Warden applying a merciless stroke each time she declared her new identity, the pain burning the digits into her very soul. Soon she was choking the words, fighting to get them out, her level of endurance left far behind, her fright of disobeying this grand sadist the only encouragement to keep her going.