Then, I stopped feeling his faint touch against me. Was he still there, harbouring in the silence, or had he departed the premises altogether? This was already the first sign of emotional torture: I wasn’t to know whether he was ever present while all sort of terrible things would be done to me, to my body. Something inside me wanted him around, for my mental comfort, I suppose, but on the other hand, what would he think of me, react to the spectacle of my body being defiled, would I ever be the same for him ever again, thereafter?
Not knowing, that was the worst sort of punishment.
A voice – not his – said:
“Stay where you are and spread your legs apart.”
I obeyed.
Still the faint trace of an echo, bouncing between stone floor and high ceiling.
Standing in silence, trying to guess how many pairs of eyes might be watching me, male and/or female.
Something, a cane? a whip handle? brushed against my left cheek, tracing the faint line of my scar. Cold. I shivered briefly.
Then a hand took hold of my jacket, pulled on the sleeves and manoeuvred my arms out of it. Another brief moment of silence and inaction, while I tried to listen to all the minute sounds, murmurs of nearby voices, distant chirping of birds outside, almost inaudible scraping of material against material, against flesh? Was there another woman nearby, also wearing stockings?
“Stand still,” the male voice reiterated. I was sure I hadn’t moved.
I opened my lips, ready to say so.
“Jeezus… ” A sharp, sudden smack on my rear, before any sound could even escape.
“You may not speak,” the unknown man said, severely.
It didn’t hurt, but I had been completely taken by surprise.
“Spread your legs wider apart,” another deep male voice instructed, almost angrily.
The material of the grey skirt was tight against my thighs. It was awkward to assume the desired position without moving the rest of my body, which I knew they would disapprove of.
I felt the thin object against my knees, then it moved up my right leg, grazing the fabric of the stocking, slowly, lazily upwards, reaching mid-thigh when it moved into the empty triangle below my crotch. I shivered again, expecting its next movement. It made contact with my knickers, right where my sex was. I imagined a surge of electricity bolting through my body and felt the first wetness inside my cunt, and my sex lips engorging and opening slightly, pressed as they were against the silk of my underwear.
“Good,” one of the men said. “Stay like that.”
Then, nothing happened for some time. I stood uncomfortably listening to muffled noises all around. There were some more people arriving, chairs being arranged, seemingly in a circle around me. I was about to become the main attraction. Right there, in the hall. Looked as if I didn’t even get to graduate to a traditional gothic dungeon. Like in the books. Like in the movies. I must have smiled.
Another violent whack on my buttocks. This time it hurt.
“What’s so funny, bitch?”
“Nothing,” I summarily replied.
This time it was a whip and it struck suddenly twice, once on my shoulders and then immediately again on my breasts.
“This is your last reminder, woman. You may not talk.”
I bit my lips as the pain and the adrenaline subsided quickly.
Took a deep breath.
Some were talking in low voices, but it was too indistinct for me to really hear anything. But some of the voices were definitely female. And one was certainly my lover’s.
Behind the dark piece of cloth that obscured my vision, I closed my eyes. Tried to picture him with another. Was she sitting on his lap? Where was his hand? Was she also blonde? Was his cock hard, was she holding it as she laughed at me, standing there helpless, ready and willing to be ravaged by their combined obscenities?
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?
