A Demonstration of Power

A DEMONSTRATION OF POWER

By Velvetglove

PART TWO

SWEAT AND TEARS

8

Neither Topaz nor Jorjo was aware of it, but at that exact moment, her fiancé was also lying on an identical red leather rack, two storeys below, in the underground cells.

Like her, he had been rendered totally immobile by tight straps round his wrists, forehead, neck, waist and ankles. Like her, he couldn’t speak due to the steel spider-gag brutally forcing his jaws apart. His 6’ 4” frame was speechless, helpless and naked. The leg extensions of the rack were opened into a wide ‘v’ and tilted upwards, knees in the air, as if he were about to undergo a gynaecological examination.

Which, in a way, he was.

A grey haired, white-coated, male medic perched on a stool between Jorjo’s thighs, adjusting an overhead spotlight so it shone directly onto his groin. The effeminate medic looked to be in his fifties but he manoeuvred himself about on the stool nimbly, pushing its castors along with his feet.

There was a whirring sound and Jorjo grimaced helplessly as he felt the padded leather shifting below him. Pain shot through his shoulders as his arms were stretched tighter and hips were raised higher towards the medic’s face and the bright light. A ridge in the leather pushed the small of his back up even further. He wanted to shout, argue, but only unintelligible ‘mwuh’ sounds gurgled out of the gag.

One moment he’d been walking round to Silky’s house to meet up with her and Topaz and Danno to discuss the demo, the next he’d felt a sharp prick in his thigh and … blackness.

Then it began.

For the next half an hour or so, the medic silently and methodically inspected, measured, prodded and scrutinized every millimetre of Jorjo’s muscled body. From the tips of his toes up to the top of his head, but with most attention paid to his pectorals and, ending where he’d started, his genitals.

The medic calmly wheeled up a camera on a tripod and fired up a computer on a trolley. He positioned the camera carefully.

Jorjo edged his eyes sideways and saw his own penis and balls projected soft and shrivelled on the colour monitor.  He felt sick with shame and fear.

The image on the screen sharpened as the medic focused the lens and then adjusted the angle, bringing Jorjo’s tense buttocks into view, below his hairy anus and dangling scrotum.

He felt and saw the medic’s fingers fiddling with his penis, stretching the tip then letting it fall.

He groaned through the gag as a hand tightened round one of his testicles and squeezed hard. His eyes watered, blurring the screen.

Then fingernails pinched agonisingly at the soft skin between his balls and his bottom. He roared out pain as best he could through his mouth.

The medic spoke, finally. “Look at the screen.” His accent was strange; clipped, fluent but foreign.

Jorjo strained, turned his eyes again, blinked, stared.

Without warning, his guts flipped and he felt an involuntary jet of liquid fear squirting from his bowels.

In that second, he realised what was going to happen to him.

9

You arrive home at 8.30 p.m.

Your meal is on the table. Your children tucked in bed. You kiss them and shut their bedroom doors. They are 3 years and 18 months old, a beautiful girl and a lovely boy.

Meek serves you a drink. You smile and kiss him. He is your husband, babysitter and houseboy. You are the wife, breadwinner and pants-wearer.

“Good day ?” he asks.

You shrug. He knows some, but not all, about what you do. You spare him many of the details. You stroke behind the ears of Turok, your mongrel hound.

“And you ? Were they good ?”

“As always.” He smiles. “Like their mother.”

You make a face. You chose Meek a couple of years ago. You love him. Whatever else, you love him. Most men in your country would never marry a woman who was not a virgin. Almost none would even talk to an unmarried woman with a child. The fact that Meek was not only attracted to you, but even accepted that society would be aware of the tangible evidence of your lack of virginity, had been the initial spark in your relationship.

“Are you hungry ?”

You shake your head. It is his way of commenting on your late return home. He will never come out and say it, although you are home most evenings by seven. You haven’t phoned tonight and he is not allowed to call you. His coal-black eyes gaze at you in reverence.

“But my feet are sore.”

He silently tugs off one boot, then the other, then each sock. A sharp bouquet of leather and sweat wafts upwards. His strong hands caress your right foot, easing your arch, stretching your toes out one by one.

You sip your drink, let your head fall back onto the armchair and shut your eyes. Your mind wanders to your new toys; Topaz, Jorjo, Silky and Danno. Each settled down uncomfortably for the night !

Meek’s lips brush your foot. He loves to pamper you, please you.

“Mmm …” you sigh appreciatively, rewarding his efforts.

Many people take work home at night. This is how you do it.

Meek wears a steel chastity tube. It is not a commercially available toy, but the real thing; state of the art, made of polished steel. The State imports them from Europe for use on maximum security prisoners. Your superior, Horne, your Chief of Police, managed to obtain one for you.

Your husband now wears it full time, 24/7, tending your children, keeping house, awaiting your return. It makes you deliriously happy that a man could make such a sacrifice for you, place such trust in you.

“That’s good, darling. The other foot.”

You are strict with him. But you are not a sadist. Not to him. You treat him like just another child. With love, affection, firmness and control. For his own good. This is how you both want to live your lives.

You are still in your white shirt and pants. The key to his tube hangs on a gold chain round your neck, safe amongst your cleavage. Your nipples poke through the soft cotton. You still have no underwear on. But you decide to satisfy another appetite first.

“Hold on.” You snatch your foot away. “Let’s eat.”

10

Topaz lay curled in the foetal position on the concrete floor of her cell.

Her body had closed down. She was naked, filthy and too exhausted to cry. Too traumatized, her mind numb and her pain anaesthetized.

She had never felt so absolutely alone in her life. Although she could hear breathing and sniffles, occasional sobs and wails from women in nearby cells, she was completely isolated.

Names and faces drifted like ghosts through what remained of her brain.

One moment she’d been walking round to Silky’s house to meet up with everybody and the next she’d felt an abrupt pain in her bottom and then … blackness.

She’d woken in that dreadful place, stripped, photographed, fastened to that leather rack. And then Elka had walked in.

Where was Jorjo ? Surely he’d come looking for her soon. Her wonderful, strong man would find her. She felt a tiny surge of relief at the thought, of what Jorjo would do to Elka, to all of them, when he came.

Then her hope died as she inched her naked body nearer the cold wall.

Jorjo wouldn’t want her. Not now. Not now she’d been used by other men. Her life was ruined. Jorjo would leave her and nobody else would want her. And she could never give herself to a man now anyway. How she regretted not giving herself earlier to Jorjo, so that at least he could have been her first. Her mind was so confused, so bewildered.

She saw faces.

Each one ugly, leering, taunting her. A sea of men and boys, dwarves and giants, dark and pale, ugly and hideous, each one hard and stabbing her body and her soul and filling her with their foul pollution.

She thought of Elka, tasted her in her mouth.

How could somebody be so cruel to another human being ? Another woman ? What was Elka doing now ? Maybe she was sat at home enjoying herself ? Maybe she had a boyfriend, a fiancé, a husband of her own ? Surely Elka would feel some compassion tomorrow ?

11

You smile down at the top of your lovely husband’s head as he gives you another orgasm. They all blur into each other and yet each one is different.

There are the self-induced ones, rocking back in your chair, skirt pulled up, unsatisfying but necessary, like a snack, a shot of sugar or caffeine to get you through the day.

There are conquering triumphs; riding faces and lashing thighs, a satisfying midday club sandwich eaten at the office with lashings of mayonnaise.

There are also climaxes, your lusty lover feeding your insatiable appetite, his hot juices filling you, giving and taking from each other, a 3-course dinner with wine.

And finally there are these. Your husband. A gentle relax. Like him serving you a camomile or peppermint tea at the end of your tiring day.

You will shower now. Temporarily sated. To sleep, perchance to dream.

His lips mop your sodden thighs, your matted unkempt bush.

“Look.” You say.

He stares up at you, bites his lower lip, gentle eyes blinking as he winces. The steel gives him no mercy. He asks no quarter and you offer none. His frustration will soften in time and eventually allow him to asleep.

The rancid stink of your body overwhelms you both now. That distinct aroma of sex and sweat; the fishy tang of stale semen and sour body odour. Most women choose to bathe before receiving oral sex, embarrassed by the natural fragrance of the secretions and perspiration in their crevices.

But you prefer to wash afterwards instead.

You only shower away the evidence of your day at journey’s end, after sharing your power trip with your darling husband.

“What did you do today, dear ?” his tongue politely enquires.

Well, darling. The first load was planted inside me at a 10 o’clock meeting. Just me and the Chief of Police, over a cup of coffee. All day I could feel his brew festering and leaking, moistening the lining of my uniform. You know how I love that feeling, don’t you ? The wanton slut. An all day reminder. But oooh, now his second load was a much more leisurely event this evening. We had a bit of fun with one of his prisoners. Over champagne and caviar in his office. And then we fucked. Well, sucked then fucked. He loves a bit of head first. You know how much he enjoys the fact I’m married. It makes our sex together seem so raw, kinky, fun. I prefer that he’s married too. It’s no wonder he’s hot for me when you see that dull, dumpy wife of his. While we fucked I had a couple of big ‘o’s. Thought of you briefly when I came, darling. How much I love you. And then he filled me up for my journey home. You told the children mommy was working late.

“So that’s what I did with my day dear.” Your cunt responds. “And you ?”

His slurping tongue, lips, and eyes reply.

I did housework, minded the kids, prepared supper, thought of you.

You never perform for Meek. The idea of him watching doesn’t turn you on. Besides, home is for the kids, your husband, family-time.

But you hide nothing from him either. The idea of him knowing most of what you’ve been up to each day excites you immensely. You flaunt the evidence. The blood, sweat and tears.

So he knows the story.

Just not the whole story.

12

Two orderlies came for Topaz after dawn.

They dragged her barely alive carcass from the cell to the same room. Interrogation Room 13.

They buckled her forehead, neck, waist, wrists and ankles back into the straps, but they didn’t gag her this time. Her knees were raised and wide apart.

A fat, female orderly stood between her thighs and probed her with a steel speculum. The metal felt cold and sharp.

A male orderly pinched her breasts, thumbed her nipples impatiently, suggestively. He was in his thirties, pallid, thin.

“Okay. Hurry.” The woman said.

The man’s mouth twitched. He changed position with the woman and started unbuttoning his white coat.

“No … please … not …”

“Shut up !” The woman slapped Topaz. “Don’t be stupid. Your cunt is already used and filthy. What’s one more before we clean you up ?”

“Aah … no … you …”

Her tear ducts had replenished and she began to sob pitifully, helplessly.

It made no difference. The man entered her. It hurt. He began moving in and out. The woman smiled down, as if she was watching a display. Her chubby fingers handled Topaz’s skin like meat.

“You silly girl. What did you hope to achieve, marching in the streets like that ? Demonstrating against the State ? Greedy for more freedom ?”

“Nooo …”

“Yes ! Well you’d better be greedy now. For cock. For punishment !”

The man was listening, smiling, saliva flecking his lip. His hands were clutching Topaz’s thighs as he casually rutted her body.

“Anybody can use you here.” The woman continued. “Us. Policemen. Guards. Visiting politicians and bureaucrats.”

The man accelerated, grunted and let out a long sigh. Topaz felt his warm fluid being planted amongst the cold slime and filth. He buttoned up his coat.

The female orderly fetched a sponge on a plastic stick and a saucer of green gel.

“This may itch.” She sniggered.

The slippery wet hand-mop slid easily between Topaz’s labia. The woman pushed and pulled, burrowing deeper each time. In seconds the agony came, similar to a series of insect bites, and then a rapid escalation like the scald of savage stinging nettles inside her.

“Nah … oh … ahh … no …”

“Don’t worry, it only lasts an hour. But it gets you nice and clean and disinfected and ready for another day of fun.”

Topaz managed to scream.

They simply chuckled and closed the door.

13

You feel good this morning. Great, in fact. You spend an hour with your children; washing and dressing them, giving them breakfast. Outside the sky is blue and the temperature is already climbing.

On TV, the morning news is that the demonstrators will be back again today. But in depleted numbers. The Justice Minister gives an interview stating that small minorities are obviously free to protest their misguided views. After all, that’s democracy. Rumours of arrests are totally unfounded. An official government-sponsored poll records over 95% disapproval of the demonstration. Several of its violent organisers have gone underground. There’s footage of yesterday’s march on Central Square, the ugly chanting and provocative banners.

You kiss your children goodbye and leave them with Meek.

“Bye dear.”

His freshly shaved chin and lips are soft against your skin, his breath minty. You pat the hard steel knot under his day robe and smile encouragingly.

“Be good.”

You have two cars; the State manufactured family ‘box’, and your imported 2-seater. You put the electric roof down and drive to work with the hot breeze drying your showered hair, flirting at the lights with a young bureaucrat in his smart saloon.

The State Security Tower appears like an ugly 20-storey concrete building. But like an iceberg, only a part is visible. Below ground a warren of cellars, dungeons and rooms burrow deep underground. The building stands in the centre of a walled compound protected by razor wire and gun towers.

But the building seems beautiful to you.

You flash your pass at the security gates and park in the underground lot. It is just after nine. The overnight shift is leaving and you wave at a colleague.

There’s a black coffee waiting on your desk, with today’s newspapers, and a small mound of new files, correspondence, printed emails. You sip from your steaming mug and do 15 minutes reading, jotting notes, work.

You take ‘The Truth’, your favourite paper, to the Ladies bathroom and sit in a cubicle. The pan fills with your fragrant waste. You finish the leading article about the demonstration and then wipe yourself.

Just one sheet. No need to do a thorough job.

You smile, flush, and watch it gurgle down the bend.

14

In the Public Area of the State Security Compound, crowds have gathered. Mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, friends and colleagues have come to register the sudden disappearance of loved ones. The atmosphere is tense, nervous, the temperature humid and hot. There is no air conditioning in this part of the complex.

A series of immense lines are forming. The relatives are given long, complicated forms to fill in, told to take their position patiently. Those who eventually get to the front are often sent to the back of a line for even the tiniest errors with their forms. If an official considers just one letter or number illegible, he will rip up the form and tell them to start again.

Amongst the teeming throng are a man and woman in their late-forties. CCTV cameras monitor all the faces, the Recognition Software flashing names and ID numbers to a main database.

The couple stand nervously, answering the endless questions in pencil; about themselves and about their daughter Topaz.

15

You ride Silky’s face.

You’re not as interested in her as Topaz. So there is no point dragging out the fun. Cut straight to the action.

She’s the opposite of her friend across in Room 13. For a start she’s blonde. Light skins and butter-yellow hair are rare in your country and most come from the Northern Province. She has aquamarine eyes, an extraordinary pale blue, and a pouting, rosebud mouth.

Her tongue and lips feel good in your holes; mopping, cleaning, kissing, vacuuming. She has no lesbian experience but the skill is innate in every female.

However hard your darling Meek tries, no man can perform analingus as well as a woman. And you have found that no other woman can tongue an asshole like a terrified, newly arrested bitch.

While she works beneath you, trying to save herself and her husband from a worse fate, you survey her body; lithe, coltish limbs, not curvy enough for your taste. She has a tiny tuft of flaxen pubic hair - matching collar and cuffs.

Her tits are better than you’d expect on a woman of her lissom build, a decent handful, but nothing compared to the luscious jellies in Room 13.

Unlike Topaz, you are inclined to allow Silky to return to undergo an abbreviated ‘education’. After which, if she’s lucky, she and her husband may be returned to the community as reformed, model citizens.

A little older, and much, much, much wiser for their new experiences.

“That’s it. There.” Her tongue slithers in and out of your chute.

On the table is the handwritten list of ten names Silky has rushed to provide. Addresses, ages, and what she knows about their activities. Danno, her own husband tops the list. Topaz and Jorjo are on it too. She’s even volunteered her two sisters, Suri and Samanta.

Women as weak as Silky don’t present you with any challenge.

You pinch her nipple, tugging it. She mewls, her ragged breath hot in your buttocks. Her tongue burrows even deeper, if that’s possible.

You study her chin, elegant neck, her throat bobbing, her spine arched with effort.

You love this. Power.

A complete demonstration of power.

You haven’t even decided precisely what to do with her yet. Perhaps she’ll escape with just a stern warning, after all ? Just one unpleasant night, a little lesbian action, maybe a blowjob or two.

But it should be more, really. A week or two at least. In a cell. Gang rapes, a dollop of torture, fucked in every hole and mentally scarred for life. Her husband a witness, emotionally emasculated, destroyed.

Your mind goes back to your schooldays. The snide looks, the muttered whispers. Silky hadn’t really been that bad compared with some of them. But then she hadn’t stood up for you either.

So how about the whole nine yards ?

You adjust your hips forwards. Her nose brushes your dripping labia and you consider whether to cum.

Then you make your final decision; judge and jury.

You will keep her husband in prison a while but send Silky home. Home to their bedroom where a succession of visitors will fuck her and eventually breed her. Many dark-skinned immigrants will plant their seeds in her blonde snatch and when the offspring is born everybody will know the child is not her husband’s. And wherever they go, society will frown on her.

Just like it does on you.

You reluctantly climb off her glistening face. You don’t want to cum yet.

You prefer instead to go wish Topaz a good morning.

16

Topaz stubbornly moved her eyes from side to side.

Her reply was negative.

She could barely move her head at all. Not enough to shake it. But it was quite clear what she meant.

The man who had introduced himself simply as ‘The Electrician’ looked delighted by her response. His bullet head and acne-ridden face shone red and purple under the bright camera lights.

“A brave one ? I like that.”

There was a trolley on castors parked next to the rack.

On the trolley stood a black box generator with blue, red, yellow and green wires, steel clips and various metal containers.

He picked up some clear, plastic gloves and tugged them onto his hands, snapping each finger fully into place. He scooped a blob of white cream onto his index finger and smeared it onto each of Topaz’s plump, bare breasts.

She tried to meet his hard gaze, as he sneered, toying with her nipples. The cream stung and her nipples grew and erected.

“Nice tits.” He dug his fingernails into the meat, hurting her. “For now.”

She watched, helplessly, as he picked up a copper hoop about the size of a necklace. An alligator clip on a thin wire dangled from it, connected to a coiled cable.

He eased the hoop around the base of her perspiring right breast and cinched it tight, then waved the serrated jaws of the clip in front of her eyes.

“The saline cream helps conduct the juice.”

She wailed in agony as tiny sharp teeth bit into her nipple.

“Nnaaagh … pl … nah …”

He chuckled. “No changing your mind now.”

He swayed a second hoop hypnotically in her face and tightened it around her other breast, then sunk the steel teeth into her left teat.

Her body bucked. Or tried to. But the straps held her head and torso firm. Her eyes and neck muscles bulged with effort.

Topaz screamed, loud and long.

The door opened and a smiling face peered inside.

“Not too late am I ?”

Elka breezed in, patting the Electrician on his back.

“What a lovely sight. I take it she didn’t give us any names.”

“Not yet.”

“I … ah … d … ah …” Topaz panted, breathing against the pain in her nipples.

Elka simply laughed.

“Mmm. The next bit’s my favorite.”

Topaz forced her eyes open as the man leaned over a metal container and lifted out a blue cylinder as bright as a tropical sea.

Its turquoise silicone shone under the bright lights as he held it up to the camera lens. Three cables of extending electrical coils hung down from its handle.

The cylinder was the length and thickness of a man’s forearm.

He brandished it close up to her face. Along its phallic length there were concentric circles of raised plastic ridges. Tiny bands of brown copper conducting wire stuck out at various points. The whole thing had been dipped in sea salt and chunky white grains were encrusted onto the dry smooth shaft.

“Time for a little demonstration.”

“No … just … I’ll g … give you …”

“Shh !” Topaz’s lower lip hurt as Elka rammed her finger hard into it.

The man positioned himself between Topaz’s thighs and winked.

She felt his slick fingers opening her up. This time yesterday she’d been a virgin. She cringed as he thumbed her sore, gang-raped lips apart, then felt his digit pushing into her. The itchy gel the female orderly had sluiced inside her earlier had cleaned her out and closed her labia.

“Aggh !”

They both laughed.

“Only a finger, my dear.”

She felt it wiggle about inside her for a few moments. Tears of humiliation blurred her eyes, thankfully obscuring their horrendous faces.

“Aaaggghhh !”

Without any warning, a huge invasion popped her vaginal entrance. She tried to push it out, gurgling with effort, hearing them guffaw.

She grunted as she felt one ridge forced into her, then another, a third.

Elka’s head was next to hers. A wet tongue licked her earlobe.

“That’s only four inches so far.” A faraway voice whispered. “Eight to go.”

She couldn’t stand the pain any longer. Whatever they wanted to know. She’d been so stupid, thinking she could resist them. She hated them so much, dreaded what they’d do to her. To her family. Her friends.

But she would tell them anything. Anything at all.

Her parents. Jorjo. Anybody. Anything to take away the pain.

But it didn’t stop. Didn’t go away. The relentless stretching, tearing assault.

END OF PART TWO