The Interrogator

Then of course, we switched feet and as the hands guided, the effort to achieve perfection began again.

Still, despite the extreme degradation, there was no pain but for an occasional and deserved correcting application of the prod. For that I was grateful. Her firm and controlling touch felt wonderful.

So days of extreme bondage and silence were interspersed with what I judged to be demeaning but strangely welcomed visits to the British nurse. I was completely broken. At least so I thought, and was instantly responding to any command of guard and nurse.

With the chastity and building hormone level, the middle aged guard, the one without undergarments and who so reveled in having my tongue and lips pay homage to her boots, found great entertainment in hiking her skirt while standing over the lowered chair.

Yes, her flashing was momentary but the thought of her suggested game became quite tantalizing. I had been paraded about naked and thoroughly bound and controlled for weeks with no climactic release and nothing touching my penis other than an assisting hand during urination and a rather gruff cleansing of my building smegma by the nurse.

And so the brief glimpse of feminine charms, along with the promise of more, became irresistibly enticing.

It was sometime after week three, judging by the visits to the nurse, that the back of my chair was lowered. Though a daily occurrence, I found myself hardening in anticipation before she even began.

She placed her boot on my sternum causing her skirt to part at the knees. Though shadowed by the denim she partially exposed her pinkness. I craned my neck and extended my tongue to silently pay homage and looked up. As she smiled evilly, her hands gathered the skirt and slowly pulled, enhancing the obscured view of her charms.

“You take the prod, you see more,” she taunted.

Though the weeks had taken a heavy mental toll, my libido roared. As I licked, I nodded. She hiked further and folded the skirt at the waist to hold the garment in place and free her hands. The prod found the thin flesh of my well exposed scrotum. The initial shock was minor but I spasmodically lurched, bringing laughter.

“You learn to take... like the others. Maybe you taste... if you take enough.”

Despite the agony, I felt myself becoming stiffer. The guard noticed, bringing more laughter.

“Yes, you good boy. Very obedient. Very eager to please.”

I licked and stared. When she asked if I wanted more, I knew she meant both the lascivious view and the searing pain. She rolled the skirt more, wonderfully shaped labia appeared and the prod zinged again, and my penis waggled in strange celebration.

The afternoon continued on with the skirt rising halfway up her thighs. The shocks increased in strength with a methodical application. More of her charms were exposed as she tested and tested, knowing that at some point my own libido would bring my fortitude to the break point.

Finally tiring, she applied an enormous shock, and I closed my eyes with

the intense pain. I heard laughter as I lurched and wrenched in my bonds. Then I felt her boot slide away.

“You take more tomorrow. You see. You want to see more. I know men. Men like to look... but that all you get. That and the prod.”

She cackled more, and when I opened my eyes I was most disappointed. She had righted her skirt.

Chapter Twelve

The question remained. Why was I incarcerated? With the enforced silence there was no opportunity to ask and certainly no one to ask had speech been permitted. The guards spoke little English. And it was apparent that the British nurse was focused solely on the ‘patients’ and not the jail’s administration and politics. She was there to insure my health. But so many procedures, such as skinning back my foreskin and gently cleaning the building smegma, brought a degradation of a more cerebral nature. I controlled nothing.

Then came the fourth week, days after the fourth visit to the nurse.

Mila was feeding me, more like teasing me with a promised but long withheld offering of rice. The unlocked cell door opened and there entered Miss Denise. It was the first time I had seen her and after weeks of such depraved incarceration it was as if being visited by an angel.

It was curious that I attempted to rise from my chair in deference to her presence. Yes, she was imposing in her stately appearance. Professionally attired as always, most handsome, those blue eyes so wondrously highlighted by raven hair. She stepped in as someone would enter their own living room. The smile so gracious, I thought at the time. She appeared ready to offer me tea and biscuits but instead patiently watched with an amused look as Mila mischievously waved the spoon in front of my mouth and withdrew it as I opened and extended my tongue. Had I not been ravenous for sustenance, I, too, could possibly have been entertained.

Mila politely smiled at the Lady Denise, appearing as a Goddess, her reverence evidencing the hierarchy. Then I was most disappointed when she took away the food bowl, placed it atop a cabinet and stepped aside to await orders.

“You’ll make him fat, Mila,” Miss Denise chided with obvious sarcasm. “We can’t have an overweight Mr. Dawson.”

So the woman knew my name, and she was important. Perhaps some questions will be answered, I thought.

Miss Denise disappeared behind me and returned placing the chair to my left side.

“The puffolator, Mila. Mr. Dawson and I will need to chat.”

Mila rapidly moved to a cabinet and withdrew the horrid little ball of rubber which I knew was to be connected somewhere under the metal chair. Sounds indicated she linked it to a tube and as Miss Denise sat, she was handed the black air filled ball.