The Interrogator

“My name is Denise... Miss Denise to you, Mr. Dawson. And I’d like to call you Bobby. Such a nice name.”

A well manicured hand extended with a frilly handkerchief. She daintily dabbed moisture from my the tip of my nose. Such a simple gesture, but it relieved such frustration. A kindness meted amongst such abundant anguish. The guards rarely took notice of such accumulating sloppiness and Mila occasionally just let the drool ooze into my food. The woman smiled in noting my look of gratitude.

“You may talk in my presence with permission and in response to questions. Hopefully you’re ready to answer questions...”

“Why am I here?” I blurted, in a meek voice, but it was blurted all the same.

“I guess you misunderstood. I am Miss Denise and you will respond to my questions, not ask questions,” she chided with a polite smile.

“So let’s start this way. Can you say Miss Denise?”

I paused. Belligerence was nurturing despite the weeks of mental and physical duress.

That’s when her hand squeezed the puffolator and for the first time I felt her will, her sheer power. Behind the pleasant smile was a termagant.

Deep within, the anal insert expanded. I groaned with the odd sensation, like a hand exploring deep inside me. There came another hiss; I yelped with the further swelling.

“Miss Denise,” I managed to interject before her hand squeezed again. In averting a grimace, the words were whispered.

“Very good. And I’d like to ask you the same question. Why are you here, Bobby? In Thailand?”

I paused again. I did not wish to answer and fortunately Miss Denise’s attention was diverted to my rapidly tumefying penis, my neglected prostate gland lustfully reacting to her manipulation.

“My goodness Bobby! Such manners. You don’t answer questions but instead so rudely display yourself to a lady. Tsk. Tsk.”

She nodded to Mila who knew it as a signal to leave. After the door closed Miss Denise arose and retrieved my food. I was quite hungry. She seemed to know it.

Her movement gave me opportunity to better judge her physique. There’s something about the way a woman moves that can divulge so much and Miss Denise walked with the grace of a ballet dancer but also with purpose. Soft hands cupped my food bowl, and when she turned her profile revealed firm, perfectly sized breasts pressed against an expensive white silk blouse. A blue skirt of fine cotton was filled with delectable and finely toned flesh. Buttocks formed rounded globes which caused her gluteal cleft to be outlined on the tight blue material and the slight roll of her cheeks could be most distracting in any environment, much less the cell of a exasperatingly chaste prisoner. Her calves, well proportioned and nicely shaped, rested on feet donning stylish heels, in chic contrast to the stark leather boots of the guards.

When she returned to her chair and sat, I looked into the face of a most handsome woman. Not beauteous in the manner of a fashion model but instead with a wholesome intelligence, even features, a modest nose, lips highlighted with unassuming gloss, a smattering of makeup and dark hair parted in the middle and simply combed to her jaw line where the ending strands swept back in a hint of verve. And then I looked into the eyes... so blue... so bright... so zestful...

Miss Denise was quite the sight after weeks and weeks of restraint, torment and chastity.

Her manicured hand extended, offering a spoon laden with just a few grains of rice. As described, my craving belied its blandness, for as it approached I humbly craned my neck and opened my mouth to more readily accept the demanded sustenance. She promptly drew her hand back an inch or two and smilingly watched me struggle in my bonds to reach it. She laughed softly, knowing that I was half starved and that the ineluctable four point restraint denied further motion.

“Why are you here, Bobby? Alone, unmarried, at an age when a vacation at Club Med would offer so much in satisfaction of that contemptible organ of yours. Why choose to visit a city so far from your home where you do not speak the language and so few speak yours?”

With her questions, she looked down to my raging hard on and I sheepishly squirmed.

The thumb and forefinger of her left hand gathered the smallest pinch of rice from the bowl and journeyed toward my mouth. This time, there was no subterfuge and as I extended my tongue she teasingly dropped the coveted sustenance on my tongue, one grain at a time, forcing me to most frustratingly pause, tongue foolishly extended, before I could ingest.

“It’s best that you cooperate, Bobby. You’re here to answer questions, and you will eventually. You should be aware that long term incarceration and extreme bondage are a telling aspect of the Asian culture. So if you’re expecting mercy, some unknown event which would warrant your release... it’s not coming.

“No, the women here are tone deaf to the pleas of the hapless male. And if you’ve noticed, all treatment is designed to maximize your ability to sit strapped down for inordinately long periods. As stated, it’s the culture, the unforgiving nature toward those deemed to be recalcitrant.”

The spoon returned to the bowl. Miss Denise seemed to prefer to feed by hand and another pinch approached but stopped in mid air as I once again attempted to gather it with my tongue.

“The four point restraint isn’t too bad. Women in the Asian culture get the tiger bed. It is most agonizing over time, and most revealing of the feminine charms. Those that are condemned to death are never released from it until it is time for their execution... at which point the hangman is welcomed with morbid glee.”

Again, rice grains were dropped one by one on my tongue. I sucked in and savored.

“Yes, its evilly simple, the tiger bed. The prisoner lies supine, arms well stretched, wrists cuffed over her head to the top corners of the rectangular sheet of wood, ankles cuffed well apart at the bottom corners. A sizable hole in the middle precludes any required release for bodily functions and the woman just lies, urinating and defecating, naked of course, and completely exposed as she is forced to answer nature’s call before all observing eyes. Such humiliation.

“In being hand fed, as are you, she never attains release. Muscles cramp and eventually the body overcomes the pain, but the slow atrophy and mental frustration go on and on.

“In China, one woman was forced to remain on the board for three months awaiting her date with the hangman. And as eager as she was to end the agony, she had to crawl to her hanging pedestal. Her strength was depleted. Can you picture her on hands and knees, struggling to finally end her ordeal, humbly crawling to the execution chamber? The Chinese do not waste clothing on the condemned. She was hung without covering... completely naked... before witnesses and her family. You should know that whereas hanging in most parts of the world is intended to break the neck, sever the spinal cord and instantly relieve the condemned of pain, the Chinese method instead induces slow strangulation. The condemned steps onto her hanging pedestal, the noose is connected over her head, the pedestal is then inched out from under her feet. So after months of publicly urinating, the girl’s last exhibition was to have the contents of her bladder release before all the crowd while she slowly suffocated.”

I shuddered, obviously the intended result of such ominous words. Miss Denise smiled at my reaction. Then one more pinch of rice came, one could count the grains.