Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!Copyright 1985-2016 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
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(*****, M/F, Severe, whipping)
A spy is tortured. (Approximately 496 words. Originally published 2000-06.)
Out of nothing came the light, white hot and blinding. Jasmine awoke with a start, shielding her eyes and trying not to panic. But the door to the cell was already opening. It time to go. Again.
"Oh please," she moaned. She dragged her feet as iron hands gripped and pulled her. There was no use fighting. It delayed nothing.
In seconds she was stripped naked, then the icy blast of water hit her, knocking her to the floor. She skittered and crashed against the far wall, the water slamming into her body like a battering ram. For thirty seconds it drenched her, leaving her aching and gasping.
She'd barely staggered to her feet when the whipping began. They came from all around her, thick heavy straps of leather or rubber, snapping and cutting, their razorsharp stings leaving bubbling welts of scarlet and purple. She screamed and tried to turn, to escape, but the straps were everywhere, constant, never giving her a moment's peace. They caught her across her naked legs, slapped the flat flesh of her belly, tortured the swell of her buttocks. They stung her bare breasts, biting the swollen nipples. The whips burned between her legs, eating at the hungry lips of her sex. There was nothing Jasmine could do. She swore, she cursed, and she screamed, but there was no abatement. Finally, she fell to the cement floor in an exhausted heap, her body crimson. Yet still the whipping continued, the lashes cutting and striking, striking and cutting.
The next day, Jasmine woke up in the same cell, her skin healthy and flawless, and the whipping was repeated. It had been so for more days than she could count, and there was little doubt in her mind that it would continue so for many more.
But one day it was different. She awoke not in her cell, but in an icy metal chair surrounded by bright lights. She was naked, arms and legs bound apart. Voices assaulted her. "Where's the microdot?" they said.
Memories sluggishly returned. Her cover name was Karyn Tyler. She'd been posing as a tourist. She'd been on a mission, but there'd been a leak. She'd been captured. They needed her to talk. She needed to keep silent, at least for a few hours, until Michael escaped with the microdot.
"Do you want more?" a voice said. "That was a mere one hundred cycles. They only took thirty seconds to administer, though no doubt it felt like months to you. We can try a minute, if you'd like. Just talk and spare yourself the pain."
Jasmine shook her head and the spray of the water hose knocked her sprawling and against the wall.
"Nooo!" she cried, but another whipping cycle had begun. She began to weep. If a hundred cycles was only thirty seconds, she needed to endure thousands -- thirty-six thousand, to be exact. It was going to be a long three hours.