Joanne

I wrote this for a girl, who wanted to feature in an interrogation scene. Her name, by the way, is not Joanne. It has been changed to protect the innocent.

Joanne

Joanne was picked up in a sweep of protesters by the notorious and much feared secret police of Myanmar. Not that Joanne had been protesting against the regime, however unjust it might be. No, she had been working as a nurse in the country, helping to provide medical services to the wounded, no matter what side they had been on. But the fact that Joanne had only been trying to help people didn’t matter to the ruthless secret police. Even providing health care was something for which a person could be arrested – or worse.

Joanne was grabbed and, despite her voluble protests, a black hood was put over her head, and tightened around her neck. She then had her hands cuffed behind her back. Then she was forced into the back of a police van.

The van drove out of Yangon into the country. It took Joanne to one of the country’s black sites, a place only built for the express purpose of interrogating undesirables. It was a place not even marked on any official maps.

The van pulled up at the entrance to the place. It was a squat, large and very ugly concrete building. The van doors opened.

“Please, I’m a nurse, I didn’t do anything.” she said. But she was ignored. Two Burmese secret police thugs dragged her out of the back of the van. They didn’t say anything. They each took an arm, and dragged the resisting Joanne through the open doors of the concrete compound. She was dragged down the bare corridor to a room with a metal door. The door was open. She was taken inside.

The room was spartan. There was a metal chair in the centre of the room. There was some sort of machine or console on a rough wooden table pushed against a side wall. Also on that table were manacles, chains, a leather riding crop, and other items designed to inflict pain on people.

Joanne was forced down into the metal chair. Her handcuffs were briefly unlocked, so that they could be put through a bar at the back of the chair. Then they were reattached to her wrists.

“Please, there has been a mistake.” Joanne said, her voice muffled by the black hood. But her pleas were ignored.

The two secret policemen left the room, clanging the metal door shut. Joanne was left alone, the black hood still over her head.

With the hood over her head it was very hard to judge the passage of time. Instead she was left to imagine all of the terrible things which might happen to her. She had heard rumours, of course, of all of the things which the secret police and army did. She had heard tales of torture and summary executions. But she had never thought that such things might happen to her. You don’t, do you? In the news such things always seem to happen to other people. But it was happening to her. It was really happening to her.

It was hot in the room. Joanne was sweating beneath the heavy hood. The sweat was already running down her face, stinging her eyes. Soon her short dark hair would be drenched.

It was then that she heard the screams. They were the screams of a woman in unutterable agony. They went on and on for a long time, somebody screaming as loudly as she could. Then, just as suddenly, the screams were cut off. Silence descended.

Longer, still, Joanne had to wait. She had treated some of the victims of the regime, who had been released after being arrested. Some of them had had cigarette burns on their bodies. Others had suffered electrical torture. Still others had had the evidence of severe beatings from whips or sticks. Joanne could hardly imagine receiving that sort of punishment.

Eventually the metal door opened. Joanne heard the sound. By that time the entirety of her Rubenesque body was soaked by sweat.

“Who’s there?” she called out. “Please release me. I haven’t done anything. I’m just a nurse.”

“I know you are, Joanne.” a cruel voice said. “My people have been watching you for some time. We know that you have been providing medical aid to terrorists. What we do not know is the names of all of the terrorists who you have been treating. Tell me all of those names and I will have you put straight on a plane back to England. But, if you refuse to provide us with the names, then it will prove to be very painful for you.”

It was then that Joanne began to panic. She didn’t know any names, and she didn’t know any terrorists. There was no way to avoid what was going to happen to her.

A Christian, she had always wondered what it was like to suffer like some of the victims of cruel regimes had suffered, such as women in the French Resistance being tortured for information by the Nazis. In her deepest, darkest fantasies she had wondered what sort of a person could hold out against such horrible tortures. What did it take for a person to resist. She had always wondered whether she would be able to hold out, or whether she would be broken, and give up the information.

Now she looked destined to find out just what torture was like.

“Please, I don’t know anything. I don’t know any names.” Joanne said. There was no reply from her unseen interrogator. Instead she felt hands on her feet. Her shoes were removed.

Then she felt hands on her waist. The button and zip on her slacks were undone. Her slacks were pulled down as far as they would go, stopped by the manacles around her ankles. Joanne was very much aware that her lacy black knickers were now on display. She blushed inside her hood.

Her left manacle was undone, and the left leg of her slacks pulled off her foot. Her ankle was re-manacled. Then the process was repeated with the right ankle. Her trousers were now entirely off.

“Please, don’t.” Joanne gasped. Of course she was ignored.

Joanne’s hands were unmanacled.

“Remove your shirt. Do not remove the hood. If you try to resist I will have your fingers broken.”

Joanne decided not to resist. Perhaps if she played along they might realise that she hadn’t done anything, and release her. She took her shirt off, revealing her large breasts encased in her lacy black brassiere.

Her hands were, once again, handcuffed to the chair. she felt a lot more vulnerable, sitting in her underwear, her body covered with sweat.

She felt the side of her brassiere pulled out to the side. There were some snipping sounds, and her bra came free, cut away from her body, her large, pink-nippled breasts now on display. Joanne sighed. She tried to raise her hands to cover her nakedness. But it was impossible. The handcuffs stopped her.

The side of her knickers was pulled away from her skin. Another snip, and then one more. Her lacy black knickers were pulled away from her. She was completely naked, apart from the black hood which still covered her head.

She knew that the interrogator as staring at her, despite not being able to see him. She blushed again under her black hood, feeling incredibly self-conscious. But nudity was the least of her worries. Besides, despite being a little overweight she was still attractive. Artists like Rubens and Titian would have painted her in rosy pink.

“Give me the names.” the unseen interrogator demanded. “Give me the names and you can go. I’m sure that you must realise how vulnerable you are at the moment. Give me the names.”

“I don’t know any names. You’ve got the wrong person.”

Joanne heard his footsteps go across the concrete floor. There was the sound of a couple of swishes as something was swung through the air. Joanne jumped a little with each sound.

There was a pause. Joanne moved her head from side to side, although she couldn’t see a thing.

Then she felt one of the worst pains she had ever felt as a leather riding crop slashed down onto her left breast. Joanne screamed in pain.

The crop slashed down a second time onto the same breast. Joanne screamed again. She was sure that she must have been cut.

Two more slashes, this time to her right breast. Two more screams. Joanne began to hyperventilate in the featureless black hood, finding it hard to draw air through the cloth.

“GIVE ME THE NAMES!” the man shouted. Joanne shook her head, not in resistance, but in denial of the possibility that she had any names to give.

The man waited until she got her breath back. Then he resumed the cropping of her breasts. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

“GIVE ME THE NAMES!”

Another pause. Joanne heard her torturer walk around the chair.

Another swish of the crop. This time it struck the top of her left thigh. Another swish. Her right thigh.

Alternating from leg to leg the torturer whipped her from her hips to her knees. Joanne gasped with each strike.

“Give me the names.” He was no longer shouting. “It will save you a lot of pain. I haven’t even started on you.”

Joanne whimpered.

The footsteps went across the concrete floor again. Joanne listened as best she could. She heard a match strike. The footsteps came back over towards her. was that cigarette smoke she could small? She wasn’t sure.

“Give me the names.”

Joanne felt something like a wasp sting on her left nipple. it had just been the merest touch of hot ash from a cigarette. But it had hurt.

The cigarette stung again, just briefly brushed across her right nipple. It was enough to cause pain, but not to leave a mark. The torturer had done this before.

“Give me the names.”

No reply. What would have been the point?

The burning cigarette was drawn along the underside of Joanne’s milky-white left breast. She gasped, thinking that she had just been scarred for life. But there was no mark to be seen. The contact had been too fleeting.

The glowing cigarette end was swirled along the underside of Joanne’s right breast. She stiffened in pain. Who would want her now, with cigarette burns all over her breasts? But there were no disfiguring marks – yet.

The cigarette’s ember was touched all over the upper slopes of Joanne’s breasts. It made brief contact with her shaven armpits – which was a lot more painful than Joanne had thought that it would be.

“Give me the names.”

But there were still no names to give.

The cigarette was stamped out on the floor. It seemed that Joanne was made of sterner stuff. It was time to get serious.

The torturer’s footsteps went across the room away from Joanne. There was the flick of a switch, then a low hum. The footsteps approached the front of the chair. Joanne listened, fearing what the next torture might be.

“Ouch!” Joanne declared, when she felt a crocodile clamp bite into her left outer labia, low down. Another crocodile clamp was attached to her right outer labia, but high up, so that the metal clamps did not touch each other. The biting clamps, although severe, were not the torture. They were only a means to an end.

The footsteps of the torturer went back across the concrete floor.

Then the current hit her. Joanne screamed in agony, lifting off the chair as much as she could.

The torturer stopped sending power into Joanne’s genitals, at least for the moment.

“That was the lowest level.” the torturer said. “That was only one. It goes up to ten.”

Joanne shook her head. She knew what the demand would be. But she had no names to give him.

“Level two.”

The pain was intense. It was the worst pain which Joanne had ever endured. And all that it took was the press of a button. But it could get a lot worse yet. She shook her head.

“Level three.”

Joanne spasmed in the chair. It felt as though she had gone to hell. She was sure that the few seconds for which the electric shock lasted must have done her permanent damage.

“I must commend you on your resistance.” the interrogator said. “Most people break about now. But you will break. Everybody does. I think that it is time to make you really suffer.”

The button was not pressed again, though. Instead Joanne heard the footsteps approaching her. She had come to dread those footsteps.

She felt something cold, and hard, at the lips of her vulva. It had some kind of lubricant on it. Joanne had no way of knowing that it was conductive gel.

The metal device was manoeuvred into Joanne. The way that her legs were spread she could not prevent it slowly being forced up inside her. The dildo-shaped probe was metal for nearly its entire length. Only the base, which now rested on the chair, was rubber.

The interrogator made sure that it could not fall out, by using medical tape on the rubber end of the big, steel probe.

Then the interrogator moved the hood of Joanne’s clit away from that oh so sensitive organ. Her clitoris was perhaps larger than average. But that meant that there were more nerves to torture.

A crocodile-toothed clip was released on Joanne’s clit. She screamed, and jerked around as best as she could in her bondage.

The torturer waited until Joanne had stopped jerking around before he walked back over to the electrical torture device.

“The next time that I press the button the shock will be at level ten, the maximum safe level. It is many times more painful than you have experienced so far. But I need to prepare you to endure it.”

The footsteps came back across the room. Joanne felt a needle inserted into her arm. Fluid entered her bloodstream.

“Wha… what was that?” Joanne asked. Had he just poisoned her?

“Nothing much. Nothing which will kill you. It is merely a cocktail of chemicals which will prevent you from fainting.

The interrogator walked back over to the torture shock device. But he did not press the button yet. He waited for the drugs to take effect.

Then, when Joanne was ready, he pressed the button, only for a second. Joanne’s body became a solid muscle, as the powerful electricity flowed into her. Her scream did not sound human, but that of some tormented soul on the lowest level of Hell.

She gasped when the electricity stopped, and began to hyperventilate.

“Breathe.” her tormentor said. She managed to get her breath back under control.

More shocks came, each time Joanne’s tormentor held down the button for a longer and longer period. Each time Joanne convulsed and screamed. But she didn’t give out any names, because she didn’t have any names to give.

“I believe you.” the interrogator said, eventually.

“What?” Joanne asked. She was unsure if she had heard him correctly. He did not bother answering. Instead he took that terrible clip off her clit, and eased out the metal dildo. The electrical hum ended when he turned off the console. Then Joanne heard her torturer leave the room. The door clanged shut. Joanne was left alone. She did not know how long for. She had lost all sense of time. She had lost most of her sense of self. There was only the darkness and the memory of pain. Her mind felt strange. The pain had taken her out of herself, in some way that she did not realise.

Then two men marched into the room. They released her from the chair. She did not resist when they dragged her out of the room.

The hood was not removed. She was dragged outside of the building, to an open yard at the back. She could feel a light breeze on her sweaty skin.

She was forced to stand with her back to a wooden stake. Her hands were then handcuffed around the back of the post, so that she could not move away.

She heard several men walk into the yard. She heard the sound of rifles being cocked. They were going to execute her! She had heard about such extra-judicial killings.

“Ready.”

There was nothing she could do.

“Aim.”

There was no point in pleading for mercy.

“Fire.”

Joanne fainted when she heard the sound of the guns.

The thing is, if you hear the sound of the guns, then you are still alive. The guns had been armed with blanks. Joanne woke up to find herself in the back of a van. The hood had been removed. Her outer clothes had been chucked on the floor of the van beside her, next to a passport. There was a one-way air ticket from Yangon to London. There were even her possessions from the flat where she had been staying.

She got dressed as quickly as she could. Not long after that the van came to a stop, and the doors at the back opened. She got out to find herself at Yangon airport.

Joanne took the hint. She got on a plane and left Myanmar and her interrogation behind.