by Peter Loaf
They called it the SPS, or Special Prisoner Section. It was not a nice place. Each of the captured “rebel” women had been brought in handcuffed, hoodwinked, freshly gang raped, and completely naked. There were open front cells down both sides of a long central walkway. There were no bars on the cells except the ones that stretched about three meters above the floor down the length of the cell block, attached to the ends of the cell walls. There were two other bars attached the same way to the foot of the walls, about ten centimeters off the floor. Each prisoner was forced to lie down on her face with her feet sticking out over the lower bar. Her ankles were then pinned to the lower bar by a pair of U shaped shackles that locked themselves in a way that the prisoner could not release. Only then was her hoodwink removed, allowing her to see.
There wasn’t much they could see in that position. Just three blank poured concrete walls and if she could twist her neck far enough, the feet of the girl across from her. The concrete floors of the cells were sloped toward the center and there was a small drain hole directly beneath each girl’s hips that carried away her wastes, both liquid and solid. Every morning an old woman came with a hose and a scrub brush to keep the place from smelling too much like an outhouse. Before she departed she would usually give each shivering girl a bowl of corn mush and another one of water. Forced to eat like animals, the captives were thus degraded even further. Each young woman was left in a world of her own, unable to see what was being done to the others but forced to listen to everything that happened around her.
The guards and inquisitors had free access to each of the prisoners. A rebel who showed any resistance could expect to be punished in any of a hundred ways, from having the bottoms of her immobilized feet beat with a cane to the unending agony of the strappado, having her shackled arms hoisted up to the overhead bar and being left to hang from her pinioned wrists while suffering the pain of having her bottom, back, breasts and legs caned.
The way her ankles were attached to the bar allowed her feet to be spread, giving easy access to her sex and anus, whether for cleaning, torture or rape. There seemed to be no rules regarding what could be done to the prisoners other than that they be kept alive.
Ariel Melos had been arrested at one of the opposition rallies on the campus of her university. She had been identified by an agent provocateur as a ringleader and therefore sent to the SPS for interrogation. At first they ignored her, simply letting the ambiance of the place break down her resistance. While waiting she had time to think about her body’s betrayal during the several hours she’d spent in the barracks, defenseless in hoodwink and handcuffs, being passed from one soldier to the next. She had thought that sexual response could not be forced upon anyone. She had quickly discovered she had been wrong.
On the third night a guard came and roughly pulled her ankle shackles out to the sides and tied them that way so that her legs simply could not close. As he stood there behind her, she felt his hot, blow-torch gaze upon her exposed sex. She recoiled from the thought of having this man violate her, yet at the same time she could feel her vulva swelling and moistening itself in preparation.
After a few minutes of looking, he came into her cell and knelt down between her legs, his hard cock already dripping his spunk. Lifting her hips, he then began forcing himself into her pussy, preventing her from lying back down by gripping the link between her wrists. There was, of course, nothing she could do to stop him from raping her. The true horror came a short time later as her own body began to betray her. The man was huge; his slippery cock both long and hard. She began to feel the unwanted pleasures of being well and expertly fucked. Once again, she fought against these unwanted feelings but shackled the way she was; she was helpless to control even her own body’s responses to her rape.
After several minutes of this she was panting like a dog and desperately trying not to milk him with her vaginal muscles. It went on for ages, his big cock sliding in and out of first her vulva then her anus, then her vulva once again. She heard someone crying out in passion, and then realized it was her own voice screaming . . . not for it to stop but for it to continue.
When he finally stiffened and came, there was another guard awaiting his turn. And after him a petite, mask wearing woman came, armed with a huge, cold steel butt hook and a saddle-leather covered dildo the size of a horse’s member. First the butt plug was shoved deep into her colon then a cord was tied up into her long black braid, forcing her to arch her hips up off the concrete, further exposing her swollen, cum soaked and gapping pussy. Then the dildo began forcing its way into her dripping vulva, stretching her open as nothing had ever done before.
In the morning, the inquisitors came and hung her up on the overhead bar for a session of questions under the cane. They did not remove the butt hook that kept her back arched but they did extract the huge leather dildo, leaving her bruised and over-used sex hanging open like an empty coat sleeve. The first question was who else she could identify in the rebel movement. It was accompanied by a sharp cut of a thin metal rod up into her bruised and swollen clitoris.
She fought them, fought the pain, the degradation, the exhaustion. She lost. At first she told them she didn’t know anything about the resistance. Then she tried lying, telling them fictitious names, places and plans, then she tried to name as many fascists as she knew, hoping they might do to one of their own what they were doing to her. In the end, however, she told them everything; she would have done anything, at that point, to stop the pain.
She was eventually let down, to lie on the cold concrete and rest up for the next session. She had no idea how long the session had lasted but knew it must have been more than several days. Starving and thirsty, she tried to wiggle over to her bowls, only to discover they’d been carefully placed just out of her reach.
Tomas Melos was Ariel’s older brother. Ever since her arrest he had been trying to get some information about what had been done with her. Then someone who worked as a janitor in the Ministry of Justice told him that she’d probably been taken to the dreaded SPS. He’d nearly gone insane when he heard that. He had wanted to go and dismantle the prison, brick by brick. He’d wanted to kill the Generalissimo and all his murderous gang of CIA backed and trained thugs. He’d wanted justice, for his little sister, for his country, for his world.
He went to the only man he was sure was really in the resistance. He was told to forget his sister, to bury her in his heart, to give up on ever seeing her again. He was told that as long as the junta held power there was no chance for her rescue. He was told that she was probably already dead as the junta was taking SPS prisoners out to sea in airplanes and dumping them in the ocean when they were sure they had no more information to give.
He decided to get revenge, it being the only thing they’d left him. But first, he intended to see if she was really dead.
Thomas crouched in the alley, a short length of lead pipe in his hand. Just around the corner, the bar was closing, disgorging the last of the night’s revelers, including one very drunk police sergeant who had been bragging about his sexual prowess with prisoners.
As the drunks said their beery farewells, Thomas pulled further back into the shadows. Twice in the past three nights the cop had used this alley to relieve himself before staggering off toward his home. If he repeated himself tonight, the first step of Thomas’s plan would be in play.
The sergeant stopped at the mouth of the alley, seemed to consider something then turned in, unbuttoning his uniform trousers as he came. Thomas waited, a coiled spring of revenge driven terror. The sergeant had used the same wall both times before, so Thomas was waiting across the alley from that point. Dressed in dark colors and stocking-masked in black nylon, Thomas held his breath and waited. The fat sergeant walked back to his favorite spot and turned his back on the shaking Thomas.
Thomas waited until the sergeant had a good flow going then stepped up behind the man and smashed his skull with the lead pipe. The man’s head seemed to explode under the impact, spraying blood and brains all over the area. Thomas swore at this but went to work as fast as he could; stripping the dead sergeant of his gun, jacket, shirt, shoes and uniform pants.
Ten minutes later there came a splash from beneath the old stone bridge and the sergeant was on his way out into the Pacific to join the “Disappeared,” that numberless mass of murdered leftists the junta had rounded up in the coup.
It took most of the remainder of the night to clean the uniform. Working in the dry cleaning store he’d inherited from their father, Thomas used all his skill getting the blood and brains out of the cloth. Thomas had intended to kill the man, but had hoped to get an un-bloodied uniform. It had been his terror that had swung the pipe that hard. All night as he worked on the uniform he kept hearing the crunch of the bone under the impact.
By dawn the uniform was done, not only the blood and brain stains were gone but so were the many other stains and smells. The brass buttons were polished, probably for the first time and it was pressed better than it had ever been before.
It was time for part two of his plan.
Getting dressed he looked at himself in a mirror. He saw the image of a proud police sergeant, shoes shined, pants creased, insignia polished, and hat on straight. The only thing that looked odd was the uniform didn’t fit him all that well. He dealt with this problem by stuffing a pillow down his front and pouching his cheeks with cotton balls.
Worn beneath the uniform was a vest with many empty pockets.
He walked to a hardware store and bought ten pounds of roofing nails and several boxes of rat poison. He took his purchases to a gas station rest room where he distributed the nails and poison among the pockets on his vest.
He took a streetcar out to the armory and showing some fake papers, requisitioned fifteen kilos of C-4 and a box of detonators, explaining it was needed it for the new highway tunnel south of the city.
The corporal behind the counter barely looked at the forged signatures. Inside the junta, initiative was not rewarded. Men who thought for themselves were not what their superiors thought they wanted. The explosive was issued, Thomas scribbling on a receipt and being given a box in return. He then walked into a bus station toilet and twenty minutes later, the pillow was gone and in its place fifteen kilos of military grade high explosive were strapped to Thomas’s body, along with the poison and nails. Now the uniform fit pretty tight.
Dressed in the cop’s uniform, he drew some curious looks as he stopped at a church and said a final prayer. Then, walking boldly up to the compound gates he flashed the sergeant’s identification and entered, his left thumb holding down the detonator button in his jacket pocket. From this point on, releasing the pressure on that button would set off the bomb.
He asked for directions to the SPS building, walked in, showed his faked papers and requested a word with the officer in charge.
A junior officer came out, his clothing in disarray, the sweat on his patrician’s brow suggesting he had been engaging in something strenuous.
“I need to tell you something in strict confidence about one of your prisoners.” Thomas said, keeping his thumb tight on the button.
“Who are you? I don’t remember seeing you before.” The young man said, looking with regret over his shoulder at the entrance to the cell block.
"I am on General Gatto’s staff. He sent me to get a prisoner named,” he checked his clipboard, “Ariel Melos.”
“Melos you say?” the officer said, “why does the General want to see her?”
"Why don’t you call him and ask that question?" Thomas replied, enjoying the look of sudden terror that crossed the young man’s face.
“Yes yes, right away.” The officer said, leaning over to his intercom. “Get Arial Melos out here, dressed and ready to travel.”
Then, turning to face Thomas, he said, “The General is a lucky man. The disposal plane broke down three days ago or his girl would have been gone."
Thomas thought about his little sister falling naked into the sea, still alive and wearing weights. He tried to smile as he said, “Very good sir, I will tell the General of your efficiency.” Thomas said, taking his left hand out of his pocket and letting the man see the detonator. “And now, if you would be so good, I’d like you to take your seat and be very quiet.” He unbuttoned the front of his shirt and showed the man his bomb.
The young man blanched and sat, the strength seeming to drain out of his leg muscles. “Who are you and what do you want?” he said, eying his desk drawer where he kept his gun.
Thomas moved around to stand between the man and his gun and said. “This is a dead man button. Kill me and the bomb goes off.” He then took the gun out of the drawer and slipped it under his belt in back. “When they bring the girl in you had better act normal or this end of the building will just disappear in a ball of fire.”
The officer sat, his eyes locked on the detonator in Thomas’s left hand.
After perhaps ten minutes spent watching each other in total silence there came a knock at the door. “Come” said the officer, a squeak in his voice showing both his youth and the state of his nerves.
The door opened and two men came in carrying a woman between them on a stretcher. She was dressed in a prison issue shift and had been strapped down at forehead, chest, hips and knees.
Below the shift Thomas could see the cane welts that covered her, from the backs of her legs all the way down to the soles of her feet. There was a black cloth hoodwink tied down around her throat with a draw string. From the garbled, muffled mumbling coming from inside the hoodwink Thomas understood that the woman was tightly gagged as well.
The two guards sat the woman down on the arms of a chair and at a wordless nod from the officer departed.
“Take off her hoodwink, I want to be sure I’ve got the right girl,” ordered Thomas, pointing with the sergeant’s gun, a police model Glock 9MM.
As the hoodwink rose Thomas nearly forgot the button in his left hand. What emerged from the head bag was not his sister, not any more. The woman on the stretcher had once been his little Arial but no more. Now there lie an empty shell, a woman who’d been expertly broken, who’d been robbed of her humanity, her soul, maybe even her sanity.
And then, as if in a shaft of heavenly light, there came a spark of spirit back into her sunken eyes. She looked up and recognized him, knew that he’d come to her rescue at last.
Thomas squatted beside his little sister and keeping his eyes fixed on the officer said. “What say we get out of here, sis?
She looked up at him and urgently tried to tell him something around the tape and stuffing gag she still wore.
“I’m sorry I have to do this, sis, but the only way I can get you out of here is to put you back in the hoodwink. Once we’re safely out in the countryside I will get you out of all that stuff and nurse you back to health.”
Showing panic, she pleaded with her eyes, even as he pulled the bag back down, cutting off her vision.
Stepping around behind the officer he pressed the muzzle of his gun to the back of the man’s neck. “Sit and bend down so you can put your forehead on your desk.” He said, cocking the gun.
Having little choice the young officer complied. Standing behind his prisoner, he holstered his gun, slid a pin into his detonator switch and let the button go. Nothing happened.
“Now hold still.” he continued, taking a half kilogram block of C-4 and a half used roll of duct tape out of his vest Taping the block of explosive to the officer’s back took but a moment. He then used the rest of the roll to fix him to the chair, gag and blindfold him and fasten his feet together up under the chair so that he could not reach the floor with his toes.
Clicking a switch next to the man’s ear, he said, ”Hold real still now, the package taped to your back has a trembler switch and I’ve armed it, so that if you struggle you die.”
The young patrician seemed to consider this then decided to live. He didn’t move. There was sweat soaking his shirt and piss doing the same to his trousers. Once he was sure the man wasn’t about to do something stupid, Thomas set the real arming switch.
Thomas buttoned up his uniform and stepped to the door. Seeing the two privates waiting in the hallway, he called them back into the office and let them see their officer. When they turned to look back at Thomas they saw his gun. “I am wearing a rather large bomb,” he said, tapping his chest so they could tell he had something hard under his shirt. “If you try anything we will all die.” He pointed to the stretcher. “Pick her up and take us out to the motor pool.” You two will help me to get her out of the compound or I will blow us and half this compound to pieces.”
Reluctantly, the two men picked up the stretcher and moved out into the prison foyer. There were a few cops hanging around but no one apparently in charge. They all stood and watched as the three men carried the helpless woman out, through the double doors and into the bright sunshine of the compound. The walk across to the motor pool was endless but eventually they got there. Using the authority of his rank and some razzle dazzle with his fake documents he got issued a Suburban and driver. He had them put Ariel in the back then ordered his three hostages into the front before sitting himself in the back seat next to his sister.
Just as the truck was being cleared through the compound gate the front wall of the prison blew outward, scattering stone blocks and charred chunks of the young officer across the court yard. “Don’t mind that,” he said, pressing the gun muzzle against the driver’s neck, "I’ve got a much bigger bomb than that back here and I don’t care if we live or die.” He cocked the pistol. “Now Drive!”
As they passed the last checkpoint outside the city Thomas looked back and saw that a large cloud of smoke was rising over the compound. There was no sign, as yet, of pursuit. Thirty two minutes later another suburban full of angry looking policemen roared through the check point. About five miles down the road, the booby trapped vest went off, blowing the heavy vehicle forty feet into the air and killing all inside. Near the site of the explosion the driver and the two guards were discovered, face down in the ditch, each with a bullet hole in the back of his head
Two weeks later Thomas and Arial were over the mountains and into Paraguay, safe from the junta at last.