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Authors: Bruce McLachlan
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announced the guard.
“She will be with you in a moment. In the meantime, take a seat,” replied the woman with a slight American accent, not even bothering to look up from her work.
The guards stepped back and lowered, but as Lydia attempted to join them she was shoved upright and a sweeping kick stripped her legs out from under her. The harsh fall drove the wind from her lungs and left her reeling from the sudden harsh impact.
“She didn’t mean you!” spat one of the guards.
As she languished upon the floor, trying to recover her breath, the guards dropped their feet upon her spine and the arms sealed upon it, using her as a footrest. Incensed, she tried to slough them off, an action deemed rebellious and worthy of correcting so the guards rose and dropped their heels, jabbing into her back and limbs, making her shout and squirm under the volley of descending kicks.
“Stay still!” they demanded, and returned to a resting position once she had been hammered into compliance beneath their jackboots.
Battered and bruised, aching and twisted in the humiliating pose they had placed her in, Lydia felt tears growing in her eyes, her despair rising up and flooding her mind with the injustice of her lot.
A buzz issued from the secretary’s table. Completely unmoved by the brutality unfolding before her, the woman smiled sweetly and informed the guards that the Warden was ready to see them.
Hoisting Lydia up by her hammered arms, they opened the door and entered the plush office within, her feet fumbling beneath her body.
The room was large and the polished floorboards were carpeted by a number of decorative rugs. A large dark wood desk lay directly before them, a window behind it letting sunlight stream in, the smaller chairs placed before the table humbling all those who sat down, lowering them before the high backed chair that rose like a brooding throne on the other side. The pads, lamps, pens and trinkets upon the desk were arrayed with detailed precision, as were the book-adorned shelves and the framed Guenerrian flag that spread itself proudly across a large section of wall. The grim uniform of the Secret Police hung upon a skeletal mannequin, the medals and braids polished and scrupulously clean, the awards revealing the owner to be an accomplished operative.
The Warden stood by the window, looking out over the compound and into the jungle. Tall and exquisite of frame, her slender body was held within the tight clinch of a halter neck Lycra top, the black shimmering garment dropping into gray jodhpurs and tall black boots. Her short blonde hair was held beneath a peaked military cap, the braids upon it signifying rank, the black design and badge confirming her as Secret Police.
“Guards, deposit the file on my desk and prepare her before you leave,” she growled, her accent distinctly west coast American.
Without word they forced her down onto her knees and snapped cuffs to her ankles, threading the chain over her wrist restraints to hog-tie her in this supplicant upright pose. Setting down the folder upon the desk they turned and departed, closing the door behind them.
After a few moments of silence the Warden addressed her while still gazing upon the green canopy.
“My name is Warden Folter. For whatever crime you have committed you have been sentenced to imprisonment at my facility. Conditions are harsh, and rightly so, for the criminals here are here to atone for their felonies and only through suffering and hardship can this be achieved. However, submission to the will of my guards and the rules of this prison will make your time more tolerable. Resist or disobey and you will be punished severely. As a reminder, I will now give you an example of the most minor form of correction you will come to expect,” she explained blandly.
The woman removed a long and slender crop from a drawer and approached Lydia, prompting her to start shouting for help, clawing at her metal bonds in fright, the
“She will be with you in a moment. In the meantime, take a seat,” replied the woman with a slight American accent, not even bothering to look up from her work.
The guards stepped back and lowered, but as Lydia attempted to join them she was shoved upright and a sweeping kick stripped her legs out from under her. The harsh fall drove the wind from her lungs and left her reeling from the sudden harsh impact.
“She didn’t mean you!” spat one of the guards.
As she languished upon the floor, trying to recover her breath, the guards dropped their feet upon her spine and the arms sealed upon it, using her as a footrest. Incensed, she tried to slough them off, an action deemed rebellious and worthy of correcting so the guards rose and dropped their heels, jabbing into her back and limbs, making her shout and squirm under the volley of descending kicks.
“Stay still!” they demanded, and returned to a resting position once she had been hammered into compliance beneath their jackboots.
Battered and bruised, aching and twisted in the humiliating pose they had placed her in, Lydia felt tears growing in her eyes, her despair rising up and flooding her mind with the injustice of her lot.
A buzz issued from the secretary’s table. Completely unmoved by the brutality unfolding before her, the woman smiled sweetly and informed the guards that the Warden was ready to see them.
Hoisting Lydia up by her hammered arms, they opened the door and entered the plush office within, her feet fumbling beneath her body.
The room was large and the polished floorboards were carpeted by a number of decorative rugs. A large dark wood desk lay directly before them, a window behind it letting sunlight stream in, the smaller chairs placed before the table humbling all those who sat down, lowering them before the high backed chair that rose like a brooding throne on the other side. The pads, lamps, pens and trinkets upon the desk were arrayed with detailed precision, as were the book-adorned shelves and the framed Guenerrian flag that spread itself proudly across a large section of wall. The grim uniform of the Secret Police hung upon a skeletal mannequin, the medals and braids polished and scrupulously clean, the awards revealing the owner to be an accomplished operative.
The Warden stood by the window, looking out over the compound and into the jungle. Tall and exquisite of frame, her slender body was held within the tight clinch of a halter neck Lycra top, the black shimmering garment dropping into gray jodhpurs and tall black boots. Her short blonde hair was held beneath a peaked military cap, the braids upon it signifying rank, the black design and badge confirming her as Secret Police.
“Guards, deposit the file on my desk and prepare her before you leave,” she growled, her accent distinctly west coast American.
Without word they forced her down onto her knees and snapped cuffs to her ankles, threading the chain over her wrist restraints to hog-tie her in this supplicant upright pose. Setting down the folder upon the desk they turned and departed, closing the door behind them.
After a few moments of silence the Warden addressed her while still gazing upon the green canopy.
“My name is Warden Folter. For whatever crime you have committed you have been sentenced to imprisonment at my facility. Conditions are harsh, and rightly so, for the criminals here are here to atone for their felonies and only through suffering and hardship can this be achieved. However, submission to the will of my guards and the rules of this prison will make your time more tolerable. Resist or disobey and you will be punished severely. As a reminder, I will now give you an example of the most minor form of correction you will come to expect,” she explained blandly.
The woman removed a long and slender crop from a drawer and approached Lydia, prompting her to start shouting for help, clawing at her metal bonds in fright, the
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