A Week of Hell
By Amanda Lu
As I’m writing this story using only a blunt pencil and paper, I’m sitting up on a makeshift bed in a very rudimentary field hospital somewhere is a scorching desert. As the only occupant of this tent, I’m clad only in a loose translucent medical gown that bare reaches my knees. Underneath, instead of underwear, a thick adult diaper is taped over me, a result of the torture I received over the last seven days.
This is my story…
A week or so earlier…
I was having too much of a wild time at this party, dancing around with different men every five minutes. Much of this was due to the fact that I was one of the very few women at the Foreign Correspondent’s inaugural dinner and dance. The imbalanced sex ratio of the guest was not so much about not letting females become reporters in the field but rather the country I was in. Ran by a power-hungry despot for over half a century, the only westerners allowed here were in the last decade were male foreign respondents. Me, a twenty-one year old girl just out of university was the one of the “anomalies” as my news agency was extremely impressed with my undergraduate dissertation which focused on the country’s changing external diplomacy so much that they gave me a job straight away and posted me straight to this extremely volatile land. My parent naturally were apprehensive with my mother vehemently objecting to it. “I’ll be fine,” I assured them.
So here I was, dressed in a shiny purple halter neck dress that exposed my cleavage prominently, dancing way with a Danish reporter. (I mentioned that there were other women. They were the wives of the ambassadors and it was also clear that I was also the youngest female in the room).
“Baby, did anyone ever tell you how gorgeous you are? Won’t you join me after this is over?” the towering six foot Dane purred, his eyes clearly starring at my 34C breasts. Screw you, I thought then replied, “Sorry, I got to head to the ladies.”It was valid excuse to get away from a sex-struck rover like him and it was true, my bladder was bursting from the glasses of champagne and cocktails I drank earlier.
The excuse worked but I could not get away fast enough being on five inch heels. Despite being a hotel exclusively for westerners, the toilets for the ladies were located several levels above the men’s rooms. Punching the elevator button, I thankfully slouched again the wall.
“PING!” that was fast I thought, and as I exited I ran straight into two burly dark suited men as I turned the corner.
“Excuse m…” my sentence was cut off as the two men blocked my path. “Claire Wenham?”, the guy on the left queried. “Y-es?” I said, wondering who would know me since I barely introduced myself to any local and they surely didn’t look like hotel staff or reporters.
“State police. Under arrest,” the other on the right stated in broken English. In this regime, state police could mean anything from the dictator’s personal spies to the local law enforcement.
“What…” I again could not conclude my words as someone else from behind yanked my arms behind. Cold handcuffs immediately bite into my wrists. “Hey! What’s this for? Why am I being arrested?”
“Silence.” The guy on the right stated as I was turned around a hundred and righty degrees. Being forced to do so on my heels nearly made me trip and fall. The guilty ones who cuffed me from behind were similarly dressed and all four looked the same.
“Hey! You can’t…Ah!!!!” a pair of gloved fingers pinched my nose, causing me to gasp for air. A weird looking device with a tube protruding was thrust into few then the tube was shoved into my open oral cavity. The next pain I felt was straps biting into my cheeks (which were laden heavily with makeup). I immediately realized I was gagged with a panel gag, one used in BDSM activity. My instinctive reaction was to gag but the rubberish tube prevented any expelling of phlegm, thus nearly causing me to choke.
“Move,” the right one’s voice said and I was practically dragged, not to the same elevator but across the corridor to a service one.”MMmmmph!!!” I cried as I did so from the pain of being handled and this sudden arrest. However, the gag was strong enough to muzzle any sound from me. The cuffs were also super strong and that prevented much struggling, especially since I was a small five foot figure (well five foot five with my heels on) against four burly men.
Locked in the arms of two of them, the service elevator lurched down with an amazing speed. The doors opened to reveal a car park I’ve never seen in the hotel and a black limousine right in front. This has to be a planned set up, I thought as my handlers literally threw me in. There was enough space in the whole seat for the five of us and, squeezing me in the middle, I feel my hosiery-clad ankles receiving the metallic fetters.
The car moved off with the same acceleration as the elevator, nearly throwing me forward and causing me to yelp. Mr. Right (now on my left) said in his broken English, “No sound, no move. You got that?” Fearful for my life in the first time in twenty one years, I gave a meek nod.
With the car windows tinted black, I had very little sense of where we were heading to. However, the trip was pretty short as around eight minutes later, the vehicle screeched to a halt. The door on my right side as flung open and with a blast of chilly wind, I was hald dragged out.
Again almost loosing my balance, the goons locked me in theirs and brought me into the side entrance of a rather sinister looking building with no sign post on it. Through an extremely narrow corridor, we reached a small door and the inside clearly was an interrogation room, missing the two-way mirror that you see in TV shows. In the centre was an old wooden desk and a metallic chair with straps flaying out from the legs and frame. The usage of those straps became clear as my cuffed and gagged body was pushed onto the chair, the straps securing my down at my ankles (forcing my legs apart), my thighs and two straps below and under my breasts holding me to the frame.