A Week of Hell

By Amanda Lu




He snapped back, and after a few seconds started laughing like a Hyena. "Claire Juliette Welham," began, "graduated First Class Honours with a distinction in Social Science, University of Wedding. Employed immediately at AGQ, one of the hundred thousands who applied. You got the position not because of experience or having a postgraduate degree but because of the dissertation you wrote about our country. It's so detailed enough to match the profile of a government official or shall I say, an intelligence official. Let's cut to the chase: What were you doing at the airbase?

"Please, I'm telling you, I really have no idea what you are talking about. I'm a junior journalist and  have hardly been in your country for...ah!!!"

He pinched my nose, forcing my sentence to be cut short and my mouth to be open. A fork full of bacon and eggs was thrust near enough so much that I started to drool (my hunger was really overpowering me).

The fork withdrew and so did the pinching, causing me  to gasp and spit, my drool further adding to the damage of my cocktail dress.

"Spies like to be repetitive. Now tell me what you want to hear and you get your favourite breakfast.

"Please, I ah....!!!" His hands reached under dress again and twisted both my nipples simultaneously. That sadistic torture came twice. My plea was weak and was only followed by a third twist.

"Rich, decadent westerner. You don't deserve these  fake bra stuff!" He yanked off my adhesive bra cups with such force, causing me to yelp once more. No doubt my boobs were pink from all the soreness.
Pinching my nose one more time, he yelled for the guards. One came in and reached under my dress, pulling down my laddered and damp tights. They were cut off. "Open wide, bitch of a spy," he hissed and the dirty and damp hosiery was jammed into my mouth. Yucks! I nearly threw up and choked.
"No breakfast for you," he said and left removing the plate of my favourite breakfast.


(To be continued...)


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