A Rebel's Reeducation

She opened the door and looked at me. I saw her eyes light up with dumbfounded fear and her lips murmur speechlessly. I looked her up and down assessing how she's changed since I'd seen her last. She seemed unable or unwilling to move.

"If you were to step back, I could enter this dwelling," I said. She did so. I walked in and told her to close the door. The last time we saw each other she had little to say, since I had her mouth well taped. She was equally silent at this meeting.

I must tell you first about this meeting. She was very brave when first I met her, which is part of the reason that her behavior now so touched me. She was captured 15 months ago at a raid of the

Frente,

, a filthy, communist revolutionary group in my country. What we found in her apartment was appalling: Five Yugoslavian RPG-7's with 50 rounds of ammunition, an obsolete German MP-40 with 500 rounds of ammunition, an American sixty millimeter mortar with 10 rounds, and the coup de grace, 25 pounds of American C-4. This was the explosive used to kill our government officials by the terrorist shit with whom she apparently drank espresso. Oh yes, I forgot the most interesting treasure—a 10 pound bag of Bolivian cocaine, clearly the source of finance for this arsenal.

They had brought her into me in just her pretty, pink, nylon underwear. I remember staring at her as I sat in my room. The room was bare except for a table and two sturdy chairs. Along the walls there were iron rings fixed to it at head, waist, and ankle levels. Through the rear of the room ran a shallow trench with a drain in it. I let her stand in front of me as I sipped some tea. I worked on the New York Times crossword puzzle for a bit, practicing my English. I saw her fidget a bit and I told her to stand still. She froze for a bit longer, covering her breast modestly while trying to maintain her dignity.

She was short, with a slight build. She had luxurious, thick, black hair, petite facial features, and the thoughtful, rational expression of the well-read and highly educated. My guards threw her clothes on the floor at her feet. Her sweatshirt had "MICHIGAN" printed across the front in the school's trademark navy blue and gold. I knew from her dossier that she had earned her bachelor's degree there.

My guards were fearsome. They were peasants whom I paid very generously to inspire terror in my subjects. They wore long jackboots and jet-black uniforms that had "OS" (Oficina de Seguridad) embroidered on each collar. On their hands, they wore tight, leather gloves with tiny metal spikes mounted on the knuckles. Short truncheons and long, Kabar knives hung from their web belts. I employed three of them at a time. I had trained them to perform each coded order in a precise ballet of brutality so that the subject would know not what was to happen to her and so she would understand that she was powerless to resist. I said to the guards, "Number 3." With no hesitation, one guard grabbed her forearms and pulled them behind her, placing his boot on the small of her back. Another one kicked the back of one knee, bringing her to her knees on the floor. The third attached handcuffs to her wrists. This process was performed in less than two seconds. Again, she attempted to hold her head up bravely. "Were those your weapons and drugs found in your apartment?" "No." "Good. I'm so relieved that this is the case.," I said with mock relief. "Who owns all of that?"

"I'm not sure. They held a gun to my head and told me to keep quiet. They had masks." As she spoke I was looking at a manila envelope, filled with photographs the OI (Oficina de Inteligencia) had taken of her having coffee with the leaders of the

Frente

, and of those same people bringing large boxes into her apartment building. I placed them on the floor in front of her. "You're a liar. Worse, you think I'm stupid. Number 5." The men grabbed her by her ankles and upper arms.. The third attached her wrists behind her and attached them to a chain that hung from the ceiling. He then manacled her ankles and attached them tightly to a metal loop mounted to the floor.

"Fifteen, " I said blandly. The men each lit cigarettes and stood around her, looking down at her. She kept looking at the floor. They went behind her and started using the cigarettes to lightly burn her exposed back, feet, and legs. Each time they placed the lit end against her skin they'd quickly take it off so that the burn would be mild. But they kept doing it and she was soon yelping and shaking and struggling against her chains. These sounds were beautiful to hear. I could tell already that she was beginning to weaken, a sound that aroused and touched me.

"Continue," I said. I went to the hotplate that I kept in the room and turned on the burner for some tea. Her yelps continued and began to intensify as her resolve weakened. When the water for my tea was ready I poured it and said, "Stop." By this time she was sniffling, but not openly crying yet. She was trying to remain strong, but was getting an inkling that she might not be able to hold up as long as she imagined while she was sipping lager with her friends at the Vista De Zona Rosa Café.

Now is the time she will start to concoct a story that she thinks will pacify me. I looked up at the portrait of The Beloved Patriarch of our Nation, General Alexi De Torres. He was my company commander when I began my life with the Army. He will be proud when I reduce the terrorist scum in this country into pitiful, sobbing, repentant children. This spoiled tramp would be the first of them to fall into that state.

"I studied in the States myself, in North Carolina," I said. She didn't respond. "You should learn to converse better. It would be polite for you to respond to what I just said."She paused. He nose ran a bit and she tried to shrug her shoulder so that she could wipe it. I used a tissue to wipe it and she thanked me.

"Where did you study?" she asked.

"Mostly at Fort Bragg. I also finished my degree at East Carolina State. Where did you study?"

"At Michigan."

"Ah, yes. 'Go Blue.' What did you study?" "Economics. I minored in political science," She seemed to relax slightly as she looked up at me for the first time."

I smiled at her. "Of course you did." Then I grew serious. "Lillian, this is only the beginning. You must tell me who these people are. I cannot allow them to harm our citizens any more."

She began to justify her cause to me, an exasperatingly tedious exercise. Her childlike faith in her friends and in her Marxism made me feel something close to sorry for her. Only close, though. I quickly said to my men, "Number 4, and be quick about it."

My subjects learn to fear number 4 the most. My men quickly unbound her and roughly sat her on the chair. The chair was moved into the corner and then her wrists were bound to the upper rings on each wall. Her legs were bound to bolts on the floor with special ratchets that allow the chains to be tightened. A steel ring is wrapped around the subject's waist and chained to either wall. The chair is then removed and my subject is splayed about in midair. No place on her body is protected. She fought during the process of binding her, a fight she could never win and one which amused us all to the point of laughter and ridicule. The leader was given the pleasure of using his knife to cut her pretty pink panties off of her. Now she cried, but offered no information. The men looked at me and I commanded, "proceed."

I allow them to work on their own for number 4. They may use any means they desire as long as they leave no obvious marks and do not violate her sexually. As a matter of professional pride, I have never ravished any of these politically infantile trollops while I interrogate them—nor do I let my men do so.

Yet, their cruelty within these constraints still impresses me. I looked at my subject. Her legs and arms were spread wide. She was only able to move them slightly. Even then, one of the men was tightening the ratchets attached to her ankles. This was the reason that my subjects sometimes referred to "Number 4" as The Rack. Her little breasts and pink sex looked so lovely and vulnerable. Her eyes widened into pathetic dread as one of the men opened an olive drab army tool bag and began to take out the tools of his trade. Each item seemed to frighten her more and more. I watched her struggle with futile, pitiable effort. I lit a cigar and continued to watch.

The men took their time getting ready and paid no attention to her, understanding that true fear in a subject was created during this anticipation period. Once they were ready the first man began to work on her body, using mild electric shocks. He built up the pain by slowly raising the severity and invasiveness of the shocks. Her screams echoed off of the stone walls. Her resistance wavered and soon failed. She sobbed shamelessly. The first man ended his session, as the three of us stood in front of her, staring at her sniffling, shaking body with frank lecherousness. She self-conscious, half-heartedly pulled at her chains again, while the second man walked toward her with a pair of pliers thickly padded with duct tape. All dignity left this whore when she saw him and she shouted that she would tell us everything. Her begging and utter submission touched and aroused me. I said to the men, "Number 1."

In less than thirty seconds they had her wrapped in a blanket and sitting in a chair next to me at the table. She sobbed uncontrollably for a few minutes. I pored her a small glass of our national spirit and instructed her to drink it. She did so, coughed, and calmed down a bit. The men brought me my dinner and some wine. I ate as she watched. I pushed a pad of paper and a pen to her and said, "Share with me what you know."

Her hands shook as she began to write names. I smiled, nodded my head, and added, "Tell me your friends' names, and their friends' names. Add to that their favorite places to gather, talk, and drink." She continued writing, wiping her nose at times. She looked up at me and pushed it back across the table.

"Write the names and addresses of each of your family members. Remember, that I already know some of them, so leave none out. Ricardo! Get Ms. Villareal a plate of food! No duck, as she is vegetarian." I shot her a look when she realized how much I already knew about her. She took the pad and wrote again, crying still more. I gave her another shot of liquor, which she gulped with the reckless abandon of a college freshman. She wrote for five minutes more and then looked up at me.

"I'm finished," she said.

"Yes, my dear, but I'm not quite finished with

you

. Number 8." The men grabbed her out of the chair and roughly placed her on her hands and knees. They buckled a thick leather dog collar around her neck with a wide chain attached to it, which they ceremoniously placed in my hand. Another man handed me my riding crop. The last man pressed a wide strip of duct tape to her mouth.

I tugged on the chain and said, "You needn't speak any more. Crawl. Toward the door. Be quick about it." I added a smack to her buttocks with the crop. One soldier opened the door and she crawled through it, shamefaced tears flowing once again. She looked back at me and I smacked her buttocks again with the crop. She jumped and crawled more quickly. Soldiers lined the hallway and leered at her, adding cruel, lewd comments about what they would do to her later.

At the end of the hallway there was a hallway leading to an exit and a stairwell leading down. She turned her tear streaked face back to me. "Down the stairs. Remain on your knees. Where you belong," I added. She crawled down the stairs. The basement seemed vacant. I walked ahead of her, tugging her along toward the far corner. At the wall was a hole drilled through the concrete stones and into the ground beneath it, about the size of a grave. She looked at it, with frightened, confused eyes. She tried to talk, but of course could not. I tugged the chain and brought her to the other corner. As we neared it, unsettling sounds could be heard. There was a freshly sealed hole of the same size in the corner. Feeble scratching, pounding, and pleas for mercy could be heard from beneath the concrete. My captive looked up at me with a horrified expression. She shook her head, tears falling. She clasped her hands together in mute supplication. She tried to beg through the seal on her young mouth.

"If you are returned to me, you will not enter my interrogation room. Instead, like this unfortunate, you will be placed in a oubliette. As the name implies, you will simply be buried and forgotten." With a relieved expression, she bowed her head to the floor in appreciation. She hugged my boots thankfully, intimately. "Come now."

She knew not that the screams from beneath the floor came from a two-way radio, buried for this purpose. Typically, one of my female intelligence agents shrieks and cries convincingly into the other radio. At the same time, another intelligence agent operates a remote control toy car so that it pounds and scratches the sides of the hole. These effects are a really childishly simple ruse, but one that is sufficient given the mental state of my terrified subject.

After we returned to the interrogation room, I led her to her clothes. I grabbed her by her beautiful black hair and pulled the tape from her mouth. I took her darling, pink panties and pocketed them, saying "I shall keep these. Dress quickly. You've taken enough of my time."

I return now to the present. I looked at Lillian. She wore a brown, medium length, silk, skirt with a white, Ann Taylor blouse. Her wore brown heals, clearly made in Italy. I gazed around the room. It was littered with books on accountancy, management, and marketing. It seems, I mused, that she has jettisoned her interest in the proletariat.

I pointed to the floor and she quickly got onto her knees. I walked behind her and gagged her with the panties I had taken from her months before, sealing them in her mouth with duct tape. I went to her refrigerator and removed a bottle of Bordeaux white, pouring myself a glass. I sat in a comfortable chair and snapped my fingers. She crawled to me. "Stand," I said. She stood, and I pointed to my thigh. "Straddle this," I commanded. She looked beyond me, with a possessed, petrified expression. She lifted her skirt, revealing her sheer, brown underwear and shaved sex. She straddled my thigh, obediently.

I buckled a dainty-sized dog collar around her lovely neck and attached a leash to it. "Rub against my leg, Bitch," She began to rub against the thigh of my uniform pants, quickly dampening it. "Faster," I instructed, as I tugged a bit on her leash. She rubbed herself even faster, easily letting go of her sophisticated manners and lady-like dignity. She moaned into her gag and grabbed onto my thigh for leverage, as she grimaced in muffled orgasm. Her body shook, her quaking legs collapsing so that all of her weight rested on her little sex atop my thigh.

"Stand up, get on the floor. Face your sex toward me." Shaking, she did so. "Pull up your skirt. Pull your panties down to your knees." She obeyed, revealing a beautiful, vulnerable, and wet sex. "What would you like me to do to you now?"

She hesitated. I tugged on her leash insistently. Her words were muffled obscenely by the gag, but I heard her say, "Please use me Sir. PLEASE."

With that, I took possession of this model citizen.