The two guards grasped Manuel's arms as the herded him down the dark brick hallway. He stumbled once, this caused him to take a fist to the gut from the guard to his left. The guard to his right then jerked him from the ground and held him in place while, the other guard landed three more blows to his midsection. Hands bound behind his back, he didn't try to fight them. He didn't even taunt them. It had only taken a few days in the political prison for him to learn that such actions only made the beatings worse.
After only four punches, the guard stopped. While this was certainly a place far outside of human rights, He imagined his guards would catch hell if they delivered their charge to the torturer already sporting broken ribs.
With the wind knocked out of him, but otherwise undamaged, Manuel was hoisted by the guards and practically dragged the rest of the way down the hall
The room at the end of the hall is dimly lit. The only piece of furniture in the room was a solitary metal chair equipped with straps and shackles. Manuel was secured with his legs in the shackles and his arms still behind him, secured to the chair's backrest.
One of the guards turned away from the chair, but the other, the one who had been so eager to throw punches in the hall, removed his pistol from its holster. He grinned wickedly as he placed the barrel to the side of Manuel's head. "You talk now," he said in the rough Spanish of urban thug-turned-soldier.
Manuel only shook his head.
The guard jabbed the pistol into Manuel's temple, "You talk now, or I kill you."
The other guard seemed nervous. "Hey, Chavez, I don't know if you should-"
"Shut up!" Chavez shouted. "I make him talk."
"She won't like it."
She. Manuel swallowed hard. That could only mean one thing – the interrogator called the Angel of Death.
"Attention!" a woman's voice barked, her Spanish, heavily laden with a Russian accent, but her tone unmistakable as strict military no matter what the language or accent. "Corporal Chavez, you have not been authorized to perform interrogations!"
Chavez's dark face suddenly lost all of its color, he fumbled with his gun as he placed it back into its holster. The other guard had already taken up position on one side of the door; Chavez quickly took up position on the other side.
A tall woman with a stern expression on her face stepped into the room and turned to face Chavez. At first glance it appeared the woman was wearing roughly the same uniform worn by the officers in the dictator's army. However, the minor differences were plentiful. Instead of combat boots, she wore long leather boots with tall heels. Instead of slacks, she wore a straight black cloth skirt which would have seemed just as sensible and military-like as the slacks were it not for the fact that they were split up the side almost to her hips. Her uniform's jacket had also been modified with the collar low and open, showing off her ample cleavage. Her blonde hair was cropped short, spiked in the front.
The heels put her to almost eye level with Chavez. He seemed to wilt under her gaze. Manuel knew why, too. The Angel of Death had one hell of a tough reputation. No one knew her torture methods since no one had ever survived to tell the tale.
After staring down her subordinate, she turned to Manuel, "I understand you speak English?"
"A little," Manuel replied.
"Good. I can't stomach Spanish, or any of the so-called romance languages for that matter. They are garbage," she said, her English still marred by her Russian accent, but noticeably better than her Spanish.
She walked across the hard floor, her hard-soled shoes echoing in the stone-walled room. Her movements were fluid and graceful, her long legs moving more like those of a runway model than an infamous Russian torture expert. She stood before him, her legs apart and her arms folded.
"You will talk," She said.
Manuel only shook his head.
"We'll see," she said, and she began to walk around him, one finger casually starting on his left shoulder, working around him as she circled, moving from his shoulder to the back of his neck to his right shoulder. When she completed her circle she stood before him, facing away. Both guards shifted nervously as she looked them over.
"Close the door."
The guards looked at each other, as if deciding who should move and who should stay put. Finally Chavez reached over and shut the door.
The Angel of Death, spun around to face Manuel, and then swiftly lowered herself before him, perching on her boots. Her hands grasped his knees then slid up the sides of his legs, past his hips and on up to his waist. Her expression was unreadable and unchanging.
"Tell me what you know about the rebellion."
Manuel shook his head.
With one swift movement, she jerked his pants down to his knees. The flimsy material of the prison fatigues tore as she jerked them. He had been given no undergarments.
The Angel's hand reached between his legs and lifted his limp dick into the palm of her hand. Her movements were remarkably gentle, but Manuel tensed nonetheless, not knowing when the torture would begin. The pain didn't come. She casually lay his cock down on his left thigh then slid both hands under either side of his chair. Reaching both arms under his seat brought her head lower into his lap, and giving Manuel a better look at her breasts. For a second his mind fled from the terror and he hazarded a glance down at her breasts; the uniform's jacket was cut so low that he could see the brown upper portion of her areolas. His thoughts began to wander. She seemed to notice where his eyes had ventured; corner of her mouth twitched in an almost smile.
Suddenly the Angel jerked her hands from under the chair, bringing a strap from under the seat on either side. Manuel flinched at the sudden movement; this caused her smirk to widen almost to the point of a smile – a wicked smile, but a smile nonetheless. She pulled the straps together and buckled them across his lap. Lower than a seatbelt, the straps effectively secured his ass and hips to the seat.
Still wearing her half smirk, the Angel sat back on the heels of her boot and slowly unbuttoned the first two buttons of her jacket. She then slowly lowered herself into his lap once more, presenting her marvelous breasts in all their glory as she did so. Manuel found he could not take his eyes of them. She lowered herself until her head rested on his right thigh, her eyes staring across to where his cock lay across his left, her hands casually sliding up the outside of his legs and up his hips similar to when she had pulled down his pants. Her arms extended, like she was stretching or reaching behind him. Her remarkably long tongue lolled out of her mouth. Without moving her cheek or removing her eyes from his cock, she gently traced her tongue lightly along his inner thigh.
Much to his shock, if not his outright horror, Manuel felt his balls tighten and his cock begin to stiffen as, despite his fear, he began getting an erection.
