The Terrorist

This story takes place following the events described in "Back to Skool" and unfolds within the universe I envisioned in the "Portuguese Crime Reduction Act." For now, Sara Messias is the only character who appears in both stories. Every person in this story is of legal age at the time of the events.

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The guard led me and the other woman from the black van to a door above which was written, "Tires Correctional Facility for women - Inmate Admission," along with a series of warnings about what could not be brought inside or done.

As I walked into the white cold, sterile room, I could feel the tension in the air like a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. The room was eerily quiet, save for the soft, shaky breaths of the girl beside me. She was a few years older than me, with long, dark hair that fell almost to her waist. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with fear, but she kept her mouth shut, as if speaking might make things worse.

A fat, stern-faced woman with cold blue eyes stood before us, she removed our cuffs and then calmly said, "Strip," she ordered, her voice devoid of any emotion.

I already knew the routine and obeyed immediately, but my unfortunate companion hesitated, perhaps still in shock. The guard pulled out a stun baton, small electric sparks crackling along its sides. "Do it now, or I'll do it for you," she snapped, her voice laced with impatience.

We both undressed as quickly as we could and placed our clothes into two plastic bags. The guard collected the bags and labeled each with our names. We both tried to cover our breasts and genitals; I wasn't modest, but I didn't feel comfortable being exposed to strangers.

"Hands behind your neck, legs apart." She looked at us as if we were trash--trash she had to deal with. "Sara Messias, 18 years old, accused of terrorism. Teresa Silva, 25 years old, sentenced to 30 years in prison for human trafficking."

"I didn't traffic anyone, I just saved liv... HAAAAAHHH!" The guard struck the poor girl in the stomach with her stun baton.

"First rule: obey every single order. Second rule: speak only when a guard commands you." The woman looked at me, possibly searching for any sign of defiance, but the sight of Teresa writhing on the floor in a puddle of her own urine, and the memory of my earlier interrogation, stopped me from acting as I would have liked.

Follow me," the order was given without any emotion. I helped my unfortunate companion to her feet, and we followed the guard.

She knocked on the room door, and a man in a white coat opened it. "Good morning, Hugo. I've got two clients for you: the brunette is a new resident, the one with blue hair is just passing through." Our captor smiled at the man, who appeared to be about thirty years old, with a two-day beard and a refined appearance. Instinctively, we tried to cover our nakedness with our arms and hands, but the memory of the earlier baton strike suppressed the impulse.

Hugo looked us up and down. "Good morning, ladies. I'll be overseeing your admission process. I hope you won't make the procedures any more unpleasant than they need to be. Helga and I are just doing our jobs." His voice was friendly, almost seductive, but a baton and a pair of handcuffs hung at his waist.

I took a closer look around the room. There was a gynecologist's examination table, something I was already accustomed to, and one of the walls had a height chart, along with a series of other instruments. The environment was clinical, and impersonal, designed to reduce us to mere objects of inspection.

Hugo ordered us to open our mouths, move our tongues, and cough. Then he pointed to the wall with the height chart and a scale, "Come on, girls, I need to check your body mass index." It was humiliating, but normal in our situation.

"Sara Messias, 162 cm, 55 kg, BMI 20.96... we'll need to fatten you up, 2200 calories. Teresa Silva, 166 cm, 68 kg, BMI 24.68, 2100 calories." The way he assessed us made it seem like he was talking about livestock.

Next, he pointed to the gynecologist's chair. "I'm going to check that you don't have anything hidden in your vaginas and rectums. I hope you cooperate; there's nothing to gain by resisting."

We looked at each other, terrified and embarrassed, but we knew this was part of the process. We had to go through with it, even though every minute felt like an hour.

As I got on the table, I couldn't help but think of the countless women who had been in this same chair. Hugo put on latex gloves, dipped his fingers into a jar of Vaseline, and then into my vagina, rotating his fingers to check that it was empty. He then did the same with my rectum. It felt like he was inserting his fingers into a chicken. He didn't make any comments, no gestures that could be interpreted as sexual despite the intimate area he was touching. Teresa received the same treatment. He noted something on his forms, then came with a slave collar similar to the one I was already wearing and placed it around Teresa's neck.

"Come on, you'll enjoy this part. Make the most of it." He pointed us to two metal benches, each with two built-in vibrators. It seemed we would have to masturbate in front of Hugo and Helga.

"This can't be legal; this isn't right," protested Teresa, but Helga's hand on the electric baton ended her protests. I spread the labia of my sex and sat down, feeling the vibrator entering inside me. Teresa imitated me. She was a beautiful woman, but her eyes, swollen from crying, hid her beauty, and her long dark hair concealed her round breasts.

Hugo then placed electrodes on our nipples, indifferent to Teresa's sobs and cries. I didn't cry or beg; I just waited for it to end as quickly as possible.

I saw Teresa contort her face between sobs and pleas. Seconds later, I was also moaning with pleasure, something I didn't want but couldn't control. My belly raged with pleasure, a mixture of feelings and sensations coursed through my body, along with a question: Why? Why force prisoners to orgasm?

"It was good, wasn't it?" Hugo asked sarcastically. "Come on, it's almost over--just the disinfection and..." he trailed off but looked at Teresa in a way that made me uncomfortable.

We were led to a shower room with five showers, each equipped with a suspended metal bar about 2 metres long, with Velcro straps on both ends, the floor also had metal rings with Velcro straps. The purpose was obvious, we were going to be restrained by our hands and feet while we were supposedly just going to be washed. Something didn't feel right; this had to be more than just a simple shower.

After securing our feet and hands, Hugo placed a protective cover over our eyes, similar to swimming goggles. Something was very wrong. I tried to escape, but my wrists and ankles were firmly held by the Velcro straps.

The shower began with a sudden blast of ice-cold water, the high-pressure jet slamming into my skin like shards of glass. The freezing water was relentless, making my entire body seize up, my breath catching in my throat. Just as I thought I couldn't endure it any longer, the water stopped, replaced by a thick, sour-smelling foam. The stench was overpowering, filling my nostrils with a rancid, chemical odour that made me gag. The foam clung to me, seeping into every pore, as if it were designed to strip away more than just dirt.

I felt a rough brush being dragged harshly across my body, the bristles scraping my skin with painful intensity. Hugo's fingers lingered in my vagina longer than necessary, and he tugged at my pubic hair, saying, "Almost done; these will be for next time." What did he mean by that?

The freezing water returned, and it felt even colder now, if that were possible. My teeth chattered uncontrollably from the cold. Helga removed the eye protection, and I blinked rapidly, wanting to rub my eyes but unable to--my arms were still bound to the bar.

I could see Teresa hanging in front of me, her naked body shivering from the cold water. Hugo had dressed what looked like a waterproof suit and was holding a hose. He began covering her body with foam, it was blue and had a different smell from mine, but was equally unpleasant. After a few minutes, Teresa started screaming, "Ahhh! It's burning! Water! Water!" But he only went to fetch a brush. Helga was clearly enjoying Teresa's suffering and forcing me to witness it, while Hugo remained just an indifferent technician. I couldn't decide which of them was more horrible and cruel.

Teresa continued screaming as Hugo scrubbed her meticulously. To my horror, I saw the effect of the blue foam and the reason for her screams: Teresa's hair and pubic hair were falling out with each stroke of the brush. When the water stopped flowing and he removed the eye protection, the only hair left were her eyelashes. Teresa looked nothing like a woman anymore, her skin red, her head and body completely hairless. Her gaze when she saw her long black hair on the white tiles of the floor, while Hugo was freeing me from my restraints, fixed my attention. The scream Teresa let out, the expression of loss, despair, and helplessness, and the look of hatred she directed at Hugo and Helga were seared into my memory.

"WHY?" she shouted, but the only answer she received was a baton strike and an electric shock, which made her shudder and lose control of her anal sphincter.

"Always the same thing, Helga. You'll be the one cleaning up this mess," Hugo said, visibly irritated. Teresa received an extra dose of ice-cold water and foam, not that it made any difference to her at this point.

"Get yourselves dry, you whores. Let's go," Helga barked. I wanted to strangle the fat bitch with the towel, but I knew it was futile. I'd only receive a shock from my collar or the baton, possibly both. I helped Teresa compose herself; she was apathetic. Helga led us down a corridor to a room. The door read "Office of the Director Colonel Fernando Camacho."

We entered. The office had a wooden floor, comfortable and very different from the cold stone and tile floors of the other rooms we'd been in before. "Good day, ladies. I am Fernando Camacho, your director. You will address me as Mr. Director. Understood?" His voice was firm.

"Yes... Mr. Director," I responded. Teresa merely nodded. Helga was preparing to give her another blow with the baton, but the director waved her off.

"Guard Helga, you must stop giving batons to the inmates. That's what the punishment cycles are for. An extra cycle will teach 20240299 to behave," he said. 20240299 was Teresa's new name. What would mine be? The answer came on a yellow plate with a number and barcode - 20250706 - which he placed on my collar. It was simple: the first four digits were the order of entry, and the others were the month and year of birth, the director explained.

Next, he ordered Teresa to insert her right arm into a tube. She would have the number and barcode tattooed by laser on her right arm and above her left breast. The director explained that it wasn't painful, just a local heat, but Teresa was still in shock and didn't protest. The smell of burnt pork seemed to bother no one but me.

The director accompanied us through a series of corridors and automatic doors. Along the way, he explained that since the 2017 reform that introduced slavery as a sentencing option, the number of inmates had decreased to about a third of what it was previously. Now, only violent criminals or those who opted for prison sentences remained. I thought both options were cruel and inhumane.

"And of course, there's always the option of summary execution. Many inmates choose that option," he said. The way he looked at Teresa sent a shiver down my spine.

The man loved the sound of his voice. He continued to explain that the prison's function was to punish, not rehabilitate, and that the slightest infraction would be punished with extra punishment cycles, but that everyone would have a punishment cycle with each meal. "There are no free meals," he joked.

Finally, we arrived at a large room where about 100 women of various ages were gathered. Most were black and South American, all naked and without hair or pubic hair. Only about 20 had hair and wore yellow plates on their necks; they were awaiting trial.

Upon seeing the director, they all stood with their legs apart and hands behind their necks, until ordered to be at ease.

"This is the common room, or where inmates wait before bathing and meals," he said. He then led us to what he called the bathroom - a long, narrow corridor with two yellow parallel stripes 1 meter apart, shower heads at various levels, and at the end, a series of fans. "It's one of the advantages of removing clothes and hair, baths are faster." He said, I didn't see any advantage other than added humiliation.

"And here's the dining hall, we're going to watch the girls bath, and then I'll explain the rest." He was someone who believed in and took pride in what he did.

A siren sounded three short beeps, and the women began to cross the corridor, hands behind their necks and feet on the yellow strips. Jets of ice-cold, high-pressure water and foam gushed out. The women made the journey as quickly as possible until they reached the hot air fans that dried them and provided some comfort.

"As you can see, it's very simple and effective. All clean and ready for lunch before returning to work." All the women continued with their hands on their necks until they approached a barcode reader, which then gave them access to a food dispenser where a brown paste came out. "Each of you receives exactly the amount of calories and nutrients necessary to maintain an ideal and healthy weight. Refusing to eat or attempting to eat more results in 5 aggravated punishment cycles." I was curious about what a punishment cycle would be, but I thought it prudent not to ask.

He escorted us to the scanner and showed us how to use it. The brown paste had the appearance of feces, though it lacked any odor. The other inmates were already seated when we approached the metal table. I noticed that all the seats had dildos identical to those in Hugo's office. A thought crossed my mind, but I quickly dismissed it--no, it couldn't be possible. Yet, all those women had a dildo inside them, sitting in silence, awaiting their first daily punishment cycle. I, too, sat down and waited.

The warden gave a signal, and one of the guards in the room flipped a switch. In unison, 100 women began to feel their vaginas stimulated. The room filled with moans. As I neared orgasm, I wondered how this could be considered a punishment. I had expected electric shocks or even a beating, but not an orgasm. An orgasm that I felt creeping closer with each breath, growing more and more intense... until nothing. Niente, rien de rien. The disappointment in that final millisecond made the purpose clear. The orgasm I had felt earlier was only to calibrate the sensors in our collars. A punishment cycle was, in fact, a denied orgasm, right up to the edge to zero.

The warden looked at me and, as if reading my mind, said, "This is a prison, not a whorehouse. As you will soon discover, reaching orgasm is impossible. Masturbation results in a shock and also earns you two extra punishment cycles for each meal during a week. But don't despair, well-behaved inmates may earn a pleasure cycle once a month and if staff has sex with a woman she may be allowed a pleasure cycle, after."

I was in shock. These women were being denied pleasure and incentivized to prostitute themselves for the hope orgasm. Worse yet, they were punished with bad sex and orgasm denial. My future could soon become one of these women striped in every sense of the word. I took a spoonful of the brown paste and put it in my mouth. It tasted neither good nor bad it was something bland and insipid, with the consistency and appearance of shit.

Once we had all finished eating, one of the guards brought in a triangular frame about 3 meters long and 50 cm wide, with dildos every 50 cm. They were thicker than the ones on the benches. The guard began calling out numbers and the number of extra punishment cycles. One of the numbers was Teresa's. When the number of cycles was greater than 5, the women were placed on the dildos of the "wooden donkey", in this case, a "metal donkey." The look of terror on the face of two girls called for this special punishment and the agonizing screaming while the metal edge pressed against their tender flesh, made me decide that if I wasn't acquitted in my trial, I would choose death. No one deserved this treatment, and the thought of becoming a a slave repulsed me. No, I would live free or not live at all.

To be continued...