The Terrorist Ch 03

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.

I would really love for you, the readers, to share your opinions and let me know if I should continue or not. Thank you for taking the time to read my stories.

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Sara's Pov

"Lick me as you ought to, or I'll add 10 cycles of punishment instead of giving you a cycle of pleasure." The large guard enjoyed my tongue, and at least I wasn't left sexually frustrated like the other inmates. In a way, being Helga's pet protected me from the men and their advances. "You know I'm innocent. Aren't you afraid I'll file a complaint against you when I'm released?" She laughed and pulled my hair; I was one of the few inmates with hair.

"Enjoy it, for I like skinny girls. Those who enter here never get released again. Your options are my pussy or a collar, and you'll be lucky if the collar isn't made of rope." She summed up my future prospects quite well. Despite my innocence and absence at the demonstration, I had been accused of organizing the protest. My father, who was also my lawyer, had come to speak with me. I was legally a minor on the date I allegedly planned the demonstration, but I was already an adult when the protest took place. According to him, he would try to nullify the conspiracy to terrorism charge, and the others would subsequently be dropped, but even he didn't believe it. The tears falling from his face when he bid me farewell were proof of that.

"Hummmm! Yes! Don't stop! Yess!" Helga moaned as she reached her orgasm. Since I got here two weeks ago, I had made the fat slut come at least once a day. My face was drenched in her pussy fluids and piss; the sow was dirty in more ways than one. But at least I would be allowed to come, later.

"If tomorrow you're sentenced to slavery, I'll bid for you. That tongue of yours is divine; you've earned two cycles of pleasure, my little slut." She pinched my nipple with her pudgy fingers and forced me to rise until my head was level with hers, then kissed me on the lips. The disgust I felt was almost overwhelming. I would never be her slave; if it came to that, I would opt for the death penalty.

In the so-called recreation room, I saw two more women being used by the guards or the other way around.

Although all the convicted women had their body hair, including their head, permanently removed, carefully measured portions of food, and intense physical labor meant that every woman in - Estabelecimento prisional de Tires- was in peak physical condition, the constant orgasm denial and the nudity made this prison an all you can eat buffet, for the staff.

The desire for a cycle of pleasure, or the possibility of an orgasm led most women to voluntarily offer themselves to the guards and other prison staff. Unfortunately, not everyone was chosen, and many women went months without experiencing an orgasm, despite being pushed to the brink of pleasure at least twice a day.

One of the women who had just been fucked by two of the guards was Teresa, my partner in misfortune. Our simultaneous arrival at this place of misery made us instant friends, as did the reasons for our incarceration. She had been convicted of human trafficking, but according to her version, she had only saved some immigrants from drowning in the sea. Unfortunately, she got 20 years in this hell.

My alleged crime was defending the planet and the environment.

"Ready?" she asked, still with semen dripping from the corners of her mouth.

"Ready for the shower or for the trial?" I asked.

"For cuming after dinner, how many pleasure cycles did the fat slut give you?" Cycles, guess orgasms wouldn't look nice in the official reports.

After hours of sorting organic waste from trash, which would later be processed into our food, or pedaling to produce clean energy for the free citizens, the shower and dinner were a welcome relief. Teresa and I almost always got one or two orgasms after the first mandatory punishment cycle. But the older women only received punishment cycles those unfortunate ones not only didn't receive any attention from the guards but were almost always subjected to special punishment cycles on the wooden donkey. The society within the prison was very similar to the one outside, with the same prejudices I thought.

"Two," I replied. "The bitch said she'd like to buy me if I'm sentenced to slavery, and you?" I asked.

"Three, and CO Luis made me come, but that pig Carlos went for my ass and then shoved his stinky cock in my mouth and only gave me one cycle. He said I needed to show more enthusiasm, the bastard." It was shocking how quickly this place had turned us into whores.

Three siren blasts and the shower door opened. One after the other, with our arms raised behind our heads and legs spread apart, we followed in single file like giant penguins. The high-pressure jets sent freezing water against every inch of our bodies. We advanced as quickly as we could, but with extreme care not to fall or trip over our fellow inmates, that would result in at least 10 punishment cycles, to be served on the wooden donkey. It would mean at least an hour and a half with the sharp metal edge pressing against our perineal area while the giant dildos flooded our pussies, only to deny us orgasm over and over again.

We walked to the food dispenser, where we received our portion of brown paste. We sat on the benches equipped with dildos, waiting for the punishment cycle before starting to eat.

The daily ritual was always the same: waking up at 6 a.m., extracting the brown paste, jamming the seat's dildo deep into our pussies, being stimulated to the brink of orgasm, and then working to separate the organic parts from Lisbon's city waste. After that, we had 15 minutes of "rest" in the recreation room, which most often for me meant providing oral sex to Helga in exchange for pleasure cycles or watching other women being fucked by the guards. Then, we would go through the penguin walk down the freezing water corridor before sitting down again to eat more brown paste, accompanied by another punishment cycle before finally eating. Afterward, we would spent 6 hours on the treadmill, generating clean electricity to the prison, before returning to the common room for more sexual favors, another freezing shower, and dinner--more brown paste and another punishment cycle that once again brought us to the edge of orgasm. For those who like me and Teresa managed it, there were pleasure cycles, all the women craved these cycles that allowed a full orgasm like junkies crave for the next fix; for the unfortunate ones who failed their quotas or displeased a guard, there were only punishment cycles and aggravated punishment cycles. Eight hours of rest, naked, in a tiny cell shared with two or three other inmates, only to repeat everything again the next day.

Teresa and I were savoring our second cycle of pleasure when a woman, around 50 or 60 years old, stood up and walked over to one of the guards. While Teresa and I reached our second orgasm, the poor creature was led to a small room, the death room, as she struggled alone through her final moments, the other women continued to enjoy their orgasms or endure their punishments as if nothing had happened. It was a normal occurrence, almost every day, one of the condemned decided she had suffered her last punishment and asked the guard for permission to end her life in the little room, I had been shocked the first time I saw it happen, but apparently the process is painless and voluntary.

"Sara, this will be the last night we spend together." It was true--no matter what, I would never return to this cursed place.

"Yes, it will be the last one. We'll choose a cell just for us, and sleep wrapped in each other's arms." It was one of the consequences of our permanent nudity--none of us had our own cell, none of us had any personal belongings to keep or hide, and the cells had no mattresses or blankets. We had to huddle together to stay warm. Every night, we would choose a cell and the company to go with it.

I kissed her, and she kissed me back, our bare skins pressed against each other. It was a pity that I couldn't share more than affection with her. If everything went well at my trial, maybe we could see each other again; otherwise, I would just be a dead body, and nothing would matter anyway.

"You're beautiful, Teresa. Even after what those bastards have done to you, you're still fucking beautiful." I kissed her lips, then trailed my mouth down to her round breasts, lingering on her nipples. We touched each other, our hands desperate, knowing full well that an orgasm was out of reach. But in that moment, it didn't matter. We clung to each other, finding comfort in the closeness, and eventually, exhaustion took over. We fell asleep, skin to skin, on the cold cement floor.

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The van entered the courthouse grounds. Despite the large number of police officers and barriers, I felt several impacts from eggs, bottles, and stones on the tinted windows. An agitated crowd, wielding Ukrainian flags and placards, had gathered at the courthouse entrance, alongside a significant contingent of firefighters and police officers in dress uniforms. Shackled at the wrists and ankles, naked between two prison guards, I felt my heart racing. How could I possibly receive a fair trial? Would I even make it into the courthouse, or would I be lynched by the enraged mob?

The van doors opened about three metres from the building's side entrance. As I emerged, the furious crowd surged against the police barriers, shouting "Murderer!", "Kill her!", "Whore!" and other insults in foreign languages I couldn't understand. Members of the PSP Intervention Unit shielded me with their riot gear, allowing me to enter the courthouse, though not before being hit by a few eggs.

Inside the courthouse, I was led to a room where my father and a colleague of his, another lawyer, were waiting. The guard escorting me removed my handcuffs and left me in the room. My father embraced me, tears in his eyes. "My daughter... This is Dr Rodrigo, he will be your lawyer... I... I can't... I love you so much." And he left. I had never seen my father cry; he was a partner in one of Lisbon's largest law firms and had a reputation for being a tough and ruthless man.

I looked at Dr Rodrigo. He was a man in his forties, with an impeccable beard and black hair. Unlike my father and me, he showed no emotion; he looked like a mannequin in his blue suit. "Good morning, Miss Sara," he said in a confident voice. "I'm sorry we're meeting under these circumstances, but your father has briefed me on all the details of the case."

"I'm going to be convicted, aren't I?" I asked him directly, while wiping the tears from my face.

"Sara, please get dressed, and then we'll talk. We don't have much time before the hearing begins," he said. He handed me a bag with clothes and a set of toiletries, then turned his back to give me some privacy. Privacy - the irony caused a faint smile to flicker across my face for a few seconds.

After dressing in the clothes he and my father had chosen, I looked like a well-behaved teenager fresh from Sunday school; only my blue hair betrayed my rebellious nature. He looked me up and down, then explained the strategy he would pursue. According to him, despite everything, there was some hope; it depended on how the panel of judges would interpret the law. (In Portugal, trials are not held before a jury, but rather before an odd-numbered panel of judges, typically one, three or five). He was going to argue that I was a minor at the date of the alleged crime.

He instructed me on how to behave and respond to questions from the judges and the public prosecutor. He advised me to avoid looking the judges in the eye or making any gesture that could be interpreted as defiance, as well as to show remorse and regret for my participation in the protest and its disastrous consequences.

"According to the law, Sara, you are innocent, but the consequences were so severe that someone will have to be convicted. I'll do my utmost to ensure it's only your comrades and their Russian accomplice," he said. I didn't feel comfortable shifting the blame onto my comrades. I had rejected the deal Conceição had proposed, but according to my lawyer, they were already condemned, while I still had a chance of salvation.

As we left for the hearing, the guard at the door handcuffed me again, despite my lawyer's protests. "Those are the rules, sir. If it were up to me, I'd send her outside and let the Ukrainians deal with her." I swallowed hard.

We entered the courtroom. The public gallery was completely full: firefighters in dress uniforms, reporters from various newspapers and television stations. I saw my comrades and also a blonde woman wearing a white Chanel blazer, accompanied by her gorilla-like lawyers.

There were five judges: two men and three women, dressed in black robes. To the judges' right sat Conceição, dressed in black. Our eyes met.

Conceição stood up and began to describe the tragic events and the crimes of which, according to her, my co-defendants and I were guilty. She then narrated the tragic and heroic manner in which Marya Brashkova and Deputy Commander Paulo Pena had died, including a live video call to a trench in Ukraine. A giant man in combat gear explained, with tears in his eyes, how he had thought his family would be safe in Portugal, and how, after finishing off all the "Orks" in Russia, he would strangle his wife's murderers with his bare hands. It was a moving and frightening moment.

"Thank you, Mr Brashkov," Conceição said. "I promise that the people who murdered your wife will receive the punishment they deserve. You focus on defending Europe and democracy, just came back alive." Conceição's words received an ovation from the public, and the Presiding Judge had to call for order.

Next, Paulo Pena's colleagues and members of the PSP described all his heroic acts and the countless lives he had saved, and how the protest organised by the eco-terrorist organisation CLIMAXIMO had prevented the fire brigade's water tankers from reaching the fire.

Conceição turned to the panel of judges and then to the public, "Your Honours, until this moment, we might have thought that this was all a tragedy, but not the result of the most heinous of crimes. We might have believed it was a tragic coincidence, that the defendants' actions had nothing to do with the devastating fire, and that the delay in the arrival of the water tankers was an unfortunate and tragic coincidence. But no, all of this was orchestrated and premeditated. I call Marina Borodorva to testify."

All eyes fixed on the woman with almost white-blonde hair, alabaster skin, pale blue eyes, and blood-red lips. She rose and took her place on the witness stand.

"Could you please state your full name and rank?" I hadn't expected the public prosecutor to be so pleasant to a terrorist.

"Major Marina Irina Bodorova, of the Russian army, 1st Brigade of Foreign Intelligence Operations." The woman who looked like a Vogue model had just admitted in court that she was a Russian spy.

"Tell us, Major, what is your mission in our country? I presume you didn't come to sunbathe." The courtroom laughed; that woman's skin looked like it hadn't seen a ray of sunshine in her life.

"My mission is to eliminate the enemies of Mother Russia and weaken the decadent regimes that support them." The room fell silent as they listened to the cold manner in which the Major of the Russian secret services confessed to her crimes.

"Major, did you have contact with the defendants, Tiago, Lara, and Sara? If so, what was the nature of your relationship?" The woman looked at us coldly, then pointed to Tiago and Lara. "Tiago is the ringleader. I seduced him, and then I started funding his bogus organisation. Later, I met his girlfriend. They were both aware of my employment with the Russian secret services, and were well paid to create demonstrations against energy companies and cause disturbances. The blue-haired girl, I don't know her. She must be one of the useful idiots they recruited."

My lawyer smiled, stood up, asked for permission to speak, and questioned the witness. "Madam, do you confirm that you don't know my client Sara and that your accomplices never informed her that they were working for a hostile foreign power?" It was a positive point for me.

"Yes, I confirm. As I said, your client is just a useful idiot. They used her to recruit kids for demonstrations and road blockades." My lawyer smiled victoriously and faced the panel of judges.

"Your Honours, I request that the charges against my client be immediately withdrawn and that she be discharged by the court. Not only was she unaware of the machinations of the other defendants, but she was also a minor at the time of preparing what she believed to be a legitimate protest. Moreover, she was not present at the demonstration itself." I took a deep breath. Could it be possible? Would I be acquitted after everything? My eyes lit up with hope.

The judges didn't give a direct response but noted the petition and ordered the court to proceed with its business.

My co-defendants confirmed their crimes and accused Marina of having started the fire. However, they all confirmed that my participation was limited to recruiting other young kids as operatives and writing inflammatory articles on social media.

I was not called to the stand, and my attorney said it was for the best. "You are just by catch, the prosecutor really wants those two, we might have a chance."

As the testimonies concluded, Conceição stood up, straightened her black robe, and addressed the court. "Your Honours, we have witnessed a tragedy that has shaken our nation. The evidence is clear. Tiago and Lara, funded by a hostile power, caused chaos and loss of innocent lives. For their treasonous actions, I demand the only punishment fit for traitors the death penalty." Lara bursted into tears, while Tiago collapsed.

She paused briefly, then continued, her tone softer, "However, Sara Messias was a victim of circumstances. Young and misguided, she was exploited. I recommend leniency in her case." I met her gaze as she spoke, maybe I should thank her later. (this is possible as in Portugal the justice system aims to find the truth and not only win.)

Regarding Marina, Conceição added pragmatically, "Major Borodorva, in exchange for her testimony, will be immediately expelled from our country. This serves both our justice and national security." As Conceição finished, I felt conflicted. Relief at the prospect of freedom mixed with the sting of being called a "useful idiot". I glanced at Tiago and Lara, once my heroes, now exposed as pawns in a larger game. And there was Marina, composed in her white blazer, despite the havoc she had created.

My mind raced, was I really so naive? I believed in our cause. Climate change, social justice were my principles. Were my good intentions not enough in this complex world?

The courtroom held its breath as the judges prepared to deliver their verdict.

The presiding judge announced that he would postpone the sentence until the end of the day. I was led back to the room with my lawyer. This time, my father and mother were present. We embraced, and tears rolled down our faces, but this time they were tears of joy and emotion. My father suggested that we order something to eat, as it would be a long wait, but the atmosphere was much lighter now. How a few hours can change everything!