Penal Colony 3 - Branding Beauty

 

I suffer for you

Then feel ...joy

Inscribed above the stable at Purgatory Plantation, Dominica, American Penal Colony.

Origin-unknown. Reason for the unusual spacing of the words-unknown.

 

After seven years the American Penal Colony in the Caribbean was old news. People now accept the controversial exiling of convicts, men and women. More than accept it, they consider the self-governing Colony an inspired solution to the centuries-old problem of penitentiaries.

Many attribute this widespread public acceptance to the government's ban on Colony visitation and its refusal to interfere in the islands' internal affairs. This hands-off policy has been roundly criticized by some, but most Americans agreed, happy to remain ignorant of any abuse. The hard economic times made it especially difficult to feel much sympathy for criminals.

The results were shockingly predictable. Ruthless gangs and then warlords took control of the islands and began to engage in every form of depravity including the trafficking of drugs and weapons. With no law, even slaves especially beautiful females began to appear on the islands to meet the insatiable demand for sex. After a few years, the mob moved in and took control of most Colony businesses, imposing its own brand of ruthlessness.

One of the businesses to survive the mob was Purgatory Plantation. It had in a few years, with the help of their Russian Bratva partners, cornered the market on human trafficking worldwide. The U.S. mobs grudgingly accepted the Plantation as a value-added, high-quality provider of this most valuable product and left it alone.

 

Pilar

 

Is this a dream, a nightmare? Am I dead? It all seems so terribly real, yet too terrible to actually be real. Is this Hell...? How would I know?

I keep replaying my last memories desperately trying to some clue, something that fits, that explains my...incredible circumstances. One moment I was happily marching with my friends in the streets of Havana, raucously protesting with them some stupid government policy to reduce student subsidies; the next moment I'm hanging by my wrists in this dark room...naked.

Was there a blow to my head? I seem to recall a moment of stunning pain before the ground rose up and knocked me unconscious. The ground rose up...? Could the police have shot me with something that caused unconsciousness...perhaps a rubber bullet? One of them had pointed at me...could he...?

Does it matter? I am here now, suffering. I can't see anything for the darkness, but I can hear and feel the other girls. Feel isn't exactly the right word; we are jammed into a tiny space, pushed up against each other so tightly that it is literally hard to breathe. I wait for those around me to exhale so that I can fill my own lungs.

The hard nipples of the girl behind are pressed against my bare back; I can feel the roundness of her mound grinding into my ass, the smooth skin of her bare thighs on my legs. The billowing hair of the girl in front is in my mouth; some of it has slipped down my throat making me gag every few seconds.

Even the sounds in the room are from hell. There is constant moaning--a bewailing of our inhuman bondage. Surprisingly, there is little talk. Our reality is pain and the terror of the unknown...what could we possibly talk about under these conditions? It is as if our desire to communicate with each other has been stripped away with our clothes. I can discern an occasional word in English and Spanish, sometimes Portuguese, even some Haitian Patois; but none of it provides any information only a constant pleading for release. It's as if we are waiting to be admitted into something...something horrible, but what? No one knows.

Every once in a while the door opens suddenly and one of us is quickly taken out, screaming, terrified of what waits beyond. The anticipation creates a gut-wrenching fear that stinks up the small space. I had not known that fear has its own smell.

I use my mind to stave off the panic, the insanity. What does await us outside? Who waits...? I wonder if they are human. Could one human do this to another? Am I still in Cuba... among my countrymen? It doesn't seem possible.

The tightness in my stomach grows into a dark foreboding that what lies outside is even worse than this room. I imagine a devil throwing our screaming bodies into hellfire that consumes us in never-ending pain. I pull hard on my wrist straps but they hold me like a pair of impossibly strong leather hands. This is no playful bondage game, no experimentation with a sexual taboo. This is captivity.

When my turn comes, I swoon at the touch of the creature's hands on my skin and awake to find myself laying in the sun on sand. My arms are outstretched, belted tightly to an unbending metal bar that presses hard into my shoulders. I can feel my ribs pressing against my lungs. I twist my body in mindless panic but only manage to kick up the sand under my feet and my legs.

My vision clears. A man sits behind a desk at the far end of the sand pit, watching me, chewing on a pencil as if in deep though. Two other men are down on one knee at the ends of my bar. One of them reached over and runs his hands over my body, feeling my ass, my breasts, my mound, the shape of my legs, my thighs. He takes my nipple between his fingers and twists it as if rolling a cigarette.

I scream and twist nearly fainting again with outrage. I am from a good family in Cuba; I attend the university; I am a person of substance. No one had ever touched me this way before. He pushes his finger inside my cunt and feels for my hymen then shakes his head at the man behind the desk who makes a notation as the first one wipes his wet finger on my ass cheek. I can feel the wetness in the gentle breeze.

Somehow I know what he is communicating--she's not a virgin. I feel a moment of shame. Fernando, a fellow student at the university, had taken my virginity months ago. What I don't understand is the wetness. How could my vagina be wet?

"Too bad, still prime maybe even prime-plus," the man at the desk says in English.

English? Why are they speaking English in Cuba? I wonder.

His kneeling friend considers for a moment, "Plus I would say, look at her face, her hair, her waist...all primo."

"I agree," the other answers making another notation on the paper. "Let's get her up," he says without raising his eyes from the paper.

The two men stand and take positions on either side of the metal bar then lift. They are incredibly strong. I feel my body being lifted off the ground then dropped as the bar slips into holders in the pit's cement columns. I kick my feet trying to find a purchase, trying to relieve the terrible pain of my crucifixion.

The man at my side moves away, behind, out of my sight. Suddenly, I felt the pain of a lash on my back and I scream. He doesn't stop at the sound...just continues to whip my writhing body. I can feel my toes curling and my feet pointing in anticipation of each stroke. I manage to scream words of surrender, to beg for mercy in Spanish and English, but it is as if they have no interest in anything I have to say. In the deepest recess of my rational mind I wonder again if these are Cuban interrogators. If so, why are they indifferent to my confession? Why are they speaking English?

This is moment I realize that my captors are not Cubans. I have not been simply knocked unconscious and taken to a Cuban prison. This whipping is beyond the Cuban morality, beyond anything I have ever imagined.

I stop thinking; the pain is too intense, too unbearable. It consumes my thoughts. I begin to fade out. I feel my body reacting to the pain, my mind numbs as if separating itself from the pain. It is as if I've been drugged...I embrace the oblivion.

The man behind suddenly pushes something into my cunt and holds it firmly in place. It is vibrating in a way that shocks me back into full consciousness then suddenly my body explodes. Wave after wave of irresistible convulsions shake me so violently that I know with certainty that I will not survive. My eyes roll into the back of my head and my mind becomes a place of pure feeling--no rational thought, none, interferes with the shuddering orgasm.

I emerge limp and weak. If it wasn't for my terrible suspension I would have collapsed into a heap on the floor. The man behind strikes me again with his whip then again then pushes the vibrator back into my cunt. I erupted again, even more forcefully than the first time. I can feel my clit squirting onto the ball in his hand. Impossible, I have never come so hard!

In a while, I open my eyes. Both men are standing by the desk talking.

"I think that's right," the one holding the vibrator says, "Prime-plus for tactile response and the same for sexual response. Charles is going to want to check this one out personally."

The other man makes hurried notes on the paper as my torturer and his assistant lift me off the columns and removes the bar. He pulls my limp arms behind and straps my arms behind with belts at my wrists and elbows then walks me slowly to a door where another pulls a hood over my head. I am led to a soft bed and chained to it at the neck and feet still hooded. I sleep as if I'm dead.

This is my first day in Purgatory.