The Interrogator, part 1
(m/m, torture, forced)
This story is a fantasy -- one to be played out only by consenting adults with well-defined controls and limits.
Practice safer sex.
by top@qwidjibo.org
God, I love my job.
Particularly on a day like today.
I'm pretty good at it too...which has the annoying side effect that I tend to get people after two or three other interrogators have failed. I enjoy the challenge, to be sure, but being the first one to have a crack any given prisoner is always special somehow.
The colonel stopped by my office this morning with that "you are going to like this assignment" grin on her face...and she was right. That box of cigars I gave her last week appears to have paid off: this one was just brought in off the street and is exactly my taste. The colonel may be a bitch sometimes, but she definitely understands why I got into this profession.
I opened up the file: Jimmy Pezulo. Caucasian, 19 years old, 5'6", 115 lbs. Caught running drugs across the border. Refused to give up the name of his local contact or his supplier. Pretty standard punk, but the new president is insistent: we are to take down the drug lords. We had to have those names. I took a look at his mug shots...even in cuffs, he was trying to flip off the camera. Slapping the smug look off of his face was going to be so much fun.
I ordered the temperature in his cell lowered to 40 degrees and put on my favorite coat -- the one my grandfather had taken off a dead nazi officer in WWII. Not exactly regulation, but I loved the feel of the leather and found that, if nothing else, the germans got the whole 'intimidating clothing' thing right. I grabbed four guards and we entered his cell.
He was huddled in the corner shivering in a t-shirt and torn jeans, startled to see five armed men enter the room. I glanced at him briefly with disdain, nodded at the lead guard, and glanced up at the ominous hook hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room. The guard signaled two others who grabbed him, kicking and yelling, cuffed him, hung him from the hook, and gagged him. I nodded to the fourth guard who walked to a switch and lowered the hook just enough to allow the inmate's feet to barely touch the ground.
Another nod at the lead guard and all four marched out of the cell, leaving me alone with the prisoner. The heavy metal door slammed shut.
Here is where most interrogators try to play the "I'm your only friend" tactic...or they pair up and play "good cop/bad cop." A few even go with the "I don't want to do this, but I have to" strategy. In truth, I find them all to be dishonest...all roles played by people who haven't found a true calling. I prefer a much more straightforward approach.
"Good afternoon. My name is Sebastian."
"My job is to extract from you the names of your supplier and your contact here. To achieve this, I have authority to use any techniques I deem useful. Nobody is supervising this interrogation, I will not have to answer for any damage to your person. To be honest, I don't care what you have to say. I am a sadist in the purest sense of the word...the greater your agony, the greater my enjoyment."
"Here is how this will work. I operate in planned stages, each more painful and damaging that the previous. During individual stages, you will not be given any opportunities for relief. Between stages, I will ask you once, and only once, if you are ready to talk. If you nod yes and answer immediately, I will leave you. Otherwise, I will start the next stage."
I lifted his chin and looked him in the eye: "this is your only opportunity before I begin -- will you divulge names?"
He was shivering violently and starting to cry, fear welling up in his eyes, but he did not nod yes. I walked over to the wall and pressed a button; the guards carried in a table and two equipment cases, set them up behind the prisoner, and left.
"Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy. You made a mistake refusing me there. You started something you can't finish. Now I am going to get to have my fun."
I opened the first case and pulled out a hunting knife. Quite a ridiculous one, actually, but image is as important as function in these situations. I walked over to him, grabbed his long hair, pulled his head back, and ran the flat of the blade from his forehead, across his nose, onto his lips.
Stepping in front of him, I punched him in the stomach. While he was winded, I grabbed his shirt and slashed twice: once on each side. A perfect cut -- the shirt came straight off and he was left with slight cuts. Just enough to let him know I was not afraid to break skin.
He began to recover from the punch and started squirming -- trying to get me to back away. I simply reached in, grabbed his chin, and lifted it towards done my face. When done properly, it is amazing how effective that maneuver is. He shuddered as he looked into my eyes and I did not hesitate to spit on his face. It took him a second to react and try to spit back at me, so I punched his gut again.
"Don't get it, do you," I snarled, pulling his hair back, "I already know everything you are going to try next. I've done this to hundreds of over-compensating cunts. Short, scrawny guys who aren't man enough to get girls. Punks like you are all the same. Try to be impressive and hard-core. But in the end, you are all just bitches begging to be fucked. You just don't know it yet."
I stepped back, relishing the sting that those words sent down his spine.
"Alright. That's the first stage. One chance: are you ready to talk?"
He looked at me with that perfect combination of confusion, lust, pain, and fear. I gave him a brief second to nod yes, thanked god that he didn't, and walked around behind him to get ready for the next round.
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First attempt -- let me know what you think.
Flames appreciated as deep expressions of buried desires.
top@qwidjibo.org