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The sound of her heels clicking elegantly down the tiled, florescent lit hallway, Doctor Irina Motova walked briskly towards her intended room. She was a shapely woman of 35 years. Her hair, jet black and glossy, was tied in a tight bun, not a single strand loose over her forehead. She was tall, even though she was seen mostly on high heels, with particularly long legs, and had an ample set of breasts.
She wore the slick attire of what could have been a lawyer or psychiatrist, a short, thigh length skirt, dark stockings that made her legs seem sculpted straight from marble, and a white silk blouse. Around her neck was a thin ribbon-like scarf, black as her hair. Proving her intellectual prowess, she wore a pair of thick rimmed glasses, also black.
Not halting her brisk strut or the subtle wag of her hips that went with it, she carried a small, silvery briefcase in one hand, and a few dossiers in the other. Before long, her destination was in sight: holding room 224.
Outside the door there was a single guard, fully armed, standing watch. Irina took no notice to the fact that he casually scanned her body like any other typical male would. Such actions were irrelevant, unless they became a problem to her job. But there was no one in the Agency that was foolish enough to step out of line with her.
“The subject is inside?” she questioned lightly as she peered through her glasses at one of the dossiers. Her voice was light, with just a hint of accent from her Russian upbringings.
“Yes, doctor,” the guard replied. “Restrained as you requested.”
“Good.”
The picture on the first page of the dossier was that of an American woman, or to be more accurate, girl. She was only 22, her name, Stacey Duvall. A leggy female, not unlike Irina herself, though her hair was bright blond and curled. She had thoughtful blue eyes, and the figure of a model.
Irina decided to start with the woman, because they were more difficult to break. Most people assumed men were stronger, but it was only because they used the wrong techniques.
The guard opened the door for Dr. Motova, and she entered the brightly lit room. In the very center of the small cell sat Stacey Duvall, bound to a chair. Her arms were tied together, behind the back of the chair. More rope crisscrossed around her waist and shoulders, anchoring her to it securely. Her legs, however, received special attention. Rather than being tied together, or to the legs of the chair, straps were hooked under her knees, then drawn up to the back of the chair, effectively leaving her groin wide open.
She dressed, as like many young American women, as a tease, favoring some kind of schoolgirl outfit. She wore a white blouse with sleek, rolled up sleeves, a very short pleated skirt (tiny white panties visible from her position), and knee high socks with heels. Irina lifted her chin slightly in contempt at the outfit. There were other ways to express one’s sexuality without overly flaunting it.
Her face was etched in panic and fear, eyes wide and red, cheeks stained with black streams from running mascara. She whimpered lowly, her words muffled by a big red rubber ball strapped between her teeth. Ball gags weren’t as effective as silencing someone as say, packing their mouth properly, but they were deep inside a secure facility. The ball gag was more for Irina’s comfort, as well as to add to Stacey’s humiliation. A thick line of drool leaked from her lower lip, dripping onto the front of her blouse, all the while muffling her annoying pleas.
Without a word, Irina shut the door behind her, then walked to a small metal table, which aside from the chair Stacey was bound to, was the only piece of furniture. On it, she set her briefcase and the files.
“Miss Duvall, I presume?” she asked curtly. Stacey gave a short grunt and slowly nodded, eyes watering as they fearfully watched her. “My name is Doctor Irina Motova. You will answer my questions.”
There was no choice in the matter, as she explicitly stated. Irina laid her case flat on the table, then released the latches.
“I will remove the gag,” she said, still speaking curtly. “You will not speak, or else you will face consequences.”
Before Stacey could give her assent, Irina briskly unfastened the buckle that held the gag in her mouth, then pulled it out, a small pop sounding as her puckered lips release their seal.
She immediately opened her mouth. “P-please, there has to be some mistake, I -urmph. MMPH!”
Irina simply stuck the ball back into her moving mouth, then strapped it a notch tighter, issuing a squeal from the bound woman. It had already been very tight to begin with. She opened her case, revealing neat, organized rows of instruments; silver clamps, little pliers, an electrical unit with adhesive pads, and a violet wand, among other things.
From these, she drew a short, branched metal switch, then stooped over Stacey, flicking her wrist expertly over her creamy, bare thighs. A tiny, high pitch crack emanated from the point of contact. The tiny gap in the stick pinched her flesh, pulling at it every time it connected. Stacey screamed, then again and again, as Irina briskly worked her inner thigh. In less than 10 seconds, there was a collection of bright red lines running across her pale, tender flesh.
She put the stick away. “We will begin again, Miss Duvall. I shall remove your gag. You will not speak.”
Stacey grunted fearfully as the doctor’s lacquered nails undid the fastening once again, but as the ball came free, she stayed deathly silent. Instead, she just breathed softly through her mouth, trying to catch up with her body’s oxygen demand.
“You are in suspicion of espionage against our country,” Irina said formally. “You will tell me what organization or nation you are working for and your goals. Speak.”
The trembling woman swallowed, shuddering, then took a deep, quivering breath. “Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about! I’m on vacation with my boyfriend. If we broke some kind of law, we’re sorry! We didn’t know- ung!”
She was cut off as Irina, tired of the petty lies, tried to shove the rubber ball into her mouth. Stacey managed to close her mouth, but undeterred, the doctor pinched her nose shut, depriving her of air. The woman squirmed, but inevitably, Irina’s tight pinch, and the fact that the large ball pressed against her teeth blocked the miniscule bits of air Stacey hoped to sneak in forced her to open her mouth wide with a gasp. Once again, the ball was settled in and strapped tightly.
“Every time you lie, Miss Duvall, you will be punished accordingly,” Dr. Motova said in her efficient, clipped tone. “Do not think you will be able to continue your charade. I have studied many ways of interrogation. Luckily, or unluckily for you, one method will break you, sooner or later.”
At this bit of news, Stacey’s eyes widened further as she shook her head desperately, protesting something or other into her gag. Irina paid no mind, instead taking up the small metal switch and moving to her other thigh. With vicious, short flicks, she struck her tender inner thigh, leaving bright lines while Stacey screamed in pain. This time, she continued twice as long. It was a basic principle of interrogation: never allow your subjects to grow used to your techniques.
“You will tell me the name of who sent you,” Irina commanded as the ball came out.
“PLEASE! I don’t know what you’re- mmph!”
“You continue to support the image of a typical, blond American woman, Miss Duvall,” Dr. Motova mused lightly to herself as she placed the switch back in its spot among her tools. “The taste of a complete whore, and a total airhead.”
Taking two of the silver clamps from her case, she began to undo the buttons of Stacey’s blouse, pushing the damp, drool stained material away and revealing her bra. With her arms over the chair, back arched, her bosom was almost presented neatly to the doctor. Irina herself knew just how uncomfortable the position was, especially on the tailbone.
Stacey’s breasts were smaller than Irina’s DD, hovering near more a C cup. She jerked the bra she wore down, then plucked at one of her nipple, not bothering to be gently or sensuous. Within a few seconds, the bead of flesh became stiff and hard, and she clipped the clamp onto her nipple, twisting a small screw to tighten the metal’s jaw on her.
When it snapped on, Stacey shrieked loudly, which then got louder exponentially as it was tightened. Ignoring the bubbling of spit from her gag, Irina quickly applied the other on, issuing more screams. She stepped back, leaning against the table as Stacey went through the usual frenzy of squirming and thrashing her head. She had begun to cry again, new tears following the dark mascara trails from earlier.
Eventually, her frantic jerking subsided as the initial fire of the clips turned to a low, ember like burn. Irina removed the gag.
“The names.” Stacey paused, gasping. “Speak.”
“I-I-I…please…”
In went the gag. Irina turned to her case, debating her next action. Her subject had reached the sufficient levels of pain to be introduced to pleasure. Pleasure was something usually reserved for male subjects, but Stacey was barely showing a break in her lies. Perhaps the conflicting sensations would work better.
Irina selected a thin, slender vibrator; the head of it no wider than the width of a pen, then squatted before Stacey’s splayed legs, flipping back the pleated skirt. Up close, she could admire her toned legs, the teasing curve of her stretched muscles and the tiny, innocent panties that covered her. At first she thought to remove them, but then abandoned the idea.
The doctor turned the vibrator on, the tiny head whining highly as it buzzed, then gently stroked it up and down the front of her groin on top of her panties. Stacey let out a muffled moan of confused pleasure, her legs jerking as the vibrator struck a sensitive spot, left, then returned again.
Irina kept her motions simple, only moving the device methodically up and down. Her subject squeaked, puffed, and grunted, thrashing in the chair. The way she was bound prevented her from closing her legs the slightest. The best she could do was kick her legs in frustration.
In between the shuddering squeaks, Irina caught the fragments of words. Gag-speak could almost be classified as a separate language. She had long studied gag induced phonetics, and was able to understand it nearly perfectly. Stacey kept begging her to stop, to let her go.
Irina took the vibrator away for a moment, gently patting with her fingers over her subject’s crotch. A few dollops of dampness had spread, but not nearly enough. She resumed the methodical machine-induced masturbation, issuing a surprised squeak from Stacey, who had thought it to be over. When she checked again several minutes later, they had reached the proper degree of sopping.
“If you think you shall receive an orgasm, Miss Duvall, you are mistaken,” Dr. Motova said as she turned the vibrator off. “I am not here to give you satisfaction.” She glanced at the slim, gold watch around her wrist. It had already been a full half hour, and still, she had gained no answers. “Once again, who are you working for?”
The gag came out, and Stacey gasped hotly. “My tits! God, my tits! They hurt so bad, please take them off, please, please, please-”
Irina pressed the ball back behind her teeth, and sighed in irritation. She replaced the vibrator in its spot, then took out two spherical lead weights, setting them on the tabletop before closing her case and latching it, then scooping it and the dossiers up.
“Miss Duvall, you have wasted my time,” Irina said curtly as she turned on her heel and began to leave. “I shall return when you decide to stop.”
Once Stacey’s begging cries ceased behind the shut metal door, Irina turned to the guard. “Strip her, and bind her in position three. Apply the weights to the clamps. I shall return in one hour to continue.”
“Yes, doctor.”
Irina clicked down the heel, her case swinging from her hand. Perhaps she would get more from the male. At any rate, when she returned to Stacey, the girl would be much more willing to talk.
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