Interrogation with predilection. (18+) ⇐ General

[Anonymous]

UISD_01-02.jpgIntroductory fragment of the story
"The Lost Illusions of Questionable Virtue" An excursion to neighboring Cameroon is planned for today. The group left before lunch in three small buses. Before crossing the border, they stopped for a half-hour technical break. The buses were refueling, the drivers were having lunch, and the passengers were wandering around the border market, which attracts tourists with a variety of souvenirs and low prices. Anna is no exception. She looks into the shops with curiosity, buying souvenirs for her Moscow friends. For herself, the woman looked at a tunic decorated with folk ornaments. The seller gently but persistently invites you to visit the shop, promising discounts and gifts. The dress looks expensive, and at first the merchant raises the price, not wanting to give in. Anna bargains recklessly, wanting to get the thing she likes. As a result, the woman bought two tunics with different patterns, but at a good discount. The African carefully packed the clothes, helped them carefully put them in the bag and, as a sign of special affection, presented Anna with a crimson scarf. The seller himself tied the gift around the woman’s neck. While the lady is spinning in front of the mirror, deciding whether a new accessory suits her suit, the bag is out of sight of the journalist, under the supervision of a crafty merchant. It took another ten minutes for all the passengers to take their seats again. The bus moved to the border with Cameroon, the entire journey to the customs post did not exceed ten minutes. The border consists of a multi-kilometer fence with barbed wire, a couple of towers with armed men in camouflage, and a two-story administrative building. Tourists quickly formed two small queues at the baggage check machines. At the same time, customs officers also carried out a manual inspection of the luggage, which aroused suspicion among the introscope operator. The lawman didn’t like Anna’s travel bag for some reason, and she was asked to step aside, to a large metal table. A fat black man, black as ebony, looked questioningly at the short-haired white lady and politely inquired. – Is this your luggage? - Yes, mine. – Anna answers confidently, trying to quickly finish this unpleasant, routine procedure. The customs officer, with professional hand movements similar to the passes of a magician, began to lay out the contents of the luggage on a smooth, polished surface. When the metal tabletop was filled with purchased souvenirs and other small items that women take on small trips, the fat man’s surprisingly nimble fingers began to carefully examine the empty bag. With a calm expression on his face, the customs officer, like an illusionist, deftly extracted from the inner side pocket a small transparent bag with white powder inside. Waving it in the air, the fat man dryly asked: “Is this yours? What's inside? His hitherto indifferent gaze became prickly, and his eyes, swollen with fat, narrowed even more, turning into hostile embrasures with machine guns of black pupils. Anna shrugs in surprise: “I don’t know. That's not mine". The customs officer briefly reported something on the radio in the local dialect. A senior officer approached the table, accompanied by two soldiers armed with carbines. After exchanging a few phrases with the customs officer, the military man turned to the journalist: “Miss Wenger, you should come with us.” Anna, trying to remain calm, tries to object: “Listen, I’m a representative of the Russian media. The bus is waiting for me. I have to go." The tall and broad-shouldered black man in an officer's uniform remains unperturbed. “Follow with us, miss. Don’t worry, it’s a simple check,” the calm voice is demanding in a military way. The officer made a sign, and the soldiers took the woman by the arms. "Do not touch me. What nonsense,” Anna showed an insult on her face, indignant at the tactlessness of the soldiers, but was forced to obey the authorities. *****
The writer was escorted into a stuffy service room, in the middle of which there was a large rectangular table. The corner of the room is occupied by office furniture, and the military man is intently and clumsily tapping something with one finger on the computer keyboard. There is no air conditioning, and the stuffy, stale air is lazily mixed by the blades of an old fan rotating under the ceiling. The woman’s things were also brought here and placed on the tabletop. – What is in this package? – the officer turns to Anna. – Was it found in your bag? – I don’t know, it’s not mine. They gave it to me. – The writer is trying to remain calm. A lean, tall man of unknown age in an expensive civilian suit and foppish sunglasses entered the room. The African is accompanied by a fat, unsightly-looking black woman in a military jacket, over which a crumpled doctor's coat, which has lost its former freshness, is carelessly thrown. All the men in the room stood at attention, following the gentleman in civilian clothes with their gaze. “Moses Gama, madam. Colonel of the Guinean Anti-Drug Service” - the official words were addressed to the writer. Gama opened the package handed to him by the officer and sniffed it; nodding his head, he handed it to the black woman. “Even without an examination, I can assure you, signora, these are drugs. – Moses addresses the woman in a peremptory tone. -Are you a drug addict? How long have you been taking drugs? The spitting image of a Tonton Macoute, Anna thinks, her former determination is melting before her eyes, giving way to fear and panic. Meanwhile, a black woman in a white coat, sitting on the edge of the table, makes some manipulations with white powder, having first poured a small amount onto the laboratory glass. - I'm not a drug addict. Believe me, it's not mine. They gave it to me. – A woman catches cold male gazes, subconsciously looking for at least some kind of support or sympathy. - Did you give it a lift? Who? Where? When? Who should you give the drugs to? Do you still have any prohibited substances on you? “The colonel literally shoots the woman with frightening questions, preventing her from concentrating. “Diacetylmorphine,” the black woman summarizes, having finished her sorcery with the reagents, and, with difficulty lifting her fat ass from the chair, adds, “very pure and high-quality heroin.” Thoughts are confused in Anna's head, she confusedly tries to explain that she is a Russian journalist, a citizen of the Russian Federation and does not understand how these damn drugs ended up in her things. That all this is some kind of ridiculous mistake, someone’s cruel joke. - Take off your clothes. We will have to search you, Madame Wenger,” like faded paints peeling off in the sun, the colorless phrases of the Tonton Macoute interrupt the woman mid-sentence. - What? How? I don't understand...you have no right. I will complain... - the voice trembles treacherously, self-control has left Anna. The writer looked around the stuffy room with a helpless look. Black men stare and grin with undisguised curiosity, anticipating a humiliating procedure for a white lady. Even the military man in the corner at the computer has stopped tormenting the keyboard and, turning around in his chair, openly stares at the dumbfounded, frightened woman. A black woman in a tunic surprisingly deftly pulls medical gloves onto her plump hands with fingers that are thick and short, like stumps. The clumsy servant of the law, with her carnivorous and greedy gaze, as Anna imagines, simply eats the writer alive. “If you, Miss Wenger, are not ready to undress yourself, my people will help you.” – Moses Gama’s calm voice sounded like a sentence. The colonel turned his head towards the officer: “Madam needs help, do it.” - No! Wait, I'm on my own. – The tongue moves with difficulty in the dry mouth, it seems that the stale air of the room has thickened and is now stuck in a sticky mess on the vocal cords. A woman cannot allow herself to be publicly undressed and groped by this lustful Guinean military. The colonel stops the officer with a gesture. Anna, with a prayer in her eyes, tries to look behind the impenetrable lenses of her glasses. - Mister Gama, do all these men really have to be here? – The woman has difficulty composing the correct phrases, the words jump and jump, dancing a demonic hopak in her head. My heart is pounding in my chest. – Please, order your people to leave the premises. The colonel ignored the request of the intimidated writer. He remains the only person in the room whose face shows absolutely no emotion. The proud posture of the officer reveals army bearing and disdain for white foreigners. Gama is silent expectantly and, with his hands behind his back, without looking up, carefully watches every movement of the embarrassed white lady. Burning with shame, Anna unfastens the buttons of her summer shirt with naughty fingers. The fabric sticks to the sweaty body, as if it refuses to expose the hostess’s charms to humiliation and desecration. Following the shirt, the woman got rid of the knitted mesh sneakers and hung poplin culottes over the back of the chair. The writer crumples, lowering her head in shame, and almost physically feels the greedy male gaze on her well-groomed body. The lady is still covered by a flesh-colored bra and white lace panties, through the thin fabric of which unruly red hairs break through. “Remove your underwear madam, we must conduct a full search,” the colonel dryly emphasizes every word. In fact, this is an order, and Anna understands that asking to leave at least some of her clothes is simply pointless. The woman resignedly put her hands behind her back and hesitated, unfastening her bra clasp. Wet with sweat, white, weighty breasts tumbled out invitingly, swaying seductively and sagging slightly. Legs feel weak. The writer slowly pulls off her wet, stubborn panties, which do not want to expose her secrets, and, stepping with difficulty, adds to the general pile of laundry. Shifting from foot to foot, the humiliated lady is timid in the middle of the room, bashfully covering her defenseless charms with her palms. Black males openly examine the sleek body and glance at each other meaningfully. The black woman approached the table and slowly felt every item of the woman’s clothing. “It’s empty here,” she sums up, turning to the colonel. “Continue the search,” Gama says dryly. The African woman turned to Anna. – Hands behind your head, feet shoulder-width apart. – The little eyes of the black bitch are literally oozing with lust. Thick, short fingers walked over the woman’s entire slender body, paying special attention to her bust. The black woman, with some special voluptuousness, feels and kneads each breast separately with two hands. The pink nipples became treacherously hard. Anna, red as a lobster, can barely restrain herself, gritting her teeth, so as not to express in her hearts everything that she thinks about these people. “Lie down with your chest on the table, Signora Wenger, and spread your buttocks,” the buxom servant of the law changed her gloves for new ones, and her small eyes sparkled with an unkind light. Anna hesitated; Isn't that all? How long are they going to humiliate her human dignity and mock her? “Hurry up, signora, and don’t force us to use force.” – The black woman’s words distracted the writer from her thoughts. Anna, with an internal trembling, sank her chest onto the warm polished tabletop and slightly spread her full, white buttocks. The colonel pulled his chair closer to the table and sat down directly in front of the woman's face. “Your legs are wider than your shoulders, Signora Wenger, and hold your arms like this,” the black woman put her wide palms on Anna’s graceful arms and pulled them well to the sides. The private lips treacherously parted, revealing an unprotected womb. A woman feels greedy male gazes on her wet crotch; out of shame and humiliation, she is ready to sink into the ground. Anna already guesses what a painful procedure and mockery is hidden by the combination of words “full search.” All of her, her entire being, shrank, remaining in agonizing anticipation of the inevitable desecration. The black colonel continues to ask stupid routine questions. The writer tries not to think about the upcoming execution and focuses on the answers. But still, the body involuntarily twitched, as if struck by an electric discharge, when the black woman began to moisturize the vestibule of the vagina with a viscous warm gel. Having completed the preparations, the African woman formed a thick brush into a spearhead and began penetration. Four fingers slipped in relatively painlessly. But when it came to the wide part of the palm with the knuckles of the hand swollen from fat, Anna felt real pain. The writer closed her eyes and, resting her forehead on the tabletop, tried to endure, holding back a scream. – Answer the question posed. Look at me Madame Wenger when you are interrogated. “The imperturbable Tonton Macoute lifted the woman’s head by the hair. – Relax, Signora Wenger, don’t resist. “You’re only making things worse for yourself,” the black tormentor urges. She persistently twists her hand, thereby trying to develop the narrow entrance of the defenseless womb. - Please, not so much. I ask you to. Oh! Mommy, it hurts so much,” Anna laments in a broken voice. She no longer holds her buttocks, but squeezes the edge of the tabletop with all her might. He squeezes as hard as he can, and the tension turns the knuckles of his tanned fingers white. Anna understands that she needs to relax, but her numb body, constrained by pain and fear, resists violence in its own way. - A-A-AY! It hurts-O-O! A-A-A! – The black masculine fist slipped inside. A sharp blinding pain pierced Anna - without restraining herself, the lady began to scream throughout the room. The vagina tightly wrapped itself around the plump hand of the black woman. Ignoring the screams of the victim, the hand triumphantly continues its invasion. The servant of the law feels how desperately the elastic muscles resist, with what difficulty the heavy fist is slowly squeezed deeper and deeper, inevitably. A persistent hand roughly and imperiously takes possession and conquers the flesh. A black woman deliberately humiliates, tramples on the human dignity of a white woman, under the shameless gaze of arrogant men. Through desecration, prove the superiority of the black race. Lustful female rejoices, receiving secret pleasure from the violence and shame of a broken woman. – Answer the question posed by Madame Wenger, I repeat... Look at me, you are being interrogated. – The colonel holds the woman by the hair, not allowing her head to fall. My thoughts are confused, the blood is pounding in my temples. Anna looks into the calm face of Mr. Gam and sees the reflection of a shamed, humiliated woman in the lenses of his sunglasses. Anna bites her lips, her beautiful face is disfigured by a painful grimace. The writer remembered how two months ago she was raped by the fist of the High Priest. And now the black woman’s hand is also painfully stretching the walls of the vagina. It also unceremoniously and rudely invades defenseless nature. The thick brush of the black sadist penetrates all the way. Fingers hungry for flesh grasp the cervix, subtly palpate, squeeze. - Ay! It hurts-O-O! Please stop! I can't take it anymore! – Anna’s voice breaks into a scream again. Time drags on agonizingly slowly, endlessly. The writer continues to writhe in pain, feeling how an inexorably rough hand painfully fumbles in her sensual nature. Droplets of sweat, smearing makeup, roll down his crimson face onto the tabletop. The black colonel, continuing to shoot with his devilish questions, forces you to look him in the face. Anna doesn’t think well, the violence makes it difficult to concentrate, and the essence of the questions treacherously eludes her. Black men hold their breath and devour their eyes at the sophisticated mockery of the white lady. And only Moses Gama’s face continues to remain indifferent and seems cold in the suffocating atmosphere of the office. Having thoroughly enjoyed the suffering of the white lady and having amused her painful voluptuousness to the fullest, the black woman quickly pulled her hand back. “Slower, please,” Anna laments in fear. - Slowly… The writer clearly remembers the evening, Friday the 13th, when the Black Mage of the Order sharply jerked his fist and injured the vagina. The African woman slowly extends her hand. At the exit of the wide part of the palm, the vestibule of the vagina is stretched so strongly and painfully that Anna seems to be just a little more... - Stop! You'll tear it up! – Grimacing from acute pain, Anna chokes on words. A thick brush slips out of the womb with a characteristic slurping sound. The writer breathes out a sigh of relief. The woman is trying to calm down, to stop the kaleidoscope of thoughts and images swarming in her foggy head. – During a personal search, a bag of white powder was found; How do you explain this, Madame Wenger? – The colonel’s words bring the lady back to reality. Anna looks blankly at the Tonton Macoute, trying to understand the meaning of the phrases spoken. She turns her head and over her shoulder sees the face of the black tormentor spreading into a triumphant grin. A small bag of white powder sways rhythmically in his hand. “No, it’s not mine,” Anna tries to contain the storm of indignation bubbling in her chest. “She gave it to me!” Yes, you are all here at the same time...! The woman experiences absolute helplessness, words have lost all meaning. Moses Gama, as if not hearing, tramples the humiliated white lady with contempt and a triumphant look. The colonel allows the writer to get dressed. Handcuffs bind your wrists; Anna is taken outside and put into a police van. The woman is depressed: bad premonitions, dark thoughts roll in in heavy waves, one after another. Where will they take her now, and what awaits Anna in the heart of the African continent? *****
An introductory fragment of the story is presented:
"The Lost Illusions of Questionable Virtue"
Author: Storyteller VladЪ
Full text of the book on the resource: LitGorod