He was not some loathsome rapist, a thug who’d killed for the sake of money or an addled addict thieving for a fix. Neither was he insane or slow witted. She made sure of that. He was her social equal, at least by background, and his crimes were political and symbolic.
Of course they’d tortured him, so he arrived with a bruised body, cuts and punctures on his bare limbs and torso. He had a slice under one eye, and the men who’d made it told her he’d flinched when they were threatening to kill him, but otherwise kept his cool.
Now he was kneeling on the tile, just as still as when they’d worked him over in the basement of the jail. His only motion was to twist his hooded head, listening for what he could not see. Just shy of six feet, with a body earned from living well, but not the ridiculously sculpted physique of a gym junkie. His hands were chained together in front of him, mitts locked over his fingers to keep him clumsy.
She put her hand on his shoulder, approaching him from behind. He twisted away, uncomprehending.
“Adam,” She decided out loud. “Hello.”
The prisoner swivelled his head again, trying to see her through the thick weave of the sack. At her touch, his posture got even stiffer. “If you’re kill me, do so. You won’t get anything from me.”
“We have already seen what you have to offer, Adam,” she withdrew her hand, placing it on her hip. “I don’t intend to give you what you want.”
“My name’s not Adam. I am Phillip Joeshi, proud to be son of General Joeshi.”
“The Joeshi family is dead. The sooner you learn this, the easier it will be, Adam.”
Hearing this, the prisoner became silent again. She wondered what he’d thought of his family, though it can’t have been much if he was willing to gamble their lives on an offhand comment and some doggerel verse.
“Please remove his hood,” she gestured to the waiting guard. “I want to see if that cut they left is infected.”
Vision roughly restored as the large guardsman yanked the bag from his head, Phillip saw the woman for the first time and raised his brows in shock. He’d heard her voice before as a visitor to his cell in the prison after his arrest, but he needed to see her face to identify her. “Annette Harrington.”
“Once you could have called me that, Adam. Do not call me that again.” the woman said sternly. The guard held him by both shoulders while Annette turned his head to examine the freshly closed scab under his left eye. Her grip was firm, but not painful. “This will scar, maybe.”
Annette was exactly half way between five and six feet tall, with a long straight nose and grey-green eyes. She was more familiarly found on the arm of her much older husband, Councilman Harrington, but Phillip had attended several of the same social events with her. As typical to her tastes, she wore a modest dress of deep indigo blue and her dyed and decorated hair was swept back so only a few white and multi-coloured strands fell in her face. Fashionable, discreet, well placed, and completely incongruous in a dirty jail cell.
“Adam, look at me, and listen to me,” she was speaking slowly. “This can be easy, or hard. It is your choice.”
His mouth tightened into a sneer of dislike, but his brown eyes met hers. “Who the fuck is Adam? Fuck off and tell your husband he can fuck himself too.”
He doubled up. She’d kicked him very hard between the legs, with enough force he felt like he’d throw up.
—
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i love these stories of annette kicking him,castrating him wish it was me at her mercy cant get enough of really cruel sadistic women only wish the guards were women to dont like men in almost equal position as women we should allways be the prisoner