Classified Forms of Torture

Max couldn't stop herself from rolling her eyes. A typical thinly veiled rape threat from a typical boring old white dude whose life was so empty and rote this was probably the closest he ever got to excitement. Max knew her rights and she knew wannabe fascist pigs. He was gross but he was spineless. He'd only do as much as he could get away with.

"Whatever, man. You won't find drugs on my person and you won't find drugs on my bike. Say whatever you need to say to get you off and then let's be done with it."

The detective's eyes narrowed a bit, but he didn't glower. He placed the suitcase on the table, rolled his shoulders, and grinned a little as he dialed in the combination. Max just leaned back in her chair tried to act as blase as possible.

"What I'm about to show you," the detective said, reaching for the now unlocked fasteners but not opening them, "Was a pet project of one of top scientists at the Department of Homeland Security. I do not say 'top scientist' because he was one of the most industrious men. He was actually consistently ranked beneath his peers on account of poor performance when it came to assigned tasks or advancing the interests of the department. I say top not because he was focused but because he was brilliant. He had a knack for biological engineering, and a notoriously... depraved appetite."

There was something creepy about the man, something Max hadn't felt when he entered the room. It made her skittish and tense. She had to put a little more effort into pacing her breaths, steadying her hands, and keeping that chair leaning without toppling backwards or having it skid and clatter across the floor. Her cards, she felt, needed to be held closer and closer to her chest.

"Is this... is this some kind of joke?" she asked, needing to start the question twice just to keep her tone straight. She tried to laugh, and glanced back at one of the two officers standing on either side of her. They were unmoved, attentive, and stuff. Neither had badges on. She hadn't noticed that before.

Two clicks, as the detective threw the latches opened. He lifted the lid, marveled at something inside, then nodded to his companions.

They grabbed Max's arms. Before she could yelp. they'd cuffed her to the chair.

"The fuck is this?" she screamed, struggling in vain. "I don't have anything, alright? If you're trying to scare me into talking: I don't have anything!"

The two officers returned to their posts, by her side. They seemed ambivalent to Max jostling the chair, far too confident she'd never be able to get anywhere. The detective, meanwhile, had a grin that would look juvenile if it wasn't plastered on a man who currently held all the power where she had none. He reached into his box of toys and selected a thin, glass tube with metal caps on either end and a one pound slug in the middle. The salacious detective licked his lips, eyed his victim like she was caramel covered candy, and popped the lid off.

What slithered out and landed with a thud on the desk looked like a slug gorged on taffy. It was three inches long and almost one and a half thick. With every slithering lunch the thickness became length, then it'd squish again.

That's how it made its way across the table. Max didn't think she'd be able to eat again.

She didn't react until the thing threw itself off the table. Having it fall out of sight only a foot and a half from her triggered that unsuppressable panic any suburban or city raised person gets when something small and crawly gets anywhere near them. She closed her eyes and kicked at the ground hoping to smash whatever the fuck that thing was under her heel but two pairs of strong hands grabbed her legs, bent them back, and started bounding them. They didn't have the jump on her this time, though, and Max's superhuman strength took them off guard. Unfortunately, not really caring where she kicked or how hard, all she managed to do beyond toppling the two cops was knock the chair over onto the floor. There, on her side, she was no longer in a position to do anything but lash out and yell. None of which fazed the still delighted Detective Suthers.

"It's the earthworm sort, among other things," he lectured as one of her kicks managed to connect with something squishy. She looked down, or sideways, in the case, trying to get her bearings. From beneath her boot two shorter, leaner slugs approached. "It can be split up to sixteen times, without withering. Each still as potent."

Max kept thrashing. The cop to her left had pulled himself back up while his partner was still rubbing his head. He put his foot against the head of the chair. stopping Max from sliding it any further. While she managed to get a good kick to the slug on her left, the second was already by her calf.

"I could, of course, have administered these delivered these creatures to your body with a lot less fuss, but I find the struggle an instructive part of the interrogation. I like to get a sense of who I'm dealing with."

Max wasn't screaming anymore, just kicking and thrashing and trying with what limited precision she was afforded target and quash each and every one of these things. Unfortunately, she was losing track.

And one had slipped behind her, and was questing up the backside of her chair.

When it landed wet and heavy on her stomach she didn't know what she should do. She tried to wiggle, but there wasn't enough give. She tried to pop it off by puffing out her stomach, but it had too much grip. She tried to twist herself, throw the chair around and thrust it with the centripetal force of her spin but the chair and her body were too heavy for it and in her frenzy she couldn't coordinate her strength. With a few disgusting lurches the bee-lining slug had reached her waist, and its head flattened and prodded at the border of her jeans.

Max felt its warm juices and its ribbed and squirming body. It struggled, but persisted, and the ooze soaked through both clothes and skin. It felt like a ball of sharp needles rolling down her belly, lightly pricking but not piercing her. Her mouth fell open and her stature sagged. Beneath now closed lids, her eyes felt like they were rolling back in her sockets.

For a few moments, she did not breathe.

Then its head pressed through her labia, and she screamed.

It wasn't a scream of passion, or at least not just. It wasn't only surprise, either. It was an overload of sensation like a jolt from a wall plug or being awoken from a exhilarating dream. It passed and Max was back, now with a worm nestling up in her insides. It was still moving around, positioning itself near all her parts. It felt as uncomfortable as getting a pap smear.

While she was dazed, the two cops had lifted up her chair and thrust back down across the detective at the interrogation table. He whistled, and the remaining samples wormed there way back to him and into their tube. He closed the lid. Max, winded, was breathing quickly and deeply.

"What the fuck did you do to me?" She could still feel the thing, but it was now dormant. Her skin was sweating a lot more than usual.

"Installing the implements of my torture. The war on drugs is a losing one. I am stemming the tide."

He snapped, whistled, and Max felt it tighten around her clit as its head thrust deeper in her snatch. She screamed, and moaned.

"Now," he said ruthlessly. "Who do you work for?"

"I don't--"

Another attack on her sensitives, so overpowering it was almost painful.

"I-- I--"

"You're not soft enough," he said, turning away from her and leaning against the table.

He let out a long, sustained whistle.