I uploaded the files to my own encrypted server, and then sent an email to Kirsten. I’d met her a few times and liked her. She was a therapist, she knew about supernaturals, and a close friend of mine trusted her completely, which was enough to make me trust her, as well.
I asked her if she could give me an appointment for a session via phone or video chat, and let her know I had Aaron’s encryption software, and was assuming she did, as well.
And then I looked at the pictures of the men who’d hurt Ice, branding them into my memory.
After a long plane ride halfway around the world, during which she’d been repeatedly raped, they’d taken her to one of their strongholds. The first few days hadn’t been bad in comparison to what came later. They’d strapped her to a table in their lunch room area, her arms over her head, her legs spread and tied with a rope running under the table. They’d left her like this for days, and every man in the organization had used her in every hole possible. When they realized this wasn’t going to break her, they’d started on actual torture.
Ice was convinced their main torturer, Grigoriy Ivankov, had been out of town when she’d first been brought in, and this was why she had it so easy those first days.
He walked in, fucked her ass, asked her a dozen questions, and then ordered her taken downstairs.
The act of moving her was excruciating, as she’d been bound to the table for so long, but now she wasn’t bound at all. Grigoriy beat her with a rubber truncheon, all over her body, and when she was lying in a puddle of her own sweat and blood, a swollen, bloody mass of pain, he used pliers to remove the nails from both pinky fingers, and both of her smallest toes. He told her he’d be back in five hours to ask the questions again.
Unfortunately, Ice didn’t have the answers they were looking for. She only knew what her contact had looked like, the lack of discernible accent, how much money they’d given her, the account it’d come from, and the email address she’d used to contact them.
Over the next ten days, she was beaten twice a day, morning and night. The first five days, four nails were removed at the end of each evening session.
Ivankov seemed to get particularly turned on when he ripped her nails off, and usually tied her into the position he’d want to rape her, before he wrenched them away from her nailbed. Once, he buried his cock deep inside her ass and then tore them off, groaning in bliss as she screamed and writhed in pain.
One day, they beat the bridge of her nose with a rubber mallet, several days, they beat the bottom of her feet with a brass rod. Another day, they beat the outside of her feet, just below her baby toes, with the rubber mallet.
And nearly every day, Grigoriy Ivankov would play with her hair as he talked to her, twisting a strand around his finger. Sometimes, he’d let it relax around his finger and slip off. Other times, he’d yank the hair out by the roots.
The nights were also hell. Sometimes she’d be tied so she had to sit on a stool leg all night, meaning she had to keep her weight on her thighs to keep the stool from poking too far into her rectum, or too far up her pussy — depending on how they sat her on it.
Other nights, she was placed near an open window when it was bitterly cold, and the guards would throw ice cold water on her every couple of hours.
One day, he took her back upstairs to the table, strapped her as she’d been bound those first days, and used a scalpel to remove her clit hood before allowing all of the men to use her as they pleased until it was time for her evening torture session. He’d used what she was pretty sure was styptic powder to stop the bleeding, and she’d written it had burned worse than the fires of hell. The men had taken great joy in messing with her clit directly while they used her, reveling in her agony as she pleaded with them for respite, as any touch at all was too much sensation, and excruciatingly painful. Ivankov had raped her six times that day — once before he stopped the bleeding, and he’d used her blood as lube when he fucked her ass. Then, her screams from the burning of the styptic powder had turned him on so much, once he’d hosed her down to get rid of the blood, he’d raped her again before telling the men she’d be available the rest of the day.
They hadn’t carried her back to her cell until late in the evening, when it was time for her next beating, and Ivankov had flogged and then belted her pussy and exposed clit while two men held her down, and two other men held her legs apart. Her screams had turned them on, and they’d argued over who was going to get her first. In the end, they’d gone three at a time, using all of her holes at once until their lusts were all satisfied.