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Interrogation Tales
The Rookie is Ready

by No Name

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Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 01 Mar 2018

We find that interrogations are more productive if the prisoner is naked, the experienced officer explained to the rookie. He was showing the rookie a training film, preparatory to allowing him to conduct his first interrogation. On the film, two uniformed officers were questioning a naked young man, about nineteen years old, in a sparsely furnished office, containing only a simple table and two straight-backed chairs. The young man was standing nervously with his hands clasped behind his neck, his entire body exposed to view. The more senior of the two officers was sitting, relaxed, in a chair a couple of feet in front of him. A much younger officer stood slightly behind the prisoner and to the side, where the prisoner could not see him. This officer was brandishing an instrument that looked like a prison strap.

He isn’t going to hit that guy with that strap, is he? the rookie asked, incredulously. Surely that kind of brutality is not permissible.

Only if necessary, his instructor answered. But it often is.

The rookie watched, eyes popping out of his head, as the officer on the film whipped the strap down on the prisoner’s backside. The prisoner’s reaction – a combination of a leap and an spasmodic jerk – left no doubt that the blow was severe. The rookie found particularly amusing the way the prisoner’s dick flopped up and forward in response to this action. Will I get to do that? he asked.

When I think you are ready, answered the instructor.

He hit the guy only one time, the rookie commented. This was actually more of a question than an observation. Why, he wondered, did the officer with the strap use it only once? He’d have used it over and over.

You don’t get cooperation as a result of pain, the instructor explained. You get it from fear of pain. Now the motherfucker knows what will happen if he doesn’t get with the program.

The screen flickered blank, and a different scene appeared. Same room, same furnishing, same officers, but they were working a different prisoner. You could tell he was a different guy because of a large cobra tattoo that snaked up his back and one arm. Other than that, he looked pretty similar. Same age, same short haircut, same muscular build, similar tight ass (no two asses are ever identical). He was, of course, also naked. That was the protocol.

Are they all the same age? the rookie asked.

We get some juveniles, sometimes, the instructor answered. Piece of cake. You don’t need much training to deal with them. We bring them in here and have a little fun with them, but they break down real fast. Typical kid will be on his knees pleading for mercy and telling you everything you want to know before you even slap his ass. The rookie looked a little disappointed. Don’t worry, kid, the instructor reassured him. You’ll have plenty of asses to slap.

Aren’t some of these bastards older than this?

Oh, yeah. We get our share of guys who’ve gone to seed. There’s one of ’em on the film clip a little later. Pathetic, really. Flabby arms, beer gut. Fat ass. Don’t worry, the old farts can be fun too, though, in a different way. Tend to be tough old birds, can take a surprising amount of pain. They respond best to humiliation. We’ll talk about ways to make guys like that embarrassed to be alive. Use your creativity. He laughed. The word creativity came off his lips with a smirk, like it was a dirty word. You’ll need to learn about that, ’cause we use our younger officers on the old farts. It’s more humiliating when they’re worked by young guys. You’ll see.

The rookie nodded. He got the man’s point. At first blush, it seemed more... appealing... to deal with young dudes, around his own age – the ones with ripped muscles, tight asses, and plenty of attitude. Stripping them naked, applying techniques, having his way with them. And the idea of questioning naked teenagers had a special appeal. No persuading necessary there. The rookie licked his lips. But maybe it would be fun to deal with an older guy. He hadn’t thought of that. The rookie let his imagination play out – thinking of all the ways to humiliate one of those pathetic old bastards. (Old, in this context, means over about thirty-five. They would not encounter any prisoners much over forty. Oldsters just did not last in this young man’s world. But to the rookie, thirty-five seemed ancient. Worn out and useless.)

The junior officer on the screen shoved the naked dude over the table, and removed handcuffs from a clip on his belt. He cuffed the prisoner’s hands to the table legs on the other side, which forced the guy to splay his body across the surface. Then he cuffed the guys’ right ankle to one table leg and his left to another, way far apart. He asked the guy some questions (the film clip did not have sound, so they couldn’t hear what was said) but evidently did not get satisfactory answers. The rookie expected the officer to put the strap to good use on his butt, but that is not what he did. He ruffled the guy’s buzz haircut, almost affectionately, and massaged his neck, gently at first and then harder, as if he were going to strangle his windpipe. Then he rubbed both hands down the prisoner’s sides, along his ribcage, and up the inside of his thighs.

Why’s he doing all this? the rookie asked. Why doesn’t he just take the strap to his ass?

It’s a technique we developed in the Crimea. He’s showing the motherfucker that he can touch him wherever he wants. He’s asserting control, total control. Men like this are used to being the cock on the walk; they assert control over others; they’re the ones who can do what ever the hell they want to people who have the shit luck to come into their grasp. Now the tables are turned. He’s naked. He’s cuffed to the table, can’t get free, can’t protect himself, can’t move his arms or his legs. And he’s feeling this guy’s hands all over his body. Watch. It’s gonna get worse. The officer in the film now was now moving his hands all over the prisoner’s buttocks, caressing then squeezing then pinching (hard!) and slapping. The rookie was mesmerized. He gasped as he saw the interrogator reach between the prisoner’s legs and seize his balls. This was no caress. The officer was squeezing the prisoner’s balls so hard you could see his entire body tighten up in pain. But with arms and legs cuffed to the table, there wasn’t a damned thing the dude could do to protect himself. He wished he could hear what the officer was saying. I’ve got you by the balls, motherfucker. I’m gonna squeeze them ’til you squeal. Something like that, he guessed he was saying.

The young officer toyed with the dude’s backside and legs for a while longer, then stopped, abruptly. He strolled to the other side of the table, where his victim could see what he was doing. Slowly, casually, the officer removed his shirt. Why’s he doing that? the rookie asked. From his point of view, part of the joy of the thing was that one guy was stark naked and the other in full uniform. What a power dynamic!

Taking off his shirt makes the son-of-a-bitch wonder what else he might take off, and why. The officer’s hand went to his belt, as if he were going to unbuckle it. The rookie immediately grasped the strategy. He couldn’t see the prisoner’s face, but he imagined it must be a mask of fear. There is nothing, the instructor continued, nothing that these guys fear more than getting buggered. They’d rather be beaten to a pulp. They’d rather have their arms broken. At least, then they’d still be men. They’d rather be dead, prob’ly. This dude thinks he’s about to become that blond young officer’s bitch.

Do we actually get to DO that? the rookie asked.

No. Of course not, the instructor answered without hesitation. But did the rookie detect a wink?

The officer in the film did not actually take off his belt. Yet. Instead, he smiled wolfishly at the prisoner, and walked back to the other side of the table, the side that featured the dude’s naked vulnerable hindquarters. The prisoner could not longer see him. But he could hear. He heard the officer remove his belt. He felt the officer’s hands, again, on his ass. The interrogator warmed up his ass with a solid bare-hand spanking. This was not, in itself, painful enough to make much difference to the prisoner. A spanking like that might bring a boy to tears, but not a tough hombre like this dude. What the spanking accomplished, though, was to accentuate the fact that his ass was bare, exposed, and totally open to what the officer might like to do to it. The interrogating officer spread the man’s butt cheeks with both hands, and bent down and spat on his asshole. Understandably, the bound prisoner shuddered.

Only now did the more senior officer make a move. He had been sitting, impassive, in the straight-backed chair, observing the proceedings, available if his junior colleague needed any assistance. Now he stood, making enough noise that the prisoner, unable to see, would know that he stood. He walked brisked to the other side of the table, where he grabbed the two sides of the guy’s face with his hands. He said something – because of the lack of audio, the rookie did not know what he said. But evidently the prisoner took that moment to spill the beans. He told them all they wanted to know.

The screen flickered and a new duo of officers appeared in sight, along with a naked prisoner whose wrists were secured to a cable hanging down from the ceiling, high enough that his toes barely touched the ground. The two officers were standing behind him, each to one side. Both wielded straps. This one lied to his interrogators the instructor explained. They need to make an example of him. The camera panned to the other wall, where a dozen other prisoners stood with hands and feet bound by cuffs, wearing one-piece orange prison gowns, forced to watch and, if they were halfway smart, to learn. The younger officer grinned into the camera, and removed his shirt, obviously so that the cloth would not impede his swing. The older officer looked indulgent. He had done this many times before. But he remembered what it was like the first time. Ah, the enthusiasm of youth! He swung first. His strap slammed powerfully against the prisoner’s bare buttocks. His legs danced in pain. Then the junior officer struck, with similar effect. Then the first officer again, and the second. Over and over they brought their straps down on the howling man’s naked hindquarters, alternating one then the other, right and then left. The man’s ass, which started out a firm, youthful, concupiscent pair of winsome butt cheeks, quickly turned to a bruised and bloody mess. When the camera turned to the other prisoners, their faces communicated horror, fear, and disgust. As intended.

You think you can do it? the instructor asked. The rookie nodded eagerly. Then, his eyes flitting to the front of the young man’s uniform trousers, he rephrased his question: You UP to the job, son? He required no verbal response. I see you are, the instructor stated, smiling at the sight. I see you are.

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