Chapter 33: Bound By Law: Part 3

“The Dance of Despair”

Sylvia stood trembling on the raised podium, her bare feet pressing into the rough wood beneath her. She could feel the coarse texture digging into her skin as she shifted nervously from foot to foot. The crowd had grown larger, a sea of dark faces now completely surrounding the platform. Men, women, children, and the elderly had all gathered to witness the interrogation of the lone white woman in their midst. Their eyes were fixed on her, some curious, others indifferent, but all watching her with an unsettling intensity.

Sylvia’s arms crossed tightly over her chest, her hands desperately trying to cover her exposed breasts, while one arm reached down to shield her pubic area. Her body was drenched in sweat, the heat of the sun and the weight of their stares making her skin glisten under the harsh light. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat louder than the last, as fear gripped her. She couldn’t look up, couldn’t meet their eyes—too ashamed, too terrified of what might come next. The police officers stood on either side of her, their dark uniforms stark against her pale, naked skin, their presence a looming threat as they waited for further instructions.

Behind her, a dilapidated building loomed, its crumbling walls and faded paint a reflection of the harsh environment she had found herself in. A few figures stood in the shadow of the entrance, their faces hidden in the dim light, but they too were part of the audience, silently observing her degradation. The crowd murmured softly, their voices a mix of excitement and anticipation as they whispered to each other about the spectacle unfolding before them.

Sylvia glanced nervously at the police desk in front of her, where Mwanga sat, his expression cold and detached. The makeshift desk was simple, placed in front of the podium, and served as a symbol of authority. Mwanga’s eyes were unreadable as he watched her, but Sylvia could feel the weight of his gaze. Next to him, Emeka was busy setting up the next part of the “interrogation.” Her eyes flickered to the car batteries laid out nearby, her stomach dropping at the sight. She had heard rumors, but seeing them here, ready to be used, filled her with a deep, gnawing dread. No ... please, not that, she thought, her heart racing faster. She knew what they were for, but her mind refused to fully accept it.

Emeka moved with casual efficiency, seemingly unaffected by the gravity of the situation. He retrieved a long pole, placing it at the edge of the podium with a metal hook hanging ominously from the top. The setup was simple but cruelly effective. Sylvia’s eyes widened as she watched, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t want to know what came next, but there was no escaping it. The circle of people surrounding her grew tighter, their expressions more focused, their whispers louder as they discussed her fate.

A few children pushed to the front of the crowd, their eyes wide with fascination. They tugged on their parents’ sleeves, pointing at Sylvia and asking questions she could barely hear over the noise. The adults, standing taller behind them, watched with grim interest, their faces betraying no sympathy for the trembling woman on display. They were here for a show, and Sylvia was the unwilling star of their twisted spectacle.

The sun beat down mercilessly, adding to the suffocating heat that clung to her skin. Sylvia’s hands tightened their grip, her arms trembling from the effort of trying to maintain what little modesty she could. But it was futile. She could feel the heat of their stares crawling over every inch of her body, her nudity more exposed than ever. The shame weighed heavily on her, a physical presence that made her want to collapse under its unbearable pressure.

“Look at her, eh,” a voice called out from the crowd, thick with an African accent. “She be scared, eh? You see how she cover herself?”

“Ya, but that not help her,” another voice chimed in, followed by the sound of cruel laughter. “She gon’ learn soon what come next.”

Sylvia’s heart sank deeper. She could barely focus on the individual words, but the meaning was clear. Her legs shook beneath her, threatening to give way, but she forced herself to stand tall, despite the overwhelming fear.

Mwanga stood casually at the front of the podium, his arms resting lazily at his sides, as he addressed both Sylvia and the gathered crowd. His tone was conversational, almost as if he were explaining something trivial, but there was a dark undercurrent to his words.

“We used to do this kind of interrogation inside the police station,” Mwanga began, his deep voice cutting through the murmuring crowd. “I don’t even remember the last time we had a public interrogation, long before my time. But back then, ya, they used to do them outside.” He shrugged nonchalantly, as if the weight of the situation was of little consequence to him.

He gestured lazily toward the crumbling building behind him. “I prefer to do it inside, especially when it’s a woman. You know, even criminals got some dignity, and doing things like this to a woman, not good for public view, eh? But ... now I don’t have that option. Station’s under construction, ya? So, we moved everything outside. Everything.” He chuckled softly, his eyes locking onto Sylvia, who stood motionless, trembling, her hands futilely trying to shield her exposed body.

The crowd nodded, murmuring in agreement, their gazes shifting between Mwanga and the pale, terrified woman on the platform.

“So, Sylvia ... Elsa ... wasa ... whatever this white woman’s name is,” he continued, smirking as he fumbled over her name, “she’s our first public interrogation. Ya. First time doing this out here, for everyone to see.”

Sylvia’s mind reeled. Why me? she thought. Why did she always have to be the one caught in these situations? Misfortune seemed to follow her like a dark cloud, and now, she was the first to endure this public spectacle. Her heart pounded in her chest, and a sinking feeling of helplessness washed over her. She could hardly breathe, her body trembling as the reality of the situation settled in.

Mwanga’s gaze swept over the crowd, then back to Sylvia. “Okay, the setup here is for what we call ... electrical questioning. We’ll finish the setup and then explain the rest.” His tone was almost casual, like he was explaining the weather, but the implication of his words sent a fresh wave of terror through Sylvia.

Meanwhile, Emeka had been busy with his preparations. He moved with practiced ease, placing two car batteries on either side of the podium. He connected long, thick wires to each battery, their ends coiling toward the center of the platform like snakes. Attached to the wires were metal patches and small pins, gleaming ominously in the sunlight.

The crowd watched with growing anticipation, whispering among themselves. Some stood on their tiptoes, trying to get a better view, while others leaned in closer, their expressions dark with curiosity. The children were wide-eyed, tugging on their parents’ sleeves, pointing at the strange equipment being set up.

Sylvia’s breath hitched as Emeka stepped onto the podium, standing just beside her. His presence next to the pole added to the overwhelming sense of dread that pressed down on her chest. The wires trailed from the batteries, the patches and pins hanging loosely in his hands. She didn’t want to imagine what was going to happen next, but the sight of the wires and batteries sent her mind spiraling with fear.

“Don’t worry,” Emeka said with a smirk, addressing the crowd but looking directly at Sylvia, “we gon’ make sure she feel every bit of dis lesson.”

The crowd chuckled, and a few people shouted in agreement. Sylvia could only stand there, her legs weak and shaking, her hands trembling as they clutched her body in a vain attempt to shield herself. She was trapped, helpless, and completely exposed to whatever they had planned next.

Emeka’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding, “Raise ya hands over ya head, woman. Don’t move.”

Sylvia’s heart pounded in her chest as she hesitated for the briefest moment, then obeyed. Her trembling arms lifted above her head, fingers splayed in the air, exposing her already vulnerable body even further. She could feel the weight of every eye in the crowd, the heat of the sun on her skin, and the stifling shame that seemed to press down on her like a suffocating blanket. Her only instinct had been to cover herself, to protect what little dignity she had left, but now she was being forced to stand completely exposed, unable to even shield herself with her hands. The crowd watched eagerly, their whispers and murmurs growing louder as they awaited what came next.

Emeka moved swiftly, methodically, as he began the degrading task of attaching the pins and patches. He started at her chest, and Sylvia flinched as he roughly grabbed one of her swollen nipples. His fingers were cold and indifferent, pinching her sensitive flesh as he attached the first small metal pin. The cold metal bit into her skin, sending a sharp sensation through her body. Her breath hitched, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out the humiliation, but it was impossible. Every nerve in her body was on high alert, painfully aware of each degrading touch.

Without a word, Emeka moved to the other nipple, his grip just as rough, attaching the second pin. Sylvia’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, her nipples now painfully clamped between the metal devices. The weight of the pins made her acutely aware of how exposed she was, and the cold metal only amplified her discomfort.

“Part ya legs,” Emeka ordered curtly.

Sylvia’s face burned with shame, but she complied, spreading her legs slightly as Emeka crouched down in front of her. His hands parted her vulva with an almost clinical detachment, exposing her most private area to the crowd without a hint of care. She could feel the cool air on her exposed clitoris, and she bit her lip to hold back a sob. The shame was unbearable—knowing that dozens of eyes were watching her every move, seeing every inch of her.

Emeka worked quickly, attaching a small pin to her clitoris. The sharp sensation of the cold metal made Sylvia wince, the pin clamping down on her sensitive nerve endings, amplifying her discomfort. She could hear the whispers of the crowd, feel their eyes on her, and her entire body flushed with humiliation.

Next, he attached two sticky patches to either side of her vulva, the adhesive pulling slightly at her skin as they were pressed into place. Each patch felt like an added layer of shame, as though her body was being turned into a cruel, grotesque spectacle for the crowd’s amusement.

Emeka wasn’t finished. He stepped behind her, his hands roughly spreading her buttocks. Sylvia’s body tensed instinctively at the touch, and her breath caught in her throat. She stood frozen in place, trembling as she felt him place two patches on either side of her anus, as close to the sensitive opening as possible. The sticky adhesive clung to her skin, and the sensation of being touched there, so intimately, so publicly, sent a wave of nausea through her.

Finally, Emeka pulled out a small vibrator, no bigger than a thumb but thicker, and without hesitation, he pushed it deep inside her anus. The intrusion was sudden, and Sylvia gasped in shock, her muscles clenching involuntarily around the device. The vibrator settled uncomfortably inside her, the foreign object pressing against the tight walls of her rectum, sending a dull, throbbing discomfort through her lower body. Her face flushed crimson as she stood there, her body fully wired and exposed, every part of her now vulnerable and violated.

The sensory overload was almost too much to bear—her nipples ached from the weight of the pins, her clitoris throbbed from the pressure of the clamp, the patches on her vulva and anus itched against her skin, and the vibrator lodged inside her made her stomach twist with discomfort. She felt like a puppet, every part of her body wired and controlled by others, her dignity stripped away completely.

“Lower ya hands,” Emeka said, stepping back to inspect his work.

Sylvia immediately lowered her trembling arms, her instinct driving her to cover herself once more. Her hands moved to her chest and between her legs, trying in vain to shield her body from the humiliation she was enduring. But the wires tugged slightly with her movements, reminding her of the devices attached to her.

“Be carefula with ya hands,” Emeka warned with a smirk. “Don’t touch the wires or let the patches fall. They’re sticky stuff, ya, but if you yank them hard enough, they’ll come off. So be careful, okay?”

Sylvia barely registered his words. Her mind was clouded with shame and dread, her body shaking from the sheer weight of her exposure. She couldn’t meet the eyes of the crowd, couldn’t bear to see the looks on their faces. The cruel laughter and whispers continued, growing louder now that she was fully wired and standing in complete humiliation.

Mwanga stepped forward, his voice cutting through the noise. “Now,” he began, his tone calm and almost detached, “let me explain what happens next...”

Mwanga placed a laminated piece of paper on the makeshift desk, smoothing it down with casual ease, as if what was about to unfold was nothing more than a routine explanation. He turned to the crowd, raising his voice so it carried across the gathered onlookers.

“Okay,” he began, his tone almost instructional, “this electrical system, ya? It was developed by a scientist in South America. My predecessor got it from the government, and I’ve used it a few times. Let me tell ya, it works well. It’s called the ‘electrical dancing machine.’”

He paused, letting the words settle in, his eyes flickering toward the children in the crowd before continuing. “Y’all know it’s science, so especially the young ones, listen and learn something today. Electricity can make muscles move in certain ways, ya? Based on the current and where we place the wires. So, this machine, it’s a bit of that scientific magic.”

Sylvia’s heart pounded in her chest, her entire body shaking as she stood there, fully wired with patches, pins, and that horrid vibrator lodged deep inside her anus. The cold metal from the pins on her nipples felt heavy, biting into her sensitive flesh. Her thighs trembled as she tried to keep still, her legs parted slightly, the humiliating weight of the clamps on her clitoris pulling at her painfully. Every word out of Mwanga’s mouth made her stomach twist in fear.

Mwanga continued, his eyes glinting with a casual cruelty as he gestured toward Sylvia’s trembling body. “Now, let’s break this down for ya, eh? One—those nipple pins you see,” he pointed, “they make ya want to shake your titties. The more ya shake ‘em, the less the pain. So, this machine gets them moving, ya?”

The crowd chuckled, some muttering to each other, and Sylvia’s face flushed with deepening shame. She could feel her nipples tingling from the pressure of the pins, each breath she took making her breasts jiggle slightly, already sensitizing her to what was coming.

“Two,” Mwanga said, gesturing lower, his eyes resting on her exposed vulva. “These pins on her fat and wide vulva, ya see? Perfect for this kind of interrogation.” He smirked as Sylvia’s body stiffened, her humiliation reaching new depths. “This will make ya want to push ya hips back, stick your ass out as far as it goes. You’ll be thrusting like that, cause it feels like somebody is kickin’ ya groin, you feel me?”

Sylvia bit her lip hard, holding back the sobs that threatened to break free. Her legs trembled as she stood there, the patches on her vulva already itching, and the thought of what was to come made her feel sick to her core.

“Three, and this one’s my favorite,” Mwanga continued with a grin. “The clit pin.” He chuckled as he pointed to where the pin was firmly attached to her most sensitive spot. “This one makes ya wanna run. I don’t know how it works exactly, but trust me, it does. It’s like it’s wired straight into your legs. I once used this on a man—tied a pin to the tip of his penis, and he ran so fast in place, it was like he thought he could run away! Hehe. But he couldn’t, of course, ‘cause he was tied to the pole, ya? He just ran in place, bow-legged, like a madman.”

The crowd erupted in laughter at the image Mwanga painted, but Sylvia felt nothing but horror. The pin on her clitoris already felt unbearable, and the idea of it making her move against her will, of being forced to run in place in such a degrading position, made her want to disappear.

“Oh, ya’ll remember that guy, right?” Mwanga turned to Emeka, grinning. “Used to be a 100-meter champion. Raped a woman—a newly married wife of a good friend of mine. So, I used that penis pin on him, nutting else, and made him run for four hours on that podium, bow-legged like a fool. He coulda run for longer, but eventually, he passed out. Mighta died, too. I handed him over to the prison officials.”

Emeka laughed, chiming in, “Ya, he was dead, man. Prison officers just dumped his body outside the town for the hyenas to eat. Hehe, they called you a sadistic bastard, but when I told ‘em what he’d done, they said, ‘Good work.’”

Sylvia’s stomach churned, the bile rising in her throat. The crowd murmured in dark amusement, a few people nodding in approval. The air was thick with cruelty, and Sylvia felt like she was suffocating under the weight of it.

Mwanga raised his hand for attention, continuing with the same cruel smirk. “Four—these patches on her anus. They work just like the ones on her vulva. They cramp the ass muscles, make your buttocks squeeze tight, and push your hips forward, like some poked ya in ya asshole. Yup, ya gonna see her thrustin’ both ways. Hehe.”

The crowd tittered with excitement, their eyes glued to Sylvia, eager to witness her humiliation.

“And lastly,” Mwanga said, drawing out his words, “the small vibrator in her asshole. Now, this is the best part. When the current runs through that, it’ll make her jump up and down like her asshole’s on fire. Like her body’s tryin’ to launch her into the air.”

Sylvia couldn’t take it anymore. Her entire body was trembling, her heart pounding violently against her ribs. The shame, the fear, the horror of what was about to happen—it was overwhelming. She couldn’t stop the tears from spilling down her cheeks as she stood there, her body wired for their amusement, her mind reeling with dread.

Mwanga gestured to the car batteries and the control box connected to the wires. “Now, all this is all controlled through that box there.” He pointed to the box next to one of the car batteries. “This thing switches the current randomly between all these pins and patches, so it makes the body move in different ways. That’s why we call it the dancing machine—’cause it makes ya dance.”

Mwanga grinned, turning back to face Sylvia. “So, you’re in for a treat, folks. You’re about to see this white woman with big titties and a fat ass dance for us. Ya ready?”

The crowd murmured with anticipation, a few men in the back shouting, “We ready! We ready!”

A chorus of eager responses rang out from the crowd, their excitement palpable. Sylvia stood frozen, her body shaking violently as she braced herself for the torment that was about to begin.

“Oh, one last thing,” Mwanga said, his voice carrying across the crowd with a cruel edge. “Ya see, Officer Emeka and I had a long discussion ‘bout this, thought it through proper, ya know? To make sure we give ya a good show.”

He paused, smirking as he glanced toward Sylvia, then back at the crowd, drawing out the moment. The crowd murmured in anticipation, eager to see what new torment was in store for the pale woman on the podium. Sylvia’s heart pounded in her chest, her stomach turning with dread. She could barely breathe as she stood there, naked and trembling, her body still wired and exposed for their amusement.

“Now, typically,” Mwanga continued, “on that pole, we tie criminals by the wrists, hands above their heads, or sometimes we string ‘em up by a noose—loose enough so they can’t run away. Tie their hands behind, too. That’s more fun ‘cause they have to stand on their own, ya see. They can’t just hang there when they get tired. Gotta keep standing or it’ll choke ‘em.”

He shrugged, the casualness of his words making Sylvia’s skin crawl. The crowd laughed, a few men nudging each other and nodding in agreement. The image of people struggling to stay on their feet while being strung up for the crowd’s entertainment was a familiar one here, and they were eager to see how this would play out.

“But with this woman,” Mwanga said, turning his gaze back to Sylvia, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent. “She got that beautiful long hair, ya? Now, we Africans don’t got that long, silky hair. I’m proud of our women’s curly hair, personally. What’s that long, silky hair good for, eh? Tying ‘em up.”

Sylvia’s breath hitched as the full weight of his words sank in. Her long, dark hair, which she had always taken pride in, was about to become yet another tool in her degradation. It was her only feature she had felt even remotely proud of since arriving on the island, and now it was about to be used against her.

While Mwanga spoke, Emeka was already moving. He stepped up onto the podium behind her, his hands grabbing a fistful of her hair with a firm, practiced grip. Sylvia winced, her scalp stinging as he gathered all of her long, dark hair into his hands. The crowd watched with eager eyes, murmuring among themselves as they saw what was about to happen.

Emeka’s hands worked swiftly, expertly pulling her hair up, twisting it into a tight knot. He reached for the rope, securing it tightly around the base of her hair, just above her neck, and with a firm tug, he pulled her hair upward toward the top of the pole. Sylvia whimpered as her scalp burned from the pressure, her head forced upward, her neck straining to keep her balance. Emeka tied the rope to the top of the pole, ensuring it was tight enough to hold her, but loose enough to allow her movement.

The rope tugged her head upward, forcing her to stand tall. She could still move, but any sudden movements would pull painfully at her scalp, reminding her of the brutal reality of her situation. She couldn’t run, couldn’t escape. Every movement was controlled by the ropes and the wires attached to her body.

The crowd murmured in approval, some nodding and commenting on how clever the method was. “Look at ‘er,” a woman in the front whispered to her friend. “That hair, so long, so dark ... ya, looks good against that white skin.”

“Ya,” her friend agreed, “that alabaster skin ... like a ghost, all tied up. Ain’t seen hair like that around here. Good idea with the pole.”

Sylvia’s eyes brimmed with tears as she listened to the crowd’s cruel comments. Her chest heaved with silent sobs, her body trembling with humiliation. She had always known she was different, her pale skin and dark hair making her stand out in a place like this, but now it felt like her very identity was being used as a weapon against her.

Her long, beautiful hair, something she had once been proud of, was now part of her torment, tied to the pole like a leash. Every time she moved, the rope tugged at her scalp, forcing her to remain upright, her head pulled upward in a painful, humiliating posture. She couldn’t even cry properly without feeling the tension on her hair, each sob pulling at the rope, reminding her that she was completely at their mercy.

Tears streamed down her face, dripping onto her exposed chest as she stood there, bound by her own hair, naked and wired for the crowd’s entertainment. Her mind swirled with shame and disbelief. How had it come to this? How had she become this object of ridicule, this spectacle for them to jeer at and mock? Her heart ached, not just from the physical pain, but from the soul-crushing weight of her humiliation.

The crowd continued to murmur in approval, their voices blending into a sea of noise around her. She was utterly alone, surrounded by people but completely isolated in her suffering. The world around her felt distant, as if it were happening to someone else, but the sharp sting of the rope in her hair and the weight of the metal clamps on her body reminded her all too clearly that this was her reality.

Sylvia cried, her sobs quiet and broken as she stood on display, her body trembling with the weight of her shame.

Sylvia stood trembling on the small wooden podium, her body exposed, her alabaster skin glistening under the harsh sun. Her long, dark hair was pulled painfully upward, tied to the top of the pole above her. Ten wires snaked out from various points of her body—two cruel metal clamps pinched her sensitive nipples, others pressed against her vulva, clitoris, and anus, each one threatening to unleash torment on her already broken body. A small vibrator had been shoved deep into her anus, its presence a constant reminder of her helplessness.

The weight of the crowd’s stares pressed down on her, a sea of dark faces surrounding her, watching, waiting. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she tried to keep her sobs at bay, the shame so intense it made her feel dizzy. But she knew, deep in her heart, this was only the beginning. The dread of what was to come gnawed at her insides, twisting her stomach into knots.

Mwanga’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts. “And really lastly,” he said, his tone mockingly casual, “we usually tie their arms behind their backs, ya? So they don’t go swingin’ ‘em around, either intentionally or reactin’ to the pain. They could rip out the wires, ya know. But with this woman, this ... what’s her crime again?”

He turned to the crowd, a smirk playing on his lips. Someone shouted from the back, “She’s an ass spreader!”

The crowd burst into laughter, the sound loud and cruel. Sylvia’s heart sank even further, her face flushed with humiliation as their mocking laughter rang in her ears.

“Ah yes,” Mwanga continued with a grin. “She’s accused of spreadin’ her ass cheeks in public. She’s an ass spreader.”

The crowd’s laughter grew louder, the words cutting through Sylvia like a knife. Tears welled up in her eyes as she stood there, her hands trembling at her sides, trying to brace herself for what came next.

“So,” Mwanga said, turning his attention back to her, “instead of tyin’ her arms behind her, we’ll let her be the ass spreader she seems so proud to be.”

Sylvia’s entire body tensed, her breathing growing more erratic as her mind tried to grasp the full horror of his words. No ... please, not this, she thought, the dread clawing at her insides.

“Miss ... Elsa ... or whatever it was—Sylvia!” Mwanga said, clearly relishing her discomfort. “Reach back and spread ya fat buttocks. Be the ass spreader ya seem so proud to be.”

Sylvia’s chest tightened with panic. The crowd’s laughter was deafening now, their jeers and crude comments ringing out as they waited for her to comply. Her face burned red with shame, her tears flowing freely now. But she had no choice. The command was clear, and the consequences of disobeying would only prolong her torment.

With a sob caught in her throat, Sylvia’s hands slowly, tremblingly, moved behind her. She could barely see through her tears as her shaking fingers reached for her exposed buttocks. The moment her hands made contact with her skin, she flinched, the humiliation of what she was about to do making her stomach churn.

She sobbed harder, her entire body wracked with shame as she reluctantly spread her buttocks, her fingers trembling as she parted them wide for the crowd to see. The cold air hit her exposed skin, making her feel more vulnerable than ever. Every second she held that degrading position felt like a lifetime.

The crowd roared with laughter, some cheering, others shouting crude insults. “Look at ‘er!” someone called out, their voice thick with amusement. “She’s a real ass spreader now!”

Sylvia’s tears fell harder as the shame overwhelmed her. She was crying openly now, her sobs mixing with the sound of the crowd’s jeers. Every part of her wanted to collapse, to disappear, but she had no choice but to stand there, exposed and humiliated, her hands gripping her buttocks tightly.

Mwanga’s voice cut through the noise, cold and commanding. “Don’t let your hands leave your fat buttocks,” he barked. “Every time you move ‘em, I’ll add an hour to the interrogation. We can be here all night if you want. Got that? Answer me, criminal!”

Sylvia choked on her sobs, her voice barely a whisper as she tried to answer. “Y ... ye ... yes, sir ... please ... please ... have mercy...”

Her voice cracked, and she couldn’t help but beg, her words spilling out in desperation. “Please ... please ... I’m begging you ... please...”