Torture Doesn't Work

"Perfect," Reyes booms. "That's some high-quality man love."

I look to Carl. He painted the ceiling, and now he's in hog heaven. He waves to me lazily, giving me permission to do whatever the fuck I want. What a joke. These guys can hand out demerits that allegedly cost one side or the other territory and resources. Everybody insists the stakes are real. Carl's boss's boss's bosses -- a council of creeps and ghouls -- have the second key for everything. Most importantly, they have it for the WMDs, which are all installed on their sovereign territory.

On my really bad days, I picture Carl, dick in hand, creeping on a big red button. He's escalated. He needs a bigger thrill. He's gonna start that fire. I wonder if he'd accidentally say something honest to justify himself: "both sides are the same, and we're even worse!"

So you know what? Fuck Alaska. Carl should die. We'll get it back someday. We always do.

I keep fucking the prisoner. I've found my rhythm. I'm not going to cum. Reyes is still watching and masturbating, and, like I said, it's ninety percent professional. She wants to believe I'm coming around -- no pun intended. She wants to believe I'm snapping out of it.

"Eternal edge," Sirhan says weakly. "You are cursed, heretic. Cursed."

"It's fine," Reyes says. "It's not like you have any obligation towards him. You're a big, strong man, after all. You're just having some hot gay sex. It's not like you're a sissy, whose entire reason for being is to ensure their partners cum."

Sirhan gets quiet. I feel him, around my cock. He's renewing his efforts. Reyes hit a sore spot.

"Pathetic," I growl. "This piece of ass would never pass for pussy. I'm more likely to piss in it than paint it with my cum."

"He stayed smooth for you, you know," Reyes says. "He has tremendous respect for your beliefs and values. He's smooth, he's topping you, and he even kept his odors and flavors true neutral out of an abundance of caution. But he's a real man, prisoner. He has needs. It's a really, really good thing you're not a sissy. Failing to help him meet those needs? That would be awful. You'd be such a bad sissy."

"Sissy is..." Sirhan tries, but Reyes is really getting to him, and he's unsure of how to continue. Sirhan's also really getting to me. I figure now's my moment.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU FUCKING SISSY BITCH!" I shout. I've worked up a light sweat, but I'm a military man. My body's a machine. I'm not panting. I'm not tired. I can do this all day. "You're the most annoying fucking sissy I've ever fucking fucked, you fucking illeist piece of shit! Prideful. Fucking prideful. You're pretending to be humble, but that's bullshit. It's fucking bullshit! You know who refers to themselves in the third fucking person, you twit? Narcissistic drama queens!"

"Sissy... I'm sorry, master," Sirhan says. His cadence is still at the whim of my relentless rhythm, but he gets the words out eventually. "I'm a failure. I'm worthless. I'll do anything to help you cum."

A million thoughts run through my head. I'm sure Carl's imagination is working overtime too. I look at Reyes. What I see breaks my heart. She thinks I'm back. She wants to believe it so badly.

"Names," I say. I keep fucking him -- well, her. There's no point in being an asshole about it now, is there?

From there, Reyes takes over. She gets her pad. Carl cleans himself up and then walks back over, clearly disappointed that things didn't escalate further. He manages to shake off his post-orgasmic daze and act like he's doing his job.

Sirhan gives up three names. We'll have three more prisoners in less than forty-eight hours. She's less helpful about the hardening technique; her scattered memories aren't immediately actionable, but the geek squad might be able to develop them. Reyes finally gives me the nod. I cum, hard. Reyes gently strokes Sirhan's face.

"Good sissy," she whispers. "You did so good for Mommy and Daddy."

Sirhan has something like an orgasm, though she doesn't shoot again; my final thrusts, plus Reyes' tonal whiplash, did it for her.

I withdraw and wait. Reyes calls in the grunts. They reposition sissy-Sirhan under Carl's watchful eye. I offer her my cock to clean, and she does so eagerly. She gets Reyes' top-quality tit afterwards, coated with her own weak sissy juice. Each of us teases one of the prisoner's nipples while she suckles. Sirhan's titties are still gross because of all that plastered-on hair, but I don't mind that right now. This feels more human. I can pretend we're not directly in front of the bullshit firehose. I can pretend we're carving out a moment for ourselves.

Back in the prep area, Reyes and I shower together. She's happy, for the most part. She's never fully satisfied. She always thinks she could've gotten more. She wants to believe I'm back, though, and so there's a tension there. She can't criticize her own performance without criticizing mine, and she doesn't want to do that. She wants to focus on the positive.

If she were to be captured, that's the kind of chink in the armor that our counterparts would surely exploit. It's what I would've done, back when I gave a shit.

Back in the locker room, I pop the counteragent. As I wait for my cock to deflate, I can't stop myself from sighing. It's heavy and deep. Reyes commits a tiny breach in protocol; she places her hand on my bare shoulder. It's fine. Carl's long gone, back to his palatial quarters. This wouldn't be his jurisdiction, either, but you never want to give a guy like that leverage.

"I know it's hard sometimes, boss," she says, "but this is where the data took us. Torture doesn't work."

The irony overwhelms me. I wouldn't even know where to begin. From Reyes's perspective, it still should be torture, even though it isn't. To some hypothetical outside observer, it'd look that way at first. Reyes is in that sweet spot. The contours of her denial are perfect. They're laser cut by an AI surgeon. Give me an extra five minutes with that outside observer, and they'd get it. Reyes? No. She's not ready.

Thus, I don't even try to begin. "You did great in there, Lieutenant," I tell her. "You put in the work, and you got the results."

"Thank you, sir," she says. She still cares what I think. I feel awful.

"Also... 'illiest,'" she adds flatly. "I had to look it up once I got my pad back. College boy. Seriously, stop stuffing your pants with your diplomas. Wouldn't be surprised if your dick's only three inches."

I give her a chuckle; she earned it. It makes her feel better. More importantly, it makes her feel like she doesn't have to babysit me tonight.

She'd do more than that for me, if it were allowed. She's my direct subordinate, though. We can't fraternize. A year ago, I'd have admitted my disappointment to anybody who'd asked. Reyes was, and is, every kind of hot. She's a knockout beauty, military modded, smart, confident, empathetic, loyal, and... I don't know, just keep listing virtues and I'll tell you when to stop. Bring a drink. Bring two.

Now, I'm glad I have an excuse. I'd be crying in her arms, limp as a wet noodle. I'd suckle for a bit, maybe. I don't know what she's into, sexually. It doesn't matter. I know what she's into psychologically and emotionally. She's into what I used to be. She's into the best damn sexual interrogator to ever work for the western treaty alliance -- or possibly for anyone. She's a believer. She's committed. Alone, together, truly naked, truly vulnerable... she'd see the truth, but only about me. The rest of the denial would hold. Worst of both worlds.

We make some more jokes. We say our goodbyes. I go to my office and do my 'paperwork' on my holodesk. Once officially off duty, I drink a little, but not too much.

Late that night, I call my friend. I'm lucky to have her. She comes with me to Sirhan's holding cell and plays monitor. It's easy for her to do, because she is one -- one of the good ones. She's a giant perv, but she's not like Carl. I guess I couldn't defend that statement very well, if challenged. She gets off on watching males have sex with each other, in particular. Tonight is a favor for a favor, then.

Sirhan's smooth and feminine again. She's wearing tasteful makeup, lingerie, a cage, and a wig. I bring a collar and a leash. I learn that her sissy name is actually SiSi, and I laugh so bitterly that she recoils, worried I might snap. I don't, but mostly because I already have. I fuck her sissy face with my manly cock. I respect everything it says about her in the dossier. She stays suspicious for a while, but I think she can sense that something's different. She lets it happen. She enjoys it -- probably more than I do.

I slump down next to her on the SofTile floor of the cell. I try so hard to make a human connection. I have the perfect excuse. Trying to convince a bloc member that the western treaty alliance is basically the same is a classic psyop. If anybody accuses me of believing that it's true, I'm covered. If SiSi officially defects, any sin against the alliance I might commit tonight will be washed away. I could tell her that the war is bullshit - that somehow 1984 and Brave New World and the biggest-budget porno in fucking history got smashed together by some secret society and left us all trapped in motherfucking Bizarro World. I could tell her that I'm tired. I could tell her that I'm so profoundly, spiritually, existentially sick of all of this shit.

I do.

She defects. She gives up even more intel. My friend retroactively makes my late-night visit official. She gives me no demerits, but doesn't play me up either.

Reyes is going to have stars in her eyes tomorrow morning. It's going to break my heart, because I know that eventually, I'm going to break hers again too.

Here's the worst part. I saved it for the end. If -- the motherfucking 'if' to end all 'if's -- this really is what it takes to keep those green zones green... it's worth it, I guess. Endless fucking War; a game with rules and referees; sex, spies, and holovids. The climate's stabilized. We're mining asteroids. We're harvesting solar like it's gene-modded kudzu. Gene-modded kudzu is nutritious and can taste like anything. Civvies are all hot, they're having tons of great sex, and they can smell and taste like anything, too -- even peanut butter and pickles, if they want. Life is pretty good.

Yeah. It's pretty good.