The tortured tourists

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The flies were the worst of the many indignities. Even the odors of decayed fish from the nearby wharves, and the sharp, acrid smell of male urine from the pissoir outside her window, h, had become part of the accepted background. She was aware that her own body had begun to add to the aroma. Next to the flies, she hated more than all the rest to feel the acute needs of her unwashed body.

She tried to shift her position, but the bonds which kept her spread-eagled on the soiled bed linen were not loose enough to permit much movement. She looked down through the valley of her proud young breasts, over the creamy flat tummy and the blonde curls of her womanly forest, to the iron rails at the foot of the bed. The ropes which secured her ankles were tied to the two corner posts.

The shifting movement had caused a little chafing, but her ankles didn't bother her as much as her wrists. She couldn't see them but she could imagine the red rawness of the skin from the burning sensations. Yet, this misery paled by comparison with the flies.

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