Torture in San Rosario

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BIANCA - Part 1 of 3

Sergeant Gerardo Gómez was one of the most sadistic torturers in San Rosario.

It was also believed that he fabricated charges against women he fancied, whom he would randomly encounter at cafés or their workplaces, just to gain the pleasure of interrogating them himself or through his colleagues.

He had a particular preference for women with very fair skin.

Bianca had no idea what awaited her when she returned home for Christmas. She had been studying art history abroad, her life a world apart from the junta of her homeland. The cursed island, as she bitterly called it, had become a place she visited out of duty rather than joy.

On the evening of her arrival, tired from her journey, she stepped out of the taxi in front of her family’s home. Unbeknownst to her, Sergeant Gómez happened to pass by, his sharp gaze locking onto her like a predator spotting prey.

Bianca, in the police office, was stunned. "This must be a mistake," she protested. "I’ve been away for months—I don’t even follow politics!"

Gómez punched her, and Bianca was covered in blood. They gave her a shirt to wear for the obligatory photo shoot for the press.

"San Rosario's law grants me the right to interrogate you for a month before deciding whether to press charges against you or not."

He asked about her friends, her studies, and her supposed "contacts" abroad. When Bianca insisted she had no political involvement, Gómez only chuckled. "You’re clever," he said, "but everyone talks eventually."

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BIANCA - Part 2 of 3

Gómez initially subjected her to falaka torture. "You won't be able to walk," he sneered, "your pretty soles turn me on."

Afterward, following a gang rape, Gómez ordered two of his burly subordinates (each weighing three times as much as Bianca) to "take care of her accordingly."

"You splattered us with blood, little bitch." You must have some venereal diseases from fucking around in Europe with all kinds of lowlifes" "Good thing we fucked you with a condom"

The first day's session ended with the Judas cradle. In that position, various officers kept passing by and groping her.

Gomez, playing with his cock in front of Bianca, spread his cum all over her battered body.

"I'll have you here for a whole month, I have other beautiful blond bitches here, but you turn me on the most."

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I will be able to post part 3 in a few days, real-life obligations are pressing once again.

Thanks for the comments so far!

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BIANCA - Part 3 of 3

- Don't lower your hands! If you get tired, we'll melt your little body again.
"I am dying for cop cocks." Say it 60 times!

That afternoon they had her hung up for many hours.
When they got tired of whipping her, they would take her down, and rape her. Sometimes the bigger dicks would wait their turn, to fuck the girl for the third or fourth time.
- I brought a new box of condoms, who will take her now?

- You are an educated young woman, a future renowned artist, eh? It's a shame that you don't speak.
- But I have no involvement. You all know that you torture me because I arouse you.
- It's true, haha ​​you get it. And I especially go crazy for little white whores. I'm not the only one.

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The brave protest in San Rosario was overwhelmed by violence from the military forces. The orders had been given: disperse the men, arrest the women.

Instead of crying or pleading, she laughed—a nervous, almost defiant laugh. She thought it might humanize her in their eyes, soften their aggression.

She saw no allies, no hope of escape, only the leering faces of those who saw her as a fuck prize rather than a person.

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The retired major had an issue with his erection and couldn’t even masturbate. The military doctor advised him to combine medical treatment with visits to female detainees.

He had a very good reputation in the service, so they reserved the best detainees for him. Here, he fondles the 35-year-old left-wing professor for quite some time.

Because she has been tortured extensively in the past few days, she tries not to resist, knowing that doing so will lead to even more suffering.

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SCENE 1: Paolita Alvarez (26). The ride was always the same. Her destination, the dairy factory where she worked as a telephone operator, was nothing glamorous, but it paid the bills.

Today, however, her routine was disrupted by the unwelcome presence of Ramón. He was an unpleasant man in his sixties.

He glanced at Paolita, who had pulled a book from her bag and was quietly reading.

Leaning back in his seat, Ramón began rehearsing his accusation in his mind. He imagined the girl in the hands of the police.

"The young woman on the bus sitting next to me, was so engrossed in her book that she whispered, ‘Junta, go to hell.’"

SCENE 2: It was a bold lie, but one he thought would be enough to sow chaos in Paolita’s life. The junta didn’t need much to turn suspicion into punishment.

Hours later, Paolita sat in a cold room, her hands trembling as she faced an interrogator. The accusations were laid out plainly: she had supposedly insulted the junta.

SCENE 3 & SCENE 4

Hands are fondling her. The hands of both male and female officers.

An artistic and a photorealistic view, respectively.

SCENE 5 & SCENE 6

They didn't stop groping her for a moment.

In three days, she was released, but she endured immense physical pain and brutal sexual abuse during that period. However, the accusation was absurd, even by the junta's standards.

Ramón had gotten his revenge by imagining every detail of what they did to Paolita at the police station.

He knew very well that if he made a move on her on the bus, she would simply feel disgusted—she might even vomit.

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Yvonne Gustafson (41). A former fashion model from Scandinavia. Her marriage to Colonel Zeno Jimenez, a decorated military officer, had been a whirlwind romance—passionate, intoxicating.

Yvonne had remained blissfully ignorant. Politics bored her, and Zeno, knowing her distaste for such matters, ensured she was shielded from the ugliness of his work. That is, until the day she stumbled upon a file in Zeno's private study, left carelessly open on his desk.

The images inside were horrific: All women. Bruised faces, shackled bodies, chilling descriptions of gang rapes. These weren’t random acts of violence; they were orchestrated, systematic. And Zeno, her husband, was named repeatedly in the reports as a leader of the most brutal methods.

That evening, Yvonne confronted him, her voice trembling. “Zeno, is this true? Do you… do you torture people?”

“Torture, Yvonne? That’s such a crude term. I extract truths. I ensure loyalty. These are necessary evils in times of unrest.”

Her horror deepened as his veneer of civility slipped. She pressed on, her voice rising.

“Do you hurt women? Students? The reports—” “I want to see one day how you torture the female students. It excites me.”

“Excites you? My dear Yvonne, you have no idea what you’re asking for. You are not allowed to enter the interrogation room unless it’s as a prisoner.”

Her breath caught. “But I want to understand,” she insisted, her voice shaking but resolute.

“I can’t let the bastards lay a hand on you, but I can simulate an abuse threat for you. The foreplay before the torture, as you might call it. Would that satisfy your curiosity?”

"Yes"

That night, she lay awake, torn between fleeing this life of darkness and the strange, dangerous allure of uncovering the depths of her husband’s soul—and her own.

The tropical paradise of San Rosario had turned into a twisted labyrinth, and Yvonne was no longer sure she could find her way out.

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More forced breast fondling used as a foreplay interrogation method in the San Rosario junta.

Among the resistance was a journalist named Sofia Morales. Sofia had once written for El Sol Libre, a newspaper that had dared to criticize Trujillo's government. The junta shut it down and began hunting its contributors.

His dirty fingernails on her perfect breasts.

They tied Sofia to a torture cross.

As one of them drew near, licking the blood from her pale skin with a twisted fascination, she stared straight ahead, her mind a fortress.

“She is far better than the others, a classy one” muttered the middle-aged sergeant.

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He used to pair up the girls (after they were arrested in various mass raids and before the torture began), photograph them, and shout unspeakable obscenities at them. He would pair those who looked most alike.

The ten young female anti-junta students who were arrested today at the rally knew this was nothing compared to the hell that was yet to come.

"Stand close". When they hesitated, an incredibly hard slap from one of the gigantic, muscled guards forced them into position.