Curiosity piqued as the girl continued to pule and protest.  Gerlinde moved the rubbery stiffness of those supple limbs into place on the table, then began strapping down her wrists and ankles under the tough, smooth leather of the bindings - a fixture standard to all the operating tables of the Stalag.  As she did, she allowed her touches to linger a bit too long on the fresh silk of gooseflesh breasts, on the cold marble inside the girl's thighs.  And she talked, because now her mind was wandering again, teasing with what the girl had said.<br/><br/>"I don't want you to be a toilet either, so you best obey."  Gerlinde tugged the steel buckles in place over the wide tongues of the leather straps.  She glanced over the girl's eyes.  What she saw there, spiked both lust and spite through her system.  Lust, as she wanted that wet look of helplessness wrapped around her stare as the girl's pussy wrapped around her cock to suckle.  And spite, because she hated the girl for making her want these things.<br/><br/>She pinched a nipple hard before she could stop herself.  Then Gerlinde resolved to not even think about stopping herself again.  She would do whatever she wanted with this girl.  And whatever extent of shame or dismay or pain doing those delicious things caused her, she would make the girl pay for it.<br/><br/>"You tell me, though - what did you do?  How did you end up here?"  Gerlinde's mind played with a recent memory: That of her and Marta, her favorite among the inmates, watching a movie together.  It had been a classic - an old spy film, "The Bourne Identity."  In it, a man of prodigious talents was hunted as he stalked the trail of his own identity.  The man's amnesia made him dangerous; his unraveling of his identity's mystery made him a target.  Gerlinde had found the movie largely uninteresting but for this central conceit, and had mostly entertained herself by squeezing the excited Marta and coddling her thoughts of how happy it made the wild, punkish, primal girl.  The evening had been more an appreciation that she could still make someone - even an inmate under her charge - genuinely happy, than it had been about the film.<br/><br/>Yet now the film came back, freshly spiced with the notion that the girl's mysterious identity had somehow brought her to this place of destruction.  Gerlinde felt an almost carnal lust for discovering what that identity was - why the girl was here.  It would not matter soon.  But for now, it mattered a lot.<br/><br/>Her mind made a note of what it was doing to continue the operation: Picking up the Testostercortizan syringe, its chamber full of shiny blue liquid; picking up an egg-shaped remote control vibrator.  The syringe she held in one hand.  The vibrator, she set between the girl's legs.<br/><br/>Then, she took hold of one breast.  Bracing its firm bulge with her fingers, Gerlinde began rubbing the nipple hard, as though trying to strike a lighter to fire.  She pierced the girl's eyes with her own.  She wrapped that wet helplessness around her stare.  And she let her wandering mind speak.<br/><br/>"Tell me.  Best tell me the important parts.  All the secrets.  Best come clean.  Because it might not matter soon."  If it did at all, Gerlinde thought.  "Tell me everything, and maybe it'll make a difference."