The hard taskmaster pushed the young comfort girl off of him. “Assume your position, Number Four,” he told her.
Janice, startled at the man’s voice and his rude action, scrambled to her obey. She placed her hands behind her head and rose high on her knees, her back straight, her breasts pressed outwards. Tamarov rose slowly. He sat down next to the small table and poured himself a cup of tea. It was a pungent, black tea, redolent of the black soil of the Crimea where he had been born. Its bold taste pleased him and he savored it as it flowed down his throat.
“You have improved, Number Four,” he told the anxious young woman. “But you still need much work. I think that we will double up on your punishments as a motivator. You will now receive ten lashes every training period. Five at the b
