Monica O'Rourke: Suffer the Flesh

“Fuck it, let them close it. I’m sick of this shit Zack’s got us doing. I didn’t agree to this when I paid my goddamned fortune.”

The sound of Jeff’s laughter followed them down the hall.

Her legs didn’t want to work. She forced herself to turn, to make it the last few feet to the stairwell.

The door was open. Once inside, she listened for movement. No voices, but heard the humming of equipment, and a light slapping sound. The old wooden staircase was solidly built, and she hoped it wouldn’t creek. One step, stop, listen. Then another. She didn’t know the layout of the room above. If someone was there, would she see his face, or his back?

The gun nearly slipped from her slick fingers. Sweat trickled down her face. Three more steps to the top. Two. The next step would bring her near the landing, would expose her head.

She couldn’t do this. Every nerve in her body was charged, every muscle over-wound. Every step a discovery in self-reliance.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to turn back. Maybe they’d forgive her, go easy on her.

Maybe they’d torture and kill her.

One more step. Tiny step.

She forced the step and peered over the edge. Discovered the source of the slapping noise.

He was sitting in a swivel chair, deeply engrossed in whatever was happening below. His engorged cock was in his hand, and he was beating off. His body was at an angle, not quite facing away.

She waited. He threw back his head and groaned, pounded harder. Cum spurted onto his hand, and he was lost in the throes of orgasm.

Zoey sprang up behind him, seized his testicles, and clamped down.

His eyes popped open and then his mouth, a look of utter shock on his face. “What the fuck?” He tried to move away but she squeezed tighter, and he doubled over.

She pressed the gun against the back of his head. “Don’t move, or I’ll rip them right off and shove them down your throat.”

Now what? She hadn’t thought this would work and didn’t have part two planned.

“The fuck?” he muttered.

“Shut your mouth,” she snapped, pressing the gun harder, at the same time applying more pressure to his balls.

His gun rested on the console a few feet away.

“I’m going to start moving you to the floor. I suggest you follow, unless you want two foot testicles. Nice and slow now.”

She pulled him in the direction she wanted and he followed, his hands splayed out in front of his body.

She raised her arm and cocked it back, and with a powerful swing smashed him in the back of his head with the gun.

He collapsed the rest of the way, landing hard. Blood seeped from the head wound.

She pulled her hand out from beneath his body, hoping he was unconscious, no way to know for certain. Using extension cords she yanked from outlets, carefully watching him every few seconds, she tightly bound his hands and feet. Her gun was on the floor beside her, inches away, but he didn’t move. Using a third cord, she hog-tied his hands and feet together behind his back. Grabbed the towel draped on the back of the chair and stuffed part of it in his mouth, wrapped the rest around his head and tied it at the back of his neck.

She raced downstairs and closed and locked the door. Rushed back up. Her prisoner hadn’t moved. Video cameras mounted on tripods or secured to posts were recording the room below. She reached to shut them off but changed her mind. If she somehow survived this, the tapes would be evidence.

Zoey looked at the room below the observation area. Horrified, her mouth fell open.

Everyone was there, other than the three she left behind in Room Six. The women, guards, visitors, even James. The torture devices Jessica had described were in the room as well, and they were in use.

Dizzying waves overpowered her, and she gripped the console. Couldn’t watch this, had never seen anything like it. On the panel she noticed the volume button and turned it on.

Screams poured out of the speaker, voices yelling and laughing, the sounds of whips and belts destroying flesh. The whirring of drills was followed by shrieks.

“No…” she sobbed, sucking air, shaking her head. She brushed away tears and looked again at the carnage.

Women chained, hanging from walls and ceiling, some upside down. Being beaten and raped. A shrill scream drowned out the voices for a moment. Marie, tied to a beam, her nipples being burned by a cigarette lighter. Cathy, tied spread-eagle to rings jutting from the floor, was approached by a man handling a grotesquely oversized dildo. Some had been so severely beaten, their faces swollen and hidden by gore, that Zoey didn’t recognize them.

In a section of the room, Megan was tied to rings jutting from the floor. Her joints were being pulverized by a man wielding a hammer, and he methodically smashed bone after bone, bits of white, sharp cartilage poking through purple flesh. Her screams of torment were drowned by the noise in the room, by the pounding of the hammer.

They unchained her from the floor and threaded her mashed limbs through the spokes of an oversized wagon wheel, strapping her in place, securing her. Moments later they began to beat her with a bullwhip.

Zack stood at the front of the room, easily ignoring the crying and begging women. “Dinner’s ready,” he said. “Why don’t you guys—”

The door to the torture chamber was slammed open, and Tamara and Jessica came stumbling inside.

“Oh, no…” Zoey said, getting up. “Oh, god, no…”

Jeff followed them in.

“What’s wrong?” Zack said.

Jeff gestured wildly. “Pete’s dead. Kurt’s nearly dead. You should see what the fuck they did to them. That black bitch tried to sit on me, but I moved away too fast.”

“What happened? ” Zack said, grabbing Jeff’s shoulders.

“They were loose in there, attacking everyone who went in.”

“ What? ” Zack looked at Tamara and Jessica. Other than the moans from those unable to help themselves, all other noise had ceased.

Zack grabbed Jessica’s hair and yanked back her head. “How did you get loose?”

Wide-eyed, Jessica stammered, threw her hands up to lessen his painful grip. He threw her to the floor.

He approached Tamara. “Tell me.”

She stood defiantly, didn’t seem like she was going to tell him anything until he punched her in the face. Arms pin wheeling, she went flying and landed on her back. He kicked her in her side. “Answer me, you cunt.”

“My hand got loose from the binding,” she cried, cowering.

“What binding?”

“I was on the rack,” she sobbed. “It loosened, and I slipped my hand out.” She sat up slowly, rubbed her cheek.

The men gathered around Zack. Face scarlet, as if with fever, he glowered at Tamara and Jessica. “What did they do to them, Jeff?”

“Pete’s dead. Looks like he was crushed. Kurt’s on the rack. Nearly torn apart.”

“Dead?”

“No, not yet. But he’s a mess. Balls are crushed, joints nearly ripped out of his sockets.”

“Leave him for now. We’ll get a doctor down here.”

“I think he needs a hospital,” Jeff said, scratching his ear.

“No hospitals. I’ll get him a doctor. But we’ve got some business to take care of first.” He glanced around the room, as if deciding on a plan of action.

“James gets a reprieve. Tamara here gets to take his place. And this one—Jessica—she gets the splitter.”

They lifted Jessica, screaming, flipped her upside down, and chained her ankles into two widely-spaced cuffs hanging from the ceiling, her head brushing the floor.

A large handheld saw was brought over.

Zack knelt beside her head. “This is an old-fashioned execution method. Quite ingenious in its simplicity. The idea is that in your position, the blood drains from the body and rushes to the head. When we start to saw between your legs, there will be very little blood loss, so your death will be agonizing and incredibly slow. We’ll slice right here.” His fingers brushed her mound for emphasis. “Right in your cunt. Slowly make our way down, very… very… slowly. It’ll be a while before we reach any arteries or major organs. This will take an eternity, Jessica.”