Monica O'Rourke: Suffer the Flesh

A banging sound, like a heavy door being thrown open, crashing against a wall. Footfalls, heels against pavement. She glanced at the floor—concrete.

They were coming. She shook.

The footsteps stopped and she looked up. A man and a woman stood on the other side of the cell. The man, a police officer. The woman, dressed in a lab coat.

“Ms. Masterson?” the woman asked, consulting the clipboard in her hands.

Zoey sobbed, nodded.

“I’m Dr. Chambers. I hope we haven’t alarmed you.”

The officer unlocked the cell door.

“Please follow me,” the doctor said, extending her hand.

Zoey glanced at it. Looked at the doctor’s unkempt crop of hair, at the collar upturned at one corner. “Where are my clothes?” Slowly she stood and headed toward the exit.

“I’ll explain everything to you. What do you remember?”

The air was cooler the farther down they walked, headed toward the light at the end of the hall. The corridor was lined with cells, all empty, all dark.

“I don’t remember anything,” Zoey said. Cold bare feet slapped the concrete.

Dr. Chambers nodded for the officer to leave. “In here, please.”

She led Zoey into a small medical exam room beside the cells.

“You were brought in unconscious. Do you remember anything at all?”

“No. Nothing really.”

“We believe you might have been sexually assaulted but wanted to wait until you were awake before doing the exam.” She patted the table. “Up here, please.”

This wasn’t a good idea. Zoey didn’t remember a sexual assault, and she didn’t feel as though she’d suffered through one. Leaving seemed like a better idea. She could see her own doctor. And if she’d been assaulted, why did they have her in a cell and not a hospital? In a dark, dirty—

“Zoey?” Dr. Chambers took her elbow, and Zoey, still stunned, still overwhelmed, climbed onto the gynecological exam table.

“Feet here.” Chambers lifted Zoey’s feet, guided them to the metal stirrups. A soft material was draped around her ankles.

Zoey sat up. “No, I don’t think—”

Ignoring her, near Zoey’s head now, Chambers took Zoey’s hands and lifted them above her shoulders. “Hold on to the grips.”

“The what? Please… I want to get down.” More soft material draped around her wrists. Zoey craned her neck. The doctor was securing Velcro bindings.

“What are you doing?” Her lip trembled. The room suddenly felt bitter cold.

Chambers didn’t respond. She took a pair of shears and sliced the front of Zoey’s shirt from neck to crotch.

“What are you doing?” she repeated, heart palpitating, body trembling. Tried to move but her wrists and ankles were securely fastened. Chambers disappeared behind her. “Dr. Chambers? Dr. Chambers!”

The doctor returned.

“Please let me go! Let me out of here! What—”

Chambers jammed a gag into Zoey’s mouth, the small rubber ball pressing her tongue, and secured the elastic around her head. “You make entirely too much noise.” She draped a sheet over Zoey.

Crying made breathing almost impossible with the gag in her mouth. She retched, sucked air through her nostrils.

“Be right back.”

Fear shrouded her, smothered her breath. Her temples throbbed. This was impossible. This wasn’t happening.

Chambers returned with the cop. Only now he wasn’t a cop.

Now he wore a white coat as well.

“Set up the legs,” he told Chambers. “I’ll start with the breast exam.”

There was always that remote chance that this was still legitimate, that for some reason they needed to bind and gag her to effectively do this type of exam. It was possible that they would release her, tell her they were sorry, send her home now, time to go home, over now, it was all a mistake.

Chambers held a plastic tube fitted with braces. Pried Zoey’s knees apart. The tube acted as a block, kept her legs widely separated, her knees resting in the braces. He removed the sheet, separated the material of the torn shirt, exposed her full breasts.

Zoey’s eyes bulged and she panted into the gag.

His hands were large and soft, and they expertly roamed her breasts, gently

squeezed the nipples, pressed the tissue in a move that was more medical than sexual assault. “She’s fine.” Then he reached across her chest, toward the tray just beyond her sight. Pulled it closer. The contents of the tray made her scream into the gag. Picked up two clamps, rubber-tipped devices that looked like scissors. Fastened them to her nipples and turned the knob, increasing the tension. Pain shot through every nerve ending in her

breasts, tore through the rest of her body. Flailed wildly on the table, tried to pull her hands out of the straps, threw back her head and screeched uselessly. Eyes pleaded with him, begged him for help, for compassion.

He smiled. “It only gets better, honey. Trust me.”

Chambers snorted, grinned. “Ready down here.”

“What about the gag?”

“What about it? You want to listen to her screams?”

“You know I like it,” he said, caressing Zoey’s tender breast.

Chambers shrugged. “Do what you want. But if she gets too loud, I’m not staying.”

Sobs choked her, and her face was flushed with sweat, wet with tears.

He leaned into her. “I’m Ted, by the way. Listen, Zoey, I want to take off your gag. I don’t care if you cry, I don’t care if you scream in blessed agony. In fact, I like that. But what I won’t tolerate is mindless blabbering, begging and shit like that. Understand?”

She nodded.

“I’m not sure that you do.” He reached out and flicked a clamp, sending a pulsing wave of agony through her breast. “I can make it unpleasant for you, Zoey. I can cause you a great deal of pain. If you say one word—one word at all—the gag goes back in and I apply even tighter pressure to your tits. We clear?”

Yes, it was clear.

“Good. I think we understand one another. And Zoey, for the record, screaming and crying are perfectly acceptable.”

Chambers sat by the desk, crossed her arms over her chest.

He unhooked the gag and pulled it out of her mouth. Gasped, sucked air. Her first inclination was to talk, to scream, to beg him to stop. But she believed what he’d said and stopped herself before any words came out of her mouth.

He walked toward her feet, stood between her legs. “Hang on,” he said, sliding the table in beneath her so that her butt now rested on the edge. Rolled the table beside her head toward the lower part of the table.

His fingers were inside her anus first, lubricating it. Then inside her vagina. More moisture, more lubrication.

She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to pull her legs together but the tube between her knees made it impossible. Her sight was obscured and she couldn’t see what he removed from the tray.

“Oh—you want to see? Okay.” He held up a long, thin vibrator.

She puffed out her cheeks, knowing she could handle that, if he planned to rape her with that thing.

Instead, he slowly inserted it into her anus. Words formed on her lips, almost escaped, but “no” came out as “Nuhhhh…”, and he glanced up, smiled, shook his head, slapped a piece of surgical tape over her anus.

“So far so good. Having fun yet?”

She wished she would go numb. Wished she would drop dead on the table.

“Here’s where it gets trickier.” He picked up a metal tool. “Speculum.” He lubricated it and pushed it inside. The vibrator rested against her colon, pressed against her vagina, and the speculum spread her, collided with the bulge in her anus. Searing

pain consumed her, and her legs spasmed, the too-large speculum feeling as though it were tearing her apart.