Monica O'Rourke: Suffer the Flesh

They battered harder, faster, sliced her vagina raw, their fucking a practiced rhythm. Seconds apart they came, grunted, leaned into her. A soupy blood and cum concoction tricked down her thigh.

“Good job, guys,” James said, clapping them on the shoulders. He held Zoey’s breast. “Think you’re finally learning?”

Before she could stop herself, before she gave herself even a split second to think about what she was doing, she spit in his face. He stepped back, clearly startled, wiped the spittle off his cheek and stared at her for a moment before he reached up and released her from the manacles.

“I guess you think this is some kind of game. You think you’re being defiant, but you’re not.” He pulled her into him, pressed their bodies together. Placing his foot behind her ankles he tripped her, dropping her to the mat. He fell on top of her and ground his groin against hers. Held her arms above her head with one hand and reached down with the other to violate her, most of his hand inside her.

“This is no fucking game , Zoey. Funtime is over. I’ve had it with your bullshit.”

He removed his hand and wiped it on his pants. To the men who had raped her, he said, “Take her to Room Four. I’ll be there shortly.”

Room Four? Her mind raced back to the signs on the doors—and she remembered Room Four, because it was marked with something other than a number.

Room Four had been marked Punishment .

A screaming and kicking Zoey was dragged out of Room One.

They dragged her down the hall by her wrists because her legs refused to function. After what she had been through, the rape and torture and humiliation, the idea that something worse was waiting for her in Room Four paralyzed her.

“Please,” she sobbed as they struggled to haul her down the corridor. They stopped, but just long enough to try to force her to stand. On her knees she wailed, begged them to stop. They snagged her wrists and hauled her on her stomach.

Room Four was the next door over.

“Stop.”

The men turned toward the voice.

James approached, hand on his hip. “Maybe she’s learned her lesson this time.”

Zoey nodded, wiped her runny nose on the back of her wrist.

Slumped on the floor, barely aware of her nudity, feeling like a death-row prisoner pardoned at the last minute.

James tossed a T-shirt at her and then knelt beside her. “Go get cleaned up. Report back to me at noon, in the cafeteria. Do you understand what that means? You have an hour and twelve minutes. Would you like to guess what will happen if you’re a minute late?”

She started sobbing.

He stood up, laughed. “Exactly. Now go. Get out of here.”

She scrambled to her feet. One of the men showed her to the bathroom. The tiled floor felt good against her throbbing flesh. She drew her legs up, wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them, sobbing. Sat like that for a while, keenly aware of the time, the clock above the door clicking off the seconds. She had no intention of being late.

On wobbly legs she stood, staring at her face in the mirror, fingertips tracing the outline of rough, red patches and blotches, wrinkles where just two days ago there hadn’t been any. Her blue eyes were puffy from crying, her nose red and sore. Bruises tattooed on her jawline where she had been roughly handled. She examined her body, touched her battered, tender breasts. Swollen, raw labia, vagina alive with burning pain. Using a stack of paper towels she moistened under the tap, she gently wiped between her legs and down her thighs, cleaning away streaks of blood and sperm. The T-shirt that she pulled on again stretched to her knees.

Eleven forty-five. She gave herself lead time and headed back to the cafeteria.

Women like the living dead ambled past her in the corridor, their eyes downcast, their mouths knit tightly shut. The cafeteria was filling fast. She glanced around at the women, their bodies covered in bruises and blood. They seemed strangely calm, as ifthis was part of a routine, as if they were used to it. Once inside they relaxed, smiled, chatted easily with one another.

James showed up promptly at noon. Seated several feet away from the door, Zoey overheard him asking the guard stationed there if everyone was in attendance.

The guard, sporting a blackjack and a whip, nodded. “Much better, ladies,” he said to the roomful of women. “No problems. Just the way I like it.”

Women smiled, as if grateful for this snippet of praise. Others

swallowed, visibly nervous. Zoey could almost hear their hearts beating.

“Assignments after lunch, as usual.” He looked directly at Zoey. “I suggest you all be prompt.”

After being rushed through a food service line, Zoey took a seat with a small group of women.

The woman across from her brushed her cropped orange hair out of her eyes and dropped her fork against the plate. “You’re new. We’re allowed to talk to you now. I’m Lisa.”

“I’m Zoey.” She pulled apart a slice of wheat bread. “So what the hell’s going on? What is this place?”

Lisa smiled sadly, the large purple bruise on her cheek stretching. Dots of blood were spattered along her arm. “It’s hell, Zoey. We’re in hell.”

The women within hearing distance nodded.

Lisa picked up her fork and poked the contents of her tray. “They do experiments here. They say it’s for research.”

“Everyone in this place is… big,” Zoey said. “You know?”

Lisa nodded. “They seem to think it’s a fair price for the torture they put us through. They call it an extreme weight loss method and James believes he’s doing us and the world a service.”

“You’re kidding…” Zoey said. What little appetite she’d had was gone. “What sort of experiments?” Her breath quickened, not really wanting to hear Lisa’s answer.

She shook her head, her skin tone losing pigment until she was the shade of baby powder. “You’ll see. I’m sorry, but you’ll see. Just do what they tell you, Zoey. It makes it easier. Do what they say and maybe they won’t…”

“Won’t what?”

But Lisa didn’t answer.

On her way out the door, the guard with the whip and the clipboard grabbed Zoey’s wrist and looked at the leather bracelet. “Report to Room Two. You have five minutes.”

Zoey glanced at the bracelet, noticed the number stamped into the leather.

“I’d suggest you haul your ass. Wouldn’t be smart for you to be late again.”

Whatever they were planning, she couldn’t take any more. Her groin was an inferno, tender and bloated; she could barely walk. The thought of more of the same was too much to handle.

Zoey slowly approached Room Two. No sign on the door other than the number, no indication of what might be inside. Unlocked, the knob turned easily in her trembling hand. She wondered why they bothered with doors at all. Probably to keep sound out. Or in.

“Right on time,” a man said, and this time it wasn’t James.

The room was small, adorned with chains and cuffs suspended from walls, the lighting dark and moody, the smell musky and heavy, ingrained, living in the leather and wood of the tools and furniture inside. Many of the cuffs were already in use, women naked and hanging, or propped against walls. Full breasts and fuller bodies, bruises and cuts and scratches like erratic tattoos.

The guard approached her. A few inches taller than Zoey and more than a few pounds lighter, built like a biker or swimmer. His brown hair was neatly trimmed in an almost bowl shape on his head.

“I’m Tony,” he said, and before she could answer him, added, “Shirt off.” He bypassed her, as if speaking to her had been an afterthought