Monica O'Rourke: Suffer the Flesh

She licked her lips, took a breath, pulled off her shirt. Held it in a ball in front of her chest.

He came back and said, “I’ll try to go easy on you, but I do have a few routines that are mandatory.” She opened her mouth to respond but he cut her off. “I don’t want to hear it. No talking. Come with me.”

She followed him across the room, passing women being whipped, others being slapped and paddled. Strangely quiet, eyes closed, the impact of their pain apparent on their strained faces, bodies laced with puckered scars and purple, dribbling lacerations.

In the middle of the room, like the center ring in a sideshow display, a woman was strapped to a device the likes of which Zoey had never seen before. Had never imagined. Her back supported by a padded bench, her body upright, she was tied spread-eagle, her arms locked behind her back. The chair was mechanical and dipped forward with agonizing slowness, impaling her on an oversized phallus, pushing her onto it fully and then slowly pulling her back out. The woman’s eyes were open but weren’t focused on anything in particular; had in fact a dead glaze about them, a woman who had lived through one trauma too many and had given up.

Tony saw where Zoey’s attention was riveted. “That’s the rape chair,” he said, taking her wrist. “She’s going to be there for a while.”

They stopped in front of a pommel horse, leather covered, about three and a half feet high from where it was anchored to the floor. Two men, holding whips and leather straps. Another woman Zoey recognized from the cafeteria—she thought her name was Marie—waited as well, her head slightly cocked, body visibly trembling as if somehow in this murky heat she felt cold.

The one with the whip grabbed Zoey’s arm and pushed her face-first into the pommel horse. She’d seen this piece of gymnastics equipment before in the Olympics, had even seen it in high-school gym class ten years earlier. This one was similar, lower to the floor than the ones used by gymnasts, it seemed, but the same bullet shape.

“Bend over,” he said, and she did. Grabbed the rings in the center of the horse and laid between them. Submission didn’t come easily for her, and the anger burned her cheeks, made her want to reach back and rip his throat out. He gently kicked her feet farther apart. She clutched the rings but the other guard took her wrists and directed them straight out over her head.

Flanking her were Marie and Lisa. They were told to stretch across the horse, lying on either side of Zoey, their arms stretched toward her legs. The hilt of the bullwhip was dragged along Zoey’s back, up and down the length of her legs, between her thighs, trailed along the outer edges of her swollen labia. She shuddered as it was forced between her vaginal lips, as it slightly penetrated her cunt. Sweat popped out on her forehead, and her stomach flipped. He pulled it out, and she could sense him moving around behind her.

On Zoey’s left, Marie puffed out her cheeks, eyes rolling, exposing only the whites. Breasts mashed to the leather surface of the horse. Her eyes then shut so tightly Zoey saw tiny veins popping out on the lids.

Behind her, the guard massaged his cock, worked it, the tip glistening with spit or lubricant. He reached between her legs, and Marie gripped the pommel horse with stark white fingers.

Lisa stared vacantly ahead, oblivious to the vibrator violating her. Tongue jutting, eyes squinting, waiting for the attack to end. Long brown hair dusted the surface of the horse, her body moving in concert with his.

So engrossed by what was happening beside her, Zoey was unprepared for the first stinging crack of the whip across her ass. She screamed, tried to turn around.

“Don’t move, Zoey.” He grunted, struck again.

Biting pain enraged her, and she tried to protect herself with her hands. Unrelenting blow after blow, like a swarm of stinging hornets. Tears streamed down her face. The women beside her sobbing, moaning.

The beating stopped. His hands roamed her inflamed ass, massaged her, as if trying to drive the whip marks into her skin. Fingers prodded, separated her folds, pried her open, drove the digits inside. His cock followed his fingers, and he fucked her hard, rammed her into the pommel horse. Every thrust anguish, every movement slicing her deeper.

He grunted, pulled out, slapped her on her ass, told her not to move.

Marie had paled, looked like she would pass out. Her attacker didn’t seem to be losing speed and fucked her harder, yelled with each thrust, grabbed her hair and yanked her head back.

“Oh, God!” Marie screamed, her mouth thrown open, jaw locked in pain. She clutched at the pommel horse as if trying to scale it. Zoey reached back, clutched Marie’s hands but received a whip crack across her wrists for the effort.

Finally Marie succumbed, silently endured the rape. It wasn’t as if she had a choice.

The guards finished and walked away. Zoey exchanged a glance with the women, a look of futility and desperation.

Tony returned, stood with arms folded. Shook his head, clicked his tongue. “What’s the first rule of fight club?”

The women looked perplexed, but Zoey’s heart sank.

“Anyone?” Tony asked. “Feel free to blurt out the right answer.”

“No talking,” Zoey whispered. “That’s the first rule.”

“Ding ding ding! Give that lady the Cracker Jack prize.” He leaned into the edge of the pommel horse and stared into Marie’s eyes. “Care to guess who broke the rule?”

The sorrowful wail that poured out of Marie made the hair on the back of Zoey’s neck bristle.

“Go now,” he said. “Those nice men by the door are waiting to take you to Room Four.”

Zoey caught her breath, wanted to scream but her lungs seized up.

The guards approached Marie and dragged her screaming out into the hall. The door slammed shut behind them.

Tony took Zoey’s elbow and led her to another part of the room, past the screams and moans and whimpers. Pointed toward the floor. Two metal hoops, shoulder width apart, jutted from wood slats. Pushed to her knees, shoved forward, her hands were forced between the loops and locked in. A leather hood was draped over her head, the eyes, nose, and mouth holes zipped closed. Air was fleeting, and Zoey panicked, struggled frantically but her wrists were securely fastened.

Someone grabbed her head and held her steady. Unzipped the small hole beneath her nose. Air gushed in. Other senses were cut off, and she felt that she was no longer part of the world. Her legs were forced apart, cushions placed beneath her knees. Felt… someone at her swollen, aching vagina… wet, licking, a tongue lapping at her pussy. Fingers prodded, flicked her clit, explored. Pushed inside her, all the way in, so deep, many long thin fingers in and out. She didn’t want to feel this, didn’t want any sensation from their touch, but her body had its own agenda. She tried to fight the carnal feelings but couldn’t. The fingers fucked her harder, deeper still, worked her cunt, a second hand diddled her clit, squeezed it between thumb and forefinger, rolled it, hot plumes of breath tickled it. Licking and sucking, and as much as she tried to fight it she was cumming.

A cock pulsed inside her while fingers played with her clit. They groped her tits, pulled the nipples. Lack of senses was unbearable. Sweltering heat inside the hood. One finished fucking her and another took his place and then another and another until she lost count, the number dizzying, until her knees trembled and her body ached and her vagina was a pit of fire.

The pace slowed, and she prayed they were tiring. Someone slid beneath her, awkwardly taking her from below, pushing his cock up and into her. But there couldn’t be anyone beneath her, she would have felt his body. A hand brushed against her