Monica O'Rourke - Suffer the Flesh

mound, a dildo held in position inside her. Someone took her from behind again, stuffing her with his engorged dick, sharing her pussy with the dildo. Her body shuddered, tried to deal with the torment, fresh bouts of pain when she’d thought she couldn’t take any more.

When he finished and pulled out she collapsed on her side, her chest heaving, fluids tricking down swollen inner thighs.

They unshackled her from the floor, removed the hood.

The screams from the other women had gone unheard, distorted by the leather encasing her head. She dropped onto her back. Eyes closed, she prayed for her own death.

I can help you.

In her dream she kills Mel, over and over, each way bloodier, each way more satisfying than the last. It was Mel who precipitated these events, whether intentional or not. How could she not have known? Mel, the harbinger of torture and pain, now dead.

Zoey’s hands, wrapped around the scrawny bitch’s even scrawnier neck, fingers embedded in the flesh, throttled her until the bitch turned shades of red and purple, eventually blue.

James was next, and she stabbed him with a butter knife, his eyeball hanging from gristly strings flecked with gore, and he screamed in pain every time she attacked his flesh, ragged holes weeping blood, hurting him as much as he had hurt her. Hurting him more.

When she woke from this violent and fitful sleep, her head pounded, felt like a massive hangover. What she wouldn’t give for a good stiff drink.

She sat up and clutched the sweat-soaked sheet. Couldn’t remember who had dressed her, couldn’t remember coming back to her cell. Not that nudity mattered much anymore. Just about everyone had seen her naked, had seen every bit of her fat protruding, jiggling as they fucked her, being squeezed and poked and prodded like mounds of rising dough. What the hell did it matter anymore?

The burning sensation had subsided. Her fingertips came away moist and sticky, coated in some foreign substance. Assumed it was some sort of salve but couldn’t tell in the darkness. She hoped it wasn’t blood.

She wondered if anyone in the outside world was looking for her. Not that she had many people in her life. Parents dead, sister living a thousand miles away, and they hardly spoke any more.

In the blackness she imagined Julie’s face, reached out to touch the image, wanted to hold her, to be comforted by her sister.

Was there a chance the police knew where she was? A possibility that her job had been concerned when she didn’t show up? There was always that hope, a persistence that she shouldn’t give up.

Maybe someone was looking for her.

Every time she thought they’d reached the pinnacle of inhumanity, had tested her endurance with the most horrendous acts imaginable, they came up with something else. So now, what else could there be? Envisioning a worse scenario was impossible.

Breathing: soft moans, loud snores of exhaustion. No words save for the occasional cry in someone’s sleep. The air was heavy with the smells of soap and futility. Darkness, obscuring her sight, unsure how many of the other women were also in their cells. She had tried counting heads in the cafeteria and came up with sixteen prisoners. There were almost as many rapists and torturer guards.

The clanging at the end of the corridor startled her. Clutched the sheet, pulled it up to her chin, a cotton-polyester shield. The footsteps ended outside her cell door. She could make out a silhouette from the dim light thrown by the open door at the end of the hall.

“Let’s go, Zoey,” the shadow said, unlocking the cell door and throwing it open.

She followed the invisible footsteps down the corridor and into the outer hallway.

They entered another door just on the other side of the exit. Climbed a short, narrow flight of stairs, reached yet another door. Cooler up here, a slight breeze brushed against her cheeks. Ushered inside, told to sit, to not touch anything.

Hands in her lap, Zoey glanced around the office. Shelves lined with books. Large globe in the corner. Framed prints hanging from the wood paneling. Could have been a college professor’s office. Except… except for the medieval torture rack in the corner of the room, and a cage suspended from the ceiling like a twisted birdhouse, just large enough for a human head.

“Good morning, Zoey. I’m Dr. Sullivan.”

His voice startled her, and the hair on her arms bristled, heartbeat quickened. He sat across from her behind the mahogany desk, steepled his hands beneath his chin in an attempt to look scholarly, as if studying her, his science project.

She swallowed, wondered what he wanted, why she had been brought here. “From New York, I see.”

Nod? Smile? Cough? She didn’t know how to respond.

He smiled. “You’re allowed to talk in here.”

She relaxed a bit.

“I’m a counselor. I’m here to help our guests emotionally.”

“Guests?” she asked quietly, terrified of uttering that first word.

“I prefer the term guests.” He lightly tugged at the tuft of hair on his cheek, as if making sure it was still attached.

Guests. Victims is more like it , she thought. Prisoners .

“We conduct research. Sexual studies, things of that nature.”

“I noticed,” she muttered. She felt the anger swelling, could feel the heat exploding on her cheeks. Research ? Was he for real?

“As long as you cooperate, Zoey, your stay with us will be uneventful.”

“Uneventful? I’ve been raped! I’ve been beaten and molested, fucking tortured . What do you consider uneventful?” She hovered over his desk, her breasts tipping the paperclip holder and the pencils in a mug stamped with some inane Best Dad Ever message.

He looked past her, and she glanced back, noticed the guard standing in the doorway.

“Sit down, Zoey,” he said calmly. “You’ve been given permission to speak, but one more outburst like that and this session’s over.”

She sat, trembling hands palms up in her lap. Session . She wondered what his credentials were, if he even had any.

“This facility was created for the purpose of conducting research. We gauge reaction, stimulus, response, as well as neurological, biochemical, physical, and emotional reactions… many others. Some tests will require your being hooked up to sensors that will gauge your responses. Other tests are purely reactionary. I assure you, it’s all quite harmless. Including your ‘rape,’ as you call it. What you call rape, we call research. It’s for the good of humanity, Zoey. Think of it as a humanitarian effort. It doesn’t matter how you handle it anyway, because you’ll eventually get over it. You’ll recover.”

“I can’t believe what you’re saying…” Her insides were a churning tempest but outwardly she remained calm. “How can you even think this is something I would ever simply ‘get over,’ just because you say I should?”

He sucked his teeth, cleared his throat. “I was hoping for more enthusiasm, Zoey. You don’t seem like a team player. I thought you might be interested in working for us.”

She opened her mouth, closed it again. Not sure how to respond. “How?”

“As a recruiter, perhaps. Like Mel. Or in some other capacity.”

It couldn’t be this easy. To agree to work for them seemed like her way out. She nodded. “Okay. Count me in.

He laughed, his eyes widening. “It doesn’t work that way. You have to complete your stay with us first. Then we evaluate.”

“And how long is my stay?”

“That all depends on you.” He stood up and cleared a spot of the edge of the desk, sat in front of her. “We’re giving you something in exchange for your participation in our research.”