Suffer The Flesh

by Monica J. O'Rourke

  He pulled out just before cumming. He stroked himself and jacked off on her stomach. Slapped his penis against her thigh.

  “What is this?” Frank laughed. “A fucking porn movie?”

  Serge huffed. “Take her with us?”

  Frank said. “I don’t feel like dragging her around. We’ll come back for her. She’s not going anywhere.”

  They left.

  She didn’t move for a long time. The tears streamed into her hair. When she tried to move her legs, the pain worsened. With a trembling hand she reached behind and pulled the dildo out of her ass. Blood gushed, soaked the sheet. Slowly she turned on her side, her stomach churning with cramps, and curled into a ball. She pulled the blood-soaked sheet over her body.

  The clock above the door loudly ticked off the seconds, and the air conditioner’s hum droned on, the only other sounds in the room besides her gentle weeping.

  More time passed, and still no one returned. She located a clean corner of the sheet and pressed it between her legs, trying to absorb the trickling fluids. She sat up, her body fighting the movement.

  Still no one came.

  Using the table for support, she lowered her legs to the floor. They buckled, rebelled against supporting her. She waited for the shakes to stop and stood up. With agonizing slowness she made her way across the room, stopping only to retrieve her T-shirt and pull it on over her head. She wrapped the sheet around her waist, wanting to leave but afraid to. Would they be angry? Was she supposed to wait there, bleeding to death? Would James punish her for breaking yet another rule? This had never happened before. Everything was always so orderly, so calculated, run a specific way.

  The prisoners (guests) were always given instructions before being allowed to leave a room. So now what? Would she be punished for leaving? Bathroom, had to get to the bathroom.

  She crept into the hall, expecting the usual busyness, but the corridor was empty. No guards stationed, no prisoners rushing to their next assignments. She leaned against the wall for support, smearing bloody fingerprints. Gore trickled down her thighs. She fashioned the sheet like a diaper.

  No sounds. Voices were nonexistent. On her left, the bathroom was about six doors down. She headed in that direction. Room after room was dark, appeared deserted.

  A bit further down was the cafeteria. Zoey approached, planning to head back to the bathroom. The door was open a crack, and Zoey discovered where everyone was.

  Chapter 10

  Zoey’s heart slammed against her chest as she leaned in closer to the door, open wide enough for her to hear what was going on inside. Something felt terribly wrong, and instinct told her to stay away.

  But she had to know what was happening.

  At first she heard laughter, a loud bellow.

  “Fuck you!” James yelled. Zoey peered in through the small slit separating the doors.

  “No, James. Fuck you.”

  She didn’t recognize the man who had James by the hair, the man who then punched James in his stomach and dropped him to the floor.

  At the head of the room stood the three visitors who had tortured her. Beside them stood three other men.

  “My name is Zachary,” the man who had punched James said to the roomful of prisoners and guards—all prisoners now, it seemed. “Call me Zack.” He smiled, crossed his arms over his black T-shirt. “In case you haven’t guessed, James is no longer in charge. Neither are his asshole cohorts. From now on, you’ll all do as I say.”

  He shifted his feet, ran his hand over his black hair. “We’re going to have fun, ladies. And gentlemen. Just do as you’re told, and we’ll all get along just great. No one will get hurt. Wait, scratch that. Just do as you’re told.”

  He paced, slow steps across the front of the room. “We got sick of the way things have been run around here. Got sick of this once-every-other-month bullshit. We pay way too goddamn much money. And we thought our way would be more fun. Don’t you agree?”

  Fun? Was that what they considered fun? She glanced over her shoulder at the empty hallway, turned her attention back to the cafeteria.

  Zack faced the women, who stared back at him in stunned silence.

  He smashed his fist into a table. “Answer me!”

  Women shouted “yes!”

  “Better.” He turned to the other visitors. “Everyone accounted for?”

  “I left some in the medieval room,” a man dressed in a monk’srobe said. “They’re chained up, though.”

  “We left one in the nursery,” Serge said. Then he grinned, added, “She’s not going anywhere.”

  “Pete, Doug, go get them, drag their sorry asses in here. Serge—room number?”

  Serge shrugged. “How should I know? It’s the nursery.”

  “Wally? Room number?”

  The monk shook his head. “I didn’t notice, Zack.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake, somebody tell me the room numbers.”

  Zoey stepped away from the door and crept backward down the hall. Shaking hands guided her way along the wall. She needed to hide—but where? Her mind searched every room, but there was no time to think. A few more feet down the hall, she ducked into the bathroom. Killed the lights, and left the door ajar so she could hear them approaching.

  The toilet stalls had no doors. The shower area was a large, open room with overhead jets. No place to hide in there either. The linen closet was located at the back of the bathroom, behind the showers, and she rushed toward it. The darkness prevented her from seeing, but she knew what the closet looked like, lined with shelves, loaded with towels and T-shirts.

  Working quickly, she removed half the contents of one shelf onto the others, rearranging them to look as natural as possible, guided only by blind instinct. She stuffed herself into the narrow shelf, hiding behind stacks of towels and shirts, pulled the door shut and drew them toward her, desperately hoping she hadn’t knocked any to the floor. It was impossible to know in the caliginous room. Her already pain-wracked body ached even more from being stuffed into the small space.

  Under other circumstances, there was no way she would have imagined fitting inside that closet. She didn’t know what she was going to do. They were probably already looking for her, and when they discovered she was gone from the nursery, they would likely tear the place apart looking.

  Surrender was an option—maybe they would go easy on her if she did. But then, she thought, if they’d beaten her so badly in fun, what the hell would they do to her in anger?

  No, better to hide, to think.

  She managed to turn onto her back, legs spread, the damaged flesh between her thighs screaming, but it relieved the stress on her contorted limbs.

  No way to know how long she lay there, in the dark, cramped space waiting to be discovered. But after a while the voices came, angry and frustrated, slamming doors.

  From the closeness of the voices, she knew.

  They were inside the bathroom.

  Chapter 11

  The darkness was feral, powerful, tried to suck the oxygen out of her lungs. She gasped and then held her breath. Terror gripped and squeezed her bowels.

  Furious voices, closer now.

  The overpowering smell of bleach burned her nostrils, coated her tongue with a metallic and cold tang.

  “No doors.” An unfamiliar male voice. “No doors in this fucking bathroom!”

  “Then where the hell is she?”

  “The fuck should I know? Let’s split. She’s gotta be hiding in one of the rooms.”

  The voices trailed off.

  They hadn’t found the linen closet. Yet.

  She relaxed for a second, exhaled.

  The door to the closet was suddenly thrown open. Tiny cracks of light filtered through the stacks of towels and shirts. Opened her mouth and nearly screamed, caught herself in time.

  “Nothing, goddammit. Linens and shit.” Same voice as before.

  “She’s not in there?”

  “Where? The shelves are too small.”
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  “Maybe we should empty it out.”

  “You wanna do all that work, be my guest. I came here to fuck, not work. All we’ve been doing since we got here is work. This is bullshit, man.”

  “Yeah, I know.” But he moved closer, seemed to be inspecting the contents of the shelf above her.

  “Come on, let’s go already.” Seconds later, the bathroom door slammed.

  This time they didn’t come back.

  The position in the closet had become unbearable, and her legs screamed, knees numb. Wanted desperately to get out, but not yet, had to wait a little longer. Had to think.

  There had to be some other place to hide. Had to find the way out of the torture chamber. Couldn’t escape to any of the rooms because they were probably using them. The cells? Nowhere to hide there either and she didn’t want to get trapped. Kitchen? She’d never been in the kitchen and had no idea if there would be a place to hide. Probably a pantry or a freezer, but how would she be able to remain undetected in a freezer? Or alive in one, for that matter.

  And she had the feeling that these men weren’t planning on leaving any time too soon.

  She had the feeling this was a new regime.

  They were back. Peals of laughter, and what sounded like a scuffle. Snorts and groans, and a loud smacking thud, like someone hitting the floor.

  “Stay there, asshole!”

  Moments later the bathroom door slammed shut again.

  A low moan, from inside the room. Oh, god, now what?

  “Fuckers …” someone said, but there was no strength in the voice. Zoey slid the stack of towels over a bit so she could hear better.

  “Just wait,” he said, words slurring, sounding wet, thick.

  She recognized the voice. She pushed the towels aside and pushed open the closet door. Moving slowly, her joints cracking and protesting, she peeked out into the shower area.

  James was staring up at her with his undamaged eye, a stunned expression on his face. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered, his grin revealing bloodied teeth. “Zoey.”

  Still wasn’t sure she wanted to climb out. Was this a trap? A test? Had he somehow known she was hiding there?

  She exited the closet feet first. Droplets of blood plinked to the floor, formed tiny circles and crowns.

  James laughed and then doubled over and clutched his stomach, a phlegmy cough wracking him.

  The tingling in her legs was fierce, a swarm of yellow jackets beneath her skin. Landing on her feet sent currents through her body.

  “Aren’t you resourceful?” he said, and she saw something new on his face: fear.

  Was he afraid of her? More likely he was afraid of the situation. Not that he didn’t deserve to die a slow and agonizing death, and not that she hadn’t fantasized torturing him to death. She outweighed him, and he was in sorry shape. Killing him now would be easy.

  She sat next to him on the floor. “We’re alone?”

  He nodded.

  “Care to explain, James?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “Who are these pricks?”

  “Clients. Very rich, disgruntled clients. Customers.” Gingerly he touched his eye, badly swollen, dribbling pus. “These guys are our regulars. They come here to have some fun.”

  “Fun?” The desire to claw his face off returned. She glanced at the bathroom door, hoping she’d have time to hide if they came back.

  “I’m sorry, Zoey. This got out of hand.”

  “You have a knack for understatement, James. How did this happen? You outnumber them. You got more guards than—”

  “They have guns.”

  She hadn’t seen guns. But it made sense. How else would they have been able to overpower James and his staff?

  “This is really bad news,” he said, gently wiping the blood off his cheek with his palm. “These guys are seriously disturbed.”

  “Oh, and you’re not?”

  “These guys make me look like a priest. Wait—bad example.”

  “I get the idea.”

  “The last time he was here, Serge—the one with the diaper fetish—”

  “I know him well.”

  “Last time, he approached me with the idea of making a snuff film. I thought he was kidding.”

  Zoey narrowed her eyes. “You thought he was kidding? Who jokes about that?”

  “I know. But I told him no way. He said fine, he understood. I thought that was the end of it. These guys pay huge amounts of money for their visits. I usually look the other way when they want to try strange things. Besides, they’re not exactly pillars of society. Zack’s deeply involved in the drug scene, not the kind of guy you want to fuck with. So to speak.”

  “Comforting. Do you have any idea whatsoever in that psycho fucked-up head of yours how wrong all of this is? Including your bizarre idea of a weight loss program?”

  James shifted uncomfortably. “There have been studies, Zoey. Women who lose weight have said they’re rather lose a limb than gain it back. This is an extreme weight loss plan.”

  “That seems to be your motto around here. You really are insane.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I’m not. I’m quite sane. But I am a sociopath.” He smiled at that.

  “I thought you said you were some filthy rich asshole with too much time on his hands.”

  “I am.”

  “Then why do you care about the money? About them paying you a fortune?”

  “I don’t. It was just a statement. I don’t need the money, but I wanted others to have this experience. Paying the amount they do somehow legitimizes this.”

  She rolled her eyes, turned away. “You really believe that, don’t you?” She shook her head. “We’re going to die. Aren’t we?”

  He thought for a moment. “Probably. The only thing we can hope for is a quick and painless death. Although I don’t think there’s much chance of that, especially for me.”

  “We have to do something.”

  “Huh. Really? Like what, do you think?”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “I don’t know. Something.” She moved back and leaned against the wall, stretched her legs out in front of her. “They don’t know about me. Where I am.”

  “Oh, they’re searching for you.”

  “Still?”

  “Of course. Ripping the place apart.”

  “How can I get out of this place?”

  “You can’t.”

  “There’s a way out.”

  “Trust me, Zoey. There’s no way out, except for the main exit, and that’s heavily guarded, I’m sure. Especially with you missing. Besides, you can’t even get out of the bathroom. They’ve locked the door.”

  Feeling had returned to her legs. “Where’s the exit, James?”

  He seemed preoccupied with the gash on his arm.

  “Goddammit, James …” she muttered. “What do you think they’re going to do with you?”

  It was a long time before he answered. “I’m afraid to think about that.”

  Chapter 12

  The harsh fluorescent lights aggravated her eyes, and every time she shifted, her body was reacquainted with pain. A full bladder caused even more discomfort, and she was afraid to relieve herself. Afraid of the pan, afraid of the noise she would make.

  “I need to use the toilet,” she said, shifting, looking up at James.

  “Oh.” He propped himself up on an elbow. “Can you do it quietly? You won’t be able to flush or anything.”

  “I know. The problem is, they did some serious damage to me. I don’t know what’ll happen when I start to pee.”

  He chewed his lip. “What did they do to you?”

  “They shoved dildos inside me and then beat me with a strap. Right before and after that fat fuck raped me.”

  He lowered his head, which surprised her. “Zoey, I’m sorry, I really am. It got out of hand, and …”

  “Save it, James. You’re sorry? You’re a fucking hypocrite. You’ve been doing this
shit to me for over a month.”

  Raising her voice hadn’t been a good idea. Still, no movement at the door. At least it didn’t seem like she had been too loud.

  “But it’s always controlled. We always stopped before we went too far.”

  “I’ve been fucked by a dog, James. And one of those sick assholes pissed on me. All part of the fun and games? You told us all to do exactly what they said. So don’t try to justify your psychotic actions, James. You’re no better than they are. You’re just not running the show any more. You got exactly what you deserve.”

  Now she wondered if she’d gone too far, said too much. Would he call the men, turn her in?

  “I don’t know what to say, Zoey. I really am sorry. Anything I’ve done was for control, order. No one was ever harmed who didn’t deserve it.”

  “So if this ended right now, if you were to regain control, would you shut down this facility?”

  No response.

  The room spun as she struggled to her feet, using the wall for support as she clawed her way up. “I need to try to use the toilet.” Every white-hot step seared her internally. Her heart throbbed, and her mouth was dry.

  “Need help, Zoey?”

  “No.” She hobbled to the stalls. At least there were stalls, even though there were no doors. What little privacy they offered was hardly much comfort.

  She lifted her shirt and sat on the toilet. At first it refused to come, anxiety freezing her bladder, and she forced herself to relax. The first drops almost made her scream. Torment again, red-hot pokers. Open wounds sizzled and pulsed, and she waited an eternity for her bladder to empty. The toilet paper she used was soaked with blood. She wadded up more and pushed it inside her like a tampon, trying to dry it. She pulled it out, and it was also soaked. Several applications later, she had it under control.

  Supporting herself against the wall, she stood, nearly flushed out of habit. The water was sanguineous, mottled with blood clots. The exertion stole her breath, drained her small reserve of energy as she made her way outside the stall.