In a tiny, dim room in an unknown locale lay a small cot. Beside it were a metal sink and a steel toilet bowl. The place was nothing more than a prison cell.
A young woman named Stacey lay in the cot whilst crying herself to exhaustion. She was starving and severely bored. Nothing was present to stimulate her mind: no books, writing equipment, music, human interaction, or television. Her only highlights were when her captor decided to feed her. Her only diversion was experiencing daily torture sessions.
Her sobbing began to taper, though the boredom still seized her. She wiped her wet face and decided to try out an idea that had come to her earlier. She got up and unwound a copious amount of toilet paper. Wetting it, she turned it into a pulp. Mr. Kennedy Monroe, her abductor, had ordered her not to waste the tissue, but she hoped that she could rationalize its use.
Stacey sat on the floor, sniffling while trying to sculpt the tissue pulp into something artistic. She was enjoying her activities as she shaped the small form.
Suddenly, the door was unlocked and yanked opened. Her heart leapt and she tried to hide her activities as Joe rushed inside.
"What the fuck did I tell you about shit like this?" he nonetheless barked.
He had his long, heavy chain in hand. He lifted it over his head; Stacey tried to scramble out of the way but he brought it down right across her back. She gasped at the burning pain it produced.
"You know what this little stunt means, don't you?" He looped the chain around her neck like a leash and padlocked it in place.
Fresh tears moistened her eyes and her heart raced. She looked at the portly but burly bodyguard with his shiny skull and sweaty skin. No amount of pleading would make him sympathetic to her; he'd only be entertained. He stripped the short blue smock she wore off, leaving her nude.
He yanked her out of the little cell and into the den room, which was filled with furniture more suitable for the Inquisition. There was a table reminiscent of The Rack with iron shackles at each corner; pillory and stock devices were bolted to the floor and a chair was present with straps and electrical-shock wires. An iron cage was in the corner and opposite that a spanking bench.
Joe took her to none of that furniture. He bound her into a strappado position: her hands were behind her back and lifted as far up as they could go. They were attached to a chain hanging from the ceiling. This left her bent completely over, placing strain on the ligaments in her shoulders and knees. Joe then attached a spreader bar between her feet to keep them static. Stacey had no energy to fight him and flee during the trussing: she was too weak from hunger and crying.
She panted and trembled but remained stoic. She had learned his repertoire of violence; she also knew that it would eventually come to an end.
He chose the biggest, thickest wooden slapper and began to alternately spank each of her buttocks as hard as he could swing the instrument. She flinched and cried out with each stinging blow. She whimpered in agony, desperate for him to stop. Finally, after a few minutes of three dozen blows, he was finished.
Before shoving her back into the cell, he bound her in a reverse prayer position: her arms were twisted up behind her back and her palms were pressed together. He kept them in place by tying her wrists with nylon rope. Again, there was intense strain in her shoulders. Joe then confiscated the soggy statue and locked her in the cell once more. Stacey lay in bed on her stomach with a burning bottom. Even further depleted, she wept internally.
At thirty years old, she had been a destitute nobody in society. She lived out of a cheap hotel with no family or friends. She worked as a maid and a newspaper deliverer. Her wardrobe mostly came from the Salvation Army and daily meals consisted of cheap fast food. Sometimes she ate at soup kitchens. During a couple of desperate occasions, she had been forced to sleep in homeless shelters. Life was a bleak, hand-to-mouth existence.
As a maid, she worked in one of Mr. Monroe's high-rise towers. He was a real estate tycoon that owned several properties in the city. Wealthy and a minor celebrity in enterprise circles, he was conspicuous enough to warrant Joe as an ever-present bodyguard.
Mr. Monroe mesmerized Stacey. Her heart had always sped up as she surveyed the handsome, impeccably dressed man. He was in his forties but looked better than most men half his age. Joe was always at his side. In the year of her employment, Stacey had observed the bodyguard chauffeuring him around in his black Mercedes Benz, stepping out to fetch him meals, and carrying his larger items. As well as a protector, he was clearly a flunky and an image accessory.
She mopped his floors in her cheap frock but the tycoon always smiled at her with greetings, much to her elation and insecurity. She yearned to be good enough for him. She couldn't resist daydreaming that he'd rescue her, as Prince Charming had done with Cinderella.
After a few hours, Joe came back inside the cell wearing a leather apron, galoshes, and rubber gloves. The chain was again in his hands. Stacey knew what the sight meant. It was time to be tortured for Mr. Kennedy Monroe's entertainment.
To her relief, Joe untied her hands and her arms fell out of the agonizing reverse prayer. He collared her with the chain and yanked her up. She moaned out as the blood painfully coursed through her liberated arms. Her mind spun.
"Please, Sir, I'm so tired," she moaned.
He drew his hand up and brutally slapped the left side of her face. She crashed onto the floor and tasted the saltiness of blood in her mouth.
"Are you too tired to remember rule number one, bitch?" he growled.
She panted weakly. "No, Sir."
"What is it?"
"...Never tell you what to do."
"So if you haven't forgotten it, then it means you knowingly defied the rules."
"No, Sir, I mean- No- I'm sorry."
"Get your pathetic ass up!"
When Stacey pulled herself to her feet, he pushed her face-down onto the bed. He shoved two suppositories into her rectum along with a harnessed plug. After a half hour, she was drenched in sweat and rocking back in forth in a desperate need to use the toilet. Finally, Joe allowed her to, never leaving the room.
He then pulled her from the cell and into a short hallway. It wasn't a residential hall, but looked like one in a commercial building. Over time, Stacey had figured that they were underground: no windows were present but a couple of air ducts were.
In a tiled shower room, Joe thoroughly soaped and scrubbed her body. By hand, he thoroughly massaged soap onto her breasts and hairy crotch as she cringed. After rinsing her, he took her into a small medical room where there was an examination table and a dentist's chair.
He secured her in the chair and gave her hair and combing. Afterwards, He dressed her in a black bustier that pushed her medium-sized breasts firmly up, a spandex mini skirt, and a pair of black pumps. He led her out of the room and back into the den. Mr. Monroe sat on the sofa, sipping on a tumbler of cognac and as usual looking breathtaking.
