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.
He puffed on a thick, sweet-smelling cigar and stood up. Predictably, the tycoon was dressed in a consummate three-piece suit, that one navy blue. His silk tie was scarlet. A large face Rolex was on his right wrist and a pinkie ring was on his left hand. The diamonds studs they both contained were huge.
"How are you feeling today?" he asked Stacey.
"...Weak, Master," she honestly replied, wavering on her feet.
"Good. That means I'll get to test your endurance."
She took a weary inhale. Mr. Monroe lacked any compassion for her. Though he was clearly dominating the entire situation of her imprisonment and torture, he never abused her personally. The expression he wore when she suffered was more enchanted than sadistic. In contrast to Joe, he spoke softly to her and didn't call her names. He gazed at her not with anger or detachment but appreciation. He didn't terrify her the way his bodyguard did. He was the closest thing to kindness that she then had contact with.
Joe removed the chain from her neck. The tycoon lifted the lid of the wooden pillory up while Joe forced her neck down into its largest groove. Mr. Monroe held it in place while his bodyguard put her wrists into the smaller slots on either side of her head. The diarrhea that the suppositories had induced had left her limply compliant.
Fighting had always proven to be useless, anyhow. Joe just ended up badly beating her and serving her less during meals.
He closed the pillory lid and padlocked it into place, leaving her head and hands trapped inside of the holes. She felt like a town drunk in the Dark Ages as she watched Joe retrieve a small black whip.
Behind her, he yanked off the skirt she wore. She then felt the sting of the whip as he started to mercilessly flog her backside. It felt like the tail was searing her skin off and she whimpered and thrashed around in anguish.
Mr. Monroe stood nearby, his face placid while watching the torture. Sometimes, he took pictures or masturbated during his voyeurism, particularly when Joe had sex with her. Right then the crotch of his slacks was full and protruding and she knew that the beating was immensely arousing him. He reached down and squeezed his erection. Joe continued to whip her; Stacey stared into space through heavy tears. She once more focused on the notion that her acute pain would eventually conclude. She didn't want to scream because it would just make her throat sore. Her attackers would ignore or ridicule her begging so she refrained from that, too. The best thing to do was to silently endure it. At least she was getting out of the little cell, even if it was to be tortured.
Soon, Mr. Monroe came to stand behind her. She felt him grab her hips and roughly push his penis into her canal. He penetrated her with rapid strokes, pausing every so often, then ramming into her. It was how he always did it. Stacey experienced some stirring, and a heavy contraction when he reached to caress her clitoris. Joe could only sodomize her, but only his boss had access to all three of her orifices.
He climaxed about ten minutes later. Afterward, he ordered his bodyguard to completely disrobe her and lay her eagle-spread on the rack-like table. He did so and shackled her wrists and ankles. He clamped excruciating clothespins onto her nipples and began to drip burning candle wax on her body while the tycoon recuperated on the couch with his tumbler and continued his observation.
Stacey flinched with each hot dropping, but she remained composed. Her stoicism was a contrast to her beginning behavior. During the earliest torture sessions, she screamed loudly, tried to bargain for mercy, and blubbered so much that she'd repeatedly choke and dry heave on her phlegm. Over time, though, she had come to fear the pain less. After a few weeks, it still filled her with dread but she had was almost indifferent to it.
"That's enough, Joe," Mr. Monroe announced after a short spell.
And just like that, the bodyguard removed her from the table and took her back into her room. She thought that the abuse would be more severe because of the toilet tissue she had wasted. Stacey was instead relieved; Joe had cleansed her rectum that day for naught.
She began to pick the wax drippings from her body. It was one of her favorite activities to do besides light humming. She made a game of out trying to pull pieces away without breaking them.
Mr. Monroe soon came inside. She halted her actions and stared down at her wringing hands.
