Suffer the Flesh

Chapter 6

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.”

“What’s that?”

“When you leave here, you’re going to be thin.”

How bizarre that he believed this was acceptable payment for torture. “That’s the deal? I’m going through this shit because you’ve put me on some kind of diet?”

He returned to his seat, leaned back in the chair. “Well… yes. You can leave once you’ve lost the weight. This is why we accept larger women into the program. Nothing too big though—gets in the way of… research.”

“Did it ever occur to you morons that gang-raping a woman would be more traumatic than her carrying around extra weight? What kind of justification is that, anyway? You’re out of your mind. And did it ever occur to you that some women like the way they look? Some people are happy with the way they are.”

“Hell no. And certainly not you. You’re in classic denial, Zoey. You were investigated before you were brought here. You’ve been miserable, and we can make you happy. We can make you thin.”

Investigated? When? They picked her up shortly after her conversation with Mel. When the hell had they researched her?

He must have noticed the confusion on her face. “Oh, did you think Mel’s approaching you was a coincidence?”

Dry tongue slid across dry lips. Tears threatened to fall. “But it doesn’t work that way…” she whispered. “I’m happy the way I am. I want to go home.”

“You are home, Zoey. And it really is that simple. We’ve had hundreds of test subjects come through here. Very few were disappointed with the results. Jesus, most women will do anything to be thin. Do you know that a study showed that formerly overweight women would rather lose a limb than gain back the weight?”

Palmed away tears that trickled toward her mouth. “What about the others?”

“What others?”

“The few that you said were disappointed in the results.”

“Oh. They’re—around.” He shook his head. “We’re getting off track. How do you feel about being overweight, Zoey?”

Oh, but was this a trick question? Even if she hated being fat, it didn’t mean she wanted to be fucked thin. “I’m not that big.”

“True, but I know you hate it. I’ve seen your file. We may take extreme measures, but we get results. Our guests are happy. Our overweight guests lose weight; our corporate clients get their research.”

“Corporate clients?”

“Absolutely. This is big business, Zoey. Sexual research is conducted for all aspects of the industry—condoms, lubricants, sex toys, magazines, clothing, the list goes on. Haven’t you ever wondered how they came up with results for an orgasm study?

That was one of my favorites, by the way.”

Nausea repaid a visit, stronger than before, inciting her stomach to riot. She closed her eyes, waiting for the feeling to pass.

“We’re done for today. I wanted you to have some insight into this, Zoey. Maybe you’ll be more cooperative now that you understand the program. I want you to enjoy your stay here.” He lowered his head, studied the papers on his desk.

Session apparently over.

She followed the guard down the stairs.

Back in the cafeteria, James motioned for her to sit with him at his table. “Have a good visit?”

Reluctantly, she sat across from him and stared at her plate. Runny eggs and burnt toast made for a less than appealing breakfast.

“You don’t seem happy, Zoey.”

Her fork clattered on the plate, and she looked up at him, unsure if she was allowed to speak. But his eyes were transfixed on hers, as if anticipating her response.

“This place,” she said through clenched teeth, “is a festering cesspool. This has been the worst experience of my life.”

Tilted his head and lowered his eyes, now addressing the breasts clearly outlined through the fabric of her shirt. “So dramatic, Zoey,” he whispered, glanced up again. “There have only been a handful of women I’ve been really attracted to. I was hoping you would enjoy being here. Spending time with me… how can I change your mind?”

“You can’t.” Her gaze matched his, unwavering, solid, hers aflame with hatred.

“I can try. You’re special, Zoey. Maybe someday you’ll feel the same about me.” He got up and walked across the room.

She chewed a piece of toast. “Not a chance in hell…” she mumbled, deciding he was more delusional and psychotic than she had given him credit for.

A few minutes later he was back. “Come with me,” he said.

Jill, Kim, and several other women Zoey didn’t know by name followed James to Room Eight. The walls were mirrored from ceiling to floor, the floor foam padding. Track lighting adorning the perimeter was soft, calming.

“This is what I call the touchy-feely room. It pisses me off.” He laughed, and traced the corners of his mouth with his finger and thumb. “But I suppose it’s a breather for you ladies. Robin, you’ve done this room before, right?”

Robin, the guard, nightstick on her belt, was small in stature but powerfully built, like a pit-bull. Her long black hair was pulled behind her ears and tied in a ponytail. “Yes, I have.”

James left. Another guard stood vigil by the closed door.

“Shirts off,” Robin said.

No one hesitated. T-shirts were removed and tossed to the side.

Robin leaned against the wall. “Everyone pair up.”

Zoey’s partner was Jill. Thinner than Zoey, with apple-sized breasts, large, dark nipples. Jill’s nudity embarrassed Zoey, the close proximity of her breasts, the sweat shining on her skin. The other women didn’t wait for further instructions and embraced, began to explore one another.

Zoey blushed, looked away from her partner. This was something she’d never done before, had never even considered. There’d been one drunken frat party years ago where she’d kissed another woman, but it was just something she’d wanted to try.

“Lay down,” Robin told her. She bent Zoey’s knees, her feet flat on the floor. Took Jill’s hands, laid them on Zoey’s body. “Explore her,” Robin said. “You’ve done this before. Touch her breasts, caress her.”

Jill obeyed but worked mechanically, eyes squeezed tight, face turned toward the floor.

“You’re doing it wrong. She’s a guest, like you. This is your chance to bring comfort to another prisoner’s life, make her feel good, feel some real happiness. Are you willing to steal that from her?”

Jill started to cry, turned away from Zoey.

“Jill, knock it off. Get it right, or you know what’ll happen.”

Using the nightstick, Robin tapped Zoey’s knees, spreading them.

Jill sighed, and with a hesitant touch began to caress Zoey, to massage her breasts, her ribcage, fingertips tracing delicate patterns on her stomach and abdomen, stroked the tender flesh between her legs. She leaned over, suckled a nipple, trailed her tongue along the same route her hands had traveled.

Zoey closed her eyes and pretended Jill was Barry. He’d dumped her when he said she’d gotten too fat, but that didn’t matter now. Barry with the puppy-dog eyes and hint of facial hair that never grew no matter how hard he tried. Using him in this way was poetic justice for the way he had treated her. Feminine fingers probing her body belonged to Barry. That tongue, laying slow kisses along her stomach, dipping into her belly button, glistening traces of spit on her inner thighs—all Barry. His hands spreading her legs, soft lips separating her clefts. She tilted her pelvis, hot breath on her clit, moist tongue probing, licking, sucking. Arched her back, thrust her hips to the eager mouth, warm wet lips expertly bringing her to climax, exploring deeper and deeper until she came, until she shuddered and spasmed and came again.

The sound of Robin’s voice destroyed the illusion. “Good, Jill. You’re done for now. Go see if Steve wants anything.” The guard at the door smiled as Jill approached him.

Zoey leaned on her elbow, breathing hard, sheen of sweat cooling on her skin. The women were fucking one another, sticky balls of flesh, some taking turns, others lying head to foot. Legs spread, women on top of women, women side-by-side. Robin was removing her clothes, staring at Zoey. Smiled, slowly ran her tongue across her bottom lip.

Zoey was aware of her nudity again, and crossed her arm over her breasts, pulled her knees together. Her head was spinning, that feeling of dread beginning at the base of her skull. “No,” she blurted, “I’m supposed to—” She lifted her arm, waved it in Jill’s direction. But Jill was busy on the other side of the room, Steve the guard enjoying a blow job.

She looked up as Robin reached her, brandishing the nightstick, and slammed it into Zoey’s stomach. She grunted, doubled over. Robin pushed her onto her stomach and beat her with the club. Zoey tried to crawl away but Robin was relentless.

Zoey sobbed, her body bruised, stinging. Robin spread Zoey’s legs, shoved the nightstick in and fucked her with it, yelling with every thrust, smashing it against her uterus, every blow a lightning bolt of pain.

Screaming, Zoey reached down, tried to pull out the club.

Robin backhanded her across her face. “Don’t move!” Pounded harder, faster, until Zoey was hysterical, the pain crippling.

Robin pulled out the nightstick and lay down beside Zoey. Out of breath, her hair liberated from the ponytail and stuck in sweaty clumps to her forehead and chin. “Fuck me,” she said. “Get me off.”

Body trembling, barely able to move, Zoey crawled over to Robin and stared at her naked body.

Robin opened her eyes. “You’d better do me the way Jill did you. You’d better get it right. I want to enjoy this.”

Zoey moaned, lowered her shivering body to Robin’s. With tentative fingers she reached her breasts, massaged them. Licked the nipple.

“You’re about one second away from being fucked up the ass with my nightstick, Zoey. Do it right.”

Sucked the nipple harder, rolled her palm over the other. Caressed Robin’s flat stomach with dry lips, explored the area between her knees. She separated Robin’s legs and positioned herself between them, lowering her head to her crotch. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t bring herself anywhere near that woman’s mound of pubic hair.

Her thoughts wandered, and she was twelve, at her aunt’s farm. Picking apples from the neighbor’s yard until she and her sister got caught and were chased by a crazy woman with a broom.

Fingers spread Robin’s labia, dipped inside her pussy. Apple trees; white blossoms and powerful, sweet fragrances, fighting the bees for possession of the tart fruit. Wind in her hair, cooling sticky sweat—

Robin grunted. “Use your mouth.”

Zoey bit her lip, drew a breath. Being raped with a nightstick was worse than this. Had to think of that, the only way to get through this.

Zoey grabbed Robin’s ass and lifted it, pulled her pelvis closer to her face. Tongue piercing Robin’s slit, tasting the salty fluids, hot, sticky moisture sheathing her taste buds. Flicked the lingua against the walls, mouth fucking her, hot breath tickling her fine hairs until Robin bucked, moaned, squealed in delight, pounded her fists against the padding.

Lowered her ass to the floor, sat up, leaned back on her palms.

“Was that so hard? Now do Jill. I want to watch.”