Chapter 4: A Suffering Woman

Chapter 4: A Suffering Woman

For a few moments, he debated going out. The evening was still young and he felt like taking a walk. But there was one more item of business to attend to. True, it could wait until morning, but he was in the mood for putting the finishing touches on a prior project. He rose and went down to room 12.

Room 12 was one of the many rooms he had arranged for when he had this underground complex modified for his special use. Some held cages, some the video equipment, and some instruments of torture. Room12 was one of those. He paused before the door for a moment, listening, but he heard nothing. Perhaps she had fainted again.

The inside of the small room was dark until he flipped the light switch. Then, two overhead lights illuminated a young woman in inverted suspension in the middle of the room. She was naked, and her long red hair trailed off down towards the floor. She was, of course, still bound, as she had been when he first left her there, in a painful suspension, her body four feet off the concrete floor. It was a simple but most uncomfortable position that she was held in. First, her wrists had been bound together in front of her, palms facing palms. Then, she was set down on the floor and her ankles tied crossed so that her legs were held apart. He had tied a rope loop around the ropes holding her wrists together and passed that rope through her legs and then up to a hoist. When he touched the button to activate the motorized hoist, the rope slowly took up the slack until her hands were being dragged between her legs. Her body rolled backward as her hands lifted higher, then she was leaving the support of the floor. All her weight was upon the ropes around her wrists, and her arms were pulled straight up towards the ceiling. But she was bent at the hips and her bound ankles pressed hard against her wrists.

The position allowed her very little movement. She could bend her knees and bring her ankles down until they were against her arms. Or she could straighten her legs until her feet were touching the rope above where it held her hands. But neither position allowed her any increase in comfort or the chance for escape.

Her head hung down behind her, with her eyes closed. Malcolm walked around her, examining the numerous bruises and welts that covered her body. From the various stages of healing, it was obvious that someone had whipped her repeatedly over a number of days. From her knees to the tops of her breasts there was hardly an inch of skin left unmarked. The freshest ridges of swollen and discolored flesh were across the backs of her thighs, at least three dozen vicious cuts with some kind of thin whip that had almost but not quite cut the skin.

But whipping was not all that had been done to this young lady. Two days before, with the video camera recording every struggle and cry of pain, he had punched a hole in each of her nipples, not very differently from the way a hole may be put there for willing young ladies who want to wear body jewelry. Then, totally ignoring her cries of anguish, he pushed her breasts together and inserted a small padlock through those holes. When he let go, her nipples were locked together with less than an inch separating them. Of course, that was not their normal position and her breasts were distorted as they were pulled towards each other.

It had also turned her breasts into a handle. When that torture session had been finished, he had simply untied her from the chair, locked her wrists behind her in handcuffs, and took the padlock in his hand. A slight tug brought forth a burst of renewed tears, and she followed him eagerly, trying to avoid the pain. It amused him to see her breasts pulled towards each other, the nipples almost touching as if they were trying to kiss. He decided to leave that lock in place. Forever.

This woman, one Linda by name, still did not react to his presence, so he pulled back his hand and slapped her soundly across the ass. It was a swat that might normally have only stung, but with the flesh there so covered with swollen ridges and bruises, it hurt terribly. A moan escaped her lips but the eyes did not open.

“Well,” Malcolm said to no one in particular. “Needs more stimulus.”

More stimulus was a thin leather strap taken from a peg on the wall. There was a stiff handle then two feet of leather. Without warning, Malcolm lifted the strap and brought it down squarely between her legs, impacting upon the upturned and defenseless pussy. He aimed so the end would strike that most sensitive place: the clitoris. He got the reaction he desired.

Linda cried loudly, not quite a scream, but more of a shocked expression of anguish. Her whole body shook and her head jerked up wildly. “NO!” she screamed after the first shock had faded enough for her to regain the use of her voice. “No, no, no, no...”

Several times he cut the leather across the backs of her thighs, directly over the most recent cuts from a far more vicious whip. The hanging girl cried out and jerked with each blow. But Malcolm’s heart was not really into it. He was just teasing the bound woman, letting her know that he could cause any kind and amount of pain he wished and there was nothing she could do about it. Besides, he was not video recording this little session. Why waste good pain that could be recorded? Well, truth was, he simply loved to whip helpless women.

This one had been with him over a week and survived three sessions before the video camera, each more painful than the last. She knew that lesson without having a refresher course, but he slashed at her thighs because it was an enjoyable thing to do.

Finally, he put the strap back on the wall and stood there considering the battered and bruised woman. Lifting her head was an effort, but she did so she could look into his eyes. “Please...” she pleaded. “My hands. I can’t feel them.”

Glancing up to where the ropes around the wrists had been taking her full weight for nearly twenty-four hours, he saw that they were a dark purple-gray. Not healthy looking at all. The circulation had been cut off for so long that were was probably serious damage done there. Malcolm yawned and made no move to release Linda from her torment.

“You’re going to kill me.” It was a flat statement, delivered by a soul without hope.

“Your father paid the ransom,” he told her. As he expected, hope flared in those lovely green eyes. Then it faded away.

“You’re going to kill me,” she repeated. “I have seen you. You cannot let me go.”

“Well, can’t have you describing me to the police, can we?” he told her reasonably.

She did not react. A full week of constant tight bondage, whippings and sexual abuse, and knowing that all was being recorded for her father to see had reduced this once feisty young woman to a despondent, almost empty shell.

“Actually, I am going to send you back to your father,” he told her. “Tonight, in fact.” It was not the truth, but he loved to see the flare of hope light up their faces at that thought.

“I can’t feel my hands.” Lydia seemed not to hear him. “I hurt so much...”

“Well, maybe I can make you feel better.”