No Good Deed

Tom’s grip was like iron, the metal of the collar a cold promise against James’s throat as he was dragged from the room. He was hauled up a narrow, uncarpeted staircase, the kind of tight, steep back stairs servants would have used to move unseen in a grand house, a grim echo of a bygone era. His bare feet scrabbled on the dusty wooden steps. They ascended another flight, the air growing colder and mustier with each step. He was being taken to the top of the house, to what in days gone by would have been servants' quarters, but were now dusty and vacant.

Tom shoved him into the largest of the attic rooms. It was a cavern of shadows and neglect, illuminated by a single, grimy window. Dust motes danced in the weak light. In the center of the room, a heavy steel chain hung from a thick beam in the ceiling, swaying slightly. Tom clipped it to the cuffs, locking his hands securely behind his back. Then he picked up a control unit that James hadn't seen hanging down alongside the chain.

There was a low whirring sound, and the chain began to retract upwards into the ceiling. James’s arms were pulled with it, the strain immediate and excruciating. He tried to adjust his stance, rising onto his toes to match the way his arms were being pulled, but the lift was relentless. He was slowly, inexorably bent forward, his torso forced parallel to the floor, his shoulders screaming in protest. The pulling stopped when he was a grotesque, human bridge, his entire weight suspended by his dislocated shoulders. Tom left him alone in the dusty room, a sacrifice left to the ghosts of the house.

It was some time later that Jenny came up the stairs, her light footsteps a stark contrast to Tom’s heavy tread. She was carrying a black leather holdall, which she threw onto the floor in the corner, sending a swirl of ancient dust dancing in the beam of light from the window.

"Nichola and Tom have gone out for the night," she announced, her voice bright and cheerful. "I'm babysitting."

She had changed clothes. She was no longer in the smart, designer gear from earlier. She was now dressed in a shiny, black latex catsuit that clung to her like a second skin, reflecting the dim light in oily ripples. It was the uniform of a professional torturer.

The next two hours were an eternity of pain, meticulously crafted and expertly delivered. Jenny didn't rush. She enjoyed her work. She started with a simple riding crop, walking around him, tapping it against her thigh. The first strike landed across his buttocks, a sharp, stinging slap that made him flinch. Then another, and another, creating a rhythmic, burning pattern across his skin. She moved up his back, the crop leaving thin, red welts in its wake.

When she grew tired of the crop, she opened her holdall. She pulled out a pair of wicked-looking nipple clamps, connected by a silver chain. She knelt in front of him, her face level with his chest, and fastened them one by one. The pain was a sharp, pinching agony that made him gasp. She gave the connecting chain a playful tug, and a fresh wave of nausea washed over him.

Her tools were varied and imaginative. A flogger with soft leather falls that caressed his skin before raining down a stinging, percussive assault. A thin, flexible cane that left searing, pencil-thin lines of fire across the backs of his thighs. A Wartenberg wheel, a small, spiky metal wheel that she rolled over his sensitive skin, tracing patterns of agony on his shoulders, his neck, his balls. She never raised her voice, never lost her cool, and maintained a professional demeanor. She simply applied pain methodically and scientifically, observing his reactions with the detached interest of a scientist studying a specimen.

Through it all, James tried to deny the pain, true to keep silent. But as the minutes stretched into hours, his resolve began to crumble. The pain was no longer a series of separate assaults; it was a single, all-consuming fire that threatened to burn him away completely. His mind, once a fortress of logic, was now a screaming, panicked animal, begging for release.

Finally, she picked up a thin, wooden switch. She swished it through the air, the sound a wicked hiss. "Last chance to make a noise, love," she whispered. She brought it down hard across the soles of his feet.

That did it. The pain was blinding, a white-hot agony that shot up his legs and detonated in his skull. A raw, guttural scream was torn from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated torment.

"There we go," Jenny said, a triumphant smile in her voice. "That's what I was waiting for."

She continued, her strokes falling in a steady, merciless rhythm on his feet, his calves, his hands. He was no longer silent. He was begging. Pleading. Crying. Promising her anything, everything, if only she would stop. The words tumbled from his lips, a torrent of pathetic, desperate gibberish.

That was when she decided he was done. She walked over to her holdall and pulled out a large, red ball gag. She forced it into his mouth, silencing his pathetic pleas, and strapped it tightly behind his head. Then she released the winch, lowering his arms in a rush. He collapsed to the floor in a heap, his limbs useless, his body a canvas of agony. She hog-tied him with ruthless efficiency, binding his wrists to his ankles, leaving him curled up and helpless in the dusty corner.

"Time for my break," she said, wiping a sheen of sweat from her brow with the back of her gloved hand. She turned and walked away, leaving him there, trussed and gagged, to marinate in his pain, the metallic taste of his own screams filling his mouth.

Time ceased to have meaning in the dusty attic. James existed in a haze of pain and semi-consciousness, his body a throbbing, contorted mass of agony. The hog-tie was a masterpiece of torment, every muscle screaming for a release that would not come. He was drifting in a merciful, pain-filled fog when the shock came.

It wasn't a gentle splash. It was a violent, percussive assault. A bucket of ice-cold water was thrown over him, the impact hitting him like a physical blow. The frigid liquid instantly jolted his system, wrenching him from his stupor and plunging him into hyper-alertness. He jerked violently in his bindings, a choked gasp escaping his throat as the water, shockingly cold, sluiced over his burning skin. The sudden, extreme temperature change was an agony in itself, a new layer of torment layered upon the old.

He heard a grunt, a sound of effort, and felt the rope tied between his arms and his legs being grabbed. He was dragged across the dusty floorboards like a sack of garbage, his body scraping and bumping along the wood. He was pulled back into the center of the room, directly beneath the ominous chain.

He heard the snip of shears, and the tension holding him in the agonizing hog-tie was released. His legs flopped limply onto the floor, a wave of pins and needles racing through them. The cuff on his arms was undone, and for a fleeting moment, he thought his arms were free. The hope was crushed as she quickly, efficiently, recuffed them in front of him. Before he could even process the movement, she had attached his cuffed wrists to the chain hanging down from the ceiling.

She stood back and pressed the button on the control unit. The powerful winch whirred to life, and James was pulled upwards. His feet left the floor, his entire body weight once again suspended by his shoulders. The winch lifted him higher and higher, until he was swinging gently, a human pendulum of suffering, his toes barely scraping the floorboards with each back-and-forth sway. He was completely exposed, his back a vulnerable canvas stretched taut for her art.

Then she started on his back with a variety of whips. She began with a heavy, leather flogger, the thuds landing like a series of brutal punches, driving the air from his lungs. She moved on to a multi-tailed whip, the falls wrapping around his sides, the tips licking at his chest. Each instrument was different, each delivering a unique flavor of pain. She was a musician, and his body was her instrument, and she was playing a violent, complex symphony of agony.

She worked methodically, her rhythm steady, her aim precise. She didn't stop until his skin was broken, until thin, red lines wept and merged, until blood was seeping from the wounds, tracing dark, sticky paths down his back and legs. Satisfied with her work, she paused.

From her bag, she pulled her special rubber hood. It wasn't a simple blindfold; it was a complete, form-fitting mask of thick, black latex. She stretched it open and pulled it down over his head. The world vanished, replaced by an oppressive, clinging darkness. The rubber was loose, barely touching his face. Yet it sealed him off. She tucked the bottom of the hood securely under the heavy metal collar around his neck, sliding her finger around the edge to create a perfect, airtight seal. The mask had an odd-looking disc, a small, metallic valve, placed where the mouth should be.

She stepped back to admire her handiwork. His head was now a featureless, gleaming black ball, utterly dehumanized. He was no longer a person, just a hanging, bleeding thing. She smiled.

Then she punched him hard in the stomach. The blow was a sharp, brutal shock to his already abused system. As his body convulsed and he gasped for air that he couldn't find, a terrifying thing happened. The hood started to move. The rubber, which had been loose, began to contract, to shrink, clinging tighter and tighter to his face. It was a vacuum seal.

This was Jenny's favorite part, as her victim sucked in air and used all that was trapped in the hood; the hood contracted around the face, and a mask of their features slowly appeared. Making it look like a death mask. The power in that moment, to allow them to live or watch them die.  Her hand went down to her rubber-clad groin and stroked herself.

Mark jerked around in panic, his muffled screams lost within the airtight prison. He couldn't breathe. His lungs burned, screaming for oxygen that wasn't there. The darkness was no longer just visual; it was suffocating, absolute. He thrashed wildly, his body swinging on the chain, a frantic, dying bird.

Jenny just watched him calmly, waiting for the right moment. Just as he felt his consciousness begin to fade, as black spots danced behind his sealed eyes, she reached out and turned the disc. A small amount of air was hissed through the valve, a precious, life-giving whisper. He sucked it in greedily, his chest heaving. Then she turned the disc again, and the air disappeared. The vacuum returned. It was a game. A terrifying, sadistic game of life and death, and she was the only one who knew the rules..