Meals of Misery

“You are not the only one, by the way”, the man continued without missing a beat, while Annetta stumbled naked and barefooted down the corridor, trying to keep up with the thing that was dragging her along. “To whom we offered a deal”.

“You mean kidnapped me”, the woman hated how meek her voice sounded. She winced when her toes stumbled over a corner. Shit, motherfucker! “Oh, we did not kidnap you, Mrs. Mortinson”, the man smiled turning towards her. The fast-paced walking ended and Annetta found her arm being released from the vice-like grip of the inhuman and cold machine. “I assure you, we have your best interest at heart and want you to go back to your family sooner rather than later”.

She just stood there, trying to cover up her modesty, but found it to be a lost cause, so she just sighted looking around. They stood in a dim-lit corridor, the morning sun-rays shining through half-closed curtains. Mr. A was standing by the door, one hand over the handle. “We told you the truth at the beginning, Mrs. You will be well compensated for your time with us. It’s just that we thought that it would be prudent to have a contingency now rather than later to save us all the trouble”.

The blonde did not understand most of what the man said, due to his roundabout way of telling things, but one thing she knew is that whatever was awaiting them behind those closed doors, bode nothing well for her. “Shall we continue on? Or do you want… Renata… here to help you with walking?”.

“No, I… I will walk by my own, thank you”.

“Wonderful”, the man smiled and opened the door. He went in first, heading down the stairs and disappearing from sight. For a moment, the cooking show hostess though of running away from here, but one glance at the synth, who was looking at her with her head cocked side-ways as if examining a bug, shoed those thoughts away. The synth gestured towards the door. The blond took a deep breath and followed through.

The trio descended many flights of stairs and now were moving through a dim-lit and moisture filled corridor. Annetta's nipples started to stood at attention from the cold creeping in to her body. She shivered as goosebumps erupted on her skin. The blonde wondered how long they will have to go down this cold and unwelcoming corridor, when Mr. A stopped behind metal doors, which were locked by a keypad combination.

The chef could hear faint sounds coming behind closed doors. She swallowed a huge lump in her throat, trying to steel herself for whatever was about to be shown to her. Can’t be anything good, if this is some kind of demonstration of what’s going to happen should I disobey these sick fucks. Mr. A punched in a key-code and the metal doors automatically slid aside with a hiss.

Annetta's blood ran cold. 

The room beyond the sliding doors was a cavernous space, starkly illuminated by humming fluorescent panels overhead. The air inside was sterile, smelling aggressively of antiseptic and something else that she could not put her finger on, but thought that it reminded her of smells in dentist office.

To her left, the space resembled a high-tech trauma ward. The blonde's eyes were immediately drawn to a massive, cylindrical glass tank filled with a viscous, glowing blue fluid. Bubbles rose slowly from the bottom, and thick tubes snaked from the top of the cylinder down into the liquid. Adjacent to the tank was a hospital bed surrounded by a forest of medical equipment: monitors displaying scrolling heart rates and oxygen saturation, IV drips standing like silent sentinels, and trays of gleaming surgical steel instruments that looked far too menacing for standard check-ups.

Annetta stared at the tank, her mind reeling. She assumed it was some twisted preservation method, perhaps where they kept failed "experiments" cold, or worse, where they disposed of bodies once they were done with them.

However, the right half of the room was created to resemble a dungeon, equipped with every implement of torture and restraint Annetta had ever heard of, and many she hadn’t. A heavy St. Andrew's cross stood bolted to the far wall, leather straps dangling empty and inviting from its limbs. The blonde’s eyes went wide when her eyes registered some remnants of a darker color coating its wooden façade. Closer to her, an X-frame rack sat in the center of the floor, its winches and gears gleaming under the lights. Along the walls, an arsenal of whips, crops, canes, and clamps hung with terrifying neatness, arranged by size and severity. Chains hung from the ceiling on motorized pulleys, the links clinking softly in the still air, and various cages (some too small for a human to stand in) littered the periphery.

But it wasn't just the equipment that made the woman's blood run cold; it was the people in the room. As the trio crossed the threshold, Annetta's breath hitched in her throat. Misters B and C were already there, looming over their female captive like predators toying with a cornered prey. The woman was secured to a harsh, unforgiving wooden chair, her nudity on full display as heavy straps bit into her soft flesh, pulled so taut she could barely even twitch. A roadmap of violence marred her alabaster skin, with fresh, angry cuts and darkening bruises pooling grotesquely around all of her body. Her identity was completely obscured by a black rubber mask that left only narrow slits for her nostrils. The room was filled with her wet, muffled whimpers and ragged gasps for air that filtered through the mask. Annetta watched, paralyzed, as the woman’s hands were splayed wide and shackled ruthlessly to the armrests.

The suffering captive began shaking and screaming when Misters B and C started to unceremoniously, excruciatingly slowly, inserting tooth picks under the poor woman’s nails. Even the tightly wound rubber-mask did not do much against her screaming. Annetta found herself shivering at the site before her, as fresh tears started spilling from her soft blue eyes. Is this what they are going to do to me, if I fall out of line? Shit, shit, shit, I have to find a way to get out of here and inform the police.

“We’re almost done”, said Mr. B calmly. He briefly glanced at the visitors, as he inserted the last two tooth-picks under the woman’s right-hand fingernails. His tongue peeked out from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated. The captive vailed like a banshee, quickly mumbling words, which the mask distorted.

“P-please”, Annetta stammered, making one shaky and uncertain step towards them, but found herself on the cold ground gasping for air and sputtering as a fist landed on her solar plexus. The chef watched with watery eyes as the synth stood looming over her with detachment. “Stay down”, it simply said.

“Do not worry, Mrs. Mortinson”, Mr. A said, not even deigning to look at the gasping blond on the ground, walking towards Misters B and C, who were currently making their finishing touches on the captive female. As Mr. C wedged the last toothpick under the left-hand’s fingernails, Mr. A squeezed the woman’s nipples so hard, that her body tried to break free from her bonds, however, with no avail.

With clinical efficiency, Misters B and C stepped back from the writhing woman, admiring their handiwork for a brief moment before turning their attention to the ward side of the room. They moved toward the glowing blue healing tank, their shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. Annetta watched, her chest still heaving from the blow, as they began to manipulate the controls on the tank's console, checking the fluid levels and calibrating the monitors, completely indifferent to the suffering they had just inflicted.

Mr. A leaned over the trembling captive. The woman was still shaking violently, muffled wails seeping through the rubber mask, her body slick with sweat and tears. Mr. A reached out, his fingers grazing the side of her neck. He began to stroke her skin, a slow, rhythmic motion that was grotesquely gentle in contrast to her agony. "Shhh, shhh," he whispered, his voice low and soothing, dripping with false affection. "It's all over now. No more pain, provided you learned your lesson." He trailed his hand down to her shoulder, squeezing almost tenderly. "You're going to be a good girl from now on, aren't you?"

The woman didn't hesitate. Even through the haze of agony and the suffocating darkness of the mask, her head bobbed frantically up and down, a desperate, jerky motion of total capitulation. "Good," the man crooned, patting her cheek almost patronizingly. "Good girl."

He finally turned away from her, his gaze shifting to the floor where Annetta was still curled up, clutching her stomach. The cooking show hostess had managed to stifle her gasps, though the pain in her midsection throbbed in time with her racing heart. She looked up at him, wide-eyed and trembling, silent questions screaming in her throat.

"Her punishment is finally over, Mrs. Mortinson," Mr. A said, a hand still stroking the captive’s neck. After a while, the woman finally calmed down to a point that she was no longer trashing, however, every time she tried moving her fingers, her body winced in pain. “There, there, we will soon be getting those nasty splinters out”, the balding man said tenderly. “But first, dear Anne, I think its time we introduce you to one of our first volunteers”.

Annetta briefly closed her eyes as Mr. A began unzipping the rubber mask, not wanting to see the poor woman’s face. “Keep your eyes open”, instructed the synth as it placed its foot on the cooking show hostess’ stomach.

 A wave of terror washed over her as the man removed the rubber-mask from the woman. Strapped to the chair, with various bruises marveling her face, sat Annetta’s sister Audrey; the blond began weeping…