The Waxwork Museum

The Waxwork Museum

Note: this story is inspired by such tales as the Wax Dungeon, by Anagram, and films like Waxwork. I have tried not to copy those, but to do my own take on this trope

The Waxwork Museum

It was almost closing time when Erin saw the waxwork museum. That was just like the scatterbrained young woman, later for everything. Her mother had told her, more than once, that she would be late for her own funeral.

The museum was on a back street of London, and it was not much to look at, with a very thin frontage. Erin must have walked past it a dozen times in the past without ever noticing it before. She only decided to go in because it was starting to rain.

There was a creepy old guy at the entrance, beginning to close the door. He looked to be seventy years old if he was a day.

“Excuse me, miss, I’m about to lock up.” he said.

“Go on, let me in, there’s my payment.” Erin said, as she pulled down her red lycra boob tube to reveal her breasts. She laughed, pulled her top back up, and ran past the man, into the exhibition.

“I wouldn’t be in here after dark.” the old guy said. “Bad things happen.” But Erin was already out of earshot. She didn’t hear what he had said. Nor did she see him step outside the front door, lock it, pull down the metal shutter, lock that and walk away.

Erin wished that she had thought to go out with a coat – or an umbrella. Then she wouldn’t have had to go into a dingy wax museum to avoid the rain. She was wearing her red lycra boob tube, black spandex leggings, and red high-heeled shoes. And that was it. She rarely bothered with underwear. She liked freedom, and she liked to show off her body. In fact she got a thrill out of revealing herself, like popping out her boobs to that freak at the door. She bet that would give the perv fantasies for ages.

She was in some room of political leaders from throughout history. The room was dirty, though, with cobwebs hanging hear and there. It looked like it was never cleaned. A little light was provided by a bare 40 watt bulb hanging from the ceiling. A litter more filtered through a very dirty window, high up on one wall. Erin could see raindrops smashing into the pane of the window. If she went out she was going to get soaked to the skin. so it looked like she was in here for the duration. The old guy would forgive having to stay to let her out if she bent over, pulled down her leggings, and gave him a flash of her shaven pussy. She laughed at the idea of doing that. Until then, she supposed, she’d better enjoy the place, however bad it was. Madam Tussaud’s it was not.

She looked at the first exhibit. There was a little red rope keeping people back from the wax figures. The figure was of a young man in a toga. There was a sign at each exhibit, explaining who the waxwork was supposed to be. This one read:

“Caligula, third Roman Emperor, ruled 37 to 41 AD. His name meant little boots, and he is more properly called Gaius. His reign was one of corruption and brutality, and he was alleged to have had illicit relations with his sisters.”

The other waxworks in this room were Ivan the Terrible, Vlad the Impaler, Robespierre, Benito Mussolini, Adolf Hitler and Stalin. None of them were known for being very nice people, and that was reflected in their descriptions. The displays hammered home how nasty they had been: Vlad’s display had a waxwork of a man being impaled on a wooden stake, the stake going through his anus, and out of his mouth. Robespierre’s display had a guillotine next to him, with some noblewoman in it. But there were two wholes, and they didn’t contain her head, but her breasts. It was explained, in the text, that sometimes noble women’s breasts were cut off. It was gruesome, and Erin didn’t think that it was true.

She carried on through a room of Biblical characters (Jezebel, Judas and so on); through a room of mystics (Rasputin and other weirdoes) and into a room which said Chamber of Horrors. She paused before going in, as what she had seen so far was horrific enough. But she could still hear the rain, and she did not want to get wet. She pushed open the door and went in.

This was by far the biggest room in the Waxwork Museum. It did feature some people out of history – the Marquis de Sade, Elizabeth Bathory, Josef Mengele, Jack the Ripper and others – but most of the room was given over to descriptions of torture equipment, and displays – far too realistic – of waxworks being tortured.

The bastinado showed a waxwork of a naked woman with her feet in stocks, her wax face a rictus of agony. There was a waxwork of an ugly, hunchbacked torturer with a raised wooden rod. There were red marks covering the soles of the woman’s feet.

The next display was the Spanish horse, a long sort of wooden structure whose sides rose to a sharp edge. There was a naked waxwork figure of a woman on this Spanish horse. Her hands had been roped behind her back, wrist to elbow, elbow to wrist. There were heavy weights hanging from her ankles, ensuring that she could not get up. The waxwork was very realistic. Her waxen labia had been spread out, pulled to the sides of the Spanish horse, where nails had been hammered through. Erin could even see a tiny wax clit, pressing against the sharp wooden edge.

Then there was a wooden rack, a naked woman stretched out, her face contorted in agony as her joints were slowly ripped out of their sockets. A leather clad male torturer was holding a realistic looking branding iron, its red pained end threatening to touch the victim’s nipples. It seemed to Erin that the people being tortured were always women, and the people doing the tortures were always men. She noticed that the torturer’s penis was protruding from his leather leggings, and was erect. It was also far too big. With an expression of disgust she moved on to the next exhibit.

The next one showed a woman being whipped. She had been crucified upside down, nails through her feet and palms. Her legs, attached to the crosspiece, were widely spread. A Roman soldier was using a scourge on her cunt. Red blood had been painted trickling down her naked stomach from a cunt which was now an open wound.

There were more exhibits: a Nazi interrogator holding a burning cigarette to the clitoris of a woman in the French resistance; a CIA guy waterboarding an Arab girl in some black site; a horrific waxwork of a woman having her breasts skinned in some dungeon, the skin slowly peeled back to reveal the red flesh underneath; a naked woman tied to a pole, a garrotte slowly being tightened around her neck by some laughing woman in leather, the victim’s eyes bulging; a Chinese woman arcing her body, the ends of electrodes visible in her cunt and anus; an iron maiden slowly being closed on a screaming victim, the sharp spikes skewering her breasts and threatening her eyes; and many more. It was a true chamber of horrors. And Erin had seen enough. If she stayed in the room any longer she was going to throw up. She had to get out of here, even if she did get soaked to the skin.

She ran back through the exhibits, not noticing the head of the waxwork of Elizabeth Bathory turn as she passed. Erin did not notice that it was now dark outside.

Erin ran to the entrance. It was closed. Through the glass of the front door she could see that the metal shutter was down Fuck! What was she going to do?

She got her smartphone out of her handbag. No signal. Double fuck! There had to be some back way out. It had to be back through the exhibits, back past the chamber of horrors. Well, it was only wax, she told herself. She had nothing to fear, no matter how disgusting the exhibits might be.

She went back through the room of evil political leaders from history. Caligula watched as she entered the next room. He smiled, pushed aside the red rope, and followed her, his flesh no longer wax, but as warm and human as that of Erin. This was going to be fun!

Erin rushed through the next chamber, and then into the Chamber of Horrors. There she stopped. She could hear the anguished screams of tortured women. She told herself that the sounds had to be recorded. But, as she looked at the exhibits, she knew that they were not. In the bastinado exhibit she should see the hunchback actually hitting the soles of the woman’s feet, the feet flexing in pain, and new marks appearing. There was a scream from the wooden rack, as the glowing branding iron finally touched the areola of the woman, leaving a very nasty burn as it was removed, and the stink of burning human flesh. It was real blood now flowing out of the cunt of the woman crucified upside down as the Roman soldier swung the brutal scourge to mutilate her pubic region even more. How could this be? It was impossible!

Then Erin suddenly felt hands grabbing her arms: the Marquis de Sade was one side, Caligula the next, while the pale hands of Elizabeth Bathory grabbed Erin by the throat.

“Well, well, well, what do we have, but a mortal intruder?” Elizabeth Bathory said, in a sweet but evil voice. “And what shall we do with his foolish girl? I suggest that we string her up, and use a hooked whip on the breasts and cunt, so that I can bathe in her blood as it gushes out of her body.”

“Ah, but then our fun would be over far too quickly.” Caligula said, as her leered at her. “We have all night.”

“Or perhaps longer.” the Marquis de Sade said. “But my Roman friend is correct, Elizabeth. We should make her last as long as possible. Have you not read my 120 Days in Sodom, and all the various methods of torture I described? And humanity has advanced since then. Think of all the possibilities which electricity has given us. We can give her pain in its purest form. No, I suggest that we end with your suggestion, dearest countess.”

“Please, let me go.” Erin said. She struggled, but their grip was like iron.

“As long as I get to bathe in her blood.” the Bloody Countess said. “My skin needs to feel its youth-giving properties. It has been far too long.”

“I want to see her body.” Caligula said, as he licked one of Erin’s ears, something which she found very creepy. “Countess, perhaps you can do the honours, while the Marquis and I hold her?”

“With pleasure.” Countess Bathory said. Her sharp fingernails dug into Erin’s boob tube. With but one pull it was split into two. Erin’s shoes were pulled off. Her leggings, too, were shredded by fingernails as sharp as knives. Erin was left nude, held by the waxworks come to life. Both the Emperor and the Marquis leered at Erin, with undisguised, sadistic lust.

“Now, let me dispose of these rags.” the countess said, taking them and throwing them on a brazier, where they burned and melted.

“Now let’s begin.” the Marquis de Sade said. So began the longest and most painful night of Erin’s short life. She was, at times, shocked by electricity, a metal probe in cunt and arse; she was raped by the Marquis and Caligula at the same time, in her tortured cunt and arsehole; she had red hot needles forced under her fingernails, and into her pussy mound and breasts; her limbs were dislocated on the rack; branding irons permanently ruined the former beauty of her breasts; thumbscrews broke her thumb bones, while one crushed her clit and nipples beyond recognition; she was kicked in the cunt and fisted in the arse; she had rats feat on her labia, chewing them to pieces; and every other torture that could be conceived without killing her early. It was a very long twelve hours.

Then, just before dawn, she was strung up, upside down, in Bathory’s exhibit, and a scourge even crueller than the one used by the Roman soldier was used on what remained of her body. The hooks caught her flesh, pulling out gobbets from her cunt, pulling bits off her branded breasts, showering a laughing and naked Elizabeth Bathory with her last life-blood. And, just before dawn, Erin stopped breathing.

There was now a new exhibit in the Chamber of Horrors, of Elizabeth Bathory brutally whipping an unknown woman to death, the most gory of all the exhibits. And that was how it was during the day. But, when the sun set, then Erin would come alive again, wax becoming unmarked flesh and blood, so that this innocent young woman could suffer the tortures of the damned over, and over, and over again…

The End