Previous Chapter (6) - Vince | First Chapter - Camila
The studio lights of The Giggle Room blazed down like a relentless, artificial sun, bleaching the shadows from the room and leaving no place to hide.
Two medical tables sat side-by-side in the center of the padded floor, forming a twin altar of misery.
On the left table lay Jolene. Her wrists and ankles were cuffed in heavy leather straps, her body stripped down to simple, white cotton underwear. Sweat matted her blonde hair to her temples. Her chest heaved in shallow, panicked breaths, her eyes wide as she stared at the digital timer projected onto the far wall.
04:45
Beside her, on the right table, was Elena. The Veteran.
Jolene’s eyes darted to her neighbor. Elena was in the exact same position—cuffed, stripped, sweating. Her face was a mask of grim concentration, her jaw set, her eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance.
"Alright, ladies!" Luis Navarro’s voice boomed through the studio speakers, smooth and sickeningly cheerful. "We’re approaching the five-minute mark in the Endurance Challenge! Remember the rules: the first one to drop their legs gets the prize! And by prize, I mean a personal session with our favorite manicurist!"
He gestured to the side of the set, where Nails was leaning against a prop wall. The sadist was casually examining his deadly, lacquered fingernails, a thin smile playing on his lips. Beside him, Knuckles stood like a stone golem, cracking his massive knuckles.
Jolene whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut. Please not him ,she thought, a fresh wave of terror tightening her chest. Anything but those claws. I can’t take another round with 'im. I just can’t.
The challenge was simple but agonizing. Their legs were elevated six inches off the table. Gravity was the initial torture. To keep their legs up, they had to keep their abdominal muscles constantly clenched.
Already, Jolene’s core was screaming. Her abs were shaking violently, burning as if they were filled with molten lead. Her thighs trembled uncontrollably. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to just relax, to let her legs fall.
I gotta beat 'er, Jolene told herself, her teeth gritted. I know she’s tough as old boots, but I gotta outlast 'er. Just this once. Please… just give me the strength to hold on one minute longer than her.
She looked at Elena again. Elena had survived sessions that would have broken a Marine. She was unbreakable. Jolene had always admired that—wanted to be like that. Elena was the granite cliff in the middle of a hurricane.
The timer ticked over.
04:58
04:59
05:00
A loud buzzer sounded.
"Five minutes!" Slick announced. "This is getting impressive! Who's going to crack first?"
Then, something impossible happened.
Elena blinked. The focus in her eyes, that hard, unwavering determination that Jolene had clung to for months… it just vanished. It was like a light switch being flipped off.
With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, Elena relaxed her stomach muscles.
Thud.
Her legs dropped the six inches to the padded table.
Jolene gasped, her own concentration shattering. Her legs dropped a split second later, but it didn't matter. Elena had been first.
"We have a winner!" Slick shouted, his voice echoing. "The Veteran taps out! Jolene, congratulations, sweetheart! You survive to pray another day!"
For a second, pure, unadulterated exhilaration rushed through Jolene. "Hah! I did it!" she gasped, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in her throat. "I beat 'er! I actually beat 'er!"
She was safe. No claws. No tickling. She had faced down the champion and won. She turned her head, a smile of disbelief plastered on her face, ready to catch Elena's eye, maybe offer a sympathetic look.
But as she looked over at the next table, the thrill died instantly, choked off by a cold, suffocating dread.
Elena lay there, staring up at the lights. She wasn't angry. She wasn't disappointed in herself. She looked… empty. Hollowed out. Like a house where everyone had moved out and taken the furniture.
Knuckles lumbered over to Elena's table. He first unclasped and removed her bra, then he grabbed her arms, strapping them roughly above her head, before moving to her feet and strapping her ankles, rendering her spread-eagled. Nails glided out of the shadows, his eyes locking onto Elena’s feet with eager anticipation.
"Elena?" Jolene whispered across the gap, her voice trembling. "Honey why… why'd you quit? You didn't even look tired."
Elena turned her head slowly. Her eyes met Jolene’s. There was nothing behind them. No fire. No fight. Just a vast, terrifying void.
"Doesn't matter, Jo," Elena murmured, her voice flat and dead. "Win or lose, we're never leaving this place. Besides, you look like you could use a break." Elena give her friend a small smile
Jolene watched in horror as Nails took his position at the foot of Elena’s table. As the first talon touched Elena’s sole, and the first scream tore from her throat, Jolene didn't see a victim fighting back. She saw a statue crumbling into dust.
Her rock was gone. The strongest among them had simply stopped caring. And if Elena could break… what hope did a girl like Jolene ever have?
Tem minutes later Jolene huddled on her cot, her knees pulled to her chest, listening. The sounds drifting down the corridor from the studio were always terrible, but tonight they carried a new, terrifying weight. She heard Elena’s breathless shrieks, her desperate pleas, the laughter that sounded like breaking glass. Usually, these sessions went on for hours—marathons of endurance that left Elena battered but still somehow defiant.
Jolene waited for the rhythm to settle, prepared for a long night of vicarious suffering.
But then, barely forty-five minutes after the session had begun, the sounds stopped.
It wasn't a gradual tapering off. It was a sudden, absolute silence. A cut cord.
Jolene froze. That wasn't right. It was too soon. Elena always lasted longer. Elena always fought until her body simply couldn't produce another sound.
Minutes ticked by, each one stretching the silence until it screamed. The pit in Jolene's stomach deepened into a chasm. This wasn't just a bad session. This was something else. A surrender. A collapse.
The heavy clang of the cellblock door opening made her jump.
Two figures appeared in the corridor. It was Knuckles and Slick, dragging Elena's limp form between them. Her feet scraped lifelessly against the concrete. Her head lolled back, her eyes closed, her face a slack mask of unconsciousness.
Knuckles dumped her onto the mattress in her cell with a careless thump. He stood over her for a moment, wiping his hands on his pants, looking down at the woman who had been their most resilient captive.
"Pathetic," he grunted, his voice echoing in the quiet block. "Didn't even make it past the warm-up."
He turned to his partner. "We'll let her rot for a bit. Then take her to the Doc. Get her looking pretty again."
The cell door slammed shut. The guards' footsteps faded away.
In cell 4, Jolene slid off her cot and onto her knees. The thin mattress was pushed against the wall to give her space on the cold concrete floor. She rocked back and forth, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. Her blonde hair hung in limp strands around her face, veiling her tears.
"Oh, Heavenly Father," she whispered, her voice cracking with the strain of her grief, her southern drawl thick and heavy. "What am I supposed to do now? You showed me her strength… You held her up as a beacon, a sign that even in the valley of the shadow of death, a spirit could endure."
She stopped rocking, raising her tear-streaked face to the dark ceiling, searching for an answer in the stained concrete.
"But the light's gone out, Lord," she choked out. "She's empty. Just a shell. If You let the strongest of us fall… if you let her break like that… have you truly turned your face from us? Are we forsaken down here in the dark?"
She waited. She listened for a voice, a feeling, a sign. Anything to tell her she wasn't alone in this hell.
Silence. Just the oppressive, heavy silence of the prison, broken only by the shallow, unconscious breathing of the woman in the cell next door.
Jolene slumped forward, her forehead resting against her clasped hands on the floor. A fresh wave of despair washed over her. Elena hadn't just lost a round. She was gone. And Jolene was truly alone.. Maybe Elena was right. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe God couldn't see past the thick walls of the Old Print Works.
Scrrrritch.
The sound was faint, metal on metal.
Jolene froze. That wasn't the heavy clang of the main door being thrown open by a guard. It was the subtle, careful sound of a key turning in a lock.
She lifted her head slowly. Through the wire mesh of her cell door, she saw a shadow move in the corridor.
It wasn't Knuckles. It wasn't the terrifying silhouette of Nails. It was someone smaller. Someone moving with a hurried, nervous energy.
A figure slipped out of the shadows and knelt directly in front of her cell.
It was a young man. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five. He wore the black uniform of the facility’s security detail, but it looked a little too big on him. His eyes were wide, darting around nervously. He was sweating.
"Jolene," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the air vents.
Jolene scrambled to the mesh, pressing her face against the cold metal. "Who… who are you?"
"Shhh!" The young man put a finger to his lips, checking the corridor behind him. "My name's quiet. Listen to me. I've been watching. I know what they do here. It ain't right."
He fumbled with a key ring on his belt, his hands shaking.
"I can get you out," he said, the words rushing out in a terrified whisper. "Just you. I can only smuggle one person past the perimeter. You have to be absolutely silent."
Jolene stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at the key in his hand. Then she looked up, past the concrete ceiling, towards where she imagined the sky to be.
"An answer," she breathed, fresh tears springing to her eyes. "You sent an angel."
The despair of moments ago vanished, replaced by a surge of adrenaline and painful, blinding hope. God hadn't abandoned her. He had been waiting for the moment when she needed Him most.
"Ready?" the young man hissed, sliding the key into her cell lock.
Jolene nodded frantically, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "Yes," she whispered violently. "Yes, I'm ready."
Click.
The lock turned. The door swung open an inch.
Jolene pushed it wide and stepped out of her cage for the first time in months without shackles on her wrists.
The sensation of stepping into the corridor untethered was dizzying. Jolene’s legs wobbled, not from the earlier endurance test, but from the sheer, electric shock of freedom.
The young guard grabbed her arm, his grip firm but urgent. "This way. Keep your head down."
Jolene stumbled after him, her bare feet slapping softly against the concrete. As they passed the other cells, she faltered.
To her left, Chloe was curled on her cot, facing the wall, oblivious to the world. Further down, she could see the dark shape of Camila, sleeping fitfully.
Jolene stopped, pulling against the guard's grip. "Wait," she whispered, her voice frantic. "We can't just leave 'em, son. That ain't Christian. We gotta open the doors—"
"No!" the guard hissed, yanking her forward. Panic flared in his eyes. "Ma'am, please! I told you, I can't! Shift change is in twenty minutes. If the count is off by one, I can maybe bluff it, say you're in the Clinic. If the whole block is empty? They lock down the building in ten seconds. We all die."
He looked at her, his expression pleading. "It's you or nobody. Don't make me leave you here."
Jolene looked back at the cells one last time. The guilt was a physical pain in her chest, sharp and agonizing. But the survival instinct—that primal drive to live—was stronger.
"Lord forgive me," she whispered, turning away from her friends. "Lead the way."
They moved into the belly of the beast.
The factory floor beyond the holding area was a nightmare landscape of industrial decay. Massive, rusted printing presses loomed out of the darkness like sleeping leviathans. Pipes hissed steam overhead. Chains hung from the rafters like iron vines.
The guard seemed to know the path. He led her through a maze of machinery, away from the well-lit areas where the studio was set up. They ducked under conveyors, squeezed through gaps in piled crates, and navigated treacherous metal catwalks slick with condensation.
Every shadow looked like Knuckles. Every sound—a rat scurrying, a pipe clanking—sounded like footsteps.
"Almost there," the guard murmured, stopping to check a corner. "Just past the loading bay. There's a fire exit with a faulty sensor."
Jolene’s heart soared. She could almost smell the fresh air. The rain outside wouldn't feel miserable; it would feel like baptism. She was going to make it. She was going to tell the world. She was going to bring the wrath of God down on this place.
They reached a heavy steel door at the far end of the warehouse. A faded red sign above it read EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY.
The guard fumbled for his keys again. "Okay," he breathed, his hands shaking so bad he dropped the keys once. "Okay. This is it."
He found the right key. He jammed it into the lock mechanism on the push-bar.
Jolene closed her eyes, a prayer of thanks already forming on her lips.
Click.
He pushed the bar.
The door didn't open.
Instead, the silence of the warehouse was shattered by a sound that tore through Jolene’s soul.
WAAAAAH-OOP! WAAAAAH-OOP!
A deafening, rhythmic siren erupted from overhead speakers. Red strobe lights mounted on the pillars began to flash, turning the dark factory into a pulsating, crimson hellscape.
"No!" the guard screamed, slamming his hands against the door. "It was bypassed! It was supposed to be bypassed!"
"Run!" Jolene shrieked, grabbing his arm. "They know! We gotta hide!"
Heavy boots thundered on metal somewhere behind them. Shouts echoed through the vast space.
"Over there!" a deep voice roared—Knuckles.
The guard looked around wildly. "The service corridor! Come on!"
He dragged Jolene away from the door, sprinting towards a narrow, dark hallway lined with electrical panels. They dove into the shadows just as a flashlight beam swept the area where they had been standing seconds before.
"In here," the guard panted, shoving her into a small alcove behind a breaker box. "Stay down. Don't move. I'll… I'll try to lead them off."
Jolene huddled in the corner, pressing herself into the grime, her hands clamped over her mouth to stifle her terrified sobs. She watched through the red strobe flashes as her savior ran back out into the open, waving his arms.
"Hey! Over here!" he yelled, his voice cracking.
Then, a massive shadow obscured him.
"Gotcha," a voice grumbled.
Jolene flinched as she saw Knuckles step out of the darkness. He didn't chase the boy. He just stood there.
And then, he turned his head slowly, looking straight at the alcove where Jolene was hiding.
"You can come out now, darlin'," Knuckles rumbled, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Game over."
Jolene froze, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The red strobe light pulsed against her eyelids, creating a terrifying rhythm of shadows and glare.
He saw me. He knows.
For a second, she considered staying put, praying that maybe he was bluffing. But then Knuckles took a step toward the alcove, his heavy boots crunching on the debris-littered floor. There was no bluff in the way he moved.
With a whimper of defeat, Jolene slowly stood up, stepping out from behind the electrical panel. She held her hands up, trembling, tears streaming down her face. She didn't look at Knuckles. Her eyes darted frantically to the young guard, desperate to offer him some kind of cover, some lie that might spare him from the monster's wrath.
"He… he tried to stop me!" she lied, her voice shaking but insistent. "I… I stole his keys! I threatened him! Please, it was all me! Don't hurt the boy!"
She looked pleadingly toward her "savior," hoping he would catch on, hoping she could return the favor of his attempted rescue with a sacrificial lie. Even now, facing the beast, she tried to protect the one person who had shown her kindness.
But the young man wasn't cowering. He wasn't playing along.
He was standing next to Knuckles, leaning casually against a support beam. He was calmly folding his handkerchief and placing it back in his pocket. The nervous energy, the terrified glances over his shoulder—all gone.
He looked… bored.
Knuckles let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated in Jolene’s bones. He reached out and clapped a massive hand onto the young man's shoulder, practically engulfing it.
"Nice try, sweetheart," Knuckles grunted. "But the kid don't need your charity." He turned to the rookie, grinning. "Not bad, Pip. You kept her quiet. Sold the 'jittery new guy' routine perfectly. And tripping the silent alarm before you even hit the door? Good thinking."
The young man, "Pip", shrugged, a smug, self-satisfied grin spreading across his face—the face of a predator who had just successfully trapped his prey.
"Thanks, boss," he said, his voice smooth and completely devoid of the stuttering fear she’d heard earlier. "She was practically begging to believe me."
Jolene stared at him, her brain unable to process the image in front of her. The savior. The angel sent by God. The answer to her prayers.
"A… a test?" she whispered, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "You… this was just a test?"
The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow, staggering her backward until she hit the wall.
"More like induction," Knuckles corrected, stepping closer until he loomed over her, the red light casting his face in demonic relief.
Knuckles jerked a thumb at the rookie. "See if the new hire has the chops to lie, manipulate, and reel in a fish without snagging the line. A little live-fire exercise."
He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could smell the stale tobacco on his breath.
"See if the inmates are stupid enough to take the bait."
His hand shot out and grabbed her arm, his grip bruising.
"Lesson learned: Hope gets you hurt. Trying to leave gets you worse.
Jolene looked from Knuckles to Pip—the Judas. The cruelty of it was absolute. They hadn't just caught her trying to escape. They had engineered the hope, nurtured it, fed it, just so they could crush it. They had used her faith, the one thing she had left now that she didn't have her rock, as a weapon against her.
"My Lord…" she breathed, sinking to her knees, her legs finally giving out. "Why?"
"Don't bother askin' Him," Knuckles growled, hauling her roughly to her feet. "He ain't on the payroll."
He began to drag her back down the corridor, away from the exit, deeper into the darkness of the factory.
"Where are you taking me?" she wailed, struggling feebly. "Back to the cell? I learned! I learned the lesson! Please!"
Knuckles kept walking, dragging her like a ragdoll.
"Cell?" he laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "No way, Jolene. Runners don't go back to the cage. You just earned yourself a ticket to the Quiet Room."
Knuckles steered her left, down a narrow, sound-dampened hallway that felt colder than the rest of the factory. The air here was stagnant and tasted faintly of copper and ozone.
At the end of the hall stood a heavy, industrial steel door. There was no window. Just a keypad.
"No," Jolene whispered, her feet skidding uselessly on the concrete as she tried to pull back. "Please, Mr. Grimaldi. I'll be good. I'll pray quiet. I won't ever try to leave again."
"Too late for bargaining," Knuckles grunted. He punched a code into the keypad.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Buzz.
The heavy lock disengaged with a solid thunk. He pushed the door open.
The Quiet Room lived up to its name. The walls were lined with thick, acoustic foam wedges painted black, absorbing every sound. The silence inside was oppressive, instantly swallowing Jolene's whimpers. In the center of the room, bolted directly into the concrete floor, was a large, black metal X-frame. It looked stark and terrifying under the single, dim lightbulb.
Knuckles shoved her inside. "Clothes off," he ordered, closing the door behind them but not locking it yet.
Jolene shook her head, clutching her simple underwear. "No… please…"
He didn't argue. He just stepped forward, grabbed the waistband of her panties, and ripped them down in one violent motion. She gasped, shrinking back against the foam wall, trying to cover herself.
Without a word, he grabbed her wrist and dragged her to the frame. He was efficient, brutal. Holding her with one hand she unclasped and removed her bra, then he strapped her left wrist to the top left point of the X. Then the right. Then he forced her legs wide, securing her ankles to the bottom points.
She was spread-eagled, utterly exposed, suspended slightly off the ground by the tension of the straps. She could move nothing but her head.
"This is special," Knuckles said, his voice flat as he walked to a metal cabinet in the corner. "Makes sure you see the funny side."
He returned holding a medical-grade gas mask connected via a long tube to a small, silver tank on a rolling cart.
"Nitrous Oxide," he explained, checking the valve. "Laughing gas. Pure, uncut. Keeps you… vocal."
He forced the mask over her face, tightening the straps behind her head until the rubber seal dug into her skin. Jolene’s muffled sobs echoed inside the mask, fogging the plastic visor. He turned the valve.
"Now for the staff."
He walked to a control panel on the wall and pressed a button. A series of hydraulic arms descended from the ceiling and extended from the floor, their servos whining with a precise, robotic sound.
At her feet, two articulated robotic arms, sleek and metallic like those used in car manufacturing but scaled down, moved into position. Instead of welding torches, their end-effectors were fitted with human-like silicone fingers, tipped with hard, long fingernails.
"Programmable empathy," Knuckles muttered, tapping a command on a touchscreen. "These don't just spin. They draw."
Next, two smaller, robotic limbs extended from the sides of the frame. These were tipped with rotating, soft-bristled brushes.
Then, two more arms raised up either side of her ribs, the appendages looked like the same robotic arms at her feet, only the tips ended in small rounded balls.
Finally, a mechanical arm rose from the floor between her legs. It held a heavy magic wand vibrator. The massager pressed firmly against her clit, locking into place with a mechanical clunk.
"And the cherry on top," Knuckles said.
He hit the master switch.
The room erupted into motion.
The silicone fingers danced wicked, intricate sigils across her arches. They didn't just brush her skin; they began to trace complex, maddening geometric patterns on her soles—spirals, figure-eights, sudden jagged zig-zags. The pressure varied, light as a whisper one second, digging in hard the next. It was unpredictable. Calculated.
The bristles whirred into motion. The arms moved with insectoid speed, darting in to scrub frantically at her exposed armpits, then retreating, then attacking again in a chaotic rhythm designed to prevent her from building any tolerance.
The 'fingers' at her sides played her ribs like a pianist, getting between the bones and vibrating in a maddeningly random pattern.
The wand hummed violently against her clitoris.
The nitrous hit her brain like a sledgehammer—a sweet, sickly taste that made her head swim and her limbs feel heavy. The panic, the despair, the physical overstimulation—it all twisted together. The scream building in her throat dissolved into a jagged, chemically-induced laugh.
"MMMPH-HAA! HEE-HEE-HAA-HAAA!"
Her body jerked against the straps, twitching in time with the programmed torment of the machines.
Knuckles watched deeply satisfied. He watched the robotic fingers trace a perfect circle on her left sole while the other hand scribbled chaos on her right sole.
"Amen." he chuckled and walking towards the door.
"NOOOO!" she choked into the mask "DON'T LEAVE ME!"
He stepped out. The heavy door sealed shut, leaving Jolene locked in the embrace of the machines, laughing into the void.
Jolene dissolved into helpless, forced laughter. She could feel the robotic digits on her soles and ribs mapping her weaknesses as the brushes invaded her armpits.
Then the arms and brushes stopped, the only thing still alive was the magic wand between her legs, vibrating against her clit.
Jolene squeezed her eyes shut as she allowed herself to be engulfed by the overwhelming pleasure rising in her loins. She felt her **** start to clench.
But then the buzzing stopped and the other tools came back to life, killing her orgasm.
"Wh-NO-NO AAA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA FFUUUU-HU-HU-HUCK STAAAA-HA-HA-HAAAP."
Again the tools switched. The strong vibration started again between her legs. Her arousal oozed over the head of the massager as she bit her lip. Her hips gyrated.
Another switch. Another orgasm denied.
"NO NO!!! I WAS SO CLOOOOHO-HO-HO-SE. LET ME CUUUUM!!!"
This pattern repeated for the next forty eight hours.
Next Chapter (8) - Karol
The studio lights of The Giggle Room blazed down like a relentless, artificial sun, bleaching the shadows from the room and leaving no place to hide.
Two medical tables sat side-by-side in the center of the padded floor, forming a twin altar of misery.
On the left table lay Jolene. Her wrists and ankles were cuffed in heavy leather straps, her body stripped down to simple, white cotton underwear. Sweat matted her blonde hair to her temples. Her chest heaved in shallow, panicked breaths, her eyes wide as she stared at the digital timer projected onto the far wall.
04:45
Beside her, on the right table, was Elena. The Veteran.
Jolene’s eyes darted to her neighbor. Elena was in the exact same position—cuffed, stripped, sweating. Her face was a mask of grim concentration, her jaw set, her eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance.
"Alright, ladies!" Luis Navarro’s voice boomed through the studio speakers, smooth and sickeningly cheerful. "We’re approaching the five-minute mark in the Endurance Challenge! Remember the rules: the first one to drop their legs gets the prize! And by prize, I mean a personal session with our favorite manicurist!"
He gestured to the side of the set, where Nails was leaning against a prop wall. The sadist was casually examining his deadly, lacquered fingernails, a thin smile playing on his lips. Beside him, Knuckles stood like a stone golem, cracking his massive knuckles.
Jolene whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut. Please not him ,she thought, a fresh wave of terror tightening her chest. Anything but those claws. I can’t take another round with 'im. I just can’t.
The challenge was simple but agonizing. Their legs were elevated six inches off the table. Gravity was the initial torture. To keep their legs up, they had to keep their abdominal muscles constantly clenched.
Already, Jolene’s core was screaming. Her abs were shaking violently, burning as if they were filled with molten lead. Her thighs trembled uncontrollably. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to just relax, to let her legs fall.
I gotta beat 'er, Jolene told herself, her teeth gritted. I know she’s tough as old boots, but I gotta outlast 'er. Just this once. Please… just give me the strength to hold on one minute longer than her.
She looked at Elena again. Elena had survived sessions that would have broken a Marine. She was unbreakable. Jolene had always admired that—wanted to be like that. Elena was the granite cliff in the middle of a hurricane.
The timer ticked over.
04:58
04:59
05:00
A loud buzzer sounded.
"Five minutes!" Slick announced. "This is getting impressive! Who's going to crack first?"
Then, something impossible happened.
Elena blinked. The focus in her eyes, that hard, unwavering determination that Jolene had clung to for months… it just vanished. It was like a light switch being flipped off.
With a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, Elena relaxed her stomach muscles.
Thud.
Her legs dropped the six inches to the padded table.
Jolene gasped, her own concentration shattering. Her legs dropped a split second later, but it didn't matter. Elena had been first.
"We have a winner!" Slick shouted, his voice echoing. "The Veteran taps out! Jolene, congratulations, sweetheart! You survive to pray another day!"
For a second, pure, unadulterated exhilaration rushed through Jolene. "Hah! I did it!" she gasped, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in her throat. "I beat 'er! I actually beat 'er!"
She was safe. No claws. No tickling. She had faced down the champion and won. She turned her head, a smile of disbelief plastered on her face, ready to catch Elena's eye, maybe offer a sympathetic look.
But as she looked over at the next table, the thrill died instantly, choked off by a cold, suffocating dread.
Elena lay there, staring up at the lights. She wasn't angry. She wasn't disappointed in herself. She looked… empty. Hollowed out. Like a house where everyone had moved out and taken the furniture.
Knuckles lumbered over to Elena's table. He first unclasped and removed her bra, then he grabbed her arms, strapping them roughly above her head, before moving to her feet and strapping her ankles, rendering her spread-eagled. Nails glided out of the shadows, his eyes locking onto Elena’s feet with eager anticipation.
"Elena?" Jolene whispered across the gap, her voice trembling. "Honey why… why'd you quit? You didn't even look tired."
Elena turned her head slowly. Her eyes met Jolene’s. There was nothing behind them. No fire. No fight. Just a vast, terrifying void.
"Doesn't matter, Jo," Elena murmured, her voice flat and dead. "Win or lose, we're never leaving this place. Besides, you look like you could use a break." Elena give her friend a small smile
Jolene watched in horror as Nails took his position at the foot of Elena’s table. As the first talon touched Elena’s sole, and the first scream tore from her throat, Jolene didn't see a victim fighting back. She saw a statue crumbling into dust.
Her rock was gone. The strongest among them had simply stopped caring. And if Elena could break… what hope did a girl like Jolene ever have?
Tem minutes later Jolene huddled on her cot, her knees pulled to her chest, listening. The sounds drifting down the corridor from the studio were always terrible, but tonight they carried a new, terrifying weight. She heard Elena’s breathless shrieks, her desperate pleas, the laughter that sounded like breaking glass. Usually, these sessions went on for hours—marathons of endurance that left Elena battered but still somehow defiant.
Jolene waited for the rhythm to settle, prepared for a long night of vicarious suffering.
But then, barely forty-five minutes after the session had begun, the sounds stopped.
It wasn't a gradual tapering off. It was a sudden, absolute silence. A cut cord.
Jolene froze. That wasn't right. It was too soon. Elena always lasted longer. Elena always fought until her body simply couldn't produce another sound.
Minutes ticked by, each one stretching the silence until it screamed. The pit in Jolene's stomach deepened into a chasm. This wasn't just a bad session. This was something else. A surrender. A collapse.
The heavy clang of the cellblock door opening made her jump.
Two figures appeared in the corridor. It was Knuckles and Slick, dragging Elena's limp form between them. Her feet scraped lifelessly against the concrete. Her head lolled back, her eyes closed, her face a slack mask of unconsciousness.
Knuckles dumped her onto the mattress in her cell with a careless thump. He stood over her for a moment, wiping his hands on his pants, looking down at the woman who had been their most resilient captive.
"Pathetic," he grunted, his voice echoing in the quiet block. "Didn't even make it past the warm-up."
He turned to his partner. "We'll let her rot for a bit. Then take her to the Doc. Get her looking pretty again."
The cell door slammed shut. The guards' footsteps faded away.
In cell 4, Jolene slid off her cot and onto her knees. The thin mattress was pushed against the wall to give her space on the cold concrete floor. She rocked back and forth, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles were white. Her blonde hair hung in limp strands around her face, veiling her tears.
"Oh, Heavenly Father," she whispered, her voice cracking with the strain of her grief, her southern drawl thick and heavy. "What am I supposed to do now? You showed me her strength… You held her up as a beacon, a sign that even in the valley of the shadow of death, a spirit could endure."
She stopped rocking, raising her tear-streaked face to the dark ceiling, searching for an answer in the stained concrete.
"But the light's gone out, Lord," she choked out. "She's empty. Just a shell. If You let the strongest of us fall… if you let her break like that… have you truly turned your face from us? Are we forsaken down here in the dark?"
She waited. She listened for a voice, a feeling, a sign. Anything to tell her she wasn't alone in this hell.
Silence. Just the oppressive, heavy silence of the prison, broken only by the shallow, unconscious breathing of the woman in the cell next door.
Jolene slumped forward, her forehead resting against her clasped hands on the floor. A fresh wave of despair washed over her. Elena hadn't just lost a round. She was gone. And Jolene was truly alone.. Maybe Elena was right. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe God couldn't see past the thick walls of the Old Print Works.
Scrrrritch.
The sound was faint, metal on metal.
Jolene froze. That wasn't the heavy clang of the main door being thrown open by a guard. It was the subtle, careful sound of a key turning in a lock.
She lifted her head slowly. Through the wire mesh of her cell door, she saw a shadow move in the corridor.
It wasn't Knuckles. It wasn't the terrifying silhouette of Nails. It was someone smaller. Someone moving with a hurried, nervous energy.
A figure slipped out of the shadows and knelt directly in front of her cell.
It was a young man. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five. He wore the black uniform of the facility’s security detail, but it looked a little too big on him. His eyes were wide, darting around nervously. He was sweating.
"Jolene," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the hum of the air vents.
Jolene scrambled to the mesh, pressing her face against the cold metal. "Who… who are you?"
"Shhh!" The young man put a finger to his lips, checking the corridor behind him. "My name's quiet. Listen to me. I've been watching. I know what they do here. It ain't right."
He fumbled with a key ring on his belt, his hands shaking.
"I can get you out," he said, the words rushing out in a terrified whisper. "Just you. I can only smuggle one person past the perimeter. You have to be absolutely silent."
Jolene stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She looked at the key in his hand. Then she looked up, past the concrete ceiling, towards where she imagined the sky to be.
"An answer," she breathed, fresh tears springing to her eyes. "You sent an angel."
The despair of moments ago vanished, replaced by a surge of adrenaline and painful, blinding hope. God hadn't abandoned her. He had been waiting for the moment when she needed Him most.
"Ready?" the young man hissed, sliding the key into her cell lock.
Jolene nodded frantically, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "Yes," she whispered violently. "Yes, I'm ready."
Click.
The lock turned. The door swung open an inch.
Jolene pushed it wide and stepped out of her cage for the first time in months without shackles on her wrists.
The sensation of stepping into the corridor untethered was dizzying. Jolene’s legs wobbled, not from the earlier endurance test, but from the sheer, electric shock of freedom.
The young guard grabbed her arm, his grip firm but urgent. "This way. Keep your head down."
Jolene stumbled after him, her bare feet slapping softly against the concrete. As they passed the other cells, she faltered.
To her left, Chloe was curled on her cot, facing the wall, oblivious to the world. Further down, she could see the dark shape of Camila, sleeping fitfully.
Jolene stopped, pulling against the guard's grip. "Wait," she whispered, her voice frantic. "We can't just leave 'em, son. That ain't Christian. We gotta open the doors—"
"No!" the guard hissed, yanking her forward. Panic flared in his eyes. "Ma'am, please! I told you, I can't! Shift change is in twenty minutes. If the count is off by one, I can maybe bluff it, say you're in the Clinic. If the whole block is empty? They lock down the building in ten seconds. We all die."
He looked at her, his expression pleading. "It's you or nobody. Don't make me leave you here."
Jolene looked back at the cells one last time. The guilt was a physical pain in her chest, sharp and agonizing. But the survival instinct—that primal drive to live—was stronger.
"Lord forgive me," she whispered, turning away from her friends. "Lead the way."
They moved into the belly of the beast.
The factory floor beyond the holding area was a nightmare landscape of industrial decay. Massive, rusted printing presses loomed out of the darkness like sleeping leviathans. Pipes hissed steam overhead. Chains hung from the rafters like iron vines.
The guard seemed to know the path. He led her through a maze of machinery, away from the well-lit areas where the studio was set up. They ducked under conveyors, squeezed through gaps in piled crates, and navigated treacherous metal catwalks slick with condensation.
Every shadow looked like Knuckles. Every sound—a rat scurrying, a pipe clanking—sounded like footsteps.
"Almost there," the guard murmured, stopping to check a corner. "Just past the loading bay. There's a fire exit with a faulty sensor."
Jolene’s heart soared. She could almost smell the fresh air. The rain outside wouldn't feel miserable; it would feel like baptism. She was going to make it. She was going to tell the world. She was going to bring the wrath of God down on this place.
They reached a heavy steel door at the far end of the warehouse. A faded red sign above it read EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY.
The guard fumbled for his keys again. "Okay," he breathed, his hands shaking so bad he dropped the keys once. "Okay. This is it."
He found the right key. He jammed it into the lock mechanism on the push-bar.
Jolene closed her eyes, a prayer of thanks already forming on her lips.
Click.
He pushed the bar.
The door didn't open.
Instead, the silence of the warehouse was shattered by a sound that tore through Jolene’s soul.
WAAAAAH-OOP! WAAAAAH-OOP!
A deafening, rhythmic siren erupted from overhead speakers. Red strobe lights mounted on the pillars began to flash, turning the dark factory into a pulsating, crimson hellscape.
"No!" the guard screamed, slamming his hands against the door. "It was bypassed! It was supposed to be bypassed!"
"Run!" Jolene shrieked, grabbing his arm. "They know! We gotta hide!"
Heavy boots thundered on metal somewhere behind them. Shouts echoed through the vast space.
"Over there!" a deep voice roared—Knuckles.
The guard looked around wildly. "The service corridor! Come on!"
He dragged Jolene away from the door, sprinting towards a narrow, dark hallway lined with electrical panels. They dove into the shadows just as a flashlight beam swept the area where they had been standing seconds before.
"In here," the guard panted, shoving her into a small alcove behind a breaker box. "Stay down. Don't move. I'll… I'll try to lead them off."
Jolene huddled in the corner, pressing herself into the grime, her hands clamped over her mouth to stifle her terrified sobs. She watched through the red strobe flashes as her savior ran back out into the open, waving his arms.
"Hey! Over here!" he yelled, his voice cracking.
Then, a massive shadow obscured him.
"Gotcha," a voice grumbled.
Jolene flinched as she saw Knuckles step out of the darkness. He didn't chase the boy. He just stood there.
And then, he turned his head slowly, looking straight at the alcove where Jolene was hiding.
"You can come out now, darlin'," Knuckles rumbled, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. "Game over."
Jolene froze, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The red strobe light pulsed against her eyelids, creating a terrifying rhythm of shadows and glare.
He saw me. He knows.
For a second, she considered staying put, praying that maybe he was bluffing. But then Knuckles took a step toward the alcove, his heavy boots crunching on the debris-littered floor. There was no bluff in the way he moved.
With a whimper of defeat, Jolene slowly stood up, stepping out from behind the electrical panel. She held her hands up, trembling, tears streaming down her face. She didn't look at Knuckles. Her eyes darted frantically to the young guard, desperate to offer him some kind of cover, some lie that might spare him from the monster's wrath.
"He… he tried to stop me!" she lied, her voice shaking but insistent. "I… I stole his keys! I threatened him! Please, it was all me! Don't hurt the boy!"
She looked pleadingly toward her "savior," hoping he would catch on, hoping she could return the favor of his attempted rescue with a sacrificial lie. Even now, facing the beast, she tried to protect the one person who had shown her kindness.
But the young man wasn't cowering. He wasn't playing along.
He was standing next to Knuckles, leaning casually against a support beam. He was calmly folding his handkerchief and placing it back in his pocket. The nervous energy, the terrified glances over his shoulder—all gone.
He looked… bored.
Knuckles let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated in Jolene’s bones. He reached out and clapped a massive hand onto the young man's shoulder, practically engulfing it.
"Nice try, sweetheart," Knuckles grunted. "But the kid don't need your charity." He turned to the rookie, grinning. "Not bad, Pip. You kept her quiet. Sold the 'jittery new guy' routine perfectly. And tripping the silent alarm before you even hit the door? Good thinking."
The young man, "Pip", shrugged, a smug, self-satisfied grin spreading across his face—the face of a predator who had just successfully trapped his prey.
"Thanks, boss," he said, his voice smooth and completely devoid of the stuttering fear she’d heard earlier. "She was practically begging to believe me."
Jolene stared at him, her brain unable to process the image in front of her. The savior. The angel sent by God. The answer to her prayers.
"A… a test?" she whispered, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "You… this was just a test?"
The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow, staggering her backward until she hit the wall.
"More like induction," Knuckles corrected, stepping closer until he loomed over her, the red light casting his face in demonic relief.
Knuckles jerked a thumb at the rookie. "See if the new hire has the chops to lie, manipulate, and reel in a fish without snagging the line. A little live-fire exercise."
He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could smell the stale tobacco on his breath.
"See if the inmates are stupid enough to take the bait."
His hand shot out and grabbed her arm, his grip bruising.
"Lesson learned: Hope gets you hurt. Trying to leave gets you worse.
Jolene looked from Knuckles to Pip—the Judas. The cruelty of it was absolute. They hadn't just caught her trying to escape. They had engineered the hope, nurtured it, fed it, just so they could crush it. They had used her faith, the one thing she had left now that she didn't have her rock, as a weapon against her.
"My Lord…" she breathed, sinking to her knees, her legs finally giving out. "Why?"
"Don't bother askin' Him," Knuckles growled, hauling her roughly to her feet. "He ain't on the payroll."
He began to drag her back down the corridor, away from the exit, deeper into the darkness of the factory.
"Where are you taking me?" she wailed, struggling feebly. "Back to the cell? I learned! I learned the lesson! Please!"
Knuckles kept walking, dragging her like a ragdoll.
"Cell?" he laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "No way, Jolene. Runners don't go back to the cage. You just earned yourself a ticket to the Quiet Room."
Knuckles steered her left, down a narrow, sound-dampened hallway that felt colder than the rest of the factory. The air here was stagnant and tasted faintly of copper and ozone.
At the end of the hall stood a heavy, industrial steel door. There was no window. Just a keypad.
"No," Jolene whispered, her feet skidding uselessly on the concrete as she tried to pull back. "Please, Mr. Grimaldi. I'll be good. I'll pray quiet. I won't ever try to leave again."
"Too late for bargaining," Knuckles grunted. He punched a code into the keypad.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Buzz.
The heavy lock disengaged with a solid thunk. He pushed the door open.
The Quiet Room lived up to its name. The walls were lined with thick, acoustic foam wedges painted black, absorbing every sound. The silence inside was oppressive, instantly swallowing Jolene's whimpers. In the center of the room, bolted directly into the concrete floor, was a large, black metal X-frame. It looked stark and terrifying under the single, dim lightbulb.
Knuckles shoved her inside. "Clothes off," he ordered, closing the door behind them but not locking it yet.
Jolene shook her head, clutching her simple underwear. "No… please…"
He didn't argue. He just stepped forward, grabbed the waistband of her panties, and ripped them down in one violent motion. She gasped, shrinking back against the foam wall, trying to cover herself.
Without a word, he grabbed her wrist and dragged her to the frame. He was efficient, brutal. Holding her with one hand she unclasped and removed her bra, then he strapped her left wrist to the top left point of the X. Then the right. Then he forced her legs wide, securing her ankles to the bottom points.
She was spread-eagled, utterly exposed, suspended slightly off the ground by the tension of the straps. She could move nothing but her head.
"This is special," Knuckles said, his voice flat as he walked to a metal cabinet in the corner. "Makes sure you see the funny side."
He returned holding a medical-grade gas mask connected via a long tube to a small, silver tank on a rolling cart.
"Nitrous Oxide," he explained, checking the valve. "Laughing gas. Pure, uncut. Keeps you… vocal."
He forced the mask over her face, tightening the straps behind her head until the rubber seal dug into her skin. Jolene’s muffled sobs echoed inside the mask, fogging the plastic visor. He turned the valve.
"Now for the staff."
He walked to a control panel on the wall and pressed a button. A series of hydraulic arms descended from the ceiling and extended from the floor, their servos whining with a precise, robotic sound.
At her feet, two articulated robotic arms, sleek and metallic like those used in car manufacturing but scaled down, moved into position. Instead of welding torches, their end-effectors were fitted with human-like silicone fingers, tipped with hard, long fingernails.
"Programmable empathy," Knuckles muttered, tapping a command on a touchscreen. "These don't just spin. They draw."
Next, two smaller, robotic limbs extended from the sides of the frame. These were tipped with rotating, soft-bristled brushes.
Then, two more arms raised up either side of her ribs, the appendages looked like the same robotic arms at her feet, only the tips ended in small rounded balls.
Finally, a mechanical arm rose from the floor between her legs. It held a heavy magic wand vibrator. The massager pressed firmly against her clit, locking into place with a mechanical clunk.
"And the cherry on top," Knuckles said.
He hit the master switch.
The room erupted into motion.
The silicone fingers danced wicked, intricate sigils across her arches. They didn't just brush her skin; they began to trace complex, maddening geometric patterns on her soles—spirals, figure-eights, sudden jagged zig-zags. The pressure varied, light as a whisper one second, digging in hard the next. It was unpredictable. Calculated.
The bristles whirred into motion. The arms moved with insectoid speed, darting in to scrub frantically at her exposed armpits, then retreating, then attacking again in a chaotic rhythm designed to prevent her from building any tolerance.
The 'fingers' at her sides played her ribs like a pianist, getting between the bones and vibrating in a maddeningly random pattern.
The wand hummed violently against her clitoris.
The nitrous hit her brain like a sledgehammer—a sweet, sickly taste that made her head swim and her limbs feel heavy. The panic, the despair, the physical overstimulation—it all twisted together. The scream building in her throat dissolved into a jagged, chemically-induced laugh.
"MMMPH-HAA! HEE-HEE-HAA-HAAA!"
Her body jerked against the straps, twitching in time with the programmed torment of the machines.
Knuckles watched deeply satisfied. He watched the robotic fingers trace a perfect circle on her left sole while the other hand scribbled chaos on her right sole.
"Amen." he chuckled and walking towards the door.
"NOOOO!" she choked into the mask "DON'T LEAVE ME!"
He stepped out. The heavy door sealed shut, leaving Jolene locked in the embrace of the machines, laughing into the void.
Jolene dissolved into helpless, forced laughter. She could feel the robotic digits on her soles and ribs mapping her weaknesses as the brushes invaded her armpits.
Then the arms and brushes stopped, the only thing still alive was the magic wand between her legs, vibrating against her clit.
Jolene squeezed her eyes shut as she allowed herself to be engulfed by the overwhelming pleasure rising in her loins. She felt her **** start to clench.
But then the buzzing stopped and the other tools came back to life, killing her orgasm.
"Wh-NO-NO AAA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAA FFUUUU-HU-HU-HUCK STAAAA-HA-HA-HAAAP."
Again the tools switched. The strong vibration started again between her legs. Her arousal oozed over the head of the massager as she bit her lip. Her hips gyrated.
Another switch. Another orgasm denied.
"NO NO!!! I WAS SO CLOOOOHO-HO-HO-SE. LET ME CUUUUM!!!"
This pattern repeated for the next forty eight hours.
Next Chapter (8) - Karol
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