Engine of Pain

Like many of the other residents of Saddleback, Missouri, Les Winters decided to visit the Museum of Cruel and Unusual Punishments� Torture Chamber. The grisly exhibit hall was the town�s latest�and one of its only�tourist spots. In fact, it wouldn�t be officially open to the public for another two weeks, when the proprietor expected the main wing�s exhibits to be completed, but the owners had decided to offer the locals a �sneak preview� of the museum�s attractions. Since there was precious little to do in Saddleback, Les found himself standing in line, awaiting his turn to enter the hall.

A wide flight of stairs led up to the limestone museum�s deep, wide porch. Beyond the Doric columns, three arched alcoves were cut into the front wall of the edifice. There was a set of tall, heavy, metal doors inside each alcove. A uniformed young woman with dark hair greeted visitors as they entered the museum, through the middle doorway, allowing twenty guests inside at a time. As he waited his turn, Les surveyed the museum�s grounds. The landscaping hadn�t been completed. Bare soil was evident among the sod, and the roots of trees and shrubs that were yet to be planted were still wrapped in burlap. Some flowerbeds had been installed, but the bright blossoms seemed forlorn amid the unfinished landscaping. The crew had a lot of work left to do, Les thought. Although it seemed unlikely that they�d finish in time for the museum�s grand opening, most likely they would. Appearances could be deceiving, especially when it came to the construction business. Les had seen vacant lots transformed, almost overnight, into landscaped residences or even entire office complexes.

Twenty minutes later, Les joined nineteen of his fellow Saddleback citizens inside the exhibit hall, and a vivacious, uniformed guide greeted them with a smile. �I�m Sharon,� the pretty blonde announced, �and I�ll be your guide during your tour of the Museum of Cruel and Unusual Punishments� Torture Chamber. Would a volunteer care to help me show how one of these instruments of torture works?� When, not surprisingly, no one accepted her invitation, she offered her group a wink and a smile. �I was joking, of course.� She showed them a pair of thumbscrews, an iron maiden, a strappado, a maiden�s bridle, a dunking stool, and a rack. Les listened politely as she led them from one exhibit to the next, explaining how each instrument of torture worked, but he was familiar with all of them except the last. It was an odd-looking device, even among instruments of torture, and Les was unable to guess its purpose.

As the group gathered around the exhibit, Sharon said, �Last but not least, we come to the Engine of Pain. This contraption consists of an animal bladder connected by a tube to a pair of bellows. After the torture victim was strapped to a table or a slab, this cruel and unusual instrument of punishment was inserted into his or her stomach or rectum. If the victim was a woman, it could have been inserted into her vagina. Then, the bladder would be inflated until the belly, bowels, or womb ruptured and the victim bled to death. The pain could be controlled by the degree to which the bladder was inflated, lasting for days.� She paused, surveying her listeners. Her eyes seemed to linger for a moment on Les. �It was rumored that smaller, artificial bladders�essentially, balloons�were being made that could be placed into the ear canals, nostrils, or even the urethra,� she continued, catching Les� eye again. �However, this innovation was late in the history of torture and was never actually tried.�

The visitors exchanged disgusted looks.

�Are there any questions?� Sharon asked.

Les, standing at the rear of the group, raised his hand.

�Yes, sir?� Sharon called.

�What�s in the other wing�the one that�s not open yet?�

Sharon�s smile broadened. �I�m afraid you�ll have to come back in a couple weeks to learn the answer to that question.�

The tour over, the visitors filed out of the hall. As Les reached the exit, Sharon, waiting beside the doorway, caught his arm with her hand. �Would you like a private tour of the exhibits in the other wing?� she asked him.

Les frowned. Why would she be offering him a private tour of the rest of the museum? Mentally, he shrugged. What did he care? It would be fun to see exhibits that none of the other visitors would be able to view before the exhibit hall�s grand opening, especially with a pretty guide like Sharon to show him around, behind the scenes, as it were. �Sure,� he answered, a smile replacing his frown. �That would be great.�

Sharon led the way down one of the hallways that opened off The Torture Chamber. They came to a long, tall partition. She stepped behind it, and Les followed her. At the end of the aisle formed by the hallway wall and the partition, they came to a sign displayed on a stand: �Closed.�

Sharon maneuvered around the sign and stepped through an arched doorway. Inside, her hand found the light switch, and she flipped it on. The cavernous room was illuminated with dozens of ceiling-mounted fluorescent lamps.

�Feel free to look around,� she told him. �I have to attend to something, but I�ll be back in a few minutes.�

�Wait!� Les protested, but she stepped outside the chamber.

Les sighed. All he needed, he thought, was to get caught sneaking around a section of the museum that was closed to the public. He�d probably get arrested for trespassing. He thought about leaving, but he was afraid that someone might catch him exiting the closed exhibit hall or see him wandering the museum�s corridors. Sharon had promised to return in a few minutes. He might as well risk being found here as in some other unauthorized area of the exhibit hall.

He�d have a quick look around, as Sharon had suggested. If she wasn�t back by the time his self-guided tour ended, he�d take his chances on finding his way out of the building undetected.

A section of this wing was dedicated to Methods of Execution. A plaque on a stand in front of a mannequin-occupied electric chair announced that the museum had salvaged the chair from a closed federal prison. According to the rest of the text on the plaque, Thomas Edison had used the electric chair to promote the direct current that he championed over the alternating current of his rival, George Westinghouse.

Intrigued by the realistic-looking mannequin in the electric chair, Les glanced quickly around the room. Seeing no one, he stepped over the velvet burgundy rope that hung between two brass stands as an obstacle to prevent the public from trespassing upon the exhibit�s platform. He stepped up to the chair and touched the mannequin�s face. He jerked his hand away. The wax felt as much like flesh as Les� own face, although it was tough and dry�more like leather than wax. A chill ran up his spine, and Les quickly stepped back over the velvet rope and resumed his tour of the displays.

Other exhibits included a gas chamber, a gallows, a hypodermic syringe used for lethal injections, and a blindfolded mannequin standing against a wall, before a trio of mannequin marksmen who took aim at his chest with rifles. Struck again by the mannequins� lifelike appearances, Les touched the wig worn by one of the marksmen. As before, he jerked his hand away. The wig was every bit as fine and soft as the hair on Les� own head. The craftsmanship�the art�with which these mannequins had been executed was incredible. They were more realistic than the figures at Madam Tussaud�s Wax Museum. They were so authentic that they were creepy. Les backed away from the eerie mannequins and busied his mind by reading the plaques associated with each. He was about to leave the museum when Sharon returned.

Les stared at her, wide-eyed, his mouth agape. In place of the museum�s uniform, she wore a dominatrix�s outfit consisting of a bra that gave oomph to her cleavage, a purple corset with emerald laces, black panties, a pair of black stockings with red garters, and stiletto-heeled shoes.

She smiled at him. �You must have wondered why I invited you to take a private tour of the museum�s closed wing with me.� She closed the space between them, stepping up close to him. He could smell the sweetness of her perfume. She stared into his eyes. �I�m into sadomasochism. I�m a dominatrix�an aggressive woman who likes to be in control, sexually and otherwise.�

Les gulped. He hadn�t been expecting anything like this, and he wasn�t sure what to think or do.

She stepped even closer to him, and he could feel the warmth of her body and the heat of her breath. Her breasts flattened against his abdomen, and her hips pressed firmly into his loins. �I hoped you�d help me fulfill a fantasy I�ve had ever since they hired me to work in the Museum of Cruel and Unusual Punishments,� she whispered.

Les tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. He swallowed. �What�s that?� he managed to squeak. Sharon had been pretty in her museum uniform, but she was sexy as hell in her dominatrix outfit. He�d do anything for her, he thought, anything at all.

�Take off your clothes,� she told him.

�What? Here? Now?�

�Yes. Here. Now.�

Les frowned. �Is it safe? I mean, we won�t get caught, will we?�

She continued to hold his gaze. �The museum closed fifteen minutes ago. No one�s here but you and me.�

Les shook his head. He couldn�t believe he was complying with her directive. Even as he removed his shoes and socks, unbuttoned and stripped off his shirt, unbuckled his belt and removed his slacks, he couldn�t believe that he was doing such things. In a moment, he was naked, and the air in the room was cool upon his bare flesh.

�Now, lie down on this slab,� she commanded.

Les did as he was told, lying on his back upon the cold, sloped granite slab.

Sharon secured his wrists with the leather straps bolted to the slabs.

He strained against the leather straps, grunting in protest, as he felt something push inside him. The foreign object slid down the length of his urethra, and Les� eyes widened in shocked revelation. She was shoving one of those tiny balloons inside him! His body stiffened, his eyes widening as he snarled, �What the hell do you think you�re doing?�

�I�m living out a fantasy, thanks to you,� she told him.

The damned balloon-thing swelled inside him, and Les rocked his body violently from side to side, fighting his restraints.

�Oh, come on!� Sharon said, pooh-poohing his reactions. �That can�t hurt. At most, it�s a little uncomfortable.�

�Let me go! You�ve had your twisted fun.�

She laughed. �Oh, but I haven�t had my fun. Not yet.�

She inflated the balloon further, and Les screamed in agony. His brow was wet with sweat, and perspiration ran over his chest and belly. �You bitch! Let me go, now!�

Sharon grinned. �We�ll leave the balloon at the present size for a day or two, until you get used to it. You�d be surprised at the extremes of pain that the human body can learn to endure. When you�ve reached your limit, I�ll suffocate you with the molten lead, preserve your body inside the casing, remove the bronze, and, viola!�I�ll have my latest mannequin, just in time for the grand opening of the museum�s new wing.�

Les wanted to curse her. He wanted to demand his release. He wanted to threaten the sadistic bitch who had subjected him to such pain. He wanted to beg and plead and cajole. He wanted to weep. The pain was so severe and insistent, though, that he could form no words with his lips. He could only grit his teeth, sweat, and imagine the terrible pain that would seize him in the days she kept him here, inflating the balloon until his urethra ruptured and he bled to death.

�The pain will get worse and worse,� Sharon told him, �until you want to die. Scream all you like. No one will hear you.�

�The workmen will hear me,� Les hissed between his teeth, fighting the agony that flooded him, �when they return tomorrow to prepare the exhibits in this wing of the museum.�

�Prepare the exhibits?� she repeated. �Whatever for?�

�The grand opening, in two weeks.�

Sharon laughed. �You thought this was the main exhibit hall that�s opening to the public?�

�Of course. What else would it be?�

�This is just a storage room for exhibits that we�ll rotate with the ones that are already on display. We put them on moveable platforms so we can wheel them in place whenever we want to change the exhibits. No one will step foot in here for months. By then, you�ll be nothing more than a mannequin with pain and horror frozen forever on your mummified face.�

�Why me?� Les hissed.

Sharon smiled. �All day, I�ve looked for the perfect mannequin for this exhibit, and you were it. Young, handsome, virile�a real stud. You�ll make a great mannequin. James Dean said it best�die young and leave a good-looking corpse. That�s just what I have planned for you, except I prefer to think of my corpses as mannequins.�

�You sadistic bitch!� Les screamed, despite the pain that filled him. �You�ll never get away with it! Let me go, this instant, or��

�I�d hoped this wouldn�t be necessary,� Sharon said. She reached toward Les� face, and he jerked his head aside. �Stay still, or I�ll inflate the balloon again, right now,� she warned. He remained still, allowing her to place something over his head. �Say �ah,�� she instructed. Les opened his mouth, and she pushed a rubber ball inside.

He tried to spit the ball out of his mouth, but it was held in place by the elastic band to which it was attached�the same band that Sharon had slipped over his head a second ago. Les grunted, trying to protest. He squawked, trying to curse her.

Sharon studied the effect of the muzzle. �I don�t know�now that I see it in place, I sort of like the gag.� She smiled. �It�s just the finishing touch we needed.�

Return to Main