WARNING

This is adult content, and not the kind you're used to!

This short story aims to create a fictional story that provokes shock and critical thinking about sensitive adult themes. Under no circumstances does the author support or accept any kind of mistreatment, aggression or torture of another human being, whether physical or psychological. Any resemblance of actual people or events are merely coincidental.

That said - Here's the latest chapters

The Boiler Room Ordeal - Prologue: The Last Reflex of Broken Dreams

The Boiler Room Ordeal I - Sacrificial Lamb

The Boiler Room Ordeal II – Struggling on Quicksand

AIDE MUSIC

 

Jacques Brel - Ne me quitte pas

The Boiler Room Ordeal III – Bare Ideologies

She knew she wasn't dreaming, but it certainly felt like it. She was trapped in a dark room with bulging walls that subtly connected to the vaulted ceiling, giving the room a rounded appearance. There were no windows, doors, entrances, or exits. Just darkness and pain. Her head buzzed, pulsing in a constant, poignant sensation, as she felt a tremor beneath the room, as if the building in which it was contained was beginning to be swept away by a great force, like that of a flood that tears a house from its foundation.

Suddenly there was an abrupt landing. The room shook from the impact, and the building now seemed to be stuck on two separate surfaces. She then felt the room being lifted up, as if some force wanted to tear it away from the building. Then a tremor hit, and she could clearly feel the walls of her prison shaking. A sharp sensation crossed her left cheek and lip, her face reacting just as a leaf does when hit by a heavy drop of water and the room began to free-fall. She felt her lip get slightly heavier, but that's nothing compared to the pain of the jolt in her head as the room tumbled and spun. Amélie was fully aware of having groaned, but the room now seemed to have stopped spinning, hanging precariously. A commotion occurred at great distances, people arguing, on the other side of the wall. Boucher finally understood that she was trapped inside her head, and her skull was what made up the floor, walls, and floor of that room, which was her prison.

The noises ceased, and suddenly she felt the building, which she now assumed was her body, being roughly manipulated, as if she were a lifeless doll. She struggled to regain control but was sedated by pain and trapped inside her own head.

The temperature in the room seemed to rise as she felt her body being dragged, a bump made her lose control of her senses and she returned screaming to the shackles of her head.

Amélie awoke to a pounding headache and the sensation of cold metal against her skin. She was strapped to a steel chair, her wrists and ankles bound tightly. The dim light above flickered, casting eerie shadows across the room. She tried to move but found herself restrained. Panic surged through her, but she forced herself to remain calm, to think.

—Awake at last,— Dominique said, his voice a low rumble. —Let's begin.

Étienne, still wincing from the earlier kick to his groin, stepped forward, holding a Bible.

—We h-have some questions for you, B-boucher. Answer truthfully, and God willing, this will be over quickly.

Lyonel smirked, licking his lips while eyeing her form maliciously.

—Yeah, don't make it harder than it has to be.

Amélie glared at them, her face a mask of pure rage and disgust, despite her growing fear. As she shifted slightly in the chair, she became acutely aware of the cold air against her skin and the hard metal bars of the chair biting her flesh. Her eyes widened in horror as she realized they had stripped her naked. Humiliation and outrage surged through her veins like wildfire.

—Enculés!— she spat, her voice trembling with fury. —How dare you strip me! Get me out now or, I swear to God…!

Étienne’s eyes flickered with a hint of discomfort and outrage, but he quickly masked it with a stern look.

—Do-don't blaspheme God's name with false threats, mademoiselle! We have to know if you're loyal. If you're worthy.

Dominique's expression was cold, unfeeling.

—It's a necessary part of the process, Boucher. We need to see what you're made of.

Lyonel leaned in closer, his eyes glinting with lustful amusement.

—Just answer the questions, and we’ll let you cover that pretty body. Simple as that.— He brushed her cheek with his hand.

Amélie's fury only grew as she tested her restraints by trying to pounce on Lyonel. He backed away while taunting her. Realizing the pointlessness of trying to escape, and how uncomfortable it was to move in that iron-barred chair, she confined herself to protesting.

—You think this will break me? You think this humiliation will make me confess to something I haven't done? You are so wrong!— she spat, smirking defiantly.

Without warning, Dominique nodded to Étienne, who began the interrogation.

—D-do you align yourself with any c-communist or socialist ideologies? Have you ever participated in activities supporting such movements?

Amélie was still processing that outrageous question, her humiliating state, and the absurdity of all that pantomime when her head was yanked back by her hair by Dominique's powerful hand. She gasped in pain as he shoved a piece of damp rag into her mouth. Her eyes widened when he placed another damp cloth on her face, and Lyonel poured a whole bucket of foul water over her. She desperately tried to hold her breath, but the improvised gag allowed water to enter her throat. She thought she would drown when she was released from the rags and could cough out the water, drawing ragged breaths for air between coughs. Her face was a mess of smeared makeup, tears, and foul-smelling water. Étienne repeated the question.

—D-do you align yourself with any c-communist or socialist ideologies? Have you ever participated in activities supporting such movements?

Amélie shivered, her body striving against the cold, foul water still making her cough.

—Bring the car battery,— Dominique ordered Lyonel, who jumped to obey. Amélie's eyes widened as she rushed to answer the question in a desperate hope to stop another torture.

—I despise communism and socialism. They're deceptive and dangerous ideologies that corrupt our society!— she screamed.

—You're lying!— Lyonel sang with a playful, sadistic tone as he stepped forward with an electrocution device powered by a car battery on a mechanic’s trolley. Amélie’s heart raced as she desperately protested, insisting she wasn't lying, that she meant it, that she despised communism, but it was all in vain. They attached the electrodes to her wrists. The cold metal on her skin, just a chilly warning of what was to come.

—Please, no! I'm not lying!— whimpered Boucher.

—Last chance,— Dominique said softly. —Admit to any subversive affiliations towards communism, and we will spare you this.

Amélie's brain raced, trying to find anything remotely socialist she had ever done in her life, but she couldn't think of anything.

—I'm telling the truth. If the truth is not enough, then do your worst, cowards!— she spat.

Dominique sighed.

—Very well.

Lyonel activated the power supply, and a jolt of electricity shot through Amélie’s body. She clenched her teeth as her body convulsed, the water only making things worse, but she refused to scream despite the excruciating pain. It felt like an eternity, and she thought she would die there, but it suddenly ended.

Étienne adjusted his glasses while drawing a file from his suit and began to read. —Mademoiselle Boucher, i-isn't it true that when you were at Saint-Cyr, you spoke for strikes, signed petitions accusing our companies and corporations of mistreating workers, and donated to socialist groups from other universities that preach the pulverization of our farms into smallholders?

Amélie winced, not believing the lies they were spinning against her, but then she realized they were cherry-picking all her experience at Saint-Cyr, and yet twisting her actual actions they mentioned, and promptly answered.

—No, you are twisting my actions! I did support some social during my term at Saint-Cyr: better working conditions, aid for small farmers, peaceful strikes when the demands were reasonable. Not those twisted lies you threw at me!

Lyonel snorted. —Sounds like socialism to me.

—Indeed,— said Dominique while pushing Amélie's head back by her hair again. This time she closed her mouth shut and thrashed her body in a desperate attempt to get out of the chair, but Dominique forced her mouth open, introducing that makeshift gag again, covering her face once more while Lyonel expelled another steel bucket on her face. This time she quickly moved her face to the side, preventing most of the water from entering her throat. Dominique forced her face straight before the bucket emptied, and she received half of its content. It was bad, but not as bad as the first time. She swallowed some of that water, but her quick thinking saved her from the worst. When they removed the clothes, she coughed and gasped, but with a devious smile of defiance appearing on her face blackened by smudged makeup and the dirt of the rags and water.

—You amateurs,— she said teasingly between gulps of air.

Dominique let out a deep sigh as he punched her on the flank. A little harder than he would have liked, causing her to bend over and cough. He regained his composure, slicked back his hair, and said in his calm, cool voice.

—Answer the charge of Agent Moreau.

Amélie shot back through gritted teeth. —It's not socialism, it’s about fairness and justice. Not politics.

Dominique looked at Lyonel, who just shrugged and spoke. —Yeah, ok, that will do.

Dominique leaned behind Boucher, his hand intentionally pressing her bruised flank as he whispered in her ear.

—Congratulations girl, you survived the first test.