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

The Boiler Room Ordeal III - Bare Ideologies

AIDE MUSIC

"Non, Je ne regrette rien" by Edith Piaf

The Boiler Room Ordeal IV – Feminist Struggle

Amélie’s body trembled as she recovered her breath. The warm damp air of the boiler room contrasted with the cold she felt by the filth water it was thrown on her wet, naked skin. To make things worse, she began to feel tingling in her wrists and shins from the restraints, and her thighs and buttocks began to ache from the uncomfortable iron bar chair. Her appearance now matched the situation, her make-up had been washed off by the rotten water, leaving her face, shoulders and chest blackened by the run-off make-up and dirt from the water. Her left side was reddened by blows. Despite all the discomposure, Amélie tried to breathe regularly and face her tormentors with more hatred than fear.

Dominique signaled Étienne, who stepped forward, visibly uncomfortable. He clutched his Bible tightly, his eyes flickering with nervousness. —N-now, Boucher, let’s discuss f-feminism. D-do you identify with feminist ideologies? Do you b-believe women should be treated e-equally to men? —

Amélie took a deep breath, knowing she must give herself time to rest between tortures. She had a strategy in mind, she intended to give elaborate answers, to instigate arguments and prolong her rest time between tortures. —No, I don't identify with feminism. Feminists are troublemakers, too busy with self-pity to fight for their place in the sun. —

Lyonel sneered, stepping closer, his eyes raking over her exposed form. —Interesting perspective, Amélie, ma chère. — Rhyming sarcastically her first name with the affectionate adjective. —But we’re not convinced. —

He picked up a steel bucket filled with filthy water and stood beside her while Dominique shoved the rag into her mouth. Without warning, he dumped the cold, foul-smelling contents over her head. Amélie gasped and sputtered, trying to turn her face away, but Dominique held her head straight, water invading her mouth and nose. She coughed violently, her body shivering uncontrollably.

—Let's see if we can get a more honest answer, — Dominique said, his voice devoid of emotion. He nodded to Étienne, who, despite his discomfort, adjusted his glasses and stepped forward.

—P-please, Mademoiselle Boucher, — Étienne stammered. —W-women like you who t-take action, who fight for their place... isn’t that what feminism is a-all about? —

Amélie, her teeth chattering, glared at him. They clearly weren't up for a conversation, perhaps if her answer was vague, they would ask for clarification. —No, it's not. Feminists are lazy. They complain instead of working hard. —

Dominique’s expression hardened. —That’s not good enough. —

Lyonel, with a sadistic grin, brought the car electrocution device closer. This time the wicked man connected the electrodes on her delicate breasts, fixing them by grabbing her breasts insinuatingly.

— Crétins! Stop that now! I said I'm not a feminist! Stop that! Now! STOP!

She screamed and jerked, making it difficult for Lyonel, but Dominique held her by the shoulders. The cold metal taped to her nipples was already humiliating, but what it heralded was something much worse, making her gasp, when Lyonel positioned himself, control in hand, she braced herself.

—Ready? — Lyonel asked mockingly, before flipping the switch.

Electricity coursed through her body, and she convulsed violently. Her muscles contracted painfully, and she fought to keep her scream inside, refusing to give them the satisfaction. Finally, the current stopped, leaving her gasping for breath, her body slumping in the chair.

Dominique stepped closer, his face inches from hers. —You're not convincing us, Boucher. Maybe you're just a different kind of feminist. One that pretends not to be. —

Amélie couldn’t think straight, her breasts, felt like they were being seared by invisible flames, each throb a reminder of her vulnerability and suffering. Her body trembled violently, each nerve ending aflame with sharp pangs of agony that radiated through her entire being. Every breath was a struggle, each exhale punctuated by a guttural groan of pain. Her teeth clattered uncontrollably, a staccato beat born of seething rage, unbearable torment, and overwhelming shame.

Dominique grunted, made his way to face her, and slapped her across the face. —Focus! Mlle. Boucher! Answer truthfully Agent Blanchett's inquiry!

The slap was strong enough to yank her head to the side, leaving a red mark on her cheek. It instantly served its purpose, snapping Amélie out of her daze. Her vision blurred momentarily from the force of the blow, but the sting on her cheek brought her back to the harsh reality of her situation. She could taste blood, a metallic tang mingling with the bitterness of her rage. Despite the searing pain coursing through her body, Amélie forced herself to meet Dominique's gaze, her eyes burning with defiance.

Now she understood, nothing she could say would stop them from torturing her. She decided to tell them that she hated them and was going to throw the truth in their faces. If they continued, she would have moral victory and deny them the pleasure of breaking her. Amélie’s eyes burned with defiance.

—I hate you, Espèce de déchet humain! I’m not a feminist! — she shouted lunging at Lyonel the best she could restrained. —I’ve earned everything I have through hard work and determination, not by whining for equal treatment. —

Lyonel’s smirk widened as he reached for her face, caressing her cheek in a grotesque mockery of tenderness. —You're quite a fighter, ‘La Rose de Saint-Cyr’. — He said evoking the nickname the newspapers gave her when she was admitted to the Academy. —But I wonder if that fight will still be there when you realize how exposed you are? When you know we can do anything we want to you? — He glared wolfishly at her intimate parts.

Étienne’s face twisted in discomfort, he standed upand pointed an accusatory finger to Lyonel. —L-Lyonel, that's enough! D-decorum, p-please! We are her b-betters! —

Amélie saw an opportunity. —Listen to him, Lyonel. Or do you take advantage of this situation because it's the only way to be with a woman? — She smirked wickedly, giving him a lupine grin back.

The tension in the room spiked. Lyonel’s expression darkened, and he moved to strike her, but Dominique intervened. —Enough! Both of you. — Dominique’s voice was cold steel. He leaned in and delivered a calculated punch to Amélie’s stomach. The impact forced the air from her lungs, making her double over as much as her restraints allowed, coughing violently. —You think you can manipulate us, Boucher? Think again. —

Amélie winced in pain, her body jerking against the restraints. Her wrists strained against the bindings, but it was useless. She groaned, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but her eyes blazed with unyielding anger. —You’re pathetic. All of you. — She spat the words out between labored breaths, her defiance undiminished despite the searing pain.

Dominique’s face remained impassive. —Attach the electrodes to her thighs, — he ordered. Lyonel sighed humorously, removing the tapes with a quick tug from her breasts, making her wince in pain, and then giving quick taps on her left breast. He then attached the electrodes to her inner thighs. The metal felt even colder so near her sensitive organ, and Amélie gritted her teeth.

Étienne, loosening his tie, stepped back, unable to hide his discomfort. —A-answer the q-question, Boucher. W-why do you think you’re b-better than feminists? —

Amélie glared at him and answered through gritted teeth. —Because I don't just talk about change. I lead by example. I don’t shout at the doors. I break them open for other women to barge in. I don’t ask, I take. I don’t dream. I make it happen. —

—Oh, shut up! — Lyonel almost didn’t wait for her full answer, and quickly activated the battery, and the electricity surged through her again, her body jerking violently. The pain was unbearable, but she clenched her teeth, refusing to scream, her bladder yearned for release, but she would not give them that. When it finally stopped, she was left gasping, on the verge of passing out.

Dominique nodded, seemingly satisfied for now. —Good. You’ve broken this door open, ‘Lionne de Lyon’. — He then leaned over her ear and whispered wickedly. —But I’ll break you! — He straightened himself and ordered coldly. Let’s move on. —

Amélie barely heard him through the haze of pain and exhaustion. Her vision blurred, but she forced herself to stay conscious, to prepare for whatever came next. The interrogation was far from over, but she knew she had to endure. She had to survive.