A Spectacle of Agony (Ch. I: The Tour)

Chapter 1: The Tour

From the outside, the building looks innocent enough. The wealthy merchant Armando wonders if he has found the right place to fulfill the dark desires he is ready to pay well for. He had half expected to hear screams of agony emanating from within, or at least for the place to look more sinister. But appearances can be deceiving.

Armando speaks the password he was assigned into the crack in the door. The small wooden door opens, leading to two large stone doors, which also open after the click of what sounds like a huge lock. He is greeted by a gorgeous female, fair skin and jet-black hair, with a leather corset. She is a dominatrix in every respect. “I’m called Mercy,” she says in an airy yet domineering voice, “I suppose I gained this name by what my victims shout and plead for during my sessions, but it’s ironic because I’ve never shown mercy in my life. Just be thankful you’re an observer, not a participant.” Mercy leads him down a short hall which opens into an immense chamber of stone. Now he understands. The chamber is three stories high, with a few dozen seats at the second story level, currently occupied by only a few onlookers. The floor of the chamber is the kind of place that instantly puts the most horrible images in one’s head. Armando only had a few seconds to survey the numerous and diverse instruments of torture, before Mercy leads him down an adjoining hallway. He managed to glimpse many chains hanging from the ceiling, a rack, a set of whips attached to the wall, and a large brazier glowing with hot coals.

“Today’s first ordeal will begin in half an hour, so please follow me for a short tour of our more exclusive facilities. If you wish, you may briefly observe one of our clients’ private sessions,” Mercy says, leading Armando down the hallway. He nods yes and can already hear a few distinct sets of voices, muffled but clearly in agony. One sounds male and the rest distinctly female, but all are definitely experiencing the most horrible pain. The wide stone hallway has many doors, and the gorgeous dominatrix opens the third one on the left. Inside, they stand along the nearest wall; a royally dressed man is standing near the far wall, instructing a torturer between the cries of the young female victim.

The young blonde woman is hanging in the middle of the room, her back to the door and the guests. Her hands are chained above her head, and her ankles are attached to iron rings in the floor, leaving her stretched and spread wide open. Her back, ass, and the backs of her legs are covered in fresh, red lash marks. The torturer and the client are standing in front of the poor girl, the former savagely whipping her breasts with a cat-o-nine-tails. “Come,” Mercy says between the alternating sounds of the whip and the girl’s screams, “observe how our clients have total control over what happens to the slaves during their sessions.”

As they walk slowly around to stand behind the two other men, Armando notes the multitude of terrible instruments filling the tables along the wall. There are too many to recount, but he notices many clamps, needles and pincers, as well as whips and various incredibly awful looking devices obviously meant to be inserted into the most sensitive orifices of the body. In the corner he sees another brazier with various red-hot iron instruments glowing in the coals. With a new audience, the client halts the session and gives instructions to the torturer that can’t quite be heard over the sobs of the victim.

The quivering girl tries meekly to struggle as she is unchained and dragged roughly across the room and placed behind an iron restraint device with ankle cuffs at the feet, a long horizontal bar at shoulder height, and two adjustable iron rods at chest level.