Sunday, 3 August 2008

Behind Stained Glass: Meredith's Tale - Part 4

I don't ordinarily update at weekends but as I may be away from home for a couple of days longer than usual and as I may not be able to post more until Wednesday (and I do try to update most weekdays) I thought I'd add a bit more to the extract from the upcoming 2nd volume of INSTITUTIONALISED that I have be posting in serialised form. Please bear with me here if you think things have been developing rather slowly: this part is still in the process of writing and although I have written more in free-hand, it is yet to be transcribed to the printed form and so, for this reason and the fact I am working from my laptop and away from home, this installment is rather short and rather unfinished. As always; to read the previous part, simply click on the title (below).

The hiss filling her ears barely registered before the the sharp firecracker retort pierced the air, momentarily dulling her hearing. There was a brief moment filled with that odd contrary numbness that does sometimes precede the first lick of flame. Then came the first of the hornet-stings, angry, simultaneously spreading and evolving along a single red pencil-width line drawn neatly across the centre of both buttocks and wrapping around to their sides, where the whippy plastic cane's almost supernatural deformation allowed the stroke to extend. Now the scream came, now not even the discipline of the nurses, of this place, could hold it back.

That hissing sigh came again and again and again: a top-register hiss, as softly-sighing as the lightest, finest, drizzle falling on still waters - and on the most breathlessly beautiful of summer evenings. So inoffensive in itself, a sound of little relevance to most and, quite frankly, new to this girl, each such sighing nevertheless heralded a full-blooded spit of acid as if from the mouth of some foul blaspheming demon - enough to sear the flesh and mortify the soul both.

She had once been all too familiar with the strap and the tawse, whether in truth or in imagining, but this, this...This was unimaginable, indescribable, unbearable. This was not like the heavy slap of leather, there was hardly any discernible impact at all in fact, no these were cuts, like untold thousands of razor slashes, millions of fine paper-cuts infused with bee venom. It stole her breath, was destroying her reason.

That scream grew now, louder, louder: it became monumental, reverberated off the walls and around her mind. Then slowly, oh, so slowly, it began to diminish, fading down to a horsey broken whisper, then further still, until just sobs, shuddering and heartbroken, filled silences still punctuated by that unrelenting hiss-crack, hiss-crack, hiss-crack rhythm.

It had taken a final hacking fit of coughing to end it; moist, choking with phlegm, the congestive payback of his exertions.

An unseen hand reached across her and a cane, long and as thin, if not thinner, than her own little finger, was unceremoniously discarded mere tens of centimetres from her distraught features. Near perfectly white and with the unmistakable sheen of glass-fibre or of some durable plastic, only the fine longitudinal threadlike traces of red close to its tip, where its gentle taper brought its diameter to something less than a half centimetre, marred its finish. Testament to the splitting of skin, the marking of her flesh, those latter blemishes, she knew, she was intended to see - this was part of the nightmare, to be indelibly marked this way, to evermore bear the marks of her shame on her body.

From behind the barely conscious girl came now a new sound, a soft boggy squelching like fingertips plunged into thick mud – or a pot of cold medicated cream. She felt twisted yet soft fingers on her flesh, felt the burning cheeks of her bottom parted with a gentility at odds with the tortuous beating those hands had so recently delivered. A cold, gel-coated digit tarried momentarily, stroking at the sensitive puckered flesh of her anus in deliciously teasing little circular movements. Almost hypnotised, she felt the gentle yet insistent pressure and then the surrender of her muscles as her sphincter gave access – the latter stretched and weakened by the endless parade of treatments given her, the enemas, the irrigations, the suppositories, the anal dilator that was seemingly kept almost permanently in situ.

Having been granted access that finger now withdrew in a near-frictionless goo of lubricant jelly, as if having proved a point there was no desire to linger. Then that urging pressure came again - and again access was granted. Then again and yet again, repeating the cycle over and over; little teasing circles would be drawn softly around and around her little puckered rose bud, a little gentle pressure would be brought to bear, notably less each time, and she would be again penetrated there. A rhythm gradually built up, in and out, in and out, in and out.

Then something far larger was offered up, was lodged there; shocking but not unanticipated – she had experienced it so many times before, it had dominated those dreams and nightmares of hers, those delusions, as much as it dominated her person now. The rhythm built again, the cyclic violation now punctuated by coughs and gasps and modulated by accelerating, heavily-laboured panting excitement: She was being fucked up the arse; there, she'd said it, admitted to it if only through internal dialogue. Crude, yes, but what other term could there be that might sum it up quite so succinctly: fucked-up-the-arse: it was a term that carried with it the full force of the trauma, both physical and psychological, and particularly the latter, that this act, this rape, was inflicting on her.

Faster and faster, in and out, in and out, the grunting louder and growing increasingly deep-throated, the coughing, the gasping, rising a frequency in concert with that of his thrusts...rising...RISING. There came one final gasp...She could feel his filthy slime trickling, warm within her bowels, filling her belly, or so it seemed to her dread-distorted, near-phobic perspective: he'd come...The old bastard had come in her, as he had so many times before, he'd come in her ass, made her as filthy as he was. This was filth that soap couldn't wash away, this was sin that had to be expunged – and she new only too well how that might be done, she didn't have to be clairvoyant to know what was likely coming next...

A few moments respite, the refractory period; time enough for remorse, then guilt, then the translocation of that guilt. A precious few moments, perhaps a minute, perhaps five then the repercussions would start: the swearing, the cursing, the accusations of wanton, blasphemous sin. Then would come the threats of chastisement – faux-biblical ranting, all fire and brimstone and the casting out of Satan and his minions…Yet no such outpouring came; instead there remained merely the wheezing and panting, albeit falling now in tempo.

Her relief, such as it was, proved short lived: a hand grasped the cane, whisking it past her nose while snatching it away, causing her to flinch in alarm. The caning had begun anew before she had time enough even to process the thought. That high-end swiping hiss, hisss, hissss of air thrust aside again filled the room, freshly-lit lines of fire again branded sweet flesh, but now in opposition to the old and layered in beauteous symmetrical precision, raising a fine diamond-grid of wheals – here was agony, sculpted as if a physical entity in its own right...


All around her the room seemed to fold in on itself; the wall before her faded to the purple then swirled into darkness. The black velvet whirlpool closed mercifully in around her, claimed her its own - what human mind could've taken such insult without withdrawing so?

Time passed, how long can only be conjecture. Something was rousing her; there was a hand upon her shoulder, a soft hand, unmistakably a woman's hand. A voice spoke in the soft singsong tones of an angel; gentle, sweet, filled with concern and, more importantly and much to her relief, a feminine voice. The doctor's voice had come to her as a mother's might to her slumbering infant:

Are you all right, sweetheart, is something wrong? Only, it looks like you’ve been crying?”

In response the girl could only blubber, her breath shuddering with emotion and her lips slobbering, drooling with saliva as might some inmate of an asylum.

The doctor continued on as if totally unaware that the girl was even trying to say something, in fact if anything her voice hardening to some degree, as if irked by the young woman's incoherent mumbles:

I'm sure the nurse told you I wasn't going to be long - and I've only been a few minutes. I'm well aware that it can be a little bit scary being immobilised like that, but we have to be absolutely certain that the patient is kept stationary while we’re taking the x-ray in a case like yours. Besides, it's not as if you’ve been left alone very long; there was absolutely no need for you to go and get yourself worked up so. I'm sure you know how these things work by now - the nurses have to leave the room while the machine is in operation.” The fact that there was no actual x-ray equipment in evidence anywhere in the room didn't seem to faze the woman one iota. In actuality, other than the bench itself and a circular array of spotlights approximating to the type illumination source one might be confronted by in a dentist's surgery, the room was bare.

Again the girl could only incoherently blather and mumble and drool in response. Then slowly, ever so slowly, those lines, burning as if etched by acid, began again to slice into her consciousness:

A nightmare, it had to have been nightmare, she was all safely and securely locked up in a hospital, a psychiatric hospital, confined in a secure ward - how could he have possibly got to her here?

But that aching in her belly, that torn-flesh-burning in her anus kept telling her otherwise. They screamed their objection - they knew of her abuse, they couldn't be ignored, they hollered at her of her dumb denial, screamed at her.

The shriek, when it came, penetrated the very fabric of the walls. It caused all present to bring their hands to their ears, the doctor, that woman's two assisting nurses - all except one. Only one there experienced that unearthly soul-tearing wail un-attenuated...

To be continued

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