The Dungeon Martin Kane She awakes, silently, bound and awaiting the tortures' return. Author's note: Should anyone out there wish to get in contact with me, I happily invite you to do so, via the messageboard for readers and writers. I welcome any comments and only refrain from leaving my e-mail address here and now due to previous problems encountered with spam, worms and virus. Copyright is mine. If you do wish to use this tale elsewhere I ask you to please seek permission first. Needless to say this story is purely a fiction and all characters contained herewith are merely the products of an overwrought imagination, not to mention an unfortunate quantity of truly bad B-movies. As for the adult content warning... what else would you be expecting? * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * When she awoke the woman did so silently. He watched her and shuddered in fear - this was what he had been dreading. She sat opposite him, bound to the chair, as was he to his own. The chair was metal, bolted to the stone floor of the dungeon. Her ankles were secured with iron bands, holding her calves flush to the legs. Around her waist was a chain, thick links pulled tight and secured with a heavy-duty padlock. Her arms were stretched above her head, as though she were raising her hands in surrender. That was absurd though. He knew this woman, knew she would never surrender to anyone, no matter what torture they inflicted upon her. Her hands were shackled at the wrist, thick bracelets of steel closed tight. Between them, no chain, but a thick, steel bar, much like one she would often use at the gym. It was a metre across and held her arms stretched far apart. It had been fed through a thick loop of metal, which in turn was embedded deep within the stone wall. One thing was certain from this little set-up - they really didn't want her to escape. And they had good reason to be worried; the tales of different acts this woman had committed were no exaggerations. He was one of the few to bear witness, to have the rare and jaded privilege of seeing her in action. It was not something he relished but given the choice, he'd rather be on her side than not, rather be a witness to murder than its victim. And here he was, secured to his own metal seat, with only a simple set of handcuffs behind his back. It seemed pathetic in comparison to the precautions they'd set aside for her - insulting almost. He was waiting for the feared moment that she would awake. The woman was average of feature, her face neither stunningly beautiful nor hopelessly plain. But her body was another matter altogether. She was dressed in a casual sweater, a loose, woollen blanket, thick and soft. But he knew the truth. He'd seen the torso beneath, seen the huge muscles. She had arms that were thicker than any man he'd ever met, with biceps like great round rocks, as hard and huge as boulders. Her shoulders were broad and powerful, the taper of her chest from a tiny waist thickening rapidly out to an awesome wedge of bulked up muscle. Unlike the common bodybuilder, whose aims in physical perfection are purely aesthetic - the desire to look as flawless as humanly possible - her concerns were of a more practical nature. She built her muscles to such an excessive degree for the strength and power it offered her. And he'd seen what she could do with that strength, seen how she wielded that power. Her eyes opened and the blur of chloroformed haze slowly passed from her gaze. She focused first on him, and then on their surroundings. Stone, metal grills, chains and metal chairs, dim lighting provided by heavily reinforced bulb units. The occasional scream of horrendous pain punctuated the silence, an adjacent room where an individual was falling prey to such torture as the average mind cannot conceive. Then her eyes fell upon him, and the truth was known in that instant. He knew that she understood what had happened, that she knew he had betrayed her whereabouts to these people. He knew because the look she gave him scared him more than the thought of his torturers returning to him and beginning again. 'I had no choice,' he screamed at her. 'Don't you understand, I had no choice but to tell them? Look at me; look at what they've done to me. Look at my legs. Look at my fucking legs. I'm a cripple, I'm a fucking cripple.' The woman said nothing. She merely sat and stared, the hate in her eyes burning through to his soul. She sat and stared and her fury sliced through the dim air to him and shot into him. He felt a hot liquid sensation in his bowels and realised his body was about to betray him. Despite to tortures committed against him, despite the pain and fear and anguish he'd suffered of late, he'd been spared that particular indignity. Not now however, not with her evil intent written in her expression as surely as in stone. She made no remark of even any sign of acknowledging the fact as his bowels shot forth the hot stinking mess. She did however, finally release him from the horror of her gaze. She began to regard the chains that bound her. Then she tested them for strength. The metal of her bonds was thick and strong. But then, so were her arms. He watched, not able to believe what he was seeing, not believing it was possible. He knew she had unfathomable strength, he'd seen her do things he'd have deemed impossible if he'd not been witness to them. He'd seen her lift a car with her bare hands, raising one end up into the air. She'd then slid a man beneath it and gently lowered it onto him. He'd seen her rip limbs off another victim, seen her punch a man in the guts so hard he'd then collapsed into a heap and begun to shit blood. Yes, he knew she was strong, far stronger than most people could even conceive of as humanly possible. But this? This amazed even him. The thick bar holding her arms apart was beginning to fold, bending at the centre. The strain and effort was writ large across her face, her eyes screwed tights, her lips frozen in a rigor grimace. She was grunting with the exertion, a guttural gasp of sheer toil. But she was rewarded for her struggle; the two ends of the bar were eased slowly and reluctantly closer. As the ends closed, her arms levelled into a better position and she threw everything she had into it, wrenching the groaning metal into submission. She wrestled the two ends together with a final cry of exultation. The loose and heavy sweater was soaked with her sweat. This was no easy victory, even for one such as she. The sweater covered the awesome bulk of her muscled torso but he knew from long association that that torso would now be pumped up and bulging. The exertion of such a show of strength would have her muscles pulsing like mad, her biceps swollen and elated. After the bar, the manacles were child's play - for her at least. She braced first one arm, ripping it free, and then the other. Her hands dropped to her waist and she began to strain once more. He saw that pained, determined expression return to her face. With another cry of victory her arms flew up and apart, a length of snapped chain swinging free from each. That only left her legs. She was wearing jeans, but even so, he could have sworn he saw her calves bulging and she squeezed the muscles. She was still seated but her hands clawed into the arm of the chair. It was clear she was flexing her leg muscles for everything she had. She twisted her legs, pulling her knees apart while she drew her ankles together. With a slow pop, the restraints tore free and her calves pulled free. She was out. She looked up at him and stood. He could no more control himself than could a newborn. He shat himself again and wept in wretched fear. She stood before him, somewhat calmer than before, the violent fury gone from her eyes. Even so, he could not meet her gaze. She shushed him - tender and motherly. She wiped his face gently, leaning forward to stroke his matted hair. He knew what would follow but took comfort from her nonetheless, such was his terror and his utter defeat. She hugged him with ultimate care, leaning forward to press her cheek against his. Their collarbones pressed and he felt her amazing muscles throbbing beneath the sweater. Her arms encircled him and through the woollen sheath, he felt those biceps, those amazing biceps, for the first time in his life. He'd seen her muscles on numerous occasions, either as she strolled around typically on display in skimpy little tops, or when she was committing some atrocity against the human form. But he'd never actually come into physical contact with her before. Despite his curiosity and awe, he'd never ask such a thing - he dare not. Though he'd witnessed other men ask that privilege, and on rare occasions, she'd actually allowed a man to stroke her massive biceps, feel those huge boulders. More often though, he'd seen her react less positively. A single punch from her was lethal and she had no qualms about letting loose. He'd even witnessed on one occasion when she'd lifted a man high above her head. This was a long serving and loyal lackey. She sunk him down hard on her broad shoulders; the crack left no doubt as to his fate. Then she'd simply dropped the lifeless corpse and ordered another lackey to clear up the mess. This suicidal fool had actually asked politely why she'd broken the man so. She hadn't repeated the act, as all others there present had anticipated. Instead she'd simply answered that she didn't like the way he kept looking at her. It was generally understood that to come into physical contact with this woman meant you were not long for this world. And so, he knew as she hugged him, that her tenderness would be replaced by viciousness at any moment. Despite this, he relished the intimacy and comfort of those all- powerful arms holding him, so tightly but so carefully. He knew he was lost, we was tortured and broken, he was both victim and betrayer. He wanted to be lost in those arms, to be held forever, tight and safe between her huge, bulging biceps. Then his fears proved themselves to be well founded. She shifted her position, lifting an embracing arm to instead wrap around his head. She tightened the grip like an iron band, drawing her muscles tight. The huge biting peak of her biceps muscle jammed hard against his temple, her forearm across his eyes, she shoulder bracing his skull. From this position she could snap his neck with a simple twist, the slightest flex, a bare twitch. But she didn't. Instead, she squeezed. He'd seen this, seen her crush a man's skull in her hands, now he was at the receiving end and he was in hell. Pain like no other swamped him and he wished he were dead. It was a wish that was quickly granted, the relentless vice of her grip tightened as though she were crushing nothing more resilient than a watermelon. With a final creak, she popped his head like a grape, her muscles full of molten lead. She stepped back and shook the worst of the mess free. She ripped the sweater off of her body, then mopped herself as best she could with the rag. Beneath the sweater she had been wearing a sports bra. It was black and left very little to the imagination. She could live with that. Besides, it was her muscles they'd be looking at. She turned her back on her ex-employee and headed to the next room where, even now, screams were permeating this fetid atmosphere. She entered the torture room silently. The three men inside remained unaware of her presence. Two were far too engrossed in their jobs, the third was so far beyond this realm of existence that nothing could reclaim him. All he knew now was pain. She watched indifferently as a long metal needle, the length of a butcher's knife was removed from its slot on the fire and slid slowly into the victim's flesh. There were two men standing over the metal table the victim was bound to. Both were bare-chested, the heat from the fire sending sweat running down them, leaving trails in the soot coating. She simply walked forward, never one for big entrances. She'd covered half the distance before first one man then the other turned to face her. First registered surprise and then fear. And then they took in the true shape of her body through the dim firelight. Then surprise once more and back to fear. The first torturer approached her with a knife in his hand. A large and cruel looking blade, stained with blood, still wet from recent usage. He thrust it at her without skill and she knocked his blow away easily. This was a man who was used to fighting with muscle not with ability. If that was the case, then he was completely out-matched here. She punched the knife arm, shattering the bone and sending his forearm sagging off at a strange angle. Then another punch, in the side of his chest, caving in the ribcage and crushing the organs within. The man collapsed facedown. She didn't expect him to ever rise again. His strength surprised her however as he found his way onto his knees, coughing up meaty chucks of blood. She stood over him, crouching low enough to grasp the back of his head in one hand. She lifted him up a little and smiled. She then slammed him into the ground and any hope of survival he might have had, ended in a pulpy splatter of meat, haloed by blood and brain. The second torturer grabbed the fire. It was a portable furnace unit, supported by three tripod legs, the weighty canister of natural gas clamped beneath. It looked like a jury-rigged barbecue, but the flames it produced were far more intense. He held the burning pan towards her, warding her away with it, like a lion-tamer with a chair. She closed on him and he backed away, fearful of her. She regarded the victim for a moment, finally recognising him up close, despite the extent of the damage they'd done. She took the burning needle from his flesh and closed on the torturer. He held up the furnace, threatening her with it as best he could while cowering away. She threw the metal needle and be batted it aside with a heavy sweep of the furnace. She had him backed against a wall now. She moved for him but he warded her off. Left, then right. Ducking and weaving in a game of checkers. She went forward, he shoved his weapon out, she went sideways, ducking low and coming back to slam the burning side of metal with an elbow. The furnace was thrown out of his grip and she fell upon him, sinking him with blows that could shatter stone. She turned his torso into jelly with a short but furious battering. He was technically still alive when she drew back but that wouldn't last for long. Always one to be sure of these things, she pulled the furnace upright with her free hand while lifting her victim with the other. Incredibly the flames were still going. She lifted the man onto the burning furnace, his body slumping over it. He didn't even flinch. Then she returned to the victim, still bound and senseless on the table. She sighed and closed her eyes wearily. People would have to pay for this outrage, and she would make them pay personally. She snapped his neck with a quick and fluid motion. As she left the dungeon she heard the scream of the second torturer, awakening on fire, unable to escape. The final moments of his life would be agonising. It gave her little pleasure. But, she mused, a little pleasure is better than none at all.