MUFFLED MIRTH: THE PLEASURABLY TORTUROUS THERAPIES OF "ELEANOR BONNEVILLE"
By Quillon42
Concealed now within the cozy confines of her warehouse chamber of a luxury apartment was a woman most wayward, one who was even loopier than she was lovely. Another evening shift in her most recent line of work, this time as an assistant to a medical examiner whom she warmed to more than most she encountered of late. Sir Logan Nelson was a veteran—a medic, yet someone who took lives as much as he'd saved them on his tour—and for certain, his body was for sure the one that this lady wanted to study more than any other.
She'd smiled as she allowed the image of that soldier to stay a while longer in her mind, this woman who had lately answered to Eleanor thinking of how Nelson could probe and peruse her in turn.
For now, outside of such whimsies, the girl would have to settle for the crazed contraptions of agony-inducement that she'd collected over the course of so many periods of time and positions of toil.
Greedily the lady looked all around at her atrocious acquisitions, these machines designed only to draw the last instants of life from their subjects as slowly and sadistically as was feasible. For a spell she wondered what it would be like to be in one of the "games" herself, and to know what it would be like to feel the delightful discomfort of a horrific hazard happening upon her person.
As much as she was invested in the pleasure of physically precarious positions, she who most recently elected to be Eleanor did not want to delve into the depths of death itself at this juncture of her life's journey. It was just the dopamine, the adrenaline, all those fulfilling feelings that would rush upon her, to the greatest extent when encased in one of these most wicked of widgets; to a far lesser degree when she was working at her new gig in medical examining; and somewhere in between while she had sometimes been out in the field, in her last occupation.
By this point in her life the lady had operated in more careers than Barbie effing Roberts, and both on and off the jobs she'd garnered, most gleefully, so many sadomasochistic scars to prove it. Though her distinct jawline would easily give it away to anyone upon closer inspection, she'd managed to intern at ISIS—the espionage agency, and so not the insurgent abomination—and benefit from being handled roughly by everyone from the office's eccentric scientist to the establishment's elite soldier.
It was all in great fun for the name-assumed Miss Bonneville, or as she was called during that spy stint, Miss Cheryl Tunt, being on the receiving end of so many grips and chokes that she mentally cherished to this very day. Yet nothing could compare to the sensations foisted upon her by those inventions diabolically concocted by John Kramer, and after chasing so many callings, the woman was ready to retire in the arms of these appliances of anguish.
Per usual the evening routine commenced with the literal warmup that the woman enjoyed, in which her filly figure resided within that brutal, blistering burrito of brass and other materials, that same device in which the ominous Obi died—the Furnace, fetched from the Nerve Gas House. Unlike the bastardly baldy who was at least partially sautéed within that machine, here the masochistic maiden enjoyed a sauna of sorts inside the insidious invention. This simmering sit was still too heinously hot for any reasonable person, but for her it was just scalding enough to get the hormones stoked.
When the femme had her fill of this ever so torrid type of therapy, she took just a couple of steps across to the crackling bathtub, the same that claimed the life of Luba Gibbs down in some urban subterranean catacomb. Readily did the grin so spread across the girl's face as tens of volts coursed through her comely frame, just enough for jitters but nothing too extreme in the way of electrocution. She felt that the compelling charge always cleansed her of so much everyday stress.
Then the lady hauled herself out of that shocking shell of porcelain and fiberglass, and a few paces later she found herself allowing the slightly subzero shower from the meatpacking plant to caress her with its coldness. Yes, the same spray that froze over remorseless witness Danica Scott had now, to a degree far less in severity (yet also in degrees much higher in Fahrenheit or Celsius) covered over the exposed epidermis of this alleged Eleanor, of this chick who charaded as Cheryl. Now as the wavering water washed out the auburn from the examiner assistant's tresses…much as it did the dye of brunette while the same lady labored for Archer's ISIS…it also exposed the babe's original brilliant blonde locks.
There was more than one role in fact that this little miss played, it turns out, in the jurisdiction of Jigsaw. And "Eleanor Bonneville" was not the only alias she ever assumed in all of her past pursuits.
Cheryl Tunt was another false name that she had taken on over the course of so many careers. Honestly the "Tunt" part was true, in a sense, as (in this reality at least) she had married into and divorced from that family. But the surname with which she was born was the same as that of her disgustingly departed sister Jill.
In truth, as the lady registered anew, she noting her saffron follicles in the washroom mirror once again, the one who dubbed herself Eleanor Bonneville and Cheryl Tunt had initially been born…
…Shirley Tuck.
Now it was this same Shirley who fully dried herself off and, making sure her hair wasn't too damp for it, helped herself to a cozy spot on the Scalping Seat, to which a certain baser bonny named Brenda was subjected some years ago. Again the younger of the sisters Tuck had fucked with the malevolent mechanism so that it functioned more to massage (if fiercely) than to maim fatally. Shirley relaxed as the device tilted her head backward ever so gradually, she allowing the machine to bend her neck just enough to prime her for the feature presentation of the evening experience. Some hundred twenty seconds later and she was off and to this night's next-to-last of these once-deadly doodads.
Just as the previous apparatus had stretched out her head and neck generally, it was now up to what was arguably the most signature and infamous of John Kramer's infernal items to get this ex-Cheryl's mouth region in the mood. Eagerly she whisked atop her cranium the horrid headgear of the Reverse Bear Trap, this same item which almost took out some of Jiggy's apprentices and which, traumatically, undid Jilly just the same. Now when the minute had fully ticked off at the back of the freaky creaky helmet, the section underneath the chin area opened very slowly, and not completely, making for a fulfilling flexing of the jaw muscles that made Shirley most at ease.
So many soothing sensations brought on by this last object were such that they almost made the girl forget that it was that same instrument that trotted her sibling's spirit out of this livid life. But what would make the still-extant Tuck temptress most titillated still lay ahead of her for this evening.
What would make the lady climax for the night was in fact that same kink for which she had been famous throughout her time at ISIS, as well as at every other job she took on. Her boss Nelson too would in time surely become familiar with that fetish, that fixation which would get Shiryleanor literally all choked up.
For her this was indeed the ultimate bedtime ritual—and one of the best parts too was that, in contrast to the constants of all the other treatments preceding, this portion varied depending upon the day of the week. Mondays it would be the Necktie Trap that pulled in that fivesome involved with the apartment fire, and ultimately ended Ashley. Tuesdays it was the Gallows Trap that William Easton encountered at the Rowan Zoological, that same which spared Addy and snuffed Allen. Wednesdays Shirley had her way with the Hangman's Noose mechanism that chased Cale off his mortal coil at the Clear Dawn Psychiatric Hospital. Thursdays it was the Chain Hangers chamber, located within the property of the very farm on which the Tucks took their first breaths, the same place where Carly had ceased to exist.
But today had been Friday in fact, and that called for the Collar.
Shirley saved this one for last regarding the workweek because, unlike the others, she could sleep with it on, and even activated to boot. Sometimes she would even doff the blinders Cale wore in his last moments and use them as an eyemask to help her along to a most lascivious la-la-land. As with the other devices, Shirl Girl had modified this laser restraint, which was championed by Sir Nelson to haul Detective Halloran into a most feculent of fates. Now the beams radiated inside of the steel neck ring, the resulting warmth just constrictive enough for this alluring Alias-Eleanor to enjoy a most stimulating, state-of-the-art sort of strangulation.
Physically, this was the perfect way to end the evening as well as the work week on the whole. Mentally, the maiden relied upon her recollection of the most noble thing she'd ever done for Jill, even if the other were not alive to appreciate it.
Through her sister, Shirley heard about how Amanda Young mercy-murdered that Adam Stanheight-Faulkner-Radford, back in the prehistoric bathroom in which Lawrence Gordon played most of his own game. When she heard about how that same physician-turned-psychopath had left Mark Hoffman to an outcome similar to Adam's, it gave Shirley an idea, as inspired by Amanda's improvised behavior of euthanasia.
Everybody had thought that Hoffman just wasted on away in that subterranean cell, but only Jill Tuck's nimble-minded next-of-kin knew better.
Even if the authorities would manage in time to trace the deed to her doorstep, the assistant medical examiner and former espionage receptionist would determine it all to have been worth it in the end. Especially because she would get another chance to utter that one syllable she enjoyed saying the most, if the cops ever accused her.
"Duh!," she said softly to herself even now, as she allowed a most smothering sort of sleep to overtake her.