#beating whump

Favorite whump stuff rn

Content: manhandling, noncon, noncon stripping, torture, beating whump, sadistic whumper, whip/cane/branding iron, multiple whumpers, living weapon

Captive manhandled into position for noncon. Forcing pants down/shirt up violently

Whumpee going silent when they see what whumper is going to do to them/the whip/cane/branding iron/sex toys

Manhandling in general. Slammed into objects, twisted around, sat on, pinned to the floor by an elbow

Thrown into the wall and falling limp to the floor, trying to get up and failing, slumping over their trembling arms, leg half up under them

Whumper slowly walking toward weakened whumpee with a smile on their face

Whumper looking focused and slightly amused as they physically manipulate whumpee. Soft grunts of effort as they quickly pin whumpee down

Whumpee not bound in any way, writhing and struggling as multiple whumpers restrain and beat them

Losing a fight. Badly. And whumper doesn't stop there. They keep kicking, punching, dragging whumpee forward by the hair only to stomp them down again

The Basement Part 7

A Shoe to the Ribs

After seeing Josh's bloody lip, Gabriel tries to distract Martin by taking the beating himself.

Content: beating, bloody lip, defiant whumpee, stoic whumpee, delusional whumper, crying

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Masterlist

Slapped

Martin returns, demanding that Josh accompany him upstairs. Josh remains impassive as Martin tries to intimidate her, but it escalates to violence.

Content: injury, stoic whumpee, intimidation, slapping, punching, bloody lip

Masterlist

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Yes!

Language barrier whump

Content: prisoner vibes, forced to kneel, beating, begging, slapping

Yelling at whumpee repeatedly, then finally kicking them in the back of the knees to make them kneel. Whumpee quickly learns that word.

Whumpee knowing a few words in the foreign language and being mocked when they struggle to complete a sentence

Or being expected to understand everything now (this is very common btw) and when they DON'T, they're beaten to the floor for disobeying

Being dragged around everywhere by the wrist or by the hair because the guards have given up on giving whumpee orders

Whumpee breaking down after hours of interrogation in the foreign language, begging for mercy in their own tongue

As we walk into the Inquisitory, I can’t help but think of how many people have never walked out. Some of them are too weak or injured to stand; others are missing the necessary limbs entirely. Most of them just disappear.

Not for the first time, I feel a surge of bitter rage as I think about their fate—and not for the first time, I tamp those feelings down, keeping my face calm and impassive, refusing to let anything traitorous show. To my right, Rudy is putting up the same facade; I see him fight to suppress a nervous twitch as the outer gates slam behind us.

The Inquisitory is an imposing facility, all cement and tinted windows, resembling several bricks gathered together and stood on end. We cross a bare concrete courtyard and approach the building proper; at the entrance a guard checks our identification documents and leads us inside.

We don’t go into the bowels of the building, instead ending up in one of the offices on the outer edge, where a large window overlooks the street below. “Lieutenant Martus will be with you momentarily,” the guard tells us, and then disappears.

It’s a moderately sized-space, with a few personal touches—a child’s clay sculpture sitting on the corner of the desk, a new shoebox in the wastebasket. Rudy sits, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair, while I go look out the window.

“I wonder why they asked us both here?” he says after a moment. We don’t usually have much interaction professionally. He manages schedules, I manage resources, and there’s a sizeable gap in rank.

The romantic relationship is, of course, common knowledge across the bureau, but so is our “shyness” about it. Pretending that we’re trying to maintain some lovers’ privacy provides convenient cover for nighttime excursions and secretive messages.

“I suppose we’ll find out,” I say casually, tamping down my own trepidation. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ve had meetings here before. I’ll have them again.

A moment later the door opens again, and Martus pokes his head into the room. He’s a heavyset man in his thirties, in a black uniform and—sure enough—brand new shoes that have been shined to almost a mirror finish. “Director Van Dam, so nice to see you. I’m a little pressed for time today—could you possibly join me downstairs?”

I sigh inwardly. As usual, the police think their time is so much more valuable than anybody else’s. But I’m supposed to keep the working relationship in good order, and so I smile tightly and head for the door. “Of course, Lieutenant. Glad to see you again.”

“You too,” he says, holding the door for Rudy and I to file out of. “And you must be Janssen?”

“Yes indeed.” Rudy bravely attempts a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure.” Martus begins leading us deeper into the building through a series of brightly-lit hallways lined with tightly-closed doors. I don’t know what’s behind them. I don’t want to know.

“I’m so glad you could meet with me,” says the lieutenant as we walk. “I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”

I let that pass without comment. “I understand the Inquisitory is suffering from a transport shortage; we’ll be happy to help. Logistics is a little tight on vehicles right now but I’m sure we’ll be able to spare some—”

He holds up a hand. “I apologize, director. The transit request was merely a pretext. It was necessary to deceive you for security reasons; one simply cannot trust lower bureaucrats these days.”

I let that pass without comment as well. Even if he is questioning the loyalty of my workers, it would be unseemly to argue. And besides, I know where the leaks are coming from much better than he does—the thought is faintly amusing.

Martus looks like he’s about to elaborate, but then he pauses as we round a corner. A pair of guards pass, leading a young woman with ratty hair. Her hands are tightly bound behind her back, and she’s sporting a fresh black eye. She doesn’t look up, and nobody speaks until we’ve entered the next hallway.

“Are you all right, Janssen?” the lieutenant asks.

Rudy looks pale, and doesn’t answer at first. “Oh, it's nothing,” I say lightly. “Not everybody has the stomach for your line of work, Lieutenant.”

“True enough,” says Martus amicably.

“I get woozy at the sight of blood,” admits Rudy. “My parents always hoped I’d be a doctor, but I could barely sit through a full biology lesson.”

Martus laughs. “You sound like my son. His class dissected a frog last week and he could hardly bring himself to touch it.”

I force a laugh as well, and Rudy manages a queasy smile. We go down a flight of stairs, and then another, reaching the underground levels. “So why did you bring us here, then?” I ask. “From what I’ve seen The Inquisitory hadn’t has any resource allocation problems in the past few—”

“I didn’t bring you here to talk about our facility, Ms. Van Dam,” says the lieutenant.

I raise an eyebrow at his tone. “Then what will we be talking about?”

“Linden University.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “Are you conducting an operation there? We could arrange for the necessary—”

“I didn’t bring you here to talk about logistics at all.”

Rudy and I trade a look. I feel another stirring of disquiet. We first met at Linden, but I don’t see how that would be relevant. Not unless…

No. If they knew the truth, I’d already be in cuffs. “Then why are we here?” I ask.

“I’m working on a project,” says Martus. “And I think the two of you will be of great help to me.”

After several twists and turns, we arrive at a dead end—there’s a door at the end of the hall, and a chair outside it. Martus leads us towards the door, then pauses. “You’ll probably want to wait out here, Janssen. Because of your weak stomach.”

Rudy stumbles slightly, and I stop walking. “What do you mean?”

But Martus ignores the question, disappearing through the door and waving for me to follow him.

After a moment of hesitation, I do.

Inside is a standard interrogation chamber. The walls and floor are covered in white tile, with a drain in the corner. There’s a hard wooden seat dead in the center of the room, with a desk and an office chair on one side. Martus gestures towards the latter. “Care to sit?”

“I’m fine,” I say.

He doesn’t sit either, leaning against the wall. A moment later I hear sounds outside—two or three people coming down the hallway. There’s a sharp intake of breath, which I recognize as Rudy’s. And then the door swings open, and two guards come in with one prisoner.

His hair is long and tangled, and a scraggly beard covers his face. His skin is so pale that it’s obvious he hasn’t seen the sun in months. Ragged black clothing hangs off his frame, and his hands are bound behind him. As he enters the room, he glances over at me, and for the briefest moment our eyes lock.

And then I feel as if my stomach has dropped completely out of me. Because as soon as I meet his eyes, I can see in my mind what he really looks like—how he’d look cleanshaven, hair trimmed, cheeks filled out.

Luther.

I thought he was dead. He was supposed to be dead. His contact told us that he was dead, that he’d been shot, that the wound was so terrible nobody could survive it, that she’d been forced to leave him behind. But clearly it wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. Clearly the police got to him before he bled out. And for the past five months, he’s been buried alive in the Inquisitory.

An instant later I feel my stomach snap back into place, now filled with a sick sense of dread. Because all at once I see what’s going on, why they demanded I come here, why I was asked to bring Rudy, why we aren’t in Martus’s office. This isn’t a transport meeting, a logistics request, or even a special project.

This is an Inquiry. And I am the subject.

Luther is shoved past me, forced down into the hard wooden chair. He doesn’t look up again. He doesn’t give any indication that he saw me. But it’s too late, because Martus is looking at me closely and I know that the shock is showing on my face.

“Do you know this man, Ms. Van Dam?”

I force myself to think, to avoid falling apart into a horrified panic. Because there’s something going on here, something much more complex than a simple confession and arrest. Clearly, if they’ve been at him for five months and we’re only now being brought in, Luther has been able to withhold at least some information from them. And they brought Rudy and I here on an official pretext, rather than ripping us from our bed in the middle of the night. I’m a high-ranking government official with—last time I checked it—an impeccable record. If I disappeared without a good reason, there would be trouble.

So clearly, they don’t have a good reason yet.

That’s why we’re here. That’s why they split Rudy and I up. They want to interrogate us separately, probably both alone and in the presence of Luther. They want to see whether our stories line up, and in what ways they don’t. This “special project” is ostensibly going to involve us incriminating Luther—but if Martus plays his cards right, we’ll incriminate ourselves along with him.

I can’t let that happen.

“Yes,” I say slowly, because it’s too late to put the facade back up again. “I know him. Luther Brandt, right?”

He looks up at the sound of his name, and the lieutenant nods. “Yes.”

I wrinkle my brow, as if I’m trying to remember. “We went to school together. At Linden.”

“Did you?” asks the lieutenant. There’s a note of false surprise in his voice and I hate him for it. They already know this; he told me as much. It would be an easily accessible record. They probably also know that all three of us attended a reunion a few years ago. Beyond that, though… do they know about our friendship in school? The political beliefs we shared? How Luther approached me at the reunion with a proposal? What we’ve been doing since?

How much do they already know? What has he told them, and what has he kept secret? Has he been able to lie, and will my lies match up? What about Rudy?

“And you,” says Martus sharply, turning towards Luther. “Do you know this woman?”

Luther raises his head slightly and regards me with a surprising coldness. “Yeah, I knew her,” he says after a moment. “She was a real bi—”

One of the guards backhands him, and he grunts. My stomach clenches, but I silently thank him for the hint. He hasn’t revealed our friendship.

“Tell me a little bit about how you met,” says Martus to me. I shrug.

“I never knew him well. We had a class together.”

“Which class?”

“I don’t remember. It was fifteen years ago.”

“Fourteen,” says the lieutenant immediately, “and even then only if you round up.”

I glance at him with an eyebrow raised. “If you have my school record, you probably know the details better than I do.”

Luther laughs, a dry wheezing sound that interrupts our conversation. “Let me tell you something, sweetheart. Lieutenant Mucus knows everything. He’s the smartest man ever to walk the earth.”

Martus raises his eyebrows, watching Luther for a moment, then he crosses in front of him and crouches down in front of the chair. “Listen to me,” he says firmly but clearly, the way a parent might lecture a six-year-old. “I’m not going to accept this kind of behavior from you today.”

“Oh, shut up, Mucus.”

Martus stands, glancing at the nearest guard, who promptly hits Luther again, harder this time. He cries out.

The lieutenant glances back to me. “My apologies. Our subjects aren’t always… cooperative, but it’s been some time since we’ve had this much trouble from him.” Luther gives him a venomous glance, which Martus ignores. “When you first met Brandt, what was your impression of him?”

I shake my head slowly, like I’m thinking. “I don’t… I don’t think he made much of one. He was… intelligent, that much I knew. Introverted. I certainly never took him for a traitor.”

Martus raises an eyebrow coolly. “In this line of work, I find that looks can be deceiving.”

“Mucus has a point,” says Luther. “You’ll find he’s even uglier on the inside.”

Martus raises an arm and Luther tenses, preparing for the blow—but it doesn’t come. The lieutenant lets his hand hang in midair for a moment, a reminder, before dropping it and turning back towards me. “Ms. Van Dam—”

“Director,” I correct quietly but firmly. It’s finally occurred to me that he might be purposefully trying to insult me, rattling my pride and wearing me down. He’s subtle about it, but I’m done playing that game.

“Director Van Dam,” he amends. “When was the last time you saw Brandt? Before today.”

Damn it. We’ve gotten to the questions I was dreading. What do I say? What has Luther already said? What evidence have they seen? What if my answers don’t match up? “I’m not sure,” I say, stalling for time as I rack my brain. “I think…”

“Hell, sweetheart, it’s not that hard of a question,” Luther interrupts. “Have you always been this stupid or is my memory failing me?”

One of the guards takes a swing at him, but this time he’s ready for it, ducking just in time and turning to face his tormentor. “I swear, ratface, touch me one more time and I’ll—”

The other guard is right behind him, and he throws a punch hard enough to knock Luther clean off the chair.

They begin to beat him. It’s quick and methodical—they kick his arms and legs, punch the torso. They avoid some areas, like the head and the kidneys, instead raining blow after blow onto the spots that are unlikely to cause serious damage. Luther curls up, hunching over to try to protect his stomach and face, but with his arms chained behind him there’s little he can do. Occasionally he grunts in pain.

Martus is watching me. I can feel his eyes. I do my best to keep my face impassive, maybe slightly disgusted but not afraid or completely appalled. I flinch once or twice when there’s a particularly vicious blow, but otherwise I don’t react.

The guards stop, pulling back a few steps, leaving Luther curled on the floor. He stares ahead into space, breathing hard, refusing to look at any of us.

Martus waits a moment. “Are you quite finished?”

Luther waits a moment too and then lets loose a string of obscenities.

So they begin to beat him again. It’s more brutal this time. He cries out. He tries to wiggle away, to pick himself up, but the guards are everywhere, in front of him, behind him, knocking him over, pinning him down, pounding until he yells. The sound of his pain reverberates through the tiny room and I glance at the door, wondering how much Rudy can hear.

The guards stop and Luther rolls over, coughing. His shirt has ridden up, and on his torso I can see bruising, all different shades and colors, marks both brand new and several weeks old. The familiar bitter rage surges through me, and I have a much harder time taming it than usual.

“Are you finished?” asks Martus again.

Luther winces, and when he speaks his voice is strained. “Go ahead and ask me that one more time, bastard.”

And they set in a third time. One of the guards places a knee in the middle of his back and pulls his shoulders and legs backwards, forcing him to straighten out. This gives the other guard easier targets—the chest, the stomach, the groin. They hit him there and he gives a high-pitched yelp. That’s followed by a kick to the diaphragm that drives all the air from his body and leaves him wheezing.

I feel as if I might throw up, but I force myself not to react. I can’t react. I can’t.

The guards step back after what seems like an eternity. Martus crosses over to Luther and bends over him. “Are. You. Finished.”

Luther doesn’t respond, gasping weakly for air.

Martus waits a moment and then stands and turns back to me. “I’m sorry, Director. Where were we?”

“Um…” I furrow my brow. “My first impressions of him, I think.”

Martus frowns. “Were we?”

On the floor, movement catches my eye. Luther is craning his neck, looking up at us. His eyes meet mine, and all of a sudden, again, I see him as he always was—tall, athletic, charismatic. I see him walking the streets with me for hours, talking about political theory; I see him sitting in a dingy bar, listening silently as Rudy and I tell him about the latest supply requisitions. I see the three of us relaxing in his apartment, with the maps and the files and the lists of contacts and the plans to fight back.

I hear him telling me that if he was ever captured, we should abandon him and save ourselves. I hear myself forcing him to promise the same.

And I see that look in his eyes, both then and now—defiance and determination, a touch of sadness, the understanding of what’s in store and the willingness to let it happen.

And then he clears his throat. “Lieutenant Martus?”

The lieutenant looks down at him. “Yes?”

Luther’s jaw works for a moment. “I just… want you to know…”

“What?”

Luther draws his head back a bit, and then spits. It’s an impressive effort; a large globule of bloody saliva splatters all over the lieutenant’s glossy brand-new shoes.

There’s a few seconds of pure silence. Martus looks downwards for a moment, and then hauls back and kicks Luther across the ribs as hard as he can.

There’s a loud grunt. I think I hear something crack. Then the lieutenant kicks him again, and then again, until he draws a full, pure scream. The sound makes me flinch again, but Martus doesn’t notice, grabbing Luther’s collar and hauling him upright just enough to get a good angle on his face. His fist slams into the prisoner’s nose, twice, three times, until he hits just a hair too hard and with a soft groan Luther goes entirely limp.

The lieutenant drops him roughly and then stands, breathing hard. After a moment he seems to notice that there are other people in the room. “Take him to the medic,” he snaps at the guards, who hurry forward. Martus wipes off his shoes as they pick Luther up and start dragging his unconscious body to the door. As they leave, Martus looks at me, as if suddenly remembering why I’m here in the first place.

His jaw works a moment. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Director,” he says finally. “We’ve been making progress for a few weeks now; I don’t know what got into him.”

He opens the door for me, and I follow him out. Rudy is waiting outside, looking very ill—doubtlessly he saw Luther being taken in, and he saw what condition he was in when they came out. That alone would be disturbing, even if he didn’t hear any of what went on inside, even if he didn’t recognize one of his oldest friends. “We’ll be certain to have a talk with him about his behavior,” says Martus shortly. “Although I would like to continue this discussion later. Would either of you be free next week?”

“I’m sure I could find a time,” I say immediately, keeping my tone gracious and picking a day randomly off the top of my head. “How about Wednesday afternoon?”

“I think I could make that work.” I gently help Rudy up, and Martus begins to lead us out of the warren of hallways. Nobody says much of anything until we reach the first hallway, where Martus gives us each a handshake. I notice that his knuckles have flecks of blood on them.

“Thank you again for coming,” he says. “I’ll see you next week.”

And with that, he turns to head off towards his office, and Rudy and I are left to walk towards the entrance.

I exchange a look with him, and that look says it all. He knows as well as I do that we need to flee. Tonight. Before the sun comes up we have to be out of the country. There’s no telling what else their investigation might uncover, who they might talk to, or how much longer Luther will be able to hold out.

It’s been some time since they’ve had this much trouble from him… but as soon as our eyes met, Luther knew as well as I did the trouble we were in. We would never be able to keep a three-person story coherent across a full interrogation, and so he took the only option he had left and ended it early.

In another month I expect he’ll be dead. The thought fills my throat with acid and makes my stomach churn, but there is nothing at all I can do. It’s beyond my power to help him. He just earned himself the beating of a lifetime to give Rudy and I the chance to escape. And I made him a promise.

A captive is forced to look at their captor as they muse about what they're going to do to them in their tent.

Content: captivity, chin tilt, defiant whumpee, implied coming noncon, beating/death threat, hit with a stick