White Room Torture Novels & Stories

The once-white door, now stained with blood and years of rot, was the only thing separating me from my nightmares. My fingers wrapped around the handle, the door squeaking as I twisted it and pushed it open. "Fucking hell." I hissed as I looked at the scene before me. Winston was sitting in a chair in the centre of the room, his bare tattooed chest covered in blood. His onyx hair was equally drenched in the blood of his victims. Bodies scattered around him; he truly was a thing of nightmares. Winston's eyes locked on me, nothing but murderous intent filling them as a sadistic smile etched its way across his face.

Nothing in the entire world could have prepared me for what I walked into and no matter how I thought about it, I would never have thought about walking into something like this. What’s going on? Is this how angry he is? The room was shining with red lights that illuminate all over and it looked different, with chains, whips and all sorts of sex weapons all around the room. It looked like the exact kind of redroom that I saw in movies and read in books and nothing different from the ones I’ve seen online when I was surfing for some hardcore porn to watch. The sight of it was exciting because never in my life had I ever thought that I was going to experience whatever pleasure that comes with

That alone made my heart twist painfully in my chest. In a narrow passage, I spotted the door Samantha had mentioned—the torture room meant for Alexandra. My stomach turned. “Open the door,” I ordered, my voice low but deadly. “There’s no one there,” Laura protested quickly. “I said open the fucking door!” I roared, and my voice slammed off the stone walls, making even Alpha Nicolas flinch. He nodded to the guard, who hesitated for a moment before unlocking and pushing the door open. The smell hit me first—metal, leather, and something rotten beneath. My eyes scanned the room: an iron bed with restraints, a whipping pole, chains hanging from the ceiling, a sex swing, tools meant to hurt, not

Then when the perpetrator comes out, they demand that they be let free. Stupid movies. Really, who comes up with that kind of story line. I turned my head and took in my surroundings. As cliché as this sounds, it looked like a torture room. Like a rapist's birthday present minus the bodies and lack of clothes. It was a small brick room with all sorts of sex toys and torture weapons. There was a small bed that looked like a hospital bed and it had blood stains on it, as well as handcuffs. Well that is the least thing I have to worry about.

It felt intentional—like whoever designed this wanted me to sit in it and let it crawl under my skin. I forced myself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t panic. The room I was in wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t comforting either. White walls. Bright overhead lights that hummed softly. No windows. No visible doors except the one that had just swallowed Brandon whole. At the center of the room was a single chair. And a screen. Of course there was a screen. I laughed weakly. “Original,” I muttered. “Really pushing the boundaries of psychological torture here.”

He presses the side of one cabinet, and it swings inward. Correction, musty with a tang of rust. And more than a fucking tang now. We’re walking into a torture room. There’s no other way to describe it. A meat hook hangs from the ceiling in the center of the room. A locked chest sits against one wall. I know whatever is in that chest is not going to be fucking fun for anybody on the receiving end. I might be well and truly fucked.

he wiggled his fingers. “I am going to return and hunt you down!” I yelled, while being taken away by Tyler. Before long, we arrived at the white room. Tyler opened the door, and brought me in. As I swept my eyes all over the place, a cold chill ran down the length of my spine. In front of me were sheets of glasses extending across the room like a bridge. From what I heard, some of them could hold the weight of a rock, and others were as fragile as an egg.

He was here because the urge, the desire, the need to hurt something had become overwhelming. He needed release. And Walter was perfect for it. Bryan grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the white room like he was nothing more than trash. Walter screamed. “No! Please! Not the other room! Please—please, I’ll do anything—No! BRYAN!” But Bryan didn’t even blink. He kicked open the door to the second chamber. A darker room. A colder room. A room with shelves filled with tools no sane man should own.

I couldn't shake off the feeling of unease as I walked down the dimly lit corridor. When I finally arrived at the torture chambers, I pushed open the heavy oak door, and a musty smell greeted me. The room was dark and dank, and the air was heavy with the scent of fear and blood. The walls were lined with shelves that were filled with various torture tools, and the floor was stained with a deep red that almost looked black in the dim light.

I began as I moved towards the center of the room. “If you keep up with this, he’s going to bleed out and you’d have all wasted your time with him. Torture doesn’t need to have immediate effect, it can take a while—a month or two perhaps, as long as it guarantees you results. White torture, also known as white room torture, is a kind of psychological torture in which the victim is completely isolated and denied any senses. A prisoner is confined to a cell that robs them of their identity and senses. It is most commonly employed in Iran, but there is evidence that the intelligence agencies of Venezuela and the United States have also used it.”