Posted by Willailla on March 11, 2000 at 13:39:34:
In Reply to: A new story by a new writer posted by Sam (of Sam's Place) on March 11, 2000 at 13:32:01:
Chapter 6
What Does a Gal Wear to a Snuff Party?
Janet Turner was working off-line on an article slated for the next morning's edition, when the phone rang. She was a petite, sexy-looking woman, with short, curly brown hair, and blue eyes.
"Yep?" She hooked the phone between her ear and shoulder and kept on typing.
"There go to be a Circle tomorrow night, senora," a voice said, with a Mexican accent.
Janet stopped typing suddenly. Her heart went pitter pat. Excitement surged within her. She took the phone in her hand.
It was Miguel, her latest contact. For a year she'd been working on a story about snuff parties, but so far she'd turned up nothing. This could be her big break. The story of the decade--if she could actually attend one.
"Can you get me in, Miguel?" she asked, almost on the verge of begging.
"Maybe...si," he considered, "but it is risky. "If they think you not right, you dead meat."
"I know. I know," she said, "but it's now or never. You've got to arrange it, Miguel. It's important."
She heard him sigh. "OK, I try it, senora, but price be forty thousand dollares."
"Arrange it, Miguel. I can get the money."
* * *
"It's crazy, Janet, goddamned crazy," Jake Turner, her husband, cried out. "You could get killed messing with people like that."
"Well, there's some risk," she admitted, placing a hand on her hip, "but that's my job."
"No it isn't. You're job is to be a reporter, not go out messing around in weird cults or whatever the hell they are."
"But that is my job: to uncover the news, to let people know what's going on in this crazy world of ours. Somebody's got to do it. And right now it seems I'm elected."
Jake groaned and glanced over at Janet's father, Matt Larson, former FBI agent, now semi-retired. "Can't you talk some sense into her, Matt?"
Matt grinned. "'fraid not. Takes after her mother. Stubborn as a mule."
"You're both crazy," Jake said. "Don't either of you realize the risk envolved? This isn't some fucking pop fiction novel we're talking about; this is real life. There won't be any calvary-to-the-rescue ending if something goes wrong."
Matt's face took on a peevish look. "We know that Jake, but thanks to Janet's hard work and determination, we, at the Bureau, finally have a chance to crack an obscenity that has spread its tentacles throughout the nation. It has got to be stopped. And right now Janet is our only hope. There's some element of danger; I won't try to con you on that, but we'll have her under continuous surveillance. At the very first hint of trouble we'll move in."
Jake collapsed on the sofa, placing his head in his hands. "And what if you don't move in fast enough?" he asked, raising his head to stare at Matt.
"I know she's your wife, Jake, and believe me, I understand your concern, but she's, also, my daughter, and if I doubted for an instant that we would be able to protect her, I'd be the first to talk her out of it."
"Well," Janet said, folding her arms across her breasts, "if you two macho guys have finally decided what the little woman is going to do, will you tell me where we can get forty thousand smackers?" She looked at her father.
"No problem. The Bureau will come up with it, and gladly, to get these creeps."
"Good. It's all settled, then. We just have to wait for Miguel to call and hope he is able to arrange it." She sat down next to Jake. "Darling, I love you," she said, kissing him on the cheek."
"I know," he patted her knee, then squeezed it.
She smiled. "And now that we have got it all settled, can anybody tell me what a gal wears to a snuff party?"
"That's not funny," both men chimed.
Chapter 7
Preparations
The undercover woman agent finished taping the transmitter to Janet's chest just below her left breast.
"OK, that'll do it," she said, stepping back and observing her handy work. "Unless you decide to do a striptease, they never know you're wired."
"What if they frisk me?" Janet asked, feeling self-conscious standing naked before the agent.
"It's not likely. They have no reason to think you're not the rich bitch you're portraying yourself to be, out to sample the perversity of life."
"Maybe I ought to wear jogging shoes just in case I need to do some running," Janet joked.
The agent smiled. "Don't worry. We have you fully covered. We'll be there if you should need us. Count on it."
Janet walked over to her bed where a black strapless mini dress lay. On the floor were a pair of spiked heels with T-straps. Thong-backed bikini panties lay next to the dress. On her vanity was a three-strand choker of genuine pearls and a three carat diamond ring easily worth thirty thousand dollars. The Bureau had spared no expense to make her look like the rich bitch she was supposed to be.
They had even brought in a team of make-over artist to redo her from head to foot: sauna bath and fragrant oil massage followed by professionally applied make up, a new dyed-blonde hair style and a manicure and pedicure. She hardly recognized herself when she looked in the mirror. She was shocked to see how devastatingly sexy she looked.
"I don't have to give these back, do I?" she said pointing toward the jewelry with a long, glossy, red-nailed finger.
The agent glanced at her with a raised eyebrow and pinched lips.
When she had put on the mini dress and shoes, slipped the ring on her finger and placed the choker around her neck, she walked into the living room where Matt and Jake sat on the sofa surrounded by a cadre of agents. She couldn't help noting with satisfaction how the eyes of the male agents took on lusty hues when they glanced at her. Even her husband, she noted, wasn't unaffected by her new appearance. But he seemed more distraught than anything.
After a moment, she became self-conscious under their intense stares. She was, by nature, an attractive woman, and she had had her share of male attention, but this was too much. It was as if she was no longer a person but an object. She suddenly realized how famous sex symbols must feel. Yet, deep down, she felt something primal stir.
Jake came to her and held her in his arms. "It's still not too late to back out, babe, if you want."
She shook her head. "We have to stop them, Jake. The Followers of Anubis is an evil that can't be tolerated in a civilized society."
He sighed, realizing her mind was made up. "All right, but I'm going along," he said, as Matt came over."
"Wouldn't have it any other way," Matt said, gripping his shoulder.
Chapter 8
The Screw Up
Janet stood on the corner of 7th Avenue and Readmore as she had been instructed over the phone by someone claiming to be a Follower of Anubis. She knew undercover agents were everywhere, but look as she might she couldn't detect them. Which was a good thing, since she didn't want her contact to spook.
She was scared, but at the same time, excited by the prospect of having an expose to end all exposes. Her name would become a household word. There would be book rights. Slews of articles by her and about her and maybe even a movie deal.
As her head spun with all the possibilities. A black sedan abruptly pulled up to the curb in front of her. The rear door opened and a muscular, blond headed man, in a dark suit, ordered her to get in.
"OK, guys, this is it." Matt Larsen said. "Let's get rolling. But stay back and keep a low profile. We don't want to alert them. Remember we've got helicopters and spotter planes discreetly observing them, so we're not in any danger of losing them."
A few minutes later, the driver called back over his shoulder to where Matt and Jake sat. "They're turning into an underground parking lot, sir."
"Damn!" Matt exclaimed.
"What's the matter?" Jake asked, suddenly alarmed.
"They're going to switch cars, the bastards"
"You can't let them, Matt! We've got to stop them!" Jake cried.
"It's all right, Jake. Calm down. As long as Janet's wearing the wire we can home in on it and keep track of them. These assholes aren't as smart as they think."
* * *
"What are we doing?" Janet asked, as the sedan pulled into the underground parking lot.
"Just taking a routine precaution," the blond-headed man smiled, "in case somebody's following us.
There were five men in the car with her. Three up front and one on each side of her. Janet was beginning to wish she'd never undertaken her crusade.
When they were inside, they pulled up next to a gray Caddy and got out. The blond-headed man went over to the driver and said something. The driver glanced at Janet, then nodded, backed out and drove off.
"Is anything wrong?" Janet asked, beginning to feel uneasy.
"No," the blond said. "Everything's going according to plan, Mrs. Turner."
Janet's mouth opened, but no sound came out. They knew who she was!
They had formed a loose circle around her. Even without the spiked heels, she couldn't have outrun them. All of them looked like they worked out on a regular basis.
"How did you know who I was?" she heard herself ask in a dazed voice. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she frantically realized that she had to stall for time. She knew, hopefully, that their conversation was being monitored, soon help would be on its way. Don't panic. Just stall them for as long as possible, she told herself. But she was scared. Suddenly, really scared. She felt her legs tremble.
"Oh, The Followers have been aware of your meddling for a long time. You should have stuck to your daily, routine reporting instead of sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong. You've alarmed and angered some very rich and influential people. Now I'm afraid you'll have to pay the price."
"What are you going to do with me?" she asked, not relishing any of the possible options her vivid imagination was conjuring up.
"Um, that'll be up to The Followers, but if I were you, I'd forget about any long term plans I'd made." He chuckled. The others grinned. Their eyes moved over her, and she knew what they wanted to do.
"Oh, and by the way, you can forget about being rescued. We relayed the frequency of your transmitter to one in the Caddy. Right about now your FBI buddies are engaged in a wild goose chase. By the time they realize it, it will be too late for you."
The blond took her by the upper arm, and they led her to a green, steel elevator door. Inside, he ran a key card through a slot. "That'll take us to the penthouse, Mrs. Turner, which," he added ominously, "is completely sound proof."
Janet wanted to beg them to let her go, to strike any bargain, to do anything they wanted, to fall on her knees, but she was intelligent enough to know it would do no good. Besides, she had nothing to bargain with. They could take what they wanted.
High up, the elevator door opened onto a Spanish tiled foyer. The blond pressed a button next to an intricately carved door and Janet could hear the faint sound of chimes inside.
The door opened and the blond shoved Janet inside, roughly. Then they turned and went back to the elevator. Fadela was playing from the speakers.
Chapter 9
Three Weeks Later
Jake Turner sat on the sofa staring vacantly at the TV, the sound turned off. Empty beer cans littered the coffee table in front of him. An ashtray overflowed with butts. His face was bearded. He hadn't shaved for three weeks.
He was about to pop another can, when he heard the mailman drop something in the box.
It was a small package. When he opened it, there was a video tape. The label affixed to the side said, The Necrophiles Have Your Wife.
Not wanting to, but unable to help himself, he slid the cartridge in the VCR.
He knew it was Janet's scream even before anything visual appeared on the screen.
A door was open, and he saw a muscular, blond man shove Janet into a room full of old, bald men. They obviously weren't worried about being recognized, for none of them wore masks or disguises of any kind. He could tell by the expensive looking gold watches and diamond rings, they sported, and well-fed looks, that these were wealthy and, no doubt, powerful men.
The door closed and Janet, in her skimpy, black dress, was left alone among them, unsucessfully trying to fend off their groping, clutching hands. Laughing, a couple of the old geezers grabbed her. Jake could hear her pleading with them. Tears fell from her eyes. The beer can imploded in his hand. But there was nothing he could do now. What he was seeing was history. He ground his teeth together, crying out in rage and frustration at his impotence. Was there no God in heaven who gave a shit what happened to his creatures?
Working behind her, one of the old bastards started unzipping her dress. Frantically, eyes wide with fear, she tried to turn and stop him with one hand, while holding the hem of her short dress down with the other, but too many hands worked against her. One of them yanked the front down revealing her medium sized, well shaped breasts. Others ripped the taped-on transmitter from her body.
"Oh, my God," Jake moaned.
He watched in horror as Janet tried to cover her breasts with her hands, but old, wrinkled hands grabbed her wrists and pulled them away. The old man behind her finished unzipping the dress. It fell down to her hips. She twisted from side to side, her breasts jiggling profusely as she attempted to avoid pinching, poking fingers. One grinning old man grabbed a pink nipple between his thumb and forefinger and stretched it out as far as it would go. Janet's screams filled the room. There was a popping-ripping sound as the dress was jerked loose, falling down to her ankles.
Wearing only thong-backed panties and her spiked heels, Janet's struggles increased dramatically, for it was apparent, now, that they would soon have her naked.
What they would do to her then, Jake didn't want to think about.
Now aroused to a fever pitch by the sight of her near nudity, they crudely yanked away the skimpy covering of silk, leaving red marks on her totally naked body.
Two men held her arms while two others grabbed her legs at the back of her knees and raised her off the ground, spreading her legs apart.
Jake didn't want to watch what was bound to happen, but he couldn't look away. It was as if the TV were a magnet drawing him into the depths of the depravity it was revealing.
A fat man with an enormous cock, fully erect, got between her legs. The camera did a close up of Janet's face as the guy entered her. Her eyes suddenly went wide, her mouth slack. Jake could hear her gasp sharply several times. Slowly, the camera moved down to her heaving tits, then farther down to the firm, undulating belly, and then farther to her--
Jake couldn't believe it. Her cunt had been shaved completely clean! When had that happened? And why? Had that dyke FBI agent shaved it? And why had Janet let her?
Janet's cries diverted his thoughts. They had raised her up so that her tits were pressed against the chest of the man who was fucking her. Another man moved behind her and attempted to ram his cock in her asshole, after several jolting thrusts, he succeeded. Janet's face wrinkled into a tormented grimace. She cried out screeching like a wounded animal.
Jake could hear laughter. Smacks of naked flesh on naked flesh."You bastards!" he shouted. "You miserable bastards!"
Then his anger gave way to a sudden, sinking sensation.
They drew her back, placing her flat on the floor. One of the men took a gold lighter and lighted a cigar, puffing on it until the head was glowing bright red.
"You have nice tits, Mrs. Turner," the man said in a mocking voice. "It's a real shame you couldn't have minded your own business. 'Cause now you're going to have to be punished.
"No, please don't hurt me!" she cried. Her eyes, wide with terror, were fixed on the glowing head of the cigar. "Please!"
"Whadayah think, guys, should we give the cunt a chance to make amends or torture her?"
"Why not do both?" someone offered.
Jake threw up as the man pressed the cigar to her left nipple.
Her scream was piercing. Her ass rose up off the floor. Veins stood out on her neck. Her face flushed darkly. The old men chackled and held on tightly to her wrists and ankles.
He put the cigar against her other nipple.
Her body flopped about crazily on the floor, reminding Jake of someone having a spastic fit.
"Please! Please! Please!" she begged, screamed, frantic, half out of her mind with pain.
"Pleeeeaaaasssseee!"
Her screams turned into a squeal.
An ice pick was jabbed through her breasts several times.
"Turn her over," someone said.
"Spread her legs."
An old man with a gold hoop in his ear mounted her, fucking her hard and fast in the ass.
"Oh, Godddaaah!" he gasped after a dozen seconds, then, accidentally withdrawing, spurted a secondary stream of cum up the back of her ass.
Another man yanked her head up by the hair and shoved his cock in her mouth. "Don't even think about biting, young bitch," he warned.
Jake could tell when the man came. Her body suddenly convulsed and cum spurted from her nostrils and foamed from her mouth.
Later, as the rape drew on and on, her attitude gradually became one of passivity. She stopped struggling. She allowed them to do whatever they wished. She even cooperated.
She got on her hands and knees while they kneeled in a circle around her. One man would fuck her in the ass or cunt while, at the same time, another man fucked her in the mouth. What she couldn't swallow dripped from her mouth. Trickles of blood and cum glistened down the insides of her thighs.
Later, one of the men brought out a butcher knife. They ordered her to beg for it, and she did.
* * *
The tape had been set on extended play, and there were time lapses between some frames. So it would have been hard to determine how long the rape and torture went on, but it was definitely for a period of over six hours, perhaps a dozen or more. Numb, half-crazed, Jake got another six pack out of the freezer. He replayed certain scenes. He drank. He smoked one cigarette after another, until clouds of bluish vapor hung in the air. The lights were off and there was only the flickering glow of the TV screen. He drank. His thumb continually moved from one remote button to he next: Rewind. Stop. Play. Pause. Play. Pause. Rewind. Stop. Slow mo. Play. Pause. Play. Pause. Slow mo. Pause. Rewind. Stop. Slow mo. Pause. Slow mo. Pause. Slow mo. Slow mo. Slow mo. Slow mo. Pause. Pause. Pause. Pause. Pause....
He took his shirt off...kicked off his shoes...pants...
...shorts....
His hand gripped his swollen cock.
She was looking straight into the camera. An extreme close up. Her eyes were full of vacant wonderment, loss.
Staring.
Occasionally, the side of the man's face, who was fucking her, would come into the frame. Her head quivered laxly as he humped her. The camera pulled back slowly. Her lolling head was on a silvery satin pillow. More of the man came into the frame as the camera pulled back. He had blond hair and muscular shoulders. She was no longer in the room with the old men, but some place else.
There was the sound of organ music, a requiem, coming from a speaker. The man continued to fuck her. The camera pulled back more. His hips rose and fell on top of her naked body. Her breasts jiggled each time he entered her, but she remained passive. Her mouth open, slack.
They were in a casket.
The camera panned around the interior of a small, private-looking chapel. Well dressed men and women sat in rows of pews, rapt looks on their faces.