It’s Friday night and I’m out on the town with my buddy Yankers, three pints down and ready to pull. I’m wearing my Gucci jacket, Conran shirt, black jeans, Ben Sherman loafers and a buzz cut fade – I mean, what kind of girl could resist?
In the bar of the Trocadero Club, Yankers says it’s his shout and, a bit gassy from the lager, I go for a JD and coke. Me and Yankers are chinwagging about this and that, when I clock her clocking me – beautiful, she is, a sexy little smile playing on her red lips. I turn back to Yankers to tell him how I think I’m in and that I’ll see him tomorrow, only to find him chatting up another bird.
Anyway, this girl I clocked, she’s on her own, so I think ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’.
“Hello, my lovely, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this?”
A smooth talker, me. The girl smiles at me like she knows something I don’t – I can’t wait to find out what. She’s nearly as tall as me, and I’m just over six foot in my shoes. She’s got a lovely body, dressed all in black from head to toe, a beautiful face with a cute little upturned nose, high cheekbones, long black hair swept back into a ponytail. What’s not to like?
“You’re funny,” she says in a posh, husky voice.
“Got a bit of banter, me!” I tell her. “I’m Ronny. What’s your name?”
“Mandy,” she says.
“Well, hello Mandy! Where’re you from?”
“Nowhere”, she says.
“Oh. I see.”
“You’re coming home with me,” she says, in that willy-warming voice of hers.
Well, I’ve had more than my fair share of talent, but I’ve never pulled this fast before. I didn’t even have to buy her a drink – unheard of in Romford on a Friday night! She takes me by the arm and pulls me towards the exit. Yankers is already snogging his bird in the corner and I don’t want to interrupt him, so me and Mandy go straight outside, hail a taxi and get in the back.
“Where to, guv’nor?” asks the driver.
“Epping Forest. I’ll tell you where,” says Mandy, and off we go. She gives the driver one-word directions, left or right. We head out of town and onto the M25, then the M11 and into Epping Forest, deeper and deeper until I’ve no idea where we are. The taxi turns onto a bumpy, single-track lane that seems to take forever to get nowhere, before finally pulling up in front of a big old, three-storey Gothic-type house.
“This is it,” she says.
The driver seems to be in a hurry to get away, for some reason. I pay the fare and the taxi clears off sharpish. Mandy takes my arm and leads me to the front door. There are no lights on, but the door can’t have been locked because she opens it and leads me straight inside. We’re in some kind of big room, but I can’t see a thing at first. I get the strangest sensation that we’re being watched, but there’s nobody else there, as far as I can see (which isn’t very far). I put my arm around Mandy’s waist and try to pull her towards me, but she doesn’t budge an inch. She’s so still, it’s like she’s cast in concrete.
“Well, are you going to show me around? Your bedroom, maybe?” I whisper in her ear.
“Quiet!!!” she hisses at me, her voice deeper and even huskier than before, almost menacing.
I do as I’m told. I don’t want to blow my chances before I’ve even got started, not when I’ve spent forty quid getting to the back of beyond, but the boner I had in the taxi is withering down to nothing.
Light flickers from one of the upstairs rooms, spilling onto the landing.
In the half-light, Mandy begins a slow, sexy striptease and I forget about everything else in the world. Her leather jacket comes off first, followed by her black t-shirt and then she unclips her bra and lets it fall to the floor, giving me an eyeful of her truly gorgeous breasts. I take her in my arms, and we kiss, her tongue snaking against mine. My Friday night’s looking up again and the boner’s making a comeback, just in the nick of time. This is what I came for! I take off my jacket and am just about to send my shoes flying when I hear the creaking of floorboards somewhere close.
“There’s someone else here!” I whisper.
“Yes,” she says.
Two girls are coming down the stairs, one blonde and the other red-haired, both petite, very attractive and completely naked. I don’t know what’s going on, to tell you the truth, so I look over at Mandy to check out her reaction. She says nothing, just looks at these two girls like they’re the best things she’s ever seen. As they come closer, Mandy says something to them that I don’t quite catch – it’s almost as if she’s speaking in a secret language. The three girls go into a little huddle, kissing each other on the lips.
“Are you going to introduce us, or what?” I ask Mandy, as I stand there like a lemon, the piggy not in the middle.
“Ronny, this is Regina,” says Mandy, pointing to the blonde, “and this is Cara. We’re going to take you upstairs and give you the time of your life!”
All three girls are smiling wickedly, and so I do too. A foursome, this is a first – rock on!
We climb a creaky, winding staircase and I can’t wait to get to the top. When we do, a corridor leads into a huge, oak-panelled room maybe forty feet wide and sixty feet long, a king-size double bed in the middle of it. The room’s dimly lit by candles mounted on four chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling, shadows dancing on the walls as the flames shimmy this way and that. It takes a while for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, they practically leap out of my skull. There are bodies, naked bodies everywhere, in combinations of twos, threes and fours, doing stuff that I didn’t know was possible (and I’m from Romford).
Mandy unbuttons my shirt as Regina undoes the belt of my jeans and Cara nuzzles my neck. This is a bit freaky, I know, but it’s Friday night in Essex, see?
All three girls begin to slow dance, like all this is completely normal. Beautiful, naked women in an orgy, putting on a dance show just for me. It’s sweet, but I want to do more than dance. I pull them close and we all kiss in turn.
There’s a sudden burst of applause. From the corner of my eye, I see a man and a woman, both naked, stroll into the middle of the room and climb onto the bed. In their late twenties, good-looking, dark-haired and about five feet ten, they seem to be nervously excited, as if they’re looking forward to something special. Everyone in the room, including Mandy, Regina and Cara, stops whatever they’re doing with whoever they’re doing it to and sits up, or stands, to attention. The couple stand on the bed and take a bow.
A very tall man aged around forty and dressed all in black, with slicked back hair, a pale complexion and commanding presence, goes to the bedside and acknowledges the applause. It’s almost as if he’s receiving a standing ovation.
“Who’s he – somebody famous?” I whisper in Mandy’s ear, slightly miffed at this inconvenient interruption.
“Yes. He is our Director, and we’re in his house,” she replies softly, as if she’s talking about some religious leader.
The Director clicks his fingers. As if they’d been summoned, Regina and Cara go to the Director’s side and gaze up at him, their eyes shining with excitement and……is it devotion? This is all very weird.
“What’s happening?” I ask Mandy.
“Our entertainment,” she whispers, her eyes fixed on the Director.
“Can’t we make our own entertainment?”
She doesn’t answer.
The Director clicks his fingers again and then moves aside to an empty chair flanked by two geezers wearing black-t-shirts and carrying huge, professional-looking film cameras. Fuck me, they’re gonna make a porno!
Under the watchful eyes of the audience and cameras, the smiling performers stand on the bed and are joined by Regina and Cara. The three girls start to stroke the guy all over, then after a while Regina and Cara sink to their knees in front of him. The kneeling girls take turns to suck his cock as their audience looks on in rapt silence. The dark-haired girl standing next to the guy bites his chest, hard, and then they kiss deep and long. When I hear his muffled groans, at first, I think that he’s just enjoying himself a bit too much. It’s only when his arms start flailing away at all three girls that I know something’s wrong. I watch in disbelief as the man literally tears his face from his partner’s and screams in agony, his tortured face a picture of pain, confusion and horror: eyes bulging, tongue half bitten off, bloodied mouth open wide in a wordless howl.
He’s trying to push the two kneeling women away from his body, but they stay where they are, shaking their heads grotesquely from side to side like frenzied hyenas feasting on a carcass. The man’s dark-haired partner pulls her head back and exposes her face to the onlookers, a mask of slick, bright-red blood around her mouth and streaming down her chin, neck and breasts.
The tortured man’s trying to form words, but he can’t, and never will again – what’s left of his tongue won’t let him. Eyes wide in shock, tears streaming down his cheeks, his hands frantically pull at the hair of the kneeling women biting off his flesh. The bloodcurdling soundtrack of the man’s screams reaches a hideous crescendo, then goes silent.
The fresh blood-soaked women get off the bed and parade in triumph around the bed to loud applause, like a nightmarish parody of gladiators at the Colosseum. They don’t see the man’s eyes roll upwards in their sockets, blood still spewing from his mouth and groin, as he slumps face-first off of the bed and onto the floor.
A lurching ball of dread fills my stomach as it dawns on me that I’ve walked straight into a snuff movie. And I’m going to have a starring role.
“Get him up!!!,” barks the Director, pointing at the man on the floor.
Two blokes come forward and lift the unconscious man to his feet. The Director beckons others to approach, and each spectator, including Mandy, takes turns to bite the man’s body, causing yet more blood to flow. The poor bastard barely stirs. He’s lost so much blood now and must be near the end.
I’ve been feeling bile rise in my throat, subside and then rise again, but I can’t contain it any longer. Heat rises from my stomach, up into my tightened throat, surges into my mouth. I try to keep it down, to swallow it, to stifle the retch but then I puke foul, reeking vomit onto the floor. The stench of it fills the room, and I feel the eyes of The Director and everyone else on me.
“I know what’s going on here,” I say as I look up at them, wiping my mouth with a handkerchief. “And there’s no way I’m gonna be any part of it.”
There are four walls of silence. Nobody seems to be surprised at what I’ve said, even Mandy, they’re all just staring at me.
“Stay,” says the Director. It sounds like an order.
“No thanks, I think I’ll be on my way,” I say, making for the door.
I turn the handle and pull, but the door doesn’t budge an inch.
“Can you unlock it? Please?” I ask someone, anyone.
“Stay,” says the Director, a warped, sick smile on his pale face.
I look over at Mandy and she has the same insane smile, the same pitiless eyes. I’m getting freaked out, really fucking freaked out.
“I-I really need to go…I’ve got an early start in the morning, see?”
My voice is letting me down. It’s high-pitched, shaky and my throat feels tight, like there’s a golf ball lodged in there. I’ve never really come across evil before this, you see, not really. Born and bred in Romford, I’ve come across a few hardcases in my time – nasty bleeders, violent, but they were nothing compared to this lot.
I try the door again, even though I know it’s useless, and when it refuses to budge, I look around for another way out. But there isn’t one, and I know what’s coming next.
I rush towards the bed and kick one bloke right in the bollocks, then another, and leap onto the blood-soaked bed. The Director goes to one side of the bed and one of the cameramen goes to the other, so any escape route is cut off. A cameraman lunges for my leg but I kick him off, just before the Director can grab me by the other leg. I jump upwards and grab hold of a chandelier, pull my legs upwards and away from them.
The Director and cameramen are climbing onto the bed. I kick my legs out and I think I hit one of them – I’m not sure which one, but it seems to catch them off their guard for a second. I swing on the chandelier like I’m on a rope over a river, higher now, kicking out all the while, then I let go and I’m flying through the air towards the door and BANG! I crash feet first into it. The impact busts the door from its hinges, sending it flying backwards, and I fall through the doorway and slide forwards. I smash though the balcony balusters and fall over the side but manage to grab hold of the last baluster, leaving me dangling by one hand over a forty feet sheer drop.
Then I see him again – the Director. He’s looking down at me, cameramen either side of him, lenses eyeing me from above. The Director’s holding a candle, casting giant shadows on the ceiling and the walls behind. I’m out of ideas now, can do nothing but beg.
“Please……don’t let me die.”
As he goes down on one knee, for a second I think he’s going to help me, but then he smiles his demonic smile again and upturns the candle so that the melted wax drips straight onto my right hand, the one that’s holding the baluster. There’s a sizzling hiss, a horrible burning pain in my hand and I scream like a fucking banshee, tears welling in my eyes.
If I let go of the baluster now, I’ll break my neck on the floor below, but I can’t stay where I am. I force myself to look down and see a grand piano, slightly to the right. With all my strength, I swing left and right from the baluster, but then it breaks off and I’m falling, falling. I land feet first right on top of the piano but slip on the polished woodwork, against a cacophony of discordant chords. A piano leg breaks under my weight, and with a sickening crunch I tumble onto the solid wood floor.
There’s a horrible ringing in my ears, my left leg and hip hurt like hell, but no bones are broken, as far as I can tell. I get to my feet and hurry into the entrance lobby, try the door, but it’s locked.
All the lights have come on. The Director’s coming down the stairs, followed by the cameramen and six or seven burly, stone-faced naked men intent on teaching me a lesson for spoiling their evening.
There’s nothing else for it. I run straight towards one of the windows and jump as high as I can, curling into a ball. There’s an almighty thump and the window smashes to pieces, a thousand shards of glass slashing my arms, head, neck, legs. I fall outside onto a bed of splintered glass and roll forwards, get to my feet and run, run like fuck. I don’t dare to look back, just sprint down the track, as far away from this place as possible.
I’ve got to get to a hospital. There’s a metallic coppery taste in my mouth that can only be blood, and what’s left of my white shirt is turning red from the open wounds and cuts on my head, face, neck and back.
I don’t see Mandy, or the Director, or any of them again, and I never want to, but when I reach the Epping road, I’m not alone. There’s someone else here – he’s grunting in pain, and it takes me a second or two to work out that it’s me.
There’s one thing I know for sure – I’m going to wake up with one hell of a headache in the morning.
by 
Steve Ellis
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