Abduction No. 08

Even now the bearded one had one last trick to play for the camera. It was the only truly faked scene in the entire four hours of video footage, but it was one of the most effective. Their sperm was everywhere, it was a simple task to collect enough to fill a small open-ended hypo, squirt it into her eyes, and watch as it trickled away down each side of a once pretty face. The effect was quite startling, Tina Featherstone was no longer crying tears; she was crying her rapists' sperm. It was a shot they repeated several times.

An hour later her eyes were still open, but only Henson had noticed they were empty now. Tina Featherstone had gone away some time earlier; her mind had switched itself off but her body continued dancing long after they'd undone the ropes and let her crumple to the floor in a tangled, trembling heap of arms and legs.

The vibrators they left in situ. The remote they switched to automatic, and finally they walked away, leaving her body twitching crudely across the cellar floor. Every twenty minutes or so the vibrators would hum quietly into life and Tina would begin to crawl helplessly across the floor once more; driven remorselessly by the primeval power of the sexual urges that flooded her body. Only Tina was dancing on her own now, dancing in the darkness of her nightmare with only her dildos and the cameras to keep her company and record her suffering. As always it was the flat, emotionless voice of the bearded one that had the last word.

"And there you have it," he said, "Tina's new career. That's what she's been doing every day since she came to play with us, that or something similar. You should be proud of her; she's very popular with her work colleagues as you'll have noticed. I think she's going to be a porn star of rare quality. Personally I rate her as one of the best fucks I've had in a very long time. In the top three or four of my all time list. But I'm afraid that means we'll be keeping her a little longer, in fact she might not be coming home at all."

"There's always a market somewhere in the world for a talented little cunt like Tina. In the end she really will get to like it. In fact I'd go so far as to say that she'll reach the stage where she can't survive without being fucked several times a day. That's another side effect of the drugs she's been testing for us by the way."

That final observation was a lie, designed to twist the knife deeper into a wound already raw and painful. The market for a cunt that actually demands to be fucked was a surprisingly narrow one, unless the cunt in question was exceptionally young and pretty, and girls of that ilk are used mostly as novelty items at private parties. Except that even there the novelty tends to wear a little thin after the first few hours.

The better money is always made from the girls who don't want to be fucked. The ones who resent being used for the savage sexual entertainment of the rich and famous, and will often fight tooth and nail to preserve their dignity. They're the ones the monied punters really enjoy. The ones that have to be hunted down in packs; the ones that need to be knocked about a bit before they can finally be dragged to the floor and gang-raped where they fall. The ones that scream as loudly as the tenth cock powers into them as they did for the first. Cunts with talents such as those are worth their weight in gold.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, they're particularly popular at 'ladies only' nights. The screaming always seems so much more intense on such occasions, and the videos sell in five times the usual number. There's a particularly intense emotion involved when a young female is raped by members of her own sex. Her pain seems sharper somehow, her screams more shrill. A woman understands her own sexual organs so much better than a man. She knows what really hurts, and the opportunity to use that knowledge to cause pain and suffering to one of her own will often bring out the worst in a surprising number of women.

Back on Walpole Road, the front doorbell rang. Mrs. Featherstone answered it with a strangely empty look in her eyes that mirrored the one she'd seen in her daughter's face a moment earlier. It was the police, running late as usual. There were two of them.

"I suppose you must be Mason?" She snapped, "you took your time getting here didn't you?"

"Sorry," he said, "something came up. We were delayed."

They followed her through to the front room. The TV was still on; they'd timed their arrival perfectly. Tina was writhing on her back on the cellar floor where they'd left her five days ago, moaning loudly like a whore in heat. Her hips were lifting higher and higher as the twin vibrators worked their magic on her and she came again, and again...

"Is this the video you were talking about?" Said Mason, the question deliberately obtuse. He looked at the screen first and then at her parents, "and that's your daughter is it? Are you absolutely sure that's your daughter, Tina Featherstone?" Neither of them spoke, but they nodded almost in unison. "Well maybe we'd better have a look at this tape, and the envelope it came in." He looked at her sharply. "You haven't thrown it away have you, the envelope?"

Tina's mother looked at the two policemen for the first time. Neither of them really seemed like policemen. Slightly too old somehow, and she'd never really trusted men with beards. Especially big men with dark beards, cut short and fading to grey at the outer edges.

"Can I see your warrant cards?" She said out of the blue. They looked startled; even her husband turned and looked at her, the first time he'd dragged his eyes away from the screen for an hour at least. They didn't make a fuss though, suspicion came with the job, and the cards were genuine enough. She looked at them and shrugged apologetically.

"Sorry," she said, "but I had to be sure. It's our daughter you see."

Mason glanced back at the screen. Tina was lying quietly now; it would be another ten minutes before she began that palsied trembling again. He could hardly wait. Watching his bitches dance to his demands made him almost as hard as listening to the cunts scream.