Satanic Panic- A Homage to 1980's B-Movie Horror

by Daniel P Coughlin

  Saturday would be enigmatic. She didn’t care that she’d spent too much money on the hotel room. It would be worth every penny to get fucked silly by her precious boys. She couldn’t wait to feel Brock’s hands invade her every opening. The image of his strong fingers jammed in her mouth drew perspiration. Tormented, she needed Brock to bend her over and thrust into her. Dominating the unattainable man would bring true ecstasy into full bloom. She experienced true enlightenment when Brock adhered to her, when she’d ordered him to beg. Commanding him to do as she pleased was enough to shake her knees and quake her heart.

  And then she thought about Lance. She felt guilty for the lack of excitement in regard to Lance. But she remembered what she enjoyed about him. She enjoyed that he worshipped her. While she was receiving intense physical pleasure from Brock, she also received adornment, soul, passion, worship, and devotion from Lance. Lance made love to her while Brock fucked her. She sustained pleasures rooted from both aspects of their intimacy. Synchronicity. Being intimate with two men and expelling all inhibitions allowed her to attain complete intimacy. Conflicting emotions complicated this arrangement. The fact that she loved Brock, but Lance loved her, and she didn’t love Lance, while Brock didn’t love her was hard to clarify with any sense of preciseness. But together, the dots connected. A superlative combination was aligned. The relationship functioned on levels that society wouldn’t condone. Their friends would call them perverts and their relatives would consider them deviants. But they were inhibited. Their perception was inaccurate and misguided. The sexual bliss experienced was tender, genuine. Three people providing each other with physical and emotional connection was something many people would attempt and fail at. All three needed each other.

  Brianna found herself wondering how long this relationship could last. Why not? The sensations they’d shared allowed real freedom. The relationship felt right even if it sounded wrong. The openness of their private world—that very few people would ever achieve—was pure. While the exterior display of their actions was categorized as wrong it simply wasn’t. There was only love and pleasure. No hatred or resentment. Their relationship was special because of its complicated maturity.

  And then Brianna remembered Grady. How could she have forgotten? What about Grady? She would need to break it off with Grady. If there was a negative energy involved in this experiment it stemmed from Grady. Guilt would eventually consume her for which she was aware. Therefore, she would need to end her relationship with the California boy.

  Glancing at her reflection in the mirror, a sly grin curled her lips. She focused on the raw consequences and brutal truth that she enjoyed cheating on Grady. The thought of Grady blabbing on about his daily activities while she smiled, pretended to care, but only thought about being ravaged by her boys, not Grady, thrilled her. The sheer notion of being naughty shook her inner thighs. Her breaths came hard and she perspired again. Jeez, she’d need to take a shower after groveling over her thoughts. The shower nozzle would double in purpose—maybe the Jack Rabbit for a little extra support?

  Startled, Brianna twisted toward the door when someone pounded their fists into it. After a quick minute, she shook her lustful thoughts. She called out, “Who is it?”

  “Me.”

  It was Grady. Oh shit.

  Brianna’s nerves revved. Lifting her hand, she extended her shaking hand. Her cheeks were heated, soft embers. Dashing to the kitchen sink she splashed cold water onto her face. Her knees still shook. It was happening. She was clearly in heat. “Just give me a sec!” she hollered before darting into the bathroom.

  “Okay.” She heard Grady’s relaxed California drawl.

  In the bathroom, she approved of her hasty appearance, whisked her hair over her ear, dabbed some perfume on her privates, slid some deodorant on, and then ran to the door. On her way, as her hand extended to unlock the door, she completed a thought: I’m going to fuck the hell out of Grady. This act would settle her lustful nerves. Afterward when she was relaxed she’d be able to converse with Grady like a normal human being. Not a lust-sick idiot.

  Opening the door, she observed a shocked expression etched to Grady’s face.

  “Everything okay?” He took a step backward.

  “No, get in here.” She pulled the sleeve of his white tee shirt.

  Once inside, she pressed her lips to Grady’s and eagerly dipped her tongue into his mouth.

  “Whatever’s up with you—I’m down.” Grady slammed the door and marched inside.

  “Lock the door,” Brianna insisted. “Now!” She enjoyed bossing men around.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Grady turned and locked the door. Brianna noticed that his hands were shaking. “Whatever you want.”

  She grinned coyly and asked, “Whatever I want?”

  Grady looked scared. “Yes?” he was probably uncertain so stated a question.

  “Bend me over the couch and eat until I say it’s okay to come up for air.”

  Grady smiled.

  Brianna slapped his face and instructed, “No smiling.”

  Grady pushed her toward the boring, standard issued couch that the college provided. It was drab, grey and didn’t add flare to the room. Nor was it comfortable.

  Brianna kicked off her gym shorts and then tugged her thong off before bending over the couch. She turned to see that Grady’s face was beet red. His appearance was a cross between a timid student delivering a public speech and a comedian trying not to laugh at his own joke. She didn’t care. She was too turned on. She grabbed Grady’s shaggy hair and stuffed his face between her ass cheeks. He wasted no time. She could feel his tongue whirling and twisting in both holes. And she moaned with extreme pleasure while he did this.

  2

  The red light on the digital camera set on the tripod in the building across from that slut Brianna’s dorm room blinked on. The lens zoomed in on the boy cleaning Brianna’s crack. Footage like this hadn’t been recorded prior. Not by The Killer. This footage would play nicely into the lineage of his murderous video. The story was robust. The Smiley Devils would adore his artistry.

  3

  The front door creaked open. Lance inhaled the chilly December air, acclimatized to the cold and kicked off his four-mile run across the college town of Oshkosh, Wisconsin. His thoughts—like he assumed his best friend’s thoughts—were twisted, maddening and spiraled like a Midwest tornado. Being this in love with Brianna caused relentless anxiety. Reality struck. He was honest with himself: Brianna didn’t love him the way he loved her. She’d never love him because he knew how she felt about Brock. Still, Lance was a romantic. He’d never give up on love. There was always a way. He’d fight for Brianna. Maybe Brock’s vanity would eventually run out and his antics would age poorly.

  Horrible ideas polluted Lance’s train of thought. Visuals of Brock getting into an accident spawned joy. Any kind of accident that would damage his perfect face would suffice.

  Maybe he’d get drunk and fall into the river like those other drunken idiots?

  So many awful—good—thoughts of his friend’s demise surfaced upward from the blackness of his subconscious.

  Now his thoughts drifted down river to the drown boys of this college town, such an odd phenomenon. Lance couldn’t understand why a fence wasn’t erected around the bridge.

  Was the town budget that tight?

  Four drown victims this past year was too many.

  He continued thinking about Brock’s face meeting the end of its vanity. He hated his desire to think like this. The crashing waves of guilt saddened him. Simply put, it was wrong to entertain these thoughts. On the other hand, the joy of private resent-filled thoughts colored his soul. He allowed his fantasy to unwind. He created images of Brock dying at the hands of some accident. It would be best if the accident would be caused by stupidity. If this happened, eventually, Brianna would have a hard time sympathizing with his demise. She would only be angered. This idea coupled with the fact that she couldn’t be attracted to his defor
mity would steer her devotion toward Lance. Lance’s opportunity to intervene and win Brianna’s heart would present itself. He’d score the girl. His girl. Sure, he’d remain friends with Brock. He’d be there for him. He’d lend his shoulder to cry on. Then he’d gladly take the girl.

  Another wild idea struck: Lance wondered if he could hurt his friend.

  Like, for real, as Brock would say. These violent thoughts were silly yet troubling. Lance wished he could whisk away these troubled desires. Toss them into the wind like cremated ash. But he couldn’t. He knew that his mounting jealously would worsen. Jealousy was powerful. Eventually, these thoughts would possess and destroy him.

  Lance couldn’t help but to think about drowning his friend in the cold river on the other side of the bridge.

  4

  Brock’s thumb applied pressure to the small plastic switch on the clippers that buzzed loudly as he pressed the hair trimmer against the skin below his abdomen. Sparse pubic hair sprinkled downward to the tile floor. Brock’s member was bald now. He lathered the tender, raw skin with feminine lotion so that the razor burn would heal. Standing back, he inspected the details of his appearance in the vanity mirror that was tucked into the right corner of his bedroom. His chest hair, pubic hair, armpit hair, and some of his forearm hair had been shed—shaved skin close. After applying lotion and patiently allowing it to soak in, he sprayed himself with Australian Gold sun tan spray—this brand held a touch of artificial bronze. The spray was oil and gave the skin a smooth, shiny, polished appearance. Plus, it smelled of sweet summer beach. He wanted Brianna to be overwhelmed by his physical attributes. Glancing at his shaved ass in the mirror, Brock smacked his left butt cheek and continued to the bathroom. Now he’d bathe with baby oil to enhance the shimmer of his youthful skin, adding a glistening effect. Laughing as he sat in the hot tub, he acknowledged the silliness of his actions. Preparing for this night was more work than he’d anticipated. H had a sudden appreciation for women. Precious females adhered to this process regularly. Regardless, he was excited for this weekend’s sexual recourse. He’d not been this turned on since he was much younger and sex was new. He hoped that Lance possessed enough awareness to prepare in a similar fashion. Brianna would appreciate the sentiment.

  An hour later, Lance returned from his jog. Huffing, puffing and red in the face he nearly choked at the sight of Brock’s hairless nakedness. Curling his body at the core, Lance laughed hysterically, which sent him into a fit of intense coughing.

  “What the hell, man? I hate stereotypes and labels, but you look gay as hell. You gonna go shoot a gay porno movie?” Lance doubled over.

  Brock seemed genuinely happy to see that his best friend was enjoying this sight. It was nice to see such an intense person cut loose and lose his shit. “I’m glad I can amuse you.”

  “Me too. What’s the deal?”

  “I’m getting ready for Friday night, dipshit.” Brock smirked.

  “You’re getting ready for Friday night by shaving your entire body and walking around the house naked?” Lance asked.

  “I’m doing you a favor.”

  Lance attempted to sip from his bottle of water, but spit-up onto the floor and asked, “How is this doing me a favor?”

  “You should strive to look like this for our date with Brianna. That and you need to develop a new level of comfort.”

  “You think I should shave my cock, balls, and rub baby oil all over my asshole? Is that what you’re recommending, oh-Zen-pussy-master?” Lance maintained his laughter.

  “Something like that.” Brock’s glee diminished. Tone stern, he contributed, “Dude, I think I know a little bit more about what chicks appreciate... than you do.”

  “Do you?”

  “Um, look at my track record... comparatively.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ll see that I get way more ‘tang’ than you.”

  “You bang nasty skanks that probably give you sick diseases. Sure, they’re attractive, but there isn’t one of them that would enter into a meaningful relationship with you. Plus, you probably have AIDS.”

  “What the hell does ‘entering into a meaningful relationship’ have to do with anything? Do you think that what we’re doing with Brianna is some kind of meaningful relationship?”

  Lance was silent.

  Brock recognized his friend’s silence and accepted the shallow nature of his words. “Let me take back what I just said. I forgot about what this argument is all about.”

  “Please clarify.”

  “I was just trying to let you know that it might be nice for you to trim your goods prior to our next date with Brianna. That, and get comfortable being naked around me. She might like it if you go the extra mile.”

  “You mean shave the extra inch?”

  Brock forced a laugh before admitting, “That’s pretty good.”

  “You set me up for it.” Lance sat on the ratty reclining chair. “You really think she’d appreciate it if I trimmed up a bit?”

  “Yeah, man. That’s all I’m saying. I guess I really didn’t get my point across. I thought it would be funny if I ... ” Brock looked down and was reminded of his stark nakedness and the fact that he was rubbed down in baby oil. He’d not attained the comedic effect he’d aimed to achieve. “I look like a total fag, don’t I?”

  “You shouldn’t say ‘fag.’”

  “Fucking millennial-word-police-generation. We’re such ass-hammers,” Brock retorted, involuntarily.

  “Point taken. I get it. Now, can you please cover yourself?”

  “Sure thing.” Brock turned and headed upstairs. His friend’s laughter continued at him, not with him.

  Chapter 11

  Encounters

  1

  T he front right wheel of Brianna’s shopping cart spun lazily as she strolled along the home décor aisle at Scent Store—an aromatherapy hobby-shop located at the downtown mall. After every few steps, she’d halt and inhale the smell of a candle or some exotic oil. According to Brianna’s perception of tonight there were specific scents that needed to accompany the experience. The hotel room would need to smell appropriate, sensual, and sweet. The candlelight would add a bronzing to their perfect bodies, but the smells would assist in the release of pheromones. These details would amplify their sexual desires, prowess, and lift the physical experience to heightened, pleasurable levels. The night needed to be perfect. No detail could be spared. An odd thought struck her: she hadn’t studied all week. Her mind was consumed with thoughts of naked flesh and lust. The hotel excursion was an unquenchable affair, perfect. She’d already bought two bottles of champagne, a case of water, and beer for the boys. Also, she’d purchased an eighth of weed and a few pills of Molly. If in the morning they felt awful, she would distribute the remainder of her Percocet to knock away the hangover. There were still ten round pills in the bottle she’d been prescribed earlier in the volleyball season.

  No detail would be spared.

  After shopping, Brianna called her father. She’d not spoken to him in two weeks. Sex had preoccupied her thoughts, her brain, and her reality. Well, that was probably a lie. The truth was that she wouldn’t speak with her father while her thoughts basked in sexual exploration. Those two ideals didn’t meld well. She couldn’t bare the idea of speaking with the man who’d spent countless hours reading her wholesome stories—to include the bible—while she thought about being violated by her childhood friends. He’d raised her in the church. Brock and Lance were like sons to him and he expected them to protect her. Brianna didn’t want to speak with him now, but it had been too long and he’d left many messages.

  Well, Brock and Lance did protect her. That was true.

  If ever she were in danger, Brock and Lance would lay down their lives.

  For now, they would lay her down in other ways.

  She laughed.

  Her fit of schoolyard laughter halted. She stood and straightened her posture.

  Would they kill for her?
>
  Probably not.

  But maybe?

  Another hypothetical thought struck: If she were at a party and some douchebag slipped a bad batch of GHB into her drink and then attempted to have his way with her—what would her Brock and Lance do to said gentleman?

  She smiled.

  They would kill him. She knew it. They would beat him, drag him to the trunk of the car, drive him out to the middle of nowhere and kill the rapey-prick.

  Her face heated. Anger broiled her blood for a quick moment, but it was needed.

  How the hell could she smile at this dark thought?

  As of late, so many aspects of her life were changing. Her innocence was shedding like snake’s skin.

  Would she end up a bad person?

  The confusion was daunting. The times were daunting. Here she was, engaging in unconventional sexual activities with men that she cared for far too much to be doing these things with. At least she acknowledged her pleasure. Worse, she enjoyed cheating on her boyfriend. Her smile faded. Another question popped like bubble gum.

  Why is this wrong?

  If it didn’t feel wrong then was it wrong?

  This question weighed six tons and she could only hold 100 lbs. If she enjoyed doing these pleasurable acts with her friends and nobody was getting hurt, then was it truly wrong? The questions continued, redundantly. The question would stop if she could answer, but she couldn’t. Who made the rules? Why were the rules right? She couldn’t think of an honest answer.

  She scrolled through the contacts in her phone until she found her father.

  She traced the edge of the phone with her index finger for a long moment before hitting the send button. He picked up after only one ring.

  “Hi daddy, how are you?” She attempted to sound clueless like a young, innocent girl. The young innocent girl that her father believed she was. But she was anything but innocent as of late.