Snuff Club: An Extreme Horror Novel

by Sam West

  And I am not having doubts…

  He gazed up her body.

  Was it by accident that she stood with her legs slightly apart, affording him a good look between her thighs? His gaze fixed on the lips of her vulva, so tempting, so plump.

  He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

  I want your mouth on my pussy, Steven…

  He had never tasted pussy before, and he longed to bury his tongue in those juicy folds. And when they got to filming her later, there was no way he would get the chance.

  He stood up, all too aware of the heat in his cheeks. He jabbed the knife in her ribcage, just below her elbows. Her hands were clasped between her breasts, as if in prayer.

  God, she’s so fucking beautiful.

  She flinched when the cold steel of the blade touched her, but it wasn’t hard enough to draw blood.

  “Get up the stairs then,” he said, spinning her round.

  He was greeted by the sight of her plump little arse. Her crack was short, her butt-cheeks what might be described as pouty, and despite the recent orgasm, his cock stiffened.

  He followed her up the stairs, jabbing the tip of the knife into her buttock to remind her of his presence. With each step she climbed, he glimpsed the crease of her vagina. The sight of that luscious pussy bulge was enough to make him want to throw himself on top of her on the stairs and fuck her from behind.

  But his brother’s warning echoed in his head.

  I can’t touch her.

  But maybe, when we get upstairs, we can have sex. Like, proper sex. If I don’t come in her, if she’s aroused and I don’t mark her then no one has to know…

  By the time they reached the small landing, he was as horny as hell.

  “Are you going to watch me piss?” she said, gesturing to the bathroom just off the landing.

  She smiled at him, and his heart leapt, just like it always did when she smiled at him in the street. It was like the sun breaking through the clouds and he was suddenly struck by sadness.

  Who am I? What have I become?

  “I have to,” he said, dropping his gaze.

  He blushed hard, this unforeseen attack of conscience churning him up inside.

  “Why don’t we go to bed when I’ve used the bathroom?” she said. “You can eat my pussy, and maybe you’ll let me ride you.”

  She smiled coyly at him and his cock twitched. Gracefully, she lowered herself onto the toilet seat.

  “Please, Steven, I can’t go when you’re looking. Please, it’ll only take me a second.”

  Fuck.

  Going against his better judgment, he turned his back.

  It’s fine, what’s she gonna do in the few seconds I’m not look…

  The back of his head exploded in a fiery ball of agony and he staggered forwards, headbutting the edge of the opened door.

  Through the sudden pain, panic gripped him. He went to spin round, but another fierce jolt reverberated through his skull.

  He sunk heavily to his knees, the pain the only thing existing to him. It was a physical thing, a white blanket that smothered his thoughts and dulled his reflexes. When he went to cradle his head in his hands, his hair felt wet.

  Terrified, he brought round his hands in front of his eyes. For a moment, he couldn’t focus. He had four hands, and all of them were sheened in red. He felt his mind slipping, letting go of consciousness, and he slumped sideways against the bathtub as blackness overtook him.

  *****

  Is he dead?

  Julie stared down at the unmoving boy sprawled against the side of the bathtub, the shattered aftershave bottle gripped in her bound hands. Her palms were slick with blood.

  Hers or his?

  The sound of heavy, panicked breathing reached her ears, and she realised it was her. Her heart thumped hard in her heaving chest, the adrenalin coursing through her system, making her dizzy.

  Gingerly, she stepped over his body. The back of his blonde head was matted with blood. He groaned and she flinched, but he didn’t move. The knife lay on the lino a few inches from his hand, and she bent down to pick it up, dropping the jagged base of the aftershave bottle in the process.

  Finish him off, a dark little voice whispered in her mind.

  No. There was no way he was chasing after and that was good enough. She wasn’t like them. She wasn’t a killer, not unless she had to be.

  She lurched out of the bathroom and stumbled down the stairs, almost losing her balance and tripping over her own feet in her haste.

  The front door loomed ahead of her. Freedom beckoned.

  I’m going to make it.

  Her fingers grazed the door handle and it turned easily beneath her wildly trembling fingers.

  Too easily.

  It took a second for her to realise that this was because it wasn’t her turning it. The door slammed forcefully inwards, causing her to stagger backwards.

  “Going somewhere, princess?”

  A familiar looking, fat bastard with a bald head filled the doorframe, blocking her exit and making her heart plummet.

  “No,” she gasped.

  Instinctively, she raised the knife, brandishing it at him with her bound hands. Beyond his broad shoulders, she glimpsed all the beautiful cars on the busy main street before the door slammed shut.

  She jabbed the knife at him but he just laughed and grabbed her wrists, effortlessly twisting the knife out of her awkward grip.

  Through her haze of panic, she was aware of a balled-up fist flying through the air and connecting with her temple.

  Then, for the second time that day, there was just blackness.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Groggily, Julie opened her eyes and stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling. The side of her head throbbed in time to her frantic heartbeat and she winced in pain.

  Although perhaps the ceiling was not so unfamiliar. A deeply unpleasant sense of déjà vu curled around her, scaring her into full consciousness.

  The events of the day leading up to this moment slammed into her mind and she sat bolt upright, taking in her surroundings.

  It was too much to absorb all at once and her head span with the overload.

  Her fiancé’s muffled pleas of terror cut her to the core and tears sprang unbidden to her eyes.

  “No,” she sobbed, but it came out muffled due to the tape covering her own mouth. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut to stem the tears and block out the nightmare.

  She had been so close to escaping, how could she possibly still be here?

  Despair overtook her. Her ankles and wrists were lashed together with tape, except this time her wrists were behind her back rather than in front of her. And she was still naked.

  Nothing’s changed! Oh God, why is this still happening?

  That wasn’t strictly true, though. Quite a bit had changed. For a start, she wasn’t alone in the living-room from hell. Her fiancé was there too – also naked and trussed up with tape – and there were three other naked men in the room.

  Naked except for full-head animal masks, that was.

  Naked with stiff cocks that stuck obscenely out from their bodies.

  Doing her best to ignore the terrifying vision of the three naked, bare-footed men hovering silently over them, brandishing knives, hammers and handheld saws, she turned her attention to Grant.

  He was lying on his side on the floor in much the same position she had been in herself only earlier. A rope joined his neck to his ankles, keeping his feet yanked behind his back and parallel with his backside. Black tape covered his mouth and like her own, his hands were also lashed behind his back.

  “Are you okay?” she sobbed, not caring how fucking inane that question was, not caring that he couldn’t possibly understand what she was saying.

  The entire carpet was covered in clear plastic, and it rustled beneath her knees as she shuffled over the short distance towards him. Dimly, she became aware that everything was covered in clear plastic, including the sofa, armchair and TV. Ne
xt to the TV there was a tripod with a camera mounted on it, its light blinking green.

  They’ve upgraded from mobile phones, then, she thought bitterly.

  Grant made terrible sounds behind his gag; sounds that made her want to scream. His nostrils flared, wet with streaming snot. His usually gentle, dark eyes flashed terror and indignation.

  The tall, pale guy with the gym-honed body in the goat mask laughed.

  Mark, that has to be Mark.

  “You really hurt my brother, you bitch. And now you’re gonna pay.”

  He loomed over her, in one hand a hammer and in the other a large knife. It suddenly occurred to her that Steven wasn’t one of the three men in the room; one was way too fat and the other guy besides Mark was built like a chippendale.

  So where is the little runt? I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.

  She struggled against her binds, groaning into the gag.

  The guy built like a fitness model and wearing a crow’s head mask placed a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “We do her after, remember? She has to watch first, it will be all the sweeter.”

  “My brother is upstairs, knocked out on fucking morphine for the pain. He ain’t even well enough to fuck this bitch over.”

  The other guy sounded huffy. “You know we can’t wait any longer, you know we got people waiting on this movie and it’s like, bad karma or something having these fuckers clogging the house up for too long.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

  “Are we fucking do this thing or not?” the fat guy asked.

  She recognised him, even with the Alsatian mask covering his face. It was the guy that had punched her out earlier, the same guy that she had seen getting into the van the other night with Mark. In his left hand he held a small saw, and in his right a hammer.

  “Fine,” Mark said, crossing his arms over his barrel chest.

  “Then move out of my way, fuckers.”

  Julie screamed as the fat bastard effortlessly flipped her trussed-up fiancé onto his stomach. Grant half-screamed, half-howled, and the awful sound almost wrenched her heart clean out of her chest. His body trembled with the effort of holding his shins in the air behind his back to prevent himself from snapping his own neck on the length of rope that joined together his neck and ankles.

  Julie screamed into the gag. “Don’t hurt him,” she tried to say, but it came out incomprehensible.

  Rough hands – she knew not whose – scooped her up under her armpits and dragged her a short distance away from her howling fiancé.

  The fat git threw himself onto Grant’s back and Julie very nearly passed out in terror. The man landed with a resounding thump on his bent legs and Grant howled like a wounded bear. The howl gave way to choking sounds and Julie went light-headed.

  Don’t throw up! a voice screamed in her head.

  She sucked in deep breaths through her clogged nostrils, praying for Grant’s neck not to break. The fat, naked man gripped Grant’s shoulders and his fat stomach bore down on his shins and feet.

  Now Grant’s face was a darker shade of red and his eyes rolled back in his head.

  Julie sat there hyperventilating, the room spinning.

  Stop, stop, stop, she thought, that one word going round and round in her head.

  But it didn’t stop.

  “Oi, numb-nuts, don’t snap the fucker’s neck, we need to make it look good for the film.”

  The fat man grunted, and he lifted up the hand holding the saw which had been resting on Grant’s shoulder. In one fluid motion, he sliced through the rope and Grant’s feet flopped to the ground with a heavy smack.

  Julie closed her eyes in relief, her entire body shaking violently.

  Her relief didn’t last long, not when she saw how hard he was. The fat bastard positioned his penis at Mark’s arse, and spread his cheeks with both hands. He shoved his solid thigh between Grant’s, spreading his legs, and roughly stabbed at Grant’s crack.

  Tears streamed down Julie’s face as her fiancé was arse-fucked by the monster on top of him, his body rhythmically jerking over the sheet-covered carpet. Disgust clenched in her stomach, threatening to dispel the contents within. She turned her face away, unable to look. She didn’t recognise her fiancé anymore. She knew that was a terrible thing to think, but she couldn’t equate what was happening to him now with the man that she loved.

  “You fucking faggot,” one of the other bastards said, both of whom were avidly watching the show standing over her.

  “I ain’t. No. Faggot,” came the man’s grunting reply. “A hole. Is. A hole.”

  His grunts grew louder and his hip-thrusts sloppier and more erratic. By the time he had finished, Grant was no longer moving.

  The man’s cock emerged from his rectum, sheened in red and splattered with brown lumps.

  She recognised Grant’s broken, glazed expression. It was the exact same way she had felt by the time Justin had finished raping her.

  But these guys are worse than him. Much much worse.

  “Roll the fucker over, big man, let’s make this look real pretty for camera,” one of them said. She thought it might have been Mark.

  The fat man leaned over to roll Grant onto his back, unmindful that his hands were crushing into the floor. Grant didn’t seem to care, either. He stared blankly up at the ceiling like there was not a single thought in his brain.

  Sobbing, she reared onto her knees, trying to shuffle closer to the broken man that had once been the man she had wanted to spend the rest of her life with. But in her heart, she knew that she was clinging on to a ghost.

  “Oh no you don’t,” said the one with the gorgeous body who wasn’t Mark.

  Even though she couldn’t see his face, she knew who he was. Or at least, she recognised him, even if she didn’t know his name. It was the same muscular, handsome man that had smiled at her through her living-room just two days ago.

  She closed her eyes. God, that incident felt like a lifetime ago, had it really only been two days? His bare foot lifted up off the floor and nudged her firmly in the side of her breast, forcing her to topple onto her side. Forcing her to watch helplessly on.

  “Grant,” she gasped, “my darling man…”

  All that came out of her mouth was a guttural moan, but in her head the words were clear and true.

  Brilliant pain exploded in her head when the guy in the crow mask stomped on her face. She heard, as much as felt, her nose crunch. The ear-splitting sound reverberated in her skull, making her black out for a second. The pain engulfed her face, her very being. Weakly, she focussed on her fiancé, on the two naked men bent over him, weapons raised. She could feel her eyelids fluttering.

  We’re going to die, came the concrete thought.

  Without the ability to draw oxygen into her lungs, with all that blood swimming around in the back of her nose and down her throat, she knew she was done for.

  A great tide of vomit lurched upwards, sealing her fate.

  I love you, Grant.

  Suddenly, her lips were on fire, singing in pain like she had been stuck by a wasp right on her smacker. Before she could stop it, the tide of vomit rose upwards, spilling out past her lips and onto the plastic covered floor.

  It took her a moment to realise that she hadn’t choked to death, that she was still alive. That one of them had ripped off the tape covering her mouth.

  She was too weak to move, her cheek sodden with her own vomit and sticking to the plastic covered floor.

  Her eyes fluttered open and she focussed on her fiancé.

  “Grant,” she managed to get out, surprised to hear her own voice ringing clearly in her ears.

  But Grant wasn’t listening. Grant was being mercilessly ripped open from throat to groin.

  Mark swung his hammer, bringing the claw-head crashing down just below the point where his collarbone joined his throat. The double-edged claw of the hammer wedged in his flesh and audibly smashed through the bone. The sound of it made her cringe and screa
m.

  Her cries were instantly cut dead by a hard blow to her mouth. A second after that bare foot filled her vision, pain exploded in her lower jaw, fierce yet somehow numbing. Blood instantly pooled in her mouth and she spat, heaving and crying. Something small and jagged spilled out with the blood and dimly she was aware of a gap in her lower row of teeth.

  When she looked at her fiancé again, he was completely split open down the middle. The sight defied comprehension, and his blank, unseeing gaze fixed on the ceiling.

  On some level, she understood he was dead, but most of her fevered brain was in denial. She opened her mouth to call his name, but all that spilled out was blood and shards of teeth, accompanied by a wretched gargling sound.

  Mark let go of the hammer that was lodged in Grant’s guts and stood up. His rock-hard cock bobbed slightly with the sudden movement and the dead eyes of his goat mask staring impassively down at the dead man.

  The stench that filled the room hit the back of her nose, mingling with the acrid smell and taste of her own blood. That stink of neat shit hit her hard and she retched all over again.

  But it was more than just the smell of shit in the fetid air; it was the acidic odour of spilled innards. It was the smell of death.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The three, masked, naked men stood over her dead fiancé. The blood poured out of him, sloshing over his sides like an overfilled bathtub. His insides glistened a myriad shades of red, obscenely horrible, impossible to comprehend.

  The history of their entire relationship flashed through her mind. She would never again know the comfort of his arms. The children they had planned on having would never be born. She would never get to tell him her deepest, darkest secrets. She would never tell him about the time she had been raped.

  And after these sick bastards were done with her, she would never tell anyone anything ever again.

  The three men were like a pack of wolves, tearing at Grant’s body. Blood-sheened and wild, they scooped out his innards with their bare hands, laughing and whooping.

  She felt herself drifting, her mind untethering when she saw the glint of the saw as the fat one severed his hand.