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

by Daniel P Coughlin

  He pushed her hard against the cushioned chair and then unsnapped her jeans. Pushed his hand down her pants.

  “I like that,” she panted.

  This wasn’t lust. Well, it was, but there was sincerity to what they were doing.

  Hearing the gusty, snow filtered wind whistling outside her window, she dreaded the short walk to the party. Only three blocks off campus, but it would chill her bones. The snow didn’t bother her. The cold bothered her. But there was something else that troubled her as well. Maybe she didn’t want to go through with her fantasy? But how could she retreat? These thoughts brought up images and visuals of her acting out her fantasy. And these thoughts continued turning her on.

  Oh, these images.

  She felt so conflicted.

  Before long, Grady would be passed out in a chair while her two male friends degraded her in his presence. Her guilt was conquered by excitement. She was ready to commit to her fantasy.

  I’ll only be young once.

  Brock and Lance arrived at the party thirty minutes prior to she and Grady.

  “Grady, how goes it, buddy?” Brock smiled and slapped his hand on Grady’s shoulder.

  “Thirsty.” Grady nodded toward the kitchen where a herd of drunken college boys had gathered. One of them distributed red solo cups. A short boy with shaggy brown hair, wearing a tight black shirt was pumping the keg. When he was done, Brock shoved the boy out of the way and filled two cups full of beer. Grady didn’t notice that Brock had taken that cup out from behind the toaster. Brianna could only assume that the date-rape drug was simmering at the bottom of that cup. When that cup was full, Grady grabbed it and slammed the liquid down his throat, eyes closed. After he was finished, he smiled, clanked glasses with Brock and then turned to Brianna and provided a lucid smile.

  “Just what the doctor needed.” Grady smiled and took in the sight of a cute blonde standing near the front door. Brianna couldn’t deny that this girl had a beautiful ass. Her jeans accentuated the tight bump to her rump. She hated that she was annoyed by the fact that Grady was so blatant about checking her out. She was jealous. And her jealousy led her to kiss Grady. She grabbed his face and turned him toward her. She planted her lips on his while making eye contact with the cute blonde. She jammed her tongue between Grady’s beer-soaked lips. When the blonde rolled her eyes and turned away, Brianna grabbed Grady’s hand and pulled him upstairs.

  5

  Brock stood at the back of the kitchen near the sink. He and Brianna shared a seductive glance while she yanked Grady upstairs. It’d been half an hour since he’d unknowingly drunk the GHB polluted beer. In ten minutes he’d be a breathing fuck-doll—window dressing for the twisted erotic-theater production that’d be performed in his unconscious presence.

  “We’ll wait fifteen minutes.” Brock leaned forward and whispered into Lance’s ear.

  Lance waited for Brock to straighten himself out before holding the faceplate of his iPhone parallel to his face, “She just texted me. Grady’s out like a light. We need to go up there in ten.” Lance smiled.

  “Sounds good.” Brock shook his head and laughed. “Poor bastard.”

  Lance enjoyed smirking, arrogantly, like Brock. He now understood the sensation behind Brock’s favorite expression. The prideful release of energy that coupled with arrogance was now understandable. It was thrilling. Others responded. “I’m starting to like this shit.”

  “Shit?” Brock was proud to see his partner—his brother—come around.

  “Yeah, you know, playing Grady for a cuckold.” Lance’s laughter was involuntary.

  “I’ve created a monster.” Brock tussled Lance’s hair.

  Lance maintained his composure. “What?”

  “What’s wrong?” Brock keeled the expression.

  “Why would you say that like that? This is Brianna’s fantasy, I’m just enjoying it.”

  “I know, man. You don’t think I think it’s hilarious to bang Grady’s chick while his dumb ass is passed out in a chair?”

  “Sorry, I thought you were implying that I was turning into an asshole.”

  “You did that a long time ago.”

  Lance resumed laughter. “Let’s make this dude a chump.”

  “Let’s have a drink first.”

  “Cool.”

  Brock and Lance walked toward the kitchen. A brunette wearing a baseball tee with deep cleavage—probably store-torn—took interest in the boys. She looked familiar. With sexy, fluttering fingers she grabbed Brock’s hair, tilted his head back, placed the lip of a tequila bottle to his lips and poured the smooth burn down his throat. The liquor slid straight to his head. He felt dizzy. His inhibitions ceased and when the brunette kissed him with full lips, he kissed her back. Her tongue was salty and sweet and worth reciprocating. But it was simply a kiss before indulging in Brianna’s fantasy.

  6

  The darkness of this night was upon them. The Dark Lord clearly enhanced and energized this frozen evening. The cold burned painfully yet pleasant. The Smiley Devil’s wore no masks. The Dark Lord would shield them. They’d arrived to this party early. Some had driven many miles, some not. Their presence was everywhere. Now that God was dying and almost dead in the minds of all humans, the Dark Lord was able to destruct. Once the humans believed they were ants in an ant-farm then God would allow them to be treated as such. His love held condition. And he tested his children.

  The Smiley Devil’s mingled. To the sad, pathetic non-believers that worshipped their non-existent super-intelligence, the Devils were smiling, tan faces in the crowd. These university students were blind to the evil lurking amongst their party, their existence. To these fools, the Smiley Devils were ordinary. Background noise. But beneath their smiles was boiling rage. Starved for murderous sustenance. They wouldn’t don their masks until Brock Hills and his boyfriend Lance were alone in the warehouse. Only then would they reveal the dark powers permitted to them by the Dark Lord, under the guidance of their ferocious leader. And He would do awful things to these three. Their actions would include more than drowning. In the end, their deaths would appear as accidents, suicides, or the work of someone innocent. Thoughts of a displayable aftermath would develop later. That was the closing. For now they would concentrate on pursuing awful-greatness. With weapons, sharp objects. The Killer demanded serrated pain. The Killer would need to be careful. The wrong move would spoil the plan. The Dark Lord would punish him if things went wrong. Their evil would need to be heightened. No detail would be left stray. This was a certainty.

  Now, he executed the first move toward ending their lives.

  College coeds possessed no clue as to the depravity of the presence they mingled amongst. Death was in attendance.

  7

  Adrenaline sizzled through Brianna’s blood as she took the last step leading to the third story bedroom. She cringed. The room held the faint and disgusting odor of sweaty socks and stale beer, commonly known as the college-male-smell. She quickly adjusted to this scent. Her nasal passages eased. A hint of beer fart lingered, but Brianna refused to ponder on these sensory discrepancies now. She focused on the event about to unfold. The most intense physical pleasure of her life would take form soon.

  Grady’s fall from consciousness was too easy. After pulling him upstairs—where Jeff Torrance had specifically ordered everyone not to go—the job had become simple. They’d begun to kiss when he dropped into unconsciousness. She’d worried that they’d given him too much GHB. She worried that he’d overdosed. But then she watched as his chest rose and fell. Her concerns diminished. The dosage had been accurate. She briefly questioned her morality. Then forgot about it. These ideas were easily conquered by thoughts of sweaty intimacy. Remembering that she’d be young only once was identified as proper redundancy. She held merely a small portion of life to explore these lustful acts. They were for the young. Fuck it. She laughed at the thought of Jeff Torrance’s face if he were to discover the depravity of what was about to happen in his room. He
’d been upset by their exploration of the house at the prior party. She, Brock and Lance had convinced him that they’d never meander past the first floor of his house, ever again.

  He was wrong on that front.

  Setting Grady in a chair near the bed, Brianna remembered speaking with him while he sipped on the sedative infested beer. She hoped that the residual GHB hadn’t penetrated her system when she’d kissed him. She wiped her lips with the back of her forearm and took a sip of water. Prior to unconsciousness, Grady had talked up a storm. But then his eyes drooped. His speech slurred. Within a few minutes he stumbled. His remaining beer fell and splashed onto Jeff’s pillow, which Brianna found amusing. Couldn’t help but to laugh. Laughter was involuntary. In this moment, the misery of others was joyful. She enjoyed the thrill of being naughty. Everything that was bad was funny or thrilling and felt right. She experienced the now. Shoving Grady to the side of the bed, he moaned loudly. She worried that the drug would wear off early. To ensure that Grady was comatose, she slapped him.

  Nothing.

  She slapped him again.

  He farted.

  Good.

  He was out cold.

  She finished posing him in the chair when her lover’s footsteps clunked up the creaky wooden stairs. The noise grew louder as they continued down the hallway. Images of naked flesh melded with heightened sensations and anticipation while nerves fluttered in succession. Her heart beat rapidly. She was ecstatic. Wet. She shook. No patience, she wanted to be violated, do awful things. Any feelings of guilt had shed.

  The door creaked.

  “Did somebody ask for two studs?” Brock smirked like an idiot.

  Moronic statement, but Brianna smiled anyway. She removed her shirt then pulled her jeans off and said, “Now, bend me over the bed so that I can stare at my boyfriend while you two wreck me.”

  Brock grinned.

  Brianna knew that the pleasures she would soon experience would haunt her forever. “As you wish, dear.”

  Lance pushed past Brock and shoved Brianna toward the bed. She nearly fell on top of Grady.

  “Whoa, where did you come from?” Brianna smiled. She liked being shoved.

  “I didn’t tell you to talk,” Lance barked. He looked ashamed of himself, but when she laughed he slapped her. She turned to Brock who was lost. Clearly, he was conflicted.

  Would Brock tell his friend to stop?

  Or would he allow this abuse.

  Was abuse pleasure?

  Brianna hoped he would allow this abuse.

  He did.

  She nearly screamed when Lance slammed into her.

  “What kind of a dirty bitch cheats on her boyfriend with two scumbags?”

  Brianna remained silent until Lance smacked the back of her head with his palm. She twisted her head to look at him.

  Lance shoved her face into Grady’s chest and then pumped into her, hard.

  “Yes!” she screamed, pleasured, while struggling to breathe. Finally, after inhaling cheap cologne, sweat, and beer—as it wafted outward from Grady’s pores—she was able to breathe. Grady hardly budged when Brianna’s face slid across his perspiring chest.

  “You’re a dirty bitch?” Lance reiterated.

  “Yes,” she agreed. She was starting to feel degraded, but she enjoyed every measurement of her present situation.

  “Say that you’re a dirty bitch. Then tell Brock to walk around to the other side of the bed and stuff your filthy mouth.”

  She wondered how pathetic she looked while her head thumped forward into Grady’s ribs.

  She didn’t care.

  She enjoyed her fantasy of Lance. She quaked with pleasure by what he was doing. She thoroughly enjoyed being violated in the presence of her boyfriend.

  The lousy cuckold.

  If he only knew how wet she was.

  “Brock, walk around to the other side of the bed and stuff my filthy whore’s mouth.”

  Brock did as ordered. He stuffed her mouth. Held his member steady. Then thrust forward. Practically screaming, Brianna nearly fainted. In part, she was so turned that her heart rate had increased upward of healthy. On the verge of orgasm, she couldn’t contain this level of physical pleasure. In part, she nearly fainted for lack of oxygen.

  Brock laughed when Brianna gagged while he slid rapidly between her lips. Brianna spun. She wanted to focus on Lance’s reaction to Brock’s laughter. Immediately, she knew that Lance was unequivocally uninhibited. He’d let go and gone with.

  Brock was about to blow. He pulled out of her mouth, placed the head of his member over Grady’s face—above his cheekbone—and ejaculated.

  Brianna choked and choked and laughed and choked and laughed and choked more as the heavy load struck Grady’s forehead and then spilled down the side of his face.

  8

  The Killer was aware that he’d be subjected to this degree of degradation. He was prepared. His discipline was of the highest caliber. Being ejaculated on was a small price to pay for what he’d soon receive. In a few hours these people would experience a world of searing pain. These thoughts allowed him the patience to deal with this sexual abuse. The way Grady saw it, semen running down the side of his face bought Brock an extra hour of Hell on earth. In this moment, Grady—The Killer—decided that he would skin Brock Hill’s face off while forcing him look in the mirror. The image of Brock’s muscle covered skull chattering while capillaries and arteries spurted blood in every direction allowed for The Killer to remain patient. He was glad that he’d been able to swap out the beer laced with GHB.

  The clueless lovers exhausted their orgy when Brianna convulsed into grandiose orgasm.

  Grady pretended to snore and then rolled over and farted, an additional act to add credibility to his performance. Wait until they felt the experience he’d soon provide them.

  Then he lay silent and listened.

  “You two leave. I’ll stay here until he wakes up,” Brianna instructed.

  Grady had to bite his tongue. He wanted to laugh at Brianna’s two dead-as-fuck-loser friends.

  Their lives would end before the first light of tomorrow morning.

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Oh good, Grady thought. He’d lay with his girlfriend and enjoy her. Enjoy her the way he enjoyed women, so many women.

  He listened to Lance and Brock zip up. Soon after, they exited the room. Blaring music and drunken college students revving on intoxication past natural limitations drifted into the room. Then the door closed and it was only The Killer and Brianna.

  9

  “Let’s bolt.” Brock grabbed a half empty bottle of whiskey from the knoll post as he hit the last stair on his way to the first floor.

  “I’m worn out, man. I could use a nap,” Lance added.

  “What was up with you back there? I’ve never seen you take charge like that. You sinister bastard,” Brock laughed.

  I fucking hate this guy, Lance thought. He looked at Brock in an entirely different light. He couldn’t give a shit about Brock anymore. There was nothing left. If Brock were to slip on the ice and snap his neck, Lance would laugh.

  Brock didn’t give a shit about anything, why should he?

  “Felt good to boss that stupid bitch around.” Lance smiled.

  Involuntarily, Brock coughed whiskey all over a girl that had passed out on a cushioned chair in the living room. She didn’t move as the whiskey streamed down her neck and stained the rim of her blue sweater. This caused Brock to giggle like a small child. “Where the fuck did this guy come from?” Brock clapped Lance’s shoulder and pulled him toward the door. “That was fucking great.”

  “You don’t care that I’m talking about our friend like she’s some kind of a whore?” Lance antagonized. His laughter simmered to a chuckle.

  Lance buttoned his coat and stepped outside and onto the porch. The wind chilled his overheated body. Snow sifted heavily onto the town.

  “It’s fucking cold, huh?” a voic
e called out from behind Lance. He turned in search of the foreign call. He didn’t recognize the boy or the girl standing behind him. They were both attractive, in their mid-twenties—young, but a bit old to be college students.

  “Damn skippy,” Brock contributed.

  “Which way ya’ll headed?” the girl asked. She was cute. Yet, there was something different happening with her eyes. Her pupils were dilated. She was clearly high on some form of amphetamine. Meth was current and popular.

  “Home. You?” Brock asked. He glanced at the girl without concern for her male friend—probably her boyfriend.

  “Maybe your place. What do you think?” She placed her hands on her hips and curled her lips seductively.

  “Is she your girlfriend?” Brock asked the boy.

  “Hell no. She’s my cousin.” the boy said. “Take her home and give her a spin. All I ask is a couple of beers while you do your business.”

  “Cool.” Brock extended his arm to the girl. “What’s your name?”

  “You can call me Smiley.” She grinned and then shared an awkward smile with her cousin. Lance didn’t like the way these two strangers interacted, offsetting. The innocent comfort was lost.

  “I live on Seventh Street. Need somebody to bullshit with?” the boy asked Lance.

  Lance watched Smiley tug Brock into a short jog. Then he looked to the boy and said, “Yeah” The metal pipe tucked under the boy’s long sleeve slid downward into his grip. He swung. The apparatus cracked Lance upside the head. Skin tore jaggedly. The blow ended his consciousness.

  10

  Brock watched the metal pipe tear Lance’s face open. Blood painted the falling snow red, off the sidewalk. Thick blood spatter spread forward while Lance dropped to the ground.

  In one well-rehearsed action, Smiley stuck a syringe into Brock’s neck, but was unable to thumb the plunger.

  “Bitch!” Brock turned and punched the Smiley bitch in the face. Blood erupted from her nose.