Steamy Screams: Anthology of Erotic Horror

THE CLUB Brad Hunter

Bridgette stepped out of the glass shower; tendrils of steam followed her like ghostly hands, engulfing the tiny bathroom. She breathed deeply, exhaled, and wrapped a white towel around her glistening body; her pert thirty-four C breasts kept the cloth from slipping. Bridgette pushed her hair back, then swiped her palm across the cool glass of the mirror. The condensation vanished in a watery streak, revealing her pale, smooth face and…

Bridgette gasped; it was about all she had time to get out before a hand, clad in a leather glove, clamped firmly over her mouth, stifling any further noise. Staring wide-eyed into the mirror, she saw a hooded figure draw next to her ear, then felt his breath—hot and coarse—against her tiny hairs.

“You scream, you’re dead. You struggle, you’re dead. Understand?”

The instructions were simple. Bridgette nodded—as much as the firm grasp allowed. With the initial shock over, she tested her arms, they were bound tightly against her body by a thick, obviously male arm. Suddenly, with a quick, powerful move, her whole view changed. Bridgette was forced to bend at the waist, her head went down, cheek pressing hard against the porcelain counter; she grunted. At the same time, both her wrists were pulled back and behind her, bound by the attacker’s large hands.

“Agghh.” It wasn’t quite a scream, but she had to release the pain.

Holding both her slender wrists in a single hand, the man used his other hand to push Bridgette’s head harder into the countertop. “Shut the fuck up,” the voice hissed with venom.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m… ” the pleas turned into blubbering. The sobs seemed to bother the man and he gave a final hard push; Bridgette quieted down.

His hand untangled from her wet hair and head, and moved to Bridgette’s towel. He flipped the cloth up onto Bridgette’s back, exposing the cold, still wet skin of her behind. “No! No, please!”

The hand returned to her head, winding up a thick chunk of hair, then pressed her back into the counter. Her breath hitched against the force. The man used his feet to kick apart Bridgette’s legs. She almost slipped on the wet tile, which elicited another grunt of pain. The grunt was returned with further pressure to her skull. Feeling his point had been made, the hand released her hair.

It was hard to hear over the pounding of blood in her temples, but Bridgette was sure she heard the sound of a zipper. Then it was unmistakable as firm, hot flesh pressed itself up against the tender folds of her labia.

It was going to happen, finally; she’d let the hysteria build up in her and then released it in a stream of pleas. “No, no, no, stop! Please, stop!” Her voice was frantic and cracking.

The attacker ripped Bridgette’s arms upward in an unnatural manner. Her head slammed down against the porcelain, hard this time—a direct contrast to the simply firm pressure he’d applied before. Simultaneously, the attacker’s engorged member tore into her, searing her loins. She screamed in pain.

“Agggh! No, shit, stop. Please, God, make it stop!”

Suddenly all the pressure was gone and Bridgette found herself being pulled up and turned around. “I’m sorry, you ok?” the man said, removing the hood to reveal a slightly chubby, red-cheeked man. He put his hands on her shoulders, looking concerned.

“Goddammit, Walter!” Bridgette yelled. “Are you fucking serious?”

“I… I thought,” he stammered, cursing himself for blowing it. “I thought you were hurt. You sounded hurt.” He raised his eyebrows as if the statement would make sense and alleviate him of any failure.

“Of course, I was hurt,” Bridgette said, the volume leaving her voice. “That’s the point, Walter. I want to be hurt. I want to be pushed to the limit.” She stared into his eyes; her voice was disappointed, not angry. “You said you understood. You said this time would be different. I mean,” her voice started to rise again, “of course I need to yell. It makes it real. Yelling is normal in a rape fantasy. That’s why we have the safe words. What’s the safe word, Walter?”

“Apples,” he said, sheepishly, adverting his eyes.

“Apples, Walter,” she said, adjusting the towel to properly cover herself. He really wished she would stop saying his name. He felt like a poorly trained dog. “No one accidently says apples when they’re being hurt. That’s why we use it. If I want you to stop, I’ll say apples.” She breathed heavily as if it would release her stress and frustration. But it didn’t; alcohol didn’t work, food didn’t work, and deep breathing didn’t work. Bridgette knew what she wanted. “Apples,” she said one last time, opening the bathroom door and exiting into the bedroom.

“We can start again,” Walter said, struggling to the put the mask back on, following behind her, wanting desperately to please.

She squeezed her wet hair into the towel and sighed. It wasn’t his fault, really, he just didn’t get it. Not many people did. He volunteered because Bridgette was hot and he wanted action. But they weren’t a compatible match. So far she hadn’t found anyone that was. Even though Walter wanted to sleep with her, the desire alone wasn’t going to make him good at her fetish. “No, Walter. It’s ok.”

He winced at the sound of his name again.

“The mood’s kind of over. I just want to be alone.” She smiled, trying to be kind. She did feel bad about coming down on him so hard, he didn’t know that his second failure was actually the eighth time her role playing scenarios had failed.

“Ok,” he smiled. He took off the gloves and stuffed them, along with the mask, into his back pocket. “Call me, ok? See ya later.”

She waved him off knowing full well that Walter would not be getting a call.

Fifteen minutes later, Bridgette answered her cell. “Hello?” she said dejectedly.

“Oh, you answered. Not a good sign. Guess I don’t have to ask how it went,” Stacy, her friend from college, replied.

“Yeah, don’t bother, there’s not much to tell. Guess it’s frozen dinners alone tonight.”

“Screw that, girlie, there is still time for you to get your ass down here and make something of tonight,” Stacy shouted over the din of whatever club she was at.

“Where?” Bridgette asked with apprehension in her voice. She was not in the mood for clubbing. She was tired of looking for men. Tonight had been the icing on the cake. She didn’t even know what she wanted anymore. Obviously, the goal was a loving relationship. Who didn’t want that? But what was the point of a relationship when the sex always ruined it.

“I’m at Trans.” She strung out the syllables, hoping to entice her friend. “If you’re looking to find a replacement freak for the night, this is the place.”

Bridgette sighed on the inside. She hated that word, she wasn’t looking for a freak, and it bothered her that her own friend used the term. What was so wrong about what she was asking for anyway? People had all sorts of fetishes; why was hers such a turn off to the men she’d fallen for? Yes, Bridgette had fallen in love a few times, only to be crushed when it came to sexual encounters. Relationships were supposed to be built on trust, and when the men would finally ask: what can I do to make you feel great? She always told the truth, and it always backfired.

“You want me to pretend to rape you?” one had asked, astounded. “What is wrong with you? That’s a serious crime!”

“Look, I don’t know, Stacy. I’m tired.”

“It’s only 7:30,” she replied, her voice not as loud as before—she must have moved away from the music.

“No, not just tonight; I’m tired of this lifestyle. I’m thirty, I don’t want to go to bars and drink and dance all night looking for guys. We did that in college, it was fun, but…”

But what? She didn’t know; what did other people do for fun? Certainly there were better things she could be doing than drinking and searching for guys. At this stage, she was ready to resign herself to not being sexually satisfied ever again. After all, was it that important? She could just watch porn to fulfill her fantasies, that’s what other people did. It wasn’t like the whole world was getting off and it was just poor Bridgette that was the only person who couldn’t cum the way she wanted to.

“Oh, please! You just had a bad night, that’s all. You sound like you want to crawl into a hole and die. Jeez.”

“Well… ”

“Well, nothing,” Stacy cut her off. “I was gonna save this as a surprise for when you got here, but it seems to be the only way I’ll even get you here. I ran into someone; he’s the owner of a club that deals with, uh, how do we say, your fetish.

“A club? What are you talking about?”

“A sex club! It’s a long story; I use to know a girl who was in it. Loved it. You always reminded me of her. I would have given you her number, or the club’s number, but I haven’t heard from her in years. We just lost touch I guess.”

A club? Have I sunk to that? Bridgette thought. “I don’t think I’m the sex club type. That feels… ”

“What? Feels dirty? Hell, it’s safer than the schmucks you’re trying to train. These people are tested and protected; it’s a business. It’s got to be safer. Oh, hell, just get down here.”

Thirty minutes later, Bridgette was weaving her way through a sea of pulsating, sweaty bodies; men and women snaking around each other, gyrating to the constant boom of the bass music. Flashing lights swirled throughout the club, illuminating a cloud of smoke that hung about the revelers. Bridgette couldn’t understand the constant haze whenever she entered the club; smoking was only permitted outside and the light misting didn’t seem to come from any other source see could see—no fog machines. Just another oddity of Trans, like its many patrons.

The Goth and jubilant, mixing together. Women and women and men all holding hands—no judging. Triangles of meat, fondling on the couches that lined the walls of the club. Women in six-inch platform boots—laced to the knee—parading around in tutus, followed by men in latex. Piercings and tattoos. All shapes and sizes, and all types of fetishes. All were welcomed; no one judged at Trans. Everyone was sexy in their own way.

Yet Bridgette had never felt comfortable there, despite the supposed acceptance of all kinks. To her, these people were the freaks. Not because they were different. But because they hated the world of conformity; they so hated everything, that they dressed to the very pinnacle of outrageousness just to prove that they were different. To say: look at me! I live freely, I do what I want. As far as Bridgette was concerned, they were just as fake as any other clique she had encountered. She only ever came to this place because Stacy loved it, and of course, she got to people watch.

As she headed for the patio, Bridgette felt the dancers’ eyes on her. In the real world, the man in the dress would have been stared at, but here, in this upside down reality, it was her being stared at; in her plain black dress—although it showed much of her amazing cleavage—she was the odd man out, the freak.

She broke through the back walkway and into the night air, happy to leave the dancing throngs behind her. The music was reduced to a vibration under Bridgette’s feet and up ahead she saw Stacy getting extra friendly with a tall, skinny man wearing mascara.

“Bridge! You made it.”

Bridgette could practically taste the vodka coming off her friend’s breath. Damn, she’s already wasted. “Hey!”

“This is Robert,” Stacy said, introducing the make-up wearing man. They exchanged handshakes, and Stacy continued. “Ok, we’re all going to dance together, but before that, you have to meet this guy over—,” she turned, trying to locate him and suddenly the man was there.

Dressed in a dark gray suit, white shirt, and clouded in a storm of cigar smoke, the man extended his hand. “Ms. Todland,” the man said. “Your friend here has told me so much about you.”

“Oh,” Bridgette said, smiling. She took his hand, it was strong and his eyes were green and welcoming. “Only good stuff I hope,” she giggled.

“Of course.”

“Catch us on the dance floor when you’re done, Bridge.” And with that, Stacy left them to their business, dragging her new found interest back inside Trans.

“So, you work for the… uh, club?” Bridgette struggled.

“Yes.” The man produced a white business card with fine, raised lettering and handed it to Bridgette. “And I think we can help you.”

After the club, sleep did not come easily for Bridgette. She left early, and the few drinks she had at Trans did little to numb her mind before bed. Instead, she played through a million scenarios in her head, wondering what the right decision was.

The business card sat next to her phone on the bedside table while the man’s charisma and perfectly chosen words danced in her mind. More than five times she had picked up the phone, one time actually dialing five numbers before hanging up.

“We cater to no other kink than what women such as yourself desire, the man had said.”

“Really? I didn’t think there’d be enough demand for such a club.”

“You’d be surprised at how many women have fantasies such as yours. You’re really not alone, Bridgette,” the man had explained to her in a quiet corner table of Trans, far away from the throbbing music and sweating drunks.

“It feels like it sometimes,” she replied, suddenly feeling as if she were talking to a trusted friend. The man had a soothing presence about him.

“But you’re not. And you don’t need to feel ashamed. Our client list is extensive with women from all walks of life. Different ages, colors, & social status, but bound by one common sexual desire. A perfectly normal desire.”

A desire to be taken to the very brink of terror; bound and left helpless at the hands of a strong, commanding presence. But it was more than that. Yes, Bridgette, and women like her, pushed the limits, but it wasn’t for the pain necessarily. Some people got off on the pain alone, but Bridgette wasn’t one. It was more than the pain, although Bridgette could never really pin point it. Never really able to attach words or labels to it. Other people either got it or they didn’t.

Perhaps it was her rigid lifestyle since college; the professional world where she had to remain in control at all times, remain responsible and accountable to her bosses and customers. Maybe deep down she longed to lose all control, relinquish all responsibility to someone else. Or maybe it was the feeling that a man found her so beautiful, so sexy and perfect, that he was sure he was unworthy to approach her; the only way he could get with a woman like Bridgette sexually, was to physically take what he wanted. To ravish her the way he wanted, with no regard for her safety. But those were just theories, she really had no clue.

Bridgette had researched and found that some women accounted their rape fantasies to abuse or actual rape earlier in their life; these women learned that sex was suppose to be a forceful act and grew to embrace the violence of sex. But Bridgette had never been abused, which left her with more questions. And in the end, there was no one answer. No certain explanation.

But the man was right; she wasn’t alone. Whether it could be explained or not, many women had rape fantasies. And whether right or wrong—part of her knew there had to be a screw loose within her; it couldn’t be healthy to want to be harmed—she needed it.

The night’s conversation replayed over and over in her mind while Bridgette tried to sleep.

Too many choices; the ache between her legs cried to be filled. Bridgette’s hair begged to be pulled again and her mouth violated and gagged. And before she realized, the phone was in her hand, and her fingers were walking easily across the buttons.

There was no cost to women to join. She gave her consent that this was what she wanted and she understood what the club was. After the call there was nothing to do but wait. There was no set time. That aspect bothered her slightly.

But that was the thrill, wasn’t it? What she wanted; the total relinquishment of power. Never knowing where or when it would happen, pushing the boundaries till they nearly broke. And she was finally going to get what she wanted.

And with this knowledge, Bridgette lay in bed, trying her best to stay occupied and not focus on the one burning question that lingered on her mind: when would it happen?

The night passed without incident. And the following morning, Bridgette was early to wake, the weight of her decision pulling her from any possible slumber.

Before even being able to register the pre-dawn haze just starting to filter past the blinds, Bridgette thought of what she had done. Joined a sex club. The words still didn’t feel like her.

Perhaps she was wrong to judge the freaks at Trans, she wondered. Maybe they truly did accept who they were, maybe they were free, just like they said. They had no illusions of what they were. But Bridgette seemed to have mixed feelings about herself; torn between what she wanted and what she felt she was or wasn’t.

And now, before the sun had barely peaked over the horizon, she didn’t feel horny anymore. She wasn’t intoxicated by the liquor and the charming words or the club’s salesman.

“I’ll call,” she said to the empty room. “Simply cancel.”

She wiped the sleep from her eyes, rolled over and reached for the phone on the nightstand. The plastic receiver felt cold against her ear, but even colder, and more disarming, was the silence from the device. She reached over farther and depressed the switch hook with her fingers, released and waited. Still no dial tone. Dead. Her cell phone was in the kitchen charging and—

The gloved hand clamped over her mouth—hard. Her eyes went wide with panic, but before she could move on her own, her body was being turned over—tangled deep within the bed sheets—and she was on her stomach. A body moved on top of her, crushing her further into the mattress.

Déjà vu briefly as she felt hot breath against her ears. The body on top of her was grinding deeper into her, working its knee between her legs. The breathing intensified.

Walter?

The hand on her mouth was clothed in black leather. The steam building in her ear and the pulsating against her backside finally did it; slowly Bridgette’s fear began to melt away. Moist excitement began to build.

Was it Walter, or was this what she had joined for? Really, it didn’t matter. Either way, she was about to get taken, about to get fucked.

Over the heavy panting, she could barely hear the twang of a spring releasing its metal blade, but she heard his voice. “This is what you wanted, you fucking whore. Don’t think about resisting or I’ll make this hurt.”

Her body tightened slightly, the voice scared her, but it didn’t stop her juices from continuing to seep in the bed. It only heightened her anxiety over whether the man was Walter or not. The man was talking too gravelly—on purpose—to be clearly recognized.

Suddenly, the sheet was being cut away from her tangled legs. His hands released her throat, but he continued to keep her pinned with his body weight. Even with her mouth free, Bridgette didn’t scream. She thought about calling out apples, just to stop the charade and see who it was, but that would ruin the moment—and so far she hadn’t been able to enjoy a proper role play yet—, so she remained silent. A strip of bedding went over her eyes, tied tight at the back. Now blindfolded, the man pulled her arms back and bound the wrists in the same manner.

The position was not comfortable, but it wasn’t the kind of pain she’d experienced the other night when Walter pulled her arms backwards. Perhaps he was learning, or perhaps she had made a great decision joining the sex club.

The man was strong, in just a few seconds he was off Bridgette and flipping her onto her back. Hands went around her ankles, she felt herself skidding across fabric, and then nothing. Her ass was free in the air for a split second, her stomach tightened and then she fell. Bridgette let out a grunt as her behind connected with the floor; the blade was suddenly against her neck, cold and hard.

She pressed her back into the side of the bed.

“You have such a pretty mouth,” the mystery man rasped. The next sound Bridgette heard from behind her blindfold was the metallic zipper of blue jeans. A part of her wanted to reach out and grab the man’s bulge, feel its heat and weight in her hands, take her time and please him. But she didn’t dare move. He was in control, and that was what she truly wanted; she would feel him soon enough.

And feel it she did. Warm flesh rubbing smoothly over her lips. Bridgette clenched down as the man tried to slide his cock into her mouth, blocking his entrance. He pushed his rod twice more against her teeth. Bridgette held.

We’ll see how good this guy really is, she thought.

Suddenly the tender flesh was gone and back was the cold steel, this time against her cheek, and a strong hand. The hand forced her mouth open. “There we go. And you better play nice.” The blade tapped lightly against her check, “Or else I’ll give you a new smile.”

The hand and blade left as the man stood up, Bridgette could see the faintest of shadows through her blindfold. She knew it was coming and braced herself just before he plunged himself into her waiting mouth.

Bridgette heard him groan as his thick shaft slid further back into her mouth. He was long and she felt herself start to gag, she tried to bring her hands forward, then realized they were bound behind her. She let her head lean back until it was against the bed, but still he pushed, cutting off all air. Bridgette gagged again, and he slowly pulled out; saliva fell from her mouth and clung in long strands to his rock hard cock.

“You’re gonna learn to deep throat.”

With those words he was back inside her, not too deep though, still comfortable. Bridgette relaxed her throat, and focused on the man’s grunts and moans. She focused on the way his warm cock throbbed inside her mouth. The thoughts made her wet.

When he plunged deeper again, she swallowed him greedily. Taking his thick meat down into her throat, Bridgette massaged his shaft with the muscles of her esophagus. He gripped the sides of her head by her hair and pushed further. The cartilage of her nose pressed against his strong abdomen. He cried out and Bridgette braced herself for the onslaught of sticky cum, but there was nothing. With another cry he wretched himself free and picked her up. He turned her and bent her over the side of the bed.

With one swipe, he cut away the thong Bridgette wore to bed, exposing her backside, moist and vulnerable, to him. He leaned forward and stuffed the panties, wet with her own juices, into Bridgette’s mouth and tied another strip of bed sheet around both her head and mouth. Suddenly, Bridgette felt unsure. A hand over the mouth was ok. You could bite and give the safe words. Now she was gagged.

She tried to speak, to explain, but only muffled sounds escaped. The man leaned over her, his large cock pressing against the skin of her inside thigh. “Can’t have you screaming.”

The man grabbed the top of her hair and pulled her head back, simultaneously ramming himself into her tight hole. Bridgette was well lubricated with her own desire, but she was unprepared for the brute force of the man. She cried out against the cloth in her mouth.

He leaned over her again, cock placed firmly inside her, “This is what you wanted, you dirty whore, remember?”

This isn’t Walter.

Her pussy relaxed as he pulled out, but the relief was short lived. She was doubly unprepared for the pain as the man tore into her ass. Her natural juices, still slick on his penis, were not enough to quell the pain and she cried out repeatedly. Her attempts at safe words did not deter the man. She tried to push the gag off with her tongue, no use. Suddenly, she no longer wanted to be tied up, she didn’t want to be at anyone’s mercy or push the thresholds of pain and pleasure. She wanted to be back in bed, alone, safe.

She kicked back with her legs trying to strike the man, and then the knife was back to her throat, but it wasn’t threatening this time; it was slicing! The pain in her torn anus was muted as the blade drew across her flesh, severing skin. Warm blood began to flow down her neck. Bridgette froze with terror, not even trying to speak. The man pulled out of her and flipped her over. Weak and shocked, she slid off the bed, back into the position she maintained when he had violated her mouth.

Bridgette felt dizzy as the warmth continued down her throat, staining her white undershirt. Her only thoughts were from her friends and family.

Forget what you think you want, really think about it. What kind of a man would want to role play that way with you?

What kind of a person pretends to rape? It’s not just a sexy game. If they could pretend such a thing, they could actually do it. And if they could do that, what else are they capable of?

Not safe at all.

The blindfold was cut away and Bridgette stared into dead eyes surrounded by a black leather mask.

It wasn’t safe, she agreed. She didn’t even have the last pleasure of seeing his face. Not that it would have mattered. He was a monster, the mask only helped to hide his ugliness. But perhaps she was ugly, too. Damaged.

“Don’t pass out yet,” he rasped. “You thought I fucked your throat before, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

With endorphins rushing to the site, Bridgette barely felt pain as the man slid his cock into the bloody slit he carved into her throat. She felt pressure though as her cartilage began to crack, bloating as blood and trapped air bubbled. She faded to blackness just as the man pulled out and sprayed her face with loads of blood and semen.

“You got just what you wanted.” He whispered in her cold, dead ear. “And so did I.”

“Thank you, Mr. Black. I trust you enjoyed our pick.”

“Yes, perfect. Well worth the club dues. I sometimes ask myself why I pay so much to be a member and then, well, it’s mornings like these that remind me.”

The phone call ended and the charming man from Trans made a second call. “We need a clean-up crew at 1 Lexington Ave. The client is done.”

The man hung up the phone pleased with himself. He had created another perfect match. He only briefly wondered if the women—the thrill seeking, promiscuous women—, longing for the next high, found it when the client was through. They asked him for the roughest sex imaginable, they played with their lives on a daily basis; would this thrill be enough? Enough loss of control for them? Did his club push the boundaries enough for them? If death couldn’t provide it, then nothing would.