AREA 47

SECTION 89:

COURTNEY, Chapter 31

It was like the gentle tickling of an insect, crawling across the inside of her elbow.  Had her arm been floating a moment before?  Coming sluggishly half-awake, Courty reached her other hand over to her left arm, and felt a minor surface pain there.

As Courtney opened her eyes, she caught the impression of someone leaving; just a shadow of movement, a door closing, the door being latched.

She was lying on her back on a small, firm bed.  A deep, heavy rumbling of engines, and the mild bumping and rolling of the whole room . . . A boat?  Or a yacht?  She could smell something or feel something in the air that indicated the sea.  Salt water.

There was only a low light on in the small room, or cabin, behind her.  Courty’s left contact had somehow slid almost completely off the pupil to the side.  She
repositioned it over the pupil where it belonged.  But her right contact lens was completely missing.  For a moment, she imagined that it had slid all the way around to the back of her right eyeball, but that was silly.

Waking up was like pouring cold molasses out of the jar.  She raised her head up for a moment, and found that she was too exhausted to get up from the bed.  She was still wearing the dress from . . .

The black cashmere strapless skimp’s flyaway circle skirt.  Her black high-heels were not on her feet, and her sheer pantyhose felt twisted to the side.  But her fluorescent, multi-colored 18”-long gloves and matching necklace baubles were gone.  Then she remembered that she had given them away.

Her fingers felt over the ring finger, but of course she had taken the engagement ring off to put on the gloves.

Memories were indistinct flickerings, teasing . . .

The cabin’s patterned ceiling was very low.  Seven feet?

The beginning of an affectionate smile, as Courtney was somehow reminded of the biography of her black cashmere dress.  Perhaps it was the criss-cross curlicue patterns on the ceiling here, so similar to that modeling room . . .

Reed was as romantic as a rock.  His long stay in The City was virtually giftless, except for an occasional sentimental trifle.  Then, late one Saturday morning, he had taken her to, of all places, Yonkers, and whisked her into Alladin’s Scamp.  Why there, she didn’t know, but after observing her ooohs and aaaahs at all the lovely fashions——he suddenly and obstinately refused to allow her to leave until she spent a minimum of $50,000 dollars, there, in that dress shop.  He wanted to buy her a few things.  In a rare treat, a shopping splurge, a fashion frenzy——where she started out skittish and embarrassed, modeling the juicy tidbits in front of Reed——she had found herself getting into it, gathering energy, finally whirling around like a featherweight glamourpuss; buying things she usually only wore for a few hours.  She had quickly ran up a bill upwards of $170,000——OOPS!  But he hadn’t seemed to mind, and had casually tossed down the little credit card and opened his identification with a smile.  Gee.  She didn’t know platinum cards had limits that high!

But that was Reed for you: Romantic as a rock crashing through her bedroom window, a love poem tied to it with blue ribbon; perhaps not much class, but a heck of a lot of style.

Rapidly, she was feeling stronger, so she sat up, and scrunched around, straightening her pantyhose.  Had someone just given her a shot?  There was a smear of blood on the inside of her left elbow.  She fingered the skin there, and a tiny dot of fresh blood appeared!  She closed the elbow on itself.  She was feeling much better now, so quickly that she could feel the weariness seemingly fall off her body, and the mists of indistinct thoughts sharpen.  A few pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were fitted in place.  Still, she couldn’t quite remember what she was doing here, or even where here was.

Peach had spearheaded the evening, in her skintight see-through cellophane dress with strategically placed, opaque eye-popping polka dots.  The trumped-up man-eater had led Liz and Courtney through the thrill-a-minute, champagne forever clique-clusters of fashionites.  Liz managed to look radiant and waiflike, and stayed beside Courty throughout the club-hopping; Peach finally disappearing with a frosty dude to check out the erogenous zones.  Courty was no longer the New York club scene’s girl-of-the-minute; it was now a boy: drag queen opera singer, Mr. Lint.  Although, Courty kept having a demented fantasy that the world was being consumed by salvos of exploding nuclear missiles, as flashbulbs kept popping off in her face . . . perhaps she had been promoted: girl-of-the-hour?  Publicity-hungry actors throwing themselves into the picture just before the flash: “Oh, but I belong in the photo with Courty!”  Fame-fame people cuddling up to Courty to promote their style, following her around like mediagenic photo-hungry disciples, vying for camera angles with their deviate-glitter pic appeal.  And the idiotic questions the party photogs kept asking as they followed her around!  What did she know about Wars or Foreign Aid!?  Gawwwwwwwd.  Had she really said that we should send the earthquake victims in Peking dingleberrys?  That America could end the Israel/Arab Union War by air-dropping both sides AcuJacs?

Amazingly enough, Liz and Courty intersected the party paths of Eric Des Barres & bodyguard Phil, who adhered to the ladies like Krazy-glue.  Playboy Eric was sang-froid, but about as subtle as a designer condom, continuously offering the girls champagne, which they had eventually accepted.  They had been discussing transportation to a ‘nuts-to-butts’ party across town . . . after that, Courty’s memories fuzzed out.  It was very odd.  Had they left together?

Wait . . . she remembered fainting, collapsing onto the hard sidewalk.  It was outside in the night, with a lot of people walking past her, the wind blowing, a flashing pink neon light so bright and beautiful . . . She remembered . . . Liz, deeply worried, bending over her, her hands so hot against her forehead, and Eric, the look on his face, he could have dropped the Titanic . . .

Strange.  That was it.  That was as far as her memories went.

She stood up beside the bed, and immediately almost fell over, as a surge of dizziness came and went.  She caught herself on the bed and moved more slowly.  Having only one eye that could see with clarity was disorientating.  She closed her right eye for a few moments, and looked around.  She could not see her black micropurse.  This was definitely some kind of moving boat.  The cabin was tiny, about 12’xl5’, with a low ceiling.  Two small drapes on the right wall beside the bed.  She tried to look out, but the circular glass was absolutely black, painted or covered from the outside, and there was no opening mechanism.  She tried the other one on the same side, with the identical result.  There was just the bed in the cabin, no drawers or end tables or any other furniture; of course, there wasn’t much space for anything.  One low intensity light, attached to the headwall above the bed.  Headwall?  That would be . . . bulkhead.  Something else, attached to a flexcable sticking out high on the bulkhead; it looked sort of like one of Reed’s microphones.  Courty noticed that at each of the four corners of the low ceiling, there were what looked like built-in lights.  Some kind of identical apparatus at each of the four corners.

Courty had to go to the bathroom.  What do they call them on boats?  Heads?  She noticed her high-heels down on the floor at the foot of the bed, but she thought she’d better not put them on until she felt a little better.

As she moved toward the door to the cabin, she could hear the locking mechanism click, the door opened——swinging outward——and a formidably large man slowly entered.

“Hello, do you have a ladies room, or a head, that I can use?”

There was something strange about his face, that took Courtney a moment to recognize.  It was all flattened out, incredibly ugly.  He ignored her question.

As he moved into the cabin toward her, she realized that it was a woman’s nylon pulled over his face.  He stepped on one of her high-heels, not seeing it, stumbled a little, and kicked them both into the far corner.

A second man came in behind him.  He also had a nylon over his head.

The first man in, grabbed her right arm, and pushed her slowly onto the bed.

“Wait!  What . . .”

Another man grabbed her left arm, so that Courty was pulled helpless to the center of the bed.  Four men, big, pressing in upon her, two of them roughly holding her; all of them with their faces smeared ugly and indistinct.

A raw animal panic!  It grabbed her and took hold of her savagely like two giant hands squeezing the air out of her!

They moved so slowly, so ploddingly.  A fifth man was standing outside with a black hood over his head.

“What is this?”

Light blasted bright from the four corners of the ceiling.

“What do you Want?!”

The man holding her from the left started laughing.  It was a sinister laugh; slow, ragged.

“Scream,” the tallest form said, standing hunched over at the foot of the bunk.  A dare, or an order.

Courty held her head high, breathing very fast.  Silent.  Her eyes looking everywhere, squinting into the glare.  Everything was so bright, an impossible, unnecessary amount of interior light, all focused on her.  Now it was hard to make out more than the shadows of the men standing around her.

One of the men was Black, thin, so thin there was almost nothing there, his tiny arm muscles glistening and flexing as he got on the bunk between her legs; he touched his hand along her left leg, feeling her up a little.

“Hey, I’m first!” one of them objected.

“Hang cool, Chuck, I ain’t doin’ nothin’.”

His hands stopped feeling her thighs, and then reached up, going inside the top of her dress.  His horrible smile, stretched back tight against his face, speaking, “I want yo’ white cunt!”  Slowly, dragging the moment out, he pulled the top of her dress down, exposing Courty’s bosom.

Behind him, Courty could see the shadowy shapes of the men, moving, bringing some equipment into the room.

“Just fuckin’ wait, Matthew!” one shouted.

The thin man ignored the order, and held her left breast, fingering the nipple with his thumb.

As quick as she could, Courty pulled her right leg between them, jammed her foot against his chest and shoved him away from her with all her strength.

It was so unexpected, that he fell back against the man behind him, causing that man to drop something he was holding.  “Fuck!” he shouted angrily.

The men nervously laughed.  The two men holding her thought it was funny.  Even the Black man cackled as he picked himself up.  “Sorry, man,” he said to the guy he had bumped into.

“Why me?!” Courty shouted at them.  “Why are you doing this?  Why?”  She was clenching her fists tight, every muscle in her body shivering, twitching in extreme fear.

They didn’t answer, they just seemed to be waiting for something.  The fifth man was holding a portable floodlight in his hand, with his back to Courty as he fussed with the equipment.  As he turned around, Courty could see a TV over there.  The light from his hand illuminated a corner object for a second as he swung it around: it looked just like one of Vlad’s videocameras on a narrow tripod assembly.  He pointed the hand-held flood at her, and she could see the vague outline of the camera under it; the image on the color TV was her, as he brought it closer to her, pointed and focused.  Two videocameras . . .

Oh God.

Courty went limp, as a crushing despair overcame her.  She wanted to wail, but she was so overpowered that she couldn’t even cry.

I’m a snuff film.

They were going to abuse her in every way possible . . . and then kill her . . . for the pornographic electric eye.

She felt an awful melancholy over lost possibilities.  Life had been so sweet, so blessed with glorious potential, stretching out in front of her, a superhighway to fulfilled promises.

In a moment, a few hours, it would all be over.  A supernova of pain, and degradation.

Tears welled up in her eyes, overflowed, and Courtney cried silently.

Her face quivered, her mouth contorted.

The terrible bright lights, in her eyes . . . the cabin was too small for six people, it would have been too small for six friends!

She felt them thrust up her dress, heard them gloating, felt their terrible presence as something that had already raped her.  Crude hands, grabbing her everywhere.  Her pantyhose was peeled down, gliding off of her legs.  She could feel her muscles tightening, steeling themselves for the impending onslaught; her emotions were shrieking, agonizing, a horror that escalated with every grope at her flesh.

The two men continued to hold her while a third mounted her.

They first pulled her down to the bed, the bright light of the hand-held camera shoved hot and close to the left of her face.  Her rapid, panicky breath was spitting tears off her lips, which had streaked down her face.  She could see where her spits were clinging to the nylon tightly smearing his gloating face, inches from her face.

His hands were all over her!  She was a knot!  A tight ball of muscles, all working against each other.  She opened her mouth to cry or to scream, but nothing came out.  Not a peep.  Nothing.

Then the other men were holding her legs apart, laughing, urging the big man on.

His hand was down between her legs, tearing into her vagina, pawing her intimate flesh.

“Aaaaagh!”  It was an intense cutting pain.  “No!  Wait!”  Her voice was choked, grunting.  “Aaaagh!”  She squirmed, desperately trying to move away, throwing her body from side to side, fighting against the hands holding her.

“What a passionate bitch!” she dimly heard one of the men say.

What was he DOING down there??  She could feel his fingers penetrating her——and yes, that hurt, a dull brutality——but her clitoris was an acute pain,
hypersensitive, a pierce of unbearable agony!  He was sandpapering her clitoris, he was squeezing it with tweezers!!

She screamed three short furious cries, wrenching her body, fighting with every muscle to move even a fraction of an inch, to relieve even a little of the torture!

“Nnnnnnnugh!  Uh.  Oh, Ple——Uuugh!!  PLEASE!  Stooooooogh!!”

The more she fought, the more she thrashed around, the more excited they became; she could See it, Feel it!  They were a pack of Animals!

When he stopped trying to excite her, removed his hand, held his penis and inserted that into her flesh, plunging inside of her vagina, then IN-OUT-IN-OUT-IN-OUT, quick short thrusts . . . the actual moment of rape was experienced with a kind of horrified relief.  The pain was so much less.  Almost endurable.

“Fuck her RAW, man!”

“Hah!  Give her that pipe!”

The one with the camera moved around to get a different angle.

The man ejaculated after about seven or eight seconds inside of her, she could see it, feel it in his body, but though he faltered, and she watched an ugly squished grimace contort his face under his nylon mask, he continued thrusting.  One of his hands grabbed a fistfull of Courty’s hair, behind her neck, and pulled it down, a harsh painful jerk that forced her to turn her head up.  He was holding his face close to hers, rubbing her forehead with his face, breathing, grunting at her: “You’re so tight.  You’re so hot.  You’re so tight.  Hot.”  His breath smelled like old beer and rotting food, like he had never brushed his teeth in his life.

After about a minute and a half, he pretended to orgasm, groaned, and dumped his still weight upon her.

He got up on his knees, and then put both his hands on her breasts, squeezed and pulled at her flesh.

“Come on.  Come ON!”

“Alrigh’,” he growled and got off of her.

The guy with the camera came around for some close-ups of her spread genitals.  Held helplessly, spread-eagled, her right leg worse than that, held far up, bent way up almost touching her arm as the Black man stroked all along her calf and thigh.  Her vagina felt like a hot, mushy, dreadful . . . thing.  She was not sexually excited.  She was sexually . . . functional.  Her vaginal secretions were apparently flowing.  A little.  But that was IT.  She was not aroused: frightened, abused, hurt, sexually used, and lubricating; but not aroused.  She felt numb, and she knew she was in shock.

The cameraman had thin, white hands, with manicured fingernails, that Courty noticed as he whispered something to the man holding her right arm; something that made him let go of her.  “Alright guys,” he said, “strip.  Let’s show this babe some stiff dicks.”  He punched the guy holding her right leg, in his shoulder.  “Let her go.  She ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

They all released her, and started taking their clothes off, while the cameraman continued to do close-ups of her nearly naked body.  Her black cashmere dress was all bunched together around her waist.

Courty’s arms and legs were sprawled spread-eagled exactly as they had been released.

What am I supposed to be: demure?

The thought of moving her body or trying to hide her private parts was so pointless that she just remained where she was.  Social conventions were gone.  There was no more society, no more refined culture, codes of behavior, ever again for her.  This was back to the jungle.

Her bladder was uncomfortably full.  The idea of asking politely to go to the bathroom was such abysmal black humor that she snorted.

She could see the thin Black man, completely naked except for the nylon over his head, his large penis sticking straight out.  On the other side of her, the naked brown man there, his uncircumcised penis even larger, pointing nearly vertically as he stroked it slowly, obscenely, with one hand.

Courty tried to urinate right then and there.  But she just could not relax the muscle.

The cameraman did not undress.  Producer?

The man who jumped on her next had not stripped, he still wore his shirt and his underwear, as he crawled on top of her, and began to play with her flesh.  He was either not erect, or he was very small, and he hadn’t bathed in weeks, he was all greasy, with a rank, foul odor.  She just lay there, almost without feeling, as his hands touched her everywhere.  He cupped her breasts, roughly caressed her thighs, rubbed his nylon covered face against hers, lay down and rubbed his whole body against hers.  This wasn’t happening to her, it was happening to someone else . . .

A strange thought came to her then; that they needed some better dialogue.  They were just standing around, like they were embarrassed or uncomfortable or something.  She snorted again, thinking that she should offer her services as a scriptwriter.  Also, the movie was sure to turn out poorly: they didn’t know anything about lighting.  The video image was going to be all washed out.  If they would just give her half an hour, she could reposition the floodlights for better contrast and go to the bathroom.

“Feel somethin’ BITCH!” the man on top of her yelled.  “FEEL Somethin’!”  He slapped her face, HARD, a blast of pain that made her see stars, and he grabbed her shoulders and shook her violently.

“Hey!”

One of the other guys seemed to be trying to restrain him, but he shrugged him off.  “Don’t worry!” he yelled angrily at the guy.  He backed off of Courty.

“Come here, you CUNT!”  He grabbed a fistfull of her hair and pulled her toward him, forcing her sit up and crawl on her hands and knees to the bottom of the bunk.

“Aaa!”  Her hand caught on the dress around her waist and she fell forward, but he just hauled her up by her hair, toward him.  “Aaaaogh!”

“Use the persuader, man!” someone shouted.

“I don’t need that bullshit!” he yelled.  He pulled off his underwear, and then grabbed Courtney’s head and pulled her face down to his genitals.  “Suck my dick, CUNT!  And suck it GOOD!  They’ll be a test later!  Hahh hahh!”

He was not erect.  His hairy testicles hung down long and low, like a balloon with all the air sucked out of it that held two large marbles at the bottom.  His penis was a stub, a short two-incher that seemed to have shrunken inside of him, hiding behind the pubic hair.  It was a villainous smell.  The glare and heat of the portable floodlight was in her face, so close she could hear the electric whir of the zoom mechanism on the camera.  Behind her, she could feel other hands feeling up her vagina, roughly rotating the flesh around her clitoris.  Once again, it was a pinpoint of hypersensitivity, untouchably sensitive, like the stab of a burning knife into her that twisted and thrust.

“Aaaaagh!”  She tried to wiggle, to move her hips away, but she was caught, held at that end, as the man in front of her pulled her face and rubbed her mouth against his filthy genitals.  As she cried in pain, “Aaagh-uthmmmuh,” the oozing penis slipped into her mouth, touching her tongue with an abominable retch!

Angrily, Courty gobbled the penis into her mouth, sucking voraciously, drawing it far back into her throat——she took an Amazonian BITE, reached her hands up and pushed with all her strength against his stomach, gnashing and grinding her teeth savagely!!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!”

Courty spit out the awful bloody something, and violently kicked around with her left leg, hitting something with her foot that stopped the agony.

As the man screamed, she could see the bright crimson blood-bath, flowing over his testicles, streaking down his hairy thighs, dripping——

His fist bashed into her face!

. . . the universe was spinning out of control, the men around her, like passengers going NUTS in an out-of-control airplane caught in a tailspin, her nose was a wet eruption of pain, her eyes, twin gushing rivers blinded by light——her tear ducts were emptying EVERYTHING——she was on her back on the bed, raising up, touching her face, her hand coming away slick with blood, blood and tears dripping back along her head, and as she raised up, down onto her bosom; in her mouth, a squeamish tickle of pubic hairs, little bloody bits that she sputtered out with disgust.

Three men were fighting, naked scuffling, and yelling; the Black man: a nude hyena of unending laughter.

“No marks, you fuck!”

“Look what she fuckin’ did to me!!”

“No Marks!”

“Look what she fuckin’ did to me!!”

“I don’t give a fuck!”

“Look what she fuckin’ did to me, I’m gonna kill that cunt!!”

One of them yelled in pain, and all three of them went down, hitting the wall, and then fighting down on the carpet.  As they fell, they knocked the corner tripod, and it toppled, destroying that videocamera with a crash.

Louder than their yelling, was the shrill, trumpet-blast roar of Black laughter!

Stumbling and faltering, blind with tears and determination, Courty crawled off the bed and scrambled over the fighting men, and tried to escape out the open door.  A hand made a grab for her——the cameraman!  But she was slick with blood and tears, and slipped free, out of balance, hitting her head on the doorway, but making it through.  She tried to close the door on them, hoping that it might lock; she grabbed it and swung it fast, but as she slammed it shut, four fingers from inside got caught in the frame.  The man yelled.  She threw all her weight against the door, banging her shoulder into it, HARD.

A fresh yell of agony!

The door was then pushed open, Courty’s bare feet, slippery with blood and tears, slipped back on the wood floor out there, and she fell on her hands and knees, as the cameraman pushed the door open, and stood there above her.  His fingers were crushed, bleeding, bent backwards.

Courty could see that she was on a small yacht, it was daylight above the companionway steps behind her.  The men were still fighting inside, trying to control the man she had de-penised.

She screamed as loud as she could.  “HELP!  I’M BEING RAPED!  For God sake HELP!”  And she screamed again.

COURTNEY, Chapter 32
 

Copyright 2005 Area 47