Enter
Dane rubs the back of his neck, missing the dark bruise by a millimeter. I’ve become fixated on the purple blotch, thinking what an awkward place it is for a hickey.
What were we doing?
Oh, yeah; I was taking him from behind with Strapless Stella while he buried himself inside René. It’s all coming back to me: the taste of salty skin between my teeth as I shuddered with the orgasm brought on by her good vibrations. By “her,” I mean Strapless Stella, my favorite dick. I also remember locking eyes with René as she got close and dug her nails into Dane’s back so deep she drew fresh blood as well as opened old wounds.
I can see her eyes reflected in the rearview mirror, but they’re fixed on the road.
Saturnal’s cover of “Samhain” is blaring through the speakers on full blast, as if it’s meant to put our minds at ease with their signature ambient style that makes it feel like you’re floating. I don’t know about them, but it’s not really working on me.
“What time do they close?” I yell over the music.
“They’re open until morning, I think,” René says, dialing down the volume.
“Six to six!” Dane chimes in.
“Oh, yeah. Of course!” I say, “It starts at six. But, it makes sense they’d be open all night.”
I’m rambling.
Can they tell?
I was the one who pushed them into this, after all.
We stop at a red light, and I feel my heart drum against my sternum when I spot the poster on a telephone pole:
Dance Macabre Manor ’69! Open Monday, Wednesday, Friday & Sunday. From 6 pm – 6 am. All of October. Scan the B-tag to book a spot! Exact location will be disclosed after booking.
The poster’s design is deceptively ordinary, with a bright moon looming on the horizon of a red sky, casting silhouettes of a gothic castle and dead trees with branches that reach upward like spindly, grappling fingers. A cloud of bats rounds off the utterly unassuming and typical ‘Halloween Event’ poster. When I say ‘deceptively ordinary,’ I mean ‘deceptively ordinary for what goes on in DMM’ – or ‘Dimm,’ as we call it.
When I look back at the rearview mirror, her eyes are on me. I force a smile.
“You guys ready for this?” she asks.
It’s like a weight is lifted out of the pit of my stomach now that I can finally say it:
“Kinda nervous, ha-ha.”
The silhouette of the three-story mansion towers before us against the moonlit night sky. Darker windows stare us down as if to augment and crystallize my growing trepidation. The only light visible from outside comes from the lobby and reception downstairs.
“Woah,” Dane lets out absent-mindedly and pulls the door handle, seemingly in slow motion.
A silence envelopes us, a silence haunted by the echoes of blood-curdling screams and possessed laughter from within the remodeled warehouse.
I’m just about ready to pee my pants.
Am I about to chicken out?... No – fuck that!
Dane turns to me with a look that mingles disbelief and amusement.
“Harper … the fuck have you gotten us into this time?” he asks.
I merely chuckle – what can I say?
“I mean,” my voice feels light and shallow, “we filled out the contracts and everything. It’ll be fine!”
“Well,” René says, “I am so fucking psyched for this. Babe, if you want to sit this one out, that’s OK.”
“Yeah, it’s not like we’re gonna torment you over it for the rest of your life,” I quip, trying to sound as brave as René, or asserting my dominance over Dane … I dunno … trying to act tougher than I feel right now.
René and I laugh while Dane sighs, palm covering his eyes.
“Fine!” he says, “I just hope you guys know that once we go in, there’s no turning back.”
“Of course, we can turn back if it looks dodgy in the lobby or something,” I say.
“Like that’s not gonna be embarrassing!” he snaps back, “Ever get to the front of the line at a waterslide and chicken out? And then have to walk back and pass everyone while they ‘boo’ you?”
“What are you so worried about?” René asks, her voice tinged with callous amusement, “Your whole existence revolves around being a little pain slut. I’m sure you can take it!”
I sigh. If anyone in our trio is the least cool with pain, it’s me. But I didn’t sign up for pain. I signed up for ropes, water-inflation, CNC… fuck.
The lobby takes up as little space in the building as possible, with just enough ceiling height to accommodate the larger-than-life portraits of characters featured in the house tour: ‘The Butcher,’ ‘The Gyno,’ and ‘The Baphomet,’ on the left, and ‘The Sorceress,’ ‘The Necrophile,’ and ‘The Succubus’ on the right.
The Baphomet is without question the most striking of the lot, with its huge, pendulous tits, fully erect monster cock, realistic goat head bearing two sets of horns, and a pair of muscular, furry legs complete with hooves.
The butcher, ironically, makes me think of a giant pig. His big belly is the center focus of the portrait, with the black latex apron stretching tautly over it so it seems perpetually on the verge of tearing.
Horrified shrieks and howls traverse the walls behind the portraits while careful, deliberate footsteps creak above our heads before ending in a sharp squeal as if someone has been snatched up suddenly. René approaches the reception desk, with Dane and I shuffling behind her like naughty schoolchildren entering the principal’s office, listening to our friends receive their lashings.
Nice tits, I think, as we come up to the receptionist. She’s stone-faced and aloof behind her secretary glasses, but her cleavage is soft and inviting. René gives her our party code, and she starts tapping on the keys with the pads of her fingers without letting the two-inch acrylic nails break her speed.
“I’ve beamed each of you your completed consent forms and revised contracts. Please look over them one last time and print at the bottom of each page. If you see something you’d like to alter, select ‘change’ and type your new answer in the corresponding box. Can I have your physical checkups and STD vaccine statuses?”
“Yeah, sure,” René says, spinning Dane around by his shoulders to retrieve our paperwork from his backpack.
Now, facing me, he smirks. He looks so fucking cute with his hair in a messy bun! I clasp his head between my hands and give him a little kiss on the lips. Standing barely an inch taller than me, it’s easy to manhandle him.
When everything is settled, we plop down on the leather sofa beneath the big butcher with his big belly and start reviewing our forms. Filling this out in the first place was so tedious – exciting at first, but it became quite a chore after page five.
An entire page is dedicated to medical history, followed by a section on healthy habits to maintain for at least two weeks leading up to the tour. Proper hydration was emphasized, and we were advised to stretch and warm up before coming here.
The final disclaimer lets us know that Dimm will not take responsibility for any resulting minor injury or sexual dissatisfaction due to not following the “healthy habits” advice provided.
I triple-check my answers in the bodily fluids and anal play sections and sign under each page.
“Ah, fuck!” a man’s voice travels up from some distant corner in the basement.
I place my thumb in the middle of the square to leave my print, signing off on all that’s about to happen. I wonder if there’s a restroom close by.
René and Dane have already finished and are waiting for me to join them at the entrance to a linking hallway beneath the haunting poster of the spectacled, lean “Necrophile”.
They have us take a seat on a cold, galvanized steel bench. The only light source is a glowing projector lens, and the image it casts on a grubby white curtain. There are three other people already here. I’m vaguely aware of an open door at the back of the room; even though I can’t see it, I feel it gaping at our backs while we’re expected to concentrate on the video in front of us.
It shows wall-mounted night vision footage of six people tiptoeing through a narrow passageway, holding hands. By the way their backs are moving, it’s obvious they’re out of breath, and their clothes are drenched in what looks like blood from the shoulders down.
A crack in the wall reveals a hidden door – we can see it, but they can’t. They pass slowly down the passage, tiptoeing towards a faint, greenish glow at the far end. The hidden door swings open, and a pair of muscular forearms, too high off the ground for a regular-sized man, tosses a black sack over one of the guys’ heads, simultaneously snatching him up and pulling him through the door.
We jump. And jump again at the piercing shriek from the girl in the other group. She smacks a hand over her mouth as if to punish herself. I feel the bench vibrate beneath my ass as everyone breaks out in laughter.
“Oh my god,” Dane whispers, throwing his arms around us and squeezing our shoulders.
René and I peek at each other across his chest, and she makes her characteristic ‘baby’s first rollercoaster ride’ face, which is so characteristic of her.
One of the guys shushes everyone when the instructor continues speaking over the paused frame of the ‘victim’ being hauled into the other room.
“Pay close attention,” the voiceover says, “you will see that the victim’s friends have let go of his hands and allowed the kidnapper to take him away. Do not hold each other back or attempt to rescue your friends. Your turn will come soon enough. Failure to abide by this rule will result in your removal from the tour.”
The video takes us to another shot from within the room that the man is dragged into. He squirms and struggles, trying to push the kidnapper off. But the kidnapper is quickly joined by others who overpower him. He doesn’t stand a chance. We glimpse his face, his frantic eyes glimmering in their sockets, and his wide mouth occasionally morphing into a big smile.
A tall, masked figure holds the man’s arms firmly behind his back, leaving him to wriggle like a worm in a half-assed escape attempt. I’m distracted by a change in Dane’s breathing and look down to see a considerable bulge pressing out against his sweatpants. I discreetly place my hand on it and caress the tip with my thumb.
He sucks the air sharply in through his nose but keeps his eyes on the screen. The man in the video is now having his legs restrained by two of the kidnappers and spread apart for the original assailant to fit between them. His sweats are pulled off him in an instant, and an eager erection is exposed.
The kidnapper gives it a few playful tugs before leaving it to bob about while they carry him off-screen. I understand now why we were ordered to wear loose, comfortable clothes. I look down at Dane’s erection again – he’s pitching quite the tent. The video is paused here for the instructor to continue.
“Note that the victim here is struggling against the attack. Though not necessary, fighting back is an exhilarating and immersive way to actively participate in the story. Putting up a struggle will cement the experience as a visceral, actual event and ensure a higher level of enjoyment.
“If you do choose to put up a fight, please do not take an offensive stance, but rather a defensive one. Victims may not kick, hit, or bite the kidnappers, but are allowed to wrestle, push, or run and hide. We will now show an example of a ‘run-and-hide’ role-play.”
The video switches to another shot again and shows a woman crouching in a grimy bathtub with her hand over her mouth, desperately trying to stifle her breathing. The camera angle allows us a front view of her next to a white shower curtain, with the shut bathroom door on her right.
I hold my breath. She takes her hand away, and we see her gnaw her bottom lip and grin, slapping her hand back over her mouth when the grin threatens to become a chuckle. It feels like my heart is trying to beat in secret. The bathroom door creaks open slowly, deliberately. Both her hands are over her mouth now, her eyes big. She watches through the curtain as the 6-foot-something hulk comes stalking in. She’s a pixie compared to him.
She tilts her head back to take in the sheer size of him and shrinks into the back of the tub, truly afraid now. We watch in utter silence. I feel Dane’s heartbeat. In one quick move, the kidnapper swipes the shower curtain aside and seizes the dainty woman. She shrieks and squirms before he covers her mouth (and most of her face) with his hand. He scoops her up like she weighs nothing, and she goes limp for a moment.
A pause. She’s mumbling something. He drops her feet back down in the tub and pulls her panties down, still pinning her upper body to his. Her hips and legs are trembling like reeds in a hurricane, and barely discernible sprinkles of urine shower down from between her legs. She tries to hold her hips away from him, but he reaches for her legs with one arm, folds her up like an accordion, and frees his other hand to vigorously stroke her clit, sending the pee shooting in all directions.
Aside from the uncontrollable shaking and shuddering of her legs, she is entirely limp, watching him do what he’s doing until she is about to explode. He stops when she has finished peeing and before she can cum. The video is paused.
My panties are as wet as if I’d peed myself as well, and I’m reminded that I didn’t go to the restroom since I was already making us late. I’m for sure going to piss myself in this place. I’m distracted by the dry feeling of cloth fibers sticking to the inside of my lips. I’ve been biting into Dane’s shoulder. His eyes are still glued to the screen, and it seems he hasn’t noticed either. The instructor goes on:
“In this instance, the victim urinates on herself. This could happen to anyone at any time without warning. There is a cleaning crew on hand to take care of accidents shortly after they happen, so you can relax and piss yourself. In fact, you likely will.”
I can’t help but shudder.
Yes, it’s very likely I will!
The video continues, showing the abductor tossing her over his shoulder and giving her bare ass a light little spank, then casually worming his fat middle finger inside her pussy. An angle from the other room shows her propped up on her forearms in a last-ditch effort to defy him, with a look of astonishment and mock disdain on her face. They exit the frame.
The following clip shows a person in a white chiffon robe lying belly-down on a stone altar. Their hands and feet are tied down to keep them in place. Candles glow dimly in the corners of the room, giving off just enough light for us to discern pentagrams and other satanic symbols on the wall. A group of nine hooded occultists is standing in a circle around the victim and chanting some sort of mantra.
A red glow breaks through between the stones in the altar’s base, and the victim looks around as though they hear something. What looks like cabinet doors appear to open on the front side of the altar beneath their face. Their eyes dart about at the occultists, questioning if what is happening should be happening. They turn their face to the pentagram on the wall that is now glowing red and writhe against the restraints.
Two pairs of horns start to emerge from the hatch directly below them. My thighs squeeze together. They struggle against the restraints and yell something. It sounded like “antrum,” or it could have been “cilantro.” Everything comes to an abrupt stop. The horns slowly retreat into the altar, and the occultists file out of the chamber. Two BBWs in salmon-colored overalls walk in and begin to untie the victim. I’d be tempted to use my safe word just to summon these mommies, to be honest.
“Because the victim used their safe word in this case, all activity was ceased, and the victim was released. Afterward, they were escorted to the aftercare hall and given time to recover. Remember that our staff are all informed of your personal preferences and boundaries and will not cross them. Remember this when you are tempted to use your safe word, as we wouldn’t want you to miss out on a great experience!”
Even though the video is over, I can’t get the image of the pee girl out of my head: the way her legs were shaking uncontrollably, the look on her face as he played with her while she pissed all over the place…
Oh, shit! The video is over!
My heart beats in my throat, my stomach, between my legs, everywhere but in my chest, where I feel nothing but a hollow echo.
Who am I kidding? I am so fucking terrified.
We stand up, shoot each other a few excited, albeit nauseated looks, and acknowledge our three new friends, who look just as queasy. I wonder for a moment if it’s common for people – I mean, victims – to hurl during the tour.
We shuffle to the back of the room, towards the door that had been lurking behind us while we watched the screen. We are instructed to stay in the order we were seated, holding hands and walking straight ahead without stopping. Running back was against the rules. Dane’s earlier remark about walking back down the line at a waterslide pops back into my head.
I feel him suddenly squeeze my hand as he whispers, “Do you wanna switch?”
With a shock, I realize that I am at the very back of the line, which is just as bad, if not worse, than being in front.
I can handle it.
“No, that’s ok,” I tell him, “thanks.”
I’m dragged along into the pitch darkness. It washes over us like a wave of fear. All we hear is each other’s quickening breaths and careful, deliberate footsteps. I jump when the door behind me suddenly shuts, and we lose our last little bit of light. We amble along—lambs to the slaughter.
