For All The Wrong Reasons | By : darqstar Category: G through L > House of 1000 Corpses Views: 4942 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: I do not own House of 1000 Corpses, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. |
Warning for this chapter: Humiliation, bad language, implied hetero and oral.
I have no real idea how long I was in that basement before someone other than Tiny came downstairs. I remember when it finally happened, though; I heard the door to the basement opening, which happened quite often. But the person coming down the stairs was much lighter on their feet.
The person came into view and I stared. I'd been expecting another brutal-looking person; not as big as the other two, but definitely ugly and mean-looking. What I saw was one of the prettiest girls I've ever seen in my life. Pretty blonde hair, a figure I'd have given my left-arm for back then, and a sweet-looking face with perfect teeth. When I first saw her, I thought she was an angel who had come to rescue us.
She started down the hall of cages, looking inside of them. My fellow prisoners began shrieking, yelling, and acting the same way they did when Rufus and Tiny had brought me down there, which made me begin to suspect that she wasn't the angel of mercy who would rescue us after all.
She looked from cage to cage, acting like a child in a pet store trying to pick the perfect puppy, even to the point of skipping and singing nonsense:
“Monkey, monkey, sitting in a tree
Who's gonna come and play with me?”
She stopped in front of the cage next to the one I was in, and looked around. There were four men in the cage; college students, most likely. They all looked at her in terror. She grinned, those overly-white teeth of hers flashing brightly; as if, instead of shaking in terror, these boys were fighting for the privilege of being selected by her:
“Red or yellow, pink or blue
Can't have 'em all so I'll take YOU!”
She pointed to one of the guys, who started to shake. “No,” he begged. “Please, no.”
“Aw, c'mon, we can have such fun together!” She clapped her hands together happily.
“Slidin' down the banister
Jumpin' on the bed
We can play together
Until you're fucking dead!”
On the last two words, her expression suddenly went from sweet to mocking-and-evil.
The young man's trembling became worse. He shook his head and began begging. “Please don't ... please ... don't ... please don't,” as if it were a sacred chant that would save him.
She laughed, her expression going back to angel-sweet. “Ha ha! Gotcha! Ain't down here to find someone for me.” She turned away from their cage and looked over to ours. “Otis needs someone to play with and he told me I could pick tonight!”
She walked over to our cage, while the young man who'd been given a reprieve began to sob in relief. Her gaze went from each one of us, again reminding me of a child in a pet-store. “Otis ain't never let anyone pick a playmate for him before, least not that I can remember,” she said, as if explaining this to us would make us feel honored rather than terrified. I had no clue who Otis was, but I doubted he was going to sell us some whole-term life insurance. “So I wanna make sure I pick him an extra good one. So, which one of you gives the best head?”
None of us answered. I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. The way she acted, it was hard to believe she could comprehend the idea of oral sex, never mind slang terms for it like, “giving head.”
“C'mon, don't play like this. I'll bet atleast one of you really likes to do all that nasty stuff. So, tell me, who spits and who swallows?” She laughed again; this cackling, annoying laughter like a deranged child. If she'd been seven or eight, the laughter would have been bad enough, but coming from a woman who was probably the same age as me, it was more than irritating. “Aw, don't tell me all we've got to pick from are shy little maidens. Well, I guess I'll have to do this another way then.” She closed her eyes, bobbing her head from side to side for a moment, as if keeping time to music that only she could hear. When she opened her eyes, she started in with another one of those children's nonsense songs:
“Ink-a Bink-a bottle of ink
The cork fell off and now you stink
It's not because you're dirty
It's not because you're clean
It's not because you kiss the boys
Behind a magazine.”
As she sang, at each syllable she pointed to each of us in turn.
“Your mama say you're stupid
Your daddy say you're bright
Baby say you pick the girl
That Otis gets tonight!”
She ended her song pointing to one of my cage-mates. “Yay! You get to pick which one of your friends get to be Otis' playmate. Bet you're just sorry it ain't gonna be you, huh?”
The girl stared at her, eyes wide. “I-I can't,” she whispered.
“Oh, yes, you can!” she said, in that same cheerful, overly-bright voice. “'Cause if you don't, I'll kill all your little friends and then bring you to Otis. He won't be happy to know I had to waste so many other play-things, and he'll probably take it out on you.” Her expression and voice then did a flash-switch to cruel: “So pick one of these fucking bitches and step on it!”
I would love to say that at this point I bravely stood up and volunteered, to spare the other girls, but if I did, I'd be a liar. Again, all these “brave”, “extraordinary” and “remarkable” labels for me are such a crock. In truth, I crossed my fingers and silently prayed, 'don't let it be me, don't let it be me, over and over again.
Knowing that the threat was deadly serious, the girl finally pointed to me. Do I blame her? No, I don't. I even understand in some ways. Last person in, first person out sort-of thing. For all I knew, the other five girls had grown up together and were captured together. I was the least-known of the bunch.
I was taken from the cage, my arms tied behind me. “If you scream, I'm going to cut your fucking head off,” I was cheerfully informed. To make sure I didn't suddenly come down with a terminal case of brave, she walked behind me, arm around my neck, knife held to my throat.
I was guided up the stairs and out of the basement, through the dark living-room, up another set of stairs, down a hall, and into a bedroom. Once in the bedroom, I was brought to one of those office chairs and told to sit down.
I did as requested. I was facing a window, which opened out into a pitch-black night. Looking around quickly I also saw a simple wooden desk with a soda can on it. My gaze fell upon the soda can and I couldn't look away. I hadn't been getting enough water since I came here, but I'd been able to ignore it. Seeing the possibility of liquid acted as a signal to my brain to remind me that I was really thirsty.
“Otis! I picked you someone!” my jailer called. “C'mon out and see!”
“I'll be there in a second, Baby,” a male voice called out. I wasn't sure if he was referring to this girl as Baby in an affectionate sort-of way - the way someone might call someone “sweetie” or “darling” - or if her name was Baby. I would find out soon enough that Baby was the name everyone called her. I wasn't too surprised; she certainly acted like an annoying baby, way too much of the time. “I'm just putting the final touches on Katmandu.”
“Well, hurry up,” Baby pouted. “I don't want to wait all night!”
“Quit being so fucking impatient!” the voice, who I assumed belonged to this “Otis” called out. “I'll be there in a god-damned minute!”
In my old life, I rarely heard swearing. My family didn't use it and neither did most of the friends I had. In my new life, I was to hear profanity tossed around as easily as other people tossed around expressions like, “Nice day we're having,” or, “I love that dress you're wearing.”
Unable to do much else, I looked out the window, seeing nothing but inky-blackness. The moon wasn't even shining. My wrists ached from the ropes that bound them and my mouth kept feeling drier and drier. I looked away from the window and back to the soda can. Coca-cola, that familiar red-and-white can. Normally, I am not a soda drinker, but, looking at that can, I suddenly had a craving for it that I'd never experienced for any type of beverage before. The only thing that would have been more wonderful was a glass of cold, clear water.
“Well, what have we here?” I heard someone say, and then felt myself being spun around in the chair.
“See?” Baby said, giggling. “Didn't I do good?”
I looked up, finally getting a chance to see Otis, the man I'd been “selected” for. I swallowed, which made my mouth feel even drier.
He had the appearance of a total freak. While he wasn't as tall as Tiny or Rufus, he seemed tall to me. Tall and skinny to the point where you wondered if it was healthy. Both his hair and skin were so white that they almost appeared to be luminous in the dim light that came from one small lamp on the desk. His eyes were so badly bloodshot that they looked as if even the irises were red. They were sunk into his head, giving his face a skull-like appearance. He would have looked as if he were dead, had those red eyes not glowed with a fiery intensity that only comes from being convinced that it's not you who is insane, it's the rest of the world.
I thought, for a long time, that he was an albino. It turned out that his problems were a little more treatable. The eyes were a result of a minor infection, combined with allergies. The pale skin was a combination of his refusal to go outside during the day unless absolutely necessary, and malnutrition. No one ever stopped Otis from eating, except Otis himself. If he was in a particular mood, he might just totally forget about eating. When he had to eat, he wasn't fussy about it either. He would grab anything he could and stuff it down his throat until his stomach quieted down. The rest of the family would try to remind him to eat, but he could react so violently that they'd learned to take the attitude of, “Well, guess you'll eat when you're damned good and ready!”
He was staring at me from across the room. Baby had been the one who had spun me around. He was standing in front of a red curtain, which I would discover later separated his “studio” from his regular bedroom. He was wearing a pair of jeans so filthy that I would bet if he took them off, they'd stand on their own power, and a T-shirt that advertised something called “Pussy Liquor”. The T-shirt was probably white at one point in its existence. Over the T-shirt, he wore a long-sleeved shirt that looked as if it once belonged to someone who sang in a Country and Western band. For all I know, it did.
He ignored Baby's request to be complimented for her choice in this evening's play-thing, and looked at me. “Well, stand up, let's see what you got.”
I stayed on the chair, my body frozen.
“C'mon now,” he said, coming closer to me. “Don't be shy.”
“Stand up, stand up, stand up,” Baby repeated over and over again, in a sing-song chant. Then, she jabbed me in the shoulder with her knife and screamed, “STAND FUCKING UP!” She didn't jab as hard as she could have, but I still felt the stinging pain as it pierced through my T-shirt and into my skin.
I jumped up to my feet, not wanting to be poked again with the knife. I had the uncomfortable feeling that if she felt she had to jab me repeatedly, every jab would get deeper. I could feel blood beginning to trickle down my arm.
Otis looked me over, frowning, as if he wasn't quite sure I was what he was hoping for. “Untie her,” he ordered Baby.
“Gee, and who was your slave last year?” Baby griped, but she put the knife on top of the dresser and untied the ropes that had been binding my hands. She threw the piece of rope onto the bed and grabbed her knife again, while I rubbed my wrists.
“Okay, let's see what you got,” Otis said.
“Excuse me?” I whispered.
“Why, did you burp?” Baby asked, then laughed at her own stupid joke.
Otis rolled his eyes at Baby, but then looked right back at me. “Again, let's see what you got.”
“I'm... I'm - I don't know what you mean.”
“The clothes, bitch, the clothes. Take 'em off.”
Even though I'd been expecting a sexual assault of some type since the Rufus had driven in the opposite direction of the gas station, I wasn't expecting this. I guessed in my mind, no rapist would ask their victim to disrobe - they would always disrobe the victim themselves. I don't know why I thought this way, but I did. I stared at him as if - well, as ironic as it sounds, as if he were crazy.
“Don't play coy now, take 'em off.”
He said it slowly, but I could hear the menace in his voice and knew that whatever torture he had planned for me tonight would get progressively worse the longer I hesitated to do his bidding. Trying not to break into tears, I started to undress. I pulled the T-shirt off my head and dropped it on the floor. I kicked off my sneakers and unzipped my jeans, letting them fall off me. I stepped out of them and stood there in my bra and underpants, looking down at the floor.
“C'mon,” he said.
“C'mon what?” I asked, bewildered.
“Did I say you could leave your underwear on?” Otis asked, his voice getting less friendly with every word he spoke. “I said, take your clothes off - now do it.”
For some reason, taking off my panties and my bra seemed like one of the worst things I could do. Even though I knew, beyond any doubt, that if I refused to do as requested, I would be seriously hurt - to remove them myself made me feel like I was doing this willingly. Now that I think about it, I'll bet he knew that too.
“Did I tell you to take your time about it?” he asked.
I started with my bra, which was one of those back-snap ones. I reached around and undid it, then peeled it off my shoulders and held it for a moment.
“Don't got much, does she?” Baby crowed. Had this been a normal situation and these normal people, I might have reminded Baby of pots who called kettles black, but I figured she might not take kindly to that. She reached up and grabbed the bra from my hands, draping it on her head so the cups looked like misshapen ears, and started singing:
“Who's the leader of the club
Who's made for you and me
M-I-C-K-E-Y M-O-U-S-E!”
She broke into that annoying laughter when she was finished, as if she was the first person in the world to ever come up with that trick.
Otis wasn't looking at her, his attention was still focused on me. “Good job,” he said, as if I were some animal performing a difficult trick. “Keep going.”
I closed my eyes and tried to fantasize I was in the locker room at the YWCA or something, that this was no big deal. It didn't work to calm me, but I was able to peel my panties off.
“Eww!” Baby cried out. “Your underwear is N-A-S-T-Y, NASTY!”
Easy for her to say; she hadn't been trapped in a basement for god-knows-how-long, without proper sanitary facilities or toilet-paper. I didn't remind her of this though, I just fixed my gaze to a spot on the floor.
Baby walked over so she was standing by Otis and looked at me. “Wow, Otis, the hair down there is lighter than the hair on her head. Ain't seen that much before.” She moved a bit closer. “You keep it really short-trimmed, don't you? You one of those nasty girls who likes to have several men every night and doesn't want all that down there hair getting all stuck together from their jungle juice?”
I bit my lip to keep the tears at bay and whispered, “No.”
“Aw, I'll bet you are,” Baby disagreed. “No one go to that much trouble, less they wanna be ready for action.”
Tracy's family had a pool and a handsome older-brother. It was made clear that there would be lots of time spent by the pool, and if he and I hit it off, Brother might join us there. While I wasn't sure how Brother and I would get along, I was at least going to try my damnedest to look perfect, and that included not having any issues about what was sticking out of a bathing suit. I had no idea I'd be showing a bunch of inbred hicks my attempt at sexy sophistication.
“You've been eating good,” Otis said. By that point, I'd bet I'd already lost some weight; most likely water-weight from being semi-dehydrated, but I still had a bit of that pudge I'd fought with all my life. “You a little piggy-girl? Can't keep her face out of the cake and ice-cream?”
Despite my lip-biting, despite the lack of fluids, the tears started gathering in my eyes and rolling down my face. As I have said, it wouldn't have hurt me to take off 10-15 lbs, but I certainly wasn't fat. I tried to tell myself the only reason why he said this was because he was so skinny; anyone of normal weight or above must look morbidly obese.
“Yeah, I'll bet that's it,” Otis said. “Can't stay away from the candy and the cookies. Always going for that extra piece of pie, or those brownies. Stuffing your face, getting fatter and fatter until the day you eat that one last Twinkie and just explode like a big old whale, huge chunks of blubber landing everywhere. Damn, girl, they'll make enough oil from your carcass to light a thousand lamps for a thousand years!”
Baby giggled at this. “BOOM! Bitch blubber everywhere!” She looked at me and then to her brother. “Legs ain't bad though, right?”
“Nope, not bad at all,” Otis agreed. “Probably all that walking from the ice-cream parlor, to the bakery, then to the candy store.”
This, of course, gave Baby another fit of laughter. She started to say something, but she was interrupted by another voice, female, coming from outside the room.
“BABY! BABY! WHERE YOU AT, GIRL?”
She rolled her eyes, sighed, and went over to the door. “WHAT, MAMA?” she screamed as she opened the door.
“I NEED SOME HELP WITH DINNER!”
At the word “dinner”, I could hear my stomach gurgle. I hoped that with all the noise, no-one else, Otis in particular, heard it. I could just imagine what insults he'd come up with if he knew I was hungry.
“MAAAA!” Baby screamed as if “Mama” was suggesting she cut off her own limbs and feed them to the dogs. “I'M MESSING AROUND WITH OTIS AND HIS NEW TOY! I PICKED HER MYSELF, MAMA! SHE'S KINDA FAT AND NOT VERY PRETTY, BUT SHE'S GOT NICE LEGS!”
God, this was even worse than being studied like an interesting species of insect by Otis. Baby's yelling made me feel as if I wasn't even an insect, as if I wasn't even worthy of having a life. I might as well have been a chair she was describing.
“SHE'S A NASTY ONE TOO! YOU SHOULD SEE WHAT SHE'S DONE TO HER DOWNSTAIRS AREA! ALL TRIMMED AND PRIMPED UP LIKE SHE WAS GONNA SHOW IT OFF FOR EVERYONE!”
“BABY, I DON'T CARE ABOUT THAT RIGHT NOW. YOU LEAVE OTIS WITH HIS NEW FRIEND AND YOU GET DOWN HERE AND HELP ME WITH SUPPER RIGHT NOW!”
Baby sighed first, then shouted, “FINE, MAMA, I'LL BE DOWN IN A SECOND!” She turned to Otis. “Pooh, I gotta go help with dinner. Well, you two have fun, and don't do anything I wouldn't do!” Still holding my bra in her hand, twirling it around on her finger by one of the shoulder-straps, she skipped out of the room.
Now I was alone with Otis, and I wasn't sure what was worse.
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