Chpt. 2 - The producers
Mike Flynn was an ex-Golden Boy, working on the London Stock Exchange as a
trader. He had gone there at 22, straight out of university. And he was good,
very good, he made money right from the start. Lots of money. But unlike many of
his colleagues, he didn't spend it on a flamboyant life-style, destined to show
off his wealth. He didn't do so because he had an ambition. He had decided that
he would retire at 30, with enough money invested to do just what he wanted to
for the rest of his life. Exactly what that was, he wasn't yet sure. And he
succeeded. On his 30th birthday he announced his retirement, quietly, and
disappeared from the scene, with a very well-garnished bank account and an even
bigger portfolio of juicy stocks and shares, managed in an off-shore tax haven.
Mike was rich.
The problem was, he didn't really know what he wanted to do with the rest of his
life. He missed the adrenaline rush as prices soared and fell on the screens.
Mike didn't have a partner. Not for want of trying, but the few women he had had
affairs with had quickly broken off when they found out what sort of person he
was. Because Mike was a sadist. He liked to bite down hard on a nipple and hear
the woman scream. He loved to take a clitoris between his finger and thumb and
start, slowly, to squeeze, at the same time watching the gamut of expressions
that flashed across his partner's face as the pain grew. Mike got a buzz from
pain. And not only from other people's pain, but his own as well since, like
many sadistic men, he was also something of a masochist. Not much of one,
because masochism, when you are inflicting the pain yourself, is not that much
fun, you can always stop when you can't take any more. The real thrill comes
from having a partner inflict it, and not knowing if she will stop or go over
the edge. So far, he hadn't found anyone willing to play.
Then, one afternoon he found himself in the sleazy Soho district of London,
visiting sex shops. He already had a cock ring, but wanted a smaller one, so
that when he got an erection it hurt more. He had measured himself and was
looking for a thick rubber one, because rubber was easier to get on and off
since it stretched a little, and thick so that it didn't cut into him. In the
third shop he entered he found exactly what he was looking for. He was standing
there, holding the ring in his hand, thinking about what it would feel like,
when a husky voice behind him said, "Christ, if that's the right size for you, I
want some!"
Mike turned, to find himself looking into the face of a very good-looking
metisse. She was about 5' 9", with long, lustrous straight black hair falling
almost to her waist, which was tiny. She was dressed in a white blouse, an open
black bolero jacket and tight-fitting leather trousers, her feet encased in
high-heeled ankle boots, the tops of which ran up under the legs of her
trousers. From the way that the blouse stood out from her chest, he guessed that
her breasts must be quite large.
"If it is the right size, you must be pretty big down there, and I like big
men," she added, staring at him. Mike was taken completely aback, he had never
been accosted in anything like this way in his life, and he was lost for an
answer. Finally, he stuttered, face crimson, "Well, yes, it is, actually."
"Great, then how about us going and getting some coffee somewhere and talking
about it?" she said, smiling. Her parted teeth revealed white teeth and her eyes
seemed to sparkle. Mike hesitated. For all he knew, she might be a common
prostitute looking for a pick-up. On the other hand, if he was any judge, her
clothes were more expensive than those worn by most women on the game. Then he
thought, "What the hell, nothing to loose, buy her a coffee, chat, then walk
off."
"OK," he said, "but I have to pay for this first." He went to the cash-desk,
paid, held the door open for her, and joined her on the pavement, where she
slipped her arm through his. "There's a good coffee shop down near King's
Cross," she suggested.
The coffee shop in question had a series of small stalls along one wall,
affording a certain amount of privacy, and they installed themselves in one of
these. When the girl had brought them their coffees the woman lent forward and
asked "Do you really intend to wear that ring?"
Mike was beginning to feel somewhat riled by this direct approach, so instead of
answering he asked in turn "What's your name?"
"Shirley," she replied, "and you haven't answered my question."
"Why do you want to know?"
"Because if you are, you might be my kind of guy," came the answer.
"And what kind of guy is that?"
"Oh, you know, sexed-up, into screwing, maybe a bit nasty on the side."
Mike's heart leapt. "Are you on the game," he asked. The woman laughed.
"Nope, I'm not, I'm the assistant producer in a small film company, specialised
in making porn films, and after a day's work watching people screwing one
another every which way in front of the cameras, I feel pretty horny."
From there the conversation went rapidly downhill, continuing over a meal that
evening in a swish restaurant with plenty of good wine, and finishing at the
beginning of a protracted, drawn-out bout of sex back at his flat, where she
proved to be as sadistic, if not more so, than he was.
After a month or so of getting to know one another, which meant multiple
sessions of tying one another up, seeing just how far each one good go in the
pain stakes, and plenty of fucking; Shirley said one day, "What are you going to
do with the rest of your life?" - he had told her about his situation.
"I've been thinking about that, " he answered. "Why don't we set up our own film
company, make some porn films?"
Shirley shook her head. "When you've been at it as long as I have, it soon gets
boring. It's not much fun when all you get to do is watch other people rolling
around screwing one another silly. You don't get any of the action, and at the
end of the day you end up ready to blow your top. What we need is something
where we can get some hands on action. How about torture films?"
"Torture films?"
"Yeah. I overheard a couple of guys talking on the set the other day. It seems
that some people are making one hell of a lot of money from this kind of thing."
"How does it work?"
"Well, you pick out a good-looking young woman, one whose disappearance won't
cause ripples, you kidnap her, torture, her, let her go, sell the film over the
Net, make lots of money. And you get all the fun, real hands-on stuff. Bingo!"
"Woah! Steady on a bit! There are a lot of flaws to that. In the first place,
how do we know the victim's disappearance won't cause ripples?"
"That's easy, hire a sleazy private detective, spin him a yarn about a phoney
job offer you want to make her, get him to investigate her background."
"And if he squawks to the police if there is trouble?"
"One, pay him well, tell him there is more like that coming. Two, warn him that
one word to anyone, especially the police, and his wife, or kids, get to have a
fatal car accident. He won't talk!"
"Christ!, Shirley. That's diabolical. Ok, so we have a victim. If we're going to
torture her, she is going to do a lot of very loud screaming. The neighbours
will hear."
"So we find somewhere they can't hear. There have to be places like that, out in
the back of beyond, outside London."
"And when we've finished with her, what then?"
"We let her go. I'm not suggesting snuff films, that's just too risky. We have
lots of fun with her, and then we explain that if she goes to the police we will
know immediately, because we will be having her followed, which we will. If she
talks to anyone we will immediately kidnap her gain, and this time we will
torture her till she dies. If we can't kidnap her we will arrange for her to
have a fatal accident. Either way, she knows that she'll end up dead. In any
case, she'll never see our faces and she'll never know where she has been taken.
It's foolproof."
Mike stared at his sadistic partner in amazement. "You've really thought this
through, haven't you," he said admiringly. "I think I like it, but I need to
give it some thought myself before making a decision."
In the end, he came to the conclusion that it really was foolproof, and would be
a lot of fun. He contacted a private detective, never seeing him, using only the
'phone, setting things up. Through land agents on the Net he located a property
in East Anglia, right out on the east coast. It was a large old house set in
several acres of its own grounds, well away from any other inhabitation. The key
to his buying it was that there was a tunnel leading from the cellar of the
house to a disused A-bomb shelter, some twenty feet underground - a leftover
from the '60's and the fear of the Cold War which had swept the country. The
shelter was large enough to set up a superb torture chamber and the film gear
and, above all, it was so deep underground that no-one would hear a bomb explode
inside even if they were standing on top of it. In addition, few local people
knew of it's existence, it had been built over thirty years ago and had never
been used.
As far as the film gear was concerned, they decided that buying it in England
would mean it could be traced fairly easily. They went to Germany, ostensibly on
holiday, with Mike's car and a list of equipment Shirley had drawn up, and
bought it all for cash, each item in a different place.
Shirley continued her work with the film company, taking care to let it be known
that she was pretty fed-up with the job and looking around for something
different. Mike, who did not have to account for his time to anyone, spent most
of it out at the shelter, building equipment. The rest was split between an
intensive search of the Net for ideas on torture - films, photos, cartoons,
real-life accounts, etc. - and buying other equipment - mostly second hand - all
over the country.
In six months they were ready to go. Everything worked perfectly, the victim
screamed herself hoarse as they worked her over ingeniously, they edited the
film themselves, they set up a firewall from behind which they sold copies at
several thousand dollars a time to selected clients they found through the Net
and they broke even on expenses after the second victim. From then on in it was
all profit. And fun! OK, so the victim suffered a bit, but it was only a couple
of days out of her life and it was all in a good cause. Never once did they have
a moment's trouble, the threats worked like a dream, everyone kept their mouths
shut and everyone was happy ever after. Well, maybe not the victim, but as Mike
pointed out, you can't make an omelette with breaking some eggs.
Nancy was to be heir seventh victim, and between them they had thought up a new
set of tortures. This was the only trouble with the job, finding new ones. Since
their customers were nearly all regulars, they didn't want to see the same old
thing each time, so the sadistic couple had to stretch their imaginations.
Shirley had been waiting behind another car for Nancy to appear, slipped up
behind her and jabbed the hypo, into her arm, catching the girl as she slumped
almost immediately to the ground. Mike, watching from the van on the other side
of the underground car-park, had driven over, they had swiftly bundled Nancy
into the compartment hidden under litter of boxes in the van's floor and then
driven carefully to the house. Here they had extracted her, still unconscious,
from the van, stripped her, strapped her to the table, and then gone to dress -
undress? -themselves for the part. The cameras were ready, the girl was
stretched out naked on the table before them, quivering with terror, they were
ready to roll.
