Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.
*****
Like playdough, last night's mud squishes and flattens under the tires of Connor's old Ford. He drives over each pathway from where a road might have once been many years ago. Now, it's just a mix of indistinguishable tire prints, crushed earth, and springy wildflowers. It's hardly anything different from the rest of the forest but Simon seems to know his way regardless. He's always been like that. Always noticing small details and strange tidbits. Landmarks, he called them. Simon spends most of his free time hiking. It's how he originally found the mysterious location that he's currently directing Connor to.
The early morning sun pokes through the pine needles of the trees. Each brush of the wind sends pinecones raining down over the hood of the car. A quick flick of the windshield wipers helps clear it away. Connor glances up at the rear side mirror and locks eyes with Simon who offers him a shy smile and then glances away quickly. He's sitting in the passenger seat, occasionally giving directions, but most of the time, he's quiet. Acoustic guitar plays through the old radio, the underwater effect muffling its sound.
The car pulls off to the side and is put into park. Simon steps out first, closing the door gently as though he's scared of making too much noise. Odd, considering they are both standing in the middle of a random gathering of trees an hour away from the city. Nobody would hear them, so why does it matter? Connor doesn't have any time to ponder it as he's quickly dragged away by the hand. The pathway fades into overgrown bushes that they can only navigate by foot.
Simon nibbles on a hangnail, a nervous habit he can't seem to rid himself of. Always a jittery person, he can never sit still or be 100% comfortable no matter the circumstances. It becomes apparent that he's especially worried about wherever they are going, and yet he's the one who's leading them there. Connor is starting to grow nervous now as well. His palms are sweaty and he's finding it difficult to keep his clasped in Simon's. Reluctantly, he lets go.
The secret location is finally revealed. A small shack is nestled between a large rock and a small gathering of wildflowers. It's a bit bigger than an outhouse and only slightly less appealing. The wood panels have the distinct scent of moisture. The whole building is rotting away slowly. Even the spiders seem hesitant to spin their webs there. Connor squints at it as though waiting for someone to burst out of the door. Some game show host or a prankster with a camera.
Nothing.
"You..." Simon clears his throat with a cough. "You said you wanted to feel helpless, right?" He reveals a red bandana that was previously hidden in his pocket.
Connor stares at it for a few seconds and then takes it. He ties it around his head so that it covers his eyes. Vaguely, Connor can sense movement in front of him. Simon is waving his hand to check the blindfold. Once he's satisfied, he pats Connor on the shoulder and guides him towards the entrance of the shack. The door is pulled open with a squeak so shrill that it's shocking that the door doesn't come right off its rusted hinges. Connor digs his shoes into the earth to stop himself from being pushed inside. Simon drops his hand and steps away.
"What did you mean by 'helpless'? You're not going to actually leave me here right?" Connor asks.
"I'll come get you, don't worry. Just scream and I'll come running," Simon says. Running as in running away? Connor thinks. Simon is a loyal friend but he gets spooked easily.
Finally, he allows himself to be pushed into the shack. The air is muggy and far too warm. The cool breeze from outside brushes past Connor's body as the door is slammed shut behind him. For a few seconds, Connor's heartbeat is the only thing he registers. It thuds against his chest, a drum-like sound next to his heavy breathing. He's suddenly glad for the blindfold because he knows that he would be absolutely terrified of whatever touches him next.
Five or six tendrils become fifty as they all reach out for Connor. They are slippery and palpable. Some unknown substance clings to everything. The goo grabs onto Connor's old baseball t-shirt, dragging it up over his shoulders. Connor's jeans go next, and then his boxers, until he's left bare and exposed. Simon's words from earlier echo in his head. 'You wanted to feel helpless, right?'
This is entirely Connor's fault. Going with someone alone in the woods is a pretty big red flag. He's a dumbass for falling for it.
The tendrils are far too powerful and should not be underestimated. Before Connor could bang on the door, he's lifted up off the ground. The shack isn't very tall but the lack of sight makes him feel disoriented. Connor's stomach lurches and he has to swallow away the taste of soda coming up in his throat. He's scared. Terrified even. The warm heat and the odd textures could only mean one thing. Whatever the hell lives in this shack is about to eat Connor.
But sharp teeth and stomach acid never appear. Instead, the tendrils seem oddly kind in the way that they handle his body. Several of them twist around Connor's waist until he's made to lie back. Like wet squishy handcuffs, his legs are spread by two more tendrils gripping his ankles. A scream finally manages to claw its way past his throat but it's immediately cut off by yet another tendril, only this one forces its way past Connor's lips, gagging him.
