Things were a blur from the time the gang burst in. She'd been dragged from the room where she'd been sitting with her family – where they'd turned, startled, afraid, as the men piled in and set on them. She had been handcuffed – still was – and blindfolded – they'd just taken the blindfold off. She'd heard sounds of a struggle – David, her husband? Her dad? – and moans, perhaps her mom's or Sarah's. Then she'd been dragged out and dumped in a chair in the kitchen, and that was where they'd removed her blindfold and she'd faced her captors for the first time.
"Are you listening to me, you bitch?"
She nodded, almost dreamy in the shock of events. He was a huge man in his twenties or early thirties, tall and broad, his face cruel and arrogant, his body muscled like a fighter's.
"I want you to watch carefully, Helen," he said. He'd set up a portable computer on the kitchen table – the table where she'd eaten lunch only half an hour earlier. They'd sat her on one of the chairs and tied her to the back of it with thin strong cord: the strands of it held her above and below her breasts so that they jutted out rather ludicrously: she was very conscious of them as she sat there and tried to concentrate on what this intruder – this strong man who somehow knew her name and who looked at her with contempt and cruelty in his eyes – had to tell her.
"This is a little video of a family we visited before, Helen." The video was blurry, but she could make out a girl on the bed; her captor, naked, fucking her; other figures, bound; and other men, watching. "She made a mistake, Helen. She said No."
The killings were quick, brutal, bloody. Helen cried out in horror.
"It's what happens, Helen. It's what we do – if you resist, if you make the slightest objection, if you even look for one moment as though you're not enjoying everything we do, then we kill you all. Understand? Your family first, then you – bitch."
She stared at the frozen video on his computer, the last lingering shot of the bodies. She stared at him, at his cruel hard blue eyes. She knew the video could be faked; she knew this could be a trick. But she thought of the knife at her throat – of seeing her family dead, knowing it was her fault – and she nodded.
"I – I understand," she said.
"We'll take you upstairs in a minute, Helen. You won't be tied or anything. Your family will be there. They're going to see you fuck us, Helen – like a whore, like you're enjoying it, like you're really wanting it. And more. Doing anything we tell you to. Taking a lead, too. You'll be the perfect slut. If they get the slightest hint that you're not willing... well, that's the last thing they'll ever see. Understand?" He stared at her for a moment; she gazed back in horror. "Do you understand, you stupid bitch?"
The harshness of his words ran like a shock through her body. Helen was young –just 20 – and she had never been treated remotely like this in her life. Her father had spoiled her, her mother had indulged her. Friends had always admired her for being so pretty, so lively, so gentle and affectionate. She had married her childhood sweetheart, David, just a year ago and she knew he worshipped her still. No one had ever hurt her intentionally – no one had wantonly insulted her before – no one had ever turned a gaze so commanding and uncaring on her. Suddenly she was without defences, without the support of friends and family even though both were only a few feet away. She was on her own.
The man smiled then, and that to her was the worst thing of all: it was a smile of such simple, arrogant triumph, the smile of someone who knew that whatever happened he would win. She read it as clearly as though he had spoken: she would do what he demanded, and whether she succeeded or not he would get his pleasure – and whether she succeeded or not they might all die. But she had no choice but to do it. He nodded. She was ready.
The younger man of the three untied her and unlocked her handcuffs. All three carried knives and held them ready – there was really no escape. They let her lead the way upstairs, following close behind. At the top of the stairs, the two younger men walked straight into her parent's bedroom, leaving the door open. He – the one she thought of as their leader – turned to her, spoke loudly.
"They're tied up, Helen, waiting – just as you wanted them."
She flushed – the cruelty of what he was doing suddenly jolting through her body. She hesitated long enough that she saw a cruel warning in his eyes and his knife hand twitch. Then she said,
"Good!"
and entered the room, leading him by the hand.
They were seated on hard wooden chairs, in a row: her dad; her mum, crying; her best friend Sarah, bleeding slightly from a cut above her left eye; and her husband David, looking quietly furious. The two younger men stood behind them, one with his knife hand resting casually on Sarah's shoulder, the other with his hands on the back of Helen's mum's chair. All of them faced the big double bed in front of which stood Helen and her captor. All tied, all gagged: their eyes followed her as she came into the room. She read the shock, confusion, doubt in their eyes as they saw her, walking free, hand-in-hand with one of their captors
"Thank you darling," she said, and drew his body closer to her.
"I know you want to show off what a perfect little whore you are," he said. His hand covered her left breast, kneaded it.
"Ooohhh yes baby," she said, "let's show them." She wriggled sensuously, forcing her body to respond although she rebelled against his touch.
"Undress yourself for them, honey," he said.
