Authors: David Mathew
Scenes from the Vivaria
1.
‘
They
didn’t waste any time,’ Maggie said to Benny.
‘Dirty bunnies,’ the old man agreed.
They were in the vivaria, observing Vig and Phyllie, who were side by side on consecutive bunks, stark naked and already wired up to monitors.
‘Big boy,’ Benny continued, referring to the dimensions of Vig’s unmistakeable erection. ‘She’d be a lucky girl if they were doing it for real.’
Maggie watched Phyllie’s hands, one of which stroked its owner’s left nipple, the other of which had angled between her legs, the fingers typing on and in her flesh. There was no denying that the woman’s ministrations were a source of arousal for Maggie as well.
Perhaps Benny recognised this. ‘Which one do you want?’ he asked.
Confused by the question, Maggie tore her attention away from the floor show in front of her. ‘Want?’
‘Well,
he’s
got a cock like a baby’s arm and she – I can smell her from here. Wouldn’t be fair to have em all dressed up and no place to go, would it now? So who do you want? To give em a fuck of a lifetime. Fucked by the gods no less, from their point of view… Which one?’
Maggie thought of Yasser, cursing herself for a guilty pang that arrived unawares. Accommodating a second penis this evening might feel awkward (Benny had been rough with her; she was sore) so she said, ‘The girl.’
‘Thought you might. Well fire away.’
Benny sat on a wooden chair and watched Maggie undress. He flipped out his half-erection and moved his gaze between Maggie and Phyllie, with the patient reptilian attention of a snake. Indeed, to Maggie’s mind, as she unbuckled her belt and pulled down her trousers and panties, Benny actually resembled a snake. Had a forked tongue poked out of his mouth in this moment of his lascivity, she might not been much surprised.
Once she was nude, Maggie fought for space on Phyllie’s small bunk (Army issue, these bunks had not been designed for two people). It wasn’t comfortable; Maggie wondered if she might be better suited to standing by the side. Then she hit on the idea of reversing her direction, and everything fell simply and naturally into place. With her knees planted either side of Phyllie’s head, she lowered her pussy onto the comatose woman’s face, immediately gratified by the sensation of a tongue on her swollen lips. Leaning forward down Phyllie’s body, she took a look over at Benny (who was masturbating slowly, languidly, his expression unreadable), and she dipped her face into the pool of Phyllie’s water, joining in with her tongue with what the woman had begun with her fingertips.
Although she was not in control of the situation – Benny was very much at the top of the pecking order – Maggie felt excited to wield powers over this prisoner. When Phyllie moaned, the vibrations it sent into Maggie’s vagina were enough to make her shudder. Also, it was good to espy Benny as he took a few strides along the road to his own self-gratification. In much the same way as she’d enjoyed manipulating Yasser (to beging with; she’d felt guilty later on), she enjoyed knowing that, despite the undeniable chain of command in operation, there remained certain things that she could do to make Benny uncertain of his bearings for a moment or two.
Like now, for example. Unable to resist any longer, Benny stood up and approached the bunks, led by the hard-on that poked out of his slacks. Maggie guessed what he’d want - either Phyllie herself, her ankles resting against his earlobes while he pushed into the wetness that Maggie had helped the woman prepare; or Maggie, in exactly the same position as she had adopted, with her labia straddling the prisoner woman’s lips and Benny buried deep in the ditch of her buttocks.
She was wrong. To Maggie’s surprise, Benny bent almost double over the adjacent bunk, and received Vig’s erection into his mouth. Such was the unexpected nature of this action that Maggie was immediately turned on further. She was hot and flustered – one of several emotional precursors to any orgasm – and the feelings deepened and sharpened as she watched Benny suck and she watched him rub the man’s scrotum.
It was Vig who came first. Benny and Maggie kissed, exchanging the man’s semen from mouth to mouth, which Maggie then swallowed while orgasming herself, twitching her secretions into Phyllie’s mouth. Phyllie was third. Maggie owed it to her to do her best to make it a good one, and the woman’s body shuddered and writhed; her toes stretched. Then she relaxed.
Benny instructed Maggie to help him turn Vig onto his front… Maggie was the sole member of Benny’s audience when he started to push into Vig, but this was not so by the end, about halfway through, Eva joined them with a camera. She filmed the rape one-handed while she and Maggie held hands, either sisterly, supportively or in the throes of lust.
Maggie was not sure which.
2.
Branston had slept very little on the night he’d entered Benny’s house. Apart from the fact that he was adrenaline-loaded and mining a deep lode of something resembling disbelief (and disbelief being a source of energy for a film-maker, in both a good and a bad way), there was also to contend wit the issue of a job to be done, a task executed, and a film (of all things!) – an actual film to be made. And for Branston, excitement was a more efficient pick-me-up than caffeine; the combination of excitement and (forthcoming) pride in one’s work was a more reliable combo than a dozen
espressos
and a bowl of coke larger than a gorilla’s skull.
He had a commission!
Virginia, I was commissioned to shoot human subjects…
An actual commission to make an actual documentary!
The commissioner had even mentioned a fee of ten thousand pounds, payable on completion… Ten grand!
One third of his annual teaching salary for a couple of evenings’ work.
It was candy from a baby, Virginia.
Emitting, he hoped, words of insouciant bravery, Branston followed Benny through the house and down a flight of stairs. Benny placed his thumb on the panel and the door buzzed and a lock clunked. He opened the door.
‘Welcome to the vivaria!’ Benny announced.
For an increasingly seasick half-hour, Branston was led around the chambers and rooms. He filmed. His batteries would not last forever, he knew, but he’d film what he could… and then, maybe later (much later!), some of this concentration camp nightmare would make sense.
As they walked, automatic lights were triggered, and Benny was as efficient a tour guide as ever sang praises on a city tour bus through a mike. He named names; he gave bone-crunching, sickening details; he was proud. More proud of his work than Branston was of his own.
When Branston was shown to his room, he threw up.
3.
Eva had been in Benny’s employment for long enough for her to have witnessed or carried out most of the activities that an employee should never have to contemplate. She was good. All the same, Benny did not wish to entrust her with the disposal of that nuisance Chris. It wasn’t as if there was a Union that she could complain to, citing unreasonable demands; it was more the case that Benny wanted to do the job himself. For Benny it was a matter of balming a sense of stung pride.
More than a day had passed between then and now – between Benny’s nod of praise to the patron saint who protected thieves, the saint who had so contrived fate that Benny had ended up financially secure enough to afford a state-of-the-art chainsaw, and a home sufficiently remote for him to be able to use it at three in the morning without spooking the neighbours – and this four a.m. amble around the estate. Experiencing both hollowness and contentment, Benny strolled in the held-breath hush; the wind sharpened its claws on his nose and cheeks. On nights such as this, when sleep danced distant from his brain’s grip, when nothing seemed the right thing to do, Benny was often to be found among his fields, his garden, his arable land, a pensive
flaneur
(as he thought of it), an explorer. One who has what others lack.
Becalmed by the weather, Benny returned to the house to prepare a drink. Perhaps a Margarita. No, too much faff, too much effort. Neat vodka with a twist of lemon and plenty of ice, the very ticket… But what was this? Alas and alack! Opening the fridge’s freezer drawer in the library (Benny’s favourite place to sip and ponder) revealed an empty hole. Not only was there no Smirnoff inside, the icecube tray was empty as well! A tumbler in his right fist, Benny set out to forage for replenishments.
The kitchen was the most obvious oasis, but events downstairs in the vivaria had been hectic; it wouldn’t hurt to see how the new guests had settled in, or what Maggie was up to (as she continued to moon over that window licker Yasser). So Benny plumped for a visit to the vivaria, regardless of the hour.
It was only while descending the stairs to the basement that Benny remembered Chris, and where he’d stored the parts of the man’s dead body. Clumsy.
Clumsy work, me.
Benny tutted with self-reproof: he really should have warned Eva of what she would find in the underground chest freezer, should she open its lid. Clumsy! Forgetful!
I’ve had a lot on me plate. Sorry, darlin’,
Benny rehearsed, imagining (with embarrassment) Eva going into the freezer (where some of the poisons and some of the antidotes were kept in careful file)… and the poor girl coming eye to eye with Chris’s frozen head! Frit the life out the girl, it would!
When Benny heard an isolated shriek from behind the door, he guessed that Eva had found Chris’s corpse. Typical! For the sake of a few more seconds – not even minutes:
seconds
– he could’ve tipped her the wink and said
Eva, before you lift that lid…
and all would be ticketyboo.
The shriek came again.
Wait a minute –
Benny lifted his thumb to the panel –
maybe it’s not Eva. One of the guests.
Another squeal! A different voice…
Benny stepped over the threshold.
…but not a squeal of horror, or even surprise. It was laughter! Two woman (maybe more?) were having a laugh down here!
Maggie?
Surely not
Eva
…
Benny trod quietly through the rooms and chambers until he found –
‘Jesus.’
In one of the larger areas, Maggie and Eva kept on with what they were doing, until they noticed Benny. They stopped immediately. Like a schoolgirl caught with contraband, Maggie even attempted to conceal what they had been throwing from one to the other.
Benny was livid. ‘So you found him then?’ he demanded and accused.
The women hung their heads, all laughter at the childish pleasure of games of catch soon forgotten.
‘Talk about
disrespect
,’ Benny continued. ‘Give it here.’ And he held out a palm to Maggie.
She and Eva had been playing Frisbee with Chris’s left hand, its fingers extended and frozen rigid. She placed Chris’s hand (it was slippery with ice) onto Benny’s left palm. Not for long did it remain there, however, such was the force of the right fist that Benny aimed at Maggie’s face that his balance was momentarily to cock; and the sound of Chris’s dropped hand hitting the floor, and the sound of Maggie’s nose breaking, were almost simultaneous.
But the latter was louder.
4.
Camera in hand, Branston was underground, directing the documentary (no mean feat considering the comatose natures of his key players), when he entered the chamber in which Yasser slept on the troubled dozy tides that would sometimes send him so close to the borderline with consciousness that Branston wondered how he failed to cross over and wake.
Maggie was seated on the end of Yasser’s narrow cot. Although she looked up at Branston’s approach, she did not appear startled or surprised.
‘How’s it going?’ She asked in a friendly manner.
‘Fine,’ Branston answered, well aware that the response was trite and lacking. ‘Weird’ would have been more honest. Experiencing the burden of confession on his soul, he added, ‘I meant to ask you last night. Would you be prepared to go on the record?’
There was no need for Maggie to seek much clarification. ‘In your film? Sure; why not? It’s all over for me anyhow.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Maggie resumed her perusal of Yasser’s inert expression. ‘I’ve sort of burned me bridges,’ she explained, ‘as well as me home. There’s no way to go back – and I doubt I’ll be interesting to Benny forever.’
She allowed the meaning of this to filter through the stuffy air.
5.
‘What next?’ Benny asked, his voice ominously low. ‘A game of golf with the cunt’s leg? Eh?’
‘Sorry, Benny.’
‘Sorry, Benny,’ Eva echoed. ‘We were blowing off steam. I haven’t been out of the house in a month. I’ve been filming, injecting… doing everything you want. I needed a break.’
‘Not a prison, is it?’ Benny countered, aware of the irony. ‘
You
can leave when you like. So can you. Gainful employment’s what I offer: there’s nothing to stop you handing in your notice, ladies. I’ll even write you a respectable reference, as far as I’m able. But I will
not have
a man’s body ridiculed.
Not for someone else’s amusement. Too ghoulish. Christ. You’re like a coupla
Nazis
!’
As Benny raged on, Maggie tried to imagine what Eva was thinking. Though sure to pay attention to Benny’s empassioned soliloquy (fearful of pitfalls, sudden questions or a test at the end), Maggie was also totting up all that she knew about the other woman, which didn’t take long. But there was no doubt that Eva’s granite reserve had crumbled tonight. There’d been something in the air. And if Maggie’s own disloyalty appeared bad enough (through a lens of objective retrospection), it was the change in Eva’s persona that had seemed nigh-on remarkable, transforming as it had from diligent worker to reprobate.