The Insiders

"Oh, for God's sake! What do you want, foreplay? Want me to go down on you first to get you ready? Hold still, then, you stupid bitch, and I'll give you what you want."

He hit her again, this time stunning her momentar

ily. She saw in the mirror, through tear-blurred eyes, his sun-bronzed body slide down the length of hers, between her legs—his hurtful hands now holding her thighs apart. She fought against him, felt her body slip on the shiny taffeta spread until she was suddenly poised on the edge of the bed with her legs hanging down on either side of him.

"Oh, n-no!" she wailed with horror, but he didn't seem to hear or care, as his fingers held her open.

"You are beautiful. Here, too. You have the ripest, loveliest lips I've ever seen hidden down here, doll, and I've seen plenty. Why hide anything so good?"

He bent his head, and she felt his lips on her, and then his tongue.

She thought suddenly that if only this were David doing it to her—David whom she loved, and not this hateful, self-contained egomaniac, then—but this was Brant Newcomb, not David, and she would never, never let him take her this way, not unless he killed her first, or....

Sobbing, gasping with fear and humiliation and rage, Eve struggled to get away from him, her body twisting and writhing, while he tried to hold her down with his hands. He was at a disadvantage now, she felt with a surge of triumph, for he still knelt between her flailing, thrashing legs.

"Damn you, Eve Mason, will you stop playing your stupid games? Lie still, bitch, or I'll have to—"

She was half-sitting up by now, her legs still kicking out wildly at him, but his sudden stillness caught her off balance. His grip on her slackened, then let go, and she fell back momentarily, to sit up again, eyes wide with horror.

The door was open—God, when had they opened it? —and people had crowded in through it, filling the room, grinning at them both as they seemed to freeze in a tableau of fear or frustration.

How many of them were there? She couldn't tell, but quite suddenly they seemed to press in on her, all around her, with their grinning, vacuous faces and their eyes—their eyes were all over her body, crawling over it. She tried to scream again, but only a small, choked sound escaped her dry throat. Instinctively, her hands grabbed for the bedspread, and she attempted to pull it over her exposed body. Was there actually regret in his eyes as he got slowly to his feet and leaned over her?

She heard Jerry Harmon's voice.

"We watched you through the two-way mirror for a while, after you disappeared in here. Whatsa matter, Brant baby, you getting selfish?"

"Yeah, you usually call us in sooner. You're slipping as a host—you used to be better about sharing, didn't he, Mel?"

She didn't want to hear what they were saying—even meeting Brant's cold eyes, locked with hers, seemed to be better than the things they were saying.

"Too bad, Eve. But maybe you prefer it this way.*

His voice was soft, meant for her only—his words cruel. He pulled the spread from her suddenly nerveless fingers and moved back, shrugging carelessly, letting those others crowd closer in, their eyes leering, their words beating against her ears.

"Hey, Brant, how come you didn't have her all tamed and quieted down for us?"

"Because she's a fighter, and she's stupid. But maybe it takes more than just one guy to keep her happy."

"Bet that's it, huh, baby? But don't worry, we'll make you happy—very happy!"

A man—his face looked somehow familiar, but she didn't know him—put his hand on her breast and squeezed.

She tried to roll away from him, and someone else grabbed her leg.

"If it's going to be a gang-bang, then I want in on it, too—women's fib and all that!"

A woman's wet mouth grazed Eve's; she turned her head away, but not quickly enough. The woman laughed.

From somewhere above her, sounding far away, Eve heard Brant's voice again.

"Hey, Jerry, get that damn camera rolling, will you? Eve Mason is going to get screwed, and we're going to add a new movie to the collection."

There was more laughter and cheering, and Eve wanted to close her eyes—that was her only escape from the nightmare now, she realized sickly.

Hands reached for her, touching, grabbing, holding. There were too many of them to fight off, but she fought, anyway. The fights blazed into her eyes, and her arms and legs had started to feel like lead weights; but the things they were doing to her, the obscene, ribald comments, were not to be endured. She had to do something to feel herself still alive; keep struggling against them for as long as she could.

The smell of their bodies, the heat of them, seemed to suffocate Eve. She panicked and heard her own cries and moans and useless pleading over the laughter and the obscenities and the hoarse, excited breathing.