The bartender picks them from the crowd; the first two recipients of his special drink. The slender brunette in the black heals and short summer dress looks deserving of a Mai-Tai. The shapely blonde with enormous breasts, flaunted by the squeeze of her small bikini, will receive a pinã colada.

There are others, and the drinks are on the house. The women can thank him later—or maybe not. Either way, the boss will be pleased with his careful selection of talent, the efforts of his staff, hired though inside channels just for the weekend.

As the mariachi band plays, it is the wait staff that delivers the drinks. It is the wait staff that watches from across the cabana as the women laugh and tease and sip their tasty drinks. And it is the wait staff that carries the women out when the drug kicks in.

The pack of little pills reads GHB, or gamma hydroxybutyric. The bartender prefers their street name, “Bedtime Scoop,” for the inevitable effects they have on whoever takes one, knowingly or not.

The brunette is the first to go, quickly overcome by the bartender’s special Mai Tai. The wait staff is there when she begins to swoon, suggesting that her fever is the result of the Caribbean heat and too much alcohol.

As for the blonde, she takes longer. “It must have gone to her tits,” the bartender laughs, waiting for the effects to kick in. And when it finally does, the wait staff promises her friends that she’ll receive the finest care the resort has to offer.

I suspect nothing when the heat goes to my own head, when my own vision begins to blur. The bartender tells me not to worry. My part in the project won’t be the same as theirs.

***

I wake with a sore neck and a raging headache, but I’m otherwise fine. I’m sitting at a table in an open room, sidled by two armed guards. The man across the table—Victor is his name—passes me a glass of water.

“How do we feel this evening?” he asks. “I’m sorry to meet under such circumstances. We feared you would not come willingly, so we had to make these special arrangements.”

I nod my head, confused. “What do you want?” I ask. “Why have you brought me here? And why the guards?”

Victor waves the men away. He knows I will not be a problem. He has no need for the guards anymore.

“The boss has a special project planned tonight,” Victor says, leaning into the table. “He calls it movie making, you see. You like movies, no?”

“Yes,” I say. “I like movies.”

“And beautiful women?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Very good. We have a cast of beautiful women here tonight, selected by our staff at the resort. They will star in this movie.” Victor pauses to laugh. “They will star, but they will not like their role.”

“What type of movie is this?” I ask, growing suspicious. I’d been stolen away from the Caribbean resort to rural Mexico. The law doesn’t reach this far, so anything is possible.

“The movie cannot be discussed,” Victor says. “But you will see for yourself its making. It is why you are here. Follow me.”

***

I follow Victor from the room. We pass through a steel door and descend down a steep flight of stairs. At the bottom, the temperature dropping, I hear a scream. It’s followed by the jeers of men in celebration.

“We are just in time,” Victor says. He extends his hand, a prison tattoo upon the palm. He leads me to a window looking into the room. “They are just getting started.”

Apprehensive, I move to the window to see a woman, screaming, hanging by her wrists. Terrified, she swings back and forth, feet inches from the floor, pushed and pulled by the men surrounding her.

Her dark hair splashes across her back, her slender body swinging at the end of the chain. Black heals scratch for the floor, kicking frantically at the men circling her, animals hissing and laughing and tearing at her clothing.

One reaches for her summer dress, rips it open. They claw at her bra, exposing her breasts, her nipples as hard as rocks.

“They are like wolves, no?” Victor says, grinning.

The men are savage in their attack, tearing at the woman’s clothing, pawing and mocking the slender body strung up before them. They work their pray to exhaustion, reducing her to tears.

“Her name is Elle, an American tourist from Florida,” Victor says. “She was having so much fun on her vacation. But I don’t think this what she had planned for the evening.”

Elle—if that is her name—cannot defend herself. She is now naked, stripped to her white panties, her face flushed red. Squealing, she tries to kick, shrieking in defense, but the men catch her ankles and pull in opposite directions.

Their whooping cries of celebration grow louder, more intense. They split her legs, pulling her open, nearly ripping her in two. The woman twists on the rope, lurching and quivering, legs held open, head pulled back by the hair, hands clawing at her panties.

Her resistance is frantic, futile. She is now under their full control, their meaty hands stuffing the ribbons of her panties between her lips, wrapping tape across her mouth, around her head. Ropes around her slender ankles, they pull, splitting her further, tying her legs impossibly wide.

She hangs, arms stretched toward the ceiling, shoulders bulging, legs straining wide toward the floor. Moaning, screaming, she’s unable to relieve the tension of her bondage or escape the animals around her.

“Now you will see the film begin,” Victor says.

A heavy pipe in their hands, they set it in place, turning the pipe, feeding it into the threads of a steel base bolted to the floor. A long pipe, it rises several feet between the woman’s spread legs, a phallus poised at its point, its head fat and bulbous, the woman straining, the men laughing at her frantic reaction to the deadly intruder waiting below her.

Watching through the glass, the show continues, its unwilling star howling in terror, pleading for them not to do whatever it is they are about to do. Her panicked expression, her cries deafening, she cannot stop them from extending the pipe, its telescoping end inching upward, kissing the folds of her pussy, driving between them, deeper, until she is impaled upon it.

“Good God,” I say, watching the woman contort through the glass. “Whose idea was this!?”

“A request from our client,” Victor replies. “That shaft is a foot long. As you can see, it gets wider at the base. Look how it fills her tight little cunt. Watch what happens next.”

Weakened by her struggle, the star of their perverted show tries to lift her body, aching to slide off the steel monster, fighting to free her ankles from the ropes, to close her spread legs. Her cries rise in pitch, frantic and fast, eyes darting about the room, watching as they plug a cord into the wall, the cord snaking across the floor, wires rising to a set of copper welds at the base of the buried phallus.

A black box, a red light comes on, a dial is turned. The seconds tick, the stolen tourist stretched rigid between floor and ceiling, spread between two walls. A hum, she gasps and twitches on the ropes, crying as the current fills the shaft, electricity pulsing into her pussy.

“The shocks are mild and brief, but quite painful, as you can see by her reaction,” Victor says. “We will play this game until we grow tired of it.”

Setting the box on the floor, the red light glowing, the current pulsing, the men open the door, passing us. They depart down the hall, allowing the door to slam shut behind them, locking Elle alone in the room, leaving her to ride the devil between her legs.

His phallus thrust deep into her cunt, she will hang and ride and twitch and scream until someone decides otherwise, and I know there is nothing she can do to make it stop.

***

Victor offers me a cigarette, which I accept without hesitation. I would ask for a shot of whiskey to calm my nerves, but after the last drink they gave me, I’m afraid to take anything I haven’t poured myself.

I’m sure Elle felt the same way. The poor girl, I could hear her yelping and crying through the glass as we move down the hall to another door. I’m afraid to look inside, but Victor insists.

“What the…” I began, unable to finish my sentence.

“Has the cat got your tongue?” Victor says, grinning. “Her name is Dominika. She arrived with her friends from Houston just yesterday. A bachelorette party, you see. She wasn’t even the maid of honor, but now that she’s here, she won’t be neglected. In fact, how should I say—she’ll receive our focused attention.”

The bound woman, her head incased in a burlap sack, rope synching the cloth tightly around her neck. Arms locked behind her, shoulders bowed, rippling, her small breasts quiver.

Holding her in place is a wooden beam rising behind her. She is seated upon a chair with no seat, legs draped over the sides with ankles locked to the frame below. She trembles in the darkness, unable to struggle, unable to move even the slightest muscle, her voice a whimper from below the hood.

“You might call it dastardly, no?” Victor says. “It’s a most uncomfortable pose, and for a woman, I suspect, she must feel quite exposed.”

Unable stand, unable to lean forward or inch down, a puppet frozen in a terrible pose, ropes cross her neck, her face, holding her tightly to the beam behind her. Sitting and waiting, she releases a cry, a whimper, her words garbled by an inflatable rubber balloon filling her mouth, the hose attached to a pump protruding from the bag encasing her head.

Two men enter the room. She hears them but cannot speak to them, cannot run from them. Twisting against the ropes, her breathing rapid and heavy, her body quivers in spasms of fear. Their touch is unwanted, yet it comes anyway, their dancing fingers producing shrieks of despair from their immobile prize. Fat fingers trace her toned belly, gently tickle her long nipples, trace the firm flesh of her inner thighs.

She quivers uncontrollably, unable to stop their fingers from gliding down to the thick folds of her splayed pussy. Four hands, twenty fingers, they pull the folds apart, stretching them, tugging to reveal the pinkness below. The woman stiffens, locked in fear and darkness, her groans of protest moving toward shrieks, then hysterical cries as they stroke her thickening clit.

“She is a sensitive one, yes?” Victor says. “She does not like to be touched so precisely. It seems it is painful on its own.”

The poor girl is wild with alarm, screeching like a trapped animal. All she wants is to shake their tickling fingers, to stop their precise touch. They hold her pussy open, lips full and fat. Her clit swollen and full, it has nowhere to hide, and so they stroke it, circle it, glide their fingers across it.

A scream, her chest heaves. She gasps and pleads, the cords firm in her neck. Her feet buck against the frame, toes curling, and again she tries to form the words, to make them stop, desperate to escape their touch, to end the little game they are playing with her body.

“This will go on for hours, I tell you,” Victor said. “They will do nothing more and nothing less. This evening, a new crew will arrive to take their place, and they will do the same.”

“But she’ll be mad by then,” I urge. “They’ve already pushed her past the edge.”

“Perhaps,” Victor says, stepping away from the door. “We will return to her later, my promise to you. I think they’re ready in the next room, yes? But I should warn you, what you have seen is easy and mild. This next one, by comparison, may be hard to watch.”

***

Remembering the guards, I know I have few options, so I follow Victor down the hall. We stop at the door to another room. I had seen the men enter it earlier. I was afraid to put my face to the glass. When I did, I wished I had not.

I recognize her at once. It’s the buxom blonde who had sauntered around the pool back at the resort in her skimpy bikini, flaunting her large deep cleavage while laughing with her girlfriends.

Now, she is tethered by the neck to a rope that runs to the rafters above. The rope is drawn taught, keeping her standing, rigid in the center of the room. Arms bound sharply behind her, both at the wrists and elbows, shoulders arched back, her chest heaves before her.

I know at a glance her position has been chosen for a single reason. The unlucky woman has enormous breasts; the biggest I have ever seen. Standing in fear, trembling, her tits thrust before her, displayed to the men standing around her.

“I have coveted this one,” Victor says. “She attracted our attention three days ago. We have watched her ever since. She flaunts and teases with that body, those tits, yes? I do not think she had this in mind.”

Electrician’s tape crosses the woman’s eyes, circles her head, encasing her in a silver cocoon. Her mouth is held agape by a dental gag, splitting her jaw impossibly wide. Her blue-veined breasts shift heavily, swaying with every twitch, her nipples as large as gumballs, pink areolas as wide as silver dollars.

The men around her, all five of them, grinning, two of them smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. The woman wobbles in her heals at the end of the rope, forced to stand between them, blind to the game that’s about to begin. If she fails to stand, if she falls or slips, she will most certainly hang herself.

“We are just in time,” Victor said. “I will ask them to begin.”

Victor knocks on glass, signals with a raised thumb. Let the games begin. Without delay, one man reaches out, his hands a blur, he swings, slapping the woman’s breasts.

Their buxom star, their unwilling actress, shrieks, lurches on the rope, but it does not stop the man from slapping her tits. Heavy and pale, her soft breasts fly together, apart, bounce heavy upon her chest. Desperate, instinctively, she turns her back, crying and drooling through the gag, trying to avoid another blow, unable to see that she is only turning to face another pair of waiting hands.

The next man leans back, palms open, strikes the woman’s pendulous breasts from underneath. Another blow, her tits collide with her chin. She tries to turn, her tits bulging, billowing. She completes the turn, presents herself to another, his hands big and fat, he slaps her tits rapidly, sharply from side to side.

“She has nowhere to hide,” Victor says, laughing. “Look at how she presents herself to them. They are only getting warmed up.”

I wonder if the woman would have changed her outfit at the resort if she’d known she would end up here, in this chamber, behind this door. She twists on the rope, shrieking with terror and pain. Her milky white breasts are easy targets, so large and full, the men slapping at them, those heavy utters burning with palm prints, blue veins growing dark.

Unable to wait his turn, lusting for another try, one man reaches around, grabs the woman’s right breast by the nipple. He jerks it, pulls the woman to face him. He lifts her breast by the nipple, stretching it, slapping the underside, sharply, again and again.

Not to be outdone, another man grabs the woman’s left breast, pulling it, her ample tits now stretched in two directions. He tugs, twists, laughing at her howls. Ten hands, fifty fingers, close in, mauling, twisting, squeezing the woman’s burning breasts, her neck stretched by the rope, arms locked behind her, her frantic cries ringing through the glass.

Only then does Victor bang on the window. The men step away, leaving the quivering woman alone, standing under the rope, her white breasts now burning red, nipples as thick as the gumballs in a candy machine.

“They’ll prepare her for the next game,” Victor said. “I think you will enjoy it.”

To be continued based on reviews. What should happen next to the unlucky stars of the underground movie?