Blood on the Set

Blood on the Set

by

Bobby Derie

There was a flesh-colored rubber dick the size and shape of a horse cock lying in a gooey scab, flies buzzing around the blood-encrusted flared head. A pair of panties laid down like someone had stepped out of them and forgotten all about them, the initials “RK” written on the tag in sharpie. A trash bin with a peeling biohazard sticker, overflowing with used condoms and tiny brown pill bottles, all empty. A streak of lube pointing like an arrow in the general direction of the bed.

The smell was septic, gorge-rising but familiar, like sniffing your wife’s panties after her period, all crimson flow and sex. Underneath it were stranger, subtler scents, out of place—machine oil, grease, ozone, the slight floral fragrance that might be perfumes, a strong musty odor of yeast or mold, particularly in the far corner. Some of that would be from the machines—terrible mechanical pumping devices, slick-looking steel rods attached to small motors and engines, open chains and condom-covered plastic dildos that would make an OSHA inspector cringe. One of the machine-pricks still had a condom on it, though the spikes had ripped through the plastic.

Cameras were still running, numbers running down as the digital video filled up the available space, tripods set for close-up angles on the bed. The camera operators, of course, were nowhere to be seen, but tiny white tracks on the floor in front of the tripods suggested they’d been on set, at least in the beginning.

The bed itself was an abattoir. The director had gone for white sheets, or maybe that was what was available. It made the stains stand out more. Rusty red and brown, crusted into the folds until they were stiff, would probably crack and flake if you tried to move them. The bed was rimmed with partial foot, hand, and what looked like at least one set of red-painted ass-prints. There could have been three men or three hundred, no way to tell, but there was one girl.

They’d left her on the bed, ruined ass sticking in the air, balanced on her tits and face. Ribbons of pink flesh dangled from the hole, though there was no sign of what had done the damage—if indeed it were one single thing. There were hints around the edges of the wound—pink scar tissue, calluses, stitch marks, stretch marks—that suggested she’d been working up to something like this for a while. There were ribbons tied around her wrists, ankles, and neck. Fingernails were embedded inside her palms, she’d pressed so hard; one looked like it had broken off in her flesh. Her face was turned into the mattress, obscured by the sheets, and that was maybe for the best.

Something in the corner of the room moved.

There was a whirr and a click.

A little room off to the side, the director’s office. The glow of the screen cast his face in a ghastly light. One hand held his crotch, but it didn’t move, like it was holding something in, blood and filth dribbling between stiff fingers, down the chair, to puddle at his feet. Dead eyes on screen, editorial software running a preview loop. Thirty seconds of horror, played again and again. There was a note, scrawled by the mouse. “One take!!!”

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