The House of Terror - part 2

Four girls walked into that house and never walked out. Two agents roll up with their badges and a camcorder that’s the only thing left, its footage warping and breathing like it’s still alive. The footage shows everything they tried to hide: the girls stripped down to nothing, tits out, thighs spread, bodies slicked in sweat and whatever that house dripped onto them. One’s bent over the kitchen table, ass cheeks parted while some unseen thing pistons between them, her mouth open in a moan that breaks into laughter. Another’s on all fours, cunt glistening, drool swinging from her bottom lip as a shadow hand grips her hair. They don’t scream because they’re begging for more—fingers sliding into each other, tongues lapping at the other’s asshole, come dripping down their chins while that same shadow stuff keeps filling them. The house feeds on it, on them, on every wet slap and every filthy grunt. The agents hit pause. They don’t know if the tape’s lying or if the truth is that some places just want to fuck you stupid before they swallow you whole.