This is a print version of story Driving Daisy Crazy by kepl6 from xHamster.com

Driving Daisy Crazy


Driving Daisy Crazy
By Unknown

All characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to persons living
or dead is purely coincidental





Chapter One

"Randy Buck, Nancy," Cynthia Marvel, also known as the Baroness, owner, president and chief executive officer of Marvel Industries, the cosmetic and bluejean conglomerate says to her vice president of marketing.

"Now there is a name I haven't heard in a long time," Nancy responds, "and hoped never to hear again."

"Now Nancy, the world is too small and Randy and I too large for us not to run into one another every now and again.

"I saw him in a restaurant the other day, Nance.

"The big, friendly wave, the ‘how have you been' bit, the whole thing."

"How very nice for the two of you," Nancy observes, drily.

"Yes," Cynthia says, ignoring the sarcasm, "there is something very nice when two old adversaries run into each other in a social setting.

"It gives each of us a chance to gauge how things are going with the other.

"Do we look well or hagard?

"Are we aging gracefully or at all?

"Are we tanned from the sun or pasty from too much time spent in the great indoors?"

"Stuff like that.

"Combinations of observation and intuition.

"Especially interesting when applied to Randy Buck, a man who bears watching."

"A man who belongs in a straight jacket until they give him a lethal injection, the gas chamber, the electric chair, the gallows, the firing sq—"

"Enough, Nancy!

"I get the picture and I agree with you a thousand percent.

"Which should make it all the more disturbing when I tell you that he was looking very well indeed—tanned, fit, radiating contentment."

"Uh-oh," Nancy drawls.

"Well put, k**do.

"If that sicko pervert creep is all that happy, that can only mean, as Sherlock Holmes, used to say, the game's afoot."

"Again," Nancy appends.

"Exactly.

"It's happening again. The only question being what ‘it' is this time."

"I wish that were the only question," Nancy replies.

"How's about letting the other shoe drop, boss of mine?"

"Why, let's do it together, in chorus.

"Ready?"

And they recite in unison, "What are we going to do about it?"

They laugh, but it is brief and their eyes tell each other that this is no laughing matter. •

Randy Buck, owner of a football team, a baseball team, a health club franchise operation, and a string of gourmet restaurants, is rich, powerful—and a sexual pervert of the first magnitude.

He was the Seneschal, the sinister operator of a private club upstate known as Buck's Castle, a labyrinthine structure in which sado-masochism, bondage and discipline were practiced regularly by a large membership of perpetrators and victims.

Cynthia and Nancy had managed, at the risk of their lives, to destroy that operation, but not Buck, who escaped punishment by donating the odd structure to the state and subsidizing its conversion into an orphanage.

That was merely their first encounter with the madman.

The second was when he tried to kill Cynthia by poisoning her at a charity masquerade ball, with the help of Fiona Fairley, head of Fairley Palace Hotels.

Cynthia managed to switch drinks with him, in the event, but he was saved by being rushed to a hospital and having his stomach pumped.

A third adventure involved a pseudo-monastic order founded by Buck, staffed by sex offenders, called the b*****rhood of the Body, which specialized in k**napping runaway girls and doing the obvious with them.

Cynthia and Nancy, again at great personal risk, managed to destroy this operation, with the help of a dominatrix, Vanessa, whom Buck had engaged to assist in the festivities.

Buck again managed to escape, but this time there was not enough left of the facility to do anything with it except turn it into a landfill, which Buck duly did, donating it to the state.

His shot at revenge this time took the form of k**napping Nancy and holding her at his mansion in the country, the Estate, hoping to lure Cynthia into a trap with her as bait, there to wreak his vengeance in full upon Cynthia, Nancy, and Vanessa, who had gone on Cynthia's payroll as part time advertising model and full time bodyguard.

This also backfired, due to Cynthia's connections within the state police and her prior planning before her and Vanessa's elaborate rescue attempt of Nancy, but once again, Buck was able to evade responsibility and, therefore, prosecution.

But Buck is a sick man and they both know it. He is also a man with the means to indulge his illness.

And, since it is directly related to his sexual appetite, they know that it is continuing, smoldering there within him, if not actively erupting.

As, they are certain, from time to time, it must.

Hence Cynthia's concern.

She buzzes her secretary on the intercom.

"Get Vanessa. Tell her I'd like to see her in my office."

And they sit there, Cynthia staring Out the picture window at the grimy, ugly panorama of old factory buildings, smokestacks and railway tracks, the bustling traffic on the huge suspension bridge in the distance.

Nancy, seated on the overstuffed sofa against the wall, does not look at her, preferring also to look out the window as she tries to overcome her fear of what she knows is about to transpire.

Why is the Baroness like this? she wonders.

How and why is it her responsibility to play the role of Randy Buck's nemesis?

Really, it's all so melodramatic and ridiculous.

They are like comic book characters, the villain, Buck, the heroines, Cynthia and herself, with attendant supporters on both sides of the fence of good and evil, right and wrong.

And the action comes complete with costumes hoods or masks, black leather corsets, whips, spiked heels and black mesh stockings—in short, the full paraphernalia of S&M, B&D, the full alphabet soup of sexual perversion.

Yes, Nancy thinks, Randy Buck is one sick puppy, all right.

But her boss and constant companion is surely no less so.

She is, in her own way, just as sick, if not sicker, than her arch-enemy, Randy Buck.

No question.

That latest little diversion of hers, the doll house, with muscle men all dressed up in drag, complete with make-up, prancing about and queening it up for her amusement, her living dolls, as she termed them—what was that, if not really sick?

And Cynthia herself seemed to realize this, making no attempt to rebuild the Victorian house or to set up the thing elsewhere after Antoine, her couturier, now ex-couturier, had burned the place down in a fit of pique after being excluded by her from participation in what turned out to be, thanks to him, the last session, almost trapping them within, himself included.

It was as though she suddenly snapped out of a hypnotic spell, the blaze awakening her.

She said nothing to Nancy, of course.

After alt, she is the infallible Baroness.

Still, she never mentioned it again, even in passing.

But Nancy gained an insight from that incident.

At least, she thinks she did.

It could very well be (in Nancy's opinion) that Cynthia's fascination with Randy Buck is that they are opposite sides of the same coin.

Meaning that, but for Buck as a foil for her fascination with the world of sexual perversion, an outlet for her attention, for her obsession with that dark kingdom, Cynthia herself might be irresistibly drawn to acts of perversion, more and more intense, more and more twisted, until she would become, in turn, a villainess of the first magnitude.

And Nancy sighs, realizing that it was her own taste for it, or at least curiosity about that dark, sick world, which had led her to join the Club, Buck's nebulous title for the membership of the Castle.

And it was Cynthia, coming along as her guest, which was the beginning of their adventures with, or more accurately, against Randy Buck.

So that, indirectly, she supposes that she is responsible for all that followed, dangerous and, to her at least, terrifying adventures, as Cynthia battled with Buck.

She views herself as his nemesis, obviously.

Equally obviously, since, whatever else Buck may be, he is certainly not stupid, he must view himself as her nemesis.

So that today, they are undoubtedly both biding their time, each thinking of ways in which to destroy the other, their mutual safety lying in the self evident fact that neither of their plans have gelled, at least to the point of beginning implementation.

"Hello."

And Vanessa, tall, broad-shouldered, looking every bit as big as she is in the blue blazer with brass buttons of the security staff of Marvel Industries, calves bulging below the short, matching skirt and above the high heels, strides up to the desk, nodding to Nancy en passant.

"Ah, Vanessa!

"Sit down, sit down!

"The subject, this morning, is Randy Buck."

Vanessa says nothing, seated at attention in the chair opposite Cynthia, at an angle so that she can also take in Nancy.

She waits for additional information.

"What," Cynthia continues, "is he up to these days?"

"Something," Vanessa replies.

And this is not a trivial answer.

Because it is something, as opposed to nothing.

It is a statement of opinion which has the effect of elevating a similarly held opinion on Cynthia's part to the status of fact.

"I agree. Something.

"And we were wrong, you know, Vanessa, in not having him tailed every second, from the minute we rescued Nancy."

"From the minute we were all rescued by the state police," Vanessa corrects.

"Yes. We should have done that."

"That too," Cynthia concurs, reddening with embarrassment at the correction.

That last incident was a close call.

And if not for the state police—never mind.

Because that is water over the dam.

The question before the house is what Randy Buck is doing right now.

These days, rather.

At this moment, middle of the work week, he is undoubtedly at his office downtown, across the river, directing his business interests with his usual, driving expertise.

But at night, on weekends, what?

How does the perverted monster spend his leisure time?

What is the creep doing to keep himself amused, satisfied?

"How long has it been, Vanessa?"

"Six months."

"Six months," Cynthia repeats.

"So that, if history repeats itself, then he is just about to recover from licking his wounds and try, try again."

"Right. So?"

But she already knows the answer.

Which comes in the form of a question.

"If not us, who? If not now, when?"

"I'll set up surveillance at once.

"There are several excellent detective agencies who—"

"Who will not be able to find out anything. Not in time.

"And time is of the essence. You know that, Vanessa, from personal experience."

She does indeed know that.

It was Buck's murderous intent toward his helpless victims at the b*****rhood's facility that caused her to suddenly go over to Cynthia's side, joining f***es with her after she and Nancy had broken in, actually leading the operation which rescued the girls and, ultimately, destroyed the castle-like structure, burying Buck's fiendish henchmen in the rubble of the explosion, detonating the pre-placed charges, put there by Buck himself in order to cover the contingency of a hasty retreat.

But the point here is that, at a certain point, when Buck is through toying with his victims, there can be but one disposition for them.

Therefore, the time factor can be, probably is, important.

Still, it all seems so unreal, sitting here in her office.

That other world, that dark, fantastic underworld seems a myth, something imaginary.

Even to these three who, above all others, know that it is not.

"I think, to begin with, what's needed here is a little attitude adjustment."

Which, in their case, is definitely not a euphemism for cocktail hour.

No, what's needed here is to once more reach out and touch that unreality, to remind themselves that, however fantastic, that world is out there.

It is only too frighteningly real, a threat and a danger to someone and, if the Baroness has her way, to them.

So that the attitude adjustment required here is precisely this realization, the making real, to them, of that sick, perverted world.

Only then will they be able to think clearly, to come up with a plan of action.

Therefore—

"Tonight. My place.

"Nancy, our stuff is already there.

"Vanessa, you know what to bring.

"Thank you both, and see you tonight at, shall we say, eight-ish?"

And the meeting breaks up.

*****

Three large female figures, black leather hoods covering the upper part of their faces, leaving only chins and mouths exposed, their breasts enormous, menacing warheads, pushed up and out by their tight leather corsets which exaggerate their hourglass figures, the dark triangles of their bushes framed by the black garterbelts, their straps, and the tops of the black mesh stockings that encase their long, shapely legs, from broad thigh to slender ankles, their lower legs encased in spike-heeled, black leather boots.

And there in the dimness of the master bedroom of Cynthia's penthouse, lamp bulbs turned to the dimmest setting, the moonlight streaming in through the skylight the major source of illumination, yes, yes indeed it is possible to believe in that dark nether world, so terrifying and yet, at the same time, so voluptuous, so enticing.

They strut around, three awesome female presences, exotically clothed, erotically exposed.

Because, from the rear, the twin roundnesses of their buttocks, their flared hips seem to invite, seem to say, "Approach if you dare!"

And yet, drawn by such arousing exquisiteness, who would not?

And the shadowy moonlight seems to emphasize the white expanses of their exposed flesh.

They are the superwomen of the night. And now, they come together, arms entwined about their shoulders.

Macbeth's witches they are, but beautiful where his were hideous, silent where his were noisy, their incantations those of the body and not of the spoken word.

As they summon within themselves that dark thrill, that shadowy and perverse urge to disport themselves sexually in the darkness over which they rule.

And now, they are on the king-sized bed, breasts, asses, thighs flashing in the moonlight as they form a mystical triangle on hands and knees.

But there is nothing a****listic as mouths, lips and tongues find ass holes and cunts, thrust out, presented for attention.

Because this is a thorough, a calculated licking and rimming they undertake.

They take their time.

There is nothing wild, uncontrolled in their eating of one another.

And now, a dildo is revealed in the hand of one of them, long, thick, double-headed, the moonlight making it the same shade and texture as their living flesh.

And the triangle breaks up, is replaced by a new arrangement, one atop the second, the dildo invisible between them, half shoved into each of their cunts.

As the third one straddles the face of the one below, her ass hole and pussy in the face of the one on top.

And now, round and round go the hips of that one, reaming both pussies as the one on the bottom rolls her tongue round and round on the clit of the one on her face as the one on top rims her thoroughly, her tongue fucking her ass hole.

And one looking on from the foot of the bed could clearly see the insertion of the thick rubber monster into the two pussies.

Because now it is shiny and wet with their clear, hot pussy juices.

As the one on top rolls her broad hips, faster and faster.

Sex and ceremony, it is.

Heroines and villainesses all in one, they are.

As they gratify one another in the costumes in which they have performed great deeds in secrecy, in darkness against the f***es of that darkness.

Or rather, the f***e.

Who is present in malevolent spirit, even now.

Who is here, with them and against them.

Who has caused them to assemble thus. Who is the occasion of this, their war dance of passion, before they sally forth against him and his works.

Three large, powerful women, three women of courage.

Who know that courage must be tempered with caution and precaution.

Who know that daring must be measured, balanced with safety.

So that this will be, perhaps, their last occasion of undiminished, of total abandon.

Because the enemy, though present in spirit, is separated from them right now.

He cannot know (but can certainly suspect) that they are gathering their f***es against him.

Four times they have thwarted him.

The Castle, the poisoning, the b*****rhood, the a*****ion.

Four tries, four defeats.

But to defeat Randy Buck's plans is not to defeat Randy Buck.

He has made that clear to them, with his warped mind no doubt "clear" to himself.

Never ready for them, as events prove, always waiting for them, as events have also demonstrated, he is.

Never successful against them, never fully defeated by them, he lives on, free to do as he pleases, with Cynthia his only worthy, his only real opponent.

But he need not worry tonight, although a part of him would certainly do well to worry about tonight, if he but knew.

Tonight is just for the three of them to become lost in their erotic, exotic, costumed, common aura.

Wherein is celebrated their archetypal female power.

As it raises itself to consciousness, to reality. As it gathers itself for the danger, the struggle to come.

So that now, they feel it, that nucleus of power and arousal, of power aroused, that they have called forth within themselves, within one another.

A glow, a warmth and a thrill it is, seeming to radiate energy in all directions from the center of their abdomens.

And the delight, the lascivious sensuality of the power is upon them.

And it grows steadily within them, blossoming, mushrooming ever outward.

Filling them with its charge of sexual electricity. Which, to them, is more than merely sexual, more than simply erotic.

Which, to them, is the potential, the power to act, to do as they feel impelled.

So that now, they are getting excited.

Their bodies, their faces become flushed with the engorged bl**d of their mounting passion.

First this, within, within themselves, within each other.

And then, the charge outward, the storming of the enemy, the thwarting of his plans, perhaps even the destruction of himself.

Later for that.

For now, there is the awareness of their strength, of their sensuality, of their voluptuousness.

For now, there is the arousal, the stimulation, the glow of sexual delight.

Which they elicit from one another ever more ardently.

Which they receive from one another ever more eagerly.

As hunger and satisfaction, desire and fulfillment overlap one another.

Reaching for the next increment of pleasure.

And the next and the next.

So that now, they are a closed circuit of rampant sexual energy, which goes round and round with ever increasing intensity.

So that delight becomes ecstasy and ecstasy swells into rapture.

Hotter and hotter they become.

Higher and higher they rise now toward their shared sexual paradise.

Or lower and lower, down, down, down into the intimate, libidinous darkness of innermost sexual fulfillment.

Or either and both, at one and the same time. As they become dizzy, disoriented, not knowing, not caring which side is up, or how fast or where they are headed, as time and space give way to the overwhelming sensations of pleasure which excite them, molecule by molecule.

Until they are at their fullest, brimming with the floodtide of the pleasure they have generated.

Which increases inexorably, its pressure growing and growing within them.

Until they are coming and coming, the pussies of the pair that shares the dildo milking it for all they are worth, the contractions, the spasms of their multiple orgasms extracting from the rubber monster all the pleasure they are capable of containing and more.

So that now, the ultimate pleasure, the pleasure beyond pleasure is in control of them.

And they are jerking this way and that, only their mouths, tongues accelerating to vibrator speed in the third one's ass hole and cunt, continuing to work away.

So that she too climaxes, her multiple orgasms almost making her pass out with the excess, the surfeit of pleasure, the indescribable transport into a realm of delicious, irresistible sensations which control her completely.

So that now, the three of them jerk frenetically, puppets on invisible strings, in the threes of their series of orgasms.

Which rise to a peak and then slowly allow them to float back down to earth.

Or rise from its depths.

Chapter Two

Daisy looks around the bus terminal.

She looks very much like a Daisy.

Tall, blue-eyed, with short, blonde hair that is neither straight nor curly, floral blouse tucked into bluejeans whose soft, faded blue denim accentuate. her broad, flaring hips, the twin roundnesses of her buttocks.

A big farm girl, Daisy.

And she has left home.

Not run away, but simply left, her high school education completed, the farm a dusty expanse of whithered crops capped, near the highway, by a dilapidated cluster of barn, silo and house.

There was no argument, was in fact no discussion. Except for a sighing, grudging, "Well, maybe it'd be fer the best aft'all," from her father.

Who had no time or interest in her future, it being, by definition, than any version of his, of the farm's.

He had nothing for her.

There was nothing for her, back there. Talk of subsidies, talk of loans, slim possibilities, the suggestion, the shadow of hope, rather than hope itself.

Try it.

Come east.

Come to the city of possibilities, however nebulous, of hope, however slim and without foundation.

And now, looking around, she sees that the city has drawn her to it like a vacuum.

She has been attracted, moved by a nothingness, an emptiness even greater than that she left behind, she sees.

Because there is no clue here, no indicator.

There is no sign from heaven.

And to seek within her heart is to know only more emptiness.

Inspiration does not strike.

She has gone from hopelessness to hopelessness. Those with hopes and dreams, valid ones, do not take the bus.

They fly.

And she too could have flown.

She had enough money for that, at least.

But she didn't.

Why?

Because to fly is to collapse time, to shorten distance.

And, if all one has is a nebulous, shaky illusion, then flying is also to kill that, to nip it in the bud.

The policeman sees her.

And knows exactly what he is looking at.

And knows better than to direct her to Covenant i-louse or to some other shelter.

Because, unless he somehow arranges to transport her there by squad car, there is just no way she will make it.

He could, of course, give her subway directions. But before she could get there, even by subway, they would come.

The vultures, preying on flesh such as hers.

The people with the better ideas.

And she would listen to them, to their bullshit.

And would believe, despite common sense, despite caution, because she wants to.

Away.

A place to stay.

Money in her pocket.

And it would just be temporary, just until she can find "something better".

Something better.

That's the name of the dream, something better.

So he chooses not to see her.

She is loitering, but he will give her that much of a break.

And of course, if the guys in the patent leather shoes and the flashy vests and those hats with buckle bands come up to her, he will intervene.

But, other than that, she is on her own.

Not his choice, but a simple fact of life.

When you land here the way she has, you are, in every sense of the term, on your own.

She stands there with her cardboard suitcase, not knowing which way to turn and not moving.

And he knows what that is all about too.

Turn around.

Go back the way you came.

Chickening out, they'd call it here in the big city.

But she has nothing to prove to anyone here, only something to prove to herself.

So that there is that to be resolved as well. So many problems would be solved if she would simply go to the window and get herself a return ticket.

Where to stay, for example.

What to do, for example.

"Ah there, my little chickadee!"

She cannot believe this black man in those outlandish shoes is speaking to her.

He was, but he isn't.

Because—

"Don't tell me, let me guess!"

This from the cop.

"W. C. Fields, right?"

"Uh, yeah, b*o', thass right."

"Well, W. C., you're gonna hafta go look for Mae West someplace else."

"Yeah, bu—"

"Or you could consider the alternative.

"And I gotta tell ya, I never laugh at the same joke twice."

The black man puts up his hands in front of his chest and backs away a half dozen paces, then scurries from the terminal.

The policeman looks at Daisy, clears his throat to speak, changes his mind, and walks on.

He does not want to see what becomes of her, because it can't be anything good.

"Excuse me, young lady."

Horn-rimmed glasses, a business suit, shorter than her, average build, colorless, balding.

She looks at him, curious.

There is nothing in him to inspire fear or wonder.

"You seem to be lost."

"No, this is the end of the trip all right," she replies.

He smiles.

But there is no warmth in the pale eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Let me rephrase that, then.

"You seem to be at a loss. Like you don't know what to do next."

She stonewalls him, admitting nothing, denying nothing.

"I have a suggestion," he says.

"That is, if you're qualified.

"Have you ever tended a garden?"

Now that, that she can relate to, can respond to.

"I was raised on a farm!"

"Who would have guessed?

"My employer has a garden.

"Or should I say, space for a garden.

"But he has nobody to tend it.

"He offers room, board, money to one who is able to do so.

"Does that sound like something that would be of interest to you?"

"Well, uh, I really haven't given it mu—"

"Problem here, miss?"

The policeman has returned, disgusted that he was not allowed to get far enough away from her to avoid picking up on the next approach.

Like flies on shit around here today, they are, he thinks.

Funny, though, how this guy doesn't look the type.

Probably an individual kink instead of the usual pimp, trying his luck.

This oughtta send him scurrying, though.

But it does not.

Instead—

"My good man, I happen to be Cranston, personal secretary to Randy Buck."

From his inside pocket, Cranston produces a card.

The policeman scrutinizes it.

Buck Enterprises, the guy's name, title—he's the genuine article, or so it would seem.

"I was passing through here on business of my employer when I noticed this young lady in need of assistance.

"Assistance, I might add, unless I am mistaken, which I doubt, that she was not about to get from you.

"Or am I wrong?"

The policeman glares at him, saying nothing.

"I thought as much.

"What is at issue here... officer?"

"Thought somebody was tryna pick ‘er up, is all," he mumbles.

"Which, in fact, I am. I don't deny it."

"Look. You know damn well what I mean! "You know, unless you're new on the job, in which case I can explain it to ya."

"Please don't bother.

"Although I must say, that hardly speaks well of my appearance."

And he manages a wintry smile.

"Tell you what, officer.

"Just to show that there're no hard feelings, please, take my card.

"That way, when you discover the young lady is wanted is wanted for murder in twenty states, you'll know exactly where to find her."

Daisy takes a deep breath, surprised, not understanding.

"But I—" she begins.

But Cranston holds up a hand, silencing her.

"Until then, the young lady has many veggies to plant. That is," turning toward her, "unless you've something better to do."

"Me? No, I, uh... no."

"Excellent! Shall we go, then?

"Anything further, officer?"

"Guess not."

Cranston picks up Daisy's suitcase.

"Shall we go, then?

"The limo is just outside."

The policeman watches them leave and sees that there is indeed a limo parked in the alleyway which bisects the terminal, long and silver, its windows one-way glass.

And something clicks in his mind.

Not because of Daisy or the unremarkable Cranston, but because of the chauffeur, his skin parchment white, completely bald, wearing dark glasses.

He remembers, a year ago.

And that chauffeur resembles those robed creeps, like monks except they weren't, driving a van belonging to something called the b*****rhood of the Body.

He watches the limo pull away.

And, pulling out his wallet, instead of placing Cranston's card in with his collection, looks through the cards already there.

He finds the one he is looking for.

And goes to the terminal's small police station.

And dials the number on the card.

"Marvel Industries, Security. How may I assist you?"

"Uh, yeah, this here's Patrolman Ryan, Port Authority Bus Terminal.

"Bout a year ago, one a yer people axed me ta keep an eye out fer any of them b*****rhood of the Body types.

"An you're not gonna believe this, but—"

"Try me."

"I think I just seen the guy used ta drive their van.

"On'y now, ‘steada that robe they all wore, he's got a chauffeur's uniform an he drives for Randy Buck.

"He just picked up...

*****

"The Estate," Cynthia says.

"There, his office, the stadium—both stadiums— "

"I'd say forget the stadiums," Vanessa interjects.

"Scratch the stadiums," Cynthia resumes, as though it is her idea, which, since Vanessa had it on her time, technically it is.

"The Estate and his office.

"That oughtta just about do it, unless—"

Beep, beep, beep!

Vanessa looks at her lapel beeper, then shuts it off.

Cynthia looks annoyed.

"Ask ‘em if it can wait, will you? I really want to get this surveillance rolling soonest."

"Sorry, Cynthia, won't take a moment."

Cynthia shoves her phone at Vanessa, who punches in security's extension.

"Vanessa here... What? Lemme have that again... No shi—I mean, no k**ding! Listen, get this Ryan back to the phone and pipe it into the baroness's office... No, we'll wait for it right here. And uh, thanks."

She hangs up.

"Speak of the devil!" she says, grinning.

"Cop over the Port Authority is on duty, swatting the flies off the runaways, when who shows up but Creep Cranston and Supercreep Eric and they spirit away some cornflower in the Buckmobile!"

"Then the ceremony last night worked," Cynthia grins.

And the three of them laugh.

They have conjured up their favorite demon, forcing him to reveal himself.

And the bond between reality and the unreal grows stronger.

Suddenly serious, Cynthia continues, "Problem is, they could have taken her anywhere, including parts completely unknown to us."

"We wait for the call," Vanessa says.

"Do you think he's got some new place for his fun and games or what?" Cynthia asks.

"We wait for the call," Vanessa replies.

"Geez, if he's gone ahead and gotten himself a new location, we could be totally helpless!"

"We—"

"I know, I know. We wait for the call." And the three of them just sit there in total silence.

And, it seems to Cynthia, sit and sit.

Until—

Part of one ring and Cynthia grabs the phone.

Only to blush and place it in Vanessa's waiting, outstretched hand.

"Yeah... Oh yes, Officer Ryan.

"Thanks ever so much for remembering to call!

"Can you tell me—just a moment, please.

"Do you mind if I put you on speaker and tape?

"This could be very important to us... Thanks ever so much!

"With me, Officer Ryan are Cynthia Marvel—"

"The Baroness?"

"Right. The Baroness.

"She and her vice president of marketing are sitting right here and they may have some questions also.

"For openers, can you just give us an account of the whole incident, from the beginning."

He does.

When he has finished, Vanessa says, "I see.

"The impression here, Officer Ryan, is that this, uh, position Cranston offered the girl is to be part of the household staff. That the way you see it?"

"Pretty much, yeah.

"A garden for vegetables, like you'd pick for the table, as I see it.

"If the guy was tellin' the truth.

"Hey, listen, you don't think I was wrong ta let this Cranston take ‘er away, do ya?"

"Certainly not!

"Mr. Buck is an excellent executive who heads up a most impressive conglomerate and the young lady was fortunate to have things turn out so well for her so fast."

"Officer Ryan?" Cynthia interjects.

"This is Cynthia Marvel.

"The only problem might be that chauffeur. I will speak to Mr. Buck about him, since he might not be aware of the man's past.

"Additionally, I'd like to add my personal thanks to you for being so sharp-eyed.

"If you ever decide to go private, please contact me. I can always use good security people."

"Thanks, Baroness! I'll keep it in mind."

"You do that. ‘Bye now."

And she breaks the connection.

"The Estate," she says.

"What a relief!"

"Aerial recon would be best," Vanessa says. Morning and afternoon.

"Sweet young thing misses three in a row, we go to Phase Two."

"Which is?"

"Which is whatever we have to do to find out what's going on with the young lady.

"I don't wanna develop any options just yet, because that'll automatically rule out any others and I think, at this point, we gotta stay loose."

"Nancy?"

"I'm with Vanessa.

"We over-react, we move too soon or too hard, and we recover a cigar box of ashes.

"Believe me, I know"

"Just as we know that your replacement of sorts is there now.

"Nobody here is k**ding herself that Randy needs somebody to tend veggies, are they?"

She looks around.

"Good! Good that we all agree that what we have just gotten word on is Buck's next victim.

"Nice that he's scaled down at least, isn't it?"

"Not if you happen to be the one he's scaled down to, it isn't," Vanessa observes.

"Hey, I couldn't agree more," Cynthia concedes.

"Even one more victim is one too many."

Then, almost as though to herself, "He's gotta be stopped, one way or another.

"I've got to stop him—one way or another."

"Well we haven't yet," Nancy observes. Cynthia glares at her.

"No, no, that's all right, Nancy.

"I'm the one who should apologize for not stepping on that snake's head when I had the chance."

"Which was when?" Vanessa asks. Cynthia thinks that one over.

"Never, really, I guess."

"Damn straight, never.

"And we're not gonna get anywhere if you keep beating yourself over the head for the fact that that piece of garbage is still walkin' around suckin' air.

"Don't worry; when the time comes—the right time, that is—you won't miss; I won't miss."

"I'm sure of it," Cynthia says.

And she sits there in silence, as though meditating.

Suddenly, briskly, "Well then! There we have it! Surveillance to commence when?"

"Today, I should think," Vanessa replies.

"Got a good chopper man, asks no questions, just looks for whatever the client says and reports promptly and in detail."

"Okay, you get on that.

"Vanessa, it's business as usual for you and me until something goes sour, right?"

"Even when it does is fine with me, Cynthia. I'm a devout coward, in case you haven't noticed."

"Nonsense! Look how much fun we've had!"

"Is that before, during, or after the torture sessions?"

"Details, details!

"My goodness, where would we be without a sense of adventure!"

"You can have my share, k**do."

"Getting too old for this stuff, are we?"

"I think I was born too old for this stuff."

"Unfortunately, my dear, it's a little too late for such afterthoughts."

"What afterthought? I always thought that!"

"Nevertheless, you are as prime a target for Mr. Buck's nefarious attentions as I.

"Sad but true, I'm afraid."

"Why is it, Cynthia, that I keep getting the impression that you are not all that unhappy that this crap with Buck is heating up again?"

Cynthia grins.

"The man you love to hate, I guess.

"I simply love fucking him up."

"Yeah, right.

"The only problem with the way things have gone so far is that it's always our necks and skins on the line, while Buck's defeats are kind of like a rich man's losing at cards.

"Sure, his feathers are a little ruffled but, basically, he's none the worse for wear, while we come within millimeters or milliseconds of getting our asses blown away.

"I swear, Cynthia, sometimes I think Buck hasn't lost at all, that he's just playing some kind of deadly game of cat and mouse with us."

"Which, on balance, is better than not getting to play at all, Isn't it?"

Nancy just looks at her.

And the suspicion mounts that she is a mere mortal, trapped between two struggling super-maniacs.

When whales fight, the shrimp get killed, as the old Chinese saying goes.

And right now, she is feeling very shrimpy indeed.

"Tell you what, Nance," Cynthia says, "suppose you move in with me again, for a while?"

"Really, Cynthia I don't think—"

"Just, just until this blows over, okay?"

Useless to argue, and she knows it.

"Okay. I'll just go home after work and get a few things—"

"Everything you need, I have.

"Toothbrush to togs, since we're both the same size.

"And your costume is already over at my place."

"Naturally, since the only time I need it is when I'm with you."

"Bitter, bitter!

"Cheer up, k**do!

"You coulda got stuck in one of those miserable nine to five situations."

"Right. And lived to a ripe old age."

"And had to worry about wrinkles. Don't forget that."

"Right now, I'd settle for being able to look back and remember getting them."

"Is my brave little soldier quaking before the battle?"

"No, but maybe I should start."

Thinking, So. There's to be a battle, then.

Them versus Buck's creeps.

That's always the way.

The only time they had even come close was at the masked ball.

Where Buck's great weight was able to tolerate a dose of poison designed for someone much lighter (Cynthia) and he received immediate medical attention.

Even so, he knew nothing of prolonged and well founded terror, of the pain and bruises and lacerations, the torture that they have endured.

Encounter after encounter, each one culminating in a more narrow escape than the last.

And the Baroness looking forward to the next one.

And calling in her troops, gathering them at the ready.

Which is why Nancy cannot go home tonight. So that she will be instantly ready to accompany Cynthia into what can only be viewed as battle.

Geez, she thinks, you'd think Cynthia would go in with better troop strength this time!

But no, here they are, the two of them, or three, if they are lucky and Vanessa is in position to be with them at the critical point, and the how and when of that Nancy cannot envision right now.

Except that it is getting close.

Because Cynthia intends to stir the hornet's nest again.

Sooner or later, that girl is going to have to be rescued.

And Nancy does not have to be a genius to figure out by whom.

Chapter Three

"Welcome, welcome, welcome, my dear!"

Randy Buck exclaims, his expression a benign smile, avuncular as he takes both her hands in his.

And Daisy looks at this suntanned bull of a man, with his iron grey crew cut, clad only in a short terrycloth robe, tied loosely at the waist, and rubber sandals.

"You'll pardon my appearance, I hope.

"We're very informal here and I was just sunbathing in the back yard.

"Where," he continues, retaining her hands in his but looking now at Cranston, "I understand we're soon to have a vegetable garden under your expert care and keeping."

"Well, I'm no expert or anything like that," Daisy replies, modestly, but I do have somewhat of a green thumb."

"Then the midwest's loss is my gain," Buck says, affably, releasing her hands.

"I can only hope and pray the nation's agriculture will survive the absence of your services."

"Pardon?"

"Bit of a joke. Never mind.

"Cranston will show you to your quarters.

"And once again, welcome aboard."

"Thank you... oh."

"Something else?"

"Could I call my folks an tell ‘em I got here okay an all?

"I kin reverse the charges, if—"

"That won't be necessary, my dear.

"Help yourself to the phone in your bedroom, anytime you wish.

"Anything else you may require, I can have Eric run you over to the nearest town.

"Run along now.

"I leave you in Cranston's able hands." And Buck leaves them in the grand entrance hall, at the foot of the marble staircase, disappearing into his den to the left.

Daisy looks all around herself, even up at the high, vaulted, ornately coffered ceiling as they ascend the stairs.

"Never been in no palace b'fore."

"Mansion," Cranston corrects.

"Only the nobility live in palaces, and there are none here.

"Even though Randy is the monarch of all he surveys."

"Like a king, right?"

"Exactly."

"And other women live here?"

"Not, not at the moment.

"For now, you are the mistress of the house."

"Mistress?"

"Certainly. The reigning female, if only by default."

"Oh. Fer a minute there, I thought you meant— something else."

"Such as?

"Oh, here we are. Your room."

"Wow! Place like this, I could be a mistress, just like in them romance novels!"

"A veritable paperback princess, eh?" Cranston chuckles.

"Girls down home used ta read them things all the time.

"Pass ‘em around I school ‘til they plumb fell apart.

"An this, this place is just like one of them great houses we were always readin' about."

"And did they... inspire you?"

"I don't think I could ever do what some of them girls in them books did."

"Oh? Too shy? Too modest?"

"No. Leastways, I don't think so.

"Ain't that s'much as ‘tis the things that drove ‘em, which I just don't understand.

"Blindin' ambition, urgent desire an suchlike."

"I hope you'll not be offended, uh, Daisy, but may I ask if you've ever been... with a man."

"Oh now, don't choo fret none about that, Cranston!

"Cain't hardly be raised on no farm the way I was ‘thout some knowledge of the birds an the bees rubbin' off."

"Ah, yes.

"But the question is, what did you do about it? After all, as you say, urgent desire as a concept eludes you."

She smiles knowingly.

"Desire, yes; curiosity, well, that there's a horse of a different color, ain't it now?"

"Indeed.

"And I am delighted to hear you say that."

"Why is that?"

"May I speak frankly?"

"Go ‘haid. Aft'all, you got me this, this—"

"Position."

"Right. I was just gonna say that."

"Randy is still single and not getting any younger, Daisy."

"An he's not, uh, seem anybody at the moment?"

"Exactly.

"Listen. What you said before about ambition, do you really not understand it?"

"Well now, it's not lack of understandin' so much as it is—was—the way it just didn't apply back then."

"I thought as much.

"But here, now, looking around you, wouldn't you like to be more than just the gardener?

"Don't you see an opportunity here?"

She looks at him a long moment.

"Should I?" she asks.

"That depends. How far would you be willing to go to become mistress of the Estate in more than the mere default sense?

"And before you answer, think about Randy, about this place, and how you'd feel if, say, another woman were to appear, a woman closer to Randy in wealth, in age, in social status?

"Oh, you need not say anything to me.

"But think that over.

"Think about how... unnecessary such a development would be.

"Especially if you've got what it takes and you know how to use it.

"As the song goes, the birds and the bees do it, and for a lot less by way of reward than you could, if you play your cards right."

"And, uh, you'll help me?"

"Certainly."

"Why?"

He shrugs.

"Self interest, ultimately, I suppose.

"Things are going very well with Buck Enterprises.

"The last thing Randy needs is to have some scheming harridan appear on the scene and ruin his life, turning everything upside down."

"I wouldn't do that."

"I know you wouldn't. That's exactly why I think you'd be so good for him.

"Give him the things a man wants and needs from a woman and not ask to see the financial statements or the bank books, except, of course, for your own account, which you could certainly rely upon him to keep well stocked.

"Think you could do that?

"Think you could take such good care of Randy that he wouldn't be tempted to look elsewhere?"

"This is all comin' a mite fast at me.

"Never thought of anythin' like this ‘fore this very instant."

"Tell you what.

"You get unpacked, get settled in, take a look out at the garden shed, the garden plot, see what's needed, and I'll have Eric run you over to the nursery to get whatever you need.

"I'll also give you an advance so you can get yourself some clothes and whatever else you personally require.

"Eric takes care of the laundry, we have a housekeeper for meals and ordinary housework, a landscaping service for the grounds.

"You can use the pool, the gym in the basement—all the facilities.

"And don't forget to call your folks."

"Gonna do that right now.

"And Cranston?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks. Thanks for ever'thang."

"Amazing," Cynthia muses.

"You see these aerial photographs?"

"Sure did," Nancy replies.

"And that cleared rectangle is either about to become a garden or it's one big case of overkill on the pretence."

"I agree. Can it be that Buck has turned over a new leaf?"

She looks at Nancy and Vanessa.

"Nah!" the three of them chorus. And laugh, briefly.

"And that's the girl, right?"

"Looks like. And right next to her is Cranston, pointing at something."

"Right. I'd know that bald spot anywhere."

"That was yesterday afternoon," Vanessa observes.

"And this one—" handing her another large photograph, "is from this morning."

And there is Daisy, laying out bags of fertilizer, hoe and spade and two kinds of rake laid out, ready.

And there, on a chaise, Buck himself, sitting there, watching her.

"Looks like he's gonna take it stow and easy with her," Cynthia says.

"I'd say so," Vanessa concurs.

"That, or he wants to actually get a garden put in before he moves on to fun and games.

"Check this afternoon's photo."

There are definite rows, regular furrows running this way and that, a kind of miniature landscape of a full-scale farm.

There are plants beside stakes over about a fourth of the plot, obviously an optimistic view of a tomato planting.

And there is Daisy, barefoot, wearing shorts and a halter as she uses a large sprinkling can.

The chaise, on the patio beside the plot, is empty.

"So far, so good," Cynthia says.

"All we can do is to wait for the other shoe to drop," Vanessa says.

"Wait and watch," Cynthia agrees.

"At least," Nancy says, "he's limiting his focus to a single victim, this time."

"Mmmm, I doubt that," Vanessa says.

"More likely, he's establishing a pattern.

"This girl and the situation he's putting her in could be a prototype.

"If it works, if it gives him the kicks he's looking for, we can look forward to a parade of others just like her, way I see it."

"Which," Cynthia appends, every inch the Baroness now, "is precisely what must not be allowed to happen.

"I'm half tempted to call Captain Reynolds over at the state police barracks right now."

"And tell him what, Cynthia?" Vanessa asks.

"That Randy Buck has went and hired himself a gardener?

"Granted, Reynolds is no friend of Buck's, not after pulling off that rescue mission of the three of us from the Estate, but really, just what do you think he can do about your suspicions?"

"Not a damned thing," Cynthia sighs.

And Nancy too sighs.

Thinking, Here we go. again.

Because it is only a matter of time before the three of them will once more have to go into action against Randy Buck.

Meaning, once again, that they will have to risk life and limb in order to undo his latest plot, as opposed to hitting at the obvious root of the problem.

Risking her life, all their lives, merely to treat a symptom, rather than curing the disease.

And there is nothing she can do about it.

Because Nancy is committed to Cynthia, no matter where that commitment leads her.

Which seems, invariably, to be into the utmost danger.

*****

By the pool.

And Daisy looks fetching indeed, in her string bikini.

Randy Buck comes out to the pool as well, clad only in a terrycloth robe and sunglasses.

He watches her for a while, now swimming with strong, even strokes, now jack-knifing gracefully from the low board, which rattles as she leaves it, making a triangle of herself before straightening out and torpedoing smoothly into the water.

"Water's great!" she says to Randy, dr****g herself on the edge of the pool, head floating on crossed arms, smiling at him.

"Take off your bikini," he suggests.

"You'll be more comfortable that way.

"Besides, I don't like to skinny dip alone." And he stands up, removing his robe.

"See?" he says, pointing to himself.

"No tan lines. Better that way."

She shrugs.

And hoists herself up on the edge of the pool.

And removes her top, then her bottom, revealing large, doorbell-like pink nipples on top, a thick chestnut triangle down below.

But, as though to cover herself, she dives from the side into the pool at once.

And Buck is right in there after her. The pool scene, just like in one of those paperback romances, she thinks.

Except that Buck seems to be ignoring her, intent on doing laps, as though he is on a regular exercise program of some kind.

Daisy has never considered herself forward or (to use the word in the novels) wanton, but still, a naked woman, a naked man, a beautiful day, a secluded pool—and nothing?

It can't be me, she thinks, it's got to be him. He needs a little encouragement, a little more inspiration, is all.

Because Cranston was right.

The more she thought about it, the less she liked the idea of another woman coming here, coming into Buck's life.

And it's not, she tells herself, that she is one of those viciously ambitious villainesses from a romance novel, but a matter of convenience, of practicality, of an opportunity begging for the taking.

In short, the there-ness of him, of her.

That, and the isolation.

So that for her to leave this chance go would be a waste.

Waste not, want not, she has always heard said.

And truer words were never spoken, their meaning never more clear, than at this moment.

No doubt, no question.

So that now, she joins him, swimming his laps side by side, matching him stroke for stroke, choreographing her actions to his own.

And we're man and woman, together, alone, and naked, naked, naked! she beams at him with powerful thought waves.

The shallow end.

And he stops.

And, therefore, so does she.

And they stand up, her large breasts high and paperback magnificent, heaving slightly with the exertion of the swim, as is his big, beefy chest.

They look at one another, she with her arms loose at her sides, he with his hands on his hips.

And suddenly, as though drawn by a mutual magnetism, paperback romance style, she is in his arms.

And he is covering her face and mouth and throat with his ardent kisses.

But there is nothing paperback romantic about the thick bar of meat which rises heavily, the plum of the head climbing her stomach until the eye stares upward, large and ruddy, the mighty organ sandwiched between their bodies.

And now, he breaks away from her, leading her by the hand up the steps, out of the water, over to the heavy, redwood chaise, covered with padding and a towel.

And she closes her eyes and allows him to lower her on her back until she is lying there.

And her legs are spread and raised, bent at the knees, as she lets her body assume the position, almost by reflex, as she used to do with her farm boy schoolmates out of curiosity.

Nor is her longing for Buck that of raw, sexual desire.

Because there is here too a note of curiosity.

Will he be the same as the boys down home?

That, and a touch of pretense, of being the actress, playing the role of temptress and vamp to the wealthy, older plantation owner.

As though she is configuring her body to flush out, to complete the soft porn allusions in the paperback novels.

So that her action is not even so much personal or individual as archetypal, the fulfillment of the patterned action, the detailing of the stereotyped sexual encounter.

In which a thick, crude, artless piece of tumescent meat ploughs her snatch.

No such words will be found in the romances, true.

No such action will be undertaken in such intimate detail, true.

But this is interpretation, an expounding, an insight and an understanding, an amplification of the romances, in short, not what they say but what they mean when they say it.

So she chooses to believe, and she does not think herself in any way incorrect.

And surely the thrills given, the thrills received bear her out.

Surely this is the feeling, the complex of sensations which will carry the day, which will prove the essential feature and the factor which sways the balance, which achieves the objectives of the temptress.

Because she sees his face flushed, his chest muscles reddened as well.

And those are not beads of pool water but of sex sweat on his forehead now.

And the scowling of his eyebrows is not that of anger but of intense concentration, of absorbtion of the flood of sexual electricity he is generating as his thick, vibrant cock lunges and plunges, pistoning in and out of her drooling, responding, hot pussy.

And yes, there can be no question, now, but that he wants her.

Her, her, her!

He is losing himself in her, drowning himself in her, giving himself to her completely.

He is, in a very physical, quite literal sense, hers.

She is the captor of his body and the queen of his soul, the object of his heart's desiring.

No question in her mind about this.

But she does not see inside his mind.

She does not see herself in black mesh stockings and high heels, hooded and corseted in black leather, bound hand and foot, helplessly spreadeagled in elaborate bindings of ropes and chains.

She does not see herself in mortal peril. She does not see in his (ticking of her the act of a powerful and fiendish villain, merely part of his extensive program of exquisite torture.

No, in her mind, she is free, free, free, more free than she has ever been.

Free of grinding poverty, of fruitless, unrewarding toil in the soil, of endless, hopeless, futile chores.

And she has won this freedom with her young, voluptuous body.

She has won it by capturing the heart of this tycoon.

And does not know, does not have a shadow of a suspicion that it is she who is the captive here, and not as one captivates a loved one, but as one corners, entraps a victim, with the attitude of a hunter toward game, of the carnivore toward its prey. .

Yes, he has her, his powerful body ruling her, controlling her as she, terrified and helpless in his implacable clutches, screams in heart-stopping fright and begs hysterically for mercy.

And this, this open air and sunshine bout of lovemaking, this also is part of it, part of the plan.

Because he can be clever, subtle, deceptive, when he must, when it suits him.

And this girl?

She is a trophy, a prize, a pelt, an achievement, a number.

One more example, living (for the moment) proof of the fact that he himself is alive, that this is reality, that he is capable and more than capable of acting, of imposing his will on the stuff of reality, of capturing, isolating, possessing for himself alone a prime example of nature's bounty.

And of proving that he rules existence itself.

Because there is no question here but that she is his to do with as he will.

There is nothing, nothing, nothing between them.

She is lost to him and no power on earth can save her.

Take that! And that! And that!

Thus does he shout at her in his mind, with each powerful, vicious thrust of his mighty, his unstoppable prick.

He is beating at her with it, the battering ram of his cock head beating down her defenses, destroying them, turning her into a mass of helpless flesh before the onslaught of his vitality.

Strength and strength and strength he has. And he does not want, does not need her love or even her permission.

He is that which rules, that which controls, that which owns without condition or hindrance.

His is the power of life and death, his the ability to render that which is alive and beautiful into nothingness, the ultimate act of possession.

And he despises her for her foolishness, her helplessness.

*****

"So," Cynthia says, looking at the blown up photograph, "it begins."

Nancy, looking over Cynthia's shoulder, shrugs.

"Looks like a regular hump to me," she says.

"Don't you believe it, k**do, not for one second.

"Right, Vanessa?"

"Right.

"We have here the sicko in Phase One of his nasty little plan.

"The mental trip.

"Right now, he's all ‘night-before-Christmassy'.

"Only believe me, it's not visions of sugarplums dancing in his head.

"I've got no sympathy for the creep, but I do understand what drives him.

"Been known to suffer from a touch of it myself, from time to time.

"Know what drives him, Nancy?

"Know what makes him do what he does?

"Know who he's actually attacking in his mind?

"Himself!"

"That's right! He sees in the other his own powerlessness, his own helplessness, his own fear and terror, reflected in his victim.

"He fears weakness in himself.

"He fears his own mortality, the end of his own life.

"And his fiendish acts are ceremonies, laying on of hands to a scapegoat, acts of exorcism to expel, not the demons within, but the mortality, the humanity, all the properties which render him man rather than God, man rather than even superman.

"And it is with him always, never leaving him, his fiendishness.

"Other men climax and relax, happy, contented, the memory of the pleasure beyond pleasure fresh within them.

"Not our boy Randy; no indeed.

"Each climax of his is a little death.

"It is impotence, however temporary, reasserting itself.

"So that the danger to his victims do not end with his climax. Rather, that merely intensifies it.

"Not I but you will die, bitch!

"I will go on and on forever!

"And never doubt for an instant but that that was exactly what was running through his sick mind, even when this picture was taken."

Chapter Four

Strange, Daisy thinks, that no sooner does he climax than Randy Buck is out of her and into the pool, swimming laps as though they had not just made love, ignoring her completely.

Maybe, she thinks, he knows.

Still, she has gotten him off.

And herself as well, even though she does not "love" him, does not, in the rutting, bitch-in-heat sense, desire him.

Wealthy, older man, young, beautiful girl with nothing, the theme was there, is here.

Traditional, acceptable, a trifle trite, perhaps, but they are doing it, are playing their roles properly.

So that, certainly, he has no complaint. Nor, for that matter, does she. Even though such a non sequitur as his unplugging and waxing suddenly athletic has no place, and certainly no equivalent, in all her paperback romance experience.

She wonders if, perhaps, she should join him.

No.

She thinks not. Monkey see, monkey do is not good form for an ingenue such as herself.

Rather, she will leave him to his laps, leave him with her image, the one he had the hots for minutes ago.

On balance, she is rather pleased with the situation, pleased still more with herself.

Because they did it.

The significant deed is now accomplished fact.

It is written into the record of reality.

It was and is and cannot be undone; it happened.

She puts her bikini back on.

And passes Eric on his way out the sliding door and onto the pool apron.

She does not like Eric, with his white, white skin and hairless head and dark glasses which he never removes, day or night, inside or out.

She does not like his black uniform, or rather, uniforms, since he could not possibly wear the same one, day in and day out.

Above all, she does not like the way he looks at her from behind his opaque lenses, looks and never, never speaks, to her at least.

He and Cranston constantly have their heads together, however, and there are two voices involved in coordinated mumbling when they do.

But she is not paranoid and is not worried that they are talking about her.

As for Cranston, she sees no need to go out of her way to be friendly to the colorless clerical type.

True, he offered to "help" her, but, with what just happened, she no longer requires him, for other than technical, operational, logistical assistance.

"Tell Eric I have to go to the garden shop again."

Or, "I'd like to go into town and pick up some bla bla-bla."

Other than stuff like that, she really doesn't have a heck of a lot to say to him, especially now that her personal relationship with their shared employer has just gotten as personal as it gets.

She showers and changes into a sunbacked dress.

And goes out to check the garden.

Muslin, she will need, she notes.

The air is too dry, the sun too hot, rain too far off.

She must water the tomatos but not cook their leaves in the sun.

And merely filling in the troughs between rows with the hose is not yet effective; the roots are too short, too far away to reach the water level.

So that she must d**** the tomato stakes with muslin, thus providing shade and retarding evaporation.

Yes, she requires bolts of muslin gauze.

Eric will have to drive her.

*****

"Tonight. You will take care of it for tonight."

"You got it, Randy."

And Eric looks down at Randy's cock, wet from the pool, slack from his recent fucking.

"The gas cylinders are all set in the ventilation ducts, Randy. The timers are fixed for one thirty tomorrow morning."

"And the smelling salts?

"No good unless she knows what's happening, y'know."

"In my robe, Randy."

"And the knock-out gas?"

"Cranston has that."

"You've checked it out, as far as smoothness of operation?"

"Tied down? Three of us? I don't see that there'll be any prob—"

Eric stops speaking as Randy signals with his eyes.

He turns, to see Daisy approaching.

"Can Eric take me over to the garden shop, Randy?

"I need some muslim bunting for—"

"You need it, you need it, my dear, for whatever reason.

"That's all I have to know.

"Eric, take Daisy wherever to do whatever."

And he turns away, buttocks extended as though mooning them, and dives back into the pool.

"I'll just run up and get some shoes on," she says to Eric.

"I wouldn't push like this, but I've got to get these tomato plant roots wet today, and the sun is just—never mind."

Like talking to a statue, she thinks.

And dashes off to get something for her feet.

Eric watches her go, grinning balefully.

*****

"... so you see, Randy, if I put in the herbs here, in these five rows, basil—two rows of basil, because I figure once the tomatoes get ripe, you'll want to—"

"I'm sure it's all exactly right," he says, not so much as glancing at the chart of the garden she has prepared, the only way to know what's where, since, with the exception of the tomatoes, nothing else is visible in the garden.

"You're doing one helluva job."

She looks into his expressionless face, somewhat taken aback.

That's something you say to the hired help.

Is that what she is, then?

Even after what they did—hired help?

Or is she reading him all wrong?

Maybe it's because he cares for her a lot and the garden, compared to her, is way off the scale of importance, lost down below.

So that whatever she does or does not do is of far less significance than her being here, than her being herself.

She cannot tell.

He's a very important person in his own right, she has quickly learned.

A big man, perhaps even a great one, is Randy Buck.

He sits there patiently, in his robe, in his den (Doesn't the man ever wear any clothes at home? she wonders), waiting for her to either continue or leave, inviting neither action.

Studying her like a bug under a microscope, or so it seems to her.

Strange man, really.

A combination of heat, in the form of sexual passion for her, and coolness, one might even say coldness, distant from her, more distant than she would have thought possible in the case of two who have done what they did.

And will again.

Or will they?

And now, this doubt assails her.

Was that a one-shot deal, something to be done and forgotten and never acknowledged, never repeated?

That too is a possibility, and one she had not considered before now.

But then, if he is not interested in the garden and not interested in her as herself, what would be the point in his keeping her around?

He owes her nothing, after all.

He could as easily have Eric drive her back to the bus terminal and drop her, there to begin anew or to find her way back home.

Strange, strange man, really.

But wealthy and unattached, don't forget.

And certainly capable of passion, if only in the strictly physical sense.

Uneasy, Daisy removes the drawing, rolling it up, standing up, leaving as Cranston enters the den.

And holds the heavily carved wooden door open so that they can watch her retreat on bare feet.

Randy doesn't wear any clothes, why should she feel obliged to wear shoes?

A display of independence and nonchalance that is not lost on the men.

"Like ta take her down, Cranston," Buck says, when she is out of earshot, climbing the great marble staircase.

"Like to roll her over, luck her in the ass with no Vaseline.

"Like to—"

"Easy, Randy. Tonight.

"We're all set for tonight."

"So Eric assures me."

And he sighs luxuriously, leaning back in his dark, leather-upholstered swivel chair, hands behind his head, a smile of contentment on his face.

"Just think, Cranston. Tonight, the b*****rhood of the Body will be reborn!"

And both of them watch, amused, as Randy's thick, bulb-headed prick rears up between the folds of his robe.

*****

Daisy tosses and turns, exhausted but unable to sl**p, troubled at the ambiguousness, the uncertainty of her position.

She knows that something is wrong. Granted, the first few days of a garden of that size are a full-time job.

But, once that is accomplished, only maintenance is required.

Hell, Eric could handle it in under an hour a day, starting in a few days.

As for Randy's other needs, well, she knows she has all the equipment, she knows that he certainly knows that she's got what it takes and she knows how to use it, but exactly how does she fit into his plans in the female companionship department.

Has she succeeded?

She really hates not knowing.

She wishes she could read about herself in some paperback romance, just to check out how she is doing.

Ridiculous, she knows, but there it is.

Crazy thought.

Must be because she is tired but is having trouble falling asl**p.

Maybe if, instead of air conditioning, she were to turn it off and open a window.

She goes to get up, only to discover that she is more tired than she thought, just lying there.

And more than tired, she is dizzy, disoriented.

So that the room seems to be, not spinning, exactly, but rocking, as though she is in a cabin on a boat, like that time on the Mississippi when the wind came up.

The room is rocking, rocking and wavy to look at, there in the moonlit dimness.

And she wants nothing so much now as to close her eyes and drop off, so that the dizziness will stop.

And so she does.

The acrid smell of ammonia startles her awake.

To gaze, wide-eyed, at a hooded visage, there in the moonlight.

Death himself, must be, she thinks and goes to put a hand in front of her face, to ward off the vision.

Only to find that she cannot move. She looks to left and right, to find her arms tied at the wrists to the bedposts with what appear to be silken scarves, their cloth delicate and shiny in the moonlight.

And her legs, while not tied, are being held raised and apart by two other similar robed and hooded presences.

And now, as she looks on, the one she had seen first, features concealed in the shadows of his deep hood, raises the hem of his robe as he stands on his knees below her in the bed.

To reveal the longest, thinnest cock she has ever seen or heard tell of, a catheter of a prick.

Which even now shafts in, in, into her pussy.

She rocks from side to side, struggling against it, trying to get away from it.

She cannot.

Because the other two will not let her, clutching her legs, their grips painful now, on knees and ankles.

As he of the long, thin cock reams her pussy with his skysc****r of a prick.

She screams, wordlessly or perhaps for help, she is too terrified to listen to herself.

All to no avail.

She cannot protect herself.

She cannot move, cannot resist.

As he fucks her, on and on, to completion.

And promptly lets the hem of his robe fall as he gets off the bed and replaces the shorter, smaller figure at one side, who hands him the leg as though it were a baton in a relay race.

Shorter and smaller the second presence may be, in stature.

Not so his cock, however.

Which is a monster in every dimension.

Long and thick with a bulbous battering ram of a head, it bobbles, huge and stiff, before him, tenting his robe even before he lifts the hem to reveal it in all its obscene grandeur.

But she has not long to gaze upon it before it too is within her sperm-lubed pussy.

And he stretches and fills her as he pumps away, in and out, in and out, with powerful, piston-like regularity.

And there is no acceleration with him, as with the first one.

He hits his stride and maintains it, all the way.

Until he is coming and coming inside her, wad after wad of incredibly thick jism injecting itself deep in her vagina, only to film back out, f***ed by the volume of his load.

And now, he too covers his not yet detumescing cock with his robe and promptly gets off the bed to replace the third man, heavyset, looking frightening and immense, even more so than the others, in his dark, hooded robe.

Who hands off "his" leg quickly and, to her surprise, dives face first into her muff, with a hoarse exclamation, "Life!"

She can see only the peaked top of his hood, waggling at her as his jaws work.

She can feel his tongue, his lips, his mouth working, not to stimulate or gratify her, but to clean her out, to extract from her all the jism of the first two, on and in and around her pussy.

And only when he has gotten the last of their leavings inside himself does he himself mount up.

She catches the barest glimpse of the thick and thickly knobbed erection before it takes its "rightful" place, buried in her cunt to the hilt.

And now, she no longer cares to look at any of this nightmare, preferring instead to turn her head to one side, sobbing quietly, as he has his way with her.

So that she sees nothing as, with him still inside her, a cup of some kind covers her nose and mouth, causing her to inhale deeply, in panic.

And she is becoming dizzy, beginning to fade from consciousness.

So that she barely feels the mighty organ discharge its load deep inside her cunt before she loses consciousness.

*****

Morning.

Daisy awakens.

And starts up in the bed, wide-eyed, at the sudden recollection of what happened here during the night.

Or did it?

Because her arms feel stiff, but there are no marks on her wrists, which she finds herself rubbing for no valid reason.

She throws the covers off herself. Naked, but that means nothing. She always sl**ps naked, keeps only a robe handy, in case she must get up during the night.

During the night.

What the hell happened during the night?

Something?

Anything?

It had to be.

So vivid, so... real.

And yet, was it, after all?

Three hooded figures, two of them with what seemed to be parodies of reality, cock-wise, the third hauntingly familiar, what she could glimps of him, of it. And no faces.

How terribly convenient that their hoods should so completely conceal their faces.

She explores her cunt.

Clean as a whistle.

Douched out, just as it was when she retired last night, not before performing one last ablution to remove any possible residue of extract of Buck.

Outside, the sun is shining.

She glances over at the clock radio.

She's late!

Almost eight, it is.

And she must be up and about, adding water to the night's dew, so that it will soak into the garden before the sun's rays turn mud to clay.

Hastily, she goes through her morning toilette.

She throws on her sunbacked dress of the day before, not bothering to put anything on underneath.

No time.

She dashes through the dining room.

"Morning, morning, morning."

But does not pause for return greetings from the three surprised visages, mouths full of eggs and sausages, en passant.

With hose and sprinkling can, she is busy. Too busy to let the strange apparition, the dream of last night bother her, for the moment.

Hose into furrows as though they were irrigation ditches, for all but the basil.

Its seeds close to the surface for early sprouting, she must use the sprinkling can on these.

And now, the tomatoes must be d****d with the muslin gauze before the sun is much higher, holding in the moisture, protecting the baby plants.

Only when she has finished does she go back into the house, into the kitchen, asking the cook for something to eat.

"Whatevair you wan', Meez Dezzee.

"Les autres, ils sont finis avec leur p'tit dejeuner, mais je peux vous pr—"

"Cereal and milk, Pierre, if it's not too much trouble."

Pierre makes a face at this non-challenge to his culinary skills, but sets the requested items before her, along with a pitcher of orange juice.

Daisy chews and thinks, chews and thinks.

Is she losing it? she wonders.

Is this strange new world proving too strange for her to handle?

How else explain last night, which obviously did not happen?

And yet, she does feel a little raw down there.

Perhaps that's it, she reasons.

A minor irritation in reality giving rise to a bad dream, its vividness guaranteed by a minor problem back here in the real world.

"Pierre?"

"Oui ?"

"Is there some kind of, well... monastery around here?

"Some place where men wear robes with hoods?

"Ever see anybody like that near here?"

"No, ah think not, Meez Dezzee.

"No, for sure no monasteries aroun' ‘ere.

"Aneeweh, you are not eligible to join.

"You mus' become ze nun, no?"

"No. Definitely not.

"Just curious, is all."

"Ze Ordre of ze Seestairs of Charity ees jus' about a mile an' a half over tha—"

"No, no, forget I asked, okay?

"Just some crazy—never mind."

And she finishes her breakfast, feeling as though she has somehow said too much already.

*****

"Sit down a minute, Daisy," Randy Buck says, looking at her with apparently deep concern.

He has caught her in the hallway and motioned her into his den.

"You look a bit haggard this morning, Daisy," he says.

"Didn't you sl**p well last night?"

I wish I knew, she thinks.

Aloud, "Oh yes, perfectly. So well, in fact, that I was late getting up."

"So we noticed.

"But still, you needn't rush about so.

"There's no pressure here."

"From you, no; from the sun and the lack of rain, I'm afraid I can't agree.

"Not to talk myself out of a job, but this is neither the time of year or the weather in which to start a garden."

"Hey, sooner or later, I'm gonna have a first class garden.

"If not this year, then next."

"And in the winter time?"

"Funny you should mention that.

"Waddaya know about greenhouses, anyway?"

She shrugs.

"What's to know about them.

"Glass enclosure, mostly solar heat, different soil configuration and requirement, heavy plumbing and piping, good drainage—"

"Okay, okay, okay! You've convinced me you're the woman for the job.

"We missed you for breakfast, though."

"So did the plants—almost."

"Still, I like to have my people at table with me in the morning.

"My gosh, I've gotta get suited up and go into my office in town today.

"Pretty shortly, in fact.

‘And I won't be back until very late.

"So, except for right here and now, I'm not gonna be able to be with you at all today." Secretly, she is relieved.

Her pussy does not feel up to a sudden urge on his part today—for whatever reason.

She'll put a little Vaseline on her lower lips and give them a rest.

She'll get to bed early tonight and get a decent night's sl**p.

Even though she has no positive evidence to support her having gotten anything else last night.

"Cranston will be here today.

"If you need to be taken anywhere, he can drive you in the Continental or whatever."

"I don't think I'll be going anywhere, but that's good to know."

Good to know, too, that creepy Eric will not be around today.

Cranston, at least, looks like a normal person.

Maybe, she could even tell him about—never mind.

She misses that part most about back home, having someone she could confide in, best friends (Daisy was very popular, had more than one) to whom she could tell anything.

And she remembers, smiling faintly at the thought, that one of their favorite pastimes was in fact telling each other their dreams.

And this one would make her the star dreamer of all time, she thinks.

Even though there would be a lot of interruptions, giggles in the telling, hers and theirs.

And that would be good, would take away the power, the danger of it.

If you tell somebody a dream, then it can't hurt you by coming true.

Grandma told her that once.

Randy Buck, stuffing papers into a briefcase, looks up, noticing her still there.

"I have nothing further for you at the moment, Daisy. Don't let me keep you."

"What? Oh! Sorry, guess I was sittin' here daydreaming."

"Wanna watch out for that, Daisy. Some dreams can be real killers."

Chapter Five

"Check it out," Vanessa says. Cynthia does, squinting intently at the photograph.

"Looks like the girl knows what she's doing, garden-wise," Cynthia concurs, pointing to the muslin gauze covering the tomato stakes.

"Maybe it's the real thing, after all," Nancy observes.

"As far as the girl is concerned, I'm sure that's true," Cynthia says.

"But then, she's not the problem, remember?"

"Right," Vanessa confirms.

"She's merely the victim.

"And, unless I miss my guess, the first of many, at that.

"But we still have to play the waiting game.

"We move too soon, and even the girl would be hard put not to believe we're a trio of loonies, until it's too late."

"Delicate damn situation," Cynthia agrees.

"There's absolutely nothing until there's something, at which time we have to move like greased lightning."

"Greased lightning," Nancy says, "that's us."

"Your confidence is indeed reassuring," Cynthia says.

"I was being sarcastic."

"So noted.

"Now, then. Going back to the overall views, notice something else, anyone?

"It has to do with wheels, hint, hint."

"Eric," Vanessa says.

"He doesn't put the limo away in the garage."

"That's right!

"Weather's been dry for so long that he keeps it right at the portico, ready to move at a snap of Buck's fingers."

"Good man, Eric:" Nancy puts in.

"Good chauffeur? Yes, I suppose he is, at that," Cynthia agrees.

"Point is, we can tell if Buck is there or not merely by watching the spot in front of the portico, since he doesn't make a move without his beloved Eric."

"Right now, for example—by the way, is the chopper up, Vanessa!"

"Absolutely.

"I can patch through, if you wish."

"I wish."

Vanessa picks up the phone and is soon in contact.

"I have the chopper, Cynthia."

"Is it or isn't it?"

Vanessa speaks into the phone.

"Gone.

"Girl's working on God's little acre, but no limo in the driveway.

"Anything else?"

"Not at the moment."

Vanessa talks into the phone briefly and disconnects.

"What are we doing?" Vanessa asks, puzzled.

"Well, let us reason together," Cynthia begins.

"First, we have Randy's next victim, the farm girl garden person, the first of many, as Vanessa so aptly put it, in a program we are powerless to stop because, until it actually gets started, there is nothing to stop.

"Our action? Surveillance.

"The girl's in the garden, working, therefore she is not yet a wisp of smoke above the Estate's incinerator.

"Problem.

"The garden isn't big enough to keep the girl working out there, morning and afternoon, very much longer.

"She could, of course, pass her days beside the pool, sunning her buns to a rich, golden brown, but we can't count on it.

"If she disappears into the great indoors, we don't know what is happening, especially dangerous when the limo continues to occupy home port.

"Then, there is the matter of the nights, Buck's fave time of day.

"What if Randy suddenly tires of the build-up, the anticipation?"

"What if he has a bad day at the office and decides that right now would be an excellent time to take it out on somebody?

"Who is to say that he and his merry men won't suddenly decide not to wait for that special occasion to have their little party?

"Right now, we're gambling with that girl's life because we have no choice.

"Right now, it seems, not a safe but a relatively safe thing to do.

"The garden is looking more and more like serious dirt every day and very real progress is being made.

"That fits in with Buck's personality.

"This particular joke is a shaggy dog story and the longer he drags it out, the funnier it will be when he gets to the punch line.

"Another factor to consider, his b*****rs in the creephood, Cranston and Eric.

"So far, as you know, Randy has gotten into the girl at least once, possibly more.

"This means that he's getting kicks out of her, they're not.

"This too could be part of the .plan, part of the thrill, that added little zing they're getting, knowing that the big romance is building up as another part of the joke, to make it all the more delicious when they pull the rug out from underneath her.

"Be that as it may, suffice it to say that Randy's two playmates are temporarily out of it, as far as we know.

"Very temporarily.

"Patience is a virtue and these guys ain't got none.

"Virtues, that is.

"Which means that he can't string them along for very long before one of them—Cranston, probably, him being so good at making his case with Buck and all decides they're tired of waiting for the big yuk and can we have it now, to which he will doubtless reply sure why not anything for my ass hole buddies and like that."

"I still don't see what all that has to do with our knowing that Randy is downtown and on the job."

"Ah, but it has everything to do with it, Vanessa!

"Randy is downtown and so am I.

"Old enemies, old friends, all the same thing on the social calendar.

"We do not ignore one another here in the world of oxygen and sunlight.

"At night, in the dark, on paper, even, we plot one another's destruction.

"Face to face? Another matter entirely, my dears, don't you see?"

"Keep going, you're doing great—I guess."

"Marvel Industries and Buck Enterprises.

"Two gigantic, non-competitive endeavors whose chief executives know each other—better, perhaps, then either of us would like.

"Be that as it may, what do we mutually acquainted chief executives do when we're in town at the same time?"

"I know, teacher, I know," Nancy says, raising her hand and bouncing on the couch.

"Nancy?"

"You have lunch!"

"Exactly."

"Ya lost me," Vanessa says.

"I've come to a decision," Cynthia says.

"I'm going to pick the time for Buck and company to make their move on the girl."

"By having lunch?" Vanessa asks, her tone incredulous.

"I don't see how—"

"Just watch and listen."

Cynthia buzzes the intercom.

"Yes?"

"Get me Randy Buck, please, will you, Sandra? I believe he's at his downtown office."

And they wait until the intercom speaks.

"Mister Buck on line one, Baroness."

"Randy, darling!"

"Cynthia dearest!

"To what do I owe the honor of this call ?"

"I was thinking, if you're in town all week and so am I, we could have lunch together, say... Friday?"

"Let me see now... Yes, the calendar is certainly in favor of that.

"Only—and I hope you won't think this terribly, shall we say, suspicious of me—but, well.., why?

"Surely not in order that you can gloat over past triumphs."

"Yours or mine, Randy?

"Randy, I don't know what you think or what you think that I think about our various, shall we say, shared adventures and misadventures, but your fortune, your health and your reputation, however undeservedly, remain very much intact."

"You've cost me several small fortunes, my dear."

"Poor baby!

"Now you've only got more money than you can ever spend in ten lifetimes instead often and a half!

"But then, that isn't what's really bothering you about our common past, is it?

"It isn't the money, it's the little worlds, the petite, private hells over which you once reigned supreme and which are no more that gripe you, correct?"

"Something like that," he admits.

"And you feel that causing their nonexistence affords me satisfaction, when in fact we came out even."

"How so?"

"Because, my dear, the destruction of your plots and arrangements was a side-effect of I and my companions barely escaping with our lives.

"As did you."

"As did I," he agrees.

"Never thought of it that way, but you do have a point. Interesting.

"Okay, so you promise not to gloat."

"Having nothing in particular to gloat about where you are concerned, that would seem an easy promise to keep."

"So then, back to the question before the house: Why?"

"If I said I missed you—"

"You'd be lying," he completes.

"So why don't you just level with me?"

"I wanted to discuss your... current activities."

"I'll send you my annual report."

"No, no. I mean your private activities.

"You know—hobbies, pastimes, like that."

"What do you, uh..."

"There, you see? Not something for over the phone, right?"

Big sigh at the other end.

Then, "Right."

Because he must pump her.

He must wheedle from her the sum and substance of what she knows and what she suspects.

Unlikely that she really knows anything, but then he has underestimated her before.

Face to face, he can use his powers of observation and judgment to gauge the extent of her knowledge, as opposed to attempts to probe, to see what she can discover from him.

No harm in a lunch, certainly.

So—

"Friday it is, then?"

"Uh, yeah, sure, why not?

"Shall we say Maison des Fleurs at one?"

"Looking forward to it."

"Me too."

"Ciao, then."

And she hangs up.

"Just what did that accomplish?" Vanessa asks.

"Two things.

"It slows him down enough that he won't try anything serious with the girl until after he has this chance to find out what I know, and, more importantly, it gives me the chance to push him over the edge, make him act precipitously after we have our little get-together.

"All I have to do is make him nervous enough and angry enough and he'll act to defy me, to score a point he thinks I can't prevent his getting."

"Which puts that girl in even more danger," Nancy observes.

"Very probably."

And Nancy looks away from Cynthia's level gaze. As she thinks, how very like our enemies we become.

She doubts that the girl's health and safety is the real issue here.

This is simply a dangerous game Cynthia is playing with her arch-enemy, Randy Buck.

If a pawn must be sacrificed to win, so be it. And here is Nancy herself, for the first time actively wishing to snuff Buck and thus put an end to this perpetually recurring phenomenon of the deadly encounter.

So that she too is being drawn into the madness for her own reasons.

To end Buck is, perhaps, to end Cynthia's incipient madness.

And Nancy no longer is thinking in terms of self defense.

Not this time.

This time, if she gets the opportunity—any opening at all—she will kill the monster and put an end to all this costumed craziness.

The plan within the plan, she tells herself.

And one she will keep strictly to herself.

And now, she finds herself looking forward to the inevitable confrontation with a steely determination which exceeds her terror.

"All right, you two, I think we can resume the normal curse of business.

"It's only Wednesday and nothing will happen with our favorite maniac before Friday."

*****

But she is wrong.

Buck tries to go about his business.

No good.

He cannot concentrate.

The images of past encounters with the Baroness swim before his eyes, making him clench his jaw and grind his teeth.

Face it, he tells himself, she whipped your ass— every time.

Useless to tell himself that he will not stand for it; he has.

Ah, but not this time, she won't win.

Already, she is losing.

Because he has made inroads into the girl's mind.

He has caused her to doubt her own sense of reality.

And tonight, he will add to that doubt. Perhaps he will not destroy her, in the end. Perhaps he will turn her loose, hopelessly insane. He wants everything perfect for tonight. He buzzes his intercom.

"Yes sir?"

"Have Eric bring the limo around. I'm leaving for the day."

*****

Daisy is glad Randy is taking such an interest in the garden.

She was beginning to think he didn't care.

But of course, that's ridiculous.

Why would he engage a full-time gardener, if he didn't want a garden?

This other thing, after all, was her idea. And now, she is reviewing with him the plot plan to which he appeared so indifferent previously.

As Eric, inside her room, is resetting the timer, checking the level of gas in the cylinder, checking the valve before putting it back in the air conditioning duct and replacing the grating.

Buck surreptitiously glances at his watch. Eric should have had sufficient time by now.

"Yes, well, you certainly seem to have everything under control."

And he hugs her to himself and kisses her on the cheek.

The promise of things to come? she wonders. But now— "See you for supper then, my dear.

"I've quite a bit of work to do between now and then."

And he is gone, back inside the mansion, leaving her to tend the garden.

*****

After supper, they sit in the living room, watching the tube.

Finally, Daisy excuses herself.

She has put in a hard day, raking, hoeing, watering, and feels the urge to sl**p.

She passes Eric on the stairs and feels an involuntary shudder.

She almost wishes that she had a lock on her bedroom door.

She can't help it; he gives her the creeps.

"Everything all set, Eric?"

"Midnight," he confirms.

"Excellent! As they said in ancient Rome, ‘Let the games begin!'"

And the men go to their respective rooms to change into their robes.

*****

I don't believe this!

Her first thought as the faint smell of ammonia from smelling salts arouses her to consciousness.

This time, she is on her stomach, wrists tied to the bedposts once more with those odd, silkwrapped ropes.

At first, she thinks she is alone.

But no, there is movement on the bed behind her.

And, looking over her shoulder, she can make out a shadowy presence.

And another.

Hooded, both of them.

And there is a third figure as well, this one causing the bed to shake as he—

Yes, this is happening!.

Too vivid, too sharp, too real the feeling to be a dream.

As the unseen figure, the rough cloth, of his sleeves beneath both thighs, lifts up her pelvis—and buries his tongue in her ass hole.

Yes, he is rimming her, his tongue probing, wet and smooth and very, very insistent, in and Out of her ass hole.

He is fucking her in the ass with his tongue.

And now, suddenly, he drops her.

Only to grasp the belied flare of her hips with both hands, lifting her pelvis in the air, so that she is on knees and elbows, her ass high and wide.

She tries to wriggle out of his grip, but cannot. Because the other two are holding her in place, one hand at the crook of her knee, the other in the small of her back, holding her fast.

As the one behind—

"Unnh!"

Because Eric has shafted into her rectum, all the way.

It was he who loosened and lubricated her and who now shafts his precision instrument of an erection into her, all the way.

Once in, he shows no mercy, now humping her ass with piston action, in and out with hard, fast thrusts, now rotating his hips round and round, reaming her rectum.

And reaching down and around, helping himself to hefty handfuls of her hanging breasts, kneading and fondling them, squeezing them, now gently, now painfully.

As he continues to plough her ass, quickly working himself up, getting hotter and hotter, moving faster and faster in all directions, in and out, round and round, until— He is coming inside her, no question.

This is real, no question.

She can feel every nuance of the spasms of his orgasm, the length of her violated rectum.

And he is off her, replacing one of the other hooded figures she dimly perceives, looking back over her shoulder.

Whose movement behind her she feels.

And whose—

"Ooooh!"

Because this one is filling and stretching her completely.

To the point that she wonders if that is his cock or his fist inside her.

There is no getting away from this one. The first one, she could, by relaxing her bowels, actually accommodate.

So that even while her heart was pounding in fright, she was able to help herself to relieve the pain, the discomfort.

Not so now.

Because Cranston is shafting in and out of her full f***e with his mighty cannon of a prick.

But for Eric's sperm providing additional lubrication, he would not be able to move inside her at all.

But now, he can, he is.

Smoothly, because of the sperm enema Eric just gave her.

But still under high pressure, because, even though Daisy is far from small back there, she is hardly built to take on an erection of such monstrous scale up her ass.

But she does take him, all of him, her tissues stretching, at the entrance and inside as well.

As Cranston pounds into her furiously, a battering ram intent upon pulverizing her insides which, fortunately, are sufficiently elastic to accommodate him.

But she cannot get comfortable.

The millions of nerve ending in her rectal walls are sending forth message after message of dull pain, of distress.

And now, it is almost a relief when she feels him come, deep inside her, his vital essence forming a thin, uniform coating of additional lubricant between the rock-hard monster inside her and her insides, oozing out a little each time he lunges into her, which he does with each spasm of his climax.

So that now, as he subsides, the pain at least ceases, even though the terror is still there, full f***e.

At least, when the third hooded monster mounts her, she is not so physically stressed.

As he goes about the apparently workman-like task of humping her ass to completion.

Which he does.

And once more, she feels the plastic cup cover her nose and mouth and feels herself falling, losing consciousness, whirling, dizzy and disoriented, into oblivion.

*****

"One more time," Buck commands.

And Cranston fills the douchebag with warm water, as Eric stands there in the bathtub, naked, holding Daisy's u*********s form against himself.

Cranston replaces the cap with its hose and plastic nozzle.

And promptly shoves the black plastic fitting into Daisy's ass hole, Eric's fingers spreading the cheeks of her ass to provide a better target.

He releases the clamp.

And they all stand .there, watching as the red rubber balloon deflates.

Cranston pulls the nozzle out.

And they watch, amused, as the pressurized stream gushes from her anus.

"That oughtta do ‘er," Buck says.

"You guys clean it all up, now. Don't wanna leave any pecker tracks at all."

And he leaves them to their work.

*****

The sun streams in through the window.

Outside, the birds are twittering merrily.

Daisy shuts off the clock radio which, fortunately, she has remembered to set before retiring.

Because she feels simply awful and would not have been able to get up without it.

And what's this rawness to her ass hole? And the feeling that her insides are somehow bruised, what does that indicate?

She looks down at her wrists, her breasts.

Nothing.

It happened again, then, that strange, vivid dream.

Three hooded figures, r****g her anally. So what is this that she feels, then, if it was only a dream?

Or is there something wrong with her and it is actually a physical disorder causing this?

Chapter Six

She is depressed, Daisy realizes, without really understanding why.

She wishes Randy had stuck around after breakfast.

Instead, he has gone into the city, which also got rid of Eric, whom she does not want near her, the one redeeming feature of Randy's absence.

But then, she reasons, perhaps it's just as well.

Because she does not feel fresh, alert, capable of exerting her charms on him. She is nervous, jumpy.

And glad there is not much more to be done to the garden today.

What little there is, she goes about with lazy, gliding movements, as though she is weak.

Which, at the moment, she feels herself to be.

And yet, it is not as though she cannot carry on.

And every move she makes, she accomplishes with her usual strength and dexterity.

But it is as though she is under water. Or the air itself has taken on a thickness, a heaviness.

So that there is not so much an active resistance as the shoving aside of an atmosphere become palpable, a new and difficult medium to move through.

So that she wants nothing so much as to simply sit down.

Or, better yet, lie down, close her eyes, and awaken anew, refreshed this time, this thick, unreal environment dissipated, itself a bad dream.

Like—no!"

She will not make much of it.

Two nights in a row, two explicitly sexual dreams, frightening in their vividness, in the danger to her they represent.

And yet, the hooded monsters had not harmed her, other than to take turns r****g her, the first night in her cunt, the second in her ass hole.

Maybe she should mention to Randy that she wants to see a doctor.

If the cause is some irritation down there, then she had best address that, rather than drive herself crazy pondering the effects.

She is a logical, a reasonable person.

And one in control of herself.

So that these hallucinations probably do have a physical origin.

The main thing here is that she feels like shit.

Perhaps, if she were to go to her room, lie down, take a nap—

"Ah there, Daisy!"

And Cranston turns around, screwdriver in hand, slightly off balance from having stood on a chair in his stocking feet in order to reach the air conditioning duct's covered outlet.

"Just, uh, checking something.

"Musty smell coming out of the system.

"Guess the problem is with the filters.

"Eric is supposed to change them, but sometimes he—well, no matter.

"Say, you don't look at all well, Daisy.

"Anything wrong?"

"Just a little tired, is all.

"Thought I'd come up here and take a nap before Randy returns."

"Good thinking," he says. We all want to look our best for Randy."

Telling her that her escapade with the boss has not gone unnoticed.

And meaning what, in view of his earlier offer to help her out in any way possible?

But she is too tired to handle that now.

He picks up his shoes and goes to leave.

"Cranston?"

"Yes?"

"Uh, nothing. Never mind."

He shrugs.

"If you're sure."

"Yes, I'm just a little tired, is all."

"Well then, have a nice nap."

"Thanks."

She strips and takes a shower, watching as the residue of garden soil is washed from her body, whirling down the drain.

And a strong sense of deja vu comes over her.

As though she is being held, supported, while her stomach becomes uncomfortable and cannot hold its sudden, overwhelming fulness.

And she experiences a mild cramp, which is relieved when she does something she has never done before (or has she?) and releases the contents of her bowels, watching as they cluster at the drain, only to be melted away by the swirling water at her feet.

As her ass hole bums.

And burns even more as she turns away from the spray, spreads her cheeks, and lets the water blast her nether exit (or is it an entrance?).

If this shit keeps up, she tells herself, she will have to find out about seeing a doctor.

She finishes her shower, dries off, and peels back the covers.

She slides in, shivering as the air conditioning goes on.

She smells nothing wrong.

Perhaps Cranston has already changed the filters.

She notices the sunlight glinting off something shiny, just inside the vent.

But she is too tired to climb on the chair Cranston was using and see what it is.

She could use some sl**p right now, in the worst way.

And she drops off.

*****

And they are there, the three of them.

And it is night and the room is dark.

And from somewhere, music.

A slow, lugubrious waltz.

And she is naked and they are hooded, exactly as she saw them the other times.

And she is not tied up, not restrained in any way.

But neither is she able to move.

Rather, she can only stand there, naked in the moonlight.

As the first one takes her as one would a dancing partner, in his arms.

And leads leads her, gliding and slowly turning round and round, in time to the music.

But now, he stops.

And raises the hem of his robe, to reveal a long, thin erection.

And the other two grab her, one on either side, a hand on her back, another on the back of her thighs, and lift her, legs spread, impaling her on the tall, slender cock.

And he folds his arms around her body as they leave go.

And there they are, dancing in the moonlight as he fucks her in time to the waltz.

And she feels a combination of discomfort, of pressure, but of sexual warmth as well, as he fucks her and they dance.

And she feels her pussy getting hotter and hotter.

And now, it is going into contractions, reflexive spasms, milking the cock of its load.

And there is both arousal and an uneasy fear, as she tries without success to peer into the shadowy depths of his hood.

And now, yes, she feels him coming inside her.

But now, without missing a beat, she is lifted off his cock, which has completed its series of climactic spurts—

And promptly impaled on the monster of the shortest of the trio.

And she feels a strange combination of discomfort and satisfaction, as his mighty prong stuffs her pussy, fills her cunt, fills and stretches it as she settles down on him.

And now, they are dancing and fucking as the other two stand there, swaying in time to the slow, sad music.

As she feels the might, the power, the evil, driving f***e in that massive organ which has made a sleeve, a glove, a tight, perfect fit of her body.

And she gets hotter and hotter, feeling her hot juices lubricating their juncture, soothing her discomfort, replacing the dull pain with a lascivious warmth.

And yes, she is more than milking his prodigious prong with her cunt now; she is responding.

Rather, her body is responding.

Because her mind still feels somehow tired, depressed, confused and too depressed or exhausted to exert itself to clear up the confusion.

Rather, she is nervous but numb from the neck up.

Even as, from the neck down, her body is writhing and sensuously alive, tingling with sexual excitement.

As though it is taking her over, forcing her to stand by and watch, helplessly, as this strange intercourse continues.

So that it seems to her, even as she feels the delicious sensations of incipient arousal, that her body has somehow betrayed her, has delivered her into the hands of dangerous and malevolent beings.

Because these are not men, but merely man-like, male monsters which have captured her.

And not only physically, but mentally as well.

So that, even though not bound, not restrained in any way, she somehow cannot escape.

Out of the question, is how her inner voice puts it to her reeling, helpless mind.

As, dizzy and disoriented, she feels herself rising higher and higher up the rainbow of her sexual arousal.

Onward and upward they are driving her, not only the one fucking her but the other two as well, seeming to be part and parcel of some erotic unity, such that the three of them are designed (invented?) to act in concert, just as they are right now.

So that she is not disturbed or disappointed that she feels his thick, heavy load shooting up into her, flowing back out of her even, before she herself has peaked.

Naturally it happened this way.

After all, this is a three-creature fuck, and he is merely the second one, stage two of a three-phase trip to the moon.

And sure enough, no sooner has he shot his wad than a smooth transfer is effected to the third member of the fucking team, this one a big, heavyset man, with cock to match.

Who holds her effortlessly impaled on his prong, wrapped in a gentle bear hug as they continue to move, round and round, in time to the music.

As she continues to rise, higher and higher, through level after level of sexual arousal, becoming hotter and hotter, more and more excited with each rotation of their bodies to the music.

Yes, he is actually going to do it to her, for her.

He is going to take her—

All the way.

And now, they are coming, the two of them, together this time, his spurts and the spasms of her multiple orgasms alternating.

So that her pussy seems to be milking him of his load, communicating, her body and his mighty cock, in an infinitely intimate dialogue.

Until, at last it is over.

And she wakes up.

Definitely a dream, she tells herself.

Even as the others were.

But she feels much better this time.

As though it had refreshed, rather than exhausted her, this dream.

And her pussy feels much better now. Strange, how this time the dream seemed to soothe rather than irritate.

Maybe this, this... thing, whatever it is, which has afflicted her is clearing up, getting better all by itself.

So that these dreams are actually healing dreams, intended, perhaps, to get her juices flowing as a kind of dressing or ointment for whatever it is that is ailing her.

She cannot say.

But she does feel herself ready for action, should the spirit move Randy.

Although, she tells herself, half joking, the way things have been going lately, perhaps she should save her sexual energies for her dreams, where they seem to be so heavily in demand.

She gets up and puts on a sun-backed dress, not bothering with underwear of footgear.

Thinking that Randy finds her sexier this way. She thinks about using the pool, but then decides against it.

Sun and water tire a person, and it has taken her well into the afternoon to get up to snuff as it is, so why push it?

*****

"Tomorrow night," Cynthia says.

"I'm going to f***e his hand, to panic him into making his move.

"Which is exactly when we're going to make ours."

"We," Nancy echoes.

Vanessa, the good soldier, says nothing.

"How good a friend of yours is our pilot, Vanessa?"

She shrugs.

"Good guy, he is. But friendship's got nothing to do with it.

"The skies are only friendly when the money is there.

"Right now I—we—are making it happen for him.

"He'll do what I tell ‘im, no questions asked, if that's what you mean."

"That's exactly what I mean.

"He won't think it strange when three costumed characters assault a certain mansion upstate by rappelling from his chopper."

"Shades of Vietnam!" Nancy exclaims.

"You never went to Vietnam," Cynthia says.

"I saw the movies, though."

"Whatever."

Turning back to Vanessa, We want to be over the objective at midnight.

"Now, here is the layout of the Estate."

And she spreads the blueprint over the vast expanse of her desk.

"Where did you—"

"Courtesy of the state building commission.

"Nancy, here's the room where they held you, right?"

"Uh, yeah, that's right. But—"

"Figure that's the room he's assigned the girl."

"Why?"

"If at first you don't succeed and like that. One of two relatively indestructible scenes of his humiliations, the other being, as you know, the ballroom of the Fairley Palace.

"Since he can't very well do away with it, the only other logical step is for him to convert it into a scene of triumph;

"Part of the magic, the mystique.

"If I'm wrong, well, tough break, but we go ahead anyway.

"This time, we're going in there armed to the teeth.

"Fed up with this shit, risking my ass on the short end of the stick while Doctor Demento there calls the shots."

"Attagirl!" Nancy says.

Vanessa merely shrugs and smiles faintly.

Her first crack at Randy Buck on an even footing.

Could it be the boss is learning?

"I was thinking," Vanessa says, "We should get ourselves some paratrooper boots, some combat fatigues, ammo belts, and—"

Her voice fades as Cynthia stares at her across the blueprint.

"Sorry," she says, "Lost my head for a minute there, I guess."

"We will wear," Cynthia enunciates,, pausing to take in the two of them with her gaze, "our costumes.

"The mystique, the magic cuts both ways, you know.

"It's not enough merely to defeat Randy Buck.

"He must be beaten at his own game, and by creatures who are a part of his private world.

"We must leave no illusions in his sick head that he is in any way the master of that particular universe.

"We have to enter that world as well as his mansion.

"We must leave no question in his mind but that he has been vanquished, defeated on his own terms, beaten at his own game.

"He doesn't rule that world—never mind."

And Nancy feels a chill.

She almost said it.

He doesn't rule that world, I do.

I knew it, I knew it, I knew it all along! Nancy thinks.

That's what this is all about.

Not Randy's illness, not even Randy's victims, but the game.

Dungeons and Dragons.

King's Quest.

All an adventure game between two rich perverts.

Rich and dangerous perverts, she amends.

And her mission?

To survive.

That is the long and the short of it, Nancy reminds herself.

She does not believe in the mystique, the magic.

She believes that she is in great danger and that she must somehow come through it all, sound in mind and body, while at the same time fulfilling the wishes of her companion and boss.

But then, she reflects, there is nothing new in this.

Wars have always been fought by troops just trying to survive.

And wars have always been started by those who believe in the magic, the mystique.

And now, Nancy is less resolved, less firm in her mind in her determination to destroy Randy. Buck.

Because to destroy Buck is to replace him with what?

And Nancy suspects, but does not really want to know the answer to that one.

Buck is evil and Cynthia opposes him, which makes her—what?

The logic is no longer so simple, so clear-cut.

Good and evil.

Maybe those are merely two faces of the mystique, the magic, in which Nancy doesn't believe.

Still, there is no question but that Buck must be stopped.

Just as, practically speaking, there is no question but that Nancy is aboard for the full ride.

Yes, she sighs to herself, Friday at midnight will see her, hooded and costumed, rappelling from a helicopter, onto a madman's balcony, armed to the teeth.

In the United States of America, at the close of the twentieth century.

So yes, you're damned right it's gonna happen in this day and age.

Maybe, she reflects, maybe Buck and the Baroness aren't the only nuts running around in this situation.

And Nancy is glad that she is not married, has no-c***dren.

At least, she thinks, the nuttiness in my f****y will end with me.

But hopefully, not for a long time yet.

"... and figure Eric and Cranston'll be there, along with Buck in a fairly close cluster."

"Do we whack ‘em out, or what?" Cynthia shrugs.

"Depends on what we find when we get in there.

"If they're expecting us, if we're in danger, they go, guaranteed.

"We burst in on a tea party and we can't break a cup.

"Something in between, you let me call the shots, okay?"

You love this kind of talk, don't you? Nancy thinks, beaming the question at Cynthia.

And of course, her lunch with Buck tomorrow will accomplish another thing—it will put him on the alert.

So that there is no question but that, during their fun and games, the three villains will have weapons in close proximity.

"You cover us with the law?" Nancy asks.

"I'll be talking to Captain Reynolds tomorrow, telling him as much as I think necessary, unofficially, of course."

"If we waste these guys with automatic weapons fire, there could be repercussions," Vanessa points out.

"And if they waste each other?" Cynthia asks.

And Vanessa grins.

And even Nancy cannot repress a faint smile.

Villain against villain, no question, she thinks. Thank heavens the Baroness and Randy Buck are on opposite sides.

"Why didn't I think of that?" Vanessa asks.

"Buck would have," Cynthia observes.

"Seriously," Nancy begins, only to set the other two, look at her in surprise.

Did she think they've been k**ding around thus far?

"Sorry," she says.

"Poor choice of words. What I meant was, getting down to the exact details, exactly how are we going to make our grand entrance?"

"Here and here," Cynthia says, pointing to the corners of the balcony of the room in question, the one in which Buck had held Nancy captive until her rescue by Cynthia, Vanessa, and ultimately the state police, "are two stone vases with flowers growing.

"They are probably cemented to the corner posts."

"Vanessa will rip one of them off its pedestal and toss it through the French doors.

"The alarm system will go off, of course, but who cares?

"Because we're through, in and out before anybody can stop us."

"Works for me," Nancy says.

The time ha& come to stop showing her qualms and begin cooperating with the operation, for the sake of her own survival.

And the change in attitude is not lost on Cynthia, who takes this as confirmation that they are in fact in the final planning stages, everyone operating on the same frequency.

"The, uh, the pilot.

"What's his stake in this?" Vanessa asks.

"Shall we say—ten thousand?" Cynthia suggests.

"Ten big ones it is," Vanessa replies.

"With a little, shall we say, personal bonus thrown in, if you know what I mean."

This last in imitation Mae West voice.

"Making full use of our resources, are we?" Cynthia asks, grinning.

"Works for me," Vanessa replies, echoing Nancy's words of moments before.

They laugh.

"Okay, then," Cynthia continues, suddenly all business.

"Lunch tomorrow with the enemy, one to, oh, two thirty the latest.

"We meet at my place at three, go over the plan, the equipment.

"Vanessa, have the chopper on my roof by eleven the latest, okay?"

"Gotcha."

"Can we get confirmation on that right now?"

"Certainly."

And Vanessa places the call.

Nancy fidgets and Cynthia rolls up the blueprints as Vanessa speaks.

"All set," she says, putting the phone down.

"He's ready for anything but return fire."

"I can practically guarantee there won't be any of that," Cynthia says.

"Buck is used to our going after him all but bare-handed.

"No way will he be expecting a change of tactics on my part.

"After all, we've done all right so far the old way."

"Then why is Randy Buck still walking around sucking air?" Nancy asks.

"Why indeed?" Cynthia asks, seeming to ponder the question.

"Look at it this way—we had nothing planned for the weekend anyway, right?"

Intended no doubt as cleverness, Nancy thinks Cynthia has hit the nail on the head.

She is actually enjoying herself right now, looking forward to going up against Buck, and this for a frighteningly basic, alarmingly simple reason—it gives her something to do.

Chapter Seven

"Are you sure?" Cranston asks.

"The reason I'm asking, Randy, is that this seems like quite an acceleration over your original plan."

Buck shrugs.

"I could be wrong, but I don't think I am.

"The Baroness suspects me of something.

"Maybe even more than suspects.

"So I want to progress the game a little faster.

"That way, if I have to bring it to an end, to go in a different direction, at least I'll have had the satisfaction of getting through that phase.

"Hey, if I'm wrong about the Baroness, which I hope I am, if she's got nothing, if she's the one on a fishing expedition tomorrow, then no harm done.

"In fact, it'll be a test of the degree to which I've succeeded in messing up Daisy's mind if we can slow down the ‘progress' of our little game, go back to the previous step with no harm done."

"Still, you know, she'll know tonight.

"Won't be a doubt in her mind as to who we are."

"True, true.

"On the other hand, will it have been the real us, or merely a development in this series of dreams she's been having?"

Cranston grins.

"You see my point, n'est-ce pas?

"If we have actually succeeded in fucking her up so far that she can't tell the difference between dream and reality, just think, Cranston!

"Think what that would mean, by way of control!

"Consider the implications!

"Why, there could be not just one, but a hundred, a thousand Daisies running around, all fucked up by yours truly!

"I would almost be tempted to turn her loose in the world, a walking tribute to my genius, to the expertise with which I pursue my hobby, my pastime, that leisure to which all us hard working executive types are entitled.

"I would follow her progress at a distance.

"Perhaps even keep in touch, you know?

"Maybe go so far as to invite her back for a return engagement.

"Ah, Cranston, I should have indulged myself in this way long ago!

"To torture and destroy the body—what is that?

"The pleasure of a few hours, a few days.

"But to attack the mind!

"To allow the body to survive, to function, while changing the very world in which it exists forever—that is power indeed!

"I do so hope to be able to see this thing with Daisy through.

"If not, well, still there is the delicious pleasure of seeing her shock, her terror at the denouement when all, all is revealed!

"Only one thing more to do then, of course.

"No choice, so it can't be helped.

"Still, sooner or later—well, no use saying the obvious, is there?

"So. Bottom line, we go tonight with just the half masks.

"Where is she now, by the way?"

"By the pool."

"Well. I just may join her for a swim before supper.

"Interesting, you know, to be with a person and to know something that is going to happen to them of which they have no suspicion."

"I've noticed that."

"Yes, well, if you'll excuse me—"

And Buck leaves the den, his robe flapping open as he heads toward the pool.

*****

"She missed yesterday afternoon, as you can see, but I called the chopper this morning and she's back out there, looking good as ever," Vanessa says.

"I'm sure we need have no qualms concerning her until after my lunch with Randy tomorrow," Cynthia states.

"Then, of course, depending on the reaction I get, or more accurately induce, we'll see."

"You mean we might still scratch the operation?"

"Oh, no, no.

"That's a go, regardless.

"The worse that could happen is that we look ridiculous, warning the girl and offering rescue where there is no perceived danger."

"Not to mention the little matter of breaking and entering," Nancy interjects.

"Oh, come now. Randy Buck may be many things, but petty is not one of them.

"No, we break in and there's nothing happening, we end up with red faces and he gets a good laugh out of it.

"I doubt he'll even stoop to cashing my check for the damages."

"But then, what about the girl?

"What if she doesn't believe us about the danger she's in and decides we're a trio of nuts?"

Cynthia shrugs.

"If she stays, she's dead.

"Buck is just perverse and perverted enough to see to it and then throw it right in my face, no doubt in full detail, having so arranged it that there's no proof."

"He'd kill somebody just for a ‘gotcha'?"

"Knowing him, you have to ask?"

And knowing you, Nancy thinks, I don't have to ask if you realize that you may be creating a mortal danger for the girl which might not otherwise exist, pushing Buck over an edge he possibly would not have wandered near, on his own.

*****

Randy Buck sits on the edge of the pool, leaning back on his hands, knees parted.

As Daisy sucks his cock.

It was her idea, begun playfully enough, a natural development of body contact as they swam nude together.

And Buck wants this.

He wants her to become intimately familiar with the details of his body.

He wants to impress upon her this particular shape, that specific texture.

So that, if she encounters it again, say, in a dream, she will recognize it as being him.

But Daisy thinks that this is just an affirmation, after having had time to think it over, that he wants her, wants to be intimate with her.

So that she can become mistress of the manner, and queen of all she surveys.

So that her enthusiasm as she sucks his cock has nothing to do with his sexual attraction for her, which she would consider, in her own parlance, "okay".

The important thing here is that she is making progress in their interpersonal relationship.

Not that she is sucking him, but that he is going along with it, with her, is what matters here.

Which, of course, fits in perfectly with his plan for tonight, not only on the score of recognition through familiarization, but also because she will take the edge off, will give him staying power in the free-form, free-for-all action he has in mind for tonight.

So that he will not be a "fast pop", even though that too will serve just as well for his overall intentions toward her.

But it would not be as much fun.

And he intends to have a lot of fun tonight.

So that, at his meeting tomorrow with the Baroness, he will be calm, relaxed, contented.

And present the very picture of the aging, overweight executive, distinguished and benign in his later years.

And convince her that his past... indiscretions are truly in his past, not to be repeated, enlarged upon, or otherwise undertaken anew.

Or, on the other hand, that they are being so cleverly, so covertly conducted that she has not a prayer of discovering them, let alone trying to stop him.

He does not know, has not yet decided; he will play it by ear, and with the advantage of a thoroughly drained crankcase to clear his head.

Speaking of which—

Daisy warms to her task.

She actually surprises herself by feeling the warmth of initial arousal deep in her abdomen as she continues to suck his thick organ with its great, broad head.

As she explores the indentation of the eye with the tip of her tongue, then sends it round and round, over the surface of the head, taut and throbbing with vibrant life, then around the thick, flaring flange at the rear.

And now, she is bobbing up and down, sucking the thick shaft, lowering her head until the battering ram of the head bumps the soft palate at the back of her mouth, at the entrance to her throat each time.

Up and down, up and down she goes, her wet lips and tongue sliding in full contact with his turgid organ at all times.

And he is beginning to respond with his mind, so deft, so effective is her cocksucking.

So that he no longer looks down on her as from a distance, a cool observer of the hot action, his brain compartmented to permit arousal in the midst of scheming.

Rather, now he allows his mind to give in to the exquisite sensations of sexual pleasure, relaxing, surrendering to the mindless absorbtion of the pleasure which inundates his rampant intruder from every direction as it disappears and reappears in her tirelessly working mouth.

Higher and higher he rises, through level after level of pleasure, each more intense, more exciting than the last.

So that now; he is floating in the delicious, lascivious lap of sexual luxury.

He is permeated with the surfeit of his voluptuous, erotic stimulation.

Gone for the moment his perverted schemes, his exalted position, his wealth, this world.

Gone is everything, including time and space, up and down, replaced now with delight become ecstasy, with ecstasy transformed into rapture.

Gone is all but the feeling and the feeling and the feeling.

And now, head thrown back, chin in the air, the sunlight turning the insides of his closed eyelids into a rosy light show, chest heaving in his sexual excitement, he comes.

He comes and comes, as Daisy swallows his load. And not until she is certain that the last spasm has passed does she relent, releasing his still tumescent organ, pulling her head back to look at it, close range, as, glistening with her saliva, it begins slowly to wilt.

And now, she ducks her head under the water, cooling it off, cooling her ardor.

And swimming under water until she reaches the far end of the pool.

And not looking at him as he gets up, puts his robe back on, and goes back inside.

Back and forth, back and forth she swims, easy, relaxed, dreamy strokes taking her buoyant body effortlessly from side to side.

As, high up in the cloudless, azure sky, the blades of a helicopter beat faintly.

*****

Oh, no! she thinks, not again!

But she knows differently, her limbs unable to respond as she struggles to fight off the numbing, dizzying descent into u*********sness which has become, for the third night running now, her method of falling asl**p.

She seems to hear a faint hiss from the vent near the ceiling, the one she had seen Cranston doing something with, the one behind whose grating she thought she saw the glint of something shiny.

But such minor details are forgotten as she lapses into u*********sness.

Only to be awakened what seems to her like an instant later by the acrid scent of ammonia, which fades very quickly, forgotten by the fantastic scene now before her.

There are Eric and Randy Buck.

These she recognizes at once, even in the pale moonlight, behind their black half-masks.

Why did they even bother? she wonders, vaguely.

And that third one.

Could it be?

It is. Cranston. She is sure of it.

Even though with no clothes on, he looks larger, more muscular.

And that cock of his!

Even in her fear, she cannot help but notice its gigantic size.

And it figures that a creep like Eric would have an equally creepy cock, long and thin.

Eric especially unnerves her, his pallor making his body appear to have a gelid glow to it in the pale moonlight.

She looks at her hands.

She is not bound this time.

She is free to move.

Except that, no sooner she realizes this, than she is not.

Because they grab her, two of them, forcing her down on the bed from which she has only just sat up.

And Cranston, he of the monster cock, ploughs his huge erection into her so hard that he knocks the wind out of her.

And flips over, so that she is on top, he on the bottom.

And now, Eric is sticking his tongue into her ass hole.

Which can mean only one thing.

With a practiced movement, Eric grabs her hips and raises her up, off most of Cranston's ponderous prick.

And deftly inserts his precision instrument of a hard-on in, in, into her ass hole.

And now, Cranston thrusts up from below.

So that she has two fully inserted cocks inside her, fore and aft.

And Randy, not to be left out, grins as he gets on his knees at the head of the bed, then spreads them apart, lowering his body until his cock, which he bends down with one hand so that it sticks straight out, opposite her mouth.

As he grabs the back of her head with his free hand, yanking back on her hair, forcing her mouth open.

So that now, all three orifices are filled with big, hot, stiff dick.

And now, Eric begins bouncing up and down. Activating the springs of the bed, so that they provide the motion of the sandwich of which she is the meat.

So that the two cocks, in ass hole and cunt, alternate their piston action, one going in as the other withdraws, then vice versa.

As Randy pumps his cock into her mouth, fucking her face.

She cannot believe this is happening, on the one hand; on the other she finds it equally impossible to believe that this is merely a dream, and that it is not real.

Reality and imagination, awake or asl**p, it would seem that the concepts are becoming unclear, merging into each other.

Is this real, or a dream?

Or is it a dream within a dream, so that, in order to get back to reality, she will have to wake up twice in a row, whatever that means?

Right now, she feels more confused than frightened.

Especially since her body seems to want to respond to what is happening.

That cock in her mouth, surely she could not be dreaming that! But then, why not?

Is this not merely an exotically erotic replay of what happened at the pool this afternoon?

Or was the pool the reality and this a subconscious or u*********s replay?

It's all so mystifying.

And here, now, her body, telling her to enjoy herself with these three, now revealed to her for who they are, but for those silly little masks which cover their eyes.

Or is this the next step in the dream progression from her waltzing fuck with the three hooded figures, whose cocks so resemble those which even now invade her orifices.

But whatever it is, the feeling is intense. Uncomfortable at first, now she loosens up, even managing to relax herself, by a (conscious?) effort of will.

How terribly convenient of her imagination, she thinks, to use three real men, rather than going to the trouble of dreaming up three abstract males.

Such as the hooded figures, a convenient device for delivering the male goodies while skipping over the details of the men themselves.

That showed real imagination, but hers or theirs? And why does it all begin with a dizzying fall into u*********sness, awakening to an ammonia smell, and then lapsing back into induced u*********sness.

"I believe it's your story anyway from here on in, isn't it, Belladonna?"

*****

The discord between the two dominatrixes Lucrezia and Dominique over possession of the sadosexslave nymphette Belladonna resulted in Lucrezia's abandonment of her acting career, her flight to Casanegra and the establishment there of her jungle sex retreat, in partnership with Dominique's former slavelover Buster.

Still bent on destroying Lucrezia absolutely, Dominique subsequently invaded Casanegra in company with Belladonna. After a vicious struggle, which also involved jungle banditos, river pirates, and government f***es acting as mercenaries, the two dominatrixes came to a rapprochement whereby they would share control of Casanegra's lucrative erotic enterprises.

Belladonna then returned to New York to manage the dominatrixes Stateside business affairs. Left to her own devices, the wily nymphomaniac evolved her own design to achieve sexual supremacy.

Her association with Doctor Sandor Kroughleigh, Slash Buckler, Dennis Marsfield, Asani Saba, and the man who in the United States was known as Nick Steel enabled her to bring together the disparate elements she required to execute her plans.

And Belladonna's introduction to Christabel had supplied Belladonna with the perfect foil.

After Belladonna had seen Christabel off on her jaunt to Casanegra—for which Belladonna had made the necessary travel arrangements—Belladonna was ready to undertake her own part of the quest.

*****

Belladonna eased over the side of the motorized dugout canoe and glided up the slick riverbank toward the oiled, naked woman who stood spreadlegged, arms akimbo with hands on her waist, beneath a canopy of the wild orchids native to the surrounding rainforest. Belladonna recognized the thickly nippled tits, turgid clit, and florid snatchlips that tumbled from the flocculence of Florencita's bushy cunt.

"Greetings, my little gringa flower," Florencita said with a wide smile. "The message I received was ambiguous as to your intent. Is it love or money? The fuck or the fight?"

"All of the above," Belladonna said.

"I need a belt. I think you can help."

"Come to Florencita, gringuita. But be prepared to suffer on your path to redemption."

Belladonna slung down her backpack.

Wiped the grimy sweat from her face.

Drew her wet hair back into a ponytail. Twirled the tresses. Tied them into a topknot.

Then Belladonna snapped open her bush vest. Glossy boobs fell out, bared nipples glaring. Navel brimming with sweat.

Sharpening her gaze on Florencita's musculature, Belladonna opened her khakis. Stripped down to her jungle-camouflage combat boots.

"I'm going to fuck you, Florencita. Bitchkiss you with my cunnylips. Platypuss you with my snatch. Cuke you in the ass with my clit."

"Brave words from a fucksick little nympho. I should allow you to leave your boots on—you'll need every advantage you can get."

"I thought all was fair in love and war."

"So it is."

Belladonna sprang through the air. She brought one gam forward and pointed her toes.

Her snatch snapped apart as she landed athwart Florencita's neck. Florencita gripped Belladonna's assmeat and held the attacking gringa high on her face, chewing at her clit.

Belladonna wrenched herself from Florencita's grip at the same instant Florencita sought to throw her off her face. Florencita tugged one of her own tits and frigged through her cunt as Belladonna scampered in a crouch.

Florencita assessed the situation and made her move. Boobs bouncing, she swayed in close. Swerved as Belladonna reached out for her ankles.

Belladonna flew back as Florencita's foot caught her in the face. Florencita kicked her in the quim. Pummeled her mouth with her tits.

Belladonna yanked up at Florencita's nippletips. Drew the breasts our like taffy. Florencita's bazooms were elongated like two bananas as Belladonna hauled her in a circle.

Florencita broke Belladonna's grip. Her tits snapped back onto her chest.

Boobs bounced on her ribcage.

Belladonna renewed her onslaught.

Her mouth met Florencita's pussy.

Her hands creamed her fanny.

Florencita went liquid in her grasp.

"Aaaaah."

Belladonna sank the point of her nose into Florencita's posies.

The perfume of Florencita's pussy snapped into her flaring nostrils.

Essence of cuntoils sapped up Belladonna's nasal passages. Through her sinuses.

And into Belladonna's brain.

At that point Florencita came.

"Ngh eaugh yiiiii!"

The gush from her gash rushed over Belladonna's slavering mouthlips.

Florencita's body flushed.

Her ass shivered.

Quim quivered.

Belladonna bent over backward beneath Florencita's splayed thighs. She slimed her tongue up and down Florencita's slit, between the lips.

Worked her fingers into the split between Florencita's asscheeks.

Belladonna chewed through chocolate-scented cunt. Bristled beaver barbed between her molars.

"Unh."

Tufts of twat fur tore as Belladonna fanged cream coated cuntflesh with her canines. Incisors clicked together over cut.

"Ooooooh."

Then Belladonna felt the-hit.

At first it was a light flicker across the skin of her back. Like the scamper of an ant.

Then the snick against her neck.

The sublime thwack upon her spine.

Battering updn her buttocks.

Belladonna ripped her jaws away from Florencita's fragrant frouftou. Braced herself for the new taste. Swiveled her head around.

Took leather in the face.

"Chivito," Florencita sighed.

Belladonna grinned, groveled as the heavily scented young man snapped the beaded belt across her boobs. Chivito's prick pointed out from his billowing balls straight at Belladonna's teeth.

The taste of oiled leather disarmed Belladonna completely. She swooned headlong, defenseless, into the muck of the jungle.

"Waaaaah!"

Chivito's menacing mouthlips shot forth a straight red tongue like a snakeprick from his burgeoning facecheeks. Ballocks redolent of vanillaorchid pods hung low, clinging sweatily to the insides of his upper thighs. Teeming penis, on the rise, whipped into Belladonna's underbelly.

Chivito's ram charged as though enraged.

Curved horn bulled toward bung.

Prong probed pussmeat.

Dirked in fast.

Then gored her up the ass.

"Ni-ni-ni-ni-ni!"

The beak of the prick slipped out quickly, then goaded her groin. Grinning penis insinuating itself into her smirking quim.

Spilling semen into her fertile crescent.

"Uuuuu-eaugh."

Belladonna drooled as Chivito wrapped the leather strapping about her neck. He drew her across the moist soil toward Florencita's canopied divan, upon which the sexmistress sat cross-legged.

"Make no mistake, my gringa nectar-bud," Florencita said.

"And you shall walk away with what you came for. One mistake more, and you will never walk away: You will be my sex slave for eternity."

Belladonna kept her yip shut. There were all sorts of things she might have said. All she wanted was a fucking belt, after all. Something fancy to have someone hit her with.

But there was something about all the ritual, mystery—this sordid fantasy—that Belladonna saw as a route to the pinnacle of orgasm.

That elusive ultimate climax—the search for which had driven Belladonna to the depths of nymphomaniacal debauchery and depravity. Had left her desperate and deprived, so that even her yampirish depredations of flesh and sensual dissolution left her unsated by the fuck and suck.

So Ixchel was said to reign over daytime delights, her rainbow belt offering the frolics of pissmist, fancy-weave bondage. The belt of Ixtab held darker joys. For Ixtab's domain was the night, her belt of beaded jewels the starry Milky Way. As lxchel the rainbow was mother to the arts of refined weaving, decorative leather, metal, and gems, so Ixtab was s****r to the oiled cord, the slimed twine. ixtab was the singing water snake who strangled as she suckfucked. Her devotees were denizens of the evening—hunters working their bows, blowguns, snares; assassins; persons with a mission.

And that mission was Belladonna's.

Lips gripped in determined paroxism, Belladonna dripped her snout at Florencita's briarpatch. Felt Florencita encircle her shoulders in embrace. Twitched to Chivito's switch of pliant leather against her rosy rumpmeat.

And the entry of hardwood pecker into her from behind. She lost her mind and whined.

Chocolatey labia now encased her face. Pyramidal nippletips hardened in her grasp.

Animated asscheeks.

Menacing mouthlips.

Labyrinthine labia.

Pullulating penis.

Pyramidal nippletips.

Orchidine ballocks.

All of this was hers.

All of this and more.

But it was leather she craved for.

Leather they gave her.

And Belladonna was grateful for this. For the belt of many powers thwacked across her face was Belladonna's filament of grace.

*****

"When do I get it?" Christabel sniveled.

"I want one of those belts."

Yancey spoke to her gently.

"When you have earned it."

Chapter Eight

Christabel came continuously. Fountains of foam frothed over her fecund froufrou. Mount Venus ran with rivulets of cuntjuices into the dank delta of the fertile crescent.

Yancey tipped the nib of his penis from Christabel's quim. The glans was festooned with cuntcome from the crown to the root. Now that he was lubed, Yancey planned the next moves.

He'd break it to her gently.

Then get tough.

After Christabel was all juiced up from f***efucked bitchrut, Yancey would Frenchfuck Christabel. Give her hell.

Christabel's nakedness whipped, warped over the sides of his fountain. Climax to the ritual of belted bitchbinding. The ultimate kindness.

For Christabel wanted to reign as cuntqueen of belts. Mistress of welts.

And she evidently thought she should be so honored for the sake of her wild beauty and ravening fucksuck alone.

But vain novices like Christabel had a lot to learn. One wasn't simply bestowed the belt in accord with one's whim.

That prize had to be earned.

"What do you mean—earn?" Christabel said, shedding her final wash of orgasmic sweat.

"I mean, I thought I could buy one. You know—figured I'd have to bargain a little bit and all that—"

"Shut your fucking trap," Belladonna said. She slugged Christabel upside the head with a sap.

"No problem there," Christabel said.

"I got plenty mazuma. You got the belts."

Wap!

Belladonna gave another slap as Christabel fought back.

"Ow!"

Belladonna jammed Christabel's lower jaw upward. Choppers clinked.

Christabel's eyes squinted.

Blinked.

Tears slinked down the sides of her facecheeks.

"Got the bit, Buster?" Belladonna blared.

"This b**st needs to be muzzled. Bridled."

She turned to Christabel.

Sneered.

"Hope you're not scared."

"What is this?" Christabel brayed.

Buster shoved his thumb and fingers between Christabel's jaws. Broke the clench of her lip. Slid the metal tongue between her teeth.

"There, there," Lucrezia said, patting Christabel's sweat-strewn flanks.

She gave Christabel's pussyfuzz a yank.

"Nnh."

Tore hair out in hanks.

"Thanks."

Dominique took a tittie.

Gave it a crank.

"Agha!"

Lucrezia held Christabel by her mane. Dorrtinique reined Christabel's head lower, working the bridle.

Meanwhile, the men were not idle.

Buster bit Belladonna.

Yancey was on her.

"Give me some hump," Christabel sniggered through her bridled muzzle. Dominique pushed her pussy into Christabel's face. Christabel champed at the bit. Yammered upon Dominique's clit.

Churlish lips snarled. Tongue lassoed lassie lace layered over labia.

Christabel's asterisk itched. Oral appendage apprehended Christabel's hinders. Lucrezia trimmed the brim with lizard tail limn. Stretched out the crinkled wrinkle like a rubber rim.

Lucrezia licked liquid circles about Christabel's bickering asshole. Anus opened wide like the eye of a fish. Ampersand twitched as tongue slid in.

"Mouth-to-ass resuscitation," Christabel chewed.

"I always thought women having sex with women was about as sick as you could get."

"It is," Belladonna assured, in the midst of being skewered.

"But I always say that good sex is like good food."

Christabel giggled.

"Oh, puke me out, filly. Why doncha pass me the barfbag while I gag?"

"That's right, you slit-smothered cut-mad snit," Belladonna upchucked.

"The most refined culinary delicacies of the world make commoners vomit. Exquisite sex is the same thing."

Fresh from Belladonna's ass, Yancey closed in fast.

"Speaking of which—" he said as Christabel threw a fist. Yancey slapped Christabel's head with coiled garotte. Cropped the line of her jaw with the side of his palm. Slipped the bit and bridle from her jowl.

He searched her eyes for emotion.

Found not a trace.

Christabel spat in his face.

"Frisky," he said.

Christabel dove again into the foaming surf.

Muff-dove in droves of wavy fur.

Freed from the restraint of the bit, Christabel was ready to feed indeed.

"Time for the next course," Yancey chuckled.

He tapped the throbbing crown of his King Kong dingdong.

Then could not resist hanging his banger for a few more ruts in Belladonna's bum.

"Ngh. Eaugh. Unh."

Yancey next yanked his twanger from between Belladonna's buns. Dingdong gleaming, teeming with the dense bl**d of erection.

He waved his kingly scepter by the corona.

Ogle-eyed Christabel's maw at work.

Mincing womanflesh.

Salivating on the slick seam between Dominique's spattering jimjam and yawning blowhole.

Wriggling her fanny as Lucrezia reamed her with twisted fingers. Christabel cackled, asscrack corked by packed phalanges.

Lips loaded with blubbering labia.

"Anybody here want a belt?" Yancey drawled. Somebody say something about a belt?"

Christabel went fuckblind.

Whiteness pervaded her sight. Rush of orgasmic bl**d coursed through her ears like the swoon of a waterfall. If she got the belt—any belt, she now felt—she'd have it all.

Buster bounded by with his arms wrapped in serpentines of twisted leather twine, beads, chased silver, brass, amethyst, and jade. He raised his wrists above his face.

The belts dangled from his fists.

Strands of precious beads slinking, Dominique unwound the belt of Ixtab from Buster's left shoulder. She d****d it diagonally through the center vale of her boobs.

Plopped a jade bead into her yip.

Lucrezia lofted the shining belt of Ixchel from Buster's outstretched hand.

Placed the bejeweled ornamentation of the buckle over her beaver pelt.

Pressed in rudely to nip her clit.

Dominique swung the cat-of-many-tailed garotte belt about her head. Pitched it in a wobbling arc through the air. Belladonna snatched it on her fingernails and brought it to her breast.

Lucrezia unsnared the rainbow cinch from her waist. Placed it at the base of Yancey's blazing pecker. Yancey ran the ridged leather up over his rippled belly. Probed his batlocks and prowler with his paws.

Brought the barrel of his doug in line with Christabel's jaws.

Paused.

Aimed his twanger at her maw.

Ooooohs.

Aaaaahs.

"Oila!"

"Gee," Christabel snarled.

"This is fun, so far. What's next?"

Belladonna stuck a reefer into the side of her yip and bit down on it.

Took a hit.

Stalked toward Christabel.

Sidled beside her.

Snapped the cindering stick from her yap.

Pressed the roach out on her tit.

"Shit!"

Fuming flesh.

Inflamed nipple.

Burning soul.

"You gotta do more than fuck for it, Christabel.

"Belladonna," Christabel said with astonishment.

"You set this whole fucking thing up, didn't you? You sent me off on a goosechase to Casanegra to make contact with these depraved motherfuckers. Supposedly in order to lead me to Florencita and Chivito—and the belt."

"No shit, Dick Tracy," Belladonna snickered.

"Then you fucked it around so that Chivito pulled a raid and—"

"Well, Christabel. After all the work I put into this caper. I must admit, however, that the research I did for you at the request of Doctor Sandor Kroughleigh first gave me the idea—the least! could do was put you onto the right trail—"

"You diverted me. Went straight to the source. Devil-damned cuntsucking fatherfucking muttrutbitch."

"Besides. I figured that if you were a good girl you might get a taste of the other famed lash from our friend Yancey."

Christabel pressed her tongue against her front teeth. She parted her lips.

Sent a stream of saliva through the air like a viper shooting venom.

Sputum glanced off Belladonna's eyeslits. Spittle sprinkled her nostrils.

Belladonna licked Christabel's spit from her lips.

Spat right back.

Smack in the yap.

"How do you like that?"

"Just give me the belt."

"Say, pretty please. Or else I'll just tease."

"I won't."

"Then I won't."

"But you want to. You want to give it to me so hard you can't stand it. Both you and Yancey have those fucking belts. And you brought me here so you could fuck me with them."

"We'll see. Just how far can you go? You might think you've come a long way, baby. Well, you've got many rivers run across before you deserve to possess one of these things."

"Give her the Ixtab, Belladonna?" Yancey said.

"Or start with the rainbow dance?"

"I think I'll go first," Belladonna said.

Smirk nicked the corners of her mouth.

She strung the belt out.

Separated its strands.

Wet them in her maw.

Christabel gaped in awe.

Belladonna wafted a bone dart with gemstone tip that dangled from one of the belt's beaded strands. Lanced into the gap of Christabel's snatch.

She was next at Christabel with her thumbs. Another strand of the stranglecord was wadded up Christabel's bum.

Christabel's fanny burped on over each bead as Belladonna threaded the length deeper into Christabel's innards.

Belladonna shivered as the yummy asshole rubbed squeakily over her thumbs.

She popped her digits from Christabel's pooper and applied them to her lips. Slicked the fingers, dipped them into her own slit.

Hit her mitts over Christabel's tits.

Belladonna inserted her fetid fingers into Christabel's maw. Felt the movement of jaw. Pressed in with her paw.

Sc****d tongue with her claws.

Curled her phalanges.

Pistoned her wrist.

Fucked Christabel's mouth with her fist.

Christabel yelped for help.

Spasmed her knees to her titties.

Flared her gains in a split.

Twisted off her own tits.

Crippled her clit with her fist.

Opened her labia and pissed.

"Aiiiii!"

Christabel spun out on the edge of fear.

The terror of terra incognita loomed about her. This land of the unknown climax was about to become Christabel's lair.

Was she prepared?

Would she dare?

Christabel's limbs flailed maniacally.

Spastic lips pulled like a puppy as Belladonna withdrew her fist.

Joined the other woman in the midst of piss.

They kissed in the golden blissmist.

"Na-na-na-na-na!"

Christabel kicked out sideways.

Frictioning herself against the torsion of Belladonna's twisting form.

Christabel worked her hips. Felt the beaded belt wrenching her bum from within.

Felt the belt's dangling dong fucking her froufrou as though moved by its own volition.

To get the good stuff in deeper, Christabel adjusted her position.

Mentally assessed her condition.

Then convulsed in erotic laughter.

Spattering spittle sprinkled the air. Christabel cackled a stream of pure alcoholic opiated puke over her tilted face.

The stomach syrup ran up into her slick tresses. She lapped about her mouth with her tongue.

Tasting it.

Basting her face with it.

"Ya-ya-ya-ya-ya."

Christabel jibbered with all lips.

Metallic rutsweat slimed from her armpits.

Snot gobbed from her nostrils. Hung in thickly wattled, sinuous strands

"Uh huh!"

Orgasmic gases eructed from her. Evacuating in jets from her crackling orifices.

"Eeeaughrph," she belched.

"Pardon me, geeks," she bleated.

"Toot! toot!" she blew through her blowhole.

"This is the Chattanooga choo-choo,"she sang.

"Poot! Poot!" she rang.

"All aboard, gang. Pull this doilbaby's train. It's twine time in the nymphette slime."

"Don't worry, honey," Belladonna breathed. "Your train has arrived just on time."

She gave Christabel's facecheeks a smooch.

Frigged through her furry froufrou fruit.

Then leapt, straddling Christabel's face.

Squalls of comecurds blew through her belly.

Fell like jelly from Christabel's chin as Belladonna pumped her clit hard.

f***ed her cunthairs—bristling, barbed—over Christabel's face.

She spoke as she took poke after poke at Christabel's maw. Fucking her jaw.

"You know that Ixtab's belt was a tool of the trade for Maya assassins. Its many strands included a bridle and a bit. A dildo. Assorted whips. A noose. A sap. Garotte. Quite handy for the imaginative. Wouldn't you worship a belt like that? Well, some people did. Some still do."

Yancey finished his cigarette. Braced his haunch with a few isometric tightening exercises to his abdomen and gluteus.

Lit up another fag and watched for another second as Christabel suckered Belladonna's pussy, clitoral area freshly depilated of pubes.

Lubed labia slid over her chin.

Cuntlips lapped mouthlips.

Clit kissed facecheek.

"Time for that Frenchfuck," Yancey said matter of factly. He sneered feathers of cigarette smoke through his nostrils.

Snorted wetly.

"Yahoo!"

Yancey slapped his flanks.

Took off at a gallop.

Belladonna skittered aside just in time.

Yancey flew through the air in a glide.

Sat astride Christabel's hide with a flying mount.

Posted his pecker back and forth.

Dug his thighs into Christabel's side.

Yancey whinnied like a horse as he rode high in the saddle between her boobs.

He humped his hinders over the glowing cinders of her nips. Paps hard as bullets.

Nippletips hot as coals.

Yancey's rump rolled over the breasts. Rocking slowly along her chest.

His asshole kissed Christabel's ribcage as he completed the downstroke of his fuck.

Then smacked off her chest as Yancey initiated forward rut.

The penis penetrated Christabel's lips as Yancey shimmied his hips.

Swaying curved pecker from side to side. Taking her tongue along for the ride.

Christabel sighed.

Yancey neighed.

Rubbing his testicles through her titflesh.

Running his dong in between.

Tip of the twanger tickling her tonsils on the upstroke. Wiping his scrotum on her jowls.

Grinning as Christabel came off in howls.

Beads wrestling within her bowels.

Cock-and-balls jostling her jowls.

Yancey popped one peeper wide open. Clenched the other eyesocket with an alligator snap. Great tongue slathered out from inflated cheeks.

The come crackled in his balisac.

He stripped the belt from his waist. Smacked Christabel with it in the face to give her a taste.

Oiled leather licked her chops.

Gemstones popped her in the jaw.

"Neeeeeaugh!"

Yancey's ballocks bloomed large.

Nougats clinked together like castanets.

Nutsac drew up in a knot.

Brewing jissom, good and hot.

The yeasty slime was off in a flash.

A mad dash for the flesh.

Screaming spermlets streamed at accelerating speed. Semen teemed toward the tip.

Yancey threw a quick rut.

Ejected j issom through the ducts.

The belt tore across Christabel's tits. Tearing tips of nipple.

Searing the b**stflesh to oblivion.

Skittering jizz snaggled forth from Yancey's pecker in a syrupy loop.

Goop glopped upon Christabel's jaw. Yancey candied Christabel's bosom with randy curds of sour-milk cockcome.

s**ttered sparkling seed in circles about her nips. Icing the cupcake tits to perfection.

Another gorge of shimmering prickjuice shot upon Christabel's piled pair of melonballs. Creamed breastmeat, savory and firm.

A wadded chunk of grime smacked Christabel between the eyes.

The jizzbomb exploded.

Trimming her eyebrows and tresses with a silken blessing of scintillating joyjam.

A wave of come broke against her brow like the surf upon a beach at sunset.

Christabel gnawed the air.

"The—the—belt."

Yancey held the leather aloft.

Belladonna drew the dildo from Christabel's quim.. Gash gushed forth goo.

The snatch stew streamed over Christabel's jabbering anus as Belladonna pulled the beaded strand from Christabel's bung.

Bead by bead—orgasm by orgasm.

Christabel shook her head.

"Enough said."

Belladonna drew the beaded belt across Christabel's molten ass. Lifted it. Crashed it down on Christabel's flaming hinders.

Yancey wiped his dangling dong off in Christabel's chattering lips.

He shook his hips.

Uncoiled his belt.

Whipped it against Christabel's flesh without warning. Drawing up a line of welts.

"More?" he said.

Christabel nodded.

Face to face with the flailing snake. Serpentine belt scaling her gaze. Dragon's tail trailing across her tender spots.

Rain of belts upon Christabel's pelt. Wide welts belting her hide like banded cat stripes. Christabel felt herself at ease. Peaceful. Pleased.

Brain sane.

Nympho b**st tamed.

Until Christabel got the bitch itch again. That hunger for the relentless rut. Taste for the supersuck. Off once again in quest of cosmic orgasmic vortex. Her mission to take the fuck toward another universe of sexual oblivion.

Christabel might start with something tart. Something rude. Newer, lewder, cruder kicks than this.

Penetrating warmth consumed Christabel as she observed Buster kneeling in the fountain. Dominique pissed between his lips while wielding a whip. He tweaked the clitoris of Lucrezia, who clipped him with a riding crop as she spewed pizzle from between her labia. Buster was a satyr brought to order by whips and drips.

Bulbs of ballocks were bruited abcut like a sack of marbles as Yancey weaved his hips. Shinnied up Christabel's body from where he straddled her hips. To center his asshole over her tits.

He bounced his buns from one erect nipple to the other. Dardike nippletips dug into firm fannyflesh. Pinched into ogling anus.

Sack of stones swung low. Bandied her mumbling mouthlips. Mashed into her eyes.

Asshole oinked, propelled outward by pulsing pump of rump. Penis pounced, propulsion supplied by rumbling thigh as Yancey's fanny trampolined off her knockers.

Christabel witnessed Yancey whip his wanger into Belladonna's snatch as Belladonna, neck twisted in a garotte, hawked Buster's dong in her chops.

Then Yancoy yanked his yammering hammer from Belladonna's haunch. Wrenched the wench's body into a pretzel.

Pierced her rosebud rump with a thump.

Began to pump the fundament.

Buster balled Belladonna's mouth.

Took his pecker out.

Shook it by the snout.

Pellets of jissom sprinkled the air. Nacreous knobs of jizz fizzed in the sunlight.

Bright balls of scum rolled over Belladonna's shoulders. Goo glided between her knockers.

Belladonna's eyelids were glued shut by the milky slime. She batted her clotted eyelashes. Jissom splashed into her peepers.

Belladonna jacked Buster's pecker back up to fullness as Yancey gunned the throttle of his munch in her haunch.

Buster was next delving his dingdong within Belladonna's slavering snatch.

Whilst Yancey continued cavorting in her rump. Christabel thought back to—not so very long ago, though it seemed like ages—when she was but a sylphlike gamine nymphette.

One of her early stages.

Never had a cock in her yet. Never ever would have considered sucking a clit. Let alone sipping piss after asshole dinner.

Those days were gone.

Christabel was reborn.

THE END




Story URL: http://xhamster.com/user/kepl6/posts/137764.html