The bus Station. The two girls get off the bus, duffle bags over their shoulders, looking around.
They are obviously just out of high school. They have obviously just left home, obviously-run away.
Not, perhaps, run away in the legal sense. After all, eighteen and graduated, what was there to hold them back there wherever?
But they had run away, in the sense that their departure had been the objective, rather than where they were going.
Their plans were to leave, to go somewhere, anywhere, as long as it was elsewhere, as long as it was not where they had grown up, gone to school, lived with their parents.
Because back there was nothing.
And here there is-
Nothing.
Which does not surprise them.
They had come to the big city without expectations, without any idea of what was "supposed" to happen, once they got here.
No, they only knew that they had achieved step one.
Or rather, taken it, gone ahead and done it. As for what comes next, "Ladies, ladies, ladies!"
He is big and black and overdressed, his suit of very good cut and very bad taste, his broad-brimmed, silver-buckled hat a message, lost on them, that he is one who is adept at handling women, at owning them, body and soul, in short, a pimp.
They look at him.
And he, after the briefest, most practiced of glances to be certain that no policemen were in the vicinity, beating down on him, smiles his broadest smile.
"Welcome to the big city!" he says, chuckling and bowing with a sweep of his hat in mock formal courtesy
They looked at each other, then back at him. "Your limo awaits without.
"Now, if you will allow me to take your luggage-" And he moves as though to grab the canvas handles of the bulging bags. "Stop right there!" He freezes.
Thinking, Oh, no! Where the fuck did a cop come from?
He turns, tensing.
And relaxes almost at once, straightening up and facing the one who has spoken. Who is not a cop.
Who is apparently a monk of some kind.
Right down to the sandals on his feet and the hooded robe of coarse brown cloth, tied about his waist with a simple rope.
Religious nut case, obviously.
He can handle this act, the pimp reassures himself.
"Buzz off, freak-assed mothafuckah!
"Ah'm these wimmin's long-lost uncle, come ta pick 'em up an' take 'em home."
"You intend to drug and enslave these innocent young girls," the hooded presence replies, his voice deep, hollow, and rendered all the more mysterious by the fact that only a firm jaw, the color of parchment, is visible, the remainder of his head covered by a hood.
"Look, ass ho', I am' abouts ta argoo wif y'all! "Now git out de way, fo' ah has ta cut me a path here!"
The girls look back and forth from one to the other, as though watching tennis.
"You are leaving now," the hooded figure says. "Izzat a threat or a predick-shun, mothafuckah."
"It is a statement of fact. "As witness-"
And a brawny white arm shoots out from beneath a wide sleeve.
And the pimp's eyes widen in consternation at what the hand holds.
Which is not a weapon, but something he suddenly fears even more.
Because he is no coward.
He could hold his own in a little hand to hand cutting contest.
But this, he cannot fight. A silver whistle.
That will bring a half dozen uniformed police to the spot, on the double. A silver whistle.
Which represents an overwhelming, unarguable threat.
In the face or which, the pimp retreats, backing off a few steps, then suddenly turning, running, disappearing.
"Young ladies," he says, "I am Brother Eric.
"If you will come with me-"
"No, thanks," one of the girls, Sally interrupts. "We're, uh, grateful for what you just did, but we're not looking for any spiritual guidance.
"And we could of taken care of that jerk all by ourselves."
The two girls are certainly large enough for this to be credible.
Not one alone, perhaps, but together the two big young women would have been more than a match for the pimp, assuming that he was not armed.
In which case, he might have been able to injure them, but certainly not force them to accompany him.
"I'm sure that is the case," Brother Eric replies, smiling faintly. "But I think you misunderstand."
"Not," he adds quickly, "not that I blame you.
"Appearance and title notwithstanding, we are not a religious order.
"We are a community holding certain beliefs, bur they are of a social and philosophical rather than a religious nature."
"Community?"
"As in food, clothing, and shelter."
"We could use some of that," Jane, the other girl, replies.
Sally casts a reproachful glance at her. But Jane does not back down. "Well it's true, Sally!
"I mean, we didn't make it out of the bus station without getting hassled.
"So what are we going to do, sleep in the park, wherever that is?"
"We've got money for a room," Sally says. "And we don't need help from strangers."
Especially, she thinks, strangers in robes and hoods who are not members of a religious order.
"Thanks all the same," Sally says, "but we'll find our own way."
"That is your choice, of course, but you should be aware that the community provides employment as well."
"Let me get this straight," Jane says. "We're talking food, clothing, shelter-and a job."
"Absolutely."
"Well then Sally," Jane asks, turning to her, "if those aren't what we're looking for, uh, well, what are we looking for?"
And Sally has no answer.
She shrugs.
And sighs, as though resigning herself to an uncertain fate.
"Okay," she says, "I guess we'll go with you to where is it we're going?"
"The retreat is upstate.
"At this hour of the morning, we should he there in a little over an hour and a half. "I have a minivan outside. "Shall we go?"
And, unlike the pimp, he does not offer to carry their hags.
They follow him to the van.
It is tan, with black writing on the door.
Brotherhood Industries.
The writing is in an arc, over the picture of a rose.
They hop into the front next to him, after he has slid open the side panel so that they can put their bags in.
"Do, ah, boys and girls, like, live together where we're going?"
"We are a single community, but no, there are separate sleeping quarters for men and women.
"You will eat together and work together, perform spiritual exercises together, but you will not, as you put it, live together."
"Spiritual exercises?
"I thought you said that this isn't a religious order."
"It isn't.
"But we hold certain beliefs as truths relative to the body.
"In fact, we are called the Brotherhood of the Body."
"Even the women?"
"No, they are called something else."
"Like what?"
"I think that question is best answered once we are there.
"There are things we can discuss, but which are meaningless taken out of context.
"And I wish to avoid deceiving you or misleading you, even inadvertently, at all costs."
Sally shrugs.
They are committed to a course of action whose details and ramifications they do not know.
But what he says makes sense.
They will indeed see, soon enough.
And it has been a long trip from the Midwest.
But they have slept most of the way through it.
And so, as dawn breaks, they are wide awake, fully alert.
"Oh, look!" Jane exclaims. "It looks just like a castle!"
Or a prison, Sally reflects.
And neither of them see Eric wince in reflexive surprise at the word, castle.
He recalls that he has had this reaction ever since-never mind.
No time for that now.
He can remember all that later.
For now-
"Bee-eep!"
And the impression of the place's being a medieval fortress is heightened as a hooded figure appears behind the iron bars of the main gate in the wall which surrounds the vast edifice of stone.
And he works a wheel to one side, like that of a ship turned sideways, to which a winch is attached which raises the heavy portcullis.
And Sally reads the plaque on one side of the great stone arch.
Brotherhood of the Body. Private Property. Keep Out.
Friendly, she thinks.
What happened to the wine and the cheese places like this are supposed to come out with?
But then she remembers.
This is not a monastery.
And Brother Eric is not a monk.
He is part of a community, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean.
And he calls this place what? Oh, yes. A retreat.
Whatever the hell that is.
But there is no time for further reflection, as the minivan pulls up in the flagstone courtyard before the largest of the entrances to the building.
And another figure emerges, this one in black cape and hood, all of a piece and reaching almost to the ground.
And it is only the sight of full, red lips that tells the girls that this is a female.
That, and the high heeled, spiked boots she wears. "Girls," Eric says, holding the door open for them as they alight, "this is Sister Patricia. She will look after you, get you your clothing, assign you to a ce-to a room, give you the guided tour, and in general get you fitted comfortably into your new life.
"After breakfast, Brother Randolph will welcome you formally to the order.
"Now, if you will excuse me-"
"What about our stuff?"
"Oh, we provide you with everything you will need.
"Your, uh, stuff will be put in storage and held for you, should things not work out for you here--however unlikely that may be."
And, as though to preclude all further discussion, Brother Eric quickly gets into the van and drives it across the yard through an arch, into the darkened interior of the building.
"Come with me," Sister Patricia says.
And they follow the flowing cape and spiked heels into the building, through half of the heavy, wooden door.
*****
"Get 'em okay?" Randy Buck asks. Randy Buck.
Owner of two major league teams, football and basketball, a chain of gourmet restaurants, and a string of health clubs.
But known here only as Brother Randolph, head of the community.
Which consists of men-the Brotherhood of the Body-and women, the Sisters of Pain.
This time, Buck tells himself, he has done it right.
This time, there is no publicity, no solicitation of members, no collection of dues-none of the administration, the risk of exposure that accrued to his last attempt to cater to his tastes in bondage and discipline.
The Castle.
The club for all who wanted the "real thing", rather than mere play-acting.
Meaning real torture, real risk of injury, real pain.
Ah, he reminisces, there was a club, now!
With hooded members in risqu', erotic black leather costumes stalking each other in the maze of corridors that was Buck's Castle, capturing, drugging, torturing, fucking, sucking, sodomizing each other, as he sat at the console of his viewing set-up, miles away at his mansion, the Estate, watching all the action, not missing a thing.
But it had all come to an end, for him almost a disastrous end.
Because Cynthia Marvel, the Baroness, owner and chief executive of a cosmetic and accessory empire, had destroyed the Castle, and almost succeeded in doing the same with him.
Oh, the Castle still stands.
But it is now an orphanage, courtesy of the magnanimous, socially concerned Randy Buck, his philanthropic gift to the state.
Made in lieu of continuing the investigation into the nasty little sex club which had been so mysteriously exposed.
And the recipient of a large, annual grant from the Buck organization for its maintenance.
So that all Randy Buck has left of the Castle is an annual contribution and the corresponding tax write-off.
Which somehow fails to bring a tingle to his loins.
But this time, he has done it right.
This time, his muscle men, his torturers, are all warped, hired help, willing henchmen who belong to the order for fun and profit.
And the women?
Female counterparts of the men, like Patricia, or else "sisters", lost souls who had joined the order without knowing, until it was too late, what it was all about.
Who, once inside the retreat, would not be allowed to leave, until they were broken down, mentally and physically, unable to deliver a coherent account of what had happened to them.
That, at least, was the plan.
Nobody had been there, the place had not been there, long enough to determine exactly how things would work out.
Because the retreat, for all its ancient appearance, was not old at all, was in fact brand new, constructed with Buck's unique combination of desire for authenticity and corner-cutting cheapness in execution.
So that, like the original Castle, this one was all bare cement floors and rough cinderblock on the inside.
The only change from the original, other than the layout, which was completely different, was the presence of cells-rooms with thick, iron doors that could be locked from the outside, where the "sisters" reside.
And the Baroness would never learn of this place.
The Baroness.
Become his arch enemy.
So that she has already blocked one attempt on his part to carry on his hobby once more.
And almost killed him in the process, reversing a trap he had build for her.
But this time, he would be able to carry on in total secrecy.
This time, she would not hear so much as a whisper of what he was up to.
This time, he would be careful, he would be smart, he would succeed.
And Eric, his chauffeur, the one who had taken the fall for operating the Castle when the Baroness had exposed it, now Brother Eric, says, "No problem.
"They're young and strong and big in all the right places."
"Good! Good!
"They will make ideal Sisters of Pain. "We shall make them true believers in the truth that only the body can know! "It will be ... delicious!
"This brings to-let me see-six the number of converts we have, ah, acquired.
"More than enough for a good beginning, more than enough to provide the action that I want to see!"
And Eric smiles.
His boss is happy again.
His boss is pleased that he is once more able to pursue his hobby.
Which means that his boss is pleased with him.
Because Eric feels that he and Cranston, Buck's private secretary, rightly or wrongly, have had to bear the brunt of the blame for the destruction of the Castle, they being the ones on the scene when the Baroness managed to summon the police--local, county, and state-the fire departments of three towns, and the media there.
But now, things are all set again, this time in a better way than ever.
And the best part is, nothing can possibly go wrong.
*****
"I don't know about this place," Sally says.
"What are you worried about?" Jane replies. "I mean, my gosh, we've got our own beds, a bathroom complete with our own private shower, everything provided, from toothbrushes to clothes-"
"Don't forget the lock on the door, Jane."
"So what?
"They don't want us wandering about on our own, that's all."
"And just why do you suppose that is?"
"Look.
"A couple of days here, and everything will be made clear.
"We don't like it, we leave, that's all."
"I hope you're right about that part of it."
"Well of course I am.
"You think they want unwilling hands around here, eating, sleeping, using up the facilities?
"Believe me, Sally, if we don't act like we love it, they'll be the first to ask us to leave."
"What about Madame Frankenstein there, with the high-heeled boots?"
"Yeah, she is something else, isn't she?"
"You got that right.
"Only question is, what?
"Has she got the hots for used clothes or something?
She took every last stitch we were wearing with her, including our shoes, for heaven's sake!
"And, as for clothing, what do you call this?"
And Sally raises up the hem of her one-piece, thin, cowled, floor-length robe, to reveal the thick brown thatch that covers her cunt.
"These people never heard of underwear?"
"Hey, we live simply, we dress simply."
"Any simpler and we'd he naked."
"Is that such a bad idea?"
Sally smiles.
"Funny you should mention it.
"She won't be back for another hour, she said."
"Which gives us time-"
And they demonstrate one practical effect of dressing so "simply".
Because now they are both naked.
And on top of one of the freshly-made beds, entwined in each others' arms.
And now, they reverse themselves.
And Sally forms a bridge over Jane.
And lowers her snatch onto her face at the same time as her own face burrows into Jane's bush.
So that they are soon eating each other hungrily, shutting out the tension, the nervousness, the uncertainty of their situation.
Losing themselves in each other, feeling the sexual electricity course through them as their tongues bring their joy buzzers to active, vibrant life.
And faces and bodies begin to flush with the engorged blood of their newly-rearoused passion.
And they take each other higher and higher up the rainbow of their shared pleasure.
Because they both realize that all they have now is each other.
So that, at the moment, all that they can get out of life is what they can get from one another.
But that is all they need right now.
Because they are young and voluptuous and hot blooded.
And each knows that the other has what it takes to satisfy their mutual needs.
And raise the inner glow.
And fan it to incandescence.
And close the universe, folding it in on themselves.
And they do so, collapsing it until they have sucked it into the vortex of their ever-mounting ecstasy.
And they do not know, do not care, if anything outside themselves exists.
So that they do not see the small but powerful electric eye which observes them from a recess in the corner where walls and ceiling come together.
So that they do not know that, back at Randy's mansion, the Estate, monitors are watching them, unattended hut faithfully recording on video tape for later viewing all the action.
In full stereo sound and color.
Because a tiny but powerful microphone sits just beneath the lens that watches them.
Sight and sound, there will be nothing lacking in Randy Buck's viewing pleasure.
But the girls have no clue of any of this.
They are comforting each other in the only way possible for them.
But a very effective way it is.
As now they rise, higher and higher, borne aloft on the wings of delight become ecstasy, of ecstasy become rapture.
So that there is nothing lacking to them by way of lascivious sensation.
And they require, they desire nothing further by way of arousal.
But the stimulation has grown larger than they can control.
It has gained a life of its own.
By itself now, a separate entity within them, it fills them completely with sexual pleasure.
And now, with the pleasure beyond pleasure.
So that i hey share a series of multiple orgasms.
Which seems to go Oil and on.
Until, finally, they are satiated.
And very, very glad that Patricia has given them time for a shower.
So that they sit on their hunks for a good fifteen minutes, two cowled female figures, staring at each other in silence, before Patricia comes to pick them up.
two
"Come with me," Patricia says.
And they follow her, their thin, gray cowled robes a contrast to Patricia's heavy, black, hooded cape, their thong sandals slapping softly, in counterpoint to the spiked heels of the boots on the concrete floor.
Clearly, there is an inequality at work here, the significance of which escapes the girls.
"This is the refectory," Patricia explains. "Three times a day, you will eat here.
"The food is prepared by our sisters in the kitchen. "Serving is cafeteria-style, on tin trays, as you can see.
"Let's serve ourselves and we can talk while we eat."
They do so.
And the girls notice that, besides themselves and Patricia, only half a dozen "brothers" are eating in the vast, wooden-tabled mess hall.
And Sally thinks, I'd just like to see somebody's whole face here, if only for a minute.
Because the cowled figures do not drop their head covering, even to eat.
Giving the rather odd impression that the opening of the cowl is a huge mouth, into which forks disappear and reappear, their placement within the vast opening being arbitrary.
Monsters, daintily (for monsters) ingesting their food.
Which, the girls have to admit, is both plentiful and good.
As they attack their trays with obvious relish, Patricia says, "Hearty eating is encouraged here.
"It gives you the energy you will need for the devotional exercises."
Sally casts her a look of inquiry.
"After supper," Patricia explains.
If one could call that an explanation.
They finish in silence.
"I want to take you to meet Brother Randolph, girls.
"He is the head of our little community.
"You will rarely see him here, but he is always around somewhere."
And she leads them down the cinderblock, concrete-ceilinged and floored corridor, lined with metal doors similar to that of their own room, until she comes to a regular wooden one.
She knocks.
"Come in."
And here is an office, like all other offices, cluttered with stacks of paper, filing cabinets, a computer terminal and printer.
Brother Randolph does not rise, a large, brown-cowled figure, seated behind the rather old-fashioned, wooden desk. , Another face they cannot see.
"Sally and Jane, is it not?" he asks.
"It is," Patricia answers.
"Well, welcome to our little community, girls. "I trust the accommodations and food are satisfactory.
"You will find the work here easy and pleasant and of short duration during the five day week.
"On weekends, you will be escorted into the city or to somewhere else recreational.
"Your real job here is to assist in the evening devotions.
At that time, the first time, the name of your order will he revealed.
Be happy here, girls."
And he goes hack to his paperwork.
There has been no dialogue, no invitation to question or comment.
And now, Patricia opens the door.
And leads them down another corridor, opening a swinging door to a large room, taken up mostly with rollers and conveyor belts.
"The community is self-supporting," Patricia explains. "Part of the income of the community is derived from the manufacture and distribution of what are known as marital aids.
"Your job here is to heat seal the individual items in their proper packages and to overpack them for shipment.
"The brothers will operate the molds at that end-" and she points to the apertures in the wall at one end of the conveyor-belted room.
And the shipping dock at that end."
And she points to the apertures in the wall at the opposite end, where conveyor belts run through, under a curtain of plastic strips.
"You will have a brother as foreman, who will see to it that you are provided with the right bags and boxes."
"Nothing is happening," Jane observes.
"Of course not. It hasn't started yet."
"Oh."
Sally looks at Jane oddly. Marital aids. She has heard of them. A imagine word for sex toys. Yes, this is definitely not a religious order, she thinks.
So what's with these "evening devotions"? Devotions to what? Or to whom?
"Ah! Here is Brother William, who is in charge of the operation.
"Sally and Jane will be working here today, Brother William.
"Please see to it that they find their way back to the refectory for lunch and, if you are still working by then, to supper."
"No sweat-I mean, no problem, Sister Patricia."
"Excellent!
"Then I will leave you two to your work."
And she clickety-clacks out of the room.
"The usual girls for this have kitchen duty today," Brother William says.
"I'd rather be cooking myself," Jane responds.
"Fortunately, our happy little community is run in such a fashion that you need not trouble yourself by volunteering for anything," Brother William says.
And he does not smile when he says it.
"Anyway, you can work the heat sealer, and you can make the overpacks.
"We'll be doing regular replicas in the morning, eighteen inchers in the afternoon.
"The heat sealer turns on like this.
"You press the top of the plastic bag against it and the heat will do the rest.
"On the overpack, you pull this handle down and the staples will shoot into the top of the carton.
"The staple magazine is loaded and the configuration for both overpacks is identical.
"Any questions?
"Good. Let's do it."
He flips a handle on a junction box on the wall and the conveyor belt begins to move.
Both girls laugh as a series of male erections, each rigidly upright on the base formed by the balls, moves toward them.
Dutifully, Jane slips each into its plastic bag and holds the little card that gives identification and price against the heating unit, which promptly seals it.
Twelve of these go into each of the cartons that await them at Sally's work station.
She packs and staples the box, which disappears through the opening in the wall, in the direction of the shipping dock.
And so it goes.
And Sally finds the retreat and its arrangements a rather exotic setting for a dildo factory.
Lunch, the afternoon shift, and supper are uneventful.
Patricia leads them back to what the girls can only think of as their cell.
And, for the first time, Sally notices that there is aluminum conduit leading to a flexible cable that connects to an aluminum box on her door and leads through it to the lock.
So that the door is controlled electronically as well as manually.
"You girls should get cleaned up and change into a fresh robe," Patricia instructs.
"When the gong begins to sound, step out into the corridor and follow everyone else to evening devotions."
And Sally knows that their door will be unlocked automatically to permit this.
They are regulated and controlled. They are prisoners here.
But she can do nothing about this at the moment.
And she wishes to do nothing that will alarm Jane, who seems perfectly content to go along with the program.
Whatever that might be.
They shower and change into clean robes.
They have each been issued seven, obviously one for every day of the week.
They will have to ask their guide and mentor, Patricia, about getting the laundry done around here.
And now the gong sounds.
Low and steady, insistent and reverberating they hear it.
And step out into the corridor.
Where gray-robed figures like themselves, cowls in place-four of them-are also emerging from nearby metal-moored rooms.
And walking in the same direction, down the corridor.
Sally and Jane go along with them. The corridor twists and winds. And they come at length to a sliding metal door. And Patricia appears in the doorway as it slides open.
And they file by her to see-
Wooden tables with eyebolts screwed into them here and there.
Overhead pipes, from which ropes, some starting from coils on the walls, dangle.
Racks and pegs on the walls, from which dangle everything from bull whips to double-headed dildos, of the kind manufactured right there.
And six brown-cowled and robed figures, standing here and there among the tables.
"All right, girls, line up in a row here!" Patricia commands.
"As you have no doubt noticed, there are two more of you.
"They have yet to learn the name of their order.
"In order that they may come to know it, to know the meaning of the devotions, we will have the demonstration once more.
"Brother Fist will assist me, as usual. N "Pay close attention, you two new ones especially.
"This is a lesson in devotion, and one that is not to be taken lightly."
Patricia undoes the clasp of her robe and cowl arrangement.
And, with a flourish, removes it.
Sally and Jane gasp at the sight which is thus revealed.
Because Patricia is a huge woman, a mass of female muscle and gland.
They still do not see her face, which, except for mouth and chin, is covered by a tight-fitting, black leather hood.
Her breasts are phenomenal, warheads of imposing, one might say somehow dangerous, proportions.
Her nipples are huge doorbells atop massive, rounded expanses of firm breast flesh, milky white and blue-veined.
Which are pushed up by a leather corset, which pinches her waist in, so that the flare of her naked hips gives her a large, hourglass figure.
She is wearing a garter belt whose straps hold up black mesh stockings which disappear into calf-length, high-heeled, black leather boots.
Her snatch is a black, hairy triangle.
And now, as she turns her back to them, they see the huge, rounded masses of her buttocks, surfaces slightly dimpled, a deep crevasse dividing them.
Spreading her cape on one of the tables, she climbs onto the end of it, getting onto knees and elbows.
And now, all of them, men and women, watch as the one apparently designated as Brother Fist stands squarely behind her, sandaled feet slightly spread.
He rolls up his sleeve, to reveal a brawny forearm which shines in the naked light of the bulbs suspended from the ceiling.
Obviously, it is coated with some kind of lubricant.
One of the other men steps forward, standing beside her, to one side, facing away from her, toward Brother Fist.
And, firmly grasping as much buttock as he can in each hand, spreads her cheeks.
To reveal the large, puffy, mauve star of her ass hole, the segments meeting in the center.
So that Brother Fist has a clear target.
And he does not hesitate, pausing only to roll up his sleeve to a bulging bicep.
Dramatically, he extends the middle finger. And inserts it slowly, evenly, into Patricia's ass hole.
And moves it round and round.
And now, pulls it out, in order to reinsert it with the index finger.
And moves both of them around and around.
Until he is satisfied that she is loosened up sufficiently for-
His thumb, which slides neatly down the groove between the first two inserted fingers.
So that now, the fingers and thumb form a cone with which he drills into her ass hole.
Which forms a smooth, round mouth.
Which yields to every nuance of the motion.
As her ass hole becomes looser and looser.
And he pulls back once more, this time to fold his fingers over his thumb.
And now, twisting his wrist back and forth with the drilling motion he used before, Brother Fist places the knuckle of the middle finger, the most prominent point of the "fist" he has just formed, against the slackened entrance to Patricia's ass.
And Sally and Jane, along with the others, watch, incredulous, as the knuckle, then the knuckles on either sideoi it, disappear inside Patricia's ass hole.
And now, only the back of Brother Fist's hand shows.
And slowly, steadily, it too disappears inside Patricia.
So that Brother Fist is in her, right up to his wrist. And still he pushes in, in, into her. So that half his forearm is up her ass. And now, he plunges his fist slowly, steadily in and out.
Fucking her in the ass with fist and forearm. And Sally and Jane did not know until now that this was even possible. But, very clearly, it is.
And now, surprising the two newcomers, Patricia speaks.
"I give you uh!, the name unh! of your oh! new order.
"The Sisters, of Pain!
"Just as I hunh! endure this, so you too must learn to endure.
"Such is the evening devotion. "Such is truth. "Such aha! is pain. "In pain there is truth!
"Let us devote ourselves to the truth which pain reveals!
"Devotion to pain! "Devotion to the truth! "Hunh! Do it!"
And it is not clear to Sally or Jane exactly who is to do exactly what.
But, as Brother William told them earlier, they do not have to worry about volunteering for anything around here.
Because, no sooner does Brother Fist unplug from Patricia, his assistant keeping the big ass cheeks spread to show that she is uninjured, even though all can very clearly see well up into her, no sooner does this happen than each of the cowled, brown-robed Brothers of the Body grabs a gray-robed Sister of Pain.
And Brother Fist himself clamps a hand-the clean one-on Sally's wrist.
As his erstwhile assistant pairs off with Jane.
And now, the men throw the women onto the fables, Brother Fist tossing Sally onto the one just vacated by Patricia.
And the men disrobe.
To reveal hoods, identical in design to that worn by Patricia.
And black leather boots, although without the high heels.
And nothing in between but bulging, massive muscles.
And bulging, massive cocks.
Because the sight of the action just ended has turned them on.
And there is no hesitation, no fumbling, as they strip the women of their robes.
And position the women, exactly as was Patricia before.
And there are side pockets on the tables, holding bottles of mineral oil and tubes of lubricants, which the men begin to apply to one hand, using the other.
Thus begins the "evening devotion".
*****
Randy Buck-Brother Randolph-sits before the console of viewing screens in the basement of his palatial mansion, the Estate.
Eric sits on one side of him, Cranston on the other
Buck plays the console like a sophisticated musical instrument.
As he changes views, running this screen and that one, watching the live action from this remote location.
Zooming in fast, concentrate on the face of one of the new girls as she grimaces in discomfort as Brother Fist does his thing.
And he catches her expression of relief as well.
As Brother Fist, unable to contain his excitement any longer, climbs up onto the table behind her and begins fucking her in the ass.
"Talk about your anal fixations!" Buck says, grinning.
And the others with him chuckle.
And Buck pulls back to the overall view.
To see six couples going at it.
These are the devotions prescribed for initiation nights.
Randy Buck calls the shots as to what will be done by whom, to whom, and when.
This is his big kick, calling the shots.
And he is happier than he has been in months.
The new facility cost him a mint.
But then, what's money for, if not to contribute to the happiness of he who possesses it?
And the whole idea this time around is precisely that of his absolute control.
This time, he is leaving nothing to chance.
The game will be played by his rules all the way and not otherwise.
And now, he and his cohorts watch with avid interest the details of this insertion and that.
The ass fucking goes well, he notices.
And it is worth it, every cent he has spent, is spending on making it happen.
Because the marital aids factory does not begin to cover the expense.
Nor does the supplemental income from the weekend activities.
But then, he is in this for love, not money.
He is here to exercise that absolute control which is his due and his reward by virtue of his position in the world.
He has created this and he will protect and preserve it.
And nothing and nobody is going to interfere this time.
And he puts the thought of the Baroness out of his mind, concentrating instead on the action now before him.
Patricia is still his favorite, even over the new ones.
That quantity and quality, he cannot match.
And she is so compliant!
Sure, he pays her very well.
But there are very few women who would willingly submit to the tender attentions of Brother Fist in front of a live audience, regardless of the money involved.
And yet, she does it on a continuing basis, without complaint.
Which can only mean that she enjoys it.
So that perhaps there is something to this line of bullshit about pain and truth after all.
And he thought he just made that up for mind-fucking his followers, paid, voluntary, or otherwise.
And now, he has his robe pulled back, exposing his turgid prick.
And Eric and Cranston keep their eyes glued to the main screen, ignoring Buck as he begins jerking himself off, not taking his eyes from the screen.
He cannot help it.
Ordinarily, he would be content to watch and take care of this later, his image fund replenished nightly.
But it's all going so well that he feels tree, unrestrained.
Anyway, these two are just more cogs in the machinery of his world.
So this is all right.
Everything is all right.
In fact, could not be better.
And lie watches the action on the screen intently, fiddling with the controls with one hand as the other does its work.
But he only allows himself to achieve a certain level before he slacks off.
Because this is delicious, exquisite.
And he wants to revel in it, to make it last.
And does so.
So that now, as they watch, the men on site begin to climax, one by one.
And the screens reflect them in multiple images, heads thrown back, expressions of ecstasy showing, even behind their hoods.
And now, they are dismounting.
And the women look around, finding their robes and putting them back on.
And the evening devotions have ended.
Recessional, Buck thinks.
They got off lucky tonight, because of the newcomers.
Ironically, the only one who has been through an ordeal is Patricia.
And she is on the payroll.
Tomorrow night, they will not get off so easy.
Tomorrow night, there will he pain and suffering, rather than mere discomfort.
So that the images will be strong, burning, intense.
So that, watching them, Buck will know that there has been pain, quality pain.
Which he has caused by remote control, by prearrangement, without even having to be there.
And it is the thought of this which puts him over the edge.
So that his jism spurts, thick and white and hot, a heavy wad from the angry red eye of his bulging knob which oozes over his knuckles.
And life is beautiful, for the happy few who are truly alive.
Which, at the moment, may be limited to himself.
"Bedtime for me, guys," he says.
And stands up, letting the heavy robe drop over his still tumescent organ.
"Oh, you two guys, make me a tape of tonight's action, will you?
"I want all of the action with Patricia, and concentrate on the new gals for the rest."
And he leaves the basement, treading heavily up the stairs.
three
"What's he doing?" Cynthia Marvel, the Baroness, asks.
"Who?" Nancy, her vice president of marketing, responds.
They are seated in Cynthia's office in her main cosmetics manufacturing plant, which also houses corporate headquarters.
It is in a heavily industrialized area, the panoramic picture window wasted on a view of old factories, girders, a highway overpass and bridge and, if she chooses to stand, a vast network of railroad tracks.
Cynthia reverses the paper she has been reading.
And there, on the front page of the sports section, is Randy Buck.
Shrugging, Nancy picks up the paper and begins to read.
"'Randy Buck Threatens Changes for Team. In a move which surprised most owners, players, and fans, Randy Buck did not wait for the opening of the season before-'"
"I can read as well as you, Nancy.
"That's not what I meant.
"I meant what's he doing for kicks these days."
"Probably nothing."
But the reply is too tense, too clipped.
Cynthia smiles.
"And if you believe that, I can get you a great price on that overpass out there."
"I don't want an overpass.
"And I don't want to know what Randy Buck does in his spare time, either."
"Now, Nancy.
"Where is your sense of adventure? "When is the last time your blood really raced in your veins."
"Funny you should ask!
"The last time it did that was when we had three hooded goons, plus Randy's left and right hands chasing us through the Castle!
"When we were running for our lives, dammit!
"That'll really get the old circulation going, all right.
"Whoopee."
And Nancy circles a finger in unenthusiastic loops, her face an expression of distaste.
"Ah yes! But remember who won!"
"Hah! You didn't win a thing!
"Don't you know that Randy-"
And Nancy stops, putting a hand over her mouth, realizing what she has just said.
Not quick enough.
Because-
"Don't I know that Randy what."
"Nothing.
"Can we change the subject? Please?" But she knows she is lost. "Certainly not!
"You have my interest and my attention. "Undivided, at that. "Speak up, my dear.
"What is it that I am supposed to know about Randy Buck?
"I mean, can it be that, as Sherlock Holmes-would say, the game's afoot?"
Nancy sighs.
She was afraid of this.
Nancy has had Corporate Security keeping an eye on Buck.
Because she was uncertain as to how angry with them Buck actually was over the matter of the Castle.
And he did make one attempt on Cynthia's life after that, at a masked ball, where she was, fortunately, able to turn the tables on him.
So that he almost killed himself in the event.
But Cynthia barely remembered giving Nancy the go-ahead for the surveillance.
And it has been almost two years now.
So that it is only Buck's picture in the paper, which Cynthia peruses daily because of their advertising, that reminds her of him.
Nancy has not had him watched for a year now.
She ordered the surveillance halted when, one day, the head of security told her that one of his operatives had followed Buck upstate, to an area a hundred miles from the Castle, now a state-run (and Buck subsidized) orphanage.
And watched at a discrete distance as Buck went over plans with a hard-hatted foreman.
Who was apparently in charge of building what appeared to be some sort of fortress, judging by the framework and scaffolding.
But of course, Nancy said nothing to Cynthia.
Thinking, Let Buck build himself another funhouse for his sick games.
Cynthia need never know.
And, as long as he was busy with this, he would be no threat to them.
Except that she knew that, should Cynthia find out about what he was up to, and that simply had to be exactly what he was up to, she would , immediately make plans to interfere.
And this particular sleeping dog was one that Nancy was most anxious to let lie.
Even though the dog was not exactly sleeping.
Because she was well aware of Nancy's feeling toward Buck's "hobby".
Too well aware.
Cynthia did not know whether Buck was the way he was because of a perversion in his mind in which the only way he could enjoy sex was by watching women being bound and tortured or whether he was driven by some maniacal hatred of the opposite sex.
She did not know and did not care.
She knew only that Buck was a hateful slob, a twisted monster who was a menace to womankind in general and who therefore had to be stopped at all costs.
And it was this last that upset Nancy. At all costs.
The risks they had taken! And the close calls!
True, Cynthia Marvel, the Baroness, was rich and powerful.
But no moreso than was Randy Buck.
Because, as far as Nancy was concerned, they were far from evenly matched.
Their two-woman invasion of the Castle had been nothing short of insane, as insane, in its own way, as was Randy Buck.
Perhaps even more so, since, for a madman. Buck was quite adept at keeping himself at a safe remove from any possible risk.
Whereas, it was apparently Cynthia's particular delight (and, Nancy was sure, perversion) to place herself in the thick of things, where the risks could not be greater.
And moreover, to drag Nancy right along with her, her faithful, if somewhat reluctant, companion in adventure.
And Nancy did not need, did not want, another adventure.
She was getting too old for this shit.
She was born too old for this shit, actually, she reminded herself.
Hoods and capes and high-heeled boots and dungeons and mazes-who needs it?
But she sighs to herself, knowing the answer to that one only all too well.
The fact is, Cynthia needs it.
Because Cynthia is easily bored.
She is even bored with her spectacular business success.
And boredom leads to adventure.
And that does not mean, as Nancy has tried to make it mean, with only modest success, adventures in marketing.
Oh, an ad campaign would hold her mild interest for a while.
But, once well underway, with the results known or predictable, that was about it.
Because, at that point, as far as Cynthia is concerned, it is on automatic.
She has competent managers, administrators, distributors.
There is nothing she can add to the process. And her oversight is superfluous. Which leaves her with Time.
Yes, time is Cynthia's real enemy.
Meaning what to do with it.
How often had she lamented that they were too quick to destroy the Castle.
If only they had let it stand, let it exist a while longer.
Then they could continue to entrap, to torture, humiliate, and endanger the bruisers who stalked the maze, seeking female victims, only to find themselves in sudden, unexpected, bizarre peril.
like the three stalwart sadists they had so skillfully stalked, drugged, and left sealed in a hidden chamber, hung up in nylon mesh sacks.
Knowing that Randy Buck, known in those days as the Seneschal, was seated at the console in the basement of the Estate, watching the action.
So that he was forced into a decision to intervene, to save the lives of the three torturers-become victims.
Yes, they could have done that again and again, according to Cynthia.
They were, after all, members in good standing of the Club.
And playing by the rules.
Granted, those rules had been weighted heavily in favor of the men, but then, Cynthia had always been adept at playing by men's rules in a man's world, so that this was but a particular application of that skill.
Yes, once a month, she and Nancy would have had themselves a hell of a time.
With Cynthia exhilarated, Nancy terrified.
Because they had not been all that successful, on balance.
They had been captured several times, escaping the clutches of their captors (and, Nancy suspected, on more than one occasion, would-be executioners) through accident or carelessness on the part of the temporary victors or, more rarely, through active rescue.
So that Nancy wondered, constantly, back in those days, how long Cynthia thought that her-their-luck could possibly hold.
But Cynthia seemed fearless, undaunted by any of it.
It.
The darkness, the terror, the constant danger, the sudden surprises.
And always, always, the feeling of being outnumbered by overwhelmingly stronger forces.
And, knowing that they were under constant electronic surveillance by an amused but soon to turn unfriendly Seneschal, wondering how long he would allow them to play rat maze before reaching out and destroying them.
But here too, Cynthia had proved an odd combination of foolhardy and astute.
Because she knew that Buck, sportsman that he was, enjoyed a good contest.
And they were giving better than what they got.
But it would only have been a question of time before Buck, seeing a pattern of constant success on Cynthia's part, would come to the disappointing conclusion that his surrogates, the men, were sadly overmatched in her.
And would, accordingly, take steps to correct the imbalance.
Face it, they were not his team, the women. So that he did not really understand what drove them, the women, to even join the Club.
Unless they really thought, physical evidence to the contrary, that this was merely the play-acting that most S&.M, B&.D clubs were.
Surely, the first time they found themselves tightly bound with real rope, raped and sodomized by men who were not merely going through the motions, beaten with real whips, administered with real force, which left real cuts and bruises-surely then they knew what they had gotten themselves into.
And yet, they would come back for more. Again and again.
But then, he reasoned, that was also the fault of the men.
Whose primary objectives were sexual rather than punitive.
So that they were satisfied with mere domination, mere control of their victims.
And were more interested in fucking them than hurting them.
And, their nuts once popped (or twice, or, at most three times), they were not even interested in that, taking themselves off somewhere in the vast maze to hide and sleep until the termination gong was sounded and they could leave.
Yes, from Buck's point of view, the Club and the Castle, even at their best, left a good deal to be desired.
And now, another castle had been built.
And was almost certainly operating, by this time. And Nancy knew it.
And had been careful, until now, to say nothing to Cynthia.
But now, even as she sat there, opposite her boss, she knows that the wheels are turning. "What else?"
And Nancy knows exactly what she means.
What else does Nancy know about Randy Buck, given the undoubted existence of a new lair for his brand of fun and games?
like I really need this, Nancy sighs to herself.
"Nothing."
"Are you sure?"
Meaning, Nancy tells herself, am I lying to her, no doubt. "Positive! "Look, Cynthia.
"My only interest in the surveillance, you will recall was to see to it that he was no longer a threat to you.
"So long as he was furious, so long as he was concocting, or could be concocting, his revenge, he was indeed such a threat and the surveillance therefore necessary.
"But.
"Once he put himself into a, for him, constructive mode, once he started putting it all back together again, he ceased to be a threat."
"Wrong."
"Wrong."
"What you mean is that he ceased to be a threat to you and me."
"Exactly."
"Exactly, hell!
"Don't you see what he's up to, Nancy? "Certainly, he's no threat to us. "Do you think his kind is really interested in victims who can fight back effectively? "Hell, no!
"He's learned his lesson, kiddo.
"This time around, he's taking no chances.
"I know this man, Nancy.
"I know the way he thinks, the way his sick mind works.
"Oh, he's a threat, all right. "And this time, there are no 'members', no 'club'. "No, he tried to have the real thing before, and it didn't really work out. "This time, it is."
"He's taking no chances, none at all." And comprehension dawns in Nancy. Her eyes widen with realization and horror. "My gosh, Cynthia! "Yim're right!
"And I never even thought of that."
"I suppose you thought that Randy was just being a big kid, making a sand castle out of concrete just for kicks."
"Oh, he's doing it for kicks, all right.
"Except that, this time, I know how some of those kicks are going to turn out."
"Unless we stop him."
"Great!
"You're absolutely right, Cynthia. "Pick up the phone and call the police. "In fact, why don't you let me do it?" Nancy picks up the phone.
And Cynthia drops a finger on the button, breaking the connection.
"Call the police and tell them what, Nancy?
"What are they going to find when they get there?
"If we don't know what's going on there, what makes you think the police will be able to figure it out.
"Remember, last time, we had to catch the action in full swing.
"And even then, nobody got near Randy Buck, not officially.
"Randy may be crazy, but he's very, very smart."
"How are we going to find out, then?
"What are we going to do?"
Because, with the realization of the truth, Nancy seems even more anxious than Cynthia to stop Buck.
The Buck stops here, she thinks. Don't we only wish ?
"To discover the identity of a masked man, you must first identity his mask."
"That's heavy, Cynthia, but what the fuck does it mean?"
"I mean that having someone in authority pay a visit up there to see what's going on is not a half bad idea."
And Cynthia pulls what looks like a thin phone book out of her desk drawer.
"A Guide to State and County Officials', " Nancy reads aloud.
"Get me the surveillance report that gives the location of Bluebeard's latest castle, will you, Nance?"
Quickly, Nancy goes to her own office, finds the report, and returns with it, opened to the pertinent page, handing it to Cynthia.
And watching, in grudging admiration, as Cynthia swings into action by phone.
*****
There are two of them, looking identical, one standing slightly to the rear of the other, as they look in the full length mirror of the master bedroom.
They are in Cynthia's penthouse.
And now, in the dim light of the fading day, filtering through the skylight, the two bizarre figures stand there, not moving, gazing at their reflection.
Leather hoods, through the eyeholes of which they peer, conceal all but mouth and chin.
And their large breasts seem even more huge, pushed up and out by the black, leather corsets they wear.
And their upper thighs, above black mesh stockings, flash white below their naked, flaring hips, framed by the garter belt and straps.
Nancy knew that this was coming, that this talk of Randy Buck and the Castle, old and new, would provoke this.
Their old costumes, the standard garb of the alphabet soup of perversion, S and M and B and D and F and G, rendered exotic, erotic, exquisite by their voluptuous forms.
As they turn, checking the rear view.
Where two sets of large, rounded, firm, white buttocks confront their rearward glances.
And now, they move to the bed.
And Cynthia lies flat on it, face down.
And Nancy takes an eighteen inch, double-headed dildo from the drawer of a nightstand.
And kneels on the bed beside Cynthia.
Slowly, she raises the arm with the dildo, holding it near one of its heads.
Whack!
The noise resounds flatly in the vastness of the darkening bedroom. Whack! Whack! Whack!
The cheeks of Cynthia's ass undergo seismic undulation with each hard stroke of the dildo across them.
Cynthia has arranged this, but Nancy proceeds with a will.
So that Cynthia will remember.
There is a tendency to forget, to minimize the bruises, the cuts and scrapes, the pain.
These are details that vex the body at the time, while the mind, then and now, concerns itself with other matters.
But Nancy wants Cynthia to remember it, all of it, the pain as well as the plans.
And now, Nancy wets the head at one end of the heavy, long, thick rubber baton.
And inserts it into Cynthia's ass hole.
And none too gently, either.
Because they were not gentle with such things at the Castle.
And, with a big ass hole like Cynthia's, perhaps they would not have bothered to wet it first, contenting themselves with merely jamming it into her rectum with a vicious twist.
They.
The nameless, hooded brutes, their own cocks twitching to obscene life as they went about their work with a perverted, sick joy.
Nancy feeds the dildo in, in, in.
And Cynthia's hips rise in the air, to make room for the dildo as it advances into the depths of her bowels.
Because Nancy does not stop halfway. Why should she?
They will not stop, did not stop the last time.
What do they care whether or not she can take it, or if something is being ruptured inside her?
Remember it, Cynthia, remember it! Nancy thinks.
Remember how little they care for anything outside their own lascivious pleasure, the pleasure of a sexuality gone astray.
So that their kicks come from absolute control.
Meaning the ability to inflict pain on another, the exercise of that ability, the sick, perverted thrill of causing pain to another and knowing that they are causing it and continuing to make it happen while the other is powerless to stop them.
Cynthia bites her knuckles, not wishing to give Nancy the satisfaction of letting her know how much it hurts.
A dangerous procedure in the real situation.
In which the expression of agony is an important indication to the sadist that he is making an impression.
Because the thought that he is not accomplishing his self-appointed task may lead to further excess.
But for now, it is important that Nancy be reassured.
As though ignoring the discomfort, the nausea could achieve this.
And now, it is a relief to Cynthia when Nancy inserts the other end of the dildo into her own cunt.
So that they share, half and half, as Nancy rolls her hips.
And Cynthia revels in the lascivious sensations that begin to undulate deep within her with each rotation of Nancy's hips.
Because this too is a part of it.
The ability to experience pleasure along with the pain.
So that the pleasure and the pain merge, become as one, two sides of the same coin.
So that the titillation of the nerve endings which, moments before, had screamed in protest at the hard, relentless pressure of the rubber seems but an extension of that pressure, an adjustment and a sequel.
And both women find themselves descending into dark realms of intimate, libidinous pleasure, aware that there is dark magic at work here.
In the fact that they are hooded and costumed, their uniforms a mysterious bond to the dark side of sexuality, where pain goes with pleasure, where the victim exercises a crazy, reverse control over the torturer, where bondage lends to sex an exquisite, helpless inevitability.
And where everything is all disoriented, mixed up, crazy.
And where, somehow, this craziness is all right, with a logic of its own, fascinating and beyond questioning.
four
Should I speak? Sally wonders, as Brother Fist shows the man with the hard hat and the badge and the flashlight and the clipboard through the packing room.
But what would she say?
What does he know, actually?
She is uncertain even as to whether she really wishes to leave.
The evening devotional has proven to be bullshit.
But not intolerable bullshit.
Because even Brother Fist is not insane enough to get his jollies oft with his hand instead of his cock.
So that that scene with Sister Patricia seems more or a circus act, a kind of sick entertainment, presented as object lesson.
Sisters of Pain.
And yet, there has been no real pain here. Nor yet.
And, as for the visitor, who knows who he is, what he represents?
Still, Brother Fist treats him with respect.
"Electric eye up there?" the man in the khaki work clothes asks, shining his flashlight at a formerly dark corner.
"Surveillance camera."
"I didn't see any control room-yet."
"It's, uh, remote."
"Remote?"
"Goes to the offices of the benefactor of the order."
"I see."
But clearly, the inspector does not.
What he does see is an assembly line with rubber cocks on it, being packaged by mysterious, gray-cowled, female figures.
The order.
Some order.
Because this is clearly some kind of a cult.
"Those, uh, those living quarters."
"Yes? What about them?"
"The time locks are gonna hafta be modified.
"You got people living in those rooms, there's gotta be either an interior override or a crash bar, and predictably both.
"You're outta compliance.
"Seven days you got.
"That, or everybody goes home."
"That sounds ... hostile.
"I take it you do not approve of the order."
"Just doin' my job ... Brother.
"What's with the rubber goods, though?
"You don't hafta answer. Just curious."
"We are of the body here.
"That which stimulates the body is good.
"Besides, it helps support the good works of the order."
"Good works?"
"We provide shelter here.
"And peace.
"For those who are of the body, or who wish to be."
The building inspector shakes his head. "You lost me, pal.
"Okay, let's have a look back there."
"The shipping dock."
"If that's what it is."
They go through a door at the side of the room.
And Sally and Jane continue to work. And Brother William, who has mysteriously disappeared, now reappears. "He gone yet."
"Who?"
"The guy with the badge.
"On the dock with Brother Fist. Why?"
"Think he's the real thing?"
"What?"
"You know! A real building inspector." Sally shrugs. "I guess so.
"He was talking all about circuitry and timers and technical stuff."
"Yeah, but he could still talk that shit and be something else."
"Something else?"
"A cop or a trooper or-never mind."
"Well, there he is now. See for yourself."
But Brother William quickly turns around.
"Looks okay to me," he says.
Still, he keeps his back turned until Brother Fist has escorted the khaki-clad man from the room.
Brother William does not need to make contact with men who carry badges, in any capacity.
They make him nervous.
Because Brother William has seen too much of them, men with badges.
Who ask too many questions.
Who make that many accusations. Who interfere with a man's right to his own private life.
Who treat what he does as a crime.
And who don't understand that there is another inside him over whom he has no control.
So that he had not choice those times, any of them.
Because his cock would come up. All by itself.
And it would lead him, like a hunting dog, to pussy and pussy and pussy.
And it would command him, demanding that it be satisfied.
So that he could barely see where he was going, what he was doing.
He had nothing against those people.
He did not even know them.
He could not even see them, except at the very last minute.
Even then, he could not see them clearly.
Because it was dark inside the parked cars.
And the men were just something that was in the way.
And they stayed in the way until he hit them and hit them until they stopped being in the way. And he threw them aside. And the women'
He did not want them to scream but they screamed. Always.
So what could he do hut shut them up.
And pleading was no good.
So he did what he had to.
Because his cock was hungry.
It was a snake, which had to he fed, which demanded to he fed.
And it took over his head, screaming its demands at him.
And he did what he had to.
There, in the dark, in the parked car or beside it.
He would jam his cock into them, his snake, feeding it.
Again and again he would teed it.
Especially if the night was warm and the body was beautiful.
And it was him and it was not him.
They did not understand that, the men with the badges.
But then, why should they? Nobody else did, either.
Not the judge, not the jury, not even the fellow who was supposed to defend him. Or the psychiatrists. Too inconsistent, they said. Too deceptive.
A cunning psychopath cleverly trying to disguise himself as insane.
Three of them, and they all agreed. And he smiled and laughed when they said that. Because this was the first time anyone had ever called him clever.
But men with badges had taken him away. And he was in jail a long time. And it was not too bad.
Because he could feed his snake with a mouth or an ass hole whenever it got hungry.
And sometimes, even when it wasn't.
Sometimes, he would do it just because the con who ran things told him to.
Even if the one he was doing it to didn't want it.
And he would plug in hard and faintly hear him screaming through the bLxxl pounding in his ears the whole time.
But he was glad when they let him out.
Because he liked to do it with beautiful women.
And of course, there were none of those around all that time.
But it was nice the way everybody there tried to take care of him anyway.
However, it was even nicer when Brother Eric found him and brought him here.
Because now, he got to feed his snake every night.
And he had never known what it was called before.
Evening devotion.
He loved it here.
He even has a responsible job.
And he has straightened out, too.
Teaching his snake to wait for evening devotion.
But men with badges could mean trouble.
They could take him away from the women.
And they tasted nice and they had cunts his snake was particularly fond of.
And his snake would have to make do again.
And it is much nicer making dildos than license plates.
And he has not done what they told him when they let him out for good behavior.
He has not seen a parole officer.
And somehow he does not think that they would approve of his present lifestyle.
Or even understand it.
Only Brother Eric seems to understand, to approve of what he does, how he thinks, even when his snake takes over.
But that is because he is of the body.
As are the other fellows here.
And more and more women are coming.
And he will have them all.
Brother Eric has said BO.
And he need not bother talking with them before, during, or after.
This also Brother Eric understands and approves.
Because he was unable to make the judge and the jury and the rest of them see it at the trial.
He does not want to know them, to listen to them, to talk to them.
He only wants one thing from them.
The rest is only bullshit, is in the way.
And now, he sees Sally.
And he wants her.
And his snake starts to come up.
But he can talk to it, and it will listen.
To the two magic words.
Evening devotion.
So that he can talk to Sally normal. This is what he calls it-talking normal. As he tells her what model is coming down the line next.
As he sees what she needs by way of staples and overpacks.
As he sees to it that they go to and from lunch okay.
This is called acting normal. Which also seems a waste of time, but he does it because they expect it of him. They.
The Brotherhood of the Body. Brother Fist, Brother Eric, even Brother Randolph.
Who is a big, great man.
And who laughs a lot, and claps him on the shoulder and tells him how much he-likes his style. Which is kind of odd.
Because Brother Randolph is never around for evening devotion.
So then, how can he know?
But somehow he does, and-likes what he sees.
And Brother William-likes to he liked.
Just like the boss con at the prison always liked him.
And now, he looks at Sally.
And his snake, looks at her also, through his eyes.
And knows.
Tonight, his snake will have her.
*****
Evening devotions.
And Sally is not surprised when Brother William, who has heen eying her all day, grabs her and places her, none too gently, on a table.
She knows what to expect, is ready to cooperate, as she removes her robe.
And he removes his.
And she sees his cock, his snake, already ramrod stiff, its red eye looking at her from the tip of his bulbous knob.
And he grins, looking almost friendly, pleasant, despite his black leather-hooded visage.
"Wait a minute," she says, "I just-"
Smack!
And she recoils in pain and surprise from the vicious slap across the mouth he has given her.
She merely wished to adjust herself so that she would be even with the end of the table, to make it easier for both of them.
Obviously, a misunderstanding.
Try again.
"If you'll only-"
Whack! Smack! Bap!
And her head rolls back and forth on the hard surface of the table.
And she notices that William's face is not snarling or angry.
Rather, it is calm, expressionless.
His snake is in charge now.
Nobody home upstairs
And now, as Sally looks on in pain and incomprehension, William is on top of her, reaching behind her.
To where a coil of rope is waiting on a roller, at the head of the table.
She watches, puzzled, as he threads it through the eyebolts of the table, all four of them, at head and foot.
And he forms loops, which he slips around her wrists and ankles. "Oh, now wait a second here-" Mistake.
Mistake, because-
Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!
Forehand and back, again and again, and this time she feels the swelling of her lips begin, tastes the blood.
And now, he is trussing her, this way and that, with the rope.
And passing it around and around the table and over her body.
So that now, he has roped her, tying her firmly in the exact position she would have assumed on her own.
Except that, now, her thighs are pinned against her body, legs spread, ropes crisscrossing their backs.
And the loops, as she could have told him, as she tried to tell him, ate cutting into wrists and ankles.
So that she has the experience of totally unnecessary pain and confinement, only to be put in the exact position she would have voluntarily taken.
Or have I just said that to myself? she asks.
Because there is pain and terror and resentment and helplessness, all fighting her efforts to remain calm.
Don't struggle, don't speak, don't even move.
Gleeful now, giggling and snickering, William plugs his huge whang into her, standing there at the toot of the table.
Energetically, he pistons in and out of her.
And she relaxes, making an earnest effort to enjoy it.
But the ropes are cutting into her limbs. Hcf back feels the pressure of the hard table. And her lip really does require attention. Also, the taste of blood is making her thirsty and nauseous.
But William cares for none of these things. He is feeding his snake. Lunge, lunge, lunge!
And it is warm and wet and smooth and juicy and perfect.
And just below it is another place to feed his snake.
So he pulls out of her cunt and leans on her thighs, forcing her ass hole up and forward.
And, one brawny forearm across her thighs, stretching her thigh biceps and sending excruciating lightning bolts of pain through them, with his free hand he guides his hard, taut knob to the center of her putty nether star.
And pushes.
"Unnh!"
He is into her ass hole, which has resumed almost normal proportions since yesterday.
And reaming her with his rampant intruder. And yes, his snake is eating very well indeed. It only, she thinks, I were free to move. She wishes to bicycle her legs. But he is pressing on them.
She wishes to move her wrists. But the ropes hold tight, cutting into them. She wishes to relieve the pressure on her tailbone. But that is where it all seems to concentrate, the weight of him and her. Senseless! she thinks.
We could be in a bed, comfortable, the both of us. Instead, this.
And what is that hood supposed to do for him? Who cares about all this bullshit, anyway? And why?
*****
"Lookit that! Just look!"
Randy Buck chuckles and points, red-faced, excited, aroused, delighted.
At the close-up of William's action.
As the camera looks over his hulking shoulder to catch the expression of agony and incomprehension on Sally's face.
"Cranston, I want a still of that one!
"Dumb hitch hasn't got a fucking clue what this is all about.
"The hell can you expect, anyway?
"But just look at that!
"Beautiful, I tell ya!
"Makes it all worthwhile, every bit of it."
"Uh, you might wanna take a look at this too, boss," Eric says.
"What, where-oh! You are absolutely correct! Sheer genius!
"Is that Fist something else, or what?"
And he selects that viewing screen to be the large picture in the center of the console.
Fist has rigged a block and tackle.
And tied Jane's hands over her head by the wrists.
And hoisted her all the way to the pipe from which the block and tackle are suspended.
And doubled her thighs back on her body, spreading them, before passing the rope around her body and thighs, tying her in what is, in essence a squatting position.
So that cunt and ass hole are the lowest parts of her body.
And the most exposed.
Which quickly becomes evident, as Fist begins once more living up to his name.
Because that item, greased from one of the tubes at the sides of the tables, twists its way into Jane's ass hole.
Close-up of the insertion, cunt just above it.
Cut to expression on face as Jane, helplessly hanging there, goes into a protracted wince of excruciating pain.
"Rockabye bay-bee!" Buck chants, eyes sparkling with arousal, as Fist rocks Jane's doubled up body back and forth with an incongruous gentleness while twisting his fist inside her rectum. Suddenly, lie pulls it out. "What the-" Buck starts to exclaim. Then, "Whoa, ho ho! "Oopsy-poopsy!
"Little clean-up job for the morning, huh, guys.'" Because Jane has lost her bowels, her distended ass hole gushing thick, brown torrents, of which
Fist is careful to jump clear.
And now, Fist turns his back on her, ignoring her, passing among the tables, prong nobbling stiffly before him.
To where one of the men has trussed up a girl, laid her on her side, knees tucked under her chin.
So that her cunt is flush with the end of the table.
As her devotional partner fucks her, humping with avid thrusts of his hips, holding onto the flare of her upper hip.
Fists looks on with approval, waiting until he comes.
And then steps at once into the breach as he withdraws.
So that the girl, tightly bound and looking forward to the end of her ordeal, suddenly finds herself starting all over again, hip and shoulder grinding into the table, unable to move because of the ropes.
As William gives Sally the long ride.
The long ride.
Meaning building up to a certain point with his mighty prong inside her cunt, then stopping, inserting into her ass hole, and starting the climb again.
Back and forth, back and forth he has been going at her like this.
His snake is really enjoying itself.
Sally can no longer feel hands or feet, because the circulation has been cut off.
Each lunge is like the thrust of a knife into the small of her back, held in that curved position by the ropes.
And her "order" proves well named the Sisters of Pain.
Because she knows, even as he double fucks her, that the pain will not end with the so-called evening devotion.
There has been damage here.
This is not kid stuff, not play acting.
In another country, under other conditions, this would be called by its proper name-torture.
Except that, in a way, this is more horrible than any political torture.
Because this is being done neither to punish her nor to gain information.
If it were, it would have purpose, meaning, finitude.
As it is, she is the helpless victim of a madman, who is himself but a part of an organization which is itself insane.
.It has to he.
There can he no rational, logical explanation of what is going on here. It serves no purpose. And it destroys.
And Sally realizes with a shudder that she is indeed heing destroyed. Literally.
And she can see, out of the corner of her eye, that Jane is not much better off.
And she feels a pang of guilt.
Jane, Jane, Jane, what have I gotten you into?
What have I gotten us into?
Better still, how will we ever manage to get out, to escape.
There has to be an end to this.
There has to be-
"Ah! Aah! Aha!"
William is climaxing.
And the thick, hot spurts of his jism go off inside her vagina.
As his body stiffens upright, head thrown back in ecstasy, hips lurching stiffly as he pumps wad after wad into her.
And Sally is relieved to realize that that, at least, is over.
And now, Sister Patricia appears.
"Finish it up, cut 'em down, cut 'em loose!
"That finishes the evening devotion.
"Go, you are sent forth!"
And, as William loosens the ropes, Sally can only wish that were true.
five
Sally and Jane. Supporting each other as they hobble to their room together.
And Sister Patricia, hooded, in full costume, not cloaked, stands in the corridor, watching their progress.
Stupid, she thinks. Buck is an idiot.
Wealthy, inspired, perhaps a genius in many ways, but here, an idiot.
Okay, she thinks. So the Baroness-and Patricia knows it was she-fucked up his plaything, his toy, his hobby.
Too bad, from his standpoint.
But so what?
None of this was necessary. None of it.
She, Patricia, was woman enough, more than woman enough, to provide for Buck's needs.
She could dish it out and she could take it and she proved this to Buck more than often enough for him to get the message.
Sure she was play for pay.
What did he expect, what did he think?
Her time was worth nothing.'
Bullshit!
She was the best and she fully deserved to be rewarded as such.
But she did not think it was that.
He paid well, generously even, if with somewhat less than gixnJ grace.
No, it was something else.
Something that had nothing to do with her was driving him, had driven him to create this place, this organization.
It was not her.
It was not even the Baroness. In tact, her destruction of the Club and the Castle had given him the opportunity to "correct" what he viewed as glaring defects in the old arrangement, for all its good points.
Not that he was in any way grateful to her.
He hated her guts.
But it was a smoldering, impersonal hatred, engaged in, she suspected, as something he more or less expected of himself, rather than as emotion genuinely felt.
The Baroness had proven one too many times that she was more than capable of holding her own and of counter-attacking.
And Buck was smart enough and yellow enough to give credit where credit was due, in the department of defense.
Not, as he no doubt reassured himself, not that, given the appropriate expenditure of time, money, and effort, he could not have literally sent her to hell, understand, but he had other, much higher priorities.
So that it was a kind of twisted tribute to Cynthia that he had suspended vengeance indefinitely, recognizing the magnitude and complexity of the operation, should he seriously wish things to be otherwise.
So that Patricia thought that she knew what she was looking at here. Compensation.
Buck was compensating for his loss.
Saying to himself, This is the ideal opportunity for me to do it right this time. Which was why all this.
And which he could not envision as being contained in a single woman.
Because she knew this about him also.
He hated and feared women.
Which was one of the reasons why his public image was that of a man, successful by a man's standards, in a man's world.
A man's world.
Is that what this place is supposed to be, Patricia wondered.
A man's world in microcosm.
The world according to Buck.
Where any madness, any excess was authorized and permitted, so long as it was a man's madness, a man's excess.
As opposed, specifically opposed, to a woman's world.
Which, in his sick mind, meant a world comprised of both men and women.
There, just there, lay his sickness, she suspected.
He would not admit the truth about himself.
But, to avoid that truth, he would create a world in which he could say to himself, There! You see? I am dealing with women, I am accepting them into my world.
But on my terms.
They are the weaker sex.
But what is weakness without domination, without victimization.'
Even in the old Castle, and in the Club, this was true.
Man was the hunter.
Man hunted-women.
Surely there were occasions when men victimized each other.
But this was something else, the process of natural selection.
And there were even occasions when women victimized men.
But these were rare instances, few and far between.
Amusing incidents, they were, with a kind of stubbing-your-toe type humor.
Accidents happen to the careless, after all.
So that it was man's carelessness and not woman's cunning or ability that caused such rare, and certainly minor, aberrations.
The one exception being, of course, the incident that brought Club and Castle and, almost, Randy Buck to an end.
And a bad end it would have been-had Club and Castle been worth saving.
They were not.
And Buck clearly saw that now. But if all this is true, Patricia asks herself, then how do we explain-me?
Because, given Buck's evidently misogynic philosophy, surely a strong, dominant female would he the last thing Buck would want in his world, a world so otherwise blatantly male dominant.
And it could not merely be that he had co-opted her, had gotten her to betray her identity with her own sex.
Because she was bigger, more important around here than that.
Treat the women like shit, okay.
But she called most of the shots.
She told the men as well as the women what to do.
And a good thing, too.
Because this gaggle of psychos that Buck had recruited as his "Brotherhood" were basically incapable of running anything.
Losers and perverts to a man, such status, in all cases but one, having been affirmed by the forces of law and order in the real world, Buck seemed to have gone out of his way to select precisely these men.
Brutal of mind and body, their sexual appetites both insatiable and perverted, this, Patricia speculated, this is Buck's ideal man.
Which also says something of Buck's opinion of himself.
That he, who had the means to make his world over in his own image, should have chosen this precise one, well, what does that say?
And then, there is his detachment, his remote' ness.
As though he himself was hesitant to he a part of his own world.
So that he showed up here only rarely, and for very brief periods.
And had yet to attend one of his own so-called evening devotions.
So that in this, his version of the most perfect of worlds, he himself was not present.
And now, people-women to be precise-were beginning to get hurt.
And perhaps it is due to the insistence on a standard of the young and the strong that the injuries were not worse.
Because these men were insane, every one of them.
They know no natural restraints, and Buck has succeeded in creating a world in which there were no artificial ones, moral or otherwise.
Some brotherhood!
It was probably merely the presence of common, highly visible victims that has so fat kept them from cutting each others' throats.
Because surely none of them took the atmosphere here seriously.
It was an improvement over the maze of the Castle, but still, with its medieval trappings, it was blatantly theatrical.
She would like to believe that they, like herself, are here for the money.
But there has been just a little too much gratuitous brutality, a tad more of blatant sadism, a hint of excess enthusiasm.
So that there was no doubt in her mind but that some of these bastards were really into it, rather than, as was she, singing for their supper, playing a part.
But then, that was obviously why Buck had picked them.
So that they would believe in what they were doing.
So that, tar from acting, the situation would free them to do what (to them) comes naturally.
I can hold my own, Patricia thinks.
And a voice inside her replies, Can you really, now?
Because she must sleep sometime.
And she cannot have eyes in the back of her head.
But it is more than that.
Buck has created his own world before.
Only to have it come crashing down around him.
So that he barely escaped.
And his henchman, Eric, had taken the fall.
For which he had, no doubt, been more than generously rewarded by Buck.
But then, that was not, is not the point.
Buck is not all powerful in his world.
And his world is by no means a sovereign state.
The inspector's visit here today proved that.
Oh, there would no doubt be compliance, even though false.
That too was not the point.
The point is that there should have to be compliance at all.
No, the retreat, as Buck calls it, is by no means a sovereign state.
It is capable of invasion by lowly building inspectors.
Or-and she feels that Buck has been especially foolish here-state and federal auditors.
Because of the manufacturing at this site.
And not just casual items, either, but items which were bound to cause note and, with this, notoriety, Suppliers of latex, colorants, packaging.
Truckers.
The occasional mechanic for the major repair. This was where the Castle had it over this place. The Castle was only sporadically occupied. And there was no evidence there as to its true nature.
Here, weirdoes slunk around in robes, calling themselves Brother and Sister, while denying any religious affiliation.
And calling upon themselves all the suspicions accruing to cults.
Hell, this is not even a cult.
Cults, at least, had a body of ideals or, at least, common beliefs.
Here there was only perverted lust which did not even bother to disguise itself.
Truth in pain!
What utter nonsense!
If that were true, if the men believed it, how is it that they never had occasion to experience ... truth?
And Patricia grins derisively to herself.
About half the "truth" that Sally or Jane went through and Brother Randolph would be whining for mercy.
And they did not.
And the others did not.
And, in a twisted way, she was proud of them. And Buck was going to get a damage report, whether he wanted one or not. From her.
But first, she would have to see exactly what the damage was.
*****
Sally and Jane are surprised to see her.
And not a little apprehensive.
Because they do not know exactly what to make of this hulking Amazon who stares out at them, expressionless, behind her leather hood, her bared breasts pointing at them like two warheads, ready to launch.
"Let's see," she says to Sally.
Sally shrugs and thrust out wrists and ankles, seated on the edge of the bed.
Patricia looks at them, saying nothing.
She takes Sally's chin in one hand, turning her head so that she can see her lips better in the light of the single, unshaded bulb.
Still, she says nothing, turning to Jane.
Who holds out her wrists.
"Turn over and lie down," she tells Jane.
Casting her a dubious glance, Jane complies.
Patricia spreads the cheeks of her ass.
And she is reassured that Fist's talents have not failed him.
Because, even though it has been less than half an hour, Jane's ass hole is only slightly distended. There could be internal bruising, of course. Probably that is the case.
But the human body is amazingly resilient in certain areas.
"I'll be back with some dressing for the abrasions," Patricia says.
And she leaves.
And the two girls say nothing to each other, staring across at each other from their hunks in silence, Sally transfixed with guilt, Jane with wonder at their predicament.
Patricia returns with a jar of Vaseline.
"You did wash thoroughly, right?" she asks.
Mumbled assents.
And they are surprised as Patricia herself smears their wounded limbs from the jar.
"I imagine," she says, as she works, that the worst pain right now is internal.
"Muscle stretches.
"You're gonna feel like hell tomorrow morning, both of you.
"I've seen it before and I can tell. "Don't go to work. "Just do meals.
"And you can skip the evening devotion."
"Thanks," Sally replies, sullenly. "I wanna go."
"Shut up!"
Patricia and Jane look sharply at Sally. Whose shout at Jane seems to have taken all her energy.
Because now she lies back on the bed, naked, eyes closed.
And Jane complies.
And Patricia understands.
Of the two, Sally is clearly the more intelligent.
They are Sisters of Pain. At the moment, they are sisters in pain. But not yet blatantly prisoners. But requests to leave will not, obviously cannot be honored.
Sally knows this.
And to do so means that their status must, inevitably, change.
So that they will be outright prisoners, their voluntary entry here converted to abduction.
And they do not need that right now, not in addition to their other problems.
Suddenly, Patricia does not like the way things are going here.
The men are becoming more and more violent.
Sally and Jane are the worst she has seen so far.
And things could be a lot worse.
So far.
But she can see where all this is headed. So-
"I want you two to get dressed and follow me."
"What?" Sally says, getting up, wincing with the effort.
"You heard me. Now!"
Wearily, they put on robes and sandals.
And follow Patricia five doors down, to a wooden door.
Patricia opens it.
They follow her inside.
Quickly, she closes the door behind them. It is her private room.
"There are no cameras or microphones in here.
"I had them removed.
"Nobody can see us or hear us."
And Patricia is faintly amused as Sally balances on the halls of her feet, ready to defend herself.
Because her statement can be taken either way, as confidence or as threat.
"Relax," she says. "I'm not going to pull anything kinky."
"What's this all about?" Sally asks.
"Things arc getting a bit rough in Brother Randolph's funhouse," Patricia replies.
"Sharp of you to notice."
Patricia ignores the sarcasm.
She stalks around the room.
"As you can see." she says, "I have all the comforts of home."
They can indeed see that this is the case.
The bed is king-sized, necessary for a woman of Patricia's stature.
And the furniture is also over-sized, and of modern walnut.
There is a vanity.
And, looking into the bathroom, they see pink tile and a glassed enclosure.
So that, in contrast, their own shabby accommodations are paltry indeed.
"So what?" Patricia sighs.
"Look," she says, "if you're going to he hostile, maybe we'd better forget it."
"It?"
"Jane almost said it, before you so wisely stopped her.
"Figure it out for yourself. "What is the future here."
"Down and out."
"Exactly.
"Do you see where I'm coming from now."
"No."
"Okay, I'll spell it out.
"One of these crazies whacks you.
"Or one of the other girls, whichever comes first.
"In any event, we call that-"
"Murder."
"Very good.
"And what happens to me if I'm part of that?"
"You change fortresses."
"Right.
"Without benefit of all this-" and she gestures around her, "-or the ability to come and go as I please."
"In other words, you become just like we are now."
"No, not as bad as that. "Eventually, I'd walk, at least. "Hardly the point."
"Hardly.
"The point is, Jane tipped our hand. "Like you couldn't guess that we can't wait to get the hell out of here."
"And?"
"And you are out to stop us."
"No, I'm out to keep you from trying anything foolish."
"Same thing, right."
"Why can't you trust me."
"Look in the mirror." Patricia does so.
And, despite everything, she bursts out laughing. Would you buy a used car from this woman? And she does something she never does when she is here.
She removes her hood. "Better?" she asks.
And does not await a reply, but removes the pushup corset, boots, stockings, and garter belt. "Better yet?"
And, much as they are hurting (although, of course, the full stiffness will not set in until morning), Sally and Jane become interested, if only from the standpoint that Patricia is a sheer, physical phenomenon.
Because, large as she is, there is no cellulite, no overhanging stomach, no jiggling fat anywhere.
She is a solid, muscular Amazon, on a grand scale.
And now, she strips the bed of all but the bottom sheet.
And the girls remove their robes and sandals.
And crawl into bed on either side of her.
She rests their heads, one on each arm, as they begin to fondle one huge breast apiece.
"It'll all work out, you'll see," Patricia says, looking up at the ceiling.
And, strangely enough, considering their situation, the girls believe her.
And now, her mighty chest heaves, her balloons riding it grandly, even as the girls continue to suck her nipples to rubbery firmness.
Sally's mouth is in no kind of shape.
So that even this mild sucking irritates it.
So that it is Jane who goes down on her, as she raises her big, firm, shapely legs.
And now, Jane reverses herself, bridging Patricia's face with her crotch.
And they begin to eat each other.
Sally lies there next to them, idly exploring the magnificent contours of Patricia's body with a roving hand.
And now, Jane and Patricia take each other up the rainbow.
Higher and higher they rise, all anxiety, all tension leaving them, replaced by the warmth, the intimacy of sexual stimulation.
And Patricia thinks, other times, other places and she would explore them, let them explore her in a long and leisurely fashion.
And they could enjoy men together-real men, not the creeps here.
And they could know the joy of freedom.
And of the real world.
Someday, someday very soon, if at all, that will he possible.
But first, there is much to be done.
And, even as her sexual excitement increases, Patricia admits to herself that she hasn't the faintest notion of how to go about it.
But there is one thing of which she is sure.
She must not allow these maniacs to seriously injure or kill any of the girls.
And that means that she must convince the head maniac.
And suddenly, she knows that that will not be hard to do.
This realized, at least in her own mind, she is free to relax, to let herself go, to enjoy the youthful voluptuousness of the body above her.
And whose head is even now burrowing into her crotch.
Even as she eats Jane's juicy quim.
And her last rational thought, before she surrenders completely to the tidal wave of sexual rapture that engulfs her, is that Randy Buck simply does not know what he is missing.
Tough shit, Randy, she adds. And then lets the pleasure beyond pleasure take over.
And Jane's tongue is milked by the spasms of her multiple orgasms.
six
"You don't understand," Patricia says.
"You can't have your cake and eat it too.
"If your guys are gonna damage the merchandise during the week, we are not gonna be able to work the weekend field trips.
"And that's where the real money is.
"It's not a question of being soft on the girls; I'm just being practical.
"The weekend crowd pays big bucks to cause cut and bruises, nor to see them.
"We cannot be dealing in damaged goods, Randy.
"Take it from one long in the business.
"Your real bondage and discipline types want virgin skin for openers."
"We need more girls, is what we need."
But he does not look her in the eye as he says it.
And it is obvious to both of them that Randy has not thought out this aspect of the situation very well.
He is like a general who plans a battle without thinking of the disposition of casualties.
Granted, this is not the main issue, but it is one which must, at some point, be addressed.
And it is true.
His maniacs have put two of the girls out of commission and battered the others to the point that Patricia has had to, very apologetically, cancel the weekend activities.
Two girls are needed, none available.
And an elaborately prepared basement on Long Island which has been turned into a Medieval torture chamber will go unused this weekend.
As will a cottage on Fire Island.
The customers are not happy, but they are understanding.
The real thing is hard to come by.
The real thing.
Meaning no holds barred.
Meaning go crazy on the bitch.
And Patricia cannot help but smile at their idea of the real thing.
They hold themselves back.
She has no worries about the girls, where the weekenders are concerned.
They are civilized.
Even in their fantasies, a part of them, their rational mind, holds them back.
So that ropes will not be tied too tightly.
Whips will not be wielded with full force.
Skin will not be broken or blood drawn, except by accident.
As though it is sufficient that they know that, if they wanted to, they could.
There are even some who want Patricia do the honors.
So that they are content to watch.
Or to touch and fondle Patricia as she goes about her work, binding and gagging the girls, beating them with whip or dildo.
And even then, they are unable to resist wincing in sympathy for what the girls are enduring.
And putting a knuckle to their lips so that they don't look foolish or wimpy, all dressed up in their executioner's outfits.
Weekends are beautiful, for both fun and profit.
But Randy is fucking it up.
Or rather, allowing his men to do so.
His solution? More girls. Fresh meat. "Oh, really?
"You really think these guys'll pay top dollar for second-rate piece of ass, some douche bag off the street?
"I mean, not to pay your man Eric compliments, hut what he does is not easy."
"I know, I know.
"Still, if he hadn't fucked up at the Castle-never mind."
He does not want to get into that again. Again and again, he has gone over it in his mind. Eric was the guy on the scene. Eric was the one who had let it get out of hand. And he had paid the price. He had actually gone to prison as head of the Club.
Jail, rather, thanks to Randy Buck's concerned intervention.
And now, Brother Eric spent many hours, many wee hours, many strange hours scouring the city for the girls Buck needed.
And he enjoys indifferent success, as witness the small population of the retreat.
And Randy tells himself now that that is what he really misses most about the Castle-the numbers.
Yes, there could be a hundred, a hundred sixty, on one occasion, two hundred people there, hooded figures all, their sexual parts exposed, off into the fantasy world of the Castle on an erotic adventure-
Oh, it was beautiful! he thinks.
And yes, they pulled their punches, some of them.
And yes, they were there for fun and games, some of them.
And yes, they did not take it seriously, some of them.
But there were enough.
There were those who did, who took the game deadly serious.
And who would take advantage of specially arranged times to come into the Castle, to set their traps for the unsuspecting.
So that many a "fun-and-gamer" found him or herself in deep shit, tied up for real, buggered for real, in some cases even bruised and bloodied for real.
Which was why he had so much trouble, once Cynthia exposed him.
From those who were shocked at the extent of the pain, the injuries they had endured.
And could not wait to tell the police of their unexpected ordeal.
Yes, they were consenting adults.
But no, they had never consented to anything like, like-this! And now, he sighs. He is in a quandary.
Those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end, and like that. But end they did.
And sure, in theory, what he has built is hotter. Because it is indeed the real thing. And therein lies the rub.
Because the real thing means tissue damage, means bleeding, means injury.
And this means recover or replace.
And this, in turn, means interruption.
And something else, a far more sinister possibility, and one which he hopes not to have to face.
But face it he will, if necessary.
Because nothing must interfere with the thrill of watching the real thing.
Useless to remind himself that the Club met only once a month.
That part he never did find satisfactory.
He wants to he able to tune on his console in the comfort of his own home and see the real thing, live action.
Is that so fucking much to ask?
He does not think so, but here's this masked Amazon bitch giving him a hard time.
And after all the time and money he has put into this thing!
Well, he will not have it!
"It's a case of Eric's letting me down again," he says.
And his tone does not admit of argument.
Because it is clear to him that mote girls is the only way to go.
Just as it is clear to Patricia what he intends to do.
Just as it is also clear to her that he does not intend to restrain the men, or to address the very obvious possibilities of serious injury or death.
Until after the fact.
*****
"Six and six, maybe some I didn't see, and with rooms for a helluva lot more."
"Uh huh.
"Tell me about it." He shrugs.
"The men were big bruisers, all of them. "The women, well, what I could see of em were all young and, uh, well endowed."
"How young?"
"Very young, I'd say, what I could see of 'em."
"And you say robes and cowls and sandals."
"Yeah, real cult stuff, you know."
"You didn't see anything like hoods or ... boots."
"No. But I did check out one room with tables and ropes whose purpose escaped me."
"Did you ask about them?"
"The guy said it was just more factory equipment.
"And of course, I couldn't pursue it.
"I'm a building inspector, after all."
"That's okay.
"You did really well on this thing. "I think I've got the idea. "Thank you.
"And I will write a commendation to the commissioner. "
"Thank you!"
The building inspector leaves her office. And Nancy, who has been sitting in a chair observing, says, "Now what.. "
"Loading docks.
"They're in the outer wall and lead right into the building."
"Whoa there, girl!
"You sound like you're getting ready for a commando raid or something. "Which is fine with me.
"Provided, of course, that you use real commandos.
"And leave me completely out of it.
"These two-woman invasions are getting old."
"We only did it once."
"That's my quota for this particular lifetime."
"No problem. "Infiltration is out.
"No way we can mingle this time.
"Not enough of a crowd, and Randy and company know what we look like."
"Whew! That's a relief!
"For a minute there-never mind."
Cynthia sits there, pensive.
It is obvious to her that Buck is doing the real thing there this time, all the way.
And the girls are young.
And performing all the menial labor, so far as the building inspector could tell.
Which means that they have been grabbed off the streets.
And probably lured with some kind of promises.
But she could search forever and not discover the exact mechanism, the whereabouts, the timing of this nefarious operation.
And there is an urgency here, she realizes.
Because these girls were in extreme danger.
Are in extreme danger.
They were embarked upon an adventure that, for them, could only end one way.
Buck was not about to put all this time, money and effort into a set-up like his new castle, only to have it blown by some young cunt shooting her mouth off.
Or even being in a position to do so.
No, he could not take the risk.
In a way, she reflected, he was being very cute about it. A cult.
One among many.
So that people who "knew" about them would not, really.
One more bunch of crazies, taking weird pills, eating shit and barking at the moon, that's all, they would tell themselves.
And avoid all contact.
And the weird little community has a business and is therefore self-supporting.
Chances are, the Brotherhood of the Body does not even have to pay taxes.
But behind the walls'
Horror and danger.
And now, she sighs.
Too bad, she thinks, and Nancy will no doubt shit a brick when she gives her the news. We are going in. There is no other way.
Because otherwise, there must be warrants, so that police may enter. And probable cause.
And Cynthia has nothing but her sure and certain, thoroughly unsubstantiated suspicions of what Buck is up to.
Yes, there is no other way.
And a part of her tingles with excitement and anticipation at the prospect of the dangerous adventure.
Which must happen as soon as possible.
*****
Fuck it! Buck thinks, angry, defiant. The evening devotion will take place as scheduled.
With the four remaining girls, if that Amazon bitch is so fucking sure the two new ones are not up to the ordeal.
There will be no holding back, no compromise, dammit!
He has come too far, spent too much time and money on this to allow anyone to interfere.
What is she anyway? he asks himself. Nothing. Less than nothing.
He found her from the ads in a sex tabloid, offering discipline and bondage, promising that it would be "the real thing".
And, based on that, and on his problem of somehow rebuilding that which the Baroness had so senselessly shattered, in the shortest possible time.
And she had indeed proven to be the real thing, performing beyond expectation.
Although he was somewhat disappointed that his most imaginative attempts to "break" her had not succeeded.
She could take as well as she could give.
She was big and incredibly strong.
So that there was no way she was going to make a mere victim.
She was too rare in both physique and talent for that.
And he wished to minimize his exposure at the retreat.
His and Eric's and Cranston's. He would not make that mistake again. There must be no way to trace the retreat back to him.
He must take no chances at all. So he has put het in complete chatge. Because the men, his men, have much different criteria.
And they are not involved in the management of the place except at the most simple, rudimentary levels.
No, their talents lie in other areas.
In their sick imaginations and their healthy bodies and strong sexual appetites.
He welcomes their brutality.
He wishes them to be free to concentrate on it, on the exercise of it.
Which is why he has defied Patricia.
Oh, yes, he would give the new girls a break.
But at a price.
Evening devotions would continue through the weekend, since Patricia did not think anyone in good enough condition to be escorted to those charming and profitable weekend rendezvous.
How does that grab your big ass, bitch? he thinks.
Instead of a nice little outing with the girls, you can all stay home and have fun.
It is a game he plays with Patricia, seeing how far either of them can go in the game of give and take.
And this time, he has won. Because all she can do is glare at him in silence. And not for very long, either. Because Brother Randolph is in and out of the retreat like a shot, as usual.
*****
Brother Fist is in rare form tonight. Six men, four women.
An ideal opportunity for some double humping.
So that he makes four block and tackle arrangements, suspended ftom the pipes that run the length of the ceiling.
First, he oversees the tying together of the girls' wrists.
Next, he supervises the feeding of the ropes over they pulleys.
And he meticulously checks the height to which his hefty henchmen haul their helpless prey.
And then, the bunch of them take one girl at a time, raising her legs and holding them tightly against her body, one pressing from behind, one in front, as two more of them pass a length of rope around legs and body several times before securing them.
And standing back to admire their handiwork.
So that, when they are done, the four girls are suspended by the wrists, legs against their bodies and spread.
And the men, naked but for hoods and boots, become aroused at the sight.
"Six of us, four of them," Brother Fist observes, demonstrating his mathematical prowess, "that is, unless Sister Patricia would care to join our little party."
She glares at him , eyes narrowing behind the eye slits of her hood.
"Like to see you try," she growls.
"Hostile, hostile!" he jibes at her.
And turns his back on her as she glares at the scene.
These girls are already battered and bruised. They do not need this.
But now, the men pair off, two to a bound and suspended girl, with one girl literally dangling in reserve.
And Patricia admits that Fist seems to have a certain flair for this kind of work.
Because he and his five brave and stalwart henchmen are quite easily able to insert their heavy equipment into bung and cunt, fore and aft, at the same time.
And stand there in pairs, the doubled up girls sandwiched between them. And double fuck them.
In and out, in and out, alternating thrusts and withdrawals, they fuck.
And Patricia cannot help but take her eyes off the scene to glance up to where she knows electronic eyes are watching the action.
And she knows that they are at the other end, watching, Buck and his chauffeur and his private secretary, all in their brown robes.
With Buck at the console, playing it like a pipe organ that yields pictures rather than sounds.
Although he is capable of producing both, should he care to hear the action.
And usually, she imagines, he does.
Still, she thinks, this is not too bad.
Because the men's usual sadism is subordinated to the lasciviousness of the situation.
And the girls do not even have the full weight of their own bodies pulling down on their wrists.
Because they are partially or wholly supported by the men as they squeeze in or enfold them in their arms.
Yes, for once Brother Fist has come up with a halfway decent idea.
It is even one she may suggest herself when the weekend "outings" are resumed.
And the girls seem to he enjoying themselves, for a change.
As the big cocks pump in and out of their nether orifices with mechanical efficiency.
And the men, too, seem to be taking a purely sensual interest in their work.
So that they are clearly enjoying the sensations that inundate their cocks from the hot, smooth, lubricated openings they so avidly fuck.
Because Brother Fist has lubed them, fore and aft, with mineral oil.
Not out of any consideration for the girls, of course, but in order to help overcome any awkwardness or difficulty the men may experience in their administration of the unfamiliar double insertion from those angles.
Nevertheless, it is quite a nice thing they have going.
And Patricia can picture Randy Buck sitting there, red-faced with pleasure and excitement, jerking himself off to the action on the big screen.
Maybe, she thinks, this will set a new trend here, a new tone.
So that the erotic and the exotic, the exploitation of the pleasure principle will be the new order of the day.
So that the pain and bondage, while remaining "the real thing", can be adjuncts, secondary to the main action of achieving sexual satisfaction, even (date she think it?) mutual sexual satisfaction.
She knows why the Baroness destroyed Club and Castle.
She did it because of the way she knew Buck was using women as mere lumps of clay, objects, mindless, helpless playthings.
And she can certainly sympathize with that view.
Although, for the sake of her own monetary interests, had she been there, she would have tried to stop her.
But see, see! how nice it can be, how pleasant, how-
How disappointing! She should have known.
Because now, Brother Fist pushes away his "partner", whose rampant invader pops out of the ass hole of the girl they both were tucking.
He is indignant, surprised, offended.
Until he breaks into a large, shit-eating grin.
As Brother Fist, clutching tightly to the girl, raises his legs!
And she sees his evil grin, as he begins to swing, back and forth, clinging to the girl while inerted all the way into her cunt.
And she moans in pain as her wrists bear the weight of both of them.
And the other two "teams" stare at this, not breaking their pumping stride.
Even this is not too bad, Patricia thinks.
Except that she knows what's coming.
And it does, as Brother Fist generously invites his erstwhile partner to resume his post by inserting his post back into her ass hole, bringing her to a halt and standing up so that he can assist.
And now, both of them cling to the girl, while raising their legs.
So that now, her wrists are supporting over a quarter of a ton.
Patricia freezes to the spot where she stands, transfixed with anxiety.
As Fist resumes the swinging motion, their raucous laughter almost drowned out by the girl's load moans of pain.
And the other two teams awkwardly begin attempting emulation.
"Whee! Wheel" Fist exclaims, as they swing in ever-widening circles.
And Patricia is in motion, grabbing a bullwhip from a rack on the wall and attacking the knot of Fist, his partner, and the girl between them.
Who has screamed and fainted.
"Ouch! Yow!"
And Fist drops to his feet, his partner stumbling as he does-likewise.
"Fuck's wrong with you, you ass hole douche bag?" he snarls.
But he knows better than to attack her, as she circles warily, cracking the bullwhip.
"Fuck is wrong with you, you mean!" she replies, her face no less angry behind the hood than is his.
"Look! Just look!"
Puzzled, he turns to look at the suspended, bound figure of the girl, not yet swung to rest.
And sees that one shoulder is impossibly higher than the other.
"That, in case you've never seen one, ass hole, is a dislocated shoulder!"
And she is careful that this speech is made facing the camera.
seven
"There's only us," Cynthia says, finally. Nancy sighs. She knows.
She has known since last night.
When Cynthia and she put the costumes on.
Costumes.
Uniforms is more like it.
The uniform of the legion of the sick, the perverted, the damned.
Oh, but didn't they make a lovely couple!
Thus Nancy thought, even as she had gazed at their reflections.
And realized that it was once more into the breech, dear friends.
Because Cynthia did not don her costume, did not make Nancy put hers on and join her in the bedroom and in the bed.
No, this was the ceremony, which she had come to recognize.
This was to be their-what? Sixth. No, fifth sortie into the world of the super-kinky, the grossly-bizarre.
And each time had been fraught with terror, with danger, and, often as not, with pain and injury.
And this time would be the same.
And Cynthia would love every minute of it.
So that Nancy wondered who was sicker, her or Randy Buck.
Because Buck held all the cards.
Everything was in his favor-the initiative, the setup, the security.
And yet-and yet.
They had won every time.
Or at least managed to walk away with a fairly whole skin.
But the first times, there had been the Castle and the crowd and the confusion, through which they had, if not waltzed, at least glided with relative smoothness.
And the masked hall.
Well, that had been exactly what the name implied.
So that there had once more been the crowd and confusion.
But this time would he different.
And Nancy had learned long ago that when Cynthia Marvel, the Baroness, said that there was no way, that such and such was impossible, that meant just the opposite of what it did when said by someone, anyone else.
What it meant was that it was up to her to find or create a way.
This is impossible?
Then by all means let us attempt it.
Let us attempt it, knowing full well that Buck has gone over the events in the Castle and, for that matter, at the ball downtown, in his mind, a million times.
And that he has analyzed past mistakes, foreseen every future problem, and provided contingency plans within contingency plans.
And that he has not one or two assistants guarding the fort this time, distracted with the administration of a huge, crowded maze, but at least half a dozen hefty henchmen, each more vicious than the last.
Perverts, criminals, psychos.
Some of them maybe even men wanted by the law, men with nothing to lose.
So that they would he better off facing Dobermans.
Nor could they overly arm themselves.
Because they were the trespassers.
They were the ones breaking and entering.
So that the others, residents of an evil house perhaps, but residents nonetheless, would be in the right.
Granted, these people are vile beyond belief, but shoot one and it's your ass.
"As I see it, we've got a couple of things going for us," Cynthia says.
And Nancy cannot wait to hear what those might possibly be.
But still, she cannot resist.
"We're the good guys, for openers, right?"
"Right."
Nancy sighs.
"I was afraid you'd say that."
"You said it; I merely agreed."
"Sorry I opened my mouth.
"Okay, so what have we got going for us?"
"No local alarms."
"What?"
"Oh come, now.
"Do you really think that Buck would risk alerting the whole countryside? "Remember?
"It was our tripping the alarms that was the beginning of the end for him last time.
"Oh, there'll he alarms, all right.
"But they'll follow the same cables as his viewing console.
"They'll alert the Estate, not the, the, uh-"
"Retreat."
"Whatever.
"In any case, we stand a shot at neutralizing tin-view from the estate.
"We can black out the cameras with Spray paint, just like last time.
"So there's no way Randy can tell whether or nor it's a false alarm.
"All he can do is call and alert whoever's in charge."
"Well then, all we have to do to head that olt is cut the phone line."
"Not on your life!
"First of all, the phone lines are undoubtedly buried.
"We'd never be able to find them or get at them in time.
"Secondly, we need the phone to raise the hue and cry.
"We want fire trucks.
"We want police, the sheriff, state troopers, the National Guard, if we can get it.
"We want them there, even if it's not clear on the spot what they're looking at.
"They will have shown up and kept the nasties busy while we rescue who needs rescuing."
"How do we-"
"Is there a doubt in your mind?
"We'll be doing well-and so will those girls-if all of them are still alive by the time we get there."
"Don't you mean by the time we leave there?"
"Derails, details.
"If we're too late, we're too late.
"We do what we can, we save who we can.
"But we shut Randy Buck down again.
"That's all that matters."
"I see that," Nancy responds, flatly.
"Hey, why so bitter, kiddo?
"What else did you have to do tonight?"
"Tonight!? "
"Hey, no time like the present, is there? "Why so surprised. "You don't fool me, Nance! "We've been together too long for you not to know this was coming."
And Nancy does not care to admit that she dared to hope, fooling herself that this time things would be different.
Instead, "So soon!" Cynthia shrugs.
"What should we wait for-gathering the team."
"We're the team, kid, and don't you forget it."
"Fat chance."
"Then it's a go."
"No, Cynthia, it's not a go.
"No plan, no equipment."
"Wrong!
"We know roughly what the layout of the place is.
"We don't know exactly who is where, of course."
"Oh, of course."
"But that doesn't matter."
"Oh, of course not."
"What counts is that, just like the time we stormed the Castle-"
"Two people do not "storm" a Castle, dammit!
"We snuck in there, we did our thing, we escaped by the skin of our teeth."
"Whatever.
"The important thing is that I've thought of everything."
And they grin at each other. "And nothing can possibly go wrong," Nancy supplies. "Right!
"Anyway, the equipment should be-"
Her intercom buzzes.
"Yes?"
"Man with a van from maintenance is here, Baroness.
"Just tell him to leave the keys with you-oh, wait.
"Ask him if he got everything."
"He says yes."
"Tell him well done and thanks and leave the keys with you."
"Very good."
And the intercom goes dead.
To Nancy, "I'll drive us home tonight."
Hopefully, in an armored tank, Nancy thinks, considering where and how the evening's festivities are going to wind up.
But she knows that the van will merely contain tools for breaking and entering.
And there is no help for it.
Not now.
But, hers not to reason why ...
*****
Casualties are at fifty percent, Patricia thinks. In the battle of the sexes, men three, women zero. And Patricia cannot help but think that she has somehow let her side down. Her side.
Odd how, before coming here, she had always thought of herself as the representative, the embodiment of the dark forces, the administrators of bondage and pain.
By rights, to use so incongruous an expression, she should have been with the men.
One more torturer.
One more executioner.
But now, she has a problem with that.
Perhaps it is because, before, she serviced only those who actively desired it, who knew, or at least had a pretty good idea, of what they were getting into.
She did not believe in the mysterious benefits of bondage and pain.
She did not see any higher significance in calling down bondage or pain on oneself or others.
But her "clients" did not want her opinion, her vote.
No, all they wanted was her overwhelming presence, and the bondage and torture she brought with her.
Let her but do well in these things, they seemed to say, and coins unnumbered into her palm would freely flow.
And she could live with that, did live with that very well.
Very well indeed did she pile up her bank accounts.
Very well indeed did she tie and bind and whip and abuse rich kinks with nothing better to do with their rime and money!
But that did not prepare her for this.
She thought that it had.
She was wrong.
And now, it was driving her nuts. Something's gotta give around here, she tells herself.
But she cannot for the life of her think what. She could engineer an escape, of course. But Buck would know.
And she had no doubt that he would have her killed for it.
He had tried that on Cynthia Marvel.
He had tried and failed, as he so candidly admitted to her, seeing in her a kindred spirit, one who would understand the trials and tribulations of a sadistic pervert.
Yes, she sighs to herself, she has one hell of an image.
But this is definitely falling apart, she thinks.
This whole scene is deteriorating.
Two yesterday, one today, out of action.
Only six in all, and Eric is not busting his ass to bring more in.
Which is just as well, she thinks.
Even now, having set the other girl's shoulder and put her to bed.
Any mote patients and she will look like the world's most unlikely Florence Nightingale.
Already, she is sure that Buck is monitoring her performance.
So that what she does, she does quickly, without tenderness.
And the reactions of the girls, except for Sally and Jane, who know better, help in the illusion of her evil.
Because they are really terrified now-of her, of the men, of everything.
Especially now that the weekend has been cancelled.
They have come to look to these "outings" as a relief, perceiving, as does Patricia, the essentially play-like attitude of the wealthy customers after "the real thing".
And now, the worst possible thing has happened, and for the worst possible reason.
Because they are too battered to go out and get bound and beaten and humiliated mildly, they will have to remain here and get it full force.
They are in pain and in peril.
And they are hopelessly trapped in this living hell.
Patricia stalks the hallway. She is glad that they are locked in for the night. She does not want to see their pathetic faces. She is well aware of the problem. It is the solution which eludes her. She has never had a situation like this before. And all she can do, at the moment, is to sleep on it.
Nancy is scared shitless.
Par for the course, she thinks.
And she is sorry that she was ever crazy enough to show Cynthia the Castle that started this whole thing in the first place.
And not for the first time.
She kicks herself every time she thinks about it.
And she wonders again whatever possessed her to join the Club.
But she knows the answer to that one.
Boredom.
A yuppie pastime, is what it was to be for her.
As was the case, no doubt with the rest of the membership.
She was successful in her job, more than amply rewarded, appreciated by her boss-and bored.
And if that was true of her, she should have known how much truer still it would be for the Baroness.
And so, that's what it's all about.
Boredom, pure and simple.
And to think, she sighs, I could have taken up hang gliding.
Or skiing.
Or something equally thrilling and dangerous.
Instead, Cynthia had moved in, had taken over, had gone from guest at the Castle to member of the Club to its nemesis.
With Buck recognizing too late what she really represented to him by way of a threat.
As Nancy played the role of faithful sidekick. The dynamic duo, she thinks. Only one of us is totally terrified. And the other?
Surely, Nancy thinks, Cynthia cannot be totally lacking in feelings of trepidation.
She cannot believe that they are actually doing things this way.
With all the money at her disposal, it should have been possible to hire daredevils to do this particular job, compensating them amply for the risk and the questionable legality of the operation.
Mercenaries!
Yes, perhaps they could-
"Why can't we hire someone to do this?"
Cynthia laughs.
"You can ask me that while we're on our way? "Time.
"Those poor girls may not have any. "It would take at least a week to put an operation together."
"Since when did we become the costumed crusaders, righting the wrongs and fighting the evildoers?"
Because there is something comic book-like about the two caped figures, roaring through the night in a black minivan.
On their way to encounter the forces of evil.
And knowing, all the while, that the true source of it, the author, the origin and perpetuator of the evil will he nowhere to be found on the weird, dangerous premises.
So that they are risking their lives to kick the body of the snake while its head remains free to go on about its business.
And it all seems so futile.
That is, it would, if it were not so damned dangerous.
"Did you check your utility belt?" And Nancy feels like replying, Yes, Batman, Robin has checked his utility belt. Big deal.
They have tranquilizer dart guns.
The thugs they will be encountering-or rather, doing their best to avoid-are undoubtedly better armed.
But more than that, they are hulking masses of muscle.
Cynthia and Nancy are large women, but certainly no match for even larger men, in a contest of taw strength.
It's just no good, Nancy tells herself. They are going to their doom.
But she has felt that way before and been wrong.
And, right or wrong, this kind of stress takes its toll.
So that she says to herself, Think how depressed you'd be if you weren't so totally, completely, utterly terrified.
But now, she thinks, enough of self pity. It is too late for that.
Because now the highway is dark, the light poles few and far between.
So that Cynthia must slow the van, looking for the cut-off.
And finding it.
And turning off the lights of the van. Which sends a fresh thrill of fear through Nancy's abdomen.
And the van glides, eerily silent, to the back of the huge edifice.
Because Cynthia has turned off the engine.
And she grins as she puts on her hood, turning to Nancy to ensure that she does the same.
She grins because she perceived this chink in Buck's facilities the first time she heard about the layout from the building inspector.
Because Randy Buck's new castle is only a castle from the front.
An impregnable fortress viewed head on, its rear was a standard loading dock, the overhead doors rolled down and, no doubt, bolted from the inside.
As though it were the most natural action in the world, and one she is used to doing every day, Cynthia is out of the van, crowbar in hand, prying open one of the overhead doors, one horizontal panel at a time.
She makes no attempt at stealth, hut still her efforts are not very noisy.
Except, of course, to Nancy.
Who experiences a crazy sense of relief, as Cynthia stops her metal on metal activities and motions her to follow into the darkness within.
They use the flashlights from their utility belts to see-
The eyes!
And they are too fucking high, at least here on the loading dock.
Not even standing on each others' shoulders would they be able to spray paint them.
And the dull red glow shows that the eyes are active, infra-red, scanning.
Instantly, Cynthia sees the problem.
And, taking Nancy by the hand, rushes to the next room.
Which has but a single eye, on the very wall through the door of which they have entered.
So that, so long as they are plastered flat against this wall, they are unobservable.
But the height of the eyes!
Not like the Castle, with its low-ceiling maze.
"This isn't going to work!" Nancy hisses, frantic.
"Yes it will! No turning back now!"
And Nancy is in no position to dispute the obvious illogic of this last.
Because, even as she speaks, Cynthia is moving along the perimeter of the wall.
And leading her in a dash into the factory' area.
Deeper and deeper into the lair of unspeakable evil.
*****
Cranston cannot be sure.
He is monitoring the screens and he thinks he has detected movement. The loading dock? But there is nothing there now. Still-There!
Was that two figures appearing momentarily in the packing area and disappearing? Nothing.
Check the exterior rear, just to be sure.
Too bad, he thinks, we can't use the floodlights.
But Buck has forbidden this.
A sudden flash of light in the deep countryside would attract too much attention, especially since it is mostly the highway patrol who use those roads at night.
So the slow, inefficient infrared scanner is used. Nothing.
There's the empty trailer, awaiting loading. And the van-
The van!
That is not the Brotherhood van! Eric has parked that in the garage, here at the Estate!
Quickly, eyes glued to the screen, Cranston calls Buck in his bedroom.
"Yeah." Buck answers, hoarse, half asleep. "Trouble, Randy. At the retreat." Instantly, he is awake. "Be right down."
Enter Randy Buck, peering over Cranston's shoulder.
"Van, huh?
"Could be stolen, abandoned. "Scan the loading dock. "I did. There's nothing."
Because Cynthia has piled boxes to cover the damage to the overhead door. "Anything else?"
"I thought I saw movement on the loading dock and the packing room."
"You thought."
"Too quick.
"You know how these damned infra-red images are.
"Blurred, jerky."
"Hmmm.
"Give me the tape playback on them, then." Cranston pushes the appropriate buttons.
And the small screen for the loading dock turns to waves.
Cranston rolls the tape forward.
They are blurred, their movements appearing to generate wakes of bright flame.
But Buck recognizes the costumes.
And, inside them, for all their blurriness, two hated and familiar figures, identical to those which haunt his nightmares.
But Buck is not disturbed; on the contrary, he wears an evil grin as he picks up the phone.
eight
"You have visitors," Buck says. "Oh?" Patricia replies.
"My two favorite people in the whole world have come calling, it would seem. "Call out the troops. "Capture them.
"But make certain that they are not harmed in any way.
"I want our guests in prime condition, so that we may entertain them properly. "Hold them until we get there."
"Right!"
And she hangs up.
And wonders if, after all, there is not a higher order in the universe.
The Baroness has arrived.
No doubt, to repeat her feat at the Castle.
How foolish! Patricia thinks.
She has but to do as Buck ordered and it would be all over for the Baroness.
But more to the point is that it would not be over for herself.
Her nightmare would continue.
And the excesses of a Randy Buck just starting up again, anxious for the future of his "hobby" will be as nothing to those of a Randy Buck triumphant.
He will turn the Marquis de Sade's imaginings into fact.
So that death itself will seem a release to his victims.
And Patricia thinks, Now is the time! Quickly, she dons hood and corset, garter belt, stockings, and boots.
She does not leave her room without them. She picks up her cowled cape and puts it on. She picks up a flashlight and her keys. And she is off to find the intruders.
*****
"There! You see? It was just those rooms that had the eyes too high up!"
And Nancy has to admit that she was correct on that.
Because they quite easily spray out the monitors in the corridors as they go.
Not, Nancy reminds herself, not that anyone watching at the Estate is going to be lulled by the disappearance of one view after another on the console.
Still, there will be hesitation, confusion. And they are not planning on being here all that long.
They round a corner.
And Nancy is suddenly paralyzed with fear.
While Cynthia manages to get off a tranquilizer dart from her pistol.
Which the large, cowled figure manages to catch in the thick folds of a black cape.
"Shhh!" the mysterious, hooded figure hisses, finger to lips.
Startled at so strange a reaction, they stand, motionless, flashlight beams playing on the stranger as fingers carefully pluck the dart from the folds of the cape and hands it back to Cynthia.
"Save your ammunition!" she hisses.
Cynthia looks at it but notices that its needle is missing now, the fluid in the little syringe gone as well.
Whatever this apparition is, it seems to be on their side.
"Remove your cloak, very, very carefully," Cynthia instructs in a whisper. "The business end of the dart is still stuck in it!"
Patricia complies, and they marvel at the sire of the woman, in a costume identical to their own, thus revealed.
"See?" she says, "Same uniform!"
"Who are you?" Cynthia asks.
"Never mind that now!
"Randy Buck and his two resident crazies arc on their way here!
"Let's just grab the girls and leave! "We must hurry, Baroness."
"How do you-"
"Later! We'll talk later, when we're out of here! "Let's move!"
And they begin to follow her. "Wait!"
Cynthia has spoken.
Nancy and Patricia stop, turning to face her. "Just rescuing the girls and leaving isn't good enough," she says. Nancy sighs.
She didn't figure it would be. But Patricia understands at once.
And grins.
Sure, it's risky, hut delicious, it they can pull it off. "We've got about an hour and a half," Patricia says.
And Cynthia smiles.
"Reload yours with the number two serum," she says to Nancy.
And Nancy takes a second to realize that she refers to her dart pistol, still on her utility belt.
Dart pistols drawn, they follow Patricia to a series of wooden doors.
The men's rooms.
They open rhe first door.
Zap!
And the man, naked in bed, goes from asleep to unconscious. Zap!
And Nancy hits him with the second dart. "What's that for?" Patricia whispers. "Aphrodisiac. We want them to wake up happy, don't we?"
And Patricia chuckles.
So it goes, for the second, third, and fourth man.
They open the fifth-
"Empty!" Nancy hisses, gratuitously.
But Patricia only grins.
"Don't worry," she says. "Let's just keep going!"
They open the sixth door.
And there they are, entwined in each others' embrace.
"Toldja so," Patricia remarks.
The flashlights awaken the entangled nudes.
"What the-" one of them begins, starting to rise.
Zap! Zap! Zap! Zap!
"Quickly!" Patricia says, no longer whispering, as she hoists one naked man over each shoulder. "Grab one of the others and let's go to the torture chamber."
"I just knew there'd be one of those!" Nancy says. And they begin moving the unconscious, double-drugged men.
*****
Brother Fist awakens slowly.
The first thing he is aware of is the tingling excitement of his rampant hard-on.
The second thing he is aware of is that his hands are tied above his head, with ropes around knees and ankles.
Groggy, he looks around.
To see his henchmen similarly trussed to the pipes that run the length of the room, near the ceiling.
And there, talking quietly at one end of the room, three hooded female figures in black leather corsets, mesh stocking, and high-heeled hoots.
He grins.
Patricia has invited a couple of girlfriends to play a little prank on them.
A little fun and games, a little B&D for the boys. But there will be no S&M. He knows this.
Because he will pound the shit out of these bitches if they try it.
Just as soon as he gets loose.
He looks down at his monstrous erection.
And recognizes that he has been drugged.
Because it is staying right up there, even though he is not willing it.
And now, the other men begin to stir.
And notice their situation, their feet three feet off the floor, the rope that ties their wrists together draped over the pipes.
"Ah, coming awake, are we?" Patricia asks.
"What's, what's going on?" Fist stammers.
"Why, this is our playground and you gentlemen are the swings!"
"The what?"
"Hete, I'll show you!" Patricia says.
And, grabbing him about the thighs, she slides him until he is next to a table.
Patricia climbs onto the table, grabs his ass with one hand, pulling him to her, as, with the other she guides his cock into her cunt, squatting and then thrusting forward.
"Here we go-oh," she sings.
And pushes off, wrapping her legs around him. She is heavy, hut not unbearable, and her hot, juicy cunt feels delicious as it engulfs his erection. "Wheel Wheel"
Too late, he recognizes the cries of exhilaration which ape his own of recent vintage, as he also swung.
And the cries mock him.
As does the pain.
But he has strong lats and delts.
And they hold firm.
He will beat her at her own game, he tells himself. He will turn her on.
And even now, she swings them back toward the table.
So that he can stand, her wrapped around his waist, huge breasts squashed against his stretched pectorals.
So that the weight is partially relieved.
So that she can grind her big hips round and round, screwing his massive baton into her.
That's right, bitch, he thinks, enjoy it!
Feel what a real man's cock can do inside that big, juicy cunt of yours!
And he sees her jaw and upper body turning rosy with arousal.
And he cannot help but grin at the way, even bound hand and foot, he is triumphing over her.
As they both get hotter and hotter.
Because now she is bucking and grinding, so hard that he can barely stay balanced, keep his feet on the table.
And he wishes he could have his hands free, so that he could help himself to handfuls of big boob and buttock.
Still, this is not bad.
It works.
Because now he feels them both, moving toward the summit, the peak of their shared sexual arousal. And now-there!
The first spasms of her multiple orgasms begin to milk his turgid invader.
Which starts to yield its load, as the first spasms of his climax course through his loins.
'And now, the grand finale!" Patricia announces.
Too late, Fist realizes what she intends.
As Patricia braces her feet on the table.
And he experiences a moment of weightlessness as she lifts him off the table, arms around him, cock still inserted.
And leaps off it, carrying him.
And has just enough time to wrap her legs around him again, before the full weight of both their bodies responds to gravity.
And responds with a vengeance (but then, that's the whole idea).
Fist screams in pain as a shoulder dislocates, a stretched pectoral gives way, a tendon in the middle hack tears.
And Cynthia and Nancy lack her hulk, so they do the hest they can, forming threesomes for their "grand finales".
"How we doing on time?" Nancy asks, when all the men are left moaning, dangling hulks.
"About half an hour to get the girls and ourselves out," Patricia replies.
"Excellent! That gives you and I time to put the finishing touches on here.
"Nancy, go to the shipping dock and see if you can find a piece of cardboard and something to write with."
Nancy races off to comply.
As Cynthia selects a whip from the rack on the wall and snaps it.
The men turn their heads and their eyes turn wide in horror at the realization of what she intends.
"I think we can spare a quarter hour or so on this, don't you?" she asks.
"At least!" Patricia replies.
"Then," Cynthia continues, tossing her a whip, "shall we go crazy."
"Let's!"
And it is only the fact that there are six of them that keeps them from being flayed alive.
As the twin lashes tear and lacerate the six dangling hulks.
So that Nancy must actually hold the cardboard in front of her to avoid the flecks of red that fly through the air.
"I've got it!" Nancy says, trying to elicit a return to reason from the two frenzied Amazons.
Who, to her relief (and that of the men) stop, dropping the whips, standing there, panting.
And Cynthia is still gasping and sweating as she uses the magic marker to write a note.
Which says, 'IF THIS PLACE STILL STANDS IN A WEEK, YOU ARE GOING TO SPEND THE REST OF YOUR LIFE BEHIND BARS'.
She leaves it on a table, shoving one of the men whose blood is dripping on it further down a pipe.
"Let's get the girls out," she says.
Patricia must unlock the doors one at a time, manually.
But they have no time to reassure them. Or to explain who they are, the other two bizarre figures.
So that they toss the girls their robes and herd them, shivering, to the torture chamber.
Where Cynthia says, "Look, and know that you are avenged!"
"Spoken like a true comic strip!" Nancy says. "Now can we get the fuck out of here?"
*****
Randy Buck, Eric, and Cranston stroll leisurely toward the torture chamber, chatting and chuckling in their cowled robes.
Buck takes his time.
He has waited long for this moment.
He wishes to savor it, to anticipate it.
All lights are on, the doors to the girl's cells are closed, those to the men's rooms and that of Patricia open.
Excellent! he thinks.
And he is relieved.
Because the Baroness has been tricky, to the point of being invincible.
So that, for all his apparent control of the situation, he has heen anxious.
But, obviously, there is no longer a problem.
And he relaxes his grip on the handle of the .357 Magnum in the pocket of his robe.
Not needed.
Her tricks are at an end.
And now, they are approaching the moment of truth.
And the torture chamber. And he hears, "Hear that moaning."
"Yeah, Randy. So what."
"I told them to wait, dammit!" And he quickens his pace. "If those bastards have-"
And he stops, horrified, transfixed, at the entrance.
As do the others, sickened at the sight of the six mangled, bloody hulks which dangle from the pipes.
Eric and Cranston pale beyond their customary pallor.
But suddenly, Buck laughs. And keeps on laughing.
And leans against the doorjamb to balance himself, so hard does he laugh.
Eric and Cranston cast anxious glances at each other.
Has he finally snapped?
But now, he recovers himself, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his robe.
And noticing, for the first time, the note propped up on the table.
And chuckles once more as he reads it.
And turns to his henchmen, an inane smile pasted on his face, eyes still bright with the tears of his hysterical laughter.
"It would seem, gentlemen," he giggles, "that we have our work cut out for us.
"First things first, of course."
And he pulls out the pistol, looking at it with a rueful expression and saying, "It would appear there is use for this after all."
And six deftly aimed head shots put an end to the moaning.
*****
"Listen to this, Nancy!
"'In a move which the governor described as an act of unprecedented generosity and civic pride, Mr. Randy Buck, distinguished sports club owner, restaurateur, and health club tycoon, has donated an area of some twenty-five acres to the state as a landfill.
"'This follows the demolition of a structure, only recently built, which was used by a mysterious cult known as the Brotherhood of the Body as living quarters and a factory for the manufacture of rubber glue.
"'Asked as to the reasons for this action, Mr. Buck was quoted as saying that the Brotherhood had misrepresented itself to him as a religious order and that, upon discovery of their true nature as a cult of uncertain purpose and belief, he decided not to make corrections to the structure as specified by the state's building code, but rather to evict the occupants, demolish the edifice, and turn the site into a landfill, donating it to the state.
"It will be recalled that, only a few years ago, this same Randy Buck, with similar generosity, decided to ... " et cetera, et cetera.
"What do you think of that?"
"First an orphanage, now a landfill, who knows?" Nancy replies. "Next thing, he'll be running for public office." They laugh.
But Patricia, clad in unaccustomed street clothes, sitting there with them in Cynthia's office, is not amused.
"What happens if and when he finds out I'm still alive?" she asks.
"You and those six unfortunate girls are the last people he wants anything to do with.
"However, if it will make you feel any better-"
She buzzes her intercom.
"Phyllis, get me Randy Buck."
And she sits there, drumming her fingers, until her phone rings.
"Yes."
The voice on the other end of the line is flat, sullen, sepulchral.
"Yes. Is that any way to greet an old friend?
"I just called to congratulate you on the magnificent thing you've done for the state."
He sighs.
She made a similar call after he turned the Castle into an orphanage.
"Gloating, are we?" he asks.
"Warning, are we," she replies. "Just so you know.
"My legal staff has obtained statements from all six of your victims.
"I'll tell you the same thing I told that butch bitch of yours, Patricia."
Patricia looks up, startled.
But Cynthia smiles, winks, and waves her down in her chair. "Patricia?"
"Yes, Patricia, who almost managed to turn the tide, if that's any comfort to you.
"She's wandering around loose and she had the nerve to call me up and threaten me.
"Me, of all people!
"If only my men had been able to capture her!"
"Your, your ... men?"
"Certainly!
"You don't think Nancy and I managed to storm the place all by ourselves, do you?"
"I won't know that until I've-never mind."
"Until you've checked the tapes?
"Sorry, darling, but I had to declare a little blackout of the action-again."
"So you did, so you did.
"Well then.
"Until, uh-never mind."
"Until next time?
"Is that what you were about to say, Randy? "There had better not be a next time. "Because the information I now have is multipurpose, Randy."
"Very well, then, you have me. "You've won. "I surrender.
"Is that what you wanted to hear."
"You had better mean it, Randy."
"What can I say that you would believe."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
And the line goes dead. "And if you believe that-" Cynthia says. "Oh, I believe it," Patricia says. The other two look at her, puzzled. "There isn't going to be a next time," she continues. "That is, not for you two."
"What are you talking about?" Patricia gestures with an open hand, shrugging. "Figure it out for yourself. "We busted out when."
"Day before yesterday."
"Late."
"Okay, in the wee hours of yesterday morning, then."
"Right."
"And the article in the paper said the retreat was destroyed when?"
"Yesterd-oh my gosh!"
"Exactly," Patricia says, leaning back, looking at her manicure.
Nancy looks from one to the other.
"What's, what's ... happening?" she asks, expression puzzled.
"Don't you see, Nance?" Cynthia exclaims. "That whole place was wired, ready to blow.
"The retreat was nothing hut one big bomb."
"You mean."
"Sure do!
"All Randy Buck had to do was push the button, in the safety and comfort of his own home.
"And you, me, Patricia, the girls, and those sick monsters would all have gone up in the blinking of an eye."
"She's right you know, Nancy.
"Only his desire for revenge, for making you two suffer stood in his way.
"In fact, if he had wanted you badly enough, that whole set-up could very well have been exactly that--a set-up to do you in.
"His problem was that he wanted you too badly.
"Sure he could have blown us all to hell.
"But then you might never have known what hit you.
"And he hates you too much to let that happen--this time.
"There could very well be a next time. "The only difference is, you'll never know what hit you."
"But what about the girls' statements?" Patricia shrugs.
"No good without the girls themselves. "And only you could move fast enough to protect them, because only you know that that's what has to be done."
"With you out of the way, what are six or seven or a hundred more corpses to him?"
"More?"
Patricia grins.
"You don't think he provided those guys with Blue Cross, do you?
"And what the hell do you think the landfill was all about?"
