I can't stand it, Bob thinks. She's driving me up the wall.
If she ever knew who she was fucking with that way, it'd be a different story.
Too different, he reminds himself.
After all, that's why he started dating Gracie, in order to have a life in the sun, a life that he can live openly, without revulsion, fear, condemnation.
She was to be his "normal" girl, the one to whom he would phone when he was away on trips, the one with whom he could spend Sunday afternoons in the park.
She's blonde, she's beautiful, and, if somewhat empty-headed, she is nevertheless excellent company for him-an ideal companion for dinner, the movies, whatever.
But.
When they were in bed, she was a yakker.
Bob has had them all-the fainters, the moaners, the screamers.
But this is his first experience of someone in whom sexual excitement brings on diarrhea of the mouth.
She never shuts up, from the moment she gets that first flush of arousal.
It's amazing, really.
And the stuff that comes out of that mouth of hers!
Who would ever have believed it?
So that he has to shut out her talk, her babble, her noise.
He doesn't even know what to call it, really; but one thing it isn't, and that's for sure - conversation.
It affords no opportunity for interchange, calls for no comment or, for that matter, even a listener, so far as Bob can tell.
And afterward?
It is as though nothing had happened, as far as Gracie is concerned, just as if that were the most normal thing in the world.
Like, doesn't everyone?
Which is increasingly becoming his beef with her.
Nobody does that, nobody.
Nobody he has ever been with, nobody he has ever heard of.
She's one in a million, at least, and she's the one he had to pick.
Some choice!
Still, that face, that bod, the way she moves, the way other men look at her - she's definitely something very special.
In an ordinary way, of course, and this is not a contradiction in terms.
Because he is looking for the normal, the ordinary, the mundane as a cover, as a way of being able to pass for normal himself, in the everyday world.
So that nobody, not even Gracie, will suspect that there is a dark side to him, that he has but one foot in this world, the other being firmly planted in a bizarre, dark, sometimes dangerous, sometimes terrifying realm where costumed creatures play serious games, games of pain, sometimes even games of death, although this last is merely rumor, so far as he knows.
Still, the potential is there.
Someone could get carried away.
Half mad to begin with, in non-technical psychological terms, he and his cohorts are capable of anything, from mass frenzy to individual acts of utmost fiendish depravity.
Especially during their conclaves, whether in isolated woods or abandoned farm or the truly frightening catacombs of caves or old mineshafts.
Apparently not that well organized, there nevertheless seems to be no end of locales in which to carry out their dark celebrations.
Which are festivals of pain and torture, bondage and discipline, sado-masochistic orgies.
Hunters and victims they are, either and both.
Who's in charge?
Bob cannot say; he simply doesn't know.
He gets mysterious notices by mail from one known only as "the Scribe".
When and where the next meeting is to be held, whether somewhere in the city or half a continent away; some he makes, others he misses.
And is not missed.
Fun and games.
Although there is no playfulness in evidence; quite the opposite, in fact.
And in fact, the rumors of death and disappearance are centered on those members, seen no longer, who apparently failed to take the conclaves sufficiently seriously.
No, if you're just "out for a good time", the conclaves are no place for you.
Which is another reason why Bob felt that he needed Gracie.
Occasionally, his own perversion becomes too heavy a burden to bear and he needs relief.
He needs to know that he can be with, can bed, someone who doesn't want to hurt or get hurt, who has no desire to terrify and certainly none to be terrified.
He needs the intimate company of someone whose concerns are those of the everyday world, whose outlook and tastes are an accurate mirror of normal contemporary society.
So that he does not lose his perspective.
So that he does not wake up one morning to find himself looking at the world through skewed lenses, through a mirror of depressing distortion, in which everyone and everything is showing him the dark side of existence itself.
To look at the world through glasses the color of shit or dried blood-that is precisely what Bob does not want.
And he himself cannot say why this other world, the world of darkness and of dark deeds, is so fascinating for him.
But he takes no comfort in the fact that this same world, the world of masks and whips and chains and black leather, of costumes which conceal individuality and reveal sexuality, is not the province of a rare few.
No, he finds no peace in the knowledge that others - many, many others, more in fact than he could have possibly imagined - cannot wait to plunge into the depths of their own depravity, made real and extended into the world to form one of its own, a world in which force is the only law, that and raw lust.
If it feels good and the victims have not the power to stop you, then do it.
Some rule to live by; especially when you stop to consider that, no matter how strong, how resourceful you are, there is always someone stronger, someone who, by dumb luck for fiendishly clever skill, is waiting to pounce on you, whether from ambush or as a target of opportunity.
Targets of opportunity - that's what it's all about, actually, the conclaves and the games that are played there.
Never knowing what you'll find, never knowing what will find you.
What would Gracie say, what would she think, if only she knew about this other world, this dark, obscene world which is every bit as much his as is the one he shares with her.
And in fact, that other world was beginning to exert so powerful a pull on Bob that it was threatening to drag him into it, and this to the point that, but for the darkness, but for the thrill of the action, he was beginning to feel like a fish out of water in the normal world, in the world where, like most of us, he does, after all, have to make a living.
And very few people are prepared to stock a whole line of computers and peripherals presented by a caped, hooded figure swooping down on them out of the darkness.
Not that it would get that bad; he would have to be completely out of his mind for that to happen.
Rather, he found himself drifting in and out of reality.
So that he was having difficulty relating to the latest changes in the line, the latest upgrades and enhancements to hardware and software.
Yes, that's very nice but not very interesting and what the hell does it all have to do with me?
So that he found himself constantly having to remind himself that this is how he makes his living, it's what he does for his paycheck, and if he wants to keep on getting those paychecks, then he had best damn well get with the program.
And he needed an anchor; hence, Gracie.
And she proved to be just what he needed.
He could have satisfaction in the normal way in the normal world.
And this talkativeness of hers, this sex with speech, at first he found amusing.
But then it began to grate on him.
And of late, he finds it becoming intolerable.
Intolerable, meaning he is going to have to do something about it.
Meaning something about Gracie.
And he finds all the darkness, all that other world causing the urge to rise up within himself.
The urge to punish, to discipline, and this fortified by a reason, an actual cause.
So that a part of his mind asks, is Gracie in any danger.
And that part of him has to reply, is forced to admit that she is.
But he has to fight the feeling.
He cannot let it get the best of him; not here, not in this, the normal world.
He cannot allow that other world to pollute this one with its presence, its ways.
Cannot - and damnit, will not!
He is seeing her tonight.
He will bed her tonight.
He will put up with whatever nonsense comes with possessing that fantastic body of hers.
He will give normal sex, and this despite the fact that, in that other, that dark and fiendish world, hers is just the sort .of body that fiends such as himself are always after.
And rarely encounter.
Ah, what he couldn't do with something like that in, say, some dark cave, where there are no neighbors about, none to disturb and be disturbed.
So that he could have his way with her.
He could straighten her out.
He could terrify her into knocking off the bullshit.
He could.
And a part of him very much wants to do exactly that.
What a temptation!
But no, he must fight the feeling.
He must and he will.
There will be no invasion from the darkness below.
Not tonight.
Not ever, if he can help it.
Because, once he does that, he is utterly lost.
There will no longer be a bright, if flawed, a clean, if soiled world in which he can find refuge from himself and from such as himself.
No, if he defiles Gracie - and that's exactly what he would be doing, defiling her - then he is himself lost.
In breaking her, he will have broken himself, possibly in a way utterly without remedy.
And what is done is not, can never be, undone.
That is a simple fact of life, so far as he is concerned.
Inadequate, ineffectual it would be, his apologizing, should that be the aftermath, immediate or delayed.
Because, for one thing, it is not a question of not knowing what got into him.
He knows what got into him, what is in fact already there.
There is no doubt, no question, no room for ambiguity, no way that he can say, "I lost my head."
No, it is his head that he has to keep under tight rein, at the moment. It is in fact and precisely that crazy head of his which must not be allowed to have its way.
So then, on with tonight.
And he will be a good boy, no matter what happens.
Or so he tells himself.
"Hi."
Funny, he thinks, how she never has all that much to say at any other time.
They are friends, after all, and more than friends, lovers.
And yet, greeting him at the door wearing a silk robe whose flimsy fabric allows every luscious contour of her body to show to advantage in the indirect lighting of her apartment living room, she can think of nothing more to come up with than a neutral, monosyllabic greeting.
"Thirsty?" she asks.
"No."
She shrugs and turns her back to him, walking into the bedroom, the robe falling from her shoulders as she goes.
She wastes no time and is naked by the time she reaches the bed, which she promptly strips of its covers, ensconcing herself in the midst of it, head on one pillow, turned on her side, already facing the position which he will occupy as soon as he removes his clothes.
Bob strips quickly.
And is beside her on the bed in a flash.
And taking her in his arms.
And helping himself to handfuls of firm, rounded ass cheek, even as she begins to fondle his big cock with its lazy hard-on.
"Fuck me, baby," she murmurs into his ear.
And he resists the tendency to stiffen up.
So, he thinks, it begins already.
"Stick that big salami of yours right in my big, juicy cunt!"
Oh? Really? I thought I was here to play tiddlywinks, he says to himself, becoming angry, sarcastic, feeling evil urges rising up within himself.
Still, he must control himself. He will simply have to ignore her.
Her mouth, that is.
He will wallow in her body.
He will drown himself in her curves.
So that nothing, nothing, nothing else will matter.
And now, he slides down her body.
And he-
But here, let her tell it.
Might as well; she will anyway.
"Mmmm! That's right! Suck those big titties of mine! Get those big doorbells all hot and bothered and big and hard!
"Ooh, yes! That's right, oh so very, very right!"
"Oh, the tingling hardness of them!"
"Oh, yeah, you like those big jugs, don't you!"
"That's it, squeeze them, play with them, chew on them!"
That's what they're there for! That's what I'm here for!"
"Ooh, you know it!"
"Oh yeah, just take your sweet time with them!"
"Aah, that's delicious!"
"Takes a real tit man to make them feel that way, it does!"
"Ooooh! Aaaah Mmmmm!"
"Oh, that's right!"
"Work me over with your mouth! Eat me alive, all over my body!"
"Oh, yeah! Head for my big, juicy cunt now!"
"Yeah, chew me up all the way! That's right, that's right!"
"Oh yeah! Dive into that muff! Find that joy buzzer of mine!"
"Aaah! Ooooh! Oohoo, that's the spot!"
"Play me like a guitar with your tongue! Lap my fucking clit!"
"Oooh! Strum me and make it hum!"
"Aha! Fuck me with your tongue, in and out, in and out!"
"Aaah! That's it, that's it! Use your tongue like it was your big fucking cock!"
"Go deep, deep, deep! Oho, you know!"
"Oh, yes, yes, yes, take me all the way with your fucking tongue!"
"Don't stop, don't stop!"
"Let me ride your face to paradise!"
"Oh! Ugh! Uhuh! Ah! Ooh!"
"Get right in there, right in there on it!"
"Uh-huh, uh-hunh!"
"Hah! Hah! Hah! Un-hunh!
"Oh, no, don't stop! Why are you - oh, that's it! That's fantastic! Give me the real thing, baby! Shove that fucker right into my hot, juicy twat, all the way! Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to ME!
"Oh! Oh! Oho!"
"Hah, that feels great!"
"I needed that big pole of yours, all the way!"
"That's it, that's it!"
"Slam it into me! Drive my ass right into the bed! Jackhammer me!"
"Faster! Faster!"
"Ooh, that's right, that's right!"
"Ah, that feels marvelous, fantastic!"
"I want it! I need it! More, more, more!"
The sound of her voice, her incessant chatter, is converted into a steady hum, a kind of background buzz like that of a noisy air conditioner.
He is able, by an effort of will, to shut her noise off in his head, to stop it at his ears and transform it into its meaningless essence.
And focus, really focus, concentrate fully on her exquisite shape and texture and physical action and reaction, her taste, her heat.
So that it is as though she is not speaking at all-almost
Almost, because his performance is suffering.
It is, no question.
So that he is, as it were, engaged in two totally disparate tasks at one and the same time, in which a part of him is devoted to acting as a muffler, a converter, changing speech into background noises while the other, the main event, goes on, unhampered, as much as possible.
His cock is hard, but not as hard as it could be, as it has been on other occasions, under other circumstances.
He is hot - yes, she does make him hot, at least her body does - but not as hot as he has been, as he might otherwise be.
In short, he is performing adequately, but not to his full capacity.
So that yes, his enjoyment is impacted by her quirk, much as he likes to think that he can overlook it by a sheer effort of will.
And he finds it incredible that it should continue full force, without letup.
So that, willy-nilly, he finds himself listening to her from time to time, unable to believe that her stream of meaningless drive should remain exactly that at all times, without so much as a pause.
As though he has flipped a switch somewhere within her, which is destined to remain on at full insane power throughout the duration of their sexual activity, from initial arousal to the last spasm of her orgasmic series.
Still, here it is.
And here it is still. Still and forever, so it would seem.
Unless-no!
Because she would never see him again, if he took that which he is so very fond of taking and with ever so much less provocation.
Corrective action.
Discipline.
Hot, vicious discipline, applied to his helpless victim.
But that cannot be.
Not here, not now.
That is the other Bob, the Bob who is other, who is not himself, but some creature of darkness, hooded, all-powerful, deadly, his-its-sexual activities not acts of love or affection or even lust, as it is commonly understood.
No, that is a dark inner drive, the principal attribute of a monster, the Mister Hyde to his Doctor Jekyl.
And to do that would defeat the purpose of the exercise.
Which is, he reminds himself, precisely to have a normal relationship within a normal existence.
So that yes, he could correct this habit of hers, could cure her on the spot; he is absolutely certain of it.
But at what cost?
No, it's out of the question.
He will have to consider the problem further, at a more leisurely moment.
Because right now, it is working, his fucking of her.
He is climbing the rainbow now, building and building toward climax.
Which will be a lesser one than he would have preferred, and he knows it, strictly because of this damnable habit of hers.
Or affectation, or perhaps even affliction; he doesn't know, doesn't care, wishing only that it would stop, now and forever.
"Baby, baby, baby! You've got me flying! Who am I? Where am I? Who knows? Who cares?"
"Oooh, yes, yes, yes!"
"Reach me! Reach deep, deep, deep inside me! Hit me where I live!"
"Do me, do me, do me!"
"Come on, bay-bee, make it happen!""
And he does.
For the two of them.
Because now he feels the powerful milking sensation of the powerful contractions of her vaginal muscles, as she experiences orgasm after orgasm, right along with the spasms of his own climax, alternating with them, one on one.
Do you understand now, at last? he beams at her, mentally. Have you finally come to the truth, which is that this, this, this! is the only conversation that matters in bed?
"Aaah! Haah! Haaah!"
Evidently not.
Because it is only after his last climactic spurt and her last orgasmic reflex that she at last falls silent.
Eyes closed, smiling radiantly, clinging to him in genuine appreciation and affection.
As though completely unaware that she has put him through an ordeal, that she has made him pay quite a price for the pleasure he has received.
Because he feels drained by the strain of having to shut out her unceasing blither as he fucks and, in fact, precisely in order to fuck.
And it isn't right.
Damnit, it isn't even right for her world, the normal, everyday world.
Because it simply isn't.
Normal, everyday, that is.
People don't act that way in bed, not in this world, not in any other with which he is familiar.
He has heard of phone freaks, of course, and perhaps this is how they operate, having precisely such conversations over the telephone as they jerk themselves off.
And that's fine for them.
But not like this. Not face to face, he handsome, muscular, virile, she absolutely gorgeous and with all the right equipment.
It doesn't happen; and yet, it is.
And what the fuck is he going to do about it?
What can he do about it and remain the Bob she has come to know and-love?
Now that he thinks about it, there is certainly that possibility.
It could happen. It could happen quite easily, in fact.
Where else is he going to find a bod and a face like this?
And yet-and yet.
Is this, this ... thing of hers something that he is prepared to live with?
What to do, what to do, what to do?
Great questions, he tells himself, holding her in his arms. Now, all you have to do is answer it.
Chapter Two
"Shut your mouth, you stupid, fucking bitch!" Bob exclaims, as he smashes her across the mouth, open-handed, forehand and back.
And wishes that it were Gracie.
But it isn't.
Just as he isn't really Bob, at the moment, but Bob's alter ego.
Or perhaps this is the real Bob and that other, out there in the normal world, is the fake, the actor, the put-on, the pretence.
No time for such philosophical meanderings now, however.
No, this is the time and the place for action.
The eccentric club member's donation of this abandoned old mansion, far out on Long Island, away from every other structure, well removed from the main highway in one of the last few such isolated locales is just perfect for the use to which Bob and his fellow freaky fiends are putting it.
Club.
Some club.
A loose association of sickos and perverts contacted by the mysterious Scribe for just such conclaves as this, you never knew with whom or with what you might end up dealing.
Much to the chagrin of the woman who, looking for a few cheap thrills, has fallen into the clutches of monster Bob.
She is big and blonde like Gracie, but quite a bit heavier, bordering on the fat.
And she has come here tonight to "get grabbed", a friend of hers having long ago inducted her into the ways of this particular "crowd".
A widow of considerable means, she looks forward to getting her notices from the Scribe and has not missed a conclave.
Where she wanders through the site of the evening's festivities in cape and black leather hood, her leather corset pushing up her large breasts, making them stand up and out like two dangerous warheads with their large nipples.
Black mesh stockings secured in place by a garter belt and high-heeled boots complete the costume, leaving the large, hairy vee of her crotch exposed, as well as the rounded promontories of her big buttocks.
And she loves to wander the dark corridors of some old mansion like this, the warrens of some vast cavern complex, the mysteriously whispering open enclosure of some dark forest at midnight - wherever, as long as there is the possibility of her encountering some similarly clad male fiend, who can be relied upon to abuse and rape her.
Which is no rape at all, but precisely the encounter she was seeking.
Especially if the man is large and strong and very virile.
But here, now, she begins to suspect that she has bitten off more than she can chew.
Because this man is sexy, yes; that much is evident, judging by the size of his swinging meat, in such prominent view against his pale skin, even here in the darkness, which is so dense as to conceal his black-hooded visage and his black-booted lower legs and feet.
So that he seems partially decapitated, only mouth and chin showing.
And he also seems to be somehow floating in the air, over a foot off the ground, since his legs, from mid-calf down, are invisible, dark-booted in a dark place.
"Oh! I didn't see you there!"
Expression of half-pretended, half real surprise as, wandering into an unlit bedroom, she suddenly encountered him.
And that was all that she said.
But that alone was enough to earn her the admonition to silence, accompanied by the slapping around, no holding back, which snapped her head sharply to left and right, propelling her backwards onto a huge old, four-poster bed.
And now, straddling her big boobs, muscular arms reaching out, hands grasping the posts at the head of the bed, he swings his big, heavy cock back and forth so that it continues to strike her face.
And these blows are not light by any means.
Still, she finds something exquisitely lascivious and exciting about being smashed back and forth by a long, thick, vibrant, hot cock.
The idea that it should be, that it is a cock which is thus inflicting punishment upon her, as opposed to a whip or a club or even a hand, well, that excites her, intrigues her, makes her partially forget the full force of the slaps he gave her that got her onto the bed.
As well as ignoring the faint taste of her own blood, from where the force of his blows caused her teeth to lacerate the insides of her cheeks.
And now, she feels his cock actually getting hard, as it continues to slap her.
Until suddenly, it lifts on its own.
So that he is no longer able to swing his beef, which now bobbles above her face, big balls hanging down.
But not for long.
Because now he is stuffing the plum of his knob into her mouth.
"Here you go, you stupid, worthless, cunt!" Bob rasps, not even recognizing the sound of his own voice, so changed, so menacing and strange has it become.
And she tries to say something, but cannot talk with her mouth full.
And Bob chuckles cynically, fiendishly.
"That's right, bitch! Talk all you want now. But you're gonna gobble my goose until I pull it out and stick it in you."
And, still straddling her breasts, he resumes his grip on the corner posts at the head of the bed and begins pumping his hips, literally fucking her in the face.
And she obligingly holds her mouth open, keeping up just the right pressure of lips and tongue, turning her mouth into a sex organ.
The other Bob, the ordinary Bob, would have been quite pleased, very comfortable, content to go all the way with such a blowjob.
But the monster, the fiend, is not satisfied, no matter that it feels marvelous.
No, he must verbally abuse her.
He, who will not allow her to speak, torments her with an endless stream of threat and invective, any or all of which would be absolutely terrifying to her, should any of it be true, should he carry out the least of his threats.
And they are isolated here, engaged in what is almost certainly illegal activities.
Not that that is a consideration at the moment.
Because they are miles from the long arm of the law.
They are, in fact, miles from not only authority but from any form of assistance as well.
No, viewed in that light, she is truly, well and hopelessly trapped, no question.
And this fiend, this large, powerful, irresistible monster is absolutely free to do with her whatever he pleases.
"You'd better suck that big bastard for all you're worth, you worthless cunt, you horny fucking piece of shit!"
"I could tear you limb from limb!"
"I could eat the flesh from your bones and all you could do would be lie there and scream your lungs out, for all the good that would do you!"
"I could break every bone in your body and just leave you here to die!"
"I could ... "
And the list of "I could's" goes on and on, each more horrifying than the last.
And her only comfort is that she is giving him such a great blowjob that he is apparently content to just stay here like this, issuing his endless stream of threats which are, hopefully, completely without meaning.
But now, she experiences a thrill of apprehension, gooseflesh covering her body, as he pulls away from her mouth and dismounts.
Oh, no! she thinks. What's coming next?
But she has not long to wait as, suddenly, without warning, he flips her over, onto her stomach.
And yanks her hips into the air, forcing her onto knees and elbows.
"But I don't-"
Whack!
And she feels the sharp pain, sees bright lights inside her head, as he smacks her on the back of her leather hood, the blow resounding sharply off the walls of the vast, dark bed chamber.
"You don't what?" he snarls. "You don't take it up the ass?
"Got news for you, bitch! You take it any way I choose to give it to you, got that?"
"And right now, I choose-this!"
"Yaaagh!"
She screams this last, as he shoves his huge prong all the way into her rectum, taking advantage of the lubrication afforded by her saliva on the head of his cock.
"Make one more sound! Say one more fucking word! Go ahead, I dare you!"
"I hear a peep, and I cave the back of your fucking skull in with my fist and end up fucking your corpse in the ass."
"That what you want, cunt?"
"Good! You're learning. Any reply would have cost you dearly."
And he begins humping away in her ass, which, mercifully, as it turns out, is large enough inside to accommodate him, if not comfortably at first, then at least without the invasion's doing any serious damage.
If only someone else would come right now, the woman thinks.
And then realizes how stupid that is.
Who is going to show up-the cavalry?
No, more likely would be more of the same.
Or worse.
Although nothing could be worse than this one, if he does even one of the things he so glibly threatens.
She is not used to this.
Either men are talk or they are action.
And this one is both, which makes him all the more frightening.
She cannot read him, cannot figure out what he might or might not actually do.
He doesn't want her to talk; that much she knows.
Or maybe it's that he really does, so that he will have an excuse to do any of the horrible things he threatens.
Whatever, she is not at her ease with him, is not comfortable with him, and that is not merely because he is fucking her in the ass.
Actually, she rather enjoys getting fucked in the ass, from time to time.
And, physically speaking, this fiend is her type.
She likes them big and beefy and hung. And she also likes rough stuff. But she has learned to tell when there's a difference, when there's something more behind the blows than fun and games.
And this is definitely not a fun and games type guy.
He's after something, and her very life could depend on learning what. Could or could not. That's the other thing.
Is she over-reacting to some blows which were, perhaps, unduly hard because he is not used to these scenes?
So difficult, so very difficult to tell them apart, the way they all wear the same costume.
Just as she herself wears the female equivalent there of.
So much nicer in the good old days, when there actually was an organization called the Club, which met regularly at a place called Buck's Castle upstate.
Where a character called the Seneschal monitored everything. There, she felt safe, comfortable.
Every other week, a romp through the corridors and chambers of the Castle.
But the Castle was destroyed, some say by accident, some by sabotage.
This latter is probably correct, she thinks. How could an edifice of cinder block and concrete suddenly fill with smoke, alerting the fire department and the highway patrol, who, discovering what was happening there quite by accident, nevertheless closed the place down.
Indeed, the woman was fortunate to have evaded the roundup of the members, making good a shaky escape in her car, risking a long drive, scantily and bizarrely clad.
Randy Buck, the sports magnate and owner of the place, professed extreme surprise at the goings on on his property, the activity of one of his subordinates, according to the papers.
But whatever the case, the fact remains that the Castle has been converted into an orphanage and it and the Club are no more.
And now, everything is helter-skelter.
And nothing is organized and the risks are real, more real than she ever bargained for, as witness the present situation.
Because this maniac-and she has come to sincerely believe that that is exactly what he is-is fully capable of maiming or even killing her.
And there is nobody and nothing here to stop him.
There is no Seneschal to monitor the activities and step in if things get too rough.
There is not even a definition of "too rough" operating here.
At least, the monster has settled into a rhythmic, steady piston action, content, at least for the moment, to be fucking her in the ass.
But now, one hand holding onto a flaring hip, with the other, Bob reaches down and around, to grasp a heavy, hanging breast and knead it.
Gently at first, but then harder and harder, only its great size preventing him from crushing it, so firmly, so harshly does he grasp it.
And then gives the other one similar attention, as though engaged in some painful parody of sexual stimulation.
Not how good he can make it feel but how much he can make it hurt, performing the identical action, only with far greater pressure.
As though he would like to literally crush her with his bare hands.
She heard somewhere that the sadistic person is the way he is because of sexual problems, usually impotence.
But that is clearly not the case here.
He is not impotent; far from it.
He has it all-the looks, the build, the equipment to give the utmost pleasure to anyone.
And yet, look at what he does.
Unless this is what he needs to make him so hard, so virile.
Still, what is the objective?
Just what is he after, anyway?
"You see, you fucking bitch?
"You see how nice it can be when you cooperate, when you keep your fucking mouth shut and let me do my thing?"
"Got news for you, douche bag!"
"This is the way it's gotta be."
"This is what it's all about, not that bullshit you keep coming out with!"
Oh, great! she thinks. A real nut case.
And she had to run across him.
Of all the rotten luck!
Yes, she is here because of the luck of the draw, because of wanting to have anonymous sex by surprise.
Surprise, surprise!
What have I gotten myself into, she wonders.
She has wondered this before, of course, but out of a sense of role-playing, of emphasizing to herself the fact of her having an adventure.
And not, as is the present case, wondering if perhaps she has not gone too far this time, putting herself in very real danger.
And danger which could not be more immanent. He is right here.
It is not as though she has options, ways to go, a chance to escape, to call the whole thing off and run, do not walk, to the nearest exit.
She is, for all intents and purposes, trapped.
And she knows this.
And she has no choice except to go along with his game, whatever it is.
Because even if she had a police whistle, blow as she might, no policeman would ever appear, in time or otherwise.
No, it is just her and him.
And those fantasies or whatever it is that's making him talk to her this way.
Just what is his problem?
Ah, there, there! is the heart of the matter.
Because it isn't really her to whom he is speaking.
Can't be.
They have never met before, so far as she is aware.
So that she is apparently a substitute, a surrogate for the woman who has offended him in some fashion.
So be it, since she has no choice.
And apparently, that other one talks too much.
So that he is now reveling in his ability to force her into silence.
That, and the knowledge of what he is prepared to do if she defies him.
Which, of course, she has no intention whatever of doing.
Because, okay, she has to be a little warped to be here in the first place; but suicidal? Never.
She is here for the thrills, the pleasure.
And her hobby, if such it can be called, has provided her with a fairly interesting menu of both, thus far.
Because the others, like herself, are merely looking for escape, for adventure, all in a bizarre and sexual world of their mutual creation.
Not so this one, however.
No, he is a part of this world, belonging here.
This is not his fantasy but his reality.
And she has wandered into that strange and cruel world, that place of little reason and absolutely no mercy.
And now, he is fucking her in the ass.
Fucking her nicely at that, he is, except for the way he started.
But now, there is very little she can look forward to, except to hope that he will somehow deflate like a balloon when he pops his rocks.
And now, the hand that had so cruelly squeezed her jugs is finding its way down, down, down the center line of her body.
And it seeks and finds -
"Ouch!"
Because he has pressed really hard on her, in this case inappropriately termed, joy buzzer.
"Ah, you will sound off, won't you, my dear?" he asks, rhetorically. "No, you will not remain in silence, no matter what, will you?"
And he pulls out of her ass.
And she feels a fresh thrill of terror.
What is coming next.
"So," he says, "you wanna chew my guts, huh? Well, how's about I show you just how that feels?"
He turns her over.
And his eyes seem to gleam in the darkness as he stares at her, not moving, for a brief moment.
And then, he slides down her body.
Don't tell me, after all this, he's simply going to eat my pussy? she wonders.
But no, he stops, his mouth gently sucking the flesh of her belly, just below the navel.
What's this all about? she thinks, not knowing what else to think.
As he continues to suck his mouthful of belly flesh.
And now, he begins to chew on it gently.
Too late, the horror of realization dawns within her.
Too late, because - "Yeow!"
And he has clamped down on his mouthful of her, teeth grinding into her, jaws attempting to meet through the captured fold of flesh.
Too late the phrase comes back to her about chewing his guts.
Because that is exactly what he is doing to her now - chewing her guts.
And now, she is no longer silent; she is roaring in pain and desperation, clawing at his hooded skull, breaking her fingernails as they rip at him.
And he is not silent either; rather, he is growling and chewing, a pit bull in full fighting frenzy, clenched for life on a piece of his victim, releasing only momentarily for a better, a different purchase, jaws working as he chews, teeth breaking the surface of her skin.
So that they are writhing around in the bed, he hugging around her thighs so that she cannot kick in their struggle, she therefore and thereby limited to raking ineffectually at his invulnerable head with ruined nails.
As he growls of intense determination mingle with her cries of fear and pain.
Because it seems to her that he is eating in, in, into her, determined to rip out her intestines with his teeth.
And so great is his aura of sheer terror that others in the mansion, men and women, drawn by the noise, peek in but do not remain, fearful lest he suddenly release his prey and turn on them in search of a fresh victim.
At last, he lets go.
And quickly throws her flat on her back, forcing his body between her legs, his rampant invader into her pussy, all the way.
So that now he is fucking her in the classical position.
And he is fucking her hard, but not viciously, rather seeming to be going all out as a man in the final stages of his sexual arousal, as though he is a man in a hurry.
So that he is fucking her hard and fast, his piston action unimaginative, perhaps, but highly effective for all that.
Because, when it becomes evident to her that he is indeed going all the way this time, that these side trips, these detours are behind them, she actually manages to relax and enjoy it.
Or perhaps she is merely taking refuge in sexual pleasure.
But whatever the case, she is right up there with him, so that they are climbing the rainbow of arousal together.
Higher and higher they rise.
And indeed, as she first suspected, he proves to be a terrific fuck.
In fact, the best she can remember, for either equipment or technique.
So that they are able to hit the peak together and linger there for a long moment as the pleasure beyond pleasure builds and builds within them, its pressure finally forcing them beyond the heights of rapture their bodies can endure.
And they end up coming and coming together, her spasms and his alternating, spurt after spurt of his hot, thick, copious jism injecting itself into the depths of her streaming vagina.
Again and again they come.
And past, present, future, time and space, up and down all merge, becoming one.
Finally, they float gently back down to earth together.
And even lie there in locked embrace, satisfied, relaxed for the moment.
Until he suddenly pulls back from her and a fresh wave of apprehension surges through her and she cringes, knuckles to her lips, lest she cry out in terror.
"You see, Gracie?" he asks. "You see how great it can be when you just keep your fucking mouth shut?"
And the woman does not envy this Gracie, whoever she is, as he suddenly disappears from the room.
Chapter Three
"I called you last night, but there was no answer," Gracie says.
"I wasn't home until very late."
"I know."
"I tried up until midnight and nothing."
And the question hangs in the air between them.
Where were you?
So-
"I had something I had to take care of."
Which is no answer at all, as they are both well aware.
"And you did, I take it."
"Oh yes."
"So I suppose tonight you're all out of pep and ammunition."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She shrugs.
"Hey, I wasn't born yesterday, all right, Bob? You were with another woman."
"Oh yeah?"
"Well what else am I supposed to think, Bob? On the one hand you were out until all hours. On the other, you're being ... evasive."
"I'm not being evasive at all, Gracie. I merely didn't think that what I was doing last night concerned you."
"I still don't."
"It had nothing to do with being with another woman."
Which, he thinks, is absolutely true, in a manner of speaking.
It has to do with his being with Gracie, with his being able to live with being with Gracie, with his being able to tolerate, to accept Gracie's weird quirk.
And maybe it worked and maybe it didn't; he won't know until he is in the sack with Gracie once again.
Cathexis, it's called.
Working out your frustrations on or with someone or something else.
Maybe now he'll be able to put up with her bullshit in the saddle.
Really put up with it, that is, as opposed to not even really tolerating it, but rather doing the best he can under the circumstances, difficult and trying for him as they are, and made doubly so by the unrevealed (to Gracie) aspects of his true nature, which he must also hold in check, for the sake of their relationship.
In other words, he would like to see himself really making out, as opposed to merely making do.
Did he handle the situation or not?
It remains to be seen.
And he wants to see what's to be seen, as soon as possible.
And right now would do admirably.
So -
"Look, Gracie, how would you like a little proof of the pudding?"
"Let's get with it and I'll show you so much that you'll know for certain that there's no room for anyone else in my life."
Making the careful, if hairline, distinction between her, as person, and his other life, taken into to, as thing.
Because what he does with those freaks doesn't count.
They are, collectively, a thing.
Whereas she, individually, is a person.
He had a problem and he went and did his "thing" to get it straightened out.
And no way in hell is he about to give Gracie so much as a hint of what he has done, of what he does regularly.
Any more than he would tell her what he is really all about.
Besides, what he did last night, he did for her, for them.
Not that she ever could or would understand, even if he explained it.
Question: Did it or did it not work?
Answer?
Let's work on it, shall we?
"Well, okay," she replies slowly. "But I still wish I knew what went on last night."
No you don't, Bob thinks. Not really.
Because knowing and understanding are two different things.
And he himself could not have said why he does what he does, what is the fascination of that strange, that bizarre other world, with all its mystery, its pain, its posturing.
And yes, he knows it is that also.
Has to be.
Because, face it, there is no way that menagerie of sexual psychos is from some nether world or another planet; no, they are from here, they are of and in here.
And their outings?
Mere sham, when all is said and done.
Executives or grocery clerks or dentists, they belong in the so-called real world, sustaining their flights of fantasy as best they can with pretense, some of it skilled and convincing, most of it requiring tolerance on the part of the others, for whom they in turn make allowances.
Which is another way in which he is different from the others.
With him, it is the computer thing which is artificial, which is put on.
Not that he isn't good at it, understand; but he is good in the manner in which, say, a foreign spy is good at his cover job which is totally unrelated to his real purpose.
So that there is, at all times within Bob, this monster craving release, only its cunning keeping it in check, its realization that to reveal any part, any hint of itself in the real, the civilized world is to risk annihilation. Because he is clever enough, realistic enough to know that the real world, for all its namby-pamby, prissy sissy ways, has power.
Which is economic power.
Which is a very real power indeed, a power so strong, so vital that it overshadows almost every other kind in today's world, in which the most important issues are indeed economic, as opposed to other times, in which they were military, for example.
So that he has to play the game and play it well, the game of so-called reality, so-called because, because beneath the masks they all must wear in the real world there lurk monsters which would make Bob seem mild by comparison.
But they are monsters lurking within the deepest soul of mankind, monsters whose manifestations are weak or, at best, unclear.
Only Bob, to his personal knowledge, carries his true being so close to the surface.
And only Bob releases it in the only place he can.
Which happens to be a crazy kind of playground, a parody of the kind of world in which Bob was designed to thrive.
At least he thinks that this is the case.
And now, they are undressing.
And he is thrilled, as always, at the sight of Gracie's voluptuous nudity.
And the thrill is that of the savage beast within himself, which he must restrain, hold in check, a pit bull on a leash.
So that she cannot know that, through the eyes of her handsome, rugged lover there peer; as through a the eye slits of a black leather hood, the eyes of the monster, the monster within, the monster barely within.
Which longs to attack her savagely, to jam its cock right into her cunt all the way, to gnaw on those luscious tits of hers, even as he humps away, not as a man would fuck, but as an animal would, without restraint of any kind.
And if her chattering disorder, for that is how Bob regards it, if it serves any useful purpose, it is to assist him in tempering his true, his basic nature with the veneer of civilization.
So that he is indeed kind, considerate, technically skilled in the ways of sensual love.
Oh, yes, the beast knows these talents well enough, but, left to its own devices, would never think to use them, would rather concentrate on his own gratification, on the shortest distance between where he is at a given moment and his (as opposed to his partner's, as oblivious to his partner's) climax.
So that there is, there can be no question in her mind but that, when she is with him, she is with the best, by any standard.
Because the beast is not entirely suppressed.
Bob retains the beast's energy, its vitality and enthusiasm.
And its hideous strength as well.
So that what he shows her is drawn from a plethora, a surplus of sexual energy, which not even her maddening patter and chatter can succeed in putting below the level of arousal.
Because there is ever present that within himself which guarantees that Bob will be potent, that he will be able to raise a hard-on, even in the face of this maelstrom, this torrent of verbal garbage that pours from Gracie's mouth.
And now, they hit the sheets together.
"Come to mama, bay-bee!"
"Come on, suck on these tits, these great big, beautiful breasts of mine, just waiting here for you, baby!"
"Tha-at's right! Here we go now!"
And, to Bob's faint amazement, the beast is restrained, as usual, is once again tolerant of this woman's incredible nerviness in daring to behave thus with the likes of himself!
And a part of him is even amused at the ridiculous daring of her action, like a member of an audience watching some comedienne performing her antics in the face of immanent peril of which she hasn't a clue.
Because there have been hot flashes, moments in which she has not been safe with him, in fact, in which he has had to grit his teeth-hard-lest the beast erupt and tear her apart.
And he has had visions of that very thing happening.
In his mind's eye, he can see himself suddenly standing up on his knees in the bed, cock bobbling huge and dangerous and wet with her pussy juices, but now temporarily ignored, as he strikes her in the face, forehand and back, again and again, while screaming, "Shut up! Shut up! Shut the fuck up, you garbage-mouthed piece of shit!"
And he can actually see himself batting her head back and forth.
Just as he can see her continuing her sexual babble the whole time.
Even after he has turned her face into a bloody pulp.
Which drives him to a frenzy, to new heights of violence, to strike her harder and harder until, finally, there is nothing left of her above the shoulders.
But he will not.
There is a part of him firmly in charge, which will prevent that from happening at all costs, which will even go so far as to break off the relationship, accepting its demise over this exact issue.
Which is the other reason that last night was so important.
Hey, if it's necessary to save what they have, then it was worth it, would have been well worth it, even had he killed that costumed, perverted birch.
But now, he sees it was all for naught.
She is as grating on him as ever.
He must shut her out, the same old way, as though last night had never happened.
Which he could have predicted.
Because he is too much the realist.
That other woman was not Gracie, was not a substitute for her, not even a reasonable facsimile thereof.
And now, he must once more, once again content himself with his beast's hard-on and his man's restraint.
Yes, once again the beast has come through.
So that he can and will.
Come through, that is.
Perform in the saddle, that is.
And perform outstandingly well, so far as Gracie can tell.
Because that is what it has become-a performance.
He wishes he could feel the passion for her that he evinces.
Luckily, she is either not bright enough or not experienced enough to know, to see the difference between what he is showing her and the real thing.
Rather, she operates on the premise that all male erections and all male climaxes are created equal.
It comes up or it doesn't.
It goes off or it doesn't.
He gets her off or he doesn't.
Like a checklist, sex is with her.
And Bob wonders if she herself listens to herself, if she can hear herself, if she knows how utterly ridiculous, how inane, how downright stupid she sounds.
Not that he cares if she is ridiculous, inane, or stupid.
What he does care about is the fact that she is so fucking annoying!
She grates on him until he does quite literally want to kill her.
And that is indeed a dangerous feeling, a dangerous urge in the likes of Bob.
But once again, he hears her stream of constant chatter as a dull, vaguely annoying hum.
And it throws off the pleasure, the enjoyment of his lovemaking.
As though he has run across some chance target of opportunity.
A sailor aboard a ship running across some horny female member of the crew by chance, forced to fuck her in the engine room, atop some steel encased piece of machinery, which gives off heat and noise and smell while he throws a fast, surreptitious fuck.
When he could have gone to bed with this same aroused female and had a marvelous time instead of something quick and furtive.
That is the difference between his actual and potential pleasure with Gracie.
All because of that fucking mouth of hers!
"Oh yes! Yes, my darling! Make love to my ass hole, by all means!"
"Rim me! Eat me where I shit!"
"Ooh, that is delicious!"
"Run that tongue of yours up my ass!"
"Do it, do it, do it!"
Yes, not even his suddenly turning her over and wallowing in the crack of her ass, mouth open, has turned her off.
He has merely succeeded in changing the subject.
Because he let himself listen, let himself hear her actual words once more, just to see what would happen.
And her fevered commentary has merely shifted in content to remain topical, concerning itself with what is happening at the moment, coaching him where he needs no coaching, advising him in matters in which he is already fully skilled.
But no matter.
The important thing, as far as she is concerned, is apparently to fill the air with the sound of her own voice.
And he must admit that she is certainly doing a bang-up job of it.
So he turns her off again, tuning her out, concentrating on the pounding of his own blood in his ears.
And it works. Again. As usual.
So that he can concentrate his main effort, his focus, on her ass hole.
He loves the female ass hole.
It is, generally speaking, mute.
It is incapable, at least, of human speech.
Talking through one's ass hole is merely an expression; it cannot really happen.
Although in her case-nah!
Still, he can almost picture it in his mind's eye.
So that he takes no chances, moving quickly from his probing, delving tongue, which has felt the heat of her interior, has contacted the moist, yielding tissues of her rectal wall, to his fingers.
Two of them.
Which he lubricates with saliva before shafting them slowly, smoothly, evenly into her ass hole.
And moving them around, concentrating on the pressure of his knuckles at the entrance.
"Mmmm! Delicious! Give me the big finger wave, lover!"
"Delve those digits into me!"
"Clean me out like a chicken ready for stuffing!"
"Come on baby, stuff me!"
She seems to be getting worse, he notices. She has broken through his defenses.
She is loud and articulate, if meaningless.
Yeah, bitch, I'd like to stuff you all right.
I'd like to take a sock that some soldier has worn in the field for about a week and stuff it right in your fucking mouth!
But he stops himself, saying nothing.
He checks himself.
He cannot, he must not let her get through to him.
He dare not let her disrupt him, break down his action.
Because he knows, as surely as he can be said to know anything at all, just what kind of a rage that would put him into.
And what he would do about it.
You are playing with fucking fire, bitch, and you don't even know it! he thinks.
And redoubles his efforts at concentrating on her body, suspending his preparation of her ass before he has her readied to his satisfaction.
But he feels that he has no choice.
It's now or never.
Because the beast within is not all that deep within, is very close to the surface, and can only take so much shit off of even her.
So yes, he jams it into her ass hole.
"Unnh!"
And yes, that did hurt a little, didn't it, bitch?
Even shut you up there for a full-what? Five seconds, maybe?
Bad thing to show somebody, especially me, bitch.
Pain will turn you off, will stop that motor mouth of yours temporarily.
A moment of pain, a moment of silence.
How much dead air can I buy for a lot of pain?
Will serious injury get me a full half hour, say?
And a whole project with her takes shape in his beastly mind.
Which he fights off, concentrating instead on fucking her in the ass.
At least, from this position, he can't see her jaws and lips moving.
So that it is as if someone is playing their TV set too loudly, say, next door.
Annoying, yes, but somehow external to his concerns and to those of his partner.
So that it's good this way.
And if nothing else, last night has served as excellent practice for this very act.
So that now, he releases the bell-like flare of one of her hips to reach forward and down, weighing a heavy breast-gently, very gently, almost tenderly - in one hand, steadying himself and her with the other.
And he feels the weight, the solidity of it.
Much better quality, even though there is slightly less quantity than last night.
And her incessant yak-yak continues to seem far away, totally external to their situation.
So that he is free to fuck her in the ass, untrammeled and undistracted.
And he feels the deep, the bestial thrill within himself, even as the rational part of him exalts, There! You see? Here's a way, a solution. Feel, just feel! how good it is!
And now, he slides his hand down the center line of her body-exactly as he did last night with that other, that stranger, that, that ... thing.
Only this time, when he gets to her joy buzzer, he twiddles it between two fingers, feeling its heat, feeling it engorge still further, feeling her hot pussy juices flowing over fingers and knuckles.
"Ooh! That's it! That's right! That's ... "
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
And he shuts her out again.
And wonders that she doesn't ever get bored with repeating the same inanities, over and over.
But at least they are coming from where he doesn't have to listen to them now.
And sure enough, he doesn't. Rather, he concentrates on stimulating her clit from within and without humping her steadily in the ass as he continues to play with her bulging joy buzzer.
Now this, this! is what it's all about, where it's at! he practically sings to himself.
He feels a great sense of positive accomplishment.
He is actually bringing himself successfully into the real world.
For the first time, he feels he has a shot at belonging here.
Because the fierce joy rises within him, swelling every fiber of his being.
Terrific, it is.
Fantastic even, and yet oh so very real for all that.
I can make it! he tells himself.
He doesn't have to return to that other world, to his home planet or rather the contrived model thereof, as it were.
No, this will do quite nicely, thank you very much.
And now he lets himself go.
So that he is free to rise with her, up, up, up the rainbow of their shared pleasure.
And now, they are soaring together.
Is she still talking?
He doesn't know, doesn't care.
Even that doesn't matter, taking place, if at all, somewhere else, somewhere far, far below them.
Because they are together, body and body, in the realm, the paradise of pure sexual sensation.
As the pleasure inundates and permeates them.
As the body sings the truths which it alone comprehends, leaving the mind far behind in its vain arrogance, knowing only the half truths which it is capable of grasping or inventing.
And now, they are coming together, matching one another, spasm for spasm, as he injects his sperm deep into her innermost bowels.
Even as the contractions of her cunt in multiple orgasms milks his fingers of the pleasure beyond pleasure.
Together they began, together they finish.
And they collapse together.
In blessed silence, he notes.
Naturally, since she has finished coming.
And he lies there on top of her, still fully inserted.
And he does not move, nor does she, beneath him.
And they lie thus as his cock slowly detumesces.
And the peristakic action of her bowels shits him forth like a great turd.
And still he lies there, not moving, realizing - making real - that which has just happened.
Success!
And yet, even here he recognizes that it is, at least in part, self deception by him.
Because is he to limit himself, to limit their love making to positions from the rear?
In order to experience the fullest sexual pleasure, is he then to be forced to distance himself from her in this fashion?
Yes, yes, oh yes, it worked!
But it was only a trick, a cheap trick, a sleazy device to accommodate, to get around that which should not be happening in the first place.
What crap, what utter garbage!
And he, of all people, is expected to behave thus, to center his whole sexual game plan about avoiding that talking head?
Not me, damnit, not me! he tells himself, grinding his teeth.
And forgetting to offer her a hand up as he heads for the shower.
Chapter Four
Maybe everybody's warped in a certain way, Bob tells himself.
This could be all too true.
So that what we accept as normal behavior is actually a kind of average, a sort of center of the spectrum of acting and thinking in connection with a given activity.
That, or else there's a time and a place for everything, so that people in general act a certain way at a certain time and thereby pass as normal, a sort of milder form of his own lifestyle, with the two (or more) aspects of a given individual not as different from one another as they are in himself.
In which case, true normality consists, not in having no quirks, but rather in cleverly (or reflexively) concealing them from public scrutiny and, therefore, from public reaction.
And by public is intended anyone and everyone whom we do not know intimately well.
So that a guy could be some kind of disgusting pervert in reality, and yet be the perfect date-and the perfect lover-the first time out with a given girl.
Or the second or the third as well, for that matter; in other words, whatever it takes to convince her that she has made a right, a wise choice when she picked him for the evening, for going steady, for whatever.
Ah, but then, you see, therein lies Gracie's defect!
Which is rendered unacceptable by the fact that she made no attempt to conceal that bizarre habit of hers from him, not even on the first date.
And he, thinking he was somehow overwhelming her, impressing the shit out of her, as it were, was deceived into thinking that what he was hearing and seeing was merely the reaction of this beautiful, sexy woman to the greatest lover she had ever experienced.
Hah!
Little did he know that that automatic chatter, that motor of a mouth, would become his Achilles heel, the bane of his existence.
But it did, no question about it.
And now that it has-what?
Okay, Cathexis on a substitute doesn't work.
He knows that now.
Turning her around, limiting himself to only certain positions?
A partial solution, not really that much of an improvement over his shutting out the noise through an act of sheer willpower.
Granted, it involves less of a mental effort and certainly the contact is there.
There, and yet not there.
They used to call that the "hot night position", when he was younger and air conditioning was not so prevalent.
The minimal physical contact.
The fat guy's shot at happiness.
He has heard it called that, too.
Same principle applies.
But she could be anybody, from that position, that angle.
So that a part of his imagination is taken up in realizing the fact that it is in fact her that he is fucking and not someone, anyone else.
Where is the ultimate, face-to-face intimacy?
Easy-it's nowhere.
So that their distance is like a barrier between them.
It's like fucking with a rubber.
Perhaps the disadvantage is not so much physical as mental, the knowledge that it's there.
So that there would be nothing wrong with occasionally hammering her from the rear, in cunt or ass hole, if he were not constantly aware of why he has to-yes has to-do it that way.
And she will not let him forget why, not for a moment.
Oh, no.
There is no help for it but that she continue to run off at the mouth, on and on, forever and ever, world without end.
He gave it a fair shot.
The whole weekend, he took her that way.
And so much, so thoroughly did she enjoy it that it never occurred to her to ask him why he was doing it like that, to the exclusion of all other positions, varying only in the orifice of choice each time, picking sometimes cunt, sometimes ass hole, sometimes a combination of the two, but always, always achieving the desired effect-at least so far as she is concerned.
"I have to go out of town next week," he tells her.
The truth, but not the whole truth.
There is indeed a meeting next week, a whole new line of computer peripherals to be evaluated; in and of itself and as it relates to the needs of the market Bob's firm serves.
But, beyond that, there is also a conclave.
Quite a spectacular one at that, it will be.
It takes place in a series of natural limestone caves, which the Scribe has arranged to be for the exclusive use of the membership, in the guise, on paper, of an explorers' club.
So that he has been provided, along with the notice, with an ersatz identification card, identifying him as a member of the equally ersatz club, for use as an admission pass.
So that they will be using state park rangers at the entrance, as site security.
Authority in the service of sicko weirdness, if one can believe it.
And it is this that he is looking forward to.
"Call me from there," she says.
Yeah, right.
He will call her, all right; just before he leaves to attend the conclave.
And he has to admit that it is with a sense of relief that he finally completes the weekend with her.
Because he is looking forward to the conclave, so that he can relax, can unwind, can let himself go, can be free to be himself.
Gracie, Gracie, Gracie, he thinks. If only, if only.
But there is no sense his wishing.
Any more than he can bring himself to mention it to her.
In his own mind, he has rehearsed it a dozen different ways.
How to say it, how to let her know, how to ask her to stop.
Nothing works.
It all sounds so weak, so self-serving, so downright petty and nit-picking.
And dangerous.
Because it could well prove to be the opening of a floodgate of information about himself.
Because she could well ask him what else he likes and dislikes.
And he would have the choice of lying or of baring his soul.
And his soul is not of the sort that can withstand the light of day.
Surely, he would lose her if he did that.
No, that is a gate which must remain forever shut to her.
And this, this ... thing of hers must therefore be taken in stride.
Ah, if only I could! he tells himself.
Yes, how beautiful it would be, if he could simply ignore her voice and get on with the business at hand as though they were operating in blessed silence.
But that he cannot do, instead having to resort to this mental blocking of his, for all its diminution of his pleasure.
So oppressive is the problem that he actually looks forward to getting away next week.
He will work out in the gym early Monday to make sure that he is in peak condition for the conclave, and then catch the plane that afternoon.
The conclave is all set for Monday night, before the convention actually starts on Tuesday.
So that he can give it all night, if conditions justify it.
And they probably will.
He loves to do his thing in natural surroundings - caves and woods and such.
Because it seems to him as though he incorporates all nature into himself.
So that it is the most natural thing in the world for him to be as he is, to do what he does.
The beast in his natural habitat.
None of this being confined to a zoo of a house.
Although there is something to be said for the correct man-made structures, affording as they do places of cover and concealment, opportunities for ambushes and traps, sometimes to the point that it seems to him almost as though a given building were constructed especially for the purpose of providing him with the environment for his fun and games.
He knows that it isn't right; has known it for some time now.
He knows that he should fight the feeling.
He knows that, if that is his natural world, then he should change, should transform himself by an effort of the will into one who does what is expected of him by a society which, after all, has become ever increasingly more tolerant of open sexuality in. human behavior, from nude beaches to open displays of sexually oriented affection.
Yes, society has come a long way towards accommodating him, towards making such tastes in adventure as his own obsolete, unnecessary.
He is free to display himself and to disport himself in public.
And in fact has done so with Gracie on occasion at the nude beach, going as far as he dares before her mouth turns on and the heads start turning.
Because not even the nude beach is ready for all the way.
But still, it was nice, there in broad daylight with his broad daylight broad.
But it did not last, the good feeling.
Something was missing, something lacking.
Or perhaps it was the absence of a whole context, a whole dimension, a mode of being, thinking, acting which only the conclaves can provide.
Because the fascination is there, and as powerful as ever.
And probably here to stay, so far as he is concerned.
And it does serve such a useful purpose, especially now, when he is having this problem with his genuine attempt at transition from aberrant and bizarre to normal, which he recognizes his relationship with Gracie to be, at least in part.
So that now, he actually finds himself becoming quite excited at the prospect of this conclave in the caves.
And cannot wait to take his leave of Gracie, to put this weekend behind him, even though it is only early Sunday evening.
"Got things to do, babe. Gotta get home and pack. Got things to clean up at the office."
"Wanna hit the gym early tomorrow."
"Thanks for a really great weekend and all."
They kiss.
And he is out of there.
This is more like it, he thinks.
The caves.
Dark, natural vaults, fantastic rock formations.
And over all, a foreboding sense of uncompromising evil.
The abode of those below.
Where all is gloom and darkness, where the sunshine never reaches.
The bowels of the earth or else somewhere completely different.
His home planet, his natural environment, his lair.
An occasional glimpse of one or more others, like himself, seen at a distance, still getting their bearings, finding out where the running water is, being ever sanitation-minded, some of them.
Running water seems here in abundance.
Bob can even hear it, wherever he goes, flashlight in hand, not yet changed into his costume, which he carries with him in a soft-sided, barrel-shaped gym bag.
He has to give the Scribe credit on that one; wherever the conclaves are arranged, there's always running water.
Still, the Scribe-and hence the others, himself included, are taking one hell of a chance, coming to a place like this.
What if there's an accident?
And in this place, it wouldn't take much.
Sure, Bob has fresh batteries in his flashlight, and is packing spares to boot.
And he has brought rope and grapples with him, so that, should he have to climb up or down, in or out of some irregularity in the caves configuration, he will be all right.
But what of the others?
Have them been similarly circumspect?
Or will one of them suddenly find him or her self in pitch darkness and, instead of maintaining position, panic and plunge off a ledge or run terrified through the darkness, breaking a leg, if fortunate, a neck if not?
And Bob cannot help it; he grins at the thought of this last.
Real danger, whether or not these flabby, shallow pretenders bargained for it.
First the physical, then the political or legal or however one cares to think of the sudden exposure, should something go wrong and their escapades be exposed to the outside world.
Sure, those park rangers at the gate are all smiles and cooperation now; after all, they think this is a club of experienced spelunkers.
But let them have to come in here and pull some bizarrely caped and hooded figure with genitals exposed out of some sink hole and you'll see how fast the attitude changes!
Then it'll be nothing but kicking ass and taking names time. And questions, questions, questions.
Except, of course, from the employers of anybody who gets caught.
Because they will not want to know anything, except how fast the exposed wretch can clear out.
But then, Bob supposes that that's all a part of this scene as well-the constant threat of a sudden revelation, the clear light of day illuminating him, all of them, exposing them for the sick slugs hiding under rocks that they are.
Indeed, a part of him is actually hoping for this, hoping that there will be an end to all this.
Because, sooner or later, it will have to end.
And, call it a premonition, but Bob has this feeling that the longer it continues, the worse the ending will be, at least for himself.
Which is just another good reason why he is hoping to be able to give it up.
But not yet; not just yet.
He isn't quite ready.
The thrill is still a bit too poignant in this, his natural world, the adjustment still a bit too rough in the real world.
Odd, how this nightmare realm which draws him so is a refuge for him, at the same time an excitement and a comfort.
Warped. Sick. Perverted, he is.
And knows it.
But is not ready or willing to make the necessary change.
He is not willing to admit, however, that he may also be unable, that, try as he might, the conclaves will draw him back to themselves.
And the harder the struggle, the greater the draw.
So that, ultimately, he has only two choices.
Either he can do as he is now, being the most adept performer at this game of fiendishness, or he can become a puppet in the hands of his own blind urge, jerking and lurching through this underworld like some kind of mindless monster, abandoning himself to the vicissitudes of chance.
In other words, he can play the game or let himself be played along by it.
And this last, he knows, would never do.
That is a woman's stunt in this scene.
They're the ones looking for adventure in the classical sense, that is, having something happen to them, something that is a complete surprise and in no way under their control.
Speaking of which-there she is.
That same blonde.
Pseudo-Oracle, the heavier, he suspects older, version of Gracie he had tried to substitute and punish the other night.
The punishment worked; the substitution didn't.
She doesn't see him.
She is busy changing, the lantern-like flashlight she carries sitting on a rock ledge, illuminating a rather cozy little nook in the rock formations, the reflections of the light against the rock lending a kind of artistic charm to the scene, the lambent, gentle rays lighting up the naked contours of her body as she transforms herself into her bizarre persona, donning first her hood, a second too rapidly for him to see what she actually looks like.
And now, she fastens her garter belt around her waist, reaching down and hitching up her mesh stockings.
And now, the corset, pulled tight at the waist to emphasize, or in her case give her an hourglass figure.
Forget the cape, he thinks.
Because she is going to have enough trouble hobbling around the irregular cave floors on spike heeled boots, without getting caught on every protruding rock formation in the place.
Apparently, she agrees.
Because she holds up the cape and then rejects it, stuffing it into her duffel bag with the rest of her clothes, then stashing the bag behind a rock, looking around so that she will remember where she left her stuff.
And now, she's ready.
Except-
"Shit!"
Her exclamation echoes in the recesses of the caverns.
Yes, she has fallen victim to Murphy's law.
She broke a heel.
And there is no help for it but that she sit herself right back down and remove the other boot.
And she can hardly run around in stockinged feet, which she realizes at once, unhitching her garter belt and rolling the stockings down off her legs.
Gingerly, she stands up, taking a few tentative steps on her bare feet.
Kootchy, kootchy-coo, Bob, his own flashlight turned off, watching her from the darkness, thinks.
And then, he thinks, Cheer up, kiddo. Things are never so bad but that they can't get worse.
Quickly, he changes clothes in the dark, no great feat, in his case.
He has but to slip his trousers off over his boots, put on his hood and strip out of the rest of his clothes.
And he is ready.
Ready to pounce, that is, from the darkness, taking advantage of the light of her lantern as she stands there, debating as to whether or not to continue, in view of her barefoot state.
Fortunately or unfortunately, Bob is about to remove that decision from her hands. He is on her.
She is grabbed before she can move.
She is so surprised that she can only gasp, becoming suddenly rigid in his enfolding arms.
And she will be Gracie, whether she wants to or not!
This he decides, on the spot.
And he cannot say afterward what inspiration possessed him.
One minute, he is wrestling her to the ground, pinning her there; the next, one hand, or rather forearm holding her down, with his other he is reaching behind the rock, withdrawing her stockings there from.
And now, straddling her trembling body, he uses both hands-and both stockings.
One he balls up and sticks into her mouth; the other, he ties around her head, passing it between her parted jaws and knotting it behind her head.
And pausing, himself amazed at the powerful surge of sexual electricity that shoots through him, giving him an instant erection.
Because, here, here! is perfect freedom, the freedom to do to his victim absolutely as he pleases.
And there is nothing, nothing, nothing stopping him.
She cannot make a sound.
And he realizes, for the first time, that it is her silence which renders her absolutely helpless.
Because, in the other situation, she was free to cry out even though nobody would have come to her aid.
Still, she had that option, and that was a compromise to his freedom.
Because he would have heard her, and a part of him-a small part, an ineffectual, a repressed part, perhaps, but still he himself-would have wanted to come to her assistance against, against ... himself, of all the ridiculous things.
Ah, but here, now, it cannot happen!
He is immune, invulnerable-and unconditionally, absolutely free.
And suddenly, he understands about Gracie's chatter-understands and is enraged, offended by his understanding.
A defense mechanism, damnit!
And against him, of all people!
Against her own lover, for heaven's sake!
That's what all that chatter is-her encouraging herself, in the literal sense.
She is giving herself the courage she needs to go through with having sex-with him!
She is defending herself from crying out in terror by crying out in ecstasy.
And why?
Granted, if she knew the real him, he could understand it.
But he is her fucking lover, the stupid fucking bitch!
They two, destined to become as one, perhaps, and he gets this shit?
He knew, deep down, that there were underlying, deeply disturbing reasons for him to be as annoyed as he was by what she was doing, by this sudden shift in personality, this erratic, irrational behavior.
And now he knows.
A freaking defense mechanism directed against him!
Because, even now, he can see the terror in the big blonde's eyes.
She recognizes him.
She has survived her first encounter with him unscathed.
And yet, here and now, she too knows the difference.
Yes, if and when push came to shove back then, she could have screamed mightily.
Not effectively, in the end, perhaps, but nevertheless, it was the one weapon she had. And, having one weapon, she was by definition not totally defenseless.
And now, she is.
They are in silence, isolated, in almost total darkness.
And she has not even the potential of crying out for help.
And despair reinforces her terror.
This maniac did not kill, maim or disfigure her the first time.
But that was perhaps because the worse he hurt her, the louder she could scream.
And now, she cannot.
He can dismantle her, literally tear her limb from limb, and there is nothing, nothing, nothing she can do about it.
And he looks very, very angry to her, his square jaw clenched to the point of quivering with the tension of, of-what?
Some blind, all-consuming hatred, obviously.
Chapter Five
I miss him, Gracie tells herself.
And tries very hard to believe this, tries very hard to embrace Bob's image fully, without equivocation.
Because she is handling it so well, so very well, she tells herself.
For all her beauty, for all her sexuality, she has always had this problem with men.
And not with men so much as with the idea of men, of men as sexual creatures, of men and women together, the fuckers and the fuckees. There has always been a certain element of panic, of terror for her in this.
So that it took more courage than her dates could possibly suspect for her to be able to even go out with them, much less actually wind up going to bed and having sex.
Oh, she took all the proper precautions, was on the pill practically since puberty.
That wasn't, isn't the problem.
The problem is that, beneath the veneer of civilization with which we are all covered, masked, there lurks the beast, the lower animal, the creature of raw, base instinct.
And it seems to her to be lurking there, just beneath the surface, closer to emerging in some people than in others.
So that the world appears to her to be inhabited by werewolf-like creatures, human appearing, but with the beast filling them, filling the shell of their appearance and behavior.
And to her, the sexual act is basically the unleashing of the beast within.
And she does not care to be savaged, in fact fears it.
So that she has erected a defensive barrier in the form of a stream of perpetual chatter.
So that she is, as it were, directing as well as starring in something which is not the real thing.
And even those feelings, the responses of her body, her yielding to the stimulation, her losing herself in the pleasure, her ultimately experiencing the pleasure beyond pleasure-such things, left to themselves, frighten her within herself.
Because she is not that way.
Not wild, not bestial, not ... uncivilized.
And the image of her, red-faced, panting, sweating, moaning in ecstasy, nipples hard and erect, cunt hot and juicy, dripping with the intensity of her arousal-this she finds disgusting.
And yet, a part of her wants this.
A part of her embraces this image.
And not only this image, but the provocation behind it, the agent of her arousal, the beast within the man.
Yes, a part of her believes, wants very much to believe, that it's okay, all of it, that it is perfectly proper and well within the natural scheme of things for people to become animalistic at the right time and place.
So that she herself is unable to understand her revulsion, her constant need for protection, even in so bizarre and intrinsically ineffectual a form as her incessant chatter during the act.
And what she does is basically a compromise between the part of her which simply wants to let go, to make it happen, to let it happen free and utterly without restraint, and this unreasoning (and probably unreasonable, foundationless) fear or revulsion.
As though her pillow talk is a buffer between her two natures, which she thinks of as her upper and lower selves.
And cannot seem to reconcile herself to the fact that she is all one, single creature.
And speaking of single, she knows that that too is not in her best interests.
Rather, she should latch onto a successful, hard-driving business type like Bob.
So far, so good, on that score, she tells herself.
And her defensive patter even seems to turn him on, judging by the look of intensity on his face whenever they fuck.
Although, somehow, he seemed to be even more intense when he took her from behind all those times, over the weekend.
Still, he could hear her, so that probably helped.
And yes, she could be very happy with him, he with her, and like that.
Except that, there toward the end, he seemed somehow distant from her.
As though his mind were far, far away.
But perhaps that was merely the press of business, something she will have to get used to, if she is to ultimately end up with him.
Understanding, sympathy, understanding-all these things await him, if he does the deed with her, if they go all the way to the altar of matrimony together.
But before that, she realizes, she must reconcile herself absolutely to the idea that fucking is totally proper, that there is not a thing wrong with it, on any level.
And now, it is late at night.
And, lying there in bed, she thinks, should I do it again?
It.
Meaning use the toy, the one she bought, red-faced, steeling herself with determination so that she quickly marched into the adult book store that time, snatched it off the rack, paid for it in haste, and departed, clutching her brown paper sack, prize weighing heavily on the bottom.
And now, she reaches into the bottom drawer of the nightstand on one side of the bed.
And pulls out her sold rubber, eighteen inch, double-headed dildo, flesh-colored, thick, heavy.
And she stares at the well-formed, sculptured head, a perfect if over-sized replica of the real thing, looking into its deep eye.
And once more feeling that odd lump, that rising in her chest, into the base of her throat, which is the panic, the slight thrill of terror at what it represents.
Which just goes to show how ridiculous is her panic, she prompts herself.
And forces it into her mouth, sucking its smooth roundness, her tongue exploring its every facet, from the indentation of the eye to the thick, flared flange at the rear of it.
And she sucks it thus, holding the big monster with one hand, eyes closed, as, with the other, she delves into her cunt, playing with the nub of her clit, rolling a finger around on it, feeling her pussy become warm, the juices begin to flow, lubricating the digital action.
There, you see? she tells herself, mental tone calming, reassuring, totally reasonable, Everything is okay. There is no threat, no menace, no harm at work here.
There is only the male principle, in the form and of the texture nature intended.
So that it's all right, it's really all right for it to be as it is, and for you to feel as you do.
You were made for it.
It will be a perfect fit.
Will be-and is.
Because now she is reaching down, inserting the saliva-lubed head of the rubber monster into her wet cunt. "You see? You see how nicely it slides right in, how your pussy welcomes it with its smooth, slippery grasp?"
And she is doing it again, she realizes.
Verbalizing, by way of self-encouragement.
But there's nothing wrong with that either, so far as she can tell.
Except, perhaps, the necessity of her doing it at all.
But even that she can't worry about right now.
Because it has begun, the arousal.
"Forget how you look, concentrate on how it feels," she advises herself.
"Jam that fucker in, in, into yourself!"
"There! See how nicely, how smoothly it feeds into your pussy?"
"You were made for it, for heaven's sake!"
"Feel, only feel! how it works its way into you, how it meets and greets each and every nerve ending inside your hot fucking cunt!"
"Hah! Hah! Hah!"
And she is moving it in and out now, legs spread, straight and wide, on the bed.
And now, she raises her legs, bending them at the knees.
"There! That's right! Assume the position!"
And she reaches her working hand around her thigh, so that she is grasping the dildo from below, so that, looking down, she cannot see her arm working the monster, so that it seems to have a mind of its own.
And she pushes her thighs even closer to her body, improving the angle, improving the action of the huge rubber cock, making it go deeper and deeper, making her cunt's reception of it more and more complete.
So that now, she is almost doubled up, as though a large man were leaning on the backs of her thighs as he flicks her.
But it is herself flicking herself with the mighty dildo.
Yes, she is compromising with it, reconciling herself to it, to the idea of it, to the idea it represents.
She is definitely coming to terms with it.
Because-
"Oh yeah, baby! Yeah! Yeah! Fuck me! Fuck me long and hard, with that big, long, hard salami of yours!"
"Sock it to me, in and out, in and out!"
"Oh! Ooh! Just like that!"
"Ooo, you got it, lover!"
And her head rolls from side to side, eyes closed, face ruddy, shiny now with her sexual sweat.
As her wrist action forces the dildo into a highly credible fucking movement.
And yes, the surface of the dildo is becoming slimy with her hot, clear juices.
And yes, her cunt is actually sucking it as it moves in and out of her drooling pussy.
And yes, it is now at her over-heated body temperature.
And yes, it has stimulated her, has more than stimulated, has begun a chain of ascent through levels of arousal which feeds upon itself.
And she is listening to herself only sporadically now, the chatter incessant, the attention paid to it only intermittent.
But there is an odd comfort, a strange sense of security inherent in the sound of her own voice.
Which is apparently as necessary to the action as, say, the bed, the bedroom, the indirect lighting, the dildo - in other words, her chatter is an essential part of the whole scene.
And she simply has to let her mouth run on and on, not even thinking of what she is saying.
Words become interspersed with meaningless moans of pleasure, with grunts of satisfaction, with noises that, under other circumstances, Gracie would classify as animal.
Because-
"That's right, that's right! You're an animal! Nothing but a flicking animal!"
"You want it! You need it! You have to have it! More and more, damnit!"
"Get in there, get in there, get in there!"
And she takes her own advice, shoving the dildo in and out, faster and faster, harder and harder, as her vaginal muscles grasp and suck and devour its resilient mass.
She ignores the cramps in forearm and bicep, the awkwardness of the position, the strength and force necessary to make it happen as she is.
All, all are overwhelmed by the flood of sensations, the raw lasciviousness, the fundamental sexual urge which surges through her like sexual electricity.
Which at first came in waves.
Which became stronger, closer together.
Until, now, she is supercharged, radiant with the prurient sensations.
Which have merged their multitude, which have melded their chorus into a single, loud, steady hum, her blood pounding in her ears.
So that now, head thrown back, chin in the air, expression a grimace of utter sexual rapture, her wrist moves at almost vibrator speed.
As she pushes herself up, up, up-
And over the top!
So that she is coming and coming, the reflexes, the convulsions of her pussy milking the rubber monster of the pleasure beyond pleasure, causing her insides to spasm again and again, caught up in the transport of her series of multiple orgasms.
As her shrieks and moans of total sexual fulfillment echo flatly off the walls of her bedroom.
And beyond.
So that neighbors below and those above think that she is getting fucked by one hell of a stud - again.
"Must be one helluva lay, Maude," a neighbor remarks to his wife. "Counted twenty 'ooh's' and fifteen 'ah's' 'fore she got to the 'aha', that time."
"Maybe I should go down there and borrow him, Henry."
"Go ahead, Maude, but don't count on any miracles. Remember, it's gotta be at least partly inspiration from her."
And Maude huffs at the put-down.
Henry chuckles and goes back to reading his newspaper.
That was so right! Gracie thinks, lying back now on her pillow, legs akimbo, dildo still inserted in her cunt but unsupported, its long thick mass lying there between her flattened legs, like a flaccid cock attached to her.
No panic, no terror, no vague apprehensions, no strange misgivings.
Why can't I be this way with the real thing? she asks herself.
And she determines, and not for the first time, that from here on out, she will be.
She will be perfectly calm, totally accepting.
As soon as Bob returns from his trip.
Yes, she tells herself, she can definitely be this way, at least with Bob.
And if Bob is to be her one and only, and it certainly looks very much as though this could very well be the case, then it is not necessary for her to generalize this decision.
If it works with Bob, then it works period, in her case.
And now, she takes the dildo with her, into the bathroom.
They can shower together.
How very intimate.
Why didn't I think of this before? Bob asks himself, as he forces his turgid invader into the woman's terrified cunt.
And he looks down into her frightened eyes behind the eye slits of her hood, reading there the anguish, the terror of her utter helplessness.
And why utter helplessness?
Because she cannot speak.
She cannot scream, cannot make a single, solitary sound, except for muffled exhalations, sounds of desperation and fear which barely carry to Bob's ears, close as he is to her.
And he couldn't be any closer, that's for sure.
And now, he scoops her thick thighs up from below.
So that she is doubled up, bare back on a rock ledge, its cold, hard irregularities digging into her back.
And Bob, on his feet, bending over her, could care less.
He finds this utterly delightful.
The fiend, the monster, the demon which he has become (which he is?) is fully in his element and doing his thing.
Frantically, she claws at the gag.
But it is too tight, too well tied.
So that she ends up putting claw marks on her exposed chin.
Still, she has defied him by trying.
And such defiance must be punished.
So he releases one thigh, in order to free up a hand.
Forehand and back he smacks her face, rolling her head from side to side against the cold, hard stone on which she lies helpless.
She'll not soon try that again! he thinks.
And this is so delicious, fucking her like this.
And now, her thighs still resting on his biceps, he grasps one big breast in each hand.
And squeezes-hard.
Continuous, it is, the grip slowly tightening.
And he sees the grimace of pain come over her face.
But for him there is only pleasure and more pleasure.
Because his rock-hard cock is pistoning in and out of her cunt with perfect regularity, each stroke either way sending a fresh twinge of pleasure coursing through his whole body.
And she is his, to do with as he pleases, for as long as he pleases.
So that there is no need on his part to hurry or to worry.
And all because he has gagged her, so that she cannot attract attention.
Not that any audience she might attract would dare to interfere.
But still, others would be able to see, to watch him in action, to be forewarned, some of them, as to what is lurking, here in the darkness.
And he wants to come as a complete surprise to his victims.
That's part of the thrill, part of the fun.
That they do not know what they are up against until it is too late.
And now, he gets a fresh inspiration
True, he already has her doubled up.
But he can do better.
And his cock can do better.
Meaning that there is that other hole, right below the one he is now flicking, if only he can-
He can.
Because now, he releases her thighs, then braces a forearm against the backs of her knees.
And hears her groan of discomfort through the gag as he presses her still further back, thus exposing her ass hole.
Which he even now invades with his mighty prod, forcing it into her rectum with his free hand.
So that now, he has her doubled up completely, even as he reams her rectum royally with his rampant ramrod.
In and out, in and out he fucks her in the ass now.
As she rocks from side to side in discomfort, at least, if not in agony.
Not that he cares how much it hurts her.
The important thing is him, him, him!
And the feelings, the sensations that he can experience from this situation.
And right now, he is soaring, flying, on top of the world.
He is in total control of everything.
And it couldn't feel better.
He feels himself radiating the tingling power, so filled with it is he.
Forgotten for the moment is Oracle, is she of the mouth.
Because reality is here, now, totally, to the exclusion of all else.
What he can see, what he can feel - these are reality, his reality, the things, the only things that count.
The rest? Mere delusion, mental constructs, products of a feeble, self-deceiving organ, the weakest part of what is, fundamentally, a very weak creature indeed.
Yes, here he is onto pure, physical truth.
Which is how this, what he is doing, feels.
Which is better and better.
Which is more and more a thing which is to be desired, to be actively sought, to be made to happen, as much, as often as possible.
Because what else is there, really?
Nothing.
False hopes, false dreams, false impressions.
But there is no sham here.
No, this situation might be a put-on, from the standpoint of the others, all the others here; he cannot say for sure, one way or the other.
But for himself, it is the real thing, real in a way he has not found anything else to be.
And this is a reality to be indulged in, the reality of his true self engaged in the pursuit of his true pleasure.
The woman tries to ignore the pain and terror, to concentrate on the feelings which he is generating within her.
Or would, under other, more comfortable circumstances.
And yes, there is a content there, a stimulation of nerve endings.
After all, her interior, her bowels do not know where they are.
Don't know, don't care.
They only know that they are being aroused, and not for the first time, by a big cock.
And she survived her first encounter with this fiend, so why not this one.
Soon enough, he will pop his rocks.
And disappear before he deflates.
Because he has an image to maintain, and this cannot be done during a period of refraction.
So that the best thing for her is to simply lie back and enjoy it, as best she can, letting him have his way with her as he moves closer and closer to climax and the end of this
Chapter of his escapade.
After which, he will promptly disappear, she is sure, to recover in darkness, gathering his sexual strength, preparing for the next onslaught, against her or another.
Because she is certain that this, like their first meeting, is sheer coincidence.
Bad luck on her part.
Or good, she reflects, depending on how honest she is with herself when she thinks she is looking for thrills.
Because this is more, much more than she bargained for.
More man, more action, more fear.
Bob feels as though he could go on and on like this, forever.
Such power!
Such freedom!
But now, the pleasure begins to feed on itself, becoming stronger and stronger with each thrust, each withdrawal.
Look at those big balloons of hers!
Feel that bush of hers against the stomach, kissed occasionally by the parted lips of her pussy as he humps and pumps.
She's perfect for the purpose for which he is using her, he tells himself.
It's all perfect, all coming together perfectly, all so very complete, so very filled with more and more pleasure.
And part of him wants it to last forever.
And part of him wants more and more of the pleasure he is experiencing, even though the pressure of it is already at maximum within him.
More and more pleasure he summons, working his cock in and out of her ass hole.
And more and more pleasure comes.
Until he arrives at the pleasure beyond pleasure.
And he is coming and coming, powerful spurts of his jism injecting themselves in the depths of her bowels.
"Ah! Ah! Aha!"
And it is the deep, baritone exclamations of his own satisfaction as he comes and comes which echo now off the walls of the cavern.
And now, as suddenly as he was upon her, he disappears into the darkness.
Chapter Six
I need a gag, Bob tells himself, frantically searching through his bag for something suitable.
Had he only thought, he could have taken the one he made from the big broad's stockings.
But he wanted to make an effective exit, and thus could not be bothered with anything even vaguely resembling petty details.
Aha!
The very thing!
His spare pair of bulk knit socks, just in case he should have a wet foot type mishap down here in the bowels of the earth.
One in a ball, the other to go around the head of the next victim.
Yes, gags are definitely in this season, he chuckles to himself.
All set, ready to rock and roll.
No decent cave menace, no lurking troll should be without one of these babies.
And he ties the gag loosely around one wrist, the one which holds his flashlight, the other occupied with rope and grapple, ideal for climbing or for binding, and he is fully prepared to do either or both.
Perhaps he should pick a spot where he can gain a little height.
So that he can pounce, panther-like, on his unsuspecting, if not unexpecting prey.
Every now and again, as he passes through galleries or over ledges, he catches glimpses of caped and hooded figures.
Or sometimes merely erratic flashes of light, victims picking their way, aggressive fiends searching, searching, searching.
And now and again, a light will suddenly go out. A victim type seeking to elude capture?
Or a stalker, giving himself the advantage of darkness?
It doesn't matter; he knows what he is after.
Some dizzy, over endowed, under stimulated cunt, similar to the one he has just had.
Who will definitely get more than she bargained for.
He knows well enough what they want-a surprise fuck in exotic surroundings.
In other words, a scene from an erotic fantasy.
Well, how about a little real pain and bondage, ladies?
How's about some genuine terror from the genuine article, for a change, instead of from one of these soft desk jockeys out for a little illicit fun and games?
The real thing.
Mister cave monster himself.
Can you handle it?
Can you dig it?
Because, ready or not, here I come! And luck is with him.
Because, there just up ahead, he sees the perfect shape, the perfect object for his next attentions.
She wears no cape, so that he can see her hourglass figure, her bare, white buttocks, large and round, seeming almost to glow in the darkness, picking up the light from the lantern of her hooded and caped companion.
A man? A woman? Bob can't tell.
No matter; it's the one on the left that he wants.
His mind is made up and there can and will be no appeal.
All monster decisions are final and irrevocable.
He advances very quietly, not on tippy-toe in sissy fashion, but with great stealth, rapidly and in total silence.
And, just as they are passing a bench-like ledge, he pounces.
"Oh, hey, listen, uh, pal, uh, old buddy," the male figure says, as he throws the female onto her back to her screams of fright and surprise, "we're here, like, together, sort of, and we-"
Perhaps it is because he is clutching the coiled rope in his fist, the knuckles distended, taut and hard, as though he were holding a roll of coins in his hand, with all the reinforcement that provides, or perhaps it is a reaction of anger, of outrage at these play-actors, these players of hide and seek.
But, whatever the case, one blow to the man's jaw and he drops like a sack of potatoes, out like a light.
The woman stands there, frozen to the spot, looking down, in shock, speechless. And then she erupts.
"Are you insane? Have you totally lost your mind?
"This is a game, for heaven's sake!"
And she bends over the man, crouching down, raising his head, even doing the chief no-no, which is to remove his hood.
"Andy darling! Are you all right? You're not hurt or anything, are you?
"Speak to me, dearest! Come on, wake up, wake-"
She feels an iron hand on her soft, rounded shoulder.
Then, another roughly grabs her upper arm, clamping it in a vice-like grip, yanking her roughly to her feet.
And spinning her around.
So that, in the dim light of two flashlights, one on the ground where it has fallen from the hand of the unfortunate Andy, the other shining vaguely upward from where Bob has put it down on the rock ledge, she is staring into the dully gleaming, hooded eyes of madness.
So that the answers to her questions become abundantly clear.
Yes, he is insane.
Yes, he has totally lost his mind, if he ever had one to begin with.
But, more than that, he is large and powerful.
This is not some skinny piss-ant or some pot-bellied old man she is facing here.
And if his one shot felling of Andy is any indication, he is fully capable of the most sudden, the most extreme violence.
And not game, not let's pretend violence, either.
And, deep within her, the woman knows that she goofed.
Because a part of her always knew they were playing with dynamite, that it would, or at least very well could, come to this.
Which is-what?
And she trembles in fear, fear that her worst imaginings are about to come true.
As she sees a shapeless mass in one powerful hand, the other retaining its grip on her.
What is that he is holding?
Some instrument of torture or perhaps even sudden death?
A gag of some kind!
And she is almost relieved, realizing that it is not going to be used to somehow torture her.
Okay, okay, so the guy is a bondage freak.
She can handle that, has handled it, in fact, experimenting with Andy.
With Andy who is-what?
Merely unconscious, or seriously injured, broken inside, bleeding internally, perhaps?
But at least, he feels no pain, she tells herself.
Adding, parenthetically, the bastard!
Because he, he! has gotten them into this mess.
She never wanted, never needed this horseshit, this silly, almost childish game.
Which might not be a game at all, as she always knew, yes knew, as she tried to tell him many, many times.
But would he listen to her?
Nooo!
And now, lo and behold, it has come to pass, even as she predicted.
And ass hole there is dead to the world, leaving her to face this fiend all alone.
Some companion you are, Andy!
And her initial sympathy and concern for him turns to a cold indifference, superceded by her own plight.
He got what he deserved and, she strongly suspects, she is about to.
So big, this guy is!
And strong, as he lifts her effortlessly placing her on the ledge, then dragging her body around to just the right angle so that he can-
"Mmmmph!" she exclaims through the gag in surprise, not that he should have a hard-on, but that it should in fact be so hard, so large.
Other times, other places and he could have been her type.
Maybe.
As it is, he is-what?
A rapist who has discovered his perfect forum?
Or worse, a homicidal maniac.
Because the urges that drive people to do this are but the merest surface indicators of what lurks beneath.
Just the tip of the iceberg.
As she tried to explain to that idiot Andy.
He wanted spice in his life7
He wanted adventure?
How ya doin' down there, sport?
Ya havin' fun yet? Fucking ass hole!
Might as well enjoy it, she says to herself, sighing in resignation. After all, it could be her last fuck.
At least, she thinks, it'll be a good one.
As he doubles her up, brawny arms beneath her thighs, hands reaching around to grab her breasts, none too gently but still not actually trying to hurt her.
As he very well could, as she is only too well aware.
And it is his potential which she finds most frightening about the situation.
Not what is happening, but what could, what might yet.
If not for that ghastly potential, she could almost enjoy this.
Because the man is bigger, more powerful than Andy.
He is what Andy only makes a stab at pretending to be.
And how very far Andy falls short of the mark is driven home to her now.
The strength! The energy!
Andy never, not in his youngest days, not in his best moments, performed with anywhere near this vigor!
Because there is an enthusiasm at work here, which is not that of love, of affection, perhaps even not of desire.
Rather, it is a driven thing, an urge which seems to transcend sexuality.
What is driving this brute, this monster?
Hate?
But that is a term which, like love, means everything and nothing.
Hate, like love, is in the eye and mind of the beholder.
Hate could ultimately mean the hatred of himself.
So that he is acting upon, reacting to, that which he sees of himself in her, and which he finds unacceptable.
Softness.
Vulnerability.
Relative (at the moment, absolute) helplessness.
Poor judgment in coming here, in being here like this.
Presumptuousness, in the form of a groundless optimism, in the feeling that, for all the potential danger, nothing really bad could or would happen to her.
Ridiculous!
How could it not, sooner or later?
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! she shouts at her attacker in her mind. After all, I do deserve it.
Yes, she's got it coming, no question. This is what the luck she was asking for.
And in a way, a very strange, very sick way, a part of her is glad this is happening.
To realize one's worst fears and survive them is excellent for one's mental balance.
And part one of the project is well underway.
Because he is certainly real, more real than anything she has encountered recently, at the conclaves or elsewhere.
Those are genuine sensations of arousal being fed into her in rapid, powerful succession, one following the other, faster and faster, harder and harder.
And reaching her.
Reaching inside her without her having to stretch one iota in her mind, without her having to contribute anything at all from the wellsprings of her imagination.
It's being done for her, all of it.
It's happening within her, the communication, the messages which go from his body, his cock, directly into the innermost depths of herself, the involuntary interior where her own mind cannot reach, where she cannot know herself.
As his magnificent monster of a hard-on stimulates each and every nerve ending in her hot, drooling pussy.
As her cunt sucks its invader, devouring it, drawing it into itself, clinging to it in hot, wet, slippery but firm embrace, sucking it on the backstroke.
My first real fuck, she tells herself, all the ones before being mere shadows, sham, cheap imitations of the real thing.
And she is supposed to go back to Andy after this?
Forget it!
Provided, that is, that she survives.
Because there is no understanding, no guarantee with this, this ... whatever he is.
With his super strength.
With his super urge, that driving force within him she has never seen before, has never known before, in theory or practice.
Even now, her body is responding.
She is getting hotter and hotter.
She feels her nipples come to life, the glands behind them harden within his constantly kneading grasp.
On and on he fucks her, each thrust, each withdrawal producing its own fresh thrill, its surge of sexual electricity.
And her only thoughts now are of him, of her yearning to possess and be possessed by him. The things they could do!
If only.
If only they were in bed together, if only she were free to move, to explore.
She longs to be able to run her hands over his magnificent musculature.
She wants, more than she has ever wanted anything, to feel and taste him, to help herself to handfuls of his buttock's, to see and rim his ass hole, to explore his cock-head, shaft and balls-with her mouth to her heart's content.
What she could do for and with and to him, if only he would allow it!
Sickening, the waste of her, like this.
Because she knows that, for better or for worse, this is a one shot proposition going down here.
Indeed, it cannot be otherwise.
Not after the way he began.
An assault.
Possibly, if not intentionally, even a deadly assault.
How does she know, how, for that matter does he, the extent of Andy's injuries.
He could be killed or maimed or otherwise suffering some permanent damage.
And, face it, this creature from out of the darkness could care less.
So that no, he is not about to stick around.
And in fact, to be doubly secure, to really take no chances, he could very well decide to do her in when he is through taking his pleasure, or what in him passes for pleasure, from her.
Because, unlike her feelings of the moment for him, with him, there will be no residue, nothing left over in his mind for her.
He is going all out on this one time only deal.
Clearly, he is holding nothing back.
He is riding for all he is worth.
Or is he?
Now, she reflects, that would be magnificent!
The idea that this, even this, this ... stellar performance is actually nothing but a part of what he is capable of showing her, of giving her, of doing to her by way of sexual gratification.
Oh sure, this is probably a one shot proposition.
But.
What if?
What if he really is capable of going at her like this, again and again, with, say, a mere half hour's refractory period between rounds?
She cannot help but wonder, even in the midst of her discomfort (a rock ledge for a bed, for heaven's sake!) and fear about the true extent, the real dimensions of his prowess.
As he stands to stud there, pouring it on, thrust after thrust, each as powerful, as determined as the one before.
So that yes, he is a menace, possibly even a deadly menace to her.
But, at one and the same time, he is also a prime stud.
Because this is a hairy situation, even for him, after what he did to Andy.
And yet, there is no sense of urgency, of haste, of furtiveness, of the need on his part to be in, out and gone in the shortest possible time, never to be seen again.
Which is, would be the action and attitude of a rapist.
So that no, he is not some pervert taking advantage of a bunch of other perverts to "do his thing" which, stripped of its mystique, is simply good old-fashioned rape.
Rather, this is his world, is very much his world.
Their playground-hers, Andy's, the others'-is where he dwells, where the real him resides.
So that they are actually intruders here, people who literally do not belong here (as she tried to tell Andy), stumbling, bumbling invaders who don't even know what it's all about, this world of darkness and danger.
And, not knowing, are prepared to give themselves a few minor, erotic thrills and chills for a few hours or a night before returning back to reality, their reality, to look back in amused contempt at their adventure, to look forward with that same sense of detached amusement, of implied superiority, to the next conclave.
And yes, each conclave leaves them a bit more smug, a little more self-confident.
Because, after all, they have braved the terrors of night and darkness to emerge once more unscathed.
Which proves that they are, after all, superior beings, superior even to their own concept, their images of themselves.
Except.
Except for luck, except for the vicissitudes of chance which has prevented them from experiencing the worst case scenario, from running head on into what could happen, into the true potential of the situation, be it in cave, in forest, in mansion or ruin.
Yes, it is surely the luck of the draw which has caught up to them now, Andy in one way, herself in another.
Maybe.
Because there is no guarantee here that, when all is said and done, she will not end up next to Andy, out cold, in total darkness, on the floor of a cave.
Out cold-or worse.
No guarantees, none at all.
Only this potential for violence, for the unleashing of vast reserves of brute force, of which she is now receiving but one form, and a relatively mild one at that.
For all its capability to captivate, to enthrall, to fascinate, to sexually delight, she adds, to herself.
Because he is good!
And better than good, magnificent.
He takes her up the rainbow, over, down the other side, and back up again.
Maybe, she thinks, maybe I'm just a nympho, at heart.
But no, she has never felt this way before.
Only with this ravaging beast from the depths of darkness.
As he takes her to multiple orgasms, not disrupting his steady. humping of her even in response to the milking action of the powerful contractions of her vaginal muscles as she comes and comes, finishes her series, and begins the ascent once more.
Whatever else he may be, she thinks, he is a true fucking machine.
And she cannot know, cannot suspect that his staying power is due, in part, to his having "gotten the edge off with his previous encounter.
Nor can she know of his cold indifference to her as a person.
She is in no particular, no real danger from him.
She does not exist for him as a person but as a mere object, a living device for him to get off on and in.
His violence against Andy?
Andy was another object, standing between him and his objective. Andy was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Tough shit for Andy; it happens.
And now, Bob is building to climax.
Harder and harder he pumps her, holding nothing back.
Until-
He is coming and coming within her, the throbbing head of his mighty cock spewing forth wad after wad of his thick, hot jism.
And when he is done, he deftly unties the gag from around her head, even before he pulls his cock out of her.
Then, he quickly grabs rope and flashlight, throwing the other one against the wall of the cave, smashing it.
He leaves them in utter darkness.
"Bastard!"
And her voice echoes throughout the caverns.
In the distance, through this opening and that, Bob can see figures moving, lights flashing.
Others will find them, no doubt.
Others will come across them, take one look at Andy, and at once come out of their roles, returning to reality in the face of human crisis, confronted suddenly by the necessity of rendering aid to an injured man.
But such things do not concern Bob.
Still, prudence, even in the guise of animal cunning, has its part to play.
And before the rangers arrive, before the ambulance is called, before the artificial lights, the sirens sound, he will be out of there, long gone, taking with him the satisfaction of having gotten his nuts popped in the most delightful way twice and that of having discovered a new, oddly meaningful refinement in his sexual technique.
The gag.
Works like a charm.
And carries with it a power, a mystique, a sexual significance which is nothing but a big turn-on for him.
As well as providing him with the answer to the problem of Gracie's big mouth.
The only thing being how best to get it on her without revealing this aspect of himself, his dark side.
Details, details, Bob tells himself, as he gets dressed.
"Leaving so soon, sir?" the ranger at the gate asks.
"Well, there's a lot more I would have loved to look at," Bob replies, "but you people won't allow us to use pitons."
"Sorry about that, sir, but we can't have the natural formations being defaced."
"Understood," Bob sighs. "Well, have yourself a nice evening now. Or morning, or whatever."
"You too, sir."
And Bob drives back to the hotel where the computer convention is being held.
Chapter Seven
Yeah, yeah, yeah, Bob thinks.
Right idea? Maybe.
Wrong audience? Definitely.
"... and so, as you can see, the modem construct can be very neatly installed in the motherboard, either as insert or actually hard-wired to the motherboard .. "
Yeah, all right. So?
What do I look like, fucking IBM? Mister Tandy, perhaps?
Give me something I can use, for crissakes!
Because this is bullshit.
If the manufacturers go along-and, in and of itself, it certainly sounds like the right idea-then these guys have got it knocked.
It's neat, it's cute, and communications is definitely the name of the game.
And obviously, given a choice, Bob would be the first to push a network incorporating the so-called modem construct model micro's as opposed to those which are not.
But as for the basic model revisions, that is a decision only the manufacturers or the big contractors can make, and Bob doubts that their people are even here.
Because this is the cute peripherals show.
This is bells and whistles time.
This is "nice to have" week.
"... and of course, you can also install it yourselves"
Of course we can, Clyde!
Why not?
We install everything else ourselves.
But the secret to this thing's success, if it is to be a success, is that it comes already built in.
And if I'm going to install anything myself, meaning urging my customer base to do so, it's going to be name brand stuff, Hayes or something like that, names that are known and trusted.
Because Bob is not about to blow his reputation by touting brand X.
Not for something as fundamental as communications.
So forget it.
Forget it, because, damnit, he doesn't wanna know. The only tempting thing about the item as it stands is that he would like to chuck what he's doing now and market the son of a bitch properly, meaning going to the movers and shakers in the hardware end of the business.
But that's merely a zinger, a pipe dream.
He is not about to do anything to shake up his business life.
Bad enough that he's going to have to take a risk in his love life when he gets back.
Which he will.
Because the gag thing is just too good.
It works too well for him not to use it, regardless of risk to his image.
Because things as they are have become intolerable.
Before his discovery, they were merely difficult.
And he has seen the light.
He has, he knows the better way.
He is taking advantage of the convention to stall, to gather his forces, to steel himself for the push to come.
When he must, in some fashion, face Gracie.
When he must convince her that wearing a gag is sexy.
But, thus far, he cannot picture himself actually doing this.
Much as he would like to, much as he would prefer to just let the beast within himself take over and simply force her, worrying about the fallout, the aftermath later, he knows that it will not work that way.
It can't.
She knows nothing of his world, his or any other in which restraints of any kind are used in conjunction with sexual activity.
Besides, it is precisely her incessant chatter which is apparently the indispensable feature of her scene.
Hence, he is about to run contrary to everything she stands for in bed.
He is about to deprive her of the main, the essential aspect of her love-making.
Which, granted, is indulged in by her in order to give her courage.
And it is probably courage against precisely just such things as he is about to force upon her.
So that her worst fears concerning sex are about to be realized-that is, made real.
Bummer, but there it is, and there is no help for it but that the project go forward, for better or worse.
But now, he is trying to pay attention to the next presentation.
He has looked over the displays, but there is also this presentation schedule, in which the nitty-gritty, the technical details and features are explained for the products being exhibited.
And this one house seems to have again missed the boat.
Because-
".. and will not only retain picture in the brightest glare, but blocks harmful radiation as well. So that, as you can see ... "
I can see you're an ass hole, is what I can see, Bob thinks.
Dummy! Tell the tube makers, the CRT folks about it, not me!
Glare is the customer's problem.
Here's the set-up, here's what it will do, where and when and how many do we install and incorporate into the network?
That's Bob's thing as, he is sure, it is that of all the others in attendance here today.
And how do you get from that to this?
Easy-you don't.
Such problems in his personal life, Bob thinks, and he has to sit here and listen to these supposedly brilliant people make yet another fundamental strategic error?
Definitely a need for guidance, direction in that firm, Bob thinks. But later for that.
And yet, and yet.
Is what he is about to do all that different?
Right idea, wrong audience?
Going about the whole thing the wrong way, isn't he?
Slapping her with the gag cold turkey is not the way to go.
But it is the way he has tentatively selected, for want of a better approach.
Okay, so that's the wrong thing, as wrong as the presentation he is seeing here from, from-looking down at the schedule-Superior Technologies.
What they need is to construct customized models, using the-manufacturers' own equipment with the modification installed.
A demonstration is what's needed, a presentation to the true target market as accomplished fact.
And he realizes, with a shock, that he could just as easily be talking about the gag and Gracie.
She has to be shown.
And he knows just how to do it, to make it happen.
So simple to do the right thing, when you see the other fellow getting it wrong.
And it would seem that this convention hasn't been a total waste of time after all.
Bob opens the package and grins.
So, he thinks, the Scribe went for it.
Why not?
Especially since Bob went to the trouble of buying the socks, assembling the gags, running off the explanatory notes on a computer printer, and shipping them to the Scribe at his post office box - anonymously, of course, but with a complete explanation.
Idiot-proofing, they call it, in the computer business.
And, as he had known he would, the Scribe found it irresistible.
An added feature, guaranteed to please the warped minds the Scribe is dealing with.
There it is-a pair of plain, white tube socks, one rolled into a ball and stuffed inside the other, about half way.
And a note, explaining that members using gags are requested to use the enclosed, which is safe, sanitary, and will have a useful afterlife as an ordinary pair of socks.
And of course, the notice of the regular conclave.
Which will take place at the mansion on Long Island again, a location fast becoming their regular fallback or standby meeting place.
Which also fits nicely into Bob's plans.
No traveling involved, at least not something requiring extensive and expensive travel arrangements.
All that remains now is a basic selling job on Gracie.
Not easy, but he is sure he can handle it, at least the first part of it.
And he does.
"How did you ever come across this, this club or whatever it is?"
"Guy I know told me about it."
"But these costumes! Are you sure this is what they'll all be wearing?"
"Uniform, or so I understand."
"Besides, what are you worried about? You wear less than that at the nude beach."
"This is true," she concurs. "Gosh, what a spooky looking place!"
"That's the whole idea. But not to worry. You're with me."
If a flabby wimp like that guy Andy could get away with escorting his woman to these things without incident until he met Bob, then surely Bob should have no trouble.
"We're just going here to look, right?" she asks.
"Right. We watch the others. We touch no one and no one touches us, as Simon and Garfunkel said in the song."
"I am a rock, I am an i-hihi-land," Gracie sings softly to herself by way of gathering her courage, as they approach the dark, spooky edifice from the parking lot, where quite a number of cars are already parked, Bob the fiend in his usual attire, Gracie in classic dominatrix drag, complete with cape and hood, walking stiffly in her newly-acquired, spike heeled boots.
But she reaches for his hand nonetheless, when they enter the building.
"So dark!" she hisses. "I can barely see!"
"There're dim bulbs on, here and there," Bob replies. "Just let your eyes get used to the darkness."
She does and they do.
They enter the living room.
Where, bound and gagged on a couch, a woman, in the costume identical to Gracie's, is getting raped by two men, dressed, naturally, the same as Bob, in cape, hood and boots, with nothing in between.
Unique it is, the way they are going about it.
One man will throw a dozen or so lunges into her, then stand back, huge erection bobbling before him, gleaming dully in the dim light, as the other takes over, practically without missing a stroke.
And the woman hands ties behind her, wearing the familiar, Bob-supplied gag, can only lie there and take it.
Which, judging by the way she spreads her legs and bends her knees, not with standing the lethal kicking potential in those spike-heeled boots of hers, is exactly what she wants to do.
That much seems evident, even to Gracie.
And Bob knows the type; knows it very well, in fact.
Knows exactly what she is thinking as she justifies what is happening to herself.
I'm completely helpless. The matter is totally out of my hands. There is nothing, nothing, nothing I can do except lie here and take it.
Which makes it all right.
So that she is free to enjoy herself, given that she can do nothing else.
She has no choice-and isn't that simply delightful?
Bob is sure she finds it so.
And Gracie can clearly see that she does.
As she looks, fascinated, at the scene, something novel, completely unique in all her experience - and sexy as hell.
So that she is almost hypnotized by the action, her gaze transfixed.
As she empathizes with the woman on the couch, as she-envies her?
Too much to hope for, perhaps, Bob thinks, but nonetheless, the interest is there.
The interest-and with it, surely, a bit of role-playing fantasy?
And she is in fact reluctant, as Bob pulls on her hand, trying to move her on.
But she does not wish to give herself away, so that she drags her gaze from the spectacle before her and dutifully accompanies him.
The den, or what was once the den or library, judging by the bookshelves, empty now, gathering cobwebs, adding to the lugubrious, melodramatic atmosphere.
But their eyes are drawn to a couch, on which another two-some is operating on yet another woman, this one gagged but not bound.
And the dynamic duo of the moment consists of a man and a woman, he rather diminutive, she oversized, blocky, rather masculine with square jaw and well developed shoulders.
As she straddles the woman's face, crotch inches from the gagged mouth, the better to keep the victim's legs spread as the man eats her.
And Bob and Gracie's timing is exactly right, apparently.
Because the little man now reveals the fact of his cock.
Which is the main fact about him, the major feature of his very being, so long, so thick, so disproportionate to the rest of him is it.
And they hear a stifled moan through the gag from the pinned and helpless woman on her back on the couch, as the harridan above her continues to hold her thighs apart, even as the man enters her with his prodigious prod.
And Bob grins, knowing the woman on top's scene.
Knows that, vicariously, it is she who is fucking the woman, satisfying her lesbian lust as in life she never can, as she does so in the only environment that will permit her this particular merging of fantasy and reality.
And the gag helps.
Because she does not want her pussy eaten; that is something one woman does to another, yes.
But she, she! is not a woman!
She is a man trapped in a woman's body and where has Bob heard that one before?
So they watch.
And Gracie's attention seems torn between the victim's reactions and the sight of that mighty piston working out on the spread and exposed pussy, the piston action smooth, rapid, powerful.
And Bob knows that she is picking up on the fact of this victim's being gagged-as was the other, as will they all be tonight, he is sure.
So that the message will be delivered, again and again.
So that Grade will have pictured herself, not bound, perhaps (he would never try that with her), but certainly gagged, and getting it, if not from him, then from any, from all of these others, imagining herself in these exact same situations, over and over.
And in fact-no.
He would not want that.
He would not want to see Gracie develop a full-fledged yearning to enter this world.
That would be going much too far, much farther than he wants or needs to go.
Still, who knows?
And now, the little man with the big cock is building to climax.
As, apparently, is his partner.
Who is breathing every bit as hard as he is.
Whose face, what can be seen of it beneath the hood, is getting every bit as red as is her partner's.
Whose huge, mighty breasts are showing hardened points for nipples, so great is her arousal from the scene.
And who is breathing like a bellows or a steam engine, even as the huge cock discharges its load, again and again, into the depths of the spread and helpless cunt.
But who says nothing.
(Do you see that, Gracie? The woman is about to come and still she says nothing!)
And Bob cannot be positive, of course, but he could swear that all three of them are coming now, the moans from behind the gag certainly those of sexual ecstasy.
As are the long, throaty exhalations of the big woman on top.
As are, unquestionably, the gasps escaping from the little man with the big engine.
Bob risks a sidewise glance at Gracie.
To see that she is breathing hard in empathy with the trio before them.
And he thinks, My gosh! She's actually getting hot over this!
So that she is more than interested, more than fascinated, she is becoming, in some measure - involved!
It's working, it's working, it's working, Bob sings to himself.
You touch no one and no one touches you, huh Gracie?
You are a rock, you are an island, right, kiddo?
So how's come you're breathing hard?
Why can't you tear yourself away from this scene, if you're so fucking uninvolved?
And now, just as the trio begin to wind down, a woman, cape flying behind her, breasts cleaving the air before her, runs screaming through the room, hotly pursued by a husky stud, gag extended before him in both hands.
Bob and Gracie see him chase her through the open door of the den and up the broad staircase to the second floor.
They can hear her scream growing fainter and fainter, when, suddenly, it is cut off all together.
Bob gestures in the direction they went and Gracie, with a final backward glance at the collapsed, relaxed trio, comes with him.
They go up the stairs, past closed doors, one after another, until they come to one that is open.
And there, on an ornate four-poster of a bed, they see the stud, straddling his victim's back, deftly completing his tying of the gag behind her head.
And now, he rolls her over, continuing to straddle her body.
And he slaps her face back and forth, whacking it from one hand to the other, again and again, hard, resounding smacks that echo flatly in the dingy confines of the high-ceilinged, gloomy room.
A rough one, Bob thinks, almost as rough as is he himself on all such occasions but this.
And now, the stud sticks his throbbed of an erection into her cunt, humping away as her legs bicycle on either side of him, her screams muffled sounds of quiet desperation through the gag, which seems to excite the stud still further, judging by the way he suddenly increases the force of his thrusts into her.
"Mmmph! Mmmph! Mmmph!" the, woman exclaims through the gag, each time he lunges into her, lying heavily atop her.
And these are not so much outcries of protest as they are the sound of the wind being repeatedly squeezed out of her.
The guy is in good shape, Bob notices, but he could definitely stand to lose a few pounds.
But all that Gracie sees is a perfect rear view of the action, his balls seeming to drive his long, thick cock in and out of the woman, again and again, forcing that sound through the gag each time.
I could live with that, Bob thinks.
Meaning the particular sound the woman is making.
Yes, he could definitely handle it.
And now, it becomes obvious to Bob that the stud means to ride her all the way home, the extent of his imaginativeness consisting of the use of the conveniently supplied gag and the desultory slapping around.
And once more, Gracie seems reluctant to be pulled away from the scene.
But at last, she permits it.
And Bob leads her by the hand down the dimly lit hallway.
And opens a bedroom door.
Empty.
He starts to close the door, to move on, but Gracie stops him.
He casts her a glance of inquiry.
"Could we, uh-you know?"
He shrugs.
And, from a pocket in his cape, produces the gag, showing it to her.
"Yes!" she breathes.
And turns around so that he can tie it to her with perfect adjustment.
He does.
And she lies down on the bed and assumes the position, on her back, legs raised and spread, knees bent.
And the sight of her, gagged, in costume, here, like this, arouses him.
And he eats her, but just to be sure that her juices are flowing.
And he hears her making sounds like a conversation in a room too far away to make out the words.
That, he tells himself, that I can live with.
As he mounts her, shafting into her with a thrill of sexual joy, not of this dark and perverted world, but of her world, the world of sunlight and common reality.
And he humps away, gazing into her eyes, their hooded visages regarding each other in expressionless wonder.
Faster and faster he humps.
And her stream of muffled chatter goes on for a while, them becomes sporadic, then ceases altogether.
Because it becomes ridiculous, even to her.
Yes, she is saying the words, but they are going nowhere.
And yes, she needs to say them for her peace of mind, or perhaps merely from reflex, since old habits die hard.
But finally, it becomes obvious to her that such speech is futile.
It is the thought that counts, for whatever that's worth.
Which is not much, compared to the flood of sexual stimulation of lascivious arousal which inundates her.
So that she can think the words, if she wishes.
But why bother, really?
Because all they are is a ridiculous distraction and a subtraction from her unadulterated enjoyment of her own pleasure.
And so, she stops.
And blessed silence reigns, as Bob leads her up the rainbow of their shared sexual arousal, higher and higher, climbing toward the pleasure beyond pleasure.
And feeling the pressure of that ultimate pleasure coming closer and closer, building and building within them, until-
They are coming and coming, and she has never known such intensity before, just as he has never known such complete satisfaction from her.
The force, the intensity of their climactic spasms jerks them this way and that, like helpless puppets, until, at last, they are all done, content to collapse into each others' embrace, to lie there and rest for a long moment.
At last, he reaches for the gag. But she shakes her head and, his detumescing cock still captive within her, begins to revolve her hips, massaging him gently with her pussy lips.
Chapter Eight
It's all so perfect, Bob thinks.
His life, that is.
His and Gracie's, that is.
Just tie on the gag and she is ready to rock and roll.
The mere sight of it seems to excite her.
Or at least, it did at first.
Yes, for the first few weeks, all he would have to do was produce the gag (stupid, really, but whatever turns her on, right?) and he could almost see the flush of incipient passion come to her cheeks, could hear the difference in her voice, her tone, her expression.
Instant readiness.
That was the first phase.
Then, one night, she asked if he couldn't bring his costume with him when he came over.
Well of course he could!
And in fact, it made for quite an interesting evening.
Bob the beast pretending to be Bob the man pretending to be Bob the beast.
Few fiends find fast fun that way.
And in fact, it gave him quite a "kick", the idea, the notion that he should be involved in such layered intrigue at the same time as having terrific sex, terrific-and meaningful.
Because Gracie is indeed proving to be the girl of his dreams-part of his dreams, anyway.
Oh, the images persist, those of himself in pursuit of voluptuous but anonymous nookie, of him treating them none too gently, of him terrorizing them in that other world.
And it does seem odd to him, to be in costume and yet be making love to his one and only in this, the real world.
He tries flights of fantasy, taking liberties, unbeknownst to her, indulging himself while in the act.
But it doesn't really work all that well.
Having known the real thing and known it to a degree that literally leaves nothing to the imagination, he finds it hard to derive all that much of a thrill from mere imaginary constructs, especially when the only time he tries it is when he is with something which, speaking objectively, is much better than anything he has ever run across in mansion, cave, or forest of the night world he calls-or called-his own.
Which no longer exercises its hold over, its fascination for him.
Which is attractive, to think about casually, but which, upon closer introspection, proves itself illusory, a sham, a delusion and a plaything for others rather than a separate, an alternative reality for himself.
Because he doesn't need it; not really, not any more.
Whatever he was looking for, whatever he hoped to find there no longer seems to matter.
Because, whatever it was, whatever else it might have been, it was surely sexual.
And now, he has it made.
Variety may indeed be the spice of life.
Perhaps, eventually, he may have to seek out alternatives. Perhaps.
All he knows for sure, however, is that, right here and now, Gracie is everything he ever wanted in a woman-a real woman, that is, as opposed to a mere sex object, a plaything, to be used and abused as he sees fit.
And the gag? The costumes?
Window dressing.
Some women put on sexy underwear from Fredericks of Hollywood or cheap imitations there of to lend added interest to the bedroom.
Others try perfume or even makeup.
Still others make a big deal of the use of sex toys.
So that the idea of dressing up to go to bed, of adding factors to the equation, is not new; far from it, in fact.
And Bob sees nothing wrong in this, other than the rather intellectual drawback that Gracie doesn't know what the costumes really represent, what they are intended to state or imply concerning the wearer.
Which, on balance, is just as well.
He is certain that she knows nothing of the history of a dark tradition which has not changed in form or content in what? Several hundred years?
No, all Gracie knows is that it makes her feel good, sexy, excited and exciting.
And he is not about to find fault with that.
And another amusing and interesting feature is that, since she cannot speak during the act, she has taken to giving very explicit and detailed instructions prior to it.
So that yes, he would love to eat her cunt, then fuck her in the ass hole from the front, so that she can see his hooded face, his muscular body, his flowing cape as he ass fucks her.
And of course he has no problem sticking his thumb into her cunt, flicking her front and rear from the front.
Because he can look into her eyes, he can see her face, he can see her chewing on the gag, straining at it, using it as a fetish to add yet another dimension, to excite herself still further with what they are doing.
But the most exciting aspect of this is to hear her say it, to hear her ask for what she wants and then to perform to specification, as it were.
So that their sex has gotten hotter and hotter, since, at Gracie's suggestion, they added the costumes as well as the gag to the sexual equation.
And life with her is all that he ever hoped it would be.
And the beast within him has no excuse, no cause for 'continuing to exist.
It served its purpose for a while.
Hell, it was him for a while.
But now, no longer.
He recognizes no part of himself in what, after all, turned out to be a temporary alter ego.
And he knows that he is better off without Bob the beast.
Because that thing with that fat guy and his broad, well, that was a bad scene, and one which gets worse with each recalling of it.
He could have seriously injured, even killed the guy.
And not even cared at the time.
And that's sick.
He recognizes that now.
Just as he realizes that that whole scene was sick.
Not just bizarre, which would be a matter of taste.
Not just perverted, which would be a matter of opinion.
No, just plain, old-fashioned sick, is what it was.
A bunch of crazy broads roaming around in the darkness, looking to get raped.
A bunch of crazy guys, out to do in the dark what they have neither the courage nor the ability to do in daylight.
Yes, he is well rid of that whole scene.
Oh, he still gets mail from the Scribe.
He has bypassed one-no, make that two-conclaves so far, and has every intention of bypassing, of missing them all, from here on out.
He has occasional moments of weakness, every now and again, of what seem to be temptation, but which, upon closer examination, prove to be merely aftermath, the resurgence of memories not worth, well, resurging.
But he no longer needs, no longer has any use at all for that gaggle of sickos and weirdoes, with their hang-ups and their pretense and pretensions.
And he hopes to get to the point, fairly quickly, at which the trappings, the costumes, even the gag, become vestigial, mere leftovers from the past, meaningless to him now, except that Gracie, having replaced her old, unbearable quirk with this fairly acceptable one, requests (actually insists) on his, on their wearing them.
But he can live with it, for however long it takes for them to work their way through this particular fad.
Which is surely all it is, all it can be, with Gracie.
Dressing up for fun time.
Perhaps, he reflects, it is even an atavism, a throwback to her days as a child, when one of the most favorite things to do, if she was like all other little girls, was to dress up.
Whatever it is, it doesn't bother him in the least.
Nothing bothers him in the least any more.
He has become quite the pleasant, affable, easy to get along with fellow.
All's right with the world.
He has even developed a sense of humor.
He is a winner, after all, and winners tell funny jokes.
And with the conclaves behind him, he has left his darker self behind as well.
What he thought was his true nature has turned out, in the event, to be a mere affectation, a thing which has outlived its usefulness, if indeed it ever had a real use to begin with and was not the byproduct of some sexual frustration unrecognized.
Whatever it was, its fascination, its hold over him has dissipated, vanished like morning mist.
Leaving behind it, the decent, normal, well-adjusted person he always was, in reality.
Meaning absolute reality, the real reality, if you will.
How could he ever have deceived himself so badly?
How could he ever have imagined that other, that dark sickness, to be his real world, his natural element?
Sick, sick, sick he was.
And Gracie has shown him the road back to salvation, hallelujah.
As he knew, as he has always known she would.
Which is why he hung in there, even during that horrible babbling of hers.
And now, they are about to live happily ever after.
"Bob?"
"Yes, darling?"
"When's the next conclave?"
And a cold stab runs through him.
"What?"
"The next conclave. I'd like to go."
"I'll, uh, I'll have to check with my acquaintance.
"But ... why?"
"Oh, I don't know. Just to, to ... recharge my batteries, I guess."
And he doesn't think he cares to know the details of what she means by that.
Which, whatever it is, cannot be complimentary to him.
On the other hand, he is not about to put himself in an even more unfavorable light by putting up objections.
"I'll, uh, I'll check with him tomorrow and let you know."
Actually, he knows already.
Brennan's Woods-again.
A private picnic ground on what was once a farm.
A night in the forest.
Where, no doubt, the bugs will once again be the main feature.
Still, there is no help for it.
"I can hardly wait!" Gracie says.
If he remembers the date correctly, he thinks, she won't have to.
"Gosh, those woods look dark!"
"We can turn right around and-"
"No, no, no!
"I want to, to ... see. And ... oh, look! Here comes the moon!
"Oh, look how lovely! And the way the light reflects off that little stream!"
"Lovely," Bob echoes, unenthusiastically.
And leads her by the hand into the woods.
Where-
"My, my, my! What have we here?"
He is big and brutal looking, obviously in a state of sexual excitement, practically drooling as he paws Gracie.
"Buzz off," Bob says, dryly.
The man looks him up and down, prudence conquering lust.
"Well!" the man exclaims, "You're certainly not entering into the spirit of things, are you?"
And he disappears into the woods at once, there to search for unaccompanied female prey.
"I think I liked the mansion better," Gracie observes.
Then, "Look! Over there! Action!"
The woman wears no gag.
The man is fucking her in the ass as she clings to a tree trunk.
"Ooh! Take it easy will you?" she is saying.
"Sorry," the man says.
And Bob can only stand there, looking down, shaking his head slowly from side to side, holding his sinuses as though he has a headache.
So, he thinks, it has come to this.
The demon from hell apologizing because he is causing some discomfort to his helpless female victim as he rapes her ass.
The phoniness of it, the fakery.
And he wants nothing so much in all the world as to be out of here.
"Hey! You! Big man!"
And Bob turns to face the fat guy he clobbered in the caves, months ago.
That is, the old Bob, Bob the fiend did.
And now, here he is, Andy, he thinks his companion called him.
"Listen," Bob says, "I'm really sorry about what happened in the caves that ti-"
"Little late for that, isn't it?" the man asks.
And Bob notices the glint of moonlight on what he knows to be the barrel of a gun.
"What, what's going on, Bob?" Gracie asks.
"What's this about a cave?"
"Tell your friend to be quiet, or she gets it too."
"So, big man, how does it feel to be totally helpless, to be on the receiving end for a change, to know that you're gonna be the one getting it this time."
"You coulda killed me, you know!"
"Maybe you even did, for all you knew or cared at the time!"
"Well now, buddy-boy, the shoe is on the other foot!"
"Marilyn left me after that-or perhaps you already knew that. You and her make a date over my all but dead body, didja?"
"Who's Marilyn, Bob?" Gracie asks. "I don't understand any of this."
"I don't understand any of this," the man says, mockingly. "None of you dumb cunts ever understands a fucking thing!" he snarls. "The only thing you care about is all that beef and that big salami and never mind that ordinary guys are entitled to some kind of a fantasy-what the fuck's the use?"
"Here! See if you can understand this-bitch!"
He pulls the trigger.
And Bob doubles up, grimacing in pain.
Gracie looks from him to Andy, transfixed in horror.
"I really am sorry," Bob says, "I never meant to, to ... my God, this hurts!"
"You've killed him!" Gracie says. "Murderer!"
And this last echoes through the woods.
Andy looks at what he has done and recoils from the sight, casting a lingering, terrified last look and then turning and fleeing.
"Help me ... to car ... hospital ... have to, have to ... change clothes so we don't ... disgrace."
And Gracie helps Bob back to the car, he clutching his abdomen tightly.
She manages to get his hood and cape off and a pair of pants on over his boots before changing her own clothes.
And he sits beside her, drifting in and out of consciousness, as she drives him to the hospital.
"Just tell them ... hunter ... woods ... accident.
"Stall until morning."
And it is an unconscious Bob the emergency room attendants rush to the operating table.
A year later.
"I don't know you any more, Gracie," Bob says.
"Any more than I knew you before," Gracie replies.
"At the end, just before I got shot, that was the real me," he responds.
"And before that?"
"I was a sick person," he admits. "I was-what you seem to have become."
Because he sits in a wheelchair, as she, in black leather hood and flowing cape, closed to the neck lest she reveal her exposed goodies, is prepared to go out for the evening.
She has moved in with him, taking care of him, the bullet lodged in his spine partially paralyzing him from the waist down, fortunately leaving him still potent.
He can walk with a cane, slowly, painfully, so he spends most of his waking hours in a chair, at home or at work.
Whereas Gracie has transformed herself into an overly muscled superwoman, for reasons not at all clear to Bob, but very much having to do with the conclaves.
Because she does not miss a one.
Although what she does at them, he hasn't a clue.
She is very terse, very short with him.
She doesn't love him any more; he knows this.
Just as he knows that she holds herself responsible for what happened to him.
She made him go when he didn't want to.
And only after did he explain who and what he was and what she had done for him.
Which only seemed to make things worse, since she could see that he had indeed become who and what he appeared to be-thanks to her.
But what she had created, she had also destroyed, both actions inadvertent on her part, but for which she was nevertheless responsible.
Even though Bob tried to exonerate her, to excuse her, to hold her blameless.
But she became steel-willed and, thanks to those maniacal workouts of hers, steel-bodied as well.
Useless to look for the fat man, if that was what she was about, as he explained; he would never again come within a thousand miles of another conclave, not after what he had done.
But she knows this, knows it and yet still goes.
To do-what?
He will never know, he supposes.
The woman is shaken, sobbing.
She had not bargained for anything like that!
Why did he have to hurt her so?
Why wasn't he content with mere sex, or at best sex with token violence?
But no, she was bleeding from between swollen lips, from where his slaps had forced cheeks into teeth, lacerating them.
And only the gag had held back the hot, salty flood of her blood.
And now, she is a mess, will have to leave the conclave.
And does not see two eyes, watching from a closet in the bedroom of the mansion, as she wobbles from the room.
As soon as the woman has left, Gracie is out of the closet, stalking the brute who has thus mistreated the unfortunate woman.
She sees him as he moves down the corridor.
And is upon him, quick and silent, like a panther.
And suddenly, he is on the floor, face up, a spike heel resting lightly at the base of his throat.
"Move and you die!" Gracie hisses.
And, heel still in position, bends down, neatly, expertly gagging him.
Swiftly, she turns him over, seizing his arm in a hammerlock.
And forcing him to his feet.
He tests her grip, finding it to be an iron vice.
She shoves him through a doorway, then face down on the bed inside, hammerlock intact.
What does this woman want? he wonders. What could she possibly-oh, no!
He attempts to squirm out of the hammerlock.
No use. It has been expertly applied, is being expertly maintained.
All that he will accomplish is a dislocation or worse.
But would that be any worse than what is happening to him now.
As he feels it.
It.
Long and thick and made of solid rubber, it is, the double-headed dildo.
Which she is even now shoving into his ass.
Which she is even now shoving in and out like a piston.
Which she is even now rotating, round and round, reaming his ass with it, using her flee hand, the other pinning him there, helpless, screaming almost silently against the gag, in response to the + pain, the humiliation.
And now, she feels her straddling him.
And the motion of the dildo, still painful, is slightly different.
And he realizes that she has stuck the other head of the dildo into her cunt and is now rotating her hips, literally flicking him in the ass with the rubber monster.
And she keeps it up, her actions becoming wilder and wilder until, at last, he senses her series of multiple orgasms.
And he is relieve that it is over.
He is relieved-
And the sharp blow to the base of his skull, a karate chop, renders him unconscious.
"The doctor says I'm getting better."
"Next week, I'll be able to walk with just the cane. "And if the bullet continues to drift away from the spine, they can remove it and eventually, I'll be okay again."
"That's ... nice, Bob."
And from her tone, he knows exactly what she means.
It's nice that he's going to recover.
It's also nice that, when he does, she can move out.
Because she is not the Gracie he knew and loved.
Rather, she is some monster, some creature of darkness, some ... thing that, beneath that rather thin veneer of civilization, he does not know, and probably would not want to know.
He is, wants to be, an ordinary guy.
He wants an ordinary girlfriend.
Because, even when he has fully recovered, he will not resume the superman fallacy. There are no supermen, but only men.
And the lucky ones get through this world without being turned into dog shit.
Like this poor bastard on the news.
" ... and police are mystified as to how Mister McKenna happened to find himself naked, lying on the sidewalk in Times Square, wearing only a leather hood over his face.
"The man, who at first refused to identify himself, was later I'd through fingerprints on file with the FBI, from his security clearance, in conjunction with his work in the aerospace industry.
"His current employers had no comment, other than to acknowledge that he was in fact a former employee, present occupation unknown;"
Another sicko pervert bites the dust, Bob thinks.
And Gracie, watching beside him, remains expressionless.
Bob can only hope that she gets the message and is thus inspired to give up the conclaves.
But he supposes that, if the physical danger which he so dramatically, not to mention almost fatally demonstrated, if that didn't do the trick, then nothing will.
Until, as it eventually must, it all catches up to her and she too comes to realize that she is no superwoman, but only another bizarre pervert and, for all that, neither more nor less human, more nor less vulnerable, than the rest of us.
