What is real, what is imaginary, what is a blend of the two?
Irene wonders this, there in her bubble bath, rubbing her bruised wrists, feeling the tension dissipate from her aching thigh muscles, from where she had been tied in an erotic but cramped position for hours on end.
Just as she wonders whose idea all this was in the first place.
Was it hers?
She thinks not.
And yet, how is it that she can anticipate every move, every action, even her own reaction, in every step of the elaborate, arcane, erotic, fantastic choreography of this, this-ballet, she is almost tempted to call it.
Because she, the others move so gracefully, so dreamily through the whole thing, from beginning to end.
Still, there is a viciousness here, an actual pain and a potential danger in which she would not voluntarily place herself.
Or would she?
It's all so unclear, so confusing.
Her husband, Randy, has personally served her breakfast in bed, has even run the bath in which she luxuriates, while he is chauffeured into town from his-now their (provided one overlooks the pre- nuptial agreement)-mansion upstate called, rather unoriginally, she thinks, the Estate.
He is the soul of attentiveness and consideration to her.
Her every wish is his command.
Even in this matter of her sexual whim and fancy.
And yet, is it really hers, as he claims, insists, or is it his?
So confusing, so very confusing, no matter how hard she tries to straighten it out in her mind.
Was it something she said that caused him to interpret her sexual tastes in this bizarre and painful manner?
If so, then surely it was a misinterpretation, a mistaking of something-her recounting of a dream, perhaps-for a wish, a desire, a preference, whatever.
Still, if it was a misunderstanding, then how does she explain her ascent through level after level of her sexual arousal as the macabre dance proceeds?
And that, certainly, she cannot deny.
The thrill is there, even though, in all logic and reason, it should not be.
The thrill is there, it is real.
As real as the pain, the discomfort, the utter helplessness she feels, along with a very real, an equally real anxiety, an actual fear that, on purpose or by accident, somebody is going to get carried away in the process and there, willy-nilly, will be an end to it. It.
Meaning her, her life, her very existence.
And it could happen, could very well happen, perhaps almost did happen on a couple of different occasions, which are replays, variations of one basic occasion.
And just whose fault would it be, if she were seriously injured or even killed?
Hers, for wanting her sex this way?
Randy's, if in fact she prefers things as she does because she is actually under his spell?
Or is it, could it possibly be the fault of his servants, minions, lackeys-Cranston, his private secretary and Eric, his chauffeur?
True, they are merely following his orders-have made careers out of following his orders-but are they doing so out of slavishness, out of abject fear concerning their futures, or as willing and fiendish henchmen of Randy, evil demons in attendance to his Satan?
And again, is he the devil or is it she herself who is the inspiration, the driving force in the creation of a private hell of (his? her own?) passion's devising?
One thing's for sure, she reflects; she is a willing enough participant.
But is she?
Her thoughts go back to last night.
* * *
Supper, in the formal dining room, Eric acting as server, bringing the courses, clearing them as they are finished, one at a time, the cook invisible in the kitchen, Cranston seated on Randy Buck's left as he presides over the feast at the head of the long, formally decorated table.
And maybe that's it, something in the food or the wine.
Something which makes her go into a state halfway between awake and dreaming.
So that it's not at all her fault, what happens next.
The dessert finished, Randy dabbing at his mouth with a heavy linen napkin as he says, "My compliments to Ren, Eric.
"And do join us upstairs when you've finished with clearing away.
"I see that Irene is getting in one of her moods again."
Irene looks at Randy, mildly surprised, but not even certain that her expression reflects this, rather that she is not simply gazing at him dully, eyelids heavy, eyes staying open with difficulty, a warm lassitude creeping over body and limbs.
And yet, when Randy rises, gallantly assisting Irene out of her chair, she seems to practically float up out of her chair and that graceful, balletic impression creeps over the whole scene, Randy and herself floating out of the dining room, into the great, marbled entrance hall of the Estate and up the broad central stairwell, the bronze statuettes surmounting the curled ends of the balustrades smiling at her mockingly.
Floating, floating, floating, she rises up the staircase, weightless, as though being drawn up it by Randy, now become a conjurer, possessed of arcane powers, such that she could actually fly, so long as he has her by the elbow.
And Cranston, she knows, is right behind them, rising in unison with their own progress, up, up, up the staircase.
He does not, however, enter the master bedroom with them.
And Randy Buck himself does not remain, contenting himself with helping her out of her cocktail dress, out of her shoes her brassiere, her panties, her garter belt and stockings.
All accomplished in these graceful, dreamlike movements, as though they are dancing a ballet, or else moving under water. So that now, she lies there naked on the bed.
And feeling warm, comfortable, completely relaxed.
As though she would like nothing so much as to simply drop off to sleep, right here and now.
But she does not?
Or does she?
Is it dream or is it reality that Randy Buck suddenly reappears in the bedroom, naked but for a black leather hood which covers his head, but for jaw and mouth and a pair of black paratrooper boots.
And carrying various lengths of rope, white clothesline, as he smiles and says, "Now then, my dear, you must be sure and tell us if we're not doing everything correctly.
"We're here to please you, after all and your happiness is our paramount and in fact exclusive concern."
And the incongruity of the situation, of his statement, causes an uneasiness in the back of her mind.
What instructions has she given, what standing orders posted, that this should be happening in response to her own wishes?
But she is just so-o-o relaxed that it passes quickly.
Still, she says nothing to Randy and yet he goes to work now, tying her wrists with two separate lengths of the rope to the upper corner posts of the huge four-poster.
She says nothing to him as he ties a loop at each end of another rope around each of her knees, then practically cuts off her windpipe as he pushes her head forward, onto her chest, so that he can pass the rope behind her neck.
So that there she is, hands raised above her head and held fast to the bedposts, as though she is caught in an act of permanent surrender, her thighs doubled up onto- her body, held fast in that position by the rope which binds both knees and goes behind her head.
So that she is utterly helpless now.
So that anybody can do anything to her they want and she will be utterly unable to stop them.
As pussy and ass hole alike are exposed to view and to physical access.
And he is doing this to please her?
Even in her present state, she finds that beyond belief.
Almost.
Because belief implies a standard of reality, a touchstone whereby truth can be gauged, its probability computed.
And here, now, reality and unreality seem merged, the dividing line, the border between them vague, perhaps even shifting.
As Randy seats himself beside her, his heavy bulk weighing down one side of even this huge bed.
And does nothing but sit there, his hooded visage bearing what seems to be a painted smile, looking at her exposed goodies.
And he keeps on looking at them, not turning his head when Cranston, similarly clad and unclad, comes into the room, his huge cock already rampant, hobbling stiffly before him.
"Here, let me give you a hand," she hears Randy say.
As, facing away from her, he leans his back against the backs of her thighs, doubling them onto her further than before, making it difficult for her to even breathe, as he spreads her pussy lips apart.
And she knows that this is not, cannot be a dream.
Because she can feel Cranston's hot breath against the tender tissues of her exposed labia.
And now, she can feel his tongue, seeking her clit.
And finding it.
And strumming it, titillating it with the tip of his tongue.
"That's it, that's it!" she hears Randy encourage. "Do a real good job now; otherwise, I'll hear all about it from her tonight."
When has she ever actually talked about their sex life?
Never, she tells herself, at least not that she can recall.
Because she isn't that sort of person, the kind who can talk about such things in casual conversation, or even intimate discussion.
She is certain of it; as certain as she is of anything at the moment, that is.
Because the only thing she can be really sure of is that her body is beginning to respond to Cranston's efforts.
And yes, she does anticipate what is to come.
Because, other than his business acumen and high intelligence, the only other thing Randy finds outstanding about Cranston is that huge cock of his.
Which he has generously placed in her service, as he is at pains to point out so often.
And now, Cranston is ready to do his thing.
And he mounts up.
And begins at once to fuck her-viciously.
There is no other word for it.
Because it's enough that any cunt should be fucked by that monster of his, even in the regular position.
But with her doubled up as she is, there is no need and no excuse for the way he pounds into her, again and again.
As his mighty marauder shafts all the way home, stretching her, filling her, perhaps even bruising her inside.
As she is there, bound and helpless, unable to protect herself from him in any way.
But then, perhaps it is that very helplessness, that placing herself at his mercy, at the mercy of all of them-for she knows that Eric is waiting in the wings-which adds that dimension of utter openness, of total availability, such that her body is prepared to receive, with total submission, the male assault.
Male, aggressive; female passive.
And each perfectly fulfilling its function, its assigned (by her?) role.
How very strange, she thinks, that she should desire this, or rather desire this in this way.
How very strange as well that she should be thinking this, right at this very moment, when she is being assaulted, in essence raped, by the heavy hung Cranston.
As though she is observing herself, watching herself participate in this, this... whatever it is.
Similar to the immortality, the invisible observer portion of herself in a dream.
Which this is not and she knows this.
Except that neither is it, strictly speaking, reality, either. Because why this lassitude, even in the midst of terror?
And it is, has to be, totally terrifying to be thus held totally helpless as some brutal rapist goes out of his mind on her.
Because, even now, she sees Cranston's upper body turning red with the engorged blood of his aroused passion, of his passion gone beyond mere arousal.
And she wonders and not for the first time, if Cranston is not actually a hater of women, is not one who desires to hurt rather than to pleasure them, is actually one who specifically desires to cause them pain with his big baton, his weapon, his instrument of torture.
And she wonders as well if she does not frustrate him, taking everything he has to hand out, actually becoming aroused by it, by it and her general situation which, according to her husband, is a catered affair which takes its tone from her own wishes.
So that, actually, she isn't all that passive.
She has given him a target on which to exhaust himself.
And it is actually she who is wearing him down.
Because she will come out of this satisfied sexually and none the worse for wear-if all goes as it should.
Because, already, on a previous occasion, Cranston has had to be restrained.
As, carries away, not content with the vicious thrusting of his massive monolith of monster meat, he has begun to strike her in the face, forehand and back.
And he has been permitted to do this several times.
Yes, permitted.
Because Randy has stood there, watching, intervening only after she has cried out, a yelping exhalation as Cranston startled her by increasing the force of his blows.
Until stopped in his tracks by Randy's rather laconic, "That's enough of that, I think, Cranston."
Which stopped him at once, stooge and lackey that he is, notwithstanding his intellectual and physical attributes.
So that Irene had all she could do to keep from smiling.
Here is this bestial rapist, supposedly being carried away by his emotions, who is somehow subject to instant recall to his senses.
His master's voice.
Which showed Irene the degree, the power of Randy's manipulative skills.
Which leads her to believe more than ever that it is Randy and not herself who is the guiding spirit of these particular festivities.
Which she accepts.
Which she accepts without hesitation and without qualm.
And which, face it, she enjoys as well.
Although she has asked herself repeatedly if she would not enjoy ordinary sexual activity every bit as well.
Except that she herself is unsure whether or not this is the case.
Because, while an aroused mind has no conscience, neither does it have a memory.
Not a perfect memory, anyway.
Because this is an experience which is, ultimately, that of raw physical sensation, that is, which is of the body.
No intellectual exercise this, but a thing which is of sheer physical feeling, the impression on the mind being secondary to that on the body.
So that, while the mind may remember the event, may even remember having experienced climax, nevertheless, that recall is very incomplete, very pale, in comparison with actual, ongoing physical experience.
Hence, there is no point in her telling herself, trying to convince herself that regular sex was just as good and could be just as good.
Because that is a matter of argument, debate, discussion.
And you cannot argue with a stiff prick the size of Cranston's, you cannot argue with an onslaught the intensity of Cranston's and you certainly cannot argue with the flood of sensation which even now invades Irene.
Because she can feel it now, can feel the surges of sexual electricity which well up within her hot, juicy cunt.
As Cranston plows away on her, thrust after jarring thrust sending seismic waves coursing through her body, each one accompanied by a fresh thrill of sexual electricity.
Which wells up within her, wave upon wave.
So that quickly, very quickly, she is being inundated, permeated by the arousal, the stimulation of raw sexual pleasure.
And it could very well be that Cranston would like to hurt her, that he would like to beat her to death from the inside, that he would like to use the battering ram of his cock head to turn her guts to mush.
That doesn't matter.
There is cause and there is effect.
And if the cause is accompanied by an intent which bears no relationship to the actual effect, what is that to her?
Go ahead, Cranston, knock yourself out.
The fact is that this particular form of assault is ineffectual for the purpose you intend it.
Not, she reminds herself, not that Cranston will be left unsatisfied.
On the contrary, a double satisfaction awaits him.
First, there is the satisfaction afforded by his climax.
Irene does not know, of course, what images are playing on the view screen of Cranston's mind as his heavy equipment discharges its load into the depths of her hot, streaming pussy.
It could very well be that of herself, her insides turned into an undifferentiated mass of quivering, bloody jelly.
What is that to her?
But the fact remains, Cranston is having his orgasm.
And now, Cranston is pulling that huge love/hate muscle of his out of her, marbled with jism and pussy juice and still fully tumescent, the massive head with its ruddy eye staring at her, as though angry, resentful at her continued survival.
But it is at his superior, at Randy Buck-owner and president of Buck enterprises, which has a major league football team, a Class A major league baseball team, a string of health club franchises and a growing chain of gourmet restaurants-it is at him that Cranston stares.
As he goes down on Irene.
As he eats her pussy, filled with Cranston's fresh jism.
As he eats her thoroughly, before mounting her with his own big boinker, pumping away on her, finishing what Cranston started by way of boosting Irene up the rainbow.
So that now, they finish together, the convulsions of her pussy, in the throes of her series of multiple orgasms, milking his discharging dingdong of its contents, refilling herself with the same stuff that Randy, moments before, vacuumed out of her.
Up, up, up and over the top she goes and down the other side, finishing her orgasmic series as Randy's climactic spasms cease.
Quickly, he pulls out of her, looking at Cranston, who turns his hooded visage quickly to one side, lest he find himself face to face with one who, in the heat of his own passion, driven by his own perversion, has done that which, under other circumstances-that is, involving someone other than the one man in the whole world Cranston fears-could well be considered both queer and disgusting.
But now, enter Eric, also naked, hooded, booted.
Eric, of that bemuscled but strange, alabaster body of his, with its long, thin, pale pink cock, a catheter of a cock.
Which is already at the ready.
As he goes up to Irene on the bed and first polishing his knob by briefly inserting it into Irene's cunt, oozing with Randy's melting jism, slides it immediately down the short bridge between orifices and promptly shafts into Irene's ass hole, all the way.
So that, as the others watch, Eric works out on her ass, in her ass.
As he humps away, massaging her bowels with his prong of a prod, supporting himself on both hands, planted firmly beside her on the bed.
So that yes, there is room for a man's head between his stomach and Irene's.
And Randy signals to Cranston.
And Cranston is on her pussy at once, crouching to one side of her, burrowing his face into her snatch, one side of his head rubbing against Eric's stomach.
How Cranston must hate doing this! Irene thinks.
And she derives a measure of perverse satisfaction from that.
And lets herself open up, in her mind, in her body, concentrating on the raw sexual sensations that well up within her as she is stimulated from inside and out.
So that yes, she is once again drifting up, up, up the rainbow of her arousal.
And, bound as she is, rocks from side to side in her mounting pleasure, as Cranston and Eric, faithful to their respective tasks, under Randy's watchful eye, bring her all the way up and over the rainbow.
So that she is coming and coming, the contractions of her rectum echoing that of her pussy, as she milks Eric of his load with her rectum.
"Okay, Cranston, that's enough, get out of there so I can see this," Randy instructs, when it is obvious to him that Irene's last orgasm has passed.
And Cranston pulls back.
And he too watches, as Eric's cock, fully inserted, slowly detumesces and the peristaltic action of Irene's bowels expels him, turd-like. "Thank you, gentlemen, you may leave us now."
And Randy unties her.
And only now does she notice that her wrists are chafed and will no doubt be bruised and sore tomorrow morning.
Randy removes his boots and hood, tossing them into a corner, then offering her a hand up off the bed and leading her to the shower.
* * *
That was last night.
And this morning, at breakfast, the two of them having it together in their robes and slippers, she found it hard to believe that it happened-again.
But, here in her bubble bath, looking at her wrists, she knows that it did.
Just as she knows that it was her squirming, enraptured response to the treatment that she was receiving which caused the bruises.
She enjoyed it, she inflicted the only residual damage on her own self.
Could it be that Randy is telling the truth?
CHAPTER TWO
If this IS true, then she must get help.
Irene tells herself this, but she also tells herself that there could be a real problem with that.
Randy Buck is, after all, a heavy hitter, a major player in today's world and not some successful, well off nonentity.
So that it's all well and good for her to recognize that she has a problem.
And, no doubt, a very healthy response to this realization is the recognition of the need for help with getting over, getting beyond it.
So far, so good.
But.
The wife of Randy Buck?
The wife of Randy Buck is Mrs. Superman.
And Mrs. Superman is flawless, is without blemish, physical or otherwise.
Randy Buck waited a long time to find her.
He is over fifty and she, a little more than half his age, is his first wife.
Of good family, wealthy parentage, social register, all that, she was considered a real catch for him- and vice versa.
Their romance and courtship?
It was an odd mixture of the intimate and the impersonal.
That same drifting in and out of reality which characterizes her life with him was typical of their entire relationship, from introduction to marriage.
They met at a cocktail party, the gala event of the season-some said of the decade-to celebrate the christening of the yacht-the new, the replacement yacht-of Mr. and Mrs. Birmingham Steele IV.
And Irene was apprehensive about meeting Randy Buck.
Frankly, he frightened her.
It was rumored that the Steeles' original yacht had been destroyed at sea as the result of sabotage directed against Randy Buck, who was giving a party on board at the time-a very bizarre party, some said, half the survivors having been picked up wearing hoods and boots, the women's stiletto-heeled, along with black mesh stockings, garter belts and push-up corselets revealing boobs and buns and snatches.
And this was not the first time Randy Buck had been connected with rather macabre goings on.' His chauffeur-she forgets his name-took the fall when an S&M sex club, involving similar costumes was uncovered at a place called Buck's Castle.
But rumor has it that the mysterious leader of the club, the mysterious Seneschal, was not the , chauffeur, but none other than Randy Buck himself, who not only denied all knowledge of the club, but promptly gave Buck's Castle to the state, subsidizing its complete conversion into an orphanage and establishing an annual endowment for its maintenance and operation, some said as blackmail payment exacted by a mysterious enemy, lest the truth be pursued and made known.
With his broad shoulders, his large, heavy frame, his iron-grey crew cut and rugged, suntanned face, Randy Buck looks very much like just the sort who would be in charge of such things, not at all someone you'd care to meet in a dark alley, as they say.
On the rebound from a first, unsuccessful marriage with the scion of one of the nation's older families, Irene was attending the party with her parents, who insisted that she go because, after all, "all the better people will be there".
So she went.
And her father was the one who insisted on introducing her, explaining to her, at the last minute, when they were already on board, that this was the real reason he wanted to bring her to the affair.
And Irene, to give herself courage, insisted upon downing a few cocktails first.
Which did, in fact, seem to help.
So that she was prepared to face the ogre.
And her father, seeing what she was up to, had to be the one to cut her off, before she could become too obviously under the weather.
In the event, it worked.
Sort of.
* * *
Because- "Randy?"
"Yes, Bill?"
"Like you to meet my daughter, Irene."
"Charmed, I'm sure." And Randy even manages a rather courtly bow, smiling at her.
"You're not really the monster people make you out to be, are you, Mr. Buck?"
"Irene!
"Randy, I'm terribly sorry!
"I fear that my daughter has had much too much to drink and she undoubtedly has you confused with someone el-"
"Please, Bill! It's quite all right, I assure you.
"And you, my dear, just call me Randy.
"Everyone does, even the people who work for me."
"Randy. Charming name for a monster."
"Listen," her father says quickly, taking her by the elbow, "I can see that I had better-"
"Leave well enough alone, Bill, why don't you?" Randy says.
"But-"
"Go! Leave us! Circulate!
"I find your daughter not only charming but fascinating."
"All right, Randy," her father says, giving a false, hearty chuckle and a shrug and his daughter a last apprehensive look before turning away, leaving them alone together.
"Nothing about the ball teams, the health clubs, the restaurants, only the dark side of life-assuming, that is, that my life actually has a dark side-seems to interest you, Irene."
"Everyone has a dark side, Randy," the champagne inside her says; a very smart-assed, champagne-cocktails-at-a-party type thing to say.
"Oh? Tell me about your dark side, why don't you, Irene?" Randy invites, snagging two champagne glasses from a circulating waiter, en passant, handing her one, then clinking the other with hers before sipping.
Irene drains her glass, stalling for time, before replying, "I said everyone has a dark side, Randy. I didn't say that that side of them has an active life in the real world.
"Like, like most women, I suppose, I have an occasional fantasy, a dream on the bizarre side."
"A daydream or a nightmare?"
"Either. Both. I don't know, I don't dwell on such things.
"Do you?"
And he laughs.
"Back to my dark side again, eh?
"What if I were to tell you that my dark side is no more and no less what any other man's dark side is-a simple giving in to the baser appetites?
"Would you find that-boring?"
"Quite possibly."
Good answer, she tells herself. Very sophisticated, very smart-ass, very... cocktail party.
And to think, her dad was worried about her handling herself after a little of the bubbly.
"Oh, dear! And I did so want to fascinate you."
"I find very few men fascinating with their clothes on."
And she can't believe she said that; maybe her father was right after all.
"Let us hope they are indeed very few," Randy replies. "Otherwise, your reputation might turn even darker than mine."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that at all the way it must have sounded.
"Or perhaps I did, a little.
"It's just that, when you attend as many of these things as I do-as I'm sure you do-the whole scene rather quickly begins to pall.
"I'm charming and empty to you, you're equally charming and hollow to me, the champagne flows, the d'colletage shows, the innuendo going nowhere grows, until you want to do something or say something, anything to, to... stop it, to put an end to this whole, meaningless... thing.
"So you don't keep having to go somewhere in order to go nowhere.
"I didn't want to come here today.
"My father insisted, just as he insisted that I meet you.
"And I've actually had too much to drink, especially for someone who really doesn't drink at all and I've made a fool of myself in front of a man whose only crime is probably being too successful for most people's taste."
"In vino Veritas," Randy says, smiling.
"Pardon?"
"In wine there is truth. Latin.
"You seem to have hit the nail right on the head.
"The only question is, Could you have done it without the champagne?"
"Try me."
"You mean that?"
"You live at home with your parents?"
"I do now."
"Then it would appear that I should call on you, as they used to say in a gentler age."
"You do that," she says, feeling slightly dizzy from the champagne, beginning to sway.
Quickly, Randy catches her by an arm, so that she falls against him.
"Perhaps we had better get you somewhere where you can lie down," he says.
"Just for a few minutes, yes, that might be the thing to do," she agrees, her voice articulate, but seeming to come from someone else, someone standing in the middle distance, so that the sound is quite audible, but flat, in the way voices lose their resonance in the outdoors.
And she can feel his iron grip, just above an elbow, as they make their way slowly, smiling and nodding, to a companion way, passing down its carpeted length until Randy unerringly picks a door, opening it and escorting her inside.
"You certainly know your way around," she says, sitting down heavily on the side of the bed of the luxurious cabin.
"The design parallels roughly that of the Steeles' old vessel," he replies.
And a warning buzzer goes off in her head.
"The one you, the one you, uh-"
"The one on which I, along with several close friends almost lost our lives, thanks to the action of an enemy.
"A man in my position has enemies."
"How exciting."
And her head feels heavy, as though, unless she lays it down quickly, it will pull her off the bed where she sits and onto the floor.
"I'm going to have to, have to-" And she lies down.
"Here, let me get those shoes off before you ruin our hosts' bedspread with your heels."
And he suits his action to his words.
And sits beside her on the bed.
"For somebody who managed to cost our hosts a whole ship, you're very considerate."
Seated beside her on the edge of the bed, he gives her a baleful smile.
"That's very... perceptive of you."
Because she has told him, in essence, that, while one may indeed have enemies, they do not customarily go about trying to destroy him and those with him for no reasons other than business affairs.
So that the enemy who tried to physically destroy him and who did destroy the ship, not even his ship but that of his friends, the Steeles, was, is personal.
And something tells her that he has done something to earn such enmity-he and those who were with him.
"Costume party, wasn't it?"
"Uh, yes. Yes it was."
So that part is true as well, she thinks.
Odd that everyone was wearing more or less the same costume, though.
"Nobody had, uh, had time to, to... change their clothes.
"Rather embarrassing, actually. Private party at sea, international waters and all that and one hardly expects to require rescue by the Coast Guard- if that's what it was."
This last said with a tinge of bitterness.
Obviously, he suspects, no he knows, that the whole thing was a setup.
Just as he undoubtedly knows who this enemy was, is.
"Who uh, who did it and why?" she asks, speaking clearly, all right as long as she doesn't try to move.
"Later, perhaps, when I know you better, when you're in a more uh, receptive condition, shall we say?"
"A man with enemies," she says, "personal enemies.
"I find that... exciting."
And she runs a hand down the sleeve of his white dinner jacket.
Tricky stuff, alcohol.
At a certain point, it skews the mind, causing it to affect a lack of control which it does not in fact feel.
As though allowing the body to react in an uncontrolled fashion while remaining a combination observer and agent provocateur.
Thus does she watch herself vamp-she can think of no other term for it-Randy Buck.
"Are you uh, are you sure you want to go where this is leading?" he asks.
"Come, come, Randy. I'm a divorced woman and this is a party.
"Not, not... your kind of party, apparently, but a party nonetheless.
"Let's put some life into it, if only for the two of us, waddaya say?"
He shrugs, gets off the bed and secures the door by its inside dead bolt.
And removes his jacket.
And keeps on going, revealing his big bull's body, thick and amply fleshed over what were once, may still be, bulging muscles.
Even his heavy, flaccid member reminds her of a bull's pizzle, swinging and bouncing as he moves toward her.
And she rolls over to let him get at the back of her cocktail dress, which he deftly unfastens. He slides it down her unresisting body, leaving her in stockings and garter belt, bra and panties.
Since she is on her flip side, he undoes the bra before rolling her over.
And removes it from her chest slowly, as though tantalizing himself with the view as it reveals itself to him.
He looks down at her large, full breasts as she looks up at him.
He removes her panties, leaving the garter belt and stockings on.
And she wonders if their being black might have something to do with that decision.
And now, he is sucking her tits, raising the doorbells of her nipples, one at a time, to rubbery erection, as he kneads and fondles her breasts with both hands.
And he proves quite the skilled and considerate lover and not at all the sadistic brute his appearance would seem to imply, as he travels down her body, helping himself to mouthful after mouthful of her flawless flesh, moving lower and lower, his head gliding down her on his tongue.
And she happily raises and spreads her legs, giving him a clear target.
As he wallows his face into her snatch, mouth open, both hands bracing the backs of her thighs.
A tricky thing indeed, alcohol, she thinks.
Because she uses it as an excuse for what is happening here.
She tells herself that if she were sober, she would not be doing this.
She tells herself as well that, if she were really all that drunk, she would not be feeling this, would not be so keenly aware of the flickering motion of his tongue as it strums her joy buzzer, would not be so physically responsive to such attentions, as her clit engorges, heats up, begins radiating lascivious sensations.
Which quickly spread their arousal, their warmth, sending out wave after wave of sexual electricity, surging through her entire body, making her very fingertips tingle with her sexual reawakening.
She's drunk, is she?
Then where is the numbness, the lassitude, the indifference?
How is it that she is not passing into slumber, Randy's efforts notwithstanding?
No, she tells herself, you're not all that drunk.
Too drunk to drive, perhaps, but then this is not a car.
Too drunk to dance, maybe, but this is not a ballroom.
And now, possibly, too drunk to speak coherently, but she is not giving a speech.
So that, cleverly enough, she supposes, giving credit where credit is due, she is just drunk enough to be doing this right, for him, but above all for herself.
Since the divorce, she has been in need of something very much like this.
And now, why not?
Why not allow her naturally voluptuous, sensual beauty work its charms on the likes of a Randy Buck?
Hell, her father might even approve, if he knew what was going on.
Step in the right direction, if it works, right, Dad?
Damn straight.
And she sees that it is working.
Because, even now, he is tongue-fucking her, his long, thick, powerful, salivating tongue shafting smoothly in and out of her hot, juicy cunt, rubbing her joy buzzer this way and that as it moves.
And raising her higher and higher up the rainbow of her arousal, his enthusiasm obvious, his scalp glowing rosy with the engorged blood of his aroused passion through his crew cut as he avidly devours her pussy.
And now, he pulls his face back.
And sits back on his heels, his cock rising, huge and stiff, from his bush.
Looking at her.
Looking at his target, the object of his rampant lust.
And leaning forward, bracing himself with one hand beside her, twisting his body, guiding his mighty marauder into her drooling cunt with one hand, then settling down on her, in her.
And-his eyes are closed.
What does he see, she wonders?
Herself in one of those costumes with the leather hood and the pushup corselet?
Himself in leather hood and black boots?
Because it is women who ordinarily close their eyes when they fuck, she reflects and the men who cannot get enough of the detail, the reality of the action, who prefer doing it with the lights on.
So that yes, she knows that his mind is elsewhere.
With her still, perhaps, but not here, not like this.
But that's okay too, she tells herself.
Because the mind is seldom where the body is in the sexual act.
And this is no insult to the partner, who serves as the physical, if not the mental inspiration for the action.
Rather, it is merely a way of reconciling the real with the ideal, the image with the substance, the self with the world.
Still, where is he right now? she wonders.
Because his face, red, eyes tightly shut, beads of sex sweat beginning to form on his heavy brow, he is humping away on her, his strokes long, powerful, steady.
And that is quite a considerable organ he has here, she notes, stretching and filling her cunt as it pistons in and out of it, stimulating her every nerve ending with its thrusts and withdrawals, even as her snapper of a pussy sucks his cock as though she were giving him a blowjob.
So that here, now, she finds her body-and therefore herself-responding to him fully.
So that he is, at least in the sheer physical sense, equipment and performance-wise, the right stuff.
Daddy will no doubt be very pleased, if the right thing happens, if, as a result of this, the fuck, the whole scene, she becomes Mrs. Randolph Arlington Buck.
Even though they are approximately the same age, Randy and her father.
So that dear old dad can never call Randy "son".
Still, her future will be secure in a major way and that, after all, is what really matters.
And if she is happy and satisfied into the bargain, well, that's the icing on the cake.
And now, Randy accelerates, redoubling his efforts.
He is pistoning in and out of her faster and faster.
But not once does he open his eyes.
If he did, then he would see her face, every bit as red as his.
He would see her body too taking on the sheen of marble in the lighting of the cabin as her sexual sweat forms.
Because yes, she sweats like an athlete when she fucks-if it's the right fuck.
And Randy certainly is.
So that here, now, she feels it, the old feeling, the one she has not felt since the divorce, the one she has not felt since long before that, actually, as it comes over her.
It.
Meaning the pleasure beyond pleasure.
Meaning that fundamental, elemental complex of lascivious sensation which rises from a spark in the farthest inner distance and then explodes into a silent mushroom cloud which expands outward to fill her entire being, engulfing, absorbing the pleasure of her arousal, adding it to itself as it progresses, taking her over.
The pleasure beyond pleasure, it is and she does not have it; it has her.
And she lets it.
She surrenders herself to it, freely and without reservation, just as she surrenders herself to its representative.
Who is even now in its firm, irresistible, exquisitely delicious grip.
So that the both of them are being tossed and turned, writhing against each other like puppets on invisible strings being operated by an unskilled but salacious puppeteer.
As he comes and comes into her pussy, whose contractions from her series of multiple orgasms milk his powerful prick of its load.
So that they zoom and soar together through that shared sexual paradise.
And yet it is through dark, subterranean realms of darkness that they career, borne aloft on hot, dusky bat wings.
At least, that is her vision and she suspects that his is no brighter, is, in fact, something far darker, far more constricting, to her, to himself, possibly to them both.
Thus do they glide through inner darkness.
Thus do they land back on the bed as their shared climax expends its energy.
Thus do they separate, his eyes opening at last to gaze down upon her.
And to remain there, unmoving, most of his weight supported on his hands, planted on either side of her, cock slowly detumescing in her drooling cunt as she lowers her legs around him.
And she looks at him, returning his intense stare, feeling cold sober now, as though she has sweated the alcohol out of her system.
And he says, "It's time. Let's go find your father."
And her pussy quivered.
It did that whenever he gave her orders.
And she knew that whenever she obeyed him Tom now on, her cunt would be wet.
CHAPTER THREE
A decision like any other he makes in the course of his business day, she remembers.
That direct, that casual.
He did not even ask her if she wanted to marry him.
He automatically assumed that she did.
And she did not contradict him.
And it is not as if she were drunk, so she cannot use that as an excuse for the precipitate course of events which followed.
No, she entered into this marriage as coldly indifferent, almost as impersonally, even more casually than if she were picking out earrings at the jeweler's.
And she thinks back, remembering everything that happened.
* * *
They shower together in silence.
In silence, they dry off and dress.
And go to find her father and mother among the throng on the awning-covered deck of the huge motor yacht, almost the size of a small ocean liner.
"Well, Bill," Randy says to her father, "it would seem that I have the honor of requesting your daughter's hand in marriage."
Bill looks from one to the other, incredulous.
"That was certainly... rapid," he says. "But uh, sure, why not?"
Her mother looks at them and bites her lower lip.
"Good, then. It's settled.
"Excuse us while we find our genial hostess and give her the privilege of announcing the good news."
And Randy leads her to find Samantha Steele, circulating among the crowd with that semi-hyper animation of the cocktail party hostess.
They locate her, her d'colletage lower than everyone else's in her black, flounce-skirted cocktail dress, placing a lacquer-nailed finger on the wrist of some particularly witty guest who has just told a naughty story.
"Samantha, darling, a moment of your time," Randy says.
"Yes, Randy?"
And she sees Irene standing there next to him, his arm around her bare shoulders, squeezing them so tightly that they hunch, rendering her d'colletage even more daring than Samantha's, at least momentarily.
"Oh, no! Don't tell me! You old are, you!"
"You may announce our engagement," Randy confirms, hugging Irene to himself, kissing her on the forehead.
"I certainly will!" she exclaims.
"Excuse us, won't you?" she says to the other guests with whom she was conversing when interrupted.
"And you two, you're coming with me!"
She grasps Randy by the wrist and leads him to the bandstand, where the band is playing elevator music.
She steps up on the platform, leading Randy, who leads Irene.
"Drum roll, please," she says, stepping up to the microphone and turning it on.
She gets it, along with repeated clashing of cymbals.
"Attention, please, everyone!
"I've an important announcement to make!
"You all know Randy Buck here, I believe."
Ripple of laughter at the ridiculous question.
"And most of you-the ones who count, anyway-have met the lovely Irene Voleur.
"Well, Bill and Dotty announce the engagement of their daughter Irene to Randolph Arlington Buck.
"That is all the information we have at this time.
"Thank you."
And she leads the general applause for the couple, who bow and curtsey, respectively, before stepping down from the platform into a sea of plaudits and congratulations.
Which all seem routine, perfunctory, until- "Congratulations, Randy," she says. "Turning over a new leaf, or merely turning the page in that same old sick volume?"
"Baroness! How very nice to see you.
"What a pleasant surprise."
And a circle forms around the encounter, the guests in the immediate front suspending conversation, glasses held idly before them, watching, expectant.
"Aren't you going to introduce me to the lovely bride to be, Randy?"
"Of course. Where are my manners?"
"Baroness, my fianc', Irene Voleur."
"Irene, this is Cynthia Marvell, a.k.a. the Baroness, owner, president, chairman of the board of Marvel Industries and an old... acquaintance of mine."
"It's very nice to m-"
"So, Baroness," Randy resumes, cutting Irene off, "I see that Samantha has invited you to the party after all."
"Who better, Randy? After all, it wouldn't be happening, if not for me now, would it-at least according to you?"
"What did she do-invite you to the party so you wouldn't blow it up?"
"Why Randy, that borders on the positively libelous, don't you think?
"But, assuming that I did what you would have all these good people think I did, that didn't stop me before, did it?
"And at least, this time, it's a calm day and we're tied up at the pier."
"You have some nerve, showing up like this?"
"Not nearly as much nerve as your fianc', I would say.
"Tell me, my dear; are you aware of what a monster you're marrying?"
"One hears rumors, yes," Irene replies, her face an expressionless mask as she clings to Randy's arm.
"Ah yes. One does indeed.
"Would you believe that they fail to do him justice?"
"Justice is generally a scarce commodity in this world," Irene replies.
"Touch!" Randy exclaims, laughing. "She's got you there, Baroness, I'm afraid."
"I would say Irene has more to fear than you, Randy."
Then, to Irene, "Well. Best of luck to you, my dear.
"I can't really say that I hope you know what you're doing, since it's obvious that you don't, because if you did, you wouldn't."
"Randy," Irene says, "I'm not enjoying this conversation. Can we go now?"
"Please," Cynthia says, "please don't leave on my account.
"I'm leaving now myself.
"Recent developments have rather cast a pall on the affair for me.
"I sincerely hope, my dear, that we are able to meet again in this life.
"And Randy? Tick, tick, tick."
And Cynthia turns on her heel and leaves the deck, a path clearing before her tall, blonde, tanned presence, closing in her wake, as the circle dissolves amidst murmuring commentary over this encounter.
"What's that all about, Randy?" Irene asks.
"That? You have just met the enemy.
"And now, if you will excuse me for a few minutes, I must speak privately with Samantha-ah, there she is!"
And he leaves Irene abruptly, his iron grip closing on Samantha's elbow as he says, "I'd like to talk to you about your guest list, Samantha.
"It would seem... "
And the rest is lost on Irene, as Randy wrestles Samantha's tall, voluptuous brunette presence down the companion way, his fingers digging deeply into the ample flesh of her upper arm.
Irene stares after them, not moving.
But she has no chance to reflect, because- "We always wondered who would manage to snare our Randy Buck," the man, tall, dark, handsome, young says.
We? Irene thinks. Who the hell is "we".
"Oh, I'm sorry; we haven't met. I'm Igor and this is Valentina. The Citrones?"
Are you asking or telling me, she thinks.
They are a very striking couple, even though Valentina's hair looks like it has been painted onto her skull, so short, dark, flat is it.
"We were with your fianc' on board the Steeles' first yacht when it was-when it went down."
"I think it more to the point-dear-that Irene wasn't," Valentina says, practically through gritted teeth.
"Well dear, she is engaged to the man, after all," Igor says.
"You assume too much, Igor."
Then, to Irene, "It was very nice meeting you, my dear. Perhaps we'll see you up at the Estate some time. I take it that is where you plan on making your home."
And Irene realizes that she doesn't even know that much for sure.
But- "Of course. And I'd like that very much.
"Randy and I would be happy to see you there.
"Perhaps then-" looking directly at Valentina, "we can discuss shipwrecks and such."
But if Valentina has been rebuked, she doesn't yield an inch, let alone apologize.
"Perhaps we can," Valentina replies flatly, her tone dismissive, final.
"Come, Igor, let's see if we can't find a passing tray of canap's or something. I'm starving."
And Igor, an expression of apology on his face, allows himself to be led away.
As Irene wonders just what it was about the party on the ill-fated cruise that Valentina doesn't want Igor discussing with the (to her) perfect stranger Randy Buck is about to marry.
And Irene cannot help feeling just a bit apprehensive.
First, there were merely the rumors, a bit here, a fragment there at other affairs, at the country club concerning the (depending on who was talking) kinky and nefarious Randy Buck.
Then, there was the disaster at sea involving Randy and the predecessor of this very ship.
And now, the encounter with the Baroness, who is very real and very much an enemy and who all but admitted blowing up the yacht.
And just now, Igor and Valentina, Valentina who was adamant in not allowing Igor to say anything about what was going on at the party on the dead ship, if party is what it really was.
"Ah! There you are, Irene!" Randy Buck exclaims.
Of course I am, she thinks. I haven't moved from this spot.
"Come, let's find Bill and Dotty and tell her we're leaving.
"Want to get us something more substantial than hors d'oevres for supper.
"Also want to be alone with you, so we can talk."
"That sounds like a very good idea.
"You're not... mad at Samantha, are you, Randy?"
"Mad? More like, oh, let's just say disappointed, okay?
"I mean, if you had a deadly enemy, one known as such to a friend and that friend invites you to a party at which the enemy is also expected and doesn't say a word to you about it, how would you feel?"
"You have every right to be upset, Randy."
"The woman actually considered it amusing, if you can believe it, Irene!
"The Baroness tries to kill both of us, us and dozens of others and this idiot treats it like it was some kind of a joke!"
"But Randy, if she did that, she could go to prison many lifetimes."
"Well of course she could!
"But how can I prove it?
"The ship is down well off the continental shelf and even though she had her escape well, planned, I'm sure, the fact is that she was on board when it went down in the middle of a gale.
"What policeman would believe that she would be insane enough to do such a thing under those conditions.
"They'd practically have to show that she was suicidal.
"And she isn't, merely fanatical on the subject of stopping Randy Buck."
"Stopping you from what, Randy? Having parties?"
Randy laughs at this.
"You are really precious, you know that?
"Yes, that's absolutely correct. She's my personal and permanent party pooper.
"She has actually killed people to prevent my having a good time."
Irene is about to ask him something about this last, when- "Bill, Dotty, gotta steal your daughter away for a little candlelight supper, if that's okay.
"And I promise to have her home at a decent hour, right, Bill?"
Punching him playfully on the shoulder.
"Yes, you two young people run along, now," Bill says.
The two men laugh at this as Dotty looks down, fretting and Irene shows nothing.
* * *
To marry the monster.
Because yes, looking back, she can see that even then she knew.
Just as she knew that the Baroness was in the right and Randy the wrong on this thing.
Still, she did nothing about the engagement, not even when Randy told her that he wanted to speed things up, get married practically right away.
Because he fascinated her.
Here was a large, powerful man with a large, powerful dark side to him.
And yes, he has an enemy, powerful or at least effective, one who, by his own admission, has successfully blocked him at every turn.
He told Irene that the Baroness has killed people to stop his plans.
But Irene can just imagine what kind of people.
Not that she sees this thing as all black and white.
Rather, this is dark side against dark side.
This is two personalities, two individuals, both super wealthy, both, no doubt, with super egos, locked in mortal combat, there, in the darkness.
The Baroness has killed people?
Irene would be willing to bet that the same is true of Randy.
And the chances are better than even that his victims were, at least in the traditional sense, innocent.
A whole scenario builds up in her mind.
Randy Buck, archfiend.
A reigning power in the underworld of the bizarre, that's Randy.
And yet, she did marry him, much to her father's delight, but what does he know?
And for that matter, what does Irene herself know, really?
Does she know, is she prepared to attest, with absolute certainty, the fact that Randy did not in fact marry her as his latest adventure in giving reality to his dark side?
Because, if the Baroness has thwarted him at every turn, this marriage could very well be merely his most recent effort at indulging himself, his hobby, his pastime, his perversion, his dark side.
And how many turns were there at which he has been thwarted, come to think of it?
What fiendish plots has he hatched, on what scale, that the Baroness has seen fit to counterplot in such spectacular and potentially disastrous a fashion?
He promised to tell her about the party on the yacht.
But he has not done so.
Instead, he keeps to himself all his doings, whether business or private.
And uses her as he does, uses and abuses her, all the while claiming that it's what she really wants.
And a part of her believes him, that's what's so sick.
Because she is hardly just another abused spouse, taking it from him because she is too scared or too weak to run, or remains and suffers because she is in love with him.
Nothing of the kind.
She has her own car-two of them, in fact-her own money, both money which is hers in every sense and money which he gives her, along with access to still more of the same, should she, for any reason, require or desire it.
So that she is in no sense a prisoner here at the Estate.
Indeed, she is, if anything, the mistress of the household, specifying anything she wishes, from the menu to the layout of the landscaping.
She can have Eric drive her wherever she wishes when he is not working for Randy.
She can have him wash her cars, whether they need it or not.
And yet, this, this... thing is a reality in her life.
And Randy would have her believe that it is a reality in her desire, in her mind, that it was this before that first session.
Which was on their wedding night, of all things.
Because there she was, one minute, getting ready to make it with him.
And the next, she was being attacked by two masked fiends, which she recognized only very slowly as Eric and Cranston.
While Randy was nowhere to be found, apparently.
As those two had their way with her.
As they took her, fore and aft.
As they turned her this way and that, putting her exactly where they wanted her, as though she were nothing more than an inanimate object, a rag doll.
As, dizzy and disoriented, she was turned this way and that, now lifted, now twisted, as mouths and cocks explored her every orifice at will.
Speaking of which, she doesn't recall having any.
It had to be some kind of a drug; she is convinced of it.
How else account for the lapse in time, the discontinuous shifting of situation.
One minute, the bride preparing for her wedding night, the next, a rape victim helpless in the hands of her tormentors.
And this was not the helplessness of the so-called weaker sex.
This was not Irene putting up a valiant but futile struggle.
Rather, this was an Irene who was very much out of it.
As though she were somehow standing there, outside herself, watching as this happened to someone else, someone who just coincidentally happened to look like her.
And yet, it was her, it was definitely her, no question.
No question, because she could feel every touch, whether of hand or tongue or cock.
Feel and more than feel, she could.
She could, she could... enjoy.
What was the stuff he used on her, uses on her, she wonders? He.
Meaning Randy Buck.
Because, even then, that very first night, for all his supposed absence, she felt his presence, felt it, if nothing else, in the actions of his minions, who would not have dared do such a thing except on his orders.
Servants they were, servants they are and she never thought, never thinks of them as anything else.
So that she is not deceived on that point.
Was not, is not.
As both of them, sporting full erections turned her this way and that.
As they fitted her onto Cranston's big cock.
As Eric got behind her, rimming her ass hole until she was lubricated with his saliva, her bung already protruding, distended because of the interior pressure, the displacement due to Cranston's mighty monolith of monster meat.
As he lifted her up off of Cranston until only the huge head of his hammer hung heavily just inside her cunt lips.
And smoothly shafted his cock into her rectum before letting her back down, so that she was impaled fore and aft.
And feeling herself tingling with the intimate lasciviousness of the situation, as the two rampant erections began to work on her insides.
Because Eric began bouncing up and down, letting the bed springs do their work for them, his, Cranston's.
So that they turned her into a two-cylinder engine, a love machine, the pistons alternating half in and half out by turns.
So that they turned her nether orifices into smoothly rounded, sucking, clinging, juicy mouths, eagerly servicing their welcome invaders.
And it was just so-o-o easy, so very easy, to open herself up to them, to let it happen, to allow this double shot of turgid virility, of tumescent masculinity to come into contact with (the dark side of?) her femininity, letting the perfect union, the mysterious conjunction take place, letting it happen (making it happen?).
And yes, she has to admit it, they propelled her quite smoothly, very efficiently, through level after level of her arousal.
Higher and higher she rose, as the determined organs went about their lubricous, delicious work.
And yes, she wanted more and more, specifically more and more of the exact same thing she was getting.
And yet, she could not bring herself to open her eyes, to watch, to look at, to see any of this happening in the real world.
She was like a girl on a roller coaster ride, lacking the courage to face what was happening and yet, at one and the same time, actively experiencing it.
And it made no sense to her then and it makes none now that she should have done this, that she should have allowed this to happen as it did.
Except that it was accomplished with her active complicity, no question.
And yet, when, when had she ever expressed her desire for such a thing to Randy?
Drugs, she tells herself, that's what it is.
In her food, perhaps in her toothpaste, anywhere.
And yet-and yet.
Was it drugs that caused that feeling, that thrill, that lascivious twinge that started her insides to drooling, that made her want to go on and on like this with the two masked rapists?
Because there are truths which are of the body, immutable, unarguable feelings, sensations whose deliciousness, whose irresistible, voluptuous pleasure are not subject to delusion.
The mind can be deceived, the body never.
So that yes, there was the weakness, the inability to muster the strength to resist.
And that could have been, probably was drug induced.
But that has only to do with the means to resist.
And it says nothing of this, this other.
Which is the ardent desire to have what is happening take place.
It happened then and it happens now, happens all the time.
Victim she may be, but she is unquestionably a willing victim.
As she was that wedding night when the two masked lackeys pushed her up the rainbow, forcing her to climax, forcing her series of multiple orgasms, milking them of their loads, fore and aft and reveling in the double injection of thick, hot jism as it filled her cunt, filled her bowels, only to be pumped back out of her by the alternating action of the meat pistons.
And yes, she even remembers hearing herself moan aloud with the pleasure of it all.
And wanting the series of multiple orgasms to go on and on, wanting them to go on and on, forever and ever, world without end.
CHAPTER FOUR
Maybe, she tells herself, maybe if she didn't enjoy it so much.
Maybe, if she didn't enjoy it at all, if it were merely something she found herself forced to suffer through, to endure, for the sake of loyalty to her sick, sadistic, perverted husband who was nonetheless not without his good points.
And who, like the rest of us, has his problems- even though they are certainly not the same as those of the rest of us.
If she could just, just... abstain.
That's it, abstain.
Meaning absent herself emotionally from the proceedings.
Meaning become just so much dead meat for the three fiends to amuse themselves with until, at last, satiated, exhausted, they just naturally grind to a halt.
Then, ah then! she wouldn't need... help.
Then she wouldn't want to, wouldn't feel so compelled to seek a cure for what ails her, because nothing would "ail her" then.
No, she would be all right.
She would be a victim, albeit a willing victim, of their shared perversion, the three men's perversion, that is, a perversion she herself would not share.
Which is, admittedly and unfortunately, presently not the case.
Because there is stimulation, there is arousal, there is response, there is excitement, there is climax.
And this too is reality, is a fact she cannot deny.
And there, just there, lies the problem.
Because she does not know if it is true or not-she strongly suspects that it isn't-that she has, by word or deed, actually requested such treatment, but, however it came upon her, whether voluntarily or by force and manipulation, she does enjoy it.
And the drugs, if drugs there be, cannot account for that.
Because drugs, addiction, carries with it its own form of enjoyment which, they say, is as intense as that which she derives from sexual intercourse.
Although she doesn't believe it.
Because it just doesn't get any better than what she feels.
And again, precisely therein lies the problem.
Which is that she does enjoy it so much, which is that it does provide her with the supreme pleasure, the ultimate high.
And that, she reminds herself, is sick, is, to be precise, her sickness.
Because no well person would want to have sex like that.
Whatever happened to a man, a woman, a bed and carry on?
She does not know, she cannot say.
It could very well be that, that very first time Randy fucked her, back there in that cabin on the ship, when she used another drug-alcohol-as an excuse to let happen what did, it could just be that, even back then, she wanted it the bizarre, bound up way.
Because that is what Randy embodies.
That is one aspect of the huge dark side of this huge man.
And even then, it showed, it showed in his aura, in the fact of his fucking her with his eyes closed as, on the view screen of his mind, the scene of herself, bound and helpless, getting it from the three of them any way they chose to give it to her-even back then, that is what he was looking at, what he as imagining was happening in reality.
Or worse.
That, of course, is the other downside feature of this thing, she reminds herself.
Because one thing leads to another.
How much longer is Randy going to be content with repetition of this same scene?
How much longer will it be before he moves on to do something else with her, to her?
Because, so far, the only physical damage she sustains is, ironically enough, that which she inflicts upon herself, getting carried away with her arousal, her passion, becoming oblivious to the sawing of the ropes on her wrists, letting them rub themselves raw as she writhes and squirms in the throes of her raw sexual pleasure.
If that were all there was to it and if she could somehow get that part of it under control, then she would have reached a mode of existence which, while certainly not normal, would at least be something she could live with in relative serenity.
But how likely is that to happen without help.
She is in a chicken and egg situation, she realizes.
If she could bring her own emotions under control, she wouldn't need help.
But in order to get her emotions under control, she does need help.
Because she has not that within herself to sustain the effort of her rational desire.
Which is one of the first things to go when she gets "turned on".
She needs an emotional anchor, something she can hang onto, something to help her weather the storm of her own passion.
Unreasonable? She thinks not.
Indeed, there is a common condition among women which is quite the opposite of her problem.
Frigidity, it's called. The inability to climb the rainbow.
And she smiles at the thought of this.
Let's see the coldest of women hold off, she thinks, when faced with the kind of assault she regularly sustains.
For her own problem, she cannot find a cure; for theirs, she has one instantly ready and waiting.
No, she needs help.
Useless to attempt emotional detachment during the act.
She knows this.
She has tried and failed.
For that to happen, the untrammeled will must be present.
And hers, she fears, is very much subject to physical stimulation.
And Randy-and Cranston and Eric as well- know exactly how to push her buttons.
And she sighs at this last.
Maybe Randy is right after all about her having asked to be treated as they do to her.
Because where could Randy have found out about her tastes, her own perversion, if not from herself?
And yet when? How?
Why can't she remember giving the information to him, in whatever form?
Unless- How clever of him, if that is how he did it! she tells herself.
To question her, drawing her out.
Clever questions, an ingenious line of inquiry; that would get the job done, all right.
And Randy Buck is nothing if not a reader, an interpreter of people.
No question.
No question, but that the man is an expert when it comes to drawing people out, getting them to reveal things about themselves that they themselves don't know they know.
And was it not she herself who brought up the subject of the dark side of everyone the first time they met?
Hey, she tells herself, it could very well be that that alone was clue enough.
Still, from a casual-all right, perhaps a not so casual-remark about the dark side of all of us to what goes on in the bedroom these days seems to her a quantum leap.
But is it, really?
Is it not rather the case that the dark side of all of us exists in only so many forms?
How else explain the standard bizarre costume which has lasted, with only minor variations, throughout the ages?
How else account for those walking platitudes, those living axioms of dominatrix and victim, the whole alphabet soup of perversion-S&M, B&D, English and Greek and so on?
Seeking originality, so-called freedom of expression, these sickos find instead a triteness, a repetitiveness, a dry tradition which would bore the dullest of intellects.
And yet, they revel in it, rejoicing in their very unoriginality.
As though they somehow accomplish something positive, not perpetuating but rather reinventing that which has gone on before them for centuries- the same thoughts, the same actions, the same, the same, the same.
And yet, she cannot deny it; she above all cannot deny that the thrill is there, the excitement, the tingle of anticipation and that of arousal.
It's there for her.
It is what it is and cannot be argued away.
Perhaps, with proper help, in time, it can be over- ridden.
And replaced by what?
With a shock, she realizes that, without that, but for that, in fact, what she would have-is nothing.
Sad but true and there it is.
And she quite literally cannot help herself.
Because Randy may well be more correct than he knows.
Because okay, the actual practice of what she does, what happens to her, what she lets happen to herself is only as old as her marriage.
But.
It is not something which sprang into her head at the time of, or shortly after the initial assault by Cranston and Eric on Randy's instructions.
Rather, it was always there, lurking within herself.
Which is, of course, the hallmark of her dark side, so far as she is concerned.
Or was it?
Always there, that is.
So that what she is experiencing here is a false sense of d'j... vu, an echo, a suggestion implanted in her mind only after her wedding night, as though to partially justify in her own mind her failure, her inability to resist-mentally, that is-the onslaught.
So she would like to believe.
Because that is the healthiest, the least polluted view of herself.
And yet, she doesn't buy it, not completely.
Because the notion of having a dark side carries with it some imagery, even if unconsciously.
Ideas never remain mere words, disembodied syllables, floating through the mind, or words on paper, their image that of page or book.
Rather, they have form, substance, three- dimensional representations, models if you will, in the holographic projection space which is the human mind.
So that, when she thought of the dark side, when she thought of her dark side, she thought of-what?
Surely, not of herself as perpetrator, as some hooded, spike-heel booted, erotically black-clad dominatrix.
Rather and more likely, she would be the victim.
In the same sense that anyone who goes through life as the object of fore-ordained ceremonies is a victim.
The stages of high society and herself just so much properly consecrated meat in the course of being processed.
Now go here, now go there, now do this, now do that.
Now have your coming out, now go to this party and that one.
Now have your courtship, your engagement, your marriage, even your divorce.
Therefore and thereby is she the properly prepared victim.
Accept and accept and accept because it is her duty to accept.
And who is she, who would she be, to refuse, to fail to go along with the program, whatever program that might be, at the moment?
Is she a sensitive, highly intelligent human being?
So much the better!
That way, being a quick study and all, she is fully prepared to adapt.
Given her superior powers of comprehension, she can all the more skillfully enter into the spirit of the thing, into the ceremony of the moment.
Thus can she progress through life.
Except that this is not progress, this is rather stagnation, this rut she is in.
Except.
How can it be a rut, when her rutting produces the ultimate satisfaction, when it invariably-disgustingly perhaps, but nonetheless invariably- yields the pleasure beyond pleasure?
Because, after all, life must have purpose, must have direction.
And where there is direction, some objective, some goal is implied.
And what better objective, what better aim can there be than that of the pleasure beyond pleasure?
None that she knows of, none that she has ever found or heard of, for all her supposedly high intelligence, for all her privileged position, for all her obedience to the demands of her level of society.
Where, then, does that leave her?
Certainly, she cannot compare her former sex life, such as it was against her present level of sexual satisfaction, cannot measure the quality or the quantity of it with what she has today, with what she can and does achieve by way of orgasms.
Because there is no comparison.
What she has is so much greater than what she had, in every respect, that she doubts that her former husband could even get her started.
Not now, now that she knows.
And oh yes, she does know indeed what the supreme pleasure is supposed to feel like.
She knows its advent, she knows its progress, she knows its payoff.
All these things, she knows.
All these things, she has learned from this present experience.
Sick, perverted, even dangerous it may be, but, when it comes to that deep-down satisfaction, to producing a series of knockout multiple orgasms, she can't beat it, cannot imagine another mode of achieving it.
And it's wrong, wrong, wrong!
She knows this as well.
But this knowledge does not help her.
And see, just see! how she is of two minds here.
On the one hand, she knows that this whole scene, including her wanting it, including her reaction to and with and in it, is sick, sick, sick.
But, on the other, she knows the feeling it gives her, the feeling which she can rely on its giving her.
What, then, is to be done?
How is she to accept, to live with her dark side which is, after all-and even the psychologists are agreed on this point, she knows-which is very much a part of her, and at the same time, put an end to its present mode of expression which, she is increasingly convinced, can but lead to her destruction?
Because, if her dark side is passive, is fundamentally masochistic, then Randy's is quite the opposite.
It demands victims.
And, should she be the only victim he has going for himself at the moment, then one thing will indeed lead to another.
He has killed people before; she is convinced of it.
He and his arch-enemy, the Baroness, are playing a killing game.
She kills his henchmen and he kills his victims, not always necessarily in that order.
Because, if Randy is the aggressor, then the Baroness must sometimes arrive on the scene too late.
He is, in legal terms, a perpetrator.
And, as any policeman can tell you, there is no crime unless and until a perpetrator-perpetrates.
Absent commission, where is the crime?
But she knows exactly where it is.
No mystery there, certainly.
It is in Randy's head, waiting to happen.
And a sudden realization comes over her.
Here she is worried about getting psychiatric help to assist her in her outlook, in her view of her situation, so that she can accept, can live with it- and here is Randy, here are Randy and his henchmen, ready to, to-why not say it?
Kill her.
That's right, murder her.
Not on purpose, perhaps-they will say this to themselves afterward, that it was an accident, knowing all along that a part of them very much wanted precisely this result-but who cares, given that the end result is, has to be, perhaps can only be, her demise?
So that, far from needing psychiatric help, she needs help of a far more urgent and immediate nature.
No! she tells herself. Just get a hold of herself, she must, calm down, she must and everything will be all right.
In his own twisted way, Randy Buck happens to be in love with her.
She is firmly convinced of this.
So that what she is thinking is nothing less than treason.
High treason, even, considering the stature, the greatness of the man she would thus betray, perhaps for no valid reason, perhaps from sheer panic, a mindless, unfounded fear which overrides and suspends her powers of judgment.
Why should she betray him?
Because if you don't, sooner or later, he'll kill you, comes the reply from a small, flat voice within herself.
And if this is panic, she tells herself, she has never heard it expressed more calmly, more matter-of-factly.
It is as though she is listening to the voice of a computer, one which is stating a simple and obvious fact.
Which is that she is presently in mortal danger.
How is she not?
Is Randy running around on her, seeing other women, even though, considering what he does with women, she rather wishes he were?
Is he gone from home for days, weekends, or perhaps overnight?
Is he distracted or exhausted, returning to the Estate bedraggled, exhausted?
No and no and no.
He is being, in his perverted, twisted way, faithful to her.
No question.
And therein, just there, precisely there, lies the danger.
All that rampant sadism and only one place to go with it right now.
And time is running out; she is convinced of it.
Still, she shares her husband's dislike for the Baroness.
Cocky, aggressive, insulting, cynical, sarcastic- the Baroness is all these things and no doubt, more besides.
And not really concerned for her.
If she were, she would have made arrangements to get in touch with her, to contact her, to give her a serious, confidential warning.
But she suspects that, for Cynthia Marvel, the Baroness, this is all a game between Randy and herself.
When whales fight, the shrimp get killed, goes an old Chinese proverb.
And Irene can well believe that, in the case of Randy and the Baroness, this is only too true.
The important thing for the Baroness is winning the game, is spoiling Randy's fun, is ruining his plans.
And the fate of individual victims could not concern her less.
Dark side against dark side; Irene knows this, knew it the moment she saw the Baroness.
Is the flip side of a bad penny of more value?
Obviously not.
The Baroness could very well use her like a pawn in her chess game with Randy.
On the other hand, perhaps that is precisely what Randy Buck is doing with her, vis-vis the Baroness.
Having blocked him at every turn, Randy Buck is now seeking a safe haven from which to perpetrate his next outrage.
And not even the Baroness is capable of invading the conjugal bed.
And this is not a new thought with Irene.
She has thought this before and immediately put it from her mind as being too far-fetched, too devious, too cowardly, a thing unworthy of Randy.
But.
What if?
What if Randy has decided to pursue a limited objective, to tantalize the Baroness by dangling the prospect of a single victim, one she cannot reach, cannot possibly get to in time, whom he will then proceed to have his way with, completing the project, terminating her at his leisure.
Merely so that, at Irene's funeral, he can suddenly wink at the Baroness across the bowed heads of the mourners and give her a wink and a bow, chalking up one for RB in the frosty morning air.
Too late to stop him, once the project is completed, something having gone right for him, at last.
He will, of course, drag it out, teasing the Baroness.
But, at the first sign of her moving in on him, he will move quickly, efficiently and for Irene, fatally.
Not this time, she won't stop him.
Irene realizes, with a shudder of fear, that yes, this is a valid scenario.
And she feels that, for once in her life, she is going to have to take positive action to protect herself.
She rejects the notion at once.
No way, she tells herself. No way does she call the Baroness, going to see her.
Because that is no angel of mercy and salvation on the other end of the line, if she does.
Far from it, in fact.
She is looking at megalomania, at least the equal of Randy Buck's.
And if, somehow, she can get Randy Buck arrested for murder, then that way too, she will have won the game.
And what better way to see to it that that happens than being in constant contact with the victim, actually guiding the conversation in that way that Randy himself is so very adept at doing, recording it so that when it actually happens, the Baroness will be right there with the evidence.
Because, as Randy Buck is so fond of pointing out to Irene, the Baroness may very well have foiled him again and again, but he has yet to spend a single day in jail because of her.
Yes, all that could change, with Irene's help, provided that she is willing to pay the supreme penalty.
Which she is not.
Still, on the other hand-no, forget it.
The Baroness cannot help her, even if she is in mortal danger.
And she herself has only her intuition on which to base the belief that she is or might be.
Irene feels as though she has a sword hanging over her head.
That, or a headsman's axe.
If only, she thinks.
If only the Baroness had not been there on the yacht.
Then she might have remained Randy's shadowy nemesis and her own shining if nebulous hope, instead of a rather brassy super villain type spoiling for a confrontation with Randy.
CHAPTER FIVE
"I've some good news for you, Randy," Irene says, as the three of them-Randy, Cranston and herself-eat supper.
"Oh? And what might that be, my dear?"
"Well, you know how you're always reminding me that what happens in the bedroom happens because I want it to?"
"You're telling me that you fully accept that, finally?"
"Well, yes, but that's only part of it."
"What more could there be?"
"I've decided to seek professional help, Randy."
And Cranston immediately experiences a choking fit, a quite genuine, potentially serious one as, red- faced and choking, he cannot catch his breath.
So that Randy Buck must shoot up from his chair, pull Cranston's back, yank him out of it and administer the Heimlich maneuver.
Once, twice, three times, his locked fists in Cranston's solar plexus as he grasps him from behind, Randy jerkily lifts Cranston off the floor, before a wad of meat expels itself onto the gleaming white linen of the tablecloth.
"Thanks, Randy," Cranston says, wiping the tears from his bloodshot eyes, recovering his breath as he seats himself again, quickly capturing the offending morsel with his napkin, covering it, then scooping it up.
"You seem to have upset Cranston with your news, my dear."
"Randy," Cranston says, speaking hoarsely, "you know damn well she can't-"
"Come, come, come, Cranston!
"My wife, the light of my life, has recognized that she has a problem and has decided to deal with it.
"Good heavens, man, the least we can do is to tender sympathy and understanding.
"Why, you remember when I myself sought such help, not too long ago."
"Mmmm," Cranston responds grimly, looking away from him.
"You, you did?" Irene asks.
"Yes, matter of fact, I did.
"Helped me quite a bit, the fellow did-in a way.
"Basically, I went there to find out if there was anything in my thinking which caused the Baroness to be able to consistently defeat me.
"Turns out, there was.
"Turns out, unfortunately, there still is."
"Are you, uh, are you still working on the problem with him?"
"Can't.
"Died, poor fellow.
"He and his receptionist both.
"Murdered by intruders who torched the place to cover their tracks.
"Regrettable, actually.
"He could have been of immense help to me, eventually, I'm sure of it.
"As it is, well, what can I say?
"But enough about me.
"I want to help you in every way possible, of course.
"Matter of fact, Cranston, didn't we only just finish giving a generous endowment to a rest home?"
"Rest home?
"I don't think-oh!
"You mean the Foundation for the Sociopathically Disturbed.
"I uh, I imagine they'd be able to help her, yes.
"And the facility is very... secure."
"There, you see, my dear?
"This way, you can devote yourself full time to your problem, get things cleared up in record time, no doubt.
"These once a week visits don't really do all that much good anyway, in my opinion.
"They would eventually, but then we never know what can happen.
"I mean, take me, for example.
"My doctor died, poor fellow."
"I uh, I do hope that you'll be, shall we say, discrete.
"I mean, I shouldn't think it necessary to name names in describing these fantasies of yours which I and Cranston and Eric have worked so hard, at your behest, to make into reality."
Amazing, she thinks, that we should be going through this charade.
Still, he must have some reason for acting the way he is.
She would have thought his reaction would be that of Cranston, but he seems quite determined to take the opposite tack.
Unless- "You uh, you know the people in charge at this... place?" she asks.
"Oh, yes. Not too well personally, of course, but by reputation.
"The foundation is basically designed to help those who can afford to do so to arrange for their maladjusted relatives who have run afoul of the law because of their condition to avoid the usual facilities for the criminally insane in favor of private treatment.
"The courts recognize the facility and its staff, of course, so, as a result, the patients get the best of private care, the state is spared public expense and everything works out for the best all round, wouldn't you agree?"
"But I haven't done anything wrong, Randy."
"Not a problem, I assure you!
"There are quite a few of the staffs private patients receiving intensive treatment there.
"I'll just phone ahead to let them know you're coming and you can check yourself in.
"Which will be-when?"
"Day after tomorrow?
"Is that too soon?
"No, that would be just fine.
"I'll see to it that you get VIP treatment."
I'll just bet you will, she thinks.
Which is why, thinking fast, she has given herself an extra day.
Because she knows exactly what she has to do tomorrow.
* * *
"I must tell you, Irene, that I've been very concerned about you," Cynthia says, facing her across the bare marble top of her huge desk. "I must tell you also that I was quite surprised to hear that you were in the lobby."
"Tell me about my husband," Irene says, not responding to either of Cynthia's statements, practically able to see the wheels turning as Cynthia computes how to turn this turn of events to her own best advantage in her ongoing war with Randy Buck.
"You mean tell you what kind of trouble you're in?"
"Comes down to the same thing, doesn't it?"
"Yes, it does, matter of fact."
"Randy and I go way back.
"It started, really, when he owned Buck's Castle, a huge, concrete block maze designed to look like a medieval castle from the outside, where he ran an S&M club, calling himself the Seneschal and watching everything that happened at the Castle on remote cameras from his console in the basement of the Estate.
"He used the club as his own private puppet show.
"For members only, it was, the men and women who belonged to it representing every shade of perversion and mental disorder known to man.
"It was a real house of horrors, no holds barred.
"And him sitting back and watching it all.
"The sickness would have gone on there forever, if I hadn't put a stop to it with the aid of smoke bombs, spray paint for the cameras and some connections of mine with the state police, who involved the sheriff's department and of course the fire departments of five surrounding towns.
"My marketing vice president, Nancy and I risked our lives there shutting the place down in an attempt to stop Randy.
"But he slithered out of it, letting Eric take the fall."
"Did uh, did anyone ever get killed there?"
"Very probably, but nothing could be proven.
"Randy then tried to kill me at a masked charity ball, with the assistance of-never mind.
"Suffice it to say that she runs a well-known chain of hotels here in the city.
"Anyway, I switched champagne glasses with him and he ended up in the hospital.
"There were other attempts on my life, other efforts by him on a much smaller scale to indulge himself in his perversion, everything from kidnapping Nancy so that I would have to rescue her to trapping women and bringing them to the Estate to torture them in his private dungeon."
"You mentioned a console, a dungeon-none of these are in the basement of the Estate now."
"Oh, I know.
"The console he removed lest it be traced back to him from the Castle.
"His private dungeon was ordered dismantled by the state police, lest he face arrest.
"His next really major scheme was called the Brotherhood of the Body, calling himself the Abbot this time around.
"It was a collection of psychopaths disguised as monks who would take runaway girls from the bus terminal, mostly and bring them up to his monastery, where they were in charge of a dominatrix while awaiting the tender mercies of Randy and his merry band of sadistic killers.
"Nancy and I broke into the place, where we convinced the dominatrix that she was on the wrong side.
"She helped us rescue the girls and eventually became my chief of security.
"As for the monastery, Randy had charges planted in the place that could be detonated by remote control, thereby preventing its being captured intact, as happened with the Castle. "Roberta-my security person, she is today- took the remote with her when we left.
"Buck was in the monastery, but he discovered that the detonator was missing in the nick of time, apparently.
"Because he made it out of the place when I blew it up, taking his gaggle of homicidal maniacs with it."
"A few more attempts on my life, a few more efforts at starting up his hobby again, thwarted by me, as usual, but Randy was soon up to his old tricks again.
"This time, he revived his old sex club from the Castle days, taking it out to sea, courtesy of Samantha Steele.
"The only variation being that he again lured runaways from the bus station, taking them first to the Estate, then to the yacht for the party.
"Roberta, Nancy and I rescued the girls and blew up the ship.
"This, of course, drove Randy wild and he contracted with a professional spy and assassin to do me in.
"But not before consulting a shrink to see if he could discover what he was doing wrong, why he always lost to me.
"Naturally, the psychiatrist couldn't be permitted to live and his records had to be recovered and destroyed.
"Randy contracted for the hit on the doctor.
"All of which brings us to you.
"You, of course, are merely his latest project, as you might or might not have suspected.
"Tell me about life chez Buck."
And Irene does, starting with her whirlwind courtship and leaving out none of the details.
When she has finished, Cynthia says, "I knew nothing of his connection with this so-called foundation.
"You're probably going to be in terrible danger there."
"I figured as much.
"You're in terrible danger at the Estate too. Did you figure that out as well?"
"Pretty much, yes."
"That's why I felt I had nothing to lose, doing as I did."
"You should have seen Cranston's face! He almost choked to death, you know."
Cynthia smiles.
"I would love to have seen that," she says. "And it figures that if Randy ever saved anybody, it'd be somebody just like him."
Suddenly, she is serious.
"We've got to get you some help or you'll never survive your little visit to the Foundation."
"What uh, what kind of help."
"Leave that to me.
"Don't be in any hurry to check into the place tomorrow.
"I don't think I need any extra time, but just in case.
"This uh, this Foundation-never mind.
"I'll take care of everything.
"You could be in for some bad moments there, but no worse than you'd have back at the Estate.
"And, as I say, I will get some protection to you."
"I uh, I guess I'll have to depend on you, Baroness."
"If not me, who?"
"That's why I felt I had to come here."
"You did the right thing, Irene.
"Remember, by his own admission, Randy Buck has never won when he's been up against me."
"No, but you've never put him away, either.
"And there have been... casualties."
"True, true," Cynthia sighs, getting up from behind her desk, coming around it, escorting Irene out of her office, "but there's always risk in life."
"My life is in your hands," Irene says, "and I'm not very effective, I'm afraid.
"I mean, I called Randy's bluff and he rose to the occasion."
"Trust me to do no less, Irene."
And Irene, with a last apprehensive glance at Cynthia, leaves.
Cynthia goes back to her desk at once and punches in Roberta's number.
"My office, right away," she says. "No, change that."
"Find Ultimo and get him in here at once.
"While he's on the way, I want to see you and bring you up to speed.
"Seems our old friend Randy Buck has made some rather interesting moves, right under our noses.
"Okay, get cracking on this; we haven't got much time."
* * *
"... and that's the story, Roberta.
"This Foundation thing disturbs me more than Irene's situation, frankly.
"Randy Buck has got himself a candy store there.
"A selection of the worst psychos, a staff in his pocket and the legal system bought it, lock, stock and barrel.
"That Foundation has got to be dismantled.
"Ultimo on his way?"
"Yes, but won't Buck remember him?
"After all, we did use him to help rescue Nancy from the Estate.
"That's right, but remember? We didn't blow Ultimo's cover.
"He was detained along with Buck and his two stooges before Buck's lawyer could get them released on a technicality."
"You sure Buck never caught on?"
"I doubt it. He never trusted Ultimo to begin with, but Ultimo didn't give himself away, either.
"Besides, who else have we got that we can use?
"Get Ultimo's work history together.
"You know-background as orderly and convicted sex offender.
"That should get him right into the Foundation, where he is to keep a close watch on Irene and find out whatever else he-what's the matter, Roberta?"
"You trust Ultimo?"
"Hey, he's your old boyfriend, Roberta, boyfriend and former partner in that domination business you had at one time.
"What makes you think we can't trust him?"
"Because when push comes to shove, Ultimo is liable to pull back to see which way the wind blows.
"Remember how we almost got killed at the Estate?
"If your buddy Captain Reynolds of the state police hadn't arrived just in time-"
"Well what did you expect him to do against automatic weapons, Roberta?
"I think he played it just right, myself."
"Mmmm."
"Anyway, Roberta, who else do we have on such short notice?"
"Nobody, I guess.
"I just wish I could be sure he won't fold in the clinches."
"You just get his package ready. I'll brief him when he arrives."
* * *
Once again, Cynthia is impressed with Ultimo's hugeness.
It is as though he comes from some parallel universe, in which people are constructed on a slightly larger scale than those on earth.
He must twist his body to get through an ordinary door.
Six and a half feet tall, over three hundred pounds of solid muscle, he has a shaved bullet head which adds to his unearthly appearance.
And his wry grin, Cynthia knows, is at the memory of her use of what he has to offer, at the recollection of a night they spent together in her penthouse.
"So, Ultimo, how've you been?"
"Oh, all right, I guess. This bounty hunting business has its moments.
"I understand you've some work for me."
And he sits down in a chair in front of her desk.
And listens to Irene's story.
"... so you see, Ultimo, she called Buck's bluff, only to have it backfire.
"I need you in there to find out what's going on and to keep Irene safe."
"The safest thing would be to get her the hell out of there ASAP," Ultimo observes.
"Not, not before there's a good reason, an incontestable reason to do so.
"I want you to take your time, observe what goes on there, get evidence if you can and only at the last possible moment rescue Irene."
Ultimo looks at her, grinning.
"This isn't about Irene at all, is it, Baroness?"
And she smiles back, without warmth, her eyes not amused.
"It's about Randy Buck and you know it.
"This time, he's gone too far."
"His specialty is going too far, Baroness."
"And mine is stopping him," she responds.
"Temporarily," he appends. "All too true, as it turns out," Cynthia sighs, looking away from him, out the picture window behind her at the dreary industrial skyline of the Jersey flats, with the girdered, ugly overpasses, the rusty, decaying metal industrial buildings, the railroad tracks below.
Then, turning back to him, "Which is why, this time, I want to get the goods on him so that he can be ruined in reputation and put behind bars."
"Maybe I can get the chance to, uh, to solve the problem permanently."
"Don't be ridiculous, Ultimo."
"Buck won't be anywhere near the Foundation."
"He's the financing behind it, but he himself probably stays as far away from it as possible, physically.
"If he wants to know what's going on, he phones.
"If he wants the uh, the use of one or more of the inmates, he sends Eric to pick them up in the middle of the night.
"No, we're going to catch Randy Buck on paper, after we find out for sure just what kind of a horror show he's running."
"Okay.
"But uh, how do I contact you?"
"You don't. Not from the Foundation, anyway.
"You call me from someplace where you go for lunch, or on your time off, whatever.
"And only when you have something to report."
"He calls me at least once, every other day," Roberta says, entering with papers for Ultimo.
"How are you, Ultimo?"
"Fine, fine."
"As I said," Roberta continues, handing Ultimo the sheaf of papers in a file folder, "you call me, every other day, whether you've got something to report or not."
"Got it."
"Okay, then," the Baroness says, "get over there and get hired."
"You sure they have an opening?"
"For you, they'll make one, I'm sure," Cynthia says. "That appearance and the background Roberta has provided make you a shoo-in.
"Any questions?"
"Nope."
"Then good luck."
"And try not to have too good a time," Roberta adds.
"I always have a good time, Roberta, remember?"
"Only too well. Go."
And he does.
* * *
"Yes, yes, you'll do just fine.
"You are, uh, completely over your, your... urges, are you not?"
"Oh yes. I haven't raped anybody since I got out," Ultimo replies.
"Very good, Max.
"And in fact, I have some even better news for you.
"Our therapeutic methods here are rather unique.
"We ask that our staff, from time to time, double as sexual surrogates.
"Do you know what that is, Max?"
Max. Ultimo's cover identity.
"Yes. That's where you kind of act out a part in a sexual act, like you represent somebody else."
"Excellent! I see you have a very good grasp of the concept, in layman's terms, Max.
"Except that it's not an act, but a very realistic, accurate recreation of a sexual situation.
"We here at the Foundation specialize in such treatment, following the philosophy of Dr. Gregory Grant, a psychologist in whom our chief patron and chairman of the board reposed great confidence, up to his untimely demise.
"We give each of our new employees a copy of Dr. Grant's paper, Realism Cathexis in the Treatment of Certain Psychic Disorders, in which the underlying theory behind such treatment is set forth in very clear, easy to understand terms.
"The bottom line of the approach is really quite simple.
"By working through, that is, actually performing certain acts in a clinically controlled, that is, observed environment with specially briefed surrogates, the patient is able to reconcile his actions with the real world and thus work through the fixation.
"In this fashion, we work our way through the obsession, downgrading it steadily, from psychosis to neurosis, from neurosis to preoccupation, from preoccupation to interest, from interest, through satisfaction to satiation, resulting, ultimately in disinterest.
"This uh, this disinterest is, of course, from the patients' point of view. Most of the staff who... assist us in such things find the work very enjoyable, one might almost say exciting."
"Sounds like my kind of place," Ultimo responds, grinning.
"Somehow," the white-coated personnel manager says, rising from his chair, "I just knew it would."
They shake hands.
"You'll have a bunk and locker assigned to you to accommodate the rotating schedule here," the man continues, leading Ultimo out of his office and down a hallway, ducking into a heavy swinging set of double doors.
"Sorry about the barracks-like environment, but it's clean, there are plenty of showers, an excellent lavatory facility.
"And we've a competent janitorial staff."
CHAPTER SIX
How very bizarre, Irene thinks.
The underlying philosophy of this, this... place is that of a doctor, murdered by Randy Buck.
The explanation of her therapy, outlined in matter-of-fact tones by the administrator of the Foundation, pomes down to her getting more of the same, as far as this sexual perversion of hers, or rather that somehow assigned to her by Randy.
Who would have believed such a thing possible?
"Now you understand that the whole procedure will be observed and recorded on video tape.
"We will follow up with a conference, at which time a full report will be prepared.
"Your husband has informed us that you are to receive treatment daily, as he is most anxious to have you back at his side."
Irene says nothing.
Her thoughts reach out for the Baroness.
She does not like the Baroness, any more than she did at their very first meeting aboard the Steeles' new yacht.
Because there is no warmth, no personal concern there.
There is only an opportunism, as cold-blooded and indifferent as that of a general planning a battle.
How can she use what is happening to put an end to her arch-enemy, Randy Buck?
And a part of Irene resents having been forced by her fears to go to her for help.
Still, she did and help was promised.
And that which was promised, if things run true to history, will be, in some fashion, delivered.
In some fashion.
Which might or might not do Irene any good.
Because there is no question in her mind but that, if sacrificing Irene (and how much of a sacrifice would that be for the Baroness, really?) would help her "get" Randy Buck, then that is what the Baroness is prepared to do, without a moment's hesitation.
So that this help that she's getting is not personal assistance, but help in furtherance of the Baroness's prime concern and no doubt, sole interest in the small matter of Irene's continued existence.
So that Irene is, understandably, she thinks, feeling very much isolated, her perception of her peril undiminished by her visit to the Baroness.
She is a pawn on the chessboard of their deadly game. "While you are here, you will wear only a smock and paper sandals.
"That is the standard costume for all the enema-for all the patients.
"We find that, in that manner, you can receive whatever medical attention is required with minimal obstruction.
"You will have a private room which, for your protection, will be kept locked at night.
"You have a buzzer and should you require anything, please don't hesitate to use it, as the staff is here to help you.
"Any questions?"
"These, these... tapes you're going to be making- who all will be seeing them?"
"Only the people working directly on your case.
"They will not be removed from these premises.
"They will, however, be retained as part of the record of your visit.
"Anything else?"
"Not, not right now, thanks."
"Very well, I'll have someone take you to your room.
"We uh, we have taken the liberty of going through your luggage.
"You will be allowed to retain your toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, brushes and combs.
"Everything else will be stored until you are ready to leave."
"How, how long will I be here?"
"Who can say?" he shrugs. "I will tell you this, though; your husband is most anxious to have you back as quickly as possible and he is not in a position here, as you know, to have his wishes treated lightly.
"Well then. If that's all, let's-" He cuts himself short, then buzzes the intercom.
"Irene is ready now. Can we proceed?"
At once, the door to his office opens and a burly attendant, clad in loose-fitting turquoise smock and trousers, rubber thongs on his feet, enters, smiling at her.
"Room twenty-one," the administrator says, returning to the paperwork piled high on the desk in front of him as the attendant holds the door open for Irene.
* * *
There are three of them, all big, burly bruisers, the one who escorts her, the other two following.
The most disturbing aspect of their mini-parade, she finds, is that the two behind her wear only smocks and paper slippers.
"Are our... companions patients?" she asks.
"Uh yes. Yes, they are," he replies. "Your therapy and theirs complement one another.
"You mean that I'm to receive my first... treatment right away?"
"Well, no sense waiting, is there?
"We want to prepare a record, begin the cure as soon as possible-ah, here we are."
Irene cannot believe it.
The room is standard enough, a hospital room, the walls cinder block painted over thickly in lemon yellow, the floor vinyl tile.
There is the bed, the nightstand, in the comer the bathroom complete with shower.
But, in the middle of the room, hanging from a pipe which crosses the ceiling, dangles-a noose.
They've gone through all this pseudo-scientific mumbo jumbo in order to execute her?
She finds this as ridiculous as it is terrifying.
She wears a sun-backed dress.
"Give me your wrists, please," the attendant says.
Bemused, she extends her wrists.
Promptly, deftly, he loops the noose around them in a figure eight, pulling it tight at their backs.
And one of the gowned brutes begins pulling on the other end of the rope, hauling her up, up, up, until her feet are just off the ground.
As the other one presses himself up against her.
"Little higher," he says. "No, too much. Little lower. That's good, right there."
And the one pulling the rope ties it off at a metal retainer bolted to the wall.
Both the gowned ones remove their covering.
They are naked beneath, their hairy musculature and erections suddenly exposed.
Quickly, they peel Irene's clothes off her.
So that now, she dangles there, naked.
As the attendant produces a video camera from the bottom drawer of the nightstand beside the bed.
He stands in a corner, recording the proceedings.
As one bruiser crouches behind Irene and burrows his face into the crack of her ass, mouth open, tongue extended.
As he rims her, tongue shafting in and out of her ass hole.
And the other one crouches in front of her and begins to eat her cunt.
But this action does not continue very long, before the one in front of her lifts her up by her waist, putting both arms around her, clasping her to himself.
As the other does the same.
The first man releases her, then grasps her thighs, placing them around his own waist, then hanging onto her that way as the one behind leaves go and promptly begins inserting his cock into her ass hole.
Thus seated, he grasps her around the body and the one in front proceeds to force his rampant invader into her cunt.
So that now, the three of them are joined together.
And they begin swaying back and forth, the two men rolling their hips.
So that pussy and ass are being reamed, round and round, by the two prodigious prods.
As the attendant concentrates on their facial expressions.
"Mmmm! Mmm!" the one in her ass exclaims. "Feels so-o-o good!"
"Tell me about it!" the other responds.
This can't be happening! Irene thinks.
And yet, she clamps her thighs around the one in front of her, relieving the tension of the rope on her wrists.
And the one behind her actually seems to be helping support her weight as well, using the leverage of his mighty marauder, as well as his arms, which reach around Irene and the body of his partner as well, as the one in front returns the compliment. So that the three of them are locked in double embrace.
And the heat of their bodies quickly transmits itself, one to the other to the other.
So that they are three become one, fused together with the heat of their mounting passion.
Because this too Irene finds unbelievable.
Which is that she should actually be feeling the arousal.
What the hell is wrong with me, anyway? she asks herself.
Is it, after all, possible that Randy Buck is right about her?
Or is he right about her because he has made her the way she is, brainwashing her, turning her into some bondage freak, some masochistic pervert who cannot get enough of pain mingles with her sex, who cannot get enough of sex while experiencing pain?
Because there were drugs before; she knows there were.
Had to be.
Because of the drowsiness that would come over her, the lassitude, this altered state of awareness without the ability to move, that dream state of observation and participation at one and the same time.
And yet, no drugs were administered here.
There has been only brute force.
As the brutes involved continue to grind into her, fore and aft.
And she feels her rectum relaxing, actually welcoming its visitor.
And she feels her pussy drooling in response to the stimulation of the two cocks.
And she feels herself becoming hotter and hotter, both physically and emotionally.
As she begins her rise up, up, up the rainbow of her sexual arousal.
How can it be? she asks herself, How can her own body thus betray her?
How dare she become sexually aroused under these circumstances?
She is being restrained and double raped.
She is being serviced by two mental patients.
And she is, somehow, at least at the purely physical level, enjoying this, enjoying herself, enjoying the flood of lascivious sensation which even now flows through herself.
As her body speaks to the two cocks.
And the very idea that there is nothing, nothing, nothing restraining them and nothing protecting her she finds exciting as well, finding in her helplessness a dimension of sensuality which fascinates and intrigues.
As her face becomes red, her breathing labored.
As beads of sexual sweat form on her forehead.
And the video camera records it all in close-up.
And she doesn't even care.
Because she can feel the big batons inside her, can cling to them, can reach out to them, nerve ending for nerve ending.
As they communicate with each other, body to body.
She can feel the bulbous heads, the plum-like knobs, as they move around and around, contacting the walls of rectum and vagina.
She can feel the mighty shafts, their vibrant thickness, the irregularities of their surfaces as they move lubriciously, deliciously around and around inside her, other rather than self, but sharing her excitement.
Yes and yes and yes! she cries out in her mind.
Because this, this! is where it's at, what it's all about, no question.
The feeling and the feeling and the feeling and it's all pure, raw, irresistible, exquisite, sensuous, erotic.
And there is nothing, nothing, nothing that feels better.
Unless it is that next increment of sensation.
And the next and the next, raising her higher and higher, up, up, up the rainbow.
As they get her hotter and hotter, the two thrusting, rotating, undulating brutes.
And themselves as well.
Because here, now, she can feel their hot breaths, on cheek and back of neck.
She can feel the mounting excitement, the sweat, the sexual tension in their big, beefy, heavy-breathing bodies.
And she revels in the dependability, the solidity, the simplicity of it.
For some reason, the line from Streetcar comes to her.
I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.
And yet, here is certainly no kindness, no generosity, no good will.
Here is a brutal, a forcible entry into her, by sick, perverted fiends.
As one who is, she is sure, just as sick as these two continues to record the event.
And herself?
Well, she must be the sickest one of all.
And the only bad part of the situation she can perceive at the moment is that she will not be getting any real help here, help of which, as it turns out, she really does stand in need.
She thought-she really did-that if she could only get away from Randy, then certainly, she would be all right.
But she sees now that that is simply untrue.
Because Randy is not here.
Or is he?
Because the ones who run this place, are they not creatures of his, doing his bidding?
Are not these very walls, is not the Foundation itself all of his doing?
So that she got away from the man, but not from his grasp, his control, his will.
She is still subject to him, still helpless in his clutches.
No question.
No question, but that Randy Buck is as surely present here, in this place, in this room, as if he were in fact standing here, watching.
And she has no doubt in her mind now, none whatsoever, but that Randy will indeed be reviewing the tape even now being made of this performance.
Perhaps, since she is to be "treated" daily, the daily recorded journal of her "progress" will be messengered to him, wherever he happens to be at the moment.
So that he can gloat over how well he has called her bluff.
So that he can see her carried away, in the throes of her own passion, unable to fight him, as helpless here as she was at the Estate.
Even more so, in fact, since there, at least, she could pretend to be the mistress of the house, as such in charge of the staff, the hired help.
Whereas here, she is completely powerless, in or out of bed.
Bed.
And she realizes that she would be ever so much more comfortable if she were in bed doing this right now.
So that perhaps it's just as well that she isn't.
Because then, she might surrender to complete depravity.
Yes, then that helplessness in which she so delights, apparently, would be total and she would have no mitigation, no anchor, no reference point by which to gauge the depths to which she has sunk in her perversion.
As it is, she knows that she is sick.
Just as she knows that, in order to get well, she must remove herself completely from Randy.
She will get a divorce.
That's it, she will run from him, hide from him, contact him through her lawyers.
And he will not give her a hard time.
Because he does not want an official court record of her grounds.
Mental cruelty.
And he had best accept this at face value.
Ah, but she is far, very far from that point, from being able to do that right now.
On the contrary, she is buried within the coils of his embrace, thoroughly, deeply enmeshed in the tentacles of his nefarious influence.
The Baroness.
What help has she sent?
Or has she decided that she cannot, after all, help, that she cannot or will not, because there is no way to get to Randy Buck from here?
In which case, Irene reminds herself, she stands no chance at all of being saved, let alone of getting well.
Because, when you are truly, totally helpless, then anyone can do anything to you they please.
And now that she knows the truth about Randy Buck, she knows that, of all the things which please him most, very few involve her continued health and well-being.
No, she is amusing to him right now, masochist to his sadist.
But how long before boredom catches up to him?
How long before he decides that to this game, as to every game, no matter how delicious, there must come an end?
And so, having ceased to amuse, having become to him merely a continuing liability, how long will it be before he decides to let the axe fall?
So that she will find herself led to another room, or perhaps this one, to another noose, or maybe this one and it will not be around her wrists that it goes, but rather around her neck.
While these two amuse themselves quite differently, or perhaps not all that differently, as the video camera records her death throes.
Still, what can she do about it?
She has done what she could.
She has gone to the Baroness, there to seek help which may not be forthcoming, there to hear things she does not necessarily want to know.
Knowledge is power.
And she, who values her helplessness so highly, wanted no power, really.
Except that she also doesn't want to die.
She finds that a totally unattractive prospect.
Far better to live in this bizarre, perverted world of hers than not to live at all.
So long as she was completely helpless, she could have even known a certain kind of tenuous happiness.
And yet, look what she has had to do-or did she ?
She has, after all, no real reason to believe that in fact Randy Buck would ever have actually harmed her seriously.
It could just as well be that she was to have been the nucleus, the core of his respectability.
And all that she asked in return was to be left safe in her helplessness.
She required just that much protection from him, namely that he would cause her no serious harm.
And indeed, why should it be otherwise?
Because, certainly, in this Foundation of his, he has all that is required to provide himself with endless amusement, as sick, as perverted, as sadistic as he might require.
The possibilities for everything from henchmen to victims is endless here.
These two who are even now climbing the rainbow with her, for example; is there anything of which they are incapable?
They would not hesitate to kill.
Perhaps they have not hesitated to do so.
But now, for the moment at least, she is safe enough.
And that is the best for which she can hope.
To live in, live through a series of nows, ever in in the present, going moment by moment, extracting from each instant its full measure of sensual enjoyment.
To live in hope?
That she cannot do.
Hope is closed to her.
Hope is a contradiction to her preferred state of helplessness.
Those who have hope are never helpless.
If she has Randy, why should she need hope?
Perhaps, she tells herself, all is not lost after all.
Maybe Randy will come to see that he doesn't really want her to be here, going through this.
Maybe he would rather have her with him.
So that her absence will have made his heart grow fonder.
But even that is a form of hope, she tells herself.
For one thing, what is to stop Randy from changing his mind concerning her at any time?
And what if it's true, as the Baroness said, that she is merely another project to him, a thing with which to taunt the Baroness, his latest challenge, his latest dare in this game these two monsters seem so intent at playing with each other?
Ah, but what if and what if and what if?
And who cares, when she has this present reality, this truth, this certainty which is of sensation, which is of the body?
As now, firmly grounded on their sturdy legs, the two fiends grind into her full force now, fore and aft, sending thrill after thrill of sexual electricity coursing through her, driving her and themselves up to the peak of their capacity to contain the pleasure which even now permeates and inundates them.
So that here, now, there comes upon the three of them the ultimate pleasure, that force which, residing within them, is nonetheless greater than themselves.
As it takes them over.
As it grasps them in its relentless, all-pervasive grip, cell by cell of the very fibre of their beings.
As they come into her.
As she milks their prongs with spasms of vagina and rectum, coming and coming herself, her series of multiple orgasms in counterpoint to the spurting discharges of their cocks in and in and into her depths.
And only when their shared climax has passed do they release her, their still fully tumescent prongs, slimy with the residue of their passion hobbling stiffly before them as her wrists once again assume the full weight of her body.
And the orderly/cameraman takes another thirty seconds of her like that and then turns off the camera.
"One of you, uh, wanna release her there?
"Attaboy!"
And one of her fuckers lowers her gently to the floor.
"I'm gonna get these two back to their ce-to their rooms," he says. "You can get cleaned up for lunch.
"I'll just uh, take these with me."
He picks up her clothes.
"You'll find smocks in the dresser over there and paper scuffs in the closet.
"Lunch will be brought to you shortly.
"Be aware that you are being monitored at all times." And he points to a corner of the ceiling.
"I'm not gonna lock your door, but please remain here until someone from staff comes to get you."
"To get me?"
"Of course.
"There's to be a review of your initial treatment, as soon as possible.
"The doctors will look at it while you have lunch and be ready to talk to you first thing this afternoon."
CHAPTER SEVEN
"How are you feeling, Irene?" the doctor asks.
"I, I'm not really sure."
"Are you refreshed, exhilarated, perhaps?"
"Maybe."
"But you don't want to admit it." Silence.
"Before we continue, Irene, you should be aware that our conversation is being recorded, both by tape recorder and by video camera."
"Are you a real doctor?"
"Yes. I am a psychiatrist, Irene."
"What is Randy Buck to you, Doctor?"
"He is chairman of the board of the Foundation."
"So you're following his orders."
"The only restriction on the practice of my profession here is that we adhere to the methodology of the late Doctor Gregory Grant, who was a psychologist.
"Do you understand the difference between the two disciplines?"
"No."
"Do you care?"
"No."
He laughs.
"From his studies of human behavior, Doctor Grant worked out a way of treating aberrant behavior through-"
"I understand his method, Doctor.
"What I don't understand is why I didn't see you first, before, before-you know what."
"We have refined the methodology here, Irene.
"The first treatment takes place in accordance with the perception of the aberration on the part of those closest to the aberrant.
"So that my first question to you is simply, How close were we?"
"It would have been better in bed."
"Was that important?"
"Not very, but you did ask."
"So I did.
"Let's look at the tape now, shall we?"
They watch in silence as Irene has the odd experience of watching herself getting double fucked on TV.
"Ah! Here we see that you are in fact reacting erotically to what would be essentially a non-erotic experience, from the female viewpoint, under normal circumstances.
"Notice the coloration of the face, the alteration of the breath, the beginnings of sexual perspiration as you-"
"I know, I know. I was there, remember?"
"Still, you seem to be-well, you are, actually- having a very intense erotic response to this confrontation.
"This is, of course, the extreme case of bondage and subjection to forced sexual intercourse which, in your case, was forced only from the standpoint of the perpetrators.
"You not only failed to resist, physically or mentally, you not only accepted, but actually welcomed what can only be termed an assault, Irene."
"Notice here how you progress from one stage of arousal to ano-"
"You can-would you mind shutting that off, Doctor?"
"Of course." He uses the remote.
"I should, however, point out to you that your series of multiple orgasms at the culmination of the act was especially intense, involving some twenty to twenty-five orgasmic contractions, depending on whose count you accept."
"How many people... counted?"
"There were four of us who evaluated your performance."
"And just how many others are going to get to watch my... performance, Doctor?"
"Well, don't forget that the two who had intercourse with you are also patients here, although in a criminal status.
"Still, their performances are also evaluated and the results discussed with them.
"Do you notice, by the way, that you are focusing on peripheral concerns, rather than concentrating on the problem?"
"I have reason to be concerned with the use that is to be made of that videotape."
"Videotapes," he corrects. "We will be making others as we progress.
"However, you would do far better to concentrate on the content rather than the administration of the tapes."
"Of course," Irene replies.
But there is no conviction in her voice.
Because this is total bullshit, the whole thing.
This is merely Randy, continuing to torture her, punishing her for her attempt to force the issue of exactly who is responsible for what happens in their bedroom.
And this doctor, like the others, is merely one of Randy's stooges.
"Am I to continue with these same people tomorrow?" she asks.
"No, no. We want to progress rather quickly.
"As a first step, we want to ween you away from the multiple partner scene.
"We'll go to the bed, since you prefer that and we'll still use the bondage you seem to find so necessary.
"But there'll be just the one man involved.
"Naturally, so that you won't feel you're missing too much by way of performance, this will be an extremely well endowed, very strong individual.
"He's brand new to the Foundation, I don't mind telling you, so it's not as if you're about to be serviced by some male prostitute or some such nonsense.
"His performance will be, in that sense at least, spontaneous."
"How very reassuring."
But she doesn't sound as though she believes him.
He shrugs.
"Believe what you like," he says, "although we might want to take a look at what appear to be paranoid tendencies showing up in this process.
"Within the clinical frame of reference, however, the observed performance is what matters-yours and his.
"And we shall see what we shall see."
He stands up, terminating the interview.
"Feel free to walk the grounds.
"I apologize for our prison-like appearance, but the nature of some of our clientle requires it.
"A part of the accreditation of this institution is dependent upon security.
"I should point out to you that any attempt to leave here prior to obtaining a valid release could prove most dangerous."
"Somehow, I just knew that would be the case," she says.
"Then you're undoubtedly not disappointed to learn that you were correct," he responds, smiling without warmth. "The entrance to the grounds is just down the main hall."
* * *
Male and female patients wear the same identical loose-fitting smock, the same paper slippers.
She counts at least fifty patients, male and female, in the yard, which, but for the high walls around the distant perimeter, could be a garden or a park, with its flowerbeds and trees, its flagstone walkways.
She sees nobody but other patients out here.
There are no pajama-like turquoise orderly uniforms relieving the aimless, milling parade of pale grey, shapeless smocks.
"Don't wander too far from the building."
She turns around on the flagstone walk to see who spoke.
A woman.
Quite a pretty woman, full-figured, her full breasts creating a most impressive cliff of a bust line.
"What's the problem?"
The woman shrugs.
"Maybe there isn't one, depending on what you're here for.
"But some of the guys like to hide behind the trees and when a woman goes by, you know, like, do their thing.
"If you're a nympho, it's just the thing for ya."
"I'm not, I don't think.
"I'm here for... a different problem."
"And I'm here for no reason at all."
"Me too, I suspect. I mean, not that I don't have problems, but this isn't the place to find the solutions."
"Well, I don't have any problems at all. Really.
"I just happen to like women instead of men and my family would like to believe that this is something that can be cured.
"Some doctor from Florida's crazy theory about homosexuality responding to treatment. You might have seen him on TV."
"Oh, yes. Bruce something or other, right?"
"That's the one.
"So you cross that with Dr. Grant's cathexis through indulgence treatment method and what have you got?"
"Let me guess. More pussy than you can handle?" The woman laughs.
"Close. A lot of it, but certainly not more than I can handle."
"How long have you been here?"
"A month.
"Not a bad life, really.
"I'd like to be free, of course.
"But if they're waiting for me to throw in the towel, they're barking up the wrong tree."
"They?"
"My family."
"Not the doctors?"
"They could care less.
"That, or I'm their favorite porno star.
"Seen yourself on tape yet?"
"Oh yes. I wasn't too bad, either. Hot stuff."
They laugh.
"Well, hot stuff, you wanna go for a walk?"
"Where to?"
"My favorite personal clump of bushes."
Irene looks around before replying, "Why not? I don't see anybody around to stop us."
"Why should they? It's all good therapy, isn't it?"
* * *
There is something about the great outdoors, Irene thinks.
Something about sunshine and fresh air and green grass.
Something about herself and this other woman lying there, their voluptuous nudity fully exposed, which seems to cause the juices to start flowing.
Indeed, she seems to be getting much the same thrill of anticipation she senses when she is about to have one of those sexual experiences which, according to Randy, she prefers.
But here, now, she feels a greater sense of herself.
That is, there is no great scene of action involving muscular men with rampant erections about to treat her like so much malleable clay, like a lump of dough.
Rather, she sees her breasts, her hips, her everything, exactly as they are.
And she sees these things reflected in another, in the real world, in the person of this other woman.
And not only the physical correspondence but the mental as well.
Because the other woman is as hot as she is now.
And they are hot, no question.
It shows in the facial expression, it shows in the large doorbells of their nipples, already rubbery, erect.
As they fondle each others' breasts.
As they explore each others' bodies with eye and hand.
As now the woman leans over Irene to suck her tits.
So that she is kneading them with both hands as she feeds them to herself.
She sucks Irene's breasts to full nipple hardness, even as the glands beneath become fully engorged, blue-veined and firmer than before.
As Irene plays with the woman's own heavy breasts.
The woman pulls her face back, red now with the engorged blood of her fully aroused passion.
And reverses her body at once, hastily bridging Irene, a knee planted in the grass on either side of her, face hovering above Irene's snatch, her own crotch over Irene's face.
As she lowers both ends.
So that now, as her face burrows into Irene's bush, her own hips descend, her great, hairy cunt coming closer and closer to Irene's face.
And Irene instinctively reaches up, placing both hands on the belled flare of the woman's generous hips.
And lowering her into position.
So that she is looking into the large, puffy pucker of the woman's ass hole, even as the tip of her tongue tastes the slick, faintly salty surface of her exposed labia.
"Unnnh!"
This from Irene as the tip of the woman's tongue finds Irene's clit and begins strumming it, flickering at almost vibrator speed.
Even as Irene locates the woman's joy buzzer and begins to return the compliment.
And a correspondence is set up between them, a closed feedback loop of sexual electricity, coursing through both their bodies in repeated surges, lascivious thrills, as they begin tongue-fucking each other in earnest, their tongues going deep into their hot, juicy pussies, then withdrawing part way, in contact with their clits at all times.
So that they are getting hotter and hotter, there under the sun.
And it is not only the arousal, but another dimension as well.
As above, so below.
Because action and reaction become merged, confused.
So that Irene cannot tell which is which.
Did she initiate this particular series of deep thrusts of her tongue or did the woman?
Was it her idea that this particular motion should come next or was it the other's?
So that, between self and other there is established a bond of such intimacy as to preclude her being able to say even which particular thought was original with her and which originated in the other, with herself merely following the suggestion by a split second.
As they climb the rainbow together.
And more than together, or so it seems to Irene.
Because now, there is no self and no other.
Rather, each seems an extension of the other, mirroring perfectly the other's actions, the other's desires.
So that here, now, they create a separate, closed universe of themselves, the other and the action between them.
And there is nothing, nothing, nothing separating them.
There is nothing here coming between them in any way, be it mental or physical.
This is a togetherness beyond mere being together.
This is a oneness, a unity and a uniqueness such as Irene has never known before.
As they rise higher and higher up the rainbow of their shared arousal.
Naught loves another as itself, so she has heard.
But she has never until just now understood the meaning of this.
She has never known until now that there could be such exact correspondence, such intimacy, such full familiarity between herself and another person in this world.
Body and soul, they seem as one.
And as they seem, just so they are, so far as she is concerned.
Because the body knows itself and is not deceived.
It is what it is and not otherwise.
Not the body, not the mind.
Because this is not the practice of, the indulgence in some foolish conceit, some artificial construct of the mind, some whim, some by-product of her narcissism, her vanity.
Rather, this is genuine, deep-seated sensation, elementary in its simplicity, complex in its parts, complete in its manifestation.
This is the real thing, she tells herself, whatever that means.
She only knows that there is no nagging doubt as to the true origin of what she feels, here and now.
She only knows that there is not some vague apprehension casting its shadow over what is happening.
Because here, in this here and now, she knows her own completeness, her oneness with herself.
Not the other's big, hot, juicy, drooling pussy is she thus avidly servicing with ever-working tongue, but her own.
Yes, in some way unclear to her, some magical, mystical method unknown to her before but even now revealed to her in perfect clarity, she has discovered a path to infinite pleasure.
And the path to her pleasure she pursues now, pursues without reservation, without holding back in any way.
Why not?
Why not ride higher and higher?
Why not propel herself up, up, up the rainbow of her arousal, not with affectation, not with passive, provisional acceptance of outside stimulation, but rather in the full and free, the active exercise of her will over the real world, over the projection, the extension, the manifestation of her own true self?
And she does.
She rides, high and free, soaring now, flying up the rainbow.
And this, this alter ego, this other part of her does the same.
Yes, external reality supports her fully.
Her body knows its own truth and would not deceive her.
Would not and is not.
This is the way to do it, to achieve ultimate satisfaction, no question.
As she surrenders mind to body completely now, wallowing, drowning in the flood tide of lascivious sensation which flows around and through her.
She is swept away in the whirling eddies of her own passion.
As delight becomes ecstasy, ecstasy rapture, rapture turning into complete sexual transport, carrying her along on the crest of the tidal wave of the ultimate pleasure.
The ultimate pleasure, which comes closer and closer to the surface of her being, exploding, expanding within her, the unfolding of a complex and huge blossom in slow motion.
As the pressure of the pleasure beyond pleasure builds rapidly within her.
As she goes from level to level of the sexual paradise into which, it seems to her, her own actions have propelled her.
Until- She is coming.
She.
Meaning this double creature, this two-headed monster she has become.
So that, for the very first time ever, she is able to experience her series of multiple orgasms as an all-encompassing totality.
Because surely that is her own cunt convulsing, again and again, milking her own tongue of all the pleasure it contains for her, of more pleasure than her body can contain.
And surely those are her own juices, peppery in their piquancy, potent and tingling and copious, which coat her tongue.
And surely these twinges, these spasms have no part which is not in her and of her, no portion of themselves in the outside world, the world beyond . her own being.
A closed system, they are, she is.
And that system even now reaches the highest realms of sexual paradise.
And there is nothing, nothing, nothing outside herself right now which matters, which has meaning, reality.
She is complete, in and of herself.
She is all there is, all there needs to be.
Again and again, the orgasmic spasms convulse her.
As, twisting and writhing together, bodies glistening in the sun with their sexual sweat, they squirm their way through their shared climax, Irene's legs bicycling in the air.
And it is only after their last shared twinge of ultimate pleasure has passed and the woman dismounts from Irene's face to lie there next to her on the grass, the sun shining now into both their faces, that they realize that they have gathered an audience of all the other inmates.
Who cheer and applaud loudly.
Only now to the turquoise-clad orderlies appear, muscling their way through the circular throng.
And look down, visibly relieved to see that all that has happened is two women going at it all the way.
"You uh, you ladies wanna get cher gowns back on, please?
"Nudity is not permitted on the grounds of the Foundation."
Saying nothing about what they have done, concerned only with the fact of their having no clothes on.
Which cannot be too serious a concern here, Irene reflects, lying there, recovering her breath, because they are practically naked all the time anyway.
She accepts a hand up from one of the attendants.
And puts her smock back on, as does the other woman, both of them ignoring the milling crowd, beginning to disperse now that the show is over.
The attendants say nothing further, content to disappear, now that the disturbance has been understood.
"We're pretty good together," the woman says.
"Indeed. How unfortunate that they couldn't have got us on tape."
"I can arrange that, if you'd like."
"Uh, no thanks, I'd as soon not."
"Suit yourself," the woman shrugs. "I get enough here anyway.
"Surrogates, female attendants, the cleaning staff-you name it.
"This Grant was a real quack, you know.
"Not that I consider that there's anything wrong with me, but it's kind of ridiculous to think that you can cure addiction with an unlimited supply of the drug.
"And I don't even have a medical degree."
"Oh, I don't know," Irene replies, "I suppose there's a case to be made for saturating the senses until the desire for variety, for simply doing something else, takes over.
"After all, there's a difference between sexual and substance addiction, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes. One is good for you, the other destroys you.
"Anyway, when would you like to get together again?"
"I'm... not sure."
And she really isn't.
Because there is a kind of mental aftertaste here, a hollowness, the kind she used to get from masturbation after she came.
A sort of hollowness, a kind of downer, a postcoital depression arising, apparently, from the fact that, technically speaking, at least, there was not coitus, but only the climax, achieved by what was, for all intents and purposes, mechanical means.
And the magic of the moment is revealed for what it was-self-manipulation.
She and this other woman have indulged in mutual masturbation; it's just that simple.
And, while Irene doesn't consider this to be unhealthy, is not sorry she did it, still she finds herself questioning in her own mind whether or not it would ever be worth doing again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Irene, please return to your room at once. Irene, please return... "
Irene has wandered out onto the grounds after breakfast.
She has decided to spend as much time as possible outdoors.
Whether because, unlike her room, the others are kept locked except at certain hours, or because they are somehow busy doing other things, nobody but her is out and about this morning.
But now, she is being summoned, told to go back to her room.
Useless to ignore the booming voice, coming from a speaker above the entrance to the grounds.
They will merely come looking for her.
So she goes back to her room, as bidden, where she sees, reclining on the bed, this huge, naked man with shaved head, his heavy cock draped over one massive thigh.
On her nightstand, a pile of rope.
She sees him through the viewing glass in her door, through the imbedded wire mesh.
So she is not surprised.
And does not hesitate.
He looks at her as she enters, face expressionless.
She simply stands there, motionless, as he removes her gown from her body before lifting her up and throwing her onto the bed.
Promptly, deftly, he binds first one wrist, then the other to the uprights in the metal headboard.
And Irene watches his heavy cock with its massive, rounded knob swinging back and forth as he works.
And the warmth is on her once again, her pussy juices already starting to flow.
And she knows now, or thinks she does, a little more about herself.
Because she has not been drugged, unless very subtly, in her food.
But it would have to be a very selective drug indeed, to cause her to respond only upon outside stimulation, such as the presence of this bald, beefy behemoth.
Because she was not feeling particularly sexy this morning.
Even a visit to the site of yesterday's adventure with the lesbian failed to stir her prurient interest, summoning the image only as historical fact.
And yet now, she is excited, aroused. Helplessly so, she realizes.
And the realization of this helplessness, a helplessness born, not of manipulation, not of victimization, but of her own inner lust, of that rampant desire, that fire within herself which flares up unbidden.
And now, as she sees the bald head, looking like some kind of muscle, tanned and flexed, working away as he eats her pussy, she comes to yet another realization.
She should not have gone to the Baroness.
She panicked and did the wrong thing.
And this, this... monster, this new employee, according to the white coat who spoke with her yesterday, is probably the help sent by the Baroness.
She knows, can see the monitor watching them now, watching and undoubtedly listening as well, a small directional microphone undoubtedly a part of the assembly up there.
But she has to get a signal to him, has to let him know that she doesn't want to be rescued, that, whatever kind of an ogre Randy Buck may or may not be-and she believes the Baroness's tales of horror- he was telling the truth when he told Irene that her sexual tastes were entirely her own idea.
True, they are very convenient, very well suited to his own personality, are in fact the perfect complement to his own sexual tastes, but nevertheless, they are her own.
He indulges himself when he indulges her, no question.
But still, the fact remains that it is to her whims that he caters.
And this drug theory of hers?
Nothing more than a denial of her problem, a transference.
She is normal, she is all right, there is nothing at all wrong with her, but he, he! is gas lighting her, is manipulating her, has caught her in the coils of his vile machinations, will eventually even kill her.
And it was, is bullshit. Most of it, anyway.
Probably.
But there is enough of it that isn't that causes Irene to urgently want to erase her visit to the Baroness.
Because, should Randy discover what she has done, she would have been the cause of whatever befalls her, even as she is the cause of her present predicament.
So then how, how to convince this, this... plant of the Baroness that she is all right, that she doesn't need, or at least doesn't want her help.
Only one way.
And, ironically enough, one which requires no effort at all on her part. All she has to do is-let go.
That's right, she need merely release her mind to her body totally, well before the advent of the ultimate pleasure within herself as a result of this big bruiser's attentions forces her to do so.
Which will serve to convince this guy, the doctors and Randy Buck-for she has no doubt but that he will review in intimate detail whatever records are made of her visit here-what she herself is now convinced of, which is that this is indeed her scene.
As now the big guy sucks her tits, chewing on the nipples, kneading the big boobs, rolling them round and round.
As now he takes another length of rope and ties a loop around one knee, passing the rope behind her head, then tying the other end around her other knee, similar to the manner in which Randy Buck ties her up.
Maybe, she thinks, maybe this man is not from the Baroness after all, but is one of Randy Buck's employees, associates, whatever.
Maybe he will not do anything to her except create an instant replay of their bedroom scene- hers, Randy's and of course, Cranston and Eric's.
Because he certainly has all the qualifications of an all-in-one stud.
He has Randy's size and then some and his is all muscle, unlike Randy's.
He has Cranston's hugeness where it counts and Eric's height.
So that yes, he is like a combination of her three regular fuckers.
Sheer coincidence?
Could be.
Certainly, his newness militates in favor of his being the Baroness's spy.
And now- "Aaaah!"
This from her lips, as Ultimo shafts his huge prong, now massively erect, into her cunt.
And he rides away on her, her pussy sucking its welcome visitor.
And he is working out on her, pumping away, now pistoning in and out of her hot, drooling pussy, now rotating, going round and round, reaming her royally.
And the thrills, the surges of sexual electricity shoot through her, again and again, with each pump, with each rotation.
And yes, she is getting exactly what she always wanted.
And she feels both totally helpless and completely safe.
Because now she believes that he is indeed from the Baroness.
Because he avoids eye contact, does not look at her face, lest, forgetful that they are being observed, she say or do something that will give him, give them away.
He need not have worried, but of course he doesn't know this.
No, if he were from Randy, then he would not be so reticent, to evasive.
And yet, there is nothing held back in his fucking, in his servicing of her.
On the contrary, he seems as genuinely ardent as herself.
As he humps away.
And now, without breaking his stride, he reaches behind her and grabs the pillows from the head of the bed.
And places them under her hips.
So that, already doubled up, her ass hole is still more clearly exposed.
And now, he is down on it, rimming her roundly.
He sucks and chews her protruding bung.
He shafts his tongue in and out of the orifice.
And now, he sits back on his heels before her, polishing his throbbing knob with a blob of saliva.
And now, he is leaning forward, guiding his prominent prong toward its target.
"Unnngh!"
And he is pushing, spiraling, thrusting his way in, in, into her with the battering ram of his cock head.
And the mighty shaft stretches and fills her in a manner reminiscent of Cranston's great prod.
In and in and into her he goes.
And there is nothing, truly nothing between her and him now.
They are conjoined in the intimacy of the room.
Others may be watching, she realizes, may be, probably are.
But here, in this room, physically, there are only the two of them.
And they are in full sexual communication.
Her body, his prick.
Which he now jams in and out of her ass in full, hard strokes.
Ah, but now, he varies his technique.
Now he is in her ass hole, now in her cunt.
And he has slackened her back door to the point that he does both with equal ease.
And she has never had this from a single person.
So that he is a constant surprise, a constant thrill to her.
As he fucks her in either whole with equal enthusiasm.
Hotter and hotter, they become.
Higher and higher they rise, up, up, up the rainbow together.
And her twistings and writhings are so frenetic in the throes of her passion that it is just as well that she is tied down, or she would break out of even his mighty impalement in her uncontrolled wildness.
As Ultimo realizes that she may be in danger, but that her sexual appetite certainly doesn't suffer thereby.
Because this is not the action of a woman who is being raped.
Nor is it that of some actress putting on a show, the frigid porno star staging her act for the cameras.
Rather, this is a genuine enthusiasm for him, for what is happening, for both.
Because Ultimo knows the real thing when he sees it.
And he gets to see it quite a bit, with all that he has to offer the women.
And he knows that their association is by no means forced, not in any sense of the word.
So that here, now, she is quite content, is in fact happy, in a strictly physical way, with the way things are going.
She is no fool, not by a long shot.
So that she has to know that he is here to rescue her.
Except that he cannot; not physically, anyway.
He had not counted on the security being this tight.
And neither did the Baroness, he is sure.
The best he can do would be to report that fact.
They might stand an over-the-wall shot, given the right timing, the right equipment.
But as far as taking her out of here, that would be virtually impossible.
Hell, he cannot even, communicate with her without their being overheard.
So, there being nothing else for it, all he can do now is to enjoy himself.
And he is.
As he fucks her in her cunt, then in her ass, then back to the cunt and so on and so on.
Until, at a certain level of arousal, Ultimo decides to go all the way-in her ass.
He shoves his big baton brutally into her butt.
And hooks a thumb into her cunt, pressing heavily on her clit.
And, supporting himself on one arm, rolls his thumb around on her clit, in her pussy as he pistons in and out of her ass with ever-increasing speed.
And he sees it in her face, he feels it in the heat, the attitude of her body that she is right at the peak.
And now-they are coming and coming, both of them, the long, thick, powerful spurts of his hot jism injecting themselves into her bowels as her series of multiple orgasms cause her rectum to contract delightfully, even as the convulsions of her vagina milk his thumb of the ultimate pleasure.
Thus do they ride and ride together as they blow their safety valves.
Thus do they zoom and soar through their shared sexual paradise.
Thus to they transport themselves and each other through the rosy empyrean which is the realm of the ultimate pleasure.
So that now, they are floating above the earth in a world, a universe all their own.
And now they are descending slowly, gently, to land back on the bed.
And he does a long, slow withdrawal of his still fully tumescent meat monster from her ass hole, which leaks melting jism profusely, soaking into the pillow beneath her hips.
And now, he unties her legs, which descend slowly to the bed.
And now, he reverses himself in the bed, squatting on her face, rotating his hips, as she rims his ass hole.
And he continues to ride her face thus, as his mighty marauder, in mid-melt, finds renewed enthusiasm.
So that he is very quickly erect once again.
And he unties her hands.
So that now she is completely free to move.
But she does not.
Instead, she allows him to eat her cunt again, legs raised and spread.
And she allows him to shaft smoothly into her cunt once more, scooping up her legs with his arms, holding her doubled as his hands once again latch onto her breasts.
And now, he is sucking her tits as he fucks her pussy.
And he is inside and outside her, above and below and all around her.
He has enveloped her very being with his own.
And now, he is driving them both up the rainbow once again with his powerful engine, his heavy equipment.
As she gives herself to him totally, moans of genuine ecstasy escaping her lips.
As Ultimo throws her his version of a regular fuck.
As he brings her, physically, from her perversion into the world of so-called normal sex.
As she responds to this readily, avidly.
So that she has been, for all intents and purposes cured, so far as Ultimo is concerned.
So that anyone observing, taking notes, noting the trend of the action and reaction, could very well conclude that there has, in fact, been a breakthrough here.
Of course, to pronounce this a cure would be premature.
But, on the other hand, to ignore it would by transparently hypocritical.
As even now, they climax together again-a genuine, full-blown eruption of passion into the ultimate pleasure on both their parts.
* * *
"I know that guy," Randy Buck says, watching the tape with Eric and Cranston.
"That's Ultimo, right?" Cranston asks. "I remember him from the time we kidnapped Nancy.
"Never could figure out just whose side he was on, as I recall.
"That's why you wouldn't issue him a weapon, remember?"
"I certainly do.
"And I see now that I was correct.
"Let's assume worst case, gentlemen.
"The Baroness has infiltrated the Foundation.
"The first thing to do is to get Ultimo out of there.
"I mean fire his ass and right now."
Cranston reaches for the telephone and dials the Foundation.
"The nerve of her!" Randy Buck exclaims to Eric as, in the background, Cranston makes all necessary arrangements for Ultimo's dismissal.
Then, "And Cranston, get my wife out of there."
"The doctor here was just telling me that he would recommend the same thing, Randy," Cranston says.
"What? Gimme the phone.
"Doc? You telling me my wife is cured?"
"That's what the sequence of events would seem to indicate.
"She was able to respond to and experience climax with, regular, normal sexual intercourse.
"Listen, are you sure about Max, Randy?
"Because I gotta tell ya, the guy is really-"
"Just do as I say. His name isn't Max, all right?
"I believe he's a plant of some kind."
"Who-"
"Never mind, Doc. Just do as I say.
"Sign Irene out of there-now!
"And uh, congratulations."
"Grant's methodology seems to work, Randy."
"Of course it does, Doc! You think I pick losers?
"Oh and Doc? Make sure that uh, Max sees Irene leaving for home. Give him a complete report."
"But-"
"Tell 'im to take it with him, a souvenir of his stay at the Foundation."
"The tapes and everything?"
"A complete copy of the file, Doc.
"Oh and tell him one thing for me, will ya?"
"Yes?"
"Tell him to give my regards to the Baroness."
"Give your regards to the Baroness."
"Right.
"Uh, have Irene take a cab back here, okay?"
"Check."
"Okay, once again, real good job, Doc.
"And I'll be in touch with you real soon.
"Real soon."
A moment of silence.
Then, "Okay, Doc, make it happen. Ciao."
And he hangs up.
* * *
Roberta, Ultimo, Nancy and the Baroness look at the tapes.
When they have ended, "Randy Buck sends his regards, eh?"
"He does," Ultimo confirms.
"Did you get a chance to look over the Foundation?"
"Yes," Ultimo replies, "and you're not gonna like this at all."
"It's a candy store for perverts, right?"
"Exactly."
"It's a complete lending library of any shade of sadism, masochism, fetishism-anything a Randy Buck could ever want."
"You got that right."
"And nothing I can do about it, I suppose."
"Not 'til Randy makes a move using the inmates."
"You check the diplomas?"
"I ran the names Ultimo gave me through the AMA, the American Psychiatric Association and the schools themselves.
"All the genuine article."
"No quacks, eh?"
"I didn't say that. But if there are, they have the degrees to back them up."
"At least Randy has taken to buying them rather than killing them," the Baroness observes. "Progress of a sort, I suppose we could call it."
"I think Irene really did get cured," Nancy opines.
"Which simply means that she wasn't really all that sick in the first place," the Baroness completes.
"I think she's simply one of those women who are very, very-"
"Bendable? Shifting with whichever way the sexual wind blows? I think you're right, Ultimo," Roberta agrees. "I mean, just look at this report.
"Everything from S&M, B&D to lesbianism to the grand finale of a normal fuck.
"And no stumbling along the way.
"That's certainly flexible enough for me."
"And me too," Cynthia says.
Then, "The Foundation is trouble, ladies and gentleman."
"Oh, no," Nancy moans.
"Oh, no, as in here we go again?" Roberta asks.
"I'm out of it," Ultimo says. "My cover is blown, remember?"
"That's very true, Ultimo," Cynthia says. "Roberta, get Ultimo his check and he can be on his way."
Roberta leaves to do her bidding.
"You have a good time, Ultimo?" Nancy asks.
"You mean you couldn't tell from the tape?"
"No, no, I meant, were you at all uneasy in the place?"
"That's the odd thing, now you mention it, Nancy, I wasn't.
"I was pretty comfortable the whole time."
"Ah."
"Why did you ask?"
"Because," Cynthia replies, cutting Nancy off, "that means that there were no dark doings there as yet.
"The Foundation is corrupt, with Randy Buck calling the shots, with the late Gregory Grant's obscene methodology in full sway, but as of today, there is no reason to believe that Buck is using the place for anything other than a source of income, of course, but over and above that, as a source of casual, passive amusement."
"The tapes," Ultimo says.
"The tapes, the case histories, as I say, a regular candy store for him, it must be."
"But what you're also saying is that, sooner or later-ah!"
Roberta hands Ultimo his check.
"Sooner or later," Cynthia says, "Randy is going to want to do more than just watch.
"And when he does-well, people are going to. start getting hurt, getting killed-again."
"And the Baroness, of course, cannot allow that to happen," Roberta sighs.
"That's right, Roberta, of course she can't.
"You have a problem with that?"
"You know I do," she sighs.
"Me too, dammit!" Nancy adds.
"Ultimo, thank you very much, you've done an excellent job and should we require your services again, I'll have Roberta get in touch with you."
"Baroness. Ladies."
And Ultimo leaves.
"Now then," Cynthia says, "about the Foundation."
"It goes, right?" Roberta says.
"One way or another, it goes," Cynthia confirms.
"Do you suppose, just once, we could handle this through legal channels, Cynthia?" Nancy asks. "You know-qualified state agencies and such, legal information and complaint channels, instead of wearing ridiculous costumes and putting our asses on the line like comic strip heroes?"
"Quite possibly.
"Roberta, the first thing we need is full time surveillance of the Foundation and of Randy Buck.
"Got it," Roberta says, writing this down.
Cynthia continues, "And the next thing is, I want a luncheon meeting with Randy Buck."
