"Driving Daisy Crazy" - читать интересную книгу автора (Unknown)

Chapter Four

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

Maybe, she thinks, he knows.

Still, she has gotten him off.

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

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

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

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

She wonders if, perhaps, she should join him.

No.

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

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

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

Because they did it.

The significant deed is now accomplished fact.

It is written into the record of reality.

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

She puts her bikini back on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She showers and changes into a sunbacked dress.

And goes out to check the garden.

Muslin, she will need, she notes.

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

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

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

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

Yes, she requires bolts of muslin gauze.

Eric will have to drive her.

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

"You got it, Randy."

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

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

"And the smelling salts?

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

"In my robe, Randy."

"And the knock-out gas?"

"Cranston has that."

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

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

Eric stops speaking as Randy signals with his eyes.

He turns, to see Daisy approaching.

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

"I need some muslim bunting for-"

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

"That's all I have to know.

"Eric, take Daisy wherever to do whatever."

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

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

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

Like talking to a statue, she thinks.

And dashes off to get something for her feet.

Eric watches her go, grinning balefully.

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

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

"You're doing one helluva job."

She looks into his expressionless face, somewhat taken aback.

That's something you say to the hired help.

Is that what she is, then?

Even after what they did-hired help?

Or is she reading him all wrong?

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

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

She cannot tell.

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

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

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

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

Strange man, really.

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

And will again.

Or will they?

And now, this doubt assails her.

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

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

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

He owes her nothing, after all.

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

Strange, strange man, really.

But wealthy and unattached, don't forget.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like to-"

"Easy, Randy. Tonight.

"We're all set for tonight."

"So Eric assures me."

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

"Just think, Cranston. Tonight, the Brotherhood of the Body will be reborn!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has she succeeded?

She really hates not knowing.

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

Ridiculous, she knows, but there it is.

Crazy thought.

Must be because she is tired but is having trouble falling asleep.

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

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

And more than tired, she is dizzy, disoriented.

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

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

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

And so she does.

The acrid smell of ammonia startles her awake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She cannot.

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

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

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

All to no avail.

She cannot protect herself.

She cannot move, cannot resist.

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

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

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

Not so his cock, however.

Which is a monster in every dimension.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morning.

Daisy awakens.

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

Or did it?

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

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

During the night.

What the hell happened during the night?

Something?

Anything?

It had to be.

So vivid, so… real.

And yet, was it, after all?

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

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

She explores her cunt.

Clean as a whistle.

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

Outside, the sun is shining.

She glances over at the clock radio.

She's late!

Almost eight, it is.

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

Hastily, she goes through her morning toilette.

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

No time.

She dashes through the dining room.

"Morning, morning, morning."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Whatevair you wan', Meez Dezzee.

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

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

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

Daisy chews and thinks, chews and thinks.

Is she losing it? she wonders.

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

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

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

Perhaps that's it, she reasons.

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

"Pierre?"

"Oui?"

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

"Some place where men wear robes with hoods?

"Ever see anybody like that near here?"

"No, ah think not, Meez Dezzee.

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

"Aneeweh, you are not eligible to join.

"You mus' become ze nun, no?"

"No. Definitely not.

"Just curious, is all."

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

"No, no, forget I asked, okay?

"Just some crazy-never mind."

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

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

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

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

"Didn't you sleep well last night?"

I wish I knew, she thinks.

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

"So we noticed.

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

"There's no pressure here."

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

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

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

"If not this year, then next."

"And in the winter time?"

"Funny you should mention that.

"Waddaya know about greenhouses, anyway?"

She shrugs.

"What's to know about them.

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

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

"We missed you for breakfast, though."

"So did the plants-almost."

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

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

"Pretty shortly, in fact.

‘And I won't be back until very late.

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

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

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

She'll get to bed early tonight and get a decent night's sleep.

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

"Cranston will be here today.

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

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

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

Cranston, at least, looks like a normal person.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grandma told her that once.

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

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

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

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