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

Chapter Six

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

She wishes Randy had stuck around after breakfast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like-no!"

She will not make much of it.

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

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

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

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

She is a logical, a reasonable person.

And one in control of herself.

So that these hallucinations probably do have a physical origin.

The main thing here is that she feels like shit.

Perhaps, if she were to go to her room, lie down, take a nap "Ah there, Daisy!"

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

"Just, uh, checking something.

"Musty smell coming out of the system.

"Guess the problem is with the filters.

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

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

"Anything wrong?"

"Just a little tired, is all.

"Thought I'd come up here and take a nap before Randy returns."

"Good thinking," he says. We all want to look our best for Randy."

Telling her that her escapade with the boss has not gone unnoticed.

And meaning what, in view of his earlier offer to help her out in any way possible?

But she is too tired to handle that now.

He picks up his shoes and goes to leave.

"Cranston?"

"Yes?"

"Uh, nothing. Never mind."

He shrugs.

"If you're sure."

"Yes, I'm just a little tired, is all."

"Well then, have a nice nap."

"Thanks."

She strips and takes a shower, watching as the residue of garden soil is washed from her body, whirling down the drain.

And a strong sense of deja vu comes over her.

As though she is being held, supported, while her stomach becomes uncomfortable and cannot hold its sudden, overwhelming fulness.

And she experiences a mild cramp, which is relieved when she does something she has never done before (or has she?) and releases the contents of her bowels, watching as they cluster at the drain, only to be melted away by the swirling water at her feet.

As her ass hole bums.

And burns even more as she turns away from the spray, spreads her cheeks, and lets the water blast her nether exit (or is it an entrance?).

If this shit keeps up, she tells herself, she will have to find out about seeing a doctor.

She finishes her shower, dries off, and peels back the covers.

She slides in, shivering as the air conditioning goes on.

She smells nothing wrong.

Perhaps Cranston has already changed the filters.

She notices the sunlight glinting off something shiny, just inside the vent.

But she is too tired to climb on the chair Cranston was using and see what it is.

She could use some sleep right now, in the worst way.

And she drops off.

And they are there, the three of them.

And it is night and the room is dark.

And from somewhere, music.

A slow, lugubrious waltz.

And she is naked and they are hooded, exactly as she saw them the other times.

And she is not tied up, not restrained in any way.

But neither is she able to move.

Rather, she can only stand there, naked in the moonlight.

As the first one takes her as one would a dancing partner, in his arms.

And leads leads her, gliding and slowly turning round and round, in time to the music.

But now, he stops.

And raises the hem of his robe, to reveal a long, thin erection.

And the other two grab her, one on either side, a hand on her back, another on the back of her thighs, and lift her, legs spread, impaling her on the tall, slender cock.

And he folds his arms around her body as they leave go.

And there they are, dancing in the moonlight as he fucks her in time to the waltz.

And she feels a combination of discomfort, of pressure, but of sexual warmth as well, as he fucks her and they dance.

And she feels her pussy getting hotter and hotter.

And now, it is going into contractions, reflexive spasms, milking the cock of its load.

And there is both arousal and an uneasy fear, as she tries without success to peer into the shadowy depths of his hood.

And now, yes, she feels him coming inside her.

But now, without missing a beat, she is lifted off his cock, which has completed its series of climactic spurts And promptly impaled on the monster of the shortest of the trio.

And she feels a strange combination of discomfort and satisfaction, as his mighty prong stuffs her pussy, fills her cunt, fills and stretches it as she settles down on him.

And now, they are dancing and fucking as the other two stand there, swaying in time to the slow, sad music.

As she feels the might, the power, the evil, driving force in that massive organ which has made a sleeve, a glove, a tight, perfect fit of her body.

And she gets hotter and hotter, feeling her hot juices lubricating their juncture, soothing her discomfort, replacing the dull pain with a lascivious warmth.

And yes, she is more than milking his prodigious prong with her cunt now; she is responding.

Rather, her body is responding.

Because her mind still feels somehow tired, depressed, confused and too depressed or exhausted to exert itself to clear up the confusion.

Rather, she is nervous but numb from the neck up.

Even as, from the neck down, her body is writhing and sensuously alive, tingling with sexual excitement.

As though it is taking her over, forcing her to stand by and watch, helplessly, as this strange intercourse continues.

So that it seems to her, even as she feels the delicious sensations of incipient arousal, that her body has somehow betrayed her, has delivered her into the hands of dangerous and malevolent beings.

Because these are not men, but merely man-like, male monsters which have captured her.

And not only physically, but mentally as well.

So that, even though not bound, not restrained in any way, she somehow cannot escape.

Out of the question, is how her inner voice puts it to her reeling, helpless mind.

As, dizzy and disoriented, she feels herself rising higher and higher up the rainbow of her sexual arousal.

Onward and upward they are driving her, not only the one fucking her but the other two as well, seeming to be part and parcel of some erotic unity, such that the three of them are designed (invented?) to act in concert, just as they are right now.

So that she is not disturbed or disappointed that she feels his thick, heavy load shooting up into her, flowing back out of her even, before she herself has peaked.

Naturally it happened this way.

After all, this is a three-creature fuck, and he is merely the second one, stage two of a three-phase trip to the moon.

And sure enough, no sooner has he shot his wad than a smooth transfer is effected to the third member of the fucking team, this one a big, heavyset man, with cock to match.

Who holds her effortlessly impaled on his prong, wrapped in a gentle bear hug as they continue to move, round and round, in time to the music.

As she continues to rise, higher and higher, through level after level of sexual arousal, becoming hotter and hotter, more and more excited with each rotation of their bodies to the music.

Yes, he is actually going to do it to her, for her.

He is going to take her All the way.

And now, they are coming, the two of them, together this time, his spurts and the spasms of her multiple orgasms alternating.

So that her pussy seems to be milking him of his load, communicating, her body and his mighty cock, in an infinitely intimate dialogue.

Until, at last it is over.

And she wakes up.

Definitely a dream, she tells herself.

Even as the others were.

But she feels much better this time.

As though it had refreshed, rather than exhausted her, this dream.

And her pussy feels much better now. Strange, how this time the dream seemed to soothe rather than irritate.

Maybe this, this… thing, whatever it is, which has afflicted her is clearing up, getting better all by itself.

So that these dreams are actually healing dreams, intended, perhaps, to get her juices flowing as a kind of dressing or ointment for whatever it is that is ailing her.

She cannot say.

But she does feel herself ready for action, should the spirit move Randy.

Although, she tells herself, half joking, the way things have been going lately, perhaps she should save her sexual energies for her dreams, where they seem to be so heavily in demand.

She gets up and puts on a sun-backed dress, not bothering with underwear of footgear.

Thinking that Randy finds her sexier this way. She thinks about using the pool, but then decides against it.

Sun and water tire a person, and it has taken her well into the afternoon to get up to snuff as it is, so why push it?

"Tomorrow night," Cynthia says.

"I'm going to force his hand, to panic him into making his move.

"Which is exactly when we're going to make ours."

"We," Nancy echoes.

Vanessa, the good soldier, says nothing.

"How good a friend of yours is our pilot, Vanessa?"

She shrugs.

"Good guy, he is. But friendship's got nothing to do with it.

"The skies are only friendly when the money is there.

"Right now I-we-are making it happen for him.

"He'll do what I tell ‘im, no questions asked, if that's what you mean."

"That's exactly what I mean.

"He won't think it strange when three costumed characters assault a certain mansion upstate by rappelling from his chopper."

"Shades of Vietnam!" Nancy exclaims.

"You never went to Vietnam," Cynthia says.

"I saw the movies, though."

"Whatever."

Turning back to Vanessa, We want to be over the objective at midnight.

"Now, here is the layout of the Estate."

And she spreads the blueprint over the vast expanse of her desk.

"Where did you-"

"Courtesy of the state building commission.

"Nancy, here's the room where they held you, right?"

"Uh, yeah, that's right. But-"

"Figure that's the room he's assigned the girl."

"Why?"

"If at first you don't succeed and like that. One of two relatively indestructible scenes of his humiliations, the other being, as you know, the ballroom of the Fairley Palace.

"Since he can't very well do away with it, the only other logical step is for him to convert it into a scene of triumph;

"Part of the magic, the mystique.

"If I'm wrong, well, tough break, but we go ahead anyway.

"This time, we're going in there armed to the teeth.

"Fed up with this shit, risking my ass on the short end of the stick while Doctor Demento there calls the shots."

"Attagirl!" Nancy says.

Vanessa merely shrugs and smiles faintly.

Her first crack at Randy Buck on an even footing.

Could it be the boss is learning?

"I was thinking," Vanessa says, "We should get ourselves some paratrooper boots, some combat fatigues, ammo belts, and-"

Her voice fades as Cynthia stares at her across the blueprint.

"Sorry," she says, "Lost my head for a minute there, I guess."

"We will wear," Cynthia enunciates,, pausing to take in the two of them with her gaze, "our costumes.

"The mystique, the magic cuts both ways, you know.

"It's not enough merely to defeat Randy Buck.

"He must be beaten at his own game, and by creatures who are a part of his private world.

"We must leave no illusions in his sick head that he is in any way the master of that particular universe.

"We have to enter that world as well as his mansion.

"We must leave no question in his mind but that he has been vanquished, defeated on his own terms, beaten at his own game.

"He doesn't rule that world-never mind."

And Nancy feels a chill.

She almost said it.

He doesn't rule that world, I do.

I knew it, I knew it, I knew it all along! Nancy thinks.

That's what this is all about.

Not Randy's illness, not even Randy's victims, but the game.

Dungeons and Dragons.

King's Quest.

All an adventure game between two rich perverts.

Rich and dangerous perverts, she amends.

And her mission?

To survive.

That is the long and the short of it, Nancy reminds herself.

She does not believe in the mystique, the magic.

She believes that she is in great danger and that she must somehow come through it all, sound in mind and body, while at the same time fulfilling the wishes of her companion and boss.

But then, she reflects, there is nothing new in this.

Wars have always been fought by troops just trying to survive.

And wars have always been started by those who believe in the magic, the mystique.

And now, Nancy is less resolved, less firm in her mind in her determination to destroy Randy. Buck.

Because to destroy Buck is to replace him with what?

And Nancy suspects, but does not really want to know the answer to that one.

Buck is evil and Cynthia opposes him, which makes her-what?

The logic is no longer so simple, so clear-cut.

Good and evil.

Maybe those are merely two faces of the mystique, the magic, in which Nancy doesn't believe.

Still, there is no question but that Buck must be stopped.

Just as, practically speaking, there is no question but that Nancy is aboard for the full ride.

Yes, she sighs to herself, Friday at midnight will see her, hooded and costumed, rappelling from a helicopter, onto a madman's balcony, armed to the teeth.

In the United States of America, at the close of the twentieth century.

So yes, you're damned right it's gonna happen in this day and age.

Maybe, she reflects, maybe Buck and the Baroness aren't the only nuts running around in this situation.

And Nancy is glad that she is not married, has no-children.

At least, she thinks, the nuttiness in my family will end with me.

But hopefully, not for a long time yet.

"… and figure Eric and Cranston'll be there, along with Buck in a fairly close cluster."

"Do we whack ‘em out, or what?" Cynthia shrugs.

"Depends on what we find when we get in there.

"If they're expecting us, if we're in danger, they go, guaranteed.

"We burst in on a tea party and we can't break a cup.

"Something in between, you let me call the shots, okay?"

You love this kind of talk, don't you? Nancy thinks, beaming the question at Cynthia.

And of course, her lunch with Buck tomorrow will accomplish another thing-it will put him on the alert.

So that there is no question but that, during their fun and games, the three villains will have weapons in close proximity.

"You cover us with the law?" Nancy asks.

"I'll be talking to Captain Reynolds tomorrow, telling him as much as I think necessary, unofficially, of course."

"If we waste these guys with automatic weapons fire, there could be repercussions," Vanessa points out.

"And if they waste each other?" Cynthia asks.

And Vanessa grins.

And even Nancy cannot repress a faint smile.

Villain against villain, no question, she thinks. Thank heavens the Baroness and Randy Buck are on opposite sides.

"Why didn't I think of that?" Vanessa asks.

"Buck would have," Cynthia observes.

"Seriously," Nancy begins, only to set the other two, look at her in surprise.

Did she think they've been kidding around thus far?

"Sorry," she says.

"Poor choice of words. What I meant was, getting down to the exact details, exactly how are we going to make our grand entrance?"

"Here and here," Cynthia says, pointing to the corners of the balcony of the room in question, the one in which Buck had held Nancy captive until her rescue by Cynthia, Vanessa, and ultimately the state police, "are two stone vases with flowers growing.

"They are probably cemented to the corner posts."

"Vanessa will rip one of them off its pedestal and toss it through the French doors.

"The alarm system will go off, of course, but who cares?

"Because we're through, in and out before anybody can stop us."

"Works for me," Nancy says.

The time ha amp; come to stop showing her qualms and begin cooperating with the operation, for the sake of her own survival.

And the change in attitude is not lost on Cynthia, who takes this as confirmation that they are in fact in the final planning stages, everyone operating on the same frequency.

"The, uh, the pilot.

"What's his stake in this?" Vanessa asks.

"Shall we say-ten thousand?" Cynthia suggests.

"Ten big ones it is," Vanessa replies.

"With a little, shall we say, personal bonus thrown in, if you know what I mean."

This last in imitation Mae West voice.

"Making full use of our resources, are we?" Cynthia asks, grinning.

"Works for me," Vanessa replies, echoing Nancy's words of moments before.

They laugh.

"Okay, then," Cynthia continues, suddenly all business.

"Lunch tomorrow with the enemy, one to, oh, two thirty the latest.

"We meet at my place at three, go over the plan, the equipment.

"Vanessa, have the chopper on my roof by eleven the latest, okay?"

"Gotcha."

"Can we get confirmation on that right now?"

"Certainly."

And Vanessa places the call.

Nancy fidgets and Cynthia rolls up the blueprints as Vanessa speaks.

"All set," she says, putting the phone down.

"He's ready for anything but return fire."

"I can practically guarantee there won't be any of that," Cynthia says.

"Buck is used to our going after him all but bare-handed.

"No way will he be expecting a change of tactics on my part.

"After all, we've done all right so far the old way."

"Then why is Randy Buck still walking around sucking air?" Nancy asks.

"Why indeed?" Cynthia asks, seeming to ponder the question.

"Look at it this way-we had nothing planned for the weekend anyway, right?"

Intended no doubt as cleverness, Nancy thinks Cynthia has hit the nail on the head.

She is actually enjoying herself right now, looking forward to going up against Buck, and this for a frighteningly basic, alarmingly simple reason-it gives her something to do.