Chapter 11
IT WAS NEW YEAR'S EVE.
New Year's Day, to be exact. And one hour into the party developing into a very diabolic, drunken debauch, close and intimate friends had gathered to welcome in the new year. What better way to see it in, than in the embrace of comrades-in-arms, drowned, suffocated in the warm jollity of trusted swap-mates? What better way to celebrate than by jazzing someone else's wife black and blue, by indulging sexual quirks too long repressed during the past year? The past years? A lifetime of inhibited, colorless years?
Off with the old!
On with the new!
And while liquor was generally off-limits in the main community room (how the individual members stocked their assigned rooms at the mansion was their business), tonight, in honor of the fete night, the Donleavys had lifted the ban. Tonight the podium in the center of that unique, carpeted forum had been converted into a table, literally upon which hors d'oeuvres, snacks, sandwich makings were liberally spread. But more important were the constantly-being-replenished pitchers of martinis, Manhattans, Daquiris, the quarts upon quarts of Scotch, vodka, rum, bourbon, wines and champagne that featured largely in the accelerating orgy.
Not that these bacchants needed liquor to loosen libidos. Their past history had proven that. But since it was there. Why not get bombed out of one's mind? Why not wallow heedlessly, recklessly?
Why not attempt those most Satanic connections of all-if there were such-why not unleash those most deep-seated sexual desires, those ultimately-forbidden abominations of human nature?
Thus it was that some of these 'close', friendly attachments took exceedingly diverse forms:
Here were Don Hatcher and an ultra-skinny blonde beauty simply called Valerie, half-sprawled, half balanced on the upper-most risers of that orgiastic arena, performing one of the world's most favorite indoor sports with frenetic abandon. The Hatchers-along with the McIvers and the Welches-having been drawn into The Corybants during late November, their initiation a sort of mass affair, they had become devoted, loyal, excess-dedicated converts to communal sex. As witness, the depraved knot Don and his present inamorata were now tied in.
Valerie had her scrawny butt wedged over the edge of one riser, her head and shoulders resting on the lower one. Her legs splayed to widest angle, her feet either waving ecstatically in the air, or drumming the carpeting, she shrilly savored Don's devouring mouth in that salacious heartland of her body; she loudly proclaimed the glories his avenging tongue, his clam-bucket mouth ripped from her. Which yippings, albeit muffled by the fact that her mouth was stuffed with his best throat-rupturing stalk, carried loudly, consisted of such quaint incendiaries as:
"Oh, eat it, lover! Eat my box lunch. Up Valerie's ol' giggie! Oh, that educated tongue'a y'rs! That fat, wet tongue! Gobble me, darling. Gobble, gobble. You sweet, shitty turkey!" And through her pained gulpings, her voice hoarse: "Shove your cock in. Ream my God damn throat out. A new passage to China. Suck, you bastard! Suck the goddamned stem right offa' me!"
Although these were very pagan entreaties and exhortations indeed, they went largely unnoticed at I:30 A.M. of this January morning. For all about Don and Valerie, the scene resembling a seal rookerie at mating time, the carpeted rocks were virtually alive with dozens of writhing, sliding, jutting, weirdly-tangled bodies. But not seal bodies. Don and Valerie, the scene resembling a seal roo-
Hardly. For this was homo maniacus-male and female-at his most perverted, his most irresponsible, all involved in the tireless pursuit of erotic sensation unending. And totally involved with greedy self, there was no room in the reveler's minds for other than their own individual pursuit of sexual frenzy.
On one landing the man named Kenny obliviously sucked a latent homo named Locke to a blistering orgasm; he squealed in swinish glee as Locke let five ounces of his best boom down his parched throat. Even after the tasty faucet stopped spurting, Kenny continued to suck the shrinking member, drained it of every precious drop of after-flow.
On another plateau an exotic brunette everyone called Lorraine was plying her favorite stunt, and riding atop one man's prick, while another reamed her via anus, she strained her body to still another level, eagerly sucked off still another eager-to-wallow cock.
Here, in the lower reaches of that seething caldron, Esmee Donleavy had cornered Rachel McIver, and now lovingly sucked her voluptuous tits to two-inch points, simultaneously gave her a finger job that soon had Rachel flopping and gasping on the carpet. A moment later Esmee knelt before her, and her conquest on a higher level, she sucked her to a brain-shriveling orgasm, taught her the ultimate sensations to be derived from Lesbianistic love.
Carl Random was allowing Joanna, his initial contact with the club proper, to coat his prick with creme-dementhe, hissingly tolerating her attacks as she licked the liqueur off him, finished by plungering her head wildly on the entire length of him. Now she painted the maimed prong anew.
Almost anywhere one chose to look the varied members were indulging in flat-out copulation, either preferring the direct approach, or already having concluded the depravities of workup.
A corpulent devotee of abuse knelt on a lower riser, her bottom high in the air, while an equally pudgy male named Shaw, plumbed her rear with long, swift, punishing strokes of his grandiose digger.
To their right a frustrated female named Brenda, having failed to arouse her besotted partner by fellating him, was actually pumping his squishy tube with her fingers, adjuring im to suck her flaming hole while she worked.
Millicent Random was enjoying the rite of servility. This time with a man named Wade. Who was proud owner of an uncircumcised prick, a pair of the hairiest balls a man could own. And was, at that very moment, commanding Millicent (as per her explicit dictates) to: "Peel the foreskin back, bitch. Way back. Not with your hands, dummy! With that Frenching mouth of yours. Yeah, that's it. Now put your finger up my ass. Easy. Oh, honey, that's the greatest! Get your filthy tongue down in the folds, get it caught in that pretty cowl. Yeah, oooh, yeah! Now my balls. Lash hose babies! Bite some hairs out..."
A woman named Ora drew her legs back with her own hands, half-lifted her buttocks off the tier, blatantly exposed her ass. Which target a man called
Clay shortly zeroed in on, plugged with a brutal corkscrewing, completely ignoring Ora's cries of pain, her pleas for a more extensive lube job before ravishment.
A minor daisy chain was building, a pyramid effect, wherein a woman sucked a man, a man sucked the next woman while she sucked the next man. There was a dead end then. Which was shortly remedied when another man arrived, inserted his horn in the neglected man's mouth. Now others joined in, partially straddled the females' butts, sought to insert their dongs into unoccupied ass-holes.
And if there was no room or need for voyeur sports, there was at least one member present who gorged on that aloof, non-participatory taste. He was Kenyon Gwynn, and though he was being derangingly manhandled by the determined Amazon who'd been introduced to him by Tait (a very sly sneer on his face while doing so) as Rina, very little of it registered. Rina was very persistent however, and accepting the challenge this handsome eunuch presented, vowing that she'd eventually seduce him, she was making her grand pitch tonight. Employing her usually unfailing strategems, she was patiently, gently pumping Kenyon's cock, virtually flooding it with his love-sap. Which sap first with fingers, then with maddeningly skillful lips and tongue-she puddled on the head of his organ. Any other man would have long since been reduced to blubbering, come-happy mush. But not Kenyon.
Rina worked that much more devotedly; a holy resolve of fantastic proportions abroad within her. No man on earth would remain indifferent to her! She'd see to that.
The mere fact that Kenyon had allowed Rina to first commence her love play, that he even tolerated the tainted play and suck of lips and tongue, was indication in itself of how intoxicated (a witches brew consisting of half sexual stimulation, half alcohol) he was. Actually, it was as if he felt none of Rina's loving attentions whatsoever, so engrossed was he in this fantastic implementation of a lifelong fantasy. In that he was now watching a man named Earl, another named Pete as they lay end to end on one of the risers, their buttocks touching, their legs awkwardly twined in order that their pricks might touch, trunk to trunk, testicles to testicles. This so that the entirely blotto Daphne could wrap her obscene lips around two pricks at the same time.
Kenyon's excitement was magnified a hundredfold when the insane connection was made. And watching the grotesque way his wife's mouth was stretched as she ran her head up and down on that double-barreled animal, noting her own growing excitement, he lent himself more willingly to Rina's attentions. A hot, bloating ball of lust expanded inside his guts, threatened to explode, to backfire within him. He groaned, stretched himself more conveniently for Rina's depraved suckings, never once took his eyes off the filthy thing Daphne was executing.
Then, when the unprincipled slut actually managed to make both men climax, their ejaculation triggered almost simultaneously, Kenyon was truly beside himself. Watching Daphne pump, seeing her startled expression as it occurred, seeing the creamy, double-overflow drip from her stretched mouth, meander down the men's stalks to themselves-
He was truly beyond the pale. Anything could happen, anything could be tolerated then.
What did happen was that another man whom Kenyon knew as Prentice-a gloriously hung stud-intervened the minute that Pete and Earl's shrunken members had slipped from Daphne's sucking, smacking mouth. Without any formalities, any words whatsoever, he calmly rolled Daphne onto her back, funneled his minor Sequoia up her. drooling snatch. Watching this animalistic pillaging nearly drove Kenyon out of his tree.
Thus it was, ten minutes later, Prentice gone now, Daphne lying in happy, catatonic trance, that another male, an attractive blonde named Carl, approached, invited her to his room for a more private session. Far gone as he was, Kenyon was unable to forestall them; they were up and gone before he could disengage himself from the leech-like Rina. It was then, she issuing similar invitation, that Kenyon, done in by boooze and sexual frenzy, knew a definite urge. Vengeful it might have been, but it was an urge nonetheless.
With a silly giggle, an overpowering lust at large in his bowels, he let Rina pull him up, lead him from that madhouse amphitheater. Had Rina noticed the demented glitter in his eyes at that moment, she might have frozen, changed her mind about the much-desired conquest. But she didn't. And by then, it was already too late.
Millicent was again with the man named Jerome. Who, since that first night at the mansion, had seemingly acquired a thing for her, had pursued her devotedly each time she appeared. And though she had misgivings about letting him lead her to the room housing the fetishist paraphernalia, she could see no harm in same. Her capitulation would be anonymous: the wing housing the 'rooms' was strangely quiet and deserted tonight. The main orgy as wide open as anyone could want in the community room, there was scant need for such aberrant side-trips as these.
Jerome locked the door of the room, pressed the switch to indicate it was occupied. Then he turned on Millicent, led her toward one of the sumptuous, leather-covered divans the room contained. For the next ten minutes, his head slavishly buried between her thighs, he performed his sanitary duties, hungrily removed as much of the previously deposited seminal discharges from her font as he could. Which Millicent, floating, in an amoral, filth-hazed cloud of acquiescence, didn't mind in the least. Feeling exaltedly superior, having been fucked senseless too many times already this long night, she thought it the height of luxuriousness to have this man clean her, stimulate her so savagely, all the labors thrown on his shoulders.
She giggled lasciviously. Tongue, she amended.
Finally, having sucked her to five ragged orgasms, her cunt redelivered to pristine condition once more, Jerome was eager for still other aberrated pastimes. Millicent sighed more contentedly, stretched herself indolently on the divan, enumerated her clothing sizes lazily as he requested them. Then, when he began fitting her in the red-satin, extremely-tailored brassiere, in the matching, flare-legged step-ins, when he affixed the black, outrageously-cut garter belt over these, attached black, sheer opera hose, she sank into a more voluptuary trance; she thought the slavey attention incredibly delightful.
In his room Carl Random was indulging a very far-gone Daphne Gwynn in her fanatic desire to have her tits sucked and rubbed, she repeatedly chanting words to the effect that for once in her life she desired normalcy, she wanted to see what it would be like to be courted, to be wooed.
Helen Welch was ensconced in a private suite Esmee Donleavy maintained for just such private seductions. And now-after allowing Esmee to suck her breasts raw, the Lesbian rhapsodizing over her tiny tits, over the fact that she could get each in its entirety into her mouth-she allowed her to suck her hole to a mind-bending climax. Seemingly it was only the beginning. As Esmee affixed the weird, double-hung dildo to her hips, commenced to screw Helen in cunt and anus simultaneously, she thought it the most fantastic sensation of all; she actually wished that Pete might avail himself of such a contraption.
Millicent and Jerome weren't the only couple patronizing the infamous 'doors'. For, at that moment, in the room emblazoned with the pot de chambre coat-of-arms: A man named Armand. Who lay back in the functional, plastic and aluminum chaise, adjured a befuddled Rachel McIver to straddle his face, submit to a cunt-blistering bout of cunnilingus. After which he desperately pleaded that she punish him for his evilness by pissing in his mouth, in his face. She tried to rebel, flee the room, but Armand held her firmly, cruelly with one hand, massaged her belly expertly with the other, until there was no other recourse for her but to void her bladder. She was amazed, as she liberally doused his ecstatic, slurping face, when she felt a hot splash on her spine, realized that the pervert had ejaculated with delight at his humiliation.
The man was up, begging her to hose him off with warm water from one of the many hoses lining the walls of the room, when she managed to break free, ran in panic from the hellhole.
Now Jerome fitted the matching, red, patent-leather pumps onto Millicent's feet; he hovered over the extremely pointed toes, kissed them, actually sucked them, taking the whole tip into his mouth. Now he turned her ankle slightly, dug the stiletto hell-a full four inches long-into his cheek. How long he huddled at her feet, slathered over them, she couldn't recall, but she knew, by the time he was finished, commenced slithering his lips up her silky legs, that another moment would have caused her to vomit.
Even this slavey licking of her legs, this preoccupation with silk as he caressed her glistening, sharp-pointed tits, was bad enough. But now, as he made prolonged rite out of licking the entire bowl of her belly, actually commenced to snarling lick her crack through the step-ins, she truly became queasy. She cowered deeper into the divan. As Jerome raised her legs, dug the sharp heels of her shoes into his shoulders. Nearly bent double, she tolerated his mouth in her snatch again, feared for her life, as it seemed that he would literally tear her away there, panties, cunt and all, with his growling, wolfish, fanatic chewings.
But if Rachel McIver and the Randoms were revulsed, confused, bemused or whatever, their repugnance was nothing compared to that being suffered by Kenyon Gwynn. So, at that selfsame moment, was emerging from a sensualist trance. He actually howled with dismay and hacking sense of self-betrayal as his turbid vision cleared, and he realized that this wasn't Daphne into whose belly he'd just rapturously, howlingly shot his salvos of sperm. An insane fury blinding him, short-circuiting reason, he sprang up from the bed in a rush, put all the venom in his soul into the scathing outcry:
"Bitch!" he spat. "You rotten, diseased bitch! You're not Daphne ... you're not my wife. Who ... who are you?"
Still Rina wouldn't recognize danger. Still suffused with afterglow of sexual satiation, arrogant in her conquest, she replied, "No, lover, I'm not your wife. I'm Rina, remember? I'm the doll who just got your nuts off like nobody's got 'em off in a long, long time. I swear ... you musta' been saving up that load for a month. Oh, lover doll! You got any more like that in you?"
As of that moment Kenyon was completely out of things. His crime crushing enough, he couldn't stand the sluttish leer, the smug taunts the pig sent him. That lunatic brain-blur back again; he knew but one thing: The deceiving cunt must be punished; she must be fixed so she couldn't pull her cheap stunts again, so she couldn't corrupt any other pure, honorable men again. There was no one else to whom the task could be entrusted. He must do it himself!
And big, strong, as feisty a virago as Rina was, she was, in no way, any sort of a match for the howling lunatic. Once he had his hands in her hair, once he'd jammed her arm high between her shoulder blades, wrenched her from the bed, terror possessed her, and she knew it was useless to fight him. "Please, please," she blubbered as he dragged her from the bedroom, pushed her down the hall.
Much to Rina's sorrow, there was a grandiose commotion in the amphitheater at that moment, as a particularly vile group coupling was commenced. Nobody heard her pained outcries. Even as they entered the wing containing the 'rooms', and Kenyon paused before the one with the manacle and coiled whip signature, the noise grew louder. There was no one to hear Rina's last anguished screech of horror.
Inside the torture den, the door was locked, the warning light was flicked to life. Fighting as Rina might, Gwynn was too possessed, too strong for her. She clawed and bit and kicked, but to no avail. Three minutes later she was firmly locked into the steel cuffs, her ankles in the wide manacles. Now Gwynn touched the electric winches; the chains were pulled to excruciating tightness; Rina's arms and legs were almost pulled from their sockets. She screamed hideously as she saw the madman select a thick, supple bull-whip from the rack, but for naught. The room totally soundproofed, no one could have heard her loudest shrieks.
"Harlot," Kenyon grated one last time as he stood before her, whip poised, his eyes fleeing over her, exulting in her helplessness, in the way her breasts were strained to breaking point, the way her pubis jutted forth from her body. "You'll never destroy another man. You'll never get a chance to contaminate a clean man again." Even as he watched her he saw some of his holy sperm trickle from her, meander down her inner thigh.
The sight drove him over that last barrier; he was totally insane now. The whip rose in high, curling arc; its braided tip seemingly froze in mid-air. It was the last thing Rina ever saw. For as it landed, curled around her belly, tore it open, she screamed, passed out cold. The sight of her blood running down her belly, converging in the dark beard at its base, further inflamed Gwynn. The whip slashed again. This time her breasts were hacked half off her body. The next blow caved in her nose, made bloody mush of what had once been an exquisitely beautiful face. The whip rose again and again. Gwynn put more strength into each blow.
Before he finally stopped the room resembled an abattoir. There could be no doubt about it: Rina was dead. She had been dead from the third blow on.
Now, his body splashed with blood, his brain a crazed, silver-glazed inferno, Gwynn dropped the whip; he stumbled toward the door. This hell-house must be destroyed, his drugged mind decreed. No more men, no more marriages must be permitted to be profaned here!
Moments later, still unobserved, a momentary spate of clarity and cunning allowed him, he had found the door that connected the swap regions with the rest of the Donleavy home. Unlocked for a change, he used the miscue to good advantage, darted into the bowels of this off-limits area. Esmee and Helen, approaching still another zenith of sexual ecstasy-Helen's face buried in Esmee's cunt now-never heard the soft pad of footsteps in the hallway.
Relying on pure instinct, Gwynn worked his way down those five levels, his retreat noiseless, frantic. At last he was in the basement. Where he found paint, turpentine, a five gallon can of gasoline. Spilling gasoline all over a pile of newspapers, a closetful of stored clothing, he stepped back, touched a match to the outer edge of the spreading puddles.
Instantly a great, booming explosion bulged the room. Gwynn was too slow. Before he reached the door the concussion brought him down; his body was coated with gasoline; he went to his knees, screaming and clawing at the flesh-shredding tongues of flame that consumed him.
Through some unfathomable stroke of chance, Carl and Millicent had decided to leave the party early. Remembrance of the final depravities suffered at the madman, Jerome's, hands impelling Millicent, Carl still unnerved by the fanatic crying jag possessing Daphne after he'd humped her to lunatic frenzy, they'd collected Don and Irene Hatcher, had quit the sin mansion.
Their watches read 3:30 a.m. as they came out onto the parking lot, drunkenly struck out for their car. They had just passed through the last gate, were setting out onto the highway proper, when Irene looked back, screamed at the top of her voice.
Carl stopped the car instantly. They were all transfixed. Even as they watched in horror, another fireball exploded in the upper reaches of the mansion, blew out windows in swollen, boiling skeins. "My God..." Millicent sobbed brokenly, "my God..."
"We've got to go back, we've got to help them," Irene shrieked. "Pete and Helen! Rachel and Earl!"
Don held her in his arms. "It's too late now. There's nothing we can do."
In the distance they saw the elevator ascending and descending swiftly, disgorging crowds of naked and partially-clothed people into the frigid night. They saw a smattering of cars being started, people jamming themselves into them. As they watched the lead car reversed, worked up speed, went ramming through the wire fence gates. Another car lumbered behind it. At the main gate the lead car had to slam at the main gate three times before it finally gave way.
Then the electrical power quit; the elevator ceased its midget-scuttlings up and down the face of the modernistic building. Screams carried faintly toward them. In the distance they heard the strengthening wail of police and fire-engine sirens. "Go back, go back!" Millicent pleaded. "Oh, God, they're jumping out of the windows! They're running naked all over the place! Can't we help them?"
"There's no help," Carl groaned, his face twisted with indecision and fear. "There's nothing we can do for those poor devils." He hit the gas, sent the car screeching into the night. Even though he knew it was so, that there was nothing to be done, that their only alternative, the only realistic thing left was to save their own necks, he was still wracked with crucifying misgivings.
The western sky was bright orange now; the smoke was a roaring cloud that spiraled toward the stars. In the distance, as the fire-engines roared by, their clamor stunning them further, they saw other specks flying before the flames. Ash? Burning timbers? Or falling bodies?
The stunned quartet did not linger to find out. Carl turned onto a truck road, commenced working toward the city. They hurried before the storm; they ran like craven dogs; they fled like all the hounds of hell were lapping at their heels.