Chapter 1
I can't stand it, Bob thinks. She's driving me up the wall.
If she ever knew who she was fucking with that way, it'd be a different story.
Too different, he reminds himself.
After all, that's why he started dating Gracie, in order to have a life in the sun, a life that he can live openly, without revulsion, fear, condemnation.
She was to be his "normal" girl, the one to whom he would phone when he was away on trips, the one with whom he could spend Sunday afternoons in the park.
She's blonde, she's beautiful, and, if somewhat empty-headed, she is nevertheless excellent company for him-an ideal companion for dinner, the movies, whatever.
But.
When they were in bed, she was a yakker.
Bob has had them all-the fainters, the moaners, the screamers.
But this is his first experience of someone in whom sexual excitement brings on diarrhea of the mouth.
She never shuts up, from the moment she gets that first flush of arousal.
It's amazing, really.
And the stuff that comes out of that mouth of hers!
Who would ever have believed it?
So that he has to shut out her talk, her babble, her noise.
He doesn't even know what to call it, really; but one thing it isn't, and that's for sure - conversation.
It affords no opportunity for interchange, calls for no comment or, for that matter, even a listener, so far as Bob can tell.
And afterward?
It is as though nothing had happened, as far as Gracie is concerned, just as if that were the most normal thing in the world.
Like, doesn't everyone?
Which is increasingly becoming his beef with her.
Nobody does that, nobody.
Nobody he has ever been with, nobody he has ever heard of.
She's one in a million, at least, and she's the one he had to pick.
Some choice!
Still, that face, that bod, the way she moves, the way other men look at her - she's definitely something very special.
In an ordinary way, of course, and this is not a contradiction in terms.
Because he is looking for the normal, the ordinary, the mundane as a cover, as a way of being able to pass for normal himself, in the everyday world.
So that nobody, not even Gracie, will suspect that there is a dark side to him, that he has but one foot in this world, the other being firmly planted in a bizarre, dark, sometimes dangerous, sometimes terrifying realm where costumed creatures play serious games, games of pain, sometimes even games of death, although this last is merely rumor, so far as he knows.
Still, the potential is there.
Someone could get carried away.
Half mad to begin with, in non-technical psychological terms, he and his cohorts are capable of anything, from mass frenzy to individual acts of utmost fiendish depravity.
Especially during their conclaves, whether in isolated woods or abandoned farm or the truly frightening catacombs of caves or old mineshafts.
Apparently not that well organized, there nevertheless seems to be no end of locales in which to carry out their dark celebrations.
Which are festivals of pain and torture, bondage and discipline, sado-masochistic orgies.
Hunters and victims they are, either and both.
Who's in charge?
Bob cannot say; he simply doesn't know.
He gets mysterious notices by mail from one known only as "the Scribe".
When and where the next meeting is to be held, whether somewhere in the city or half a continent away; some he makes, others he misses.
And is not missed.
Fun and games.
Although there is no playfulness in evidence; quite the opposite, in fact.
And in fact, the rumors of death and disappearance are centered on those members, seen no longer, who apparently failed to take the conclaves sufficiently seriously.
No, if you're just "out for a good time", the conclaves are no place for you.
Which is another reason why Bob felt that he needed Gracie.
Occasionally, his own perversion becomes too heavy a burden to bear and he needs relief.
He needs to know that he can be with, can bed, someone who doesn't want to hurt or get hurt, who has no desire to terrify and certainly none to be terrified.
He needs the intimate company of someone whose concerns are those of the everyday world, whose outlook and tastes are an accurate mirror of normal contemporary society.
So that he does not lose his perspective.
So that he does not wake up one morning to find himself looking at the world through skewed lenses, through a mirror of depressing distortion, in which everyone and everything is showing him the dark side of existence itself.
To look at the world through glasses the color of shit or dried blood-that is precisely what Bob does not want.
And he himself cannot say why this other world, the world of darkness and of dark deeds, is so fascinating for him.
But he takes no comfort in the fact that this same world, the world of masks and whips and chains and black leather, of costumes which conceal individuality and reveal sexuality, is not the province of a rare few.
No, he finds no peace in the knowledge that others - many, many others, more in fact than he could have possibly imagined - cannot wait to plunge into the depths of their own depravity, made real and extended into the world to form one of its own, a world in which force is the only law, that and raw lust.
If it feels good and the victims have not the power to stop you, then do it.
Some rule to live by; especially when you stop to consider that, no matter how strong, how resourceful you are, there is always someone stronger, someone who, by dumb luck for fiendishly clever skill, is waiting to pounce on you, whether from ambush or as a target of opportunity.
Targets of opportunity - that's what it's all about, actually, the conclaves and the games that are played there.
Never knowing what you'll find, never knowing what will find you.
What would Gracie say, what would she think, if only she knew about this other world, this dark, obscene world which is every bit as much his as is the one he shares with her.
And in fact, that other world was beginning to exert so powerful a pull on Bob that it was threatening to drag him into it, and this to the point that, but for the darkness, but for the thrill of the action, he was beginning to feel like a fish out of water in the normal world, in the world where, like most of us, he does, after all, have to make a living.
And very few people are prepared to stock a whole line of computers and peripherals presented by a caped, hooded figure swooping down on them out of the darkness.
Not that it would get that bad; he would have to be completely out of his mind for that to happen.
Rather, he found himself drifting in and out of reality.
So that he was having difficulty relating to the latest changes in the line, the latest upgrades and enhancements to hardware and software.
Yes, that's very nice but not very interesting and what the hell does it all have to do with me?
So that he found himself constantly having to remind himself that this is how he makes his living, it's what he does for his paycheck, and if he wants to keep on getting those paychecks, then he had best damn well get with the program.
And he needed an anchor; hence, Gracie.
And she proved to be just what he needed.
He could have satisfaction in the normal way in the normal world.
And this talkativeness of hers, this sex with speech, at first he found amusing.
But then it began to grate on him.
And of late, he finds it becoming intolerable.
Intolerable, meaning he is going to have to do something about it.
Meaning something about Gracie.
And he finds all the darkness, all that other world causing the urge to rise up within himself.
The urge to punish, to discipline, and this fortified by a reason, an actual cause.
So that a part of his mind asks, is Gracie in any danger.
And that part of him has to reply, is forced to admit that she is.
But he has to fight the feeling.
He cannot let it get the best of him; not here, not in this, the normal world.
He cannot allow that other world to pollute this one with its presence, its ways.
Cannot - and damnit, will not!
He is seeing her tonight.
He will bed her tonight.
He will put up with whatever nonsense comes with possessing that fantastic body of hers.
He will give normal sex, and this despite the fact that, in that other, that dark and fiendish world, hers is just the sort .of body that fiends such as himself are always after.
And rarely encounter.
Ah, what he couldn't do with something like that in, say, some dark cave, where there are no neighbors about, none to disturb and be disturbed.
So that he could have his way with her.
He could straighten her out.
He could terrify her into knocking off the bullshit.
He could.
And a part of him very much wants to do exactly that.
What a temptation!
But no, he must fight the feeling.
He must and he will.
There will be no invasion from the darkness below.
Not tonight.
Not ever, if he can help it.
Because, once he does that, he is utterly lost.
There will no longer be a bright, if flawed, a clean, if soiled world in which he can find refuge from himself and from such as himself.
No, if he defiles Gracie - and that's exactly what he would be doing, defiling her - then he is himself lost.
In breaking her, he will have broken himself, possibly in a way utterly without remedy.
And what is done is not, can never be, undone.
That is a simple fact of life, so far as he is concerned.
Inadequate, ineffectual it would be, his apologizing, should that be the aftermath, immediate or delayed.
Because, for one thing, it is not a question of not knowing what got into him.
He knows what got into him, what is in fact already there.
There is no doubt, no question, no room for ambiguity, no way that he can say, "I lost my head."
No, it is his head that he has to keep under tight rein, at the moment. It is in fact and precisely that crazy head of his which must not be allowed to have its way.
So then, on with tonight.
And he will be a good boy, no matter what happens.
Or so he tells himself.
"Hi."
Funny, he thinks, how she never has all that much to say at any other time.
They are friends, after all, and more than friends, lovers.
And yet, greeting him at the door wearing a silk robe whose flimsy fabric allows every luscious contour of her body to show to advantage in the indirect lighting of her apartment living room, she can think of nothing more to come up with than a neutral, monosyllabic greeting.
"Thirsty?" she asks.
"No."
She shrugs and turns her back to him, walking into the bedroom, the robe falling from her shoulders as she goes.
She wastes no time and is naked by the time she reaches the bed, which she promptly strips of its covers, ensconcing herself in the midst of it, head on one pillow, turned on her side, already facing the position which he will occupy as soon as he removes his clothes.
Bob strips quickly.
And is beside her on the bed in a flash.
And taking her in his arms.
And helping himself to handfuls of firm, rounded ass cheek, even as she begins to fondle his big cock with its lazy hard-on.
"Fuck me, baby," she murmurs into his ear.
And he resists the tendency to stiffen up.
So, he thinks, it begins already.
"Stick that big salami of yours right in my big, juicy cunt!"
Oh? Really? I thought I was here to play tiddlywinks, he says to himself, becoming angry, sarcastic, feeling evil urges rising up within himself.
Still, he must control himself. He will simply have to ignore her.
Her mouth, that is.
He will wallow in her body.
He will drown himself in her curves.
So that nothing, nothing, nothing else will matter.
And now, he slides down her body.
And he-
But here, let her tell it.
Might as well; she will anyway.
"Mmmm! That's right! Suck those big titties of mine! Get those big doorbells all hot and bothered and big and hard!
"Ooh, yes! That's right, oh so very, very right!"
"Oh, the tingling hardness of them!"
"Oh, yeah, you like those big jugs, don't you!"
"That's it, squeeze them, play with them, chew on them!"
That's what they're there for! That's what I'm here for!"
"Ooh, you know it!"
"Oh yeah, just take your sweet time with them!"
"Aah, that's delicious!"
"Takes a real tit man to make them feel that way, it does!"
"Ooooh! Aaaah Mmmmm!"
"Oh, that's right!"
"Work me over with your mouth! Eat me alive, all over my body!"
"Oh, yeah! Head for my big, juicy cunt now!"
"Yeah, chew me up all the way! That's right, that's right!"
"Oh yeah! Dive into that muff! Find that joy buzzer of mine!"
"Aaah! Ooooh! Oohoo, that's the spot!"
"Play me like a guitar with your tongue! Lap my fucking clit!"
"Oooh! Strum me and make it hum!"
"Aha! Fuck me with your tongue, in and out, in and out!"
"Aaah! That's it, that's it! Use your tongue like it was your big fucking cock!"
"Go deep, deep, deep! Oho, you know!"
"Oh, yes, yes, yes, take me all the way with your fucking tongue!"
"Don't stop, don't stop!"
"Let me ride your face to paradise!"
"Oh! Ugh! Uhuh! Ah! Ooh!"
"Get right in there, right in there on it!"
"Uh-huh, uh-hunh!"
"Hah! Hah! Hah! Un-hunh!
"Oh, no, don't stop! Why are you - oh, that's it! That's fantastic! Give me the real thing, baby! Shove that fucker right into my hot, juicy twat, all the way! Sock it to me, sock it to me, sock it to ME!
"Oh! Oh! Oho!"
"Hah, that feels great!"
"I needed that big pole of yours, all the way!"
"That's it, that's it!"
"Slam it into me! Drive my ass right into the bed! Jackhammer me!"
"Faster! Faster!"
"Ooh, that's right, that's right!"
"Ah, that feels marvelous, fantastic!"
"I want it! I need it! More, more, more!"
The sound of her voice, her incessant chatter, is converted into a steady hum, a kind of background buzz like that of a noisy air conditioner.
He is able, by an effort of will, to shut her noise off in his head, to stop it at his ears and transform it into its meaningless essence.
And focus, really focus, concentrate fully on her exquisite shape and texture and physical action and reaction, her taste, her heat.
So that it is as though she is not speaking at all-almost
Almost, because his performance is suffering.
It is, no question.
So that he is, as it were, engaged in two totally disparate tasks at one and the same time, in which a part of him is devoted to acting as a muffler, a converter, changing speech into background noises while the other, the main event, goes on, unhampered, as much as possible.
His cock is hard, but not as hard as it could be, as it has been on other occasions, under other circumstances.
He is hot - yes, she does make him hot, at least her body does - but not as hot as he has been, as he might otherwise be.
In short, he is performing adequately, but not to his full capacity.
So that yes, his enjoyment is impacted by her quirk, much as he likes to think that he can overlook it by a sheer effort of will.
And he finds it incredible that it should continue full force, without letup.
So that, willy-nilly, he finds himself listening to her from time to time, unable to believe that her stream of meaningless drive should remain exactly that at all times, without so much as a pause.
As though he has flipped a switch somewhere within her, which is destined to remain on at full insane power throughout the duration of their sexual activity, from initial arousal to the last spasm of her orgasmic series.
Still, here it is.
And here it is still. Still and forever, so it would seem.
Unless-no!
Because she would never see him again, if he took that which he is so very fond of taking and with ever so much less provocation.
Corrective action.
Discipline.
Hot, vicious discipline, applied to his helpless victim.
But that cannot be.
Not here, not now.
That is the other Bob, the Bob who is other, who is not himself, but some creature of darkness, hooded, all-powerful, deadly, his-its-sexual activities not acts of love or affection or even lust, as it is commonly understood.
No, that is a dark inner drive, the principal attribute of a monster, the Mister Hyde to his Doctor Jekyl.
And to do that would defeat the purpose of the exercise.
Which is, he reminds himself, precisely to have a normal relationship within a normal existence.
So that yes, he could correct this habit of hers, could cure her on the spot; he is absolutely certain of it.
But at what cost?
No, it's out of the question.
He will have to consider the problem further, at a more leisurely moment.
Because right now, it is working, his fucking of her.
He is climbing the rainbow now, building and building toward climax.
Which will be a lesser one than he would have preferred, and he knows it, strictly because of this damnable habit of hers.
Or affectation, or perhaps even affliction; he doesn't know, doesn't care, wishing only that it would stop, now and forever.
"Baby, baby, baby! You've got me flying! Who am I? Where am I? Who knows? Who cares?"
"Oooh, yes, yes, yes!"
"Reach me! Reach deep, deep, deep inside me! Hit me where I live!"
"Do me, do me, do me!"
"Come on, bay-bee, make it happen!""
And he does.
For the two of them.
Because now he feels the powerful milking sensation of the powerful contractions of her vaginal muscles, as she experiences orgasm after orgasm, right along with the spasms of his own climax, alternating with them, one on one.
Do you understand now, at last? he beams at her, mentally. Have you finally come to the truth, which is that this, this, this! is the only conversation that matters in bed?
"Aaah! Haah! Haaah!"
Evidently not.
Because it is only after his last climactic spurt and her last orgasmic reflex that she at last falls silent.
Eyes closed, smiling radiantly, clinging to him in genuine appreciation and affection.
As though completely unaware that she has put him through an ordeal, that she has made him pay quite a price for the pleasure he has received.
Because he feels drained by the strain of having to shut out her unceasing blither as he fucks and, in fact, precisely in order to fuck.
And it isn't right.
Damnit, it isn't even right for her world, the normal, everyday world.
Because it simply isn't.
Normal, everyday, that is.
People don't act that way in bed, not in this world, not in any other with which he is familiar.
He has heard of phone freaks, of course, and perhaps this is how they operate, having precisely such conversations over the telephone as they jerk themselves off.
And that's fine for them.
But not like this. Not face to face, he handsome, muscular, virile, she absolutely gorgeous and with all the right equipment.
It doesn't happen; and yet, it is.
And what the fuck is he going to do about it?
What can he do about it and remain the Bob she has come to know and-love?
Now that he thinks about it, there is certainly that possibility.
It could happen. It could happen quite easily, in fact.
Where else is he going to find a bod and a face like this?
And yet-and yet.
Is this, this ... thing of hers something that he is prepared to live with?
What to do, what to do, what to do?
Great questions, he tells himself, holding her in his arms. Now, all you have to do is answer it.