Chapter 5
I miss him, Gracie tells herself.
And tries very hard to believe this, tries very hard to embrace Bob's image fully, without equivocation.
Because she is handling it so well, so very well, she tells herself.
For all her beauty, for all her sexuality, she has always had this problem with men.
And not with men so much as with the idea of men, of men as sexual creatures, of men and women together, the fuckers and the fuckees. There has always been a certain element of panic, of terror for her in this.
So that it took more courage than her dates could possibly suspect for her to be able to even go out with them, much less actually wind up going to bed and having sex.
Oh, she took all the proper precautions, was on the pill practically since puberty.
That wasn't, isn't the problem.
The problem is that, beneath the veneer of civilization with which we are all covered, masked, there lurks the beast, the lower animal, the creature of raw, base instinct.
And it seems to her to be lurking there, just beneath the surface, closer to emerging in some people than in others.
So that the world appears to her to be inhabited by werewolf-like creatures, human appearing, but with the beast filling them, filling the shell of their appearance and behavior.
And to her, the sexual act is basically the unleashing of the beast within.
And she does not care to be savaged, in fact fears it.
So that she has erected a defensive barrier in the form of a stream of perpetual chatter.
So that she is, as it were, directing as well as starring in something which is not the real thing.
And even those feelings, the responses of her body, her yielding to the stimulation, her losing herself in the pleasure, her ultimately experiencing the pleasure beyond pleasure-such things, left to themselves, frighten her within herself.
Because she is not that way.
Not wild, not bestial, not ... uncivilized.
And the image of her, red-faced, panting, sweating, moaning in ecstasy, nipples hard and erect, cunt hot and juicy, dripping with the intensity of her arousal-this she finds disgusting.
And yet, a part of her wants this.
A part of her embraces this image.
And not only this image, but the provocation behind it, the agent of her arousal, the beast within the man.
Yes, a part of her believes, wants very much to believe, that it's okay, all of it, that it is perfectly proper and well within the natural scheme of things for people to become animalistic at the right time and place.
So that she herself is unable to understand her revulsion, her constant need for protection, even in so bizarre and intrinsically ineffectual a form as her incessant chatter during the act.
And what she does is basically a compromise between the part of her which simply wants to let go, to make it happen, to let it happen free and utterly without restraint, and this unreasoning (and probably unreasonable, foundationless) fear or revulsion.
As though her pillow talk is a buffer between her two natures, which she thinks of as her upper and lower selves.
And cannot seem to reconcile herself to the fact that she is all one, single creature.
And speaking of single, she knows that that too is not in her best interests.
Rather, she should latch onto a successful, hard-driving business type like Bob.
So far, so good, on that score, she tells herself.
And her defensive patter even seems to turn him on, judging by the look of intensity on his face whenever they fuck.
Although, somehow, he seemed to be even more intense when he took her from behind all those times, over the weekend.
Still, he could hear her, so that probably helped.
And yes, she could be very happy with him, he with her, and like that.
Except that, there toward the end, he seemed somehow distant from her.
As though his mind were far, far away.
But perhaps that was merely the press of business, something she will have to get used to, if she is to ultimately end up with him.
Understanding, sympathy, understanding-all these things await him, if he does the deed with her, if they go all the way to the altar of matrimony together.
But before that, she realizes, she must reconcile herself absolutely to the idea that fucking is totally proper, that there is not a thing wrong with it, on any level.
And now, it is late at night.
And, lying there in bed, she thinks, should I do it again?
It.
Meaning use the toy, the one she bought, red-faced, steeling herself with determination so that she quickly marched into the adult book store that time, snatched it off the rack, paid for it in haste, and departed, clutching her brown paper sack, prize weighing heavily on the bottom.
And now, she reaches into the bottom drawer of the nightstand on one side of the bed.
And pulls out her sold rubber, eighteen inch, double-headed dildo, flesh-colored, thick, heavy.
And she stares at the well-formed, sculptured head, a perfect if over-sized replica of the real thing, looking into its deep eye.
And once more feeling that odd lump, that rising in her chest, into the base of her throat, which is the panic, the slight thrill of terror at what it represents.
Which just goes to show how ridiculous is her panic, she prompts herself.
And forces it into her mouth, sucking its smooth roundness, her tongue exploring its every facet, from the indentation of the eye to the thick, flared flange at the rear of it.
And she sucks it thus, holding the big monster with one hand, eyes closed, as, with the other, she delves into her cunt, playing with the nub of her clit, rolling a finger around on it, feeling her pussy become warm, the juices begin to flow, lubricating the digital action.
There, you see? she tells herself, mental tone calming, reassuring, totally reasonable, Everything is okay. There is no threat, no menace, no harm at work here.
There is only the male principle, in the form and of the texture nature intended.
So that it's all right, it's really all right for it to be as it is, and for you to feel as you do.
You were made for it.
It will be a perfect fit.
Will be-and is.
Because now she is reaching down, inserting the saliva-lubed head of the rubber monster into her wet cunt. "You see? You see how nicely it slides right in, how your pussy welcomes it with its smooth, slippery grasp?"
And she is doing it again, she realizes.
Verbalizing, by way of self-encouragement.
But there's nothing wrong with that either, so far as she can tell.
Except, perhaps, the necessity of her doing it at all.
But even that she can't worry about right now.
Because it has begun, the arousal.
"Forget how you look, concentrate on how it feels," she advises herself.
"Jam that fucker in, in, into yourself!"
"There! See how nicely, how smoothly it feeds into your pussy?"
"You were made for it, for heaven's sake!"
"Feel, only feel! how it works its way into you, how it meets and greets each and every nerve ending inside your hot fucking cunt!"
"Hah! Hah! Hah!"
And she is moving it in and out now, legs spread, straight and wide, on the bed.
And now, she raises her legs, bending them at the knees.
"There! That's right! Assume the position!"
And she reaches her working hand around her thigh, so that she is grasping the dildo from below, so that, looking down, she cannot see her arm working the monster, so that it seems to have a mind of its own.
And she pushes her thighs even closer to her body, improving the angle, improving the action of the huge rubber cock, making it go deeper and deeper, making her cunt's reception of it more and more complete.
So that now, she is almost doubled up, as though a large man were leaning on the backs of her thighs as he flicks her.
But it is herself flicking herself with the mighty dildo.
Yes, she is compromising with it, reconciling herself to it, to the idea of it, to the idea it represents.
She is definitely coming to terms with it.
Because-
"Oh yeah, baby! Yeah! Yeah! Fuck me! Fuck me long and hard, with that big, long, hard salami of yours!"
"Sock it to me, in and out, in and out!"
"Oh! Ooh! Just like that!"
"Ooo, you got it, lover!"
And her head rolls from side to side, eyes closed, face ruddy, shiny now with her sexual sweat.
As her wrist action forces the dildo into a highly credible fucking movement.
And yes, the surface of the dildo is becoming slimy with her hot, clear juices.
And yes, her cunt is actually sucking it as it moves in and out of her drooling pussy.
And yes, it is now at her over-heated body temperature.
And yes, it has stimulated her, has more than stimulated, has begun a chain of ascent through levels of arousal which feeds upon itself.
Level after level she rises to now.
Higher and higher she goes.
"That's it, that's it! Higher and higher! Yeah, baby, you're flyin' now!"
And she is listening to herself only sporadically now, the chatter incessant, the attention paid to it only intermittent.
But there is an odd comfort, a strange sense of security inherent in the sound of her own voice.
Which is apparently as necessary to the action as, say, the bed, the bedroom, the indirect lighting, the dildo - in other words, her chatter is an essential part of the whole scene.
And she simply has to let her mouth run on and on, not even thinking of what she is saying.
Words become interspersed with meaningless moans of pleasure, with grunts of satisfaction, with noises that, under other circumstances, Gracie would classify as animal.
Because-
"That's right, that's right! You're an animal! Nothing but a flicking animal!"
"You want it! You need it! You have to have it! More and more, damnit!"
"Get in there, get in there, get in there!"
And she takes her own advice, shoving the dildo in and out, faster and faster, harder and harder, as her vaginal muscles grasp and suck and devour its resilient mass.
She ignores the cramps in forearm and bicep, the awkwardness of the position, the strength and force necessary to make it happen as she is.
All, all are overwhelmed by the flood of sensations, the raw lasciviousness, the fundamental sexual urge which surges through her like sexual electricity.
Which at first came in waves.
Which became stronger, closer together.
Until, now, she is supercharged, radiant with the prurient sensations.
Which have merged their multitude, which have melded their chorus into a single, loud, steady hum, her blood pounding in her ears.
So that now, head thrown back, chin in the air, expression a grimace of utter sexual rapture, her wrist moves at almost vibrator speed.
As she pushes herself up, up, up-
And over the top!
So that she is coming and coming, the reflexes, the convulsions of her pussy milking the rubber monster of the pleasure beyond pleasure, causing her insides to spasm again and again, caught up in the transport of her series of multiple orgasms.
As her shrieks and moans of total sexual fulfillment echo flatly off the walls of her bedroom.
And beyond.
So that neighbors below and those above think that she is getting fucked by one hell of a stud - again.
"Must be one helluva lay, Maude," a neighbor remarks to his wife. "Counted twenty 'ooh's' and fifteen 'ah's' 'fore she got to the 'aha', that time."
"Maybe I should go down there and borrow him, Henry."
"Go ahead, Maude, but don't count on any miracles. Remember, it's gotta be at least partly inspiration from her."
And Maude huffs at the put-down.
Henry chuckles and goes back to reading his newspaper.
That was so right! Gracie thinks, lying back now on her pillow, legs akimbo, dildo still inserted in her cunt but unsupported, its long thick mass lying there between her flattened legs, like a flaccid cock attached to her.
No panic, no terror, no vague apprehensions, no strange misgivings.
Why can't I be this way with the real thing? she asks herself.
And she determines, and not for the first time, that from here on out, she will be.
She will be perfectly calm, totally accepting.
As soon as Bob returns from his trip.
Yes, she tells herself, she can definitely be this way, at least with Bob.
And if Bob is to be her one and only, and it certainly looks very much as though this could very well be the case, then it is not necessary for her to generalize this decision.
If it works with Bob, then it works period, in her case.
And now, she takes the dildo with her, into the bathroom.
They can shower together.
How very intimate.
Why didn't I think of this before? Bob asks himself, as he forces his turgid invader into the woman's terrified cunt.
And he looks down into her frightened eyes behind the eye slits of her hood, reading there the anguish, the terror of her utter helplessness.
And why utter helplessness?
Because she cannot speak.
She cannot scream, cannot make a single, solitary sound, except for muffled exhalations, sounds of desperation and fear which barely carry to Bob's ears, close as he is to her.
And he couldn't be any closer, that's for sure.
And now, he scoops her thick thighs up from below.
So that she is doubled up, bare back on a rock ledge, its cold, hard irregularities digging into her back.
And Bob, on his feet, bending over her, could care less.
He finds this utterly delightful.
The fiend, the monster, the demon which he has become (which he is?) is fully in his element and doing his thing.
Frantically, she claws at the gag.
But it is too tight, too well tied.
So that she ends up putting claw marks on her exposed chin.
Still, she has defied him by trying.
And such defiance must be punished.
So he releases one thigh, in order to free up a hand.
Forehand and back he smacks her face, rolling her head from side to side against the cold, hard stone on which she lies helpless.
She'll not soon try that again! he thinks.
And this is so delicious, fucking her like this.
And now, her thighs still resting on his biceps, he grasps one big breast in each hand.
And squeezes-hard.
Continuous, it is, the grip slowly tightening.
And he sees the grimace of pain come over her face.
But for him there is only pleasure and more pleasure.
Because his rock-hard cock is pistoning in and out of her cunt with perfect regularity, each stroke either way sending a fresh twinge of pleasure coursing through his whole body.
And she is his, to do with as he pleases, for as long as he pleases.
So that there is no need on his part to hurry or to worry.
And all because he has gagged her, so that she cannot attract attention.
Not that any audience she might attract would dare to interfere.
But still, others would be able to see, to watch him in action, to be forewarned, some of them, as to what is lurking, here in the darkness.
And he wants to come as a complete surprise to his victims.
That's part of the thrill, part of the fun.
That they do not know what they are up against until it is too late.
And now, he gets a fresh inspiration
True, he already has her doubled up.
But he can do better.
And his cock can do better.
Meaning that there is that other hole, right below the one he is now flicking, if only he can-
He can.
Because now, he releases her thighs, then braces a forearm against the backs of her knees.
And hears her groan of discomfort through the gag as he presses her still further back, thus exposing her ass hole.
Which he even now invades with his mighty prod, forcing it into her rectum with his free hand.
So that now, he has her doubled up completely, even as he reams her rectum royally with his rampant ramrod.
In and out, in and out he fucks her in the ass now.
As she rocks from side to side in discomfort, at least, if not in agony.
Not that he cares how much it hurts her.
The important thing is him, him, him!
And the feelings, the sensations that he can experience from this situation.
And right now, he is soaring, flying, on top of the world.
He is in total control of everything.
And it couldn't feel better.
He feels himself radiating the tingling power, so filled with it is he.
Forgotten for the moment is Oracle, is she of the mouth.
Because reality is here, now, totally, to the exclusion of all else.
What he can see, what he can feel - these are reality, his reality, the things, the only things that count.
The rest? Mere delusion, mental constructs, products of a feeble, self-deceiving organ, the weakest part of what is, fundamentally, a very weak creature indeed.
Yes, here he is onto pure, physical truth.
Which is how this, what he is doing, feels.
Which is better and better.
Which is more and more a thing which is to be desired, to be actively sought, to be made to happen, as much, as often as possible.
Because what else is there, really?
Nothing.
False hopes, false dreams, false impressions.
But there is no sham here.
No, this situation might be a put-on, from the standpoint of the others, all the others here; he cannot say for sure, one way or the other.
But for himself, it is the real thing, real in a way he has not found anything else to be.
And this is a reality to be indulged in, the reality of his true self engaged in the pursuit of his true pleasure.
The woman tries to ignore the pain and terror, to concentrate on the feelings which he is generating within her.
Or would, under other, more comfortable circumstances.
And yes, there is a content there, a stimulation of nerve endings.
After all, her interior, her bowels do not know where they are.
Don't know, don't care.
They only know that they are being aroused, and not for the first time, by a big cock.
And she survived her first encounter with this fiend, so why not this one.
Soon enough, he will pop his rocks.
And disappear before he deflates.
Because he has an image to maintain, and this cannot be done during a period of refraction.
So that the best thing for her is to simply lie back and enjoy it, as best she can, letting him have his way with her as he moves closer and closer to climax and the end of this
Chapter of his escapade.
After which, he will promptly disappear, she is sure, to recover in darkness, gathering his sexual strength, preparing for the next onslaught, against her or another.
Because she is certain that this, like their first meeting, is sheer coincidence.
Bad luck on her part.
Or good, she reflects, depending on how honest she is with herself when she thinks she is looking for thrills.
Because this is more, much more than she bargained for.
More man, more action, more fear.
Bob feels as though he could go on and on like this, forever.
Such power!
Such freedom!
But now, the pleasure begins to feed on itself, becoming stronger and stronger with each thrust, each withdrawal.
Look at those big balloons of hers!
Feel that bush of hers against the stomach, kissed occasionally by the parted lips of her pussy as he humps and pumps.
She's perfect for the purpose for which he is using her, he tells himself.
It's all perfect, all coming together perfectly, all so very complete, so very filled with more and more pleasure.
And part of him wants it to last forever.
And part of him wants more and more of the pleasure he is experiencing, even though the pressure of it is already at maximum within him.
More and more pleasure he summons, working his cock in and out of her ass hole.
And more and more pleasure comes.
Until he arrives at the pleasure beyond pleasure.
And he is coming and coming, powerful spurts of his jism injecting themselves in the depths of her bowels.
"Ah! Ah! Aha!"
And it is the deep, baritone exclamations of his own satisfaction as he comes and comes which echo now off the walls of the cavern.
And now, as suddenly as he was upon her, he disappears into the darkness.