Chapter 6
I need a gag, Bob tells himself, frantically searching through his bag for something suitable.
Had he only thought, he could have taken the one he made from the big broad's stockings.
But he wanted to make an effective exit, and thus could not be bothered with anything even vaguely resembling petty details.
Aha!
The very thing!
His spare pair of bulk knit socks, just in case he should have a wet foot type mishap down here in the bowels of the earth.
One in a ball, the other to go around the head of the next victim.
Yes, gags are definitely in this season, he chuckles to himself.
All set, ready to rock and roll.
No decent cave menace, no lurking troll should be without one of these babies.
And he ties the gag loosely around one wrist, the one which holds his flashlight, the other occupied with rope and grapple, ideal for climbing or for binding, and he is fully prepared to do either or both.
Perhaps he should pick a spot where he can gain a little height.
So that he can pounce, panther-like, on his unsuspecting, if not unexpecting prey.
Every now and again, as he passes through galleries or over ledges, he catches glimpses of caped and hooded figures.
Or sometimes merely erratic flashes of light, victims picking their way, aggressive fiends searching, searching, searching.
And now and again, a light will suddenly go out. A victim type seeking to elude capture?
Or a stalker, giving himself the advantage of darkness?
It doesn't matter; he knows what he is after.
Some dizzy, over endowed, under stimulated cunt, similar to the one he has just had.
Who will definitely get more than she bargained for.
He knows well enough what they want-a surprise fuck in exotic surroundings.
In other words, a scene from an erotic fantasy.
Well, how about a little real pain and bondage, ladies?
How's about some genuine terror from the genuine article, for a change, instead of from one of these soft desk jockeys out for a little illicit fun and games?
The real thing.
Mister cave monster himself.
Can you handle it?
Can you dig it?
Because, ready or not, here I come! And luck is with him.
Because, there just up ahead, he sees the perfect shape, the perfect object for his next attentions.
She wears no cape, so that he can see her hourglass figure, her bare, white buttocks, large and round, seeming almost to glow in the darkness, picking up the light from the lantern of her hooded and caped companion.
A man? A woman? Bob can't tell.
No matter; it's the one on the left that he wants.
His mind is made up and there can and will be no appeal.
All monster decisions are final and irrevocable.
He advances very quietly, not on tippy-toe in sissy fashion, but with great stealth, rapidly and in total silence.
And, just as they are passing a bench-like ledge, he pounces.
"Oh, hey, listen, uh, pal, uh, old buddy," the male figure says, as he throws the female onto her back to her screams of fright and surprise, "we're here, like, together, sort of, and we-"
Perhaps it is because he is clutching the coiled rope in his fist, the knuckles distended, taut and hard, as though he were holding a roll of coins in his hand, with all the reinforcement that provides, or perhaps it is a reaction of anger, of outrage at these play-actors, these players of hide and seek.
But, whatever the case, one blow to the man's jaw and he drops like a sack of potatoes, out like a light.
The woman stands there, frozen to the spot, looking down, in shock, speechless. And then she erupts.
"Are you insane? Have you totally lost your mind?
"This is a game, for heaven's sake!"
And she bends over the man, crouching down, raising his head, even doing the chief no-no, which is to remove his hood.
"Andy darling! Are you all right? You're not hurt or anything, are you?
"Speak to me, dearest! Come on, wake up, wake-"
She feels an iron hand on her soft, rounded shoulder.
Then, another roughly grabs her upper arm, clamping it in a vice-like grip, yanking her roughly to her feet.
And spinning her around.
So that, in the dim light of two flashlights, one on the ground where it has fallen from the hand of the unfortunate Andy, the other shining vaguely upward from where Bob has put it down on the rock ledge, she is staring into the dully gleaming, hooded eyes of madness.
So that the answers to her questions become abundantly clear.
Yes, he is insane.
Yes, he has totally lost his mind, if he ever had one to begin with.
But, more than that, he is large and powerful.
This is not some skinny piss-ant or some pot-bellied old man she is facing here.
And if his one shot felling of Andy is any indication, he is fully capable of the most sudden, the most extreme violence.
And not game, not let's pretend violence, either.
And, deep within her, the woman knows that she goofed.
Because a part of her always knew they were playing with dynamite, that it would, or at least very well could, come to this.
Which is-what?
And she trembles in fear, fear that her worst imaginings are about to come true.
As she sees a shapeless mass in one powerful hand, the other retaining its grip on her.
What is that he is holding?
Some instrument of torture or perhaps even sudden death?
A gag of some kind!
And she is almost relieved, realizing that it is not going to be used to somehow torture her.
Okay, okay, so the guy is a bondage freak.
She can handle that, has handled it, in fact, experimenting with Andy.
With Andy who is-what?
Merely unconscious, or seriously injured, broken inside, bleeding internally, perhaps?
But at least, he feels no pain, she tells herself.
Adding, parenthetically, the bastard!
Because he, he! has gotten them into this mess.
She never wanted, never needed this horseshit, this silly, almost childish game.
Which might not be a game at all, as she always knew, yes knew, as she tried to tell him many, many times.
But would he listen to her?
Nooo!
And now, lo and behold, it has come to pass, even as she predicted.
And ass hole there is dead to the world, leaving her to face this fiend all alone.
Some companion you are, Andy!
And her initial sympathy and concern for him turns to a cold indifference, superceded by her own plight.
He got what he deserved and, she strongly suspects, she is about to.
So big, this guy is!
And strong, as he lifts her effortlessly placing her on the ledge, then dragging her body around to just the right angle so that he can-
"Mmmmph!" she exclaims through the gag in surprise, not that he should have a hard-on, but that it should in fact be so hard, so large.
Other times, other places and he could have been her type.
Maybe.
As it is, he is-what?
A rapist who has discovered his perfect forum?
Or worse, a homicidal maniac.
Because the urges that drive people to do this are but the merest surface indicators of what lurks beneath.
Just the tip of the iceberg.
As she tried to explain to that idiot Andy.
He wanted spice in his life7
He wanted adventure?
How ya doin' down there, sport?
Ya havin' fun yet? Fucking ass hole!
Might as well enjoy it, she says to herself, sighing in resignation. After all, it could be her last fuck.
At least, she thinks, it'll be a good one.
As he doubles her up, brawny arms beneath her thighs, hands reaching around to grab her breasts, none too gently but still not actually trying to hurt her.
As he very well could, as she is only too well aware.
And it is his potential which she finds most frightening about the situation.
Not what is happening, but what could, what might yet.
If not for that ghastly potential, she could almost enjoy this.
Because the man is bigger, more powerful than Andy.
He is what Andy only makes a stab at pretending to be.
And how very far Andy falls short of the mark is driven home to her now.
The strength! The energy!
Andy never, not in his youngest days, not in his best moments, performed with anywhere near this vigor!
Because there is an enthusiasm at work here, which is not that of love, of affection, perhaps even not of desire.
Rather, it is a driven thing, an urge which seems to transcend sexuality.
What is driving this brute, this monster?
Hate?
But that is a term which, like love, means everything and nothing.
Hate, like love, is in the eye and mind of the beholder.
Hate could ultimately mean the hatred of himself.
So that he is acting upon, reacting to, that which he sees of himself in her, and which he finds unacceptable.
Softness.
Vulnerability.
Relative (at the moment, absolute) helplessness.
Poor judgment in coming here, in being here like this.
Presumptuousness, in the form of a groundless optimism, in the feeling that, for all the potential danger, nothing really bad could or would happen to her.
Ridiculous!
How could it not, sooner or later?
Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! she shouts at her attacker in her mind. After all, I do deserve it.
Yes, she's got it coming, no question. This is what the luck she was asking for.
And in a way, a very strange, very sick way, a part of her is glad this is happening.
To realize one's worst fears and survive them is excellent for one's mental balance.
And part one of the project is well underway.
Because he is certainly real, more real than anything she has encountered recently, at the conclaves or elsewhere.
Those are genuine sensations of arousal being fed into her in rapid, powerful succession, one following the other, faster and faster, harder and harder.
And reaching her.
Reaching inside her without her having to stretch one iota in her mind, without her having to contribute anything at all from the wellsprings of her imagination.
It's being done for her, all of it.
It's happening within her, the communication, the messages which go from his body, his cock, directly into the innermost depths of herself, the involuntary interior where her own mind cannot reach, where she cannot know herself.
As his magnificent monster of a hard-on stimulates each and every nerve ending in her hot, drooling pussy.
As her cunt sucks its invader, devouring it, drawing it into itself, clinging to it in hot, wet, slippery but firm embrace, sucking it on the backstroke.
My first real fuck, she tells herself, all the ones before being mere shadows, sham, cheap imitations of the real thing.
And she is supposed to go back to Andy after this?
Forget it!
Provided, that is, that she survives.
Because there is no understanding, no guarantee with this, this ... whatever he is.
With his super strength.
With his super urge, that driving force within him she has never seen before, has never known before, in theory or practice.
Even now, her body is responding.
She is getting hotter and hotter.
She feels her nipples come to life, the glands behind them harden within his constantly kneading grasp.
On and on he fucks her, each thrust, each withdrawal producing its own fresh thrill, its surge of sexual electricity.
And her only thoughts now are of him, of her yearning to possess and be possessed by him. The things they could do!
If only.
If only they were in bed together, if only she were free to move, to explore.
She longs to be able to run her hands over his magnificent musculature.
She wants, more than she has ever wanted anything, to feel and taste him, to help herself to handfuls of his buttock's, to see and rim his ass hole, to explore his cock-head, shaft and balls-with her mouth to her heart's content.
What she could do for and with and to him, if only he would allow it!
Sickening, the waste of her, like this.
Because she knows that, for better or for worse, this is a one shot proposition going down here.
Indeed, it cannot be otherwise.
Not after the way he began.
An assault.
Possibly, if not intentionally, even a deadly assault.
How does she know, how, for that matter does he, the extent of Andy's injuries.
He could be killed or maimed or otherwise suffering some permanent damage.
And, face it, this creature from out of the darkness could care less.
So that no, he is not about to stick around.
And in fact, to be doubly secure, to really take no chances, he could very well decide to do her in when he is through taking his pleasure, or what in him passes for pleasure, from her.
Because, unlike her feelings of the moment for him, with him, there will be no residue, nothing left over in his mind for her.
He is going all out on this one time only deal.
Clearly, he is holding nothing back.
He is riding for all he is worth.
Or is he?
Now, she reflects, that would be magnificent!
The idea that this, even this, this ... stellar performance is actually nothing but a part of what he is capable of showing her, of giving her, of doing to her by way of sexual gratification.
Oh sure, this is probably a one shot proposition.
But.
What if?
What if he really is capable of going at her like this, again and again, with, say, a mere half hour's refractory period between rounds?
She cannot help but wonder, even in the midst of her discomfort (a rock ledge for a bed, for heaven's sake!) and fear about the true extent, the real dimensions of his prowess.
As he stands to stud there, pouring it on, thrust after thrust, each as powerful, as determined as the one before.
So that yes, he is a menace, possibly even a deadly menace to her.
But, at one and the same time, he is also a prime stud.
Because this is a hairy situation, even for him, after what he did to Andy.
And yet, there is no sense of urgency, of haste, of furtiveness, of the need on his part to be in, out and gone in the shortest possible time, never to be seen again.
Which is, would be the action and attitude of a rapist.
So that no, he is not some pervert taking advantage of a bunch of other perverts to "do his thing" which, stripped of its mystique, is simply good old-fashioned rape.
Rather, this is his world, is very much his world.
Their playground-hers, Andy's, the others'-is where he dwells, where the real him resides.
So that they are actually intruders here, people who literally do not belong here (as she tried to tell Andy), stumbling, bumbling invaders who don't even know what it's all about, this world of darkness and danger.
And, not knowing, are prepared to give themselves a few minor, erotic thrills and chills for a few hours or a night before returning back to reality, their reality, to look back in amused contempt at their adventure, to look forward with that same sense of detached amusement, of implied superiority, to the next conclave.
And yes, each conclave leaves them a bit more smug, a little more self-confident.
Because, after all, they have braved the terrors of night and darkness to emerge once more unscathed.
Which proves that they are, after all, superior beings, superior even to their own concept, their images of themselves.
Except.
Except for luck, except for the vicissitudes of chance which has prevented them from experiencing the worst case scenario, from running head on into what could happen, into the true potential of the situation, be it in cave, in forest, in mansion or ruin.
Yes, it is surely the luck of the draw which has caught up to them now, Andy in one way, herself in another.
Maybe.
Because there is no guarantee here that, when all is said and done, she will not end up next to Andy, out cold, in total darkness, on the floor of a cave.
Out cold-or worse.
No guarantees, none at all.
Only this potential for violence, for the unleashing of vast reserves of brute force, of which she is now receiving but one form, and a relatively mild one at that.
For all its capability to captivate, to enthrall, to fascinate, to sexually delight, she adds, to herself.
Because he is good!
And better than good, magnificent.
He takes her up the rainbow, over, down the other side, and back up again.
Maybe, she thinks, maybe I'm just a nympho, at heart.
But no, she has never felt this way before.
Only with this ravaging beast from the depths of darkness.
As he takes her to multiple orgasms, not disrupting his steady. humping of her even in response to the milking action of the powerful contractions of her vaginal muscles as she comes and comes, finishes her series, and begins the ascent once more.
Whatever else he may be, she thinks, he is a true fucking machine.
And she cannot know, cannot suspect that his staying power is due, in part, to his having "gotten the edge off with his previous encounter.
Nor can she know of his cold indifference to her as a person.
She is in no particular, no real danger from him.
She does not exist for him as a person but as a mere object, a living device for him to get off on and in.
His violence against Andy?
Andy was another object, standing between him and his objective. Andy was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Tough shit for Andy; it happens.
And now, Bob is building to climax.
Harder and harder he pumps her, holding nothing back.
Until-
He is coming and coming within her, the throbbing head of his mighty cock spewing forth wad after wad of his thick, hot jism.
And when he is done, he deftly unties the gag from around her head, even before he pulls his cock out of her.
Then, he quickly grabs rope and flashlight, throwing the other one against the wall of the cave, smashing it.
He leaves them in utter darkness.
"Bastard!"
And her voice echoes throughout the caverns.
In the distance, through this opening and that, Bob can see figures moving, lights flashing.
Others will find them, no doubt.
Others will come across them, take one look at Andy, and at once come out of their roles, returning to reality in the face of human crisis, confronted suddenly by the necessity of rendering aid to an injured man.
But such things do not concern Bob.
Still, prudence, even in the guise of animal cunning, has its part to play.
And before the rangers arrive, before the ambulance is called, before the artificial lights, the sirens sound, he will be out of there, long gone, taking with him the satisfaction of having gotten his nuts popped in the most delightful way twice and that of having discovered a new, oddly meaningful refinement in his sexual technique.
The gag.
Works like a charm.
And carries with it a power, a mystique, a sexual significance which is nothing but a big turn-on for him.
As well as providing him with the answer to the problem of Gracie's big mouth.
The only thing being how best to get it on her without revealing this aspect of himself, his dark side.
Details, details, Bob tells himself, as he gets dressed.
"Leaving so soon, sir?" the ranger at the gate asks.
"Well, there's a lot more I would have loved to look at," Bob replies, "but you people won't allow us to use pitons."
"Sorry about that, sir, but we can't have the natural formations being defaced."
"Understood," Bob sighs. "Well, have yourself a nice evening now. Or morning, or whatever."
"You too, sir."
And Bob drives back to the hotel where the computer convention is being held.