Chapter 7
Yeah, yeah, yeah, Bob thinks.
Right idea? Maybe.
Wrong audience? Definitely.
"... and so, as you can see, the modem construct can be very neatly installed in the motherboard, either as insert or actually hard-wired to the motherboard .. "
Yeah, all right. So?
What do I look like, fucking IBM? Mister Tandy, perhaps?
Give me something I can use, for crissakes!
Because this is bullshit.
If the manufacturers go along-and, in and of itself, it certainly sounds like the right idea-then these guys have got it knocked.
It's neat, it's cute, and communications is definitely the name of the game.
And obviously, given a choice, Bob would be the first to push a network incorporating the so-called modem construct model micro's as opposed to those which are not.
But as for the basic model revisions, that is a decision only the manufacturers or the big contractors can make, and Bob doubts that their people are even here.
Because this is the cute peripherals show.
This is bells and whistles time.
This is "nice to have" week.
"... and of course, you can also install it yourselves"
Of course we can, Clyde!
Why not?
We install everything else ourselves.
But the secret to this thing's success, if it is to be a success, is that it comes already built in.
And if I'm going to install anything myself, meaning urging my customer base to do so, it's going to be name brand stuff, Hayes or something like that, names that are known and trusted.
Because Bob is not about to blow his reputation by touting brand X.
Not for something as fundamental as communications.
So forget it.
Forget it, because, damnit, he doesn't wanna know. The only tempting thing about the item as it stands is that he would like to chuck what he's doing now and market the son of a bitch properly, meaning going to the movers and shakers in the hardware end of the business.
But that's merely a zinger, a pipe dream.
He is not about to do anything to shake up his business life.
Bad enough that he's going to have to take a risk in his love life when he gets back.
Which he will.
Because the gag thing is just too good.
It works too well for him not to use it, regardless of risk to his image.
Because things as they are have become intolerable.
Before his discovery, they were merely difficult.
And he has seen the light.
He has, he knows the better way.
He is taking advantage of the convention to stall, to gather his forces, to steel himself for the push to come.
When he must, in some fashion, face Gracie.
When he must convince her that wearing a gag is sexy.
But, thus far, he cannot picture himself actually doing this.
Much as he would like to, much as he would prefer to just let the beast within himself take over and simply force her, worrying about the fallout, the aftermath later, he knows that it will not work that way.
It can't.
She knows nothing of his world, his or any other in which restraints of any kind are used in conjunction with sexual activity.
Besides, it is precisely her incessant chatter which is apparently the indispensable feature of her scene.
Hence, he is about to run contrary to everything she stands for in bed.
He is about to deprive her of the main, the essential aspect of her love-making.
Which, granted, is indulged in by her in order to give her courage.
And it is probably courage against precisely just such things as he is about to force upon her.
So that her worst fears concerning sex are about to be realized-that is, made real.
Bummer, but there it is, and there is no help for it but that the project go forward, for better or worse.
But now, he is trying to pay attention to the next presentation.
He has looked over the displays, but there is also this presentation schedule, in which the nitty-gritty, the technical details and features are explained for the products being exhibited.
And this one house seems to have again missed the boat.
Because-
".. and will not only retain picture in the brightest glare, but blocks harmful radiation as well. So that, as you can see ... "
I can see you're an ass hole, is what I can see, Bob thinks.
Dummy! Tell the tube makers, the CRT folks about it, not me!
Glare is the customer's problem.
Here's the set-up, here's what it will do, where and when and how many do we install and incorporate into the network?
That's Bob's thing as, he is sure, it is that of all the others in attendance here today.
And how do you get from that to this?
Easy-you don't.
Such problems in his personal life, Bob thinks, and he has to sit here and listen to these supposedly brilliant people make yet another fundamental strategic error?
Definitely a need for guidance, direction in that firm, Bob thinks. But later for that.
And yet, and yet.
Is what he is about to do all that different?
Right idea, wrong audience?
Going about the whole thing the wrong way, isn't he?
Slapping her with the gag cold turkey is not the way to go.
But it is the way he has tentatively selected, for want of a better approach.
Okay, so that's the wrong thing, as wrong as the presentation he is seeing here from, from-looking down at the schedule-Superior Technologies.
What they need is to construct customized models, using the-manufacturers' own equipment with the modification installed.
A demonstration is what's needed, a presentation to the true target market as accomplished fact.
And he realizes, with a shock, that he could just as easily be talking about the gag and Gracie.
She has to be shown.
And he knows just how to do it, to make it happen.
So simple to do the right thing, when you see the other fellow getting it wrong.
And it would seem that this convention hasn't been a total waste of time after all.
Bob opens the package and grins.
So, he thinks, the Scribe went for it.
Why not?
Especially since Bob went to the trouble of buying the socks, assembling the gags, running off the explanatory notes on a computer printer, and shipping them to the Scribe at his post office box - anonymously, of course, but with a complete explanation.
Idiot-proofing, they call it, in the computer business.
And, as he had known he would, the Scribe found it irresistible.
An added feature, guaranteed to please the warped minds the Scribe is dealing with.
There it is-a pair of plain, white tube socks, one rolled into a ball and stuffed inside the other, about half way.
And a note, explaining that members using gags are requested to use the enclosed, which is safe, sanitary, and will have a useful afterlife as an ordinary pair of socks.
And of course, the notice of the regular conclave.
Which will take place at the mansion on Long Island again, a location fast becoming their regular fallback or standby meeting place.
Which also fits nicely into Bob's plans.
No traveling involved, at least not something requiring extensive and expensive travel arrangements.
All that remains now is a basic selling job on Gracie.
Not easy, but he is sure he can handle it, at least the first part of it.
And he does.
"How did you ever come across this, this club or whatever it is?"
"Guy I know told me about it."
"But these costumes! Are you sure this is what they'll all be wearing?"
"Uniform, or so I understand."
"Besides, what are you worried about? You wear less than that at the nude beach."
"This is true," she concurs. "Gosh, what a spooky looking place!"
"That's the whole idea. But not to worry. You're with me."
If a flabby wimp like that guy Andy could get away with escorting his woman to these things without incident until he met Bob, then surely Bob should have no trouble.
"We're just going here to look, right?" she asks.
"Right. We watch the others. We touch no one and no one touches us, as Simon and Garfunkel said in the song."
"I am a rock, I am an i-hihi-land," Gracie sings softly to herself by way of gathering her courage, as they approach the dark, spooky edifice from the parking lot, where quite a number of cars are already parked, Bob the fiend in his usual attire, Gracie in classic dominatrix drag, complete with cape and hood, walking stiffly in her newly-acquired, spike heeled boots.
But she reaches for his hand nonetheless, when they enter the building.
"So dark!" she hisses. "I can barely see!"
"There're dim bulbs on, here and there," Bob replies. "Just let your eyes get used to the darkness."
She does and they do.
They enter the living room.
Where, bound and gagged on a couch, a woman, in the costume identical to Gracie's, is getting raped by two men, dressed, naturally, the same as Bob, in cape, hood and boots, with nothing in between.
Unique it is, the way they are going about it.
One man will throw a dozen or so lunges into her, then stand back, huge erection bobbling before him, gleaming dully in the dim light, as the other takes over, practically without missing a stroke.
And the woman hands ties behind her, wearing the familiar, Bob-supplied gag, can only lie there and take it.
Which, judging by the way she spreads her legs and bends her knees, not with standing the lethal kicking potential in those spike-heeled boots of hers, is exactly what she wants to do.
That much seems evident, even to Gracie.
And Bob knows the type; knows it very well, in fact.
Knows exactly what she is thinking as she justifies what is happening to herself.
I'm completely helpless. The matter is totally out of my hands. There is nothing, nothing, nothing I can do except lie here and take it.
Which makes it all right.
So that she is free to enjoy herself, given that she can do nothing else.
She has no choice-and isn't that simply delightful?
Bob is sure she finds it so.
And Gracie can clearly see that she does.
As she looks, fascinated, at the scene, something novel, completely unique in all her experience - and sexy as hell.
So that she is almost hypnotized by the action, her gaze transfixed.
As she empathizes with the woman on the couch, as she-envies her?
Too much to hope for, perhaps, Bob thinks, but nonetheless, the interest is there.
The interest-and with it, surely, a bit of role-playing fantasy?
And she is in fact reluctant, as Bob pulls on her hand, trying to move her on.
But she does not wish to give herself away, so that she drags her gaze from the spectacle before her and dutifully accompanies him.
The den, or what was once the den or library, judging by the bookshelves, empty now, gathering cobwebs, adding to the lugubrious, melodramatic atmosphere.
But their eyes are drawn to a couch, on which another two-some is operating on yet another woman, this one gagged but not bound.
And the dynamic duo of the moment consists of a man and a woman, he rather diminutive, she oversized, blocky, rather masculine with square jaw and well developed shoulders.
As she straddles the woman's face, crotch inches from the gagged mouth, the better to keep the victim's legs spread as the man eats her.
And Bob and Gracie's timing is exactly right, apparently.
Because the little man now reveals the fact of his cock.
Which is the main fact about him, the major feature of his very being, so long, so thick, so disproportionate to the rest of him is it.
And they hear a stifled moan through the gag from the pinned and helpless woman on her back on the couch, as the harridan above her continues to hold her thighs apart, even as the man enters her with his prodigious prod.
And Bob grins, knowing the woman on top's scene.
Knows that, vicariously, it is she who is fucking the woman, satisfying her lesbian lust as in life she never can, as she does so in the only environment that will permit her this particular merging of fantasy and reality.
And the gag helps.
Because she does not want her pussy eaten; that is something one woman does to another, yes.
But she, she! is not a woman!
She is a man trapped in a woman's body and where has Bob heard that one before?
So they watch.
And Gracie's attention seems torn between the victim's reactions and the sight of that mighty piston working out on the spread and exposed pussy, the piston action smooth, rapid, powerful.
And Bob knows that she is picking up on the fact of this victim's being gagged-as was the other, as will they all be tonight, he is sure.
So that the message will be delivered, again and again.
So that Grade will have pictured herself, not bound, perhaps (he would never try that with her), but certainly gagged, and getting it, if not from him, then from any, from all of these others, imagining herself in these exact same situations, over and over.
And in fact-no.
He would not want that.
He would not want to see Gracie develop a full-fledged yearning to enter this world.
That would be going much too far, much farther than he wants or needs to go.
Still, who knows?
And now, the little man with the big cock is building to climax.
As, apparently, is his partner.
Who is breathing every bit as hard as he is.
Whose face, what can be seen of it beneath the hood, is getting every bit as red as is her partner's.
Whose huge, mighty breasts are showing hardened points for nipples, so great is her arousal from the scene.
And who is breathing like a bellows or a steam engine, even as the huge cock discharges its load, again and again, into the depths of the spread and helpless cunt.
But who says nothing.
(Do you see that, Gracie? The woman is about to come and still she says nothing!)
And Bob cannot be positive, of course, but he could swear that all three of them are coming now, the moans from behind the gag certainly those of sexual ecstasy.
As are the long, throaty exhalations of the big woman on top.
As are, unquestionably, the gasps escaping from the little man with the big engine.
Bob risks a sidewise glance at Gracie.
To see that she is breathing hard in empathy with the trio before them.
And he thinks, My gosh! She's actually getting hot over this!
So that she is more than interested, more than fascinated, she is becoming, in some measure - involved!
It's working, it's working, it's working, Bob sings to himself.
You touch no one and no one touches you, huh Gracie?
You are a rock, you are an island, right, kiddo?
So how's come you're breathing hard?
Why can't you tear yourself away from this scene, if you're so fucking uninvolved?
And now, just as the trio begin to wind down, a woman, cape flying behind her, breasts cleaving the air before her, runs screaming through the room, hotly pursued by a husky stud, gag extended before him in both hands.
Bob and Gracie see him chase her through the open door of the den and up the broad staircase to the second floor.
They can hear her scream growing fainter and fainter, when, suddenly, it is cut off all together.
Bob gestures in the direction they went and Gracie, with a final backward glance at the collapsed, relaxed trio, comes with him.
They go up the stairs, past closed doors, one after another, until they come to one that is open.
And there, on an ornate four-poster of a bed, they see the stud, straddling his victim's back, deftly completing his tying of the gag behind her head.
And now, he rolls her over, continuing to straddle her body.
And he slaps her face back and forth, whacking it from one hand to the other, again and again, hard, resounding smacks that echo flatly in the dingy confines of the high-ceilinged, gloomy room.
A rough one, Bob thinks, almost as rough as is he himself on all such occasions but this.
And now, the stud sticks his throbbed of an erection into her cunt, humping away as her legs bicycle on either side of him, her screams muffled sounds of quiet desperation through the gag, which seems to excite the stud still further, judging by the way he suddenly increases the force of his thrusts into her.
"Mmmph! Mmmph! Mmmph!" the, woman exclaims through the gag, each time he lunges into her, lying heavily atop her.
And these are not so much outcries of protest as they are the sound of the wind being repeatedly squeezed out of her.
The guy is in good shape, Bob notices, but he could definitely stand to lose a few pounds.
But all that Gracie sees is a perfect rear view of the action, his balls seeming to drive his long, thick cock in and out of the woman, again and again, forcing that sound through the gag each time.
I could live with that, Bob thinks.
Meaning the particular sound the woman is making.
Yes, he could definitely handle it.
And now, it becomes obvious to Bob that the stud means to ride her all the way home, the extent of his imaginativeness consisting of the use of the conveniently supplied gag and the desultory slapping around.
And once more, Gracie seems reluctant to be pulled away from the scene.
But at last, she permits it.
And Bob leads her by the hand down the dimly lit hallway.
And opens a bedroom door.
Empty.
He starts to close the door, to move on, but Gracie stops him.
He casts her a glance of inquiry.
"Could we, uh-you know?"
He shrugs.
And, from a pocket in his cape, produces the gag, showing it to her.
"Yes!" she breathes.
And turns around so that he can tie it to her with perfect adjustment.
He does.
And she lies down on the bed and assumes the position, on her back, legs raised and spread, knees bent.
And the sight of her, gagged, in costume, here, like this, arouses him.
And he eats her, but just to be sure that her juices are flowing.
And he hears her making sounds like a conversation in a room too far away to make out the words.
That, he tells himself, that I can live with.
As he mounts her, shafting into her with a thrill of sexual joy, not of this dark and perverted world, but of her world, the world of sunlight and common reality.
And he humps away, gazing into her eyes, their hooded visages regarding each other in expressionless wonder.
Faster and faster he humps.
And her stream of muffled chatter goes on for a while, them becomes sporadic, then ceases altogether.
Because it becomes ridiculous, even to her.
Yes, she is saying the words, but they are going nowhere.
And yes, she needs to say them for her peace of mind, or perhaps merely from reflex, since old habits die hard.
But finally, it becomes obvious to her that such speech is futile.
It is the thought that counts, for whatever that's worth.
Which is not much, compared to the flood of sexual stimulation of lascivious arousal which inundates her.
So that she can think the words, if she wishes.
But why bother, really?
Because all they are is a ridiculous distraction and a subtraction from her unadulterated enjoyment of her own pleasure.
And so, she stops.
And blessed silence reigns, as Bob leads her up the rainbow of their shared sexual arousal, higher and higher, climbing toward the pleasure beyond pleasure.
And feeling the pressure of that ultimate pleasure coming closer and closer, building and building within them, until-
They are coming and coming, and she has never known such intensity before, just as he has never known such complete satisfaction from her.
The force, the intensity of their climactic spasms jerks them this way and that, like helpless puppets, until, at last, they are all done, content to collapse into each others' embrace, to lie there and rest for a long moment.
At last, he reaches for the gag. But she shakes her head and, his detumescing cock still captive within her, begins to revolve her hips, massaging him gently with her pussy lips.