Chapter 8
It's all so perfect, Bob thinks.
His life, that is.
His and Gracie's, that is.
Just tie on the gag and she is ready to rock and roll.
The mere sight of it seems to excite her.
Or at least, it did at first.
Yes, for the first few weeks, all he would have to do was produce the gag (stupid, really, but whatever turns her on, right?) and he could almost see the flush of incipient passion come to her cheeks, could hear the difference in her voice, her tone, her expression.
Instant readiness.
That was the first phase.
Then, one night, she asked if he couldn't bring his costume with him when he came over.
Well of course he could!
And in fact, it made for quite an interesting evening.
Bob the beast pretending to be Bob the man pretending to be Bob the beast.
Few fiends find fast fun that way.
And in fact, it gave him quite a "kick", the idea, the notion that he should be involved in such layered intrigue at the same time as having terrific sex, terrific-and meaningful.
Because Gracie is indeed proving to be the girl of his dreams-part of his dreams, anyway.
Oh, the images persist, those of himself in pursuit of voluptuous but anonymous nookie, of him treating them none too gently, of him terrorizing them in that other world.
And it does seem odd to him, to be in costume and yet be making love to his one and only in this, the real world.
He tries flights of fantasy, taking liberties, unbeknownst to her, indulging himself while in the act.
But it doesn't really work all that well.
Having known the real thing and known it to a degree that literally leaves nothing to the imagination, he finds it hard to derive all that much of a thrill from mere imaginary constructs, especially when the only time he tries it is when he is with something which, speaking objectively, is much better than anything he has ever run across in mansion, cave, or forest of the night world he calls-or called-his own.
Which no longer exercises its hold over, its fascination for him.
Which is attractive, to think about casually, but which, upon closer introspection, proves itself illusory, a sham, a delusion and a plaything for others rather than a separate, an alternative reality for himself.
Because he doesn't need it; not really, not any more.
Whatever he was looking for, whatever he hoped to find there no longer seems to matter.
Because, whatever it was, whatever else it might have been, it was surely sexual.
And now, he has it made.
Variety may indeed be the spice of life.
Perhaps, eventually, he may have to seek out alternatives. Perhaps.
All he knows for sure, however, is that, right here and now, Gracie is everything he ever wanted in a woman-a real woman, that is, as opposed to a mere sex object, a plaything, to be used and abused as he sees fit.
And the gag? The costumes?
Window dressing.
Some women put on sexy underwear from Fredericks of Hollywood or cheap imitations there of to lend added interest to the bedroom.
Others try perfume or even makeup.
Still others make a big deal of the use of sex toys.
So that the idea of dressing up to go to bed, of adding factors to the equation, is not new; far from it, in fact.
And Bob sees nothing wrong in this, other than the rather intellectual drawback that Gracie doesn't know what the costumes really represent, what they are intended to state or imply concerning the wearer.
Which, on balance, is just as well.
He is certain that she knows nothing of the history of a dark tradition which has not changed in form or content in what? Several hundred years?
No, all Gracie knows is that it makes her feel good, sexy, excited and exciting.
And he is not about to find fault with that.
And another amusing and interesting feature is that, since she cannot speak during the act, she has taken to giving very explicit and detailed instructions prior to it.
So that yes, he would love to eat her cunt, then fuck her in the ass hole from the front, so that she can see his hooded face, his muscular body, his flowing cape as he ass fucks her.
And of course he has no problem sticking his thumb into her cunt, flicking her front and rear from the front.
Because he can look into her eyes, he can see her face, he can see her chewing on the gag, straining at it, using it as a fetish to add yet another dimension, to excite herself still further with what they are doing.
But the most exciting aspect of this is to hear her say it, to hear her ask for what she wants and then to perform to specification, as it were.
So that their sex has gotten hotter and hotter, since, at Gracie's suggestion, they added the costumes as well as the gag to the sexual equation.
And life with her is all that he ever hoped it would be.
And the beast within him has no excuse, no cause for 'continuing to exist.
It served its purpose for a while.
Hell, it was him for a while.
But now, no longer.
He recognizes no part of himself in what, after all, turned out to be a temporary alter ego.
And he knows that he is better off without Bob the beast.
Because that thing with that fat guy and his broad, well, that was a bad scene, and one which gets worse with each recalling of it.
He could have seriously injured, even killed the guy.
And not even cared at the time.
And that's sick.
He recognizes that now.
Just as he realizes that that whole scene was sick.
Not just bizarre, which would be a matter of taste.
Not just perverted, which would be a matter of opinion.
No, just plain, old-fashioned sick, is what it was.
A bunch of crazy broads roaming around in the darkness, looking to get raped.
A bunch of crazy guys, out to do in the dark what they have neither the courage nor the ability to do in daylight.
Yes, he is well rid of that whole scene.
Oh, he still gets mail from the Scribe.
He has bypassed one-no, make that two-conclaves so far, and has every intention of bypassing, of missing them all, from here on out.
He has occasional moments of weakness, every now and again, of what seem to be temptation, but which, upon closer examination, prove to be merely aftermath, the resurgence of memories not worth, well, resurging.
But he no longer needs, no longer has any use at all for that gaggle of sickos and weirdoes, with their hang-ups and their pretense and pretensions.
And he hopes to get to the point, fairly quickly, at which the trappings, the costumes, even the gag, become vestigial, mere leftovers from the past, meaningless to him now, except that Gracie, having replaced her old, unbearable quirk with this fairly acceptable one, requests (actually insists) on his, on their wearing them.
But he can live with it, for however long it takes for them to work their way through this particular fad.
Which is surely all it is, all it can be, with Gracie.
Dressing up for fun time.
Perhaps, he reflects, it is even an atavism, a throwback to her days as a child, when one of the most favorite things to do, if she was like all other little girls, was to dress up.
Whatever it is, it doesn't bother him in the least.
Nothing bothers him in the least any more.
He has become quite the pleasant, affable, easy to get along with fellow.
All's right with the world.
He has even developed a sense of humor.
He is a winner, after all, and winners tell funny jokes.
And with the conclaves behind him, he has left his darker self behind as well.
What he thought was his true nature has turned out, in the event, to be a mere affectation, a thing which has outlived its usefulness, if indeed it ever had a real use to begin with and was not the byproduct of some sexual frustration unrecognized.
Whatever it was, its fascination, its hold over him has dissipated, vanished like morning mist.
Leaving behind it, the decent, normal, well-adjusted person he always was, in reality.
Meaning absolute reality, the real reality, if you will.
How could he ever have deceived himself so badly?
How could he ever have imagined that other, that dark sickness, to be his real world, his natural element?
Sick, sick, sick he was.
And Gracie has shown him the road back to salvation, hallelujah.
As he knew, as he has always known she would.
Which is why he hung in there, even during that horrible babbling of hers.
And now, they are about to live happily ever after.
"Bob?"
"Yes, darling?"
"When's the next conclave?"
And a cold stab runs through him.
"What?"
"The next conclave. I'd like to go."
"I'll, uh, I'll have to check with my acquaintance.
"But ... why?"
"Oh, I don't know. Just to, to ... recharge my batteries, I guess."
And he doesn't think he cares to know the details of what she means by that.
Which, whatever it is, cannot be complimentary to him.
On the other hand, he is not about to put himself in an even more unfavorable light by putting up objections.
"I'll, uh, I'll check with him tomorrow and let you know."
Actually, he knows already.
Brennan's Woods-again.
A private picnic ground on what was once a farm.
A night in the forest.
Where, no doubt, the bugs will once again be the main feature.
Still, there is no help for it.
"I can hardly wait!" Gracie says.
If he remembers the date correctly, he thinks, she won't have to.
"Gosh, those woods look dark!"
"We can turn right around and-"
"No, no, no!
"I want to, to ... see. And ... oh, look! Here comes the moon!
"Oh, look how lovely! And the way the light reflects off that little stream!"
"Lovely," Bob echoes, unenthusiastically.
And leads her by the hand into the woods.
Where-
"My, my, my! What have we here?"
He is big and brutal looking, obviously in a state of sexual excitement, practically drooling as he paws Gracie.
"Buzz off," Bob says, dryly.
The man looks him up and down, prudence conquering lust.
"Well!" the man exclaims, "You're certainly not entering into the spirit of things, are you?"
And he disappears into the woods at once, there to search for unaccompanied female prey.
"I think I liked the mansion better," Gracie observes.
Then, "Look! Over there! Action!"
The woman wears no gag.
The man is fucking her in the ass as she clings to a tree trunk.
"Ooh! Take it easy will you?" she is saying.
"Sorry," the man says.
And Bob can only stand there, looking down, shaking his head slowly from side to side, holding his sinuses as though he has a headache.
So, he thinks, it has come to this.
The demon from hell apologizing because he is causing some discomfort to his helpless female victim as he rapes her ass.
The phoniness of it, the fakery.
And he wants nothing so much in all the world as to be out of here.
"Hey! You! Big man!"
And Bob turns to face the fat guy he clobbered in the caves, months ago.
That is, the old Bob, Bob the fiend did.
And now, here he is, Andy, he thinks his companion called him.
"Listen," Bob says, "I'm really sorry about what happened in the caves that ti-"
"Little late for that, isn't it?" the man asks.
And Bob notices the glint of moonlight on what he knows to be the barrel of a gun.
"What, what's going on, Bob?" Gracie asks.
"What's this about a cave?"
"Tell your friend to be quiet, or she gets it too."
"So, big man, how does it feel to be totally helpless, to be on the receiving end for a change, to know that you're gonna be the one getting it this time."
"You coulda killed me, you know!"
"Maybe you even did, for all you knew or cared at the time!"
"Well now, buddy-boy, the shoe is on the other foot!"
"Marilyn left me after that-or perhaps you already knew that. You and her make a date over my all but dead body, didja?"
"Who's Marilyn, Bob?" Gracie asks. "I don't understand any of this."
"I don't understand any of this," the man says, mockingly. "None of you dumb cunts ever understands a fucking thing!" he snarls. "The only thing you care about is all that beef and that big salami and never mind that ordinary guys are entitled to some kind of a fantasy-what the fuck's the use?"
"Here! See if you can understand this-bitch!"
He pulls the trigger.
And Bob doubles up, grimacing in pain.
Gracie looks from him to Andy, transfixed in horror.
"I really am sorry," Bob says, "I never meant to, to ... my God, this hurts!"
"You've killed him!" Gracie says. "Murderer!"
And this last echoes through the woods.
Andy looks at what he has done and recoils from the sight, casting a lingering, terrified last look and then turning and fleeing.
"Help me ... to car ... hospital ... have to, have to ... change clothes so we don't ... disgrace."
And Gracie helps Bob back to the car, he clutching his abdomen tightly.
She manages to get his hood and cape off and a pair of pants on over his boots before changing her own clothes.
And he sits beside her, drifting in and out of consciousness, as she drives him to the hospital.
"Just tell them ... hunter ... woods ... accident.
"Stall until morning."
And it is an unconscious Bob the emergency room attendants rush to the operating table.
A year later.
"I don't know you any more, Gracie," Bob says.
"Any more than I knew you before," Gracie replies.
"At the end, just before I got shot, that was the real me," he responds.
"And before that?"
"I was a sick person," he admits. "I was-what you seem to have become."
Because he sits in a wheelchair, as she, in black leather hood and flowing cape, closed to the neck lest she reveal her exposed goodies, is prepared to go out for the evening.
She has moved in with him, taking care of him, the bullet lodged in his spine partially paralyzing him from the waist down, fortunately leaving him still potent.
He can walk with a cane, slowly, painfully, so he spends most of his waking hours in a chair, at home or at work.
Whereas Gracie has transformed herself into an overly muscled superwoman, for reasons not at all clear to Bob, but very much having to do with the conclaves.
Because she does not miss a one.
Although what she does at them, he hasn't a clue.
She is very terse, very short with him.
She doesn't love him any more; he knows this.
Just as he knows that she holds herself responsible for what happened to him.
She made him go when he didn't want to.
And only after did he explain who and what he was and what she had done for him.
Which only seemed to make things worse, since she could see that he had indeed become who and what he appeared to be-thanks to her.
But what she had created, she had also destroyed, both actions inadvertent on her part, but for which she was nevertheless responsible.
Even though Bob tried to exonerate her, to excuse her, to hold her blameless.
But she became steel-willed and, thanks to those maniacal workouts of hers, steel-bodied as well.
Useless to look for the fat man, if that was what she was about, as he explained; he would never again come within a thousand miles of another conclave, not after what he had done.
But she knows this, knows it and yet still goes.
To do-what?
He will never know, he supposes.
The woman is shaken, sobbing.
She had not bargained for anything like that!
Why did he have to hurt her so?
Why wasn't he content with mere sex, or at best sex with token violence?
But no, she was bleeding from between swollen lips, from where his slaps had forced cheeks into teeth, lacerating them.
And only the gag had held back the hot, salty flood of her blood.
And now, she is a mess, will have to leave the conclave.
And does not see two eyes, watching from a closet in the bedroom of the mansion, as she wobbles from the room.
As soon as the woman has left, Gracie is out of the closet, stalking the brute who has thus mistreated the unfortunate woman.
She sees him as he moves down the corridor.
And is upon him, quick and silent, like a panther.
And suddenly, he is on the floor, face up, a spike heel resting lightly at the base of his throat.
"Move and you die!" Gracie hisses.
And, heel still in position, bends down, neatly, expertly gagging him.
Swiftly, she turns him over, seizing his arm in a hammerlock.
And forcing him to his feet.
He tests her grip, finding it to be an iron vice.
She shoves him through a doorway, then face down on the bed inside, hammerlock intact.
What does this woman want? he wonders. What could she possibly-oh, no!
He attempts to squirm out of the hammerlock.
No use. It has been expertly applied, is being expertly maintained.
All that he will accomplish is a dislocation or worse.
But would that be any worse than what is happening to him now.
As he feels it.
It.
Long and thick and made of solid rubber, it is, the double-headed dildo.
Which she is even now shoving into his ass.
Which she is even now shoving in and out like a piston.
Which she is even now rotating, round and round, reaming his ass with it, using her flee hand, the other pinning him there, helpless, screaming almost silently against the gag, in response to the + pain, the humiliation.
And now, she feels her straddling him.
And the motion of the dildo, still painful, is slightly different.
And he realizes that she has stuck the other head of the dildo into her cunt and is now rotating her hips, literally flicking him in the ass with the rubber monster.
And she keeps it up, her actions becoming wilder and wilder until, at last, he senses her series of multiple orgasms.
And he is relieve that it is over.
He is relieved-
And the sharp blow to the base of his skull, a karate chop, renders him unconscious.
"The doctor says I'm getting better."
"Next week, I'll be able to walk with just the cane. "And if the bullet continues to drift away from the spine, they can remove it and eventually, I'll be okay again."
"That's ... nice, Bob."
And from her tone, he knows exactly what she means.
It's nice that he's going to recover.
It's also nice that, when he does, she can move out.
Because she is not the Gracie he knew and loved.
Rather, she is some monster, some creature of darkness, some ... thing that, beneath that rather thin veneer of civilization, he does not know, and probably would not want to know.
He is, wants to be, an ordinary guy.
He wants an ordinary girlfriend.
Because, even when he has fully recovered, he will not resume the superman fallacy. There are no supermen, but only men.
And the lucky ones get through this world without being turned into dog shit.
Like this poor bastard on the news.
" ... and police are mystified as to how Mister McKenna happened to find himself naked, lying on the sidewalk in Times Square, wearing only a leather hood over his face.
"The man, who at first refused to identify himself, was later I'd through fingerprints on file with the FBI, from his security clearance, in conjunction with his work in the aerospace industry.
"His current employers had no comment, other than to acknowledge that he was in fact a former employee, present occupation unknown;"
Another sicko pervert bites the dust, Bob thinks.
And Gracie, watching beside him, remains expressionless.
Bob can only hope that she gets the message and is thus inspired to give up the conclaves.
But he supposes that, if the physical danger which he so dramatically, not to mention almost fatally demonstrated, if that didn't do the trick, then nothing will.
Until, as it eventually must, it all catches up to her and she too comes to realize that she is no superwoman, but only another bizarre pervert and, for all that, neither more nor less human, more nor less vulnerable, than the rest of us.