Chapter 1
Where does the dream end and reality begin?
What is real, what is imaginary, what is a blend of the two?
Irene wonders this, there in her bubble bath, rubbing her bruised wrists, feeling the tension dissipate from her aching thigh muscles, from where she had been tied in an erotic but cramped position for hours on end.
Just as she wonders whose idea all this was in the first place.
Was it hers?
She thinks not.
And yet, how is it that she can anticipate every move, every action, even her own reaction, in every step of the elaborate, arcane, erotic, fantastic choreography of this, this-ballet, she is almost tempted to call it.
Because she, the others move so gracefully, so dreamily through the whole thing, from beginning to end.
Still, there is a viciousness here, an actual pain and a potential danger in which she would not voluntarily place herself.
Or would she?
It's all so unclear, so confusing.
Her husband, Randy, has personally served her breakfast in bed, has even run the bath in which she luxuriates, while he is chauffeured into town from his-now their (provided one overlooks the pre- nuptial agreement)-mansion upstate called, rather unoriginally, she thinks, the Estate.
He is the soul of attentiveness and consideration to her.
Her every wish is his command.
Even in this matter of her sexual whim and fancy.
And yet, is it really hers, as he claims, insists, or is it his?
So confusing, so very confusing, no matter how hard she tries to straighten it out in her mind.
Was it something she said that caused him to interpret her sexual tastes in this bizarre and painful manner?
If so, then surely it was a misinterpretation, a mistaking of something-her recounting of a dream, perhaps-for a wish, a desire, a preference, whatever.
Still, if it was a misunderstanding, then how does she explain her ascent through level after level of her sexual arousal as the macabre dance proceeds?
And that, certainly, she cannot deny.
The thrill is there, even though, in all logic and reason, it should not be.
The thrill is there, it is real.
As real as the pain, the discomfort, the utter helplessness she feels, along with a very real, an equally real anxiety, an actual fear that, on purpose or by accident, somebody is going to get carried away in the process and there, willy-nilly, will be an end to it. It.
Meaning her, her life, her very existence.
And it could happen, could very well happen, perhaps almost did happen on a couple of different occasions, which are replays, variations of one basic occasion.
And just whose fault would it be, if she were seriously injured or even killed?
Hers, for wanting her sex this way?
Randy's, if in fact she prefers things as she does because she is actually under his spell?
Or is it, could it possibly be the fault of his servants, minions, lackeys-Cranston, his private secretary and Eric, his chauffeur?
True, they are merely following his orders-have made careers out of following his orders-but are they doing so out of slavishness, out of abject fear concerning their futures, or as willing and fiendish henchmen of Randy, evil demons in attendance to his Satan?
And again, is he the devil or is it she herself who is the inspiration, the driving force in the creation of a private hell of (his? her own?) passion's devising?
One thing's for sure, she reflects; she is a willing enough participant.
But is she?
Her thoughts go back to last night.
Supper, in the formal dining room, Eric acting as server, bringing the courses, clearing them as they are finished, one at a time, the cook invisible in the kitchen, Cranston seated on Randy Buck's left as he presides over the feast at the head of the long, formally decorated table.
And maybe that's it, something in the food or the wine.
Something which makes her go into a state halfway between awake and dreaming.
So that it's not at all her fault, what happens next.
The dessert finished, Randy dabbing at his mouth with a heavy linen napkin as he says, "My compliments to Ren, Eric.
"And do join us upstairs when you've finished with clearing away.
"I see that Irene is getting in one of her moods again."
Irene looks at Randy, mildly surprised, but not even certain that her expression reflects this, rather that she is not simply gazing at him dully, eyelids heavy, eyes staying open with difficulty, a warm lassitude creeping over body and limbs.
And yet, when Randy rises, gallantly assisting Irene out of her chair, she seems to practically float up out of her chair and that graceful, balletic impression creeps over the whole scene, Randy and herself floating out of the dining room, into the great, marbled entrance hall of the Estate and up the broad central stairwell, the bronze statuettes surmounting the curled ends of the balustrades smiling at her mockingly.
Floating, floating, floating, she rises up the staircase, weightless, as though being drawn up it by Randy, now become a conjurer, possessed of arcane powers, such that she could actually fly, so long as he has her by the elbow.
And Cranston, she knows, is right behind them, rising in unison with their own progress, up, up, up the staircase.
He does not, however, enter the master bedroom with them.
And Randy Buck himself does not remain, contenting himself with helping her out of her cocktail dress, out of her shoes her brassiere, her panties, her garter belt and stockings.
All accomplished in these graceful, dreamlike movements, as though they are dancing a ballet, or else moving under water. So that now, she lies there naked on the bed.
And feeling warm, comfortable, completely relaxed.
As though she would like nothing so much as to simply drop off to sleep, right here and now.
But she does not?
Or does she?
Is it dream or is it reality that Randy Buck suddenly reappears in the bedroom, naked but for a black leather hood which covers his head, but for jaw and mouth and a pair of black paratrooper boots.
And carrying various lengths of rope, white clothesline, as he smiles and says, "Now then, my dear, you must be sure and tell us if we're not doing everything correctly.
"We're here to please you, after all and your happiness is our paramount and in fact exclusive concern."
And the incongruity of the situation, of his statement, causes an uneasiness in the back of her mind.
What instructions has she given, what standing orders posted, that this should be happening in response to her own wishes?
But she is just so-o-o relaxed that it passes quickly.
Still, she says nothing to Randy and yet he goes to work now, tying her wrists with two separate lengths of the rope to the upper corner posts of the huge four-poster.
She says nothing to him as he ties a loop at each end of another rope around each of her knees, then practically cuts off her windpipe as he pushes her head forward, onto her chest, so that he can pass the rope behind her neck.
So that there she is, hands raised above her head and held fast to the bedposts, as though she is caught in an act of permanent surrender, her thighs doubled up onto- her body, held fast in that position by the rope which binds both knees and goes behind her head.
So that she is utterly helpless now.
So that anybody can do anything to her they want and she will be utterly unable to stop them.
As pussy and ass hole alike are exposed to view and to physical access.
And he is doing this to please her?
Even in her present state, she finds that beyond belief.
Almost.
Because belief implies a standard of reality, a touchstone whereby truth can be gauged, its probability computed.
And here, now, reality and unreality seem merged, the dividing line, the border between them vague, perhaps even shifting.
As Randy seats himself beside her, his heavy bulk weighing down one side of even this huge bed.
And does nothing but sit there, his hooded visage bearing what seems to be a painted smile, looking at her exposed goodies.
And he keeps on looking at them, not turning his head when Cranston, similarly clad and unclad, comes into the room, his huge cock already rampant, hobbling stiffly before him.
"Here, let me give you a hand," she hears Randy say.
As, facing away from her, he leans his back against the backs of her thighs, doubling them onto her further than before, making it difficult for her to even breathe, as he spreads her pussy lips apart.
And she knows that this is not, cannot be a dream.
Because she can feel Cranston's hot breath against the tender tissues of her exposed labia.
And now, she can feel his tongue, seeking her clit.
And finding it.
And strumming it, titillating it with the tip of his tongue.
"That's it, that's it!" she hears Randy encourage. "Do a real good job now; otherwise, I'll hear all about it from her tonight."
When has she ever actually talked about their sex life?
Never, she tells herself, at least not that she can recall.
Because she isn't that sort of person, the kind who can talk about such things in casual conversation, or even intimate discussion.
She is certain of it; as certain as she is of anything at the moment, that is.
Because the only thing she can be really sure of is that her body is beginning to respond to Cranston's efforts.
And yes, she does anticipate what is to come.
Because, other than his business acumen and high intelligence, the only other thing Randy finds outstanding about Cranston is that huge cock of his.
Which he has generously placed in her service, as he is at pains to point out so often.
And now, Cranston is ready to do his thing.
And he mounts up.
And begins at once to fuck her-viciously.
There is no other word for it.
Because it's enough that any cunt should be fucked by that monster of his, even in the regular position.
But with her doubled up as she is, there is no need and no excuse for the way he pounds into her, again and again.
As his mighty marauder shafts all the way home, stretching her, filling her, perhaps even bruising her inside.
As she is there, bound and helpless, unable to protect herself from him in any way.
But then, perhaps it is that very helplessness, that placing herself at his mercy, at the mercy of all of them-for she knows that Eric is waiting in the wings-which adds that dimension of utter openness, of total availability, such that her body is prepared to receive, with total submission, the male assault.
Male, aggressive; female passive.
And each perfectly fulfilling its function, its assigned (by her?) role.
How very strange, she thinks, that she should desire this, or rather desire this in this way.
How very strange as well that she should be thinking this, right at this very moment, when she is being assaulted, in essence raped, by the heavy hung Cranston.
As though she is observing herself, watching herself participate in this, this... whatever it is.
Similar to the immortality, the invisible observer portion of herself in a dream.
Which this is not and she knows this.
Except that neither is it, strictly speaking, reality, either. Because why this lassitude, even in the midst of terror?
And it is, has to be, totally terrifying to be thus held totally helpless as some brutal rapist goes out of his mind on her.
Because, even now, she sees Cranston's upper body turning red with the engorged blood of his aroused passion, of his passion gone beyond mere arousal.
And she wonders and not for the first time, if Cranston is not actually a hater of women, is not one who desires to hurt rather than to pleasure them, is actually one who specifically desires to cause them pain with his big baton, his weapon, his instrument of torture.
And she wonders as well if she does not frustrate him, taking everything he has to hand out, actually becoming aroused by it, by it and her general situation which, according to her husband, is a catered affair which takes its tone from her own wishes.
So that, actually, she isn't all that passive.
She has given him a target on which to exhaust himself.
And it is actually she who is wearing him down.
Because she will come out of this satisfied sexually and none the worse for wear-if all goes as it should.
Because, already, on a previous occasion, Cranston has had to be restrained.
As, carries away, not content with the vicious thrusting of his massive monolith of monster meat, he has begun to strike her in the face, forehand and back.
And he has been permitted to do this several times.
Yes, permitted.
Because Randy has stood there, watching, intervening only after she has cried out, a yelping exhalation as Cranston startled her by increasing the force of his blows.
Until stopped in his tracks by Randy's rather laconic, "That's enough of that, I think, Cranston."
Which stopped him at once, stooge and lackey that he is, notwithstanding his intellectual and physical attributes.
So that Irene had all she could do to keep from smiling.
Here is this bestial rapist, supposedly being carried away by his emotions, who is somehow subject to instant recall to his senses.
His master's voice.
Which showed Irene the degree, the power of Randy's manipulative skills.
Which leads her to believe more than ever that it is Randy and not herself who is the guiding spirit of these particular festivities.
Which she accepts.
Which she accepts without hesitation and without qualm.
And which, face it, she enjoys as well.
Although she has asked herself repeatedly if she would not enjoy ordinary sexual activity every bit as well.
Except that she herself is unsure whether or not this is the case.
Because, while an aroused mind has no conscience, neither does it have a memory.
Not a perfect memory, anyway.
Because this is an experience which is, ultimately, that of raw physical sensation, that is, which is of the body.
No intellectual exercise this, but a thing which is of sheer physical feeling, the impression on the mind being secondary to that on the body.
So that, while the mind may remember the event, may even remember having experienced climax, nevertheless, that recall is very incomplete, very pale, in comparison with actual, ongoing physical experience.
Hence, there is no point in her telling herself, trying to convince herself that regular sex was just as good and could be just as good.
Because that is a matter of argument, debate, discussion.
And you cannot argue with a stiff prick the size of Cranston's, you cannot argue with an onslaught the intensity of Cranston's and you certainly cannot argue with the flood of sensation which even now invades Irene.
Because she can feel it now, can feel the surges of sexual electricity which well up within her hot, juicy cunt.
As Cranston plows away on her, thrust after jarring thrust sending seismic waves coursing through her body, each one accompanied by a fresh thrill of sexual electricity.
Which wells up within her, wave upon wave.
So that quickly, very quickly, she is being inundated, permeated by the arousal, the stimulation of raw sexual pleasure.
And it could very well be that Cranston would like to hurt her, that he would like to beat her to death from the inside, that he would like to use the battering ram of his cock head to turn her guts to mush.
That doesn't matter.
There is cause and there is effect.
And if the cause is accompanied by an intent which bears no relationship to the actual effect, what is that to her?
Go ahead, Cranston, knock yourself out.
The fact is that this particular form of assault is ineffectual for the purpose you intend it.
Not, she reminds herself, not that Cranston will be left unsatisfied.
On the contrary, a double satisfaction awaits him.
First, there is the satisfaction afforded by his climax.
Irene does not know, of course, what images are playing on the view screen of Cranston's mind as his heavy equipment discharges its load into the depths of her hot, streaming pussy.
It could very well be that of herself, her insides turned into an undifferentiated mass of quivering, bloody jelly.
What is that to her?
But the fact remains, Cranston is having his orgasm.
And now, Cranston is pulling that huge love/hate muscle of his out of her, marbled with jism and pussy juice and still fully tumescent, the massive head with its ruddy eye staring at her, as though angry, resentful at her continued survival.
But it is at his superior, at Randy Buck-owner and president of Buck enterprises, which has a major league football team, a Class A major league baseball team, a string of health club franchises and a growing chain of gourmet restaurants-it is at him that Cranston stares.
As he goes down on Irene.
As he eats her pussy, filled with Cranston's fresh jism.
As he eats her thoroughly, before mounting her with his own big boinker, pumping away on her, finishing what Cranston started by way of boosting Irene up the rainbow.
So that now, they finish together, the convulsions of her pussy, in the throes of her series of multiple orgasms, milking his discharging dingdong of its contents, refilling herself with the same stuff that Randy, moments before, vacuumed out of her.
Up, up, up and over the top she goes and down the other side, finishing her orgasmic series as Randy's climactic spasms cease.
Quickly, he pulls out of her, looking at Cranston, who turns his hooded visage quickly to one side, lest he find himself face to face with one who, in the heat of his own passion, driven by his own perversion, has done that which, under other circumstances-that is, involving someone other than the one man in the whole world Cranston fears-could well be considered both queer and disgusting.
But now, enter Eric, also naked, hooded, booted.
Eric, of that bemuscled but strange, alabaster body of his, with its long, thin, pale pink cock, a catheter of a cock.
Which is already at the ready.
As he goes up to Irene on the bed and first polishing his knob by briefly inserting it into Irene's cunt, oozing with Randy's melting jism, slides it immediately down the short bridge between orifices and promptly shafts into Irene's ass hole, all the way.
So that, as the others watch, Eric works out on her ass, in her ass.
As he humps away, massaging her bowels with his prong of a prod, supporting himself on both hands, planted firmly beside her on the bed.
So that yes, there is room for a man's head between his stomach and Irene's.
And Randy signals to Cranston.
And Cranston is on her pussy at once, crouching to one side of her, burrowing his face into her snatch, one side of his head rubbing against Eric's stomach.
How Cranston must hate doing this! Irene thinks.
And she derives a measure of perverse satisfaction from that.
And lets herself open up, in her mind, in her body, concentrating on the raw sexual sensations that well up within her as she is stimulated from inside and out.
So that yes, she is once again drifting up, up, up the rainbow of her arousal.
And, bound as she is, rocks from side to side in her mounting pleasure, as Cranston and Eric, faithful to their respective tasks, under Randy's watchful eye, bring her all the way up and over the rainbow.
So that she is coming and coming, the contractions of her rectum echoing that of her pussy, as she milks Eric of his load with her rectum.
"Okay, Cranston, that's enough, get out of there so I can see this," Randy instructs, when it is obvious to him that Irene's last orgasm has passed.
And Cranston pulls back.
And he too watches, as Eric's cock, fully inserted, slowly detumesces and the peristaltic action of Irene's bowels expels him, turd-like. "Thank you, gentlemen, you may leave us now."
And Randy unties her.
And only now does she notice that her wrists are chafed and will no doubt be bruised and sore tomorrow morning.
Randy removes his boots and hood, tossing them into a corner, then offering her a hand up off the bed and leading her to the shower.
That was last night.
And this morning, at breakfast, the two of them having it together in their robes and slippers, she found it hard to believe that it happened-again.
But, here in her bubble bath, looking at her wrists, she knows that it did.
Just as she knows that it was her squirming, enraptured response to the treatment that she was receiving which caused the bruises.
She enjoyed it, she inflicted the only residual damage on her own self.
Could it be that Randy is telling the truth?