Chapter 6
How very bizarre, Irene thinks.
The underlying philosophy of this, this... place is that of a doctor, murdered by Randy Buck.
The explanation of her therapy, outlined in matter-of-fact tones by the administrator of the Foundation, pomes down to her getting more of the same, as far as this sexual perversion of hers, or rather that somehow assigned to her by Randy.
Who would have believed such a thing possible?
"Now you understand that the whole procedure will be observed and recorded on video tape.
"We will follow up with a conference, at which time a full report will be prepared.
"Your husband has informed us that you are to receive treatment daily, as he is most anxious to have you back at his side."
Irene says nothing.
Her thoughts reach out for the Baroness.
She does not like the Baroness, any more than she did at their very first meeting aboard the Steeles' new yacht.
Because there is no warmth, no personal concern there.
There is only an opportunism, as cold-blooded and indifferent as that of a general planning a battle.
How can she use what is happening to put an end to her arch-enemy, Randy Buck?
And a part of Irene resents having been forced by her fears to go to her for help.
Still, she did and help was promised.
And that which was promised, if things run true to history, will be, in some fashion, delivered.
In some fashion.
Which might or might not do Irene any good.
Because there is no question in her mind but that, if sacrificing Irene (and how much of a sacrifice would that be for the Baroness, really?) would help her "get" Randy Buck, then that is what the Baroness is prepared to do, without a moment's hesitation.
So that this help that she's getting is not personal assistance, but help in furtherance of the Baroness's prime concern and no doubt, sole interest in the small matter of Irene's continued existence.
So that Irene is, understandably, she thinks, feeling very much isolated, her perception of her peril undiminished by her visit to the Baroness.
She is a pawn on the chessboard of their deadly game. "While you are here, you will wear only a smock and paper sandals.
"That is the standard costume for all the enema-for all the patients.
"We find that, in that manner, you can receive whatever medical attention is required with minimal obstruction.
"You will have a private room which, for your protection, will be kept locked at night.
"You have a buzzer and should you require anything, please don't hesitate to use it, as the staff is here to help you.
"Any questions?"
"These, these... tapes you're going to be making- who all will be seeing them?"
"Only the people working directly on your case.
"They will not be removed from these premises.
"They will, however, be retained as part of the record of your visit.
"Anything else?"
"Not, not right now, thanks."
"Very well, I'll have someone take you to your room.
"We uh, we have taken the liberty of going through your luggage.
"You will be allowed to retain your toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, brushes and combs.
"Everything else will be stored until you are ready to leave."
"How, how long will I be here?"
"Who can say?" he shrugs. "I will tell you this, though; your husband is most anxious to have you back as quickly as possible and he is not in a position here, as you know, to have his wishes treated lightly.
"Well then. If that's all, let's-" He cuts himself short, then buzzes the intercom.
"Irene is ready now. Can we proceed?"
At once, the door to his office opens and a burly attendant, clad in loose-fitting turquoise smock and trousers, rubber thongs on his feet, enters, smiling at her.
"Room twenty-one," the administrator says, returning to the paperwork piled high on the desk in front of him as the attendant holds the door open for Irene.
There are three of them, all big, burly bruisers, the one who escorts her, the other two following.
The most disturbing aspect of their mini-parade, she finds, is that the two behind her wear only smocks and paper slippers.
"Are our... companions patients?" she asks.
"Uh yes. Yes, they are," he replies. "Your therapy and theirs complement one another.
"You mean that I'm to receive my first... treatment right away?"
"Well, no sense waiting, is there?
"We want to prepare a record, begin the cure as soon as possible-ah, here we are."
Irene cannot believe it.
The room is standard enough, a hospital room, the walls cinder block painted over thickly in lemon yellow, the floor vinyl tile.
There is the bed, the nightstand, in the comer the bathroom complete with shower.
But, in the middle of the room, hanging from a pipe which crosses the ceiling, dangles-a noose.
They've gone through all this pseudo-scientific mumbo jumbo in order to execute her?
She finds this as ridiculous as it is terrifying.
She wears a sun-backed dress.
"Give me your wrists, please," the attendant says.
Bemused, she extends her wrists.
Promptly, deftly, he loops the noose around them in a figure eight, pulling it tight at their backs.
And one of the gowned brutes begins pulling on the other end of the rope, hauling her up, up, up, until her feet are just off the ground.
As the other one presses himself up against her.
"Little higher," he says. "No, too much. Little lower. That's good, right there."
And the one pulling the rope ties it off at a metal retainer bolted to the wall.
Both the gowned ones remove their covering.
They are naked beneath, their hairy musculature and erections suddenly exposed.
Quickly, they peel Irene's clothes off her.
So that now, she dangles there, naked.
As the attendant produces a video camera from the bottom drawer of the nightstand beside the bed.
He stands in a corner, recording the proceedings.
As one bruiser crouches behind Irene and burrows his face into the crack of her ass, mouth open, tongue extended.
As he rims her, tongue shafting in and out of her ass hole.
And the other one crouches in front of her and begins to eat her cunt.
But this action does not continue very long, before the one in front of her lifts her up by her waist, putting both arms around her, clasping her to himself.
As the other does the same.
The first man releases her, then grasps her thighs, placing them around his own waist, then hanging onto her that way as the one behind leaves go and promptly begins inserting his cock into her ass hole.
Thus seated, he grasps her around the body and the one in front proceeds to force his rampant invader into her cunt.
So that now, the three of them are joined together.
And they begin swaying back and forth, the two men rolling their hips.
So that pussy and ass are being reamed, round and round, by the two prodigious prods.
As the attendant concentrates on their facial expressions.
"Mmmm! Mmm!" the one in her ass exclaims. "Feels so-o-o good!"
"Tell me about it!" the other responds.
This can't be happening! Irene thinks.
And yet, she clamps her thighs around the one in front of her, relieving the tension of the rope on her wrists.
And the one behind her actually seems to be helping support her weight as well, using the leverage of his mighty marauder, as well as his arms, which reach around Irene and the body of his partner as well, as the one in front returns the compliment. So that the three of them are locked in double embrace.
And the heat of their bodies quickly transmits itself, one to the other to the other.
So that they are three become one, fused together with the heat of their mounting passion.
Because this too Irene finds unbelievable.
Which is that she should actually be feeling the arousal.
What the hell is wrong with me, anyway? she asks herself.
Is it, after all, possible that Randy Buck is right about her?
Or is he right about her because he has made her the way she is, brainwashing her, turning her into some bondage freak, some masochistic pervert who cannot get enough of pain mingles with her sex, who cannot get enough of sex while experiencing pain?
Because there were drugs before; she knows there were.
Had to be.
Because of the drowsiness that would come over her, the lassitude, this altered state of awareness without the ability to move, that dream state of observation and participation at one and the same time.
And yet, no drugs were administered here.
There has been only brute force.
As the brutes involved continue to grind into her, fore and aft.
And she feels her rectum relaxing, actually welcoming its visitor.
And she feels her pussy drooling in response to the stimulation of the two cocks.
And she feels herself becoming hotter and hotter, both physically and emotionally.
As she begins her rise up, up, up the rainbow of her sexual arousal.
How can it be? she asks herself, How can her own body thus betray her?
How dare she become sexually aroused under these circumstances?
She is being restrained and double raped.
She is being serviced by two mental patients.
And she is, somehow, at least at the purely physical level, enjoying this, enjoying herself, enjoying the flood of lascivious sensation which even now flows through herself.
As her body speaks to the two cocks.
And the very idea that there is nothing, nothing, nothing restraining them and nothing protecting her she finds exciting as well, finding in her helplessness a dimension of sensuality which fascinates and intrigues.
As her face becomes red, her breathing labored.
As beads of sexual sweat form on her forehead.
And the video camera records it all in close-up.
And she doesn't even care.
Because she can feel the big batons inside her, can cling to them, can reach out to them, nerve ending for nerve ending.
As they communicate with each other, body to body.
She can feel the bulbous heads, the plum-like knobs, as they move around and around, contacting the walls of rectum and vagina.
She can feel the mighty shafts, their vibrant thickness, the irregularities of their surfaces as they move lubriciously, deliciously around and around inside her, other rather than self, but sharing her excitement.
Yes and yes and yes! she cries out in her mind.
Because this, this! is where it's at, what it's all about, no question.
The feeling and the feeling and the feeling and it's all pure, raw, irresistible, exquisite, sensuous, erotic.
And there is nothing, nothing, nothing that feels better.
Unless it is that next increment of sensation.
And the next and the next, raising her higher and higher, up, up, up the rainbow.
As they get her hotter and hotter, the two thrusting, rotating, undulating brutes.
And themselves as well.
Because here, now, she can feel their hot breaths, on cheek and back of neck.
She can feel the mounting excitement, the sweat, the sexual tension in their big, beefy, heavy-breathing bodies.
And she revels in the dependability, the solidity, the simplicity of it.
For some reason, the line from Streetcar comes to her.
I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.
And yet, here is certainly no kindness, no generosity, no good will.
Here is a brutal, a forcible entry into her, by sick, perverted fiends.
As one who is, she is sure, just as sick as these two continues to record the event.
And herself?
Well, she must be the sickest one of all.
And the only bad part of the situation she can perceive at the moment is that she will not be getting any real help here, help of which, as it turns out, she really does stand in need.
She thought-she really did-that if she could only get away from Randy, then certainly, she would be all right.
But she sees now that that is simply untrue.
Because Randy is not here.
Or is he?
Because the ones who run this place, are they not creatures of his, doing his bidding?
Are not these very walls, is not the Foundation itself all of his doing?
So that she got away from the man, but not from his grasp, his control, his will.
She is still subject to him, still helpless in his clutches.
No question.
No question, but that Randy Buck is as surely present here, in this place, in this room, as if he were in fact standing here, watching.
And she has no doubt in her mind now, none whatsoever, but that Randy will indeed be reviewing the tape even now being made of this performance.
Perhaps, since she is to be "treated" daily, the daily recorded journal of her "progress" will be messengered to him, wherever he happens to be at the moment.
So that he can gloat over how well he has called her bluff.
So that he can see her carried away, in the throes of her own passion, unable to fight him, as helpless here as she was at the Estate.
Even more so, in fact, since there, at least, she could pretend to be the mistress of the house, as such in charge of the staff, the hired help.
Whereas here, she is completely powerless, in or out of bed.
Bed.
And she realizes that she would be ever so much more comfortable if she were in bed doing this right now.
So that perhaps it's just as well that she isn't.
Because then, she might surrender to complete depravity.
Yes, then that helplessness in which she so delights, apparently, would be total and she would have no mitigation, no anchor, no reference point by which to gauge the depths to which she has sunk in her perversion.
As it is, she knows that she is sick.
Just as she knows that, in order to get well, she must remove herself completely from Randy.
She will get a divorce.
That's it, she will run from him, hide from him, contact him through her lawyers.
And he will not give her a hard time.
Because he does not want an official court record of her grounds.
Mental cruelty.
And he had best accept this at face value.
Ah, but she is far, very far from that point, from being able to do that right now.
On the contrary, she is buried within the coils of his embrace, thoroughly, deeply enmeshed in the tentacles of his nefarious influence.
The Baroness.
What help has she sent?
Or has she decided that she cannot, after all, help, that she cannot or will not, because there is no way to get to Randy Buck from here?
In which case, Irene reminds herself, she stands no chance at all of being saved, let alone of getting well.
Because, when you are truly, totally helpless, then anyone can do anything to you they please.
And now that she knows the truth about Randy Buck, she knows that, of all the things which please him most, very few involve her continued health and well-being.
No, she is amusing to him right now, masochist to his sadist.
But how long before boredom catches up to him?
How long before he decides that to this game, as to every game, no matter how delicious, there must come an end?
And so, having ceased to amuse, having become to him merely a continuing liability, how long will it be before he decides to let the axe fall?
So that she will find herself led to another room, or perhaps this one, to another noose, or maybe this one and it will not be around her wrists that it goes, but rather around her neck.
While these two amuse themselves quite differently, or perhaps not all that differently, as the video camera records her death throes.
Still, what can she do about it?
She has done what she could.
She has gone to the Baroness, there to seek help which may not be forthcoming, there to hear things she does not necessarily want to know.
Knowledge is power.
And she, who values her helplessness so highly, wanted no power, really.
Except that she also doesn't want to die.
She finds that a totally unattractive prospect.
Far better to live in this bizarre, perverted world of hers than not to live at all.
So long as she was completely helpless, she could have even known a certain kind of tenuous happiness.
And yet, look what she has had to do-or did she ?
She has, after all, no real reason to believe that in fact Randy Buck would ever have actually harmed her seriously.
It could just as well be that she was to have been the nucleus, the core of his respectability.
And all that she asked in return was to be left safe in her helplessness.
She required just that much protection from him, namely that he would cause her no serious harm.
And indeed, why should it be otherwise?
Because, certainly, in this Foundation of his, he has all that is required to provide himself with endless amusement, as sick, as perverted, as sadistic as he might require.
The possibilities for everything from henchmen to victims is endless here.
These two who are even now climbing the rainbow with her, for example; is there anything of which they are incapable?
They would not hesitate to kill.
Perhaps they have not hesitated to do so.
But now, for the moment at least, she is safe enough.
And that is the best for which she can hope.
To live in, live through a series of nows, ever in in the present, going moment by moment, extracting from each instant its full measure of sensual enjoyment.
To live in hope?
That she cannot do.
Hope is closed to her.
Hope is a contradiction to her preferred state of helplessness.
Those who have hope are never helpless.
If she has Randy, why should she need hope?
Perhaps, she tells herself, all is not lost after all.
Maybe Randy will come to see that he doesn't really want her to be here, going through this.
Maybe he would rather have her with him.
So that her absence will have made his heart grow fonder.
But even that is a form of hope, she tells herself.
For one thing, what is to stop Randy from changing his mind concerning her at any time?
And what if it's true, as the Baroness said, that she is merely another project to him, a thing with which to taunt the Baroness, his latest challenge, his latest dare in this game these two monsters seem so intent at playing with each other?
Ah, but what if and what if and what if?
And who cares, when she has this present reality, this truth, this certainty which is of sensation, which is of the body?
As now, firmly grounded on their sturdy legs, the two fiends grind into her full force now, fore and aft, sending thrill after thrill of sexual electricity coursing through her, driving her and themselves up to the peak of their capacity to contain the pleasure which even now permeates and inundates them.
So that here, now, there comes upon the three of them the ultimate pleasure, that force which, residing within them, is nonetheless greater than themselves.
As it takes them over.
As it grasps them in its relentless, all-pervasive grip, cell by cell of the very fibre of their beings.
As they come into her.
As she milks their prongs with spasms of vagina and rectum, coming and coming herself, her series of multiple orgasms in counterpoint to the spurting discharges of their cocks in and in and into her depths.
And only when their shared climax has passed do they release her, their still fully tumescent prongs, slimy with the residue of their passion hobbling stiffly before them as her wrists once again assume the full weight of her body.
And the orderly/cameraman takes another thirty seconds of her like that and then turns off the camera.
"One of you, uh, wanna release her there?
"Attaboy!"
And one of her fuckers lowers her gently to the floor.
"I'm gonna get these two back to their ce-to their rooms," he says. "You can get cleaned up for lunch.
"I'll just uh, take these with me."
He picks up her clothes.
"You'll find smocks in the dresser over there and paper scuffs in the closet.
"Lunch will be brought to you shortly.
"Be aware that you are being monitored at all times." And he points to a corner of the ceiling.
"I'm not gonna lock your door, but please remain here until someone from staff comes to get you."
"To get me?"
"Of course.
"There's to be a review of your initial treatment, as soon as possible.
"The doctors will look at it while you have lunch and be ready to talk to you first thing this afternoon."