Chapter 9
She looked at him, her eyes bulging from their sockets. At first she thought she'd heard him wrong, and then perhaps he was only joking, but the words echoed in her ears and she was looking into the most serious, most insane eyes she had ever seen in her life.
"Oh, my God, you're joking ..." "Not at all." Richard tossed his shirt and trousers onto the stove. He pointed to a large oval rug on the kitchen floor. "Lie down there. With your legs up and apart. Let Bruno see what he'd going to be getting into."
"Hey, man," Greg volunteered from behind, "this is a little heavy. Why don't you knock off the funny stuff and send Bruno back to the basement? He gives me the creeps."
"Tell him," Richard said flatly. "He's a very sensitive animal and he doesn't like to be insulted.'
"He's right, Richard. You're talking crazy."
Richard spun around. "I'm in charge here!" he shouted, and at the cellar door the great dog growled menacingly, as if in counterpoint. "And I told you—it isn't enough to tame her. I want to break her, too! And by God I'm going to break her! Lydia—stretch out on the carpet or I'll have to stretch you out."
She looked at Keith and Greg. "For the love of Christ," she whispered, "don't you have any decency? I don't mind what you all did to me. Jesus, I probably needed it! "But. . . but this is... oh, God, it's too much! Can't you stop him?"
They didn't answer. Both of them turned away, unwilling to return her stares, and Lydia's heart sank. "Go on," Richard told her. "Lie down. We'll see if Bruno is interested."
Her feet were like lead as she stepped onto the carpet. She looked at Greg and Keith one last time, praying that one of them could find the moral courage to oppose their friend, knowing even as she prayed that it was a hopeless cause. In everything that had happened today, they'd followed Richard Welby's lead, obeyed his commands and instructions. And now they intended to stand by while their leader turned her over to the brutal lusts of that. .. that...
She sank to her heels, squatting, ten or fifteen feet from Richard and the dog, her eyes focused upon the dog's face. She'd never had a pet, never learned to interpret the expressions and moods of an animal's face. What was the dog thinking? Could he understand what Richard had said? People claimed that their pets could indeed understand them. Richard stroked the dog's ears and Bruno made a throaty noise, almost like a purr. "Come on, Bruno," he said, moving toward Lydia. The dog followed.
"I told you to he down," he repeated. "Bruno can't fuck you unless you lie down. Or would you rather be on your knees with that darling ass thrust up? Dog style, you know?"
Something about his voice, his choice of words—she couldn't put her finger on it, not exactly, but—Lydia blinked, and suddenly the face that leaned in close to hers wasn't Richard's. It was Uncle George's .. .and she was fourteen years old, surprised in the bathroom, forced to suck a man's cock for the first time in her young life, dragged to her bed, and told to pose in a certain way for him. "Dog style. Just like a dog and a bitch, and you're the hot bitch this dog is gonna fuck."
"No, please, Uncle George, don't make me do it," she whined, her voice breaking, tears welling in her eyes. Her breasts were hard on her chest, the nipples tight and aching, and she felt as if she had to pee. "Please, Uncle George, please. Pretty please with sugar on it—"
"Lie down! Lift your knees and spread 'em! Here. Bruno!" It was Richard again. At least she thought it was. Lydia didn't know. Who was she, for that matter? Was she Lydia Pembroke, age twenty-six, or was she the little Lydia, aged fourteen and about to be deflowered through force and terror? Her heart hammered behind her left tit as if it meant to pound its way through her ribcage. She eased back, resting on her elbows.
Richard pulled on one leg, and she fell, right onto her ass. With a thump. Lydia cried out, and again she heard the dog growl. Richard straightened her leg, then extended the other. She was parted widely, and if the dog had any perception of female human anatomy, he must know that he was looking right at her sliced gash.
"Beautiful," he said. "Isn't she beautiful?" Greg and Keith said nothing. Richard knelt beside her and began to stroke her cunt. "You're dry, Lydia. What's wrong? Just a little while ago you were so wet, so hot—" He slid his middle finger up and down the crease of her twat. "Get wet for me, Lydia. If not for me, then for Bruno. Look at him. He isn't sure what's going to happen, but he trusts me. He knows I wouldn't steer him wrong."
"How .. . how can you ... I mean, that animal .. . and me. He's savage ... an attack dog ... He could ... he could ..."
"But he won't hurt you, as long as you're polite and your natural honey-pie sugar bunch sweet self, Lydia. And that shouldn't be a problem. Just treat him the way you treated us. Moan a lot, and wrap your legs around him, and make your pussy ripple up and down his cock while he's fucking you. He'll love it, and he'll love you too. Maybe he'll even let you suck him off. Just be sure you don't bite. Bruno doesn't seem the type to tolerate being bitten."
As he spoke, he continued to massage her pussy, and without warning his finger slid into her, right up the mouth of her vagina. Lydia moaned, her ass lifting from the floor, and she swallowed him with her tense, twitching cunt. "Ohhhhhh," she whimpered. "Please ..."
Richard wormed around inside her, digging till his finger was musky with the smell of her snatch. He extracted the finger and thrust it toward the dog. "Smell, Bruno," he commanded, and the dog came nearer. "Smell!"
Bruno's nostrils twitched as Richard waved his cunty finger back and forth. Richard smiled. "Yes, that's a good dog," he said. He pointed to Lydia's cunt. "Right here. There's plenty more where that little whiff came from. Sniff her, Bruno. Lick her. That rough tongue should drive her crazy. Come on, boy. Lick her pussy. And then we'll see if she'd be interested in about six inches of your cock. Hmmmm?"
The dog came nearer, his toenails clicking on the floor. Lydia looked down her belly, saw the muzzle sinking lower, twitching as the dog homed in on the aroma he'd been tempted with. What in the name of Christ was the animal thinking? Was he sick, as weirdly, horribly sick as Richard Welby?
"Want to smell her again?" Richard worked his finger into Lydia again, and she said "AAAAAGGGHHH" in a high, shrill voice. The dog didn't like it. His ears bristled and his eyes set in a stare which chilled Lydia's heart. She choked off the need to scream, afraid that somehow she'd offend the dog, cause him to pounce, to rip out her throat— "Smell," said Richard, offering the dog his finger. Bruno made that same purr-like noise he'd made when his ears were stroked. His nose dipped down and for the briefest, most frightening moment Lydia felt him sniff directly at her twat. She ached to close her legs, but she was too frightened.
"Wait a goddamned minute," Keith said, clearing his throat. "This is just too fucking much, Richard."
"Ssssshhhh-you'll disturb Bruno."
Greg chimed in. "You can't do it. We didn't agree on this, goddamn it!"
"We didn't have to. I'm the leader. What I say, goes."
"This is no playground game," Keith said angrily, stepping toward them. "And I'm not going to stand here and watch you pimp Lydia to that fucking dog."
Bruno's head snapped round. He growled. Keith stopped.
Richard put his hand on Lydia's cuntal puff. "You'd better apologize to Bruno. I think he feels you've insulted him."
The dog looked back at his friend. "Go ahead," Richard advised. "They're just playing dog in the manger. If you'll excuse the expression, my four-legged friend." Again he tempted Bruno with the smell of his pussy-soaked finger. "Go ahead Bruno. Taste it for yourself."
The dog bowed his head and sniffed Lydia's snatch. She recoiled as he whiffed her female organ, and she covered her mouth with a fist when he flipped out his tongue and brushed it across her slice.
"Aaagggghh-" Her voice was small and tense, and she found herself biting that fist to keep from screaming. God, Jesus, his tongue was so rough—like sandpaper on her pussy. He kept licking ... licking ... up and down ...
"Good boy, Bruno," Richard said, patting the dog's shoulders. He stood up and took a couple steps back. "Go to it, Bruno. Bon appetit! She ought to be moaning and whining in just a few minutes, but don't let it bother you." He looked at his companions. "There," he said. "I think I can safely say that she's well on the way to being broken. Completely."
Keith's face was white. "You're a sick fucking bastard! How can you do something like this, goddamn you-" Greg wasn't saying anything. He looked as if he were hovering on the verge of vomiting.
Lydia was crying. Her breasts heaved. Her stomach undulated. Now and then Bruno looked up, his eyes questioning, and she found his brown dog eyes fully as human as Richard Welby's. For all the good that did!
"We agreed that she had to be an example, didn't we? An example to all the women's libbers, all the communist elements that have been trying to subvert American morals for the last fifty years? Goddamn it, there was a time when the American man was the king! Whatever he said went, by God! And now what do we have? Women are trying to cut our balls off! Our balls! What else can we count on, you and me and Greg?" His voice was getting higher-pitched, intense.
"She's only a practice run, anyway. Before much longer, you and me, Keith, and you too, Greg-and of course, Bruno—we're going after bigger game. Gloria Steinem! Shirley MacLaine! Jane fucking Fonda! We'll crush women's lib where it's most vulnerable—right in their goddamned pussies! We'll make them fuck us, suck our cocks, take it up their tight smug asses. We'll sic Bruno onto them, too. We can turn this country around, save our heritage as American males-"
"My God," Greg whispered tensely. "He's gone bananas."
Richard snapped erect, like a Nazi soldier who's just seen Hitler and Goering and Goebbels walking past. He pointed an index finger at Greg and Keith. "If you're not men enough—"
"This has gone too far already," Keith said. He clenched a fist and hit Richard firmly on the point of his chin. Spitting blood, Richard reeled across the room, landing in a heap against the far wall.
Bruno's tongue made its last swipe across Lydia's pussy. The dog raised his head, growling.
Lydia shrank back, drawing up her legs. Richard climbed to his feet, brandishing his fists. Greg strode across the room and hit him again, this time right in the mouth. Richard spat more blood. "BRUNO!!!!" he screamed.
Lydia screamed too, as the dog tensed, then made a flying leap at Greg, aiming straight for his throat. Keith ran to join the fray, bumping the dog's body. Bruno screeched as he was shoved aside, and he landed in a heap near Richard, but the dog was strong and in a heartbeat he was on his feet again, snarling, baring his teeth. With a roar he sprang upon Keith and Greg. "KILLLLL!!!" Richard shouted. "KIIIIIIILLLLLLL!!!!!"
She covered her ears but it couldn't drown the sounds of men and dog in ferocious combat not ten feet away. Lydia scooted across the floor, getting further and further from the fray, and then she bumped her shoulder on something and she realized that it was the kitchen door, the door that led outside, into the dining room, and, beyond that-oh, God!
She stood up, panting, and nobody paid any attention. Richard and Greg and Keith and Bruno were tangled in a mass at the other end of the room, growling and cursing and fighting, and it was a tossup who would come out on top. Keith was already red with blood where the dog had bitten and ripped him, but it was a red badge of courage. .She'd misjudged him. He might be a passive member of the crowd, but in him was the urge to heroism. Oh, God, he'd finally come through!
Lydia's eyes darted round and round. She didn't want to look at the melee because she was afraid—afraid that Richard and Bruno would win. Strength and madness were on their side She clutched her pussy defensively. It was still damp from Bruno's spittle. Clothes. She wanted to clothe herself. Jesus! Richard's pants and t-shirt, which he'd thrown carelessly out of the way. They were lying on the range. She could reach them from where she stood— Richard was choking Keith, and the madman's face was the whitest white Lydia had ever seen. He looked like a piece of paper. Greg and Bruno rolled about on the floor, Bruno's fangs making inexorably for Greg Chastain's throat. Oh, God—she couldn't wait to see who won. She grabbed the t-shirt and trousers; she kicked open the door; she ran!
"Goddamn it!" Lydia cursed, tears filling her eyes, when she bumped headlong into the huge table of the darkened dining room. A chair fell to the floor as she straightened herself and, still holding the shirt and pants, she fumbled through the dark, seeking a way out. Behind her—oh, God—behind her were Richard and that horrible dog! Ahead—ahead she could only hope-Through two rooms she stumbled, both rooms dark as night, and then she was flooded in light and she found herself at the foot of the staircase Richard had escorted her down. When she pretended to be Scarlet O'Hara, she thought bitterly.
"OOOOWWWWWWWWW!!!!!" It was the unmistakable cry of the dog Bruno. But was it a howl of victory or a death groan? She didn't want to find out. Lydia pushed the door which loomed before her, and the chill winds of a late winter night enfolded her naked body. She stopped short, realizing that she was outside, that the house and its battling occupants lay behind her. Her lungs heaved and she felt faint. Only the cold night air revived her.
Quickly she slipped into the t-shirt, put on the slacks. The t-shirt was tight, the slacks loose. She stood a moment adjusting herself to the feel of this strange clothing, and she looked around. To her left, perhaps 300 yards away, lights moved at a steady rate. A road? Of course! She sucked in her breath and ran toward those lights, praying that Richard and Bruno didn't overtake her before she got there.
She clambered across a fence and found herself in the midst of a two-lane rural road, reasonably well cared for. All she knew about her location was what Keith had told her—that this house was somewhere near Painesville. She didn't know which way to turn, which direction would carry her to safety, but she knew that she had to get away from here, at all costs. Lydia stood on the yellow lane in the middle of the road, panting as she waited for another car to pass.
"STOP!!!" she screamed, waving her arms frantically at the approaching lights. When the vehicle stopped, she hurried toward it.
"Something wrong?" a male voice said. He turned on his inside light, and she saw that it was a young man, smooth-faced, long hair. Lydia pulled down the hem of her t-shirt and stepped closer.
For a moment she was ready to tell him what had happened-that she'd been kidnapped, raped-that her kidnapers and rapists were even now engaged in a life-and-death struggle in the house a few hundred yards from the highway, but- What the hell did she owe any of them? If Richard and his dog killed Greg and Keith, or if Greg and Keith finished off Richard and Bruno, what difference did it make? Come Monday, she'd see who turned up at work and who didn't. The only person whose welfare mattered to Lydia—was Lydia. The rest of them could go straight to hell.
"My car," she lied fluently. "It broke down, need a ride into Cleveland."
"You're lucky," the boy grinned. "I'm just on my way into Cleveland myself. Saturday night, y'know? Time to howl." He looked at her, and she knew that he was examining the thrust of her unfettered breasts under the t-shirt, which fit her like second skin. Did he like what he saw? If the gleam in his eyes was proof, he found the vision worthy of appreciation. "You're welcome to come along."
She went around the car and eased herself in. When she closed the door she was trembling a little, but there was no need to tremble. She'd escaped that house. Relatively unscathed, at that. Lydia slid across the seat, moving closer to the young driver. "I'm Lydia," she said. "Lydia Pembroke."
He nodded. "John," he said. "John Dolan. Nice to meet you. Where's your car? I could maybe take a look at it."
"No, it's the engine. Blown to hell. Oh, it was only a junker anyway." The important thing was getting to Cleveland, back to her apartment, where she could sort things out, decide what this strange day had really meant in terms of her life and its overall pattern.
The hell with overall patterns! She knew what today had meant, what it had done to her, for her! Lydia closed her eyes. God, she thought, I've been such a fool! I'm twenty-five years old and I've wasted most of those years.
She felt a wrenching in her guts. What a day it had been! She could still feel those orgasms exploding in her belly, feel her pussy creaming its hot liquids as a thick hard cock dredged in her tight channel. She could taste the explosion of cum in her mouth, the tangy juice coating her tongue, squishing stickily down her throat, seeping from her lips in an abundance too great to swallow. And to think how long she'd hated, feared, those sensations!
She looked at John Dolan. He had a nice profile. Was he any good in bed? From now on, her criteria for men would not be how gullible is he? How easily can I break his balls? But how does he swing his meat? CAN HE FUCK?
Lydia smiled. If he'd seen her smile he might have wondered what kind of lady had flagged him down on a lonely rural road. But John had his eyes on the road ahead, and the first touch of her hand on his leg made him jump.
Lydia moved closer before that jump had done any damage, and she pressed her lips against his ear. Her hand shot to his crotch, covering it, and, even soft, John made a respectable bulge against her palm. He didn't stay soft for long. She breathed across his cheek, her tongue swirling in his ear.
"You said," she purred, "that this was your night to howl. Well, I feel like howling, too. Why don't we bark at the moon together?"
"Heyyyyyy," he said, only a fair imitation of the Fonz.
She cupped his growing pecker bulge a little tighter, felt him twitch promisingly inside his pants. "Listen," she added, "do you know how to rape a woman?"
John shivered. "I don't think so." Still, he removed one hand from the steering wheel and slid it around Lydia where she melted against him, her stiff nipples punchy and evident in the tight cling of her borrowed t-shirt. She breathed, and her tits bobbled softly against his arm.
"It's okay," she husked. "I'll show you what to do. You won't have any trouble picking it up. I think I like being raped. As long as it's done in good taste." Yes, she thought, it's going to be a lot different from here on out. And a lot more fun. She unzipped his pants and fished inside. Finding his cock was no problem. Maybe she'd rape him. Jesus, she thought, it ought to be my turn, after all I've gone through today. I wonder who's winning that fight? Not that she really cared.
"Oh, what the hell?" she sighed, cupping his cock and balls. "We'll rape each other. It's the only fair way."