Chapter 2
Zahndra Jergens allowed her cultivated sneer to ease into a smile. She had to hand it to Francis Dashwood. His new nightspot was indeed smashingly conceived and masterfully executed.
The very ambience of the joint-was it true, that sensation?-brought a tingle to her nipples and a twinge to her clit.
This was no faint praise, coming in print as it would from such a notoriously jaded night-personality like Zahndra.
This was one social journalist-one called them gossip columnists if they scribbled for rags with less posh advertisers-who had seen everything.
Her tastes were both broad and sharp.
She knew when the trash was too much. Could sense through the polished surface of various poseurs to discern just who had the raw or developed talent to back up all the insolent, humiliating hype.
And there Francis Dashwood had succeeded undeniably. Lining the long entranceway of heavy masonry, giving an impression both medieval and warehouse low-tech was an artfully conceived and executed series of installations by Dashwood's wife, the designer Artemis Schwartz.
Men dressed as half-human, half vegetable slaves worked open-mouthed to serve a dark robotic queen. Part spider, part wasp, part computer, the dark queen spouted recorded fantasy orders to her humiliated courtiers.
The tits that poked like darts against the wasp-woman's cleavage was an almost humorous touch. It made Zahndra shrivel the wrinkled dimple of her arse.
Purse her punk hole.
She felt the tips of the tits poke like spikes up her ass.
Zahndra then imagined her own tits gliding up and down some oily orifice.
Her own enormously enlarged clit fucking some guy in the ass and mouth.
Then screwing into some ginger-fleshed bitch right up her sweltering cunt.
Whipping random, imprecating faces with flapping tits, hard clit.
Metal whips that scourged the skin.
Yes, Artemis's installation brought out desires of hers to dominate that she had not really thought about since a psychology class in undergraduate school.
The streaked greenish pods that hung between the men's legs were too preposterous for words. Just the right mixture of kitsch, high-fashion sadomasochism, and the truisms often so accurately captured in whimsical fantasy.
The foam rubber and plastic mushroom fountain that dominated the indoor courtyard and temporary sculpture display there installed was really a scream, too.
The thrill of moving water, whether a waterfall in the mountains, a jungle stream, or a distinctly urban New York setting, always heightened her sense of the flow of her own bodily liquids.
Zahndra had to admit that she was really getting off on the place.
She peered into the series of private or semiprivate rooms, this one decorated like monastic libraries, another a genuine ultra-wave video and laser saloon with automated bar service.
The patrons appeared in great form. The rock chanteuse Putana, with her hair in slick piles that looked as though they were jelled with jism, was speaking into the faces of a set of blue-suited stockbroker types.
Their eyes were fixed on her cavorting bosom, exposed neatly to the edge of her aureoles.
Zahndra recognized the slender man with silvery shards of hair tumbling down the sides of his head like a glinting thatch roof.
He was perhaps the world's most famous living artist, and certainly among the richest. It warmed her cuntlips that he looked in her direction and waved to her.
Perhaps Zahndra could catch a word with him a bit later. Find out how Dandy Voivode was responding to Dashwood's Scented Garden. See if he was already scheduled to participate in the upcoming installations of multimedia plastic artworks and avant-garde performance art.
Zahndra went into the ladies' room, agog at all the pretty men there.
She held her breath as she passed through the perfumy abstractions of artificial foliage that that was the Scented Garden itself.
Seats shaped like vines and fungus held couples and groups as ambient music of frail density was sprinkled over the talking and drinking denizens of the comfortable setting. An indoor trash-tech garden of delights.
She relaxed with a drink, catching a part of a video made up of highlights from Hecate's Hor-rorhouse, that godawful show Zahndra could not stand.
The hostess was attractive in a disarmingly innocent way-considering she plumbed the cultural depths with her adolescent S&M routines.
At least she was better than the horror flicks and splatter movies she showed.
Zahndra took the last of her drink with her to the main level.
Here was where the punkoids flourished, as if proliferating in their own spastic body heat.
On top of upholstered cubes they gyrated and shook. Legs split and pelvises thrusting forward and back.
In and out. From side to side.
And the large dance floor, pulsating with lights, was creaming with dancers.
Women wore laser jewelry and shimmied their hips as they twisted long slinky scarves around their partners' necks.
Some of the males had shrugged their sweat-drenched shirts over their shoulders in this week's macho craze.
A sensually aware disk jock who, it appeared to Zahndra as she had peeked into the control booth, was having her ass fucked while she selected her disks, was but another element in the club's awesome impression.
However, the social journalist would have to note in her column Jergens Off! that would appear in the next interview of gossipy, scandaland smarm-laden journal for which she now penned, whether Dashwood's Scented Garden, as the new nightspot had been christened, would continue to attract past this evening's opening gala the fashionable elite and the religiously trendy would have to be seen.
Seen and be seen.
If "they" were seen, then the others would want to be seen there also. So that they could see "them."
Zahndra espied the proprietor off talking with some financial types near the metal bar aligning the dance floor.
She would go over and congratulate Francis Dashwood. And Artemis Schwartz, too, if she could find the lady.
It was undeniable what a stunning couple they made. Now, just looking at Francis, Zahndra felt that hunger hit her.
There was a thick slickness in her saliva that made her mouth feel like gumbo.
The man was ravishing in such a simple, casual and understated outfit.
Dashwood wore a simple oxford-cloth blue shirt open and without a tie. He had on thick, meticulously pleated flannel pants of light gray and a pair of penny loafers with gold coins in the slots over the top of the foot.
Her boobs buzzed along with the hyper-amplified bass line to the last-wave music. The tempo was fast, unnatural.
But the shaking went right into her quim.
"Zahndra, darling," Francis said, now walking up to her and placing his hands on her arms.
They kissed on both cheeks and Artemis felt a surge of ravenous hunger. She thought she sensed the same emanating from Francis's very pores.
"I must say, the Scented Garden looks like a winner," Zahndra said to him.
"Well, I certainly have banked a lot on it."
"I'll bet. It's smashing. Money well spent, Francis-you're to be congratulated."
"Thank you, Zahndra."
"Is Artemis around? She deserves some of the credit too, dear boy."
"That she does."
Zahndra allowed her breasts to contact Francis's chest. He put his arm around her hips and they walked in tandem around the edges of the swarming dance floor.
"Artemis should be in the Lotus Room," Francis said. "There's a special exhibit there curated by Alistair Weed."
"Oh, him. Eccentric, no?"
"A bit, but his artistic eye is sharp as the devil," Francis said, leading Zahndra into a room behind a thick drapery of maroon velvet.
"This place is just full of surprises," Zahndra intoned, looking down the curvilinear stairway dropping off behind the drapery.
"Just full of them-that's how I want it. I don't want anyone to get tired of this place," Francis said with a wolfish grin that almost spoke money out loud.
Zahndra stopped at the top of the stairs. She faced Francis and looked into his dark eyes.
He saw the flash, felt her hunger.
Their tongues attacked each other like leaping lizards and he pressed his wrists along her ribcage. Zahndra's quim snuggled up his thigh as she felt his fists gripping her tits through her tight black minidress.
They descended the staircase and the sounds from below grew more distinct.
Clinking of glass, fizz of champagne and a current of conversation peppered now and again by a guffaw or shriek.
Artemis was the picture of pink good health as she bustled among those in attendance.
Zahndra shivered for an instant with the realization that she would like to fuck her and Francis both.
At the same time.
The works on display in the Lotus Room were fanciful contraptions. Moving sculptures powered by electricity, running water, pulleys and levers with shifting weights.
Some of them were evidently meant to be used as playthings, and Zahndra saw several women swinging from an elaborately concocted mechanism.
She refocused her eyes.
Though they were in tight jumpsuits equipped with metal attachments fastened about the chest, it almost appeared that they were swinging to and fro from wires strung through their nipples.
Zahndra peered about the room.
She noted that Dandy was there, as were several of his artistic and financial rivals.
Alistair Weed, his sandy hair visible height above most of the rest of the crowd, was holding Artemis by her wrist.
A group of young male and female dancers wove its way through the guests. They were clad only in loincloths, with pasties on their nipples and glitter stuck to the powdery coating over their otherwise naked forms.
Zahndra felt something slide up her leg.
She smiled as she looked down and saw Francis place his foot back on the floor.
A woman dressed in glittery spandex dropped by and filled two crystal tulips of champagne and presented them to the pair.
"Here's to the success of Dashwood's Scented Garden," Zahndra said, clinking the shaft of bubbling intoxicant against Francis's own.
"And to the continuation of Zahndra Jergens' preeminence in social journalism."
"Gossip columnist, please," she joked.
As Francis swiveled her around to lead her toward a group of guests, Zahndra's eyes caught one particular piece.
The base was carved to look like something that could have been produced by a woodland tribe. The darkling hardwood cone tapered to a thorn-like point on top of which was a molded bust of a woman of remarkable sensuality.
Zahndra tittered, then brought her hand to her lips. She took a quaff of the champagne as the different elements of the sculpture sank in, achieving meaning.
The bust sported a teeming array of tits, rising and falling in random patterns. Rubber inflating and deflating. Nips pointed like tacks and threatening and beckoning for the suck, endearing at the same time.
The sculpted head sprouted black monkey fur for hair and through those hanks protruded a silvery, sequined crescent.
It was a glittery and bejeweled crown, its tips spiky and glowing ruby fruit red.
Like horns of a beast.
Something about it turned her on.
The tits.
And the spikes.
The rising and the falling. The thought of suck and of painful penetration. "You like?" Francis asked. "Very impressive," Zahndra replied. "Would you like to meet the artist."
"She's here?"
"How did you know it was a she?"
Zahndra shrugged her shoulders, feeling her own breasts rise and fall.
"Just something about it," she remarked absently, thinking of artistic tits dangling down her throat as she played her tongue.
"Yes, as a matter of fact," Francis said. "She's over there speaking with Mr. Weed and my wife."
"The dark-haired woman?"
Zahndra couldn't see the artist very well. She had her back toward them. The top of the woman's dress was cut away behind and the smoothness of her skin was astonishing.
It seemed to glow from within. The tops of her asscheeks nudged up and Zahndra wanted to taste asshole in her yip.
From time to time, the woman's head turned and Zahndra caught a glimpse of her features.
At once she recognized them.
Startlingly.
Unmistakable even though the makeup the woman now wore was dramatically different.
But the hair was much the same, after all. And Zahndra could almost see a set of silvery crescent slivers right there crowning her head.
No, she didn't want to meet her.
Not now.
Not here.
She was afraid.
"I'm sorry, Francis," Zahndra said hastily, "I see Dandy is free and I have to get a quote from him about this place."
Francis looked taken aback as Zahndra rushed over to the silver-haired artist and began to interrupt his conversation with a dealer.
He grinned wolf-like as he saw Dandy lead Zahndra over to where Diana stood with Alistair and Artemis. He glanced at the sculpture, its breasts now heaving with growing intensity.
Francis got another champagne and kept his eyes on the group of people including Diana, his wife and Zahndra.
He saw Diana turn in his direction and cock her head, indicating that he should join them. He shook his head no, and Diana approached him through the crowd.
The two kissed as they met and observed the progress of Zahndra, Artemis, Dandy and Alistair and their conversation.
They were now talking and moving toward one of the contraptions that had brought oohs and aahs throughout the evening. Dandy was urging Zahndra to try it out.
Zahndra ran her fingers along its surface and looked at them. They glistened with oils. She made a face and indicated her clothing.
Dandy grabbed her ankles and slipped her high heels from her feet. Artemis drew the minidress over Zahndra's head and the tits opened up like two immense flowers.
Zahndra closed her eyes, a bit embarrassed.
But things were heating up.
She saw an obese garment-center type on his knees with his face smooching the breechcloth worn by one of the boy dancers in the act.
Though she kept her arms in front of her reddened nipples, she didn't feel she was doing anything out of place.
This was the downtown art scene, after all.
The oil-soaked wood looked as if it would splinter into her fanny, she thought. She snapped her garters and checked her stockings for runs.
Then she stepped from her frilly panties and shook her ass.
Giggling, Zahndra sat on a wooden slat next to a pastel-painted device with a machine-metal arm that slid back and forth.
Opening and closing.
Tempting in its rhythmic cycle.
Dandy yanked her right arm up over her head and Alistair tied it to a greased wooden board overhanging the contraption.
Zahndra squealed in pain as he ankles were likewise strapped to the flooring.
"It hurts," she said.
Alistair and Dandy grinned silently.
Artemis moved in to comfort the woman, caressing her head, offering her own warmth.
She dropped her head and suddenly bit into Zahndra's shaven underarm.
She sucked the sweat and the grime in her mouth and licked the stubble.
Zahndra's nipples were erect and her free hand drifted loosely down the flat plane of her belly. It came to rest in her feathery pubic curls.
It might be different if there weren't all these people around.
Zahndra might even jerk off.
Suck on Artemis's pussy.
And where was this new artist, Diana Cazadora?
Her right tit trembled as Zahndra felt Artemis rub the bare nipples. When the suction of the mouth hit, Zahndra went limp.
They could fuck her and suck her in front of all these people now.
She cared no longer.
Zahndra Jergens was finally shameless.
The twitch of the machine under her arm and beside her breast grew in her heart. She wanted for its action to mold her flesh.
To take her tit and do whatever it would.
As if in response to her unspoken desire, Artemis pushed Zahndra upright and affixed gummed pieces of metal to her spine, near the top of the crack of the ass, and in the front, over Zahndra's lush navel.
Alistair and Dandy ran out lengths of wire and attached them to the tiny metal plates. Suddenly, an electric pulse began to torque through Zahndra's body.
Artemis gave each suppurating breast a final nip and pushed Zahndra back. She crammed the Right tit into the opening metal arm of the machine and locked it in tightly.
The gizmo snared the tit and moved, squeaking, in and out, pumping the breast to enormity.
The nipple flattened out with each squeeze, then rose in dense red-tipped fury at the alternating release of the contraption.
Artemis was on her knees between Zahndra's spread legs, lapping at her cunt.
Alistair and Dandy were now in company with Francis and Diana, who had changed clothing. They were now in skintight ensembles of painted leather, with cutouts exposing their underarms, chests, groins and fannies.
Diana grabbed Artemis's red hair in her hand and yanked it from Zahndra's drooling puss. She tossed the woman to the side and stood between Zahndra's opened legs.
Francis worked around to Zahndra's rear and brought his enlarged cock to rest quietly on her left shoulder.
She brought her free hand toward her clit as she felt his balls pulsing against her wet skin.
Diana slapped her paw away from her foaming quim and spat in her face. She dipped and snaggled the free tit in her long teeth.
The machine yanked away on Zahndra's right breast, the nipple now alternately colorless and a baleful glower of red coal.
So hot. So powerful and trembling.
The shaking began this time in Zahndra's bung. It speared to her clit as the electric pulses went back and forth through her body.
She felt herself lifted from the wood by Francis's hands up between her asscheeks.
The tit stretched, still held firmly in the tingling grasp of the machine.
Dandy and Alistair were off to the side, sipping champagne. An art groupie hauled her halter top over her head and ran up behind Diana.
Alistair grabbed a bottle from a passing waitress and went up behind the groupie.
The girl was bending toward Diana's asscheeks as the artist herself stood spread-legged, her flopping puss lips in the grip of Zahndra's hungering, working maw.
The bottle went up under the groupie's short skirt and jabbed her cunt.
The fizz of the champagne nipped at her clit through her drawers as she sank to the floor.
Alistair took a swig straight from the bottle and yanked out his wiener.
He shot piss at the groveling groupie, who tried so hard to capture the spray in her opened jaw. She closed her eyes and ran the elegant liquid through her hair.
Dandy now bent over the girl and whipped her sweater off.
He pulled her to her knees by her nipples and stuck his own cock down her throat.
Zahndra took the tender cuntlips of Diana Cazadora between her incisors.
She pulled and stretched the labia.
Still the torment pounded away at her imprisoned breast. Her free hand held someone's huge dark dong and she could feel Francis fondling her rump.
He poked a finger in up underneath and it went right up to the last knuckle.
Francis lifted her body, nearly tearing her tender tit meat. Pulling it like taffy, held as it was in the arms of the machine.
Zahndra yammered away at white-hot cunt.
The sizzling slosh from Diana's meat slathered down her chin and her neck.
It coursed down her shoulders and pestered her festering nipples.
Oiling the flexing arm of the mutant machine as it worked her tit.
The cuntjuice drained down her belly, setting off sparks in the wired metal plates.
It sparked her to convulsive orgasm and she felt her own quim gush.
Deliriously, Diana's lady-juice spilled over Zahndra's wriggling clit.
It simmered in her slit and leached into her roseate cunt folds.
There it joined forces with Zahndra's own homebrew and dripped down the insides of her thighs to the floor.
Artemis had jumped the girl art groupie and was smacking her face repeatedly with the empty come-coated champagne bottle.
She squatted over the girl and twisted her tits ferociously, carving them up in her claws.
Diana dropped from Zahndra's yip and turned on her spiked heels.
The leather of her suit was drenched and crinkled in perspiration. She sent the toe of one of her shoes up under Artemis's hovering rump.
The toetip hit the buttocks, splitting those fair hinders and assailing the arse hole.
Artemis turned from her victim in a rage and caught the heel of Diana's shoe in her face and fell backward.
Diana kicked Artemis in the cunt, and the woman now lay with her legs splayed, covering the pressed body of the young groupie.
"Get the fuck out from under her, you hussy," Diana shouted.
Alistair and Dandy pulled the girl from underneath Artemis's struggling body.
Diana kept her heel at the center of Artemis's belly and jerked it against her clit through the shards of her torn clothing.
The girl was lowered between Zahndra's legs. Diana forced her head to the floor and made her suck up the pussyjuice that had collected there and on'Zahndra's bound feet.
Zahndra turned her head to the left. The hard black dick she had been stroking mindlessly leapt toward her teeth.
She took it in, its proud possessor unknown to her. Sucking its greased and scented length.
She felt Francis's fingers pop from her ass and the pointy tip of his furious prick insert itself up her quaking rectum.
The mechanism rattled away on her captive breast. The aureole had lost all color, the nipple itself spent and flaccid.
The electric jolts to her spine and clit brought a whiteness to her vision.
She ticked off into another round of orgasm as the art groupie groveled with her tongue in Zahndra's twat.
Frisky little thing.
The headiness of her blistering come rose in the air. Hers was a scented garden indeed.
As Francis jammed his cock into the shuddering bung he knew that he had been right.
Correct in his assessment.
Sure in his selection.
Zahndra would make a worthy addition to their little family.
And the groupie was not at all unacceptable either. They would both become fruits of the Scented Garden.
Pungent and fleshly.
Delectable morsels to feed his hunger-their hunger.
To send them spinning on a run of pain and rapture.
Sweat and slime.
Through the bristles and thorns of the briarpatch of their own minds.
Through the deep folds of their flesh and spirit.
And perhaps best of all, Francis's other hungry passion could be slaked. With the aid of Diana and Alistair. His aesthetic appreciation of the long and beautiful green foliage.
Cool cash.
Francis drummed Zahndra's rump with churning, frenetic strokes.
He. saw how her tit was caught up in the sliding metal mechanism of the machine's vise grip and how she spat fresh black jism, now hopping from the dangling dark meat.
The groupie was affixed to Zahndra's buzzing clit and she was being punked by one of the boy dancers who had shed his loincloth.
Alistair and Dandy stood facing each other drinking champagne. Each jacked away at the other's cock protruding discreetly through the lowered zippers of their eveningwear, wrapped in hundred-dollar bills.
Diana was hauling Artemis across the floor by her hair. She then ripped away at the last shreds of Artemis's gown.
Francis saw his wife gag as Diana jugged a tit into her yip.
Diana sank to one knee between Artemis's legs and pulled at her cunt hairs.
Yes, Diana had a hunger to match Francis's own. Even in some ways surpass it.
That was why she was his true mistress.
But there were ways the wily Mr. Dashwood could use his own mistress to his own advantage.
Use her hunger to feed his fever.
Yes, Diana had taken to his new wife. And from the looks of things, Artemis was enjoying their friendship as well.
The trickles of scarlet blood spilled from his wife's maw from where her dear Diana had savaged her with the Dom Perignon bottle.
His wife's tongue lolled out, craving the split crease of Diana's cunt that protruded from the cutout leather crotch.
A small girl with her flat tits out and clipped ran by and showered the pair of women in heat with sparkling dust.
As the glistening powder landed it spread a heavenly cloud over the forest of the mistress's goddesslike cunt.
Francis felt the juice bubble up in his balls and the sweat course from his temples down into his own painted leather suit.
He twisted his pulsating dick up Zahndra's striving arse time and time again.
The machine beat away on her breast and now she was squirting a new brew.
Of cuntjuice and urine, into the dropped jaw of the art groupie who flailed away maniacally on her luridly greased clit.
The electrodes passed jolts through their rutsweat, spearing Francis with the same sear that Zahndra felt.
As the machine pummeled away and the electrodes sparked, Zahndra smacked her lips and dared to open her eyes.
She saw Diana astride Artemis's jumping jaws, red liquid scouring the nude designer's tumultuous breasts and heaving belly.
There was an array of other devices, the moving sculptures now all mounted by human forms. Some nude. Some in leather, rayon, spandex or wet-look rubber.
Spiked balls were swinging into bristling tits and wide-open cuntmeat.
Dicks encased in hard rubber, brandishing collars of metal spikes, stood up at obscene angles from a variety of moving groins.
The joint was really jumping.
Zahndra knew you had to work hard to keep this feisty art crowd in kicks.
She saw how Alistair was pointing a riding crop at a pair of tits impaled, it looked like, on a pair of long, toothy spikes.
It seemed he was offering both the contraption and the services of the black-hooded model for sale to a fat, smarmy-queer banker.
The thrash of dick in her ass blasted Zahndra in a tyranny of sequential orgasm.
She felt the explosion of ghoulish jism in her behind as Francis screamed and bit into her neck. The groupie chewing her meat was drowning, gagging and coughing up loads of quimsicle.
The metal machine music beat away on her trapped tit. The electroshock frazzled away her pussy hairs, giving off sparks like live wires.
Ah, yes, Francis thought as he snapped his prick from Zahndra's bun. He had served his mistress well before this.
But to have brought her his sumptuous wife one weekend, and the delicious Zahndra Jergens the next was a great boon.
A real fuck-a-feather-up-your-ass accomplishment he could be proud of.
And it looked as if the groveling art groupie was prime meat as well.
Girlish grist for the mill.
Another morsel for the maws.
Another ripened ruby fruit from Dashwood's Scented Garden, painfully succulent to the touch.
Overpowering in its taste.
One of the sweetmeats and dainties that Lady Diana Cazadora needed to soothe her cravings. Feed her hunger.
Please Francis's mistress, and he would remain in good stead.
That was why he strived to serve her well. To present before her only the moot toothsome, muskily scented offerings fit for the goddess of the night herself.
Offerings to Dashwood's cruel white goddess. The pinnacle of pain and pleasure. He roped Zahndra's neck and pulled the noose tight. She hadn't seen anything yet.
His eyes went to the statue in the center of the Lotus Room. The foam-padded rubber breasts were bustling in spasmodic clusters.
The horned crown gave off flashes of red laser light, like shoots of ethereal jism through the darkened chamber.
He thought once again of her human incarnation, now torturing his sprawled and bleeding wife with thrusts of her bristling pubis.
Through his own devotion to her, Francis could breed in her dependence upon him.
She would have to carry out his wishes.
The mistress of pain would become the slavering tool of Francis Dashwood's project.
The willing servant of his desires.
A morsel to feed his own peculiar hunger.