Driving Daisy Crazy free porn video

Driving Daisy Crazy
By Unknown

All characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to persons living
or dead is purely coincidental





Chapter One

"Randy Buck, Nancy," Cynthia Marvel, also known as the Baroness, owner, president and chief executive officer of Marvel Industries, the cosmetic and bluejean conglomerate says to her vice president of marketing.

"Now there is a name I haven't heard in a long time," Nancy responds, "and hoped never to hear again."

"Now Nancy, the world is too small and Randy and I too large for us not to run into one another every now and again.

"I saw him in a restaurant the other day, Nance.

"The big, friendly wave, the ‘how have you been' bit, the whole thing."

"How very nice for the two of you," Nancy observes, drily.

"Yes," Cynthia says, ignoring the sarcasm, "there is something very nice when two old adversaries run into each other in a social setting.

"It gives each of us a chance to gauge how things are going with the other.

"Do we look well or hagard?

"Are we aging gracefully or at all?

"Are we tanned from the sun or pasty from too much time spent in the great indoors?"

"Stuff like that.

"Combinations of observation and intuition.

"Especially interesting when applied to Randy Buck, a man who bears watching."

"A man who belongs in a straight jacket until they give him a lethal injection, the gas chamber, the electric chair, the gallows, the firing sq—"

"Enough, Nancy!

"I get the picture and I agree with you a thousand percent.

"Which should make it all the more disturbing when I tell you that he was looking very well indeed—tanned, fit, radiating contentment."

"Uh-oh," Nancy drawls.

"Well put, k**do.

"If that sicko pervert creep is all that happy, that can only mean, as Sherlock Holmes, used to say, the game's afoot."

"Again," Nancy appends.

"Exactly.

"It's happening again. The only question being what ‘it' is this time."

"I wish that were the only question," Nancy replies.

"How's about letting the other shoe drop, boss of mine?"

"Why, let's do it together, in chorus.

"Ready?"

And they recite in unison, "What are we going to do about it?"

They laugh, but it is brief and their eyes tell each other that this is no laughing matter. •

Randy Buck, owner of a football team, a baseball team, a health club franchise operation, and a string of gourmet restaurants, is rich, powerful—and a sexual pervert of the first magnitude.

He was the Seneschal, the sinister operator of a private club upstate known as Buck's Castle, a labyrinthine structure in which sado-masochism, bondage and discipline were practiced regularly by a large membership of perpetrators and victims.

Cynthia and Nancy had managed, at the risk of their lives, to destroy that operation, but not Buck, who escaped punishment by donating the odd structure to the state and subsidizing its conversion into an orphanage.

That was merely their first encounter with the madman.

The second was when he tried to kill Cynthia by poisoning her at a charity masquerade ball, with the help of Fiona Fairley, head of Fairley Palace Hotels.

Cynthia managed to switch drinks with him, in the event, but he was saved by being rushed to a hospital and having his stomach pumped.

A third adventure involved a pseudo-monastic order founded by Buck, staffed by sex offenders, called the brotherhood of the Body, which specialized in k**napping runaway girls and doing the obvious with them.

Cynthia and Nancy, again at great personal risk, managed to destroy this operation, with the help of a dominatrix, Vanessa, whom Buck had engaged to assist in the festivities.

Buck again managed to escape, but this time there was not enough left of the facility to do anything with it except turn it into a landfill, which Buck duly did, donating it to the state.

His shot at revenge this time took the form of k**napping Nancy and holding her at his mansion in the country, the Estate, hoping to lure Cynthia into a trap with her as bait, there to wreak his vengeance in full upon Cynthia, Nancy, and Vanessa, who had gone on Cynthia's payroll as part time advertising model and full time bodyguard.

This also backfired, due to Cynthia's connections within the state police and her prior planning before her and Vanessa's elaborate rescue attempt of Nancy, but once again, Buck was able to evade responsibility and, therefore, prosecution.

But Buck is a sick man and they both know it. He is also a man with the means to indulge his illness.

And, since it is directly related to his sexual appetite, they know that it is continuing, smoldering there within him, if not actively erupting.

As, they are certain, from time to time, it must.

Hence Cynthia's concern.

She buzzes her secretary on the intercom.

"Get Vanessa. Tell her I'd like to see her in my office."

And they sit there, Cynthia staring Out the picture window at the grimy, ugly panorama of old factory buildings, smokestacks and railway tracks, the bustling traffic on the huge suspension bridge in the distance.

Nancy, seated on the overstuffed sofa against the wall, does not look at her, preferring also to look out the window as she tries to overcome her fear of what she knows is about to transpire.

Why is the Baroness like this? she wonders.

How and why is it her responsibility to play the role of Randy Buck's nemesis?

Really, it's all so melodramatic and ridiculous.

They are like comic book characters, the villain, Buck, the heroines, Cynthia and herself, with attendant supporters on both sides of the fence of good and evil, right and wrong.

And the action comes complete with costumes hoods or masks, black leather corsets, whips, spiked heels and black mesh stockings—in short, the full paraphernalia of S&M, B&D, the full alphabet soup of sexual perversion.

Yes, Nancy thinks, Randy Buck is one sick puppy, all right.

But her boss and constant companion is surely no less so.

She is, in her own way, just as sick, if not sicker, than her arch-enemy, Randy Buck.

No question.

That latest little diversion of hers, the doll house, with muscle men all dressed up in drag, complete with make-up, prancing about and queening it up for her amusement, her living dolls, as she termed them—what was that, if not really sick?

And Cynthia herself seemed to realize this, making no attempt to rebuild the Victorian house or to set up the thing elsewhere after Antoine, her couturier, now ex-couturier, had burned the place down in a fit of pique after being excluded by her from participation in what turned out to be, thanks to him, the last session, almost trapping them within, himself included.

It was as though she suddenly snapped out of a hypnotic spell, the blaze awakening her.

She said nothing to Nancy, of course.

After alt, she is the infallible Baroness.

Still, she never mentioned it again, even in passing.

But Nancy gained an insight from that incident.

At least, she thinks she did.

It could very well be (in Nancy's opinion) that Cynthia's fascination with Randy Buck is that they are opposite sides of the same coin.

Meaning that, but for Buck as a foil for her fascination with the world of sexual perversion, an outlet for her attention, for her obsession with that dark kingdom, Cynthia herself might be irresistibly drawn to acts of perversion, more and more intense, more and more twisted, until she would become, in turn, a villainess of the first magnitude.

And Nancy sighs, realizing that it was her own taste for it, or at least curiosity about that dark, sick world, which had led her to join the Club, Buck's nebulous title for the membership of the Castle.

And it was Cynthia, coming along as her guest, which was the beginning of their adventures with, or more accurately, against Randy Buck.

So that, indirectly, she supposes that she is responsible for all that followed, dangerous and, to her at least, terrifying adventures, as Cynthia battled with Buck.

She views herself as his nemesis, obviously.

Equally obviously, since, whatever else Buck may be, he is certainly not stupid, he must view himself as her nemesis.

So that today, they are undoubtedly both biding their time, each thinking of ways in which to destroy the other, their mutual safety lying in the self evident fact that neither of their plans have gelled, at least to the point of beginning implementation.

"Hello."

And Vanessa, tall, broad-shouldered, looking every bit as big as she is in the blue blazer with brass buttons of the security staff of Marvel Industries, calves bulging below the short, matching skirt and above the high heels, strides up to the desk, nodding to Nancy en passant.

"Ah, Vanessa!

"Sit down, sit down!

"The subject, this morning, is Randy Buck."

Vanessa says nothing, seated at attention in the chair opposite Cynthia, at an angle so that she can also take in Nancy.

She waits for additional information.

"What," Cynthia continues, "is he up to these days?"

"Something," Vanessa replies.

And this is not a trivial answer.

Because it is something, as opposed to nothing.

It is a statement of opinion which has the effect of elevating a similarly held opinion on Cynthia's part to the status of fact.

"I agree. Something.

"And we were wrong, you know, Vanessa, in not having him tailed every second, from the minute we rescued Nancy."

"From the minute we were all rescued by the state police," Vanessa corrects.

"Yes. We should have done that."

"That too," Cynthia concurs, reddening with embarrassment at the correction.

That last incident was a close call.

And if not for the state police—never mind.

Because that is water over the dam.

The question before the house is what Randy Buck is doing right now.

These days, rather.

At this moment, middle of the work week, he is undoubtedly at his office downtown, across the river, directing his business interests with his usual, driving expertise.

But at night, on weekends, what?

How does the perverted monster spend his leisure time?

What is the creep doing to keep himself amused, satisfied?

"How long has it been, Vanessa?"

"Six months."

"Six months," Cynthia repeats.

"So that, if history repeats itself, then he is just about to recover from licking his wounds and try, try again."

"Right. So?"

But she already knows the answer.

Which comes in the form of a question.

"If not us, who? If not now, when?"

"I'll set up surveillance at once.

"There are several excellent detective agencies who—"

"Who will not be able to find out anything. Not in time.

"And time is of the essence. You know that, Vanessa, from personal experience."

She does indeed know that.

It was Buck's murderous intent toward his helpless victims at the brotherhood's facility that caused her to suddenly go over to Cynthia's side, joining forces with her after she and Nancy had broken in, actually leading the operation which rescued the girls and, ultimately, destroyed the castle-like structure, burying Buck's fiendish henchmen in the rubble of the explosion, detonating the pre-placed charges, put there by Buck himself in order to cover the contingency of a hasty retreat.

But the point here is that, at a certain point, when Buck is through toying with his victims, there can be but one disposition for them.

Therefore, the time factor can be, probably is, important.

Still, it all seems so unreal, sitting here in her office.

That other world, that dark, fantastic underworld seems a myth, something imaginary.

Even to these three who, above all others, know that it is not.

"I think, to begin with, what's needed here is a little attitude adjustment."

Which, in their case, is definitely not a euphemism for cocktail hour.

No, what's needed here is to once more reach out and touch that unreality, to remind themselves that, however fantastic, that world is out there.

It is only too frighteningly real, a threat and a danger to someone and, if the Baroness has her way, to them.

So that the attitude adjustment required here is precisely this realization, the making real, to them, of that sick, perverted world.

Only then will they be able to think clearly, to come up with a plan of action.

Therefore—

"Tonight. My place.

"Nancy, our stuff is already there.

"Vanessa, you know what to bring.

"Thank you both, and see you tonight at, shall we say, eight-ish?"

And the meeting breaks up.

*****

Three large female figures, black leather hoods covering the upper part of their faces, leaving only chins and mouths exposed, their breasts enormous, menacing warheads, pushed up and out by their tight leather corsets which exaggerate their hourglass figures, the dark triangles of their bushes framed by the black garterbelts, their straps, and the tops of the black mesh stockings that encase their long, shapely legs, from broad thigh to slender ankles, their lower legs encased in spike-heeled, black leather boots.

And there in the dimness of the master bedroom of Cynthia's penthouse, lamp bulbs turned to the dimmest setting, the moonlight streaming in through the skylight the major source of illumination, yes, yes indeed it is possible to believe in that dark nether world, so terrifying and yet, at the same time, so voluptuous, so enticing.

They strut around, three awesome female presences, exotically clothed, erotically exposed.

Because, from the rear, the twin roundnesses of their buttocks, their flared hips seem to invite, seem to say, "Approach if you dare!"

And yet, drawn by such arousing exquisiteness, who would not?

And the shadowy moonlight seems to emphasize the white expanses of their exposed flesh.

They are the superwomen of the night. And now, they come together, arms entwined about their shoulders.

Macbeth's witches they are, but beautiful where his were hideous, silent where his were noisy, their incantations those of the body and not of the spoken word.

As they summon within themselves that dark thrill, that shadowy and perverse urge to disport themselves sexually in the darkness over which they rule.

And now, they are on the king-sized bed, breasts, asses, thighs flashing in the moonlight as they form a mystical triangle on hands and knees.

But there is nothing a****listic as mouths, lips and tongues find ass holes and cunts, thrust out, presented for attention.

Because this is a thorough, a calculated licking and rimming they undertake.

They take their time.

There is nothing wild, uncontrolled in their eating of one another.

And now, a dildo is revealed in the hand of one of them, long, thick, double-headed, the moonlight making it the same shade and texture as their living flesh.

And the triangle breaks up, is replaced by a new arrangement, one atop the second, the dildo invisible between them, half shoved into each of their cunts.

As the third one straddles the face of the one below, her ass hole and pussy in the face of the one on top.

And now, round and round go the hips of that one, reaming both pussies as the one on the bottom rolls her tongue round and round on the clit of the one on her face as the one on top rims her thoroughly, her tongue fucking her ass hole.

And one looking on from the foot of the bed could clearly see the insertion of the thick rubber monster into the two pussies.

Because now it is shiny and wet with their clear, hot pussy juices.

As the one on top rolls her broad hips, faster and faster.

Sex and ceremony, it is.

Heroines and villainesses all in one, they are.

As they gratify one another in the costumes in which they have performed great deeds in secrecy, in darkness against the forces of that darkness.

Or rather, the force.

Who is present in malevolent spirit, even now.

Who is here, with them and against them.

Who has caused them to assemble thus. Who is the occasion of this, their war dance of passion, before they sally forth against him and his works.

Three large, powerful women, three women of courage.

Who know that courage must be tempered with caution and precaution.

Who know that daring must be measured, balanced with safety.

So that this will be, perhaps, their last occasion of undiminished, of total abandon.

Because the enemy, though present in spirit, is separated from them right now.

He cannot know (but can certainly suspect) that they are gathering their forces against him.

Four times they have thwarted him.

The Castle, the poisoning, the brotherhood, the a*****ion.

Four tries, four defeats.

But to defeat Randy Buck's plans is not to defeat Randy Buck.

He has made that clear to them, with his warped mind no doubt "clear" to himself.

Never ready for them, as events prove, always waiting for them, as events have also demonstrated, he is.

Never successful against them, never fully defeated by them, he lives on, free to do as he pleases, with Cynthia his only worthy, his only real opponent.

But he need not worry tonight, although a part of him would certainly do well to worry about tonight, if he but knew.

Tonight is just for the three of them to become lost in their erotic, exotic, costumed, common aura.

Wherein is celebrated their archetypal female power.

As it raises itself to consciousness, to reality. As it gathers itself for the danger, the struggle to come.

So that now, they feel it, that nucleus of power and arousal, of power aroused, that they have called forth within themselves, within one another.

A glow, a warmth and a thrill it is, seeming to radiate energy in all directions from the center of their abdomens.

And the delight, the lascivious sensuality of the power is upon them.

And it grows steadily within them, blossoming, mushrooming ever outward.

Filling them with its charge of sexual electricity. Which, to them, is more than merely sexual, more than simply erotic.

Which, to them, is the potential, the power to act, to do as they feel impelled.

So that now, they are getting excited.

Their bodies, their faces become flushed with the engorged blood of their mounting passion.

First this, within, within themselves, within each other.

And then, the charge outward, the storming of the enemy, the thwarting of his plans, perhaps even the destruction of himself.

Later for that.

For now, there is the awareness of their strength, of their sensuality, of their voluptuousness.

For now, there is the arousal, the stimulation, the glow of sexual delight.

Which they elicit from one another ever more ardently.

Which they receive from one another ever more eagerly.

As hunger and satisfaction, desire and fulfillment overlap one another.

Reaching for the next increment of pleasure.

And the next and the next.

So that now, they are a closed circuit of rampant sexual energy, which goes round and round with ever increasing intensity.

So that delight becomes ecstasy and ecstasy swells into rapture.

Hotter and hotter they become.

Higher and higher they rise now toward their shared sexual paradise.

Or lower and lower, down, down, down into the intimate, libidinous darkness of innermost sexual fulfillment.

Or either and both, at one and the same time. As they become dizzy, disoriented, not knowing, not caring which side is up, or how fast or where they are headed, as time and space give way to the overwhelming sensations of pleasure which excite them, molecule by molecule.

Until they are at their fullest, brimming with the floodtide of the pleasure they have generated.

Which increases inexorably, its pressure growing and growing within them.

Until they are coming and coming, the pussies of the pair that shares the dildo milking it for all they are worth, the contractions, the spasms of their multiple orgasms extracting from the rubber monster all the pleasure they are capable of containing and more.

So that now, the ultimate pleasure, the pleasure beyond pleasure is in control of them.

And they are jerking this way and that, only their mouths, tongues accelerating to vibrator speed in the third one's ass hole and cunt, continuing to work away.

So that she too climaxes, her multiple orgasms almost making her pass out with the excess, the surfeit of pleasure, the indescribable transport into a realm of delicious, irresistible sensations which control her completely.

So that now, the three of them jerk frenetically, puppets on invisible strings, in the threes of their series of orgasms.

Which rise to a peak and then slowly allow them to float back down to earth.

Or rise from its depths.

Chapter Two

Daisy looks around the bus terminal.

She looks very much like a Daisy.

Tall, blue-eyed, with short, blonde hair that is neither straight nor curly, floral blouse tucked into bluejeans whose soft, faded blue denim accentuate. her broad, flaring hips, the twin roundnesses of her buttocks.

A big farm girl, Daisy.

And she has left home.

Not run away, but simply left, her high school education completed, the farm a dusty expanse of whithered crops capped, near the highway, by a dilapidated cluster of barn, silo and house.

There was no argument, was in fact no discussion. Except for a sighing, grudging, "Well, maybe it'd be fer the best aft'all," from her father.

Who had no time or interest in her future, it being, by definition, than any version of his, of the farm's.

He had nothing for her.

There was nothing for her, back there. Talk of subsidies, talk of loans, slim possibilities, the suggestion, the shadow of hope, rather than hope itself.

Try it.

Come east.

Come to the city of possibilities, however nebulous, of hope, however slim and without foundation.

And now, looking around, she sees that the city has drawn her to it like a vacuum.

She has been attracted, moved by a nothingness, an emptiness even greater than that she left behind, she sees.

Because there is no clue here, no indicator.

There is no sign from heaven.

And to seek within her heart is to know only more emptiness.

Inspiration does not strike.

She has gone from hopelessness to hopelessness. Those with hopes and dreams, valid ones, do not take the bus.

They fly.

And she too could have flown.

She had enough money for that, at least.

But she didn't.

Why?

Because to fly is to collapse time, to shorten distance.

And, if all one has is a nebulous, shaky illusion, then flying is also to kill that, to nip it in the bud.

The policeman sees her.

And knows exactly what he is looking at.

And knows better than to direct her to Covenant i-louse or to some other shelter.

Because, unless he somehow arranges to transport her there by squad car, there is just no way she will make it.

He could, of course, give her subway directions. But before she could get there, even by subway, they would come.

The vultures, preying on flesh such as hers.

The people with the better ideas.

And she would listen to them, to their bullshit.

And would believe, despite common sense, despite caution, because she wants to.

Away.

A place to stay.

Money in her pocket.

And it would just be temporary, just until she can find "something better".

Something better.

That's the name of the dream, something better.

So he chooses not to see her.

She is loitering, but he will give her that much of a break.

And of course, if the guys in the patent leather shoes and the flashy vests and those hats with buckle bands come up to her, he will intervene.

But, other than that, she is on her own.

Not his choice, but a simple fact of life.

When you land here the way she has, you are, in every sense of the term, on your own.

She stands there with her cardboard suitcase, not knowing which way to turn and not moving.

And he knows what that is all about too.

Turn around.

Go back the way you came.

Chickening out, they'd call it here in the big city.

But she has nothing to prove to anyone here, only something to prove to herself.

So that there is that to be resolved as well. So many problems would be solved if she would simply go to the window and get herself a return ticket.

Where to stay, for example.

What to do, for example.

"Ah there, my little chickadee!"

She cannot believe this black man in those outlandish shoes is speaking to her.

He was, but he isn't.

Because—

"Don't tell me, let me guess!"

This from the cop.

"W. C. Fields, right?"

"Uh, yeah, b*o', thass right."

"Well, W. C., you're gonna hafta go look for Mae West someplace else."

"Yeah, bu—"

"Or you could consider the alternative.

"And I gotta tell ya, I never laugh at the same joke twice."

The black man puts up his hands in front of his chest and backs away a half dozen paces, then scurries from the terminal.

The policeman looks at Daisy, clears his throat to speak, changes his mind, and walks on.

He does not want to see what becomes of her, because it can't be anything good.

"Excuse me, young lady."

Horn-rimmed glasses, a business suit, shorter than her, average build, colorless, balding.

She looks at him, curious.

There is nothing in him to inspire fear or wonder.

"You seem to be lost."

"No, this is the end of the trip all right," she replies.

He smiles.

But there is no warmth in the pale eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Let me rephrase that, then.

"You seem to be at a loss. Like you don't know what to do next."

She stonewalls him, admitting nothing, denying nothing.

"I have a suggestion," he says.

"That is, if you're qualified.

"Have you ever tended a garden?"

Now that, that she can relate to, can respond to.

"I was raised on a farm!"

"Who would have guessed?

"My employer has a garden.

"Or should I say, space for a garden.

"But he has nobody to tend it.

"He offers room, board, money to one who is able to do so.

"Does that sound like something that would be of interest to you?"

"Well, uh, I really haven't given it mu—"

"Problem here, miss?"

The policeman has returned, disgusted that he was not allowed to get far enough away from her to avoid picking up on the next approach.

Like flies on shit around here today, they are, he thinks.

Funny, though, how this guy doesn't look the type.

Probably an individual kink instead of the usual pimp, trying his luck.

This oughtta send him scurrying, though.

But it does not.

Instead—

"My good man, I happen to be Cranston, personal secretary to Randy Buck."

From his inside pocket, Cranston produces a card.

The policeman scrutinizes it.

Buck Enterprises, the guy's name, title—he's the genuine article, or so it would seem.

"I was passing through here on business of my employer when I noticed this young lady in need of assistance.

"Assistance, I might add, unless I am mistaken, which I doubt, that she was not about to get from you.

"Or am I wrong?"

The policeman glares at him, saying nothing.

"I thought as much.

"What is at issue here... officer?"

"Thought somebody was tryna pick ‘er up, is all," he mumbles.

"Which, in fact, I am. I don't deny it."

"Look. You know damn well what I mean! "You know, unless you're new on the job, in which case I can explain it to ya."

"Please don't bother.

"Although I must say, that hardly speaks well of my appearance."

And he manages a wintry smile.

"Tell you what, officer.

"Just to show that there're no hard feelings, please, take my card.

"That way, when you discover the young lady is wanted is wanted for murder in twenty states, you'll know exactly where to find her."

Daisy takes a deep breath, surprised, not understanding.

"But I—" she begins.

But Cranston holds up a hand, silencing her.

"Until then, the young lady has many veggies to plant. That is," turning toward her, "unless you've something better to do."

"Me? No, I, uh... no."

"Excellent! Shall we go, then?

"Anything further, officer?"

"Guess not."

Cranston picks up Daisy's suitcase.

"Shall we go, then?

"The limo is just outside."

The policeman watches them leave and sees that there is indeed a limo parked in the alleyway which bisects the terminal, long and silver, its windows one-way glass.

And something clicks in his mind.

Not because of Daisy or the unremarkable Cranston, but because of the chauffeur, his skin parchment white, completely bald, wearing dark glasses.

He remembers, a year ago.

And that chauffeur resembles those robed creeps, like monks except they weren't, driving a van belonging to something called the brotherhood of the Body.

He watches the limo pull away.

And, pulling out his wallet, instead of placing Cranston's card in with his collection, looks through the cards already there.

He finds the one he is looking for.

And goes to the terminal's small police station.

And dials the number on the card.

"Marvel Industries, Security. How may I assist you?"

"Uh, yeah, this here's Patrolman Ryan, Port Authority Bus Terminal.

"Bout a year ago, one a yer people axed me ta keep an eye out fer any of them brotherhood of the Body types.

"An you're not gonna believe this, but—"

"Try me."

"I think I just seen the guy used ta drive their van.

"On'y now, ‘steada that robe they all wore, he's got a chauffeur's uniform an he drives for Randy Buck.

"He just picked up...

*****

"The Estate," Cynthia says.

"There, his office, the stadium—both stadiums— "

"I'd say forget the stadiums," Vanessa interjects.

"Scratch the stadiums," Cynthia resumes, as though it is her idea, which, since Vanessa had it on her time, technically it is.

"The Estate and his office.

"That oughtta just about do it, unless—"

Beep, beep, beep!

Vanessa looks at her lapel beeper, then shuts it off.

Cynthia looks annoyed.

"Ask ‘em if it can wait, will you? I really want to get this surveillance rolling soonest."

"Sorry, Cynthia, won't take a moment."

Cynthia shoves her phone at Vanessa, who punches in security's extension.

"Vanessa here... What? Lemme have that again... No shi—I mean, no k**ding! Listen, get this Ryan back to the phone and pipe it into the baroness's office... No, we'll wait for it right here. And uh, thanks."

She hangs up.

"Speak of the devil!" she says, grinning.

"Cop over the Port Authority is on duty, swatting the flies off the runaways, when who shows up but Creep Cranston and Supercreep Eric and they spirit away some cornflower in the Buckmobile!"

"Then the ceremony last night worked," Cynthia grins.

And the three of them laugh.

They have conjured up their favorite demon, forcing him to reveal himself.

And the bond between reality and the unreal grows stronger.

Suddenly serious, Cynthia continues, "Problem is, they could have taken her anywhere, including parts completely unknown to us."

"We wait for the call," Vanessa says.

"Do you think he's got some new place for his fun and games or what?" Cynthia asks.

"We wait for the call," Vanessa replies.

"Geez, if he's gone ahead and gotten himself a new location, we could be totally helpless!"

"We—"

"I know, I know. We wait for the call." And the three of them just sit there in total silence.

And, it seems to Cynthia, sit and sit.

Until—

Part of one ring and Cynthia grabs the phone.

Only to blush and place it in Vanessa's waiting, outstretched hand.

"Yeah... Oh yes, Officer Ryan.

"Thanks ever so much for remembering to call!

"Can you tell me—just a moment, please.

"Do you mind if I put you on speaker and tape?

"This could be very important to us... Thanks ever so much!

"With me, Officer Ryan are Cynthia Marvel—"

"The Baroness?"

"Right. The Baroness.

"She and her vice president of marketing are sitting right here and they may have some questions also.

"For openers, can you just give us an account of the whole incident, from the beginning."

He does.

When he has finished, Vanessa says, "I see.

"The impression here, Officer Ryan, is that this, uh, position Cranston offered the girl is to be part of the household staff. That the way you see it?"

"Pretty much, yeah.

"A garden for vegetables, like you'd pick for the table, as I see it.

"If the guy was tellin' the truth.

"Hey, listen, you don't think I was wrong ta let this Cranston take ‘er away, do ya?"

"Certainly not!

"Mr. Buck is an excellent executive who heads up a most impressive conglomerate and the young lady was fortunate to have things turn out so well for her so fast."

"Officer Ryan?" Cynthia interjects.

"This is Cynthia Marvel.

"The only problem might be that chauffeur. I will speak to Mr. Buck about him, since he might not be aware of the man's past.

"Additionally, I'd like to add my personal thanks to you for being so sharp-eyed.

"If you ever decide to go private, please contact me. I can always use good security people."

"Thanks, Baroness! I'll keep it in mind."

"You do that. ‘Bye now."

And she breaks the connection.

"The Estate," she says.

"What a relief!"

"Aerial recon would be best," Vanessa says. Morning and afternoon.

"Sweet young thing misses three in a row, we go to Phase Two."

"Which is?"

"Which is whatever we have to do to find out what's going on with the young lady.

"I don't wanna develop any options just yet, because that'll automatically rule out any others and I think, at this point, we gotta stay loose."

"Nancy?"

"I'm with Vanessa.

"We over-react, we move too soon or too hard, and we recover a cigar box of ashes.

"Believe me, I know"

"Just as we know that your replacement of sorts is there now.

"Nobody here is k**ding herself that Randy needs somebody to tend veggies, are they?"

She looks around.

"Good! Good that we all agree that what we have just gotten word on is Buck's next victim.

"Nice that he's scaled down at least, isn't it?"

"Not if you happen to be the one he's scaled down to, it isn't," Vanessa observes.

"Hey, I couldn't agree more," Cynthia concedes.

"Even one more victim is one too many."

Then, almost as though to herself, "He's gotta be stopped, one way or another.

"I've got to stop him—one way or another."

"Well we haven't yet," Nancy observes. Cynthia glares at her.

"No, no, that's all right, Nancy.

"I'm the one who should apologize for not stepping on that snake's head when I had the chance."

"Which was when?" Vanessa asks. Cynthia thinks that one over.

"Never, really, I guess."

"Damn straight, never.

"And we're not gonna get anywhere if you keep beating yourself over the head for the fact that that piece of garbage is still walkin' around suckin' air.

"Don't worry; when the time comes—the right time, that is—you won't miss; I won't miss."

"I'm sure of it," Cynthia says.

And she sits there in silence, as though meditating.

Suddenly, briskly, "Well then! There we have it! Surveillance to commence when?"

"Today, I should think," Vanessa replies.

"Got a good chopper man, asks no questions, just looks for whatever the client says and reports promptly and in detail."

"Okay, you get on that.

"Vanessa, it's business as usual for you and me until something goes sour, right?"

"Even when it does is fine with me, Cynthia. I'm a devout coward, in case you haven't noticed."

"Nonsense! Look how much fun we've had!"

"Is that before, during, or after the torture sessions?"

"Details, details!

"My goodness, where would we be without a sense of adventure!"

"You can have my share, k**do."

"Getting too old for this stuff, are we?"

"I think I was born too old for this stuff."

"Unfortunately, my dear, it's a little too late for such afterthoughts."

"What afterthought? I always thought that!"

"Nevertheless, you are as prime a target for Mr. Buck's nefarious attentions as I.

"Sad but true, I'm afraid."

"Why is it, Cynthia, that I keep getting the impression that you are not all that unhappy that this crap with Buck is heating up again?"

Cynthia grins.

"The man you love to hate, I guess.

"I simply love fucking him up."

"Yeah, right.

"The only problem with the way things have gone so far is that it's always our necks and skins on the line, while Buck's defeats are kind of like a rich man's losing at cards.

"Sure, his feathers are a little ruffled but, basically, he's none the worse for wear, while we come within millimeters or milliseconds of getting our asses blown away.

"I swear, Cynthia, sometimes I think Buck hasn't lost at all, that he's just playing some kind of deadly game of cat and mouse with us."

"Which, on balance, is better than not getting to play at all, Isn't it?"

Nancy just looks at her.

And the suspicion mounts that she is a mere mortal, trapped between two struggling super-maniacs.

When whales fight, the shrimp get killed, as the old Chinese saying goes.

And right now, she is feeling very shrimpy indeed.

"Tell you what, Nance," Cynthia says, "suppose you move in with me again, for a while?"

"Really, Cynthia I don't think—"

"Just, just until this blows over, okay?"

Useless to argue, and she knows it.

"Okay. I'll just go home after work and get a few things—"

"Everything you need, I have.

"Toothbrush to togs, since we're both the same size.

"And your costume is already over at my place."

"Naturally, since the only time I need it is when I'm with you."

"Bitter, bitter!

"Cheer up, k**do!

"You coulda got stuck in one of those miserable nine to five situations."

"Right. And lived to a ripe old age."

"And had to worry about wrinkles. Don't forget that."

"Right now, I'd settle for being able to look back and remember getting them."

"Is my brave little soldier quaking before the battle?"

"No, but maybe I should start."

Thinking, So. There's to be a battle, then.

Them versus Buck's creeps.

That's always the way.

The only time they had even come close was at the masked ball.

Where Buck's great weight was able to tolerate a dose of poison designed for someone much lighter (Cynthia) and he received immediate medical attention.

Even so, he knew nothing of prolonged and well founded terror, of the pain and bruises and lacerations, the torture that they have endured.

Encounter after encounter, each one culminating in a more narrow escape than the last.

And the Baroness looking forward to the next one.

And calling in her troops, gathering them at the ready.

Which is why Nancy cannot go home tonight. So that she will be instantly ready to accompany Cynthia into what can only be viewed as battle.

Geez, she thinks, you'd think Cynthia would go in with better troop strength this time!

But no, here they are, the two of them, or three, if they are lucky and Vanessa is in position to be with them at the critical point, and the how and when of that Nancy cannot envision right now.

Except that it is getting close.

Because Cynthia intends to stir the hornet's nest again.

Sooner or later, that girl is going to have to be rescued.

And Nancy does not have to be a genius to figure out by whom.

Chapter Three

"Welcome, welcome, welcome, my dear!"

Randy Buck exclaims, his expression a benign smile, avuncular as he takes both her hands in his.

And Daisy looks at this suntanned bull of a man, with his iron grey crew cut, clad only in a short terrycloth robe, tied loosely at the waist, and rubber sandals.

"You'll pardon my appearance, I hope.

"We're very informal here and I was just sunbathing in the back yard.

"Where," he continues, retaining her hands in his but looking now at Cranston, "I understand we're soon to have a vegetable garden under your expert care and keeping."

"Well, I'm no expert or anything like that," Daisy replies, modestly, but I do have somewhat of a green thumb."

"Then the midwest's loss is my gain," Buck says, affably, releasing her hands.

"I can only hope and pray the nation's agriculture will survive the absence of your services."

"Pardon?"

"Bit of a joke. Never mind.

"Cranston will show you to your quarters.

"And once again, welcome aboard."

"Thank you... oh."

"Something else?"

"Could I call my folks an tell ‘em I got here okay an all?

"I kin reverse the charges, if—"

"That won't be necessary, my dear.

"Help yourself to the phone in your bedroom, anytime you wish.

"Anything else you may require, I can have Eric run you over to the nearest town.

"Run along now.

"I leave you in Cranston's able hands." And Buck leaves them in the grand entrance hall, at the foot of the marble staircase, disappearing into his den to the left.

Daisy looks all around herself, even up at the high, vaulted, ornately coffered ceiling as they ascend the stairs.

"Never been in no palace b'fore."

"Mansion," Cranston corrects.

"Only the nobility live in palaces, and there are none here.

"Even though Randy is the monarch of all he surveys."

"Like a king, right?"

"Exactly."

"And other women live here?"

"Not, not at the moment.

"For now, you are the mistress of the house."

"Mistress?"

"Certainly. The reigning female, if only by default."

"Oh. Fer a minute there, I thought you meant— something else."

"Such as?

"Oh, here we are. Your room."

"Wow! Place like this, I could be a mistress, just like in them romance novels!"

"A veritable paperback princess, eh?" Cranston chuckles.

"Girls down home used ta read them things all the time.

"Pass ‘em around I school ‘til they plumb fell apart.

"An this, this place is just like one of them great houses we were always readin' about."

"And did they... inspire you?"

"I don't think I could ever do what some of them girls in them books did."

"Oh? Too shy? Too modest?"

"No. Leastways, I don't think so.

"Ain't that s'much as ‘tis the things that drove ‘em, which I just don't understand.

"Blindin' ambition, urgent desire an suchlike."

"I hope you'll not be offended, uh, Daisy, but may I ask if you've ever been... with a man."

"Oh now, don't choo fret none about that, Cranston!

"Cain't hardly be raised on no farm the way I was ‘thout some knowledge of the birds an the bees rubbin' off."

"Ah, yes.

"But the question is, what did you do about it? After all, as you say, urgent desire as a concept eludes you."

She smiles knowingly.

"Desire, yes; curiosity, well, that there's a horse of a different color, ain't it now?"

"Indeed.

"And I am delighted to hear you say that."

"Why is that?"

"May I speak frankly?"

"Go ‘haid. Aft'all, you got me this, this—"

"Position."

"Right. I was just gonna say that."

"Randy is still single and not getting any younger, Daisy."

"An he's not, uh, seem anybody at the moment?"

"Exactly.

"Listen. What you said before about ambition, do you really not understand it?"

"Well now, it's not lack of understandin' so much as it is—was—the way it just didn't apply back then."

"I thought as much.

"But here, now, looking around you, wouldn't you like to be more than just the gardener?

"Don't you see an opportunity here?"

She looks at him a long moment.

"Should I?" she asks.

"That depends. How far would you be willing to go to become mistress of the Estate in more than the mere default sense?

"And before you answer, think about Randy, about this place, and how you'd feel if, say, another woman were to appear, a woman closer to Randy in wealth, in age, in social status?

"Oh, you need not say anything to me.

"But think that over.

"Think about how... unnecessary such a development would be.

"Especially if you've got what it takes and you know how to use it.

"As the song goes, the birds and the bees do it, and for a lot less by way of reward than you could, if you play your cards right."

"And, uh, you'll help me?"

"Certainly."

"Why?"

He shrugs.

"Self interest, ultimately, I suppose.

"Things are going very well with Buck Enterprises.

"The last thing Randy needs is to have some scheming harridan appear on the scene and ruin his life, turning everything upside down."

"I wouldn't do that."

"I know you wouldn't. That's exactly why I think you'd be so good for him.

"Give him the things a man wants and needs from a woman and not ask to see the financial statements or the bank books, except, of course, for your own account, which you could certainly rely upon him to keep well stocked.

"Think you could do that?

"Think you could take such good care of Randy that he wouldn't be tempted to look elsewhere?"

"This is all comin' a mite fast at me.

"Never thought of anythin' like this ‘fore this very instant."

"Tell you what.

"You get unpacked, get settled in, take a look out at the garden shed, the garden plot, see what's needed, and I'll have Eric run you over to the nursery to get whatever you need.

"I'll also give you an advance so you can get yourself some clothes and whatever else you personally require.

"Eric takes care of the laundry, we have a housekeeper for meals and ordinary housework, a landscaping service for the grounds.

"You can use the pool, the gym in the basement—all the facilities.

"And don't forget to call your folks."

"Gonna do that right now.

"And Cranston?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks. Thanks for ever'thang."

"Amazing," Cynthia muses.

"You see these aerial photographs?"

"Sure did," Nancy replies.

"And that cleared rectangle is either about to become a garden or it's one big case of overkill on the pretence."

"I agree. Can it be that Buck has turned over a new leaf?"

She looks at Nancy and Vanessa.

"Nah!" the three of them chorus. And laugh, briefly.

"And that's the girl, right?"

"Looks like. And right next to her is Cranston, pointing at something."

"Right. I'd know that bald spot anywhere."

"That was yesterday afternoon," Vanessa observes.

"And this one—" handing her another large photograph, "is from this morning."

And there is Daisy, laying out bags of fertilizer, hoe and spade and two kinds of rake laid out, ready.

And there, on a chaise, Buck himself, sitting there, watching her.

"Looks like he's gonna take it stow and easy with her," Cynthia says.

"I'd say so," Vanessa concurs.

"That, or he wants to actually get a garden put in before he moves on to fun and games.

"Check this afternoon's photo."

There are definite rows, regular furrows running this way and that, a kind of miniature landscape of a full-scale farm.

There are plants beside stakes over about a fourth of the plot, obviously an optimistic view of a tomato planting.

And there is Daisy, barefoot, wearing shorts and a halter as she uses a large sprinkling can.

The chaise, on the patio beside the plot, is empty.

"So far, so good," Cynthia says.

"All we can do is to wait for the other shoe to drop," Vanessa says.

"Wait and watch," Cynthia agrees.

"At least," Nancy says, "he's limiting his focus to a single victim, this time."

"Mmmm, I doubt that," Vanessa says.

"More likely, he's establishing a pattern.

"This girl and the situation he's putting her in could be a prototype.

"If it works, if it gives him the kicks he's looking for, we can look forward to a parade of others just like her, way I see it."

"Which," Cynthia appends, every inch the Baroness now, "is precisely what must not be allowed to happen.

"I'm half tempted to call Captain Reynolds over at the state police barracks right now."

"And tell him what, Cynthia?" Vanessa asks.

"That Randy Buck has went and hired himself a gardener?

"Granted, Reynolds is no friend of Buck's, not after pulling off that rescue mission of the three of us from the Estate, but really, just what do you think he can do about your suspicions?"

"Not a damned thing," Cynthia sighs.

And Nancy too sighs.

Thinking, Here we go. again.

Because it is only a matter of time before the three of them will once more have to go into action against Randy Buck.

Meaning, once again, that they will have to risk life and limb in order to undo his latest plot, as opposed to hitting at the obvious root of the problem.

Risking her life, all their lives, merely to treat a symptom, rather than curing the disease.

And there is nothing she can do about it.

Because Nancy is committed to Cynthia, no matter where that commitment leads her.

Which seems, invariably, to be into the utmost danger.

*****

By the pool.

And Daisy looks fetching indeed, in her string bikini.

Randy Buck comes out to the pool as well, clad only in a terrycloth robe and sunglasses.

He watches her for a while, now swimming with strong, even strokes, now jack-knifing gracefully from the low board, which rattles as she leaves it, making a triangle of herself before straightening out and torpedoing smoothly into the water.

"Water's great!" she says to Randy, dr****g herself on the edge of the pool, head floating on crossed arms, smiling at him.

"Take off your bikini," he suggests.

"You'll be more comfortable that way.

"Besides, I don't like to skinny dip alone." And he stands up, removing his robe.

"See?" he says, pointing to himself.

"No tan lines. Better that way."

She shrugs.

And hoists herself up on the edge of the pool.

And removes her top, then her bottom, revealing large, doorbell-like pink nipples on top, a thick chestnut triangle down below.

But, as though to cover herself, she dives from the side into the pool at once.

And Buck is right in there after her. The pool scene, just like in one of those paperback romances, she thinks.

Except that Buck seems to be ignoring her, intent on doing laps, as though he is on a regular exercise program of some kind.

Daisy has never considered herself forward or (to use the word in the novels) wanton, but still, a naked woman, a naked man, a beautiful day, a secluded pool—and nothing?

It can't be me, she thinks, it's got to be him. He needs a little encouragement, a little more inspiration, is all.

Because Cranston was right.

The more she thought about it, the less she liked the idea of another woman coming here, coming into Buck's life.

And it's not, she tells herself, that she is one of those viciously ambitious villainesses from a romance novel, but a matter of convenience, of practicality, of an opportunity begging for the taking.

In short, the there-ness of him, of her.

That, and the isolation.

So that for her to leave this chance go would be a waste.

Waste not, want not, she has always heard said.

And truer words were never spoken, their meaning never more clear, than at this moment.

No doubt, no question.

So that now, she joins him, swimming his laps side by side, matching him stroke for stroke, choreographing her actions to his own.

And we're man and woman, together, alone, and naked, naked, naked! she beams at him with powerful thought waves.

The shallow end.

And he stops.

And, therefore, so does she.

And they stand up, her large breasts high and paperback magnificent, heaving slightly with the exertion of the swim, as is his big, beefy chest.

They look at one another, she with her arms loose at her sides, he with his hands on his hips.

And suddenly, as though drawn by a mutual magnetism, paperback romance style, she is in his arms.

And he is covering her face and mouth and throat with his ardent kisses.

But there is nothing paperback romantic about the thick bar of meat which rises heavily, the plum of the head climbing her stomach until the eye stares upward, large and ruddy, the mighty organ sandwiched between their bodies.

And now, he breaks away from her, leading her by the hand up the steps, out of the water, over to the heavy, redwood chaise, covered with padding and a towel.

And she closes her eyes and allows him to lower her on her back until she is lying there.

And her legs are spread and raised, bent at the knees, as she lets her body assume the position, almost by reflex, as she used to do with her farm boy schoolmates out of curiosity.

Nor is her longing for Buck that of raw, sexual desire.

Because there is here too a note of curiosity.

Will he be the same as the boys down home?

That, and a touch of pretense, of being the actress, playing the role of temptress and vamp to the wealthy, older plantation owner.

As though she is configuring her body to flush out, to complete the soft porn allusions in the paperback novels.

So that her action is not even so much personal or individual as archetypal, the fulfillment of the patterned action, the detailing of the stereotyped sexual encounter.

In which a thick, crude, artless piece of tumescent meat ploughs her snatch.

No such words will be found in the romances, true.

No such action will be undertaken in such intimate detail, true.

But this is interpretation, an expounding, an insight and an understanding, an amplification of the romances, in short, not what they say but what they mean when they say it.

So she chooses to believe, and she does not think herself in any way incorrect.

And surely the thrills given, the thrills received bear her out.

Surely this is the feeling, the complex of sensations which will carry the day, which will prove the essential feature and the factor which sways the balance, which achieves the objectives of the temptress.

Because she sees his face flushed, his chest muscles reddened as well.

And those are not beads of pool water but of sex sweat on his forehead now.

And the scowling of his eyebrows is not that of anger but of intense concentration, of absorbtion of the flood of sexual electricity he is generating as his thick, vibrant cock lunges and plunges, pistoning in and out of her drooling, responding, hot pussy.

And yes, there can be no question, now, but that he wants her.

Her, her, her!

He is losing himself in her, drowning himself in her, giving himself to her completely.

He is, in a very physical, quite literal sense, hers.

She is the captor of his body and the queen of his soul, the object of his heart's desiring.

No question in her mind about this.

But she does not see inside his mind.

She does not see herself in black mesh stockings and high heels, hooded and corseted in black leather, bound hand and foot, helplessly spreadeagled in elaborate bindings of ropes and chains.

She does not see herself in mortal peril. She does not see in his (ticking of her the act of a powerful and fiendish villain, merely part of his extensive program of exquisite torture.

No, in her mind, she is free, free, free, more free than she has ever been.

Free of grinding poverty, of fruitless, unrewarding toil in the soil, of endless, hopeless, futile chores.

And she has won this freedom with her young, voluptuous body.

She has won it by capturing the heart of this tycoon.

And does not know, does not have a shadow of a suspicion that it is she who is the captive here, and not as one captivates a loved one, but as one corners, entraps a victim, with the attitude of a hunter toward game, of the carnivore toward its prey. .

Yes, he has her, his powerful body ruling her, controlling her as she, terrified and helpless in his implacable clutches, screams in heart-stopping fright and begs hysterically for mercy.

And this, this open air and sunshine bout of lovemaking, this also is part of it, part of the plan.

Because he can be clever, subtle, deceptive, when he must, when it suits him.

And this girl?

She is a trophy, a prize, a pelt, an achievement, a number.

One more example, living (for the moment) proof of the fact that he himself is alive, that this is reality, that he is capable and more than capable of acting, of imposing his will on the stuff of reality, of capturing, isolating, possessing for himself alone a prime example of nature's bounty.

And of proving that he rules existence itself.

Because there is no question here but that she is his to do with as he will.

There is nothing, nothing, nothing between them.

She is lost to him and no power on earth can save her.

Take that! And that! And that!

Thus does he shout at her in his mind, with each powerful, vicious thrust of his mighty, his unstoppable prick.

He is beating at her with it, the battering ram of his cock head beating down her defenses, destroying them, turning her into a mass of helpless flesh before the onslaught of his vitality.

Strength and strength and strength he has. And he does not want, does not need her love or even her permission.

He is that which rules, that which controls, that which owns without condition or hindrance.

His is the power of life and death, his the ability to render that which is alive and beautiful into nothingness, the ultimate act of possession.

And he despises her for her foolishness, her helplessness.

*****

"So," Cynthia says, looking at the blown up photograph, "it begins."

Nancy, looking over Cynthia's shoulder, shrugs.

"Looks like a regular hump to me," she says.

"Don't you believe it, k**do, not for one second.

"Right, Vanessa?"

"Right.

"We have here the sicko in Phase One of his nasty little plan.

"The mental trip.

"Right now, he's all ‘night-before-Christmassy'.

"Only believe me, it's not visions of sugarplums dancing in his head.

"I've got no sympathy for the creep, but I do understand what drives him.

"Been known to suffer from a touch of it myself, from time to time.

"Know what drives him, Nancy?

"Know what makes him do what he does?

"Know who he's actually attacking in his mind?

"Himself!"

"That's right! He sees in the other his own powerlessness, his own helplessness, his own fear and terror, reflected in his victim.

"He fears weakness in himself.

"He fears his own mortality, the end of his own life.

"And his fiendish acts are ceremonies, laying on of hands to a scapegoat, acts of exorcism to expel, not the demons within, but the mortality, the humanity, all the properties which render him man rather than God, man rather than even superman.

"And it is with him always, never leaving him, his fiendishness.

"Other men climax and relax, happy, contented, the memory of the pleasure beyond pleasure fresh within them.

"Not our boy Randy; no indeed.

"Each climax of his is a little death.

"It is impotence, however temporary, reasserting itself.

"So that the danger to his victims do not end with his climax. Rather, that merely intensifies it.

"Not I but you will die, bitch!

"I will go on and on forever!

"And never doubt for an instant but that that was exactly what was running through his sick mind, even when this picture was taken."

Chapter Four

Strange, Daisy thinks, that no sooner does he climax than Randy Buck is out of her and into the pool, swimming laps as though they had not just made love, ignoring her completely.

Maybe, she thinks, he knows.

Still, she has gotten him off.

And herself as well, even though she does not "love" him, does not, in the rutting, bitch-in-heat sense, desire him.

Wealthy, older man, young, beautiful girl with nothing, the theme was there, is here.

Traditional, acc