Unknown - Driving Daisy Crazy

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 animalistic 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.