Unknown: Driving Daisy Crazy

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 abduction.

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.

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.