Unknown - Driving Daisy Crazy

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, kiddo, 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."

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, acceptable, a trifle trite, perhaps, but they are doing it, are playing their roles properly.

So that, certainly, he has no complaint. Nor, for that matter, does she. Even though such a non sequitur as his unplugging and waxing suddenly athletic has no place, and certainly no equivalent, in all her paperback romance experience.

She wonders if, perhaps, she should join him.

No.

She thinks not. Monkey see, monkey do is not good form for an ingenue such as herself.

Rather, she will leave him to his laps, leave him with her image, the one he had the hots for minutes ago.

On balance, she is rather pleased with the situation, pleased still more with herself.

Because they did it.

The significant deed is now accomplished fact.

It is written into the record of reality.

It was and is and cannot be undone; it happened.

She puts her bikini back on.

And passes Eric on his way out the sliding door and onto the pool apron.

She does not like Eric, with his white, white skin and hairless head and dark glasses which he never removes, day or night, inside or out.

She does not like his black uniform, or rather, uniforms, since he could not possibly wear the same one, day in and day out.

Above all, she does not like the way he looks at her from behind his opaque lenses, looks and never, never speaks, to her at least.

He and Cranston constantly have their heads together, however, and there are two voices involved in coordinated mumbling when they do.

But she is not paranoid and is not worried that they are talking about her.

As for Cranston, she sees no need to go out of her way to be friendly to the colorless clerical type.

True, he offered to "help" her, but, with what just happened, she no longer requires him, for other than technical, operational, logistical assistance.