The voluptuous young blonde stirred restlessly on the rumpled guest bed. Her eyes fluttered open and fought with the darkness that permeated the thick stale aura of the sumptuous room. Strange odors wafted through her nostrils, causing her brow to wrinkle slightly as though in deep concentrated thought. Her tongue circled her lips, tasting the slight pungency of a sticky moistness around them.
Her eyes adjusted quizzically to the darkness and followed her form lying on the bed below. It was a strange position, she thought to herself through the haze that still dimmed her half-sleep filled mind. Her negligee was bunched almost around her neck and she could see the twin peaks of her breasts lying loosely and her legs spread wide apart as though an invitation to some phantom lover standing at the foot of her bed.
After a moment it came to her through the dimness. The dream! The horrid, wretched nightmare which had seemed to be so real – but couldn't have been. The vividness of it began to run through her mind as though she was watching a slightly out of focus motion picture.
Strangely, it wasn't just her mind and soul which ached; her body was painful as well. She smoothed her hands carefully up to her breasts, cupping them gently in guarded exploration. Ohh, she moaned, they were tender. Her hands explored farther, coursing their way down over her stomach to her still open thighs. She groaned again as her fingers touched tenderly the slight bruises lining the soft edges of her vagina. Her finger probed carefully around the pink sensitive opening, the tips becoming moist from the sticky fluid that oozed visciously from it, wetting the split of her buttocks and the bed beneath.
What had happened to her? Had she done all this to herself? Had she gone to bed and dreamed first of others embracing carnality and then of a secret, shadow form tasting every part of her own being? It had seemed so real…
Lena and Mark. Rolling and panting and gasping on the living room rug in the wild frenzy of their sensual tensions. Yes, it had seemed real, but it was only an extension of her imagination; it had to be, for certainty a lady like Mrs. Alvaro would never allow untoward advances by a man other than her husband, and certainly not in front of another woman! The whole situation had risen out of some dark, evil cesspool of her sub-conscious, Sharon decided, and she blushed with shame at how she had mentally imagined the two friends of hers making love.
And the other, the dream of her husband visiting her and doing things to her body that she would never allow him to in actuality. She had dreamed before, had masturbated as all normal people do when frustrated sexually, but never like this! She had never gone to such an extreme even in her wildest moments of desire. Could her own hands have probed so deep into her stomach and left this hot pool that seemed to be lodged there now? Could they have made her gush forth so many times in climax to soak the bed in the way it was now? It had to be; there was no other logical explanation. She had gone completely out of her mind in her dream and had fondled her own vagina and breasts to the point of making her desires seem real. She had done these things to her own body, and her body had reacted like an animal in heat.
She slowly pushed her feet around and put them down. The fibers of the bedroom carpet felt good between her toes. She stood and looked back at the rumpled bed. Well, she thought as her eyes saw the large round wet spot where her buttocks had lain, I really had myself a time. I guess there's no need to cry over spilt milk; I did it and I can't change the past. After all, it was only a dream, and I shouldn't feel ashamed over something I couldn't control.
The warm spray of the shower felt good cascading down over her body. She washed carefully the insides of her thighs and buttocks, almost reluctant to wash away the sticky still-warm fluid from her soft, pubic hair. As her fingers moved up and down the warmth of the narrow slit between her legs, cleansing it of the viscous fluid, the vision of Neal's shadowy face mashed tightly between her wide, yawning thighs seethed through her still fermenting mind. Her middle finger duplicated his lashing tongue that had flicked so maddenly at her cunt lips and erect bud of clitoris nerves. She leaned back against the wall and let the needles of spray beat against her breasts and raise her nipples to rock shard of excitement. She could feel her breasts harden, grow turgid with the blood of sexual heat, and her finger went a little faster, teasing her clitoris, then kneading the miniature phallus between her thumb and forefinger, and grazing the inside of her sensitive, abused vagina with her middle finger, stroking in and out, in and…
No! The pretty, blonde young woman steeled herself, stopping herself from what she thought was a repetition of not so long ago in bed. It took all her strength to withdraw her trembling, probing fingers from down between her legs and turn off the shower.
The feeling of guilt returned as she briskly toweled herself dry with a large fluffy Jaquard. Enough is enough! She couldn't be spending day and night playing with herself not just because a couple of weird, excitingly erotic dreams had turned her on. She wasn't a nymphomaniac, for heaven's sake – but it was apparent that she needed her husband's long, stroking penis badly.
She combed out her long, silky blonde hair before the mirror, letting it drape loosely over her still taut breasts, and smiling wantonly as one sweet pink nipple peeked coyly out of the strands in the reflection of the looking glass. "Mmmmm," she said to herself as she turned and opened the closet to select her clothing. She was going to be primed and ready when Neal did return all right; maybe after the way she had reacted to oral loving in her dream, she would allow him to try it on her in actuality and see if it felt as good as she thought it had last night!
She picked out a simple pair of culottes to wear, a satiny but warm covering in a colorful paisley print. She slipped on a white bra which lifted her breasts and gave them support, but kept their creamy smooth upper portion bare; she preferred her bras like this, for they were more comfortable on her full figure. Bikini panties were all the rage, and she selected a matching white pair that barely covered her pubic mound and curly blonde hair, but she had tight buttocks that were just right for the skimpy brief. Then the culottes, and she zipped up the one-piece pantsuit with the large gold zipper which ran from her pubic triangle to neck. There was a large gold ring in the zipper fastener, which made the effect provocative. After all, she wanted to dress well after her self-inflicted orgy.
The house was quiet. Incredibly quiet, the way only a large, deserted enclosure can be. The stillness almost had a sound to it, a muffled heaviness which almost hung oppressively, mysteriously, and not at all with a sense of comfort about it. Sharon Court slipped out of her room barefoot and padded down the long narrow, shadowy hall toward the stairs. She recalled the fleeting and misty dream of running down this same hall last night, running blindly with horror at her heels, terror behind her and closing in fast.
How silly! Now, in the early morning hours, with only the faint rays of the violet dawn rolling across the heathered moors and seeping through the draped, arched windows, everything was normal. Quiet, but normal. She took her time, studying the large portraits on the walls, checking the little plaques nailed to the ornate gilt frames to see who the ancestors were that once lived in stately Marlowe Manor. She was dutifully impressed, as many an American is when faced with traditions dating back nearly six hundred years.
There was Archibald Marlowe, a lean and gruff old man in court clothes of Edward the First, who had given the Marlowes the land grant. And Heronimous Clydesdale Marlowe, who had been thrown in prison and nearly beheaded by Cromwell with King Charles; and Mortimore Marlowe, who sailed with Nelson, and died in Egypt of some plague; the family Grand-dame, Lucrecia Heliotrope Marlowe, who had married into the family, outlived her husband, Antipeter, and who later amassed the great fortune which still was the basis of the wealth today; the twins Danial Jerome and Steven Milton Marlowe, who had both joined the Hell-Fire Club, of which Sharon was unfamiliar, and later went to the Colonies to seek their fortunes… They were all there, proud and haughty. Mark Marlowe, with his dark good looks and suave bearing was indeed a fine heir to the traditions and lineage of the great Marlowe name.
Sharon paused beside the carved oak banister, and looked down the wide sweep of the stairs, down the wide marble landing and the archway leading to the dining room and the broad library beyond. The young innocent wife frowned slightly. She recalled the dinner, the tremendous, almost sybaritic feast clearly. And the lazy complacency afterwards as she sat in the library and listened to Mark talk politics, and the soothing effects of his modulated speech and the Grand Marnier… then what? How had she gotten to her room? Certainly not by the means she had dreamed; that was impossible to conclude in the light of day. She shook her head. It had all been too confusing. Perhaps she had fallen asleep or become drunk and was led upstairs, comatose.
She would ask Lena later, if the opportunity arose. She descended the stairs, intent of forgetting her troubled night and on seeing what the rest of the Marlowe estate was like.
She wound her way through the many rooms, not hearing a sound except an occasional creaking of old wood resettling after the night coldness. She wound herself eventually outside, on the wide marble back verandah with its colonnade of stoneware and ivy, and the shallow three steps which led to an English formal garden of box hedges and grass and flower beds. She walked down and started among the hedges; the dew watered her toes and the close-cropped spongy grass tickled the bottoms of her bare feet. She meandered, letting a contentment flow around her as the preceding events which had so upset her faded in their importance. She thought a couple of times about Lena and Mark and yes, even the dwarf Wafto, but in the solitude of the garden she was happy to be alone for awhile, and really wasn't concerned that they weren't up and about yet.
If she had but known where the three of them were, the young wife would surely have been horrified. In the master bedroom, which was at the end of the long second-floor hall, in the opposite wing to Sharon Court's bedroom, the three lewd plotters lay exhausted. The night had been long, their games together rituals of pagan lust and perversion, and they were spent of energy and desire.
Mark Marlowe lay on the round, scarlet-coverlet, bed. He was naked, as the other two were, and he was propped up against the headboard, his legs spread wide, his penis limp and glistening against his testicles. Lying next to him was the similarly pleased Lena. She was on her side, propped up on one elbow, her black hair draped over the pillow, her eyes and nose level with Mark's genitals. Her other hand rested on his knee and her fingers toyed with his penis, trying to make him hard once more. Already the collected pools of cum from many orgasms by both Wafto and the head of Marlowe Manor lay in her vagina… but there was always room for more. Lena was a lustful, insatiable woman; she would have had it no other way.
Wafto was standing by the window. He had pulled the heavy crimson drapes aside partially to let in the morning sun, and he smiled as he looked out of the wavy, hand-blown glass of the small panes, out upon the formal garden beneath. He said: "It's morning. Do you want coffee or breakfast?"
"I'm full," Lena replied. "I'm full of you and Mark."
Mark chuckled lewdly. "I see you're still hungry, my dear. Let me rest a few minutes, and then we'll see if I can satisfy you for a little while longer."
"It's good to have you with us again, Mrs. Alvaro," the obsequious hunch-back servant said, his knobby back still to them. "We always have so much fun together. When does your husband arrive?"
"Day after tomorrow. And he'll bring along that handsome man, Neal Court. I hope by that time, we'll have transformed his pretty little innocent wife into a hot raving little piece of tail."
"Have no fear. After last night…" Again Marlowe chuckled. "The way she ran from us she looked as though her fanny was on fire."
"Don't laugh," Lena warned. "Perhaps you were wrong and she didn't get enough marijuana. Perhaps she will remember enough this morning to know it wasn't some dream but that it actually happened. Then we will lose her, her and that luscious man of hers." Her mouth trembled and a moistness formed around her lips with the sheen of anticipation. "I bet he'll be good in bed; I can't wait to find out."
The ugly, toad-like drawf turned his head slightly and leered over his deformed shoulder at the luscious woman sprawled on the rumpled round bed. "She was completely out of it, Mrs. Alvaro. If the marijuana she smoked wasn't enough, I can assure you that the potion in her Sherry did the trick."
"It had to be for her to let you fuck her," Mark said. "And kiss her cunt and put your overgrown cock into her mouth. Goddamn, I wish I'd been there to watch!"
"Watch? Hell, you'd have joined right in, you sadistic beast." The glitter in Lena's eyes told all; she, too, would have been party to the actual rapine perversions that had been performed on the naive Mrs. Court. Would have been – and was planning to just as soon as possible.
"What is the next move in our plan, Master?" Wafto asked, turning back to the window, moving the drapes a little more so he could view the expanse of moors and the gardens. "We have to move fast if we are to have her at our mercy in two days."
"Anxious to have another go at her, aren't you, my little fiend," Mark chortled and shifted his body so that his hardening prick could be better attended to by the teasing hand of the black-haired harlot beside him. "Ahh, that's it, Lena. More, more. Suck it, if you like." Lena Alvaro dipped her head and slipped her lips over his turgid penis, licking his great shaft and its head with her tongue. Mark said: "To answer you, Wafto, it depends on how Mrs. Court reacts to everything that happened to her. She's a sexy little girl, she is, so that I think her reaction will be."
"She's outside," the dwarf interrupted in an excited voice. "She's wandering through the back and… and she's heading for the hut!"
"We must stop her!" Lena said, jerking upright.
"No, let her see the little surprise in the hut." Mark Marlowe's eyes filmed over with the image of the lusting perversions which awaited the blonde wife. "It won't be long before she'll be formally introduced." He thought that was funny and laughed loudly. "Until she becomes old and close friends."
"She's almost there…" Wafto clutched the curtains with excitement.
"Lena get dressed and go downstairs," Mark instructed.
"To stop her?"
"No, I said that I want her to go in. If she's near the hut and doesn't decide to see what's inside, then get her to. And if she does on her own, then I want you to be ready to comfort her. She'll need comforting after the shock she's going to get, and you're just the one for that."
"And then?" Lena was breathless with anticipation of what was to come. "And… and then what?"
"Bring her to the living room." The evil Lord of Marlowe Manor grinned sardonically, his face lined with the effects of his debauchery. "No; better yet, bring her to my study. Wafto, prepare more of the Sherry. We want to be ready when the poor young Mrs. Court begins to comprehend what is happening."
And with that Marlowe once again began to laugh diabolically, and he was joined by the throated purring of Lena Alvaro and the high hysterical tittering of the gnarled dwarf.
Sharon Court looked back once. The high green hedges were like a natural barricade between her and the mansion; she could see the monster house of stone loom over her, but the long porch and most of the first floor were hidden from view. She thought she saw the curtains in a window on the second flood move, as if rustling in the morning breeze. But there wasn't any wind, nothing stirred except perhaps the curtain. From somewhere out on the endless moors came soft, distant calling of sheep, and once there was the bark of a dog, then nothing. She turned around and continued her way through the winding paths, pleasantly pleased by the well tended circular beds of flowers, at the stone benches held up by stone lions and gryfons, at the gazeboes that were in different niches at the corners…
The main path, bordered by thin, almost wispy trees, seemed to lead in a round-about fashion to the left hand corner of the garden. Up ahead she could see the old mortised brick wall that was mostly covered with ivy that bordered the garden, setting it apart from the purple and black table that was the moor… she turned the last corner and spied a tall round building made of stone.
It was one of the oddest small buildings Mrs. Court had ever seen. It looked older than the ancient house, its stone work rough-hewn and crumbling at the corners, as if the prehistoric Druids had fashioned it crudely as some enclosed place of dark worship. Ivy, the broad-leave English variety, and moss grew on it, but unlike the healthy and bright, deep greenness of the plants among the garden wall, the gnarled and twisted branches of the growth on the building were blighted and a sick brown, and the leaves seemed to curl inward and wilt, and the moss was sparse and burnt-looking. Moreover, while the garden wall was covered from top to bottom, the lushness spilling over its top like zealous escapees, the ivy and moss finally gave up after no more than six feet in height along the building's surface, as though there was something in the stone which prevented and stunted what lay upon it.
The small house was circular, like a cistern or guardhouse, or a turret of some medieval castle, with a tall peaked roof made of some undefinable thatch or thin shingle. The only windows were small slits, the type which widened out on the inside on an angle so that archers and other defenders could operate behind cover, and what little area was exposed was barred with thick iron scrollwork. The wrought iron had once been blackened; now it was rusty and pitted, and where it was fastened to the wall by great bolts, the stone was stained with orange-yellow streaks.
The building made Sharon Court falter for a minute, hold her breath, for somehow its very existence ruined the placid morning, caused a great chill to travel her spine and dig at the pit of her stomach. Yet there was a fascination to it; a spell-binding intrigue about why it was there, what it was for, the secrets of its interior. She hesitated, put one dainty foot forward as though testing the path that lead around it, as though the round stone house might have a way of stopping an intruder from interrupting its gloomy loneliness.
Then she smiled. This was no way to be, she chastised herself. After all, there is nothing there to harm me, no hidden mystery that could make trouble if I came closer. Get hold of yourself, silly goose! Your imagination is running rampant, just as it had last night… and you know what that caused!
Her morale boosted by her pep talk, Sharon continued. She came right up to the building and felt the cold, clammy exterior, laughed as indeed, nothing did happen to her, that she wasn't struck down. She walked along the path; it curved around and the grass faded away as the ivy had, and flinty gravel made her feet hurt. She considered whether she should go back.
And then she saw the door. It was set well in an arch of capped stone, shadows making it look heavier and blacker than it actually was. It was of old, hewn oak, sections the size of house beams welded together by bands and studs of thick metal, and hinges monstrous in size cemented to the wall and attached to the door with long, spear-like extensions. There was a large ring for the handle, and below it a key-hole that looked as if it was part of a lock rugged enough to withstand the most ardent assault. Hanging on a peg set in the stone was a key, an old-fashioned one with a long shank and involved looking head.
Should she? Her heart hammered at her breast, and there seemed to be a constriction in her lungs. A quick peek… the curiosity was almost too much for Sharon Court to bear! Who would know if she took down the key, fit it in the antique lock and opened the door.
She turned away. No, that would be prying. Anyway, it was probably no more than a garden shed for the tools and equipment used in tending the garden. That's all there was inside… or was it? She stopped and looked back at the door. It seemed to beckon her, to invite her to investigate the dark depths of its insides. And yet the rest of the building let off the distinct impression of alienness, of rejection. The tall, blonde woman shuddered at the deliciously enervating ambivalence of her feelings. It was all in her mind, of course…
She started back toward the mansion. She'd ask Mark what the stone hut was used for, and perhaps he would take her to it. But she knew that wouldn't be really the way of resolving the romantic involvement she had started with the house; no, she would have to conquer her own curiosity and imagination and go back and see. Nobody was around, nobody would know, and the whole idea of it was like something she had read as a little girl, like The Secret Garden, or The Wizard of Oz. She wasn't so old as to have lost all of her kittenish ways.
She ran to the hut, her mind resolved to do the forbidden. Down came the key! She fit the key into the mortised lock and jiggled it around, waiting for the latch to trip. There was a loud "Click!" and she leaned against the ring and shoved against the door. The door protested with a loud squeal of hinges.
The interior was dark. It was also dank and smelled oddly of old straw and dry-rot, but the floor was of packed earth and there wasn't any wood to be seen other than the door. She licked her lips nervously and opened the door wider. The morning sun fell across the floor in a wide shaft, highlighting the empty, barren area in front of the door. A spider scurried across the wall, frightened by the sudden light. Sharon stepped inside and peeked; the gloom was thick and cloying like a gray muslin sheet and she could not see farther than the light no matter how hard she squinted. She let the door swing wide then, letting as much light as she could invade the inky dungeon atmosphere.
Then she saw a plain, plank table. On it were a stack of magazines and a large enameled bowl that was curiously filled with fruit. She could see a couple of apples, some oranges, and if her eyes weren't deceiving her, a bunch of bananas behind it. Frowning, her curiosity peaked to its fullest, Sharon stepped to the table. What on earth would a bowl of fruit and magazines be doing in a place like this? She picked up one of the magazines. The magazines were digest sized, with plain brown covers. She held some up to the light. Across the covers was the title: Climax Illustrated, and then different volume numbers. She thumbed through volume seven, at first only mildly interested, and then in sudden revulsion she dropped the little booklet and put her hands across her mouth in disbelief.
The booklet fell open on the table. What she saw was now before her in twice the blazing colors – a two-page spread in full clear tones and exact detail of three men and two women together on an immense double bed. The five persons were naked and what they were doing to one another sent ripples of further revulsion traveling up her back. The man on the extreme left was lying with his huge penis in the foreground at full erection. Straddling it with an expression of pure ecstasy was a large, well-built Negro woman, her vagina and breasts in full display, a black satin Goddess enjoying lusty human pursuits. Besides the couple was another; only the girl was on her fours like an animal. She was blonde and fair, and looked more than a little like Sharon, although more Scandinavian in features. Standing at the side of the bed was a Negro man, his muscles etched across his body, and his black curly pubic hair nearly impossible to see against his burnished prune colored body. His cock made a wonderful contrast of color as it penetrated the golden fleece of the girl's upturned pubic area, slid between her spread buttock cheeks and nestled home in her pink-rimmed vagina. And as if that wasn't enough to glaze the eyes of the distraught young wife who looked at them, there was a third man who was kneeling in front of the white woman. His tremendous cock, in horizontal rigidity was at the lips and mouth of the girl, its bulbous red glans, so glaringly in focus, rested on the outstretched tongue of the girl. Her lips were pulled back as if supplicating for its full length to be slid into her hungry mouth…
And then, before even the wretchedness of what she was viewing settled in her shattered mind, Sharon heard something rustle behind her! For one terrified moment she stiffened; it was as if her whole body was of chipped ice, an immobile statue. Then there was a louder scraping sound, a heavy, regulated breathing. She whirled around, and screamed.
There, dimly visible in the light, loomed a monster! A thick animal, a stout beast terribly hairy. It wasn't as tall as she was, and it was hunched over, its muscular arms dragged on the dirt, its knuckles making noises.
An ape!
Sharon stumbled backwards, every fiber in her body in turmoil as the ugly creature studied her with small, very dark eyes. Its rubbery lips parted and it sniffed the air, making the same snuffing sound as she had heard before, and then it stood erect. It grunted and panted and tried to close the gap between them, its desire more pronounced than ever. But it couldn't… around its right leg was a tight metal band, and to the band was a thick chain which led into the invisible recesses of the building. For one instant Sharon dared to breathe, for she saw the chain and clamp, and knew that the ape couldn't touch her. She backed against the table, her whole being still in shock, unable to comprehend what to do.
The ape yanked at the chain, its great leathery paws digging at the ground in a vain attempt to free itself, and it seemed to whine with frustration. With the first impact of horror past, Sharon Court also became aware that the ape was not angry or belligerent, but was acting as if it wanted to be friendly. Was looking for affection the way a dog might. She hesitated…
And then she let her vision wander down the thick, shaggy stomach and to the huge dangling, hair-covered shaft of the ape's penis. A male… a fantastically huge male with a penis that seemed to be totally out of proportion to its size, Sharon blushed, though her eyes kept staring at his groin, and then as if in response, the ape's cock began to swell and perk upwards until it no longer hung downward like a third small arm but instead reared upwards in a decided curve.
The ape was excited. It was ready for intercourse… with her! Sharon let out another stifled scream, more of outraged revulsion than terror, and turned and fled from the round little building. She stumbled down the garden path, tears once more stinging her eyes at the thought of what was in the animal mind of the ape. She flung her head back and forth and staggered in blind hysteria…
And almost threw Lena Alvaro down on the ground in her haste to get away. Lena steadied the sobbing wife, putting her arms around her in a show of feminine concern, and even patted her back. Lena knew exactly what kind of experience Sharon had had seconds earlier, though she acted otherwise.
"A… an ape! There's an ape in that… that house back there!" Sharon was uncontrollable and choking on her words.
"For heaven's sake, calm down, Sharon," Lena said in soothing tones as she lied to still the younger woman's fears. "Of course there is. That's only Rajah, though, and he's not really an ape. Only a very harmless, very tame chimp."
"But… but he's so big!" In her mind came the vision of the monster penis, but Sharon couldn't tell her friends that she was thinking of his male member when she said he was so big.
"Chimps normally are around five feet tall, Sharon, and weigh about 130 or so pounds. They're very intelligent, you know, and highly sociable."
"What… what's it doing here?"
"I'll tell you on the way back to the house, Mark is in the study, I believe. He sent me out to look for you." They started along the path, Lena giving the still distraught young wife support. "Mark's father, Christopher Marlowe, brought Rajah home from tropical Africa as a baby chimp. Been part of the family for all these years; Mark played with Rajah as a child. Normally Mark lets the chimpanzee have complete freedom of the garden, and that's why there are such high walls around it. But he thought it best with you coming that he chain the beast up."
"Oh… Oh, I see," sobbed Sharon.
"Anybody would have been frightened at first. You should have been told. Come on, Sharon. We'll go see Mark and have a nice comforting glass of Sherry to calm your nerves. Won't that be nice?"