NOTE- Not my book, but growing up I used to see these naughty image books on my uncle's used book door shelves and couldn't wait for him to drink himself silly so I could read them. Many had incestuous and or under aged themes. I apologize in advance if the author who would have wrote this in the 50's 0r 60's suggest those themes.
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 ëhow 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 sqó"
"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 indeedótanned, fit, radiating contentment."
"Uh-oh," Nancy drawls.
"Well put, kiddo.
"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 ëit' 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. ï
Randy Buck, owner of a football team, a baseball team, a health club franchise operation, and a string of gourmet restaurants, is rich, powerfulóand 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 kidnapping 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 kidnapping 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 stockingsóin 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 themówhat 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 policeónever 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 whoó"
"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.
Thereforeó
"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.
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.
NOTE- Wrote this years ago and just thought I'd share here. Sometimes when you write down your fantasies they lose their strength and or lust but this story kept growing in my mind so I penned it. Not into incest at all but have always been into bawdy, lewd tales for some reason. Not much of a voyeur but love to hear girl's and sometimes guy's (too many lies) first times and naughty adventures. As a director I love talking to the new models about their life and sexuality. Always amazed how they learned about sex and what turns them on. Enjoy!