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
A tale of intrigue and bondage as Daisy finds out to obey and learn to enjoy the ropes, Enjoy!
Chapter Three
"Welcome, welcome, welcome, my dear!"
Randy Buck exclaims, his expression a benign smile, avuncular as he takes both her hands in his.
And Daisy looks at this suntanned bull of a man, with his iron grey crew cut, clad only in a short terrycloth robe, tied loosely at the waist, and rubber sandals.
"You'll pardon my appearance, I hope.
"We're very informal here and I was just sunbathing in the back yard.
"Where," he continues, retaining her hands in his but looking now at Cranston, "I understand we're soon to have a vegetable garden under your expert care and keeping."
"Well, I'm no expert or anything like that," Daisy replies, modestly, but I do have somewhat of a green thumb."
"Then the midwest's loss is my gain," Buck says, affably, releasing her hands.
"I can only hope and pray the nation's agriculture will survive the absence of your services."
"Pardon?"
"Bit of a joke. Never mind.
"Cranston will show you to your quarters.
"And once again, welcome aboard."
"Thank you... oh."
"Something else?"
"Could I call my folks an tell ëem I got here okay an all?
"I kin reverse the charges, ifó"
"That won't be necessary, my dear.
"Help yourself to the phone in your bedroom, anytime you wish.
"Anything else you may require, I can have Eric run you over to the nearest town.
"Run along now.
"I leave you in Cranston's able hands." And Buck leaves them in the grand entrance hall, at the foot of the marble staircase, disappearing into his den to the left.
Daisy looks all around herself, even up at the high, vaulted, ornately coffered ceiling as they ascend the stairs.
"Never been in no palace b'fore."
"Mansion," Cranston corrects.
"Only the nobility live in palaces, and there are none here.
"Even though Randy is the monarch of all he surveys."
"Like a king, right?"
"Exactly."
"And other women live here?"
"Not, not at the moment.
"For now, you are the mistress of the house."
"Mistress?"
"Certainly. The reigning female, if only by default."
"Oh. Fer a minute there, I thought you meantó something else."
"Such as?
"Oh, here we are. Your room."
"Wow! Place like this, I could be a mistress, just like in them romance novels!"
"A veritable paperback princess, eh?" Cranston chuckles.
"Girls down home used ta read them things all the time.
"Pass ëem around I school ëtil they plumb fell apart.
"An this, this place is just like one of them great houses we were always readin' about."
"And did they... inspire you?"
"I don't think I could ever do what some of them girls in them books did."
"Oh? Too shy? Too modest?"
"No. Leastways, I don't think so.
"Ain't that s'much as ëtis the things that drove ëem, which I just don't understand.
"Blindin' ambition, urgent desire an suchlike."
"I hope you'll not be offended, uh, Daisy, but may I ask if you've ever been... with a man."
"Oh now, don't choo fret none about that, Cranston!
"Cain't hardly be raised on no farm the way I was ëthout some knowledge of the birds an the bees rubbin' off."
"Ah, yes.
"But the question is, what did you do about it? After all, as you say, urgent desire as a concept eludes you."
She smiles knowingly.
"Desire, yes; curiosity, well, that there's a horse of a different color, ain't it now?"
"Indeed.
"And I am delighted to hear you say that."
"Why is that?"
"May I speak frankly?"
"Go ëhaid. Aft'all, you got me this, thisó"
"Position."
"Right. I was just gonna say that."
"Randy is still single and not getting any younger, Daisy."
"An he's not, uh, seem anybody at the moment?"
"Exactly.
"Listen. What you said before about ambition, do you really not understand it?"
"Well now, it's not lack of understandin' so much as it isówasóthe way it just didn't apply back then."
"I thought as much.
"But here, now, looking around you, wouldn't you like to be more than just the gardener?
"Don't you see an opportunity here?"
She looks at him a long moment.
"Should I?" she asks.
"That depends. How far would you be willing to go to become mistress of the Estate in more than the mere default sense?
"And before you answer, think about Randy, about this place, and how you'd feel if, say, another woman were to appear, a woman closer to Randy in wealth, in age, in social status?
"Oh, you need not say anything to me.
"But think that over.
"Think about how... unnecessary such a development would be.
"Especially if you've got what it takes and you know how to use it.
"As the song goes, the birds and the bees do it, and for a lot less by way of reward than you could, if you play your cards right."
"And, uh, you'll help me?"
"Certainly."
"Why?"
He shrugs.
"Self interest, ultimately, I suppose.
"Things are going very well with Buck Enterprises.
"The last thing Randy needs is to have some scheming harridan appear on the scene and ruin his life, turning everything upside down."
"I wouldn't do that."
"I know you wouldn't. That's exactly why I think you'd be so good for him.
"Give him the things a man wants and needs from a woman and not ask to see the financial statements or the bank books, except, of course, for your own account, which you could certainly rely upon him to keep well stocked.
"Think you could do that?
"Think you could take such good care of Randy that he wouldn't be tempted to look elsewhere?"
"This is all comin' a mite fast at me.
"Never thought of anythin' like this ëfore this very instant."
"Tell you what.
"You get unpacked, get settled in, take a look out at the garden shed, the garden plot, see what's needed, and I'll have Eric run you over to the nursery to get whatever you need.
"I'll also give you an advance so you can get yourself some clothes and whatever else you personally require.
"Eric takes care of the laundry, we have a housekeeper for meals and ordinary housework, a landscaping service for the grounds.
"You can use the pool, the gym in the basementóall the facilities.
"And don't forget to call your folks."
"Gonna do that right now.
"And Cranston?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks. Thanks for ever'thang."
"Amazing," Cynthia muses.
"You see these aerial photographs?"
"Sure did," Nancy replies.
"And that cleared rectangle is either about to become a garden or it's one big case of overkill on the pretence."
"I agree. Can it be that Buck has turned over a new leaf?"
She looks at Nancy and Vanessa.
"Nah!" the three of them chorus. And laugh, briefly.
"And that's the girl, right?"
"Looks like. And right next to her is Cranston, pointing at something."
"Right. I'd know that bald spot anywhere."
"That was yesterday afternoon," Vanessa observes.
"And this oneó" handing her another large photograph, "is from this morning."
And there is Daisy, laying out bags of fertilizer, hoe and spade and two kinds of rake laid out, ready.
And there, on a chaise, Buck himself, sitting there, watching her.
"Looks like he's gonna take it stow and easy with her," Cynthia says.
"I'd say so," Vanessa concurs.
"That, or he wants to actually get a garden put in before he moves on to fun and games.
"Check this afternoon's photo."
There are definite rows, regular furrows running this way and that, a kind of miniature landscape of a full-scale farm.
There are plants beside stakes over about a fourth of the plot, obviously an optimistic view of a tomato planting.
And there is Daisy, barefoot, wearing shorts and a halter as she uses a large sprinkling can.
The chaise, on the patio beside the plot, is empty.
"So far, so good," Cynthia says.
"All we can do is to wait for the other shoe to drop," Vanessa says.
"Wait and watch," Cynthia agrees.
"At least," Nancy says, "he's limiting his focus to a single victim, this time."
"Mmmm, I doubt that," Vanessa says.
"More likely, he's establishing a pattern.
"This girl and the situation he's putting her in could be a prototype.
"If it works, if it gives him the kicks he's looking for, we can look forward to a parade of others just like her, way I see it."
"Which," Cynthia appends, every inch the Baroness now, "is precisely what must not be allowed to happen.
"I'm half tempted to call Captain Reynolds over at the state police barracks right now."
"And tell him what, Cynthia?" Vanessa asks.
"That Randy Buck has went and hired himself a gardener?
"Granted, Reynolds is no friend of Buck's, not after pulling off that rescue mission of the three of us from the Estate, but really, just what do you think he can do about your suspicions?"
"Not a damned thing," Cynthia sighs.
And Nancy too sighs.
Thinking, Here we go. again.
Because it is only a matter of time before the three of them will once more have to go into action against Randy Buck.
Meaning, once again, that they will have to risk life and limb in order to undo his latest plot, as opposed to hitting at the obvious root of the problem.
Risking her life, all their lives, merely to treat a symptom, rather than curing the disease.
And there is nothing she can do about it.
Because Nancy is committed to Cynthia, no matter where that commitment leads her.
Which seems, invariably, to be into the utmost danger.
*****
By the pool.
And Daisy looks fetching indeed, in her string bikini.
Randy Buck comes out to the pool as well, clad only in a terrycloth robe and sunglasses.
He watches her for a while, now swimming with strong, even strokes, now jack-knifing gracefully from the low board, which rattles as she leaves it, making a triangle of herself before straightening out and torpedoing smoothly into the water.
"Water's great!" she says to Randy, draping herself on the edge of the pool, head floating on crossed arms, smiling at him.
"Take off your bikini," he suggests.
"You'll be more comfortable that way.
"Besides, I don't like to skinny dip alone." And he stands up, removing his robe.
"See?" he says, pointing to himself.
"No tan lines. Better that way."
She shrugs.
And hoists herself up on the edge of the pool.
And removes her top, then her bottom, revealing large, doorbell-like pink nipples on top, a thick chestnut triangle down below.
But, as though to cover herself, she dives from the side into the pool at once.
And Buck is right in there after her. The pool scene, just like in one of those paperback romances, she thinks.
Except that Buck seems to be ignoring her, intent on doing laps, as though he is on a regular exercise program of some kind.
Daisy has never considered herself forward or (to use the word in the novels) wanton, but still, a naked woman, a naked man, a beautiful day, a secluded poolóand nothing?
It can't be me, she thinks, it's got to be him. He needs a little encouragement, a little more inspiration, is all.
Because Cranston was right.
The more she thought about it, the less she liked the idea of another woman coming here, coming into Buck's life.
And it's not, she tells herself, that she is one of those viciously ambitious villainesses from a romance novel, but a matter of convenience, of practicality, of an opportunity begging for the taking.
In short, the there-ness of him, of her.
That, and the isolation.
So that for her to leave this chance go would be a waste.
Waste not, want not, she has always heard said.
And truer words were never spoken, their meaning never more clear, than at this moment.
No doubt, no question.
So that now, she joins him, swimming his laps side by side, matching him stroke for stroke, choreographing her actions to his own.
And we're man and woman, together, alone, and naked, naked, naked! she beams at him with powerful thought waves.
The shallow end.
And he stops.
And, therefore, so does she.
And they stand up, her large breasts high and paperback magnificent, heaving slightly with the exertion of the swim, as is his big, beefy chest.
They look at one another, she with her arms loose at her sides, he with his hands on his hips.
And suddenly, as though drawn by a mutual magnetism, paperback romance style, she is in his arms.
And he is covering her face and mouth and throat with his ardent kisses.
But there is nothing paperback romantic about the thick bar of meat which rises heavily, the plum of the head climbing her stomach until the eye stares upward, large and ruddy, the mighty organ sandwiched between their bodies.
And now, he breaks away from her, leading her by the hand up the steps, out of the water, over to the heavy, redwood chaise, covered with padding and a towel.
And she closes her eyes and allows him to lower her on her back until she is lying there.
And her legs are spread and raised, bent at the knees, as she lets her body assume the position, almost by reflex, as she used to do with her farm boy schoolmates out of curiosity.
Nor is her longing for Buck that of raw, sexual desire.
Because there is here too a note of curiosity.
Will he be the same as the boys down home?
That, and a touch of pretense, of being the actress, playing the role of temptress and vamp to the wealthy, older plantation owner.
As though she is configuring her body to flush out, to complete the soft porn allusions in the paperback novels.
So that her action is not even so much personal or individual as archetypal, the fulfillment of the patterned action, the detailing of the stereotyped sexual encounter.
In which a thick, crude, artless piece of tumescent meat ploughs her snatch.
No such words will be found in the romances, true.
No such action will be undertaken in such intimate detail, true.
But this is interpretation, an expounding, an insight and an understanding, an amplification of the romances, in short, not what they say but what they mean when they say it.
So she chooses to believe, and she does not think herself in any way incorrect.
And surely the thrills given, the thrills received bear her out.
Surely this is the feeling, the complex of sensations which will carry the day, which will prove the essential feature and the factor which sways the balance, which achieves the objectives of the temptress.
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 ënight-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."
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!