Chapter 4

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."