DISCLAIMER: Scary. Sex. Violence. Foul language. Adults only.

WARNING: The beliefs, comments, and ‘writings’ of six of the fictional characters presented in this story are protected under copyright guidelines. However, they do not represent the personal beliefs of the author of THE RETREAT (you know, me). Several of the characters introduced in Part 5 hold values which are contrary to the US Constitution and the basic roots of American ideals. My purpose in included these characters is to explore the terror of intellectual evil. It is not meant in anyway to advance narrow views of humanity and freedom. If reading about ignorant and biased minds bothers you then please read something else.

FEEDBACK: Is most welcome. p.phair@comcast.net or you can visit my web site at http://www.phair1.com

THE RETREAT

By

Phair

Part 9

Early the next morning, Bailey found the daily chore list left on the kitchen table. It noted three of the communal bathrooms on the second floor which needed to be cleaned before the guests rose to start their day. She decided it would be better to get moving on the dirty task and leave Taylor to work on breakfast. Bailey scratched a quick note for Taylor to let her know where to begin with the meal. It was easier to write the message than face the angry intern. The pair had not spoken since Taylor righteously accepted the Bailey’s punch money the night before. Bailey’s note simply stated, ‘me cleaning toilet, you making eggs.’

Both women had been able to maintain a silent distance throughout the previous evening. There was little work for them to do. For the most part, they stood in separate corners of the living room waiting to freshen drinks. Madame kept most of the writers writing late into the night. She released the writers individually to retreat to their rooms only after they completed an acceptable writing assignment for her. Dinner was suspended. Not even appetizers were served. However, liquor service for the group continued throughout the ordeal. Full bars were also available in each of the writer’s rooms. Madame sent Taylor, Bailey and Igor to bed around midnight. She remained in the living room working well into the small hours of the morning with two of her most ‘difficult’ writers to date; Driscoll and Ashton.

Bailey started with the bathroom between Jackson Room and Algonquin Room. She assumed the two writers were still behind the closed door of the living room working with Madame. Even if they had been allowed to go to bed at some point between the witching hour and Bailey’s early morning cleaning duty, Driscoll and Ashton should still be sound asleep. After all, it was only a little after five in the morning.

Entering the darkened bathroom from the hall side door, Bailey realized immediately one of the two other access doors was ajar. Candle light spilled in from Driscoll’s room and flickered invitingly across the chilly, tiled floor. Bailey stepped into the bathroom and eased the door shut behind her. She heard low and steady moans drifting from Driscoll’s room. An occasional grunt broke the rhythm. Her curiosity got the better of her judgment and Bailey peered into Driscoll’s room through the crack in the door.

"Say it again," purred Driscoll as she viciously jerked the leash in her hand, resulting in another grunt.

Bailey was stunned to see Driscoll standing over a red headed woman on her knees before her. From Driscoll’s hand, a chain leash trailed down between the two bodies. Bailey guessed it connected to a collar around the red head’s throat. The red headed woman’s hands were bound behind her back with shiny silver handcuffs and her face was held firmly against Driscoll’s furry center with Driscoll’s left hand. Bailey felt herself get a little weak kneed at the erotic sight. Driscoll stood triumphantly naked as she rode the face between her thighs. The obliging red head wore slightly more clothing. A leather bra, panties, and black, high heels graced the lusciously full form of her body.

"Say it again, my sweet, helplessly weak bitch," Driscoll pulled the leash harder.

"May I, may I," the deep voice echoed in Bailey’s ears. "May I please, eat you, Ma’am."

Such a familiar voice coming from such an odd place. Now that Bailey was looking beyond the salacious details she could see the truth. The red head’s pale skin was powdery makeup. The red hair was a wig. The full female body was a thin male with strategic padding.

"Ashton," Bailey breathed.

The couple paused for a moment. It was as if they questioned their own ears. Bailey realized they heard her and made a hastily escape. She was able to suppress her laughter until she was half way down the back stairs.

"The woman hater is a submissive cross dresser and the racist is a color blind dominatrix," Bailey giggled to herself as she bounded down the last few steps.

"You’re never gonna believe what I saw," Bailey spoke in a stage whisper as she skidded into the kitchen.

Taylor was at the stove. Her stone like features gave Bailey more than a hint the woman’s demeanor had not soften overnight.

"Never mind," Bailey’s mood completely deflated with one hard look from the intern.

"Can you read?" Taylor’s question came out in a bark.

A small question which carried enormous pain. Bailey squared her shoulders but did not answer. Instead, she went to the cupboard to gather the plates for breakfast.

"I’d like to know," Taylor’s voice cracked a little this time. "I know, I have no right to ask but can you read?"

"I can read enough," Bailey defended herself without turning to face her accuser.

"What’s enough?"

"I can read the stupid chore list and fill out forms and…,"

"How ‘bout a book? Can you read a book?" Taylor scraped the scrambled eggs from the pan onto a serving plate.

"No," Bailey sighed and set the stack of plates on the table before slouching in a chair. "I’m too stupid. It don’t make no sense at all to me. Sometimes, I think reading is just a scam. Something that smart people say they can do just to keep dumb people out of their way."

"I understand why you might think that, Bailey. But, reading is not a scam. It is a tremendous gift. Reading is freedom. And, not being able to read is going to make the rest of your life one long struggle against poverty," Taylor set the eggs on the table and sat down next to Bailey.

"No kidding," Bailey rolled her eyes. "Now tell me something I don’t know."

"I can teach you how to read."

"Right," Bailey glared at Taylor, "so, I’ll be your do-gooder summer project for college? What will you call it? The summer I helped a dope or Me and the Moron? Oh, I know, Parole and Prose?"

"Stop," Taylor shook her head at the venomous outpouring. "Forget I asked anything at all. Like I said to start with, it’s none of my business. Let’s just get set up breakfast."

Taylor stood and left Bailey alone at the table with a stack of empty plates.

* * *

Taylor went for a walk after clearing the breakfast dishes. Madame announced a free morning for the writers and staff alike. There were no chores or tasks scheduled until lunch time. Taylor ended her walk near the barn. She decided a little exploring was in order.

Even though there were no animals, fresh hay was strewn about. Taylor imagined it was to help set some sort of scene for the writers during the retreat. She climbed up to the hay loft and was pleasantly surprised. The hay was fresh and the sun had warmed the space to an inviting temperature. Taylor found herself drawn to stretch out full length in the sweet, soft hay.

She tried to push away all thoughts of Bailey as her body settled in the hay. The younger woman, with such few social skills and limited educational resources, was a constant plague on Taylor. She wanted to help Bailey but the younger woman consistently rejected her efforts. The only thing they had in common was screwing around in bed. That thought gave Taylor a big grin as she drifted off to sleep.

She was dozing lightly when the slam of the door woke her. Hushed voices made their way across the lower barn to the back wall. There was an urgency about the unintelligible words. Taylor was cautious as she peered over the edge of the loft to see who else had sought refuge in the barn. She recognized the odd pair immediately.

"Drop your pants," Redman demanded.

Eliyahu did as he was told.

"Drop your draws," Redman continued.

Eliyahu did as he was told.

"Bend over the hay stack," Redman unzipped his fly

Eliyahu quickly turned and bent over.

Redman moved closer to the exposed bottom. He grabbed the pasty pale, sagging ass cheeks with both hands. Taylor eased back from the edge of the loft. Her mind raced with the scene below. She was having difficulty making sense of it. Both writers were behaving completely outside their characters. If this were a fictional account then the plot would be totally unbelievable to Taylor’s reckoning.

Redman was the classic tough guy. Safaris, big game hunts, jumping off of bridges while secured with a narrow bungee cord; were all claims to fame of the legend. He was also a well known as a ladies’ man. His history with women read like the Hollywood society column. Age, color, marital status made no difference to the writer rogue. Fortunately for him, everyone of Redman’s conquests claimed he was the most considerate of lovers. A profound statement when one considers the players involved. Redman’s skills in the sack were being compared again hundreds of men and women.

Eliyahu, on the other hand, was the folksy writer of children’s stories. He shared his life with a middle fifties years old lady friend. They shared a house and life but there were rumors the two did not share a bedroom. Eliyahu embraced the concept of the individual first. He espoused the concept of each being as a unique and special entity entitled to equal power with all other beings. He challenged children and adults to seek total balance in all aspects of their lives.

Taylor didn’t get it. The liaison below did not match up with the established histories of the men involved. Watching Eliyahu bow silently to the sexual demands of Redman just didn’t fit into everything she previously understood to be true of the men. However, the squeals of pleasure rising from the lower barn indicated to Taylor that she was definitely missing something important. Taylor crept back to the edge of the loft to watch and learn more than she needed to know about the pair.

TBC

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