THE PLEASURE MACHINE
By Don Winslow
Revenge is a dish best served cold -- or so the saying goes. But revenge can also be hot -- if taken in the heated rush of sexual surrender. The Pleasure Machine explores the all-too-human desire for vengeance. It is a peculiar kind of distinctly sexual revenge where lovers and strangers are inexorably compelled to engage in sexual acts by the power of their own unleashed passions, passions sent raging far beyond their control.
John Block was a pro: a New York Private Detective who thought he had seen it all. That is, until the day he became entangled in the Descartes project. It was only on his death bed, at the age of 89, in the Grand Cayman Islands, that Block revealed the secrets Dr. Descartes, and the details of a plot so bizarre, outrageously sexual, and mostly unbelievable, that it would only appeal to the most excitable conspiracy buffs -- the kind who don’t even believe their own government. For this conspiracy was aimed at wreaking vengeance upon a targeted group of women: conceited, overbearing women, who, by their deeds, had well earned the unique sort of sexual retribution Dr. Descartes had planned for his victims. For the Doctor‘s ultimate secret was his ability to uncover a healthy woman’s hidden passions -- passions that once unleashed, could never again be brought under control.
From The Pleasure Machine
She glanced back up to the speaker, and noticed his gaze had fallen onto the full swells of her bosom, which so nicely filled out the ruffled front of the white high-necked blouse she wore under her buttoned pearl gray suit. Caught looking, he quickly glanced away; Lillian demurely dropped her eyes to study the hands she folded in front of her on the polished mahogany table.
Suddenly, a faint wave of dizziness passed over her. Had anyone been paying attention to the matronly women, they would have seen a puzzled look come over her face. And as she reached out to take a sip of coffee, they might have noticed that her right hand trembled slightly when she picked up the cup. It was a strange, disconnected feeling, and one that passed as quickly as it had come over her. She turned her attention back to the speaker, but now she was having trouble concentrating. Rickover was a few years older than Lillian, with a bald fringe of white, but he was lean and fit, and as he stood with one hand resting on the table, tilted slightly forward, she found her eyes were inexplicably drawn to the crotch of the trousers of his well-tailored, pin-striped suit!
Rickover droned on, but for Lillian, his words had become a blurred and distant murmuring, pushed out by thoughts that were a confused jumble. Disturbing images flooded in on her; she was shocked to find the wildest, erotic fantasies tumbling through her mind. She pictured herself naked, tied to a straight-backed chair, her heavy breasts hanging with just the slightest sag to them; obscenely big nipples blatantly exposed. Her substantial legs had been spread apart, and were held wide open by ropes that bound her legs and ankles. She shook her head as through to clear her mind of the salacious intrusions.