THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE UNKEMPT CANINE

Postby sarobah » Sun Sep 29, 2013 6:50 pm

The Curious Case of the Unkempt Canine
aka the Crimson Clupeid

The first hint that this would not be a routine assignment was my summons to the Inner Sanctum.

“Sam! Get your butt in here!”

The Chief never, ever called me by my first name…. Well, that’s not entirely correct. There was that one time. It did not end well.

“And bring that sorry excuse for a sidekick with you.”

Those, at least, were familiar words.

“Good morning, Boss,” I said.

“Good morning, Sir,” said Jack.

“Leave the door open. You won’t be staying.”

The office was small, claustrophobically, intimidatingly so. The Chief liked it that way. Most of the space was taken up by a huge, pock-marked oak desk, as ancient and solid as the man sitting behind it. His colossal form overflowed the stained and scorched leather chair which sagged and groaned under its load. He wore a faded, threadbare, three-piece suit. His massive head bore the faint remains of a handsome youth, but the chiselled features had been eroded by the years and by the stresses and pressures of his job. Bulldog jaws chomped incessantly, nervously, on the soggy stump of an unlit cigar.

The Chief was not alone. Perched on the edge of the desk was a young woman, impossibly blonde and more gorgeous than any female had a right to be. She had the body of a beauty queen, squeezed into a skin-tight dress that was not much more than a silken sash between outstanding décolletage and a thigh-baring hemline. She had the legs of a Vegas showgirl, long and sleek, which swung gracefully to some slow, silent rhythm.

“My best investigators?” the Chief was saying, poking at us with the stub of his cigar. “Beggars can’t be…”

“Thanks, Boss,” I intervened. “We feel the love.”

He just grunted. But when he turned to the girl, his grizzled face almost glowed.

“Sam and… er … Jack, this is Scarlett.”

“Pleased to meet you.” The words rolled like rich honey from those ruby red lips. Her crystal blue eyes sparkled, and the dark lashes fluttered in a subtle, mischievous wink. She lightly flicked her head and the gossamer-gold tresses swept across her smooth, bare shoulders like gentle waves on a sun-drenched beach. She leaned backwards across the desk to whisper to the Chief. As she did so, that magnificent chest strained delightfully against the fragile fabric.

Jack stammered a few words. He was smitten and I could hardly blame him. Scarlett was quite a babe. As she stood erect, her silk skirt fell smoothly back into place; but there was not much of it, so it didn’t fall far. She moved towards the door like she was floating on a cloud. As she wafted past, I caught the scent of exquisite, expensive perfume. The dame had class. In the doorway, she turned back, nodded and smiled. Then she was gone.

“So who’s the sweet cheeks, Boss?” I asked.

The old man glowered over his glittering horn-rimmed specs. “My niece,” he growled.

Jack was about to say something but had second thoughts.

“She’s to be your contact on this assignment.”

“So what’s the op?” I said.

*****

It was your basic undercover gig, nothing I haven’t done a hundred times. Jack was still green. He’d only been in the field a short time; but he was a good kid who knew how to take orders. He was a quick thinker and a fast learner. I could rely on him if things went sideways. Not that they often do, but in this job you don’t take unnecessary chances. In any case, he would get to spread his wings on this mission.

We hired a car at the airport. I let him take the wheel so I could get some shut-eye. By the time we reached the hotel, it was late afternoon. The echo of the setting sun shimmered a sickly rust-red on the darkening waters of the bay. A cool breeze rustled among the broad fronds of the palms which lined the boardwalk. A jaded-looking concierge ushered us into the lobby and snapped his fingers at a bored-looking underling. As the latter took our bags, I turned to Jack.

“Grab the key and check out the room,” I told him. “I’ll scout around down here. Meet me in the main bar.”

The porter gave us each a quizzical look but followed Jack to the reception desk.

The lobby was congested and noisy. In dress and behaviour it might have been the typical resort crowd, but younger than what you would normally find, which didn’t surprise me. Numbers were building as the early evening chill drove people inside. Some were heading for the elevators and stairs, or in the direction of signs pointing the way to the saloons and restaurants. Most, however, were swarming in a single track, to one end of the foyer where a huge placard proclaimed in fancy, big black script, “EXHIBITION HALL”. Under it, lurid cherry-red lettering announced “WELCOME TO BOND EXPO”.

I took out my ticket and slung the lanyard round my neck. There were two young women flanking the entrance and inspecting IDs, muttering “Guest” or “Visitor” each time. I don’t know why, but I guess they wore mikes and were keeping a running tally of the bodies going by. I didn’t really care; I was more interested in the girls themselves. They were statuesque and stunning, in racy, lacy lingerie, with garter-belts, fishnet stockings and stiletto heels, one wearing pink, the other all-black. Clamped about the throat of each was a shiny metal collar, and around her wrists and ankles leather buckled cuffs. The one in black caught my quick gaze and smiled. It was the vapid, content-free smile of someone with an elsewhere she’d rather be; but there was a glint in her eyes when they connected with mine that made me wonder if she was thinking what I was.

The cavernous hall was even more crowded and cacophonous than the lobby. Just inside the doorway, a toothy young guy in a tuxedo and a pretty girl in a tiny white dress were handing out gift packs containing the standard paraphernalia, stuff like advertising brochures for internet websites. Beyond, there were about two dozen rows of booths and stalls. Some were slick commercial enterprises with vendors touting merchandise and memberships; others were operated by private clubs and individuals. There were well-groomed, well-proportioned professional models and presenters, alongside talented (and some less talented) amateurs and hobbyists, displaying their wares and demonstrating their skills. Tables and benches were laid out with all sorts of accessories, appliances and accoutrements, in every material from plastic to platinum… adult toys, fetish clothing, a vast assortment of ropes and chains, gags, collars and leashes, hoods, masks and blindfolds, corsets and adornments, a range of tasteful chastity belts, some intricate contrivances and some nasty looking torture devices. There were also stands offering how-to manuals, DVDs, books and magazines. Some displays were purely informational, including well-attended presentations on legal issues and health and safety procedures. There were posters offering guidance and counsel on “how to spice up your relationship” and so on.

Foot traffic was heavy, with hundreds of people milling and meandering, chatting, conferring, browsing, bargaining, trying out techniques and contraptions. All around, photos were being taken, pamphlets perused, prices compared, business cards exchanged, advice proffered, autographs signed. I had half-expected the place to be full of shady middle-aged men in raincoats. Instead, there was a wholesome, almost family-like ambience. The prevailing mood appeared to be satisfied curiosity rather than titillation. There were few of the hard-core devotees that I’d anticipated. The atmosphere was friendly and relaxed. There was a camaraderie rather than competition among the stall operators. If any, for instance, ran short of materials during a demonstration or needed a helping hand, they could turn for assistance to one of their neighbours.

Most of the exhibits were small cubicles with a single operator or a pair hawking literature and videos and promoting websites. That still left a considerable number featuring live, on the spot, in the flesh demonstrations. The vast majority of the tie-up subjects were females, but there was the occasional male. I saw one girl-guy couple being bound together with the predictable “tie-the-knot” jokes from the “ropemaster”. There was an oiled-up dude in Lederhosen, a string vest and a zippered full-face hood being strapped into some sort of harness on pulley-ropes by two buxom beauties in barely-there buckskin bikinis.

Amongst the exhibitors, demonstrators and models, leather was the fashion fabric du jour, although there was still plenty of rubber, latex and spandex. Slinky black lingerie was popular with the ladies, who nonetheless accessorized in leather. Collars and chokers were de rigueur. These ranged from the simple to the elaborate, from unembellished to gem-encrusted, from elegant necklaces to stiff dog collars. Many of the models and presenters also wore gags – the ball variety by far the most common – if not already in their mouths then hanging around their necks, ready for insertion.

At one of the first stalls I encountered, a cute redhead was lying on her side atop a bench wearing a Star Trek uniform, the classic miniskirt and go-go boots version of course. She was in the process of being put into a very stringent hog-tie by a nervous-looking layman under the direction of a ferocious-looking Klingon. The Trekette looked up and flashed us a convivial smile just before her bumpy-browed captor took command and thrust a red ball-gag into her mouth. She moaned and rolled her eyes.

At the booth next door, two girls – a short, pixie-faced honey-blonde and a tall, curvaceous brunette – were being lashed together by a huge gentleman clad in military fatigues and wearing a camouflage-pattern ski mask. The girls’ arms were pinioned behind their backs with their elbows touching, but through gritted teeth they were laughing and joking. It was hard to tell if they were paid models or experienced amateurs, but from their casual attitude it was obvious they were not neophytes. They were in just their underwear and there was a pile of discarded clothing on the counter, which suggested they were roped-in bystanders. Most of the people watching shuddered and gasped as the pair were heaved onto the tips of their toes with a cable that was secured to their arm-ropes and hoisted over a metal-tubing scaffold. They were left to dangle, struggling to maintain foot contact with the floor so as to ease the stress on their arms. Yet even as they grimaced and groaned, they continued to giggle and even to mock their tormentor… whose response was to haul them up harder. The onlookers winced.

Elsewhere another hog-tied young lady was dangling from the centre of a large tripod by a rope attached to her wrists and ankles. She was carrying on a light-hearted banter with her ropemaster and the spectators through clenched jaws and heavy panting and puffing; and there were lots of “Oo-ah” noises from the audience. Hell, I’ve taken a round or two in my time and come up laughing, but these gals were TOUGH.

Visitors and guests were encouraged to be active participants in the demonstrations and displays. While most of the crowd were content to remain observers, a few consented to join in, like Camo Guy’s captives. At some stalls, women passing by were grabbed and bound. They were trussed to chairs, tied down on tables, tethered to posts, strapped to beams, suspended on frames. I didn’t see any males being accosted, nor any gallant menfolk coming to the rescue of the abducted damsels. But none of the victims seemed to mind. They came away looking flushed, and somewhat embarrassed, but generally pleased with the experience.

It was an engrossing scene, but by this time Jack would be in the bar. I found him about to order a drink.

“Two Heinekens,” I intercepted.

Jack looked disappointed, as the bartender put the Scotch bottle back on the shelf and gave me a funny stare.

“Let’s keep our heads clear,” I said.

“Any sign of our contacts?” Jack asked, sotto voce. He glanced about with an earnest furtiveness.

“Not yet… and try not to look so much like a spy.”

We downed our beers and returned to the pavilion. As he passed through the entranceway, Jack halted suddenly, as if he’d run into a wall.

“Wow!”

“Quite something, isn’t it? But let’s keep our focus.”

That was not so easy. Just in front of us, at the centre of a flurry of attention, was a couple whom I recognized (after some brain-searching) as sporting celebrities. He was a football star and she an Olympic champion, or vice versa. Their retinue had stopped at one of the cubicles where the guy tried on a straightjacket, with a comment from his partner that it was bound to come to this sooner or later. Further along, they were waylaid by one of the stall operators. He and his minion seized the girl, and with only a whimper of protest she was lifted onto the table and slammed down onto her belly. Her wrists were swiftly and efficiently bound behind her back and to her ankles. Unfazed, she rolled onto her side and tried to say something to an attractive, stern-looking woman in a twinset and pencil skirt, who I guessed was her agent or manager. Anyway, almost as soon as hog-tied Sports Girl opened her mouth, it was stuffed with a huge purple ball.

Her tight bonds had forced her body to arch rearwards at an angle that might have been excruciating to someone not so athletic; but though she was grunting and puffing through her gag, she shook her head vigorously when asked if she’d had enough. She was wearing a bandeau top and a denim skirt, and while her flimsy boob tube managed to stay in place throughout the ordeal, the press studs that held her skirt in place had come apart under the strain. Her companion made a half-hearted attempt to fix the problem but only made it worse. At least she had nice knickers.

As if on cue, the pair at the neighbouring booth, a short man wearing dungarees and a construction worker’s hard hat, and a tall, striking woman in a figure-hugging latex catsuit, grabbed Twinset Woman by the arms, wrenched them behind her back and snapped on a pair of handcuffs. Even as she started to object, Catsuit Girl clapped an iron collar about her neck, while Hard Hat attached a connector chain to the cuffs and collar. Once she was past the initial shock, their victim laughed and proudly showed off her new ensemble to her associates.

Then it got weirder. The VIPs and their entourage consisted of at least a dozen individuals and were attracting the attention of other stallholders, who began to grab the females. It was funny to watch the group contract in on itself as the women on the periphery were picked off one by one and the rest huddled to avoid apprehension. Only one managed to evade the ropes and chains, by threatening violence, but none of the captives complained or offered more than token resistance. The men in the party unchivalrously accepted invitations to assist the abductors, and a couple even volunteered their services. Maybe the whole episode was stage-managed, but it looked spontaneous, and the startled expressions on the faces of the victims as they were being accosted and bound appeared natural enough.

This little drama was played out over fifteen or twenty minutes and drew in a big audience. With much of the hall thus cleared of crowds, it was a good opportunity for Jack and me to make our connection.

The Chief had been oddly vague about our rendezvous. Even back in his office I had the feeling that he wasn’t running this show. All we’d been told was to be on the lookout for two cops, and I had figured he wasn’t talking about actual law enforcement or security guards. I scanned the room, and near one corner was a stand with the sign, “Radical Arts Academy: Experimental Theatre”. In attendance were a man and woman in grotesque parodies of police uniforms, Keystone Cop style in shiny, fluorescent blue. The guy was a stranger but I recognized the girl. It was Scarlett. In black mesh stockings and a short frilly skirt, she was dressed more like a French maid than any officer of the law I’ve ever dealt with, but I wasn’t about to criticize.

Armed with plastic truncheons and enormous water pistols, the comical constables were corralling passers-by into a miniature stockade and imposing fines on their prisoners. Most agreed to pay up to secure their release. It was a novel way to solicit donations, but I wondered if the Academy was genuine or just a front. Scarlett must have read my mind, because her first words were “Yes, it’s real.”

“Hello again, Sam,” she said, “and…”

“Jack,” he answered, glumly.

She smiled ever so slightly and winked at me. She introduced her colleague. Tony was not particularly big or broad, but he had a toughness and a self-assurance that reminded me of the best men I’ve worked with, and that was encouraging. The four of us stayed in character, since there were people hanging about. So because we couldn’t talk openly, we decided to meet later, when the exhibition had closed down for the night. In the meantime, if this performance was nothing more than a charade, Scarlett and Tony took it seriously. Jack and I went into the pen and paid our ransom.

I grabbed Scarlett’s hand and clamped her fist around the money.

“I expect a return on that,” I told her in low voice.

“Room 314,” she whispered with a sly grin, “in half an hour. I’ll be on a break.”

“It’s a date,” I said.

That would give me just enough time for a burger and a beer. As Scarlett and Tony went back to arresting innocent bystanders, Jack and I headed for the exit. On our way, however, we paused at a cubicle decked out as a Mediaeval Faire. A guy in period apparel wearing a bronze gorget labelled “Sheriff” was working the crowd with a spiel peppered with middle-ageisms – lots of thees and thous and prithees and verilys and forsooths. Beside him, a doe-eyed damoiselle in a low-cut emerald-green, gold-embroidered gown had been bound to a pole. The ropes entwined her body from her ankles to her neck, leaving her completely immobilized. She was crudely gagged with a wad of rough calico. It could not have been very comfortable or tasty. I don’t know if she was supposed to be a witch or a heretic. In any case, the feudal flatfoot announced that she was to be burnt at the stake. Then he declared that “Tis pity” the valuable raiment should be consumed by the flames, and there were shouts from the crowd to “Save the dress!” and “Take it off!”

However, the damsel was saved from her defrocking and a blazing demise by the intervention of a busty young woman dressed in a skin-tight red Lycra bodysuit and wearing next to her ample cleavage a gargantuan badge proclaiming “Fire Marshall”. The crowd roared with laughter and sighed with disappointment.

Jack and I turned to leave, but our way was barred by a formidable, leather-clad duo. A brawny dungeon-master and a sturdy dominatrix had stepped into our path. I gave each a salutationary nod and tried to bypass them, but the guy was built like a brick outhouse and blocked most of the aisle. As I swerved, he lunged at me with hands the size of canned hams. Jack, with coiled-spring reflexes, leapt between us; but I called him off.

“Stand down,” I ordered. There was no need to create a scene. I’d had a feeling something like this might happen.

And at that moment two arms came from the rear and grabbed my elbows. Before I could react, the woman had drawn my wrists together behind my back and secured them with steel bracelets. She was strong, and I found myself helplessly locked in her embrace. I felt her hot, moist breath on the back of my neck, ruffling my hair, as she reached around and began unfastening the buttons on my shirt.

“Relax, dear,” she said, as she pulled the shirt off my shoulders and down to my waist.

Jack stood back, confused but also amused that I didn’t resist. He and the dungeon-master ignored each other as they watched the dominatrix in action. She looped a rope about my elbows and my torso, around and between my breasts. She tugged hard to make it tight, and I couldn’t help but squeal.

“What’s your name, honey?” the woman asked.

“Samantha,” I replied.

“Have you been tied up before?”

“Not for fun,” I said.


To be continued…
Last edited by sarobah on Mon Sep 30, 2013 1:14 pm, edited 1 time in total.

Re: THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE UNKEMPT CANINE

Postby xtc » Mon Sep 30, 2013 3:58 am

Quite a different style from you.
Sounds like fun so far. Glad to see you posting fiction (I think) here again!
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

More by the same author: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=22729

Re: THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE UNKEMPT CANINE

Postby sarobah » Mon Sep 30, 2013 1:13 pm

Glad to see you posting fiction (I think) here again!

It's nice to have the time. And while "Bond Expo"is based on a real event, this is definitely fiction :o)


Continued...

I suppose I could have put up a fight, but I thought what the heck, the burger and beer will have to wait. My arms had been shackled behind my back in a double hammerlock and pinned to my body by the chest harness. Even if I wanted to, it would not be easy wriggling out of this one. While the woman was putting the finishing touches on that, the man had joined her and was binding my knees and ankles with nylon cord. He knew what he was doing. He applied the bonds loosely and I thought I’d be able to pull my feet free, but then he cinched the loops to make them secure. I was about to compliment him when I felt something pressing against my lips.

I’d been distracted and was caught off guard. Instead of clamping my jaws, I opened up like a stunned mullet and the dominatrix shoved a lump of spongy rubber between my teeth. It had no taste but a slimy texture, and it ballooned inside to fill my mouth. I found I could still suck in air through it, so it must have been honeycombed. The gag did not have to be strapped in place, because no matter how hard I pushed with my tongue, I could not dislodge the damn thing.

I didn’t have long to ponder my situation. With one arm grasping my shoulders and the other behind my knees, the dungeon-master scooped me up and dumped me on the bench, flat on my stomach. I knew what was coming and played hard to get, holding my legs straight. At first the woman tried tickling to get me to submit. I cursed to stifle my laughter, but when that came dribbling out from my gag as a pathetic gurgling whimper, I conceded defeat. The two of them together drew my heels up to my backside and trussed them to my wrists. They made it rigorous, compelling me to bend my body backwards like Sports Girl and forcing a grunt and a gasp out of my lungs.

“Can you breathe properly? Any problems?” the dungeon-master asked, as he turned me onto my left side.

I nodded then shook my head, and made a sort of slurpy, raspy noise. It was the best I could do.

“No problems at all, from what I… can… see…” Jack said.

His words petered out, and I must really have been in a daze, because it took me a couple of seconds to get the message and give him the death stare. My chest was heaving as the adrenaline began to flow. It’s a natural reaction, as your body responds automatically to its restraints, but this has an effect. And with my arms pinioned behind me and my body arched, the effect was enhanced. My shirt was crumpled at my waist, and I could feel the soft fabric of my bra tightening.

My captors gave me a couple of minutes to “get the feel” of my bonds. At least, that’s how the dungeon-master put it. If he meant get comfortable with or adjust to the cuffs and ropes, that didn’t happen. Lying there helpless, my body taut and contorted, being watched by Jack and a dozen other spectators, just made the experience more intense. But it was a peculiar sensation, totally out of sync with my instincts and training. My impulse was to struggle, even if resistance was now futile. Yet there was another feeling, something more familiar but never before in a situation like this. It was vague at first, becoming more lucid when the dominatrix began to grope around my midsection.

I groaned a feeble protest as she unbuckled my belt and unhitched the top of my corduroys. I knew where this was going but was powerless to do anything but wriggle about and make the woman’s task more difficult. That would go harder for me as well, with no advantage, so I decided that in this instance discretion was indeed the better part of valour. Even with my flaccid cooperation she struggled to pull my trousers down to my knees. Meanwhile, her partner had looped a cord around my neck and entwined it with my breast bindings to make a yoke. He attached another cable to it and gave the end to the woman, who poked it between my thighs as she flipped me back onto my belly. Before tying it to my wrists and ankles, she tugged hard and I squawked and snorted through my gag.

By now I was perspiring, even though the air conditioning had raised a fine coating of goose-bumps on my exposed parts. I had kept my head erect, facing forward so I could look around, and the little beads of moisture on my forehead fused into rivulets that trickled maddeningly into my eyes. I shook my head and tried to blink the sweat away because I didn’t want to shut my eyes… to no avail. The foamy rubber stuffing my mouth had also become sodden, with my saliva, and the excess dribbled down my jaw to form a small pool of drool around my chin. Stripped to my undies, my body tightly trussed in a knot of wrenched and twitching limbs, sweating and slobbering, I must have presented quite a spectacle to my audience.

And just when I thought my position could not get any more undignified, the couple erected over me a tall, triangular structure made of metal tubing, and proceeded to sling me from it. They used leather straps to make halters for my knees, waist and shoulders. When the man hauled on the rigging, I was heaved upwards, almost to the apex of the tripod before dropping and settling, still bouncing and swaying, suspended horizontally and looking down on the crowd from a perilous height. The woman then tied a length of rope to my hog-tie bonds, threw it over the top of the frame and tugged hard before securing the end to one of the legs of the mount. This made my snugly fitting crotch-rope even tighter, and because one end of the rope was fixed to a stationary object, the swinging motion of my body had an effect which was… stimulating.

When I was finally let down and released, dizzy, flushed and panting, I acknowledged the applause. Pulling up my pants and buckling my belt, I gave Jack my best “Remember who’s head honcho here” look, but I don’t think it got past his ear-to-ear grin. I buttoned and straightened my blouse. As we were about to leave, the dominatrix presented me with my ball-gag, washed and sealed in a plastic bag. They’re not reusable, so they become a souvenir. But as I waddled out of the exhibition hall and into the hotel lobby, feeling the gentle burn of the chafed tender flesh between my thighs, I figured I had my memento... at least for a while.

“Time to eat?” Jack asked.

“You can. I’ve got something I need to do.”

He gave me a puzzled look, but as I stopped in front of one of the elevators, he smiled.

“Scarlett?”

I scowled and he shrugged.

“Give me half an hour,” I said.

“Looks like we’ll be spending the night here,” he said. “I’ll get our bags from the car and take them up to our room.” He smirked. “It’s still OUR room, isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer. The lift had arrived and I took it up to floor number three, room number fourteen. Scarlett was waiting for me, with an impatient expression. I glanced at the clock… I had been detained by the dungeon-master and dominatrix longer than I thought.

“Tied up?” she inquired.

“Hanging around,” I replied.

The girl had taken off her delicious deputy’s outfit and was lounging on the sofa in a skimpy bathrobe, looking sexier than ever, with a whisky glass in her hand.

“Want one?” she asked. She swirled her drink and the ice cubes tinkled seductively.

“No, but thanks. You know what I’m here for, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“I’m not intruding on…”

She smiled. “Tony and I work together. There’s no other relationship.”

“So then…”

She laughed. “He’s available.”

“And...”

“He thinks you’re hot.”


To be continued...

Re: THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE UNKEMPT CANINE

Postby ropedin » Mon Sep 30, 2013 1:38 pm

You always have such lucid imagery in your writing that I feel like I'm there. Great story as always!

Re: THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE UNKEMPT CANINE

Postby xtc » Mon Sep 30, 2013 1:59 pm

The queen of TUGs is posting again.
Does anyone else get the impression of a certain element of satire?
Who cares? As usual, Sarobah gives us model of plotting, description and literacy.
OK. I'll stop drooling now and take one of my pills.
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

More by the same author: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=22729

Re: THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE UNKEMPT CANINE

Postby Mister Mistoffelees » Mon Sep 30, 2013 5:34 pm

Save one of those pills for me, old sport! Sarobah is back on the case! I have to imagine that the little BDSM/Dashiell Hammett cross tale she has going on is about to get rather dangerous! Nicely done, Sarobah!... :big:
Welcome to Snowden! Enter at your own risk...

Re: THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE UNKEMPT CANINE

Postby sarobah » Wed Oct 02, 2013 4:24 am

Thank you for the comments. I am "racing against time" to get the story finished before my work soaks up all my time and energy once more.

The adventure continues...

Jack was waiting in our suite.

“You got what you wanted?” he asked.

“Do something useful, pick up the phone and book a table… in that posh restaurant. What is it called… the Wild Goose?”

“For how many and what time?”

“Four, nine.”

“So you DID get...” He reconsidered. “I’ll make the call, boss. Your bedroom is the one on right.”

He’d left my bag on the bed. When on a mission I like to travel light, but you have to be prepared for anything.

“It’s been a while, old friends,” I told my coral pink strapless Hervé Léger cocktail dress, Dion Lee thigh-high lace-top silk stockings and Sergio Rossi mid-heel pumps. Back in the living room, Jack gave my ensemble a casual once-over but could not resist a double-take.

“Nice disguise. Expecting to do some legwork?”

“You can talk!” I traced the smooth lines of his Bruenllo Cucinelli jacket and Carlo Viscanti tie in the air with my finger.

“At least mine isn’t painted on,” he said.

We went downstairs, back to the same tavern as before. The place was crowded, but Jack forged on ahead and unearthed a couple of barstools.

“What can I get for the little lady?” the bartender asked.

Before I could tell him what he should get, Jack intervened. “Scotch on the rocks for two.”

The single-malt smokiness was ambrosia on my exsiccated lips but not so much in my empty stomach. Feeling dizzy, I started to get up, but felt a hand, cold and firm, caressing my neck and playing with the ends of my hair, pressing me back down onto the seat. Fingers gently stroked my shoulders but then suddenly dug into the bare skin. Thinking it was Jack, I spun around on the stool to confront him, but he was on the other side. The place was only half-lit, and I squinted at the man standing at the bar beside me. He was small and sinewy, with a gnome-like face under a vermilion-coloured workman’s helmet. It was the Hard Hat guy from the Expo pavilion.

My head was fuzzy, my sight blurry, my mouth cottony. I stuttered something, I don’t recall what. He just sort of sneered, flashed a badge and brandished a pair of handcuffs, which glinted a pallid leaden under the dim lighting.

“FBI, ma’am. You gotta come with me.”

The shock cleared my brain a bit, and I leapt to my feet and wrenched myself free of his grip. I turned desperately towards Jack, but he just shrugged and finished his Scotch.

Still groggy and disoriented, I didn’t resist any more when the man seized my shoulders and spun me about to face away from him. He grabbed my elbows, dragged my arms behind my back and slapped the cuffs on my wrists. The other bar patrons watched us with drink-dulled interest as I was pushed in the direction of the doors.

“Who are you? Where are you taking me?” I demanded.

“Very Special Agent Don J. Cyprian,” he replied. “Interrogation.”

“What’s the charge?” Jack said at last, following us out of the bar and into the corridor which led back to the hotel foyer.

“For you, it’s free,” came the answer.

It was now well into the evening but the exhibition hall was still bustling. I was steered back to the booth where I’d first seen Hard Hat and his partner. Catsuit Girl was there, awaiting his return. She could not do much else. She was squatting alongside the stall, her arms shackled behind her back with a single long chain coiled tightly about her body, around her neck, between her legs, all the way past her knees down to her ankles. She was tethered to the side of the cubicle with another chain attached to a heavy iron collar. Clamped between her jaws was a rod of shiny black held in place with a thick leather strap. She was blindfolded with a dense, black, velvety material. Passers-by by regarded her with curiosity. Some stopped to take photos or to say something that had her vigorously shaking or nodding her head. She must have sensed our presence, because she turned her half-shrouded face to us as we approached.

“Meet my associate Lorelei Labelle,” said Special Agent Cyprian as he freed her from the blindfold, gag, collar and chains, in that order. The woman stretched her aching limbs, rubbed the pink marks and faint bruises on her wrists and ankles, massaged her throat, dabbed the dried dribble from her cheeks and chin. She was a gorgeous redhead with piercing emerald green eyes, but she was now looking haggard and dishevelled. Lithe and athletic, her exquisite body sheathed in skin-tight Lycra, she towered over her gnomish colleague.

“Thanks for minding the store,” he said.

“You took your time,” she responded with a grimace.

“Business,” he explained, clutching my elbow to draw me to his side.

Lorelei Labelle went to the rear of the stall and brought out a chair that she placed in front of me. It was wooden with a high back, to which were attached sturdy leather straps with enough length to wrap around a torso. There were metal restraints screwed onto all four legs. I recoiled, but Cyprian maintained his grip on my arm.

“Have you read her rights?”

I started to say something but the man was already reciting. “You have the right to remain silent…” He held a huge gag with a bulbous latex rubber shaft in front of my face. “Anything you say will not be understood…” Or something like that. I wasn’t really listening.

Jack, meanwhile, was browsing the merchandise on the counter. He picked out one of the FBI badges and tried it on his lapel.

“Agent Jack Carter,” he said. “Female Body Inspector. I like the sound of that.”

Re: THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE UNKEMPT CANINE

Postby xtc » Wed Oct 02, 2013 6:49 am

OK, OK, OK, having got the idea and successfully guessed what a clupied might be and having it confirmed by your use of that name for the tavern, why did you have to start using words like Cyprian? My suspicious and gullible Wiki-finger is quite exhausted!

Good job! Keep the fun coming.
Wassail!
Xtc
Boxer shorts are cool,
but little speedos rule!

More by the same author: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=22729

Re: THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE UNKEMPT CANINE

Postby ducttapegagged » Mon Oct 14, 2013 7:26 am

keep going!!!!!!!!!
An avid lover of God, writing, sports, and tugs.
PM me about anything, I'm always up for a conversation!

Re: THE CURIOUS CASE OF THE UNKEMPT CANINE

Postby hafnermg » Mon Oct 14, 2013 9:28 am

definitely love this!