Intimate Bondage

by John Flynn

  Monroe had stopped following her.

  “Of course, it’s not just one,” she cried out, the lightbulb going on over her head, figuratively speaking. “You’re married to them all. And what real woman could possibly compete with all your fantasy women?”

  “I think you’re confusing my interest in movies with real life.”

  “I’m not the one that’s confused. You are.”

  Monroe had obviously reached the end of his patience. “Kate, please, let me get you some coffee.”

  “Life is not a movie, Johnny-Boy,” she said, downing the last of her drink. “Life is reality. Real people are dying out there.”

  “Reality is what you make it,” he said, with his voice raised angrily. “Right now, you’re a cop chasing a serial killer, and I’m the innocent man who has been wrongfully accused. Tomorrow, I may be the serial killer, and you’ll be my next victim. We create our realities every day with the choices we make or fail to make.”

  Kate slapped the empty bottle down on a tabletop, and went over to Monroe. She kissed him deeply, wetly. She reached down for the tie to his bathrobe, and started to undo it.

  “Why don’t you let me show you what reality is?” she said, seductively. “What a real woman can do for you?”

  “Kate, stop it. You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  Kate struggled with the knot. “I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m trying to free your willie,” she replied, giggling. “Hey, get it. Free Willie. That’s a movie, isn’t it?”

  “Stop it,” he yelled.

  All of a sudden, a young, college girl was standing in the door to Monroe’s bedroom. She was naked, except for a leather dog collar. She looked to be about nineteen years old, with long blond hair, big boobs and a nice firm ass. She looked at Monroe and Kate, her arms crossed.

  “What the fuck’s going on, Jay?” she asked.

  Monroe straightened up, re-tying the belt to his bathrobe tight. He raked the hair back from his forehead, and smiled at her. “Nothing, Jenn. Nothing at all,” he said. “This is the detective I told you about. She just stopped by to ask me a couple more questions.”

  Kate felt shocked, humiliated.

  “Like I already told you,” Jenn reminded him. “I don’t do threesomes.”

  “I know, dear. She was just leaving.”

  “Hurry up, and get rid of her. Like, I’m starting to get cold, and you’re like the only one who’s got what it takes to like warm me back up.”

  Jenn smiled a knowing smile, then walked away from them, heading back into the bedroom and closing the door behind her.

  “It’s not what you think,” said Monroe.

  “I suppose you’re gonna try to tell me you’re just picking up a few extra bucks babysitting,” Kate said, shaking her head. “Men like you really disgust me.”

  Angry, Kate turned away from him, and struggled to find her way through the maze of props and toys and standees that were displayed throughout Monroe’s apartment. Finally, she found the L-shaped corridor that led the way out.

  He hurried after her, pleading. “I know this looks bad, but I can explain . . .”

  “Save it for your little girlfriend.”

  “I like you, Kate. I really do,” he confessed, and for the first time, she felt that he was being straight with her. “The other night at the club was incredible. Just incredible. You really turned me on.”

  “Well, if that’s true, then why are you back here banging some teeny-bopper?”

  “Jennifer’s just one of my students.”

  “I suppose that makes it all okay,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

  Monroe seized her shoulders, and spun her around, pinning her to the door. She tried to turn away but he held her tight. They looked at each other for a long, silent moment, their eyes very involved. Then he kissed her deeply.

  Kate responded, and their bodies melted into one. He reached down and lifted her up by her hips, thrusting at her, and she locked her legs around his waist. Her head arched back, her breasts high and taut, feeling him get hard with each subsequent thrust. His mouth came down on her breasts, nibbling on each right through her blouse.

  Suddenly, the two of them were breathing together as one, each breath deeper and more strained than the last. They continued to grind down on the other, touching each other intimately, yet separated by millimeters of fabric. She could feel her body trembling with ecstasy as she gradually surrendered control to the orgasm that was building. Then, in one overpowering wave, she exploded. Monroe gathered her into his arms, and kissed her deeply once again.

  They held each other together as one a few more moments, and then Monroe started to back away from her. Kate reached out in panic, scrambling to pull his body back against hers. She had completely lost all respect for herself, and she no longer cared. She just held onto him tightly, in much the same way a drowning person at sea clutched a lifeline.

  He whispered, their faces close together,: “Just remember that reality is what we make of it, Kate. Right now, you’ve chosen to be a cop chasing a serial killer. Maybe tomorrow, you’ll discard that badge of yours, and choose to be a woman in love with a man who wants her very, very much.”

  Kate struggled to hold onto him, but he was already out of reach. “Where’s this going, John?” she demanded, fighting but grasping at straws. “What the fuck do you want from me?”

  “The moment you can answer that for yourself,” he replied cryptically, “is the moment you will have me.”

  Monroe looked deeply into her eyes. He leaned towards her, as if he was going to kiss her again, Kate’s lips ready, willing. Then, he grasped the door handle, and opened the door to his apartment for her. Kate was very confused and humiliated as she walked out the door.

  “I thought you’d want to know that I got another email from Crystal Rose. She’s agreed to give me another chance,” he stated flatly, almost business-like. “If you still want to catch her, she and I are supposed to meet for cocktails at the Top of the Mark Hopkins tomorrow evening.”

  Kate turned around, disbelieving. “When were you gonna tell me?”

  “I wasn’t,” Monroe replied, closing the door, and twisting the double-bolt lock.

  Kate leaned back against the wall opposite Monroe’s apartment, and put her hands to her head. She was so bewildered that she didn’t know whether she was coming or going. Long before she realized it, he had not only gotten under her skin but had infected her blood stream like a debilitating toxin that had spread to every part of her being. Kate found herself unable to sleep or eat or conduct her everyday affairs without feeling uncontrollable thoughts of him. She longed for some type of cure, some magic potion that she could swallow down to restore her health. It seemed as if only the death of her partner had provided Dawson with a respite, but just a temporary one. The only real treatment that could possibly relieve her exotic fever was Monroe himself. Kate did not want to admit it, to him, to anyone else, not even to herself, that she had become addicted to him.

  For a moment, she wrestled with the awareness that no man had ever affected her that way, not even her ex-husband. Trembling, Kate gathered together what was left of her self-esteem, and shuffled off, like a junkie suffering from the pangs of withdrawal in between fixes.

  AS KATE DAWSON walked into the Mark Hopkins hotel, she took note of the stylish décor, airy ceilings, and nuances of tasteful chic. The Top of the Mark, located on the 19th floor of the legendary hotel, was the most famous and elegant sky-lounge in the City of San Francisco. The rooftop bar was also the highest point in the downtown area. Sunset views of the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, North Beach, Fisherman’s Wharf and nearby Oakland filled the 360-degree panorama. Quiet jazz from a live band played in the background as patrons selected from among the hundred variations of martinis at the bar. S
he circled around the bar, looking for her suspect, and when she was satisfied that Crystal Rose was not among the patrons, she walked over to check her coat.

  Near the entrance, in the door to the coat-check room, Dawson stripped off her coat, and laid it down on the counter. She was dressed in a white tuxedo blouse, black vest and skirt to look like an official employee of the hotel.

  “You’re late,” Monroe said, as he reached across the counter to straighten her black bowtie.

  “Is that any way to greet your backup?”

  “Stand still,” he instructed her.

  “You try standing still in these heels,” she replied. “They’re killing my feet.”

  “It’s only for an hour or so.”

  “Then why don’t you just continue to man the coat check, and I’ll go out and have a drink at the bar?”

  Monroe ignored her, and finished with the bow. “Perfect,” he said, at long last, looking at her from head to foot.

  “Thank you, kind sir.”

  Monroe looked down at his Rolex watch. “Crystal Rose is due here at any moment. With some luck, she’s on time, and we can wrap this up quickly. And you can still get home in time for Law and Order.”

  “To hell with that,” Kate exclaimed. “I’m gonna book her downtown, and then go out and fuckin’ celebrate.”

  “Just remember the plan.”

  “We’ve been over it a thousand times, Jay. Just get out there, and make yourself useful as a target.”

  Monroe flashed a big, toothy grin, and traded places with her. He then walked into the lounge with a slight skip to his step. He was dressed to the nines in a black, Armani suit to look the part of a Hollywood producer or some corporate executive. He looked right at home with the other rich patrons.

  Monroe glanced around the room until he saw a place at the bar, and then walked over to a seat between a young couple and two girls, both blond and busty. Flirting, the girls turned to him with a bright “hello”, and Monroe returned the courtesy with a “hello” of his own. The couple did not even see him. He leaned over the bar and ordered a martini from the bartender.

  While he was waiting for his drink order, he glanced around the lounge. No sign of Crystal Rose, or any other redhead, for that matter. He did see a woman sitting by herself, thirty-something, pretty and receptive. He smiled at her. For an instant, she looked him over, and then she smiled right back. Monroe turned back around, and picked up his drink.

  “Cheers,” he said to his companions at the bar.

  The first blonde leaned over, and said, “So, handsome. Looking for a date?”

  “The three of us could have a really great time,” the second blond girl added, leaning on her friend’s shoulders.

  “On any other night, ladies, that would be an offer too tempting to resist,” Monroe said, smiling. “But I am meeting someone tonight.”

  The first blonde looked at him, a disappointed expression on her face. “Too bad. It would have been fun.”

  The other shrugged. “Lucky girl.”

  “Another time?”

  “Maybe.”

  Monroe finished his drink and signaled to the bartender for another. The bartender nodded, and began mixing him another martini. Monroe then glanced down at his watch. It was 7:29. Showtime.

  At that moment, a redhead, wearing a long black coat and sunglasses, stepped off the elevator. Kate saw her first, as she headed to the coat-check room. The woman took her sunglasses off, and put them in her purse. She removed her coat, and handed it to Kate without a backward glance. The woman looked and acted like she was used to being waited on by others. She made no eye contact at all with Kate, but did manage to snap the claim check out of her hand in one fluid motion as she moved into the lounge.

  Monroe tried not to show his surprise by taking the newly-mixed martini and drinking it a little slower this time.

  The redhead walked past Monroe at the bar, and approached three men at a private table. One of the men, dressed in a navy sport jacket and tan slacks, stood up, greeted her with a polite kiss on the cheek, and introduced her to the others. He then pulled out a chair for her to sit down. False alarm.

  Monroe exhaled a deep breath, and looked back at his watch. The expensive Swiss timepiece registered 7:31. Suddenly, he felt his cell phone vibrating in his pocket, and took it out. Monroe didn’t recognize the number. He flipped open the receiver, and held the phone to his ear.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “I’m running late,” the female voice on the other end of the phone said. “Traffic. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”

  “Okay, no problem. I’ll see you shortly.”

  Monroe closed the receiver, and returned the cell phone to his jacket pocket, just as the first blond girl leaned over.

  “Offer still stands,” she whispered.

  “Thanks, but my date’s just running late. Excuse me.”

  Monroe slipped out of his seat at the bar, and walked past the coat check on his way to the men’s room.

  “So, what happened to your kinky playmate?” Kate asked.

  “That was her on the phone just now,” he reported, in a whisper. “Apparently, she has gotten tied up in traffic, and is running late.”

  “I’ll wager you even money she doesn’t show.”

  “Sorry, no bet,” Monroe replied, scurrying down the hall.

  “Where are you going?”

  Monroe said over his shoulder, “Men’s room. Just relax. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

  After a long silence, Kate came out of the coat-check room, and walked to the center of the floor. Her feet were killing her in the stiletto heels, and she took advantage of the break to stretch her legs. She also wanted to sneak a peak in the lounge, but didn’t want anyone to see her looking. She leaned forward, craning her head, peaking around the corner. No one noticed her.

  Impatiently, she glanced down at her Timex watch. It was 7:37, and she was anxious.

  She walked back to the coat-check room. Then, as she about to step back into her little cubby-hole, an unknown assailant grabbed her from behind and covered her face with a handkerchief laced with chloroform. Kate struggled to get free, her arms and legs flailing. But her response to the assailant was not fast enough. The anesthetic went right to work on her central nervous system, and within a matter of seconds, her movements had stopped altogether.

  SAN FRANCISCO’S InterContinental Mark Hopkins Hotel was often described by its guests as elegant, refined, and luxurious. Built at One Nob Hill by Mark Hopkins, one of the founders of the Central Pacific Railroad, as a home for his wife Mary in 1878, the original mansion survived the 1906 San Francisco earthquake but was destroyed in the three-day fire that followed. Reconstructed on the same site as a nineteen-story luxury hotel, the Mark Hopkins acquired international fame among jet-setters, and was later designated as a California Historical Landmark in 1961.

  Kate awoke several hours later in one of the hotel’s rooms. Large enough to be a suite in other hotels, the room was dominated by a huge, king-sized bed, a sofa with separate seating area, desk, minibar and widescreen television. Soft light from the morning sunrise bathed the room in rich colors of yellow and gold, while a tiny shaft of sunlight shined right in her face.

  She muttered incoherently and turned to the other side of the pillow. Her mouth tasted as if she had been sucking on cotton balls all night. She felt something strange in her bed sheets. Something wet, sticky.

  Groggy and feeling hungover, as if she had finally wigged out and gone on an all-night bender with her favorite poison of choice, Kate shifted uncomfortably. She sensed that she was not in her bed at home, but couldn’t seem to wake up enough to know for certain. Perhaps she was still asleep, dreaming. Maybe this was all part of some nightmare her subconscious mind had conjured up to help her cope wi
th those deep, dark thoughts about Monroe.

  Kate struggled to consciousness, fighting a sense of panic as she felt the wet, sticky sheets against her naked body. She shook her head back and forth, attempting to throw off that part of her head still asleep. Her first fear was that she’d just slept with Monroe, or worse, some stranger, and couldn’t remember a thing about him or the reason why the sheets were so sticky. Then she looked down at her hands. They were covered in blood.

  Scared to death, Kate was now fully awake. She pulled aside the covers, and saw fresh blood on the sheets. She scrambled to the next layer. More blood; in fact, she was nearly submerged in a pool of blood. Graphic scenes from horror movies, in which victims of some psychotic killer awake to discover they have been cut in half or have had limbs amputated, flashed through her head. She stopped dead, closing her eyes tight, too terrified to keep searching. Even though she could still feel her legs and wiggle her toes, she wasn’t convinced they were not phantom impulses from the brain. Frantically, she patted her body down, right to her toes, relieving fears that one of her limbs had been severed and she was bleeding to death.

  She reached down and pulled at the sheets, following the trail of blood to the foot of the bed, until she was face to face with Ruiz Aguilar. To see more clearly, she struggled up to her elbows in the puddle of blood. His throat had been cut, and the shaft of his penis was fixed in his mouth.

  She tried to scream, but could not find her voice. She grabbed her throat in an effort to force it out. Finally, an ear-splitting scream of pure terror escaped. The scream carried out into the hall, and echoed through the hallways and into the hotel lobby of the Mark Hopkins.

  AN HOUR AND a half later, Kate was sitting in a bathrobe at the mahogany desk in her hotel room, watching her colleagues from Homicide, Forensics and the ME’s office work the crime scene for evidence. Keeping a façade of icy, cool detachment, she looked on as Dr. Brogan and his team examined the body for time and cause of death. She followed the police photographer with her eyes as he snapped pictures, and watched the forensics guys conduct a thorough sweep of the room. She even counted the number of steps the lieutenant took in pacing the floor, while Clark nervously snapped his gum. She had seen it all before, many times in fact. During her seven-year career with the San Francisco Police Department, she had been to dozens of different crime scenes. Ironically, most of them had been pretty much the same, as if they had been scripted to air on television as a weekly series. What was different about this crime scene was that she was a suspect, not a law enforcement officer.