Intimate Bondage

by John Flynn

  “Some actresses in Hollywood wait their entire lives for a role like that. And here it was, just dropped right into my lap. But then, you knew all along who was going to be the lead in your movie, once you’d read my file.”

  “You make it sound like I orchestrated everything.”

  “Not orchestrated,” she corrected herself. “Directed. That is the proper term for a movie, isn’t it?”

  “If you say so.”

  “And once you had cast your perfect little movie, with all of us playing the roles of our careers, you couldn’t resist not making your part a bigger one,” she continued. “So you took a page from Hitchcock, and transformed yourself into the innocent man falsely accused of murder. And with the perfect body double standing in for the ‘Angel of Death,’ how could anyone suspect you?”

  Monroe scribbled notes on his yellow pad of paper. “This is really great stuff, Kate. I’m going to add this to my novel. Give it a twist ending that my readers will never see coming.”

  “Please don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You know I’m right. I had you pegged right from the very beginning.”

  “The problem is motive,” he stated, looking up from his notes, clearly referring to his book. “What possible motive did the college professor have? He was, after all, a nobody. We’re going to have to work on that, Kate.”

  Kate rushed back over to the sofa to lean over and looked Monroe squarely in the eyes. “Talk to me, Jay. Tell me I’m wrong. If we’re to have any kind of future together, you’ve got to be honest with me.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to say that you had nothing to do with this. I want you to say you’re an innocent man.”

  “I had nothing to do with this. I’m an innocent man,” he repeated, flatly.

  “Is that the truth? Be honest with me. Please.”

  Monroe looked at her, without expression. For a moment, their eyes were deep into each other. Kate trembled as she waited for him to respond to her question.

  “I told you what you wanted me to say. What you needed to hear. Nothing more. Nothing less,” he replied, at last. “If I had told you I was the serial killer, then that would have meant you killed an innocent, young girl. In cold blood. And that’s something neither of us wants to think about. Rosemary Murphy was a sad situation. She never recovered from what happened to her and her sister, and she would have never recovered from her mental distress. She’s much better off now. May she rest in peace.”

  “Are you an innocent man?” she repeated. “I must know.”

  Monroe did not seem nonplussed. “Well, perception is reality,” he said calmly. “If the police think they’ve got their serial killer, then I see no reason to try to convince them otherwise.”

  “But is it true?” Kate pressed. “Are you innocent?”

  They looked at each other for another long moment, the tension between them like a great wall that needed to be torn down but neither demolition party had the courage to make the first move. And then, finally . . .

  “Yes.”

  Relieved, she jumped right into his lap on the sofa, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply. Monroe kissed her back, putting his arms around her, holding her very close. He pressed her closer and closer to him, and then, in the space of a few heartbeats, they were in his bedroom, two naked bodies sprawled on the Tempur-Pedic mattress, making heated, passionate love.

  He was on top of her, hips thrusting his cock deep within, pressing her down into the memory foam. Monroe lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her hungrily, his tongue plunging deep into her mouth. For a brief instant, their bodies seemed to meld into one. He continued to kiss her deeply, then moved his tongue to her neck as he strained to nibble her earlobe. His mouth continued to probe her body, and when it reached her breasts, he suckled her nipples like fruit that longed to share its sweet nectar. All the while, his hips continued to impale her with his cock.

  She writhed under him, clutching the sheets with both hands, straining against the edges of the bed, her eyes closed in ecstasy. When he kissed her, she kissed him back, sucking his tongue into her mouth. Kate arched her back and ground her breasts into his chest, touching nipple to nipple. She forced her breasts into his mouth, one at a time, and cried out in pleasure as his teeth bit hard.

  They rolled into a sitting position, her legs spread wide, his cock buried deep, her calves locked behind his back. Kate’s arms snaked around his shoulders, and she pulled herself up to him. Monroe put his arms around her back, and thrusted again, the motion of their two bodies as they rocked back and forth like a child’s seesaw. The harder he thrust, the more she ground her crotch into him. Their eyes locked in deep concentration as their bodies moved.

  Then Kate pulled herself away from him, and rolled over onto her stomach, lifting her ass into the air. In turn, Monroe knelt down behind her. He reached down to her hips, and pulled her onto his cock as he thrust forward. He kissed her back, and snaked his tongue along her spine, his hips repeatedly moving back and forth, as he thrust his cock in and out. She clutched the sheets in front of her, and in synchronization with his thrusts, she bucked back and forth. With their continual movements, the bed shook and rolled on its casters on the floor.

  Finally, she slipped away from his thrusts, and climbed atop, as he laid his back down on the mattress. With both hands on his bare chest, she straddled his body for a moment, then lowered herself onto his cock. She thrust her hips back and forth, and he joined her rhythm on the third movement. They were soon moving as one, as she bent down and kissed him deeply, her tongue darting. He returned her kiss, sucking her tongue hungrily into his mouth. They looked into each other’s eyes, and for one moment, they were two souls joined as one.

  He felt his orgasm welling up deep within him, and she felt her body responding to his. They continued to move together as one, thrusting their bodies back and forth, climbing to ecstasy. Her body quivered with pleasure, and he trembled, obviously fighting to hold back his release. Finally, they had reached as far as they could go, and exploded together in one great big orgasm.

  SEVERAL HOURS later, they were lying close to each other on the bed, naked, in a tangle of sheets. The bedroom was dark, and only the flickering light of an old black-and-white movie on television illuminated the room. The movie was The Maltese Falcon. Monroe lay on the right side of the bed, his head elevated slightly, staring at the television, smoking a cigarette. Kate was asleep, curled up around him, her head on his chest.

  On the television, Sam Spade, as played by Humphrey Bogart, had just handed Brigid O’Shaughnessy, as played by Mary Astor, over to the police. Spade said to her, “I hope they don’t hang you, precious, by that sweet neck. The chances are you’ll get off with life. That means if you’re a good girl, you’ll get out in twenty years. I’ll be waiting for you. If they hang you, I’ll always remember you.” The music swelled, and the end credits rolled.

  Monroe put his cigarette out in an ashtray, which sat on the nightstand next to the bed, and slid out from under her and turned off the television. Kate muttered something, turned to the other side of the bed, grasping a pillow and tucking it under her as she turned.

  “I love you, John,” she said, in her sleep.

  Monroe leaned over the bed, and kissed her on the cheek then walked out of the bedroom.

  In the front room, near the door, Monroe opened up a coat closet, and then pushed aside various coats, jackets and sweaters in much the same way that he would part his drapes. Inside the coat closet, he pressed a small panel, and opened the door to a second closet. Secreted within were a woman’s classic belted trench coat, a black fedora, a pair of black, knee-length leather boots, a woman’s black leather corset, fishnet stockings, gloves, a riding crop and a red wig. A handful of S&M items, some women’s make-up accessories, and a .9mm Beretta
rounded out the contents.

  He reached for the riding crop and pulled on its leather hilt to produce a long, thin blade, not unlike the one used as a murder weapon. The steel glistened in the darkness, reflecting little shards of light.

  He closed the closet door behind him, and headed back to the bedroom with the blade held high in the air.

  “Freeze!” Kate said, holding her gun with both hands. She was wrapped in one of the bed sheets, sitting on the edge of the bed. The muzzle of her gun was targeted squarely on Monroe’s chest. Dammit, she knew it.

  The blood drained from Monroe’s face, and he turned white as a ghost. For the first time in their relationship, she had surprised him.

  “Why are you holding a gun on me?” he asked, innocently.

  “Drop the weapon. Put your hands up!”

  “Kate, please . . .” He advanced a step towards her.

  “Don’t! Don’t move!” She pulled the hammer back on the gun. “Don’t make me shoot you, John.”

  Monroe seemed to pale even more. “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t know for certain until just now. I began to suspect that something was amiss when I couldn’t find any trace of the red wig in Rosemary Murphy’s dorm room. DNA evidence doesn’t lie, and I was hard-pressed to find an answer for those two hair fibers.”

  “Was there anything else?” John asked, sounding peeved that he wasn’t perfect.

  “Not really. A couple of inconsistencies bothered me, but with the help of my friend Lenny, I was able to resolve them with some of the advanced technology he is working on.”

  “So, that geek’s science fair project worked out after all.”

  Her features hardened. “I’m going to have to take you in, John, and then face whatever punishment they dish out for Rosemary’s murder.”

  “There is another option,” said Monroe. “You could always let me go.”

  “A couple of hours ago, maybe,” she replied, after thoughtful reflection. “If you had been truthful with me, I may have considered it. But not now. Especially with a blade in your hand ready to kill me.”

  John looked at her, his eyebrows raised, silent question marks. “Just how long do you think a person like me would last in prison?”

  “I don’t know,” she responded honestly. “What did Bogie say to Astor? ‘The chances are you’ll get off with life. That means if you’re a good girl, you’ll get out in twenty years. I’ll be waiting for you.’”

  “I’m not going to last twenty minutes in there . . .” Monroe muttered, and then, all at once, he stormed towards her, his hand with the blade raised above his head, poised to strike.

  She fired three shots, and all three bullets struck him dead center, in the chest. The percussion threw him backwards and down to the floor. The blade rolled harmlessly out of his hand.

  With her gun still trained on Monroe, she dropped to one knee, and reached down to feel the carotid artery in his neck. He was still alive—just barely. Kate pulled him close, and cradled his head in her lap. She brushed the hair away from his forehead so she could gaze into his baby blue eyes.

  “I loved you,” he whispered softly, death rattling in his throat.

  “I know,” she replied, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. But he was already gone.

  Kate remained next to Monroe’s lifeless body for a few minutes, teardrops raining down on her cheeks. As she sat there brooding, she thought of his capacity for wonder when he spoke about his movies and his childlike notions about altering reality. He had an astonishing gift for hope, a deep passionate feeling such as she had never found in any other person and would probably never find again. She would probably think of him often in the years to come, and always warmly.

  Sometime later, she reached for the telephone and dialed 911. “Hello, this is Inspector Dawson, please put me through to Homicide. There’s been a fatal shooting. No, an ambulance won’t be necessary.”

  The End

  (Please continue reading for more information about the author)

  Coming Soon

  Intimate Disclosure

  by

  John Flynn

  Intimate Disclosure

  Inspector Kate Dawson is called to investigate a mass suicide—a call that will change her life, and possibly the whole world’s . . . forever.

  Parents are killing their children and then themselves. They are the Chosen Ones, destined by God, to inherit the Earth. The First Pentecostal Church of God is planning on instigating the end of the world and has asked its parishioners to spare their children from the imminent holocaust. Not God’s will, but that of a madman.

  Its cult-like followers think they can facilitate the period known as “The Final Seven Years,” including events heralding the Antichrist, the Great Tribulation, the Mark of the Beast, and a final world war that will devastate the planet. The church’s charismatic leader believes that God has told him personally to raise an army of loyal followers and launch a holy war against all unbelievers. Under orders from their leader, cult members steal the components for an atomic bomb, and threaten to destroy the city of San Francisco.

  Acknowledgements

  A book proudly displays the name of its author on the cover, but books, by their very nature, are rarely the product of a single hand. I would like to acknowledge the names of those who guided or steadied my hand or inspired me to write Intimate Bondage. First, I want to thank Martha Denny, Robert Hall, and Harriet Dear, the college professors who taught me the craft of writing. Next, I owe such a debt of gratitude to Claudine Biggs and Pam Peay, both of whom read the first pages of my manuscript and were early proponents of the work. I also want to thank Lenny Provenzano, my oldest and dearest friend and the person who inspired the character of “Lenny”; in early drafts of the novel, he did not exist at all, and now I cannot imagine the book without him. Similarly, I want to thank my other friends and colleagues who have been traveling on this journey of life with me, and who are well represented as inspirations for the other characters in the novel. None of these figures would have lived or breathed on the page without their real-world counterparts. I am also indebted to the proprietors and clientele of the club that inspired the Black Rose, and all of those alternate lifestylers who whisked me away from my “vanilla” existence and showed me their world. I would never have been able to write authoritatively about my subject matter without their patient guidance. And finally, I want to thank the City of San Francisco, another major character in the piece. My father lived there most of his life and considered it home, which meant that it was also my home when I was with him. He passed away in 1982, at the very young age of 48, but whenever I walk along Burritt Street or climb Coit Tower or ride a cable car down to Fisherman’s Warf, I feel his presence, and know that his spirit resides there still.

  About the Author

  Dr. John L. Flynn is an author, psychologist and college dean. Born in Chicago, Illinois, on September 6, 1954, he earned a Bachelor’s and Master’s Degree from the University of South Florida and a Ph.D. from Southern California University. He is a member of the Science Fiction Writers of America, and has been a regular contributor and columnist to dozens of science fiction magazines.

  In 1977, he received the M. Carolyn Parker award for outstanding journalism for his freelance work on several Florida daily newspapers. He sold his first book, Future Threads, in 1985, and has subsequently had twelve other books published, including Cinematic Vampires: The Living Dead on Film, The Films of Arnold Schwarzenegger, Dissecting Aliens, Visions in Light and Shadow, War of the Worlds: From Wells to Spielberg, 75 Years of Universal Monsters, 50 Years of Hammer Horror, 101 Superheroes of the Silver Screen, 2001: Beyond the Infinite, The Jovian Dilemma, Phantoms of the Opera: Behind the Mask, and Future Prime (with Bob Blackwood). He has also written the introduction to Signet’s new edition of Gaston Leroux’s Ph
antom of the Opera, and the afterword to Signet’s new printing of The Island of Dr. Moreau by H.G. Wells. From 2002 to 2004, Dr. Flynn was nominated for three Hugo Awards for his science fiction writing. John also received an honorable mention for his unproduced screenplay for The Jovian Dilemma in the 2003 Screenplay Festival writing competition.

  In 1997, John switched gears from writing and literature to study psychology, and earned a degree as a clinical psychologist. His study, The Etiology of Sexual Addiction: Childhood Trauma as a Primary Determinant, has broken new ground in the diagnosis and treatment of sexual addiction.

  Today, John lives in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, and is a dean at Broward College.

  Website: john-flynn.com