by Dancer, Jack
No sooner that my lungs grab air and the next blow lands when my mugger jumps onto my back again, this time straddling me, knees gripping my sides, riding me. A hand grabs my hair and jerks my head backward. A rubber ball is shoved into my mouth and strapped around my head like a dog's muzzle. A black velvet bag closes over my head then cinches, and my face drops into a pillow. I'm trussed like an animal ready for slaughter with no more than a groan escaping my throat. Everything is black as tar and my back is screaming from the blow.
Whoever it is, comes off me, and I can at least take in air through my nostrils. The mugging was so quick, so efficient; whoever's done this is an expert.
The other thing is, and this is a little embarrassing to admit, but I'm pretty sure it's a woman. I say that because whoever tackled me in the hallway and hung on piggyback-like, twisting me around until I stumbled into the room and fell across the bed, seemed tall but didn't weigh all that much - at least not as much as I would have expected from a man. When they were on my back with their arms around my neck, I could smell a hint of perfume, not cologne, but perfume. And when they were straddling me on the bed, it felt like whatever they were wearing was tight fitting, not loose like pants. More like tights.
I hear a click, the bedside light. The next thing is, they're taking off a shoe, the sock, then the other shoe and sock. Air caresses my bare feet, but still I can only move my legs a little, and I get a pinch. Not a hard one but enough to have me still.
A hand wraps around my ankle then travels my leg, inside my pant. A woman's hand, that much I'm sure. A slender hand, long nails. She reaches up as far as she can until her hand is on my inner thigh. Her arm is warm against my leg. When the hand pulls back and out, she comes off the bed. A minute passes before the bed mattress again drops. She remounts, straddling; thighs tight like pincers. She pulls the shirt out of my pants and runs her hands up my back to my shoulder blades. Fingernails skim down my spine then both hands reach around me, under my stomach, nudging me up, signaling for me to rise. I do as best I can, which is not much, just enough for her to unbutton my shirt. When the last button goes, she pulls my shirt out from under me and my bare chest is against the bed cover and she pulls the back of my shirt up and over my head, exposing my bare back. Her hands go to my shoulder blades then around until both are gripping and kneading my pectorals. Her body lowers, pressing bare stomach and breasts lengthwise across my back. No doubt now, it's a woman.
The warmth of her body invades me, pillowed breasts flattening softly against me, writhing, while her hands move south to my belt buckle. She nudges me again, signaling to raise my hips. I do and she reaches under to unbuckle my belt. When she frees the buckle, she unbuttons my trousers and pulls the zipper down with one hand while holding the top of my trousers with the other. Lying warm across my back and, with the sack over my head, she presses her face against the side of mine and exhales a hot breath into my ear. Her hands move into my underwear taking hold of me, pulling me free.
She sits back up, still straddling. Her hands on my shoulder blades she digs her fingernails into my skin this time, raking ruthlessly down both sides of my spine. My whole-body tightens against the pain, and I let go a muffled scream into the ball gagging me. She dismounts.
A minute later the cold thin metal of scissors against the back of my leg, cut up one pant leg and then the other. They shear off my underwear, then my shirt. She then pulls my ravaged clothes out from under me like a magician might do with a tablecloth under a place setting.
I'm lying completely naked across the bed with what must be long tracks of flesh scored from my back. The cool air from the room's air conditioner sweeps across the trails triggering shivers. She remounts, straddling me, her skin pressing against mine. Coarse pubic hair brushes across my rear, then the length of her warm body again unfolds over the length of mine, writhing against me, up and down and across me, its warmth sending off small shutters. She raises and scoots farther down onto my legs and moves her hand in between, nudging me to spread. My response isn't quick enough, and she sends a hard stinging slap across my backside triggering instant separation.
Her hand slips under me until I fill it. She fondles me, but only teasingly before pulling out and dragging her middle finger into the crevice of my buttocks and delivering an unexpected incursion. I flinch at the surprise more than the pain and send a hard biting, muffled scream into the ball gag. She pulls out, then again, lays over me, my reward; the soothing press of her Nightingale flesh. I can feel her face and her breath again on my cheek.
“You okay, Tucker?”
Now, I know its Nanette. I should have guessed. I nod.
“Good. Enjoying yourself?”
I shrug, but reconsidering; I nod.
“Good. I thought you would. I've wanted to play with you ever since last night at the Taverna la Tomaquera. You never came to my room, and you've been gone all day so I had no choice but to wait for you in surprise. Were you surprised, Tucker?”
I nod.
“I have more surprises for you. Would you like to see them?”
I shrug and nod at the same time - an, "I'm not sure; it depends,” answer.
“I understand. You're not sure are you?”
I shake my head.
“Well, I'll promise you one thing; I promise not to kill you, maim you or disfigure you, at least nothing permanent, okay?”
I nod and shrug.
“I understand. It's been a bit traumatic for you. But, I think you'll enjoy what I have in store.”
I nod and shrug.
“Trust is important. I know that. You may have little reason to trust me now, but I can assure you, if you do your best to cooperate, you'll eventually come to trust me. You understand, Tucker?”
I nod.
The next thing I know, she grabs the sack covering my head and pulls back so my throat is stretched like a chicken. When she releases me, a studded choke collar is encircling my neck. She attaches a leash then pulls it taunt, studs biting into my skin.
“Am I clear about cooperating, Tucker?”
I nod.
“Now, I'm going to untie you, so I can get you into the positions that will be most fulfilling. Okay?”
Oh, shit. I nod.
“But, before I untie you, there's one last very important thing you must promise me, and this is the most important thing of all. You must do everything I tell you to do. Do you understand me, Tucker?”
Oh, shit. I nod again.
Nanette then proceeds to untie my wrists and ankles from the bedposts. "And one more thing, Tucker; you will refer to me as 'Mistress' during the session and do not remove the ball gag or the head cover until I tell you.”
Wasn't that three more things? Mistress? I’m thinking. I nod.
“Turn over, Tucker.”
I roll over onto my back. The next thing I feel is her mouth closing around me. Jesus, if this is what she wants, she didn't have to beat me up to get it. And just as I'm about to reach nirvana, wouldn't you know it; she pulls away and gets off the bed. God I hate it when they do that. This must be the torture part.
Wrong. She leaves the bed entirely.
“Come, Tucker. She tugs on the leash, and I get off and stand.
“Remove the sack but leave the ball gag.”
Though the room was dimly lit, my eyes still had to adjust when I pulled the sack from my head, and it was then a worry came over me when I saw a chair placed in the middle of the room. But, even that fled when I saw Nanette standing some five or six feet away in her full suit of, oh my God. A vision like none I had ever encountered or could even have imagined.
Her skin is as pale as pure fear. Dark chocolate eyes peered out from behind a gold Juliet mask-of-night surrounded with black and blue feathers so soft and luxurious you'd give up your hair for it. Her lips were the color of fresh blood and matched the blood-red silk ribbon encircling her endlessly slender neck. A black lace corset trimmed in red hugged her long slender form and her shapely legs filled bla
ck fish-net stockings all the way down to feet standing in four-inch red stilettos.
She moved across the carpet to the chair with the grace of a large cat, sat, and gave the leash another sharp tug.
“Come here Submissive and bend over my knees.”
Submissive? Oh, shit.
I meekly walk over to her, my face flushed with embarrassment. I look like a friggin' pointer, a pointer with a ball gag.
“Get that thing out of my face and bend over my knees, Submissive.”
I didn't notice before, but now I see she's holding a leather strap flaring at the end into three separate strips, a cat-o'-three-tails! Oh, shit.
“Now, Submissive!” she commands.
Carefully, yet awkwardly, I lower myself over her knees. It was nearly a deja vu flashback to when I was a kid. Except back then, there was no naked part.
Hey, maybe this'll be better.
Now here I am, a grown man staring at the floor while lying bare-ass naked across the knees of a creature with such deadly beauty . . . WHAP, and my butt screams like a motherfucker! I would've come off her knees, except she'd pulled the leash over my head and wrapped it around her hand, shortening it, so when my head jerked up, I practically gave myself a tracheotomy from the bloody studs.
Whatever scream might have escaped my larynx was muted behind the ball gag stuffed into my mouth.
WHAP, Goddammit that hurts like a son of a bitch! WHAP, Fuck! WHAP, again, then again, and once more until . . . you know what?
The stinging starts to fade, and it's . . . Whoa . . . it's actually starting to feel . . . Kinda . . . Wow, I'm beginning to understand why some people are into this stuff. It's not really a nice feeling in the sexually arousing sense - though the third leg propping me up off the floor would suggest, au contraire. It's a different kind of pleasure.
“You've been a bad-boy, Tucker.”
I nod my agreement.
WHAP. Holy shit that stings sooo fuuckkin' goood.
“And you know you have to be punished for being such a bad boy, don't you, Tucker?”
I nod again.
WHAP. Ouch, uh oh, I think I'm going to . . .
“Tucker, you're not actually ENJOYING this are you?”
I shake my head furiously, NO, no, no. Course not!
“Get up, Tucker,” she orders.
Do I have too?
“Get UP, Tucker. NOW!” she orders again. And I do, though a thin strand of incriminating evidence ties me to the floor like silly string, momentarily.
“Jesus Christ, Tucker. You didn't!”
Does this mean I've been bad again?
twenty-six
19:45 Hours, Tuesday, 2 September.
Scruples, Fira Palace Hotel.
Monica.
Getting out of the cab and walking through the front door of the Fira, I see Scruples and decide the best thing for me right now would be a drink, so I walk in and who should I see at the bar waving me over but, Captain Pat.
Shit, I don't want to talk to anyone right now. Isn't there anywhere I can find some peace and be alone?
I walk up and give him a small smile, sans any enthusiasm.
“Well, hello there pretty lady, have a seat,” says Pat all smiles, patting the barstool next to him.
Oh, Christ. I take the barstool.
"Hi Pat,” I say.
“So what's doing? You don't look very happy.”
“Just tired.”
“As well you should be with all that train traveling. And I hear you, and the gang took a drive down the coast today.”
Asshole.
“Yeah, we drove down to Tarragona, had lunch, and drove back. That's about it.”
The bartender steps up, and I order a Cosmo. No doubt, I'm going to need several of these to block this guy out.
“So, where're your friends now?”
“Who? Terry?”
“And Ebba and Tucker,” he says.
“Terry and Ebba went to dinner at a restaurant in the Ramblas. I don't know where Tucker is."
“The Ramblas, huh? That can be pretty dangerous part of town at night.”
“Not the Ramblas, Ramblas. The Rambla de Catalunya. I think it's not quite as crazy, but I really don't know. They went with Juan, the bartender here. His brother-in-law owns the restaurant,” I say but thinking, none of your business, asshole.
“Thought you would've gone to?"
“I did . . . I mean, was going to, but changed my mind.”
“And Tucker?”
“I don't know where Tucker is. He didn't make it. He was out somewhere. Ebba left him a note to join 'em there later.”
“I'd have thought if anyone knew where Tucker is, you would.”
“Why would you think that?”
“I dunno. Just figured you two had gotten pretty chummy after your little Paris detour. How did that work out anyhow?”
“I suppose if you call missing the flight out of New York and training from London through all of France working out, then the answer would be, yes; we got here.”
“Pretty creative route to take. Who came up with that one?”
“That was Tucker's idea.”
“And a brilliant one it was.”
“Brilliant?”
“Yes, brilliant. I mean, think about it. He, who on the spur of the moment devised and executed the perfect plan to steal away with a beautiful and willing stranger for two secreted days of anonymous fun and games with virtually no possibility of discovery or consequences; doubly brilliant if the woman is actually guiding the whole operation.”
“There's no brilliance there. You men are as predictable as sunrise and sunset.”
“We're single minded.”
“You mean single-headed," I snarl.
“You know, sometimes it baffles me how women can be so clueless about the power they wield to make a man do, just about anything.”
“Are you kidding? Don't be gullible, Pat. By the age of thirteen, any blossoming girl knows the power she possesses over boys. By the time she's thirty she's come to realize men would stoop to fucking chickens under the right circumstances.”
“Ha, ha. Ouch. Are we really that bad?”
“You're a simple life form. Where women go wrong is forgetting that.”
“So, where do men go wrong?”
“When they think women think like them,” I say.
“Ouch again. But, that's lust, what about love?”
“They're both four-letter words?”
“So are 'fuck' and 'care'. Does Tucker care about you?”
And so is, Jerk. None of your business, Jerk, I’m thinking.
“Tucker, has a girlfriend in case you haven't noticed,” I remind him.
“You mean Ebba? He doesn't care about her. They're just fuck-buddies.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because she told me.”
“When?”
"When I was with her over the two nights, you were with Tucker."
"Really?"
“Really. And I learned a little about Tucker too. Like he does have a pretty successful advertising agency and the means that come with it, though I think, Ebba exaggerates a bit on that score. She calls him a serial dater because he dates so many different women. Says he shows no sign he's ready to settle down and commit, which of course Ebba tries to act cavalier about. But I can tell it's in her craw. The whole dating thing is still new for him so he's like a kid in a candy store. He's just out to make the most of it, for a while at least. He'll eventually settle down with someone. He was married over twenty years for Christ's sake, so he's the marrying type. He may be a serial dater now but the bedding all the women thing will wear thin, and he'll end up married again.”
“Didn't wear thin for you, I hear.”
“We're not cut from the same cloth, Tucker and me. Ebba says when Tucker was married he was actually faithful. Said his wife tried to make it like he was divorcing her for another woman, but there wasn't another woman. It must have
been some blow to her ego. Guess he's faithful in marriage just not in dating.”
“Maybe it's Ebba, he's not faithful to. I mean look at her with you. Maybe he figures what's good for the goose is good for the gander.”
“Could be, you're also proof he's not committed to Ebba. So, you think Tucker found Ebba's note and is on his way to meet her and Terry at the restaurant?”
"I don't know. I suppose he is. Why're you asking me? I'm not his keeper."
“So, where's Nanette?”
“How should I know, Pat? And what does Nanette have to do with anything?"
Pat's mute . . . waiting.
"Wait a minute, are you suggesting Tucker's with Nanette?”
“No. But, I know Nanette, and last night at the Taverna La Tomaquera it was pretty clear she had the hots for him and when Nanette wants something Nanette usually finds a way to get it.”
If you only knew, I thought.
“So, why are you telling me this?”
“Only because if Tucker's with Nanette, it may not be completely voluntary.”
“Why? She'd put a gun to his head?”
“That's not to be entirely dismissed.”
Just how well do you know Nanette; I'm thinking?
“Oh, give me a break.”
“Monica, things are not always as they appear.”
“And what's that supposed to mean?”
“Only that things are not always as they appear.”
“And?”
“Well, if Tucker's tied up and Terry and Ebba have both been kidnapped off to dinner by Juan, that leaves you and me. Be a shame to waste such a beautiful evening don't you think? Why shouldn't we have some fun ourselves? Whaddaya say we make the most of it? I'll buy you dinner. We can even go dancing.”
“Thanks Pat, but I don't think so. I'm pretty beat. Think I'll make it an early night.”