by Trent Evans
Dear, God.
The grip of the hand at her shoulder tightened, guiding her deeper into the space. The weight of the diners’ stares, the murmuring, the muffled laughter, the admiring hums, all of it served to deepen the sense of abject debasement, the feeling of Lacey being reduced to a thing, a toy for the amusement of others. It should have horrified her, but the heat between her legs, the throb of her tight nipples, the stirring in her belly, told an entirely different story. Yes, here, now, in this place, she was a thing — and there was nothing she could do about it. There was a freedom, a release in that, the thing she clung to in her mind, even as she sunk deeper and deeper into her humiliation.
She was stopped, her head lolling on her shoulders at the abruptness of the grip of the master of ceremonies, guiding her every step. A hand stroked up her thigh, squeezing gently, then patting her.
“Troy’s girl, right?” The voice was female, though she couldn’t determine if the hand touching her was the same woman.
“I was surprised to see her out here,” a new male voice said, his tone cultured, cool. “She’s new — didn’t need to do this so soon, really.” A palm molded itself to her pubis, and her hips jerked forward reflexively, her blush burning hot, the entire table bursting into laughter. “I guess we have our answer.”
Her pussy was stroked, fingers splaying her labia to a low whistle from someone at the table.
“Quite a clit on this one.” It was tapped gently. “You should be proud of that, my dear.”
“I’m sure Troy is,” another deeper male voice retorted, to murmured agreement.
She didn’t know it was possible to feel so embarrassed, yet she also knew everyone at the table could very well see the moisture collecting between now swollen labia, the clit that throbbed like a metronome now, the coolness of the air caressing it. She wanted that finger to touch it again, even though she feared she wouldn’t be able to stay her hips from that wanton, bucking response.
You’re insane!
Then other hands touched her, all over her body, and she surrendered to it again, their voices thickened with lust, her entire consciousness drowning in her shame, her arousal, impossibly, growing as they explored her even further.
She gasped as fingers plunged within her, others testing the hardness of her nipples, knuckles brushing across the tips, the sensation making her shudder.
“Look at these tits,” someone said, a male, as one of her breasts were raised upon the back of a hand. “Even harnessed up they’ve got good movement. Nice and heavy. Troy’s a lucky man.”
Lacey moaned behind her gag as fingers worked her clit, circling it lazily no doubt so all could watch the shamefaced, blindfolded, and gagged woman struggle with her response, with her mortification. The digits withdrew from her sex, her wetness wiped casually across her thigh. Hands touched her everywhere again, investigating the swell of her flesh where the leather of the straps bit into her, the well of her navel, a fingernail scratching at the stubble upon her bare mons.
“Needs a shave though,” a murmured voice said, to a scattering of chuckles.
“Tell Troy we appreciated him sharing his slave girl with us.” It was the same person who’d commented on her breasts.
Then she was dismissed, the hand turning her brusquely, guiding her along to another booth, more tables, more shame. She was turned this way and that, made to bend, her face burning anew while someone commented that she needed a nice stout plug “to stretch that cute little bottomhole for her.”
Others tsked over the livid marks across the backs of her thighs, numerous hands smacking her ass lightly, fingers giving her sharp pinches to the tender flesh at the junction of thigh and buttock. The compliments made her beam, as much as the slights made her wither, the general laughter and enjoyment at her plight drawing her deeper into a near trance. She was a vessel only, a means of enjoyment, a pleasant diversion for all who cared to look at her, touch her, shame her with their caustic words, lift her up with their endearments.
She guessed she’d been led to every table in the place, though the blackness of her blindfold and the heightening of her other senses seemed to have warped her perception of time and place. Reduced to a feeling thing, she could only react, responding to stimuli in ways she sometimes couldn’t control. It was precisely that loss of control that was the hardest to bear, and yet bear it she did.
Finally, she was led back outside, the sweat upon her skin suddenly like ice in the cool morning breeze. She looked around blindly as saliva began to slip from around her gag, threatening to add yet another layer to her debasement. She wanted, needed, to know that Troy and Hunter were there, were watching, taking in her surrender, enjoying what she’d laid bare for her men, for them all. Somehow knowing they took pleasure in this made it easier, the thought lending her a strength she couldn’t quite understand.
“Get moving, applicant,” the man at her shoulder said. “You’ve got a long way to go yet.”
She stayed planted where she was, even as she tottered on her heels.
Fire laced across her bottom, the impact of the heavy paddle shaking her entire body.
“I said, move.”
The crowd still gathered outside rose in a chorus of murmuring, oohs and aahs all around her. Still, she wasn’t moving. Not until she knew they were there. Her men. Her Masters.
“Lacey, do as you’re told,” a voice rang out from the crowd. “You know better than to disobey.”
Troy!
She smiled around her gag, even as another searing stroke of the leather slammed against her ass.
“You’re doing fine, girl. Be good and do as you’re told.”
The sound of Hunter’s voice had her letting out an exultant yell against her gag, the sound coming out as more a high-pitched squealing. Laughter and applause washed through the watching throng, likely mistaking her squeal for an exclamation of pain.
It couldn’t be further from the truth.
Lacey started forward on her heels, stumbling a little, the grip of her tormentor’s hand upon her shoulder saving her from a spill to the pavement.
His kindness was fleeting, another stroke of the paddle smacking across the backs of her thighs, the blast of pain making her cry out for real this time.
“You defy an order again, and we’ll have us a whipping right here in the street, applicant. Now, move.”
Chapter 3
Falon had seen plenty of jail cells. She’d even sat in one in an interview — with several giant, club-toting guards steps away.
It was a decidedly different experience sitting on the paper-thin mattress of a bunk, her wrists throbbing in the confinement of metal cuffs Mathis had yet to let her out of.
She watched Ford as he worked, the single cell looking remarkably like something right out of that old black and white Andy Griffith show her Grandpa used to watch on Sunday afternoons.
White Valley was a helluva long way from lazy Sundays sitting at grandpa’s knee.
Looking to Ford once more, she tried to force herself to think, to calm down, and work out just what the hell was going on. Yes, she’d gone back on her word, and it was obvious Ford was irritated at that.
She’d had to outsmart lawmen before, and she had no doubt she’d have to do it again. Just part of the job.
This was the first time going back on her word had landed her ass in the klink though.
But that’s not all that’s wrong here, is it, Falon?
Somehow, deceiving the tall, gruff Ford Mathis had her feeling almost… guilty. There was zero reason to feel guilt, of course — this place was as fucked up a story as she could ever remember covering — and she certainly hadn’t violated any laws by not exactly staying true to her word. But that didn’t matter. She felt unease, even a little twinge of… shame? Why would she feel sheepish at trying to dupe the small-town cop?
Because you like him, dippy.
There was truth in that, despite the fact she’d love to kick him in the nuts right at that m
oment. There might be time for that later, if she played her cards right. Still, no matter what had already happened, she felt a draw to him, a pull she didn’t understand, and had no time or inclination to try to process.
At that moment, all she had time for was figuring out how to get herself out of what appeared to be increasingly deep shit.
“Sheriff, is it really necessary to keep me cuffed — inside a locked cell?” She jiggled the steel links of the cuffs behind her, biting down hard against the flaring heat of her abraded wrists. Why did he have to make them so tight?
He looked over at her from his desk, his fingers pausing on the keyboard. He’d been typing away for the last five minutes. Probably a police report or a booking doc. But she hadn’t broken any laws. What the hell was he doing?
“I’ll release your cuffs when I’m ready, Ms. Moore. You sit tight until I’m done.”
“I’m in a locked cell. Cuffs are kind of overkill, don’t you think?”
His gaze traversed down the tight, brown button down she’d chosen that morning, his eyes pausing at the swell of her breasts. The shirt was a little snug, but it was the best one she had for the job. Blending into the trees and surrounding landscape of the park was what she had been concerned about, not fashion.
Ford’s eyes locked with hers then, and the hardness she saw there made her shiver, though whether in fear or something else, she wasn’t entirely sure.
“I think you’ll keep those cuffs on. No, there isn’t any reason to keep you cuffed while you’re in a locked cell, is there? Except maybe one.” He glanced at her breasts once more, just long enough for the point to be made, before meeting her gaze once more. “I like them. It’s a good look for you, Falon.”
“You can’t do this, Ford.”
He stood suddenly, and her heart galloped a little faster as she watched him saunter around his desk, thumbs hooked in that heavy belt, her gaze unerringly moving to the bulge of his genitals in the snug tan trousers, then over to the black menace of the large pistol at his hip.
Jesus, Falon. His cock and his gun?
He retrieved one of the straight-backed wooden chairs from in front of his desk, dragging it over to her cell, the legs screeching jarringly on the worn wood floorboards. Turning it away from the bars, he straddled the chair, laying both arms across the back. He looked upon her in silence for a long, disconcerting moment, as a boy might look upon a butterfly captured in a jar.
“The longer you wait to let me see a lawyer, the more this is going to cost the city when I get done suing the shit out of it.”
The venom of her words surprised her, but she was in trouble. Her last hope was to possibly bluff him — or at least get him thinking about the cost of holding her without charge. She knew very well he held all the cards here. Screwing up wasn’t something unknown to her, of course, but she’d really stepped in it here. She suddenly wished she was back in Portland covering school board meetings, or the latest weirdness that city never ceased to provide local journalists.
Ford rested his chin on his arms. “You don’t follow orders very well, do you?”
“W-what?”
“Orders. Directions.” He smiled at her. “You probably curse under your breath every time your boss gives you an assignment, don’t you?”
“This is fucking ridiculous. I want—”
His eyes narrowed. “First thing, before we go any further — a rule. There will be plenty more, but this one needs to be first. You speak to me with respect, and that includes no cursing. You’ll address me as Sir or, I guess, Sheriff. Do you understand this rule?”
“Ford, unlock the cuffs.”
“Do you understand, Ms. Moore?”
Trying to establish authority and dominance was Cop 101… but that didn’t mean it wasn’t effective. She’d play along.
“Yes, Sheriff.”
“Good.”
His smile returned, and she tried not to think about how handsome it was.
“One thing you’re going to have to get used to is this. You have zero leverage here, Falon. None. This isn’t the big city. This is White Valley, and when I say someone stays in a cell, or stays in their cuffs… they do. That’s it.” He drew in a breath, his gaze upon her growing even harder, if that were possible. “Now, I’m not a cruel man, nor an unfeeling one. If you can prove you can be trusted to be let out of the cuffs, and if you decide you’re going to cooperate, then we can think about freeing you.”
“From the cell too?” Falon tried to calm herself at the prospect of freedom, something she never, ever thought she’d find herself deprived of. “I could—”
“You’re not getting out of that cell anytime soon. Little steps, Ms. Moore.”
Her heart sank at that, anger rising within her at the unfairness, the unjustness of the small-town cop holding her for no reason other than that he felt like it. How could this happen? This wasn’t right.
Calm down, idiot. You’re getting nowhere if you keep antagonizing him.
“I want you to answer my question. Do you get angry when someone tells you what to do? Even if it’s your boss? Be honest.”
“I don’t see what any of this has to do with you holding me without charge.”
“I’ve got all day, Ms. Moore. Would you rather continue acting like a petulant child, or do you want to answer a simple question?”
Fuck.
She knew exactly what he was doing here. Give the suspect no leeway, no room to maneuver. Controlling even speech was the first step. Speech was intimately intertwined with thought, but thought was unassailable… at first.
Little steps, indeed.
“Honestly, yes. I don’t like being told what to do. How do you think I ended up doing investigative journalism?”
He arched a brow. “You like to interrogate — but not the other way around.”
“Does anyone like it the other way around?”
“You might be surprised,” he said with a soft chuckle.
Why was he asking this? What the hell was Ford up to? Handsome or not, it was maddeningly frustrating how he kept everything so close to the vest.
“One thing you’re going to have to get used to here, is doing what you’re told. No back talk. Definitely no cursing.”
“Whatever,” she muttered, looking away. She wasn’t going to give him a reaction, but she sure wasn’t going to sit up and agree to everything he said. If he thought she was that much of a pushover, he was dumber than he looked.
He merely gazed at her, as one might wait on a child until their tantrum ran out of steam.
“Fine. Okay, Sheriff.”
“Now that we have that out of the way, I’m going to help you out a little.” He looked at his watch, the silver band catching the light, the dark hair on his wrist somehow rendered starker against the shiny metal.
“Thank you.”
The quirk of his lips was pure mirth. “I’m holding you on several charges.”
“Ford, I didn’t—”
“What did I just tell you?”
Her mouth went dry. “I’m not a child.”
“No, you’re not. You’re my prisoner.” A growling note slipped into his tone. “Now, answer my question.”
Speaking the words was like chewing on broken glass. “To address you as… Sheriff.”
“Or?”
Is he serious with this shit?
“Sir.”
“I actually like that one better than Sheriff, but we’ll get to that later.”
What does that mean?
“Don’t do that again, Ms. Moore.”
“Do what?”
“Forget your agreement to address me with respect. You won’t like what happens next time you do it.”
His eyes glittered as he said it, a chill running down her spine at the cool certainty in his tone. She didn’t really know what he was getting at, but she did know now wasn’t a good time to press her luck.
“Okay.”
“Okay, what?” The chair creaked as he shift
ed his weight forward. She resisted the urge to pull away from the bars, suddenly feeling penned-in.
“Okay… Sheriff.”
“Good. As I was saying, you’re being held on suspicion of disturbing the peace, trespassing, and failure to obtain a park permit.”
“You’ve got to be fu”—Falon swallowed down the curse—“kidding me.”
“I don’t kid about the law, Ms. Moore.” Ford pointed toward her. “You’re guilty as sin on the first charge, and I could make a very good case for the other two. But all three might be set aside…”
“If I play ball.”
“We’ll see. That’s up to the Council, but if it’s any comfort, I am going to recommend the latter two charges be dropped.”
“How generous of you.”
This was getting surreal. Something similar had happened to more than one of her colleagues. A freelance investigative reporter whom she’d gone to J-school with had actually been detained in this fashion… in another goddamned country. Not here.
“Or you could continue behaving disrespectfully,” he said, giving her a frown. “And I could just have them throw the book at you instead.”
Her anger was rising once more, even though she knew it was likely to get her in worse trouble. “Don’t you have judges here in this fucked-up place you call a town? You know, impartial interpreters of the law. Or do you just pay lip service to that idea here?”
Falon, shut up.
Ford sighed, looking down, then stood, sliding the chair aside and fishing keys out of his pocket. But rather than open the cell, he walked back over to his desk, slipping behind his chair and opening the tall, varnished armoire behind it. He opened the door only enough to retrieve what he needed, frustrating her attempt to peer inside it.
He returned to the cell, another larger set of cuffs swinging in one hand. Her heart rate skyrocketed as he unlocked the door, and she noted this set of restraints wasn’t the all-metal style currently binding her wrists cruelly behind her back. These had thick, black cuffs, somewhat larger than standard metal versions. Then the bars slid aside, clanging against the stop — and Ford stood before her.