MASTER AND BABY : A Tale of Erotic Submission

by J. J. MacGuire

  "Oops! Oh well, that's the only panties I'll be wearing today!"

  Instead of giving me a scandalized lecture on propriety, Mrs. G only snorted and slapped one sturdy thigh. Tears were running down her carefully powdered face.

  My husband stood in the doorway to the courtyard, a noticeable damp patch spreading across his crotch. Hurriedly, he stuffed Biggin and Elvira into my shopping basket. I noticed with some interest that someone at the Watering Hole had slipped the economy-sized bottle of intimate lubricant into the basket as a parting gift. How kind. Behind Harry, Dunnett groaned loudly and eased himself up from the flattened plants. Somewhat shakily, he retrieved a small pewter hip flask from a Black Watch tartan bum bag. Presumably a sporran is too itchy in the tropics. Thankfully, he unscrewed the cap with a trembling hand and took a lengthy draught of the liquid within. The man had to have a liver built on the Clyde. Finally, his rather scrawny loins suitably girded with drink, he limped off through the restaurant in the Lush's wake. Rather pointedly, our waiter placed a small leather folder on the table and retreated with a disdainful glare. We were lowering the tone something nasty.

  "My treat!" gasped the Black Widow, dabbing at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief and reaching for a brand new Gucci purse.

  Harry looked relieved and I made up my mind to put the old boy out of his misery and confess my little joke with the ring. I'd get the hiding of a lifetime. Oh dear, never mind.

  We were just scooping up the remains of the crab cakes and polishing off the dregs of our drinks when I spotted a dog-eared pamphlet on the floor near our table.

  "What is that?"

  Curious, I picked up the creased brochure and smoothed it out upon the glass top of the table. It appeared to be a promotional booklet for a cosmetic surgeon, but judging by the outmoded style of the images and slightly yellowed pages, it was far from up to date.

  "Good heavens!"

  I couldn't help myself. Never having inquired about breast enlargement, I was ignorant regarding this cosmetic procedure. The booklet was essentially a style guide, with bosoms ranging in size from relatively petite to need-a-wheelbarrow proportions. Each page showed a tasteful line drawing of the projected final result and bore a charming name. One could select a "Trixie", a modest 34B with a rather impish upward tilt, or go full-steam-ahead with "Jezebel", mammoth melons, the dimensions of which read like a stifled expletive. I giggled and tried to pronounce the enormous cup size:

  "FFFF!"

  "Watch your mouth, Lawrence!"

  I stuck my tongue out at my husband, and we gathered our belongings to make a dignified retreat. Naughtily, I held up the brochure for all to see, just as the waiter returned for his cash. The poor man's eyes almost popped out of his head and Harry let out a long whistle.

  "Jezebel! I'd know those tits anywhere!"

  I glanced down at my delightfully dampened chest.

  "Why, thank you, darling. I dropped my Panties!"

  The Black Widow began to wheeze with mirth. Just to put the cherry on the cupcake, a rather respectable looking middle-aged businessman at an adjoining table leaned over and inquired confidentially:

  "Titty Boomboom?"

  The waiter ground his dentures.

  "I must ask you to vacate the premises. Sir. Madam."

  Blowing my fan a theatrical kiss, I marched out of the restaurant, arm in arm with my stained husband, a tittering Black Widow bobbing along in our wake like a small pink dinghy. It was not 'til we reached the relative brightness of the street that I realized the rear hem of my dress had somehow got caught in the wicker of my shopping basket and I had mooned the room while beating a dignified retreat.

  CHAPTER NINE: TWO PLUS TWO MAKES FIVE

  We decanted ourselves from a taxi at the foot of the gangplank. The Immigration and Customs men were nowhere to be seen, which meant they would forego their "exit tax" – a significant source of income for many Immigration departments, and sometimes for their governments as well.

  Mrs. Neptune's modesty was by now covered in an attractive blue wrap, with palm trees and bubbling champagne glasses. I reflected that it was a good job the ripping took place before her interrogation about the Hope diamond. The red glow left by a thorough spanking might have been attributable to a spot of nude sunbathing, but questions would have been asked about a certain precise striping effect associated with more rigorous chastisement.

  "Oops a daisy!"

  Mrs. Goldfinkel, Gigi, the Black Widow, performed a feat I have seldom seen before by falling up the gangplank. She arrived on deck in a whirl of arms and legs and shopping. Captain Ahab prudently took a step back.

  "I trust you enjoyed your run ashore. I see you did – even those of you confined to your cabins! Inspector Parrot was so much looking forward to making your acquaintance, Mrs. Neptune. Indeed, he still is. Step this way..."

  "Parrot? I'm not going to take the third degree from a blasted bird!"

  "He is a policeman, madam. Inspector Hercules Parrot. Now if you please..."

  I picked my wife off her feet and carried her to the rail, where I quickly lashed her to a lifeboat davit with a dangling length of rope.

  "You shall not have her! I shall protect her with her life!"

  "Ooh, this is – hey, that's your life, dummy!"

  "I know what I'm talking about. Shut up and look innocent."

  The Captain apparently lacked a sense of humor. He sighed, crooked a finger, and turned to a companionway.

  Miss Lawrence was torn between the bondage and the imperious crooked finger. Finger won.

  "Lemme go!" she wriggled.

  It looked like the fuzz was going to get his way. I slipped the knots and gave my slightly slavering wife a shove in the right direction.

  "Would you like a witness? Not that I'm impartial, but I can tell a lie under oath without batting an eyelid. Got an award out of a judge that way once, instead of six months."

  "No thanks. I'll tell you all about it later."

  Miss Lawrence disappeared after the Captain with a most attractive twitch of her bottom.

  "Now then, Harrykins, what shall we do while poor Jaykins is on the rack?"

  From the look in the Black Widow's eye she had a very good idea of what she wanted to do, and it didn't coincide with my idea of late afternoon fun. Not with her, at any rate.

  "Detectiving, that's what we shall do, Mrs. Goldfinkel. Unearthing evidence to clear my beloved's name. I don't believe any detective named after a mythical strongman and a screeching tropical bird is going to come up with anything useful. Who shall we convict?"

  Gigi giggled coyly.

  "Won't you have to interrogate someone first? Will you be cruel and nasty? Will you make awful threats and look fearsome?"

  "Bugger that for hard work. I take bribes. What's it worth to stay out of the clink?"

  The Black Widow grabbed my hair in two pudgy talons and applied her lips to my ear. My eyes widened. Not even I had thought of that – not since Rio, anyway.

  "Mrs. Goldfinkel! Not only is that immoral and illegal, I'd need at least two masseuses on call in case of accidents! Unhand me, woman."

  Mrs. Goldfinkel let go, but it was clear from the expression on her face that she hadn't given up.

  I smoothed my hair and took a breath.

  "Let's examine the scene of the crime. They're usually littered with clues."

  I marched off to the scene of last night's excitement, a twittering Mrs. Goldfinkel in tow. The room was gloomy and empty, the smell of stale tobacco and booze lingering. The tables and chairs were in the same positions as last night, bare white tablecloths ready for the next load of crockery, eating irons and food stains.

  I surveyed the room with the air of a seasoned investigator. Without a deerstalker I was lost, so I winged it.

  "Sit where you were last night, if you please, Mrs. Goldfinkel. Let us recreate the scene."

  "How will we do that on our own? There's one bit I can recreate..."

  Mrs. Goldfinke
l licked her lips and moved toward me.

  "Your seat, madam! Sit-t-t-t-t!"

  Gigi covered her mouth with her hands and scuttled to her chair of the night before. She sat primly with her hands folded in her lap, a slightly dopey expression on her face.

  "I shall take the place of the deceased. Here, on the dance floor. Now, Mrs. Neptune was dancing with her back to the Captain's table so Raoul was facing it. The bullet entered his chest squarely from the front, which means it must have come from..."

  With a dramatic gesture I flung my arm out.

  "...the Captain's table! The table is quite alone, as befits Ahab's majesty. There was no one standing near or behind the table. There is no window or porthole near. Therefore – the foul murderer is one of us!"

  I surprised even myself at that.

  "Yes – it must be. Well, I never..."

  "But it couldn't be," squeaked Gigi, "I mean – we were all having such a nice time – and we are not the kind of – it must have been someone else!"

  "But who, Mrs. Bla ... Mrs. Goldfinkel? There is no other candidate. Eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

  I raised an invisible meerschaum to my lips and took a drag of best Turkish.

  Mrs. Goldfinkel sat still and, I thought, rather pale under her caked make-up.

  "But that's silly. I mean why? The opportunity was there, granted. But who had the motive? Who had the means? Where is the weapon?"

  I stared through the rich tobacco smoke. This didn't sound like the silly woman who couldn't keep a thought in her head, never mind her hands to herself.

  "What motive could any of us possibly have to off a nobody Latino troubadour? I mean to say, who would bother? There really must be another explanation. A ricochet, perhaps."

  I expected fluttering and incoherent denials, not this cool analysis. There was more to Mrs. Goldfinkel than her trite exterior allowed.

  "Let's examine the possible motives. There's greed, jealousy..."

  "Harry! I'm free! It was a bum rap! I'm suing for wrongful wotsit! Celebrate with me!"

  Miss Lawrence burst into the room and whipped off her wrap with a bullfighter's flourish.

  "Toro! Toro! Have at it, Parrotface! I'll stick you full of bandilleros! Ole!"

  An imaginary Toro charged and was whisked to one side with a cavalier flick of the cape. Quick as lightning Miss Lawrence sank her sword in his muscular neck.

  I applauded politely.

  "Ole! Both ears and the tail! His pistle to the stewpot!"

  Miss Lawrence stalked imperiously round the ring, one arm raised high. She flung her arms about my neck and gave me a smacker.

  "I'm innocent! Pure as a newborn babe! Off the hook!"

  "Innocent? Shall we say unsullied in this particular case?"

  "Fair enough. Who's guilty then? Who will swing from the yardarm?"

  "Well, Mrs. Goldfinkel and I were just coming to some surprising conclusions on that very..."

  I turned to bring the Black Widow into the conversation and stopped. She had done a bunk. Thoughtfully, I made a mental note to continue the conversation. I put the mental note somewhere not even a likely surfeit of ethanol would drown it. Mrs. Goldfinkel had another side to her, and Harry Neptune was going to find out what it was.

  "She's buggered off, dear. Probably gone to look up some of the long words you must have been using. Come on, let's celebrate!"

  Something hard pressed against my neck. I felt a thin trickle of blood descend to my shirt collar. I pulled Miss Lawrence's hand away and examined the dazzling lump of compressed carbon adorning her third finger.

  I frowned and compressed my lips.

  "Explanation time..."

  * * * *

  "Ah. Oh dear, that's quite a scratch! Let's go ask Dunnett for a Band Aid, shall we? And there's blood on your nice new shirt. Gosh, I saw the prettiest stewardess this morning. I'm sure she'd be delighted to treat that stain."

  No one would notice the spots of blood on Harry's shirt, a typically riotous multicolored creation, and it was a minor cut. However, prior experience and instinct indicated that I was in trouble with a capital T so I bluffed like crazy. Very slowly and meaningfully my husband began to unbuckle his heavy leather belt. I backed away until my progress was abruptly halted by the raised platform on which the Latin band had strutted their stuff and where the unfortunate Raoul had shaken his maracas for the very last time.

  "Harry! Sweetheart!"

  Menacingly, Harry towered over me, the stiff belt poised like a leathery Sword of Damocles above my trembling semi-recumbent form. I was wet as hell but my heart raced like an express train. The belt was not a laughing matter. With infinite care, my husband draped it over the microphone stand as a visual warning, before folding his arms and returning to the interrogation at hand. He looked down at my small, helpless form and raised one bushy eyebrow.

  "I think we understand each other. Don't we, Mrs. Neptune?"

  This was the most exciting moment we'd shared since I didn't know when. I was Harry's wife. I'd always longed for a masterful spouse, which was quite possibly one reason why I never took the matrimonial plunge. I couldn't respect a man who would let me push him around. I nodded, mute with awed obedience. There are some very dark corners in Harry Neptune.

  "That's better. So, how much was the stone, Jaybird?"

  Despite my genuine fear, a tiny titter burst from my lips like a renegade champagne bubble, although the source might well have been nerves as amusement. Frowning, Harry grasped a handful of my hair and pulled me up into a sitting position. He slapped me sharply on both cheeks. Not hard, but with enough emphasis to gain my undivided attention. My confession erupted with an unexpected shower of tears.

  "Six dollars! It's glass!"

  My assailant's face was a picture. Intense relief was obviously the predominant emotion but he was determined to play the role of brutish husband to the end. He crouched on the step beside me and took my face between his hands. I noticed that his palms were quite damp with sweat. He really had been prepared to punish me severely and he was nervous about it.

  "If you ever give me a scare like that again, I promise you this. You won't be able to walk without a limp for six months. Do you understand?"

  I parted my lips to make a murmur of assent and was suddenly overcome by an intense and completely unexpected orgasm. I looked up into my husband's eyes with blissful adoration. There was a loud clanking sound. Harry frowned.

  "What is it, darling? Not your old trouble again, I hope?"

  "Get up. Someone's coming."

  "Indeed!"

  It appeared to be table setting time. A small squad of smartly uniformed stewards had entered the dining room from the double swing doors that led to the galley. They pushed a large creaky trolley heavily laden with assorted items of crockery. Harry greeted the four men.

  "What's on the menu tonight then, chaps? Last night's entree was murder!"

  The stewards looked at one another with undisguised incomprehension. English did not appear to be their first language. Three were Chinese, the fourth from the Indian subcontinent. Finally, the Indian spoke, nodding gravely.

  "Moor-dah! Oh dear. Belly up. Yes indeed."

  The remaining stewards set to work with a near mechanical efficiency, swiftly creating an immaculate tableau. I thought I saw them exchanging warning glances but one can never be sure with inscrutable types. Perhaps the Captain had told them not to talk. The Indian lingered, as if troubled by something he could not express. Harry persisted.

  "Did you see something, my friend?"

  The man shifted from one foot to the other and looked furtively over his shoulder. When he finally spoke, it was in a whisper.

  "Bonah. Bad black magic man. Yes indeed."

  "Boner, did you say? Will Boner, the horror writer?"

  "Very bad man. Oh dear. Nasty stuff in cabin."

  "What kind of nasty stuff? Whips and paddles? A live recording of Oklaho
ma!?"

  The Indian looked confused.

  "No, sir. He make model out of wax. Stick pins in he."

  "Voodoo, eh? Well! No wonder my old trouble has been acting up. I'd better melt down a candle and mold my revenge."

  "No, sir. Model of belly up no good dead boy."

  "You're saying Boner made a wax image of Raoul?"

  At that moment there was a loud clatter and the three of us jumped. It appeared that one of the Chinese stewards had dropped a container of flatware on the parquet floor. Our informant hurried off, with the furtive, sheepish look of one who feels he has already said too much. Harry and I exchanged perplexed glances. Thoughtfully, I retrieved Harry's belt from the microphone stand.

  "Will certainly had some dark inclinations but dabbling in the black arts? Hmm. And what motive would he have for wishing the gigolo ill? "

  Harry's face adopted its most intent, crossword puzzle solving expression.

  "It seems Raoul had few friends on board the good ship Caribbean Conch. Come on, Jaybird. Let's retire to our cabin and dress for dinner. I've yet to debrief you from Parrot's inquisition."

  "Debrief me, darling? I'm not wearing any!"

  "Silly bint."

  * * * *

  I think the belt had magical properties. I had only had to actually use it once on Jay, a matter of one "thrrrrrpt!" too many, and the lesson had stuck. I guess the fact that I don't do things by half measures and put all my 230 pounds behind it on that occasion helped create a place for it in my paramour's memory. She came spontaneously that time as well, though neither of us could really separate the orgasm from the pain and tears.

  I was hard as a rock.

  "Talking of magical properties, so Boner is a juju man, is he?

  "What are you on about? Oh, I see – the belt."

  Jay shivered as a draft of early evening air came through the cabin porthole.