It was the evidence of the belt that made me hottest. I began to tingle over thinking now that the men had seen his marks upon me, almost as if I was Agent Reynolds’ personal property.
Johnny Reynolds. That was his name. I sighed, recalling that precious knowledge I’d acquired at so high a price.
“Johnny,” I whispered to the mirror testing the feel of the name upon my tongue. My reflection frowned back at me. Somehow it didn’t seem right coming from my lips. And yet I wasn’t any happier with Reynolds, or Agent Reynolds either. Was there some other name to call the man?
For some reason an image of Jennifer came to mind. On her knees, stripped and thoroughly dominated, her will subsumed, her flesh, her very soul commanded utterly by another. By Harold Baines.
“Yes,” she had told him, unquestioning obedience spilling from her lips as automatically as juice from a pleasured pussy. “Yes…master.”
Almost in a trance, I raised my arms to slip on the little dress. Was it my imagination, but did my lips seem even fuller now, more lush and pouty? And were my tits perkier, too? And my eyes—what was that strange light reflecting off them?
The dress slid over me like a second skin, shamelessly and scandalously inadequate for disguising my sex. In fact, it only advertised it all the more, the way the neckline plunged, demanding that my breasts show themselves, cleavage and all. The way the hemline stopped, just below my aerated cunt, leaving miles of leg and thigh. And the way it banded over my ass and belly, stretched so taut as to reveal every nuance, every subtle ounce of me.
“Slut,” I whispered, my voice halting, tentative.
“Slut,” the mirror girl silently repeated, mouthing along with me with a confidence that shook me to the core.
It was true, I had to face it: Try as I might to smooth it over my naked, underwear-denied body, there was no denying the evidence: I was hot, needy, and ready for whatever a man might wish me to do or in turn what might be done to me.
No limits. No boundaries.
“Yes,” the words rolled off my own lips, not entirely in imitation of Jenn-Jenn. “Master.”
But who was my master? Reynolds? The chief? Or was it Silvio Galentano?
My pulse still pounding, I returned to my captors. I walked proudly. Not entirely as a free woman, aloof and indifferent, but something else—that other reality which correlated to having a master.
Could it be true, I swallowed, as I stood at attention before the chief. Could I really be becoming a slave? If so, I couldn’t have picked a worse time. Or place.
“Very fetching,” the chief looked me over. “I think you’ll do nicely.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, heating dangerously under her piercing gaze. “Ma’am.”
“Don’t try to suck up, sweetheart,” she shook her head. “It won’t work.”
I hope it doesn’t, I caught myself thinking.
“Chief,’ Petrelli called, running across the spans of the warehouse floor. “We just got the word. Galentano wants a meeting with her right away—tonight, at the club.”
“I see,” said the chief, reaching for the neck of my dress to tear it off my cringing skin. “Looks like you’ll get to dress up tonight after all.”
I offered no resistance as I was stripped naked…again.
Chapter Six
Not surprisingly, Special Agent Johnny Reynolds had very little to say to me of a personal nature on the way to Silvio's sex club. He did, however, insist on grilling me on the mission, despite my having sat through two hours of hot light briefing under the very effective tutelage of the chief.
“Remember, your whole purpose right now is to whet Silvio’s appetite enough to get him to reach out the olive branch to Rich. Right now, Silvio wants him dead, but if you can make him think there’s money to be made, that might do the trick. Once we lure Rich back here and get him in custody, he’s a cinch to turn state’s evidence. Then we throw him in with a wire, get the goods on the entire organization, and, bam, you go free. Without Rich, we have to go down a much darker road, you included.”
I folded my arms under my silver-sheathed breasts. The floor length, backless gown must have set the agency back a pretty penny. “Why didn’t you fuck me today?” I pouted.
“Because the chief wouldn’t let me,” he replied with damnable male logic.
“You could have fought harder for the chance,” I shot back, my hormones raging. “And what about the hotel, when I was tied down—you could have raped me then!”
He glanced at me, amused. “I wasn’t aware that coerced sex was something women sought out as a matter of course”
“You’re gay, aren’t you? That’s it; I know it is.”
Reynolds shook his head, more bemused than defensive. I wanted to knock it off his shoulders.
“Why is it,” he observed, “that whenever a woman runs across a man who isn’t attracted to her she feels the need to question his sexuality? Are you all really that insecure?”
I slapped him, ostensibly for slandering my gender, but in truth it was something far more personal. For some inexplicable reason, I wanted Reynolds to be attracted to me and it hurt like hell that he wasn’t.
“I hope you got that out of your system,” he said sternly, “because if you try anything like that on Silvio or any of his boys, they won’t be nearly as forgiving.”
The rest of the trip passed in silence. I watched the lights of the passing cars, trying hard to figure what was wrong with me. Part of me wanted to hit the man again, slug at him with my women’s fists till I knocked his big, ugly block off. Another part wanted to launch across the seat and plant a huge kiss on his lips. And then there was a third part, the part that wanted simply to be kissed, to have the options taken away, to be told what to do, to be tied again if necessary; whatever it took for me to get it right. To be pleasing to this enigmatic, supremely aggravating character.
“I just want you to stay alive,” he whispered eventually.
I kept my head turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears. “What do you care?” I sniffed. “Just give me a tissue, will you? There’s something in the air that’s killing my eyes.”
Reynolds dropped me six blocks away from our destination, where I got behind the wheel of another car. That was the plan. I’d have to go the rest of the way on my own. He and the others would trail me and supposedly there were operatives planted around the building who’d keep an eye out for me, but I had my doubts. It was as the chief said; I was a scumbag felon in their minds. What difference did it make if I died in a crossfire? As long as they got their man. Or men.
As I drove, I went over my lines, about the new opportunity, too big even for Silvio to pass up involving a boy billionaire, lately come into a billion-dollar trust fund and looking for investments. This kid was supposed to be a born sucker, an easy score. The only catch was, I had to convince Silvio that Rich had to be part of the deal and that we’d all have to sit down together and hammer out the details. Whether Silvio would buy any of this was anyone’s guess.
I pulled up to the front of the busy restaurant about half past ten. Two broad- shouldered men were waiting for me, in pinstripe suits. “La Calabria”, as the place was called was the legitimate front for the notorious sex club, both literally and figuratively. Top politicians, business leaders and even actors would dine here first and then, under cover of dim, romantic lighting, slip through hidden passages to the illicit adult area.
“Signor Galentano is waiting,” one of the well-groomed thugs announced. “If you’ll give us the keys to your vehicle.”
A queasy feeling shook me as I put the jingling key ring in the enormous palm. Grinning slightly, he closed the hand over, giving me the distinct impression I would never see them again.
“This way,” the other steered me, his hand pressed possessively on my bare back.
His touch made me cringe, but I feigned polite obedience. Under no circumstances, according to the chief, was I to brook any confrontations. In and out, no fuss,
no muss—that was my job. That and convincing a group of vicious, career criminals that I wasn’t lying through my teeth.
I felt eyes on me as we walked through the restaurant. Whether it was simply the ordinary reaction of men seeing a reasonably attractive woman pass by or something more nefarious, I wasn’t sure. I did notice that my guides were flanking me, which meant that if I attempted on a lark to flee, I would likely find myself in their instant custody.
“Pretty crowded,” I noted, trying to diffuse the tension.
Neither man responded.
“Through here,” one of them gestured, indicating a doorway at the rear of the restaurant.
My heart began to pound as I beheld the black windowless door. I’d been led to believe by the agency that Galentano would meet with me in the public area, under the eyes of dozens of witnesses.
“There must be some mistake,” I protested as he opened it, punching a number into a keyless lock on the wall. “If I could just speak with the manager?”
The second goon scowled, shoving me forward. “The man said you go through here.”
I was propelled into the opening. I tried to grab at the knob, but they were swinging it shut. A moment later I heard a sickening click, indicating I’d been locked in.
I was about to pound on the door when I heard a male voice, pleasant and distinctly non-menacing. “Hey, you must be a first timer, too, huh? The name’s Riley,” he stuck out a hand as I turned to face him. “I’m the new head of the IBEW Local. Third generation electrician. Who are you?”
“Raven,” I replied, noting that we were standing in a very ordinary looking cocktail lounge.
“Pleased to meet you,” the boyish redhead in sport coat and tie grinned, clenching my hand a little too hard. “Raven.”
I returned the smile as pleasantly as possible, feeling like I’d just been set up on a blind date. The night was getting curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say.
“So…Raven, can I, um, buy you a drink?” The man was running his hand through his hair, shuffling his feet. By the way he was acting, he either thought I really was his date or else some kind of…
I took another look at the dark, walnut-paneled interior for clues. There was a long, nondescript wood bar, equally nondescript tables and chairs, brown wood with padded black leather, worn royal blue carpeting. Two business types sat in the corner, nursing amber-colored drinks, mixed by a tall bartender, thin and bald in a white shirt and suspenders. It certainly didn’t seem like a sex club.
“Riley,” I asked, opting for bluntness. “You don’t think I’m a…”
The word stuck in my throat. A second later his eyes lit as he caught my meaning. “Oh, no, the thought never crossed my mind, honestly,” he gushed, though I was pretty sure he had.
“Would you like a table, sir?”
I turned towards the voice, belonging to a very attractive brunette wearing high heels, black stockings, a short black skirt and a black velvet midriff top—a uniform of some type, if I had to guess. And a rather severe one, too, what with the black velvet choker and the tightly pulled topknot in her hair.
“Yes, we would,” exclaimed Riley, immediately taken with her.
“We’re not together,” I said. “I have a meeting with…”
“Sir, if you would kindly follow me?” she interrupted with an obsequious purr.I flashed her my best “what-am-I-chopped-liver?” glare, but it was entirely wasted. She literally had eyes only for Tom, the flame-haired union leader.
“Well,” he rubbed his head looking torn, “I was kind of hoping to stay with Miss Raven.”
“As you wish, sir,” she bowed low, giving me the impression that she’d be a whole lot more comfortable on her knees. “This way…please?”
“Come on,” Tom grabbed my hand like we were at the fair. “Have a drink with me.”
The doll in black held out Tom’s chair for him and promptly asked if he would like his feet rubbed.
“Maybe later,” he said, clearing his throat a little nervously.
“They’re real, sir, if you’d like to see or touch them.”
“Excuse me?”
“My tits,” she smiled. “I can see you looking at them. Would you like me to open my top so you can have a better look?”
“No,” I answered for him. “He most certainly would not.”
My words were wasted. The girl was already reaching behind her to work a zipper. In one smooth, seemingly practiced motion, she pulled the garment forward and worked it down over her bosom.
Riley drew an audible breath. There were rings on the girl’s nipples. Not only that, across her buoyant orbs lay a series of scars and welts—the marks of some sort of whip or scourging device.
“If you want me,” she offered pleasantly, “I am available at the end of my shift.”
“W—want you?”
The old joke ran through my mind, the one about the stewardess asking if a passenger wants ‘coffee, tea or me.’
“For flagellation or penetration, sir. I am trained to receive men into all three orifices. I am also especially responsive to the crop and cane and will orgasm while being spanked or simply on command. Would you like a demonstration?”
Riley’s eyes were glazed. “Uh…how about just a beer for now?”
The waitress/sex machine promptly rattled off a large list of choices, domestic and foreign, bottled and draft. Riley mumbled his selection, then turned to me. “And whatever the lady would like.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the topless beauty, “females are not served in this establishment. Did you have any further need for my breasts, sir, or shall I cover them?”
“C-cover them, yes, by all means,” he stammered.
“Excuse me, but what is a female supposed to do if she’s thirsty?” I demanded, determined to stop this misogynistic nonsense in its tracks.
“Pardon me, sir,” said the girl to Riley, putting away her tortured tits, “but if I may say so, your female is very ill mannered, not to mention ignorant.”
I was on my feet, grabbing her arm. “If you have something to say, sweetheart, say it to me!”
“Very well,” she replied icily. “If a female—a real female is thirsty, she should beg on her knees to sip from the glass of the nearest male.”
I was going to deck her; I swear it.
“Is there a problem?”
All three of us turned just in time to see the splendid entrance of Silvio Galentano and his entourage from yet another hidden rear door. The brunette’s reaction was swift.
“Forgive me, sir,” she fell to her knees, forehead pressed to the carpeted floor at his feet.
“You want me to take care of her, boss?” growled one of the lieutenants, stepping in.
“It’s not her fault,” I said. “She was just trying to follow her orders. I was making trouble, not her.”
Galentano inclined his head. “If it isn’t the lovely Miss Raven Lancaster; I might’ve known you’d stir things up. Come, sit with me,” he laughed, the humor lost on me. “We’ll eat and talk.”
“Hey, boss, okay if I take five with Mindy here?”
The girl whose name was Mindy was up on her knees now, rubbing her face over the gangster’s crotch. She’d placed her hands behind her head, in an attitude of obvious submission.
“Yeah, sure, Rocko. Just bring her when you’re done. I want her to serve us.”
“You heard the boss,” Rocko snapped his fingers, inducing the girl onto all fours. “Heel.”
Head down, scampering behind like a domestic animal, she followed him out through the very same door the gangsters had entered a few moments before. I felt a lump in my throat as I thought what might be in store for the woman. I hoped I wasn’t causing her any undue hardship. Then again, she did seem to relish her degradation.
“I don’t see any table prepared,” I noted now, looking about the sparsely furnished lounge. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
For some reason the remark struc
k Silvio as very funny. “She don’t see no table,” he echoed to the man on his left with a guffaw.
The man pointed at him, echoing the laughter. “She don’t want to put you to no trouble, neither, boss.”
Silvio took a moment to gather himself, tugging down the sleeves of his blue silk jacket. It was a rich, if loud, statement, in combination with the blood-red shirt and tie and lizard skin shoes. He wore his hair slicked back, too, probably in imitation of whatever actor he was trying at the moment to woo to his bogus studio.
“Sweetheart, you ever see Good Fellas? The part where they go to the old woman’s house to eat?”
“No,” I replied honestly. “I can’t say that I have.”
“Too bad. Either way, we’re not eating in here—we’re going to the dining room.”
“The special one,” nodded the jowl-faced man who shared Silvio’s sense of humor.
I didn’t like the sound of that word one bit. Nor was I thrilled to hear I was going to be taken to yet another back room. My pulse working over time, I let them lead me behind the bar to a large metal door. Silvio had to pull a large metal lever to get it to open. As soon as it slid aside, I felt a burst of cold air.
“The coolers are back here,” he explained, ushering me into a dimly lit access corridor. I wrapped my arms round my torso for warmth. If the so-called special dining room were anything like this, I wouldn’t last half an hour.
“Vito,” Silvio called out to the heavily jowled man in the brown suit as if remembering something. “How’s our little package in Number Two?”
“Chilling nicely, boss. You should have a look see.”
“Good,” he nodded. “Hey, Raven, how’d you like to see a little creative justice in action?”
I nodded warily.
Silvio laughed again, stopping in front of one of the identical silver doors lining the corridor. “This is for milk,” he said, “we keep it around fifty degrees. Have a look.”
I gasped at what I saw through the tiny plexi-glass window. There, amidst the crates and boxes was a person—a small blonde woman, wearing nothing but panties and shivering on the floor, knees drawn to her chest. The worst part was she looked familiar somehow.
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