JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps

by phuc

  “Actually my mother is of Spanish and Italian extraction and my father's family hails from the Middle East; he's also part black,” she said, sipping at her coke. Both of them had trays with French fries and identical double cheeseburgers in front of them. She ran a hand through her thick black hair. “My hair and complexion usually gives people the impression that I'm Hispanic, but I can't speak a word of Spanish.” She smiled.

  “Either way, I've never really thought much about it. It doesn't get in the way of who I am."

  “What about when you were growing up?” Daryl asked.

  Rachael sipped her coke and looked up, pursing her lips. “It was tough in some respects. I was never really accepted as being white, to tell you the truth. I don't have the typical WASPish looks. I'm not exactly white, I'm not exactly Arab, and I'm not really black, so I've sort of been fucked since day one when it comes to racial profiling.” She laughed. “But I've also benefited from it.” She raised a French fry to her mouth and bit it in half, grinning. “I took advantage of the affirmative action programs in high school and got a scholarship to UCLA. It felt like I was giving my critics a great big ‘fuck you'."

  Daryl laughed, digging into his food. He liked Rachael already, and not because he was entranced by her beauty. She was willful, headstrong, and sharp. He had read her features in the paper and was familiar with her journalism. Meeting her put the icing on the cake.

  “I bet your.... ah, muli-cultural background gives you more of an edge in your work,” he said.

  She chewed her food thoughtfully before answering. “It does. I covered the LA Riots and was able to write about it from both sides. Won an award for it, too."

  “I read that article. Nice work."

  “Thanks.” She smiled, her eyes meeting his.

  “Do you normally cover crime stories?” Daryl asked.

  She shook her head, dipped her fries in a paper cup of ketchup. “In the early part of my career I wrote everything. I covered the normal crime beats, police reports, neighborhood and community activities. But then I did a piece on East Los Angeles Street Gangs in 1990; it was a four part series. My piece got some attention from my editor, and he gave me a few human-interest stories to cover. My breakthrough was my coverage of the riots. Most of my material made it into a book about the riots that was published."

  Daryl was nodding, growing more impressed as she rattled off her achievements.

  “That sounds very impressive."

  “After the riots my editor made me the human interest editor.” She took another bite of her burger and chewed, chasing it down with coke. Daryl plowed into his food, paying attention to her as he ate. “I've been covering human interest stories ever since; people affected by the recession, the Malibu fires and floods, the Northridge Earthquake, victims of police brutality, gang warfare, city life in general. I've also covered stories about people overcoming impossible odds, succeeding in their dreams, in their lives.” She smiled. “It isn't always human misery and death."

  “But the story you're working on now obviously is,” Daryl said.

  Rachael ate a few more French fries. “Unfortunately duty calls,” she said. She took a sip of coke then pushed her tray back; she had finished her burger and only a dozen fries remained on her tray. “The reaction of the gangs in the area the killer is striking is what affected me about doing this story. Especially the reaction of those unfortunate enough to live in the area. I did some research, checked with my editor, and he gave the green light for a feature. I've already talked to some of the locals in the area, friends and relatives of the last few victims that were found, talked to a couple of people who knew the victims, a few beat cops that regularly patrol the area, and now I want to talk to you to get your perspective on the case."

  “That's all you want?” He asked, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Just my perspective?"

  “Well,” she said, breaking into a smile. She leaned forward and Daryl noticed for the first time that despite the fact that she had the body of a fashion model and was very feminine, she was also surprisingly muscular. Her biceps were well defined, but not overly buff; she looked like she could take care of herself if push came to shove. “I was hoping you could set me up with a drive-through in the area. You know, take me into the jungle, the hub of the barrio where the victims actually lived and hung out. Maybe even to the Eighty-First Street bridge where one of the victims was found."

  Damn, but this chick had balls. She obviously knew that the Eighty-First Street bridge was a place that no sane person dared venture. The place was inhabited by hardcore gang members who would kill you if you weren't a familiar face. Usually the gang members that hung out there sold drugs, and it was pretty much in a day's work when a couple of squad cars were called there to quell a disturbance or cart away a body.

  Rachael had obviously heard the stories through the grapevine. “You sure you want to go there?” he asked. “Shit, even I hate going there, and the only time I've been there I've had a dozen cops with me. And it still scared the shit out of me."

  Her eyes were blazing with excitement. “That would be my number one priority, Daryl. To go there with my photographer, perhaps talk to a couple of the gang members in person, get their perspective on the killings."

  The woman was obviously serious. Daryl admired this. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I'll see if I can set something up. It might be tough, though. A normal ride-along in a squad car is a lot different than what you're asking me to do. It's risky."

  “I don't want you to lose your job,” Rachael said. “But if there's a way it could be done, I'm sure you could do it. If you could pull it off for me I'll owe you one.” She smiled at him and he averted his gaze from that regal face.

  I'll owe you one. She's either using her sexuality to get what she wants or she is really interested, he thought. Either way, even if she wasn't interested in him sexually there were some women willing to trade a few favors for some taste of their forbidden fruit. The way this woman carried herself suggested that she might be one of them. Daryl wasn't interested in a long-term relationship, and Rachael certainly didn't have to agree to a little rolling in the hay as payback to his putting his ass on the line for her. As a journalist she was certainly privy to the consequences of such situations. And as a journalist she had to be crafty and know how to barter to gain access to people, places, and events that most normal folks, much less the journalists on the lower tiers of the newspaper, were privy to.

  “Tell you what I'll do,” he said, his mind whirring into action. “The Eighty-First Street bridge is not the best place to go to, especially at night, even if I were to accompany you. I'll talk to a couple close buddies at the station and see if they'll cover me for this one, see if I can get a squad car or two to escort us over. At the same time I'll talk to somebody I know who knows the gangs in the area to sort of pave the way for us.

  Prepare the locals that we're coming. How's that sound?"

  Rachael's smile was enough to make his heart melt. It shined through his soul, melting him in a rubbery sense of excitement that he hadn't felt since he was a school kid.

  “Great!” She said. She reached out and squeezed his hand in thanks, and at the touch of her skin he felt a bolt of electricity shoot through his body. His flesh tingled and he tried to hide the flush that was threatening to rise through his face.

  “I'll have to make some phone calls", he said, squeezing her hand back, trying to ignore the fact that touching her was sending bolts of electricity through his system. “I don't know if I'll be able to speak to everybody today or not. Why don't you give me your number and I'll call you when I get things set up?"

  “No problem.” She reached into her purse, took out a pad of paper and a pen, and scribbled on it. She tore the sheet off and handed it to him. “There's my home number, my cell phone number, and my number at the office. You can reach me easier through my cell phone and at home, though."

  “Great,” Daryl said, folding the paper and po
cketing it. “I should have things set up by tonight."

  They talked a little bit more, Daryl trying to steer the conversation back to her work just to keep the momentum of conversation going. After a few minutes he glanced at his watch. “Well look, I've gotta get back to the office as I'm sure you do too."

  They took their trays to the waste bin, threw their trash away, then walked out of the restaurant. As they walked back Daryl noticed that Rachael's body language was still very sensual, still speaking loud and clear that he was moving in the right direction. She stayed at his side as they walked to Broadway and Main, making small talk as they headed back to Parker Center. When they got to the building they paused in front of it, oblivious to the traffic around them. “I'll give you a call,” Daryl said.

  “Good,” Rachael said, holding out her hand. “And thank you, Detective Garcia.

  This means a lot to me."

  “No problem.” They shook hands and Rachael smiled at him, her remarkable green eyes finding his and holding them. Daryl didn't back down from their gaze. “As to paying me back for the favor, let's just worry about getting this set up. Hell, if we pull this off it will be cause for celebration anyway."

  “I agree,” she said. “I think dinner at one of the city's finest restaurants would be in order."

  They said their good byes and parted. Daryl strolled leisurely to the office, his mind playing over the lunch, the conversation with Rachael. He couldn't help but be smitten by her sensuality, her beauty, the way she reacted to him. It had been over a year since a woman had shown any kind of interest in him, and Rachael was definitely showing interest. Whether her motivation was out of her desire to get this story, or that she was attracted to him didn't matter right now to Daryl. What mattered was that she had looked at him with obvious desire in her eyes and that's all Daryl needed. He was going to do everything he could to pull this assignment through and do it safely.

  When Daryl got back to his desk, Steve Howe was leaning back in his chair eating a subway sandwich. He swallowed a piece of sandwich and eyed Daryl curiously. “What the fuck are you so happy about?"

  “Nothing,” Daryl said, smiling wider now as he sat at his desk and turned his attention to the myriad of paperwork that awaited him. “Nothing at all."

  Chapter 5

  He was sitting naked on the living room sofa with the TV turned to some magazine show- Dateline, 20/20, they were all the same-when he noticed that the woman that he had propped up next to him was leaking some kind of noxious fluid.

  He sniffed the air, turning to examine her closer. The living room window shades were drawn, the only light coming from the television. He poked his finger into her flesh and felt a tingle of excitement as the digit sank into cold, rotting meat. A waft of odor erupted from the woman and he smiled, suddenly feeling warm and flushed with excitement. This one was lasting longer than he thought. It had been three months since he had brought her to the dungeon and she was still pretty much intact.

  Well, except for her head of course.

  She had been fairly easy to obtain. He had found her in a Los Angeles paper called Los Angeles X press, which was in reality a paper that catered to the city's sexual underground. Amid pages of advertisements for phone sex, massage parlors, strip joints, and escort services were hundreds of personal ads from people, mostly women, advertising their wares. A good half of the advertisements had photographs. All fetishes were included: gay, S&M, B&D, cross-dressing, transvestites, as well as the regular in-and-out. He had particular tastes: he didn't care about a particular woman or man's age or race, but there were some basic ingredients that he liked in both sexes: in women, the sluttier they looked, the better. In men he didn't care. As long as they were into hardcore S&M, and bondage he was fine. The tough part was finding somebody who liked to bottom rather than top. His true fetish was sadism. He could care less if his partners got off or not. Why pay five hundred dollars and up to be whipped, tied up, and spanked when it was much more fun to be the abuser?

  He had found this one in the pages of the Los Angeles Xpress as he had the last woman he had done earlier this year. The photo that had caught his attention showed a slim black woman with large breasts and a nice ass staring seductively at the camera, her eyes blocked out by a black bar that made it appear that she was in some sort of witness protection program. The ad stated that she specialized in most everything, but that she especially loved to be fucked in the ass while spanked. Her phone number looked local, so he had called her up and spoken with her.

  It turned out she was local, downtown Los Angeles to be exact, and she had been free on the night he called. He'd agreed to her price, and she had come over shortly before midnight. She'd turned out to be a little older than she looked in the photo, mid-thirties perhaps, but her body was exactly what he was looking for. She had come dressed in a black leather miniskirt, black hose, a white halter-top and a black leather jacket. She also wore black spiked-heeled pumps. Her lipstick was cherry red, her make-up tastefully applied, just as slutty as he liked them. When he opened the door for her she strode in, tight ass sashaying under the black miniskirt, full breasts bouncing underneath the white, low cut halter-top. She was wearing no bra. He liked that even more.

  He had the money ready, five hundred dollars in cash, and he had handed it to her.

  She had taken it wordlessly and put it in her purse. She asked where the bedroom was. He told her that he preferred the living room. She peered at the living room, noting the drawn shades, and agreed. He directed her to the couch and sat down. She removed her jacket and halter-top, her breasts swinging free. Then she had gotten on her knees, unzipped his pants, and went down on him.

  He had leaned back and closed his eyes as she labored noisily, her tongue and mouth bringing shivers of pleasure through him. His mind had conjured up an image of her tied up, spread eagle on his rack in the dungeon while he went at her with a knife and thinking about this had excited him. He looked down at her, smiling. “From our conversation earlier, you said that you wouldn't mind a little S&M?"

  She had looked up at him, smiling. “What you have in mind, baby?"

  He'd told her what he wanted. He wanted to handcuff her to a bondage rack he had in his dungeon and fuck her in the ass. She had agreed to this, told him it would be a hundred dollars extra. No problem. He'd led her to the dungeon he had set up in the next room and switched on the light.

  The dungeon was neat and orderly. It was roughly thirty by forty feet in size, the biggest room in the house. The walls and ceiling were painted black. The windows were closed, the blinds drawn. The bondage rack, painted blood red, was against the far wall, a low wooden table with a rubber mattress and a makeshift wooden frame at the end. The frame was scarred. There was a bucket directly behind the frame, out of direct eye view.

  He took off his clothes and reached over to a small bureau, opening a drawer. Inside was a mixture of bondage gear; leather harnesses, handcuffs, cat-o-nine tails, ball gags, nipple clamps, ben-wa balls, ankle and wrist straps. The woman had eyed them as she shrugged out of her miniskirt. “You want me to keep my hose and heels on?"

  “Sure.” He directed her to the table.

  For the first time that night she looked hesitant. She had eyed the black rubber mattress, the handcuffs that he fondled gingerly. She'd looked back at him. “How do you want me handcuffed?"

  He had motioned to the wooden frame at the foot of the makeshift rack. “See those posts? I'll handcuff each wrist to either side of the frame. You'll be able to lean against it with your hands."

  “And you want to fuck me like that?” She had looked apprehensive.

  “You said you were into this,” he'd said, sounding disappointed.

  “I am,” she said. “But ... I ain't too keen on being on the receiving end."

  “It's the only way I can get off,” he'd said, his voice smooth. “I won't be too rough.

  When I'm done, if you want to get off you can strap me down."

  She'd eyed
him, then eyed the bondage toys on the open drawer. This had seemed to change her mind. “I want to whip your ass with that cat-o-nine tails."

  “Mmmmm, yes, I like that,” he'd said, smiling, brandishing the handcuffs. “That's really about the only thing I like when I'm in the submissive role."

  “Good.” She had climbed on the rack, got on her hands and knees. “You want to be my slave?"

  “Sure,” he'd said. “But only after you let me fuck you, master."

  “Beg me, slave,” she'd purred, red lips pursed. “Beg me to let you fuck me."

  He had played the role of the submissive slave begging his mistress to savor her delights. She'd played the role well, and the fantasy fueled his lust. When she got down on her hands and knees and demanded that she cuff him to the headboard, he had complied eagerly, clasping the cuffs to the worn wood of the frame. She gripped the frame, body arched, ass sticking out demurely, legs spread slightly. He had climbed on the rack behind her and parted her ass cheeks, tongue lapping at her womanly folds.

  The woman had moaned, eyes closed, head bowed down as she rode through her orgasm.

  He had taken her quickly.

  Moving behind her, he had brought his arm up around her throat in a headlock and squeezed. She'd struggled hard, her breath catching in her throat, stifling a scream. He applied pressure and she dropped like a sack of potatoes, unconscious. His breath had quickened as he released his grip from her throat and regarded her helpless form on the rack. Worked every time; apply enough pressure to the right spot in the throat and the oxygen supply is cut off from the brain in seconds. He had been fully aroused by then, ready for the coup de grace.

  He had reached for the heavy butcher knife that he kept hidden behind a row of bottles. He grabbed the back of her head by her hair and pulled, exposing her throat. He moved her body forward slightly, her head and throat positioned above the bucket at the foot of the rack. With one fell swoop, he'd drawn the long heavy blade of the knife across her throat in a savage cut. Blood sprayed against the faded paint of the wall and a fountain splashed into the metal bucket as a small hiss escaped from her lips. His lust carried the blade through the flesh of her neck in one swoop, cutting through her larynx. Her body convulsed, spurning him on. He cut through the spine with a second cut, separating her head from her neck. Her body had contorted and convulsed wildly, blood gushing from her neck like a geyser, landing in the bucket. He had watched, breathed heavily, chest rising and falling with his excitement. He had lifted her head up, smiling amid his heavy breathing at the wide-eyed look of surprise and fear on her face. It appeared that she had regained consciousness just as he had drawn the blade across her throat. Her eyes had lighted on him, the pupils contracting as if in fear, her mouth opening as if in a scream and then the features froze. And remained that way.