Intimate Bondage

by John Flynn

  “I need your car. Now,” she demanded.

  “Just give me a minute, and I’ll get dressed,” he replied, with a yawn.

  “No, I don’t have time. This is a police emergency. Give me your car keys.”

  Lenny stumbled across the room, and dropped down on his couch. “I’m really tired, Kate. Can’t this wait until morning?”

  Kate realized that she wasn’t getting through to him. She got right in his face, and said, “Lenny, I’m going to say this one more time. Focus. I need to use your car. This is a police emergency. Give me your car keys.”

  “I thought we were friends,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

  “We are friends. Good friends, and right now, I need you to act like a good friend, and loan me your car.”

  “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he whined, putting his head down.

  Kate had had enough. “Give me your goddamned keys,” she shouted right in his ear.

  All at once, Provolone sat, bolt upright. He glanced to a small table by the door, betraying the location of his keys. Like a buddy, she patted him on the shoulder, and just as quickly, scooped them up and was out the door. He barely had the chance to say “be careful” before she was gone.

  Keys in hand, Kate scrambled down the stairs of her apartment building, and ran out into the street. She was moving so hard that she fell against the hood of Lenny’s late-model, two-door Mini Cooper. She clicked the button on the key ring, and the lights of the Mini flashed at her with a “tweet-tweet” sound. She dashed around to the side and jerked the door open, jumped behind the wheel, cranked it with a vengeance, jammed the car into gear, and lurched forward.

  An oncoming car swerved to miss her, narrowly, honking as it passed. In that moment between heartbeats, Kate realized she didn’t have her lights on, and reached for the switch. Another car skidded to a stop, honking its horn. She flipped the switch, and then floored the accelerator, going around the car in front of her and sliding back into her lane.

  She wove through the traffic, cutting in and out of the line of cars, passing on the left or right, doing anything it took to get to Monroe’s apartment on time. Kate wiped the sweat from her upper lip and clutched down, swinging back into the middle lane, falling into alignment with the other cars.

  MONROE OPENED the door to his apartment and welcomed his late-night guest, Crystal Rose. She was wearing her long black trench coat, black fedora, and sunglasses. She was also carrying a whip.

  As the dutiful servant, Monroe took her coat, and draped it gently over a nearby chair; then placed her hat on the seat. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was oddly beautiful, all dressed in full dominatrix attire, with her shapely, hourglass figure filling out the black leather corset, leather panties and fishnet stockings. John wanted to reach up and push the red hair back away so that he could see her face, but he knew the drill all too well. The forty-four-year-old man got down on his knees in humble servitude before her, and lowered his head, turning his gaze to the floor. Monroe knew better than to look her squarely in the eyes, but the temptation seemed overwhelming.

  “Head down,” she commanded, almost wooden. “That’s my boy. Only those slaves who please me get to look into my eyes.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  Crystal Rose let out a pleased sound at his compliance. “Now strip. Bad boys have to be taught a lesson first in humility.”

  With reverence, John pulled his black T-shirt over his head, and reached down for his belt buckle. He was moving slowly, purposely, trying to give Kate all the time she needed. His needed his actions to appear that of a perfect slave.

  KATE STEPPED ON the brake with both feet and held the wheel tight, screeching to a halt, seconds away from crashing into a panel truck. The panel truck was parked across two lanes of traffic, making a late-night delivery, and the driver had to leap out of the way to avoid being struck. Kate honked the horn and stuck her head out of the window to look ahead.

  “Move it, move it!” she screamed. “I’m in a hurry!”

  “Fuckin’ bitch, you could have killed me,” the driver shouted, giving her the finger. “Slow it down. Ain’t nothing worth that much.”

  Kate didn’t have time to argue with him. She spun the steering wheel to the left, backed up, spun it back to the right, and drove the small car up and over the sidewalk. People scattered, running for their lives. She stepped on the gas as people jumped out of her way. She then bumped down over the curve, onto the street, and pushed the pedal to the floor, peeling out on the wet pavement. She blasted down the street right through a traffic light.

  Revving her engine, she down-shifted through the Broadway tunnel, and narrowly missed sideswiping a couple of tourists from a local hotel who had decided to cross to the Polk Street bars on the other side. After bouncing over several potholes, she came out of the westbound tube like a bullet fired out of a long-barreled rifle. She touched down on the road and kept going.

  JOHN HAD STRIPPED down to a leather G-string, which barely covered his genitals, and returned to his kneeling position in the center of the room. He waited for her to respond, to reward his compliance, and in short order, felt Crystal Rose reach down and place a collar around his neck. As her slave, he had to readily accept the collar.

  “You are mine,” she whispered, grabbing a handful of hair and pulling his head back. “I own you.”

  Monroe nodded his acceptance, his head bobbing in slow motion. Music from Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana—O Fortuna played softly in the background.

  KATE SWEPT around the corner at Van Ness, and dodged several parked cars in the right hand lane, braking, and roaring ahead. She looked like a stock-car driver, braking, clutching, driving for her life.

  White lines, street signs, flashing lights, and landmarks raced by in a reeling montage of movement. First, Coit Tower. Then, Chinatown. Next, Lombard Street—the rollercoaster ride from hell . . . Kate raced down that famous crooked street in Lenny’s Mini Cooper.

  MONROE WAS now on his knees, with his hands shackled behind his back. She extended her black leather boot for him to kiss. He leaned forward, and brought his puckered lips down to the patent leather.

  “Very good,” she praised. “Mistress Rose is pleased.”

  KATE’S SMALL coupe raced around larger vehicles that were very fast, almost side-swiping each one, feeling out of control, its engine screaming.

  She raced up the hill between Greenwich and Filbert, flew over the crest, and plunged downhill, the undercarriage of the Mini Cooper bottoming out as the car hit the street, hard.

  She skidded through a red light at the bottom, narrowly missing a pedestrian and an oncoming group of cars. She floored the engine and turned left with the flow of traffic. She smashed into the side of a parked car but kept going.

  CRYSTAL ROSE unraveled her whip and dragged the long strand of black leather up and over his body and around his neck, like a snake in some mythical garden paradise. She seemed to enjoy teasing John with the lethal weapon, and continued to rub the lash against his body until his flesh quivered with goose bumps.

  She grabbed a clump of his hair and pulled his head back. “Now remember this lesson well, slave . . .”

  She arched her back, pulled hard on the whip, and let it strike across his back. Thwack! The impact of the whip threw Monroe forward, and stung like a swarm of bees striking all at once.

  KATE ROUNDED the corner at Powell and Jackson Streets, skidding on the trolley tracks. She heard the bells of the cable car clanging, slammed on the brakes, spun the wheel, and narrowly missed the oncoming cable car. The Brakeman, a Little Richard wannabe with a long, gray ponytail and beret, pulled back on the brake, and sent his passengers flying forward.

  Kate breathed a deep sigh of relief, then stepped on the gas, making a wild right turn down an alleyway, blasting through the discarded boxes and tr
ash.

  CRYSTAL ROSE struck him again—thwack, and again, thwack! Each stroke seemed to be orchestrated with the music. Her green eyes were dark wide pools, intent, drinking in Monroe’s reactions, savoring each sadistic sensation.

  SCREECHING TO a stop, Kate pulled up in front of Monroe’s apartment building, and let the car’s forward motion bump up onto the sidewalk. She plunged out of the car door, and ran to the entrance of the building. She remembered that his apartment was four stories up, and the elevator was out. With her .38 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver drawn, she raced up the stairs, three at a time.

  CRYSTAL ROSE continued to flog him. As the music built to a climax, the strokes came faster as Monroe bucked and writhed to each stroke . . . thwack . . . thwack . . . thwack . . . thwack!

  KATE BLASTED through the fire door on the fourth floor, and stood there in the hall for a short moment, trying to remember which way to go. She was breathing hard, almost doubled-over, sucking the air deep in her lungs.

  All at once, she heard the muffled sound of a whip crack against bare flesh. Gun in hand, she ran towards the sound.

  Kate reached Apartment 401, and exploded through the door, her adrenaline pumping like a drug addict on speed. She quickly surveyed the scene. Her eyes bugged out when she saw John. He had been severely beaten, his back like a piece of raw meat with deep, bloody welts. He was also shackled, on his knees, while Crystal Rose tightened her long, deep-red fingernails under Monroe’s neck, pulling his head back, whip in hand. The music was at its climax.

  “Stop right there!” Kate yelled, holding her gun, two-handed, out in front of her in a combat stance.

  Crystal Rose turned slightly with a sneer, the whip still in her hand.

  “Stop her, Kate. She’s going to kill me!” Monroe exclaimed.

  Kate fired the gun. All six rounds. Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! The report of the gunshots was deafening in the small room, and echoed out into the hallway. The bullets hammered Rose’s chest, throwing her back and down to the floor. She went down with a surprised, confused look on her face, and she was dead before she hit the floor.

  A long, silent moment passed, and then Kate went to Monroe. She dropped down on her knees next to him, and cradled his head in her arms. He smiled, and then closed his eyes.

  LESS THAN AN hour later, Monroe’s apartment was a flurry of activity. A lot of policemen, forensics guys, scene-of-the-crime boys, the coroner, and others moved in and out of the small apartment. Photos were taken, evidence collected—the usual three-ring circus of a crime scene. At the center of it all was Crystal Rose. She laid sprawled out on the floor, with six bullet holes in her, dead.

  Kate stood there, in her ruddy clothes, with Lt. Roberts, Clark, and a couple of men in dark suits from Internal Affairs.

  “I think you’ll find when you check her background she has a history of mental illness,” Kate said, pointing at the body.

  “How the hell do you know that?” asked Roberts, looking desperate for answers. He also looked like he had had enough with Kate.

  “She’s also one of Professor Monroe’s students,” she said. Kate was still trembling from the shooting, but she worked to hide her emotional state of being from her former boss, the head of the Homicide Bureau. “I seem to remember her last name was Murray or Murphy or something like that. He kept calling her ‘Ruth-Marie,’ but she said her name was Rose. Rosemary Murphy.”

  Roberts turned to Clark. “Check it out.”

  “I’m on it, Lieutenant,” Clark replied, and then scurried away.

  Monroe, alert but in pain, was lifted up and strapped to a gurney by a couple of emergency medical technicians. Moments before he was wheeled away, Kate leaned over, and gave Monroe a kiss on the forehead.

  “I’ll see you at the hospital,” Kate whispered to him.

  “Thanks,” Monroe replied weakly, as he was taken away.

  Ramirez came out of Monroe’s study with a faded, worn newspaper clipping. Its headline read: “Westmore to Demolish Historic Senator Theater in Order to Make Way for New Multiplex.”

  “Lieutenant, what do you make of this?” he asked.

  No sooner had Lt. Roberts glanced over the clipping, than he passed it along to the men from Internal Affairs. They looked at it for a moment, and then returned it to Roberts. Kate was the last one to see it.

  “This doesn’t mean anything. Monroe’s a movie buff. Take a look around. He collects movie memorabilia related to San Francisco. He probably clipped the article to add it to his collection,” Kate explained.

  Roberts nodded his head. “Right. Leave it here.”

  A forensics man walked into the room, holding a lady’s black trench coat and fedora in his gloved hands. He said, “I found these sitting on a chair by the door. I did a once-over, and found hair fibers in the hat and at least one on the coat. They appear to match those of the deceased.”

  “Get them to the lab for a full work-up,” Roberts ordered.

  Clark ran back into the room with his notebook. “I’ve got something, Lieutenant.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I woke up the Registrar, who’s actually a friend of mine, and called in a favor she owed me. She wasn’t happy about it, but she did confirm that they have a student named Rosemary Murphy enrolled as a Psychology major,” Clark read from his notes. “She resides on campus in Fromm Hall.”

  “Is there anyone you don’t know?” Ramirez asked, and was answered by a nonchalant shrug by his fellow detective.

  “That’s good work, Clark.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he replied. “But there is one more thing: Fromm Hall is located right next to Gleeson Library.”

  In her present company, Kate felt obliged to raise her hand, like a school girl, so that she could add something, but instead just broke into the middle of his report. “If my memory serves me correctly, Clark, didn’t you say that you traced the email sent to Collins back to an IP address at the university library?”

  Clark looked back through his notes, and shrugged. “Yes, I said that it could be one of the ones in the library or some computer lab on campus.”

  “Let’s get over to the university,” Lt. Roberts commanded, “and have a look at Ms. Murphy’s dorm room.”

  SANDWICHED BETWEEN the Gleeson Library and St. Ignatius Church, Fromm Hall was the University of San Francisco’s only all-female residence hall, providing housing to 175 freshman and sophomore women. The residence hall or dormitory, as it was commonly known, contained a single lounge, a kitchen, and laundry facilities which were open to all the residents. A twenty-four-hour desk staff secured the premises, and also provided planned programs and activities for the girls.

  With the help of the campus police, Lt. Roberts and his men descended upon Rosemary Murphy’s dorm room like combat soldiers taking an enemy bunker in the heat of battle. Kate tagged along like a civilian advisor. When she first walked in, she found the room to be cold, Spartan, and thought that it resembled a cell at Alcatraz Prison rather than a residence. Poor Rosemary Murphy possessed little more than a bed, a chair, a desk and a bookshelf with a couple of dozen books. Most of the books were Psychology textbooks. A few were S&M, including John Monroe’s The Master-Slave Relationship: A Study in Duality.

  Seeing a framed picture on the desk, the only photo in the room she picked up the picture frame and examined it. The photo depicted two young girls, both about twelve or thirteen, one blond and one redhead, happy, with their arms around each other. The blonde, not the redhead, resembled a younger version of Rosemary Murphy. She didn’t know who the other girl was, but they looked very much alike. Perhaps the other girl was Rosemary’s sister.

  Ramirez and the men from Internal Affairs joined forces with the campus policemen to conduct a thorough search of the room, while Lt. Roberts pulled Clark to the side. Kate joined them.


  “What else did you learn from the Registrar?” Roberts asked, stroking the gray stubble on his face as if he had a beard.

  Clark consulted his notebook. “Her real name was Mary Clemons, twenty-two years old. She enrolled at the university in 2008 under the name ‘Rosemary Murphy,’ which she had legally changed to insulate her from her past,” he reported. “She was a second-year Psychology major with a 2.3 grade point average. No interests, no hobbies, no extracurricular activities. That’s about all there is.”

  “That’s actually quite a bit,” Roberts remarked. “Must have been one helluva favor she owed you, Clark.

  “You have no idea, Lieutenant.”

  “Clemons. Mary Clemons. Why does that name sound familiar?” asked Kate.

  “Yeah, that name does ring a bell,” Clark replied. “I just can’t remember where I heard it before.”

  “Jesus Christ, Mary Clemons! That’s a blast from the past,” said the lieutenant, shaking his head. He took a long deep breath, and exhaled between clenched teeth. “I haven’t heard that name in almost ten years.”

  “You know her?”

  “Know her? Couldn’t get it out of my head for years. Mary Clemons. Rose Clemons. Charlene Thomas. Jennifer Dean. Brittany Walker. Patrice Martin. Six young girls brutally beaten and raped; five murdered, then dismembered, and one a mental case. We should have done more to save them.”

  “What happened?”

  Roberts took another deep breath. “September 11, 2001. Most of us will never forget that day, or what we were doing when the planes crashed into the World Trade Center. I remember that Frank and I got called in early, and we put in a double shift. We were all on a heightened terrorist alert with concerns that the Golden Gate Bridge or Coit Tower were going to be hit next,” he said finally. “We were so focused on protecting the city from an attack that we totally missed a handful of missing person’s reports. Nowadays, we’ve got the best Amber alert system in the country, but back then, if a child didn’t return home from school or an outing at the park, we generally didn’t get around to investigating until later the next day.”