by Van ©2016 |
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FROM THE CASE FILES OF KITTY WYNTER | ||
| by Van ©2016 |
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| Chapter 1 |
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OUR
STORY BEGINS |
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It was dark in the bedroom of Nikki Braslow's apartment, but not too dark. The reading light on the bedside table was on, but it was the only light. Nikki was kneeling on the bed with her back to her guest, Kitty Wynter, private detective and partner of Nikki's sometimes pretend girlfriend, Bertie Finch. Bertie was actually Kitty's longstanding and very serious girlfriend, but now and then Nikki and Bertie had casual fun together, and Kitty was okay with it.
Nikki was wearing exercise clothes. Specifically, a paprika-red sports-bra under a white cotton tank-top and a pair of black Lycra bicycle-shorts.
Kitty was wearing her usual black-leather pants—skintight, of course—and a black tank-top over a lacy black bra. She had been a considerate guest and removed her boots and socks before climbing onto the bed behind her hostess.
"Okay," Kitty said. "That's 'box-tie one-oh-one,' as requested—the chest-harness, anyway, the most difficult part for the novice." Nikki's upper arms were pinned to her sides by multiple doubled strands of white cotton clothesline, passing above and below her breasts and yoking her shoulders. Her lower arms were folded behind her back with her hands clutching her elbows, but were as yet untied. "Are you sure you were able to follow what I did?" Kitty added.
"Yeah, pretty sure," Nikki answered, squirming and testing Kitty's ropes. A wry smile curled her lips as she imagined what her colleagues down at the precinct would think if they could see her now. She wasn't sure what would be more scandalous, an NYPD detective allowing herself to be tied up, or the fact that she was letting the notorious wise-ass Kitty Wynter do the deed. "It seems straightforward enough. I'm confident I'll be able to replicate the process on Muffin."
Kitty smiled. The "Muffin" in question was Bertie, of course. "I still think we should have done this at your sister's place," Kitty purred as she took an additional hitch and compacted the final knot. "That way you could watch while I did this to Shyster. I'd strip her naked first, so her nightie wouldn't get in the way of the demonstration, and I'd tape her mouth, of course, so we wouldn't have to listen to her whine."
"Of course," Nikki agreed, perfectly deadpan. This wasn't the first time Kitty had tried teasing her by rubbing her nose in the unique relationship she had with Kirsten, her big sister and the "Shyster" in question. Kitty and Kirsten might be described as "fremenies with benefits." Kitty repeatedly invaded Kirsten's apartment and privacy and "took liberties." That is, Kitty snuck into Kirsten's place, tied up the indignant and horrified lawyer, then boinked her legal brains out. If asked, Kirsten would deny looking forward to Kitty's "social calls," but Nikki was in no way fooled. The Kitty/Kirsten dynamic was highly unusual but fully consensual. Big sister's outrage and spirited resistance were all part of the game.
And speaking of unusual dynamics, there was Nikki's bizarre albeit decidedly more amicable relationship with Bertie, who was both Kitty's business partner and lover. The Kitty/Bertie relationship was open, obviously, as Kitty had no objection to Bertie playing with Nikki-the-cop, and Bertie tolerated Kitty's shenanigans with Kirsten-the-ADA. It was all very modern and civilized—not to mention completely bonkers.
"Now," Kitty said as she readied a second coil of cotton clothesline, "there are two ways to bind the wrists: option one, with the forearms horizontal; and option two, with the wrists crossed and raised past the horizontal. There's also an option three, the full reverse prayer, but let's not go there tonight. Anyway, with the first option, you don't really need to bind the wrists at all. You can just loop some rope around the forearms, and as the elbows are locked by the harness, the hands are pretty much useless whatever you do." She lifted Nikki's hands and crossed her wrists against her spine. "Anyway, I prefer the second option."
Nikki gently bit her lower lip. With her forearms raised past the horizontal, the harness had tightened up a little, and rope was now slithering around her wrists, binding them together and to the harness. "I can see how getting the tightness just right might be tricky."
"Yes," Kitty agreed. "Too tight and the circulation is impaired, which is not good. Anyway..." She tied a knot, looped the remaining free ends of the wrist rope well away from Nikki's fingers, and tied a final, elegant, redundant knot. "Practice makes perfect."
Nikki tested her bonds. Her arms were now completely immobilized, and her fingers and hands were virtually useless. She might be able to untie a knot or do some other simple task, but only if she could reach said knot or was allowed to attempt said task by her captor.
"I really appreciate this," Nikki said, continuing to squirm and roll her rope-yoked shoulders. "Bertie will never see this coming. The last time she let me tie her up, she freed herself in only a few minutes."
"Yes, she is something of a wiggle-worm," Kitty purred. She went back over Nikki's ropes, testing the knots and hitches, one by one. "Now, if you want, I can show you a variation of the frog-tie than makes it difficult, if not impossible, to close your legs and prevent someone from doing this."
Nikki gasped, and shuddered in her bonds. Kitty's right hand was between her legs, gently caressing her Lycra and cotton-blend clad crotch, gliding over her labia. "I-I promised you dinner, remember? Hey!"
Kitty had given Nikki a gentle shove, causing her to flop down onto her stomach on the mattress. "Yes, in exchange for the rope lesson," Kitty purred. "Why else would I be here?"
Nikki rolled over onto her spandex-clad rump and box-tied arms, executed a crunch to sit up, and watched as Kitty crossed her ankles and lashed them together. "I know how to tie Bertie's ankles," she said, still smiling.
"Do you know why I use the cross-tie method?" Kitty inquired, then answered her own question as she tied the final knot. "It makes it much more difficult for the damsel—" She gave Nikki's right big toe a playful tweak. "—meaning you, to hop around."
"Very funny," Nikki muttered. "Now, untie me and I'll order a pizza. Beer is in the fridge."
"I could use a beer," Kitty said. She climbed off the bed and strolled towards the bedroom door. "And I can order a pizza myself. How does an Antica from Rosco's sound?"
Nikki kicked her bound legs and continued testing her box-tie bonds. "Antica?"
Kitty rolled her eyes and paused in the doorway. "You would ask. Uh... smoked mozzarella, sausage, ham, pepperoni, garlic, uh... ham—"
"Double ham?" Nikki purred.
"No. Anyway, it's good. You'll like it."
"Red sauce?" Nikki asked.
"Of course red sauce," Kitty huffed. "It ain't pizza without red sauce." And then she was gone.
Alone in the bedroom, bound hand and foot, Nikki debated calling her guest back to suggest making the pizza half meat and half veggies.
Kitty's voice echoed down the hall from the apartment's tiny kitchen. "Blue Moon? You and your sister drink Blue Moon? Don't you have any real beer? If I want orange juice, I'll drink orange juice."
Nikki smiled, but didn't answer. The citrus note in Blue Moon wasn't that strong, and she liked it. Kitty could buy her own beer if she wanted something different.
| The Damsel Vanishes | |
Chapter 1 |
Kirsten Braslow smiled as she tied the final knot, binding Bertie Finch's crossed wrists behind her back. Both blondes were wearing jeans and T-shirts over bras and panties, and were in the living room of Kirsten's apartment, kneeling on the carpet in the large open area framed by the sofa and a pair of easy chairs.
"That's that," Kirsten said. "and now for your feet."
Ever helpful, Bertie settled onto her denim-clad rump and spun around until her bare feet were facing her smiling hostess.
"You said crossed is better, right?" She crossed Bertie's feet and began winding rope around her ankles.
Bertie nodded. "So I can't hop around." She rolled her shoulders, testing her wrist bonds as Kirsten continued binding her ankles.
"I think that will hold you," Kirsten purred as she cinched the ankle wrappings, removing all the slack. There was a reason for her asking for a bondage lesson from Bertie. The last time Kitty had perpetrated one of her home-invasion booty-calls, Kirsten had challenged the private detective to escape from her ropes, and much to her surprise, Kitty had agreed!
Kirsten tied the naked P.I. into a tight, inescapable, hogtied bundle on the bed, then callously abandoned her bound prisoner so she could enjoy a hot shower—and Kirsten had been in great need of a shower. Kitty had already run her through several pages of the bondage Kama Suthra before accepting the impromptu challenge. Anyway, upon emerging from the shower, much to her dismay, Kirsten learned that her hogtie had been anything but inescapable. Almost instantly, she found herself face down on her bed with rope tightening around her limbs and body and two pairs of dirty panties crammed in her mouth with a pair of pantyhose tied between her teeth and wrapped over her lips and lower face, keeping them there. The initial bondage coalesced into a crushing ball-tie, and—a gloating, infuriating smile curling her lips—Kitty spent the next hour spanking Kirsten's rope-cleaved butt, tickling her toe-bound feet, and sliding a torpedo-style vibrator along the ropes cleaving her pussy.
Obviously, Kirsten needed to refine her bondage skills before repeating the challenge, so she'd turned to Bertie for a covert lesson.
Kirsten sat back on her heels and smiled at her tied-up teacher. Bertie was adorable—the dusting of freckles across her tan cheeks, her button nose, sparkling blue eyes, and the pale-blond pixie-cut that complemented her youthful features—adorable. She could see what Kitty saw in the little Brit. Bertie was fiercely intelligent, and her accent was as cute as her girlish face, and—Kirsten blinked in surprise as her train of thought abruptly derailed.
A smile curling her lips, Bertie's hands were not behind her back, and she was handing her student and supposed captor the rope that was not binding her wrists. She then turned the cuteness factor of her smile up to eleven and blinked her laughing blue eyes. "Kitty-Kat calls me her Squirmy Little English Muffin." She leaned forward and began untying her ankles. "Actually, escaping from ropes, handcuffs, leather harnesses, etc., is a valuable professional skill in our line of work. It's more than a hobby."
Kirsten affected a wounded pout. "As a practical matter, escaping from ropes and such doesn't come up in the courtroom as often as you might think." She shrugged. "Of course, if I ever get Kitty in the defendant's chair..."
Bertie chuckled as she took hold of Kirsten's hands and pulled them together in front. "Now, watch carefully." She proceeded to tie Kirsten's crossed wrists in much the same manner as Kirsten had tied her own wrists behind her back; however, she took only single turns of the doubled rope, both cross-wise and for the cinch between both wrists. After she tied the final knot, there was still a couple of feet of free ends.
"You said it was better to take multiple wrappings," Kirsten said, looking down at her bound wrists, "so the ropes don't cut the skin."
"I did," Bertie agreed, "and I would have with a longer rope; however..." Quick as the proverbial bunny, Bertie scrambled behind Kirsten's back, reached around her body from either side, took hold of the wrist-rope's free ends, and hitched them together, pinning Kirsten's bound wrists against her tummy.
"That's tight!" Kirsten complained as Bertie tied a square-knot at the small of her waist and against her spine.
Still behind Kirsten's back, Bertie crossed her student's ankles and bound then the same way she had her wrists, then looped the free ends through the waist rope and pulled out all the slack, forcing Kirsten to lean back—"Hey!" the lawyer objected—and Bertie tied another square-knot.
Kirsten tugged on her bound wrists, then looked back over her shoulder at her teacher. "Is there a point to all this?" she demanded.
"Actually, there is," Bertie chuckled. She leaned close from behind and reached around Kirsten's body, again, and indicated her wrist bonds with a graceful gesture. "The key to tying up a damsel is the wrists, and the key to the wrists is the placement of the final knot." She tapped the knot between Kirsten's forearms and wrists with the tip of her right index finger. "Tying the key knot at the wrists but away from the fingers is one solution."
"But not good enough with a 'Squirmy Little English Muffin,' apparently," Kirsten muttered.
"Apparently," Bertie agreed. "But far better is to tie the final knot well away from the wrists, someplace impossible for the damsel to reach, like on the opposite side of her body."
"Okay," Kirsten sighed, "point taken. Now, if you'll untie me, I'll try again and—Mrrrfh!"
Bertie had returned to Kirsten's front, taken her head in both hands, and was planting a deep, wet kiss on the surprised lawyers' lips, with tongue.
Her eyes wide and rolling, Kirsten tugged on her bonds and struggled. Then, almost in slow motion, she lost her balance and started falling to the right. "Mmpfh!"
Bertie released her hands, ending the kiss, and eased Kirsten all the way down onto her side.
Kirsten continued struggling and was now quite obviously flustered. "Why did you do that?" she demanded.
Still smiling, Bertie shrugged. "Just curious. I've always wondered what Kitty-Kat sees in you. I think it's the 'righteous indignation' thing. You really do that well, and it's very sexy."
Kirsten glared at Bertie with obvious disdain, her cheeks flushed with anger. Either that or she was blushing like a naughty schoolgirl caught playing with herself. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm going to see what's in your fridge," Bertie announced as she stood. "Obviously, I'm going to have to cook dinner myself." She nudged Kirsten's denim-clad rump with her right foot. "And stop struggling like that. You can't possibly get free and you might mark your wrists."
Kirsten shook her long, tousled blond hair from her face and glowered at her teacher. "This hardly constitutes an adequate lesson," she complained, "and there's a Chicken Tetrazzini casserole ready to go into the oven."
"Yum," Bertie said as she headed into the kitchen area. "And the lesson is in no way complete. After we eat, I'll let you try tying me up again, and this time without any clothes to get in the way."
Despite her captive condition, Kirsten couldn't help but smile. Yes, the little Brit was adorable, and the thought of having the youngster naked, bound, helpless, and in her power was absolutely delicious. She started planning how she would bind her tiny tutor, where she would place the key knots, and what she would do with Muffin once it was obvious that she was, indeed, helpless. Kitty had Kirsten, her "Shyster," well-trained, but maybe Bertie knew some new tongue-tricks, tricks that Kitty found to be particularly torturous (meaning entertaining). Kirsten was sure she could get Bertie to share her intimate knowledge of Kitty's likes and dislikes, once Bertie was naked, trussed up, and properly motivated.
| The Damsel Vanishes | |
Chapter 1 |
The restaurant was not one of Miriam Holden's regular luncheon venues. Granted, it was expensive and handsomely appointed, with a well-trained staff, but the location was inconvenient, too far from the shopping district and Miriam's Park Place apartment. However, it had one attribute that made it perfect for her current needs: discretion. The overall lighting was subdued, and every table was separated from the others by low screens, partition walls, or planters full of ferns. The privacy of the establishment's clientele was paramount, and it was the perfect place for a clandestine, midday liaison.
The irony was not lost on Miriam. She was here for a clandestine meeting, to deal with a clandestine affair.
The maître d' suddenly appeared, emerging from a fern-lined corridor with Miriam's lunch companion in tow. Miriam took a sip of water as their host pulled out a chair and her companion sat and opened her menu. The maître d' bowed himself away from the table... and they were alone.
"Well?" Miriam demanded.
Athena Zevros, self-styled security expert and the companion in question, smiled, but her eyes never left the menu. "Hello to you, too."
"I didn't hire you for chitchat," Miriam huffed. She eyed Athena's business attire. It was surprisingly stylish and expensive, and did little to hide Athena's trim, athletic figure and strong, firm, nylon-clad legs. Her temporary employee's long, lustrous brown hair was loose about her shoulders, framing her beautiful face.
Not that Miriam was jealous, of course. The casual, everyday-wear necklace gracing her throat could have paid for Athena's entire ensemble, with change. And while Miriam's attire was stylistically similar, it had been custom created to enhance her great (greater) beauty. Miriam Holden was always the most beautiful woman in the room, in any room.
Their waiter appeared and took their drink orders, then vanished.
"To business, then," Athena said. "There's still absolutely no proof that your husband is having an affair with Jessie Maitland."
"We've been over this," Miriam huffed. "I didn't hire you to look for evidence," Miriam growled. "I've already wasted good money doing that."
"Wynter & Finch are as good as they come," Athena shrugged. "If Kitty Wynter can't catch Maitland and your husband in a hotel or slipping out of town, there's a good chance—"
"I know they're having an affair," Miriam interrupted, "and I don't need proof. Nor do I need a divorce, even if the settlement would ruin Harcourt, financially and socially. I will not be humiliated in the tabloids as a consequence of his dalliances, not even as 'the faithful wife.' But I will have my revenge on his whore."
Athena shrugged, again. She'd already reached the conclusion that Miriam Harcourt's elevator didn't go all the way up to the penthouse, so to speak. She was a self-important, bitter-minded twit, but her money was good. "Well, in any case, I'm ready to act." She pulled a smartphone from her jacket pocket, tapped and flicked the screen for a couple of seconds, then handed it to her employer.
Miriam glowered at the screen. On it was a candid photo of the object of her hatred, Dr. Jessie Maitland. She was arriving at or departing from yoga class, as she was carrying a rolled mat and was dressed appropriately, if you ignored the boots on her feet. Miriam had to admit Jessie was quite an attractive woman. Narrow waist, well-sculpted abdomen, strong thighs, full bosom, all the right curves in all the right places, long, straight, brown hair, a smiling, symmetrical face—attractive. And she had a brilliant mind, a brilliant mathematical mind, which was why she was a fellow at the Holden Institute for Advanced Studies.
Some mathematicians at H.I.A.S. developed financial derivatives for Holden Global Partners, complex, high-risk/high-return investment instruments that placed bets for and/or against various elements of various markets; but not the esteemed Dr. Maitland. Jessie did pure research, the sort of esoteric numerical nonsense that took a half-hour to explain to the average educated layman and that only a handful of people on the planet even pretended to fully understand. Of course, applications of Jessie's work might one day end world hunger, reverse man-made climate change, and take mankind to the stars, but so what?
Harcourt Holden was fucking the hot nerd! Miriam was sure of it! And Jessie Maitland was going to pay!
"You aren't having a stroke or something," Athena purred, "are you?"
Miriam realized her face was flushed and she was scowling at the image on the smartphone. "No!" she barked, then handed back the phone. "I see you're being discrete. Do you always ask your targets to pose for you?"
Athena smiled. "Jessie thinks I'm a professional photographer who just happens to attend her yoga class. I've been trying to get her to pose for me, so far without success. By the way, someone else attends our class on a regular basis: Kitty Wynter's partner, Bertie Finch."
"I don't know Finch," Miriam stated, "but why should either of them still be following the slut around? I terminated their employment last month."
The waiter arrived with their drinks and Athena took a sip of her Greyhound before answering. "It may have started out as an assignment, but I think Bertie is there because she likes the class. Anyway, Jessie and the Brit have become friends."
Miriam favored Athena with an even stare. "And that's a problem?"
Athena shrugged. "No, I just thought I'd mention it."
"You say you're ready to act?"
Athena took another sip. "Just to be clear. You're going to give her a stern lecture, humiliate her a bit, then let her go, correct?"
Miriam took a deep breath before answering. Imagine, the likes of Athena Zavros trying to put limits on my behavior. "Of course. I'll take her down a peg or two, then send her on her way. But she'll never go near Harcourt again, not when I'm through with her."
Athena continued to smile. I have a bad feeling about this, she thought, but the money's good.
| The Damsel Vanishes | |
Chapter 1 |
Getting into Jessie Maitland's building had been child's play. There was no security camera covering the alley and the lock on the battered steel door the building's staff used for garbage disposal and deliveries wasn't much of a challenge, nor was the lock securing the front door of Maitland's third floor apartment. Athena had already let herself in to search for evidence of the supposed affair once, coming and going without her intrusion ever being suspected, but now she was back to deliver what might euphemistically be called a "coercive invitation." That is, she was here to kidnap the hot nerd and spirit her away.
Athena had come in disguise. To be specific, she was dressed in work boots, cargo shorts, a uniform shirt, a zip-front jacket, and a ball cap, all in a nondescript shade of gray-green. The front of the cap and both shoulders of the jacket had embroidered patches with the name and logo of a mythical company: "ÆGIS SERVICES," and a very convincing photo-ID, complete with bar-code and holographic seal, hung on a lanyard around her neck. Finally, Athena's hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and she was wearing a pair of mirrored sunglasses. On the streets of the city she would be invisible, one more anonymous worker on a routine service call.
Athena had brought with her a packing case that was critical to her mission, and it was a very special packing case. It was black, heavy-duty plastic, with molded ribs for added strength, padded handles, a pair of built-in wheels at one end, and a telescoping handle at the other for ease of transport. It had the size and proportions of a typical footlocker. The lid could be removed completely, and when in place was secured by a total of ten locking, spring-loaded clamps. From the outside, it was a rugged case for transporting instruments, tools, and/or spare parts to the site of a service call. All perfectly innocent. The inside, however, that was what made the case "very special."
The interior was lined with a thick layer of medium-density foam padding, with a generous array of braided nylon straps with friction buckles. Mounted to the wall at one end was a small cylinder of compressed gas. Its regulator was attached to a breathing mask by a length of thin, clear, flexible plastic tubing. To the unenlightened observer, both the vaguely oval shape of the padded cavity and the arrangement of the straps might seem peculiar, but if all went well (for Athena), the utility of the design would soon become crystal clear.
Athena had placed the case in the apartment's living room area, where it would be seen by anyone entering the apartment. It would serve as a distraction, making it easier for her to pounce on her target and subdue her quickly.
Ever the careful professional, Athena had donned a pair of black leather gloves, removed her glasses and cap, and pulled what amounted to a black Lycra ski-mask over her head. She had a Glock 26 holstered behind her back and under her jacket, but had no intention of using it for this operation. The weapon was a contingency precaution. What Athena did intend on using was the small syrette charged with a quick-acting narcotic drug in her right hand. A simple tap against the side of the neck, and the target (Dr. Jessie Maitland) would be unconscious in seconds.
Standing where she would be hidden behind the opening door, Athena waited for her prey to return home. If Maitland kept to her regular routine—and based on two weeks of surveillance she always did—after a hard day of twisting numbers into knots at the Harcourt Institute, she'd attend a late afternoon yoga class. Afterwards, she'd come home, prepare a simple dinner, then twist more numbers until bedtime, this time using the expensive computer workstation and whiteboards already filled with gibberish in her home office. Maybe she'd shop for groceries after yoga class, and maybe not. In either case, the ambush was ready.
| The End of... | ||
| The Damsel Vanishes | |
Chapter 1 |
