by Van ©2012
Chapter 2

The traffic in this high-end, residential neighborhood of Manhattan wasn't too bad, mostly taxis, but Detective Jane Rizzoli, Boston Homicide, still looked both ways before crossing the street.  Ma would be so proud, she fumed.  Jane was in a foul mood thanks to recent events, not mad at her mother—no more than usual, anyway.  Her long, raven hair wafted and her boots tapped the sidewalk as she counted off the street numbers of the passing townhouses.  The address she was seeking should be near the middle of the block.

Jane was more than two hundred miles out of her jurisdiction and under orders not to be where she was, but Jane was Jane.  She didn't exactly have a reputation for obedience, not when she was chasing a suspect, and certainly not when the FBI did what the FBI always did: get in the way of an ongoing investigation.  "Stupid Feds," she muttered to herself, for about the hundredth time since yesterday.

There had been a spate of kidnappings in the Boston area, all of wealthy, attractive women.  The victims were all released unharmed, but only after being relieved of their best jewelry and whatever cash they had on hand.  The kidnapper was a woman, working alone, and she had ravished all her victims, virtually nonstop, for the several days she held each of them prisoner.  The crimes might technically be home invasions or abductions and not normally a concern for Jane's squad unless there was a homicide, but many of the victims were high profile.  For that reason, the Chief of Detectives had handpicked a special taskforce: Detective Sergeant Vince Korsak, Jane's immediate supervisor and former partner, Jane herself, and Detective Barry Frost, her current partner.

Jane frowned in concentration as she mentally reviewed the case.  The victims' behavior had been... odd.  Jane had conducted the usual interviews and the victims had been evaluated by a departmental shrink.  All had been cooperative, but strangely unhelpful.  Stockholm Syndrome, the sympathetic attachment hostages or kidnap victims sometime develop with their kidnappers, was a possible factor, but Jane sensed something different at play.

All the victims wanted the kidnapper caught, and they certainly wanted their stuff back, but their eyes glazed over and they actually smiled, in an eerie, goofy sort of way, when asked to recount what the kidnapper had done to them.  It was... strange.  One or even two oddball victims on a large case was one thing, but all of them?  None of the women had much of anything in common, other than beauty and wealth, and none had histories of kinky sex.  And yet, they all reacted exactly the same way, almost as if they'd somehow enjoyed themselves.

The victims' eyes also glazed when they tried to physically describe the kidnapper.  All agreed she was female, very beautiful, and had dark-red hair; but that was where the similarities ended.  Every police artist rendering was different.  Eye color, cheekbones, nose, chin... all different.  It was frustrating.  The psychologist "diagnosed" some form of post-traumatic aphasia, which Jane and her fellow detectives recognized as a retreat into jargon.

All they could do was start the painstaking work of finding patterns in the activities and relationships of the victims, something that would eventually point to a suspect.

Then it happened.

They had hardly begun expanding the case files when the FBI arrived in a swarm of blue jackets led by a blond Special Agent by the name of Olivia Dunham.  They waltzed into the squad room, accompanied by Lieutenant Cavanaugh and the required paperwork.  The case was now federal, Agent Dunham announced.  All files and notes were to be turned over immediately. 

And Cavanaugh had backed her up!  "Orders from the Chief," he explained.

Jane had argued.  Jane always argued.  The victims were all Bostonians and state lines hadn't been crossed.  Agent Dunham simply smiled as her minions boxed the case files.

Okay, Jane was off the case, but she didn't have to like it.

The part about there not being any interstate involvement wasn't quite true.  None of the women had left Boston, but the last victim had been a high-end realtor specializing in luxury properties and she remembered being ordered to use her computer during her ordeal.  She'd tapped the keys and conducted some sort of search, but she couldn't recall the details.  The Computer Crimes Unit isolated a list of possible properties in New York City from her laptop, but Cavanaugh wouldn't authorize a trip to the Big Apple.  However, he did call in a favor and (supposedly) the NYPD sent detectives to each address.  The report back was negative.  The addresses were all luxury townhouses, half of which had already sold, and there was nothing suspicious about any of the transactions.

"Yeah, right," Jane muttered to herself.  New York cops assigned to do legwork for Boston?  They probably drove by the addresses, glanced at the "FOR SALE" signs on the front doors, then stopped for donuts.

Jane's iPhone vibrated.  She pulled it from her pocket, checked the screen, and smiled.  It was her partner.  "Hey, Frostie," she purred.

"Don't 'Hey, Frostie' me," Barry muttered.  "Cavanaugh is chewing Korsak's ass for letting you take the weekend off."

"Last week he was chewing all our asses for having too many vacation days on the books," Jane noted.  "Besides, when is Cavanaugh not chewing Korsak's ass?"  They all knew the Lieutenant had the greatest respect for the entire squad and the feeling was mutual.  The ass chewing was a matter of leadership style.  They didn't take it personally.

"He knows you too well, Rizzoli," Frost continued.  "Please tell me you're not in New York."

"I'm not in New York," Jane lied, "and I'm not about to check the last address on the list the NYPD and Special Agent Blondie said was a dead end."

Barry sighed.  "Well, is it?"

"Is it what?" Jane responded.

"The list.  Is it a dead end?"

"Yeah, so far.  I'll let you know what I find at the last one."

"Only if it means something," Barry said, "then get back here.  Shanghai the doc and have her drag you to the park, or a museum.  Better yet, another spa.  Anyplace that will keep you out of trouble."

The doc in question was Dr. Maura Isles, Chief Medical Examiner of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts and Jane's BFFL (Best Friend For Life).  "What I do with my off time is my own business," Jane replied.  "If I want to hop the Amtrak for a weekend in New York, I'll hop the Amtrak for a weekend in New York.  Anyway, Maura is at some conference at the Jeffersonian in D.C."

"Whatever," Barry sighed.  "Be careful, Jane."

"That's sweet, Frostie," Jane chuckled.  "I didn't know you cared."

"I don't," Barry huffed (which they both knew was a baldfaced lie).  "I just don't want the hassle of breaking in a new partner when Cavanaugh assigns you to permanent crossing-guard duty."

Jane's smile widened.  "Goodbye, partner."  She broke the connection and pocketed the phone.

She'd reached the address, but there was no "FOR SALE" sign in sight.  She climbed the steps to the front stoop and rang the doorbell.  While she waited for an answer she pulled her ID/badge case from her pocket.  She was just about to ring the bell again when the inner door of the vestibule opened—there was movement visible through the rippled glass of the front door's small windows—then the front door opened to reveal a smiling woman.

"May I help you?" the woman smiled.  She was very beautiful, perhaps in her thirties, with long, dark-red hair and sparkling, blue-green eyes.

Jane held up her badge.  "Hello.  I'm Detective Rizzoli of the Boston Police.  I'd like to ask you some questions about..."  Jane blinked as she stared into the woman's gorgeous eyes.  "I..."  The woman was wearing perfume—and whatever it was, it was fabulous!  Jane shook her head, trying to collect her thoughts.  "Uh, sorry.  I have questions about...  about..."

The woman took the badge case from Jane's suddenly weak and trembling fingers.  "Detective Jane Rizzoli," the woman read, smiling at Jane's ID and tracing the embossed shield with her right index finger.  "Jane is such a pretty name."  She shifted her gaze to Jane's staring, confused face, wet the index finger with her full lips and pink tongue, then reached out and traced Jane's lips.  "And you are such a pretty girl."

Jane was frozen in place, gasping like a hooked fish.  "I, I, uh..."  What's happening to me?  "Y-your perfume is very..."  Screw the perfume! her inner voice screamed.  Assert control of the situation!

The woman opened the door wider, took Jane by the arm, and led her across the threshold.  "Why don't you come in?" she purred.  "I'll make some tea and answer all your questions."

The front door closed and the street was quiet—quiet for daytime Manhattan, anyway.

Dr. Helen Magnus followed the maitre d' through the posh, dimly lit D.C. restaurant.  The tables were crowded with political movers and shakers (and wannabes), and immediately ahead was their goal: the table of Dr. Dana Scully of the FBI.

Dana smiled, gracefully stood, and exchanged a polite greeting and air-kiss with Helen.  Both were wearing LBDs (Little Black Dresses) as were most of the women in the restaurant.  A waiter took their drink orders and left.

Helen smiled as she surveyed the dining room.  "I've always liked this place," she said, then beamed at Dana.  "Executive Assistant Director.  My belated congratulations."

Dana favored her companion with a wry smile.  "Don't mock my pain, Helen," she sighed.  "A corner office is hardly compensation for being the face of the Bureau whenever something 'special' happens.  I don't enjoy the required subterfuge.  Earlier this week I spent two hours convincing Congressman Hardwell that giant vampire bats are not roosting in his home district."

"You mean the family of Chiroptemorphs my colleagues repatriated to their Yucatan homeland?" Helen asked.

Dana nodded.  "The animal smugglers responsible are in custody—the survivors, anyway  And very little of that information could be shared with the good Congressman."

Helen continued smiling.  "One would think Dana Scully would be accustomed to handling 'special' situations by now."  She took a sip of ice water.  "By the way, I think you did the right thing merging the X-Files with Fringe Division."

Dana raised an eyebrow.  "And how does Dr. Helen Magnus know anything whatsoever about recent changes at the FBI?"

"Because Dr. Helen Magnus is Director of the North American Sanctuary," Helen purred, "and it's her business to know."

"You mean she makes it her business to know," Dana chuckled.  "Please thank your technical people for cross-referencing the newly digitized X-File records with the Sanctuary database, by the way."

"I will," Helen promised.

Dana sipped her water.  "I don't suppose I could convince you to open your complete database to my people?"

Helen shook her head, but was still smiling.  "Sadly, while our professional interests usually coincide—"  She sipped her water, again.  "—such is not always the case."

"The Bureau," Dana stated, "specifically, Fringe Division, only concerns itself with what you call 'abnormals' when they're implicated in criminal activity.  Public safety is our shared concern."

"However," Helen countered, "the Sanctuary Network recognizes abnormals as members of said public."  Dana opened her mouth to answer but Helen raised a preemptive hand.  "Don't have kittens, Dana," she purred.  "I know we're on the same side in this.  However, social and political winds have been known to shift, and information is power.  My fellow Sanctuary Directors aren't willing to share all of our secrets."

The waiter returned with their drinks, a Hendrick's Martini for Dana and a Cucumber Gin Tonic for Helen.  He took their food orders and left again.

"Lobster?" Dana asked with a teasing smile.

Helen shrugged.  "It's on your expense account, is it not?  You called this meeting."

"True enough," Dana smiled, "but being English, I expected you to order their famous Beef Wellington."

"It was either that or Bangers and Mash."

"Touché," Dana chuckled.  "Unfortunately, good ol' Irish corned beef and cabbage isn't on the menu either."

"So you settled for the Porter-House."

They both sipped their drinks.

"So," Dana said, "to business.  What can you tell me about this Rupandra person?"

"Historically," Helen answered, "she would probably be considered a form of succubus."

Dana smiled.  "A seductive demon?"

"Historically."  Helen sipped her drink, again.  "The 'Incufumarae' are a variety or perhaps even a subspecies of Homo sapiens.  Scientific opinions vary.  They produce pheromones that induce a highly suggestible state in normals.  Further, they have the ability to customize their pheromones for maximum effectiveness."

"Alter the chemistry?" Dana frowned.  "How?"

Helen shrugged.  "Unknown at this time.  Obviously, some form of chemical feedback is involved.  Also, they feed on the strong emotions of those they control, and I mean that quite literally."

Now Dana was openly skeptical.  "They're psychic vampires?"

"If you will," Helen confirmed, then chuckled at Dana's dubious expression.  "Obviously, you won't.  Some sort of energy transfer occurs.  And don't be alarmed, I'm not a sudden convert to Spiritualism.  Energy transfer between organisms by means other than chemical digestion and absorption is far from unprecedented.  In any case, it's been established that Incufumarae receive some sort of healing or regenerative benefit from direct bodily contact with those they control, and they can heal, in turn.  I subscribe to the Casimir Radiation Theory, myself, but formal research on the matter is almost totally lacking—something I hope to remedy if I can convince Rupandra to accept Sanctuary."

Dana was still frowning.  "Wait.  These Incufumarae can effectively control people's minds through the use of customized pheromones?  Why don't they rule the world?"

Helen chuckled.  "The Incufumarae have evolved a great and powerful gift—but like all gifts, it has limitations."

Jane was in the kitchen of the townhouse, kneeling on the tiled floor with her rump resting on her crossed ankles and her hands behind her back.  Her own handcuffs were locked around her wrists and she was completely naked—and she'd done it to herself!

The woman—Rupandra she said her name was—had ordered Jane to strip—and she did it!

Rupandra then ordered Jane to kneel and cuff herself—and she did it!

All the while, somewhere in the back of her mind, Jane's voice was screaming.  Stop!  You're a cop!  Control the situation!  Control YOURSELF!

"Such a beautiful creature," Rupandra had sighed as Jane removed her clothing.  "Strong cheekbones, gypsy eyes, raven hair, and the smooth, dark skin of a Minoan princess..."  Jane's disrobing continued.  "And what a physique!  Those strong, sculpted abs!  You're much like my other new slave, Jane.  Both of you are svelte, strong, feminine warriors.  You'll make a magnificent matched pair."

'Other new slave?' Jane wondered.  "S-slave?  Who?"  She tugged on her cuffs and shifted her weight to rise.

Rupandra smiled at Jane's clumsy efforts and leaned close.  "What a husky, sexy voice you have, Jane," she purred, and kissed her lips.

Jane's entire body shivered in delight as a thrill surged through her crotch and rippled up her spine.  "Oh, god!" she whispered, her words blurred by her captor's lips.  The kiss continued, and Jane's nipples throbbed as Rupandra's tongue explored her mouth.  Stop it! her inner voiced screamed.  Fight her!  Fight back!  Get up and kick her ass!

Rupandra retrieved Jane's panties from the counter, formed them into a wad, and stuffed them in Jane's unresisting mouth.  "You've already told me that you've come alone," she purred, "that you came to meet me all by yourself.  I'm going to make you more comfortable.  Then, we'll talk some more."  She pulled Jane to her feet and led her to the kitchen table.  "Up you go," she urged, and Jane hopped up and sat on the table.

Jane's bare feet and legs dangled off the end of the hard surface.  Rupandra reached behind Jane's back and unlocked the cuffs, then gathered her hands together in front and locked them around her wrists, once again.  Click-click-click-click.  "Now, my raven-haired warrior, lie back and relax."

Jane settled back on the table.

"Arms above your head, slave," Rupandra ordered, and Jane complied.  Rupandra leaned over the table and kissed Jane's navel—smiled as another thrill quivered through her new slave's body—then walked towards the kitchen door.  "Remain as you are, my pet," she ordered, and was gone.

Jane willed herself to spit out her panties, climb off the table, and retrieve her Glock.  It was right there on the counter, next to her badge, iPhone, backup piece, and the ammo clips.  Move it! her inner voice screamed, but Jane couldn't move!  She was paralyzed!

Rupandra returned in less than two minutes, carrying coils of white nylon rope and a roll of silver-gray duct-tape.  Still unable to move, Jane felt loops of braided nylon tighten around her right ankle and the lower right table leg.  The rope was cinched and knotted, there was a brief pause, then rope tightened around her left ankle and the left lower table leg.  Jane's knees were splayed, but the spread wasn't extreme; it was a small table.  Rupandra stood, smiled down at her prisoner, and began tightening loops of rope around Jane's left thigh and just below her bent knee.  A knot was tied, the free end cinched around the upper left table leg, the slack was removed, and a knot tied.  She walked around the table and bound Jane's right thigh and knee in similar fashion.

Next, Rupandra lifted Jane's cuffed hands from above her head and reached for the roll of tape.  "Separate your hands as far apart as the cuffs will allow," she ordered, "and hold your fingers straight out and together, like you're about to clap."

Jane complied, then watched as her Mistress (Kidnapper! the inner voice insisted) mummified her left hand, fingers, and thumb in tight, multiple layers of tape.  Next, Her right hand received similar treatment.  When Rupandra finally put down the roll, Jane's hands had become tightly wrapped, silver-gray flippers, useless for untying knots, useless for much of anything.

Rupandra hitched another length of rope through the connecting chain of the cuffs, lifted Jane's cuffed and now tape-encased hands above her head, hitched the free ends around the upper table legs, pulled out the slack, and tied several knots.

Jane was now stretched across the table, flat on her back with her knees and elbows bent, lashed down and helpless.

"Perfect," the smiling kidnapper sighed.  "There's nothing as beautiful as a bound warrior-slave.  "And now, let's see what we can learn about our new toy."  She picked up Jane's iPhone and sat in the chair on the "new toy's" right.

Jane watched Rupandra's fingers tap and glide across the iPhone's screen.  She surmised her Mistress (Kidnapper!) was surfing the web and probably conducting a search.  Jane, herself, was the obvious subject.

"Ah," Rupandra said after several seconds.  Her smile broadened.  "Another hero!"  She shifted her gaze to the gagged face of the hero in question.  "That explains your scars.  Shooting through yourself to stop the bad cop who was using you as a human shield!  Now that's dedication.  No wonder they gave you a medal."  She held the iPhone so Jane could see the screen.

Wonderful, Jane thought.  The screen was displaying a photo taken by the Boston Globe at the banquet where Jane was awarded her medal.  Strangely, Jane found she could concentrate on the subject without fear and panic.  Her inner voice was still jabbering, but it was an increasingly distant distraction.  Thanks to her inescapable bonds, whether or not she was capable of disobeying her beautiful Mistress was very much moot.

"The gods mock me," Rupandra laughed, shaking her head.  "I learn of a beautiful, athletic, hero-cop and decide she simply must be mine—"  She leaned down and kissed the entry-wound scar on Jane's lower abdomen.  "—and another such creature rings my doorbell and offers herself!  What can it mean?"  She kissed the scar again, then dragged her wet, warm tongue across the small, puckered blemish.

"Mrrrfh!"  Jane tugged on her bonds and screamed through her panties-and-tape-gag.  It burns!  It burns!  She spit out her panties and gasped in pain.  "Let me go, you bitch!" she screamed.  "Let me go or I'll—Mrrpfh!"

Rupandra had stuffed the panties back in Jane's mouth and her right hand was tightly clamped over her lips.  She leaned close until her smiling visage was inches from Jane's grimacing, wide-eyed face.  "Such a strong will," she cooed, her flashing green eyes locked with Jane's.  She pursed her lips and gently blew.

Jane's nostrils flared and her body shivered in delight.  The thrill intensified as Rupandra's left hand cupped her left breast and gently squeezed.

"Such a strong warrior," Rupandra mused.  "Keep your mouth closed for Mistress," she ordered, then withdrew her hands.

Again, Jane was paralyzed, not able to move anything other than her eyes.  She watched as Rupandra tore strips of tape from the roll and tacked them to the edge of the table.

"Lips together, slave," Rupandra ordered.

Jane bit down on her panties until her lips met—Nooo! her inner voice screamed—and Rupandra stretched and plastered a strip of tape across her mouth.  The first sealed Jane's lips, the next two formed an "X" over the first, and the final three tightly covered her lower face from ear-to-ear and from just under her still flaring nostrils to the point of her dimpled chin.

"And now we can continue," Rupandra said.  She kissed Jane's glistening forehead, then sat back down.  "You may fight all you wish, my warrior.  I'm afraid you will feel a little discomfort as I continue healing your scars—"

Jane blinked in confusion.  Healing my scars?

"But the pain will provide a focus for your warrior spirit," Rupandra continued, "as it did with my other hero-cop."

Again with the 'other hero-cop,' Jane thought.  What is she babbling about?  Then, Jane screamed through her gag and tugged on her bonds.  "Nrrrrf!"  Rupandra's tongue was back, licking her wound and surgical scars!  "M'mmpfh!"  It burned like a hot iron!

"Poor Jane," Rupandra sighed.  "It is necessary, my slave.  Necessary, to make you perfect."  She dragged her tongue the full length of Jane's surgical scar, then lifted her face and smiled.  "I know what will distract you," she chuckled.

Jane's eyes popped wide.  "Mmmf!"  Rupandra's right hand was stroking her pussy!  Jane squirmed and strained to close her legs, but it was a futile effort.  The gentle massage continued.  "M'mfrh!"  Then, Rupandra's middle finger parted Jane's labia and began stroking her clitoris.  Jane quaked with pleasure—with indescribable pleasure—and fought her bonds.

"Yes, my warrior," Rupandra purred, "fight for your freedom."  She licked Jane's scar, again.  "Soon, freedom will mean the joy of serving your Mistress and you will be mine, body and soul.  But for now, fight!  Fight your bondage, fight the pain, and above all, fight the orgasm building in your loins as I feed upon your strength.  Do not cum, my slave," she ordered.  "Do not cum until Mistress is done healing your scars and has satiated her hunger!  Fight, my warrior!"

Jane writhed in her bonds, trapped in their steel and nylon embrace.  Her wrapped fingers and stuffed and sealed mouth added to her helplessness.  Despite the pain of whatever Rupandra was doing to her scars as she dragged her tongue across her flesh, Jane felt neither fear nor terror.  And because of the cunning, skilled manipulation of her pussy by Rupandra's talented fingers, she was increasingly aroused; but unable to cum!  Jane wanted to cum, just as she wanted to escape, but she could do neither.

Jane felt her strength ebbing away as Rupandra continued to lick and tease.  Her world became a swirling collage of pleasure and pain—and Rupandra's gorgeous green eyes—and her long, wet, burning tongue—and her slippery, teasing fingers.  Pleasure and pain.

And then, suddenly, the pain stopped.  The pleasure continued.  Jane still wanted to cum.  Jane needed to cum!

"Okay," Rupandra purred, "that will do, for now."  Her fingers continued to glide and probe and tickle and tease across and inside her captive's pussy.  "You may cum, Jane.  You may cum now."

Jane's body went completely rigid and her breath caught in her throat.  Her inner self continued to scream, but now all parts of her consciousness were screaming with one voice.

Oh.  My.  GAWD!!

Jane came as she had never cum before, and she kept cumming—and cumming—and cumming!

And then, finally, Jane heaved a deep, shuddering breath through flared nostrils, closed her eyes, and all was darkness.