The Case of the Long-Legged Bait – Part 1
A Dan Diamond mystery by j.
I hadn’t had a birthday spanking since I turned eleven, and all that one amounted to was a few half-hearted swats on the seat of my blue jeans by a couple of my friends at the old wooden rink in the city park where my Mom had taken us for a roller-skating party. I’m not going to tell how many years ago that was, but let’s just say that the party that Stella was throwing for me now marked a pretty major milestone in my slide into middle age.
Usually on my birthday, I had a couple of drinks with Tommy Donnell and a couple of my other bar buddies, and I’d probably do that again this year, too, because Stel hadn’t invited any of those guys to her shindig. Her invitation list had nothing but ladies, and almost all of them were girls that I’d met during my recent cases involving the B&D crowd.
She also asked her friend Heather, who still wanted to get even with me for the little joke I’d pulled off when I caught her and Stella playing spanking games. Heather wasn’t really angry, but she was just as mischievous as Stella, and they thought they might have a chance to catch me with my pants down at the party. They were right.
Denise, Destiny and Cheri were there, along with a couple of other girls from the Suncoast and Miss D.’s, including Miss D. herself, who dropped by early on but had to leave because her staff was short-handed, thanks to the party. She missed out on the big spanking scene, though she made me pull down my pants and jockeys for a friendly smack or two on my bare bottom before she left. Endora showed up, but not Glinda, which disappointed me, because I had gotten to like that kid a lot. She may have still been down in the dumps over getting dumped on by Ron McDonald, and I decided to ask Endora about it when I got a chance.
About an hour into the party, the two Suzannes arrived, the best of buddies now that they’d worked on that movie together. It had helped revive Suzanne Sachs’ career and had made Suzanne Smythe one of the most notorious doms in the business. To my great surprise, Mrs. Stern came in about the same time, bringing Delia and Darrell. I hadn’t thought she’d make it, because I knew how much she hated L.A. traffic, but I guess she was still grateful to me for keeping her kid out of more trouble. Darrell hadn’t actually been invited, but I was glad Mrs. Stern brought him, because I was feeling a little overwhelmed by all the dominant broads.
We had a few drinks and a few laughs, and at one point, I think, Stella and Heather went off to the empty office next door with Destiny and another of the working girls for some dick-less fun and games. That was fine with me. There were still way more chicks on hand than I could handle.
The party had been going on for a few hours when I got into a long talk with Darrell and Mrs. Stern about the problems of running a bondage business, especially in a conservative place like Santa Barbara. The stuff they were telling me was so interesting that I didn’t notice at first that the room had become very quiet. When I finally turned around, Stella and Heather had come back and were standing there holding small leather paddles and looking at me with big grins. The other girls were in a semi-circle behind them, all with that same shit-eating grin.
“Well, boss, I think it’s time for the birthday boy to get his spanking,” Stella said.
Was I surprised? Was I scared? No, not really. If you want to know the truth, I’d been expecting something like this to happen, and I would have been disappointed if it hadn’t. I was a hardcore B&D guy now, boys and girls, and a little spanking and a little humiliation were right up my alley. Of course, I had to pretend to be dismayed and reluctant. That was half the fun for everyone, including me, so I didn’t just yank off my pants and bend over.
“Not tonight, Stella,” I said. “I’ve got a headache.”
But the ladies didn’t mess around. Denise and Cheri and a couple of others brushed past Stella and Heather, and in a few seconds, they had me peeled — not just my slacks and jockeys but every stitch I had on — and bent over the couch in the outer office. The funny thing was, Mrs. Stern didn’t take part in the stripping or the bending, but the amused look on her face as she sat on the edge of Stella’s desk and watched with her arms folded was the thing that really stiffened my king-size erection. Doms are constantly asking their clients if they’ve been behaving and if they deserve a spanking, and that kind of you’ve-been-a-bad-boy talk usually seems pretty silly to me, but this middle-aged lady, always dignified even when she was ordering the most outrageous things, really did make me feel like a naughty little boy.
Stella and Heather were ready with their paddles, and they took turns spanking me, while the others counted the strokes. Like I said before, I’m not telling how many swats they needed to reach my birthday milestone, but by the time that Stella had given me the traditional “one to grow on,” my bottom was burning a lot more than it usually does after my visits to bondage joints. The ladies stood around my rear admiring the glow and putting their hands on my butt to feel the heat. My dick was hoping they’d reach down a little lower for a few comforting tugs, but Denise had another idea.
“Danny does have a cute little asshole, doesn’t he?” she said. “Did anyone think to bring along a dildo?”
Apparently, nobody did, and I was kind of glad about that. Though I don’t really mind a little reaming as part of a B&D session, I’m not that crazy about it either. But my old friend Delia wouldn’t let it rest.
“How about Darrell?” she asked. “It’d be fun to see Darrell screw Dan.”
If a couple of the women hadn’t been holding my arms down so tightly, I would have leaped right over the couch. There was no way that I was taking twelve or thirteen inches worth of Darrell. I started to tell them so, but Darrell beat me to it.
“I think I’m going to pass,” he said. “It wouldn’t be very nice to inflict cruel and unusual punishment on my buddy Dan on his birthday.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Cheri as the women turned and looked at Darrell, who’d been standing next to Mrs. Stern, removed from the action.
“You don’t know about Darrell?” Delia asked, and the other broads shook their heads. They looked very interested now.
“You gotta see this,” Delia said. “Come on, Darrell, flop it out.”
Darrell shook his head slightly as though he were getting a little bored with requests like that, but he unbuckled his pants and let them fall to the floor. I knew he didn’t mind. You don’t work as a submissive in the bondage place you own yourself — like Darrell did — just to save money on hired help. He jerked down his shorts, and his dick unfolded, and the women who hadn’t seen it before gasped. Then it began to grow, and the looks on their faces were priceless.
“Jesus Christ!” Denise said.
“And it gets bigger and harder when you whip it!” Delia went on.
“I believe that’s enough, Delia,” Mrs. Stern said quietly, and Delia’s lips instantly because a tight, thin line.
The chicks crowded around Darrell. They all wanted to touch it, of course, and my red butt and I were forgotten. Like I’ve said in the past, being around Darrell at times like this can give a guy an inferiority complex. It worked out okay, though, because it gave me a chance for a conversation with Endora. I’d expected her to be first in line for a closer look at Mr. Happy, but instead she walked over to me as I was getting up from the couch.
“I need to talk to you, Dan,” she said, looking surprisingly serious.
“Me, too,” I said. “I’ve been wanting to ask you how Glinda’s doing.”
“That’s why I want to talk to you,” she said. “I don’t know where Glinda is. I haven’t seen her for a week now, and she doesn’t answer her phone, and I went over to her apartment and newspapers and stuff are piled up in front of her door, and I’m getting scared something’s happened to her.”
“You think she’s gone off to play witch games again?” I asked.
“No, she’s kind of getting out of that since the Cosmic Truth thing blew up,” Endora said. “And anyway, she would probably have gotten me to go with her if that’s what she was doing.”
“She’s surely not upset because her creep of a husband is in the slammer?” I asked.
“That’s just it,” she said. “Some fool judge let Ron out on bail, and the word is going around that he’s skipped town. I’m afraid he got Glinda to go with him somehow — or maybe he kidnapped her or something.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” I said. “You don’t have any idea where they might have gone, do you?”
“Ron came here from New Orleans, and he still has a business somewhere down there,” she said. “I don’t really know what it was. Glinda wouldn’t talk about it. She said she couldn’t. But she had a business card in her purse that I saw once, and it just had the name Roissy on it and a phone number. R-O-I-S-S-Y. Roissy.” I tried to recall where I’d heard that name. Then I remembered.
“You mean Roissy like the place in ‘Story of O’?” I asked.
“The story of what?” she said.
“Never mind,” I told her.
I had an old newspaper friend from Long Beach who now worked at the New Orleans Times-Picayune as a crime reporter, and I figured I could give him a call and see if he’d heard of Ronnie boy or a place called Roissy. I told Endora that I’d see what I could find out, and she thanked me and went over to catch at look at Darrell’s equipment before he tucked it away again. She needn’t have hurried. The fun was just beginning.
* * * * * * * * *
The day after the party, I phoned my friend at the Picayune. I told him that I was on the trail of a missing friend of mine named Glinda McDonald and started to ask about Ron and Roissy, but he cut me off.
“Is that name Glinda with an ‘i’ instead of Glenda with an ‘e’?” he asked.
“Yeah, like the good witch in ‘The Wizard of Oz,'” I told him.
“That’s what I was afraid of,” he said. “Hold the phone a minute, Dan. I want to check Tuesday’s paper.”
He was gone for a while, and I sat at my desk and worried about what he meant about being afraid.
“I’ve got some bad news for you, Dan,” he said when he got back on the phone. “Three or four days ago, a guy who was fishing in Vermillion Bay, on the Gulf south of Lafayette, reeled in this dead dame on the end of his line. She was missing most of her face, but there was a billfold in her jacket pocket, and the cops I.D.’d her as one Glinda McDonald, with an L.A. address.”
For a few minutes, I couldn’t think of anything to say. I was in shock.
“Hey, Dan,” my friend said. “You okay?”
“Not really,” I said. “Give me a minute.” I sat there trying to get my thoughts together, trying to think of what to ask next. “Where did you say this happened?” I said.
“The guy was fishing out of Cypremont Point State Park, on Vermillion Bay,” he answered. “That’s near Avery Island, where they make the Tobasco sauce.”
“I’ve been to Avery Island,” I said. “A couple of us went down there one time when we were in Lafayette for a music festival. So what cops are handling the case?”
“The state boys maybe,” he said. “More likely the local sheriff’s guys. That’s Iberia Parish, so they’d be working out of the sheriff’s office in New Iberia. Hold on again. I’ll get a number for you.”
He came back and gave me the number and said he was sorry about the bad news, and I thanked him and hung up. I sat there for a long time, thinking about Glinda. I kept remembering the Dylan Thomas poem where a young woman is thrown into the sea at the end of a fisherman’s line. It’s called “Ballad of the Long-Legged Bait,” and that image of a “girl alive with his hooks through her lips” had stuck with me for a long time. Now it was hammering in my mind.
At last, I got it together enough to dial the sheriff’s office in New Iberia. I told the dispatcher who answered the phone that I was inquiring about the Glinda McDonald case and he connected me with a detective. I didn’t quite catch the name, but it started with an “R” and sounded Cajun. When he came on the line, I explained who I was and why I was calling, and he said that he didn’t have much to add to what I already knew. They had checked out Glinda’s L.A. address and had found out through the cops here about her and Ron. I told him that I didn’t think Glinda would have gone to New Orleans willingly, and he said it sounded that way. I mentioned the name Roissy, but it didn’t ring a bell. He knew about “Story of O,” he said, but he’d never been inclined to read it.
“I’m afraid I don’t have more to tell you, sir,” he said. “We just don’t know much at this point.”
“Maybe I’ll check in with you again in a day or two — I’m going to fly down there tomorrow,” I said, reaching that decision as the words were coming out of my mouth.
There was a long pause at the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” he said, “but I’m not sure that what you’re suggesting is a very good idea. We’ll be doing everything that can be done, and it’s not going to be helpful to have another party getting into the middle of our investigation. Being a private investigator in Los Angeles is one thing, but this is rural Louisiana, and things are a little different down here.”
“They are that,” I agreed. “In fact, I’ve been to your part of the country three or four times. Used to go to the Festival Internationale in Lafayette every spring, and I was at that Crawfish Festival in Breaux Bridge once. Let’s just say that I’m coming down there as a tourist — maybe catch some of the action at one of the zydeco joints, eat some catfish and hush puppies at Mulate’s and hear a little Cajun music. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
There was another pause, an even longer one.
“Look, pardner,” he said finally, “I know how you feel, believe me. If I was in your shoes, I’d probably be doing the same thing. But it’s still not a good idea, and I hope I don’t see you here.”
Despite that closing advice, we hung up on friendly terms. He sounded like a good guy. The next number I called was Southwest Airlines. I booked a flight for the next day.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
After I collected my suitcase at the New Orleans airport, I felt in need of a drink at some dark, dirty, low-life bar, so instead of getting on I-10 in my rental car, I drove toward downtown on the Airline Highway, which has way more than its share of dark, dirty low life. But then I decided to get a carryout from one of those drive-in daquiri stands instead, and I called Billy Barstow on my cell phone as I was driving along sipping a lime concoction that was short on rum and smelled like one of those urinal-deodorizing tablets. I thought that before I drove to New Iberia, I’d see if Billy knew anything about a place called Roissy. With a name like that it, it had to be some kind of bondage operation, and Billy or his partner Matilda might know about it.
Billy sounded glad to hear from me, but Billy was a happy kid and he always sounded as if he were glad about something — even when he was supposed to be playing the heavy in a pay-for-play session. Luckily, he had Matilda to put the fear of God into the customers, or they might have lost the trade of the folks who like to do a little groveling when they’re forking out the big bucks to get their butts warmed. I figured Matilda was the brains of the pair, but Billy contributed that surfer body and a good-natured willingness to put his king-size hot dog between just about any buns.
Billy told me that someone had just arrived for a session, but that if I didn’t drive too fast, they should be done by the time I got there. I turned on the radio to WWOZ and listened to a blues show as I drove along finishing that miserable daquiri and taking my time. Their neighborhood was off Carrollton, so I went by Popeye’s and got a three-piece meal with biscuits and red beans and rice. I ate it in the parking lot before driving the remaining few blocks to Billy and Matilda’s place.
“Hey, Dan,” said Billy when he opened the door. “We’re not done, but Victoria likes to have people watching her when she gets whipped, so you’re right on time.”
He stepped back, and I walked into the living room of the little shotgun cottage. The furniture was pushed toward the walls again, and the same aluminum sawhorse that I’d been bent over six or seven months earlier was standing in the middle of the floor. The bare butt that was on display above it didn’t look anything like mine, though. In fact, it was one of the nicest-looking bottoms I’d even seen, and the long legs running down from it along the legs of the sawhorse were pretty special, too.
As I came through the door, Matilda laid a hard stroke across the quivering butt with a riding crop, adding another bright red line to a pattern of crimson welts already criss-crossing that lovely ass. This chick was getting a heavy-duty spanking, but she didn’t scream. There was a long “Ahhhh,” as though she’d been holding her breath for a long time and had let it out in one long gasp, but that was all. Matilda looked up and smiled at me.
“You want a turn whipping this bad girl?” she asked.
“I think I’ll pass this time,” I said, “but don’t let me stop you.”
“I was about through anyway,” she said. “This little slut is wearing me out.”
They untied the naked girl from the sawhorse, straightened her up and turned her around. She was tall and sort of skinny, but her tits were full enough and her nipples were large and erect. They’d been pierced, and she was wearing gold rings in them, larger ones than you ordinarily see in nipples — these rings were about the size of a quarter. Her hair was dark and cut short in an old-fashioned, schoolgirl style. She looked directly into my eyes, but her face didn’t change its stoic expression.
Billy yanked off the G-string he was wearing and sat down on the edge of the couch with his legs spread, pulling on his semi-erection to coax it into full bloom. Matilda whacked the girl on her thigh. “Get down there, Vicky,” she ordered. The girl dropped to her hands and knees in front of Billy, and without any more urging from Matilda, she took Billy’s penis in her mouth.
Matilda picked up another whip that was lying on the couch. It was about two feet long, with a round, slender shaft that had a stiff leather flap on the end, a couple of inches wide and maybe four inches long. Matilda kicked the girl’s knees wider apart until her butt cheeks were spread, and she began whipping the ring of her anus, smacking her hard. The girl — Victoria was what Billy had called her — seemed to flinch a little from the blows, but she didn’t pull her head away from Billy’s crotch. She was licking him now, holding his penis up with one hand so she could get to his balls and then running her tongue along the underside of his erection.
I noticed that Victoria had a large, square Band-Aid high on her right buttock, a few inches away from where her bottom began to divide. I wondered what it covered. Some stroke from an old whipping that had broken the tender flesh? Maybe even a cigarette burn? Matilda had moved on from the anus now, swinging underneath and upward between the girl’s white thighs so that she was spanking her squarely on her sex. And Victoria had Billy’s dick inside her mouth again, swallowing almost all of it.
Billy had been reaching down to pull on the rings on the girl’s nipples, but now he fell back on the couch with his head thrown back, mouth open and eyes closed, letting his orgasm take over. When it came, he sat up, pulled his spurting dick out of Victoria’s mouth and let the jets of cum spray across her face. Matilda threw down the whip and pulled the girl to her feet .
“Now do yourself, you little cunt!” she screamed.
The girl’s hands went to her sex, and she pulled herself open with one hand and plunged in the fingers of the other. She looked straight at me again as her fingers began to move in and out, and again there wasn’t a trace of emotion on her face. Meanwhile, Matilda was running a thick piece of twine through the rings in Victoria’s nipples. When the string was looped into place, she pulled hard on it, stretching the girl’s breasts into longer cones. Billy had picked up a wide leather paddle and began to spank the girl with it, swinging upward under the buttocks and hitting hard so that Victoria was lifted onto her toes with each stroke. Matilda kept tugging on the piece of twine with one hand, while she used her little flapper whip to strike the girl’s stretched titties.
Victoria apparently liked her whippings hard and mean. If I had been in her place, I’d have been down on my knees begging for mercy by now, but she stood there and took it, with Billy’s cum still running down her cheeks and chin. But she had lost her poker face — her eyes were closed and her lips were parted and she was breathing hard. She had one set of fingers buried deep inside herself now, and the other hand was massaging her clit. She began to tremble, and a flush of red spread down from her face and neck and across the pale white skin of her body. She had all of her fingers crammed inside as her body shook in a long, fierce orgasm. Matilda and Billy stepped back, and we all watched her get off. She had been traveling a rough road, but I guess it got her where she wanted to go.
When she was through, she didn’t say anything or even look at us. She spun around and walked into the hallway to the back of the house, probably heading for the bathroom. Matilda followed her. Billy picked up the thong he’d taken off and wiped off his penis before tossing the underwear aside again. Like Darrell, Billy never seemed embarrassed to be standing around with his dick hanging out, no matter what the circumstances. Maybe I ought to introduce them to each other, but there probably wasn’t any town big enough to hold a couple of gunslingers like that at the same time.
“Hey, thanks for waiting, Dan,” Billy said. “What did you want to talk about?”
Matilda came back about this time, still wearing her leather bra and panties, and I told them both the whole story, explaining about Glinda and about the business card with the name Roissy on it. They winced when I described the girl’s body that was fished out of Vermillion Bay, but they shook their heads when I brought up Roissy.
“I may have heard someone at the Spitfire Club use the word a couple of times,” Matilda said, “but they were probably talking about the place in the book. Maybe I did hear one guy mention something once, but I really can’t remember now. It’s been a while, and I don’t even know the guy’s name.”
Billy shook his head again and said he was sorry but he hadn’t heard a thing. He looked real sad, like a puppy that wanted to do its best but had fallen short.
“So what do you want to know about Roissy?” a voice behind us said.
Victoria was standing in the hall doorway. She had washed Billy’s cum off her face, but she was still naked.
“I couldn’t help hearing you talking,” she said. “About that poor girl. About her hauled up on somebody’s fishing line. Nobody ought to wind up like that.”
“You know something about a place called Roissy?” I asked.
“Maybe I can help you,” she said, “but if I do, you have to forget who told you. You never talked to me, understand? I don’t feel like ending up as fish bait myself.”
“No one’s going to hear anything from me,” I said.
“I tell you what,” Matilda said. “Billy and I are going to go into the bedroom and shut the door. I think this is going to be something that we don’t want to know, especially if someone asks us about it somewhere down the line.”
Matilda was no dummy. She was doing the right thing, though I could tell that Billy was disappointed that he wouldn’t hear what Victoria was going to say. Victoria and I waited until we heard the bedroom door close.
“There’s something I want to show you first,” she said.
She turned sideways so that her butt was swiveled around, and she reached back and peeled that big Band-Aid off her bottom. It had been covering a red tattoo of a circle with initials inside it. The lines were thick and looked rough, and then I realized it wasn’t a tattoo after all.
The girl had been branded.
* * * * * * * * *
NEXT: Victoria’s secret.
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