The Case of the Long-Legged Bait – Part 2
A Dan Diamond mystery by j.
“I thought I liked pain,” Victoria began, “but after that son of a bitch branded me, all I could think about was how much I hated him and how much I wanted to get away from that place.”
“Hold on,” I said. “I don’t know what son of a bitch you’re talking about.”
“You wouldn’t know the creep, but his name is Barry Barnstable,” she said. “Barry Barnstable the Third, in fact. Barry the Tird, I call him. I met him at that place where Matilda and Billy work — the Spitfire Club. You ever been there?”
“Not the one in New Orleans,” I told her. “But I spent a very unusual evening at its sister club in San Francisco a few months back.”
“Top or bottom?” she asked.
“Bottom,” I said. “Very definitely bottom.”
“Really? So maybe you know where I’m coming from then,” Victoria said. “Anyway, you saw what Billy and Matilda were doing to me, so you know what I like. That’s why I thought it sounded great when Barry started dropping hints about Roissy.”
“This is a place copied after the one in ‘Story of O’?” I asked.
“That’s what the rich old farts who come to the place would like to think,” she said, “but it’s a piss-poor imitation.” She stopped, stared at the floor for a moment and looked back at me. “You know, after what I went through, I’m not so sure that the original one in ‘O’ would be that great either. It’s okay to fantasize about that kind of shit when you’re home in bed and getting yourself off, but it’s a little different when it starts coming true. For one thing, it’s really, really boring sitting around all day waiting for some asshole to come beat on your butt for an hour or two.”
“So you didn’t just go to this place for sessions?” I asked. “You were there all the time, like in the book?”
“Right,” she said, “and I’m not so sure that I wouldn’t still be there if it weren’t for my dad.”
“How’s he involved?” I said.
“He’s not really,” she explained, “but he’s got a lot of money, and if he ever thought anybody was mistreating his baby girl, he’d squash ’em like a cockroach. Barry the Tird didn’t know about that until after I got mixed up with him.”
(I liked the Barry the Tird bit. It reminded me of when the Salomon family brought the Blues hockey expansion franchise to St. Louis. The owners were a father-and-son combo — Sidney Jr. and Sidney III — and their first team had a tough defenseman named Noel Picard, who eventually became a color man on local radio broadcasts. Noel was a French-Canadian, and he had trouble pronouncing some words in English, especially when the letter ‘h’ was involved. Whenever he referred to Sidney III on the air, it always came out ‘Sid the Tird,’ which everyone except the Salomons found highly amusing.)
“So you’re a little rich girl?” I asked Victoria. “What does your father think about how you get your kicks?”
“He doesn’t know, and I don’t want him to find out,” she said. “That’s why I haven’t told him what Barry did. If he ever heard about that, Mr. Barnstable and his buddies would be history.”
“Your dad’s got that much clout?” I asked.
“In Louisiana, he does,” she answered.
“Look,” I told her, “this sounds like a complicated story. Instead of keeping Billy and Miranda shut up in the bedroom, why don’t we go someplace and have a drink or get something to eat, and you can tell me the whole thing.”
She went along with that idea, so we took off after thanking Miranda and Billy. I was grateful that they’d put me in touch with Victoria, even if it was by accident, and she thanked them for the “best spanking I’ve had in a month.” I wasn’t sure where to take her, because most of my favorite eating spots in New Orleans are usually pretty crowded and not very private, but she knew this bar over on Esplanade, not far from the Quarter, where we could get a booth to ourselves and the cheeseburgers were the real thing — not the usual crap from Burger in the Box or McWendy’s.
We didn’t discuss her experience at “Roissy” until we were through eating. Then I ordered another round of Abitas and leaned back in the booth to let her talk.
* * * * * * * * *
“Barry had his thumb up my ass before I even knew what he looked like,” she said. “I was strapped to a spanking bench for one of the shows at the Spitfire Club, and after the show ended, they just left me there so that anyone in the audience could come up and play with me. That was the way it usually was, and sometimes you ended up getting paddled worse after the show than you did while it was going on. It was a big turn-on as far as I was concerned — naked, helpless and at the mercy of people I’d never met before.
“But for some reason, only one guy came up after the show that evening. Maybe it was a school night or something, and everyone else wanted to get home early. Who knows? Anyway, this guy was standing right behind me, and I couldn’t see what he looked like. He ran his hands over my butt for a while, and then he worked one of this thumbs into my anus. Just buried it there, you know?
“He pushed it in and out a few times. Felt okay. Then he put a couple of his fingers in my pussy and sort of pinched his thumb and fingers together so he had hold of me in both holes, and he lifted my butt up off the bench as far as it would go, as far as the straps would let him. Like holding up a fish by its gills, you know?
“I guess that wasn’t enough for him, because he unstrapped me from the bench and made me bend over, and he got hold of me again in the same way, with his thumb in my butt and a couple of fingers in my pussy. He started pulling me around the stage, making me waddle backwards still bent over, and he was kind of hurting me. I guess I looked pretty funny, though, because some people on the other side of the room noticed what was going on, and they came over, and they were getting a real charge out of how he had hold of me, laughing and everything.
“His fingers moved up onto my clit then, and in just a minute or so, I got off, way quicker than I usually do, still bent over and begging him not to stop playing with me. That really got the people who were watching turned on, and when he was through with me, they wanted their turn. He just pulled his fingers out of me and wiped them on my bare butt and walked away. The others kept me bent over, and they were slapping my ass and making me spread my legs wide so they could finger me. They stuck this dildo in my butt, and they used a vibrator on my clit, and they kept at it a long time, but I never did cum again, so they finally got tired and let me go.
“I was worn out by then, so I went back to the dressing room to put on my clothes, and I figured on heading home and getting into a hot bath, because I was real sore down there by then. But when I went past the little bar next to the front door of the club, Barry was there waiting for me. He asked me if I want to go somewhere else for a nightcap, and I said okay. That was pretty stupid, I guess, and I don’t know why I did it, but it was like I could still feel his fingers in me, grabbing me like he did, treating me like a piece of shit. I liked that, see? Understand?”
I told her that I thought so, but I didn’t offer any thoughts of my own. I wanted Victoria to get on with her story.
“Anyway,” she continued, “the ‘somewhere else’ that we went for a drink turned out to be his apartment, and he didn’t even offer me that drink when we got there. He told me to strip, and I did, and then he tied my hands behind me and made me lie down on this wooden chair, with my belly flat on the seat and my head and shoulders hanging off one side and my butt and legs off the other. He tied me tight to the chair, and he went into another room and came back with this big German shepherd. I thought, ‘Oh, oh, girl! You’re about to get fucked by a dog!’ That would have been a first for me, but it didn’t happen. Barry poured some kind of syrup or something down the crack of my ass and rubbed it all over me down there, in my butt hole and pussy and all around them, and then he let that dog lick it all off.
“I came again then, and it was just as good as the one back in the club. This guy had given me two of the biggest orgasms I’d ever had, and he hadn’t even had his dick out of his pants yet. I was hooked. He could have told me to take on the Saints’ offensive line right then and I would have done it — and thrown in a blowjob for the place-kicker without being asked.
“Actually, Barry was the one who got the blowjob. It seemed like the least I could do. We were lying in bed afterward, and he started asking me about myself and what kind of B&D I liked and stuff like that. I told him some things, but I didn’t mention my family, especially not my dad. I never do.
“Then he started telling me about this private club that he belonged to, and I thought at first that he was talking about the Spitfire Club, and I thought, ‘Hold on, buddy. That’s where you picked me up. You haven’t forgotten that already, have you?’ But then he said it was someplace away from town, somewhere up on the River Road, and he made it sound like it was one of the old plantation houses. He asked me if I had read ‘Story of O,’ and I said I had, and he told me this place was called Roissy because it was patterned after the place in the book.
“Well, that got my attention big-time, because I had done a lot of fantasizing after reading that book. Anyway, he made this place sound really good, and so when he asked me if I wanted him to take me there, I said that would be great. That was real dumb, I know, because I’d just met the creep, but that’s part of it, you know? If you think you could be getting into something a little over your head, you get sort of scared, and that makes the whole thing more exciting. You’ve been there. Don’t you think that’s right?”
I told her that I knew what she was talking about. I wasn’t lying, either. I’ve been plenty scared in some of the places I’ve gotten into when I’ve been on cases involving B&D. Like when I was doing the victim bit in Dundeen’s magic show, and it looked like I might get separated from my head. I was sporting a hard-on half the time even then.
“So we agreed that he would take me to ‘Roissy’ the next weekend,” Victoria continued. “He picked me up in his car, and we drove out to this kind of sleazy bar near the Huey Long Bridge. We had a couple of drinks, and when we came out of the bar, this limousine was waiting in the parking lot. I thought, ‘Wow, just like the book!’ But in ‘O,’ the guy makes the chick pull up her skirt and sit on the leather seat with her bare bottom. Kind of subtle, you know. Barry the Tird made me strip right there in the parking lot of the bar, standing next to the car, and the driver was this little, kind of mousy guy, and he was, like, smirking at me the whole time I was getting naked. Then they just left my clothes lying there in the parking lot, and it was a real expensive designer dress. It really pissed me off!”
When Victoria mentioned a “kind of mousy guy,” I immediately thought of Glinda’s husband, Ron McDonald, but I didn’t say anything. Vickie was rolling with her story now, and I didn’t want to interrupt.
“Still, it was a turn-on being ordered around like that,” she went on. “I always get hot when some dom makes me strip, especially in a public place where somebody else might see me — some honest, law-abiding citizen who it would shock the hell out of. And I was about to get driven away naked, leaving my clothes behind. There’s another big turn-on for me. My nipples were hard as little pebbles by then, and poking way out, and it wasn’t because I was chilly without my clothing.
“They put this scarf around my eyes so I couldn’t see where we were going, but it was pretty thin, and I could see well enough to get an idea of where we were. We drove up to the I-10 and headed west, over the lakes and the swamp, headed for Baton Rouge. It was beginning to get dark, and pretty soon I couldn’t see so well, but after we had driven for quite a while out in the boonies, we were going through a city again, and I figured it had to be Baton Rouge, because we hadn’t gotten off the Interstate. Then we went over that big tall Mississippi River bridge on the other side of town, and I knew where we were, because there’s not another bridge around that’s that damn high.
“Right after that, we did turn off the I-10, and I thought, ‘Shit, he told me this place was on the River Road, and here we are in fucking West Baton Rouge, the fucking asshole of the universe.’ I figured that maybe they were just making a real long detour to throw me off and now we were going to turn back south on the west side of the river and drive way back down to where all those old plantation houses are. No way, though. I could tell we were turning south, because we went back under the highway when we got off the Interstate, but we only drove for twenty or thirty minutes before we turned off on a smaller road.
“After another five or ten minutes, we turned into this long driveway through some half-assed pine trees and at the end of the drive was this big old house — except it wasn’t a big old OLD house. It was a big old NEW house. It was built to look like something out of ‘Gone With the Wind’ or something like that, but if you got a good look at it in the daylight, you could tell right off it was just a bad imitation. It was big, but it wasn’t REALLY big, you know? It just looked like a bad set for a Civil War movie. That fucker told me that ‘Roissy’ was on the River Road, so I figured it would be the real thing. I guess it was on the River Road, if you’re talking about a road by the river, but it was a damn long way from Oak Alley.
“Inside, it was the same way — lots of rooms, big ones, but not really big, not like the old plantations. Though that isn’t really true, either, you know, because some of the plantation houses on the River Road are the old French things, not big like Oak Alley or the other ones that the rich planters built later on. I like the French style a lot better myself, not so pretentious, but this so-called ‘Roissy’ was built to look like the Tara kind — but not nearly big enough to pull it off.
“They did have some great bondage stuff, though. I’ll give them that. The room they put me in had this little iron bed, but it also had chains dangling from the ceiling and a spanking bench and this big old X-shaped cross leaning on one wall. The room had windows, like in any house, but they were covered with these heavy, floor-length curtains. I expected to see a rack of paddles and whips and stuff like that, but I found out later that everyone picked out their favorites in a room up front where they sold them to the customers. They had to pay to beat us, but they also had to fork out for the stuff they beat us with. It was just another way for Barry and his buddies to stiff the clientele.”
I held up my hand to stop her for a minute. “You mean this was a cash joint?” I asked. “Barry and his friends didn’t just have you there for their own use?”
“You mean like a ‘members only’ thing?” she said. “Nope. They rented us out to high rollers, usually businessmen from overseas. A lot of Orientals and Arabs. Old guys mostly. Some of the Japanese guys were more interested in taking pictures of us all tied up than they were in paddling us or making us suck them off or fucking us in the ass. The Arabs were big on that, though. Fucking us in the ass, I mean.”
“Us?” I asked.
“Yeah, I met two or three other girls when I was there,” she said. “There may have been more, but that’s all I saw. Some of the ones that I met had been there a long time, three or four months maybe, and they didn’t know when they’d been able to leave. I thought, ‘Well, that’s not going to fly for me, Barry old boy.’ I decided I’d break the news to him about who my dad was and throw a little scare into him, but I figured that I’d enjoy myself for a while first. That turned out to be a big mistake.”
She stopped then and said that she had to go to the little girls’ room. While she was gone, I went over to the bar and got two more bottles of Abita. I brought them back to our booth and sat there wondering whether Glinda had been a prisoner in the same B&D joint, whether McDonald had taken her there before deciding to send her off into what Raymond Chandler had the eloquent Mr. Philip Marlowe describe as the Big Sleep — the sleep from which no one woke up.
“You ought to read some of the stuff written on the walls of the girls’ room,” Victoria said when she got back. “There must be some crazy broads who hang out in this place. You gotta take a look.”
“I want to hear the rest of your story first,” I told her.
She lifted the bottle of Abita to her lips, tilted her head back and took a long, long swallow. Then she began again.
“So anyway,” she said, “I decided to wait and tell Barry about my dad until I’d had a couple of sessions at their piss-poor imitation of Roissy. I figured that maybe it would get interesting if Barry and some of the other members ganged up on me. What he did to me back at the Spitfire Club had really turned me on, so I was looking forward to seeing what new stuff he was going to hand out.
“Well, ol’ Barry didn’t even stick around for my first session. As soon as we got to the place, he disappeared somewhere, and the little mousy guy took me to the room where I was going to stay and strapped me onto that big X-shaped cross so that I was spead-eagled against it, and then he put a gag into my mouth and left. The little creep didn’t even finger me or pinch my nipples. It was just like I was a piece of meat he was hanging up to butcher.
“I hung there a long time after he left. At first, I was pretty turned on because of how helpless I was and because you start imagining what’s going to happen to you. I’ve got a good imagination, and before long I was really wet and I could feel a little trickle running down my thigh. But I stayed there for maybe three hours or more, and I got really bored after about the first hour and after that I began to hurt from being spread out like that and hanging from my wrists.
“Finally, the mousy guy came back, and he had these two Jap guys with him, and like I said before, these guys were apparently real photo nuts. I mean, both of them had a couple of cameras hanging around their necks, and one of them was carrying a tripod! As soon as he got them inside, Mr. Mouse left, and these guys started snapping photos. And that was all they did! Nothing else! Nada! I couldn’t fucking believe it! They must have shot pictures for an hour, and I just had to hang there, getting more pissed off every minute, and my arms were really hurting by now.
“Anyway, after about an hour, Mr. Mouse came back, and I guess that meant it was the end of the session, because the two Japanese guys kind of bowed to him, and then they bowed to me! They hadn’t said a word to me the whole time, but now the fuckers bowed to me! So they left, and the Mouse unstrapped me from the cross. I felt like popping the little bastard one, but my arms and legs were so stiff from hanging all that time that I could barely stand up.
“He had me sit down on the bed, and he snapped a metal cuff on one of my ankles and padlocked it. The cuff was fastened to the end of a chain, with the other end fastened to one leg of the bed, so that I could get up and move around but couldn’t go far from the bed. So when the mouse guy gets me cuffed to the chain, he pulls this chamber pot out from under the bed and takes a roll of toilet paper out of it. He hands it to me and gives this mean little smirk, but he still doesn’t say a word. He just splits.
“I thought, ‘You little asshole! If you think I’m going to squat on that pot to pee, you’ve got another think coming.’ Well, I did pee in it, of course, because I’d been hanging on that cross so long and really had to go. So I sat on that pot next to the bed and peed a whole lot and felt like a fucking fool.”
She stopped and took another long pull on her beer, and I guess that talking about peeing made her realize that she had to visit the little girls’ room again, because she excused herself and headed back to the john. She didn’t stay as long this time. I suppose she’d already read all of that great graffiti.
“Anyway, that’s the way it went the rest of the time I was there,” she said as she resumed her story. “They’d bring these guys in for sessions — mostly old guys who looked like they had a lot of bucks — and it was all really, really boring. There weren’t any more guys who just took pictures, but none of them had any imagination at all. They’d beat my butt for a while and put clothespins on my nipples and that kind of stuff, but it was all just the same old same old. And when they got a real woodie from smacking my ass, I’d have to jack them off or blow them. Or if it was one of those Arabs, they’d fuck me in the butt, which was about the most interesting thing that happened. But I didn’t have one ograsm the whole time. Not one!
“For some of the sessions, they’d bring in another girl, or I’d be taken to another girl’s room. After the sessions were over and we were waiting to be returned to our own rooms, I got a chance to talk with these chicks, and that’s when I found out that some of them had been there a long time and were afraid they weren’t going to get out. I knew that wasn’t going to fly, so that’s when I decided to threaten Barry with my dad. Barry had been around a couple of times, but only to bring in clients. But like I said, I decided to wait a while and see if things got a little livelier. They did, for sure, but not the way I expected.
“Late one night, I’d just finished a session by giving this really fat guy a blowjob, and I could barely find his tiny little dick below all that blubber, and I had a hard time getting it in my mouth. I had to turn my head sideways to get it under his belly. So I was not a happy camper when these two big gorillas who worked there came in and took me off for another go-around.
“We walked down to the first floor and through the kitchen and out the back door. It was a little chilly out, and I was naked, of course, so I was shivering while we walked across the damp grass to this brick garage on the other side of this big back yard. And I was shivering because I was getting a little scared and excited, too. This was the most fucking stimulating thing that had happened to me since I’d been there.
“We went into the garage, which was a big four-car job, but it was empty except for this beat-up wooden sawhorse in the middle of the floor under a long fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling. Oh, and Barry and Mr. Mouse were there, too, standing next to this charcoal grill about nine or ten feet from the sawhorse. I wondered whether these jerks were bringing me out there to whip my ass or whether we were going to have a fucking cookout.
“It looked like it was going to be a whipping, because they fastened a wooden gag in my mouth like a bit and they strapped me down over that sawhorse real tight, with my head almost touching the floor on one side and my butt way up high in the air. It was when they were putting that wooden bit in my mouth that I started to realize what was going on, and I was struggling when they tied me to the sawhorse, but those two thugs were just too big.
“Nobody said a word. Not one word. But I was trying to beg through that gag, and I was, like, really in a panic now. I thought I was going to shit my panties, but I didn’t have any panties on. I couldn’t see Barry and Mr. Mouse because of the way I was bent over, but I heard something metal scrape on the charcoal grill, and then I could see Barry’s feet and legs behind me through my own legs.”
Vicky stopped talking for a minute. She had sat down next to me on one side of the booth when she came back from the john, and now she reached down and felt the front of my pants.
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “You got a real boner, Dan.:”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m really sorry. It’s just — ”
“No problem,” she said. “Sometimes even I get wet when I start thinking about what happened. But I got to tell you that it was no fun at the time. I was screaming by the time Barry came around in back of me, and I was making a lot of fucking noise even with that gag in my mouth, but when he touched that hot branding iron to my ass, there was this moment of just horrible, horrible pain, and I passed out.
“When I came to, they had untied me from the sawhorse, and they had spread me out facedown on the hard concrete floor. Real gentlemen, you know? They got me up on my feet, and my poor ass really, really hurt, and I was crying so hard I couldn’t even scream at Barry for doing that to me. I kept crying all the time they dragged me back to my room, and I cried all the time they spread me out on my belly on my bed and put some kind of ointment on the burn and cuffed me to that chain again. And I kept crying for about an hour after that, until I finally cried myself to sleep.
“The pain woke me up two or three hours later, and I screamed as loud as I could until one of the big guys came in with some Percodan for me to take and some more ointment for my ass. It was a little better then, so I could get back to sleep, but it hurt a lot for the next day or two even with Percodan. The whole time I wanted to kill Barry. I wanted to cut off his dick and balls and make him eat them, and then I wanted to stick that hot branding iron up his asshole.
“But when he finally came in to see me, I was real cool, and I didn’t scream at him or anything. I just told him that I wanted to leave, and then I told him my dad was going to be unhappy, and then I told him who my dad was. When he heard that, he didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. But he tried to be cool, too, and he asked me how I thought my dad was going to find out about this while I was locked up at Roissy. I told him that whenever I went out on some kind of deal like this, I left an envelope on the kitchen table in my apartment with a letter saying where I’d gone and who took me there, and that if I didn’t get home soon, my dad was going to come over to my apartment and find it. And I was lying, either. I always did that. Always.
“Barry blustered around for a while more, but he knew that I had him by the balls, and he drove me back home that very night. On the way, he gave me all this shit about how that brand, which had his initials in a circle, was a bond between or some crap like that. I didn’t say a thing. It was his turn to sweat now, and he looked real sick by the time we got to my place.
“He asked me when he’d see me again, and I told him to take a hike. But before he left, I reminded him that I was going to put all this down on paper and leave a couple of copies where my dad would find them if anything happened to me. Or maybe I’d tell my dad all about it anyway. Barry would just have to wait and find out. I wasn’t really going to tell my dad, of course, because I wanted to keep playing my little B&D games despite this really bad experience. So in the end, I was just left with that little souvenir on my backside.”
We sat there for a while after she stopped talking, finishing off our Abitas and not saying anything. Finally, I pulled a photo of Glinda out of my inside coat pocket and showed it to her. Ron McDonald was in the photo, too, posed with his arm around her and looking like a doting husband.
“Is that the chick who wound up on the end of the line?” Vicky asked. “Poor babe. I didn’t ever see her at Roissy, but the little creep next to her is Mr. Mouse. No, Mr. Rat is more like it.”
I explained to her about Glinda and Ronnie boy, about how she had threatened to blow the whistle on Joey Balls and his drug-smuggling racket that used her coven up in the Sierras for cover, about how she hadn’t even known her husband was involved until the cops broke up the whole thing. No one would have caught on, probably, if she hadn’t stirred things up, so it was no surprise that McDonald did her in. Or maybe the little creep just wanted to put her to use at Rossiy for a while and something went wrong.
I did know that I wanted to see Ron McDonald put away, and I didn’t much care whether it was in the slammer or six feet under. The thing was, I wasn’t certain what to do next. Should I talk to the New Orleans police? Should I give that Cajun cop in New Iberia a call? I didn’t have any real proof, and I’d promised Vicky that I wouldn’t get her involved if I went to the cops — she needed to keep her name out of it because of her dad.
I couldn’t decide what direction to go with the investigation, so I did the next best thing. I ordered another round. Vicky had been staring at Glinda’s picture, probably thinking she could have wound up in Vermillion Bay, too, if she hadn’t bluffed Barry the Tird into releasing her. Now she turned in the booth and looked at me, running her eyes up and down my body. She got a little smile on her face.
“Tell me, Danny,” she said, “are you strictly a subbie or do you hand out the punishment every now and then?”
“Well, my secretary likes her cute little bottom spanked every so often,” I said, “and I don’t mind obliging her. But that’s about it. I didn’t even get into this stuff until a year and a half ago, and I’m still kind of getting used to the idea that I like people doing it to me.”
“How’d you like to find out how the other half lives?” she said. “You wanta take a shot at me? The idea must turn you on a little if that stiff dick you got while I was talking about Roissy means anything.”
“To tell the truth,” I said, “I think I got that hard-on because I was putting myself in your place when I was hearing the story.”
“You mean it turns you on to think about other guys spanking you and fucking you in the ass?” she asked with a grin.
“Come on, kid,” I said. “You know what I’m talking about. When I visualize myself in the same kind of spot, I replace those guys with a cast of mean broads.”
“Maybe so,” she replied, “but you still didn’t answer my question. You wanta take a shot at my ass?”
“What did you have in mind?” I asked.
“Oh, I thought I’d let you take care of the details,” she said. “You look like a guy with a good imagination. My apartment’s right over in the Quarter, and I’ve got all kinds of wonderful little toys.”
“You don’t happen to have a fifth of Cuervo to go with them, do you?” I asked.
“I think there might be a drink or two left in the bottle,” she said.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
Vicky said she had to make a phone call to get out of something else, and while she was using the pay phone in the bar, I paid the waitress, adding a tip that was larger than it needed to be. Maybe I was already feeling guilty about being about to whack a lady’s butt, even if she was the one who had asked me to the party. Vicky came back all smiles after making her call, but she didn’t let me in on what was so funny.
We went out and got into my rental and drove into the French Quarter. Her apartment wasn’t far. I don’t remember the street, but it was on the less busy edge of the Quarter, a couple of streets down from Rampart. It was fairly typical, a two-story building built around an interior courtyard, and it was pretty rundown, not the kind of place where you’d expect to find a dame from a big-bucks family. Vicky must have sensed what I was thinking.
“No one here knows about my dad, either,” she said. “With my lifestyle, I like to keep a low profile.”
Her apartment, a narrow, second-story affair with a front door that opened onto the balcony that ran around the building, was pretty anonymous, too. There wasn’t much in the living room, not even a television. She had a couple of armchairs in front of a stereo system on one side of the white-walled room and a table and chairs next to the kitchen alcove on the other side. In the middle of the floor was the one unusual item: a huge, black leather ottoman, odd not just because it was so big but because it was raised on four thick wooden legs, just right for tying someone across the thing butt up.
“Pretty impressive,” I said, looking down at the ottoman.
“Before you start on me, I’ll put you on it so you can see how it feels,” she said as she headed down a little hall that probably led to her bedroom and bathroom. “Get your clothes off, and I’ll be right back.”
I stripped, and before I got to my jockeys, an erection was already pushing against the front of them. It popped out straight when I pulled the underwear down, bouncing around and ready for action even if I was a little nervous about when was coming next. Vicky came back, still clothed but carrying a cardboard box of bondage stuff that she dumped out on the floor next to the ottoman. There were a couple of leather paddles and a hood and various gags and leather straps and pieces of rope.
She had me lie down on my back on the cold black leather of the ottoman and began looping pieces of rope around my wrists and ankles, fastening them to the wooden legs of this king-size spanking bench. I was surprised that she didn’t have me lie on my belly, so that she could paddle my butt, but I figured that it was because she was the one who was going to be getting the spanking as soon as we switched places. She tied me down very tightly and popped a ball gag into my mouth. I didn’t know why she was going to all the trouble just to let me try out the bench for a few minutes, but I wasn’t complaining because she reached down and took my hard penis in her hand.
She squeezed it and ran one finger tip around the little hole in the end. She stroked it a half dozen times, pulling hard and rough, and then she let go, drew back her arm and slapped it as hard as she could. It wasn’t the pain so much as the shock of something I hadn’t expected that made me shout into the gag, but the muffled protest sent a wicked smile across Vicky’s face.
“I’d like to punish that bad boy a little more,” she said, “but first I’ve got a surprise for you, Dan.”
I heard a door open somewhere in the back of the apartment and then footsteps in the hall, and I twisted my head on the ottoman to look in that direction.
Into the room walked Ron McDonald.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
NEXT: Victoria’s other secret.
[Photo Credit: Nigel Dickinson]
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