Message-ID: <60811asstr$1291806601@assm.asstr.org>
From: Memento Mori <memento.mori@storiesonline.org>
Subject: {ASSM} The Party Where They Kill Girls (part 1 of 5) (FF Ff MF Mf bondage torture rape snuff viol caution)
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Date: Wed, 08 Dec 2010 06:10:01 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Please let me know if you like this and want me to continue.

(Some of the stuff in the codes happens in later chapters.  I don't want
folks to start reading who are squeamish.)
<1st attachment, "party1.txt" begin>

  

It wasn't really appropriate for someone like me to waltz into a 
senior prosecutor's office and toss a stack of case files onto his 
desk, but that's exactly what I did.  I strutted in, tossed them 
down, then stood waiting.  When they hit, the topmost file broke 
loose and slid across the varnished wood, stopping only when it 
bumped the keyboard on which his fingers rested.  

"One second," he said.  The keyboard clattered.  The mouse clicked.  
Then he raised his eyes to look at me.  No recognition.  A frown.  

"Well, sit down.  I can't stand it when people hover."  

I settled on a wooden chair with velvety upholstery.  The chair 
itself sat on plush carpet, unusually plush for a county employee.  
Surrounding me were wood paneled walls with diplomas, certificates, 
and photos of him with politicians.  He picked up the topmost 
file and glanced at its contents.  Then he grabbed a few more and 
thumbed through them.  

"Dead hookers, huh?  Never a pleasant topic.  But I've seen all 
these before.  What's your point?  And while we're at it, who the 
hell are you?"  

"Detective Wimberly, Robin Wimberly."  

"You new with homicide?"  

"Nope.  I'm just a plain detective.  I mostly work prostitution 
stings."  

He let he eyes run over me.  Today I was wearing well fitting slacks 
and a lavender blouse buttoned all the way up.  But I figured he was 
replacing all that in his mind's eye with a miniskirt, stockings, 
and heels, my "uniform," when I was undercover.  

"I see," he said.  "So, what's the deal with all of these?  Homicide 
looked into them and didn't come up with much."  

"You don't see the pattern?"  

He glanced back at the files.  He opened one and pulled out a photo 
of a bloated corpse.  Amy O'Shaugnessy.  They'd found her floating 
in the old harbor.  

"All were tortured pretty bad," he said, "sexually, but four had 
their throats cut, three were strangled, and four beaten with 
a blunt object.  So, yeah, I guess.  Each pimp must have his own 
little way of killing."  

He replaced the photo and closed the file.  

"Look at the dates," I said.  "Four sets of three, each set a 
couple months apart, each with a severed throat, a strangulation, 
and a bludgeoning.  The estimated times of death overlap for each 
group.  Get it?"  

He shrugged.  "Maybe.  What do you mean four sets of three?  There 
were only three girls strangled."  

"Check the last file."  He pulled out the last file and glanced at 
its contents.  "Her name was Domonique Washington.  She washed up 
on the Cambridge side of the river, so the Middlesex DA got her."  

"How did you get this?"  

"I asked.  Anyhow, guess how she died.  Guess when."  

He read through the file more closely.  "I see what you mean."  

"Each group was done together and the bodies dumped apart."  

He sat back and raised his fingers to his chin.  "It's possible.  
We did consider it, even without this last one.  Got any real 
evidence though?"  

"No.  But it seems pretty unlikely that a bunch of pimps would 
coordinate their murders so well."  

"Could just be chance."  

"Maybe, but I don't think so."  He didn't say anything.  "Look, 
a pimp will beat a girl, maybe cut her or shoot her, but these are 
way beyond what pimps do."  

"You know a lot about pimps, huh? -- and what they do?"  

A few seconds passed.  Then he gave me *the look*, that long 
curious gaze, as if he were searching me for any obvious scars.  
I knew what was coming next.  

"You were the one in the Mill's case, yes?" he asked.  

"Yeah, I'm the one from the Mill's case."  

"That was fucked up."  

"Yeah, it was fucked up."  

He sat forward and relaxed.  His expression softened.  "Look, any 
officer who took one in the line of duty gets special consideration 
in my office.  Even if -- "  He stopped.  But I didn't blame him.  
Nobody liked to talk about what happened on the Mill's case.  He 
went on, "I'll give the files another once over, and maybe have 
a homicide take another walk around.  But that's all."  

"Fine."  

"You're not gonna go all crusader cop on me?"  

"Nope.  I learned my lesson.  I'm as docile as a little kitten."  

I'd traveled that route once, playing the crusader cop, pushing a 
hard case too far.  It earned me a rape and a bullet in the head.  

"Anyhow" -- he picked up the files -- "you won't mind if I hold on 
to these."  

"Go ahead."  

"Give my secretary your cell.  I'll let you know what I find."  

I got up and left his office while he gathered the files, easily 
holding the whole stack.  There were twelve files total, twelve 
lives, each a quarter-inch thick.  That's all a dead hooker gets.  


* * * * *
  

That evening, I lay on the couch with my girlfriend Jenny.  My head 
was in her lap.  She caressed my face.  

Her name was actually Xiao-Xiao -- Zhang Xiao-Xiao -- but she 
had decided to Americanize it after hearing enough folks call her 
"Jowl-Jowl", and after discovering what "jowl" meant in English.  
I called her by her given name, sometimes.  It seemed proper.  But 
then, I didn't mind "Jenny" either.  It seemed cute and wonderful, 
like her.  

She was small.  Her hair was long, black, and straight.  She had 
dark-brown eyes.  Tonight, she was wearing gray sweats and a tiny 
UMass tee-shirt.  

I sat up.  "Turn over.  I wanna see your butt."  

She smiled and turned over.  Once again, I beheld her lovely ass.  
It looked good even in sweatpants.  I reached and squeezed, feeling 
her tense up, hearing her coo.  Then I grabbed the waist of her 
pants and began to lower them.  

I'd met Jenny a couple years ago, when I decided to rent out my 
spare room to some likely student who didn't mind living with a 
cop.  She was the first to answer the ad.  Right away, I liked her.  
On the third night after she moved in, I liked her a lot more.  
We'd been side by side on the couch, just like now.  Glances led 
to smiles, smiles to soft touches.  She got real close and embraced 
me, but she still cast down her shy eyes.  I raised her chin.  We 
kissed, deep kisses.  Soon, love.  

Officially, she was renting the spare room, but she hardly ever 
slept there.  

I got her pants down below her bottom, her lovely round bottom 
in stretchy lilac panties.  I slipped a finger beneath, where 
her right leg emerged, and moved along her pale flesh, along the 
reddish furrow where the fabric had dug in.  Then I kissed through 
the soft cotton and nuzzled in close.  She parted her legs, only 
slightly, and raised her torso on her elbows and turned to me.  It 
was amazing the way she could twist and stretch.  

I hugged, just hugged.  I wrapped my arms around her thighs and 
pressed my cheek against her bottom.  Then I took a deep breath 
and listened to the drapes flutter in the breeze.  

We lay that way for a while.  Then she said, "Uh, sweetie, are we 
going to do anything?"  

"Nah.  I just wanna hold you."  

"Okay."  

We lay a bit longer.  I pressed against her warm flesh.  Soon, she 
wiggled.  "I'm going to grab a bite to eat."  

I released her and she rolled from the couch onto her feet.  She 
pulled up her sweats.  Then she walked to the kitchen and rummaged 
through the fridge.  I lay back and pretended to stare into space.  
But, furtively, I let my gaze drift to her.  She sat at the table 
and nibbled from a fruit cup.  She sipped from a glass of juice.  

She had two semesters left until she graduated and, presumably, 
until her student visa would expire.  After that, I had no idea.  
I watched her bring a strawberry to her sweet mouth and eat.  


* * * * *
  

A month passed, a long, uneventful month of skimpy outfits, dark 
evenings, and unhappy men.  They never seemed to enjoy being 
arrested.  As that month drew to a close, and as I began to believe 
that my friend the prosecutor had forgotten me, I received his call.  
I was eating noodles at a little Vietnamese joint on Dorchester 
Ave.  

"Detective Wimberly?" the voice said through the phone.  

"Yes?"  

"This is Ryan Green, the district attorney."  

"I know who you are."  

"Can we meet?"  

"Yes.  Of course.  Right now?"  

"Tomorrow.  Two o'clock.  Sound good."  

"I'll check my schedule."  I smiled into the phone, I didn't have 
a schedule.  "Sure.  Your office?"  

"Actually, no."  

"Oh?"  

"Let's meet at Sully's Diner."  

"Uh...okay."  

Sully's was only a few blocks from my apartment.  It was a small 
place that, if nothing else, didn't attract many cops -- nor 
district attorneys, for that matter.  It was dingy and the food 
was cheap.  But it was quiet.  It was the sort of place that few 
would notice or even know of.  I arrived the next day promptly at 
two.  

They waited at a table in back away from other tables.  He sat in 
jeans and a polo -- no power suit nor silk tie today.  A woman in 
jeans sat next to him.  She was stocky with sharp blue eyes and 
cropped blond hair.  I recognized her as a cop, but I didn't know 
her name.  

"Hey," I said as I pulled out a wobbly chair and sat down across 
from them.  

"Hello Detective Wimberly," he said.  "This is Detective Scott, 
Jan Scott.  From Homicide."  

We went through all the "nice to meet you" bullshit.  Then I asked, 
"So, obviously you found *something*."  

"We did," Detective Scott said in a flat voice.  

But she didn't continue.  She leaned back and waited for Counselor 
Green.  

"Have you ever heard of *The Culture?*" he asked.  

"Uh...no I guess not.  What's The Culture?"  

"The underground of the underground," he said, "as near as we can 
tell."  

Then Detective Scott leaned forward and said, "You know, extreme 
sex, bondage, S&M."  I gave her a blank look.  "That kinda stuff.  
You must know all of that -- from your line of work."  

I didn't know *all of that*.  I had touched on it, from time to 
time.  But actually, most folks in that scene didn't pay for it 
and, thus, never got a visit from me.  And those that did pay, 
it wasn't exactly the sex they paid for.  I didn't really care if 
some horny old lawyer paid a mistress to spank him.  As long as 
they didn't fuck.  

"It's never really been my bailiwick," I said.  "So clue me in.  
What does this have to do with the dead girls?"  

"It's a tiny clue," she said.  "But it's all we got."  

I waited.  She seemed to peer at me, studying me, as if what she 
was about to say would amaze me.  

"Actually," she said, "it came from within your squad."  

"Oh?"  

He interrupted.  "Before we go on, I'd like a promise from Detective 
Wimberly."  

"Sure.  What?"  

"Whatever we say now stays under wraps.  You got it?  No blabbing 
around the station house."  

"No problem.  I'm not the sort to blab."  

He nodded.  She went on.  "We identified one of the Jane Does, 
the blonde that everyone assumes was Russian."  

"Oh?"  

"Yes.  But we don't plan to put it in the case file."  

I didn't say anything to that.  In every investigation, there are 
those little things we let slide.  However, we usually don't say 
it out loud, and I'd never heard of hiding the ID of a victim.  

"Anyhow," she went on, "it turns out, actually, that she was 
brought in a few weeks prior by a certain Detective Pierce."  I 
knew Pierce, worked with him frequently.  He was a solid cop.  
"However, it appears Detective Pierce did not properly fill out his 
paperwork.  In fact, he didn't fill out any paperwork.  He didn't 
process her at all."  

I stayed quiet.  There are two reasons Pierce would do that.  One 
of them was not so nice.  

She must have seen my look and understood.  "Oh, don't worry.  
Pierce isn't in any shit.  He says he felt sorry for her, and I 
guess we believe him.  She was pretty and spun a good story."  

That made sense.  We didn't always believe the tales the hookers 
told, but we did feel sorry for them.  From time to time we gave 
one a pass.  It wasn't a huge secret, but again, we didn't really 
like to talk about it.  

"So," she continued, "when we showed him her picture -- well -- 
let's say he and I went out for lunch and had a private conversation 
about Klara Stasiuk."  

"Fine," I said.  "It happens.  The hookers are the victims as far 
as most of us are concerned."  

"Right.  But there is more.  She told him she wanted out.  I guess 
they all say that, but he believed her.  She had friends back in 
the Ukraine.  If she could only call them maybe they could help."  

"He let her make a call?"  

"No.  Better.  Much better."  She got a big smile.  "He paid for 
minutes on her phone.  On his credit card.  And her bought her one 
of those pre-paid long distance cards."  

"I see."  

"So, we know what phone she was using.  Anyhow, we pulled up the 
CDRs and found that she'd received a text message the night she 
was killed."  

I leaned forward.  "You got the message?"  

"Nah.  The company doesn't keep the messages.  But we know what 
cell tower it was on.  And we know the number that texted her."  

I smiled a bit also.  "I see."  

"And so back to Detective Pierce.  It turns out the number was also 
a pre-paid phone, but that number had showed up in the investigation 
of a certain Jerome Johnson."  

I knew Jerome well enough.  He was a small-time pimp.  Very small 
time.  But he treated his girls well enough, by the standards of 
a pimp.  We kept our eyes on him, but we hadn't brought him in.  

"And what did Jerome say?"  

She turned to Green, who said, "Let's just say that I had a little 
chat with him and his attorney.  It turns out he wasn't very happy 
about Klara's death either.  Anyhow, we formed what we called a 
*temporary understanding*.  Long story short, without admitting to 
pimping the girl, he suggested that maybe she was to meet a certain 
'large, blonde gentlemen with a blue cap' in a certain downtown 
bar, the Primrose Path."  

"Which," Detective Scott said, "was only a few hundred yards from 
the tower where she received the text."  

"Nice."  

"But," she went on.  "That's where the lead dries up.  I tried 
going to this bar.  Now, I'm no undercover sort, but it would 
hardly help.  You could put me in that costume, paint me and wrap 
me in latex, but I don't think they'd ever believe I was one of 
them."  

I looked her over, at her stocky figure and her chiseled face.  
If you put a dog collar on her, it would scream *bull dyke,* not 
*fuck toy*.  

No, she'd never fit in *there*.  

Green said, "We're reasonably certain there is something to find 
there, within The Culture, if we could get in.  It would be long, 
deep cover.  We'd want an officer with experience.  And, bluntly, 
she'd need to be attractive."  

He gave me a little grin.  

"It can't be done," I said.  

"Why not?"  

"You can't just show up to these things and look pretty.  Before 
they trust you, you have to *do things.*  And you can't require an 
officer to fuck."  

He smiled.  "No.  No we cannot."  

Detective Scott sat back and crossed her arms.  


* * * * *
  

Jenny seemed to bang the pots more than usual as she fried up 
some rice for the two of us.  I waited at the table.  She stirred, 
splashed oil, tossed herbs, then stirred more.  It was something 
she did on many nights.  But tonight, each move seemed more abrupt, 
more violent.  She yanked down two plates and dropped them on the 
counter.  With a wooden spoon, she scattered a measure of rice 
onto each plate.  Then she brought them to the table and set mine 
before me.  She didn't smile like she usually did.  

I didn't dare speak.  I took my fork and began to eat.  

She rounded the table and sat across from me.  Her fork sat 
untouched.  

"Explain this to me again," she said.  

I set down my fork and took a deep breath.  "Officially, they're 
giving me an open-ended paid vacation, due to the stress of the job 
and lingering issues from the shooting last year."  

"I got that.  It is the *unofficial* part I'm interested in."  

"I'm going to infiltrate the fetish subculture and report back what 
I learn."  

"And to infiltrate, you have to fuck them."  

"Only if I must.  And *that* will never appear in any report."  

She just looked, for a while, too long a while.  Finally, she 
asked, "Am I supposed to be okay with this?"  

"They're murdering girls, torturing them, butchering them."  

"That shouldn't that affect us.  Plus, they're hookers.  What do 
they expect?"  

She watched me with a quizzical look.  But I didn't get angry.  
Not at her.  From anyone else, yes.  But I'd come to understand 
Jenny.  She was sweet and caring, in her own way, but she'd never 
been sympathetic to the girls I encountered in my job.  Perhaps 
people like her, who worked hard and got a lot from it, couldn't 
understand those who fell off the path.  After a bit, she picked 
up her fork and took a bite of rice.  

"Someone has to do something," I said.  "Normally, in a case like 
this, we'd try to roll someone on the inside.  But it isn't really 
clear *who* is on the inside.  This thing is like an onion, but to 
get through the outer layers, you have to..."  

I stopped.  We both knew what I'd have to do.  


* * * * *
  

Later, after the night grew deep, I lay naked in bed under a single 
sheet.  Through the window, even closed, a cold draft drifted across 
the room, leaving me just chilly enough, as if the cold outside 
made the warmth inside feel so much better.  From the kitchen, 
I heard the sound of water pouring, Jenny's last glass before bed.  
Then I heard her footsteps creak over the old wooden floor.  Then 
the bathroom door closing.  More water running.  The brushing of 
teeth.  

*Her* room, the one she rented, was across the hall from mine.  
On its bed, a few boxes sat, following the rule that every flat 
surface must be filled.  But still, beneath the boxes were sheets 
and a blanket.  

I wondered where she would sleep tonight.  

The water in the bathroom shut off.  Again, I heard her footsteps on 
the old floor.  Soon, my door opened and a shaft of light entered.  
Her slight figure slipped through.  The door closed.  She came to 
me and slipped under the sheet.  When we touched, I felt her silky 
camisole.  

"Hey sweetie," I said.  

"Shh.  Please don't talk."  

She kissed me, a hot kiss with tongue.  She kissed me again.  She 
touched.  So gentle.  I embraced her.  I reached behind and grabbed 
her ass -- and deeper -- seeking out those warm, wet places.  


* * * * *
  

The store was a few blocks west of Chinatown on Stuart Street.  
It had an obvious layout.  The aisles in front held the more 
conventional toys, vibrators, small dildos, the sorts of things a 
young, respectable woman might buy.  I'd been there once with Jenny, 
when we'd first explored our budding lesbian romance.  On that day, 
we'd only ventured to those safe areas.  Embarrassed, giggling, 
wide-eyed, Jenny chose a small vibrator, perfect to tease my clit.  
I chose a long narrow thing with a bent, bulbous end.  I had to go 
to the counter and pay, Jenny wouldn't dare.  The clerk reminded 
me to get batteries.  Then home to a very pleasant evening.  Jenny, 
shy but eager.  Could anything be better?  

Tonight, however, I journeyed far into the store, past the anal 
beads and butt plugs; past the penis pumps, the pocket pussies, 
the inflatable girls -- and sheep -- past the row of giant dildos 
that no human *should* be able to accommodate, but no doubt some 
did; past the ball gags and blindfolds, the handcuffs and nipple 
clips; past all of that to the back of the store where they sold 
*the fashion*.  

I was surrounded by shelves and racks.  On two sides were latex 
skirts, bustiers, and dresses.  Lots of latex.  Another side was 
lacy things, red, black, and a bit of white.  There was a section 
of shoes, every bizarre kind of shoe, some with velvet patterns, 
others with impossibly high spiked heels.  Arranged on a free 
standing display in the middle, there were collars and masks.  
The masks had zippers in awkward places.  I stood among it all, 
breathless and confused.  

The clerk approached.  He was a big, bearded, stocky fellow in 
jeans and a tee, not exactly fat, but *big*.  He stopped a few feet 
from me, as if aware that, if he drew closer, he would loom.  

"Can I help you?" he asked.  He voice was deep.  

"Yes.  Well -- uh -- I plan to go to the Primrose Path tonight and 
want something, shall we say, suitable."  

He studied me up and down, my dark-gray pencil skirt, my white 
blouse, my flat shoes.  

"You've never been there, have you?"  

"No."  Was it that obvious?  

"A total newb."  He smiled.  

"Yeah, I guess."  

"You a dom or a sub?"  

He stepped toward me.  I stepped back.  

"I dunno."  

"Turn around."  He held out his hand and made a turning motion with 
his index finger.  I turned around.  "You're a sub.  Nice ass, by 
the way."  

I twisted, keeping my ass toward him, and faced him over my 
shoulder.  "Thanks.  And -- how can you tell?"  

"The way you turned around so quickly, without complaint."  He 
stepped again.  He was very close to me now.  "A dom would have 
either refused, or turned slowly in her own good time."  

I stepped away again.  "So, one of the latex dresses, I guess."  

"No.  You don't want a latex dress."  

"Oh?"  

He stepped again.  And again, I stepped back, but this time I 
bumped into a display.  He reached me and gripped my arm above the 
elbow.  

"Yeah."  He pulled me away from the display and away from the 
latex.  "Look," he said, "folks can spot a phony a mile away.  You 
show up on your first night all decked out in latex, you're gonna 
look like a Halloween trick-or-treater.  This is about more than 
the costume.  You get that?"  

"Yes.  I get that."  

He still held my arm.  Our bodies touched, barely.  

"Right.  Now, that skirt and blouse you're wearing right now 
are damn sexy.  You'll just wear those.  But you need a *touch*, 
a little extra to show you're serious.  I'm gonna sell you two 
things."  

"Okay."  

He smiled.  "Shoes.  Those shoes won't do at all.  You'll wear 
five-inch heels.  Yes?"  

"Uh -- sure."  

"No!  Say 'yes sir'."  

I paused before I said it.  But I said it.  "Yes sir."  

"And a dog collar, so everyone will know what an obedient girl you 
are.  I'll choose them for you.  Come along."  

He took me to a chair, sat me down, and outfitted me in a pair of 
cruel five-inch heels and a tight dog collar with a steel ring.  

"Get up and walk around, let me see."  

I stood and walked on the heels, wobbling at first, but getting 
used to it quickly.  

"You walk well," he said, shifting behind me to look at my butt.  

"Thanks."  In my line of work, I'd had plenty of practice wearing 
absurdly high heels.  

Soon, he said, "Alright.  You'll take them?"  

"Yeah.  They're really cool."  

I followed him to the front of the store.  After he ran my 
credit card, and after I signed, he gave me a long, intense look.  
"Alright, now we're going to the back of the store and you're gonna 
suck my cock and suck it good."  

I waited for a second.  Then I undid the collar and put it in my 
purse.  "What are you doing?" he asked.  I squatted and took off 
the shoes.  My other shoes, the ones I'd worn into the store, were 
sitting on the counter.  I reached, grabbed them, and put them on.  
He waited, looking down quizzically.  When I set my new shoes on 
the counter, he reached and grabbed my wrist.  

"Put those back on."  

"Can I have the box for these?" I asked.  He still held my wrist.  
"And please let go of me."  We looked at each other.  "And sorry, 
I won't suck your cock.  It turns out, sub or no, I prefer the 
company of women."  

He let go of my wrist.  "Really?"  

"Yes, really.  I'm a total dyke.  I have a pretty twenty-three year 
old Chinese girlfriend who *does not approve* of my doing all of 
this."  

"No shit."  He studied me as if searching for a lie.  He didn't 
find one, I guess.  After a bit, he grinned.  "Well, why didn't 
you say so?"  

I shrugged.  "Yeah.  I guess I should have.  You were very helpful, 
and I'm just getting used to this stuff."  

He went and got the box.  As I left, he said, "Pity.  It's a fine 
ass."  

Outside, the sun was setting, the air was turning cool.  I felt 
very pleasant.  


* * * * *
  

Later that night I stood in the middle of the Primrose Path, under 
the flashing lights, among the milling crowd, men and women in 
leather and latex, black and red, and green and yellow.  I wore 
my blouse and skirt, my collar and shoes.  Still, even with my 
new accessories, I felt underdressed compared to the others.  Such 
costumes.  Girls on leashes.  Men with tails jutting from their 
bare asses.  The music pulsed and thumped.  Men, a few of them, 
rubbed against me and gave harsh smiles.  Each time, I shook my 
head and moved on.  I didn't know how deeply I could penetrate The 
Culture among only women, but I would get as far as I could before 
I resorted to men.  

One woman caught my eye, black hair, a turquoise dress.  She gazed 
at me then raised her hand and beckoned.  When I drew near, I saw 
that she had lovely hazel eyes.  

"Hi," I shouted above the music.  "I'm Amber."  

"Come with me," she said.  

I followed her through an archway deep into the club, then down a 
narrow passage, past the bathrooms, and out into a small courtyard 
with tables, chairs, and a small bar.  Here, the music seemed 
muffled.  We could hear the chatter of the little groups at the 
tables.  Across the way, one table was unoccupied.  Two chairs were 
free.  She led me there.  

She sat, and as I pulled the other chair over, she said, "Amber, 
honey, why don't you go over to the bar and buy us drinks.  I'll 
have vodka and cranberry juice."  She smiled.  Deep red lips.  

"Okay."  

I walked over to the bar.  The bartender was a lovely blond in a 
miniskirt and tight translucent top.  I could see her dark nipples.  
From the way she looked at me, scanning slowly up and down, I could 
tell she was into girls.  

"Whadaya drinking?"  

"Two vodkas and cranberry."  

She began to mix the drinks.  

"You new?"  

"Yeah."  

"Just new here? -- or *new* new?"  

"New new."  

"Ah."  She motioned over to the girl I was with.  "Jan is nice 
enough.  Pretty tame, so I hear.  But still, she'll give you a good 
introduction to things."  

I looked over to Jan.  She looked back, but I could see the softness 
there.  She leaned slightly in her seat.  She tilted her head, 
brought her hand to her chin, and smiled.  

I turned back to the bartender.  "So, who isn't quite so tame?"  

She blinked.  "Be careful."  

"I'm a tough girl, when I do things, I go all the way fast."  

She blinked more.  "Well, here right now?"  She motioned with 
her head to a table where two women sat, a master and her slave.  
"Brenda there plays a tough game.  Try her if you wanna.  But I 
warned you."  

"Thanks."  

On the way back, I passed close to Brenda's table.  She wore a 
tight red latex dress that showed the deep cleavage of her dark 
breasts.  The dress flared out and hung midway down her thighs.  
Her calves were shapely.  Her shoes were tall with an elaborate 
curve.  When I drew near, her head turned to me.  Cold gray eyes.  
Deep brown skin.  Long hair in a braid.  I winked.  She gave the 
slightest nod.  

I arrived back at our table, sat across from Jan, and set our 
drinks between us.  

"So," Jan said, "what are you into?"  

I shrugged.  "I don't really know yet.  What d'ya wanna do to me?"  

She smiled.  "Tie you up and spank you."  

"That could be fun."  

Soon, I heard footstep behind me.  I felt a figure loom.  Jan 
glanced, then seemed uncomfortable and looked away.  From behind 
me, a silky, resonant voice said, "Sweetie, wouldn't you rather be 
with me."  

I turned.  Brenda stood close, holding a leash.  

I just said, "Yes."  I said it hushed, in the back of my throat.  

She leaned and clipped the leash to my collar.  "Come along."  I 
didn't even glance back at Jan.  I left my drink.  

When we arrived at Brenda's table, her slave waited with a look 
of hatred.  She was pretty enough, the slave.  She wore a burgundy 
velvet dress with a corset and lace.  The corset was tied tight.  
The laces on her black boots were tied tight also.  Her black hair 
was cut in a bob.  Her eyes were piercing blue.  

"Look at that face," Brenda said.  "She hates you."  

The slave didn't say anything.  She shifted in her seat and 
continued her glare.  

"I know!" Brenda said.  "I'll give you to her.  You'll be my 
slave's slave!  Would you like that Anne?"  

"I wanna hurt her," Anne the slave answered.  She reached and took 
the leash.  Then she said to me, "Get down on the ground.  Sit 
next to me."  I squatted next to her.  "No!  Sit your ass down on 
the dirty ground."  She pressed on the top of my head.  I sat on 
the cold cement.  

"That's so pretty," Brenda said.  "Now, rest your head on her 
thigh."  Anne lifted the hem of her dress to show a pale, freckled 
thigh.  It was soft and shapely.  I leaned my cheek against her 
warm skin.  

"Do you like her better now?" Brenda asked.  

Anne didn't answer right away.  She touched my hair then stroked 
my cheek.  "A little better, yes."  

"She's pretty."  

"She's okay.  I like her dirty ass.  Can I spank her?"  

Brenda glanced over at the bar.  "You can probably get a few whacks 
in before anyone gets upset.  Go ahead."  

Anne grabbed a clump of my hair and lifted.  I grunted, popped 
up fast, and leaned over her knee.  "Oh!  She's obedient," Brenda 
said.  

"Yes," Anne replied.  

I waited and wondered, *was I obedient?*  The fact was, just at 
that moment, just the tiniest bit, I felt eager.  

It didn't start right away.  First she raised my skirt.  I wiggled 
and helped it along.  Then she caressed my butt through my panties.  
I took a deep breath and waited.  Then she gave me a few sharp 
flicks and a few light smacks.  It stung.  

"Very good," Brenda said.  

I moaned.  I couldn't help myself.  

"Mmm, she likes it," Anne said.  A few more smacks, a bit harder.  
I jutted my butt out farther and rubbed my breasts against her soft 
velvet dress.  

Then the bartender said, "You girls stay under control over there."  

"Just let us do a couple more," Brenda said.  

*Smack, smack, smack*.  Those were hard.  I grunted and flinched.  
"Stay still!" Anne said.  Another hard smack.  

"Behave or you're out," the bartender called out sharply.  

"Fine!" Anne said.  "Sit back down."  

I sat back down with my skirt still up.  The cool cement soothed my 
stinging ass.  Again, I rested my head on her soft thigh.  Inside 
my chest, my heart hammered.  

Brenda gave us a warm smile.  "Aw, that was really sexy."  

I breathed, amazed at what I was feeling.  But Jenny!  Was this 
cheating?  Surely I was cheating with my body.  But with my heart?  
I studied the freckles on Anne's soft skin.  I hugged closer and 
ran my finger from freckle to freckle, drawing darling little 
patterns.  

Suddenly, something changed.  I sensed it.  Brenda sat in her 
chair.  Anne shifted nervously.  I raised up a bit.  I realized, 
a quiet had settled over the place.  I looked around.  The only 
change was that a new girl had entered and was just turning to sit 
at the bar.  

"Who's she?" I whispered.  

The girl was dressed normally, completely normally.  She wore black 
pumps, a lovely red A-line skirt, and a pleasant yellow woolen 
pull-over.  She had red hair pulled back into a long ponytail down 
to the middle of her back.  When she spun on the barstool and gazed 
over the little area, I could see her full red lips and her wide 
brown eyes.  Her eyebrows were narrow and high on her face.  Her 
cheekbones had a graceful curve.  She was beautiful.  But still, 
no latex, nor lace.  No chains, nor collar, nor spikes.  A normal 
pretty girl.  

"Don't worry about her," Brenda said.  "Look at me."  

I looked at her.  Then from above me, I heard Anne say, "She's a 
*culture girl*."  

I turned to Anne.  "A what?"  

Brenda said, "Don't worry about it, and hush Anne."  

Anne hushed.  But I had heard.  *Culture girl*.  

I reached and unclipped the leash from my collar.  I stood, pressing 
down my skirt and brushing off my butt.  Then I stepped back and 
looked at the two women.  "Sorry dears," I said.  Then I turned, 
went to the bar, and sat right next to the redhead.  

"Hi," I said, "I'm Amber."  

She turned to me and smiled.  "Hi Amber.  You can call me Sara."  
She reached out her hand -- long, lovely fingers.  I took it and 
squeezed.  "Mmm," she said, "you're a pretty one.  Do you have any 
idea who I am?"  

The bartender stepped up, "No Sara, she has no idea."  

Sara still smiled.  "Ah.  Well.  Sometimes that's best.  Would you 
like to come home with me Amber?"  

"Yes."  
<1st attachment end>


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