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Matt Danger & the Bound Angel Ch. 01

By: dr_mabeuse



I’d be the first to tell you that this private eye business isn’t half of what it’s cracked up to be, Half? Not even a tenth. Most of my time I’m mashing ass in my broom-closet office over Wing Yee’s Oriental Garden on Wentworth, waiting for the phone to ring and wondering whether Yee will let me put another order of pork fried rice on the cuff again and listening anxiously for my landlord’s tread on the stairs. And when I’m working I’m either sitting in my sagging Le Mans in the parking lot of a by-the-hour motel or waiting for some North-shore babe’s new squeeze to pick her up from her jazzercise club so I can snap a pic for her old man. Sometimes I moonlight nabbing lifters at one of the fancy department stores out in the malls, but that’s about it work wise.

Not that I’m complaining. The money isn’t much—isn’t squat, really—but there are certain perks available to a private eye who keeps his eye open. Like, who’s watching the watcher in those big department stores for example? I myself don’t take advantage of the five-finger discount—not my style—but once in a while I’ll pinch a girl who’s willing to do anything, just anything, to beat a shoplifting rap, and what can I say? It’s all negotiable, isn’t it?

But every so often I get a real case, one of those that involves scams or who-dunits. But to tell you the truth, I’m no Columbo, and if the case gets the least bit complicated, I’m usually the first one to get confused. I just know enough not to show it. I try to give the client some value for his money, but I just can’t compete with the real cops with all they can bring in on a case. I’ll usually stagger around for a while and turn over some rocks, get my money, and kiss it all off. But sometimes I actually get something accomplished. On rare occasions everyone’s happy: the client gets what he wants, I get what I want, and the bad guys get to pay for it all.

That’s what happened during this case.

It was a beautiful autumn day in Chicago, warm, the air as clear as rubbing alcohol, the leaves on the trees looking hand-painted, and the light had that lovely and melancholy end-of-summer slant that makes people hurry home after work to cuddle up with the old significant other. It was early in the morning for me, about 11 AM and almost time for me to break my fast with a bowl of chili and a brew down at George and Bill’s Amiable Club, when the telephone rang. I had to stare at it for a minute. I wasn’t sure I still remembered how the thing worked.

“Matt Danger and Associates,” I said. “Confidential Investigations.” 

The only associates I have spend their time buzzing against the window glass or squeaking behind the baseboard, but it sounds good.

“Mr. Danger?” a voice asked. It was male, and old. He sounded strained.

“Speaking.”

“Mr. Danger, please.”

“Speaking.” I said a little louder. “This is Mr. Danger.”

“Yes. Mr. Danger, you do confidential investigations?”

“That’s right.”

“You are discreet? Reliable?”

“My middle names.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Yes.” I said. The geezer apparently wasn’t too swift. “I’m very discreet and totally reliable.”

“Good, good.” he said. “I believe I may have need of your services.”

Well that sounded pretty definite.

“Oh?” I had a yellow pad on my desk which I used for scribbling and catching stray egg foo young sauce. I turned to a clean sheet and rummaged in my drawer for something that would write. Handcuffs, rope, nipple clamps, lipstick… At last, an old ball point from the insurance agent who hung himself across the hall. “I’m listening.” I said

“It’s my step daughter, Mr. Danger,” he said. “She seems to have been kidnapped again.”

“Again?” I asked.

“Yes.” he said. “It’s always the same old story, and I tell you, I’m starting to get suspicious. I can’t put my finger on it, but it seems that every time I turn around now she’d been kidnapped again.”

The guy sounded drunk. Not happy drunk, but old-time, long-term, used-to-it drunk. And here it was only eleven AM.

“I see.” I said. “Can I get your name, sir?”

“Last time it was five thousand dollars. The time before it was ten thousand dollars. Before that…why, I’ve forgotten. Now it’s ten thousand again. Now, you tell me, is that right?”

“No sir. It sure doesn’t sound right to me.”

“No. I’d say it doesn’t. That’s why I’m suspicious. It just doesn’t seem right.”

He was a sharp one. “Now what was the name again?” I asked.

“Name?” he asked with some surprise. “What, hers?”

“Anyone’s!” I snapped. “No sir, yours first, if you would.”

“Do you really need to know my name? I mean, I was hoping to keep my name out of it.”

“I’m very discrete, sir. Now why don’t you give me your name so I can keep it out of the papers.”

“Oh. So that’s how it works?” he said. “Yes, all right. I’m Mr. Tremaine. Buddy Tremaine.” he said, as if I should recognize it. 

I wrote it down. Didn’t mean anything to me.

“Okay, Mr. Tremaine, why don’t you start from the top? You said something about a kidnapping?”

He seemed to have the phone away from his ear. I could hear the rustle of fabric over the receiver, like he was holding it over his chest. Muffled voices, angry. His and a woman’s.

“Well I’m sick of it!” he said loudly to someone else, then there was another rustling, and he was back on the line.

“Yes, kidnapping,” he said to me. “My stepdaughter. She’s just back from college and she was kidnapped again. It seems like every time she comes home from college she’s kidnapped, Mr. Danger. It’s just not right. I’m getting very suspicious.”

“I don’t blame you sir.” I said. “It sounds very suspicious to me too.”

“There,” he said. His voice was muffled again. He was holding his hand over the phone and talking to someone else on his end. “He says it sounds suspicious too. I told you!” 

Then to me he said. “But no police! I won’t have the police involved. All the scandal, the press, you must be very discrete.”

“Of course, Mr. Tremaine.”

“I’ll pay you. Money’s no problem. You’re not too expensive, are you?”

“No, I wouldn’t worry about that. I go by sliding scale.” I said, already knowing I had slid into a big one. “Now what’s your address, Mr. Tremaine?”

“My address? Well…I don’t know! It’s the Tremaine place, here in Lake Forest. I don’t know the address. I don’t know if I have an address. Everyone knows me. Buddy Tremaine. In Lake Forest.”

“Right.” I said, and wrote a big question mark down on my pad.

“And you’re discrete?” he asked again.

”Yes Mr. Tremaine, very discrete.”

“Good.” he said. “Now, let me ask you this, Mr. Danger. Are you a republican?”

“Well, I don’t mix in politics, Mr. Tremaine.”

“No, huh? Well, I suppose that’s just as well. Are you a tough guy?”

“I can handle myself.” I said.

“Pretty handy with your dukes? You can dish it out in case the fat woman sings?”

My dukes? Fat woman sings? “Sure.” I said.

“There might be some nasty business. You might have to deal with some unsavory characters, Mr. Danger. I can’t have you go mollymawking to the police if the fists start flying. I have reason to believe that these are desperate characters.“

“I’ll be fine.” I assured him.

“I won’t hire a namby-pamby, Mr. Danger. You’re not a namby-pamby?”

“No sir,” I said. “I don’t think I am.”

“Well, all right.”

There followed another burst of excited argument between Tremaine and this woman on the other side. I didn’t have to strain my ears to hear what was going on. She didn’t want him calling me, he was insisting. I figured she must be his nurse or something. She sounded a lot younger than him.

In the end the woman got on the line, and she was a lot younger than him, but she wasn’t his nurse. She was his wife. A lot younger and a lot juicier. And even though I’d just heard her shrewing to him, she was all honey and butter when she got on the line, a real professional telephone voice. I got his address from her, but she didn’t seem too happy about giving it to me. I told them I’d be right out. With the traffic it would take about an hour. She wasn’t happy about that either.

Lake Forest is a very high-end burb outside of town, the kind of place that’s too classy to even bother with street signs. They figure that if you didn’t already know where you were, then you probably didn’t belong there in the first place. But sure enough the first Gas’n’Blow I asked at knew the Tremaine place, so it didn’t take me that long to find it. Not as long as it took me to drive all the way from the front gate to the house itself. But first I had to deal with a couple of rent-a-cops at the front gate. Female rent-a-cops. Extremely female.

I love a woman in uniform, but these two were all business, despite being obviously constructed for pleasure. They called the house and waved me through, peering at me hard-ass through their mirrored tints, and I made a mental note to remember to do something nice and illegal on the grounds before I was done here. A loaf of bread, a pair of cuffs and thou…

As I drove to the main house I realized why the old man hadn’t known his own address. The place was so big it probably didn’t have one; just a zip code. I passed a landscaper pulling weeds from a pond and then double-taked when I saw that it was an Oriental girl in a bikini with a little robe around her. She looked up at me and smiled, looking so sweet with a little spot of mud on her nose. Her boobs looked like they were so happy to see me they were trying to push each other out of the way to get out.

I pulled up to the house and Tremaine himself met me out on the drive. He looked like that guy you see on the monopoly board, only in a sort shirt, no tails, and the only reason he wasn’t staggering was because he was apparently already too stiff to move. There was a rolling cart next to him loaded with booze, attended by a sultry number wearing one of those Frederick’s of Hollywood style French maid outfits: short skit, stockings, heels, little white cap, the works. I might have laughed if I could have closed my mouth, but she was not the kind you closed your mouth for. A looker. I figured her job was to follow Tremaine around to break his fall, and make sure that everyone who came to see him left with a hard-on.

The first thing Tremaine said to me was, “Mr. Danger?” and the second thing he said was, “Drink?”

Buddy was loaded--both ways—but he wasn’t a bad sort. I’d done enough homework at the office to already know that his family’d been rolling in it for generations. Old railroad money. Very old money. The kind of money that makes its owners forget that once upon a time they too had to flush their own toilets. But he didn’t seem a bad guy for all that. He was the kind of cake-eater who took wealth so much for granted that he just assumed everyone must be in the same boat, so he didn’t put on any airs. We got along fine. 

He led me into the house, where I caught a glimpse of some more servants, all women, all gorgeous. I was starting to wonder about this, because the guy didn’t look like a gash hound. Booze and babes don’t mix, as they say, the sauce having a negative effect on the old hydraulics, and he seemed to take all this feminine flesh for granted. 

We went into a big library and he started pouring and talking, so I started drinking and listening.

What he told me was pretty unbelievable. He was a widower, had remarried about five years ago, a lady much his junior named Felicia. It was Felicia’s daughter Beth who’d been supposedly kidnapped. She’d come home for a long weekend from her Fancy pants College, and suddenly vanished. That had been almost a week ago. He’d gotten a phone call demanding ten G’s in ransom even before the girl was missed. He’d sat on it for a while, then called me. Got my number from Billy Jean Nees, the head of the outfit her got his all-girl security squad from. Billy Jean was an old bed pal who’d turned dyke sometime after Id known her. In fact, I think I might have been the one who drove her to women. So much for my technique.

Okay, fair enough. It happens. But what made me almost do a classic Shemp Howard spit-take and spray his bourbon all over his fine Persian carpet was when he told me that this wasn’t the first time she’d been snatched. Not even the second. In fact, he’d lost count of how many times young Beth had fallen prey to an apparent army of co-ed snatchers. And each time he’d shelled out a chunk of change to get her back.

“And don’t you think that’s a little strange, Mr. Tremaine? Your stepdaughter being kidnapped time after time?” I asked him.

He was really into his slosh now, and he gestured with drunken extravagance and said. “Damned right I do! I smell a fucking rat!” 

He had splashed his booze onto the floor in his exuberance and so he refilled his glass from the cart. It was like a kidney machine, the way it followed him around. “That’s why I want you to find these god damned kidnappers and settle their hash once and for fucking all!”

“Right.” I said dubiously.

“Here. Lemme freshen that sucker up for you, huh, Matt?”

“Mr. Tremaine…”

“Buddy.” he said, pouring bourbon on my hand.

“Buddy.” I said. “Has your stepdaughter ever told you anything about these kidnappers? Given you a description, or told you where they took her, or anything like that.”

He puffed out his rosy cheeks in confusion. “Who, Beth? Beth my little Angel? I never asked her. I wouldn’t want to put her through those nightmares again! She’s my little Angel! I tell you, Matt, she’s the fucking apple of my goddamned eye, Beth is! She’s an angel from above, that girl. Here; have a look!”

He reached over and handed me a framed photo from the table. It was a full body shot of a very attractive preppy young woman in tee-shirt and shorts standing casually by a lake, holding a canoe paddle. Her blonde hair fell to her shoulders in a mass of wild curls, while below it her body waved this way and that with such an extravagance of curves and bulges that I had to tilt the picture to make sure that it wasn’t some sort of three-D image. A line of shadow across the chest of her straining tee-shirt linked one nipple to the next with a dark little connect-the-dots line, and I had to resist the urge to run my thumb over the picture, just to make sure you couldn’t feel those sassy little nibs in high relief. She had the look of one who is absurdly gorgeous, young, and wealthy, and is fully aware of it, and she glowed with such raw animal health that, sitting there inhaling bourbon fumes, it made me slightly nauseous. 

“Very attractive.” I said, turning the picture over to see if there was some trick to how they made her tits look so real.

“Ah, and here’s the Mother of my joy! Matt, let my introduce my wife, Mrs. Tremaine. Felicia.”

Two heart-stoppers so close together was almost more than I could take, but I am proud to report that my eyes didn’t make that boomerang sound you hear in cartoons. At least, not so as you’d notice.

Mrs. Tremaine didn’t look much like her daughter except that she too was prime boner material. She was older of course, and slim as only the very rich are slim: toned and shaped. Still she didn’t look anything like the mother of a twenty year-old. She was brunette and straight to Beth’s curly and golden blond, and where her daughter emanated raw animal vitality, her mother had the air of an experienced jungle cat who was used to being queen bitch of the forest. She was less elaborately fleshed, but all the curves were there, and set off by the expensive clothes she so easily wore, clothes really intended for a younger woman: a tight skirt that told you all you might want to know about her legs, and a red jacket over what looked like a black bustier from which the tops of her breasts burst like pink bubbles from a glass of black champagne.

She boldly extended a hand to me and immediately sized me up through her dark glasses in a way that made me think that I must smell, but possibly not all that bad, and said, “So pleased to meet you, Mr. Danger.”

It was only then that I noticed the oily little character next to her, some blur in a black suit who stuck out a hand and said, “I’m Mr. Hearn. Sneed Hearn. Sneed Heard the Third. I’m Mr. Tremaine’s financial adviser.”

I guess I shook his hand. I wasn’t really paying attention.

“Is Buddy telling you all about our Angel?” Mrs. Tremaine asked. The sarcasm in her voice wasn’t hard to miss

“We were just getting around to it.” I said.

She slid over to the library table where the booze stood and made herself a drink, a walking female anatomy lesson. Even the way she dropped the ice cubes in the glass sounded sexy.

Buddy spun around to face her, and overshot his mark by a few degrees, but he recovered nicely, with a little shoulder dip and hip sway.

“Matt here thinks I’m right. Thinks there’s something fishy in Norway.” Buddy said to her.

“Denmark.” she corrected him. “The expression is ‘something fishy in the kingdom of Denmark.’ From Hamlet, Buddy.”

“Norway, Denmark, who the hell cares.” Buddy said. “As long as he gets our Angel back and knocks the slobbering bejesus out of those kidnappers. That’s all I want. So you’ll take the case?” he asked me.

Mrs. Tremaine was giving me a knowing look over the rim of her glass as she drank her bourbon, but I couldn’t quite read what was in her eyes. Besides, I was distracted by watching those delicious red lips close on that cool glass.

“Well, now, I haven’t said that I would…” I began.

“Name your price” Buddy said. “I don’t care. Sneed, write Mr. Danger a check. Whatever he asks.”

The oily little man smiled an oily little smile and looked at Mrs. Tremaine for advice, but she wasn’t interfering.

“Of course. As you wish,” he said, and he left the room.

He was one of those people who brightens a room by leaving it, and it would have been quite pleasant if Mrs. Tremaine hadn’t been giving off those high-energy sex rays.

“Well,” I said to break the tension, “Why don’t you tell me just what happened this last time when she disappeared. Let’s start there.”

“Of course, of course.” Buddy said. “Let’s see. Angel drove home from school Friday night. I remember, because I’d been working on my Bearcat…”

Seeing my confusion he said, “I collect and restore automobiles. I have quite a collection, if I do say so my self. This was a 1923 Stutz Bearcat Emperor six-cylinder inline roadster. Anyhow, she came to see me in the garage, to say hello and we talked the briefly, then came into the house and had drinks before dinner. Then after dinner she drove off to see some friends, and the next thing I knew she was on the phone telling me she’d been kidnapped and that the people wanted ten thousand dollars by this Sunday or they’d kill her.”

This was Thursday, almost a week ago. It certainly was a leisurely little gang of kidnappers.

I couldn’t help notice Mrs. Tremaine roll her eyes in an oh-God-here-we-go-again kind of way.

“And you haven’t heard from her since?” I asked.

“Oh no.” he said, “She calls almost every night begging me to raise the money. It’s more than I can bear, hearing the anguish in my angel’s voice.”

At this point Mr. Hearn came in carrying a check. He handed it to Buddy along with a pen, and Buddy signed it without so much as looking at it. Kind of strange, since I didn’t recall having discussed a fee. I was still piling on the zeros in my head. 

Mr. Hearn folded the check, gave it to me, and, with a little bow, left the room. I glanced at the check as I slipped it in my pocket and saw that it was blank. I calmly folded it and put it away. I didn’t scream “whoopee”, which was a good thing, because Felicia was looking at me with new respect. Money does that for a man.

I took a sip of my drink to make sure my throat still worked, and said, “And have you done anything about paying the ransom?” 


Matt Danger & the Bound Angel Ch. 01.5



(Matt dropped off this manuscript after I’d already written up his story of “The Case of the Bound Angel”. It includes a scene with the gardener Miyoko that he hadn’t told me about before, so I present it here as Chapter 1.5 of the story for all the people who have shown such a gratifying interest in Mr. Danger’s modern techniques of scientific crime-solving.—dr.M.)

Buddy was conked out and snoring to beat the band by the time I got downstairs, which was okay with me, because I didn’t know just what I’d say to a guy whose wife was still lying upstairs naked licking my come off her face. The liquor cart girl was sitting in a chair nearby, doing her nails, one long, slim leg crossed tightly over the other the way women do when they’re wearing skirts that end about a quarter inch above their crotch, making sure there’s no line of sight. She looked bored.

I stopped in the hallway and lit a square.

“He always drink like that?” I asked her.

She didn’t look up. Apparently her cuticles were a lot more interesting than me. No answer. 

I walked over to her so that my shadow fell in her manicure light and she finally raised her face to me.

“You know, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to water down his hootch a little bit.” I said, “His liver might thank you for it.”

“Why don’t you go piss up a rope?” she asked me.

I assumed it was a rhetorical query, but it wasn’t a real promising note.

“Just doing my job,” I said. “Someone ought to cut him off before he hurts himself. Or is that the whole point?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

“It means that there’s a lot of crap that’s going on here right under his nose, and he’s too lushed up to see it. I’m wondering if maybe that’s what you’re paid for.”

“I’m paid to do what Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine tell me to do.” she said. “And I do it. And if you had any brains, that’s what you’d do too, instead of going around sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” She looked at me, then down at my crotch. “Along with some other things.”

So she was wise that I’d just boffed the old lady. Well, you didn’t have to be the Amazing Randi to figure that one out. I still reeked from Felicia’s perfume and cunt-butter.

“What’s your name?” I asked her.

She stared daggers at me but I met her gaze. I’d just fucked her boss and I was feeling pretty cocky. 

“Beverly,” she said with a little shrug. She figured she could give me that much.

It occurred to me then that Beverly must also be fucking her boss—her boss being Felicia—and that she must be one of Felicia’s muff mafia. And I have to admit, as totally fucked out as I was right then, the thought of the two of them going sixty-nine brought a little thrill to Matt Jr., who raised his head like a good little dog when his name is called. It was a waste of good talent as far as I was concerned, but even so, what a twosome they would make.

“So tell me, Beverly,” I asked, “What do you know about this business with the daughter?”

She picked up her emery board again and started lazily filing her nails.

“Like I said, I just do what I’m paid for. I keep my nose out of everything else.”

A couple of good remarks concerning where her nose might be of an evening flitted through my brain, but this kind of palaver wasn’t getting me anywhere. Beverly obviously wasn’t going to talk. Besides, I wanted to get out of there before Mrs. Tremaine got her shit together and came after me.

“Well, nice talking to you,” I said as I crushed my butt out in the onyx ashtray.

“Yeah,” she said. “A real slice of heaven.”

I showed myself out and stood for a moment on the veranda out front, just drinking in the landscape. It was so green and so well-manicured that I could have been looking at a video game. The pretty Japanese gardener was still mucking around at the edge of the pond, pulling out weeds and throwing them on the shore. She had very long legs and a tight, high ass, and wore a white hapi-coat sashed around her waist that showed a lot of skin as she bent over to pull out the weeds. A very un-oriental body. 

I got into my car and cruised down by the pond, then cut the engine and got out.

“Hi,” I said as I walked over.

She looked up at me and wiped the sweat from her head with the back of her wrist. She smiled, only the second warm smile I’d seen since I got her. Hers had been the first too. 

“Hello,” she said. She was wearing white cotton gloves that were covered in mud, so she didn’t extend her hand.

“My name’s Danger. Matt Danger. Mr. Tremaine just hired me to find his daughter. Okay if I ask you a few questions?”

Unlike everyone else in the house, she seemed to be guileless. Everything she felt was right there on her face: polite interest, alarm when I mentioned Beth, and then cautious openness. So much for oriental inscrutability.

“I’m Miyoko Tiramiso,” she said with an automatic little bow. If she’d bent any lower, no doubt her big tits would have fallen right out of the robe-like hapi-coat she had tied under them. As it was, standing in the sun I could see the engaging little shadows caused by her puckered nipples against the white fabric. “I am just the gardener, though. You are a policeman?”

“Private detective,” I said, handing her one of my cleaner business cards. “I just thought, working outside and all, you must see pretty much everyone who comes and goes in the house. I wondered if maybe you’ve seen Beth or anything weird in the last week or so.”

Her open smile vanished as she got frightened. The poor girl didn’t even have the sense to hide it. I’d hate to see her play poker.

“No. Nothing. I really see very little. Just my plants and the flowers. That’s all. Nothing else. It keeps me very busy.”

I could see her eyes flicking past me to look up at the house. That’s where the fear was coming from.

“Well, thanks all the same Miyoko,” I said. I moved around a little so that my bulk shielded her from the house and I held out the card. She took off her muddy glove and took it, handling it with her fingertips, as if it were hot to the touch. “If you think of anything, anything at all, just give me a call. There’s some stuff I’d like to know about the Tremaine’s and I’m having some trouble getting a straight answer. You could be very helpful. And I’m very discrete. No one will know. I promise.”

She smiled politely and nodded but it was obvious she was scared and operating on automatic. 

As I left her I shot a look up at the house and saw Beverly standing in the library window clear as day, staring daggers at us.

I drove back to town and went to my apartment to stash the blank check Buddy had signed. I didn’t intend to cash it just yet, not until I had some idea of how much I should write into it

So I know, Philip Marlowe or Ellery goddamned Queen would have got down to the bottom of the whole thing in less than ten pages, but me, I really saw no reason to hurry this case along. After all, I was getting paid by the day plus expenses, and no one but Tremaine seemed to be on my ass to get results, and at the moment he was totally involved in metabolizing about half a liter of grain neutral spirits and couldn’t be disturbed. I decided what this case needed was some very thorough brainstorming and meditation. Don’t want to act too rashly when something like this falls into your lap.

My favorite phrontistary is George and Bill’s Amiable Club, right down the street from my office, so I hied myself over there, ordered a beer and a bowl of chili and would have gone over my notes if I had any notes to go over, but in this case I didn’t have any written notes, and to tell the truth, I wasn’t really very interested in this case. Obviously it was all a set-up, a clumsy attempt to extort money out of a Buddy who was too inebriated to know fuck-all from fireworks. I figured Felicia was behind it, because she seemed to be the only one who knew where her ass was in relation to her head, but anyway, I didn’t give much of a toad fart about the Tremaines and their self-inflicted delusions. I was more interested in finding the best angle to play my next shot from, Matt Danger-wise. A sweet job like this doesn’t come your way every other day.

Still, my admittedly avaricious ruminations kept on being interrupted by thoughts of Felicia: about how smooth her belly had been, and about her remarkable pole-riding talent. I know that women who have their kids young can often escape the worst of the attack of the stretch marks, and there was no doubt she would have had to have been awfully young to have a twenty-year old daughter, but still, it was pretty hard to believe she’d ever been a mother. And the way she threw that ass around in the bedroom: that was more than just raw talent. She’d been to school, and I was pretty sure that Buddy hadn’t been the teacher.

My office is a few blocks off the usual commercial beaten track, and I got there just as the sun was going down and those melancholy summer shadows were stretching over the empty streets, and as I keyed my lock I was shocked to hear my phone ringing. Two calls in one day. I might have to open another office if this kept up.

“Matt Danger and Associates. Confidential Investigations,” I said, burping a bit of chili.

“Mr. Danger? It’s Miyoko Tiramisu, the gardener from Mr. Tremaine’s? Mr. Danger, I must see you. It’s very important.”

I was instantly sober. Well, okay, I wasn’t instantly sober. But I stopped belching.

“Miyoko? What’s up? Where are you?”

“I’m just off work. I can’t talk. They might be listening. Can I come to your office?”

“Well, sure, but…”

“Good. In an hour then.” And she hung up.

An hour gave me enough time to catch a couple Z’s, then get up and splash some water on my face and some scotch into a coffee cup, and by that time the sun had gone down and the walls of my office were starting to glow red from Wing Yee’s Oriental Garden’s big neon sign that hung outside my window. My office is in a quieter part of town and the streets empty out early. It was so quiet outside that I could hear Miyoko’s heels rapping on the sidewalk half a block away. I stood in the shadows and watched her come. She wore a scarf over her head and dark glasses. I guess she thought she was in disguise. Like dark glasses at twilight would hide her identity. Like any male who saw her in that tight, tight white dress wouldn’t have her image permanently seared into his brain. The dress clung to her smooth thighs as she walked and I could only imagine what her as must look like from the other side. From up in my window I could see every jiggle of her ripe and sumptuous rack as her feet hit the concrete. To these not inexperienced eyes it looked like her dress was doing double duty as a bra too. Caged birds don’t swing as sweet.

“Mr. Danger!” she said when I opened the door for her, “Thank heavens you’re here!”

I got a chance to really look at her now. That white dress was some sort of jersey material, very stretchy, and now having its stretchiness tested to the utmost. For an oriental girl, she had a body that was pure corn-fed American beef, with long legs and generous hips and high, proud tits. Not too big, but sassy as hell. Her dress ended awfully far north of her knee and south of her neck—just a little sundress, really--and the foothills of those breasts were quite visible, crowded together like two cannonballs trying to hide under a handkerchief. 

I let her in and stood close enough so that I could catch a whiff of her scent. Nothing much, just the smell of sun-ripened flesh and clean-scrubbed woman. A quick glance at her nails convinced me that gardening wasn’t Miyoko’s primary duty out at the Tremaine spread.

“Please, lock the door,” she said. “I’m afraid they might have followed me.”

“And who would that be?” I asked her.

“Felicia,” she said, looking nervously through the blinds. “Or maybe Beverly. They’re the ones who are behind this. I’m sure of it.”

I followed her into my inner office, closing the door behind me. She pulled off her scarf and let her rich black hair cascade around her neck., then took off her dark glasses. Whatever the emergency had been, Miyoko had found time to put on make-up, and she’d done a very good job of it, not that she needed any. She’d come to pitch a little woo, I guessed. I prepared to catch.

“So Beverly’s in on this too?” 

It made sense. Beverly was obviously a part of Felicia’s Flying Gyno Circus, and was furthermore given the job of Buddy’s private booze-cart caddy, hired to make sure he got all the lush he could handle, and then some. The idea was to keep him too shit-faced to notice whom was taking what from his pocket.

“And why would they want to follow you, Miyoko? You’ve got something you want to tell me?”

“Yes,” she said, sitting down in the leather arm chair in front of my desk. Then, “No. Oh, I don’t know. I’m frightened, Mr. Danger. Mrs. Tremaine is a very dangerous woman. She can hurt you: cause you a lot of trouble. And Beverly is even worse.”

I parked half my ass on the corner of the desk and looked at her. “So how can I help, Miyoko? What do you know about this business with Beth’s disappearance.”

“Nothing. Not really. People come and they go all the time there. I can’t keep track of them. I don’t even try. Anyhow, I’m sorry, Mr. Danger, but that’s not really why I came.” She had her little handbag in her lap and was worrying it so much I thought she might bend it in half. 

She took a deep, shuddery breath and I saw the gleam of tears in her deep, brown eyes “All right. All right, Mr. Danger, I’ll tell you why I came to you,” she blurted out “I came to ask for your help. You’ve got to get me out of there. They’re bad people, Mr. Danger. They do evil things, and they’re trying to suck me in. It’s a long story and…” Her voice trailed off and she lowered her face.

“Fine,” I said. “I like long stories.”

I walked around and sat down in my desk chair, reached into the lower right-hand drawer and pulled out a bottle of Jamesson—the good stuff I use for clients—and a couple of reasonably clean glasses I’d nipped from Wing Yee’s Oriental Garden. “Drink?”

Miyoko was perched on the edge of the chair across from me, her knees together like a good girl. I poured the Irish and pushed a glass towards her but she shook her head.

“Very well,” she said, her eyes in her lap. “I’ll tell you. I’m not really a gardener. I’m a music student. I play the marimba and vibraharp, and I’d won a scholarship to study music at the American Conservatory downtown. It’s a very great honor. An important scholarship.”

“The marimba?” I asked. “Isn’t that that thing they use in mariachi music? They give scholarships for that?”

She nodded quickly. “That was where I first met Beth Tremaine. At a recital.”

“The Tijuana Brass. They used a marimba, right? Like a xylophone?”

“Please, Mr. Danger. I think I’m in grave peril.”

“You play with two sticks in each hand and all that? Tijuana Taxi? Songs like that?” I was very impressed. I’d never known anyone who played the marimba. I couldn’t believe that they gave scholarships to people who could play Spanish Eyes and The Lonely Bull.

“It was Beth who first invited me to her family’s house. They have a vibraharp in their music room. They have everything out there, as you well know. She seemed sincere. I came to visit her, to play a little. Vibraharps are not very common, and the American Conservatory only has two. It’s difficult to practice. You have to sign up ahead of time. Beth thought her mother might be willing to sell theirs cheap, or at least let me practice there.”

I reached over and took her drink. Hell, she wasn’t using it. “Her mother?” I asked, tossing it back. “You mean Felicia?”

“Yes. That’s when I first met Mrs. Tremaine: Felicia. She said that she couldn’t sell it, it was a family heirloom, but that I was welcome to practice on it whenever I wished. In return I offered to help her out with a few things around the place.”

“Like gardening?”

“Yes,” she said. “My mother’s American, but my father’s Japanese. Very traditional, very conservative. He’s a gardener in California, a landscape limnologist. He specializes in aquaculture, ponds and the like, and I grew up around aqueous plants. They needed some help with their pond.”

“Wait a minute. A ‘landscape limnologist’?” I’d never heard of such a thing. This was a very talented girl. “So that’s why I saw you out mucking around in the mud?”

“Yes. Mucking around in the mud. Oh Mr. Danger, that’s so apt!”

She lost it then, and started crying onto the back of her hand. Unlike most private eyes, a woman’s tears don’t bother me much, so I let her cry while I concentrated on keeping a sympathetic look on my face. I wondered if her faith in me would be shattered if I poured myself another slug of booze. 

Miyoko got herself under control pretty quickly and looked regretfully at her empty glass, which I’d just downed, so I poured her another slosh, a healthy one. I like to see pretty women drink, and she was worth it. 

She wiped a tear away and took a tentative sip, then another. “This isn’t easy,” she said. Then she just took the glass, put her head back and tossed off the rest of the whiskey like a Russian sailor. She hardly blinked. I wondered whether all marimba players drank like that.

“My family must never know what I’m about to tell you, Mr. Danger. It must never leave this room. I can trust you?”

“Oh, absolutely,” I lied. 

“It’s very shameful. My father would take it very hard. He has a weak heart. It might kill him.”

I tried not to look too eager. I knew we were getting to the good stuff and I knew it was going to be something dirty. I made a moue of sincerity, but I was already trying to figure how I could play whatever shot Miyoko was about to give me into a way to get into her panties.

“I am a woman who has a weakness for…certain unconventional activities,” she said hesitantly

I didn’t think she was talking about marimba playing and landscape limnology this time.

“What sort of activities?”

She covered her face with her hand. “Hope,” she said.

At least that’s what it sounded like she said. She said it into her hand with her face down, so quickly and softly that I couldn’t be sure.

“Beg your pardon, Miyoko?”

“Rope,” she said this time. “For sex. Rope excites me. What they call bondage. It’s the only way I can get sexually…aroused.”

I felt a nasty little thrill right down in my nasty old testicles looking at this shy and gorgeous woman sitting across from me.

“Beth first found this out,” she said. “Fool that I was, I trusted her. It was a girl-talk kind of thing. They befriended me—she and her mother--and plied me with liquor. They found out my secret. But that’s not all.” She looked at me uneasily and I tried to look sympathetic.

“They are lesbians, Mr. Danger. They engage in sexual acts with one another, mother and daughter both, and they’ve ensnared me into their evil web of depravity.”

That’s what she said: “evil web of depravity”. Pretty girl, plays the marimba, and she talks like that too.

I cleared my throat. “Well, why don’t you just tell them to screw off? I mean, there must be other vibraharps in the world.”

She held her empty glass up to me. The tears were gathering again. I poured her another splash but she just looked at it and put it down on the desk and covered her face with her hands.

“They have photographs,” she said through her fingers. “Shameful photographs of me. And they’ll show them to my father. It will kill him, Mr. Danger. I know it will.”

“What sort of photographs?” I could already imagine, but I thought it would be a cheap thrill if I could get her to describe them to me.

No such luck. She waved her hand vaguely in the air, took the drink and threw that one down too.

“Uh, you want some water with that Miyoko? Maybe a coke?”




Matt Danger & the Bound Angel Ch. 01.5



She sniffled and shook her head no. The girl must have about half a cup of Irish whiskey in her by now. I poured her another couple of fingers.

“And these photographs have you in compromising positions, no doubt,” I said sagely. “Would that be of you tied up, or with other women, or both?”

She drank ‘em as fast as I poured ‘em. I’ve never seen a young woman polish off the hootch like that, I wondered if that came from hanging around with Buddy’s crowd.

“Both, I’m afraid.” She opened her purse, and I was kind of surprised when she pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

I didn’t mind if she burst into flames and exploded.

She lit a square, took a deep drag, and that seemed to calm her down a bit. With a cigarette between her fingers she seemed to be more of a dragon lady than without. It calmed her down and gave her some confidence.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But this fetish I have—it’s a sickness really. Just the sight of rope or chain, or anything made of leather… I just find it difficult to control myself. Beth and Felicia discovered this, and from then on I was lost; I couldn’t resist. Women, men, it would have made no difference.”

“Of course,” I said, trying to keep my voice cool and dispassionate, but Matt Jr. was already rising from his torpor to see what the commotion was about.

I reached down and slowly opened my lower left-hand drawer, careful not to disturb her train of thought. My lower left-hand drawer is filled with just the kind of things she was talking about: rope, chains, leather cuffs, whips, gags, all the tools of my own perverse avocation. Miyoko’s face was down. She didn’t notice.

“Even as a little girl, I used to tie myself up, or try to. It just excited me. It’s always excited me, even before I knew about…about sex.”

I found a nice, brand-new coil of three-eighths inch braided white nylon. Good stuff. Soft, strong, and very supple. I pulled it out and just let it drop on the desk right in front of her, studying her face.

Miyoko jumped. No doubt she was feeling the liquor, and had been lost in her own reverie. Now she looked at the rope, and it was like there was suddenly a third person in the room. Her lips parted and her nostrils flared. The cigarette dangled unsmoked from her long fingers. I saw her tits rise as she took in a deep breath.

Her eyes flicked up at mine just once. She looked at me and saw what she was afraid she was going to see. It was also just what she wanted to see. In her eyes I saw a woman surrender. I saw her self-control just slip away. It was like someone had flipped a switch. The look in her eye was begging me, but begging for what I didn’t know.

I got up from the chair and picked up the rope, walking behind her. “Go on, Miyoko,” I said, “Tell me about it.”

It was all she could do to breathe a few times. Then she said, “I’ve never told anyone about this, Mr. Danger. Only Beth and Felicia. I’ve never done this with anyone else. I’ve never done this with a man. I heard them talking about you when they called you. they called you the ‘bondage detective.’ I didn’t know what they meant but I… Oh! Oh my God!”

She breathed out this last as I stood behind her and ran the frayed end of the rope across her cheek. She tightened her hands on the arms of the chair, dropping her cigarette. The floor of my office is old, institutional linoleum, so I just ground it out beneath my foot. I took a length of the nylon between my hands, wrapping it around both fists, leaving a couple of feet between them. I put my arms down at Miyoko’s sides, slipping the rope over her and sliding it down her body till it was at the level of her nipples, then I pulled it back towards me, sawing it back and forth right over those excited little peaks.

“Mr. Danger,” she breathed. “Mr. Danger this isn’t fair.”

She closed her eyes as I sawed the rope over her nipples and she whined in a kind of feeble protest. This was almost too easy, and I should have hated myself for taking advantage of her like this, but she was sitting in my office in that skimpy white dress with her perfect porcelain skin, her jet black hair and red, red, lips and the rope just looked so damned good on her. She pushed her knees together and gripped the arms of the chair as I passed the rope down and up over her nipples, twanging them like they were little diving boards, and she just clenched her eyes shut tight and whined.

“Come on now. Miyoko,” I said. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Lots of women like the feel of ropes on their bodies. Believe me, I know. Now, you do want me to help you, don’t you? And get those pictures back?”

“Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know. Yes I do. Only… Only…”

I took my Spiderco from my pocket and flicked it open. I cut an eighteen inch length of the nylon rope and held onto it while I dropped the rest of the coil.

“Watch now, Miyoko. Watch what I’m going to do.”

I picked up her right hand and wrapped the rope around it as she stared at what I was doing, her eyes wide with fascination or horror or maybe both. I know how it goes with women who are really into it like Miyoko. They can’t believe you’re doing this to them, they can’t believe the sight of themselves in rope. It’s just an incredible turn-on for them.

I did the same to her other wrist, then I said, “Stand up Baby.”

It was dusk in my office now, and the setting sun sent its dying rays through the Venetian blinds in the west window, painting stripes across her tight white skirt. The red neon glow from Wing Yee’s big sign outside seeped in giving the room a Hades-like glow, making it seem hotter than it already was, and evil in a deliciously lewd kind of way. (I love my office.) Miyoko didn’t resist me as I turned her around and found the little zipper high on the back of her dress.

“Mr. Danger…”

“Matt,” I said. 

“We shouldn’t do this. It’s the photographs. That’s why I came to you. I didn’t mean for anything else to happen.”

I had the zipper between my fingers. I pulled it halfway down her back and the dress parted. Her back was bare: not so much as a tan line. She wasn't wearing a bra. Sure she hadn’t meant for anything else to happen.

“Don’t worry about that now,” I said as I pressed my lips against the base of her neck. “I’ll take care of everything, Miyoko. But you have to give me something to work for, baby. You have to give me some incentive.” I ran my finger nail down her spine. “And this is about the best incentive there is.”

She had a beautiful back and gorgeous, flawless skin. 

“And don’t you want this?” I went on, so close she could feel my breath on her skin. “Don’t you want to see what a man does to a woman he has tied up? All the terrible sexy thing he does to her, the way he makes her fee? Did you ever feel a man’s desire let loose on you, Miyoko? I want to show you what you make me feel. I want to let it all out on you, baby.”

I could feel the little hairs raise on the back of her neck as I kissed her behind her ear. I could feel her grow warm beneath my lips and smell her perfume as it started to release. I pushed the zipper down farther, down to the small of her back. I could just see the top of her tight silk panties, the dimples in her lower back where her buttocks started.

I pushed her dress off her shoulders with my nose as I licked her back, and it fell to her feet without a sound. She was naked except for those tiny panties, and she was exquisite.

“Come here, Miyoko, back into the chair.”

I led her back to the leather chair and put her into it. I cut another length of rope and bound her wrists together behind her so they were over the back of the chair, causing her to thrust her tits out as if in invitation. She didn’t fight me. She was under the spell of the ropes: they took up all her attention. 

I tied her wrists to the rung of the chair in back, and by that time she was breathing hard, whimpering softly and staring down at her heaving tits as if she’d never seen them before, shocked that her nipples could already be so hard. I stood behind the chair and leaned over her, took her breasts in my hands, warm and heavy, and I ran my hands down her naked body: over her ribs, her flat and quivering stomach, down over her hips, then around so that the flats of my palms were on the incredibly soft and tender skin on the inside of her thighs. I pressed her legs apart and she opened them with a soft moan of protest.

I don’t know how bondage works with other guys. I know a lot of self-styled doms (and I say fuck that capital ’d’ business) like to torment and humiliate their women: stick pins in them and make them eat garbage and crawl around on all fours and howl like dogs, but I’m not into that. To me, those guys are women-haters, guys with some serious mommy issues. For me it’s all an act of worship. It’s about holding her there so you can get your fill of her, about bringing out the fire inside her: inside both of you. It’s about getting to a point you could never get to without the ropes there to hold you back and keep you on the edge.

Because I’ll tell you this about women: they’re every bit as sexy as we men are, even more so. But they have problems in letting that out. There’s all this pressure to be a good girl and nice and polite and non-sexual, so it all gets buried inside. They need to be coaxed. They need to be convinced. They need you to bring it out of them, to force them to feel like that, to want it, to give expression to everything they feel. In fact, they need to you to insist on it, to pull it out of them, because on some level every woman wants to be a sexual animal, wants to be as physical and passionate on the outside as she feels on the inside. And the ropes are the best way I know to do that.

Miyoko now was getting off not only on being tied up, but on seeing herself tied up. She’s a shy and reserved girl, but she has a tigress inside, prowling around, looking for a way out. She knows she needs to be tied up for that to happen. She knows she has to be with someone who wants her bad enough to do that to her, who’s going to demand that she let go, who’s not going to let her off the hook. And now that guy was me.

“Let’s just see,” I said as I went around to my toy drawer and found a big-ass vibrator, a ten-incher. “Let’s just see who we’ve got inside, okay, Miyoko? Are you ready for this?”

She just whined in the chair. She was twisting her hands around, testing the bonds, enjoying her own helplessness, and wanting to know that I wasn't playing with her. Her nipples were hard as two cherries on the round vanilla scoops of her tits, the whole still covered with a carpet of goose bumps. I tore a good chunk of adhesive tape off a roll in the drawer, came over and taped the vibe right against her pussy so the head made a dimple against her panties, aimed right at her opening. I taped it to her creamy thigh and I turned it on.

“Oh! Oh no! No!” she sighed.

I threw a couple of coils of rope around her thighs, and pulled her knees up over the arms of the chair, holding her open, and tied them off. She didn’t fight me, and by the time she realized what I was doing it was too late to fight, and she found herself spread as wide and as lewd as in any porno pic, almost naked in the chair, her panties stretched tight against her pink cleft and the vibrator trying to burrow inside. She twisted, she writhed, she ground her ass in circles, trying to dislodge the vibrator, and I just sat on my desk and watched.

She knew I was watching too, and that’s what made it especially shameful for her. Exciting too. It’s one thing for a girl to let her slut out in private, it’s quite another to let someone else see her acting like that, see who she is inside, especially a little tight-ass like Miyoko. She groaned. She gasped and whined. She threw her head back and bit her lip, trying to deny the sensations from that humming little buzz bomb between her legs, trying to hide her feelings from my scrutiny, all the while knowing I was watching her.

I left her squirming in the chair and went back to my toy drawer. I found a set of nipple clamps and untangled then from the rest of the stuff and brought them around to where Miyoko was still slowly grinding her hips against the chair and moaning. Her eyes went wide for an instant when she saw them, but she wasn’t going anywhere and there was nothing she could do.

I turned off the vibe. “Hold still,” I told her.

That was hard for her to do, as she was panting from the vibe and her big tits were rising and falling on her chest. I leaned over and sucked one of her nipples into my mouth. Miyoko’s entire nipple was hard, not just the tip. The areole was puckered out too, like a little Chinese hat, and I sucked it into my mouth and rolled my tongue around the edge, feeling where the turgid convex disc merged with the soft skin of her breast. I could feel the beating of her heart through my lips on her nipple.

Once it was nice and hard, I slid the arms of the tweezer over it and clamped them in place. Miyoko kept her eyes closed and bit her lip, but she couldn’t keep a little whine from escaping her lips as I drew the legs of the clamp together. I did the same to the other breast, teasing the nipple into erection, but then I stopped and drubbed the peak back and forth with my thumb, enjoying the way she jerked and gasped. I fixed the clamp to it and stood back. The silver chain hung in a graceful arc from her nipples, swinging as her tits rose and fell with her excited breathing.

I turned the vibrator back on and she jumped as if a snake had bit her. It started up just where it had left off, with Miyoko fighting to hold on to her composure in spite of the lewd and obscene spectacle I’d made of her. She looked like the perfect little BDSM slut now with her tits chained together and the buzzing dildo pressing hard into her wet pussy. I parked my ass on the edge of my desk and lit a cigarette, just studying her for a while.

That cigarette was destined to go unfinished though. She was just too sexy sitting there trembling under this obscene assault. She was moaning and whimpering constantly now and my cock was screaming to be let out and find some relief between the bright red lips. I stood up, stepped out of my shoes and socks, opened my pants and pulled down my shorts.

Despite her obvious distractions, Miyoko couldn’t keep her eyes from my big prick as it spring up from my shorts. There was a look a fascinated horror in her eyes, but there was no way she was going to be able to resist me now. From the looks of her she was close to popping off herself right then and there, and I was tempted to let her. I’d like to see this perfect little China doll come right then and there, knowing I was watching her get her slutty rocks off from a buzzing piece of plastic.

But this was too good to resist. I grabbed a riding crop out of the bottom drawer and went to the chair. Miyoko looked up at me pleadingly, begging me for some relief and pleading for me not to shame her at the same time. I ignored the look in her eyes, grabbed a handful of that midnight black hair and twisted her head around to face my evil, oozing snake. She fought the urge for a moment and then seemed to surrender to her own lust and opened her mouth. Her lips reached for me, trembling with excitement, and then I plunged it in.

If she’d ever sucked a cock before than I’m Mr. Rogers. She had no technique, no fancy tricks: she just sucked like she wanted it inside her belly. (Is that something that women just instinctively know how to do? Or is that something all us humans do? That when you’re presented with something long and thin you just open your mouth and suck on it?) I didn’t know, but the sight of those brilliant red lips on my stalk send chills up my spine. I held her head in my right hand, with my left I tapped the end of the crop against her panties about where her clit should be.

“Oh Mr. Danger! Please! Oh God!” she wailed, pulling her face off my cock. “Don’t make me! It’s too much! I…”

Whatever she was going to say was muffled by my big cock as it sunk between her lips again, squooshing in and out of her saliva-filled mouth. I kept it up with the crop--tap, tap, tap—as her hips churned in the chair and the vibrator hummed away. When I felt the first shard of orgasmic pleasure start to gather in my balls I stopped. I pulled my dick from her mouth and quickly untied her legs and wrists from the chair. She yelled when I pulled the vibrator and the tape off her leg—it must have hurt—but she when I pushed her down on the sofa, she immediately assumed the position: knees up and spread.

I ripped her panties down off her legs, exposed that perfect pussy with its little wisp of fine black hair, then my cock seemed to just pull me down on top of her and I sank into her buttery depths.

“Oh! Oh my! Oh yes!” she cried.

I hooked my arms behind her knees and pushed her legs back up to her chest and my big hard cock spread that little pussy wide as it sunk into her.

I don’t know what kind of games she was playing up at the Tremaine’s, but no one had been trampling around in that pink little vineyard recently, I can tell you that. Miyoko was as tight as a miser’s fist and despite all her gyno-grease I had to do some pushing and grunting to get it all in. She raised her head to watch my cock sinking into her, then clenched her eyes shut and slammed her head back down on the couch as if the sight had burned her eyes, but in a moment she was looking again, not wanting to miss a second of her own violation by my big, hungry cock

She had such an innocent little face,: a little China doll with a red-hot slut engine inside, an engine that was getting its first taste of high-octane fucking. Once I got it sunk inside her and got over that first maddening squeeze of tight Japanese cooze, I got my knees under me and lifted my ass, trying to pull out of her so I could give it to her again and officially claim her as a prize.

Miyoko stuck to me like a bug on a pin, wailing as I pulled her pussy out with my thick cock; she was that tight. I could feel it when she groaned; I could feel it when she breathed or gasped. I could feel the puffy lips of her cunt spread wide and squashed flat by my own pubic bone. I could feel the tiny finger of her clit tenderly tapping the top of my stalk. I was in her throat-deep.

“Oooh, Mr. Danger… Matt…” she cooed, begging me to spare her life. She didn’t want to come, didn’t want to lose face by showing me what a whore she was for me, but I could tell she didn’t have a chance. Miyoko was the kind of girl who spent all her time in high school and college in hard work and study and marimba practice and never had any time to screw around or find out what really made the world go round. Now she was getting a late lesson: a master class in the ways of a man with a maid

I worked my hands down to her ass, which was already slick with her overflowing lubrications. I grabbed those melons and spread her apart and pulled her up onto my pole. Miyoko sobbed with joy to feel that thick hard meat inside her pushing her insides around, and then she gasped with embarrassment at her own enthusiasm. She was shaming herself, and putting on quite a show doing so, and meanwhile tugging at the ropes that bound her wrists, loving her own captivity.

The ropes. The ropes that were everything for her. They were her freedom, her permission; they allowed her to pretend that she wasn't involved, that she wasn't loving having my big log sawing in and out of her dripping cunt, that she didn’t love feeling me going crazy on top of her. It’s every woman’s fantasy: to be so sexy and so desirable that a man would stop at nothing to take her and fuck her, and now Miyoko was living the dream. That’s why she came over here with her makeup perfect in that tight white dress, without a bra, without a stitch on that perfect body. Bondage detective, huh? I’d show her bondage detective!




Matt Danger & the Bound Angel Ch. 01.5



“Nnnn! No! Don’t! You’re going to make me… Don’t make me.. No! Oh Please!” 

She kept up a breathless chatter as I reamed her out, my balls splashing in the wet pool of her moisture. She had her little china-doll face turned to the side in denial, but now she suddenly turned face front and her eyes opened wide, but they weren’t looking at me. They weren’t looking at anything.

She got a foot under her on the floor and suddenly heaved her ass up off the sofa, impaling herself on my prick. Her body trembled with the strain, but she was a strong little thing and her need to be fucked hard was even stronger

“Come on, Miyoko, you hot little bitch!” I said down to her. “You’re gong to come, aren’t you baby? You’re gong to spill all that hot juice all over my cock! You’re a little slut, aren’t you, baby? A little slut who loves the ropes, who loves being tied down and fucked!”

“No! Yes! Oh, I don’t know!” she cried out. “Oh Mr. Danger please! Shoot in me now! Shoot it! Please! Come in me!”

That little outburst made me stop. I reared up on my outstretched arms and looked down at Miyoko, staring at her. We both knew she had crossed the line. She’d given up being the pretty little marimba-playing prodigy and was showing me the hot face of her naked female lust; her obscene desires. All the secret things she’d ever dreamed about or felt, all her hidden fears about herself, they were all true, and we both knew her now for who she was. Lying beneath me with my thick cock crammed into her cunt, she was a total slut for me, and she reveled in it. She was a gloriously sexual, fully aroused woman with all a woman’s passion and hungry desires revealed, and it thrilled me to the core to see the look on her face as she realized that all her needs and everything she wanted was now exposed.

I flexed my cock inside her and she groaned, but it wasn't a subservient groan; it was more like a sound of triumph, of revelation. She was fully aware of her sexual power as a woman now, and she knew that even though she was poised on the edge of orgasm, she had me hanging there as well. Even with her arms tied behind her—or maybe because of her arms tied behind her—she’d brought me to the brink of my own surrender, brought my strength to the point of helplessness, and she clutched at me with the muscles of her pussy, telling me that she had power too, that she could give it to me as well, that we were in this together.

Erotic chills raced up and down my spine and I fell forward on top of her. Our open mouths met, and Miyoko’s shy little tongue was a rampaging tiger in my mouth, urging me to let go, to surrender to her own feminine strength, and I had no choice but to comply. Beyond control or rational thought, I felt her lips suck my tongue into her mouth urging me to do it and there was no way I could refuse her. I groaned myself as I felt the come boil out of my balls and seem to come flooding up out of the very soles of my feet and I gushed into her in hot, scalding jets.

Miyoko lost control of her body, throwing her head back and arching her cunt up to me to suck it all in, mashing that sweet little clit against my throbbing stalk, her arms hard as she pulled at her bonds. I held her to me as I came inside her, giving her all of it and planting it deep. I wanted it to be dripping out of her for hours. I wanted her to feel me when she went to bed that night and when she got up in the morning. I wanted her to know that Matt Danger had been there, and that he knew all her secrets.

You can say all they want about virgins, about how great it is to be the first and all that, but that’s just high school stuff to me. What you want is to be the first one to take a woman to that height of passion, to introduce her to her own sexual desires. To take her to the edge and make her look into the chasm. That’s the kind of sex they never forget. They never forget the man who made them whole.

Miyoko was beside herself when we stopped, and it took a lot of cuddling and cajoling to calm her down. We lay on that funky leather sofa for a long time as Wing Yee’s neon lights played over her perfect skin and I held her and stroked her sobbing body. Of course one thing led to another, and we made love again; slow and sweet this time, but again she went ballistic. Her gates were down now, and she didn’t know what to do with this new side of herself. 

I had some ideas, but it had been a long day for me—for both of us—and she had to get back before anyone started asking questions.

And of course, I had a case to solve.



Matt Danger & the Bound Angel Ch. 01



“I haven’t paid it, if that’s what you mean.” he said.

“Have you arranged for the money, or discussed making the drop, or anything like that?” I asked him.

“No, I…” he shook his head, got up and sloshed more whiskey into his glass. Mrs. Tremaine watched him with indifference. She seemed to be taking this kidnapping remarkably well.

“I’ll tell you, Matt,” he said, pouring another healthy dollop into my glass as well, “I smell a rat. I just smell a rat somewhere.” 

Yeah, and he’d be seeing them soon too, I thought, courtesy of the delirium tremens.

Mrs. Tremaine drained her glass and set it down. She was standing beyond Tremaine from where I was sitting, and she raised her hand to see that her tightly coiffed hair was still in place in its elaborate French bun or croissant or whatever it was. A perfectly feminine gesture.

“Mr. Danger,” she said, “I’d like to talk to you before you go. Will you see to it?”

I nodded and watched her as she left the room, my ears savoring the soft swish of nylon on nylon. Buddy ignored her, his eyes growing misty as he thought about his angel or how a rat smelled or some damned thing.

“All the other times you’ve paid ransoms for Beth before,” I asked, “How was the drop made?”

“The drop?” he asked. He sank into his chair and shrugged. “I don’t know. I just have Sneed take them a check.”

“A check?” I asked incredulously. “You pay the kidnappers with a check?”

“Yes.” he said. “Sneed makes it out to Cash, I sign it, and he pays them. Meets them or something, I don’t know. I’m usually too upset.”

“You mean Mr. Hearn? Your financial advisor?”

“Yes. He handles all my affairs. I’m much too busy. All that money business is just so time-consuming.”

“Yes.” I said. “It certainly is.”

I stood up. “Tell me, Buddy.” I said, “What kind of car does Beth drive?”

“Well, she had a Mazzeratti here at home, but at school she drives a 1984 Porsche Taiga, Rally yellow with a black and chrome T top. That’s what she drove home in.”

“And that car’s missing?”

“Yes, of course. That’s what she was driving when she was kidnapped.”

“And does Beth have any boyfriends here at home?”

His eyes grew misty again and I was afraid he’d start blubbering. “Of course.” he said. “She’s a very popular girl.”

I’ll bet. “But anyone special she’s been seeing lately?”

“Well, that there’s that young Bodine of the pet food Bodines. He drives a flame red Corvette with the Rally package. Don’t know the year” he made a face and shook his head. “Newish car. New money.” he explained. “He’s away at college now. Stanford or some other of those party schools.”

“Thanks.” I said. “I’d better get going. I’ll be in touch.”

I could see the tears gathering in his eyes, and knew he was on the point of breaking through the blubber barrier and turning on the faucets. I wanted to get clear of there before he threw his arms around me and started bawling about how no one understood him.

I stood up, and he made a fair attempt at getting up, lost his balance and side stepped a few feet, pretty light on his feet. “Fuck!” he said. “I’m shit-faced again. It’s my nerves.”

“Of course it is, Buddy.” I said. “And the rat fumes.”

Attentive readers will by now have noticed what I had already stumbled over during our little palaver: that Dwayne Wayne “Buddy” Tremaine was as loopy as a can of spaghetti-o’s, and that this kidnapping was as real as Michael Jackson’s ninth nose. A hot-looking daughter who’d been kidnapped more times than he could remember, ransoms paid with personal checks, a young wife just as hot as her daughter and probably not getting any from the old man, a slimy financial advisor named Sneed Hearn (the Third), giving two-bit shamuses blank checks, the place just oozing with long-legged gold-digging women… It was all too good to be true. All I needed was a body and a butler and I’d be in gumshoe heaven.

Now some of you might think that I should have pulled Tremaine’s coat to the fact that he was being plucked like a gosling in a feather factory. But a wiser man than me once said, “Never give a sucker an even break, and never wise up a chump.” There was a whole bunch of diners lined up at the Tremaine buffet, and I figured I was just another face in the crowd, standing in line and holding my plate out. Besides, how do you go about telling a guy like that that he’s being milked like Elsie the Cow by anyone who can reach far enough to get a hand on the tit? Who am I to close down the party and start handing out the checks?

Okay, okay. So I’m a fucking immoral rat. I got another one for you: the sun rises in the east. Why don’t we just get that out of the way now so I can proceed to the good part?

The good part was Mrs. Tremaine, who was waiting for me by the front door, at the foot of a flight of stairs like Fred and Ginger used to dance down in those old movies. She had her dark glasses off and they hung provocatively between her breasts, and her eyes were the clearest and deepest gray I have ever seen, with long black lashes she used like whips. I didn’t see a web near her, but she had that look in her eyes.

“I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Danger.”

“Matt,” I said.

“Whatever.” she shrugged. “In private.”

She turned and started up the stairs, and I followed. I would have followed those hips anywhere in that tight skirt. All sorts of wonderful things were happening under there as she climbed the stairs.

She led me down what was either a hallway or an indoor soccer field, and steered me into the airplane hangar where she kept her bed. She closed the door and leaned back against it, showing me that deep, deep cleavage. I heard the lock click. I was a prisoner in her bedroom. (Oh help! please! somebody help!)

“I suppose you think I’ve got it all, don’t you Mr. Danger?” she asked me. 

I shrugged. “Damned near most of it.” I said

She arched her eyebrow at me but she didn’t laugh. “My husband’s a good man in many ways. But he does tend to dote on my daughter, and he does let his imagination get the better of him.”

I said nothing and she walked past me, slowly enough so that I could get a good whiff of her. She smelled like two people fucking in a rose garden.

“He drinks too much,” she said. “He’s not a very happy man, and Beth is everything to him. Beth is a very high-spirited girl, and she loves to tease him. Sometimes I’m afraid she overdoes it. She doesn’t know how seriously he takes it.”

“Are you saying that this kidnapping is a prank, Mrs. Tremaine?” I asked her.

“Oh,” she said, her back to me, “I wouldn’t know. But I wonder if it’s worth making a federal case over.”

“Beth did call, didn’t she?” I asked. “And she did tell him that if he didn’t fork over ten grand she’d be snuffed. That’s some prank. About as funny as extortion.”

She was standing with her back to me, her hands on the back of the chair by her dressing table. I could see her face in the dressing table mirror. She didn’t look happy.

“And it sounds like Buddy’s shelled out plenty for some previous pranks” I went on. “Of course, at the end of a prank, the prankster admits it and gives him his money back so you can all have a big laugh about it, right? So he must know all about these fun and games, right Mrs. Tremaine?”

She turned around. “How much is he paying you?” she asked me.

“Enough.” I said. “Probably more than he pays you.”

Her eyes flashed for just a second, then she gave a bitter laugh. “It wouldn’t take much,” she said. “You look at all this and you think we’re set, rolling in it, right? Not quite, Mr. Danger. Old Buddy’s plenty tight with the spending money, plenty tight. That seems to be the one area of finance he pays any attention to, and he counts every goddamned cent!”

“You know what I have in my wallet right now? How much money I have?” she asked me. “Fifty-three dollars and fifty six cents. I can’t even put gas in that pile of crap he gives me to drive. He can drop three thousand dollars on a fucking headlight for one of his geezermobiles and I’ve got fifty-three dollars and fifty-six cents.”

I sat down on a chair. This was getting ridiculous, her handing me the motive on top of everything else. I wondered whether maybe it was time I read her her Stupidity Rights: You have the right not to tell me every last detail of your crime, you have the right to pretend you’re not guilty…

For a woman’s bedroom, this place was pretty stark. No frou-frous, no pink curtains or piles of fabric all over. The furniture was expensive, but plain and kind of stark. Modern is the word, I guess. Except for the big antique canopy bed, which I took to be Barnum and Bailey surplus, judging from the size of it.

“Well,” I said, “With fifty-three bucks at your disposal it looks like you won’t be paying me off then, huh?”

She stared at me for a moment, then gave me a wry and knowing smile. “No,” she said, “I guess I won’t. Not with fifty-three dollars.”

I felt that delicious tingle of anticipation in my stomach as I said, “Unless you offer me something besides money.”

She looked at me appraisingly. “You probably couldn’t handle it, Mr. Danger. Besides I don’t do men. Not anymore, now that I don’t have to.”

It took me a minute to tumble to it. I mean, she didn’t look like a lesbian. As if anyone does. 

“So that explains all the women around the place?” I asked.

“I’d just be careful if I were you, Mr. Danger,” she said, enjoying my discomfiture. “Nothing around here is what you might think. Myself included.” 

I guess she liked the way my face fell, for she looked at it for awhile before she seemed to suddenly change her mind, turned around and went back to her dressing table and opened a drawer. She took something out, and I saw that it was a riding crop.

“Do you ride Mr. Danger?” she asked, stressing the word. “Do you like the feeling of a big strong animal between your legs, yours to command? Galloping, galloping, all that power, all that freedom? Do you like that feel of command when a spirited mare does just what you want when you flick your whip?”

“Yeah.” I said. “It’s swell.”

“It’s even nice when she balks and you have to teach her to obey, isn’t it? Because if she’s a thoroughbred, she’s going to have her own mind, and you’re going to have to use the whip on her, for her own good, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you do that, Mr. Danger? Are you man enough to use the whip on a spirited filly? Because I think most men are afraid. Most men only know how to beat a horse. They don’t know how to get the very best out of her, how to ride her right. How to jump her, how to bring out her spirit.”

She walked over to me, very slowly, letting me get a good look. That’s why I don’t do men any more, Mr. Danger. No finesse. No subtlety.”

She stood in front of me and ran the whip across her mouth, then dragged it down her body, between her breasts, and over her belly. She gave herself a sharp little slap on the thigh, watching my face to see my reaction. Then she put the crop in my hand, turned away from me and bent slightly, sticking her ass out.

“Or am I wrong, Mr. Danger? Matt.” she said, “Are you the one man who knows how to train a pony?”

Sometime long ago when I’d come into her room I seem to remember being drunk, but I wasn’t drunk now. In fact, I saw everything in perfect detail, from the saucy globes of her ass straining the tight fabric of her skirt to her little tongue running over her blood-red lips as she stared back at me over her shoulder, just a hint of mockery in those clear gray eyes. I was dizzy, no doubt because every last corpuscle in my body was now pushing and shoving to get into my dick like it was a Tokyo subway train at rush hour.

I knew that she was bribing me, trying to buy me off. But really, what the fuck did I care?

I ran the head of the crop over the tight fabric of her skirt while she stared back at me over her shoulder. I flicked the whip at the roundest part of her ass, just a quick sharp sting, and she closed her eyes and hissed in pleasure.

“Mmm…” she hummed. “So you do want to play?”

I gave her another stinger, and she cooed, wiggling her ass back at me.

Two more pops made her bite her lower lip and close her eyes. Apparently I was doing it right. She put her hands on her knees and stuck her backside out at me. I let her have a couple more and heard her take a long shuddery breath of air.

“Oh, I’ve been such a bad horsie!” she said “Such a wicked little pony! And my master never rides me, he doesn’t ride his little pony at all!”

My heart was hammering now, and my throat was dry. I walked the half-block over to her bed and took off my jacket and loosened my tie. I was getting warm.

“Come here, pony.” I said.

She stood up and pulled down her skirt, a pouty look on her face. Then she dropped her jacket from her shoulders, and came slinking towards the bed. She was all tits and lips, legs and hips as she rolled towards me. Her eyes were like dry ice; so cold they burned.

I resisted the urge to grab her right then and there, and instead made her turn around and put her hands on the bed, keeping her legs straight. I got behind her and squatted down and worked her skirt up over her hips, leaving it bunched at her waist. She wore sheer black panties, as tight as a shadow against her creamy white flesh, though which I could see the angry red marks the whip had left and the dark, inviting cleft between her cheeks. The bitch was already oozing. I could smell her.

I ran my hands over her hot, tight buttocks, and from where I was squatting I could see right along her crease to her trimmed puff of pubic hair in front. I couldn’t understand how she could possibly have a twenty year-old daughter.

I stood up and whipped her again with the crop, and again she squealed and wiggled her ass at me. At some point she asked me if she could please touch herself, and I told her to go ahead, so I got to see her masturbating as I whipped her perfect ass. 

I didn’t let her come though. When she was obviously close I stopped and told her to stand up. She did so, though her whole body was trembling, her red lips swollen, her eyes half closed. She was panting.

“You’re good.” she said. “You know how to do it. You know just how to do it. Now do you know how to do these?”

And she pulled down the bustier, letting her breasts spring free, the nipples hard and peaked. She stood there before me holding the top of the bustier down, pushing those beautiful jugs at me, and I saw her trembling, waiting for the whip.

I’ll tell you, I love tits. I don’t think there’s anything on God’s green earth as adorable and lovely as the female breast. They’re soft and cuddly and warm and nothing feels better in your hand or your mouth than a nice, sweet, friendly boob. They feed us when we’re young and thrill us when we’re old and there are few things I hold in higher regard.

So when she invited me to use the riding crop on these objects of such benign beauty, I just couldn’t. Even though she began to man-handle them herself, digging her nails into her own flesh and squeezing her nipples between her long, manicured fingers, I just couldn’t bring myself to hurt them. Just couldn’t.

The hell I couldn’t. 

I flicked out the whip and gave a little rap to the top of one big jug, then before it stopped oscillating I hit the other one. The crop landed on her flesh with a satisfying little slap and Felicia grunted, then thrust them out farther.

“Stand up straight and put your hands behind your neck,” I said. “Let’s get these babies up where I can see them.”

For a woman so used to giving orders, she obeyed without any trouble. I figured then that she must be switch. It happens a lot with these big money folks: they’re so used to being deferred to and obeyed that when someone else comes along and takes charge, they go all soft and gooshy inside. It’s a novelty to them.

I don’t know if she was all soft and gooshy inside herself yet, but she was sure getting off on letting the boy from the streets have his way with those high-priced tits. Felicia bit her lower lip and closed her eyes but kept her big boobs offered out to me like fruit on a platter. I slapped them on the top, then I started slapping them on the bottom and watched them jiggle just like water balloons as Felicia choked back her groans and gasps of excitement.

“Harder baby,” she moaned, “Treat them mean. Show me what a hard ass you are, baby…”

“Hold ‘em up for me, bitch,” I said. “Push ‘em out where I can see ‘em. Show me what a nasty slut you are. Show me how much you like getting your tits whipped, you hot slut.”

She liked that talk. And she liked holding her big knockers in her hands to be slapped by that nasty crop. Her finger nails were like an inch and a half long and high- gloss blood red, and between the nasty little strokes of the crop she scraped her thumb nails over her engorged areolas as she fondled herself and held them up, proud of them, proud of how hot they got me.

And they got me hot. I don’t know what it is with these good looking women with this beat-me-for-my-beauty thing, but it always gets to me, and I fall right into the game. I used the whip like I was holding my prick in my hand and slapping her with it, and she was definitely getting her masochistic rocks off on being punished.

They got me so hot that once they were good and red I grabbed her and pulled her against me and sucked one of those big nipples into my mouth, my hand closing on the soft luxury of her tit. My other hand went around her ass, pulled up her tight skirt and as I held her against me I worked my middle finger down into the hot crease between her legs, making her hiss with pleasure. 

“Get your fucking clothes off!” I said as I stripped off my own. “Horsie’s going for a ride.”

I got myself naked, climbed onto her big canopy bed, lay on my back, and watched her wiggle out of her skirt.

“Lose the panties and leave the corset on,” I said. “Then get over here, horsie. Get on me and start riding.”

Her black pubic hair was trimmed into a neat little arrowhead, just in case I needed directions, I guess. I lay there with the whip in my hand, and she got on the bed on her hands and knees with her big tits hanging outside her corset and climbed over me so that she was straddling my hips. My big cock was standing straight up, and she arranged herself so that she was right over it. Then she reached down and took me in her hand.

“Oh yeah,” she moaned, “It’s been a long time since I had a real one of these. Nice and hot. Nice and hard.”

She got up on her knees, bit her lip, closed her eyes, fit me to her pussy and sunk down on me.

Mrs. Tremaine might be a million dollar piece of ass, but she looked just like a two-dollar whore as her pussy spread wide and she sank down on my stalk, going slow as I stretched her open. For a long moment she couldn’t move, just hunched over me on her hands moaning as junior made himself comfortable inside her and they got to know one another.

It’s true that a lot of beautiful women are terrible fucks. Mrs. Tremaine was the exception. Maybe it was the fact that she was getting to play her horsie game or maybe she liked the whip, or maybe she’d just gone too long without, but she rode me like a pro, with her hips grinding, the long muscles in her legs flexing, her big tits wobbling on her chest as she worked herself off on me. I helped her out with an occasional whack to the ass or a spank on her tits, which made her go wild, but mostly it was that she was just a woman who loved to fuck, and her enthusiasm was contagious.

And what made it so damned exciting is that all the time she was riding me and shuddering with little guilty spasms of pleasure, I knew that she hated my guts. She hated my guts but loved that big piece of meat that was shoved up inside her between her thighs, and I really got off on watching her as she tried to maintain her composure, tried to deny the hot and sleazy things she felt, her slutty pleasure in being made to ride my cheap, two-bit cock. Cheap, but more than this bitch could handle. She was getting off on being degraded, about being forced to act like whore, dragged down in the slut gutter where she knew the real action was.




Matt Danger & the Bound Angel Ch. 01



“Oh fuck!” she spat. She was losing it. That cold lezzy bitch was losing it on me, losing it on my big prick, rocking her hips on me like some cheap pole dancer, and her shame and embarrassment was showing. She was fighting me, trying to make me come before she lost it altogether, trying to show me she was woman enough to suck the come out of my stalk before she went over the edge herself. It was a matter of professional pride, and it was the only pride she had left.

If I hadn’t been just lying there watching the show, no doubt I would have shot a lot sooner than I did, but as it was with her doing all the work like that, I could just last and last. She had plenty of time to get everything she wanted, and she wanted plenty. One little orgasm after another ripped through and made her suck in her belly and gasp like a she was being whipped, and all that time I just lay there like a king, shoved deep into the hot clench of her tight, expensive cunt, watching the show.

Finally she was reduced to just leaning back in the saddle of my loins, moving her hips like a belly dancer and wincing with pleasure as with each forward lunge she rubbed her swollen clit against my stalk. She’d given up on trying to get me off, and now she was just fucking me for her own pleasure, using my prick to get herself off. 

I saw her eyes go flat blank and her mouth open, and knew she was in that state where she was shutting down everything on the outside because she was totally focused on the wonderful things that were happening inside. This was the big one, and she must have felt it coming a long way off as it came rumbling up like an earthquake from where my cock was sunk in her fault line.

She squealed, she screamed. Her body began to shake, her hips twitched wildly as she went into sexual overdrive while her pussy did things to me that she never could have done if she were still in control. She just had time had time to shoot me one look of shocked incomprehension at what was about to happen to her and then she was gone, tumbling over Orgasm falls without a barrel, head back, howling, her body roaring and shaking in one titanic come.

I had time to enjoy all this but I was just about gone myself. The sight of this rich, imperious bitch reduced to trembling helplessness by my cock was more than I could stand, and I felt that sudden wad of naked pleasure start to gather in my backbone. I was close.

I flipped her off me while she was still twitching and gasping out her come like a fish out of water, got up on my knees and laid my cock right over her face. I took my big pole in my hand and jerked it a couple times, and the sight of that big evil swollen prick over the beauty of her face set me off. Everything went black as dark, electric joy ran down my spine and I started pumping that hot cream all over her face, big thick wads of come jetting out over her red lips, her eyes, her black hair. I held her head in one hand with my fingers in her hair and I yanked my crank, pumping the sauce onto her perfect makeup while she whimpered and groaned, still shuddering in orgasm even as she tried to wipe it up with her tongue.

In the end that’s what she was, just a cock-loving cunt, and I stared down at her as I poured it out onto her, knowing her now, seeing my white semen on her shiny red lips. She swallowed and opened her mouth for more, swallowed and opened, till my come was stretched in sticky strands between her lips. I squeezed out one last dribble, wiped my cock against her smooth cheek, and let her go.

Yeah, it was good. It was great. It was so fucking great that she was still shaking and scraping the come off her face with her perfect fingers and feeding it into her mouth as I got out of her bed and found my clothes.

She was too ashamed to say anything as I got dressed. We both knew she’d lost it, and lost it big time. Her real woman was showing and I could tell she didn't know how to recover.

I was almost out the door when she said. “Matt?”

“Yeah, sugar?”

“You’ll back off now? You’ll drop the case? We have a deal then?”

I stopped halfway into the hall and looked back at her. She was one of those fortunate women who look every bit as good without clothes as they do with them, and in the misty cloud of her afterglow she looked even more ripe and fuckable than before. She was a hard one to walk out on.

“Oh?” I asked, “And what deal is that?”

And I walked out the door.