Reacquainted Pt. 02

"Liz, it's Mags. I need a favor."

"Hey, hon. Whatcha need?"

"Can I have the place to myself on the 29^th?"

"Of October?"

"Yeah."

"Shouldn't be a problem. I'll just call the resident loonies, and tell 'em we're fixing the toilets or something. Dig's off to some show in Canada, and Pam's mom's sick, so that's two of the usual suspects out of the picture already. You using mp-2?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Any mess, you're shampooing the carpet, right?"

"As always. Usual rates?"

Lizbet paused. "Hey, what do you think of this?. I saw a piece of yours in a gallery on Garfield; looked like wire and...I'm not sure, maybe Fimo? Dog outside of a little doghouse kind of thing under the blue moon?"

"Sure, I know the one."

"Sell it yet?"

"Don't know. I could check. Why?"

"Well, it keeps barkin' at me. I just sorta fell in love with it. And what you're asking is like two years rent on the storage. If I threw in that you could use mp-2 no charge for...say a year?"

"Works for me. I like that little guy going to a good home."

"Well check and see nobody bought it. If not, we can start the deal in the new year, but I'll give you the 29^th for free anyway.

"Thanks, Liz! You're an angel!"

"Yeah, well, I hope like hell that little fella's still there. And you still got to mind the carpet."

17.

On October 29, at 3:00 PM, Officer Theodore Sutcliffe received the following email at his personal address:

Trick or Treat,

Put on your Halloween costume and drive to 23758 Rural Route 14. Arrive at 7:00 PM; no earlier. Enter at the front and walk to the back of the building. To your right, you will see a door with a bat-signal taped to it. Knock and enter. You will find Vicki Vale shackled and one of your old adversaries holding a gun to her head. The gun is empty. If you feel the need to verify this for yourself, say the word "Red." Miss Vale's captor will then approach you and hand you the gun. After examining it, you may say "Red" again. If you choose to do so, your adversary will release Miss Vale, and the two of you may leave. You may also hand the gun back. If you choose to do this, you will be required to behave as if the gun is loaded, and your treat will continue. If during the course of the evening either you or Miss Vale wishes to end your experience, you have only to say "Red." That word, and that word alone, will end proceedings.

Hogs and quiches.

Theo stared at the screen of his phone. He thought about how he had reacted to reading the email. That in itself was unusual for him. He was not given to self-reflection. He tended to act first, and to sort things out afterwards. But..."Trick or Treat": was this a game, or a joke, or...a treat? He didn't recognize the sender's address, but he or she had referred to "Vicki Vale" not "Jennifer Sutcliffe." How would they know that was Jen's costume unless she told them? And the gun at her head: that had freaked him out, but not as...seriously as maybe it should have. It's going to be empty, right? Whoever this was says it's gonna be empty...

The gun was the problem. If he did as asked, and the gun was loaded...but if whoever it was already had Jen... Didn't feel like that, though. And anyway, all this...it was all too elaborate, wasn't it? Sure he was a cop, and people don't love cops, but he was a patrolman, for cripes sakes. He hadn't busted serial killers, or drug kingpins or anything. And there was the thing at the end: "Hogs and quiches." Jen had seen that on a greeting card somewhere. It was her special little phrase. She only signed things that way for him. Easy enough to find that sort of thing out, he supposed, but again...was he over-thinking this? Maybe this was just what the note said it was: a treat. The costume seemed to do something for her. And he...really liked being her "hero." But what about the party? And what kind of a treat could she have planned out on 14; that was like the back of beyond..."

18

"How does that feel?"

Banal question; bizarre situation: Jen's wrists were cuffed together with leather shackles closed by buckles. The cuffs were joined by a metal ring to which a metal cylinder, ending in a second, smaller metal ring was attached. Mags had used what looked like a rock-climber's carabineer to attach length of nylon rope to this second ring. She had then attached the rope to a hook in the ceiling a foot or so from the wall opposite the door. Her elbows could bend slightly, and she could turn her body around, but the hook had a clip which held the rope in place. Jen could struggle, but she couldn't move.

She wore a simple evening gown—not too expensive, Mags had insisted but not explained—white, strapless and cut low, but not too low. Gray and silver beading decorated the top of the gown and continued onto a single horizontal strap which crossed her back just below her shoulder blades. The same beading also ran across the top of her hips (the dress was effectively backless) continuing in a narrow strip just below her bustline. The two sliver strips above and below emphasized Jen's braless breasts, which thrust out high and proud against the nearly translucent fabric. From the bottom strip of beads, the chiffon fell in a column to pool around her feet. Comfortable silver flats, French-cut white lace panties, and that was it; her blonde hair floated loose around her shoulders, and she wore a light, natural foundation, blush, mascara and rose pink lipstick. The simple question was tough to answer. Jen felt...attractive; maybe even beautiful; but also vulnerable. The lack of a bra combined with the wispy fabric made her feel naked, and that thought terrified and excited her at the same time. She hedged: "How do I look?"

Mags looked her over, top to bottom. As once before, Jen swore she could feel a physical caress accompanying the woman's gaze, but when the eyes returned to meet hers, Mags was smiling kindly. "You make a lovely damsel, and I am definitely looking forward to distressing you, but," she took a deep breath, "first things first. I'm going to show you the gun, OK?"

Jen had been amused to learn that Mags had expected her to object to the use of the gun. As the wife of a cop, she was used to the idea of a gun in her house, and Theo had even taken her to a local range for a couple of quick lessons "Just in case," as he had put it. Now as Mags stepped gracefully to the small attached bathroom, Jen felt a little thrill of fear, like the anticipation before a ride on the big coaster at Six Flags. It had nothing to do with the gun.

Mags was dressed in a skin tight black catsuit, shinny black, but not as shinny as the zippered PVC boots (also black, with three-inch stiletto heels) which ended in the middle of her thighs. A loose belt of silver links hung from her hips, and she wore elbow-length black gloves tipped with evil-looking triangular gold claws. She wore her thick dark hair as loose as Jen's, although in her case, a band with two attached black cat ears, pinned in tight, held the hair off her face. Her make-up was dramatic: light foundation, a dark blush emphasizing the line of her cheekbones, dark gold eye shadow, liner, mascara, and deep red lipstick.

A Comic-Con accuracy nut might have objected to the neckline of Mags' suit. A zipper ran from neck to navel, and Mags had it open more than half way, displaying a deep cleavage between the curves of her generous breasts. And Jen could see that her friend wore neither bra nor panties. Her movements seemed designed to emphasize her curves. Even on the spikes, Mags moved with a provocative grace. She looked so effortlessly sexy that Jen felt a pang of envy, like a lost friend returned, as she watched her old classmate pull something out of a backpack resting on the sink.

Mags returned with a small pistol: an old Taurus .38 revolver with a short barrel. First she broke the cylinder, and shook the gun, barrel pointed up, to demonstrate that it was empty. Then she pointed the gun towards her own face. "The barrel's been sealed. Even if the gun were loaded, it couldn't fire, although it could explode, I suppose, which is why the firing pin has been filed down. I'm going to show you, but that will involve my pointing the barrel of the gun towards your face. Is that OK with you?"

"Sure, if the barrel's filled."

Mags showed her the gun, and Jen could see that the barrel was, in fact, no longer hollow. "It's a prop, but it was a functional gun once, and as you know, you have to treat these things with respect." Then Mags pointed the gun towards the far end of the room and cocked it. It made an audible click. She then pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on the empty chamber with a second loud click.

"It's harmless, you understand?"

"Yes."

"During the evening, I will be holding it to your head, and possibly even cocking it. Are you OK with that?

Jen swallowed. "Yes."

"Are you sure? We can find another way if it makes you nervous."

"The whole thing terrifies me; I'm not even thinking about the gun. I'm..." And suddenly, to hear fury and mortification, Jen found herself tearing up

"Do you want to call it off?" Mag's voice was neutral, dispassionate.

"No, but...Mags, you won't hurt me, will you? I mean really hurt me?"

Mags came over to her friend, bound and helpless and beautiful. She leaned in and kissed Jen lightly on the cheek. "I won't do you any permanent damage, but yes, I probably will hurt you some. You know about most of what I might do. I haven't told you absolutely everything, but you do know about the painful stuff, OK?"

"Uh huh."

"And you have the safety words, right?"

"Uh huh."

"And they are..."

"'Yellow', and you'll stop whatever you're doing and step back until I say 'green.' 'Red' and everything stops, we drop character, and if I want, we end the whole thing."

"Very good. Jen, Hon, do you want to call this off? It's OK if you do. I know it's scary."

"Mags?"

"Hmm?"

"Does it make me a bad person that I really, really don't? That I'm really scared and excited, that I don't even want to use my safety words, and I want you to...do all this stuff to me, and to Theo?"

Mags grinned: "You're asking a biased source; you know that, right?"

"Sure, but..."

No, Honey, it does not. It just makes you somebody who wants to try something new. But because sex is involved, all kinds of other shit come in to it: social and religious...taboos, I guess, and personal space and beliefs and all kinds of stuff, OK?"

"OK..."

"Tell you what. I'll go into the bathroom there, close the door, and put on my mask. When I come out, we'll play a little, just you and me; kind of like setting the scene. It'll give you a feeling for what we're doing, and if you decide you can't take it, you've got...what, an hour and a bit to call Theo and tell him...whatever: that the party was cancelled, how does that sound?"

"Kind of sounds like fun."

"That's a good little slut."

"Mags!"

"Hey, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck..."

Jen made an effort: "Fuck it and watch out for feathers!"

Both women giggled. Then Mags said: "You ready?"

Jen nodded.

19.

The tall brunette strode into the little room and stood, arms akimbo, gloved fists resting on shapely hips, surveying the scene in front of her. Her captive, a pretty little blonde, stood shackled to the ceiling across from the door by which she'd entered. She smiled, and the glittery black cats-eye mask leant an air of cruelty to her expression. Now she sauntered towards her prisoner, her hips rolling provocatively, as she paced back and forth, examining the wall near which the frightened blonde was bound. Three small hooks were set in a row a few feet to the left of her prisoner, at about eye level. The masked woman strolled back to the room from which she'd come, bent languidly at the waist to retrieve something from a duffel bag on the floor. The move was deliberate and taunting. Her captive was invited to examine and admire the muscles of her thighs, the peach-perfect roundness of her ass, showcased almost pornographically by the skintight black spandex. When she straightened and turned, her hands were full. She smiled again as she heard the little blonde's sharp intake of breath. Frightening the little bitch turned her on. Slowly and deliberately she stalked over the three smaller hooks, and hung a short, ugly revolver from the first, and a vicious looking cat-o-nine-tails from the second. Upon reflection she kept the long black riding crop in her right hand, and she tapped it meditatively against her thigh as she moved to stand in front of her victim.

"Comfortable, Princess?" the tall woman purred.

The blonde said nothing. She stared at her captor through huge blue eyes. Quick as a flash, the looped tip off the riding crop was less than an inch from the bound woman's face. She gasped. Gently but deliberately the masked woman tapped her prisoner's cheek three times. The blonde flinched at each tap.

"Answer" --tap- "when" --tap- "you're spoken to." --tap- "Or I'll tear that dress off and flog your pretty titties. Are you comfortable?"

"N-no," the blonde stammered. "I...I want you to let me go."

The masked woman ignored this. "So you're his little fuck du jour. My goddess, where does he find them?" Then: "What's your name, Cutie-pie?"

"J...I mean, um, Vicki."

"Not the shiniest penny in the poor-box, are you, Sweetie? I wonder what he sees in you. Skinny, stupid...what's the attraction?" She mused a while, one clawed finger tapping lightly against her lower lip. "Oh my! I'll bet you're just a pistol in the sack, aren't you?"

"I don't know what..." the blonde sputtered, but her captor cut her off. "Oh come now, don't be modest. What could a little finishing-school slut like you have to offer a man like him? Money? He could have a baker's dozen hotter than your skinny ass for the change he pulls out of his sofa cushions. And we've already established it ain't conversation. No, you must really turn his crank. Come on now, just between us girls, what does he like?"

"What are you...?"

"The Bat, Princess! What's his thing? Feet, watersports, rum, sodomy and the lash? No? Figures. Pure vanilla, right?" She took a step closer, and locked eyes with her victim: "I bet he likes to fuck this pretty face, though." she cooed. "Is that the attraction, Cupcake? Were you the high school blowjob queen? Did you swallow?" The green eyes came even closer, hypnotic behind the mask. A gloved hand came up, and a clawed finger scraped lightly down the terrified blonde's cheek. She could feel her captor's breath on her cheek as the taller woman whispered: "You do have a lovely mouth."

Then without warning, the masked woman grabbed her prisoner's face and kissed her hard. The bound girl squealed and struggled, but her tormentor held her effortlessly as she plundered the girl's soft mouth with lips and teeth and a long, insistent tongue. The blonde felt the claws withdraw from her flesh, to be replaced by the soft palms of the gloves, as the tall brunette began to caress her face. The kiss deepened; the blonde stopped resisting. She moaned softly. Her tongue began to push forward, slowly, tentatively. She began to kiss back. With a cruel little laugh, the masked woman broke away. The little blonde sighed: "Oh, Mags..."

CRACK!

A hand struck the bound girl low across the cheek. Her head whipped back, and before she could register shock or pain, her face was grabbed by the other gloved hand, the claws were back, sharp and painful, one on the right side of her face, four on the left.

"Don't play games with me, Princess," hissed a voice, low and dangerous. "You know who I am. Now, do you have something you want to say?" A pause, then the finger tightened, squeezing the blonde's cheeks harder, forcing her lips into an unnatural pout. "I asked you a question, bitch! Do you have something to say?"

Unable to smile or cry, Jen Sutcliffe, slowly shook her head.

"Good." The masked woman released her captive's face, and all of a sudden her voice was light and playful. "Now,"—the single syllable sounded like a small complaint from a spoilt Persian: n-rreow—"I think you should apologize." The brunette had noticed one of the blonde's nipples, puffed with arousal from the kiss, poking beneath the light fabric of the gown. As she spoke, she scratched it lightly through the chiffon with the little golden claw on her index finger. Her victim squirmed and moaned softly.

"I'm sorry, Princess, I didn't quite catch that..." More gentle scratching, more little moans, and then: "Umm, ooh, I'm...oh yes...I'm s-sorry."

The masked woman took the point of the blonde's nipple between her finger and thumb. She began by squeezing gently. "I'm sorry...who?" Slowly she squeezed harder.

"Oh God, please..." Then: "Ow, please stop, you're hurting me..." Then: "Ah! Please...I-I'm sorry...Catwoman!"

--To Be Continued