She led me down what was either a hallway or a par three indoor fairway, 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. It was all too melodramatic and corny. Effective as hell, too, I should add.
"I suppose you think I've got it all, don't you, Mr. Danger?" she asked me.
I shrugged. "Damned near most of it."
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 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?"
"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 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 and gave me the femme fatale look. She was good. "How much is he paying you?"
"Enough." I said, then I smiled. "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 lifted her chin, inviting a reply. I kept shut. "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 in one of her boudoir chairs. 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 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 control when a spirited mare does just what you want when you flick your whip?"
"Yeah," I said drily. "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." The blood seemed to be going to my head alright, but it didn't seem to be leaving. The same thing was happening down below.
"Can you do that, Mr. Danger?" Mrs. Tremaine walked toward me, placing one foot right in front of the other. "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 of blood 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 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, 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 toward the bed. She was all tits and legs and hips as she rolled toward 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 down on the bed, keeping her legs straight. I got behind her and squatted down and worked her skirt up over her ass, leaving it bunched at her waist. She wore sheer black panties, as tight as a shadow against her creamy white flesh, through which I could see the 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.
"Matt," she moaned, looking back at me over her shoulder. "Your naughty pony wants to touch herself, baby. May I? May I, please?"
"Go ahead, bitch. Play with that pussy while I whip your ass. Show me what a whore you are."
She leaned her forearm on the mattress and reached between her legs with her right hand. The sight of her red, manicured nails against the black fabric of her sheer panties made my head spin. She pressed her fingers against her clit and began to roll them in circles against herself, humming with pleasure.
I started to whip her ass again, and ever time I hit her she gave a little yelp and her fingers started moving faster. It was quite a sight, seeing this sophisticated bitch beating off like a sex-starved teenaged slut.
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. 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 manhandle them herself, digging her nails into her own flesh and squeezing her nipples between her long, manicured fingers, I 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 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 this boy from the wrong side of the tracks 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. Be a hard ass for me, 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 fingernails were an inch and a half long and high-gloss blood red, and after each nasty little stroke of the crop she scraped her thumb nails over her engorged areolas and fondled herself, holding them up, proud of them, proud of how hot they got me.
And they got me plenty 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 she was straddling my hips. My big cock was standing straight up, and she arranged herself so that she was right over it. She held onto my shoulder with one hand, then reached down and took me between those long, elegant fingers.
)
B&D Winner of Literotica.com 'E for Excellence" Award! When private eye Matt Danger is contacted by reclusive alcoholic millionaire Buddy Tremaine to find Buddy's adopted daughter Beth, he meets the strange group of female characters who inhabit Buddy's mansion, including Buddy's gorgeous young wife Felicia. Matt discovers that the women run a BDSM ring when he is captured and forced to dominate and be dominated in one of their sessions. Although Matt is sexually satisfied by the experience, he finds he is no closer to solving the mystery than when he started. Will further sessions be necessary if he wants to discover the truth? And just how far will a PI go to do his job? Matt's adventures are not your usual BDSM but something quite unique.
