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 youride 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.