Not Quite a White Knight Pt. 01

Absentmindedly I moved a gloved finger to the top of her cleft and lightly ran it down the valley. When the fingertip got to her rosebud - a lovely shade of pink, she had it bleached by experts - she 'pushed out' and spread her stance slightly; it was reflex-fast and natural, like something trained to be instinctive rather than an act. Since she was already distended the tip of my finger tip went right in her ass to the first knuckle. She fucking sighed! It was entirely natural for me to go in just a bit deeper. She moaned. Talk about easy!

She was really ready to get fucked, and given where my finger was making her body happy, not necessarily fucked in a nice way. But this was not the '10-20' for it. I withdrew my finger.

"Thank you for that... releasing my leg I mean... The other was very nice too... Really. Much appreciated." She spoke with remarkable poise and an subtle, slightly breathless inviting charm. Also, she did not rattle the chain.

I whispered, "I really should just leave you here. The cops will be along." Of course, there might be another party or two first. That was somebody else's call.

"I guess... I should ask if that would be dead or alive, if you don't mind my asking." Damn, she was very cool and smart.

"Not sure yet." I was just being honest, she knew my answer before I said it.

"Okay..." She hesitated a few seconds. "I get that. But out of curiosity, don't I tempt you?" She wiggled her superior and very willing fuckable bottom.

I must admit I was moved. Vanity again trumps all reason in the City of Angels. Even when the subject is life or death.

I answered honestly. "You do tempt me, actually. Like no other naked woman bound by a trio of black thugs ever has." She giggled, it was a even more delightful sound, like a happy rain cloud giggling in the sun - I could get off with just that. I don't think she was feeding my vanity, because it was funny - funnier because I had not intended it to be. "But I can't stay here, and taking you someplace else... without your clothes... you see how that is a problem." I was also thinking about disposing the body after - it is always such a bother, and it was so important to do it right. But she was tempting.

She spoke first.

"Put me in the trunk? I mean, if it is big enough... you don't sound like a Prius-type of guy, and I bet you would not park your fabulous expensive sports car around here." The way she said that you just knew she would never give it up for a wimpy, limp-dick Prius-type of girly-guy. Heck, I bet her cock-caged wimpy step-daddy drove a Prius.

She was clever. Well, she was smart while pleading for her life, and doing it very effectively.

As it happens, for this type of job I drive a big Ford, a modified Crown Vic that looks enough like a cop car to fool cops. I had been a clerk to a ranking federal judge; it took some effort to get the plate covered (police computers thought I was an undercover US Marshal) but now the cops had standing orders to ignore the car for anything a little out of the routine, like speeding while driving on the sidewalk. (It happened once. LAPD started pursuit, I heard them call in the plate. When they got the code on the call-back they killed the lights, turned left and let me go on my way. It was after midnight, so the sidewalks were deserted anyway.)

My dear Vicky has a large trunk. I have had visitors there. Just never by request. Plus, if they were breathing going in, they always got over it before they exited. I explained these facts of life. "I can't say I have ever used it quite that way," I concluded. "It is not comfy. Usually... well, let us say visitors are beyond discomfort."

"I can be more fun then they were... and what is a little discomfort to me? I mean, considering my options here..."

She had a point. We had talked long enough I decided I better introduce myself. "You can call me Batman for now. To be honest, I am tempted. But it may not end well for you. I make no promises except that I am not a nice person, and if you cause me the slightest problem I will be forced to kill you and then have to dispose of the body. Since you will be forcing me to do it, it will not be the quick death I would be inclined to use here. You should know that. Also, I offer no party drugs, I don't hold or use. Are you still interested?"

"Oh yes..." She sounded breathless like Marilyn Monroe, those two words suggested I was irresistibly charming to her body, not like the choice was between death after my pleasure or a quick painless death where she stood.

"You have not seen my face yet. I could be uglier than these shits." I wasn't ugly, I looked like a that "Thor" guy only better, more Nordic and without facial hair. I may be taller also. But I wanted her mind as far from that image as possible.

"They were ugly," she agreed. "At least two of them were. That was part of the appeal. I guess I don't expect to see your face at all if I hope to live. I know the score here and will co-operate willingly with you. We will both get something out of it. You can see me well enough. Why do I need to see you when I will plainly feel you... very well I am sure," she wiggled her cute, easy-to-fuck bottom, for emphasis. It almost made me drop my pants. "...and get more... good feelings... out of what you do. This seems much better all around."

Damn she was hot, that wiggle put my mind in a place it should not be, given the dead bodies.

She had a point. I realized I had never met such a girl. Clever, confident, educated and very attractive, cool and collected when faced with torture and death. That settled the first life-or-death issue, I was not going to kill her here. But I had to wonder, if I took her home, would the pleasure be worth having to kill her later, with the bother of disposal? I would have to end her if she gleaned some information from me. That was my life, and I didn't get to take any short-cuts from it.

LA rules were unwritten but still binding, even to a life-long professional lawbreaker like me as I stood surrounded by four bodies who I had sent onward. Finally I conceded the point to myself; men, even dangerous genius psychopaths living dual lives like me, are stupid when they are aroused by gorgeous naked, bound, willing, submissive women. Maybe that is hard-wired? I was going to risk taking her into my life for a time.

After removing the various clamps on her body (yes, that hurt, but she took it well) I draped the least-filthy Black Kings jacket around her, picked her up, and carried her to the car. She was not "flesh and bones" light, that luxurious flesh meant there was some prime meat underneath. But they call me "Viking" for good reason. I could cope.

The trunk was not comfortable, but it had a better outlook than where she had been. The jacket would be missed but the CSIs would make up something. I arranged blankets under her, plus another handcuff to keep her and Vicky together, just in case. I also took the cameras the fucking Black Kings had set up, taking a quick look for other bits. (The cameras recorded but did not broadcast.) I left all the weapons the Kings had: Knives and pistols and tools, there was nothing interesting. I left Cosmo's gun, his people would expect to find it. On patrol like this I wear gloves and a ski mask so there was no DNA. I decided against torching the place; why force the authorities attention? Better to control the timing.

On the way back to the car I honestly wondered if I would kill her after our private "thank you" party. Well, if I did it would not be slow and agonizing like the late Black Kings planned. Using pliers and dry fucking ice while their dicks were inside her magnificent body? I was too fucking quick with them! What sort of drug-retarded animal thinks like that for somebody hot who comes willingly with their ugly selves? We all had to die, if I had to end her because of my own mistake a proper 'thank you' for her willing company would be a quick painless death by surprise during or right after the biggest, both mind-blowing orgasm I could muster in her. (Yes, I do think very well of myself.)

As I drove I felt like killing some more Black Kings just because. I still had my machetes. Under the unwritten LA rules it was allowed for for those wearing gang colors. But no such luck.

I did keep an eye on my rear camera as I drove, I had this feeling, this sixth sense, of being watched. At one point I pulled onto the freeway and wound it up for a few miles at 110 MPH to clear any possible tail.

I drove to my #2 safe house, my Fort Zero.

-

Chapter 3. Fort Zero

To support my dual life I need at least three cribs. The lawyer who goes by Eric Grey lives in stylish Casa Grey, located in a very expensive neighborhood with lots of private security. The gang banger Paulo Zero's home is in Uncle Toad's New Jack City-type apartment building I call Hotel Pablo. The official name is the Pablo Apartments, after my late father Pablo who was Toad's older brother. My mother's Brazilian blood is reflected in my name.

My #1 safe house, which is not associated with either persona, is the well-located Batcave hidden in an active parking structure, part of a busy industrial district. Then, because I am especially smart or paranoid (in my line of work they are hard to distinguish) there was a fourth home, which I call Fort Zero. This location is very secret and secure. There I could entertain Gracie properly, in comfort and style with lots of toys. No records connect the property with me. Due to a quirk the address isn't in the system, so if anyone got a warrant it would be flawed, and goodbye evidence.

I pulled into a garage, one that enters from the alley and looks as if it is for the house two doors down. Out the back of that garage, through 2 well-fenced back yards, then into the garage attached to the Fort. When that steel garage door was closed I popped the trunk. Gracie was as calm as she had been before, I complimented her on her poise.

Once we were sealed inside the house I removed the handcuffs. She did not play with the bag but I knew it was uncomfortable so I would replace that too.

Fort Zero is designed in layers. You may know a Spanish hacienda is designed to enclose a central courtyard. Here there is no courtyard, instead there is another house. A "safe" house. The rooms of the outside house have windows and doors. The rooms on the inside house are sealed off with cinder blocks reinforced with steel, and locked, hidden steel doors.

I sat my guest down in one of the inside suites, then got some things and set them down on the table. "This is a safety scissors, a new head bag, and some tape. Also a glass and a bottle of wine, something tells me you like a good red. You are to count to 60, then you can remove that low rent bag - it really does not suit you - plus your shoes. You can use the facilities. You can shower if you wish; I am sorry if I do not stock your products. Relax, take your time, but use a shower cap for now. I will mention that there are cameras in all rooms including the bathroom but that is security, not kicks. I intend to enjoy your wonderful flesh via intimate contact. You can look around, any door that you should not open is locked tight. After you are done you are to come back here, sit down, put on this white bag, then secure it with the tape. I expect they did it poorly; you can experiment. I do not require that the bag be tight, just constrained so it will not fall off. Not on your life. I will return. When I do, less talking is better. Understand?"

"Yes. Thank you, this is very considerate... which I guess means you have had guests here before. I won't ask."

So in one sentence she was honest, considerate and perceptive. I work with lawyers who have avoided all three with anybody except a judge. She was refreshing.

I kept an eye on the CCTV. While she was in the shower I called Jax, our Warlord, with my report of the shortened patrol. Calls from Fort Zero went by hard wire to a house around the corner where they had a second landline. The older couple living there had no idea. That landline called a cellphone that was powered from a transformer, and that only when making a call from that specific number. The gizmo to do this was hidden in the attic of a house owned by a state Supreme Court judge, where his invalid wife lived, making it pretty much warrant-proof. I even had signed permission, I caught him on a busy day when he did not read everything he signed.

Jax would notify the Aztexs so they could get Cosmo's body. After 24 hours he would call the police using one of our confidential informants. That timeline was open to negotiation. The Aztexs may want to visit the Black Kings in the interim, to administer some justified mayhem. Once the cops were in the loop they would have eyes on the Kings, and might spoil the fun, so they would be kept in the dark for a time. I mentioned that a live female was removed from the scene. Jax knew better than to ask questions; he knew all he needed to know about what happened to the Warlord before me.

When I was done I removed my own clothing. (DNA was inevitable, so why not enjoy her?) Then I returned to Gracie. She had followed my instructions to the letter, she even figured out the bag and put it on right. The bag is white, very light and breathable, but it has an opaque layer of felt sewn inside where needed to block sight. She had put in on the right way, then taped it so it would not slip, but also so it did not constrain her breathing.

"Very good, you have it exactly right," I said. "Have you, perhaps, worn one in the past?"

"Mumzy tried tight leather ones on step-creature number three. She did the thing with straws?" I knew what she meant. "But she got distracted by a phone call once... he didn't last too long."

I knew that when very rich people died during B&D in the pricier parts of LA, a special police squad investigates and it is always ruled accidental; it is understood that contributions will be made and favors are owed. I assumed that was what happened to the late Number Three.

"When she threw the whole collection out one unused mask refused to go and hid in my room. By now... well, let us just say that mask has lost its virginity. But really, from what I've seen, what good is any guy who would wear one?"

A custom kidnap bag like the white bag she now wore sounds like a clue to my identity, but in fact this was standard bondage gear, with hundreds sold each week in the San Fernando Abyss of the Very Perverted and some even more depraved suburbs.

-

Chapter 4. Tension Table

With all secure it was time for some fun in the playroom, downstairs. This is the only basement in the area and as it happens it is not on the city records. It was dug some time ago using imported labor.

First came an inspection; I had Gracie step on to a raised platform, hold her arms high, then turned on the spotlights.

She was really something. I said as much. About 5 foot 4. On the bathroom camera I had seen she was a natural blonde in a sensible but attractive variation on a pageboy cut. Down below she was lasered bare front and back, a very expensive job to go with the anal bleaching. She showed a very prominent sex; around her jutting mound it was indented, with puffy fat outer lips marking a long slit that would tempt any man. In back her cleft went high on her oh-so-round butt, but her perfect pink rosebud was placed low. Her figure was the rarest of designs: a slim but curvy body type I call "Joanna" after someone I saw once. I had her bend forward to confirm what I thought I had seen; her breasts were very large, in fact they were the largest and most pert naturals I had ever seen without any sign of flop to them. I knew that in bed or at a black-tie ball she would be a dream. I started to think I could keep her. Of course that was impossible, but a guy can dream, can't he?

My mirror-lined playroom included three major works of motorized erotic bondage furniture: a X-cross, a custom "sex horse" and a high-tech tension table. All had their own motors and were designed for easy one-man operation.

I explained that I was starting her with the tension table. It acts like a medieval rack to stretch a body and limbs out while presenting a body for sex in the 'bent-over, from-behind' position. The device was actually desk-sized. Feet were secured to a base platform on the legs of the table, they fit into movable pieces that looked much like front of a shoe. These had wide leather straps that wrapped around the feet and lower leg then laced up, so really the bottom half of the calf was secure. The bent-over occupant rested on a padded bolster that motors could move up-down, in-out, or change the angle. The arms were stretched out and secured individually, at any angle from directly over the head to about 60 degree to the side. Fingerless gloves that went halfway up the arm were laced on, and the gloves hooked to springs connected to the cables of two motors.

There is an adjustable false floor platform behind the table that the operator can adjust his own height relative to the table occupant.

The table is adjustable in every way I could think of, more or less comfortable depending on the settings, and takes little room. It is cushioned where it supports the body. By using broad soft leather gloves and leggings instead of damaging cable ties to secure the limbs we did not put the wrist or ankle at risk. Plus, the tension at either arms (winch motors) or legs (via the bolster) could be varied at the touch of a button. Various meters gave helpful, objective readings of tension in play on each limb. There were medical scopes to show the effect.

She was game to play and willingly accepted my invitation to step up, bend forward, and let me strap the table on to her limbs. It was like she could not wait to be fucked, she actually giggled when I adjusted the height for her using my cock to get it right.

Once she was secured I made adjustments and put myself deeply into the project. Bareback.

When I put my cock into her pussy she was very wet with anticipation, and her body quivered with the sensation. I went all the way in with two easy strokes. She was not under tension yet so she moved with me perfectly and gave this little moan of pleasure that was pure music to my ears. Damn, that was a sweet sound, I wanted to hear that for the rest of my life! She flexed the internal muscles, she felt like she was trying to compress my cock along the length inside her. I held myself inside her and enjoyed the incredible feelings of her body reacting to my cock. Her body moved like she could not help it, like she needed me. She made little noises as she moved, sincere little sounds of pleasure that came unhindered even if I might kill her.

I imagined this was better than she hoped for, she just didn't know it yet. But I wanted to be sure. "Were you serious about some pain with your pleasure?"

"Yes please. I was sincere. This device... you said it does tension like a rack? Please?"

I activated the automatic BP cuff. "Is your preference for spanks, maybe with a flogger, or do you want some nipple clamps, or is straight tension what you are looking for?"

"Oh, I was hoping for pure tension actually, I think that is why they stretched me. Except they were clumsy, useless. They did the clamps but they were not very good... clamps need a bit of theater and I am afraid I was not much of an audience... and they were terrible showmen! As for stretching my holes, they said they didn't want me to enjoy their 'overwhelming' size. Can you believe that? But really, as to the fine line between pleasure and pain... I sort of wanted them both, to be balanced on that line at higher pleasure and higher pain. Tension does that so well... and I already have higher pleasure." She wiggled on my cock.