The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels

THE DARKLING BEETLES by Gene Santagada

The door was easy to force. Luckily the fancy inlaid glass didn’t break. Although this building appeared deserted, I did not want to chance being overheard by some cleaning lady. One firm shove – the door jamb cracked – and I was in.

I felt along the wall for the light switch. I flicked it – but nothing! Some joker had taken all the light bulbs.

Big deal, I thought: I see like a bat in the dark. But lights were not the only things missing from this office. The place was stripped clean: no chairs, desks, or filing cabinets. They had even taken the water cooler.

Across the room, before a half open window, I saw a tipped-over wastepaper basket. Garbage can be a case’s Rosetta stone, every detective knows that. Before checking it out, I peered through the blinds. Only a few cars were in the parking lot, two stories below. Some looked abandoned; this was typical for the meat-packing district.

Luck was still with me; the basket was stuffed with papers! This could be the break I needed. I unfolded the first crumpled letter by the dim light of the window.

“Samuel Bigglesworth: Private Detective,” announced the letterhead. What kind of a tinsel-ass name was that? I checked the glass on the door. There it was, in big black stencil: this was Bigglesworth’s office. I unfolded another letter.

“Dear Mr. Bigglesworth,” it read, “enclosed is a check for $15,000 for your services.” The next letter said, “As we agreed, here is the $6,000 advance.” I found more and more like this, even a couple of canceled checks. One was for eighteen grand!

This Bigglesworth has a sissy name, but he sure rakes in the bucks. I wish I had this guy’s clientele! Whoever he was, he had to be the best. But it made no sense for a guy with such cash flow to keep his office buried downtown. I’d be uptown with the big players and corporate guys. He did make mistakes, though. It was not smart to leave records around where someone could find them. And if I ever got a check for eighteen grand, I would have the fucker framed!

Next in the basket was a dog-eared magazine. A nearly naked babe was plastered on the cover. Big deal, so Bigglesworth was into porn. Who isn’t? I flipped through the pages, and instead of naked women, I found reams of classified ads. “Thirty-something white male seeks twenty-ish blonde,” that sort of thing. Poor baby! Bigglesworth was lonely, I know how that is! Some people included pictures of themselves with the ads.

The more I saw, the more I realized something funny was going on. One picture had a guy dressed up like a baby, with diapers, even a pacifier stuck in his mouth. He had to be fifty years old! Next, I saw a woman holding her stocking clad foot to the camera. Her ad read, “Hi; I am in desperate need of the right person (guy or gal) to worship my feet.” I winced when I saw the photo of the guy with all the clothespins pinching his cock. CLOTHESPINS? For Christ’s sake!

The more I saw and read, the stranger it got. I never would have figured Bigglesworth for a pervert. But it takes all kinds, doesn’t it? The ads at the back of the magazine were for escort agencies, “licensed” masseurs, and “professional” hostesses. A sweet bunch of words that spelled one thing: prostitution. Just as I was ready to toss the magazine, I noticed an ad on the back was circled by a felt tip pen.

“Visit Mistress Amanda,” the ad proclaimed. “Do you need something different?” It went on to say, “Come be a captive in my Dungeon. No posers, beginners, or wimps allowed! Slaves must submit an application to qualify. Accepting positions for male and female submissives.” The phone number was the exchange of this neighborhood. The bottom of the ad included a picture of the proprietor. She was wearing some sort of fancy girdle. Even in this low-resolution picture, I could tell she was a beauty. I ripped the ad out and stuffed it in my back pocket.

The basket held one last surprise: an old hat. It was the kind those pot-smoking Rastafarians use to stuff their dreadlocks under. It had rainbow colors, like something out of a time-warp from the hippie days. It was embroidered with little metallic beetles. Who would have dreamed up such a thing?

Something else was strange. As I handled it, my fingers were getting numb. It was as if it contained a hidden chunk of dry ice.

I sniffed at the rim. It was not soaked with perfume, nor did it smell sweet, the way a lady’s sweat smells. This smelled acrid, so it must have belonged to a man. But I detected something else, an odor that reminded me of…

Nothing breaks your concentration like the flashing lights of a police car. From the window, I saw one racing into the parking lot. It lurched to a halt. Immediately, two uniformed officers jumped out, followed by two suits climbing from the back seats. One suit carried a high-powered rifle slung from his shoulder. The grenade-launcher attached under the barrel of the gun meant this was not standard issue. The other suit must have stepped out of a science fiction movie. He was muscular and big. He was wearing some sort of goggles, like those fancy night vision things, the infrared type.

“We are doing this legal,” I heard the cop say, “by the book. No nasty mess-ups like last time.” The suit with the rifle chuckled. “I mean it,” insisted the cop. “The chief wants this to go smoothly. Get a good clean fix on him before you shoot…”

What were these guys after? I was glad they were not looking for me.

Then the craziest sensation hit me. I had no idea what I was doing or who sent me. What case was I on? I started quizzing myself. My unanswerable list grew larger and larger, even when I got to the fundamental questions. My own name was even a mystery. It was as if I just became self-aware moments ago. What was going on? My pockets were empty: no wallet, cards, license, or money. Not even snapshots of the wife and kids. Did I have a wife and kids? Sickness cramped my stomach. I felt dizzy, so I steadied myself against the windowsill.

That was a big mistake.

TING! A hole shot through the window glass. It spider-webbed out and shattered. I dived for the floor. I heard yelling.

“HEY! No shooting!”

“You missed,” another informed, “but I got a clear read on him: he’s up there.”

They missed, all right. I had to get out of there fast! Crouching low, I headed for the door.

The dark hallway smelled of plastic and mildew. At one end glowed an exit sign by the stairwell. At the other end was an elevator. I chose the stairs.

Just inside the stairwell, a barred window provided a view of the parking lot. I decided to have a peek at my friends.

Both cops were dead. One lay sprawled on the hood of the patrol car, his head smashed clean through the windshield. The other was spread-eagled on the ground, face down in a pool of blood. The suits were nowhere in sight. If those two suits caught up with me, they weren’t going to read me my Miranda Rights.

A creaking sound echoed up the stairwell. A glance over the handrail confirmed the worst; the searching beam of a rifle laser sight cut the darkness. They were here.

Dashing upstairs would make noise, so I backed out into the hallway. The only option was the elevator. If the suits had brains, they would separate; one should take the stairs, the other the lift. So I pressed myself flush against the wall, out of sight, and hit the “up” button. Seconds later, the doors opened. It was empty. I got on and pressed the panel for the top floor. If a chance existed for getting out of this alive, I needed some distance between us.

“Third floor,” announced the tinny androgynous-sounding speaker above my head.

I wished the drugs, if that’s what had deep-sixed my memory, would finally wear off. But as I concentrated, the wooziness returned. I desperately needed a clear head.

I rechecked my pockets. This time I found a thin black plastic card, hidden by the ripped-out ad I stuffed in earlier. It was like a blank credit card, no names or numbers. But I caught sight of a thin magnetic strip painted down one side. As I passed the sixth floor, I made another discovery.

I had a gun! Clipped to my belt was a leather holster. The pistol slipped out easily. It was my Birretta Cougar 45. This little baby came in handy in Hong Kong, when those three bastards decided to have a surprise party for me. But my Cougar was the perfect host; she fed each man one serving before going around the room and delivering seconds. My little baby would not think of letting them skip dessert, so I went around the table and stuck her cute little barrel right into each gurgling mouth and…

Now I was remembering! This gun had saved my life more than once. But I had no time to savor this memory.

Muffled voices. Sounds came from underneath me. Somebody was in the elevator shaft. Grenade launcher! Those words flashed through my brain. Clammy panic washed over my skin. My short hairs stood on end.

“Eighth floor,” spoke the hardwired voice. I hit the button for the ninth. The elevator eased to a halt. The doors creaked open.

The explosion blasted me forward out of the elevator.

A ball of smoke and fiery orange sparks shot past. The force slammed me face-down. I rolled over to see the now twisted floor of the elevator. It was ruptured open like a tin can. The elevator snapped its cable. It fell half a flight before I heard the safety gears biting into the shaft. I got up, my gun still planted firmly in my hand. I ran to the stairwell and rushed to the top floor.

I stepped out into a barren hallway, carpeted in royal blue. The ceiling and walls were painted warm red. But there were no offices, signs, or doorways. This place was a gaudy dead end. I heard more noise echoing up the stairs; they were on their way up. There was no escape. My gun was no match for their heat, and it was two against one. This was looking bad.

But my eyes paid off again. Buried flush against the wall, I found a hidden doorway. It was so carefully inlaid that anyone could miss it. But how did it open? I felt a pulsing rhythm through the door. I placed my ear against it and, even though my ears still rung from the elevator explosion, I heard music. Somebody was home. I chanced knocking. Nothing. I banged on the door. Still no response. I scratched and felt along the door, in search of a secret buzzer, touch pad, anything! My fingernail caught what I at first thought was just a deep scratch in the door. But right where a doorknob should be was a two-inch long slit. This looked like a card insert, and I had such a card.

I fed the mysterious black thing into the slit. It was sucked into the slot. Then it shot out, tumbling to the floor. As I bent to retrieve it, I heard the blessed sound of releasing dead bolts. The door slid away.

It was a large spartanly furnished room. Once I stepped in, the door automatically closed behind me.

A large teakwood desk dominated the room. It had legs carved as tiger claws. This was something that belonged in a museum, not a piece of office furniture. The drawers were all locked. On top was a computer keyboard; propped next to it, a flat screen monitor. Before the desk was a plain chair. But the chair behind the desk was upholstered in blue velvet, and had a high wooden back carved with all sorts of exotic animals. This was a throne fit for a king, or a queen.

A number of rooms adjoined this one. One was the source of the music. I figured I better check out the scene before I met the owner of this place.

The room I chose was unlocked. In the center was a medical examination table. It looked like the kind of table doctors use to examine women’s glory holes. Attached to the foot of the table were a pair of stirrups. But these stirrups had secure buckles. The mid-section of the table had a leather belt fastened to the sides. At the head of the table was a pair of leather cuffs. Beside the table stood a metal cart, covered with a sheet of blue paper. I pulled the paper free, and was greeted by the most evil-looking medical instruments I had ever seen: clamps, hemostats, needles, probes, and things with hooks. This was a torture chamber! It was even complete with sound-proof tiles to cover the screams. No wonder they didn’t hear the elevator explode.

I returned to the main room, following the music. It was something classical. That’s when I heard the strangest sound – and somebody screaming.

WOOSH-THWACK, the sound went, then a woman screamed, “Stop! Please!” I heard it again. Woosh-thwack, “Uh,” woosh-thwack, “No… No more,” woosh-thwack…

Some poor lady was getting the third degree. It was time to act. I gripped my gun firmly. I turned the doorknob.

The woman standing before me looked like a riding instructor from hell! Fortunately, I was behind her. Her long dark hair was luscious. She wore black satin gloves that reached past her elbows. Her white shirt was stuffed into some sort of girdle that laced up the back and squeezed her tight. She sported brown leather pants, the legs of which were tucked into knee-high leather boots. She was just completing the swing of a multi-tailed whip.

“Whoosh,” it cut through the air, “thwack”, it smacked the backside of a completely naked woman. The poor girl was bent pretzel-like over a leather-covered hobbyhorse. Her hands were secured to one side. Her legs were bound to a bar that kept them spread about one meter apart. Her cherry-red ass stuck up in the air.

Then I noticed the man. He was naked except for the tiniest set of briefs I ever saw. He was bound spread-eagled to this large wooden cross. A black rubber ball was crammed into his mouth as an effective gag. As he saw me, he started shaking his head and struggling. He must have been relieved to see me.

“OK, lady, drop that!” I yelled.

The torturer glared at me. A thick lock of hair was obscuring half her face, like that old movie actress Veronica Lake. This woman was beautiful.

“YOU,” she exclaimed. Of everything she could have said, that was not what I expected.

“Uh, shut up!” I commanded. “Drop that whip and don’t move!”

The whip hit the floor. The female victim spoke up.

“What the fuck is going on?” she asked, twisting her neck to see.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her, “I’ll get you out of this mess.”

I needed a man’s help, so went to the guy on the cross first. He was staring at me strangely. The cord securing the gag was easy to unfasten.

“Who the FUCK are you?” He shot an angry stare at the whip woman. “Mistress Amanda,” he went on, “this is not part of our scene!”

“Yeah,” the naked woman added, “what the hell is going on? This is totally unprofessional! Oh, shit.” She looked at the man. “Are we being robbed?”

“Sam,” the whip woman asked, “how did you get in here?”

My name was Sam?

“You have ruined our honeymoon,” proclaimed the man on the cross. “I hope you don’t think we are going to pay…”

“SILENCE!” the whip woman shouted. Her two prisoners shut right up. She turned to me. “Please, Sam, put the gun down.” Most people plead when gazing down the barrel of a gun, but she just acted upset and concerned. “Haven’t you hurt me enough? We can work this out and…” Stopping mid-sentence, her expression shifted to one of revelation. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

I had no idea what was up with this bitch, but she was right about that.

“The Darkling hat,” she proclaimed. “You’ve been wearing it, haven’t you?”

“You mean, this?” I asked, pulling it from my pocket.

She stepped toward me. I raised the gun, asserting my bead on her. I was still on top, and that’s where I wanted to be until I figured this mess out.

“Sam, let me explain.” She stopped, as if searching for words. Then her dark eyebrows narrowed. “You weren’t followed here, were you?”

Pounding at the front door interrupted our chat.

“I think so,” I confirmed. Now I had my angle! I would see if this bitch was on the level.

“Do they want me bad enough to kill two cops?” I asked, my finger tightening on the trigger.

All expression bled from her face. “If it’s who I think it is,” she said quietly, “we are all dead, even if you surrender the hat.”

That was a good answer. I lowered the gun.

“OK,” I said. “It’s your move, uh, Amanda.” She gave me a look of contempt. This woman did not take any shit. I liked that.

“Follow me,” she snapped, striding out of the room, her boots striking the floor firmly.

“What’s going on?” asked the tied-down woman.

“Yeah,” added the man.

“Hey,” I said, closing the door, “the lady said shut up!”

Amanda went to the big desk. The monitor came on by itself. It displayed an image of the two goons who were after me.

“That’s them,” I confirmed.

“Shit! Who the hell are they? And one has a visor.” She indicated the big man. “Are they armed?”

“Yeah, big-time!”

Working on its own, the image switched to a wide-angle shot behind our visitors. That grenade-launching rifle was propped to one side against the wall. This babe had the whole place planted with stealth cameras. A rapid flash of images cycled across the screen. The faces of the two men were being referenced against some sort of database. A wire frame graphic of the visor spun in a window, as reams of data scrolled by. The image of one of the goons froze.

“We have a match for the short one,” she informed. “He is an ex-fed. I wonder who he works for?”

Even with all this going on, I found myself staring at her body. Her small breasts fitted the boyish frame of her upper body. Her arms were strong, but not over-developed. Her bottom end was rendered hyper-female by the pinching corset. How did she breathe in that thing? Her backside was firm and round, like that of a dancer. Definitely a butt to die for.

“Wait a minute,” I added, “you never touched that keyboard once. You have an EOS, an Encephalized Operating System.”

This was illegal. Only the military could lawfully maintain an EOS. Whoever this demon woman was, she was playing for keeps.

They pounded on the front door again. Amanda motioned me to keep still.

“Hello,” she said. “Who’s there?”

“Uh,” we heard from an invisible speaker, “this is the police.”

“Yes,” she called into the air. “I’m busy with clients, how can I help you?”

“There’s a dangerous fugitive in the neighborhood. Can we come in and ask some questions?”

One of the locked drawers on the desk sprang open. She pulled out something that looked like a shower cap. She slipped it over her head, pulling a chinstrap down her face.

“Yes, officer,” she said, “just give me a minute to dress. Listen,” she confided to me, “I must let them in or they will get suspicious.”

I agreed.

“This keeps me insulated.” She pointed to the rubber cap. “They can ping me all they want, and all they will get is a brain full of reflections.”

“What?” I asked.

“Start stripping. I’ll explain.”

“WHAT?”

“Off with your clothes,” she ordered.

I was stripping before a woman I did not even know.

“Officers,” she called out, “I’m getting dressed: give me a minute.”

“My business thrives on confidentiality,” she quietly explained.

I moved fast. I was down to my socks and underwear. My thumbs hesitated at the waistband. She anticipated my question.

“Yes, those too. Imagine a high-ranking congresswoman who gets off by being walked and spat on? Or the Federal judge who wants to be a prisoner of the Nazis and be interrogated by an Amazon SS agent? What would their political enemies do with such knowledge? And just imagine the media frenzy.”

I was now naked. I placed my gun and holster on the pile of clothes. A sexy smirk grew on her face again. It was as if she knew something dirty about me.

“They need a court order,” she continued, “if they want a crack at my computer, and it’s a fucking Federal case if they want to read my mind. So my cap is licensed.” She rubbed her sexy fingers over her head. She gave me a suspicious look. “Your thoughts are our weak spot, but this amnesia might play into our hands.”

This babe had looks, brains, attitude, and swore! I liked that combination. This is someone I wanted on my side. She was one cool number, this Amanda. I figured I had better play along.

She stuffed my gun and clothes into the drawer and slammed it shut. Then she led me back to the room with her two captives.

“What about your, uh, clients?” I pointed to the trussed-up man and woman. “Won’t their minds be readable?”

“We are lucky you brought my hat.”

Her hat?

That was when I saw the scar. A pencil-thin line of pink flesh ran down the middle of her right cheekbone to the corner of her lip.

“You remember nothing?” Her eyes locked on me.

“I lost a lot, didn’t I?”

Instead of answering, she held the hat open. She brought it to the man first. He began to struggle. She held it on his head. His face formed a painful grimace. But then his expression – his whole body – went limp. Amanda withdrew the hat, then approached the lady. She started thrashing on the horse.

“Those things are illegal,” she complained. “I’m reporting you to the Fetish Industry Board and… and…” Her eyes darted in panic, then a convulsion shot through her body as Amanda slipped the hat on her. “You… are… are… y -” She went rag-doll limp. Amanda turned to me.

“Your turn, my little detective. It hurts at first, but you used to like it, my sick little puppy.” She reached toward me and pulled it over my head.

Blackness on blankness. No circuits, wires, chips, wet ware, or LEDs. Only oblivion. Nothingness raised exponentially to infinity, floating in a blissful void. Peacefully empty. Painless, but not lonely. The beetles were coming. Legs outstretched, touching down like planetary space probes. Mandibles sharp and gnashing. They parted the flesh of my forehead. It was so easy for them to bore through bone. They were hungry from their long trip. Swarming over the convolutions of my brain, antennae waving, mandibles snapping. Foraging on the convolutions of my brain. A forest of delicious memories for their feast. There was much for them to gorge on.

I awoke in darkness. I was sitting on a floor, my arms suspended above my head. Something oppressive hugged my face. I stretched my legs, and felt the confines of a small room. A door opened. Cool air swept my skin.

“How are you doing?”

A familiar voice. She was carefully loosening the bindings at my wrists. My arms tingled. She tugged at my face. The leather hood came free. The light temporarily blinded me. Through my squinting eyes, I saw an angel standing before me.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” I replied. “My arms are pins and needles.”

“Sorry, that’s the blood returning. I kept you in here too long. You never liked isolation, but I had to check up on you – after our friends left.”

“What?

Slap! She answered by striking my face with her palm. She did it again.

“Amanda!” I blocked the next one. “For Christ’s sake!”

A devilish smirk marked her face.

“Good. You remember.” She helped me to my feet, and I stepped from the closet.

“The Darkling hat was on you just seconds but, in your sensitized state, I worried it would bite too deep. At first it only feeds on your most recent memories, especially emotionally intense ones.”

“I guess having a grenade shot at you is pretty intense.” I glanced around the room, confirming that the couple had left. “What happened to those customers of yours? And those hit men? Just a few minutes ago…”

“Ha!” She laughed. “Silly boy, that was over an hour ago. I even showed you off to those to so-called policemen! The hood I had on your face disguised you. I claimed you were a misbehaving slave and you were being punished by sensory deprivation. Yeah, you used to hate it when I put a hood on you.”

“Did they try to read my mind?” I interrupted. “Did they ‘ping’ me?”

“Yes, and all he got was a brain pan full of confusion. I hope the bastard gagged on it.”

“Well,” I ventured, “can I put my pants on now?”

“But you look best naked! They gave me a line of shit about looking for a terrorist. After they left, I finished the scene with my two customers. Don’t worry, they won’t remember a thing about you.”

Her face grew stern. “I wish I didn’t remember you.”

“Look,” I said, “since you seem to know me so well, please fill me in?”

“Was it so easy to forget?” Her voice shifting cold, she turned away.

That damn nauseous feeling came back.

“Amanda,” I said, “you got me, I mean us, out of a tough jam. I appreciate that. But I can’t stand this history act.”

“Just shut up!” She glared. I guess “history” was a bad choice of words. It was obvious I was more than a notch on this woman’s belt.

“I’m sorry,” I found myself saying. “I should go and just -”

“Sure!” she cut in, ignoring the tear traveling down the wound channel of her scar. “So where will you go? You would not last a minute out there.”

“Cut the crap!” Now I was getting pissed off. “You can’t fool me. I am not into this whips and chains stuff. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, especially as you just saved my life. But this is not my thing.”

“Oh, yeah?” she sarcastically replied, pointing down to my crotch. “That’s not how it looks to me.” My penis was sticking out, hard.

“While you were unconscious,” she continued, “I took the time to do a thorough search on you. I’ve been reading up on your adventures. Your detective career has really taken off. You are famous now; one post credited you as being a modern-day Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, that’s nice, but…”

“Hush! You cracked a big case in Hong Kong.”

As she explained, I remembered my agency. My cases came alive in me. But it was imperfect, like someone stole pieces of the puzzle. Even my name came back. How did I ever make it through life with a name like Bigglesworth?

“It’s good you saved this.” Amanda held up the black card. “Some vestigial remnant of you must be hiding out in your brain. You subconsciously stored many of your old files and memories using a Gordian Worm, just in case something like this happened.”

“Wait a minute,” I chimed in, “that’s a deep encryption algorithm, designed by the military. What was I doing with that?”

“Probably something left over from your friends in Hong Kong. But who knows what you’ve been up to the last couple of years?” She gave me a stern look. “I hoped to never see you again.”

“Could I have been that big of a scum-bag?”

“Shhh,” she replied. “The wrong people learned you possessed the hat. In a sense, you did me a favor. You took the heat – as you say it – off me.” She kept turning the card in her hands, staring at me. “You know,” she continued, “the Worm is a tough beast. But I’d like my computer to have a hack at it.”

Technical contraband? Illegal software? Government secrets? Leather and whips? What the hell was I involved with?

Her gloved hand touched my shoulder. Muscles relaxed throughout my body. It was as if I was hypnotized. What power did this creature have over me? I had an impulse to lick that gloved hand. But she pulled it away before I could react.

“Sam,” she continued, “you can have it all back: who you are, what happened, and why you came back. The EOS and the Darkling hat are based on the same technology. Your memories can be regurgitated and reinstalled. No one knows about this function,” she confided. “At least, not anyone alive.”

I just stared at the ground. The tip of her boot nestled into my leg, she gave me a nudge.

“Well, Mr Detective? Want the mystery of yourself revealed?”

“God, yes,” I found myself saying.

“That’s GODDESS, to you,” she corrected. “But you may have physically damaged your nervous system. You dissected away some deep and horrible memories; getting them force-fed back might be a rough ride. It might even be fatal. I will have to monitor you closely.”

“Amanda,” I finally interrupted, “I know one thing: we are in great danger. Whoever I am, he can help us escape. Let’s stop fucking around and get on with it!”

Amanda recuffed my hands to the wall. She left the room for a moment, then returned with that crazy hat.

“Well, here goes. Some of the memories will seem alien. Your thoughts may come back like snapshots from somebody else’s dreamscape…”

Her voice faded as she brought the hat to my head.

The man Amanda had trussed up was an enigma. She only saw deep bottoms, masochists who had a high pain threshold. Beginners, amateurs, posers, or people just wanting a quick jerk-off never passed her screening process. But he claimed Anexia had sent him; she would never send a pussy.

During his interview, she could tell he had never been to a dominatrix. Yet he had a high pain threshold, especially for a novice. Whatever his nature, Amanda was confident it would soon be exposed. Her dungeon was better – and quicker – than any psychiatrist’s couch.

Amanda was wearing a black latex corset. It covered her breasts and sat high on her hips. The front zipper was crossed by a row of seven buckled straps. Her red latex gloves reached to her elbows. A leather thong complemented her fishnet pantyhose. The boots came up to just below the knee; the laces were bright red.

Her customer was naked and bent in an upside-down V over her leather upholstered hobbyhorse. His ass was the highest part of his body. She had started with her riding crop. People curious about bondage, discipline, and sadomasochism – or BDSM, as it was sometimes called – often chose a crop as their first plaything. It was often mistaken for a beginner’s implement.

But it could be effective, even dangerous, in the hands of someone like Amanda. And she had just demonstrated her skill on this fellow’s backside. His butt was now the nicest shade of red and almost glowing. He could not utter his safe-word – the code word that meant “stop under any circumstance: I am in trouble” – since a ball gag was stuffed in his mouth. They decided an extended index finger meant the same. So far, he had hardly moaned. But he would, Amanda knew, after she raised a few welts.

At the closet, she inspected her collection of whips. She had over a dozen, in all shapes, sizes, colors, and varieties. The floggers were short, with many tails. Some were longer, like her cherished cat o’nine tails. Others were not whips at all, but flat slappers and paddles. She selected her favorite cat o’nine tails. It was jet black and three feet long, with nine thick leather lashes, each cut to a point to deliver a stinging blow. She could be gentle, prolonging a flogging for what would seem an eternity, or bring someone to their knees with one blow.

Returning to her customer, she spun the whip around her head.

Whoosh… Whoosh, she swung it twice above her head, cutting the air, then “snap” as she delivered the blow to his helpless backside. The tips just kissed his skin, but that allowed all the force to be transferred to a small area of his flesh. This was a painful blow. He arched, tugging at his binding.

“Hmmm, you felt that, didn’t you?” Good, thought Amanda, I’m getting to him.

Too many blows with the tips would abrade his skin like a cheese grater. She let another swing fly, this time delivering a horizontal stroke, zeroed in on his left cheek. On the return swings, she let the tails fly over her back to strike her. This helped her to gauge her blows. She wanted to take her time with this man.

Then she delivered thirty good strokes, alternating on each of his ever-reddening cheeks. She allowed a greater length of leather to strike his skin. This distributed the force of her blows. She knew he was anticipating each strike, and this helped him to endure and prepare. The red marks begun by the crop were now spreading into a large pattern. If she kept this up too long, his deep tissues would bruise. This would be too much, even for such an eager beginner. She stopped and stood beside her subject, checking his restraints and admiring her handiwork. The restraints were not yet digging into his flesh. A peek between his legs revealed his contracted scrotum. His penis was hard, forced down by the horse.

“Good boy,” she said softly. “You did not come.” She placed her hand against his ass. He jumped.

“No,” she ordered. “Keep still, my victim. If you struggle, it just hurts more. And you don’t want to make me angry.”

She lovingly ran her hands across his backside. The radiating heat penetrated her latex gloves. His breathing was slow, deep, and steady. A tiny pool of sweat had gathered in the small of his back. She dipped her finger, swirling it in the liquid. She brought her fingertip to her mouth, savoring his bitter saltiness. She now stood next to his head and slowly petted him as if he was a favored dog. The tips of his hair were frosted, making them sparkle. She bent beside him.

“How you doing, Sam?” she whispered in his ear.

“…”

His eyes were wide and brimming with tears. As she removed the gag, he inhaled a big suck of air. “Oh, is my hour up so soon? I thought, um… umph.”

Amanda laughed as she pressed the gag back in his mouth. “Ha! Losing track of time, are we? You are mine a bit longer.”

Next, she chose the quirt. This stout two-foot whip had a thick handle. The business end was tipped by a bifurcate strip of flat leather – like the tongue of a snake. She gave the air a few swings, to loosen it up. He was now ready for some serious pain.

She put her back into it. The first strike hit both sides of his ass. His back arched. On the next, he bolted against his restraints. The nerves were compressed; she allowed time for them to swell and expand before the next blow. A layer of capillaries under his skin ruptured, stippling his skin with reddish dots. Now she really started in on him, changing the strokes, not allowing him the mercy of anticipation. But his ass was sticking out even more, as if hungry for each swing. Great, she thought, I am going to bring him right to the edge.

His backside took on the patina of a deep-red tattoo. By the fifteenth stroke, his struggles were making the leather horse creak. She paused, checking for the safety sign. He was fine.

She planted the last sting across both cheeks. His body shook. Finally, he let out a muffled moan.

About time, Amanda said to herself. However, he still had not signaled her to stop.

She again went to his side. His breathing was fast and deep. His face had taken on the features of a charging bull. As she pulled the ball-gag free, saliva and a puff of steam came out. He took in a deep breath.

“Oh, man,” he said. “That was, that was fantastic!”

“Hush,” she replied. “If it was so good, why don’t you demonstrate some appreciation?”

She shifted her body to expose her latex-covered ass. He turned, placing a kiss there. He was panting. She moved, offering different areas of her backside to his attention. He reached the border between latex and skin, planting kisses on her fishnet stockings. Amanda felt the soft moistness of his tongue through the material.

“No tongue,” she warned. He stopped for a moment, then continued, letting his lips do the work. She pulled away, leaving his last kiss to plant air. She unfastened his hands, then his ankles. He started to rise.

“Careful,” she cautioned. “You don’t want to hurt your back.”

She steadied his arm and helped him up. Rivulets of sweat poured over his naked body as he stood. His nipples were small, tight, and hard. She walked him to the couch.

“Sit slowly,” she advised, remaining near. He was looking deep into her eyes. “Those puppy dog eyes are sweet, but did I give you permission to gaze at me?”

Sam looked down. “Uh, can I ask something?”

“Go on.”

“I would like something to drink.”

Amanda chuckled. “Sure, Sam. Just stay put. I’ll be right back.”

As she entered her office, her computer came on. There were no messages. She was surprised how worked up she had become during this whipping. Her thong was soaked! She had a full ninety minutes before her next client, a woman with a medical fetish. Amanda needed time to prepare the “Doctor’s Office”, and get into her nurse’s outfit. As she concentrated on her new client, Sam, a live image of him appeared on the screen. He was now standing by her terrarium, peering into its webby darkness. He tapped the glass, then his head snapped back, as if startled. Her pet tarantula never failed to please.

There was something familiar about him. He walked over to the bullwhip she had displayed on one wall. He ran his hands over its eight-foot length. Whenever she left a submissive male unattended after a session, they invariably wasted no time jerking off. Yet there was an unpredictability in this one’s nature. Amanda liked a challenge. She drew him a cup of water from the cooler. She again ran his card through her strip reader. Her computer detected no visits to any other known dominatrix. No fetish clothing purchases. His most recent payment had been to a school, and he had just purchased an airline ticket.

She returned to the room. He was still eyeing the bullwhip.

“That’s just for show,” Amanda commented.

Sam turned; he was lightly massaging his backside. “It looks evil as hell,” he said.

“Yes. In the wrong hands, that kind of whip can put someone in the emergency room.” She handed him the cup of water. “I no longer use it. I once cut someone by mistake.”

He gulped down the drink, thanking her. She pointed to the couch. Sam obediently sat down.

“That spider!” Sam indicated the terrarium. “It’s beautiful. I never saw anything like it. Those metallic blue legs!”

“Her scientific name is Haplopelma lividum; the common name is the Cobalt Blue Tarantula. But I call her Nagoya.”

“Tarantulas are really harmless. Aren’t they?”

“Most are not poisonous. But the venom of this species is dangerous.”

“I see she is not afraid to use it,” laughed Sam.

“Yeah.” Amanda smiled. “If anything touches that terrarium, she zooms out of her burrow, fangs erect and dripping with poison. She is one of the aggressive species.” Amanda’s features shifted to anger. “Enough with this nature lesson – get on your knees and entertain me!”

Sam jumped off the couch. He obediently knelt, facing Amanda. But his hands stayed at his side. He did not know what “entertainment” meant.

She never met a submissive that did not know instinctually.

“Your cock.” Amanda stood, pointing.

Sam looked down at his bobbing penis, then back at Amanda.

She almost slapped his face, but instead said, “Masturbate for me. NOW!”

“Oh,” he replied, grasping his penis. “Sorry.”

“Silence,” she commanded, “or do we need the ball-gag?”

Sam shook his head.

Amanda sat back on the couch, enjoying his little display. “Rest back on your legs, and spread them wider,” she ordered.

After he complied, he started.

“Slow down! You are going too fast,” she commented. “And don’t even think of coming!”

He held his cock gently, moving his hand gracefully over the taut skin. He kept his eyes downcast. After about thirty strokes, his breathing started to quicken. The muscles in his arms tensed. His penis gave a slight pulse, and a drop of pre-come oozed from the tip, slowly dripping to the floor.

“Stop.” She patted the seat next to her. “Up here, puppy eyes.”

Sam sat beside her. She noticed another clear drop of pre-come dangling at the tip of his penis. He was looking at it as well.

“That is bad!” she explained. She reached forward, wrapping her gloved fingers around the shaft of his penis. He froze in answer to her touch. She gave it a gentle pump, milking out another, larger size droplet. “I don’t allow pre-come,” she explained, “this is B-A-D.” She enforced her lesson by giving a harder squeeze. She loved the dramatic impact of saying “no” and “bad” to physical reactions people thought involuntary. Amanda knew that, in time, if he came back, he would learn to control such impulses.

But Amanda’s impulses were hers to indulge. She flipped over, straddling Sam’s lap, facing him. Her body pressed his hard penis flat against his stomach. The buckles of her corset dug into his skin. His head was buried between her covered breasts. This was too much pleasure for him; she grabbed a fistful of hair at the nape of his neck and pulled his head away. She rocked her hips, thrusting hard onto him. She knew her extra weight was agony to his backside. She felt his hot breath fanning her. She released his hair. He obediently kept in place. His face betrayed the conflicting mix of pleasure and suffering she was causing.

“That’s it, my little puppy,” she cooed.

It surprised her that he came this soon. She felt his penis pumping between them like a detached entity. His eyes closed; he was panting. When it was over, he gazed up at her. Tears filled his eyes again.

“Oh, that is cute,” commented Amanda. “Are you crying from pleasure or pain?” It was careless of him to stare, but she let this indiscretion slide. He was a newbie: he would learn.

“I’m sad because it’s over,” he said softly.

Good answer, thought Amanda.

She got off him, inspecting the mess that was now on her crotch. Luckily, semen was easy to clean from latex. She smeared her fingers into the milky liquid and touched it to his lips. She painted it across his mouth.

“Lip gloss looks good on you,” Amanda said gently. Sam extended his tongue, licked his lips clean.

“Mistress Amanda,” he said softly, “that was fantastic. Thank you, thank you.”

“Don’t expect such kind treatment next time,” she interrupted. “I’m just in a generous mood.”

She watched him dress. As she did, it struck her why he had such an effect.

“You know, you remind me of an old friend,” she said, as he was ready to leave.

“I hope that is a good thing,” Sam added, doubt on his face.

“Yes, it is.” She walked him back to her desk. “So, I think you should see me soon.”

“I would love to see you again. But,” he added, “I’m leaving town next week for a five-day seminar.” They agreed to another session in two weeks.

“Good, I will see you then.” She reclined on her antique chair. “Be prompt!”

“Yes, I will,” he said. He turned, the door slid open, and he left the room.

Amanda studied the monitor. She spied on him walking down the hall. He rubbed his backside again as he waited for the elevator. Amanda smiled. She initiated a deeper search on this man, her EOS snapping to attention like a loyal slave. More information was needed on a man who affected her this way. Was it just physical similarities to David? No, it was something else. She was determined to ferret it out.

“Well.” Amanda placed the glass of wine down on the table. “Relationships often get complicated for me. People try to change me.”

Sam sat across the table, staring at Amanda’s plate of fresh oysters. Even though he had been seeing her for six months, he was nervous. After their last session together, he had got up the courage to ask Amanda if she’d like to have dinner one evening. She had immediately agreed, allowing Sam to iron out the details.

He prayed everything would go perfectly. He feared Amanda would feel hiring the limousine was a bit overboard, but she was delighted. She once mentioned her love of seafood; the restaurant he picked was noted for it. Since it was midweek, the place was not crowded. Tonight qualified as a legitimate date, at least in Sam’s mind. As far as he could tell, Amanda felt the same way.

“Lemon,” she said, staring down at her appetizer.

Sam selected a lemon slice, and squeezed it over one of the shellfish.

“Good boy,” Amanda commented, as she raised the shell to her lips, sucking in the raw, glistening creature. Sam’s appetizer of smoked salmon and dill sauce had so far remained untouched.

“My pleasure,” Sam responded. “I can see how some people would be threatened by your career. I mean, the things you do to people.”

“So, honey,” she deepened her voice, to imitate a man’s, “how was your day?”

“Oh,” Sam replied, feminizing himself, “just some cock-and-ball torture, and the toilet training of a sloppy slave.” They burst into laughter, drawing the attention of an older couple, who looked to be having dinner with their daughter.

“Female dominance pervades my life,” Amanda continued more quietly. “You know that much about me now. On the other hand, I cannot be dominant every moment of the day. I like to cuddle beside the fire with my lover, or go to a movie in regular clothes.” She smiled, adding, “Or being taken out to dinner with a nice guy.”

Sam smiled back, his nervousness abating.

“For most people, our lifestyle is just a brief fantasy,” Sam offered. “It sounds cliché but, for example, say you have a certain type-A executive. All day he bosses his underlings around and acts as if he is carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s married, with kids. A Conservative. But every so often, instead of his usual lunch break, he visits his dominatrix. She bosses him around. Makes him beg.”

“Thank goodness for such people,” Amanda commented. “They pay my bills!” She stared down at her plate; only one oyster remained.

“Hot sauce!”

Sam obliged, then continued. “But, after a session, his kinky needs are satisfied. He commutes back to his suburban lifestyle, ashamed of what he needs.”

Amanda interrupted, “Hopefully, his dominatrix was skilful enough not to leave any marks.”

Sam laughed. “But this part of such people’s lives is compartmentalized, isolated from the rest of their lifestyle.”

“Yes,” agreed Amanda. “But then you have those precious people, rare ones who have this compulsion deep inside them.”

Amanda’s vision was locked on Sam’s hands. He wondered what she was thinking.

“Sometimes,” she continued, “you remind me of David. That does not bother you, does it?”

“No,” Sam lied. “That’s OK.”

The spirit of David often wormed its way into Amanda’s conversations. He had worked for a tech firm on a secretive government project. The goal was a direct human-to-computer contact. His team’s breakthroughs lead to the first operational EOS. But as soon as major progress was made, the government barged in, stopping the project. Just after that, David and most of his colleagues were killed in an airline accident. Amanda and David had been lovers for three years.

“I never told you that the Cobalt Blue Tarantula was a gift of David’s. Much research was done with insects and spiders in the early days of the project. The EOS emulates the hive mentality of insects. Some insect colonies are composed of millions of individuals, all subservient to the needs of the whole. How does one end of an ant colony know what the other end is doing? Years ago, it was believed chemical messengers, called pheromones, were the only thing responsible for hive discipline. It is so organized, the hive or colony is sometimes referred to as the ‘super-organism’: thousands of individuals, codependent, linked together, so intimately joined they act as one living entity. Arachnids were also investigated. Many web spiders build a retreat in which to hide. If you pluck a spider from its web, it instantly runs to its retreat when you return it. It knows the right direction to run to, no matter where you place it in the web. It always knows, even if you blind it. It was discovered that the web is a vast extension of the spider’s nervous system. The web is an organ of the spider, as much as our skin is part of us.

“My spider is like a little piece of David, still alive and in my care. I cherish it. Females live much longer than males, you know?” She was smiling broadly, then grew solemn. “The computer he gave me was…”

The waitress interrupted them. She was twentyish, with short-cropped hair and dark skin. Her tentative nature betrayed the fact she was new to this job.

“Hello again,” she said, giving Sam’s untouched food a suspicious look. “Is everything OK?”

“Everything is fine,” Sam confirmed.

Amanda gestured for the waitress to come closer. “He knows his place,” Amanda confided. “My slaves never touch their food till I’m finished.”

“Oh.” Her face screwed up. “Your entrées will be out in a few minutes.” She hurried to the kitchen.

Amanda stifled a laugh. “Go ahead, eat!”

Sam dug into his appetizer. After a few bites, he asked a question he knew was on her mind.

“You feel David’s death was a set-up,” he asked, “and the government – or something – had a hand in it?”

“The authorities don’t want its citizens to read minds, Sam.” Amanda stared into the distance. Sam glanced around to make sure no one was listening.

“But the Darkling hat of yours was just a peripheral,” he commented. Amanda had shown him the mysterious device, the other day. “From what little I know,” he continued, “it was intended as a tool for the treatment of mental illness.”

“Mine was the prototype,” Amanda explained. “David gave it to me for safe-keeping when he got suspicious the project was going to be terminated. The psychic powers of the EOS were discovered by accident. Some graduate student kept the files of her PhD thesis on the super-computer where the EOS resided. She was told to remove her work from the drives. That night, she logged on and erased them. Later, they found her wandering the halls, babbling incoherently. Somehow, all memories of her college career had been purged from her mind.”

“Jesus!” Sam exclaimed. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. Nobody does. Except maybe David. But it gets weirder. Luckily, she kept back-ups of her work. David and the others copied the back-ups to the EOS, and her memories were restored!”

Sam listened, his mouth open.

“Another bizarre surprise was that people logged into an EOS network could read each other’s thoughts. If the different mechanisms of all this could be isolated -”

“Mind reading,” Sam interrupted. “To have your memories excised, it would be like being reborn.” He shook his head.

Amanda agreed. “I guess the myths and magic of the past become realities through science.” She broke off the conversation and leaned toward Sam. “I have been holding off asking this…” Her voice drifted off. He did not need a psychic computer to anticipate her question.

“You want me to investigate David’s death, to find out what really happened.”

Her eyes brightened; she leaned even closer. “Can you? I mean, his parents did not care at all. They did not even allow me to come to his, to his -” Amanda’s eyes welled with tears. “Shit.” She stopped herself. “This has nothing to do with you. It’s wrong of me…”

“Amanda,” Sam cut in. He reached across the table, gently placing his hand over hers. Her fingers were cold. “No, it’s fine. In a few months, I will have my license, and that will allow me access to so much information, I…”

“Why am I telling you all this?”

“You have lived with this too long,” Sam encouraged. “I’m happy you trust me.” He needed to deflect the conversation; Amanda’s depression was showing on her face. “Well, this is a switch,” he added with a wry expression. “The dominatrix confessing to the slave!”

“Oh, yeah?” She pulled her hands away and sat back in the chair. “Take your penis out.”

“Excuse me?”

“Correction: take my penis out!” Amanda clarified.

The people across the restaurant were looking again.

“You can do it!” she whispered. “Just keep yourself covered with the tablecloth.”

Sam reached under the table to undo his pants. He fished out his penis, checking to see that no one was watching. Fortunately, the tablecloth concealed his lap. Amanda shifted in her seat. Sam jumped when he felt her boot press against his flesh. He chanced a glance down, seeing Amanda’s boots under the cloth.

“Spread!” Amanda said.

“What?”

“Are you going deaf on me? Your legs! They are too close together. How do you expect me to get comfortable?” She wore the smirk that drove him wild.

Sam parted his legs wider. Now both of her feet were situated on the end of his chair.

Sam’s penis was held vice-like between her leather boots. She started to pump her legs gently back and forth, pulling and stretching his rapidly hardening penis in a slow masturbation.

“What would happen to our privacy,” Amanda went on, “if people could read minds? In the wrong hands, David’s work could mean the end of individuality. But David’s team had mental therapy in mind. It would be used like surgically precise shock therapy, excising traumatic memories. But screw the therapy aspect!” She hit her fist on the table. “Don’t exorcize my demons: they are the best part of me.”

Sam had heard her say that before, but now he was paying little attention.

“Can I take your plates?”

The waitress! She was standing right next to Sam. Amanda showed indifference. But then he saw Amanda slowly, purposely, pushing her fork closer and closer to the edge of the table. It tumbled to the floor.

“Oh, I’ll get it,” chimed the waitress.

“NO!” Sam shouted. “Ah, that’s OK, I’ll get it.”

Sam contorted himself, leaning forward to successfully retrieve the piece of silverware. Amanda kept his cock in a vice-like grip, the whole time.

“Your entrées will be coming right out.” The waitress cleared the table and sped back to the kitchen.

Amanda only partially succeeded in suppressing her laughter. Sam joined in.

“I hope we don’t get kicked out of here!” Sam cautioned.

They were still laughing as the waitress returned. She set a huge platter of crab legs in front of Amanda. The Cajun-blackened bluefish was for Sam.

“Our food looks great!” Amanda commented.

Sam begged with his eyes.

“Go ahead, silly. Eat!”

Throughout the meal, Amanda occasionally asserted herself by tugging on Sam’s imprisoned cock.

“Hot sauce!” Amanda said, near the end of their dinner. She was listlessly pushing around the spiny shell of the crustacean she just ate. Sam picked up the bottle, but he was unsure what to shake it on.

“I think you could use some lubrication,” Amanda suggested.

“What?”

Amanda pointed underneath the table. “Down there!”

“You don’t mean…”

“Do I have to explain everything?” There was a dismissive edge in her voice. “You were doing so well up to now.”

“You mean, you want me, I have to…”

Amanda unlocked Sam’s penis from the trap of her boots. She acted as if she was going to leave.

“Yes,” he quickly assured her. “I mean, yes, mistress.”

He pushed the tablecloth back to just reveal his lap. He inverted the bottle, sprinkling a liberal dose of the condiment over his penis. His skin welcomed the cool wetness. He carefully avoided getting it on the tip of his penis; he did not want to learn the effects of pepper sauce on it.

Amanda eased her feet back together. Now the leather easily glided over his skin. Her movements took on an accommodating, slow tempo. His skin eagerly welcomed the marvelous combination of leather and liquid.

“Mm,” he moaned, then under his breath said, “Amanda, that feels nice.”

“Just wait.” She shot him an evil grin. “You know why it’s called the Darkling hat?” Amanda asked.

“Yes,” Sam replied, as he began to feel a tingling in his foreskin.

“You do?”

Sam nodded. “It – it’s about the beetles embroidered on the hat.”

The spice was just now working its way into the nerve-endings of his skin. A tingly warmth was developing. The movement of Amanda’s boots remained slow and steady. She moved her foot to place the sole flat against his penis, forcing it up against the confines of his zipper and pants. She nestled the spike heel underneath his scrotum.

“Go on,” Amanda encouraged.

Sam cleared his throat.

“Yes, the Darkling Beetles belong to a family called the Tenebrionidae.”

Sam closed his eyes. His crotch felt very warm. Amanda pressed her foot harder into him, the arch of her boot spreading his testicles. It was as if she were trying to force her spiked heel into his anus.

“Tell me more!” She asserted her command by giving him a sharp thrust.

“Ooh!” Sam yelped. “Darkling means things done in darkness.”

She withdrew her foot. His penis was free. But the burning increased. Next, she forced his penis down, trapping it between her sole and the top of her other boot.

“Now, those other dark beetles you told me about, the Skin beetles, the Dermestids.”

Each of her movements pushed more and more of the hot sauce into his skin. Suddenly the tip of his penis felt as if it was on fire. The evil liquid had found an opening. He started to sweat. Sam offered her a pleading expression, but Amanda just smiled.

“Skeleton preparation. Dead animals are stripped by hand of their skins and soft tissues…”

Amanda continued to play with him, squeezing, rubbing, changing her movements.

“When it is just bones, cartilage, connective tissue, and bits of muscle, the body dries out.” Sam closed his eyes.The burning was growing unbearable.

Amanda finished the explanation for him. “Then the carcass is placed in a big vat of Dermestids,” she said, “and the beetles swarm over it, gnawing on the dried bits of flesh. After a time, the skeleton is picked clean and white.”

Sam did not hear her words. Beneath the cauldron, a new threat was asserting itself. It promised a moment of relief from the fire. A source of pleasure was rising fast. The table creaked as he hugged it, digging his nails in. Any second now, his orgasm would be joining them for dinner.

A voice cut into his conscience. He willed his eyes open.

“How was your meal?”

It was the waitress. She was standing beside them.

Amanda was glaring at Sam. “Our charming waitress asked a question!”

It was as if a huge gripping fist were releasing his body. His back stiffened. He gave in to his orgasm. Amanda held him firm, as surge after surge of his jetting semen poured over her boots.

At the last contraction, he spoke. “Uh, I -” clearing his throat “- it was very good, thank you.” Now please just get the fuck out of here, Sam screamed inside.

“Well, would you like any dessert?”

“No, thank you,” he heard Amanda say. Sam covered his forehead and eyes, as if he had a headache. “Just bring our check.”

“Sure,” the waitress answered.

Sam was still panting. Amanda had the hot sauce in her hands. She poured a little out onto her fingers and brought it to her lips. She painted it there in lip-gloss fashion, like the time she painted his lips with his semen the first time they met.

“Yum,” Amanda commented.

The burning was now overpowering; it felt as if his skin was bubbling off.

“Uh, uh,” he mouthed.

Amanda perked up. “Yes?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Please, Amanda,” he begged. “I have to use the bathroom.”

Amanda chuckled. “Fine; you’re excused.”

Sam gingerly returned his penis to his pants. As if by some miracle, only a little of the sauce had stained the outside of his pants. The restaurant was dark; he guessed no one would see.

He bolted to the men’s room. Fortunately, it appeared vacant. Standing before one of the sinks, Sam undid his pants and pulled them halfway down. He threw open both taps. Water shot out, splashing in the sink. He cradled his penis and scrotum, draping them over the cool porcelain. He frantically splashed handful after handful of water over his inflamed genitals.

“Ooh, ooh,” he moaned, as the water bathed and refreshed his skin. He leaned against the sink, adjusting the taps, keeping the stream cool. A mixed droplet of semen and hot sauce oozed from his penis.

Sam heard a flushing toilet. Someone was in there! The door of one of the stalls opened. Out came an older man, one of the people who had been staring. Sam wished he were invisible. In the mirror, he watched the man clean up in a sink that was furthest away. The man carefully avoided making eye contact. Just before leaving, he hesitated at the door, turning in Sam’s direction.

“I’m treating my daughter to dinner,” the man announced in a stern voice. “It’s her graduation!” He slammed the door behind him.

“Well, congratulations!” Sam shouted to the empty room. He dried himself off and returned his reproductive organs to their rightful home. When he returned to their table, most of the plates were gone.

“How are you doing?” Amanda asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Good. Why not pay the bill, and head back to my apartment?”

Sam had never been to the place she lived. “Not the dungeon?” he asked.

“I could use a little cuddling near the fire. How about you?”

Sam smiled broadly. “That sounds fantastic! I’ll pay the bill and get our coats.” He rose from the table.

Just as they were about to leave, a crashing sound stopped him. Sam spun around. Amanda had one of her legs up on the table. She swung the other leg up, bringing it down with a thud. She pushed back in her chair, pointing an accusing finger at her boots.

“You horrible pig!” Amanda screamed. Sam saw a mix of hot sauce and come painted on her boots.

“You want me to leave here, in a state like this? And you were doing so well, up to now. I am so disappointed.”

“No, Amanda,” Sam interrupted. His mind raced, then he chose a course of action. Leaning over, he brought his face down to her boots. In front of the sparsely filled dining room, Sam licked her boots clean. He had tasted his semen before, but the smell of her leather and taste of the hot sauce was delicious. He did it as fast as he could.

Amanda reached over, running her fingers through his hair. “Very good, my little puppy.”

Back in the limo, Sam fixed two drinks from the well-stocked bar. They had a forty-five-minute ride ahead of them.

“When did you first become interested in bondage and discipline?” Amanda asked.

Sam took a gulp of his drink. “You mean, how long have I been a pervert?”

“Yes,” grinned Amanda. “Basically that’s what I’m asking.”

“My first experience was when I was a young boy,” Sam started. “The neighbors had a daughter who was about a year older than I. We were friends. She was a bit of a tomboy. One day, we were playing at her house. For some reason, we started rolling ourselves in the carpets…”

“What?” Amanda laughed and sipped her drink. “You mean the rugs? Oh, that’s a good one!”

“Well,” Sam went on, “I rolled myself up like a sausage in this one little rug. Only my head and feet stuck out. Suddenly, my friend jumped on my stomach. She started bouncing up and down on me, squeezing me with the sides of her legs.”

Amanda laughed. She gave Sam’s crotch a playful squeeze.

“Ouch!” Sam exclaimed.

“Oh, sorry. Still sore, but nice and hard for me. Please, continue.”

“She was pretending I was a horse, her car, a circus ride – that sort of thing. I was loving every second of it. She announced I was her prisoner! She threatened to keep me like that all day. I begged and begged her to let me out, and she finally relented. When I unrolled, she noticed the bulge in my shorts. She asked what it was. I explained it was called an erection, and that sometimes men got them. She was thrilled! She asked if she could see it. Like the obliging little gentleman I was, I dropped my shorts. She was amazed. She pranced around me, looking at every angle, as if my bobbing penis was a new and wonderful toy. Finally said she could see it better if I took all my clothes off. I stripped. She led me to the couch. The strangest feeling was coming over me. This was not the first time I had been aroused, but I sure felt different. She asked me what the erection felt like. ‘I don’t know,’ I responded. ‘Do you want to touch it?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ she shouted. Well, the moment she placed her hand on my little hard-on, in walked her mother!”

“Oh, shit!” Amanda exclaimed.

“Yeah; she was screaming bloody murder. I was crying as I got dressed. Her mother would not shut up. She was slapping her girl’s arm. I wanted to make her stop, but did not know what to do. Her mother forbade me from ever coming back to the house, or ever seeing her daughter again. As I walked off the front porch and across their yard, I turned to look back. I saw my little friend watching me from her bedroom window. I imagined she was grounded for life. Her face was red. She was crying. Her hand came up and she slowly waved goodbye. A few years later, my family moved away. I never saw her again.”

“Oh, Sam.” Amanda slid closer to him. “That is so sad.” She stared out the window for a few moments before continuing. “But total body enclosure, female domination, humiliation, all at such an early age!” She burst into laughter.

“So, what about you?” Sam asked.

“I can’t claim that early a beginning,” she said. “I had my first impulses early in high school. When looking at fashion magazines, I started fantasizing about tying up the models, both the men and the women. But I didn’t act out any of it till I got a bit older.”

“Ha!” Sam laughed. “You were a late bloomer.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I liked to wrestle with my boyfriends. I would strike up a bargain with them: if I was pinned, he could mess around with me. If I won, I got to do whatever I wanted. Unfortunately, the guys always won. Later, I came up with the idea of using ropes. Then, they could have their way if they escaped in five minutes. If they couldn’t escape, well, they would have to promise to do whatever I wanted. At that stage, I was not very good at knot tying.”

“I wish I’d gone to your high school!” Sam interrupted.

“Anyway,” Amanda continued, “I kept my part of the bargain, although I never dated any of them for very long. But one day, I tied up a classmate who could not escape! I made him stay tied up for hours. I kissed and bit him. I pinched and sucked his nipples. I even pulled his pants down, and played with his hard cock. I squeezed his nuts until he almost cried. I sat over him, my crotch only inches from his face. I made him beg to get a taste of me. I threatened to tell his friends what I had done, if he did not consent to be my slave. He pleaded and pleaded, but finally agreed. He promised he would do anything I wanted. It was so fantastic, I finally took pity on him. But, as I went to untie his wrists, I discovered the knots were loose.”

“You mean he could have escaped, any time?”

Amanda nodded. “God, that drove me wild! This guy wanted to be my prisoner! I had an incredible orgasm right on the spot. I realized that I had to be in charge. This was what I needed. Finally, I could do what I wanted, take my time if I needed. My desires came first! And all it took was a piece of rope. I had found my first true boyfriend.”

Sam finished his drink. “Amanda, that is such a nice story.” He shifted in his seat again.

Amanda was digging for something in her pocket book. She pulled out a small gift-wrapped box. She handed it to Sam.

“Wow, for me?” he asked.

Amanda nodded, smiling sweetly.

Sam eagerly unwrapped his gift. The box contained a brass metal collar. It opened with hinges at the back, and in the front, loops for a padlock. The inside was padded with soft fleece. Embroidered on one side, in delicate script, it read: SLAVE SAM – Property of MISTRESS AMANDA.

“Try it on!” Amanda said, smiling broadly.

It was just snug enough for Sam to squeeze two of his fingers under. Amanda produced a little gold padlock. She locked the collar shut on Sam’s neck.

“It fits! It fits!” Amanda exclaimed. She took a triumphant sip of her drink.

But Sam’s expression grew concerned. “This is beautiful. But do I have to wear it all the time? I’ll have a tough time explaining this to the people I work with.”

“If I wanted it on you all the time, you would wear it!” She was staring hard into his eyes. “However, no. But I wish you to wear it at all times in my presence. Whatever we do, wherever we go. You can wear a turtleneck or a high-collared shirt, if you wish, while we are in public.”

“Thank you, mistress,” Sam answered. Amanda hooked her finger around the gift and pulled him close. Her mouth met his. Sam parted his lips, welcoming Amanda’s probing tongue. Sam savored her saliva and the attention of her mouth. He wondered if Amanda could taste the hot sauce and his semen.

“Amanda?” Sam asked.

“Yes?”

“So, I guess you enjoyed dinner?”

The hotel we checked into was the most upscale business-class piece of work I had ever seen. It had spacious conference rooms, mini-theaters, even a four-star restaurant.

I had just graduated from detective school. I had passed all my written tests, and completed my courses. In a few weeks, I would be getting my license. As a reward, Amanda was treating me to this little vacation. During my training at the agency, I had access to national police records; many databases were open to me. One thing we were warned against was digging through the pasts of acquaintances. Who could risk the lure of finding the dirty little secrets of a co-worker or friend? I resisted the temptation of doing a background check on Amanda. The fact she always was surprising me was intriguing. But I had promised to work on David’s case, so there was no way of avoiding some confidential information on Amanda.

Our room was fantastic. A state-of-the-art entertainment center, equipped with multiple format video machines, and a powerful stereo system. The bathroom was huge. It even included a shower and a whirlpool bath. The furnishings were New England style; Amanda had specifically asked for this room. Now I understood why: the bed was a well-crafted cherry wood four-poster. Was Amanda going to tie me to these posts tonight?

Amanda started unpacking her suitcase, producing a brown paper bag. She set it on the desk. Next, she had a round silver serving tray in her hands. She placed it next to the bag. Then, with one quick motion, she slipped her finger beneath the top of her boot and retrieved a switchblade. She popped its release. The blade glinted in the light. We had been seeing each other for close to a year, yet she still managed to surprise me. I suppose that, in her line of work, she might need that weapon.

“Be a good boy. Make us up a nice platter.” She handed me the open switchblade, grabbed a few things from her suitcase, and pranced off to the bathroom. “I’m taking a shower.”

The bag contained a light feast: apples, pears, and kiwis, along with a tin of smoked oysters – she loved oysters. A box of gourmet crackers completed the package.

I carefully peeled and sliced the kiwis, then started cutting up the apples and pears. I spread the fruit sections in semicircular fashion along one edge of the tray. Next, I sliced the hard, smoked cheese. I just unwrapped the Brie. I placed the cheeses just off center. I opened the tin of oysters, carefully plucking each one free from its bed of oil, letting it drain, and setting them in a little pile next to the cheese. I broke open the pack of crackers, depositing them in a continuous arch with the fruit, forming a completed circle. I wiped my hands, then gently spun the tray around, admiring it.

Amanda’s suitcase was sitting open on the bed. I could not resist peeking at what playthings she had taken along. I found a pair of sneakers, an extra pair of high-heeled shoes, her little black dress, a T-shirt, some toiletries, and plain pantyhose. But these were just items any woman would bring for an overnight stay. Where was the stuff from her dungeon? She never left home without her favorite cat o’nine tails. My exploring fingers found a long metal chain, more the gauge of jewelry than anything confining. Romantic getaways were not her style, unless…

“Found what you’re looking for?” Amanda was glaring at me from the bathroom doorway. She was wearing a blue silk robe, and holding her bra and panties.

“You were sniffing for my panties, you little pervert! Well, here!”

She threw the items at my feet. I retrieved them from the floor. It crossed my mind to commit the crime she suspected, to cup them in my hands and inhale her scent. But she was still glaring, so I gently set them on the bed. She went over to the tray of food.

“Oh, that looks scrumptious,” she complimented. “Now, time for your shower.”

“I was going to unpack…”

Her expression grew angry again. “Shower, now!”

I stripped, discarding my clothes in a drawer.

The floral scent of Amanda filled the bathroom. The walls were dark green marble, streaked with yellow mineral. The bathtub was glossy black; it could easily hold four people. Recessed lights reflected on the mirrored walls. A simple shower stall sat in one corner. I showered, making sure to scrub every inch of my body three times over. After drying off, I wrapped a towel around my waist and headed back into the main room. Her nightgown was draped over a chair.

She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the blanket pulled up around her. A towel was wrapped turban-like around her head. Her hands rested on her covered kneecaps, her strong arms framing her pert breasts. I knew that underneath those blankets she was naked. No corsets, bra, boots, or garters. I had seen every intimate recess of her body, but always isolated or presented to me as a reward for suffering some special humiliation or ordeal. Like the time she butt-fucked me with a strap-on. I came without her permission, but she was not angry. Instead, she offered me both her nipples to suck. And the times she demanded to be slowly kissed all over – every inch of her semi-clothed body. It was body-worship, not kissing. So her body held few mysteries. But now the promise of her total nakedness was overpowering. I was in a trance.

“Hey.” Amanda was pointing at my waist. “You should be naked!”

I felt paralyzed.

“Have you suddenly gone deaf?” she asked. Then she shouted, “Lose the fucking towel!”

I snatched off the offending article, tossing it blindly across the room. I noticed that the fine chain was wrapped around my suitcase, looped several times through the handle. A small lock secured it. Even my collar was locked away. My half-hard penis started to fully rise.

“You will be kept naked – the way you belong – till I decide otherwise.”

We were supposed to be leaving by noon tomorrow. Checkout was sure to be a humiliating experience!

She pulled the covers slightly higher. “Now,” she ordered, “serve me.”

I set the tray beside her. She pulled the towel from her hair. Her thick black locks fell across her shoulders.

“My hair is still damp. Be a dear and dry it for me.”

I ran handful after handful of her hair through my fingers, softly rubbing it dry on the towel. She selected a slice of apple and cheese, and put them on a cracker. She cupped her hand under her chin, catching crumbs as she ate. Next, she speared an oyster with the switchblade. She kept eating as I worked carefully. After about ten minutes, her hair was suitably dry. She was staring up at me. I let the final handful of hair fall free.

“Oh, I’m being rude. This celebration is for you!” She brought her flattened palm up to my face. Obediently I leaned forward, my lips meeting her soft, moist palm. I picked the crumbs away with my lips, cleaning her carefully. I had to use my tongue to get the bits lodged between her fingers. My tongue discovered a droplet of oyster oil, its pungent aroma filling my mouth.

“Mm,” she moaned. “Such a nice mouth, but I think you should save it for later.”

She withdrew her hand and continued eating. I remained standing next to her, my penis sticking out like an unwanted chaperone. She activated the remote for the media station and started surfing stations.

“Go ahead,” she said, sliding the tray toward me, “have some.” I picked up the tray and sat on the floor.

“Nice gesture, Sam,” she said giggling, “but I want you up here, tonight.” She patted her hand on the covers next to her.

I moved so fast, I nearly spilled the food. I sat beside her, cross-legged like her. I ate while she continued through the TV stations. The “pay-for” shit only had the usual dose of Hollywood’s pabulum. Even the porno selections were boring.

She stopped at one of the classic movie channels. An old black-and-white movie was playing. I did not recognize it. As I ate, we watched the story unfold.

A small plane crash-landed in the deep Amazon jungle of South America. The crew and passengers had to fend for themselves, repairing their plane, even cutting a runway through the tangled vegetation. One man was a professorial sort; he knew about the wildlife and the cannibalistic nature of the locals. Another actor portrayed a member of the mob who was caring for the child of an underworld boss. Among the passengers was a political prisoner who turned out to be helpful and kind. The officer who was supposed to guard the prisoner, on the other hand, turned out to be a creep.

“Basil Rathbone!” Amanda pronounced.

“I don’t think so. That’s John Carradine.”

“Oh, I’ve never heard of him.”

“He was a character actor, usually playing a villain or mad scientist or something. He was in hundreds of films.”

I finished eating. I set the tray on the nightstand. Amanda turned off the light, then lowered the volume on the TV. I started to get under the covers with her, but her hand came up to stop me.

“Who said anything about that? Stay on top.”

I sat back, resting my head on the pillow. In the ghostly light of the TV, I could see she had her eyes trained on me. What was she dreaming up?

“Slide down a bit,” she requested. “Make yourself spread-eagled, please.” Her words were soft. The dominatrix tone was gone from her voice. She crawled from under the covers and whispered in my ear.

“You must keep your hands down,” she instructed, “and don’t move. I trained you well enough now to no longer need restraints.” It sent a shiver down my spine whenever she used the word “trained” on me. She sat on her haunches, in the sixty-nine position, above me. Her crotch rose directly above my face.

Like some over-eager fool, I eagerly reached for her waist.

“No!” That sharp edge was back in her voice. But she added softly, “Arms down, please.”

Her pubic hair was closely cropped. The mound of her outer lips was slick and nearly bare. Her delicate inner lips beckoned like a tempting flower for a nectar-hungry animal. But she held herself above me, out of reach. I impulsively gave the inside of her thigh a prolonged kiss. I parted my lips, allowing my tongue to glide over her skin. I turned my head to face her other thigh, giving it the same affection. I lingered there, spreading a dozen gentle kisses, gliding my mouth over her, never taking my lips away, always finishing with the touch of my tongue.

It startled me when her fingers brushed my cock. She began at the base, gently moving her hand upward. I felt the soft tips of her fingers feeling the head. She slid around it, then ran her fingers back to the base. She spread her hand over my scrotum, caressing my testicles. Then she returned to the base. It felt as if she was exploring me. Then she took her hand away.

I resumed kissing, alternately running my tongue on her skin. I kissed behind her knee. She loved to have that area touched, but she was ticklish there, so I had to go slowly. I gently kissed as before, letting my tongue part my lips to meet her skin. She swayed above me. I craned my neck, rising as high as I could bend, but her wonderful treasure was just out of reach.

The slightest hint of her marvelous aroma greeted my senses. Warmth spread through me, then desire took its place. I reached up, stretching my tongue. If only I had the spear tongue of an African chameleon, I would implant my sticky lingus deep within her. I was able to reach halfway up her thigh, so I satisfied myself by nestling my mouth there. Then, as if by some miracle, her sex just brushed my face. She had lowered herself for the briefest second. But now the treasure was gone. Was she measuring my reach? Her crotch was now a centimeter or two beyond me. It might as well have been a mile. I dropped my head in frustration.

Almost imperceptibly, she was tickling the stubby hair at the base of my cock. She kept this up for a time. My senses focused on my crotch, nearly making me forget the goal above me. She next ran her nails over the head of my penis, then again along the shaft. She clamped her fingers around the base, giving me a firm squeeze.

For a moment, her hips floated higher, and she released my penis. But she was only shifting, lowering herself onto me, placing her hips across my chest – but still out of reach. She settled on my side, lying half on my body. A pillow was placed between my knee and her head. One leg remained draped close to my head. The other lay across my chest. She was just getting comfortable. My ordeal was going to be a long one. I moaned.

As if to silence my plea, her foot came up to my face. I kissed along the sole, letting my mouth savor her skin. I slowly took her big toe in my mouth. I cocooned it with my prehensile tongue. I started on her other toes, tasting, sucking, licking. She playfully plucked at my pubic hair, grabbing a few in her fingers, then pulling just hard enough to make me suspect she would yank some out. This had no effect on my worship of her foot; I just moved along the outstep, until I got to her ankle. She replied by moving her leg to make my reach more comfortable. A shiver coursed through her as I licked her ankle. Had I found a new ticklish area? I was delighted! I did not want to overextend my welcome, so I started to kiss up her leg. A mild saltiness was on her skin. Was she sweating?

She shifted, her foot retreating. More of her weight bore down. This must be how a pinned insect feels. Her hands again were at the base of my cock. Fingers ran up the length; I felt a globule of pre-come ooze free. She repeated the lazy milking of my penis. Another run of pre-come trickled down the shaft.

Now I shivered, a mini-orgasm coursing through my body. I got these sometimes, when very excited. Her hips came down slightly. My prize was in reach! Just as I got my tongue on her lips, she pulled away. I moaned again. She giggled. Again she lowered, giving my tongue its next opportunity. I received the briefest touch, then she retreated. I was in agony, and she knew it.

Her hands cupped my scrotum again. She gave me the lightest squeeze, dancing me on the edge of pain. Her grip relaxed, and then she allowed me the briefest facial contact. My tongue led my lips to her. Her clitoris was swollen free of its hood – I cradled it on my tongue. She pulled back. My desperation found release in her thighs once more.

“Oh!” I yelled, as her cruel teeth caught the head of my penis.

She let up; I felt the hot moisture of her breath. She was going down on me, but keeping her mouth open wide, only granting me the barest touch of her interior. I tingled at even the slightest attention. I bucked slightly, trying to acquire firmer contact with her blessed mouth. I touched the back of her throat. She bore down on the base, anchoring me in place. She raised and lowered her head in a mock blowjob. Her hair danced about the inside of my thighs. She was determined and graceful. It would be an eternity before I came. Another mini-orgasm shot through me. I started moaning. She took her mouth away.

“Yeah, I love it when you moan.”

Suddenly her hips withdrew. I lost control. My arms shot up. I was desperate and grabbed her around the waist.

“No,” I begged. “Please don’t stop.”

She answered by grabbing my cock painfully, twisting and pulling like she was harvesting some root vegetable. The pain was too much.

“Ouch!” I called out. “Please!”

“Do that again,” she explained, “and you will never get a taste of me!”

My arms were slow to do my bidding. I was hyperventilating, losing control. I took deep breaths. Knowing she was aware of my frustration added to my ordeal. She was relishing every second. She returned to her original position, her crotch dancing above me.

She started rhythmically dipping her hips. I craned my neck upward, tongue extended. For a second, I managed her outer lips. On the next leap, I again felt her swollen clitoris. The smell and the taste of her slippery wetness added to my fever. Her body grew tense for a few seconds. A shudder coursed through her, her movements transmitting into my trapped body.

Suddenly she smashed hard against me. Her vulva was pressed flush against my mouth. I sucked at her like a starving leech, feeding and growing by siphoning her juices. Another shudder moved her body. She drifted out of range again. Her gentlest motion was magnified. Our sweat became uniting glue. I wished to remain fixed to her forever, as if I were an ectoparasite. I wanted to be there always, till I extended umbilical blood ducts through my mouth into her. I would grow from her nourishment. Amanda would unwind the coils of my DNA and unzip the double-helix. I needed to fuse with her, to become a triploid entity that had never existed.

She started on my penis again. I was mindless to what she was doing, surrendering freely to her torment. But now I wished desperately to come. The teasing point of no return kept just out of reach, shifting, moving. Moving against her was futile. My jailer knew all my motivations. She had had ample prisoners before me, so she could easily anticipate any move. I struggled to intensify stimulation, nudging the sponge of smooth muscle tissue deep inside me toward the inevitable barrage of contraction. She adapted, reducing friction, evolving to prevent my deserved ascent. My hips thrust on their own, as if some vestigial ganglion in my spine had swollen to become a prehistoric brain. What was I enduring? This was so much more than everything.

To test me, she dug her nails into the flesh of my cock. I was trapped in a cage of her fingers. But my thrusting was reflexive. Her nails dragged over my skin, her fingers becoming a toothy trap, insisting I suffer more. Pre-come was defeating her, making me slippery, helping her nails to glide over my skin. A spark lit the darkness in me, spreading electrically, crossing the gaps of my nerves. I was suspended in a warm glow for the briefest time. Then it dissipated.

“Please,” I heard myself begging. “I want to taste you.”

“What?”

“Amanda, please, I need to, to taste you.”

“Hm?” she responded.

“I’m begging: please let me have it. I just can’t stand it. Let me have, have…”

“Have what?”

“You!” I shouted. “Let me, let me stick my tongue in you. I must…”

She just pumped another stream of pre-come from her plaything.

“Well,” she replied, “begging is good. I love to have you begging. Why did you hold out so long?”

She answered her question by rubbing herself against my mouth. My tongue dived in, lapping every fluid-filled pool within her. Her moisture filled my nose; her glorious taste overwhelmed my senses. She glided slightly away, but not so far as to deny me my prize.

“Now think carefully,” she said, as she released my penis. “What do you wish for more? Coming? Or having me sit on your face?”

That was easy.

I frantically grabbed her in a bearhug, not caring of the consequence. I pulled her to my mouth with all my might. I drilled my tongue deeper than possible, consuming all of her.

The gift of pleasure washed over my penis. The soft wet flesh of her mouth closed about me. Her tongue snaked over the head, probing the tip, nosing the rim.

Her clit was perched between my teeth. I held it carefully, sucking gently. It had swollen to the size of a tiny penis. I sucked on it, mirroring her movements.

Like an obsessive lover, my orgasm was stalking me. It was going to draw every thread of life from me, in one joyous blast of soul-wrenching surrender. It draw nearer; now there was no escaping its hold on me. It was futile to fight.

“Amanda!” I shouted. “Don’t go, don’t leave me!”

But she was still on top of me. Always there, not a million miles lost as my feeble senses lied.

It broke me in one long stream. I arched my back, lifting Amanda from the bed. It did not pulse, but burst like a water balloon. The contractions started, the staccato shaking me, depleting me until I was nothing.

Amanda on top of me. She kept me as my spasms died away. She was always there, not blasted away into starlight. I was here.

My arms fell limp. She rose from my panting body. She repositioned herself, rising on me. She was squatting directly on me, my head clutched between her legs.

She was grinding herself, rubbing, sliding. I stuck my tongue out as far as I could. She rocked against it as if it were a soft worm. Between the pitches of her hips, I was able to snatch what breath I needed.

She was shouting something unintelligible. She dived forward, her hands anchoring against my hips. She held me fast, panting, digging her nails into me.

“Ooh.” Her sounds turned deep, vocalizing as if an animal suffering in unfathomable pain. She pressed down on me, hard.

Suffocation meant nothing to me now. My world was closing in, a new blackness surrounding me. A glowing ember was before me. Was that Amanda? I wanted to call to it, to her, but my mouth would not respond.

Suddenly, I felt clear cool air. Amanda had slid off by my side.

“Damn!” she exclaimed.

“Oh, yeah,” was all I could manage.

Amanda sat up, pushing her hair away from her face. She flicked on the light and turned to me.

“You bastard,” she laughed, “you nearly drowned me!” I saw a heap of come ringing her mouth. Globs of it were dripping to her breasts. I joined her in laughter.

“Well, you told me to save myself up for this! It was either that or you threatened to put that damn chastity belt on me again.” I reached for the nightstand and grabbed a handful of tissues. I changed my mind and tossed them over my back. I wiped the smear of semen from her chin with my finger. After I licked it clean, I bent to her breast. Some made it to her flesh there. Her nipple was washed with my tongue. I worked my way up the trail of semen to her mouth. I cupped her chin and slowly lowered her jaw. My tongue explored the inside of her mouth, tasting me, traces of smoked oyster, and her teeth. Her arms came up and wrapped themselves around my head. Our lips parted.

“Nice clean-up job,” she commented.

“Amanda,” I said, “that was fantastic.” She smiled, gently pushing me away. She crawled back beneath the covers.

“Yeah, that was good,” she replied. “Many things are good about you. You never disappoint.”

“Well, thank you,” I said. “Do you think it’s too late to order champagne?”

“Oh,” she said, picking up the telephone, “that’s just what I had in mind!” When she hung up the phone, she pointed to the TV.

“Look!”

“Wow,” I said, recognizing the movie instantly. “It’s The Big Sleep, with Humphrey Bogart.”

“Who?”

“Oh, he’s a famous actor. In this one he plays Philip Marlowe, a character created by Raymond Chandler. This was the hard-boiled type of mystery fiction.”

I explained how the original story contained drug addiction, pornography, homosexuality, and nymphomania, but that had been too much for the Hollywood censors at the time. Amanda hung on every word.

“That’s what you are?” She snuggled closer and wrapped her arm over my shoulder. “My little ‘hard-boiled’ lover!”

The only interruption we had was the arrival of the champagne. We drank, arm in arm, until the movie concluded.

“Amanda,” I asked, “would you like to do it sometime?”

“Penetration, that’s what you mean?” A sullen tone hollowed her voice.

“Yes, mistress. That is what I mean.”

“Well…” her voice trailed off. “I suppose so, if you need it.” She eyed me with cold disregard. Then added, “Sam, if that is what you want…”

“Amanda,” I interrupted. “It’s no big deal. But maybe sometime.”

“Fine, I don’t mean to, to -”

“No, please,” I cut in. “If that is uncomfortable for you, I don’t need it.”

“Listen.” She sat more up in bed. “I want it, too. It’s just that I have not had, uh, that kind of sex in five years.”

Now I was floored. She had been a dominatrix for so long. With all the sexually-charged scenes she had been in, she had not had intercourse in all that time?

“Does this have anything to do with David?” I hazarded.

“No, not at all.” She rolled away from me, facing the wall.

“My love.” I placed my hand on her shoulder. “Listen to me. You must believe that sticking my penis in you is not so important to me. Making you happy – that is important.”

Her hand joined mine. “Thank you,” was all she said.

Just then, a low-frequency rumbling startled us. I thought we were experiencing an earthquake. Then I realized what was happening.

I bolted from the bed and threw open the blinds. Gliding above the choking city was a huge red glowing chevron. It was the Trans-World StratoLiner, its underbelly heat-shield still crimson-hot from the friction of reentry. In a few moments it would glide to landing and disgorge its two thousand passengers. Most were from Japan. In an hour it would be refueled, outfitted with a new crew, stuffed with more passengers, and blast itself into low earth orbit for New York. This behemoth circled the earth in ten hours, making stops at the world’s giant cities.

I felt Amanda at my side.

“That thing is huge,” she commented.

Her fear of penetration still bothered me. I would have my license soon, as well as needed security codes. Before I investigated David’s death, I had someone else in mind. Whatever was in her past would not change my feelings toward Amanda, but I needed to know.

“Yes, Amanda,” I affirmed. “Someday, maybe, we’ll be able to afford a trip on it.”

Sam believed people claiming friendships with ex-lovers were liars. His relationships always ended badly. He even considered himself fortunate to have escaped alive from more than a couple of them. But a brush with death was nothing compared to the loss of a cherished friend and lover.

What started as a professional relationship – a submissive man seeking the talents of a professional – grew into friendship. From there they had become closer, finally falling in love.

This was not what he expected, the first time his penis entered her: the biting, clawing, and whipping, until her blood flowed. Sam followed Amanda’s orders without question; the more perverted and imaginative, the happier they both were. Yet this was a level of experience he never wanted.

First Amanda stripped. Then Sam bound her wrists together, in front, palm to palm. She knelt before the bed, her hands tied to the posts.

“Your belt,” she requested. “Take it off, and beat me with it.”

Sam slipped the belt from pants. Holding the buckle, he wound it around his fist, leaving about two and a half feet free. Belts are difficult to control, so he took a practice swing at the bed. It hit with a loud thud. Amanda’s eyes went wild at the sound. He took position behind her and let the first swing fly.

“Harder! Use the buckle!” Amanda yelled. “I can’t feel shit!”

He rewrapped the belt, letting the buckle swing free. After a few strokes, welts covered her backside. Sam worked hard to keep aim, but the belt kept missing its mark, hitting back, thighs, and lower back.

An icy stillness possessed her, even as the sharp burr of the buckle cut through her skin.

The art of blood-play was one if Amanda’s specialities. One night she dressed as a vampire, with Sam her helpless victim. With a sterile scalpel she opened a slit in Sam’s iodine-cleaned wrist. She guided his flowing blood to a shot glass. She painted her lips with his blood. These exclusive ceremonies were always safe, clean, and sanitized. They were not horrible, painful, or brutal, as this scene was fast becoming.

Amanda let loose a scream. She hurled insults and gibberish at Sam, but never their safe-word.

“Harder – harder, you fuck!” Then, “I’ll kill you, kill me! kill me…” Her legs spread wider, she pushed herself closer. She turned her head.

“Fuck me!”

Sam dropped the belt. He pulled off his pants. Amazingly, he was hard! He reached for her hips and pulled her close. He impaled her fiercely, entering her; his strokes merged with the struggles of her body.

Sam could not concentrate. He had done the background check on her, and he now cursed himself for that. Amanda’s rape had happened shortly after David died. He saw police reports, pictures of the crime scene, the lab tests and lineups, even the trial. Brutal detail after detail, all displayed in the coldness of his computer screen, even a mug-shot of the monster. It was a miracle she had survived. She had endured all of it, alone.

Amanda fell forward, pulling free. She collapsed in a sobbing heap on her arms.

Sam was transfixed by the sight of her backside. Something was flowing out from between her legs. It was his come, but he had experienced no orgasm.

“Untie me.”

Sam was obedient, as always, but a violent wave of nausea hit him. A bolus of vomit caught mid-way up his throat. He bolted from the room, a fan of puke spraying through the spaces between his fingers. He collapsed over the toilet bowl, dumping the contents of his stomach. He fell hard to the floor, resting his back against the cold tiled wall. He rested. His hands shook. He grabbed a section of toilet paper and cleaned off the mucus edging its way over the side of the bowl. He stood up. An apparition with a blood-smeared crotch was staring back from the mirror.

The second he returned to the room, Amanda sprang on him. She went for his eyes.

“No, Amanda!” He snatched her arms. She nearly overpowered him. She twisted, sinking her teeth into the flesh of his chest. For a moment, he submitted to this attack. Her teeth sank too deep. He shouted, pushing her off as her teeth cut under his nipple. Sam jumped back in panic. Amanda scrambled away, grabbing a blanket off the bed. She crawled to the corner and covered herself.

I will not leave you, Sam thought, no matter what you do to me – I will not let you suffer alone. He was her submissive, and he loved her. He was thankful for his inhumanly high pain threshold, for tonight it would be tested. He took a few deep breaths to help prepare for whatever pain was coming. Put the pain somewhere else, he said to himself. He sat next to her. She was sobbing under the blanket.

“Amanda, please let me help.”

“Go. Get the hell out of here – now!”

He had no protection from that level of pain.

Sam did not call her the next day. A week crept by, but still he kept away. Finally he broke down and left a message with her service. She did not call back.

One night, he found himself parked in the familiar lot next to the abandoned cars. It was chilly and well into fall. Even the weed trees, Ailanthus altissima, the “Tree of Heaven”, had lost leaves of their crown-of-thorns branches. Most businesses had moved from this building, and closing time had passed for the remaining ones. But, at the top floor, light was peeking through the shades. It was her office, the dungeons. It crossed his mind to jump on the elevator, to go to the twelfth floor, and just walk in. But he successfully fought the impulse.

Back at his apartment, he found a message waiting. An hour later, they were speaking on the telephone. Amanda’s voice came halting and stilted. They agreed to meet the next day, at a diner by the university.

Sam found her seated in a back booth. Her coat rested on the seat. She wore a synthetic black alligator-skin dress, one he had never seen. It was short, clinging tight to her body, coming up around her neck, leaving her strong arms bare. Mirrored sunglasses hid any emotion Sam might glean from her eyes. After uncomfortable pleasantries, they ordered coffee.

“Sam, you don’t really know me,” Amanda started. Sam was speechless as she began to talk about her rape. She recounted every detail. He wished she would stop. But he was frozen. When finally through, she asked if they could be “just friends” for a while.

“So that’s it, Amanda?” Sam said, rising from table. “Crush us like a couple of bugs!”

“What?” Amanda asked, looking up in surprise.

Sam stood from the table, and stormed from the restaurant.

“Great, another relationship down the tubes,” Amanda taunted herself.

Sam had only taken a few sips of his coffee. She turned the cup around, running her thumb over the part that had touched his lips. She paid the bill and left the restaurant.

She hesitated outside the diner, fiddling with her clothes. It was getting cold. She pulled her coat tightly. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sam. He was lurking in shadows off the alley. She stopped, keeping her back toward him.

Please, please, say something, Sam, she begged to herself. Just come back and tell me I’m wrong: call me inhuman, an asshole, a cunt. She shouted this in her head, as if she were ordering around some buggy software in her EOS.

His footsteps trailed off. He would never see the tears sneaking under her sunglasses, down her face and bouncing off the exoskeleton of her dress. Amanda’s walk was now faster; the breeze caused her hair to dance behind.

She hadn’t planned to bring up the rape. Her therapist had claimed she had gotten over it the best she could. But, somehow, Sam could see through her, even more than David ever could.

She started speaking aloud to the head wind.

“So, to break up with Sam, I had to stab him with the truth.”

She started up the block for the post office. The movie she had ordered for him had arrived. It was a film called Five Came Back. It was that B-movie about the people stranded in the jungle, the one they had watched in the hotel. She would send it back, keep it, or give it to someone else.

The wind would not let up. She hurried; the cold was catching up to her.

I’m harder, now, she understood. At least it will be easier next time.

Amanda hated being late.

The meeting with the Japanese businessmen had run long. Their offer was solid, but not solid enough to be set up for life. They were eager to get their hands on the Darkling hat. She knew their scientists would backward-engineer the device and, in a few years, the technology would be copied. She believed no one government should have control of it. David would have approved.

She did not know why she agreed to a session with Sam. But he went on and on about how good she was and that he could find no one as talented. That was true. Amanda knew she was the best. It had been months since she had seen him, and she was curious to see how his investigative career was going. Yet this scene was going to be strictly business. Sam had one hour, then he was out the door.

But he was nowhere in sight. There were no messages. If he cancelled, it gave her the night off. Amanda pulled the Darkling hat out of her bag and placed it on the table.

“Well, if Sam skips out,” she told herself, “I can’t blame him.”

She went to the whipping room, where she kept a change of clothes. The second she entered the room, something moved behind her.

CRACK.

The left side of her face exploded in a spray of blood. She screamed, covering her head.

It was Sam. He had the bullwhip!

She dropped to the floor. The whip again sliced the air.

CRACK.

This time it missed, slicing the air in a supersonic backlash just above her head.

“No, Sam,” Amanda pleaded. “Please, stop!”

Blood was pouring through her fingers as she covered her eye. She could barely see. Through the red fog, she could see Sam drop the whip.

“Amanda, I…” He bent over, looking as if he was getting sick.

“Why, Sam?” Amanda asked, with inexplicable calm. He answered by running from the room.

Blasting pain and adrenaline crashed the EOS; it could not call for help. Amanda fought a wave of dizziness while struggling to her office. She grabbed the phone. The dispatcher promised an ambulance in three minutes. She slumped into her beautiful regal chair. Blood ran down her face, leaking through her hands, dripping on her breasts. She pressed the wound, trying to stop the flow of blood. Then she thought of the hat. She had to hide it.

The front door was open. Sam was gone – and so was the Darkling hat.

Sam was in darkness. His eyes were open, but he could not see. The ground was moist, like mud under his fingers. The air was hot and stunk of ammonia. He was in a deep cavern. He crawled forward, his fingers squishing the gook under him. He heard a sound in the distance.

A shimmer of bioluminescent fungus delineated the cave in relief. The ceiling was low. Something was crawling over his skin. The floor was alive with countless larval insects. The mud pulsed and moved. Things were crawling all over him.

Fur brushed his face. Something flew by. He heard a squeak. The cave was filled with bats. He was crawling through guano.

Feeling along in the darkness, his hand touched something hard. His dark-adapting eyes revealed its identity. It was a body: a person, a man. To Sam’s horror, he found that the stomach and genitals had been eaten away, as if chewed out by some raging carnivore.

He found another dead man in the same state of partial consumption. Then another. Now he heard voices.

Was that Amanda?

He came to a tight passageway just big enough to squeeze through. Sam went through head-first. It turned downward. He wound up in a larger part of the cavern. This chamber was filled with the dead bodies. They were stacked all around. The air was oppressive with the smell of rotting flesh. In the gloom, something was moving.

It was a huge beast, quadrupedal and hairless. It was the size of a small cow. It made made chomping sounds. Surrounding it were more bodies. Sam turned, trying to crawl back through the aperture. But the slippery earth had him trapped.

The thing heard him. It spun around. It had the head of a human! Blood was caked on its lips. Strips of flesh hung from its mouth. It had long hair. It lurched toward him, close enough now for Sam to get a good look at its face.

It was his mother.

Sam screamed so hard, he tasted blood. The thing charged. He desperately scrambled up the cave wall, slipping and cutting his fingers. He plied the sides for handholds, but got nothing. It was behind him now. He felt himself sliding toward it. Hot breath enveloped his heels.

A small hand reached through the darkness in front of him. Sam grabbed for it. Whoever it was supported him, helping him upward.

“Come on, silly!” It was a little girl’s voice. Sam noticed his own hand: it was child-size, like the one he was holding. He kept moving upward, leaving the snarling beast below.

“What are you, a sissy?” teased his companion.

“Stop calling me that, tomboy!” His own voice now rang high-pitched. He struggled back through the opening, and got to his feet.

“Well, then, come on!” his little friend added, running just out of sight.

Sam was standing before a black room. Two people were there. One was a woman, dressed very strangely. The other was a man with no clothes on. He was bent over some funny piece of furniture.

“You-are-a-slow-poke,” the little girl added in singsong.

“I am not!”

Sam kept moving. Now he saw two people eating dinner. They were having fun. He could not look for long; his friend kept slipping ahead.

Next he saw two people together in bed. They had no clothes on. The woman was on top of the man. What were they doing? The woman’s hand was in the man’s lap. She was holding something.

“Ha!” the little girl interrupted. “Thanks to you, I know what that is. It’s an erection!”

Now a man appeared before Sam. He had an awful whip in his hands. He looked angry.

“Hey, come here and look at this!” The little girl was at a door. Sam went to her side.

“Sam Bigglesworth,” the girl read, pointing to the glass, “Detective Agency.”

The girl tugged at Sam’s hand.

“I’ve got to go, now,” she said, adding, “I enjoyed playing with you again.”

“Me, too,” Sam replied. “Maybe we can play…” But she vanished into the darkness.

Sam turned the doorknob.

A man was sitting at a desk, a stack of cardboard boxes beside him. Before the man sat two other men, dressed in suits. One was big, the other smaller. The big fellow had on a pair of strange-looking glasses.

“Excuse the appearance of my office, gentlemen,” said the man behind the desk. “I am moving downtown, next week…”

“That should present no inconvenience,” assured the smaller man.

“So, uh,” the man behind the desk checked a notebook. “Mr Pierce, you want me to find some lady? I hope you at least have a picture of her.”

The big man pulled a magazine from his jacket and slid it across the desk.

“That’s her,” replied the short man, “on the back cover.”

The man behind the desk cocked an eyebrow. He circled the ad with a felt-tip pen. “What is she? Some sort of prostitute?”

“Not exactly. This woman is in possession of top secret computer hardware,” explained the short man. “She is trying to smuggle it out of the country.”

“Oh,” the man behind the desk interrupted, “so you guys work for the Feds. Great, then I can charge double!” He started laughing.

The two others did not join in.

Just then, the men in suits vanished in a puff of glowing blue light. But the man behind the desk remained. His eyes were locked on Sam.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“Me?” Sam’s voice was deeper now. “I should ask you that!”

The man reached into his desk. He pulled out the Darkling hat.

“You know,” he said, “I thought I had erased you from my life, you disgusting pervert.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sam said, stepping forward. “That is not so easy. And fuck you!”

Sam dived over the desk. His hands locked on the man’s throat.

Everything in Sam’s mind exploded.

This was not the first time I had woken in a puddle of my own piss. But now semen was mixed in. I raised my head; I was still chained up in the closet. I was looking into the barrel of a gun. It was mine. Pressing the trigger was Amanda.

“No,” I found myself saying. “I did not know who they were. They, they -”

My eyes were fixed on Amanda’s scar. It now stood out like a curse.

“Oh, God,” I found myself saying, “I did this to you, blaming you, blaming all women. But how could I ever hurt you? What, what -”

“Start making sense.” Amanda stepped forward. “This is not virtual-reality gaming! I could not see everything you just went through. However, I caught enough to know it was you who led those agents here.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling calmer. “They hired me to find you. But it was not a set-up. It was just a coincidence. You said I was the new Sherlock Holmes. I can find anybody! You and David kept your relationship hush-hush, and the anonymity of your business made you almost a non-person. You would have been history long ago, had it not been for that. But they knew the Darkling hat was somewhere and, somehow, information on you must have surfaced. The two goons came to me, came to me, with an ad,” I broke off in laughter. “I had lost myself, Amanda. Finally I was all gone.” I lowered my head. Everything was making sense, but I did not want these revelations.

“Why, Sam?” Amanda persisted, pointing to her maimed face.

“It’s not you!” I shouted. “It was my parents. They separated when I was a child. It was messy. Difficult. My dad was a good guy, but my mom was spiteful and vindictive. She had a better lawyer and I wound up in her custody. But it was the men, all the men…”

“Neglect? Is that what this is about?” Amanda’s voice cut with a dismissive tone.

“This is my nightmare,” I calmly explained. “If you’re going to kill me, at least let me spit it out.” I owed her this. I took a deep breath.

“Neglect, yeah. That is part of it. Promiscuous would be too polite a word for my mother. I was always being dropped off at some baby-sitter’s or getting pawned off on neighbors for the night. At best, I was put to bed early. But I could hear them downstairs – from my bedroom, my mom and one of her many friends. I knew she didn’t care about me, did not…”

“Sam, it’s all right,”

“All right? All right to hate women? All of you, especially ones I love? You are my fucked-up mother! Why do you think I paid you to hurt me? And, in time, I knew you would abandon me. You always are abandoning me, betraying me.” Sobs started blocking my words.

“I was the catalyst, the focus of your crisis.” Amanda acted as if she was talking to herself. “I pushed you too fast. The combination of physical and emotional pain, causing you to snap.” Amanda was lowering the gun.

“Why should you care?” I mumbled. “I had a choice. I chose to leave you a bloody mess.” I gave my restraints a tug and threw my head back. “Shoot! Get this over with.”

Then I felt her closeness. She was standing next to me in the puddle of my juices. She grabbed the back of my head and pulled me forward.

“Look at me,” she said firmly.

I couldn’t believe what I saw in her face: compassion.

“You think you deserve to die -” she ran her finger down the scar “ – for this? A hospital visit and two rounds with a plastic surgeon? Then a few months with a physical therapist and a little acupuncture – I have some nerve damage now; and sometimes it twitches.” The side of my face came to rest on her leg. “It would be great,” she continued, “if all wounds were so easily healed. Damn, that fucker Freud must be spinning in his grave; you hate me because I remind you of mommy!” She gave me a sharp look. “Who are you?”

“Huh?”

“Are you the smart-mouthed sexist detective or the sensitive, intelligent guy I knew?”

The weirdest feeling came over me.

“Both!” I blurted. “We are both here.”

Amanda started unlatching my arms.

“I loved that guy, that man who first came to see me.” She helped me to my feet.

God, I stank to high heaven.

“Amanda,” I said softly, “he – I mean, we – still love you. The detective is having a hard time with this erotic lifestyle, but for the moment he is under control.”

“Sam, we’ve got to get out of here. I mean, those agents…”

“Shut up, sweetie!” I heard myself saying. “If we are going to get out of here alive, we’d better start making with the feet – now!”

We were skipping the country.

I had to hand it to the broad: she moved like lightning. The only things she took from her dungeon were her favorite cat o’nine whip and that damn spider. She scooped it up in an empty yogurt container. Now I had the creepy-crawly in my side pocket; she said it had to be kept warm. Shit, I must really love this bitch. Boy, the customs agents were sure in for a big surprise if they searched me!

We had to stop off at the house she rented. Amanda needed a few things, namely that computer of hers. That thing has some range! It had been networked into the plumbing of Amanda’s brain for years. Seems she could just not stand to be without it. And any woman needs a couple of changes of clothes. I hoped she had some clothes for me. I stank like hell!

Hong Kong was our destination. I was still owed big-time favors there. I knew one or two business types who just might like a crack at that Darkling hat. For the right price, that is.

Her home was a little colonial-style deal, way up in the suburbs. It was 3:15 a.m. I had been waiting nearly an hour. She had told me to wait. I always obeyed her. She was the boss. She would punish me if…

What the fuck was I thinking? I would just love to get Amanda bent over a stool, and shove my hard cock up her ass. That would show her who was boss! I just, I just…

She was taking too long. I turned on the radio, hoping music would calm my nerves.

“Sam Bigglesworth,” the reporter snapped in, “is wanted as the suspect in connection with the slaying of the two officers. He was last seen traveling with a woman and -”

Oh, great! Now I’m pegged as a cop-killer. Every cop on the eastern seaboard was now fighting for the honor of blowing my brains out. We needed to be at the dock in two hours. That container ship would not wait, no matter how much I bribed. Finally, the lights blinked off in the house.

After five minutes, there was still no sign of Amanda.

I got out of the car and went to her door. It was half open.

Suddenly, the hair stood up on the back of my neck. What the hell did that mean? As if possessing a mind of its own, my hand gracefully reached inside my jacket, and slipped my gun from its holster.

I pushed the door slowly open and entered Amanda’s darkened house. Her stuffed backpack was in the hallway. Just as I was about to call out, I stopped myself. I reached for the light switch, but a little voice went off in my head, saying, “What, are you crazy?”

My feet guided me out of the hallway and into the living room. The carpet quieted my steps. I was standing before the fireplace. A blast of memories raced through me. I could almost see us cuddled there after our late-night dinner in a quiet restaurant. I crouched down, touching the area where we once lay. I scanned the room.

“Sam – watch out!”

Someone slugged me – hard. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. My gun was kicked free and bounced out of reach. Lights blazed on.

That big goon with the visor was standing above me. How could such a big guy move so fast? That grenade-launching rifle of his was now pointed right at me. Amanda was on the floor, face down. The goon’s partner – the shorter guy – was holding her. He kept her arm pinned behind her, and his knee pressed into the small of her back. He had a pistol, too.

“Well,” he announced, “you finally join us.”

I had my eye on the big guy. Although his face was partly covered by those spaced-out goggles, I was a quick study. Something was puzzling him. His rifle kept swinging, as if he could not get a fix on me.

“So, Mr Bigglesworth,” the little guy said softly. “You had us fooled for a while. But you know what we are after.”

“No, Sam!” Amanda cut in, then, “Ouch!”

The goon twisted her arm.

“You see, Mr Bigglesworth,” he explained, “the mind of your charming friend was easy for my partner to scan. And, I might add, what a naughty mind it is!”

“Cut to the chase, Mr Pierce,” I interrupted. I slowly got to my feet.

The big goon grunted.

“Her mind told us you have the hat,” he continued. “But scanning you is problematic, it seems. My partner thought two people were waiting in the car.”

“OK,” I said, “you got us. If I give you the hat, you’ll let us go?”

“Sam,” Amanda cut in, “don’t. They’ll kill us.”

“Shut up, Amanda. What else can we do?” I reached in my pocket and wrapped my hands around the container.

“As I was saying,” the man with Amanda continued, “you are a bit of an enigma. Interesting phenomenon, isn’t it?”

“Here!” I snapped the lid of the container open. “Catch!”

The wiggling spider sailed through the air, landing smack on the big goon’s face.

I dived to the floor, expecting gun shots.

“Ahhh – you bitch,” shouted the little guy. Protruding from his knee was Amanda’s switchblade, buried to the handle. She spun from under him, knocking him off balance. He fired a blind round.

The big guy screamed. He dropped the rifle, covering his face with his hands. The spider was taking care of business, planting both fangs into his nose. I dived for my gun.

I was luckier with my shot. It hit the little guy. A voice went off in my head: “Share the wealth,” it said.

My next bullet struck the big, bellowing guy. He hit the wall.

I spun, taking aim at shortie. The splat of blood and bits of brain painting the wall indicated another shot was unnecessary. But the big guy still made noise. He rolled over onto his back.

I flinched as two more rounds shot off. It was Amanda! She had shortie’s gun. She emptied the clip into the big guy.

“That’s for David, you bastard!” she affirmed, dropping the gun.

“Damn, Amanda!” I said, as she pulled the knife out of the little guy’s leg. She folded it and returned it to its home in her boot. “We make a good team.”

She threw her arms around me and squeezed me tight. Tears were on her face. She kissed me on the cheek.

“Ouch,” I complained. She managed to kiss my throbbing cheekbone, right where I had been punched. “That hurt, but not in a good way.”

I went to the one who had held Amanda. His pocket revealed a wallet full of ID and cards. Now we would have a better idea who we were dealing with. Amanda stood above the bigger guy. She pulled the goggles from his face.

“Come on, Amanda,” I said, grabbing her backpack and rushing for the door. “We have to fly.”

“Sam.” She turned to me, a look of horror on her face. “You have to see this!”

I went to her side and stared into the face of the big dead goon. It was the most hideous thing I had ever seen.

It was his eyes! They were huge, like the unfeeling eyes of some nocturnal reptile. His eyelids were small, vestigial, useless. His pupils were fixed wide, the sclera parched and dry, ruffled like dried skin. The skin around his eyes, protected by the visor, was pale with a sickly translucence.

Next to this apparition was Naggie, Amanda’s poor spider. Its legs were folded under its body. The big goon had crushed it dead.

I gave Amanda the car keys and told her to meet me at the front of the house. I ran to the kitchen and unplugged the electrical power to the self-starting gas oven. I turned up all the jets and grabbed the grenade rifle.

I was already standing in the road when she pulled up. I motioned for her to roll the window down.

“Bid sayonara to your old life, Amanda.”

“I already did,” I heard her say from the darkened car.

The grenade took off like a rocket, passing clear through the open front door. Amanda’s house exploded in a brain-shaped cloud of red flame.

Amanda finally fell asleep, but she was restless. She had suggested cunnilingus might help her relax. We were sweaty from our long trip. We were too exhausted to even shower. I did not hesitate to suckle between her legs. She tasted fantastic!

Here we were, in the same hotel room we had rented for my celebration when I had gotten my license. Sure, it was risky. But what a great place to spend the last hours in the States. I was exhausted myself, but could not sleep. I rubbed my lips and Amanda’s aroma revived me.

The stolen visor rested on the table. The Darkling hat was squirreled away in Amanda’s suitcase. Her little computer would easily pass as business accessory, so Customs would be a piece of cake. And Sam the private dick knew whose palms to grease if we ran into any trouble. I could hardly wait for the bidding war between the Hong Kong triad and the Japanese. Our goal was enough hard cash to do anything, to go anywhere. And those Asiatic business types were sure kinky: their company benefits plans even budgeted for sex! Amanda could set up the best fetish palace in history. With that spooky visor and her computer, I would be the best private eye that ever hit the Pacific Rim. Nobody on the planet could put the drop on us.

But what about other planets? What was that thing we killed back at Amanda’s pad? Was he once human, or something else entirely? Was it possible the visor did this?

Amanda kept tossing. I quietly rose from the chair and picked up the mysterious visor. I just had to take a peek through this thing. I stepped toward the balcony and parted the sliding doors. A blast of humid, polluted air bathed my naked body. I put the visor to my eyes.

For a few seconds, everything was black. Then, one by one, stars began to appear. They were all around me. I realized they were minds. I could see them walking the streets forty-seven stories below. Brains even glowed through the tops of cars and through the buildings around me. After a time, the lights of their minds merged. Each human entity was a lighthouse, casting shadows in a sea of thick conscience.

It was pulling me. It tugged at my face. I felt the thoughts would support me. All I had to do was step off the balcony and crowd-surf on the thick chorus of mentality. A new, powerful sense was growing in me.

A distant rumble broke my thoughts. Gazing upward, I saw the outline of the StratoLiner. Its now transparent fuselage trapped a swarm of mental fireflies: I had access to the minds of the passengers. They were dissected before my scrutiny. In a few hours, one of these ships would carry us over the horizon, delivering us across the near-vacuum of low earth orbit to our new lives.

I was getting dizzy. I stumbled back into our room. My gaze fixed on Amanda. A huge, shapeless entity was squatting on her. She was being torn up by a monster. It ripped at her, digging her, stripping her flesh away. It was splitting her in half. She could not get away. All she could do was toss under the covers, trapped in an unending nightmare.

I grabbed the suitcase. I dialed “007” into the lock. The case popped open. The Darkling hat was in my hands.

I went to Amanda’s side. As I took off the visor, the apparition vanished. I pulled the covers back. She was asleep, her eyelids darting in REM. I placed my hand on her shoulder. She flinched but did not awake.

She might curse me for what I was about to do, but she said this was the intention of the Darkling hat. I hoped the woman who got up in the morning would be the same wonderful spirit I so madly loved. She once said our demons might be the best part of us.

But I was no longer going to allow this demon to chew my lover to death.