             Hard-Boiled Bondage By Guy Strangeways

It was Tuesday. Shrove Tuesday. And I'd never really gotten the hang
of Tuesdays, Shrove or otherwise. I'd spent a totally pointless day
going through the morgue files at the Post-Herald-Dispatch for some
leads on a messy divorce case I was doing as a favor for old times
sake and $250 a day plus expenses. I hate divorce cases. They stick
to your shorts. The name on the directory for office 2-D said "JOE
KINK--Investigations", and since it was my name and my racket I
figured I might as well climb the stairs and see what the answering
machine had to say for itself. I know us private dicks are supposed
to have big dumb blonde secretaries with boobs by the bushel
basket, but I never saw any point in paying a person to do what a
machine could do just as well or better. Of course, it works both
ways, so I never bought a vibrator either. Anyhow, a quick stoop to
pick up the envelopes promising me a microwave if I'd look at some
resort property about a hundred miles from nowhere put me down
where I could see through the one pane of frosted glass still unbroken
and boarded over into my room, and what I saw made me curious. 

There was an outline visible that definitely appeared to be woman-
shaped, if memory served, and that probably meant trouble. Dames
always meant trouble in my book. Of course, I never learned to read
much, just to look at the pictures, and pictures of dames usually
meant fun, so I decided to take a chance and pushed the door open
with stealth, catlike grace, and a loud creaking howl from the well-
rusted hinge. 

She was tall, she was a redhead, and there was something strange
about the way she stood there. She didn't move, and while I'm not
always raped on the spot by strange women, they usually wiggle at
least a little bit when they get a load of my devil-may-care smile, my
flashing eyes, and my gold Visa Express card. 

Then I got the picture. The dame was tied up. Tight. Under the trench
coat, which I removed solely in the interests of forensic science, she
was naked and bound as tight as King Tut's aunt Petunia. Her wrists
were tied to the tops of her well-turned thighs, her elbows looped to
a rope that ran just under her gorgeous jugs, and her knees and
ankles were trussed tighter than a goner gobbler before a football
Thursday in fall. 

I was just about to give thanks for this big-titted high-heeled gift from
the gods, when I noticed that even her lips were tongue-tied. A clever
flesh-colored piece of tape had been slapped over her face, and an
artfully painted set of phoney lips were etched over the silenced real
ones underneath. 

"Okay, sister." I sighed, " We can do this the easy way or we can do
this the hard way. It'll hurt you more than it'll hurt me, and you know
its for your own good. Its always darkest before the dawn, so get me
some clean sheets and plenty of hot water!" 

I couldn't think of any more cliches to stall the inevitable, so I grabbed
the corner of the tape gag and pulled it off with a mighty yank that
sent the redheaded dame dazzling down onto the moth-eaten orange
naugahyde divan that was left over from the days a horny Hollywood
agent had used it for his casting couch. 

"Woooowie!" she smiled, enjoying the ripping pain, "You sure give
good tape Mr. Kink." 

"Call me Joe, babe. What brings you to see me? An appliance dolly?" 

"Can the clever shoptalk, shamus. I got trouble. Big trouble. And I
heard you were the kind of dick who thinks with his meat." 

She knew all about me. I had no idea how she'd done it, but she had
me dead to rights. Not everybody knew I was a bondage buff, but I
guess when you beat an entire troop of cub scouts in a knot-tying
contest, fame is inevitable. Of course, the kids never had a chance.
I tied up two blondes and gave them to the judges. They used two
sticks. 

"Okay, doll. What gives? How come you're tied and waiting for me
and how come you know so much, and how come you got in here
without a key, and how come you got up the stairs in that condition,
and while you're at it, how come salmon swim upstream ?" 

I thought I had her there, but she answered with the answer that I'd
been hearing ever since I was a teenager bringing my ropes and my
rod to the service of horny housewives all over East Merrick, New
Jersey. 

"Its my husband, Joe." she said with a smirk. 

It was a good smirk. A really good smirk. Especially coming from a
babe wearing nothing but ropes and the smirk itself. The fact that I'd
never seen a bad smirk on a naked bound babe was irrelevant. So
ignore it. I did. 

"Now that I've got your attention, Joe, let me explain...." And she did,
dotting every t and crossing every i, which was another twisted thing
about her I grew to love and cherish in those brief days and nights. 

It seemed her husband, Wade Barker III, scion of the North Campbell
Barkers, famous for their holdings in gold, diamonds, cattle, and
brussels sprouts futures, had a thing for bondage about as heavy as
my own, and often left Mrs. B. tied up like this out in public for sport.
Some people prefer hockey. 

Perverts. 

Anyway, when he left her alone on the grounds of the family manse,
it seemed to be more of his usual kinky fun, but eight hours later
she'd wiggled her way up to the main house only to find old Wade-
In-The-Shade laid out dead as a door-to-door steak salesman in a
lion's den. 

She'd managed to find my address in the yellow pages letting her
nose do the walking since her fingers were otherwise engaged with
fine manilla sash cord, and had hopped along to my office, arriving
only moments before I did, to get my help. 

"So you wanna know whodunit, huh Mrs. Barker?" I summed up. 

"Its Babs to you Joey baby, and sure, it'd be nice to know all the
answers eventually. But in the meanwhile, could you change my
position? My left big toe is beginning to cramp." 

Anybody who knows me will tell you I can never deny a beautiful
babe in bondage anything, so I gave her all the hospitality my simple
digs could manage, binding her into the portable carbon-alloy
stainless-steel pillory I kept in the front closet for just such an
occasion. With her hands and head locked in at my waist level, I
knew she'd be more relaxed. For about three seconds. I was standing
in front of her in two. 

"Suck dick, doll" I whispered, springing into action. 

"Mmmmmphghhhhmmmmrrrrrgh!" she said, displaying all of the wit
and subtle badinage that is a dead giveaway of high breeding and low
morals. 

Just to give her a little encouragement, I swatted her wiggling butt with
the tip of my hand-tooled three-tailed East Borneo jousting flagella
which I'd picked up at the local Useless-Bamboo-Oriental-Junk-R-Us
store's going-out-of-business sale. Useless huh? Hah! Useless indeed!


Babs was really jamming and slamming in her rigid imprisonment in
the yokes of the pillory, and I was getting an extra suck of desire with
each stinging lash I delivered to her bouncing bumcheeks. 

That's when it came to me like a voice out of another dimension. A
ringing, piercing, crying harbinger that ran up my spine, around my
collar and into my ear like a bedbug in a Miami motel. 

"Pull out, Joe! Pull out! This thing is going deeper than you know!
Deeper than you can handle! Pull out! Pull out now before its too
late!" 

With a pop like Guy Lombardo's last bottle of New Years' Cordon
Rouge, I extracted my wiggling will-o-the-wisp of wench-whapping
wand from Babs' bounteous blubbery bouche d'amour. The suction
nearly had me beside myself, but I kept my wits about me and my
digit intact. 

There was no easy way to do it. I had to break it to her, and I knew
she was gonna fall hard. 

"Party's over, sweettooth. It was you, wasn't it. It was you all along!" 

"What do you mean, Joe? What are you talking about? Shut up and
ram that big gat of yours up my tingly twatty-poo now that its all hard
and hungry for me! I need you in my captive crevice soooooo bad!" 

"You're good, dollface, I'll give you that. You're very, very good. But
it won't wash. I've got your number, and its the twelve digit one that'll
be under your picture at the State Honor Rancho For Built Broads.
You're gonna take the big fall, sweetmeat. 

But don't worry. You'll like prison. Lots of handcuffs and cells, and
even a few nice husky dyke guards with loose whips and tight lips to
sink your hips into. In fact, for a sexy sicko dame like you, it'll hardly
be punishment at all." 

"What makes you think you know so much, smartass?" she spit out
from her position bent over in the stocks. 

"Oh, I see all those women's prison pictures. I'm a fucking expert." I
explained. "You know the ones: 'Sing Sing Sluts', 'Dykes In Chains',
'The Warden Wore Support House', 'Big Bamboo Dolls In Houses Of
Steel', 'Whip Me Another', 'Hellhole Whores'.... 

"No you blithering VCR addict! Not that! I mean how do you figure
you've got me over a barrel?" 

Although that seemed like a pretty silly thing for a naked woman in a
pillory to say, I let her have it hard and straight. 

"Ungh!" She cried as I rammed it home, whispering sweet nothings
into her shell-like ears over the rim of the stocks. 

"You killed Wade Barker III. You got pretty good at moving around in
bondage, didn't you? So good at hopping, that you managed to jump
right up and kick the poor dumb perverted son-of-a-bitch to death!
You danced on his grave, baby, and then you hippity-hopped over
here to give yourself an alibi. A poor dumb shamus with a thing for
tied up twat. It was all too perfect, except for one little mistake." 

I paused for effect. It had none. So I drove myself another three
inches into her and fingered her tight butthole. That did it. 

"Oh god I'm coming, Joe! What mistake?" 

I smiled and got ready to unload it all. "You weren't totally naked in
your bondage, were you baby? No, that wouldn't be fetish enough for
a kinky dame like you. You had to add a little style to your sleaze.
You needed a little extra touch. I saw it right away when I came in
here a while ago. You were naked, sure, but you had on those sexy
black patent high heels. And I'll bet the coroner will be able to match
those heel prints with the little round holes on old Wade's forehead." 

"Mggggghhhhyessssssss! I'm commmmmmmmminnnnnnggggg!" Babs
bubbled as I unloaded all my hot love gism, anointing her hungry hole
with my dominant dew. 

"Save it for the judge, sweetheart. Save it for the judge." 

I reached for the phone, dripping with sweat and other fluids too
numerous to mention in a family magazine, when she cried out from
her post-orgasmic coma. 

"Wait a minute Joe. Wait and think. You don't want all those dykes in
the big doll house to have me, do you? I want YOU to have me Joe.
What do you care if Wade is dead. You didn't even know him! And
now I'm free, easy, and very rich. We could build a cozy little
bungalow! Two simple rooms, a living room and a dungeon! Just you,
me, the rack, the pillory, and the iron maiden! You could whip me
every morning, and pinch my titties every night! It'd be heaven, Joe!
Heaven on earth! What the heck do you care about my husband? Let
it be, Joe. Let it be and let me be your rich, sexy love slave for ever
and ever more! " 

I gave it some thought. . .I gave it some more thought. . I gave it a bit
more thought. 

I thought it sounded real good. 

Until it hit me: Wade tied her....I tied her. Wade whipped her....I
whipped her. Wade fucked her....and man did I ever fuck her! Wade
and me, we had a lot in common. We had Babs in common. We had
bondage in common. 

"Sorry, sweetheart." I replied as I zipped up my J.C. Nickles chinos
with a zinging zip. "No can do." "Why not, Joe? Why the hell not?" 

"The way I see it sweetheart, I didn't know Wade, and maybe I
wouldn't even have liked him much. But Wade and me....well, we was
partners. And when somebody kills your partner, you're supposed to
do something about it. You're supposed to do something, that's all."
So saying, I made my call. 

And I left her there for the cops. I couldn't stand the sight of some
other man slapping the cuffs on those tender wrists of hers. I guess
I kinda fell for her. Fell hard. 

But life is hard, especially in this game. Bondage isn't pretty. But its
all I've got. Its part of me. Part of my pride. Part of my soul. Part of
my life. 

And after all......spending the afternoon tying up a buxom redhead and
fucking her senseless sure beats working for a living. So does getting
paid to write about it. 

But that's why I'm Joe Kink, Investigations, and you're reading this
with two eyes and one hand. S'okay, kid. Keep 'em tied tight though.
And remember, no matter how much you're into footwear, take their
patent spikes away from them first thing, especially on a first date.
Those things leave very nasty marks....in your forehead and in your
heart. 

So long, suckers. See ya in a Bishop funnypaper cartoon. 

