The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels (57 page)

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.