Doc Savage

Doc Savage Cover

The sun was barely up and already muggy; more August than October. That’s why I hadn’t gone out that morning-had humped and sweated two thick, buggy ridges the day before and felt wrung out. Didn’t feel like archery season. I liked the woods in the fall; not the summer, so I let them go without me-I’d hunt the evening; spend the day reading and chilling. That’s what I was doing when Jerry’s girlfriend Lynn padded softly into the kitchen. We were all staying in her grandparent’s decrepit farmhouse in the foothills of the Adirondacks.

I wished I could say I was reading Kerouac, Gary Snyder, even Hemingway but actually it was one of the Doc Savage series; don’t remember which-there were a ton of them and I’d had most as a kid. Brought them hunting with me because they were small enough to pack and there was something reassuring about them. Having read and re-read them for years, they calmed me and brought me back to earth when I got too high. Which was hard to avoid when hunting with Jerry and the boys.

Lynn said “Mornin”, soft and sleepy and I looked up with a ready smile to find her completely and totally naked, a wrinkle from the bed clothes traced along her hip. Not a thread, not an earring, nothing. “I can’t sleep in anything in this weather”, she said. “I hope you don’t mind.” No, I told her, I’m fine. I put my head down to read again but that didn’t feel right. If she came down dressed I wouldn’t read and ignore her.

The smells of sleep swaddled her-all like baby milk, vanilla and dried sweat. She picked a cup from the sideboard and poured, her back to me, skin shining in the morning dim of the old house. Sugar was there and the cup tink-tink-tink-tinked as she stirred. She had a great ass-that I knew from the jeans she wore. Her butt was like Marcia’s a little smaller, maybe firmer. No, couldn’t have been. Marcia’s butt was bounce a quarter off it firm. Marcia-Jesus. Hadn’t thought of her in months. She liked me to spank her-the first girl who ever asked for it. I didn’t get it at first, but I’m a quick study.

She laughed like I was tickling her; and she’d fake these little ‘ooohs’, and ‘ouches’ like I was hurting her. As if ever that could have happened. She broke up with me when she went off to college. Didn’t want any encumbrances she said. That was her word. I thought I was going to be her husband, but suddenly I was an encumbrance. Christ.

“I’m going back upstairs”, Lynn said turning a little my way so I could see her tits. She liked them and should have, but her eyes, looking sideways, betrayed nothing. She was giving a show but couldn’t tell if it was for my benefit or hers. “There’s a cross breeze up there-feels sweet and you can still taste the last bit of evening.”  I thought to say ‘Yeah’, but some kind of weird, strangled sound came out, so I kept my mouth shut as her bottom disappeared into the shadows and creaking, back up the stairs.

I had never been so hard in my freaking life. It was like all my morning-wood ever rolled together but I didn’t know if it was Marcia’s memory or Lynn’s reality that lit the fuse. I read a paragraph, Doc was in trouble, but remembered nothing. Read it again-then a page, then the same page again. I tried reading aloud in a whispered mantra to bank the fire but it wasn’t working.

Then I heard the creak again-on the stairs. I knew, and started reading harder, silently but unable to drown the sound of her bare feet scuffing across the old hardwood.

“I thought you would follow me.”

She was still naked, her body-facing me now-luminous in the knife edge of sunlight that was peeking through the kitchen window. Golden dust motes twinkled, a cape swirling in the air above her.

“I could.” I kept my eyes on hers as she waited to hear more. “Can I spank you?”

The corner of her mouth lifted; her eye caught the sun. She turned slowly, languidly, a weekend swimmer taking a turn in a pool. “Sure”, she said over her shoulder as her butt walked off again into the shadows.  “Just not too hard.”

For a second, I thought of Jerry. No, less than a second. I’d known him since first grade but it wasn’t like we were brothers or anything. I cringed at the squeaking sound the chair made pushing away from the table.




Nose picking at Morrison’s grave

Flew to Paris years ago on business. I was saddled with a mid-level manager who was as loose as uncooked pasta so I had to entertain myself. Because it was those times, I snorted coke crouching in the lav then couldn’t sleep the whole way across the Atlantic; drank too much in the darkened plane till I got tired of it then dropped a Quaalude. The times, as I said.

By the time we landed the drugs had cancelled each other and I was straight, but wine drunk and it was midmorning. He wanted to go to the hotel to “freshen up” whatever that meant, but it was my first trip to Paris so I commandeered the cab and barked “Pere Lachaise!” Where? he asked. Cemetery, I said. We’re in Paris and we’re going to a cemetery? Who’s buried there? Balzac, I told him. Balzac. Turned out to be true but what did I know? Just said it. Didn’t want to tell him we were going to Jim Morrison’s grave.

The jig was up when we got out of the cab and picked up a map from an old woman on a folding chair and started following the makeshift signage. As we got closer, the graffiti thickened, the litter deepened and just as we reached the small circle of pilgrims passing a joint, which I grabbed at, the sun hit me like an ax and the night of red wine split my skull. Somewhere there is a picture of me talking to a pack of German girls one of whom had some English. None of them thought Morrison was buried there. That he was dead at all. I had no problem with him being dead-that it could happen. That’s what people did: some sooner some later. I never thought he wasn’t buried there.

Until the morning, years later, when I saw him working in a bait shop in North East, PA where we had gone salmon fishing. We were almost sick at the time, having drunk all night and barely sober in the cool autumn morning. Aside from the fishing and wine, North East was known for fresh donuts made in a bakery with huge foggy widows on the main drag. People lined the street for them. That was back then-not now. Now it’s all Horton’s and Dunkin and that shit.

So the first thing we did was split two dozen fresh, gooey hot glazed donuts and sweet steaming coffee from Styrofoam cups. Then went to the bait shop near the creek where Jim Morrison sold us salmon eggs and hooks. It was surreal. I couldn’t stop staring at him. I even called him “Jim” and he looked at me like I was nuts. It wasn’t till later, on the stream, that I realized the guy didn’t look like Morrison at all, but like a fat Val Kilmer. I had them confused from the movie.  Fucking embarrassment. Coulda been worse. Coulda thought he was Doc Holliday.

Caught three nice steelhead that morning, on the eggs I bought and only puked once behind a tree. Kicked leaves over it. Turned out to be a good day overall.

Nurse Kimani


(Continued from The Party )

Having made their entrance into the full glow of the fire and been viewed and admired, he released them from their collars and lay the staffs aside. Someone else would surely find a use for them before the evening was out.

“I’m going to find Duke”, he told them. “Go mingle.” Then, to Gennie, “Have fun”, with a light smack on her rump as he passed toward the house.

They wandered past the still smoking hulk of the motorcycle. “I can’t believe you did that…” she whispered into Chelsea’s ear. “Collateral damage”, the blond winked back. “A bonus. Very cool though.” The girls each grabbed a glass of wine from an angel with a black halo of wires circling her head. The woman’s hair was shaved tight on the sides with a floppy blue mohawk falling to the left. “You sure you’re an angel?” flirted Chelsea eyeing the woman’s ink-a blue web that crawled up her neck. “The devil began life as an angel, love”, she answered coolly. Chelsea, fully on the prowl, raised her glass in salute and allowed Gennie to pull her away.

They walked slowly past the toy table and Gennie slipped to the other side of Chelsea as if being too close to a paddle or crop might give someone ideas.  But it was hard to imagine people hear didn’t have the ideas already. Just over there-leaning against the mantle that she’d help deliver was the bare bottomed kitten that had met them when they arrived. The tail was gone but she was happily displaying two bright red welts running across her white cheeks. When had that happened? Where had that happened? Just seeing the marked bottom set Gennie’s stomach roiling.

Hors d’oeuvres that the villains had scattered to paddle Beth had been replaced. Chelsea went for the bacon-wrapped dates. “Famished! Waging war stokes a girl’s appetite.” Her eyes aflame, Chelsea scanned the scene looking for likely singles, doubles, whatever. As Gennie’s doors tightened at the prospect of public play, Chelsea’s opened like flood gates.  “Let’s go inside”, she said popping the last date whole into her mouth.

They moved through the foyer and into a high-ceilinged hub of a hall that spoked to a number of rooms, some dimly lighted by candles and a fire’s glow, a couple brighter with lamps and hanging bulbs. There seemed to be at least as many people inside as there were out.

“Where’d they all come from?” Gennie wondered.

“Party people gonna party”, Chelsea answered moving forward.

Gennie froze at the sound of a swat; the unmistakable song of wood on bare skin accompanied by an “owwww” and laughter. “Not that way!” she said pulling at Chelsea’s arm away from the sound. “Okay…” said Chelsea allowing herself to be led away. “But we’ve got some work to do with you girl.”

They slipped into a sitting room and were drawn to a small group standing around a couch. The circle opened for them as they pressed inward and Gennie caught the eye of a sandy haired boy-well, not really a boy, probably Gennie’s age-but impossibly cute in a slight blondish way. She couldn’t tell how tall he might be as he was currently lying across the lap of a statuesque beauty, the color of burnished mahogany in a blue nurse’s outfit. The boy’s pants were down to his thighs and a thermometer, a tad large for the task at hand, protruded from is tight upturned bottom. Why had she punked on being a nurse?

He smiled at her and the edge of his mouth twitched only the slightest when the nurse extracted the thermometer. Gennie noticed that his bottom was brushed the sweetest hue of pink. The nurse, with the name tag “Kimani” sewn onto her lush breast, went through the motions of reading the instrument. “You’re fine, Tommy”, she said patting his butt. “Just fine. See all that ruckus for nothing.” Her voice was strong and melodious with a hint of the islands tinkling just below the surface.

Kimani followed the tilt of his head and locked eyes with Gennie. “Well, hello there my green-eyed sister.” It was true, the nurse had green eyes, but not as bright as Gennie’s; more the muted, smoky color of martini olives. “I don’t know”, she said clinically, “You being a zombie and all, might be beyond my help. But maybe a little medical workup would serve you well.” She dropped the thermometer she had used into a bag at her feet and extracted a new one from her pocket.

Heat rose in Gennie’s cheeks and she gulped audibly, eliciting giggles from those close enough to hear.  “You’re scaring the girl Kimmie.” Gennie leaned away meaning to bolt, but Chelsea was at her back solid as a fence post blocking a simple escape. Gennie looked pleading into her eyes, “Please Chel…” she whispered. Chelsea held her there just long enough before smiling and stepping out of her way. “Maybe later, Nurse Kim”, she said. “We have to get some alcohol in her first.”

As Gennie slipped past, Chelsea grabbed her bottom gently and squeezed. “The longer you wait”, she whispered in her ear, “The worse it’s going to seem…” But as she walked away she felt something more than the nerves and gut-churning fear of being exposed to strangers. She would deny it out loud but there was something in the naughtiness of this whole evening that was beginning to buzz, so far quietly, inside her. She wished Chelsea would have kept her hand on her bottom.


The Party

(Continued from Chelsea – 9)

They sat in a charged silence with the turn signal blinking to allow a silver Volvo station wagon to enter then followed it down the drive. “We’re just arriving”, he said glancing into the rear view to catch Gennie’s eye. “We don’t know what happened…let anyone who wants to tell, tell.”

“Duke and Beth?” Gennie asked from the back.

“No. They know. Everyone else though…”

Gennie sighed loudly-a tad too loudly.

“Jesus Christ Geneva!”, Chelsea hissed turning in her seat. “Would you drop the fucking ‘tude!” The magic word to bust Gennie’s attitude always is her proper name spoken in anger. She puddled against the door.

“I’m sorry”, she said. “Sorry. I was just so…I’m just so…scared…”

“Scared”, sniffed Chelsea. “Scared…” She turned in the seat and without warning, slithered over the back rest. He had no desire to interfere but looking over in time to get a glimpse of Chelsea’s butt peeking out of the large tear in the seat of her jeans awakened desires he did have.

Gennie could barely get out a weak “Hey!” and throw up her arms before Chelsea was on her. “Do not be afraid and do not be a baby!” Chelsea said sternly grabbing her wrists and pushing them down to her sides. This lanky blonde was surprising strong. “Do you think we’re going to let anything happen to you?”


“Shut up!” Chelsea whispered. In the rear view he could mostly on see the back of Chelsea’s head but saw Gennie’s eyes roll back and close as Chelsea closed her mouth over hers. Gennie had no choice then but to shut up, there being two tongues in her mouth and all. She did relax, at least for the moment, as Chelsea released her arms and wrapped her in a hug. He pulled his eyes back to the road. Whatever the women did together back at the house, they did it out of his sight. Being a witness to this small coupling further scattered his concentration.

One would have thought that gunplay, an explosion, a cavalry charge of ATV’s and SUV’s scattering and subsequently rounding up a band of armed brigands might have put a damper on the party. In truth, some of the more timid souls had left at the first chance, but not too many timid souls come to this party anyway. The stream of vehicles coming down the driveway far and away outnumbered those going up.

After all that had happened it might have seemed easy to forget the plans for their entrance, but Chelsea was still on point. Once parked, she went to the trunk and pulled out the two staffs she had fashioned with the nooses on the ends. “Are we still going to do this?” Gennie asked.

In answer Chelsea looped the noose over her head and pulled it tight.


“Yes, we’re still going to do this.”

They entered the bonfire’s circle of light opposite the smoking hulk of the motorcycle which had become a prop. The girls lurched, twitched and growled at the menagerie of beasts and ghouls that turned at their entrance.

“Walkers in the house!” croaked a three-eyed raven; “Ah Zombies!” cried a vampire with improbably large breasts spilling over her red corset. Gennie was happy she hadn’t done the vampire thing. There were cops, soldiers, Captain America made it as did Bat Girl-who might have been Bat Man in drag. Some costumes were less elaborate than others, and others wore no costumes at all-it was a good mix.

While he was scanning the crowd, a five-foot kitten hopped their way and sniffed at his feet.  He paused to allow for the act and when she turned from his feet to Gennie he saw the fur chaps she wore were backless and her furry tail protruded directly out of her bottom, no doubt plugged firmly in place. She rose on her haunches to sniff Gennie’s butt.

“Scat!” he said pantomiming a kick that gently poked at the kitten’s dimpled white bum. She hissed and scampered off.


Chelsea – 9

(Continued from Chelsea – 8)

Slipping back over the hill, they left the yelling and the glow of the scene behind and retraced their steps quickly but surely in the deepening gloom. At least he and Chelsea did; Geneva hung back. Without the excitement of knowing what she was doing back there-or of having any part in the proceedings-she was left confused and, truth be told, more than a little frightened. Not wanting to reveal herself as a scaredy-cat, she instead donned the cloak of pique, moodily dragging herself along doing everything but kicking at the ground.

Chelsea was still on-mission; moving precisely and with purpose. She was the first to reach the gun cache and popped it back open with the digging tool. Comfortable with Chelsea’s execution he stepped back to read and answer texts that were coming pretty regularly right now.

“A little help here”, she asked Gennie, nodding to the other end of the lid. Moving precisely, she wiped each gun and put them back carefully, sealed and covered the top. “Just fill and smooth the dirt back over that edge”, she said. “Make it look natural.”

“Don’t worry, Wonder Woman. I know what to do.”

Chelsea was quick to come out of her crouch and snag Gennie by the belt buckle. “Hey! Don’t be a brat,” she ordered pulling her close. Gennie seemed to be resisting and Chelsea stepped into her and slipped the back of her hand down her pants keeping her grip. The feel of her nails roughly scraping her lower belly then settling in the top strands of her pubic hair froze Gennie. Her belt dug into her back as Chelsea leveraged her hand deeper into her pants. Was Chelsea suddenly taller?  Were her shoulders wider? She gasped lightly as the longest of Chelsea’s fingers plunged to the bottom of her patch and flicked back and forth at the top of her suddenly moist opening.

“I warn you, you don’t want to be a brat right now”, Chelsea growled, the menace in her voice undercut by the dancing light in her eyes.

“No…” she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. “No, I don’t.”

Gennie’s eyes fell closed and she allowed her mouth to sag open expecting a kiss from the lips that were so close she could smell Chelsea’s lipstick. Instead, Chelsea opened her mouth, slipped her head to the side and bit Gennie’s nose. Softly at first, then just hard enough to get her to open her eyes.

“Some zombies eat other zombies, you know”, she said pulling back.

He watched from the deep shadows of a large sycamore. Evidently it wasn’t only his blood that was running hot.


Chelsea – 8

(Continued from Beth)

They had a clear view of what was happening from a copse of locusts and maples on a rise above the house. He gripped the rifle firmly at his waist and slid a shell into the chamber.

“Hundred fifty”, he said guessing the yardage.

“One seventy-five or eighty”, Chelsea answered; not second guessing him exactly. Just saying what she saw. After scanning the field, she looked at the gun, then at him. Then back to the gun.

“How good are you?” she asked.

“I can hit him.” He winced, hearing another swat strike Beth.

“Can you disarm him? Without killing him?”

He knew the rifle could make the shot.

“What’s the load?” she asked.

“180. Loaded them myself.”

“What the fuck are you people talking about?” Gennie asked in a stage whisper from behind them. She wasn’t sure which pissed her off more; not understanding their language, being told to “shush” or being completely ignored.

“Can you make the shot?” she asked again as calmly as if she had asked him for another cup of coffee.  But this time, when she asked, her hands closed on the rifle next to his. For the second time his eyes searched hers, looking for something she wasn’t about to give up. But what he did see was enough for him to release his hold on the gun. She took it and smoothly wrapped the sling around her arm for stability and leaned against a tree. She was erect, her lines firm and unmoving.

“Careful-the trigger’s light.”

He watched her inhale and let it out. The paddle struck Beth again, with a brutal force.

“Don’t let him hit her again,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

She gave no indication of hearing him. Again, a breath. Then one more. She seemed to grow with the final deep inhalation then settle, as everything around her went silent. She heard her heartbeat, low and slow and felt him beside her seeing what she was seeing. She fluidly slipped her finger from the outside of the guard and watched through the scope until he raised the paddle to deliver another swat. She feathered the trigger.

Nothing changes reality faster or more finally than a gunshot. Below, Beth Barton’s reality was strong hands holding her over the table and the ground below swimming in a hazy veil of tears. She accepted the punishing torture of her captor stoically tasting the blood where she bit her lip to avoid crying out. Her torturer’s reality was the paddle and using it to get what he wanted. “TELL ME! TELL ME!” he cried becoming more and more desperate and swinging harder and faster. The party goers, trussed up on the ground helplessly looked away from Beth’s purple bottom; some fearing they’d be next, others embarrassed to look.

This shooter feels the shot more than hears it. For her, the “CRACK!” of the rifle pulls the momentary blanket of silence over the scene. But, only momentary, before mayhem, and all its attendant noise erupts.   The rifle’s sharp report is joined with the yells from the patio as the paddle, shattered at its handle flies in pieces into the air. From the red mist she sees through the scope, Chelsea is pretty sure she’s taken a finger or two. Him jumping around screaming, grabbing his hand is proof.

Then the metallic “PLINK” as the bullet, barely deterred, finds its way into the gas tank of one of the motorcycles parked a little too close to the fire. The shiny splashes of gasoline showed clearly in his binoculars-suspended prettily- just before “WHUMP!” the bike exploded in a fireball and a breathless “JESUS FUCK!” from Gennie behind.

Gennie’s voice pulled him out of the scene through his binoculars and back to their little stand of trees. He knew Chelsea was watching the same tableau through the scope that he was seeing. What he hadn’t noticed was that she had calmly chambered another round and was choosing a target. It wasn’t hard to find one, the party guests, trussed up on the ground were easy to keep track of. Beth, released, had slipped down below the table she had been held over.

He lay his hand coolly on her forearm. At his touch, without looking, she pulled her finger from the trigger just as the hillside opposite them burst to life as six ATV’s with headlights and spotlights glaring came roaring down toward the patio and, from the right, line of SUV’s came down the driveway. One of those still standing below jumped on his motorcycle and kicked it to life. Wasn’t sure where he was going, but was going.

“Stop him”, was all he said. Chelsea’s tracked for a moment as the bike gained speed, then squeezed. Her shot was true, blowing the rear tire and laying them both-bike and rider-down, in a spinning skid back toward the barn.

He put his hand back on her arm and leaned close. “So, you are absolutely sure I can’t fuck you right?” his dick said through his mouth. She didn’t pull her eye from the scope, but he could see her smile.





(Continued from Chelsea – 7)

Beth Barton mingled with her guests constantly glancing toward the driveway hoping to see Duke or any of the others that she knew were coming on their way. But they weren’t. Nothing. There had been two more motorcycles slide in separately since Duke had left and now there were four strangers huddled beside the fire at the edge of the group. Why was nobody else coming?

She phoned Buzzy but it went straight to voicemail which further unnerved her. He should be there or on the way. She glided toward the fire and nonchalantly texted her husband that something was definitely up with these guys and he should hurry home. She decided quickly to hit 911 and was focused so didn’t notice that one of the strangers was at her shoulder until be snatched the phone from her hand.

“9-1”, he said reading the screen. “Ninety-one? That’s not much of a number is it?” With a smirk he tossed it into the fire.

“Who are you?”, she asked angrily.

“Doesn’t matter”, he said taking her by the arm and leading her toward the rest of the group. He hadn’t drawn his weapon, but it was obvious in his belt. She assumed a .45; Duke had a couple so she was familiar. The others had drawn their pistols and were in the process of zip-tying her guest’s hands and feet. One, Tom McGowan, spoke up but really didn’t get a word out before the butt of a pistol knocked a tooth onto the patio.

“HEY!” she yelled. “There’s no reason for that…! OWWW!” she cried as he tightened his grip on her arm and pulled her close.

“I’m the one who gets to say what we do. Reason or no”, he spoke quietly and evenly. “Get it? This isn’t your party anymore, it’s mine. Right?”

She glared at him.

“Right?” he asked again squeezing harder. His face was close enough to count the pores in his nose.

“Right…” she muttered then gasped as he covered her mouth with his hand. Before she could clamp her lips, he inserted his thumb between them and ran it over her teeth finally grabbing her lower jaw and opening it roughly. She choked slightly as his thumb pushed on her tongue and she tasted him-salty, dry and smoky. Her eyes widened as he inserted two fingers into her mouth then a third as he squeezed her arm harder.

You’re dead! She thought to herself. I’m going to fucking kill you. She gagged when his middle finger tickled the roof of her mouth then the back of her throat. He grimaced a smile as, choking and unable to breathe, her defiance turned to panic. He kept his fingers where they were feeling her throat spasm until the last moment before pulling it out.

Beth gasped and bent at the waist coughing and gagging, knowing she wouldn’t puke. She wasn’t a puker-even when she wanted to. She regained her breath and her coughing subsided leaving her sore in the stomach. I’m so going to kill you, she thought hands on knees. Will cut your balls off and gut you like a deer… She let none of these thoughts betray her as she stood, presumably cowed.

“What do you want?” She rasped, wiping her eyes.

“Come on Mrs. Barton. We know you have money here. Quite a lot of it.”

Good, she thought. He said money. Doesn’t know what he’s looking for. “We have eight hundred, maybe a thousand in the desk inside.”

“A thousand? Really? Isn’t that something? Look at us Mrs. Barton. There are four of us and one up on the road. You think we’re pulling this off for two hundred each?”

“It’s what we have. I’m sure everyone here has something…wallets…credit cards…”

She didn’t see the slap coming. When it struck her full across the face her head spun far enough to wrench her neck. She would have fallen had he not yanked her up by the arm. Bright yellows and reds exploded and swam behind her eyelids. “You know what we want”, he said menacing but feeling menaced. Time was of the essence he knew.

“Tell me where it is…”

“Right hand drawer of the desk in the foyer”, she turned back painfully, blood staining the corner of her mouth. He half turned ready to hit her again. Had already closed his fist, determined to break her nose but keep her conscious when his eyes lit upon the toy table. He of course knew what kind of party this was but seeing crops, canes, whips, floggers, straps, hair brushes and…paddles arrayed in such a utilitarian display piqued his sadistic interest. Especially the heavy wooden paddle at the end of the line: light oak waxed to a high sheen, with six holes drilled down the center. Beth wasn’t following his eyes, consumed as she was with trying to straighten her neck back around and dabbing at the blood that trickled from her split lip.

“You and you”, he ordered his accomplices. “Take her”. They holstered their weapons each taking one of Beth’s arms. Only when he picked up the paddle was she able to fully focus on what was happening. Outwardly she remained stoic and defiant but inwardly she begged for Duke to show up. For someone to show up. She was walked over to the hors d’oeuvre table which he cleared with a swipe of his arm scattering smoked meats and cheeses over the ground.

“Pull her pants down!” he ordered. They paused. They’d come for the money; they were thieves, not rapists. Or whatever this was. “Turn her around and Pull. Her. Pants. Down”, he repeated. They moved quickly but deliberately then, spinning Beth to face the table and roughly yanking her belt open and pulling her jeans down to her knees.

“Those too”, he barked referring to the hot pink high-cut panties that she wore for the evening. She hadn’t been sure if anyone was going to be gifted with seeing them tonight. She was going through a period of discomfort with her body that she would never admit to and would have likely, as hostess privilege, demurred from the games.

She felt her panties come down hastily, a thumbnail digging a stinging path down her thigh. “Magnificent”, he mocked staring at her bare buttocks. “Bend her over the table and hold her.” They did as he took a moment to drop to his knee and zip-tie her ankles together. “I was always afraid of kicking horses…” he mused patting her rump.

A severe blonde in a leather corset spoke up from where she was tied. “Hey! You don’t have to…”

He pulled his gun and leveled it at the woman. “I need her alive for the moment. You? I give no fuck. Say one more thing.” Reading the truth in his eyes, she demurred and tried to shrink into the background. “Good”, he said. “But I’ll look for you if I need a second up here. Love to see if you’re a natural blonde.”

Smirking at his little joke he turned back and without warning or pause swung the paddle high and hard. It landed with a sickening “SWAT!” dead in the center of Beth’s bottom. The blow was harder than anything she’d ever felt. Her mouth flew open but she would make no sound.

“Give us what we want and we’ll be gone.” Hearing no response, he swung again. SWAT!

“Tell me where the money is Mrs. Barton.” SWAT!

She would remain as strong as she could, but her captors felt the tension in her muscles. In back, he and everyone else, could see her bottom tighten and quiver in anticipation of the next blow. Being branded could not have hurt this much.

“Tell me!” SWAT!