Fevered Pursuits

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

More Players

Jeri Stone looked at her Harley loaded in the back of Toni’s old pickup. She felt again the unreasoning resentment. She wanted to be riding her iron dragon out front, leading the way as befitted her, not puttering along in a camper with Kimmy’s f*****g boy-toy.

That wasn’t fair of course. They needed the truck for the amount of food and gear they were packing, and in case one of them had a breakdown. Somebody had to drive, and she was the logical one to start because she at least knew their charge, if only vaguely. They would switch off soon enough. Maybe boy-toy could even be trusted to drive for a while.

She’d be forked over her mount in no time. Still Jeri nurtured her resentment. It would be useful for staying in character.

She had her instructions, and it would be a wicked delight carrying them out. She had the relish for the job and more. At last she turned back to Toni and Lilli, the lovers and former cellmates crouching in the shade of the truck while they waited for this dubious stranger.

Both were still skeptical he’d even show up, or last beyond the first night if he did. Jeri, who remembered their school days, thought differently. As if on cue Toni looked up from the mute communing she and Lilli had been doing.

“So what’s this guy really like? Why do you think he’ll put up with what we’re planning to do to him for the next fifteen hundred miles?”

It was ninety in the shade and they’d stripped off most of their leathers. Chaps packed away, muscular legs were bare between chain-draped boots and cut-off jeans. These were stained with grease and frayed up short. Fingerless black gauntlets spiked their knuckles and protected their palms and bulked-up arms were likewise bare of everything but jewelry and ink.

Up top each biker wore only her colors: skimpy studded vests of black leather with their emblem and scroll on the back. Hidden behind the camper cap at the rear of the parking lot where they were supposed to meet Bob Carlyle, Toni undid the last two buttons of hers. Letting it fall open, she fanned herself with the halves.

Antonia Acosta was a Latina of thirty Jeri had met pumping iron in prison. The breasts she now bared were small but excitingly shaped, their protuberant contours quirked by big pectorals and emphasized by the sweeping tattoo curling over most of her marble-hard torso. Peg-like tips pierced by silver rings, the n*****s were coffee-brown and almost half the size of the breasts themselves. Jeri enjoyed the familiar view as she marshaled her impressions.

“He’s all right, really, for a jock. You know how high school is. There were three basic divisions: jocks, rocks and nerds. Jocks were the gleaming, popular, college-bound, middle-class-and-up kids. Rocks were us, the rebellious poor, cutting up through school and majoring in auto shop and smoking area.

“There used to be a lot of brawls like in that S.E. Hinton book, but while we were there, the guys pretty much ignored each other and the girls mixed agreeably enough around the tampon dispenser. Anyway, Bob wasn’t bad for a guy whose college had been paid for before he was born and who could pass his classes just by showing up.

“He wasn’t an arrogant loudmouth like the football assholes at least. And it was clear that he was gone on Kim from the get-go. He followed her around like a puppy, which is funny because she used to terrorize him back in grade school.

“She’d lead a gang of girls in giving him wedgies at the drop of a hat. I was even in on it a bunch of times. So that’s why I think Kimmy’s right. She’s got him wrapped around her finger, has since they were six years old. He’ll never stand a chance against her plans for him.”

“What’s a wedgie?” asked Toni.

“They must have called it something different where you grew up. It’s where you chase some poor guy down, usually the class sissy, overpower him, grab the waistband of his underwear and yank it up in back until he spends a week picking it out of his ass.”

“We called it a melvin.”

“That’s what you call it when you do it from the front. Anyway, he’s no asshole or sissy, this guy, but he is malleable. Our job is to break him, to mold him through humiliation and suffering to crave those things. Torturous for him and fun for us, it’s going to be hugely rewarding for the rich b***h who’s going to owe us all big-time.”

“I’m convinced.” Willowy Lilli stood up and stretched.

Two inches taller than even Jeri’s five-eleven, she was as lean as the whip the she wielded with such insatiable zeal. Her short, spiky, platinum-blonde hair was razored off on the sides like a character from The Road Warrior. A year older than her lover, she had an aristocratic beauty that suited her forbidding hardness. The only one of them to do serious time, she’d served nearly seven years for killing an abusive boyfriend. Surely the most misandrous of the three, she didn’t bother to keep the gloating from her tone.

“I’d take him with us just for the fun of subjugating him. This is a male we’re talking about. It’ll be a beautiful warm-up for the rally. If your friend makes it worth our while, that’s just a cherry on top of taking his. What time’s he supposed to be here, anyway?”

“Not for another ten minutes.”

Using her lankiness to peer over the cab of the truck, Lilli grinned evilly.

“I think he’s early, girls. Isn’t this him, cutting across the parking lot with a brand new backpack? How pathetically eager and innocent he looks!”

Jeri stepped around the truck while Toni buttoned up.

It was Bob Carlyle all right, and he’d followed instructions to the letter: tough hiking shoes and socks, cargo shorts with lots of pockets, and a light but strong silk shirt. This was clearly a far more expensive garment than any shirt she’d ever owned, which raised Jeri’s hackles despite its practicality for travel in the conditions. Still he carried only the one pack permitted him and had a multi-tool survival knife in a sheath at his hip. His step was jaunty with bravado and Jeri grinned despite herself.

Oh, he had so little clue what he was in for! Taking the flash of her teeth as a welcome rather than threat, a smile wreathed his own eagerness. To the sandy-brown artist’s ponytail of high school he’d added a good-looking Jesus-goatee. This gave him the appearance of greater age and experience than she knew him to have. Still he was almost boyish in his enthusiasm as he closed in and hailed them. Then Jeri perceived with eyes trained in the joint that it was at least sixty percent restrained hysteria in his manner. Boy-toy was actually scared shitless. Still he was here to try and cheerfully go through with it, and that spoke well of him.

“Hola, muchachas! Wow, you guys look hot, and I don’t mean the weather.”

He did a double-take at Lilli’s height, hair, and look of cruelly amused contempt, tried a smile on Toni and returned his attention to Jeri. He took in the way her breasts bulged from her colors, and how prison had turned an already big girl into a tattoo-covered, muscular force of nature. Then he met her ice-gray eyes with clear unease in his brown ones.

“Hi, Jeri. It’s great to see you again. I like your hair.” What had been shoulder-length and coppery when last he’d seen her was now butch-short and raven black. She knew it was an improvement, properly framing her squarish, intimidating yet undeniably appealing face. He shot another glance at Toni, whose equally black hair was greased flat and even shorter but for a single spiral curl over her forehead. “The better to fit in a helmet I guess. I like the tats too.”

He glanced over the artwork decorating her, his gaze suddenly riveted by the demon on her pumped-up arm. This was the same gang emblem on the back of their colors, and it never failed to strike a male speechless on first encounter. Now that Bob’s babbling had run out, Jeri stepped up with a smile of her own and punched him in the stomach.

Boy-toy dropped to one knee, almost toppling over from the weight of his pack. He urked a few times as he fought to get his air back. Jeri leaned over, unclipped the sheath from his shorts and took the knife. She tossed this to Toni, who clipped it to her own cutoffs. Looming over her suddenly explosively gasping victim, Jeri was gratified (at least for Kim’s sake) that he showed no resentment at her violence. In contrast as soon as he got his wind he dropped his other leg down until he was kneeling obeisantly before her, his watering eyes downcast.

“When you ride with the Devil Dykes, only the Devil Dykes carry. Any surprises in that backpack, boy?”

“No, ma’am!”

“That’s good. You will always address us so respectfully, is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“You understand that the three of us absolutely despise men, and that you are essentially our slave for this trip, yes? That you will do as you’re told immediately and without argument, and that we have permission from your mistress to discipline and play with you all we like?”

“Yes, ma’am. I look forward to that with reverent arousal.”

“Very well. This is Toni, and this is Lilli. We met at Thompsons when I got sent up for dealing weed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. I remember scoring from you in high school when the rich kids’ supply dried up. You gave good weight and it was primo herb.”

“I remember too. You seemed okay for a snotty rich kid.”

“To be fair, I wasn’t really rich. My parents had enough to buy me the clothes I needed to fit in, and to make up for college what I couldn’t get in scholarships. But that was it. I made it into the upper class clique on brains and personality and because Kimmy liked me and saw to it.”

“Whatever.”

Jeri dismissed all this. It made her want to punch him in the gut again. She cast a glance at smirking Toni and smoldering Lilli. Both nodded their eagerness to get on the road, to spirit this piece of s**t off somewhere less public where they could start having fun with him.

“All right. On your feet, maggot. Stow your pack in the back of the truck. Then get in the cab. You’re riding with me first. You have a driver’s license, right?”

“Yes, ma’am. I got rid of the car when I stopped doing travel pieces.”

“Good enough. Let’s go.”

“May I bring my little netbook in with me?”

“Does it connect to the internet?”

“Yes.”

“Delete the necessary software. And hand over any cell phone.”

That wasn’t good enough for Lilli. Once they’d stripped their slave of any means of contact, she put him up against the side of the truck and gave a thorough body search.

She also gave the impudent erection this raised such a brutal squeeze that Bob yelped with distress. Finding him honest, they bundled him into the truck and mounted up. Then they were off for Boston and all that lay beyond.

***

Kim had been waiting all afternoon – no, all her life it seemed – for the text she just got from Jeri. It came from Bob’s phone, which she had obviously confiscated.

“Boy-toy secured. Behavior exemplary. On our way.”

Kim waited only to reiterate one final time.

“Have fun. Just remember that’s MY property. Lock him down. NO vaginal s*x and NO permanent damage.”

She switched off the phone and climbed from the enormous feather bed.

The ceiling mirror reflected her slipping the silk robe from a body that was even more fabulous than at eighteen. Remembering the way Bobby had goggled at her boobs that one time – as if they were objects of infinite reverence rather than an entitlement to be groped at whim – warmed her heart and stirred her already impatient loins. Nevertheless she paused on her way to the bathroom. As always she had to gloat over how she’d just finished converting the most spacious of the suite’s two wardrobes.

Behind its double doors one entire wall had been covered in pegboard, from which hung dozens of paddles, canes, riding crops and whips of every description. The opposite wall was floor-to-ceiling shelves loaded with s*x toys, as well as ropes, chains, shackles, leather and rubber restraints and all manner of other, more esoteric bondage gear. The doors were backed with mirrors and the rear wall was also mirrored around an upright wooden X fitted with belts, a St. Andrew’s cross as it was known. Set up in the very center was a sleek modern version of the old Colonial-era stocks used for securing a miscreant bent over for punishment.

Soon she would have her painstakingly prepared slave in here, and all of her carefully constructed and meticulously carried out plans would come to fruition at last. Just another week or two and she would be truly set up for life, nothing but fun, love, leisure and excitement until the end of her days. The anticipation was more aphrodisiacal by the minute. Kim ran her hands up and down her sleek flanks, cupped her big firm breasts for a moment and then passed on into the lavish bathroom.

The space was expansive, the furnishings as ornate as a five-star hotel. Edgar’d had people to impress after all. He’d not been happy to lose this second mansion (to say nothing of such a large chunk of his other wealth), and the thought added an extra spice of spite to Kim’s intentions. She started the enormous tub filling, added bubbles and bath oil and activated the jets.

A silver tray stood already waiting, with the tiny key resting on it reflected by the burnished surface. Similarly doubled was a single crystal flute and a split of champagne screwed into the miniature ice bucket. A small water pipe was packed with the finest Humboldt County and the silver lighter had been a gift from Bobby. Faithfully she’d held onto this all these years, a symbol of promise for the future. The simple inscription “I love you” was engraved on the side.

Sweet Bobby. Sweet, kind, compliant, instinctively submissive Bobby: she was going to make him suffer so much for all the assholes she’d had to endure in order to secure their future. And monstrously unfair or not, he was going to love her for it. The ties that bound them went back to the first instant they’d set eyes on each other, their destiny set the night his faithless male friends had betrayed him and left him at the mercy of the playground bully again.

Kim banished the lingering image of i***t Edgar’s purple, furious face for the tear-streaked and eventually makeup-caked one of her beloved at his birthday party. She still marveled that the other girls had kept the secret as they’d agreed. Then she flushed with love at the trust Bobby had shown her, agreeing to let her take cell-phone photos of him while allowing no one else. It was the first time she’d ever seen a p***s, much less an erect one. With that thought Kim popped open and poured the champagne. The tub was full and she slipped into the churning water.

She settled on the cathedra, slouching down until the stinging heat enveloped her breasts. She spread her legs in preparation. She kissed the lighter in lieu of its giver and bubbled the sweetest smoke this side of heaven into her lungs. She blew it out, set down the bong and her old flame and called to the stereo.

“Play Heart, Dog and Butterfly.”

As the music began she moved her waterproof vibrator closer and detached the handheld sprayer nozzle. She made sure she could see that gleaming little key as she played. Then Kim Strauss (no longer Brennan, or anything else ever again), lifted her flute in toast.

“Here’s to us, Bobby. Hang in there for me baby. If I can take Edgar for five years, you can endure the Devil Dykes a mere week or two. Then I’ll make what they do to you seem tame.”

She downed half the glass at a draft. Then she began the slow build-up to the masturbatory marathon she had planned. Remembering the way Bobby had panted and grunted into the phone as he jerked for her, excruciatingly embarrassed but compelled to obey, she giggled amidst her gasping. Poor Bobby: she was going to come a hundred times before he even got here. And after tonight he wasn’t even going to get erect again, ever, except when she decided to allow it.

Oh, life was so good! So much planning and preparing, so much carefully nurturing and deviously manipulating the needs of men, were all about to pay off so spectacularly. Bobby wasn’t here yet of course. But after so much guile and patience, what could possibly go wrong?

***

Bob’s old apartment sat empty and quiet.

The only sounds were of the refrigerator switching on and off. This was likewise empty except for the ice cube trays and a six-pack of Sam Adams left as a gratuity. After a while though those clicks and hums were joined by an intermittent squeaking.

After clearing out and cleaning up, conscientious Bob had scattered a bunch of rodent traps around. These were not the old-fashioned, brutal-but-humane kind that used a trigger pan and hammer bar to kill vermin instantly but the new glue trays made for the lazy and squeamish. Bob used them because they seemed to catch more. He tried not to think about the lingering death he was condemning a fellow mammal to.

Creatures like these had bided their time until the dinosaurs died so that the following explosive radiation of lineages could lead to man. Perhaps echoing the straits the room’s former tenant would soon find himself in, just such an innocuous little critter, a harmless house mouse, only following his instincts in search of fulfillment, now struggled to escape his fatal entrapment. If anything heard its increasingly desperate attempts to extricate itself, they went ignored.

Dust drifted and settled. Even with the shades drawn to cut down the greenhouse effect, the sealed-up apartment was an oven. As the long afternoon waned the ninety-five degree heat outside climbed ten and then fifteen higher behind the blinds. Slowly the mouse’ struggles weakened in the swelter. But then an ominous clicking and metallic scraping could be heard coming from the apartment door.

This wasn’t the landlord coming to check on his property, or even claim the beer. He trusted Bob and knew everything would be swabbed down and secured properly. And the tipple was a friendly surprise. Besides, that worthy had a key. This was the sound of someone breaking in, picking the simple lock that protected the dwelling.

As Bob had no wealth or enemies and crime was a real rarity in this pleasant little Midwestern village, a more robust deterrent had never seemed necessary. Now the lock was quietly sprung and the door eased open.

Two men with sociopathic personalities evident in their expressions slipped inside. One quickly stowed his picks in favor of a small handgun while the other clenched and unclenched his fist around a set of brass knuckles. They shut the door silently. They paused a moment, looking over the draped furniture and listening carefully. Finally the smaller of the two men straightened from his expectant hunch. He shoved the gun back in his pocket and blew air out between his teeth disgustedly. The other guy stated the obvious.

“He’s already gone.”

“We f****d it up.”

“Not our fault. Who expects traffic jams out in the sticks? What kind of f****d-up burg has a big celebration the week after the Fourth of July?”

“The kind you find west of New York and east of Vegas. We should have moved sooner. Though the boss didn’t actually give us much warning.”

They fell silent again. The mouse chose this moment to renew its useless squeaking and struggling, and both men tensed back up. The gun re-emerged and they cautiously followed the sound into the kitchen.

“Goddamn it!”

The gorilla with the brass knuckles stepped up and crushed the mouse. Then he cursed some more scraping the sticky trap and corpse from his shoe before kicking it away.

“That was dumb. Never disturb anything you don’t have to. Never leave a clue for the crime lab. Always be professional.”

“Blow it out your ass, Pete. You think the deputy dawgs in this ignorants’ bliss can tell their d**k from a dipstick? Besides, we still have our orders, right?”

“I’m reconsidering.”

“What the f**k?”

“The guy’s gone. He split and he ain’t coming back. This is a f*****g apartment building. We could kill a bunch of Wal-Mart sheep. You want to risk lethal injection for a pointless gesture over a personal grudge that means nothing to us? For what we’re getting paid? “

He paused to let that sink in before continuing.

“Besides, it’s idiotic strategy. I mean it doesn’t hurt the guy, it helps him. If he even hears about it at all, it lets him know he has an enemy. It smacks of desperation, petulance, and needlessly wastes the element of surprise.”

“Maybe that don’t matter. Now that he got away, maybe the boss wants the guy to know he’s after him, wants to sweat him with the knowledge he’s gonna scorch the earth wherever he goes until he’s finally whacked in style. Besides, who put you in charge of strategy? This guy ain’t cosa nostra but he’s still the boss. You want to go back and tell him we not only missed grabbing the guy but blew off the rest of the job too?”

Pete was irresolute. Fifteen years older than his accomplice, he was less reckless and more inclined to look out for number one. Brass Knuckles tacked to this angle.

“Look, we go back and carrying through turns out to be a mistake, it’s not our mistake. We had our orders. We go back with the job undone or just kite off without even trying to get paid and that turns out to be a mistake, our ass is on the hook. And if you’re worried about the pigs or the Wal-Mart sheep, maybe you ought to go into fashion design or something.”

“All right.” Pete bent over the stove. “It just seems like overkill to me. And I hate working these personal jobs. Guys who get this bent out of shape over a broad mystify me.” He blew out the right-hand pilot light and used his elbow to nudge the burner partway on, as if by accident. Once he smelled gas he moved to the furthest end of the room.

From the opposite pocket he’d stored the gun and picks in, Pete pulled a plastic bag. From this he withdrew a cheap wooden stand and a slow-burning stick of incense. Both had been purchased at a local head shop. The guy had a rep as a kind of beatnik after all. The stick had been subtly treated to flare up in colored sparks near the end rather than just smolder out – the latest in hippy head trips perhaps. Pete lit the stick, blew on it gently until he was sure it wouldn’t go out, then straightened up and armed sweat off his brow.

“Come on. It’s hotter than a hundred hells in here. And in half an hour it’s suddenly going to get a f**k of a lot hotter.”

They slipped from the kitchen and then the apartment. Blameless in all this, crumpled in an out-of-the-way spot, already trapped and trampled, scraped from the bottom of a shoe and kicked into a corner, the mouse waited for immolation.