Captured Fancy

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

Vogel Wingard

I came to with birds singing, the sun shining and one hell of a headache. I pushed up from the ground and staggered over to the tree Simone had been tied to. No rope lay around it, but other signs remained of what happened. Bunches of leaves and pine needles were pushed about and piled up here and there, tire tracks from my SUV and the van were clear in the forest dust, but nothing else to indicate who those people were. Unless I wanted to think about who beat me up. The blow to the back of my head must have given me a hallucination, because if it wasn’t I didn’t want to think about the alternative.

I stumbled back to my SUV and slowly drove down the mountain, stopped briefly at the cabin but no one was there. I hit the freeway and got back in cell phone range. I checked my messages. A couple wanted a background check on a new nanny but there was nothing from Simone. Well, that wouldn’t have been the first time a client suddenly didn’t know me. I wouldn’t have minded either, if not for the conk on the head, and resolved to get an answer to that, but I first had to take care of my throbbing head. A stop at the local clinic pronounced a minor concussion with orders from the doc to take it easy for a few days, so I figured the nanny background check was an easy job. After a couple of days of going over credit reports, talking to the feds about immigration laws and other assorted stops I gave the nanny a clean bill of health, but Simone remained ever present in my mind. Just what type of kidnap fantasy was that? One with a double-cross in it? And why keep me in the dark and bash me on the head? That part I didn’t like. Not so much the knock out itself, but that I got played for a sucker. As I mailed off the report on the nanny and I wondered just how I could get the answers my ringtone played “Happy Days Are Here Again”. I hit the talk button. Back to work.

“I’m calling for my employer,” a cultured male voice said. “Mr. Vogel Wingard. You will come to his home today for lunch precisely at . You know where he lives?”

Everyone knew Vogel Wingard, if not his precise location. He lived in Holmby Hills, another place I would like to forget. “I got a rough idea,” I said.

The Cultured Male gave the address, suggested I use an old fashioned street atlas for driving directions since it wasn’t going to show up on any internet map and told me not to be late. A glance at my watch said there were still a couple of hours before the appointment, so I zoomed back to my small apartment, put on my only suit and then found myself navigating the twisting, turning streets between UCLA on the west and the Los Angeles Country Club on the east. At the wrought iron gate entrance to Wingard’s property, I announced myself to the speaker grill. The gates slowly swung open and I drove up to a set of open double front doors. The Cultured Male, whom I discovered was the butler, stood on the covered porch, bowed to me in that subservient yet snotty way that makes you feel inferior and led me inside.

Let me tell you, this was a hell of a place. I saw a lot, and it probably wasn’t even close to seeing it all. The butler led me through an expansive foyer, down a short hallway, through an impressive living room, then out to a large garden, the kind with bright flowers and tall hedges all around. An old man sat in a low, dark green wooden chair with wide armrests that seemed more like a throne. He dismissed the butler and sized me up.

“Mr. Vogel Wingard, I presume,” I said at last.

“You presume correct, Mr. Hawk. I have a job for you.”

“You get right to the point, don’t you?”

Wingard gave a tight smile. “At my age, Mr. Hawk, I can’t afford to waste any time.” He motioned to a chair opposite him. “Sit, sit.”

I sat and found an iced tea drink already poured for me on a small table next to the chair. I took a sip. It was warmer than I thought, just like the day, and my dark suit didn’t exactly keep me cool.

“I have been blessed, Mr. Hawk. A rich life in many ways, and not just monetarily, but now there’s a matter that threatens to tear it apart.”

“I think I know what you mean,” I said. “I’ve had the rug pulled out from under me once or twice.”

“Yes, I know. I did some checking on you. You were good at your chosen profession, as unusual as that was, before word got out about what you did. Or didn’t do?”

A queasy feeling filled my stomach. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Oh, you do. Tell me, Mr. Hawk, do you miss it? The role-play, the knots and ropes on young, tender female flesh? The mouths stuffed so they can’t utter a sound, the eyes filled with trepidation or even anticipation? In my prime, I took control of many a willing female.”

“You still do, I’ll bet.”

Wingard laughed. “You can be sure of that, although the body isn’t quite what it was. But yours is, and that’s the subject right now. Tell me, what would you do to give up your life as a PI and earn back your reputation as a first rate rigger?”

I didn’t answer.

“You can, you know,” Wingard said. “Do this job for me and I’ll see to it that your client book is filled again.”

“I already made one deal with the devil, Mr. Wingard. It’s how I wound up blackballed and broke. I’m not going to make another.”

Instead of being angry at my allusion, Wingard sagely nodded. “I understand, Mr. Hawk. You’ve been burned once; you don’t want to go through that again. After all, I do have a certain reputation of my own for ruthlessness. But only to those who try to cross me. Play straight with me and I’ll do the same. Do this job to my satisfaction and you can have your old life back.”

An excitement of hope surged in me. My old life? Hell, yes, I wanted it back! Back to doing what I loved, but more importantly, also clear my name. Gumshoe work is hard and lonely. The hours stink and the people, well, apart from Simone Jones walking in my door, they weren’t in any way what anyone would call beautiful.

I struggled to keep calm. “What’s the job?”

Wingard reached inside his shirt pocket and handed me a photo. It was of a tied up and gagged woman. She lay on a plush, Persian rug while men and women stood around her, all of them well-dressed in dark pants and shined shoes or stockings and high heels. The tied up woman’s eyes nearly popped out of her head as she stared right back at the camera. A white cloth gag held in mounds of packing between red lips. Rope wrapped her arms tight behind her, while her legs were drawn up in a hogtie. Her only clothes were two black high heel shoes, one half-slipped off. Soft, long blonde hair covered her tied breasts but still allowed an erect n****e to point out at the camera. A removed, technical part of me noted it was a good rope job, but could have been better. But another part just about kicked me in my already queasy stomach.

It was Simone Jones.

Wingard leaned over, his expression intense. “Find my slave, Mr. Hawk.”

* * *

We had lunch, a civilized, quiet affair. Wingard said he called me because I wouldn’t judge his lifestyle and that I might still have connections that would aid me in my search. He talked about his slave, how she pleased, and displeased, him to their mutual pleasures.

“She’s a natural,” he said. “Loves domination, loves the ropes. And sweet. You ever have a slave like that, Mr. Hawk?”

I thought about the cabin in the woods but decided to shake my head no.

“If you do, then anything else is second rate. Which reminds me.” He rang a small silver bell and the butler magically appeared. “Donaldson, please ask my wife to join us.”

I expected a woman about Wingard’s age, but I should have known better. What came out to the garden was a sweet young thing, just like Wingard said. At least she was outwardly. But I knew better.

It was Simone Jones.

I almost choked on a piece of sole but at a cold look from Wingard I kept my mouth shut. If his slave was already here then what did he need me for? But Wingard warmly greeted his wife who sat between us. He introduced us and we continued to eat and talk while Simone remained subdued. Yet, I sensed impatience from her. Nothing too obvious, a sigh here, picking at her nails there, eyes that wandered about the garden to relieve a subtle boredom which was more in keeping with the woman who showed up at my office.

Near the end of the meal Wingard turned to his wife. “Please go to the playroom and prepare yourself, dear.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, got up and headed inside. She stopped at the arched opening. “How long will you be this time?”

“Do as I say,” Wingard said with quiet insistence.

Simone turned away, almost haughtily, and disappeared in the house.

Wingard leaned over to me. “You like her?”

I silently nodded.

“Good. Because she’s yours. For the next three hours. Donaldson will show you to the playroom. It’s well stocked with anything you’ll need.”

* * *

Just like when a beautiful woman asks you to kidnap her, when a master gives you his gorgeous slave, you don’t ask questions. I had a lot of them, but kept them to myself for now. Wingard had a reason for handing me his slave, but he would tell me when ready.

The playroom was off from the main house, through a curved gallery hallway with floor to ceiling pane glass windows that connected to a small cottage. Donaldson escorted me there, opened the door to a darkened room and silently withdrew. The perfect servant, silent and non-judgmental.

In the middle of the floor, naked and squatting with her legs spread wide was Simone. As I shut the door, she looked up. Shocked registered on her face and she slapped her legs together and covered her breasts. “What are you doing here?” she said in anger.

I removed my coat and tie, grabbed a riding crop from the wall and slapped it hard down on her thigh. “That is no way to address your master.”

“My mast...? Just what in hell is – Ow!”

I brought the crop down on her leg again. Simone scurried away and tried to get up. I grabbed her hair and threw her down on her stomach. My foot planted between her shoulder blades kept her there while the crop turned her perfect ass several shades of pink then bright red.

“You cocksucker!” she screamed. “Faggot! Just – Ow! Aaaiieehh! Who the f**k do you think – Eeeiii!”

I twisted her head back and hissed, “Your master gave you to me.”

“He’s not suppose – I mean, he would never do that!”

“He did.” I whipped her ass three more times. The red marks started to turn purple.

“Eeiii! EIII! EEEIIIII!” Her breaths turned to pants. “How... How...?”

“For how long? That’s not for you to question. You’re a slave. It could be for three hours. Or three days or three years.”

She spun back up to face me, her fear plain. “He wouldn’t do that!”

“You want me to give you back? Then don’t disappoint.” I landed the crop across a tit.

She cried out and curled up in a tight little ball. I backed off and took the time to inventory the equipment in the room. Wingard was right, anything I needed was there, oiled up, supple and shined. I came across a braided, black six foot whip that ended in about a dozen leather blades that would leave especially bright marks when I felt something against the back of my legs.

“Forgive this slave, master,” she said. She rose up behind me, kissing me as she went. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I expected someone else and...and...I’m sorry.” She wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug. “Please, let me make you happy.”

She turned me around, gave me a long, deep kiss and unzipped my pants. My c**k stuck out and Simone started to slide down to it, her hands softly stroking it and my balls. Her tongue flicked out, just the merest graze across my tip, then she opened her mouth wide, ready to take the plunge.