J McKenna - Naughty girl

Nervously, he knocked at No. 136, wondering what could have happened to her so suddenly. Dark thoughts invaded. He worried that she might be inside, unconscious on the floor. Or worse. Had Frank shown up suddenly, seeking revenge? The thought sent fingers of fear through him.

He knocked again before using the key she had given him to enter. The apartment looked clean and neat—no signs of a struggle. He moved into her bedroom and found everything in order. Her clothes were hanging in her closet, shoes neatly arranged on the floor. On her bedside, a book she had been reading remained, one page dog-eared to mark her place.

She didn’t appear to have left town suddenly. Carl was beginning to feel foolish. No doubt she had simply stepped out for her own personal reasons and he was acting like a jealous idiot. Now he feared she might come home and catch him spying on her, so he wanted to leave quickly.

Before he did, he stopped in her bathroom. He couldn’t say why, he just felt a need to check to see if her toothbrush was still there. What he saw froze him in place. In one corner of the mirror, written in lipstick, was: “Turk.” The “K” was smeared, as if she had written it in a hurry.

A cold chill went through Carl. Could it be, he asked himself. It seemed impossible, yet he couldn’t otherwise explain her sudden disappearance. Somehow, Master Turk had shown up and had “collected” her, perhaps using her ties to her old master to bind her to him or perhaps simply kidnapping her outright. Could that have happened? Or was his imagination working overtime? Then again, why else would she write that?

Carl went through the apartment again, this time looking for the smallest items a woman would want to take with her on a trip. He imagined himself to be her, standing naked in front of the glowering Master Turk, who is demanding that she pack a few things and go with him. Carl found her toothbrush and her makeup kit were missing, as were the new pair of black pumps with four-inch heels. He couldn’t identify the dress she took, but he could picture that it would be simple—and short. Looking through her desk, he couldn’t find a checkbook, so she probably had that with her as well.

However, Carl did find an old brokerage statement. DeeDee, his sweet little submissive princess, owned $234,000 worth of stocks and bonds—no doubt courtesy of Master Stephen. No wonder she didn’t have to work. And now she was in the clutches of this Master Turk, who was doing god knows what with her.

Carl’s body went cold as he contemplated it. From the little he had heard her talk of him, he worried just what he might be up against. Master Turk didn’t seem the type to be easily defeated, like Frank had been. And especially now, since Carl had no doubt that Turk had taken DeeDee back up to San Francisco, where he’d be secure, comfortable. Getting DeeDee away from him wouldn’t be easy.

Then, on the other hand, Carl doubted he knew about him. He smiled slightly, thinking Turk was in for one hell of a surprise.

Carl called his client and explained that he had a “family emergency” that required him to be out of town for a couple of days. The client was sympathetic, though Carl knew he’d wanted this project to be completed by the end of the week.

He assured him he’d be back no later than Thursday and would work all night if he had to. Carl asked that he make all the final corrections and email them back. “I’ll have it to the printer by Friday afternoon,” he promised.

Little did he know that he wouldn’t be able to keep that promise.

The drive from Santa Barbara to San Francisco took about six hours, including the slow-downs for traffic in the busy corridor along Highway 101 in the Bay Area. After packing a few items of clothing, Carl had left his house by five and had pulled into downtown San Francisco by 11:15 p.m. He hoped he wasn’t on a wild goose chase.

On the way, he mentally tried to recall everything DeeDee had told him about Turk. Carl knew he ran a club in the city, something to do with bondage and discipline. Apparently, he was heavy into the BDSM scene. Had DeeDee mentioned the name of the club? Carl couldn’t remember. So he had to wing it. He drove into the Tenderloin district, where all the seedy bars could be found and parked in a lot, paying an outrageous fee for them to watch his car for the next two hours.

Carl walked up the block, passing rundown bars, drunks trying to be his friend and hookers asking him for dates until he found a club that featured bondage acts, The Den of Iniquity. It seemed as good a place as any to start. He paid the fifteen-dollar cover charge and went inside. The Den was dark and loud, with just a few spotlights illuminating key areas. The rest of the club seemed bathed in a dim red light. A band shouted—not played—music from a small stage in one corner, but nobody paid them any attention. The action took place under the spotlights, where couples acted out bondage scenes.

Carl had heard of places like this, but never experienced them. Seeing people act like this in public made him a little ashamed of the way he had treated DeeDee. It was just an experiment , he told himself. We were exploring our dark sides . It didn’t make him feel any better.

On one small, round stage, a woman was bent over a padded sawhorse, her hands and feet tied down, a gag in her mouth. A thin black leather thong framed her nearly naked ass and the only other clothing she wore was a black leather bra, a size too small. Her breasts lunged out the top.

Her “master” stood behind her with a whip of some sort. Perhaps it would be called a cat o’nine tails. He reared back and struck her, but the whip didn’t seem to really hurt her—there were only faint marks on the round globes of her ass. Nevertheless, she screamed into her gag as if she was dying and the gawkers nodded appreciatively.

At another stage, a woman was being “tortured” with feathers. She, too, wore only a bra and a thong, and her mistress, by running the feathers over her exposed flesh, seemingly brought her to the brink of an orgasm again and again, stopping just in time. The girl writhed in comic agony. The crowd loved it.

To Carl, it all looked faked, but then, he guessed he’d rather have it that way than see women really being tortured. Did I torture DeeDee? Did I go too far? He couldn’t imagine ending up like these characters, yet they had seemed to be well on their way before he called a temporary halt to it. That was what was bugging him, Carl realized. When he told DeeDee he thought they should take a break so he could be with the “real her,” deep down, his id was planning the next conquest of his submissive little girl.

Shaking his head, Carl went to the bar and caught the attention of the bartender. When he came over, Carl shouted over the screaming guitar and pounding drums, “I’m looking for a man who calls himself Master Turk.” The bartender put his hand behind his ear, indicating he couldn’t hear.

“Master Turk,” Carl shouted, feeling like he was standing next to a jet engine. “Do you know him?”

He looked puzzled for a moment then held up one finger. Carl watched as he went down to the other end of the bar and talked into the ear of a raven-haired woman. She looked up sharply at Carl. He smiled, trying to look innocent.

She signaled him to follow her. As he did, he couldn’t help but notice how tall she was—nearly as tall as Carl himself. She also seemed quite well-built, with broad shoulders, although she still had a very feminine shape to her. She led him into a corridor, then into a back room. The band noise diminished significantly when she closed the door. Carl’s ears rang. She leaned back against it and folded her arms. Carl turned. Across the room, behind a desk sat a huge man, probably weighing close to three hundred pounds. His shiny bald head was dotted with sweat. On the desk, he’d been counting piles of dirty bills. Carl could see a lot of fifties and hundreds. The man lurched to his feet.