John Ringo: Cally's War

She lowered herself with exaggerated care into the passenger seat of his low-slung Detroit Raver, while he pretended to be searching for a music cube. His nerve endings were sizzling with a mixture of triumph and anticipation that sent a chill down his spine as the door to his car clicked shut behind her. The beat of Blue Oyster Cult’s “Godzilla” shuddered through the frame as he pulled out into Chicago’s Friday night traffic.

Worth disentangled the blonde from around his neck long enough to get them from the elevator to his warehouse loft apartment. He pushed open the door and paused a minute to let her get the full effect. It had taken large chunks of even his generous salary to outfit the room in the vintage ’70s “contemporary” style he preferred. Still, he was proud that he had managed to obtain every necessary item of furniture in black leather, glass, and chrome, set off nicely by flawlessly white shag carpeting that he’d had to order custom-made. Three walls were covered in faux-oak paneling — even for him, real oak was scarce. The fourth was covered in floor-to-ceiling black velvet drapes. The free-standing wet bar that ran parallel to one of the oak walls was topped with poured black marble and had faux-oak cabinetry that exactly matched the walls.

Matching red lava lamps — original, not reproduction — illuminated the room and provided a necessary hint of color. Track lighting emphasized the Dali and Escher originals on the walls. The scent of pine air fresheners mingled with but did not quite mask a faint odor of stale sweat, sex, rust, and leather.

She stopped still for a moment and looked around the room, blinking rapidly. She favored him with another of those blindingly perfect smiles of hers and quickly buried her face in his neck, shuddering softly against him. God, she must be really hot to trot…

“You want a drink? I’m having a martini.” He smirked. “Shaken, not stirred, of course.” He walked over to the wet bar and began pulling down various bottles off the glass shelves at the back.

“Why not?” She laughed, dropping her purse on the couch.

He poured her drink and handed it to her. “Cheers.”

She took a sip and set the glass down on the chrome and glass end table, slinking up to him and sliding her hands up his chest. He wrapped his arms around her again and trailed his lips up her jaw to nibble lightly on her ear. He felt her knees buckle slightly and shifted his weight to support her as her hips seemingly involuntarily thrust against his. He felt the heat tighten in his groin as he buried his face in her hair and inhaled the clean, fresh scent of it mingled with her own soft musk.

His fingers trembled slightly as he unbuttoned the silk blouse, carefully, tenderly, savoring the opening strains of this overture that would end in so much sound and fury. Gently, now, building the trust that led them willingly into the trap — the purest and most exquisite test of his art. His hands slid inside and teased along the line of her spine and the soft, perfect skin of her back. He rubbed her jaw with his own, glad that he’d had an afternoon shave, and took her mouth, delving deep into the moist and the heat. God, he could drown in this woman.

Her slender fingers with those exquisitely feminine nails were playing with the hair at the nape of his neck and he felt himself breathing faster, impatient with the need to restrain himself and tease her into the next move. He drew one finger very lightly right up her spine before cupping his hands under her butt and pulling her, hard, against him as she shivered.

“So where’s your room?” She nuzzled up to his neck and bit his shoulder softly.

He slid one hand up from her ass and tangled it in her hair, pulling her head back gently, nibbling the tip of her nose and shaking his head.

“Nah-ah. Bedroom is plain vanilla. C’mere.” He took her hand and led her over to the velvet-draped wall, pressing a switch at the side and grinning as the drapes parted to reveal a wall set with four steel rings and a three-inch seat of obviously adjustable height.

“Once you try this, you’ll never want to do it in a bed again. It’s incredible. ” You won’t be around to want anything, but that’s not my problem, he thought.

“You’re not gonna hurt me, are you?” She looked at him nervously.

“Never. Cross my heart.” He cupped her face gently, his eyes holding hers. “That would just be no fun for me. My pleasure comes from pleasing you.”

She melted against him as her knees gave way, and allowed him to maneuver her back onto the seat.

“Oops. This’ll work better with the jeans off.” He pulled some black silk scarves out of a pouch at the base of the wall and looked up at her, going down on one knee to help her off with her jeans and panties as he trailed a line of kisses down her hip bone and inner thigh.

After she kicked them free, he stroked the silken length of one of her legs as he tied her to the rings. Nice legs. Nice everything. Be a real shame to waste it. He unfastened his own jeans and put a hand on either side of her head.

“You know you’re helpless now, don’t you?” he purred.

She nodded and moaned softly as he took her. It didn’t take long. She blinked bewilderedly as he backed away and fastened his jeans.

“Are… are we done?” She twisted a wrist against the tightly tied scarf and winced. “Can you untie me now? These things are starting to chafe a bit.”

“Oh, we’re not done, sweetness, that was just act one. Who sent you?” He walked over to the bar and took another swallow of his martini.

“What? Nobody… Is this a role-playing game? Because I’m not too good at those…”

“Yeah, right.” He grinned nastily. “So what’s your name, sweetness?” He paced back over to the wall and yelled in her ear, “Who. Sent. You!”

“Ow!” She tugged harder at her wrists. “I’m not having fun, I want to go home now. Untie me, dammit!”

“Sorry, sweetness,” he stepped to the side wall and slapped a switch, “act two’s a command performance. Now, you tell me who sent you and your real name, or act two’s gonna be real fun for me and no fun at all for you… unless you’re into that sort of thing.” His voice sounded oddly hollow. “Who sent you?”

“I’m… I’m Sarah Eileen Johnson,” she stammered, eyes about twice their normal size, “and I’m a legal secretary for Sinclair and Burke’s. Nobody sent me, I swear to God. Uh… please let me go. If you let me go now I promise I won’t tell anybody ever, everything will be all right, please… please let me go!” She blinked rapidly, probably at the changed sound of her own voice.

“Can’t do that, sweetness.” He walked back for more of his drink. “Not safe for me. I’m real big on self-preservation. Obviously you aren’t. Oh, you may notice we sound funny? Little side effect of the electronic damping. Gags and interrogations don’t work together. So you go ahead and scream as loud as you want. Then again, I guess you’ve probably heard a similar system before. Who did you say sent you?”

“Nobody! God, I’m sorry, mister, I don’t know who you think I am but I’m just a secretary, I don’t know what you want! Please, please just don’t hurt me…”

“Okay sweetness, looks like we do this the hard way. Groovy.” He walked over to the end table and picked up the phone. “Sam? Can you come up here? I think I may need a professional… Yeah, you have a slightly more… dispassionate touch. Okay. Well, I might as well get started… yeah, I’ll leave some for you.”

“Oh my God please don’t hurt me, please don’t!”

“Let’s see…” He walked over and opened the cabinets under the bar, “bull whip, cat o’ nine, baseball bat, cattle prod, sharps…” He looked up at her, quirking an eyebrow, “Got a preference?” He grimaced, “Oh, can’t forget one thing.”