windar
Teller of Tales
1.
“Doesn’t that girl look a whole lot like me, Stan?” Barb asked.
Stan shook himself out of his half-sleep and looked around. “What girl?” he asked.
“The missing girl on the TV news, Goldman,” Barb said, looking at him with a mixture of pity and exasperation.
He glanced at the screen. All he saw was one of the local car dealers yelling at him about how if he didn’t get right down there and buy a new truck TODAY he was a damned idiot. Given that it was after 11 at night and the dealership was closed, Stan supposed that he would have to accept that title.
“Here let me show you,” Barb said, picking up the remote control. For some reason that he couldn’t remember now, Stan had let the cable guy talk him into getting one of those boxes that allowed you to replay parts of any show, even the local news. She rewound back to the tail end of a story about some truck dumping its load all over one of the local highways. Stan drained the remains of the locally made small batch bourbon he’d been drinking. The tiny piece of ice floating in it looked kind of sad, like a stadium after the last fans had left.
The reporter cut back to the studio and the two anchors, a cute young black woman and an older redhead. The older one began reading, “Police are asking for your help in locating a missing young woman, Tina Travers, 19, of Sunnybrook, who has been missing for two days now. She was last seen wearing a green hooded sweatshirt and jeans. Anyone with any information is asked to call the Morris County Sheriff’s Office.”
Stan looked at the picture of the girl, taken at what looked like an amusement park. She was pretty, with medium length brown hair and a round, inviting face. She was smiling sweetly in the photo. “So, do you see the resemblance?” Barb asked.
“You haven’t been 19 in a while, Moore.” Stan expected it, but the punch she delivered to his upper arm still hurt.
“You’re one to talk, Goldman,” she barked. “At least the dinosaurs were extinct when I was that age. But seriously, doesn’t she look a lot like me?”
Stan looked again at the screen. “She’s smiling and you’re not, and I can’t see her tight little in that photo, but, yeah, I guess she does, now that you mention it.”
“She’s probably smiling because she hasn’t been living with a cranky old man, but the resemblance is pretty striking.”
“Yeah, OK, so what?”
“Nothing. It’s just weird, I guess,” Barb replied. “I’m thinking about all the horrible things that could happen to a young girl. She could have been kidnapped by Mexican drug cartels or Russian mobsters and be working in a brothel in Tijuana or the Middle East or something.”
“You have a vivid imagination, Moore.”
“No Stan, I’ve just seen and suffered a few things, as you know very well.” Stan had to admit that she had a point. He couldn’t think of too many people who had been nailed to a cross and hung from a rope in a barn, as Barb had. Of course, he’d rescued her and that was probably why she was here with him in this lovely old renovated farmhouse with its expansive view of the Hudson Valley in front and the large wooded property behind, which they’d bought with the royalties from the books they’d written (with the help of a ghost writer) after retiring from the NYPD.
“True, Barb. You have. Still, it’s quite possible she and her boyfriend are down in the City craning their necks at the lights of Times Square or at Disney World riding Space Mountain or something.”
“You don’t think the Sheriff has looked into her boyfriends if there are any? I mean the locals here aren’t necessarily up to the standards of our former department, but they aren’t total idiots either.”
Stan was forced to admit once again that she had a point. “Still, Barb, it’s none of our business. I see that look in your eye. You want to get back in the game. But we made a solemn agreement. We’re retired, done, finished. No more risking your neck and mine to catch bad guys. That’s someone else’s job now. If you run into her at the supermarket, you have my permission to call the Sheriff, but other than that you stay out of it. You hear me?”
“Sure, Stan, whatever,” Barb said, rolling her eyes. The TV was back to the car dealer urging us to come on down RIGHT NOW.
Stan stood up, wide awake now. He grabbed the remote from Barb’s hand and switched the TV off, then threw it onto the sofa where he had sat. “You made a promise Barb. No more shenanigans. Do I have to show you the signed document?”
“I know what I signed,” she said, a mischievous grin on her face. “But I’m bored up here. I mean it’s beautiful and the house is terrific and we have plenty of money coming in, but I miss being a detective. I miss the adventure and yeah, even risking my tight little. All I want to do is look into this a bit on my own quietly. Tina may show up tomorrow and if she does, great, I’ll go back to reading and gardening.”
Stan put on his sternest face. “You will do nothing of the kind, young lady. That contract we made says no playing detective, and if you break it, I get to punish you.”
“I haven’t broken it, because I haven’t done anything.”
“Still, you’re thinking about it and that’s how trouble starts with you. I know that for sure. We have to nip this in the bud. Get your tight little downstairs, now!”
“You can’t be serious, Stan?” she protested.
“I’ve never been more serious, Moore. Now get down those stairs.”
Looking resigned, and a bit annoyed, but with a glow of excitement in her eyes, Barb rose from the sofa. “You’re an asshole, Goldman,” she muttered.
“I heard that, Moore, and that just doubled what I was going to give you.”
She looked at him defiantly. “How many were you going to give me?”
Stan thought for a bit. He wanted to make his point, make sure that Barb didn’t give in to what he knew was her lust for peril and adventure, which would, no doubt, entail him having to rescue her at risk to his own life. On the other hand, he didn’t want to hurt her too badly, just set her straight. “Six,” he replied. “But of course, now it’s an even dozen.”
Barb shook her head in disgust as Stan opened the door to the stairway that led to the basement and switched on the lights down there. “Come on, Moore, don’t make me drag you. If I throw my back out, it’ll be two dozen.” She turned and glared at him but started down the stairs anyway.
The basement was rather large, stretching most of the length of the house. In one of the far corners were the furnace, water heater, the circuit breaker box and various water and sewer pipes. Along the wall beside them were some sports equipment that they used occasionally, but not as often as they thought they would when they moved up here-skis, snowshoes, a pair of mountain bikes, some weights.
It was towards the other end that Stan pushed Barb, gently, but firmly. Against the wall, anchored firmly in the concrete, was a St. Andrew’s Cross. Nearby, was a sort of sawhorse, like one would see in a gymnastics competition, except this one had thick leather straps attached to the front and back legs. Beside the horse, a pair of leather cuffs dangled from a short rope that passed over a pulley anchored firmly to the ceiling. Against the fourth wall was a four poster bed with leather cuffs attached to each post.
Barb stood there looking exasperated and sullen. “Come on, Moore, you know the drill. Get those clothes off,” Stan ordered in the most stern, commanding voice he could muster. She hesitated, considering whether Stan would really go through with this.
She must have decided that he would, because she pulled her T shirt over her head and threw it in his general direction, though it fluttered to the floor by his feet. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her nipples stood up from the cool air in the basement and, possibly, with excitement as well. “Cute,” Stan told her.
“My tits or the throw?”
“Both,” Stan replied. “Keep going,” he ordered.
Barb knelt and took her socks off. “Maybe one day you’ll spring for a rug down here,” she said.
“Why?” he replied.
“The concrete is cold on my feet,” Barb said.
“Poor baby. Now get those pants off.” Barb unbuttoned her jeans and slowly slid them down, wiggling her hips in a sort of striptease dance, leaving them on the floor. Stan assumed she noticed the bulge in his trousers. She stood there in just her white panties, her hands on her hips, challenging him.
“Those too,” he ordered. Barb sighed, but lowered the panties, stepping out of them, then bending to pick them up and throw them at Stan. “0 for 2,” he said as they flew by his head.
Barb looked in the direction of the bed. “Why don’t you try being a decent guy for once, Stan, and just fuck me.”
“In due time,” he replied, “But I don’t think that will send the right message.”
She made her way over to the sawhorse, bending herself over it, pointing her tight little at him. Her legs were spread far enough apart that he could see her pussy and even the puckered opening inside her cheeks.
“As nice as that looks, I want you in the cuffs this time.”
Barb straightened up. “Sure, boss, whatever you say,” she said and padded over to stand under the cuffs.
“That’s better,” Stan said, approaching her, reaching out to stroke her breasts, tweaking the tumescent nipples, then running his hand over her belly and between her legs, fingering her labia. Barb moaned as his forefinger entered her. Stan moved it in and out a few times before he pulled it out and looked at it, then brought it to her lips. “Methinks the lady is a bit wet,” he said. Barb nodded and licked his finger.
Stan took her hands and fastened the leather cuffs around her wrists. He pulled on the rope raising her arms above her head and stretching her up on her toes just a bit, leaving her enough slack to dance under the whip. He engaged the ratchet on the pulley, holding her in place.
Stan went to a wooden cabinet placed against the wall next to the bed. It was a nice piece of furniture from the Colonial days that they had picked up at an antiques flea market down the road and refinished as a project to keep them busy. He opened the door and rooted around a bit.
He emerged holding a solid wooden handle with several cords attached to it. He held it up so that Barb could see it. “Shit, Stan, not the cat!” she protested.
“Don’t be a wimp, Barb, it’s the one without the knots in the tail. It won’t break the skin.”
“Gee, thanks, Goldman. You’re a prince.”
“Now, Moore, save the sarcasm. Unless you want two dozen.” Barb kept quiet as Stan came close to her. He ran the tails of the whip over her back and ass. He flicked it gently against the two luscious cheeks. She flinched a bit, even though it didn’t hurt. Then he came around in front of her and flicked the tails against her breasts.
“Not there, Stan, please,” she begged.
“OK, Barb,” Stan said, grinning as he walked behind her. “Ready?” he asked.
He heard her take a deep breath and saw her nod her head. He drew the handle back and whipped the cords across her shoulder blades. It made a satisfying smack. Barb twisted in the cuffs, her body swinging back and forth, her hands gripping the rope holding the wrist cuffs. A set of pink lines came up on her skin, darkening a bit as the seconds passed, but she didn’t make a sound.
Stan struck again, more or less in the same spot. Barb grunted and kicked her right leg out, though he was too far away for her to connect with him. The third stroke drew a muttered “Shit!” Her upper back was quite red by this point and she was panting from the pain and the effort not to give Stan the satisfaction of showing her distress.
He delivered the next two strokes in quick succession, drawing a moan from Barb after the second. “Got your attention now, Moore, eh?” She didn’t respond. He struck a sixth time, eliciting another moan. She was now twisting madly in her bonds, trying futilely to guess when and where he would strike the next blow.
It came in across her as yet untouched buttocks, leaving the marks of the tails on her succulent globes. Stan hit two more in quick succession. He could hear Barb sobbing gently, defeated despite her best attempts to bear the agony. He struck again. “Owww!” she yelled.
Stan came around in front of her. The tears were running down her face. He wiped them gently, tasting the salt. “That was ten. You’re due two more. Should I let you off the last two?”
Barb shook her head. “I don’t care Stan. Whatever you want.”
He kissed her hard on the mouth, fondling her breasts with one hand as he held her head with the other. “It’s your lucky day, Moore. Let’s fuck,” he told her, releasing the pulley. She slumped limply into Stan’s arms. He undid the cuffs and led her towards the bed, guiding her down onto all fours as he quickly stripped his clothes off.
He got behind her. Her back and ass were both beet red and he was hard as a rock. He entered her and began moving slowly, gently. She was moaning, but Stan knew that this time it was in pleasure not pain. “Oh, fuck, Stan, that’s so good,” she said breathily. He increased the speed of his thrusts. She was panting and so was he.
“So you won’t go chasing after missing girls and playing detective, will you Barb?” he asked, thrusting deep into her now.
“No, Stan, I’ll be good, I promise. Oh fuck, Stan, I’m coming,” she yelled clutching the duvet on the bed for dear life.
“I hope so, Barb. Damn! I’m coming too.” Stan shouted as the pleasure shot through him and he collapsed on top of her.
“Doesn’t that girl look a whole lot like me, Stan?” Barb asked.
Stan shook himself out of his half-sleep and looked around. “What girl?” he asked.
“The missing girl on the TV news, Goldman,” Barb said, looking at him with a mixture of pity and exasperation.
He glanced at the screen. All he saw was one of the local car dealers yelling at him about how if he didn’t get right down there and buy a new truck TODAY he was a damned idiot. Given that it was after 11 at night and the dealership was closed, Stan supposed that he would have to accept that title.
“Here let me show you,” Barb said, picking up the remote control. For some reason that he couldn’t remember now, Stan had let the cable guy talk him into getting one of those boxes that allowed you to replay parts of any show, even the local news. She rewound back to the tail end of a story about some truck dumping its load all over one of the local highways. Stan drained the remains of the locally made small batch bourbon he’d been drinking. The tiny piece of ice floating in it looked kind of sad, like a stadium after the last fans had left.
The reporter cut back to the studio and the two anchors, a cute young black woman and an older redhead. The older one began reading, “Police are asking for your help in locating a missing young woman, Tina Travers, 19, of Sunnybrook, who has been missing for two days now. She was last seen wearing a green hooded sweatshirt and jeans. Anyone with any information is asked to call the Morris County Sheriff’s Office.”
Stan looked at the picture of the girl, taken at what looked like an amusement park. She was pretty, with medium length brown hair and a round, inviting face. She was smiling sweetly in the photo. “So, do you see the resemblance?” Barb asked.
“You haven’t been 19 in a while, Moore.” Stan expected it, but the punch she delivered to his upper arm still hurt.
“You’re one to talk, Goldman,” she barked. “At least the dinosaurs were extinct when I was that age. But seriously, doesn’t she look a lot like me?”
Stan looked again at the screen. “She’s smiling and you’re not, and I can’t see her tight little in that photo, but, yeah, I guess she does, now that you mention it.”
“She’s probably smiling because she hasn’t been living with a cranky old man, but the resemblance is pretty striking.”
“Yeah, OK, so what?”
“Nothing. It’s just weird, I guess,” Barb replied. “I’m thinking about all the horrible things that could happen to a young girl. She could have been kidnapped by Mexican drug cartels or Russian mobsters and be working in a brothel in Tijuana or the Middle East or something.”
“You have a vivid imagination, Moore.”
“No Stan, I’ve just seen and suffered a few things, as you know very well.” Stan had to admit that she had a point. He couldn’t think of too many people who had been nailed to a cross and hung from a rope in a barn, as Barb had. Of course, he’d rescued her and that was probably why she was here with him in this lovely old renovated farmhouse with its expansive view of the Hudson Valley in front and the large wooded property behind, which they’d bought with the royalties from the books they’d written (with the help of a ghost writer) after retiring from the NYPD.
“True, Barb. You have. Still, it’s quite possible she and her boyfriend are down in the City craning their necks at the lights of Times Square or at Disney World riding Space Mountain or something.”
“You don’t think the Sheriff has looked into her boyfriends if there are any? I mean the locals here aren’t necessarily up to the standards of our former department, but they aren’t total idiots either.”
Stan was forced to admit once again that she had a point. “Still, Barb, it’s none of our business. I see that look in your eye. You want to get back in the game. But we made a solemn agreement. We’re retired, done, finished. No more risking your neck and mine to catch bad guys. That’s someone else’s job now. If you run into her at the supermarket, you have my permission to call the Sheriff, but other than that you stay out of it. You hear me?”
“Sure, Stan, whatever,” Barb said, rolling her eyes. The TV was back to the car dealer urging us to come on down RIGHT NOW.
Stan stood up, wide awake now. He grabbed the remote from Barb’s hand and switched the TV off, then threw it onto the sofa where he had sat. “You made a promise Barb. No more shenanigans. Do I have to show you the signed document?”
“I know what I signed,” she said, a mischievous grin on her face. “But I’m bored up here. I mean it’s beautiful and the house is terrific and we have plenty of money coming in, but I miss being a detective. I miss the adventure and yeah, even risking my tight little. All I want to do is look into this a bit on my own quietly. Tina may show up tomorrow and if she does, great, I’ll go back to reading and gardening.”
Stan put on his sternest face. “You will do nothing of the kind, young lady. That contract we made says no playing detective, and if you break it, I get to punish you.”
“I haven’t broken it, because I haven’t done anything.”
“Still, you’re thinking about it and that’s how trouble starts with you. I know that for sure. We have to nip this in the bud. Get your tight little downstairs, now!”
“You can’t be serious, Stan?” she protested.
“I’ve never been more serious, Moore. Now get down those stairs.”
Looking resigned, and a bit annoyed, but with a glow of excitement in her eyes, Barb rose from the sofa. “You’re an asshole, Goldman,” she muttered.
“I heard that, Moore, and that just doubled what I was going to give you.”
She looked at him defiantly. “How many were you going to give me?”
Stan thought for a bit. He wanted to make his point, make sure that Barb didn’t give in to what he knew was her lust for peril and adventure, which would, no doubt, entail him having to rescue her at risk to his own life. On the other hand, he didn’t want to hurt her too badly, just set her straight. “Six,” he replied. “But of course, now it’s an even dozen.”
Barb shook her head in disgust as Stan opened the door to the stairway that led to the basement and switched on the lights down there. “Come on, Moore, don’t make me drag you. If I throw my back out, it’ll be two dozen.” She turned and glared at him but started down the stairs anyway.
The basement was rather large, stretching most of the length of the house. In one of the far corners were the furnace, water heater, the circuit breaker box and various water and sewer pipes. Along the wall beside them were some sports equipment that they used occasionally, but not as often as they thought they would when they moved up here-skis, snowshoes, a pair of mountain bikes, some weights.
It was towards the other end that Stan pushed Barb, gently, but firmly. Against the wall, anchored firmly in the concrete, was a St. Andrew’s Cross. Nearby, was a sort of sawhorse, like one would see in a gymnastics competition, except this one had thick leather straps attached to the front and back legs. Beside the horse, a pair of leather cuffs dangled from a short rope that passed over a pulley anchored firmly to the ceiling. Against the fourth wall was a four poster bed with leather cuffs attached to each post.
Barb stood there looking exasperated and sullen. “Come on, Moore, you know the drill. Get those clothes off,” Stan ordered in the most stern, commanding voice he could muster. She hesitated, considering whether Stan would really go through with this.
She must have decided that he would, because she pulled her T shirt over her head and threw it in his general direction, though it fluttered to the floor by his feet. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her nipples stood up from the cool air in the basement and, possibly, with excitement as well. “Cute,” Stan told her.
“My tits or the throw?”
“Both,” Stan replied. “Keep going,” he ordered.
Barb knelt and took her socks off. “Maybe one day you’ll spring for a rug down here,” she said.
“Why?” he replied.
“The concrete is cold on my feet,” Barb said.
“Poor baby. Now get those pants off.” Barb unbuttoned her jeans and slowly slid them down, wiggling her hips in a sort of striptease dance, leaving them on the floor. Stan assumed she noticed the bulge in his trousers. She stood there in just her white panties, her hands on her hips, challenging him.
“Those too,” he ordered. Barb sighed, but lowered the panties, stepping out of them, then bending to pick them up and throw them at Stan. “0 for 2,” he said as they flew by his head.
Barb looked in the direction of the bed. “Why don’t you try being a decent guy for once, Stan, and just fuck me.”
“In due time,” he replied, “But I don’t think that will send the right message.”
She made her way over to the sawhorse, bending herself over it, pointing her tight little at him. Her legs were spread far enough apart that he could see her pussy and even the puckered opening inside her cheeks.
“As nice as that looks, I want you in the cuffs this time.”
Barb straightened up. “Sure, boss, whatever you say,” she said and padded over to stand under the cuffs.
“That’s better,” Stan said, approaching her, reaching out to stroke her breasts, tweaking the tumescent nipples, then running his hand over her belly and between her legs, fingering her labia. Barb moaned as his forefinger entered her. Stan moved it in and out a few times before he pulled it out and looked at it, then brought it to her lips. “Methinks the lady is a bit wet,” he said. Barb nodded and licked his finger.
Stan took her hands and fastened the leather cuffs around her wrists. He pulled on the rope raising her arms above her head and stretching her up on her toes just a bit, leaving her enough slack to dance under the whip. He engaged the ratchet on the pulley, holding her in place.
Stan went to a wooden cabinet placed against the wall next to the bed. It was a nice piece of furniture from the Colonial days that they had picked up at an antiques flea market down the road and refinished as a project to keep them busy. He opened the door and rooted around a bit.
He emerged holding a solid wooden handle with several cords attached to it. He held it up so that Barb could see it. “Shit, Stan, not the cat!” she protested.
“Don’t be a wimp, Barb, it’s the one without the knots in the tail. It won’t break the skin.”
“Gee, thanks, Goldman. You’re a prince.”
“Now, Moore, save the sarcasm. Unless you want two dozen.” Barb kept quiet as Stan came close to her. He ran the tails of the whip over her back and ass. He flicked it gently against the two luscious cheeks. She flinched a bit, even though it didn’t hurt. Then he came around in front of her and flicked the tails against her breasts.
“Not there, Stan, please,” she begged.
“OK, Barb,” Stan said, grinning as he walked behind her. “Ready?” he asked.
He heard her take a deep breath and saw her nod her head. He drew the handle back and whipped the cords across her shoulder blades. It made a satisfying smack. Barb twisted in the cuffs, her body swinging back and forth, her hands gripping the rope holding the wrist cuffs. A set of pink lines came up on her skin, darkening a bit as the seconds passed, but she didn’t make a sound.
Stan struck again, more or less in the same spot. Barb grunted and kicked her right leg out, though he was too far away for her to connect with him. The third stroke drew a muttered “Shit!” Her upper back was quite red by this point and she was panting from the pain and the effort not to give Stan the satisfaction of showing her distress.
He delivered the next two strokes in quick succession, drawing a moan from Barb after the second. “Got your attention now, Moore, eh?” She didn’t respond. He struck a sixth time, eliciting another moan. She was now twisting madly in her bonds, trying futilely to guess when and where he would strike the next blow.
It came in across her as yet untouched buttocks, leaving the marks of the tails on her succulent globes. Stan hit two more in quick succession. He could hear Barb sobbing gently, defeated despite her best attempts to bear the agony. He struck again. “Owww!” she yelled.
Stan came around in front of her. The tears were running down her face. He wiped them gently, tasting the salt. “That was ten. You’re due two more. Should I let you off the last two?”
Barb shook her head. “I don’t care Stan. Whatever you want.”
He kissed her hard on the mouth, fondling her breasts with one hand as he held her head with the other. “It’s your lucky day, Moore. Let’s fuck,” he told her, releasing the pulley. She slumped limply into Stan’s arms. He undid the cuffs and led her towards the bed, guiding her down onto all fours as he quickly stripped his clothes off.
He got behind her. Her back and ass were both beet red and he was hard as a rock. He entered her and began moving slowly, gently. She was moaning, but Stan knew that this time it was in pleasure not pain. “Oh, fuck, Stan, that’s so good,” she said breathily. He increased the speed of his thrusts. She was panting and so was he.
“So you won’t go chasing after missing girls and playing detective, will you Barb?” he asked, thrusting deep into her now.
“No, Stan, I’ll be good, I promise. Oh fuck, Stan, I’m coming,” she yelled clutching the duvet on the bed for dear life.
“I hope so, Barb. Damn! I’m coming too.” Stan shouted as the pleasure shot through him and he collapsed on top of her.
