With Barb, there will always be additional chances to catch her getting into trouble
Speaking from experience, Goldman?
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Basement Bound: A Stan Goldman/Barbara Moore Adventure
- Thread starter windar
- Start date
Speaking from experience, Goldman?
windar
Teller of Tales
Some of you may have seen this-The NYPD doesn't just go after crucifiers and hanging and sex cults. They also handle bee emergencies. The bees, attracted by a naked retired detective (no not Stan Goldman) swarmed Times Square and had to be vacuumed up. The department has two officers who are beekeepers and one of them took the critters to his apiary, where they are producing honey he shares with fellow officers (just like Barb).
Enjoy while you wait for Chapter 3, which will be up tomorrow
https://abcnews.go.com/GMA/News/video/nypd-beekeeper-called-thousands-bees-times-square-57471039
Enjoy while you wait for Chapter 3, which will be up tomorrow
https://abcnews.go.com/GMA/News/video/nypd-beekeeper-called-thousands-bees-times-square-57471039
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Hmmm.
Are any of us supposed to believe in coincidence, when we already know from the previous adventures, that crazy conspiracies are very real? ...
... they are celebrities now... well known faces ... due to that leaked video, in Barb's case, more than the face well known to the public...
... people like that rouse the imaginations of all sorts of weirdos, stalkers and whatnot...
... maybe someone wants to make a very special capture and is using that coincidentally similar girl for a trial run...?
Now that could be me, ... you want to whip me? -- fine OK... but can we warm up the dungeon a bit???
windar
Teller of Tales
Of course it's virtually impossible to outdo reality in this day and age. Maybe we are seeing the death of fiction
Malins, for you I will make it as hot as HellNow that could be me, ... you want to whip me? -- fine OK... but can we warm up the dungeon a bit???
Stop reading ahead!
Ummmmmm .... could be
I think Malins has a good “criminal mind”. The NYPD should hire her as a paid consultant
windar
Teller of Tales
3.
The trail led steadily upwards, steep enough that Stan was breathing hard, but not so steep that he had to stop and rest more than every fifteen minutes or so. He was thinking about Barb and her seemingly inexhaustible appetite for getting herself into perilous situations. Not to mention her appetite for pain and sex, and particularly the two combined.
He wondered where it came from. Her stories about her growing up were pretty ordinary-a nice middle class Midwestern upbringing. No abuse, no particular traumas according to her telling. She spoke frequently with her parents and the conversations seemed generally friendly. They’d talked about going out there to visit them, but, somehow, it hadn’t happened yet. Stan honestly doubted that there would be any deep, dark family secrets revealed, though.
So was it boredom, genetics, or perhaps just the way her brain was wired that drove Moore to seek out peril like a moth seeks a porch light? Stan didn’t know. He had seen enough in the cases he’d dealt with over the years to figure out that human behavior often resisted easy explanations. A detective was doing well if, through hard work and a bit of luck, they got answers to “Who? Where? When? and How?” Sure, there were the cases where “Why?” was pretty clear-the person who killed their spouse and took the insurance money and ran off with their lover, the drug dealers battling over turf-but there were plenty where you were left at the end just shaking your head trying to figure out why the fuck someone would do a crazy thing like what they had just done.
So he mostly took Moore as she was, without asking too many questions. For the moment, at least, he was having too good a time with her to do anything but hang on for the ride for as long as his aging body would let him.
And it wasn’t like she was a submissive person in most respects. She certainly hadn’t been on the job-quite the contrary; she had handled the inevitable difficulties that a female detective faced in a male-dominated profession with considerable aplomb. Nor was she a mousy pushover in their relationship. She was never afraid to speak her mind and Stan made sure to listen to what she said or he would never hear the end of it.
But then, every so often, she would contrive to be taken down to the cellar, to be tied up and whipped or caned or somehow made to suffer at his hand. Not that he was complaining, because the sight of Barb’s naked flesh, writhing under his lashes, twisting in a vain attempt to free herself from the bonds she’d willingly allowed herself to be placed in, her moans of pain mixed with pleasure, got him hard as a rock, as it got her soaking wet.
Before he’d taken up with Barb, he’d never imagined that he would take such pleasure in causing pain to another human being. He’d been married for over 20 years and it had never occurred to him to whip or even tie up his ex. He tried to imagine what Karen would make of his relationship with Barb. They’d had a pretty good sex life at the beginning, Stan had thought, but between the kids and his long hours on cases and her long hours as a hospital nurse, they’d let things slide until there wasn’t much left between them.
But, that evening, while they were working on the Bronx crucifixion murder case, when Barb had confessed to him that the site of those girls on crosses had made her aroused and curious, something had clicked and they had ended up tying each other to the bed and it was all downhill (or perhaps uphill) from there to having the basement of their house outfitted like a BDSM club. And while it would be fair to say that Barb had often taken the lead, Stan had to admit he was a more than willing participant in their games.
Speaking of uphill, Stan couldn’t help noticing that the trail was getting steeper up ahead. He stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow and check the altitude on his GPS/altimeter. Fortunately, the summit wasn’t too far ahead. He’d hiked this mountain with his son, Marty, a few years ago and it had seemed shorter back then. Perhaps the mountain had grown in the interim.
Soon, Stan came out of the woods onto the bare rock of the summit. A couple of groups of hikers who had preceded him on the trail were sitting relaxing in the warm sun. Stan nodded a greeting and moved to a spot a bit away from them. Spread below him was the entire valley. Somewhere down there Barb was no doubt continuing her unofficial digging into the disappearance of Tina Travers.
He shook his head, imagining her traipsing all over the county bugging people with her questions. He still thought the most likely scenario was that the girl (he could hear Barb and his old boss on the NYPD, Reggie Jones, in a chorus, correcting him-“YOUNG WOMAN, Stan, she’s 19”) had run away from some difficult problem at home or with some boy or over something someone had said on Facebook.
But, Barb had already concocted an elaborate scenario involving white slavers and drug cartels or some such nonsense. Stan respected her smarts and her intuition a whole lot, and couldn’t rule that out for certain. But either way, whether Tina’s disappearance was innocent or sinister, the most important thing as far as Stan was concerned was that they weren’t cops anymore, they were retired, and it was someone else’s problem.
Not that that would stop Barb from poking around. Just as Reggie’s orders to drop the Amanda Berger case had fallen on deaf ears, and she’d turned out to be right, so she might be right here. And, Stan had little doubt, he’d end up sucked into the case, following the sway of her tight little. Because, much as he got a charge from raising a few welts on her luscious lower cheeks, he would never do her any real harm, nor would he hesitate for even a second to protect her from anyone who would.
Looking around from his reverie, Stan noticed that the other hikers had left the summit. He savored a few more minutes of solitude, then got to his feet and began the descent, which was harder on his aching knees than the ascent had been.
It was almost dinner time when he got home. Barb was busily preparing dinner, something that wasn’t at the top of her list of favorite activities, but after a day of outdoor exertion, Stan had to admit that it smelled darn good. She was singing, too, a song that he couldn’t quite make out, but still, that meant she had probably found out something interesting in her day of snooping around. The tune was familiar.
When he got closer, he heard the words:
Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sleuth and fight forever and a day
We'd pursue the case we choose
We'd fight and never lose
As long as you agreed to do things my way
Stan feared that it was going to be hard to say no to her little unauthorized “investigation”, despite their solemn agreement.
He snuck up behind her and began nuzzling her neck. She turned around. She was smiling. “Now this is a sight to warm an old cop’s heart,” he said.
She whacked him hard on the behind with the wooden spoon she had been using to stir the pot of sauce on the stove. “Ow!” he said.
“Stop being a baby, Stan, or I’ll take you downstairs and give you a dozen with the Singapore Stinger so you know what ‘Ow!’ really is.” Stan had let her whack him several times with that nasty-looking rattan cane once before just to see what it had felt like and he hadn’t sat comfortably for a few days. “How was your hike?” she asked.
“Great. How was your snooping around? Find anything interesting?”
“Maybe.”
“You wanna tell me about it?’
“Maybe over dinner, if you’re nice to me,” she replied.
“I’m always nice to you, Moore.”
Barb startled giggling loudly, making a sort of snorting noise. “That’s funnier than most of the jokes on Seinfeld, Goldman,” she told him when she finally stopped laughing. “But go sit down now, while you can.”
On his way to the dining room, Stan passed through the living room. He glanced at the TV, which was turned to the local channel’s evening news. It was the young black anchorwoman reading this time, with the older redheaded one nodding sagely. The girl they were talking about was 22 and her name was Josie Barber. She didn’t look much like Barb; she was blond, for one thing. But the banner headline “Second Local Woman Missing” made it clear that she had disappeared, just like Tina Travers had.
“Barb!” Stan shouted. “Come in here! I think you want to see this.”
The trail led steadily upwards, steep enough that Stan was breathing hard, but not so steep that he had to stop and rest more than every fifteen minutes or so. He was thinking about Barb and her seemingly inexhaustible appetite for getting herself into perilous situations. Not to mention her appetite for pain and sex, and particularly the two combined.
He wondered where it came from. Her stories about her growing up were pretty ordinary-a nice middle class Midwestern upbringing. No abuse, no particular traumas according to her telling. She spoke frequently with her parents and the conversations seemed generally friendly. They’d talked about going out there to visit them, but, somehow, it hadn’t happened yet. Stan honestly doubted that there would be any deep, dark family secrets revealed, though.
So was it boredom, genetics, or perhaps just the way her brain was wired that drove Moore to seek out peril like a moth seeks a porch light? Stan didn’t know. He had seen enough in the cases he’d dealt with over the years to figure out that human behavior often resisted easy explanations. A detective was doing well if, through hard work and a bit of luck, they got answers to “Who? Where? When? and How?” Sure, there were the cases where “Why?” was pretty clear-the person who killed their spouse and took the insurance money and ran off with their lover, the drug dealers battling over turf-but there were plenty where you were left at the end just shaking your head trying to figure out why the fuck someone would do a crazy thing like what they had just done.
So he mostly took Moore as she was, without asking too many questions. For the moment, at least, he was having too good a time with her to do anything but hang on for the ride for as long as his aging body would let him.
And it wasn’t like she was a submissive person in most respects. She certainly hadn’t been on the job-quite the contrary; she had handled the inevitable difficulties that a female detective faced in a male-dominated profession with considerable aplomb. Nor was she a mousy pushover in their relationship. She was never afraid to speak her mind and Stan made sure to listen to what she said or he would never hear the end of it.
But then, every so often, she would contrive to be taken down to the cellar, to be tied up and whipped or caned or somehow made to suffer at his hand. Not that he was complaining, because the sight of Barb’s naked flesh, writhing under his lashes, twisting in a vain attempt to free herself from the bonds she’d willingly allowed herself to be placed in, her moans of pain mixed with pleasure, got him hard as a rock, as it got her soaking wet.
Before he’d taken up with Barb, he’d never imagined that he would take such pleasure in causing pain to another human being. He’d been married for over 20 years and it had never occurred to him to whip or even tie up his ex. He tried to imagine what Karen would make of his relationship with Barb. They’d had a pretty good sex life at the beginning, Stan had thought, but between the kids and his long hours on cases and her long hours as a hospital nurse, they’d let things slide until there wasn’t much left between them.
But, that evening, while they were working on the Bronx crucifixion murder case, when Barb had confessed to him that the site of those girls on crosses had made her aroused and curious, something had clicked and they had ended up tying each other to the bed and it was all downhill (or perhaps uphill) from there to having the basement of their house outfitted like a BDSM club. And while it would be fair to say that Barb had often taken the lead, Stan had to admit he was a more than willing participant in their games.
Speaking of uphill, Stan couldn’t help noticing that the trail was getting steeper up ahead. He stopped to wipe the sweat from his brow and check the altitude on his GPS/altimeter. Fortunately, the summit wasn’t too far ahead. He’d hiked this mountain with his son, Marty, a few years ago and it had seemed shorter back then. Perhaps the mountain had grown in the interim.
Soon, Stan came out of the woods onto the bare rock of the summit. A couple of groups of hikers who had preceded him on the trail were sitting relaxing in the warm sun. Stan nodded a greeting and moved to a spot a bit away from them. Spread below him was the entire valley. Somewhere down there Barb was no doubt continuing her unofficial digging into the disappearance of Tina Travers.
He shook his head, imagining her traipsing all over the county bugging people with her questions. He still thought the most likely scenario was that the girl (he could hear Barb and his old boss on the NYPD, Reggie Jones, in a chorus, correcting him-“YOUNG WOMAN, Stan, she’s 19”) had run away from some difficult problem at home or with some boy or over something someone had said on Facebook.
But, Barb had already concocted an elaborate scenario involving white slavers and drug cartels or some such nonsense. Stan respected her smarts and her intuition a whole lot, and couldn’t rule that out for certain. But either way, whether Tina’s disappearance was innocent or sinister, the most important thing as far as Stan was concerned was that they weren’t cops anymore, they were retired, and it was someone else’s problem.
Not that that would stop Barb from poking around. Just as Reggie’s orders to drop the Amanda Berger case had fallen on deaf ears, and she’d turned out to be right, so she might be right here. And, Stan had little doubt, he’d end up sucked into the case, following the sway of her tight little. Because, much as he got a charge from raising a few welts on her luscious lower cheeks, he would never do her any real harm, nor would he hesitate for even a second to protect her from anyone who would.
Looking around from his reverie, Stan noticed that the other hikers had left the summit. He savored a few more minutes of solitude, then got to his feet and began the descent, which was harder on his aching knees than the ascent had been.
It was almost dinner time when he got home. Barb was busily preparing dinner, something that wasn’t at the top of her list of favorite activities, but after a day of outdoor exertion, Stan had to admit that it smelled darn good. She was singing, too, a song that he couldn’t quite make out, but still, that meant she had probably found out something interesting in her day of snooping around. The tune was familiar.
When he got closer, he heard the words:
Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sleuth and fight forever and a day
We'd pursue the case we choose
We'd fight and never lose
As long as you agreed to do things my way
Stan feared that it was going to be hard to say no to her little unauthorized “investigation”, despite their solemn agreement.
He snuck up behind her and began nuzzling her neck. She turned around. She was smiling. “Now this is a sight to warm an old cop’s heart,” he said.
She whacked him hard on the behind with the wooden spoon she had been using to stir the pot of sauce on the stove. “Ow!” he said.
“Stop being a baby, Stan, or I’ll take you downstairs and give you a dozen with the Singapore Stinger so you know what ‘Ow!’ really is.” Stan had let her whack him several times with that nasty-looking rattan cane once before just to see what it had felt like and he hadn’t sat comfortably for a few days. “How was your hike?” she asked.
“Great. How was your snooping around? Find anything interesting?”
“Maybe.”
“You wanna tell me about it?’
“Maybe over dinner, if you’re nice to me,” she replied.
“I’m always nice to you, Moore.”
Barb startled giggling loudly, making a sort of snorting noise. “That’s funnier than most of the jokes on Seinfeld, Goldman,” she told him when she finally stopped laughing. “But go sit down now, while you can.”
On his way to the dining room, Stan passed through the living room. He glanced at the TV, which was turned to the local channel’s evening news. It was the young black anchorwoman reading this time, with the older redheaded one nodding sagely. The girl they were talking about was 22 and her name was Josie Barber. She didn’t look much like Barb; she was blond, for one thing. But the banner headline “Second Local Woman Missing” made it clear that she had disappeared, just like Tina Travers had.
“Barb!” Stan shouted. “Come in here! I think you want to see this.”
Just watch what you hang on to, Goldman! 
Owwww ... enough writhing and twisting for awhile, ok! 
Nope ... not me.
When he got closer, he heard the words:
Those were the days my friend
We thought they'd never end
We'd sleuth and fight forever and a day
We'd pursue the case we choose
We'd fight and never lose
As long as you agreed to do things my way
Everyone says my singing voice is melodious. You agree, Goldman, RIGHT?
windar
Teller of Tales
You're the expert on hanging, Moore!
Sure. But what's that you're sprinkling in my food? Spaghetti al arsenico...
OK, we'll take a one minute break, but only because my arm is getting sore...
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Been there, done that, when I was twenty!
Does he have ANY choice?
So the fun begins!
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Oh! ... it definitely is getting hot in here...Malins, for you I will make it as hot as Hell
They'll have to enter into a bidding war for my diabolical schemesI think Malins has a good “criminal mind”. The NYPD should hire her as a paid consultant
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Always love that shot from Acri.!Oh! ... it definitely is getting hot in here...
Many things may be said at these times that would not be said in more sober moments.
See? This all looks innocent enough, though. No chance she'll get kidnapped and trafficked to God knows where.
So, the bees did it. Interesting...
So much for peace and quiet. The game's afoot.
See? This all looks innocent enough, though. No chance she'll get kidnapped and trafficked to God knows where.
That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Goldman!
windar
Teller of Tales
Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it....
Actions speak louder than words...That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Goldman!
messaline
Crucified Amazon
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Hard, sharp, Iron meets Soft, Vulnerable, Flesh; No Contest!Oh! ... it definitely is getting hot in here...
View attachment 622417
They'll have to enter into a bidding war for my diabolical schemes
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
So that is the infamous "tight little"? Various comments come to mind. But... my butt's still sore!View attachment 622576 Run Goldman, run !!!
View attachment 622577 I rather saw her like that ... View attachment 622578 ... not you Goldman ?