Hi everyone - As always, this is FANTASY, and just meant to be fun and hot. I'm trying to do stories in all of the classic genres; this one is the noir installment ("Lady Mielikki's Amulet" is the fantasy installment, so check that out too). As always, everyone here is over 18 years of age. This story goes pretty hard in the foot fetish/femdom/harsh humiliation/spanking stuff, and also includes a fair amount of hypnosis. If those aren't your things, it might not be something you enjoy. If those *are* your things, though, then, as always, it's fantasy...but let's hope it's filthy fucking hot fantasy.
***
Jace came awake in waves.
At first there was only a blurred version of the world, a dim room smeared with the low red glow of an array of candles. He could only see the colors as dueling shapes though, bleeding into one another, before it pitched beneath his feet as if it were a ship at sea and then it was gone. Jace had slipped back into he blackness.
The next time he came to, the world was much more concrete. There were, indeed, shelves of candle low candles in this room, burning with a soft, crepuscular glow. The carpet beneath Jace's feet was thick and a deep crimson, almost wine-colored. A floral fragrance hung in the air but as far as he could tell, he was alone.
He moved -- or tried to -- and that was when the sharp metal of the handcuffs bit into the soft insides of his wrists.
His hands were cuffed behind him, he realized, and his ankles were also tied to the legs of the chair in which he sat. Immobile.
Jace blinked; it took effort. His eyelids were heavy from whatever drug must still be coursing through his bloodstream, he realized. He scowled, but even that took effort.
The night wasn't supposed to end like this. He knew that, because as many times as Jace Falcon had wound up handcuffed or tied up in some remote location, it had never been planned.
No he'd been...working a case, he remembered. The Zena Abramova case, actually. It was coming back now: the darkened expression on Ludwig Abramova's face as he told Jace he needed to find his daughter, that she'd gone off the grid again, but that it needed to stay quiet. Out of the papers. The oil baron had slipped him the name of the Krazy Kat on a piece of paper -- as if even breathing the name of the speakeasy would cause the family mansion to crumble all around him.
Jace hadn't had the heart to tell the money-grubbing old man, but he'd been to the Krazy Kat before. More than a few times actually. Enough to have a usual drink, a corpse reviver with a vintage absinthe. Enough, to, to know that the Krazy Kat's usual clientele could possibly be dangerous for someone with as much to lose as Zena Abramova, someone who had a father as rich as Ludwig Abramova himself. The old man loved his reputation and his money more than he loved his daughter -- of that Jace had no doubt -- but it didn't matter.
Jace liked money too. And Ludwig Abramova paid a fair amount up front. Jace had slipped on over to the filthy alleys and darkened streets of Acidalia's lower west side that same night. He'd gotten a corpse reviver at the Krazy Kat.
And had apparently been drugged, he realized, trying the handcuffs again. They held tight; they weren't the cheap kind some knuckleheads used these days. Nor were the knots at his ankles simple overhand knots. Whoever restrained him knew what they were doing.
He frowned again; the world was steadying itself. His stomach had settled some.
And behind him, a heavy door creaked open. Again, the floral perfume flooded the room, sought to overwhelm his senses.
"Awake, I see," said a voice behind him.
A woman's voice.
Jace swallowed hard. He hadn't expected this.
The woman who stepped into view was tall, and she didn't have shoes to thank for that; she wore only flat, strappy black sandals. She looked like she'd just come from somewhere far classier than the Krazy Kat -- the tight black dress and the long matching black gloves betrayed a class Jace had never seen at the speakeasy.
She seemed like she could have held her own in a place like that though, he thought. She moved with an effortless confidence, and hopped up on a dark hardwood table just off to his right as he watched. She crossed one leg over the other, betrayed a delicious view of one garter belt high up on her thigh.
"Jace Falcon himself, I see," she said, as she reached behind her on the table and produced a tumbler of whiskey and a highball glass, both of which probably cost about what Jace paid in rent each month. "Acidalia's most famous private detective drugged and handcuffed in a basement room like a common goon. The society pages would just love to hear about this, don't you think?"
She reached behind her again and scooped up a large chunk of ice, dropped it into the glass. Then she poured herself a few fingers of the whiskey and raised the glass to her lips, didn't smear her deep scarlet lipstick at all.
Jace balled his hands into fists against the handcuffs before he could stop himself.
"Who are you?" He asked her through gritted teeth now. "What do you want from me?"
She raised her eyebrows, a small smile playing on her lips as she did. "Eva Weatherall is my name. A bit of a private I. myself, honesty."
Jace swallowed. "I've heard the name."
"Oh you have, have you," she said, in mock surprise. "The great Jace Falcon himself has heard my name. I reckon I've made it, then."
She giggled at that and took another sip of the whiskey. Jace forced himself to say nothing. Behind him, he worked his wrist back and forth through one handcuff. It was growing slick with sweat.
"You ever heard of the crime of kidnapping, Ms. Weatherall?" He asked.
"Please, it's Eva," she said. "And yes, I have. But I assume you're also aware of our esteemed government's recent ban on intoxicating liquors and marijuana cigarettes, both of which you seem rather fond of. To say nothing of your taste for...shall we say...ladies of the night? But the submissive type; you seem to prefer to dominate, Mr. Falcon."
Behind him his wrist had grown more slippery against the handcuff's metal surface.
"You've done your homework, Ms. -- Eva," he said.
She rolled her eyes. "You're as stuck up as everyone said, you know that?"
"Why do you have me handcuffed to a chair in some basement room in the middle of the night?" He asked.
"I think you can be useful to me," Eva said. "In a case I'm working on."
"Hell of a way to ask for help," Jace said.
He slipped his wrist back and forth against the handcuff; he was gaining traction now. This was definitely doable.
"I'm not asking," Eva said, and now she was full-on smiling. "You're going to help me, Mr. Falcon. Actually, you're going to work for me."
"It's Jace, sweetheart," Jace said. "And like hell I'd ever help you. You're daft if you're thinking I'd ever work *for* you or anyone else."
"We'll see about that," Eva said, and crossed her legs again; again there was that one tantalizing flash of the garter belt beneath her black dress. "You see, Jace, I'm looking to find a certain oil tycoon's daughter. I actually think we might be looking for the same woman. Does the name Zena Abramova ring any bells?"
