The Case of the Unempt Canine

Full title:

The Curious Case of the Unkempt Canine aka The Crimson Clupeid

I was just on my way out when I received a summons to the Inner Sanctum.

"Sam! Get your butt in here!"

The Chief never, ever called me by my first name.... Well, that's not entirely correct. There was that one time. It had not ended well.

"And bring that sorry excuse for a sidekick with you."

Those, at least, were familiar words.

"Hi, Boss," I said.

"Good afternoon, Sir," said Jack.

"Suck-up," I whispered.

"What was that?" the Chief growled.

"What's up?" I replied.

"Leave the door open," the Chief snarled. "You won't be staying."

"About my vacation, Chief..."

"On hold!"

The office was small, claustrophobically, intimidatingly so. The Chief liked it that way. Most of the space was taken up by a huge, pock-marked, cigar-scorched oak desk, as ancient and solid as the man sitting behind it. His colossal frame overflowed the stained leather chair which sagged and groaned under its payload. He wore a frayed and faded three-piece suit. His face bore the faint remains of a handsome youth, but the chiseled features had been eroded by the years and by the stresses and pressures of his job. Bulldog jaws chomped incessantly, nervously, on the cadaver of a once proud parejo. But inside the massive, threadbare skull a leonine intelligence prowled incessantly.

The Chief was not alone. Perched on the edge of the desk was a young woman, blindingly blonde and more gorgeous than any mortal female had a right to be. She had the body of a beauty queen, squeezed into a skin-tight dress that was not much more than a silken sash between outstanding décolletage and a thigh-baring hemline. She had the legs of a Vegas showgirl, long and sleek, which swung gracefully to some slow, silent rhythm.

"My best agents?" the Chief was saying, poking at us with the stub of his cigar. "Beggars can't be..."

"Thanks, Boss," I intervened. "We feel the love."

He just grunted. But when he turned to the girl, his grizzled face almost glowed.

"Sam and... uh ... Jake, this is Scarlett."

"Pleased to meet you, Sam, Jack."

The words rolled like honey from those ruby red lips. Her crystal blue eyes sparkled, and the dark lashes fluttered in a subtle, mischievous wink. I immediately liked this girl. She'd done her homework, had no problem correcting her boss. She lightly flicked her head and the gossamer-gold tresses swept across her smooth, bare shoulders like gentle waves on a sun-drenched beach. She leaned backwards across the desk to whisper to the Chief. As she did so, that magnificent chest strained delightfully against the fragile fabric.

Jack stammered a few words. He was smitten and I could hardly blame him. Scarlett was quite a babe. As she stood erect, her silk skirt fell smoothly back into place; but there was not much of it, so it didn't fall far. She moved towards the door like she was floating on a cloud. As she wafted past, I caught the scent of exquisite, expensive perfume. As well as everything else, the dame had class. In the doorway, she turned back, nodded and smiled. Then she was gone.

"So who's the sweet cheeks, Boss?" I asked.

The old man glowered over his glittering horn-rimmed specs. "My niece."

Jack was about to say something but had prudent second thoughts.

"She'll be with you on this assignment. Liaison."

"A snoop, then."

"Liaison!"

"Okay, got it," I sighed. "So what's the job?"

***

The operation was to be your basic undercover work, routine surveillance, nothing I haven't done a hundred times. Jack was still green. He'd only been in the field a short time; but he was a good kid who knew how to take orders. He was also a quick thinker and a fast learner. I could rely on him if things went sideways. Not that they often do, but in our job you don't take needless chances. In any case, he would get to spread his wings on this mission.

We hired a car at the airport. I let Jack take the wheel so I could get some shut-eye. By the time we reached the hotel, it was late afternoon. The echo of the setting sun shimmered a sickly rust-red on the darkening waters of the bay. A cool breeze rustled among the broad fronds of the palms which lined the boardwalk. A jaded-looking concierge ushered us into the lobby and snapped his fingers at a bored-looking underling. As the latter took our bags, I turned to Jack.

"Grab the key and check out the room," I told him. "I'll scout around down here. Meet me in the main bar."

The porter overheard my giving the orders and stared quizzically at us each in turn. He followed Jack to the reception desk.

The lobby was congested and noisy. In dress and behaviour it might have been the typical resort crowd, but younger than what you would normally find, which didn't surprise me. Numbers were building as the early evening chill drove people inside. Some were heading for the elevators and stairs, or in the direction of signs pointing the way to the saloons and restaurants. Most, however, were swarming to one end of the foyer where a huge placard proclaimed in fancy, big black script, "Exhibition Hall". Under it, lurid cherry-red lettering announced "Welcome to Bond Expo".

I took out my ticket and slung the lanyard round my neck. There were two young women flanking the entrance and inspecting IDs. They were statuesque and stunning, in racy, lacy lingerie, with garter-belts, fishnet stockings and stiletto heels, one wearing pink-and-black, the other black-and-pink. Clamped about the throat of each was a shiny metal collar, and around her wrists and ankles leather buckled cuffs. The one in black caught my quick gaze and smiled. It was the vapid, content-free smile of someone with an elsewhere she'd rather be; but there was a glint in her eyes when they connected with mine that made me wonder if she was thinking what I was.

The cavernous hall was even more crowded and cacophonous than the lobby. Just inside the doorway, a toothy young guy in a blue tuxedo and a petite, pretty girl in a tiny white dress were handing out gift packs containing the standard paraphernalia, stuff like advertising brochures for internet websites. Beyond, there were about two dozen rows of booths and stalls. Some were slick commercial enterprises with vendors touting merchandise and memberships; others were operated by private clubs and individuals. There were well-groomed, well-proportioned professional models and presenters, alongside talented (and some less talented) amateurs and hobbyists, displaying their wares and demonstrating their skills. Tables and benches were laid out with all sorts of accessories, appliances and accouterments, in every material from plastic to platinum — adult toys, fetish clothing, a vast assortment of ropes and chains, gags, collars and leashes, hoods, masks and blindfolds, corsets and adornments, a range of tasteful chastity belts, some intricate contrivances and some nasty looking torture devices. There were things I couldn't imagine the use of, things I preferred not to know about, and things I wished I could forget. There were also stands offering how-to (and what not to do) manuals, DVDs, books and magazines. Some displays were purely informational, including well-attended presentations on legal issues and health and safety procedures. There were posters offering guidance and counsel on "how to spice up your relationship" and so on.

Foot traffic was heavy, with hundreds of people milling and meandering, chatting, conferring, browsing, bargaining, trying out techniques and contraptions. All around, photos were being taken, pamphlets perused, prices compared, business cards exchanged, advice proffered, autographs signed. I had half-expected the place to be full of shady middle-aged men in raincoats. Instead, there was a wholesome, almost family-like ambiance. The prevailing mood appeared to be satisfied curiosity rather than titillation. There were few of the hard-core devotees that I'd anticipated. The atmosphere was friendly and relaxed. There was a camaraderie rather than competition among the stall operators. If any, for instance, ran short of materials during a demonstration or needed a helping hand, they could turn for assistance to one of their neighbors.

Most of the exhibits were small cubicles with a single operator or a pair hawking literature and videos and promoting websites. That still left a considerable number featuring live, on the spot, in the flesh demonstrations. The vast majority of the tie-up subjects were females, but there was the occasional male. I saw one girl-guy couple being bound together with the predictable "tie-the-knot" jokes from the ropemaster. There was an oiled-up dude in

Lederhosen

, a string vest and a zippered full-face hood, being strapped into some sort of harness on pulley-ropes by two buxom beauties in barely-there buckskin bikinis.

Amongst the exhibitors, demonstrators and models, leather was the fashion fabric

du jour

, although there was still plenty of rubber, latex and spandex. Slinky black lingerie was popular with the ladies, who nonetheless accessorized in leather. Collars and chokers were

de rigueur

. These ranged from the simple to the elaborate, from unembellished to gem-encrusted, from elegant necklaces to stiff dog collars. Many of the models and presenters also wore gags — the ball variety by far the most common — if not already in their mouths then hanging around their necks, ready for insertion.

At one of the first stalls I encountered, a cute redhead was lying on her side atop a bench wearing a blue Star Trek uniform, the classic miniskirt and go-go boots version of course. She was in the process of being put into a very stringent hog-tie by a nervous-looking layman under the direction of a ferocious-looking (but slightly overweight) Klingon. The Trekette looked up and flashed us a convivial smile just before her bumpy-browed captor took command and thrust a red ball-gag into her mouth. She moaned and rolled her eyes.

At the booth next door, two young women — a short, pixie-faced honey-blonde and a tall, curvaceous brunette — were being lashed together by a huge gentleman clad in military fatigues and wearing a camouflage-pattern ski mask. The girls' arms were pinioned behind their backs with their elbows touching, but through gritted teeth they were laughing and joking. It was hard to tell if they were paid models or experienced amateurs, but from their casual attitude it was obvious they were not neophytes. They were in just their underwear and there was a pile of discarded clothing on the counter, which suggested they were roped-in bystanders. Most of the people watching shuddered and gasped as the pair were heaved onto the tips of their toes with a cable that was secured to their arm-ropes and hoisted over a metal-tubing scaffold. They were left to dangle, struggling to maintain foot contact with the floor so as to ease the stress on their arms. Yet even as they grimaced and groaned, they continued to giggle and even to mock their tormentor... whose response was to haul them up harder. The onlookers winced.

Elsewhere another hog-tied young lady was dangling from the centre of a large tripod by a rope attached to her wrists and ankles. She was carrying on a light-hearted banter with her ropemaster and the spectators through clenched jaws and heavy panting and puffing; and there were lots of "Oo-ah" noises from the audience. Hell, I've taken a slug or two in my time and come up cursing, but these gals were tough!

Visitors and guests were encouraged to be active participants in the demonstrations and displays. While most of the crowd were content to remain observers, a few consented to join in, like Camouflage Guy's captives. At some stalls, women passing by were grabbed and bound. They were trussed to chairs, tied down on tables, tethered to posts, strapped to beams, suspended on frames. I didn't see any males being accosted, nor any gallant menfolk coming to the rescue of the abducted damsels. But none of the victims seemed to mind. They came away looking flushed, and somewhat embarrassed, but generally pleased with the experience.

It was an engrossing scene, but by this time Jack would be in the bar. I found him about to order a drink.

"Two Heinekens," I intercepted.

Jack looked disappointed, as the bartender put the Scotch bottle back on the shelf and gave me a funny stare.

"Let's keep our heads clear," I said.

"Anything fishy?" Jack asked,

sotto voce

. He glanced about with an earnest furtiveness.

"No... and try not to look so much like a spy."

We downed our beers and returned to the pavilion. As he passed through the entranceway, Jack halted suddenly, as if he'd run into a wall.

"Wow!"

"Quite something, isn't it? But let's keep our focus."

That was not so easy. Just in front of us, at the centre of a flurry of attention, was a couple whom I recognized (after some brain-searching) as sporting celebrities. He was a football star and she an Olympic champion, or

vice versa

. Their retinue had stopped at one of the cubicles where the guy tried on a straightjacket, with a comment from his partner that it was bound to come to this sooner or later. Further along, they were waylaid by one of the stall operators. He and his minion seized the girl, and with only a whimper of protest she was lifted onto the table and slammed down onto her belly. Her wrists were swiftly and efficiently bound behind her back and to her ankles. Unfazed, she rolled onto her side and tried to say something to an attractive, stern-looking woman in a twinset and pencil skirt, who I guessed was her agent or manager. Anyway, almost as soon as hog-tied Sports Girl opened her mouth, it was stuffed with a huge purple ball.

Her tight bonds had forced her body to arch rearwards at an angle that might have been excruciating to someone not so athletic; but though she was grunting and puffing through her gag, she shook her head vigorously when asked if she'd had enough. She was wearing a bandeau top and a denim skirt, and while her flimsy boob tube managed to stay in place throughout the ordeal, the press studs that held her skirt in place had come apart under the strain. Her companion made a half-hearted attempt to fix the problem but only made it worse. At least she had nice undies.

As if on cue, the pair at the neighboring booth, a short man wearing dungarees and a construction worker's hard hat, and a tall, striking woman in a figure-hugging latex catsuit, grabbed Twinset Woman by the arms, wrenched them behind her back and snapped on a pair of handcuffs. Even as she started to object, Catsuit Girl clapped an iron collar about her neck, while Hard Hat attached a connector chain to the cuffs and collar. Once she was past the initial shock, their victim laughed and proudly showed off her new ensemble to her associates.

Then it got weirder. The VIPs and their entourage consisted of at least a dozen individuals and were attracting the attention of other stallholders, who began to grab the females. It was funny to watch the group contract in on itself as the women on the periphery were picked off one by one and the rest huddled to avoid apprehension. Only one managed to evade the ropes and chains, by threatening violence, but no one else complained or offered more than token resistance. The men in the party unchivalrously accepted invitations to assist the abductors, and a couple even volunteered their services. Maybe the whole episode was stage-managed, but it looked spontaneous, and the startled expressions on the faces of the victims as they were being accosted and bound appeared natural enough.

This little drama was played out over fifteen or so minutes and drew in a big audience. With much of the hall thus cleared of crowds, it was a good opportunity for Jack and me to make our connection.

The Chief had been oddly vague about our rendezvous. Even back in his office I had the feeling that he wasn't running this part of the show. All we'd been told was to be on the lookout for two cops, and I had figured he wasn't talking about actual law enforcement or security guards. I scanned the room. Near one corner was a stand with the sign, "Reality Arts Theater". In attendance were a man and woman in grotesque parodies of police uniforms. The guy was outfitted Keystone Cop style in shiny, fluorescent blue. He was a stranger but I recognized the girl. It was Scarlett, in black mesh stockings, bustier and booty shorts.

Armed with plastic truncheons and enormous water pistols, the comical constables were corralling passers-by into a miniature stockade and imposing fines on their prisoners. Most agreed to pay up to secure their release. It was a novel way to solicit donations.

"Hello, Sam," Scarlett said, "and..."

"Jack," he answered, glumly.

She smiled ever so slightly and winked at me. She introduced her colleague. Tony was not particularly big or broad, but he had a toughness and a self-assurance that reminded me of the best men I've worked with, and that was encouraging. The four of us stayed in character, since there were people hanging about. So because we couldn't talk openly, we decided to meet later, when the exhibition had closed. In the meantime, if this performance was nothing more than a charade, Scarlett and Tony took it seriously. Jack and I went into the pen and paid our ransom.

I grabbed Scarlett's hand and clamped her fist around the money.

"I expect a return on that," I told her in low voice.

"Room three-one-four," she whispered with a sly grin, "in half an hour. I'll be on a break."

"It's a date," I said.

That would give me just enough time for a burger and a beer. As Scarlett and Tony went back to arresting innocent bystanders, Jack and I headed for the exit. On our way, however, we paused at a cubicle decked out as a Mediæval Faire. A guy in period apparel wearing a bronze gorget labelled "Sheriff" was working the crowd with a spiel peppered with middle-ageisms — lots of thees and thous and prithees and verilies and forsooths. Beside him, a doe-eyed

demoiselle

in a low-cut emerald-green, gold-embroidered gown had been bound to a pole. The ropes entwined her body from her ankles to her neck, leaving her completely immobilized. She was crudely gagged with a wad of rough calico. It could not have been very comfortable or tasty. I don't know if she was supposed to be a witch or a heretic. In any case, the feudal flatfoot announced that she was to be burnt at the stake. Then he declared that "Tis pity" the valuable raiment should be consumed by the flames, and there were shouts from the crowd to "Take it off!"

However, the damsel was saved from her defrocking and a blazing demise by the intervention of a busty young woman dressed in a skin-tight red Lycra bodysuit and wearing next to her ample cleavage a gargantuan badge proclaiming "Fire Marshall". The crowd roared with laughter and sighed with disappointment.

Jack and I turned to leave, but our way was barred by a formidable, leather-clad duo. A brawny dungeon-master and a sturdy dominatrix had stepped into our path. I gave each a salutationary nod and tried to bypass them, but the guy was built like a brick outhouse and blocked most of the aisle. As I swerved, he lunged at me with hands the size of canned hams. Jack, with coiled-spring reflexes, leapt between us; but I called him off.

"Stand down," I ordered. There was no need to create a scene. I'd had a feeling something like this might happen.

And at that moment two arms came from the rear and grabbed my elbows. Before I could react, the woman had drawn my wrists together behind my back and secured them with steel bracelets. She was strong, and I found myself helplessly locked in her embrace. I felt her hot, moist breath on the back of my neck, ruffling my hair, as she reached around and began unfastening the buttons on my shirt.