"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.
