Chapter Six
I got my cell phone out and called Doris.
"David?" she answered the phone.
"Me, babe," I said, tossing the little endearments around with abandon now, "you know where Darla lives, right?"
"Of course," she said, "why?"
"Come on over," I said, "it turns out I need a hand. Wear some jeans or something you don't mind getting dirty."
She was starting to say something but I hit "end."
I rummaged through the refrigerator and found some beer (Coors of course), opened one, and started looking around her house. The house was neat, well, tidy is a better word. On the ground floor was a living room sporting a pretty nice stereo system and giant flat-screen television. There was a home office where everything was stacked in neat rows. I started thinking she had a bit of obsessive/compulsive disorder. A dining room was equally tidy with a big table featuring seating for 8, making me think it would be a good place to host a dinner party. The kitchen was oddly modern in an older house. As with many older houses, there was a bathroom located right off of the kitchen.
Upstairs were four bedrooms and another bathroom. The three spare bedrooms were easy to identify. They had queen sized beds, chests of drawers, side tables with a lamp, and area rugs each. Her bedroom was obviously where she lived. The spare rooms had that sort of sterile look. The beds were made and they were tidy, but there was none of the personal stuff you find in someone's bedroom.
Hers was lived in. Oh, it was tidy, and the bed was made, and I figured it would pass a white glove test. But there were things. An ashtray, clean, on the bedside table. A book on the same table. The bed, a big king size in here, featured a big headboard with shelves and a few pictures. The pictures, I noticed, were all of her and the same man, presumably her dead husband. It was definitely a female room although not overly so.
I started through her drawers. You can learn a lot about a woman from what's in her chest of drawers. The things worn most often are at the top. Towards the bottom is where you'll find the "special" things. She ran true to form. Down at the bottom of the underwear drawer, under those granny panties and industrial-strength bras, were three matched sets, red, black, and bright blue, of bras so sheer you could read a newspaper through them, panties, well thongs consisting of a few pieces of thread and a tiny triangle of material, also sheer, lacy garter belts with eight suspender straps, and very sheer matching nylons with a seam. Nice sets I thought.
Her closet, what was apparently a converted bedroom since it was that big, was just as interesting. The front of the closet was mostly what I had found her in today. There were jeans and slacks, skirts, blouses, dresses, sweaters, T-shirts, and racks of shoes. Farther back, though, were the more interesting things. Very sheer blouses. Dresses cut low in front but high in the back. All the way in back were some very interesting leather goods. There was a leather corset, for example, that looked like it would cinch her waist down to about 20 inches.
I liked it.
I heard the doorbell ring and went back downstairs. I didn't hurry, but I didn't dawdle either.
Doris was at the door, of course, looking a little breathless. Looking a little excited too. She was flushed and bright-eyed.
"Are you ready to have your fucking world rocked?" I asked.
She looked around. "Where's Darla," she asked.
"You didn't answer my question," I said. "Are you ready to have your fucking world rocked?"
I watched as a slow smile split her face.
"Yesssssssssssssssss," she hissed.
I flashed The Grin, reached down, caught the hem of her T-shirt, said "arms up,"
"What?" she asked, but she did lift her arms.
"Stripping you for action," I said, folding the T-shirt carefully and putting it on the table.
"Action," she asked, giggling as I reached around and unhooked her bra.
I folded it and laid it on the table on top of her T-shirt.
"Are you ready for some payback?" I asked, smiling down at her.
"Payback?" she asked.
I slapped her, hard, across her cheek. Hard enough that it snapped her head around. I figured she'd have a bruise to cover up by the time we went out to dinner. Oh well. Lessons MUST be taught.
"QUIT answering my questions with a question," I said.
Her palm was where I had slapped her, her eyes were big and red, but she just said, "okay."
"Well?" I asked.
"Yes," she said, "I'm ready for some payback."
I smiled, moved her hand away from where she was covering, kissed her cheek, and whispered, "You are going to have SO much fun."
She said nothing, just looked at me speculatively.
I walked her to the door to the basement and then down the stairs. The first thing she saw, of course, was Darla, suspended by her wrists, slowly turning.
Doris stopped, two steps from the bottom, and stared.
"What the hell?" she breathed very softly.
I smiled and held out my hand, then leading her down those last two steps.
Darla opened her eyes and saw us. "Oh fuck," she moaned, deep in her throat.
Doris was doing a slow turn, taking it all in, barely noticing Darla hanging there.
"What the hell?" she breathed again.
I took her hand and started leading her around, not saying anything to or about Darla.
"This, my sweetling," I said, and bent and kissed her, "is a fucking dungeon. Apparently your friend Darla, oh, and she mentioned Rene too, have a bit of a secret life."
I walked her around the room, finding her reaction interesting and, if we're being honest here, a bit spooky. She would brush her fingertips along one of the various devices and her smile was, well, I know I'm kind of overworking the word, but her smile was predatory. I could almost see her working out how to use the things she touched, and enjoying the image.
She stopped at a device I recognized as a "Spanish Donkey." It was a beam, it looked to me like it had started out as three or four 2X12s laminated together but then sawn and planed and sanded until it was a triangle. It was a little over waist-high. She brushed her fingers along the point of the triangle and said, "what is this?"
So I told her.
"You strip a woman naked and she mounts it like a horse. Well, you put her on it because she definitely won't WANT to mount it. Then you leave her there. If you're feeling particularly mean, you can hang weights on her ankles," I explained.
She brushed her fingertip against the sharp angle, right where that tender place between a woman's legs would hit, and she shivered.
She lifted and played with the variety of dildos and inflatables in one rack. Then she drew a quick breath when she opened the cabinet with its assortment of straps and paddles and rods and whips and other ways to inflict pain.
"Okay," I said, chuckling, "I'll leave you girls to play. I DO have a faucet to fix."
I threw the ball valve to turn off the water and headed up the steps. I heard Darla moan deep in her throat and the cabinet door open.
