The Rope Master By Veronica Beacher       $5.95

The alarm woke her with a start. Out of habit, her arm jerked up, as though to silence it, but of course, it moved nowhere. She sat up, and out of long practice leaned in and jabbed her chin against the large round button on top of the clock to silence it, then she lay back with a sigh, twisting and yawning.

Her nose itched, but scratching it wasn’t immediately possible. Her hands were cuffed together behind her back, just as her ankles were cuffed together at the foot of the bed. Other than that she was naked. But the room was warm and she was quite comfortable. She lay on her arms, her mind drifting lazily for ten minutes until the clock went off a second time. Again she tapped it shut, then fell back.

She really did need to get up. She left herself little extra time on waking for lounging around.

She stretched as she could, arching her back, rolling her head a little. Finally she drew her legs up and back, drawing her knees into her chest. She rocked her weight back onto her shoulders, and then drew her wrists down, grunting a little with exertion as she drew them down under her buttocks, then pulled them over her legs.

She sat up now and swung her cuffed legs over the side of the bed. The keys to the handcuffs were on the night table, and she reached for them, fit them into the lock and set herself free. She unlocked her ankle cuffs then got to her feet. She drew back the heavy curtains and raised the blind. It was still daylight, but the sun was low in the sky. She pulled open her drawer and drew on a pair of cotton, string bikini panties, then a tight athletic bra. A pair of simple, gray cotton shorts followed, then a gray tank top with a large red image of the roadrunner on its chest.

Downstairs, she made herself a milkshake like energy drink and downed it quickly, sitting on the table behind the sofa as she cast a jaundiced eye on the news. She gazed down at her shorts as she finished her drink, and bit lightly at her lower lip. Had they shrunk in the washing? They didn’t feel tight. They weren’t tight. But they were - short - and form fitting. Perhaps too short?

They were very low on her hips, the legs not terribly tight, but not descending much beneath her buttocks either. She glanced at her watch. It was too late to change anyway. She tossed the remains of the drink into the sink, put on her fanny pack, and headed out the door.

Even if she’d had a place to park it taking her car would have been absurd. The rush hour traffic into Manhattan meant she’d have moved at a snail’s pace. The bus stop was two blocks north. If she went there and waited five or ten minutes, a twenty five minute ride would take her to the nearest subway station.

She put her right foot on the stair and bent forward, then did the same with the left. A car passing down the street swerved a little behind her as the driver was distracted, but she didn’t notice.

Her shoulder-length black hair was pulled into a loose pony tail, and it swung from side to side as she stretched from side to side, her lithe body, shifting and turning. After a couple of minutes she turned and walked briskly down the street. After a block she began to jog, a slow, unhurried jog that nevertheless consumed block after block.

Occasionally, she could see a man in the passenger window of a passing car turning as it went by, looking at her. But she paid them little attention. Men had been looking at her for years, and she had long come to take it for granted. That she was wearing a tank top which left a six inch gap between its bottom and the waistband of her short shorts obviously drew their attention even more, of course, but she knew they would have noticed her regardless.

She had never been entirely sure why. She was no super model, no tall, gorgeous blonde bombshell. She was willing to admit to being pretty, and that she had a very good body, a near perfect body, in fact, though her breasts were not large (nor small) and at a mere five-foot-eight no modelling agency would have touched her. Her face was a bit too narrow, in any case, and her gray eyes too large.

It was not a conventionally beautiful face, but it was a face which drew the men like moths to a flame, a girl next door face and a lazy smile which somehow made them feel as if they knew her, and that, even if they didn’t, she was a kind and good humored girl.

She began to stretch her legs now, and she loved running. Her legs were long, athletic and perfectly sculpted, and they carried her in and out among pedestrians, past people waiting at bus stops, couples out for a last walk, around shop keepers dragging their wares off the sidewalk, getting ready to close, and even past shuffling teens who occasionally called out something obscene. Twenty blocks later she was just barely winded as she rounded the corner and crossed the street, another ten blocks ahead.

She passed a construction site, the same one she did every day at this time, but it was empty, one of the few benefits of a night shift. When she’d had to pass it during the day the men had gathered and cheered and hooted, yelling out a wide variety of promises, suggestions and perhaps affectionately intended comments on her body, particularly her ass.

She had a great ass, she thought, as another car passed with its male passenger’s head cocked around.

And it would be wrong to say she didn’t appreciate the attention, wasn’t flattered by it; that a part of her didn’t bask in all that approval, not to say lust, directed her way. She liked being lusted after, liked having the kind of body men licked their lips and made growling noises for. And, as long as they didn’t try to intrude into her personal space, was perfectly happy being their little bit of passing eye candy.

It was even, depending on her mood, a little arousing, though she tried not to play up to it. But she was vain, she knew, as vain as any girl, and as much an exhibitionist, perhaps more an exhibitionist than most.

But she was twenty-three. Men and boys had been staring at her, fawning over her, drooling over her for over ten years now. So she seldom really put her mind to it, and took little heed of the male eyes on her as she jogged up the last block and trotted down the stairs into the subway station.

"So I took the dumb bastard’s wrist and spun him around and shoved it up behind his neck," Mike said. "Then I asked him if he might like to reconsider."

The other three chuckled in appreciation, then, almost as one, lifted their paper cups to their lips and drank their coffee.

It was the quarter to ten, and the overnight shift was just about ready for inspection. Jake was surly, as usual, a bitter man stuck on the overnight shift because of his bad attitude and the lack of love it raised in his superiors. Frank’s eyes were bloodshot, blinking a lot. He’d never gotten used to sleeping during the day. Leon was young and didn’t care what time he slept. He still had the eagerness of a rookie.

The swinging door opened across the hall and by habit they all looked over casually, then held their gaze as they watched a young girl approach. She walked with, what was for her, a brisk pace, a stroll which Mike once commented looked like she was trying to move without her feet leaving the floor.

She had one year and nineteen days on the force, which technically made her no longer a rookie on the NYPD, and a competence very much at odds with her girlish appearance.

She gave them a lazy, but happy grin and waved her hand as she approached. "Hey," she said.

"Hey," Mike said.

"Morning, sunshine," Frank said.

"Hey, babe," Leon said.

She passed on by, and all four heads swivelled, eyes which had been trying not to stare at her high, firm breasts now locked in on the short gray shorts she wore. Frank licked his lips, Leon sighed, and even Jake muttered a soft curse under his breath. Mike forced himself to say nothing. She was, after all, his partner.

"Shit," Frank said.

"That girl," Leon sighed, "has the finest ass."

"Now, now, guys, none of that," Mike said.

Although, of course she did have the finest ass he’d seen in ages.

"Something just perverse about that girl being a cop," Jake said morosely.

"She does a damn good job," Mike said.

"She looks like a kid."

"She is a kid to old men like us, Jake," Mike said with a smile.

"You know what I mean." Jake scowled.

"That is a fine looking woman," Leon said. "Just a little – strange is all."

And there was no denying that. For if anyone had ever looked less like a cop it was Caitlin Moore in her pony tail. But Mike wasn’t lying. She was a supremely competent cop. She was also very quiet, but friendly. Even when she was busting people she was friendly, chatting with them as she sat on their backs and slapped the cuffs on. He’d never seen her get mad, and heard that odd little self-conscious laugh of hers in some of the strangest situations.

"You know," Frank said, "last month we were at that meeting and she was sitting next to me wearing this tight sweater, and her tits are so fucking firm, I swear to God I couldn’t keep my eyes off them. It was all I could do to keep from reaching out and squeezing."

"You’re gonna get yourself in trouble, old man," Leon chuckled.

"Nice tits," Frank said. "Not huge, but nice, real, real nice."

"Anyone doing her? It’s a fuckin shame if not," Leon said.

"How should I know?" Mike demanded, irritated.

"Hell, man, she don’t talk to you?"

"About her sex life? No!"

"I would really love to get my Johnson in that tight little pussy."

"Can we talk about something else?" Mike asked.

Inside the women’s locker room Caitlin wasted no time. She peeled her tank-top up and over her shoulders while still walking to her locker, opened it, then kicked off her tennis shoes and shucked out of her shorts and panties. She stripped off her bra and then darted into the open shower area with her shampoo.

No one else was there. Roll call was too near and she was cutting it short. She turned on the water, turned quickly in place as it poured over her head, then jumped back and squeezed a thick mass of shampoo onto her head. Her hands rose and she scrubbed quickly but vigorously, then let oozing suds serve as soap, sliding her hands up and down over her breasts, over her arms and underneath. There was a lot of soap and she’d produced a lot of suds. In thirty seconds she was soapy from head to toe, and jumped back under the water.

Another sixty forty-five seconds or so and she was wet, slick, but free of soap. She turned off the water and reached up to squeeze the water out of her hair, noting Suzanne Davidson leaning against the wall just outside the open shower area, sipping a coffee and watching.

Suzanne, like many of the NYPD female officers, was gay. She wasn’t at all shy about it, nor about her wish to run more than her eyes over Caitlin’s naked body. But aside from occasionally watching her in the shower she was polite about it. Caitlin had turned her down, in part because she was twice her age, but mainly because she leaned far more towards men than women, and she hadn’t bothered her again. Except to look. Occasionally.

Caitlin got a little fluttery in her stomach at that, but again, she was used to being looked at, even naked. A lot of people had seen Caitlin naked, and while it often sent a hot little thrill through her belly, she was not easily embarrassed by it.

Suzanne tossed her a towel as she headed out of the shower.

"You’re going to be late if you don’t move your cute little butt."

"I know," Caitlin said, wrapping it around herself and patting her body and hair dry.

She used a brush and blow dryer, sweeping the brush quickly up and back through her dark hair. Suzanne had turned and was admiring her ass now that she was leaning forward against the counter, but Caitlin didn’t have time for cares like that. Nor did she had time to dry her hair. Damp would do, then she tugged it back into a pony tail again and jumped into her clothes.

The guys looked up as Caitlin hurried out of the locker room, walking with her usual odd, rolling gait, grinning at them, holding her uniform hat. Her uniform shirt was tucked in loosely, and she shoved her hand down to push it in as she dropped her hat on the table.

"You’re almost late," Mike said, frowning at Frank, who was eyeing her chest.

"Yeah, I woke up late," she replied, sitting down, pulling up a shoe, and finishing tying it.

"Let’s go, boys and girls," the Sergeant cried from up the hall.

They all got to their feet and made their way into the roll call room. Before information was handed out they lined up for inspection, for the NYPD was a paramilitary organization, of course, and the Sergeant moved along the line checking uniforms, hair, shaves and equipment, pausing here and there to complain about infractions to the officers involved.

It was necessary to stand at something approaching attention, which Caitlin was not very accomplished at. But she made a creditable effort as the Sergeant drew near, straightening her shoulders, and Mike, standing across from Frank, saw him wink and roll his eyebrows up at how her breasts pushed out stiffly against the shirt.

Mike rolled his eyes.

They took their places at the tables and were given their shift handouts, new wanted posters, and information on what had happened during the previous shifts, then sent out to their cars.

Mike turned the corner, eyeing a vagrant sitting up against a liquor store with his hat out on the sidewalk. "So what are you doing this weekend?"

Caitlin shrugged casually. She did almost everything casually. If ever there was a picture of insouciance it was Caitlin Dolan. She walked with a sort of easygoing stroll which never seemed to get her feet off the floor. She nevertheless managed to cover distance with reasonable speed. She often appeared to slouch, even though she didn’t – quite. She had a lazy smile which she used frequently, especially after she said something in a sleepy voice which was a slow, almost drawl.

"I dunno," she said. "Playing some baseball, maybe a little rugby."

"Yeah? When?"

"I have a baseball game Wednesday and a rugby game Thursday."

Weekends for cops didn’t always fall on week ends. Their particular weekend, which was three days long in recognition of their ten hour shifts, rotated through the month. The coming one was Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.

"Messy game, rugby"

Another shrug as they passed a group of teenagers and inspected them for known faces. "It only lasts an hour or so. And it’s at seven. Then we’ll go out somewhere, I guess."

"What, no game Friday?"

"I’m supposed to play tennis with some friends."

"You’re a real sports nut, aren’t you."

She grinned lazily. "I guess."

In fact, while she wasn’t much of a spectator, there were few sports Caitlin didn’t enjoy playing.

"I’m too fuckin’ tired after a long week to go playing games," Mike said.

"Yeah, well, that’s cause you’re old," she said with a teasing grin.

"I’m not old. You’re a fucking kid, fer Christ’s sake!"

Caitlin grinned. He was forty-three. He was a veteran of nineteen years on the NYPD. She had just finished her first year.

They were driving down Thirty-first street in a blue and white, both of them wearing the high collared very dark blue uniforms he loved and she hated. They were very authoritative, the almost-black uniforms. Mike liked people to jump and show respect when he was near. Caitlin preferred to just talk to people.

They received a call, and headed further North to check out a woman who had not shown up for work or answered the phone for two days. Normally they wouldn’t be bothered by such things, but she was an emergency room nurse, and it was extremely odd of her to simply disappear.

The landlord of her brownstone was persuaded, after knocking at the door turned up no answer, to unlock it for them. Both of them loosened their Glochs in their holster, and Mike eased into the apartment ahead of Caitlin, calling out ahead of them.

"Miss Hurst? It’s the NYPD? Hello?" Caitlin turned sideways and eased open the door of the bedroom. And there was Miss Hurst, Angela Hurst, twenty-six year old Caucasian woman, dark brown hair, a hundred and thirty odd pounds.

Caitlin froze for a long moment, then her eyes flickered left and right, but the room was empty. She looked at the woman for a moment, taking in a lot in just that brief time.

"Mike," she called.

Her voice never grew excited, but that tone told him something was up and he hurried over, cursing as he looked into the room, then hurrying past her. Caitlin followed more slowly.

Angela Hurst was just hanging around – literally. She was nude, her body suspended from the ceiling by a careful arrangement of ropes. She was upside down, hanging by one ankle. Her left leg was split down, her ankle bound by cord to her hair so that it almost touched the back of her head.

The rope which held her up was rough looking hemp, and several loops circled her ankle, then twined snake-like down her leg past her knee. Her arms were bound back tightly behind her, her wrists lifted up high beneath her neck, her arms forced back together, and tied with several loops of thick rope. The rope also circled her waist, and ran between her legs, pulling in very tightly against her sex so that it had sunk between her swollen labia.

Rope circled both breasts tightly enough to puff them out, but not so tightly they were very discoloured. In addition, narrower strands crossed her breasts horizontally and vertically, and were arranged very neatly so as to angle around her nipples, which were bound in twine and pulled downwards by a pair of weights.

She was blindfolded, but alive, though she had clearly been hanging upside down for quite some time, and was dazed as they cut her down. As soon as she peeled the rope out from between her legs Caitlin saw the base of a huge dildo slowly push out into view, and a moment later the first several inches of another slid out of her anal opening.

They removed the ropes and laid her down on the bed while they waited for the Paramedics and detectives. Mike, of course, was uneasy and embarrassed, and it fell to Caitlin to stay with her. She handled it with what Mike considered amazing aplomb.

The detectives from Sex Crimes arrived, a middle aged woman named Dillon and a young Black guy called Baxter who was dressed far too sharply for his job. They interviewed the two of them, then took pictures of the room and gathered up the ropes. As was her habit, Caitlin said little, but listened a lot, and was not terribly impressed with what she heard.

The older detective, Dillon, spoke to her in a knowing voice about girls who picked up strange men in bars and the likelihood of one of them turning out to be a sicko. She and the younger guy talked about running the names of the local perverts, and checking to see if there had been similar crimes reported in other precincts.

What they didn’t mention was the ropes. The girl had been expertly bound using one of the Japanese schools of rope bondage, probably, given the effort at positioning, Kinbaku. You didn’t learn how to do that on the internet, not and get it that perfect. Whoever had bound the girl had really known his business.

But it wouldn’t do to say that. The NYPD was notoriously conservative and the reason why she knew anything about Japanese rope bondage would almost instantly be raised and then make the rounds of the salivating men – and women - who stared at her everywhere she went.

They accompanied the paramedics and the girl to the hospital, and waited around for the examination to be done and the doctors to come out and confirm the details. Miss Hurst, they said, had been raped repeatedly, orally, anally, and vaginally, by numerous objects. There was no difficulty finding evidence for DNA scans. In fact, the dildos jammed inside her had blocked exit to an enormous amount of semen which had apparently been gurgling around inside her.

There was too much of it, they thought, to be real, or at least, too much to have come from her rapist, unless he’d come dozens and dozens of times in quick succession. They would study it and get back to them.

In the meantime, they went back to the precinct to make out their reports. There was nothing quite like the police station for paperwork.