"Stuart Hughes - Clock's Runnin, Mister" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hughes Stuart)

He got up on the bed and lay back, smiling.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Ready."
"Okay, let's do it."
She took the handcuffs from the dressing table where she had al_ready laid
out the contents of the 49'ers holdall. They looked and felt like the real
McCoy. These cuffs were identical to those used by the San Francisco P.D.
And she should know; she'd been arrested and warned - never charged - on
three separate occasions. She picked up the tawse and slipped it into the
waistband of her mini-skirt.
"No padding, huh?"
"Padding's for wimps."
She cuffed his wrists first, leaving some slack, then on Jack's insistence
ratchetting them tight against his wrists, so tight that the cold metal
bit into his flesh. She locked the other end of each cuff around the top
bed posts, splaying out his arms. Patiently she grabbed his ankles and
fastened them to the bottom bed posts.
She got off the bed and surveyed her handywork. He lay beneath her,
spreadeagled in a way that stretched and strained his muscles. A light
sweat filmed his forehead.
His money - all fifteen hundred bucks of it, in crisp hundred dollar bills
- was safely tucked inside her bra. For a brief moment she found herself
tempted to take the money and run, to leave him stranded on the bed in
this exposed position. She knew girls who always took the money and ran,
but she wasn't like that. She picked up the leather ball-gag, and got on
the bed, straddling his chest.
"You want me to use this?" she asked, holding the gag above his face. The
leather ball was the size of a tennis ball, a real jaw breaker.
"Please," he said. "But let me say two things first ..." She nodded, and
he continued: "Don't hold anything back. Hurt me. Beat me. I'm scum. I
deserve it. Beat me hard enough and the pain and pleasure will drive me
wild. Sometimes, when I'm really wild ..." he rattled the cuffs at his
wrists and ankles, "... these aren't enough to hold me. I want you to
promise me that you'll run if I go wild and begin to break free. Promise
me you'll get the hell out."
She jammed the leather ball into his mouth, silencing his crazy ramblings,
and buckled it tight behind his neck. Saliva dribbled down his chin.
"You sure talk some crazy bullshit, mister," she said. "I'm going to beat
you black and blue for that man. You bet."
She smacked his right thigh, hard. Then the left. Then the right again.
She took the tawse, from the waistband of her mini-skirt, to acquaint him
with that. She raised it and cracked it down across his right thigh. His
head jerked back, eyes opening wide. She slapped him again and again.
Jack's face creased.
Sometimes, when I'm really wild these aren't enough to hold me.
She sat back on her heels. The recollection of his crazy warning brought a
smile to her face. There was no way he could escape these cuffs. No way in
hell.
She got off the bed and stood looking down at Jack. His breathing was
coming in short, laboured gasps.