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About Me

Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.

All characters involved in sexual activity in this story are over the age of 18. If you are under the age of 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.

Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2022 by The Technician.

Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

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On the Trail of Evil

I had just gotten to my car when a text came into my phone. It was from Sis and said simply, "Burner Fibonacci 20 Single."

It wouldn’t take the Agency more than a few minutes to figure out that code, but first the message had to be sent to the proper people. That meant I had about five minutes to make the call. The code, which I had taught Sis many years ago, was simple. A Fibonacci sequence is a mathematical structure where the next number is the sum of the previous two numbers. Single meant to only use the final part of each number. Usually I use it to create a semi-random long number that I can easily remember, like for a password. In this case, Sis was using it to tell me a special phone number. She had to have planned for something like this a long time ago.

With a starting number of 20, the full sequence was 2-0-2-2-4-6-(1)0-6-6-(1)2, so the number Sis wanted me to call was 202-246-0662. I drove about ten blocks to make sure I was on a real tower and not an Agency sniffer and then pulled over and called the number. I used a burner phone that I had in a special compartment beneath the glove box.

Sis immediately answered the phone. "Oh God, W," she said. She wasn’t quite crying, but I could hear the quiver in her voice. "How bad is it?"

"They left a naked picture of her," I said flatly, "and a message that there were things worse than death."

"They have her!" Sis wailed. "They have her! Find her for me, W! Please, you don’t know what these people are like!"

"What people?" I said curtly, and Sis replied, suddenly becoming calm, "It’s a cartel of world-wide sex traffickers. Normally Teddy Bear and I work scientific intelligence. Usually it’s in a nice little office complex in Alexandria, or sometimes in embassies around the world. But because of our special traits, we were asked to infiltrate a BDSM sex scene here in Germany."

"Let me guess," I said, "you are a Mistress and Theodore... Teddy Bear... is a sub."

There was a long pause before she said, "Yes." Then she quickly added, "I didn’t want you to know."

"Sis," I said almost angrily, "you know the kind of work I do. Did you think I would judge you or be angry?"

"No," she said wearily, "I just didn’t want to crush your image of your sweet little sister."

I could hear her take a deep breath and then she said, very firmly, "Do you have anything we could use to find her?"

"Pricker told me my help wasn’t needed," I said curtly.

"Agent Bricker is the one who convinced Ted and me to do this op," Sis said flatly. "He said we would just be providing surface intelligence and there would be no real danger to us or our family."

"There’s a reason his fellow agents call him Pricker," I said, a little more harshly than I intended.

"Can you do an independent investigation?" she asked. Her voice was once again cracking slightly.

"I have my own means," I replied. "And my own sources. I will see what I can do."

"Thank you, W," Sis said softly. "I knew my big brother could save the day."

I wasn’t as sure of that as she was, but I said, "I’ll try," and ended the call.

I got out of the car and put the burner phone under the car right up against the front tire. Then I drove off. Sis had a lot more faith in my ability to do anything than I did, but I did have one very important piece of information that the spooks probably didn’t have– or didn’t recognize the significance of. I saw the shark fin etched into the stainless steel pipe that the cutter nozzle rode on. I knew that logo. That custom device was built by James Finnegan, known in the trade as Finn.

I contacted a friend of mine in London. He is a true friend, and I won’t mention his name, but he picked me up at the airport and took me to his house. In his garage– they call it a garage in the UK, but pronounce it GAR’-raj or something like that. Anyway, in his garage was a Triumph Street Triple RS motorcycle. It was registered to a fake name, but it had all the legal tags, title, and insurance in that name. I know a car might be faster and safer, but when the shit hits the fan, too many Americans, possibly even me, forget that you are supposed to drive on the left side of the road. A motorcycle means I don’t have to contend with being a right-side driver, so I can react a lot faster and better if needed.

Finn’s Fetish Factory Funhouse was located down in the East End of London. It’s not one of the best– or safest– areas in London, but they are desperate for anything that might help the area, so Finn was able to purchase an old factory for the right price with an adjacent, enclosed, car park. Security men and women were everywhere around it.

From the front it looks like a gentrified factory building remodeled for flats. There is a double-wide front door with a long canopy supported on bright silver poles that reaches almost out to the street. On the front of the canopy it says simply, "Finn’s."

When you enter that door, there is a host’s desk and a maitre d’. Beyond them is a large, well-decorated dining area. Finn’s has a Michelin Guide rating of three stars. Many of the people enjoying the haute cuisine have no idea that two floors above them is an erotic BDSM night club. The second floor, which isolates the restaurant from any of the noise of the club, is living quarters for Finn and several members of his security force.

"Do you have a reservation?" the receptionist asked politely.

"No," I answered, "I’m here to see Mister Finnegan. I understand he will be up on the third floor at this time of night."

"Third floor requires a special invitation," she replied. "Did you request an invitation from our website?"

"No," I said firmly, "but Finn will see me. It’s important." Evidently I put a little more anger in my voice than I intended and her eyes widened slightly.

Her face returned to very calm while her hand slid slightly forward and pressed a small black button. Almost immediately a very handsome, very trim young man in a black suit stepped up and asked, "Is there a problem?"

"No," I answered calmly. "If I may, I am going to reach into the inside pocket of my coat and take out my card. Send it up to Mr. Finnegan. He will OK me coming up."

The man nodded slightly and I reached in and pulled out one of my cards. When I handed it to the host, her eyes again widened. "Thee W?" she asked calmly.

"The one and only," I replied. "And W needs to see Finn." I paused and then repeated, "It is very important."

I heard mumbling behind me. The security man was talking into his cufflink. I turned slightly toward him and he said curtly, "Elevator with the red doors. There is one button for up and another for down."

"Thank you," I said and walked over to the elevator.

Another young, trim, well-dressed young man met the elevator. "I will show you to your table," he said politely.

The tables were arranged in huge circular rows around a large empty area that was evidently intended to be the stage for the entertainment. My table was in the front row. There was a stunningly beautiful black girl already sitting at it. She was dressed in what is normally called "club attire," meaning a very short dress that revealed as much as it covered. My practiced eye, however, noted the slight triangular bulge that barely showed on the inside front of her right thigh and a slim, straight bulge down her spine. Neither would be noticeable if I had been distracted by her exquisite body.

"Don’t get any ideas," she said curtly as I sat down. "I’m with security and Finn said to keep a close watch on you."

"I have no ideas that would cause you to draw either your gun or your knife," I said with a smile. Then I added, "I am here to talk to Finn. Hopefully, a very friendly talk."

"Then let’s sit and watch the show," she said much more pleasantly. "I think you will find it interesting. Mister Finnegan will speak to you after the last act of this set."

At that point loud music began blaring from speakers hidden in the darkness above us. I had expected sexy music or perhaps even some bump and grind but instead it was the almost calliope-sounding music you hear at the carousel in the park.

There was a slight rumbling sound and a huge device descended from the darkness. It resembled the garishly-lighted canopies used at local fairs over their merry-go-round rides, but in place of the poorly-done paintings and drawings that normally adorned such carousel tops, each of the twenty segments was embellished with a naked figure hanging in the center of the triangle. There were sixteen young women in groups of four hanging face down. All were naked Xs– or more accurately, Ys– but some were tied in place with their feet spread wide at the outer rim and their hands tied together at the peak of the triangle. Others were tied with their hands spread at the outer rim and their feet together at the peak. A slight tinkling sound drew my attention to the bright silver bells that hung from each girl’s nipples. Some of them had pierced nipples with hoops to hold the bells. Others had clover clamps tightly attached from which the bells hung. I’m not sure which would be more painful.

Every five segments, dividing the circle into quarters, were naked figures that were hanging facing up with their hands tied to the outer rim. There were no bells, but there was a rather large-looking anal hook embedded in each one of them. The upper portion of the hook was held firmly between their asscheeks by a rope that went up to the outer rim of the carousel top. As one of them rotated over us, my suspicions were confirmed. There was a slight hint of a prick and scrotum visible above the gleam of the anal hook. Finn was providing a little something for everyone.

The outside circle raised and lowered as the display rotated, shifting the weight of the bound figures. For the women, it caused the bells to tinkle in time with their struggles to adjust to the changes. For the males, it caused a deep moan of pain as the anal hook took more of their weight.

"Impressive," I said, nodding to my escort.

"That’s just decoration," she replied. "Wait until you see the race."

I was going to ask, "What race?" but we were interrupted by a waitress. She was also impressive, not only because she was naked, but because she was wearing a very old-looking iron collar with heavy chains that went down to each wrist where they attached to thinner, but no less old-looking wrist cuffs.

"How may I serve my Master and his Lady?" she asked sweetly.

My security woman companion obviously bristled, but settled down when I turned to her and asked, "Are you allowed to drink on duty?"

"If it is required by my assignment," she answered flatly.

"Then it is required... if you so desire," I said with a smile. "What would you like?"

"I’m an old-fashioned girl," she said, smiling back at me, "I’ll have a Manhattan."

I smiled to myself, but refrained from mentioning that my grandmother had had a fondness for that bourbon, vermouth, and bitters concoction. Instead I asked the server, "Can you suggest a good, dark, English ale?"

"Has my Master ever tried Harvey’s Imperial Extra Double Stout?" she asked, slightly cocking her head. Then she added, "If that is not too bold a suggestion from a lowly serving wench."

"No, I haven’t," I answered. Then I added, "This is on my tab."

"No, it isn’t," the server said with a laugh. "Finn said you are totally comped tonight."

"That makes it even better," I said to my security guard.

After the server left, I asked, "Can you tell me your name?"

"Tatiana Malala," she replied with a smile.

"Sounds African," I said looking her in the eyes for the first time.

"No shit, Sherlock," she replied with a huff, using her fingers to sweep down her body from top to bottom.

"I would say Madagascar from the slight French overlay to your very proper British way of speaking," I continued.

"Now I’m impressed," she said as she reached up to take her drink from the server who had returned with a tray. I let the naked wench in chains set my ale on the table.

"The race begins in just a few minutes," she said. "Do either of you desire to make a bet?"

Both Tatiana and I shook our heads and the server scampered away. I savored the way her tight little ass bounced up and down as she practically ran into the darkness.

"It’s OK if you use your left hand," I said softly, smiling at Tatiana. "I already know you are left-handed."

She smiled back at me and replied, "But potential trouble doesn’t know, so let’s keep it that way."

She paused and asked, "How’d you know?"

"Gun’s on the inside of your right thigh," I answered. "Pulling it out from under your dress is hard enough, but it’s practically impossible unless it’s a cross body draw."

Her face became slightly blank and then she said, "Let’s watch the races."

Evidently she had seen the entertainment enough times to know the various sounds which accompany things. I had heard a slight humming sound, but had no idea what it might be. A trumpet blared the Call to Post and a dozen or so horses and riders rolled out into the open area.

The horses were on metal stands and looked a lot like those metal stands and horses that were once popular with the kiddies outside of department stores, except they seemed a little bigger. As they rolled forward, the horses rose and fell while rocking forward and back. I was a bit surprised at how noisy the motors were and expressed my surprise to Tatiana.

She laughed and said, "The motors are totally silent. I think you are hearing something else."

I remained quiet for a moment while I looked more closely at the ponies and the naked girls riding them. The girls’ ankles were tied in place to the metal stirrups. Their wrists were attached to the sides of the horses’ heads using a leather restraint and a few links of chain. Their hands were free to move on the grips which extended out of the sides of the heads. One of the young women turned her hand slightly and her horse sped up... and got a lot noisier.

"Did Finn design all of this?" I asked.

"Opening a club like this has been his dream for a long time,"Tatiana answered. "Recently he acquired the funds to actually do it."

I tried to not let the anger show in my face as I realized what might have brought in that kind of money. Tatiana continued, "The race is ten laps around the circular track. Win gets a hundred pounds; place is fifty; and show gets twenty-five."

"What does the loser get?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" she asked, looking slightly surprised.

"Finn and I go way back," I answered. "In his games, losers get punished."

She smiled and said, "You do know Finn, don’t you? The loser gets fifty swats with a leather paddle. Usually Finn himself does it, but if there are any tricast winners, they get to do at least half."

Finn stepped out into the center of the room. He was looking fit and happy. I could tell. I had seen him when he was neither. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he said loudly, "if you want to make a last minute bet, please signal your servers now."

He turned around with one arm outstretched as if pointing to each of the riders and said, "We have a grand field this evening. And for those of you who are noticing that some of our jockeys are very small, rest assured that I have records in the office– and I mean birth records– which show that all of our participants in tonight’s program are over the age of eighteen. And there are video interviews which ascertain that none of them have been coerced in any way to be a part of Finn’s Fetish Factory Funhouse.

"After Epstein and Prince Andrew," Tatiana said softly, "everyone is afraid they might be drawn into a scandal after the fact." She took a sip of her Manhattan and continued, "Actually, that’s also part of the reason for all the security. Rich perverts want to feel safe in their perversions."

"So you don’t agree with what Finn does?" I asked.

"Didn’t say that," she answered. "I just told the truth. Finn keeps everything secure, legal, and hidden. The people here feel safe watching or participating in all this kink. And that’s what makes it worth the price of admission."

"As I have already said," I replied, lifting my glass of ale, "it is impressive."

"And they’re off," Finn yelled loudly.

The horses had more or less clumped together and came across a wide white line painted on the floor just as Finn said that. Or perhaps he said that just as they came across the white line. In any case, the sudden roar of the vibrators was almost deafening as the lady jockeys opened up their throttles.

I turned to Tatiana and said, "It’s a sucker trap." She looked confused so I explained, "If you try too hard to win, you will lose. There’s no way a jockey can control her horse if she is having an orgasm. I am willing to bet that the loser will be one of the girls in the first five right now."

"Finn said you were smart," Tatiana said. "Greed will get you a red ass. But if you play it safe, you go home with just your wages. So, you have to try to win."

"How would you do it, Tatiana?" I asked.

"Call me Tat," she said. Then she answered, "I’d settle for the twenty-five pounds... fifty if I could manage it."

"Smart woman," I said as the horses hummed past our table. The leader, number nine, was already starting to show signs of extreme arousal. Her head was tilted back slightly and her mouth was open. I could hear her panted groans as she moved on around the circle trying desperately to hold back her orgasm.

"Number seven is going to win," I said as the last of the horses rolled past. "Or she will, at least, place."

"Why to you say that?" Tat asked.

"Look at her," I said firmly. "She has already had three or four mini-orgasms. You can see when she tenses up and the relaxes."

"How does that help her win?" Tat said, narrowing her eyes.

"I don’t want to explain female orgasms to a woman," I said carefully, "but from what I have observed, if a woman holds back an orgasm it grows stronger and stronger until it explodes out of her."

Tat nodded her head.

"But if you let the orgasm happen... prematurely... it remains small," I continued. "It may not be as satisfying, but it doesn’t totally overwhelm you. Number seven is letting her orgasms out early. She can keep her speed up to stay in the race and then probably give it one final blast of speed at the end to win."

Tat licked her lips and then said softly, "For a man, you know a lot about women’s orgasms."

"I design machines," I replied, "that are supposed to arouse, tease, or otherwise drive female slaves– and Mistresses– wild. I have had to study the subject to become good at what I do."

There was a burst of cheers and applause from the crowd as number nine suddenly lost control of her horse and careened into the center of the area. Her hands were still on the hand grips, but her feet had somehow slipped out of the leather that held them in the stirrups and were practically dragging on the ground. She was groaning loudly and throwing her body forward and back.

As the horses again passed by us, the new leader, number three, also swung into the center and came to a stop groaning out loudly in orgasm. Number seven, meanwhile, continued her measured pace in third place.

By the fifth lap, all of the naked female jockeys were drenched in sweat. Number nine and number three had recovered from their orgasms and were once again in the race. They had avoided being lapped and were slowly working their way back up in the pack.

As the ninth lap began, Tat leaned over to me and said, "Here is where it gets really interesting. Watch what happens when they go past the finish line and start the tenth lap."

As the lead horses approached the finish line for lap nine, I could hear an increase in the noise coming from the vibrators. Then it became deafening as the motors– and vibrators– of all fourteen horses were turned to full speed.

Soon the pants, grunts, and screams of the naked jockeys became almost as loud as the noise of the motors. All of the ladies were swaying forward and back or side to side in their saddles as they tried their best to hold off the inevitable massive orgasm. Even number seven looked like she was on her way to a really good orgasm and was trembling visibly as she slowly swayed. Several of the jockeys were barely able to stay on their horses, but all continued the race.

Finn was standing in the very middle of the area attempting to call the race. He was doing a fairly decent job of saying who was in the lead and who was gaining up until the final turn. That’s when number three again lost control and swerved into the center screaming out in orgasm. Her cries or her smell or just the fact that she was the definite loser caused three or four more of the naked female jockeys– including number nine– to lose control and not finish the race.

Their groans and screams, as well as the shouts of the crowd, nearly drowned out Finn as he declared, "It’s number twelve by a nose followed by number seven and then number fourteen."

With the race completed, all of the jockeys let go of their throttles and themselves. They all slowed to a stop swaying or thrashing in the saddle as extreme orgasms overwhelmed each of them. Mixed in with the groans and cries of the jockeys were slightly softer groans from a number of the women present.

"Looks like some of the ladies in the audience really enjoyed the race," I said softly to Tat.

"If you did a trousers check," she replied, "I’m willing to bet more men than women got off watching this."

"I’m not going to take that bet," I replied. Then I added, "I appreciated the race, but my pants are dry."

"Mine would be if I were wearing any," she said, grinning at me. "But then I’m on duty and have seen this race dozens of times."

Finn, meanwhile, had brought the three winners and the loser into the center of the open area. "Our winner receives one hundred pounds," he said loudly as he handed a one hundred pound note to number twelve, the winner. "And the second place receives fifty pounds," he continued as he handed a fifty to number seven. "Third place receives twenty-five pounds," he said more softly as he handed a twenty and a five to number fourteen.

Then he stepped over to number three, who had been brought into the infield by two burly security men who were walking alongside her horse. "And number three, our loser, receives fifty... with a leather paddle."

He held his hand up to his ear for a moment and then said, "We have two tricast winners tonight. That’s trifectas for the Yanks with us tonight." He paused and then called out, "Would Master McWilliams and Mistress Barbara please come to the center of the infield?"

A rather plump, middle-aged woman and a somewhat younger, but no less plump man walked into the center to join Finn. As they walked to the center, the security men were tying the losing jockey over a barrel that was supported by four padded legs and had the head of what was obviously supposed to be a donkey. Her feet had been secured to a stout rope that stretched between the front and back legs of the barrel donkey. Her wrists were tied to ropes which stretched under the barrel and attached to the front and back legs on the same side as the stout rope. By the time she was tied in place, she was rather tautly stretched with her ass perfectly displayed for the paddle.

"I guess I’m going to miss out on some of my fun tonight," Finn said as he handed a long, very flexible, black leather paddle to each of the winning bettors.

He helped position the man and the woman so that they were standing on each side of the unfortunate loser and then said, "You will swing alternately until you reach fifty strokes. That will be twenty-five strokes from each of you. Do you understand that?"

Both nodded their heads. Finn stepped back and said to the people at the tables, "And you get to keep count. Is everyone ready? Begin!"

Master McWilliams swung first. The long, flexible paddle bent backward as he brought his arm around. It smacked into number three’s ass with a loud, "Thwack!"’

The crowd called out, "One!" as the paddle landed, but number three’s screams were much louder than the crowd.

She barely had time to recover before Mistress Barbara’s paddle slammed into her ass. The was a loud count of "Two!" and an even louder scream.

Number three pulled against the ropes trying to lift herself off of the barrel donkey, but she was too well restrained. Her bouncing around only ensured that the next slap of the paddle was slightly lower on her ass.

"Three!" yelled out the crowd.

The poor losing jockey no longer screamed or struggled. She collapsed across the painted saddle of the punishment donkey and sobbed loudly as smack after smack reddened her ass and then began to turn it purple. By the time the crowd cried out, "Fifty!" she was only quivering with the blow.

As Master McWilliams and Mistress Barbara stood there panting from their exertion, two security men slowly wheeled the donkey– and number three– out of the circle.

Finn stepped into a spotlight and announced, "That concludes our first presentation."

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