Chapter 5
Hecate whipped her hair along the bare back of the black man. The lighting on the set was intense, turning the darkling muscles and ribs into a shimmering montage in mahogony.
The director of cinematography was signaling the individual cameramen over headphones, his eyes trained On three monitors at once.
One camera began to zoom in on the lashing locks. Another maintained crisp close-up on the guest star's face.
Antoine Chevalier's gagging and broad grimaces were convincing as hell, the director thought as he scanned the video monitors.
He could give a go at the acting profession if he wanted to. The man obviously had natural theatrical talents in addition to his being a highly successful Creole chef-restaurateur.
The third camera locked into Hecate's heaving latex bodice. Silvery streaks afloat on the gaudy wet-look material.
Nipples tartly outlined on the bustling bosom. The taut white tits barely concealed.
Behind the thrashing duet was an immense pot of sizzling oil. It was surrounded by a set of three weird sisters out of an absurdist MacBeth in tattered tartan robes and tam-o'-shanters with miniature skulls as tassels.
Hecate twirled in several dancelike weaves. The oiled tresses flew about her like a greased net.
She approached Antoine's back once more, threatening, looming and predatory.
Her raven hair was braided into thin tails, oiled and capped with metal hooks. Hecate swiped the huge man's hinders with the oily tendrils.
So spidery, so weblike, so very snakelike and so much like a cat-o'-nine-tails.
Hecate was clad in thigh-high boots of shiny, oiled and painted leather.
Ermine furs trimmed her boots and another several lengths were wrapped around her neck to trail their white-and-black tips down her bare white back.
Tongs and bells sounded rhythmically as the sisters struck about in the thin air.
Antoine kissed the boots of shiny leather and the lights went down. In the dark, Antoine was seen to tongue the thongs offered by the sisters in turn.
He was released from the rack and went down on his bent knee.
The joke was, of course, that he would be deep-fried Creole-style in an adaptation of one of his own popular recipes.
The whiplash of Hecate's hair in the dark was timed with the snapping of tongs, clanking of bells and chains.
The snatches of oily reflections from skin, hair, leather and metal were captured by the video monitors and the director and the cinematographer looked at each other and grinned.
The sounds of the bells, chains and the striking whip of hair continued.
"Cut! It's a take," the director snapped.
Hecate stepped back from the sweat-glazed body shackled to the rack before her.
"Wrap it up for now. One-hour break before the next scene."
"Great work, Antoine," the director said as the lights came up. "Think about taking up acting if you ever get tired of the kitchen, my boy. Meanwhile, you're in the next sequence and you have a costume change."
Then, turning toward his star, he said, "Diana, you're finished for the day on set. We won't be using you in the next scene."
"Oh, great," Diana Cazadora sighed.
She toweled off her heavily made-up face and walked into the lounge that looked into the sound-stage. She was pleased to see Cassandra there watching the day's shooting.
Maybe they could fuck while watching the next session of taping. Diana had been taken with the tough Cassandra Derringer instantly-even though she was a cop.
"Well, what's up now?" Diana said as she sat on the sofa next to the detective.
"Cynthia is phoning her parents to tell them everything is okay and not to worry. You do understand why I had to come out here myself-I know this beat and it would not have been advisable for the LA police to send out somebody unfamiliar with the principals."
Diana smiled.
She saw the sergeant's sweaty breasts move beneath her calfskin bodysuit.
She could sniff the cunt oils and feminine rutmusk soaked into the leather.
"Must be a drag-all this work for such a small matter," Diana said, aimlessly playing with Cassandra's shellacked boyish locks.
"Part of the job-hey, compared with some of my other cases, this has been a real vacation!"
Cassandra clapped her hand down on Diana's wrist and the woman immediately fell into her arms.
The couple embraced and sucked each other's lips hotly and wetly.
"What's next? You can stay with me tonight if you'd like," Diana said.
Her thumbnail speared into Cassandra's tummy as she began to unzip the front of the policewoman's undercover ensemble.
"I'd love it," Cassandra said while slickering Diana's ear and wriggling her fanny on the upholstery of the couch.
"But unfortunately," Cassandra continued, "my lieutenant has called me back to New York to check out some more thefts of Hellenistic erotica-part of a shipment to a private collector."
"They were heavily insured, of course," Diana said, nibbling at the woman's earlobes.
"Absolutely correct," Cassandra said as Diana worked her zipper around under her vulva and up her back to her backside to her waist.
Feeling Diana's pointed fingernails fritter away at her twat and bunghole, the police detective went on.
"And though the importation manifest appears to be in order," Cassandra said, "the pieces just may have been smuggled out of Turkey-perhaps obtained illegally initially."
'Tomb robbers?" Diana said.
Her thumb was up Cassandra's ass now.
"Or perhaps stolen from, shall we say, yet another criminal," Cassandra said, easing into a minor orgasm.
"What type of pieces?" Diana asked.
She felt Cassandra grip her wet clit through her thin silvery latex crotch. Then the palm slipped between her rubberized cuntlips and attacked up back toward her arse hole.
"Don't know, I haven't seen the photographs yet-I'll do that right after I get into New York, about eleven or twelve tonight."
Cassandra thought she might just change that, however. Stay here and fuck some more. Then catch another red-eye and some sleep on the plane.
She then have to meet the collector first thing in the morning.
Diana twisted her thumb out from Cassandra's hungering bun and stood up.
She turned her back toward Cassandra and said, "Can you help me out of this fucking ridiculous children's contraption?"
Cassandra, tongue lolling along the television hostess's back and legs, helped to peel her out of her latex costume.
She then slid her tongue between Diana's smooth white asscheeks.
Both of her hands riffled the firm mounds, fragrant and fine as ripe melons.
Cassandra smelled the juice ooze from the actress's honeydew.
She took the spiked collar from around her neck and snapped it twice about her wrist.
She brought her hand up to Diana's face and sneered as the television personality layered each rigid digit with mucal lubricant.
Cassandra flexed her hand, slime-covered and gleaming. She made a fist, then wiggled each finger intimidatingly.
"Bend over, frail mistress," she said to Diana, whipping her spiky wrist backhanded across the raven-haired woman's titflesh.
Diana propped herself up on folded knees as she stretched her arms above her head, which she lay on one side on the moist upholstery.
Cassandra smacked her lips and poked her tongue out between her teeth.
Diana began to gnaw the couch with her long teeth. Her arse hole winked like an opening rosebud toward her lover's mouthpucker.
Cassandra brought her yip to Diana's oily slit and picked up a wad of lady-juice. She wallowed her face in the running quim.
She suckered the pucker while she swallowed the fresh nectar from her mistress's treasure hive. The arse hole smooched at her facelips.
Cassandra next flexed her arm. She punched the righteous pussmeat and then sent an uppercut to the fundament.
Then Cassandra slugged the firm and fragrant ass-cheeks repeatedly as Diana squealed.
Her legs flew about in torture, her maw chewing the damp couch material maniacally.
Cassandra split Diana's buttocks apart with her fingers. She worked up a glop of saliva and spat it into the crack.
Then she pressed her hand, joint by joint, finger by finger, up the arse of mistress of pain and made a hefty fist.
"You got any tips on this Jergens slit?" Cassandra asked her pointedly.
Diana herky-jerked spasmodically as Cassandra twisted her wrist about in her bum.
"As I mentioned," Diana said tartly, knowing she was being manipulated, "Zahndra is having some minor plastic surgery that she doesn't want her readers or employers to know about yet."
Cassandra began pulling her clenched hand back, stretching the punk hole like tight cellophane. It rolled partway over her wrist and then she shot the fist forward.
Diana winced in pain magnified by her own petulant flagellation of her clitbud.
"I can buy that," Cassandra said. "Unfortunately, she's been reported as a missing person to the fuzz, as they say."
She beat Diana's assmeat.
The white fanny shook in heat as the fuming fist powered up her fundamental canal.
"You have to see her, speak to her?" Diana said through gobbling teeth.
"Afraid so," Cassandra said.
Then she brought her choppers into Diana's melon of an arse.
She hooked her fist from right to left as Diana lurched into the abyss of orgasmic abandon.
She jabbered away through her mouth as the police sergeant fistfucked her blazing rump.
"She could be anywhere in New York. It's such a big scene-all the clubs, all the fashion shows, private dinners, fucking gallery openings by the gross, downtown, midtown, uptown."
Cassandra jabbed her free hand into her own cunt-meat. She felt the steel rings of her harness press wetly into her aureoles.
"You can't even give me a little hint?" Cassandra was saying.
Sometimes you really had to convince these artsy types you meant business. Put the real squeeze on them. Make them squirm.
Cassandra pushed her fist religiously in and out of the whinnying arsesucker.
The spikes around her wrist now purred into the sweet white assmeat that surrounded Diana Cazad-ora's proud pink punk hole.
Diana's grimace gave way to resignation.
She was the mistress of pain.
This meant that she was mistress over the infliction of that hunger upon others-but that was not all her exalted position required.
Diana Cazadora must be able to be mistress of her own pain.
She must feed upon herself.
Consume herself with the same passionate hunger with which she devoured the others.
The cruel white goddess, true to the caprice that governed humankind, must also submit.
Lower herself into degradation.
Fall in love with her own pain. Avidly abuse herself and sup upon her agony.
The cruel white mistress of pain had been broken. By the fist of power wielded in her puss by the long arm of the law.
Strongarmed into revealing just a bit more about her operation than she would have liked.
She had to hand it to the detective sergeant, though. Cassandra Derringer was mistress of interrogation techniques without equal.
"Dandy Voivode has an opening at Dashwood's Scented Garden on Wednesday," Diana said.
"Zahndra might be there."
"That was last night," Cassandra said, "and I was there."
"Oh," Diana said. "We get a little behind New York out here in Southern California."
Cassandra recollected her experiences of the previous evening.
"I didn't see her, not that I knew of," Cassandra said, "but now Zahndra's supposedly going about in a variety of disguises."
"That's what they tell me," Diana said as she struggled to take the arm up to the elbow.
Cassandra slashed with spiked wrists up the hugging rump works.
"Who tells you?" she said.
"Alistair and Francis, of course," Diana said, choking on her tears.
Cassandra saw the deep wrinkles of pain cross Diana's brow. She seemed to be telling the truth, even if she might still be holding something back, if only on principle, from the cops.
People were like that, Cassandra had found.
She didn't yet have enough to go on, so Cassandra would have to plumb deeper.
She wouldn't give up yet. There just might be more to this than a simple missing persons report shoved off onto the art squad.
Cassandra wondered now if Francis Dashwood and Alistair Weed had been diverting her away from her quarry. But, no, they had sent her directly to Cynthia Luna.
That could itself have been a diversion.
If Francis Dashwood and Alistair Weed were trying to keep Cassandra away from Zahndra Jergens there had to be a reason.
She delved deeper into Diana's jabbering asshole and then suddenly jerked her forearm out and up. The action snapped the rubbery rim, making a noise like a cracking whip.
Cassandra slugged into the puling pussflesh and quickly buried her fist wrist-deep in steaming folds of brewing quim.
The soundstage was again bustling. Now Antoine Chevalier was dressed in a gold-and-black tiger-striped set of tights and leotards. His head was smoothly capped and masked with what looked like a rubber cast of his own features.
As the taping began, he pushed a young woman, who was bound in a thin-strapped leather tit-hammock, in front of him. Antoine prodded her with a limber metal tube that gave off sparks from its three-pointed tip.
Cassandra yanked hanks of dark, dank cunt hair with rakes of her spiked wrist.
"This Antoine Chevalier is supposed to be Zahndra Jergens's new hung nigger. Is that story straight?" Cassandra said.
"So far as I know," Diana said.
Her shrieking quim was molten under the foundering fist.
Her tits ached with humiliation as they rubbed against the wet material of the couch.
"Zahndra might be around here, hanging out," Cassandra suggested.
"Absolutely not," Diana said as she chewed the upholstery in a rage.
"Where, then?" Cassandra said.
She popped the fist from Diana's cunt and slapped the wriggling red clit as she kicked the television hostess over onto her back.
'Today's Thursday?" Diana said.
"Do tell," Cassandra sneered.
She opened up her legs and straddled Diana's shifting hips.
Through the observation window, Cassandra saw Antoine manhandle the young, squirming actress. The girl appeared to have at least two of her fingers partly mutilated.
Stumps glowered realistically on her paw as she attempted to frig her clit through the tight rubber chastity patch covering her cunt in the shape of an abstracted bat.
"Lots of functions on Thursdays," Diana rattled on as Cassandra slugged her jaw.
"How about Friday and Saturday-and don't give me that shit about weekends being dead. I know there's plenty of action-"
"A lot of it is outside New York."
Cassandra lugged a glob of spittle into Diana's face. She whistled through her teeth.
"I can travel, you lying mound of foul cunt," Cassandra said, spewing saliva on Diana's bouncing boobs and slapping her face.
"There's a getaway weekend at Spa Abbey of Theleme-I was supposed to be there myself, but we're behind taping schedule already."
Cassandra unleashed a twine of piss onto Diana's twat. It gurgled in the raven-haired gully as Diana wriggled, sucking in spit and tears.
"Where is the joint?" Cassandra said, continuing her liquid barrage.
Diana squeezed her tits, luxuriating in the tinkle that now sprayed her nipples, hard as nails, hot as coals.
"On the Canadian border-get the directions from Cynthia before you leave."
"Speak of the white bitch," Cassandra said, flapping her wet cuntmeat and indicating with her chin the blonde trainer who had just peeked her head into the observation lounge.
"Hey, Alistair Weed's office called to leave a message warning us about Sergeant Derringer's imminent arrival."
"Thank you, Cynthia," Diana said, wiping piss form her face and shaking her drenched hair. "That Mr. Weed is always right on the old ball."
"Fuck him and Francis too, if you ask me," Cynthia said.
She looked at Cassandra's drooling cunt and saw the drenched costume lying by the couch.
"Better give me those furs and latex for laundering," Cynthia said.
"Watch this first," Cassandra said in a hush.
She pointed out onto the soundstage.
Antoine was forcing the girl into an array of long spikes. He gripped her arms and shoved her at the pointed prongs repeatedly.
The actress was salivating, chewing on her lolling tongue in torment.
Antoine pressed her once more onto the twin spikes. The stumps of fingers wiggled outrageously as the tips nicked her nips.
The knockers were suspended momentarily on the tips of the spikes, and then Antoine jammed his forearm down across the back of the girl's tightly corded neck.
The left breast slid across the spike in a twist from side to side. The artificial nipple flicked off into the air and a spurt of fake blood shot out onto the black metal spike.
"Beautiful!" the director yelled. "Wrap it!"