Leather Nights

an excerpt



Chapter One

Danny-One



I was waking up and my head hurt. There didn't seem to be any light, making it way too dark for my bedroom. Maybe the sun hadn't come up yet? No, that couldn't be it. Now I could feel something on my face, and I smelled leather. I blinked my eyes-they were working, but I still couldn't see anything. Fuck, it seemed to be a hood, a heavy leather hood on my head, closed around me.

I moved my hand, or at least I tried to. Metal clanked around my wrist, holding it to the side of the bed, not like cuffs, more like some kind of manacle-one on each wrist with a short, a very short, chain.

This couldn't be my bed. My preference was for a soft mattress, with some give, not hard like this, and where the hell were my pillows? My hooded head lay flat, so I had to be on a bed of some kind. Sitting up proved difficult, and pulled on my groin. I tried again. Shit, a thin cord or bootlace was tied tight around my dick and balls, and it didn't feel like my normal cock ring. Another gentle pull confirmed it. My valuable equipment had been tied to the bottom of this bed, or something like that.

I tried moving my legs. Same result. From the rattle I heard, they had to be chained down as well. But I could feel boots and maybe my old black leather chaps on my legs. All I knew and could feel for sure was tightly secured.

For a moment, I lay back, trying to unscramble my brain. Yes, as far as I knew, I was still Danny Fortunato, LAPD officer, and I think maybe I was working undercover. And I was somebody's prisoner, it would seem. I shivered, suddenly cold. There seemed to be no clothing on my upper body. No, wait a moment, I sensed clamps on my nipples and they must've been on awhile since my tits were sore. Not good sore, which I loved, but hard sore, like they'd been worked over hard.

I kept still some more, wishing my brain didn't feel like mush and tried to remember back. How the hell had I got myself into this mess? I groaned. My body felt bruised. Shoulders and back hurt. Maybe I'd been beaten, too. Then I realized I could talk. No gag, so someone had locked me down for a long haul, but didn't want me choking to death. My dick twitched in gratitude, and started to stretch out in relief.

So I yelled loudly, but from within the hood, it was just noise. Probably sounded the same outside, but it was worth the effort. I started to shout about every minute. Nothing happened. No one appeared to ask what all the fuss was about. At least I assumed I was in a room. No kind of outside noises, like cars or even birds. But I couldn't hear anything clearly through the hood. Chained to a bed or a board, I could be anywhere. I badly needed a drink and a piss.

Why couldn't I remember how the hell I had gotten here? Who wanted me so badly to keep me tied up? So they could torture me some more? Moving only made my balls ache more, but my cock found it all exciting. Oh shit!

I put my head back down and that helped. Some part of my memory was coming back to me. Nothing very recent, but longer term seemed to be kicking back in. I could remember it was the beginning of an important case for me-how it all started. At least I assumed it was all the same case.

It had been one of those late fall afternoons in Los Angeles-still warm, with leaves falling off some of the oak trees in the leafy residential neighborhood I was patrolling on my police Kawasaki. Encino is normally a quiet suburb of upper class homes, but not too far from busy Ventura Boulevard in the San Fernando Valley. And the lieutenant liked us to show up there fairly regular to give the residents a feeling of security and to reassure them that we boys in blue are earning our salaries paid for from their tax dollars. I was considered a good type for this job-twenty-eight years of age, six feet tall, one hundred and ninety-five muscled pounds, and a big cock. Danny Fortunato was at your service.

Anyway, I'm well endowed, rugged, and have a killer smile, I'm told, at least by the guys I've screwed and by most of the women I've met and politely turned aside. I'd been brought up in Philly to always be kind to ladies, even though I wasn't interested in pussy and big breasts. This might be the year 2008, but I still kept the fact that I was gay fairly quiet in the locker rooms of the Van Nuys Station of the LAPD.

Well, I was thinking I'd soon be off my bike and into some proper police work. Not that I have anything against bikes-fuck no, I had my Harley Fat Boy in the locked garage of my apartment building. There was nothing better on my days off than suiting up in my black leathers and riding off into the mountains or the canyons of Southern California.

No, after my time as an MP in the Marines, I'd been studying criminal law at Cal State LA, and I'd passed my LAPD exam to become a detective. Even bought a new suit so that I'd look the part. Now I just needed the right vacancy to come along and I'd be well on my way.

So, that afternoon I was just tooling along, checking the neighborhood, when I heard the shot. I knew from experience it was a gunshot and not a car backfiring. It seemed to come from right behind me, and I swung around. For an instant everything looked normal and peaceful, then a dark blue BMW 750 IL sedan raced out of a driveway going in the opposite direction. It looked almost new, but I noticed there was a dent in the left rear bumper as I tried to check the registration.

I wheeled into the drive of the rambling single-story ranch style home. It looked identical to any number of others in this neighborhood-low trimmed hedge, well-kept lawn with rose bushes still in bloom-and an open front door. That was highly unusual, to say the least. The good residents normally kept their doors closed and locked against burglars and other intruders. So I automatically called in and requested backup. But it all seemed quiet and, after a few minutes, the open door was too tempting. I unholstered my weapon, slipped off the safety, and I stepped over the threshold.

"Police. LAPD Officer. Police Department."

Silence. No noise, except for the murmuring of the air conditioner. I moved quietly into the living room. It was big, sunny, in pleasant neutral tones, a couple of large paintings on the walls...and a dead woman in the middle of the beige carpet. I froze in my Dehner boots. She was sprawled on the floor, with her sundress pulled slightly out of shape and a red stain creeping across her chest. I tiptoed over and felt for a pulse. There was nothing. So I tiptoed back out of the room and called in again, to report an apparent homicide.

This was my first murder in four years on duty, and I felt shaken by the violence in the middle of such peaceful elegance. The backup I'd requested arrived almost immediately. I stood in the doorway until the sergeant apparently in charge asked me what had happened.

"Body on the floor in there. She's dead. Looks like a gunshot wound. I just felt for a pulse, but I didn't touch anything. I called it in. A homicide, I think."

"Good work. I'll take a quick look to confirm. We think you might have surprised a burglar, but we'll wait until the homicide guys arrive. And you better wait too, Officer...Fortunato is that it?"

"Yes, Sergeant. She seems very dead. Maybe the driver of the BMW was responsible?"

"We leave that for the lead detective. Meantime you better find a quiet spot here and start working up your report of what happened."

I moved my bike out of the way and sat down on it rather quickly. Why was I being so squeamish? I've seen plenty of dead bodies during my tours in Iraq, but in Iraq there hadn't been any pretty middle-aged women murdered in their own elegant living rooms. Fine detective I was going to make. Still, I got on with my report and gave it to the sergeant.

The crime teams arrived soon enough and started work. The Van Nuys officers started marking out the perimeters and keeping away curious neighbors. I edged into the entrance hall to watch. Plainclothes suited men and women explored the rest of the house, but seemed to find nothing of importance. A photographer snapped the body and the room from every angle. Finally, the coroner arrived and started examining the body with two assistants.

A tall, broad shouldered guy in a light gray jacket and dark pants came over to me.

"Hi. You're the officer who found the body? I'm Mark Farrell, the lead detective on the case, at least for the moment."

"Hi. Yes, I'm Danny Fortunato. Pleased to meet you."

"You got here pretty quick-and you saw a vehicle leaving the premises?"

"Yes, sir, I happened to be patrolling in this area, heard the shot, turned and saw a dark blue BMW 750 IL really moving down the road."

"Did you catch the registration?"

"Only the first four: 5FKM. It was all so fast that I missed the rest, but there was a dent in the left-hand bumper."

"Good. These details help, especially in the early stages."

"Thanks. I just passed my exams for detective and I'm trying to learn everything I can as fast as I can."

Farrell looked up sharply, his eyes alert behind his rimless glasses above a thick bushy mustache.

"Well, maybe I can get you assigned to this case. At least you were in from the beginning."

"Could you, sir? That would be great."

We shook hands, and really looked at one another and the earth moved under my tall boots. He was taller than me, good-looking with a broken nose and even a dimple. His hair was reddish in a brush cut, and he really filled out his jacket. He smiled, and suddenly his rather stern face was alive and real.

"If we're going to work together, you better can the sir and call me detective or Sergeant Farrell. Or maybe even Mark when I get to know you better and see how you work out. I'm on the lookout for a new partner."

And I could swear that he too felt a vibration between us.

"Walk through the house with me. Put some overshoes over those Dehners. You may not be field-trained, but sometimes a fresh pair of eyes can notice something out of place."

The two paintings on the wall of the living room were of the dead woman. I guessed that one had been painted at least twenty years ago. She seemed so young, with sparkling eyes and radiant smile, enhanced by light makeup, and the painter had caught a suggestion of great happiness in the exquisite face. The other was ten years or so older-still a handsome woman, but the spark had gone and that artist had worked hard at creating a compensating radiance. At least that was what Mark said, and he seemed to know what he was talking about.

There were two bedrooms, but only the master appeared to have been occupied.

"This is obviously the woman's. Oh, and, according to her driver's license, her name is Ingrid Jones," Mark murmured. "That seems rather a mundane name for such a lovely lady. Look around. What else do you notice?"

I prowled around the feminine room-rose colored bed, mahogany bedside tables. In the drawer of one I found some condoms and lube. Well, why shouldn't she still be sexually active? No immediate other signs of a male occupant, until I pointed out a man's robe hanging in a corner of the closet with a toothbrush in the pocket. It looked as though she had a regular visitor.

The guest bedroom was more spartan.

"We did find some men's T-shirts and pants in the drawer. Younger style, maybe a son? We haven't had time to find out yet. But he doesn't seem to have lived here. Maybe he was another frequent guest," Mark commented.

"Not the same guy as the one in the master suite?" I asked.

"Could be. But I have a hunch it's not," he answered. We continued our prowling. The kitchen was immaculate and suggested that Ms. or Mrs. Jones enjoyed cooking. There was a well-stocked freezer with items for gourmet meals and packages of exotic frozen vegetables.

Finally, we reached the garage. There was a Mercedes 700 coupe in one of the three stalls and a restored vintage Ducati, carefully covered with a sheet, in another corner. "Not your average middle-aged lady's bike," I suggested. Farrell grunted in agreement, being more interested in the very clean workman's bench on one wall. It was almost too clean, but the detective checked it very carefully with his white gloves on.

"Right on, just a few fragments of a white substance in the crack along this far corner," he said as he swept the particles into an evidence envelope. "There are some strange combinations here for a smart upper crust home. And I'll let the fingerprint experts get to work as well.

"Thanks for the use of your time, Danny. You could be of use to me. I'm not supposed to pick and choose my colleagues, especially such a young one, but I'll see if I can get the captain to give you a trial run. Keep in touch."

"Yes, sir, I mean, detective, er, sergeant, oh fuck, I mean Farrell," I spluttered.

He smiled a wonderful and warming smile, and I shook his hand. I felt it, or him, or something again, and I saw it in his eyes. Some kind of attraction? But, what would a straight-arrow detective-yes, I'd seen the wedding ring-want from a lowly motor officer, even if almost a detective? Yet my cock was alert, curious too, in my tight blue breeches.

Anyway, I was happy that evening, as I bumped my butt back to the station to morph into being a civilian. I'd not screwed up on my first effort at playing detective, and I'd met a sexy guy who might take me as a partner, work-wise, if not sex-wise. Who could complain, even if I was late checking out? It wasn't as if there was someone waiting for me at the apartment, and it was rare for me to go out cruising during the week. So I unfroze a couple of hamburger patties, fried them up, added some cottage cheese and fruit, lay back on my beat-up sofa, and channel surfed for the remainder of the evening.