Punchline by Fenton P.A

Author:Fenton, P.A. [Fenton, P.A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Monkey Rumble Press
Published: 2011-08-25T22:00:00+00:00

Sixteen

Fantasy can be a dangerous indulgence. Put someone in a dark room where the walls are washed a deep red and liberally decorated with implements of pleasure and pain and devil knows what else … you don’t know what’s going to come out in that person. Which is why I was quietly shitting myself when I came to and found myself strapped to that large wooden cross — hanging from steel handcuffs which were cutting into my wrists like piano wire — and saw Jill Carpenter seething at me in her shiny black latex skin as she pulled tight the leather strap around my right shin.

She was breathing fast and hot and heavy. Her warm vapours rolled up my chest to my face like smoke, carrying the strong crayon-like smell of heavily-applied lipstick, the smell of an aunt or a friend’s mother. Her dark hair, pulled back into a drum-tight ponytail, framed a face that shone with a fine coat of perspiration. She was holding something that looked like an oversized electric razor.

‘Whazzat?’ I said. My tongue was slow in my mouth.

She held the device a couple of inches in front of my eyes and a bright blue spark lit up the air. It crackled. The after-image floated before me in the dim room.

‘Taser,’ she said, panting. ‘Sent … to me … by a friend … in the States. A very handy … thing to have … in my line … of work. You need to hang there very … quiet … and very still. Like a good boy. While I call … the police.’ She straightened herself and took some deep measured breaths.

The mention of police was ice-water down my back. I had to get out of there. I pulled down hard against the cuffs, applying weight and muscle, but they showed no signs of flex or fracture. These were no pink fuzzy costume cuffs — they looked and felt like the real thing.

‘How the hell did you get me up here?’ I said.

She rested her hands on her hips and smiled a wicked grin, the motion of her arms and her face more reflex than pose. ‘I’ve done some heavy lifting in my time,’ she said. ‘Some of my clients like to play baby. Regularly lifting grown men onto change tables — you’re not so big.’

Her smile had slipped into a sneer, just like that.

‘You’re a pathetic little thief,’ she said.

‘A thief?’ I said, and snorted out a short giggle. Probably not the best thing to do in my position, but my judgement had been impaired by the electric shock. ‘I’m not a thief. Jesus, what kind of idiot thief barges in when they know the owner’s up and about?’

Yes, very clever Pope. Carpenter squared up to me with such a palpable expression of disgust she could only be thinking one thing: rapist.

‘You filthy fucking —’

‘I’m not a rapist,’ I blurted out.

‘A convincing argument,’ she said. ‘How does the rest of it go? Just because you like to

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