Capital City Chronicles:
The Islan d
I was washing Pandora’s feet, when the phone rang.
She sat in her winged, high backed chair with her feet propped up on the ottoman. On the rug I had folded a towel, and set a bowl of warm water, a bar of designer soap, and an array of clippers, picks and emeries, flowery scented lotions and sugary exfoliants. This had become our ritual once a week when she stayed over, for nearly a year now. At first, I had been apprehensive, and on a few occasions almost afraid of Pan’s tastes for sexual domination and control. However, after only a few months of seeing her, I began to crave the mysterious, intoxicated feeling that her little bedroom games caused me. Before long, I found myself day dreaming about collars, riding crops and rope throughout the day.
Her feet were yet another part of the world of experience she took me to, that I never would have guessed would have such an effect. I had never before even considered feet as something erogenous. Soon the association was made in my subconscious, and I became obsessed. I loved them. The high curves of her arches, the soft pads and long, boney toes. My head would begin to swim when I felt that initial weight of her heel on my palm as I lifted her foot my lips.
The only part of Pandora I loved more, was her bobbed, wavy blonde hair. Unlike her feet and her dominance, her hair I had noticed before anything else. Even before she turned toward me and I saw that she was the famous Pandora Demour.
Playing that image over in my mind for the millionth time, I looked up at her, seated upon her chair like a strict, loving queen. To the rest of the world her eyes would have appeared cold and distant, but I had learned to see the lust behind them; a subtle, shadowy darkness that lurked just under the surface. She seemed to love to watch me work on her feet, and she didn’t look away as she passed her long black cigarette holder to her other hand. The cigarette itself had burned almost down to the end, but she didn’t seem to notice. With two long, slender fingers she plucked the ivory handled receiver from its cradle. The rest of her fingers wrapped the length of it as she put it to her ear.
“Yes?” the ghost of a smile fluttered across her lips.
It was my phone, my apartment, but we both knew the call was for her. I never received calls. Any communication to me would be to my PDA, or to my computer. Pan was the opposite, hated computers, and only kept a PDA out of necessity. I only kept the phone for her.
“Carter Cole?” the foot I wasn’t holding dropped off the ottoman to the floor and she leaned forward.
I knew the name. No one in our lines of work didn’t. The disgraced police officer turned freelance detective had enlisted work from me on several occasions, but Pandora Demour he gave a very wide berth. Now she was discussing him directly, and I couldn’t imagine any reason other than one that his name would come up. I had felt for him in the past, the man had been through hell, and I felt for him now.
“Well,” she leaned back again, but her foot remained on the floor. She had that familiar look of mixed contempt and amusement.
“Of course. The other three will be quick and easy, but Cole is a hardcase,” she paused. I could just hear a tinny voice in the receiver, unable to make out the words. She tilted the phone away from her mouth, and sighed in a way that only my own mouth, and talk of large amounts of money were able to coax from her. Her voice, however, was ice when she spoke again.
“That will do. Send the information on all four, in one package, to my PDA. As usual I’ll send confirmation, and
The Islan d
I was washing Pandora’s feet, when the phone rang.
She sat in her winged, high backed chair with her feet propped up on the ottoman. On the rug I had folded a towel, and set a bowl of warm water, a bar of designer soap, and an array of clippers, picks and emeries, flowery scented lotions and sugary exfoliants. This had become our ritual once a week when she stayed over, for nearly a year now. At first, I had been apprehensive, and on a few occasions almost afraid of Pan’s tastes for sexual domination and control. However, after only a few months of seeing her, I began to crave the mysterious, intoxicated feeling that her little bedroom games caused me. Before long, I found myself day dreaming about collars, riding crops and rope throughout the day.
Her feet were yet another part of the world of experience she took me to, that I never would have guessed would have such an effect. I had never before even considered feet as something erogenous. Soon the association was made in my subconscious, and I became obsessed. I loved them. The high curves of her arches, the soft pads and long, boney toes. My head would begin to swim when I felt that initial weight of her heel on my palm as I lifted her foot my lips.
The only part of Pandora I loved more, was her bobbed, wavy blonde hair. Unlike her feet and her dominance, her hair I had noticed before anything else. Even before she turned toward me and I saw that she was the famous Pandora Demour.
Playing that image over in my mind for the millionth time, I looked up at her, seated upon her chair like a strict, loving queen. To the rest of the world her eyes would have appeared cold and distant, but I had learned to see the lust behind them; a subtle, shadowy darkness that lurked just under the surface. She seemed to love to watch me work on her feet, and she didn’t look away as she passed her long black cigarette holder to her other hand. The cigarette itself had burned almost down to the end, but she didn’t seem to notice. With two long, slender fingers she plucked the ivory handled receiver from its cradle. The rest of her fingers wrapped the length of it as she put it to her ear.
“Yes?” the ghost of a smile fluttered across her lips.
It was my phone, my apartment, but we both knew the call was for her. I never received calls. Any communication to me would be to my PDA, or to my computer. Pan was the opposite, hated computers, and only kept a PDA out of necessity. I only kept the phone for her.
“Carter Cole?” the foot I wasn’t holding dropped off the ottoman to the floor and she leaned forward.
I knew the name. No one in our lines of work didn’t. The disgraced police officer turned freelance detective had enlisted work from me on several occasions, but Pandora Demour he gave a very wide berth. Now she was discussing him directly, and I couldn’t imagine any reason other than one that his name would come up. I had felt for him in the past, the man had been through hell, and I felt for him now.
“Well,” she leaned back again, but her foot remained on the floor. She had that familiar look of mixed contempt and amusement.
“Of course. The other three will be quick and easy, but Cole is a hardcase,” she paused. I could just hear a tinny voice in the receiver, unable to make out the words. She tilted the phone away from her mouth, and sighed in a way that only my own mouth, and talk of large amounts of money were able to coax from her. Her voice, however, was ice when she spoke again.
“That will do. Send the information on all four, in one package, to my PDA. As usual I’ll send confirmation, and
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