The Spanked Wives Club (23 page)

The crowd murmured approvingly, but Hunter was torn by what he’d seen. On one hand it was an erotic sight like nothing he’d ever witnessed, even more so because it was Lacey. He’d wished it were his hands handling her charms, exposing her to all who watched. But on the other hand, his possessiveness flared in him again, the primitive urge to throw her over his shoulder and run back home with her was so strong, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to keep it in check without Troy’s restraining arm holding him back.

“This is how it’s supposed to go, Hunt,” Troy said, his voice low now, almost hoarse, his gaze glittering as he looked on. “Trust me, she may be scared, but her cunt is going to be absolutely
dripping
before this is over with.”

But there wasn’t time to think any more on it, the crowd growing by the minute, the onlookers edging closer as one by one, the black-suited fiends forcibly stripped and bared each woman. When Celina’s turn came, she resisted for a moment, pulling at the grip of one of the men. Von’s warning growl vibrated the air above the rising murmuring of the crowd, but Hunter couldn’t see the man among the press of the throng. Celina closed her eyes, her throat working as she relented, allowing the men to manhandle her at their leisure, her olive-toned breasts swinging in turn as they tore her own dress from her body. Her darker color made a bewitching contrast as she too was placed against the wall, her shorter stature and slightly more dramatic curves displayed next to the pale feminine loveliness of Lacey’s form.

Then the three men went to work on the others, the crowd seeming to get more enthusiastic with each female body exposed to their leering gazes. The reactions of the women varied considerably as their shame overtook them, their debasement complete. Some simply looked out, wide-eyed, seemingly in shock as they were disrobed. One, a slender woman with trim hips and high, jutting breasts, was particularly striking, her bright blue and pink streaked locks an appealing contrast against her pale, naked flesh, silver studs piercing her pink nipples, the hint of more metal at the seam of her bare sex before the men spun her around and placed her against the wall too.

One particularly voluptuous woman, still quite attractive though deep into her forties, whimpered softly as her outfit, a tasteful slate-colored business suit, was literally cut away from her curvy body, her red lips forming into a shocked O. The transformation was remarkable, the straight brown hair going from its single dark plait to a riot of sable locks as she was reduced from composed, modern professional to the status of blushing, naked supplicant as demanded by the traditions of The Walk. Scattered applause rippled through the crowd as her heavy, white breasts sprang into the warm sunshine, the three men completing her denuding in mere moments. One of them gave her a smack on her wide, plump bottom, seeming to snap her out of her momentary shock as they made her take her place with the other women.

In a shockingly short time, all nine Applicants were naked, lined against the wall in nothing but their high heels and their quiet shame.

“It never gets old.” Sheriff Mathis said, stepping up to stand next to Hunter. “Never.”

The first man in the black suit who’d addressed the crowd, turned to them again, his keen gray eyes surveying them with a cool interest.

“Per our tradition, the Applicants will follow the path of the Walk, through the usual route.” His gaze grew harder then as he glared at the onlookers. “You know the rules — do not test them. You may touch, but no penetration or exposure to body fluids. You may not take the Applicants inside any structure. You may speak to them, but they are forbidden to reply. They may be stopped, for short periods, but undue delays of their Walk will not be tolerated.” The man’s stare swept the crowd for a moment, then he continued. “As is custom, following their Walk, the Applicants will be displayed at the viewpoint for one hour before the auction commences.”

He nodded toward the other black-suits, who opened one of the bags they’d brought along, drawing out a mass of leather straps, bright polished buckles and paper thin cloth the color of fresh snow. Though Hunter didn’t understand why, five of the women, all of them more slender of build — including the young woman with the multi-colored hair and piercings — were hurriedly fitted in the white gowns. The outfits were little more than loose, vertical panels that hung down to mid-thigh, more highlighting and enhancing the naked females than hiding anything. Heads bowed, each of them was made to stand in a line once more, the white cloth fluttering in the cool breeze, exposing pale thighs and the curls of dark pubic hair, the turgid, achingly hard nipples, the scarlet blush of cheeks set off brilliantly by the pale hued gowns.

But Lacey and Celina and the mature, curvy woman who’d been wearing the business suit were to suffer a different fate, Hunter’s cock immediately testing the strength of his jeans’ zipper at the sight of the women being wrapped in the leather harnesses. Tight straps crisscrossed the women’s chests, more straps wrapped firmly around the base of each breast, forcing the globes out into obscene, wobbling prominence, the dark nipples hard under the morning sun. More straps crossed and re-crossed down the soft, flat bellies, drawn deeply into the creases between pubis and thigh, squeezing and presenting the naked pussies. Turned back toward the wall again, the straps were drawn up between the legs to meet in the valley between quaking buttocks, the leathers tied off at a broad gold ring snugly fitted to the small of the back. Then Lacey’s arms were drawn behind her, more straps binding her wrists to the opposite elbow, as efficient a box tie as Hunter had ever seen in any Shibari video.

Celina’s arms, rather than be tied cruelly behind her back were instead bound tightly to her front, just under her breasts, lifting and presenting them as if produce at the market, the display even more humiliating than that forced upon Lacey. Both women were silenced with huge gags forcing their mouths wide open, their white teeth bright against the dark brown leather. Thick, padded blindfolds completed their subjugation, Celina seeming frozen in place while Lacey looked blindly from side to side, obviously trying in vain to find even a sliver of light. Their thick, dark locks drawn back into simple ponytails, both Lacey and Celina were led to stand with the other women, the black-suited devils drawing them each by a nipple, guiding the gagged and bound women into their rightful place in line.

The curvy woman — whom Ford had informed them in a conspiratorial murmur was a well-known investment banker named Josalyn Williams — was fitted with a harness consisting of a dizzying array of thin leather straps that hugged her entire body, highlighting her dramatic curves, the supple leather sinking into her flesh in places, emphasizing the soft vulnerability of her naked form. Her great breasts, larger than even Celina’s, were bound firmly, lifting and presenting them before her like a procession, the harness ensuring that every male eye that looked upon her focused first upon the heavy, pale globes.

Ford’s radio crackled next to them, snapping Hunter out of his trance, his gaze fixed upon Lacey’s heaving, cruelly restrained breasts.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Hunter breathed, scanning the display of subjugated, debased females, presented for the crowd’s blatant delight, his cock swollen and throbbing between his thighs.

A voice sounded on Ford’s radio as the Sheriff walked back toward his truck, peering across the street with a scowl, his brows furrowed into deep crags. Static and distance prevented Hunter from making out any of the words crackling over the radio waves, but he could hear Ford curse under his breath as he opened the door to his truck.

“Are you sure?” Ford scanned the park across the street for one second, then turned his back to it, speaking in hurried low tones into his mic as he stood before the open driver’s side door. He caught Hunter’s gaze then and shrugged in apology, mouthing, “I gotta go.”

Hunter watched Ford pull the big Tahoe back into the street, the engine roaring as the truck hurtled west along Columbia, the LED lights flashing red and blue from seemingly all over the vehicle. But for some reason, Ford decided to leave the siren off.

“You know what’s goin’ on?” Hunter tapped Troy’s arm, cocking a thumb toward Ford’s rapidly receding truck. “Mathis got outta here in a hurry.”

Troy shrugged. “Probably another peeper. Wouldn’t be the first time some teenagers tried to sneak out to get a look at this shit.”

“I’m surprised they aren’t lining the street,” Hunter murmured, taking in the bound and frightened beauties waiting on the sidewalk.

“In this town, we have a solution for that problem,” Troy said, not taking his eyes from his wife’s debasement. “They’re called
parents
.”

Perhaps Troy was onto something after all, because as Hunter looked across Columbia Street toward the soaring conifers of the park, he frowned, uncomfortable for the first time that morning.

He felt like they were being watched.

* * *

“O
h my God,” Falon whispered as she squinted into the camera. “Oh my fucking God.”

She switched off the video screen, not trusting the quality unless she gazed through the viewfinder. More than a few B-rolls had been ruined by relying on the cameras’ vid screens.

The spot she’d found just up the hill inside the park was perfect. Screened by brush hugging the massive trunks of two Douglas firs, she had almost a complete view of the entirety of Columbia Street.

Falon had scoped it out the day she’d had lunch in the park with the far too handsome — and stubborn — Sheriff. He’d had that quiet confidence so many cops seemed to exude, and so few actually deserved.

But Ford was one that did. It couldn’t be faked, and the way even his voice made her nipples stand up annoyed her almost as much as it intrigued her. For all intents and purposes, Ford Mathis was the enemy — at least insofar as getting the story was concerned.

And what she’d already seen through the telephoto lens was going to be the blockbuster story of her career. It was almost too good to be true.

She believed it now — all the bullshit hyperbole she’d discounted from her paranoid source. It all looked true now.

The more she saw, the more it seemed like her source hadn’t even scratched the surface.

Falon, in a way, had been glad to see Ford hop into his Tahoe and speed off, no doubt on a call out to US 97. He’d told her most of his callers ended up out there, too often to scrape bodies off the highway.

Though she’d already gotten Ford on video watching all of it, Falon was seriously considering editing that from the final copy. As much of a pain in her ass as the Sheriff was… she couldn’t help but like the man.

A lot.

Maybe she could keep the worst of the heat off of him once the national media descended on this place, asking far more questions than even the cagey lawman would be able to dodge.

Unfortunately, the camera would only take thirty seconds of video a time, but what she’d gotten was more than enough. She tried to ignore the stirring deep in her belly as she watched through the telephoto lens as the women in the white gowns were fitted with high collars, forcing their chins up into an almost haughty posture. Then their ankles were hobbled with a thick silver chain perhaps a foot long. Their hands had been cuffed in front of them at least, though it must have been cold comfort to the victims.

The cruel bondage of the other three women made her breath come more quickly, but she couldn’t be sure whether the emotion stirring the reaction was horror — or fascination.

Snapping pictures quickly, catching many notable town figures, including Von Ellison, Falon could barely contain her excitement. She wasn’t even sure she’d actually come back, but once she’d seen Ford turn around at the junction with Highway 97, part of her wasn’t ready to end their chess match.

Especially now that it was check ma—

“You don’t make a very good paparazzo, Ms. Moore.”

Oh, no.

She snapped her head back from her camera, spinning around, slipping in the loose pine needles and falling on her ass, her teeth jarring in her head. “Shit!”

Ford stepped out from behind one of the huge tree trunks behind her, advancing toward her quickly. His hand rested on the butt of his Beretta, though he hadn’t yet unsnapped the retention strap of the holster.

The man’s got fucking ice water in his veins.

Her heart pounding like a frantic animal in her chest, Falon scrambled down the hill, the heavy camera slipping from her hand as she toppled, with a surprised shriek, over a little rise, landing hard on her back, knocking the wind from her.

Gasping for breath, she felt as if a thousand pound weight had compressed her chest into nothingness, Ford’s tall frame looming over her.

He squatted next to her, drawing her up under the arms until she knelt in the dirt, her breath slowly returning to her.

Ford didn’t say a word as he watched her, his eyes darker, harder, than she’d ever seen them before. His expression was dead neutral, the straight lips betraying nothing, only the intense gaze giving her a clue to his state of mind.

He was far from happy.

Her voice was little more than a squeak as she forced the words from her lips. “How… did…?”

Ford rose to his feet, moving around behind her. “I hoped my suspicions were misplaced, but I assigned Deputy Anders to tail you in his unmarked. Just in case.” His voice lowered an octave, vibrating in her chest. “You were more predictable than I’d hoped.”