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Dangerous Dame

12

Bangor, Maine, 1932

Betty Montgomery had a split second to make her decision as she watched the fork of her customer arc to the floor, bounce twice and then settle onto the wood flooring with a slight clatter. It had been a subtle move granted, but she knew the man whose shirt cuff that had propelled it there, had done so on purpose. He feigned innocence of course, murmuring an apology as Betty slid her platter onto an empty table buying her a bit of time. She knew she would have to retrieve the wayward fork either way, but there were two ways she could do so. Running out of time, she chose the less-than-lady-like means and stooped at the waist and grabbed the utensil.

Betty was wearing a skirt, and a short skirt at that, she knew. She felt the hemline rise just above the tops of her garter stockings and then stretch tight over the curve of her bottom. The latter was only a few inches from one of two patrons of the restaurant where she worked, though the second fellow sitting across from him got a view himself, as he looked down at her chest, her modest breasts thrust upward and outward to greet leerers by her tight waitress uniform.

"Sassy women sell food," had been Sal's comment when he handed out the new waitress uniforms for his girls to wear. Betty had grudgingly agreed to wear it, though three other women chose to quit their jobs rather than wear such revealing outfits. Betty did not have that luxury. The Depression was tightening its grip, and it was not as if she was not breaking the law already. Prohibition, though weakening, was still in force, and yet they slopped around pitchers of Sal's illegally obtained beer to a city full of dry loggers.

Sal's speakeasy was only a block from the riverfront of Maine's Queen City, Bangor, and the river was teeming with logs. Spring floods had been especially large this year, and logs felled during the winter and were beginning to be floated down from the sluices up north, to the many lumber barrens of Bangor. Already the city was beginning to get overrun with loggers and lumber barrens alike.

It was the latter that Sal was hoping to entice. Alcohol might have been illegal, but his discreet saloon was not the only one catering to the dry people of the swollen city. The lumber barrens, flush with cash from a lucrative trade were far wealthier than the loggers, whose drunken antics and bar room fights could ruin a nights profits in as little as ten minutes. If enticing the more genteel lumber barrens with sassily dressed waitresses limited damages and increased profits, Sal had no quarrels with the loss of morality.

Surprisingly, neither did the waitresses. In the first week alone, Betty had noticed she had doubled her tips, and quickly found out, a glimpse at her stocking tops, a brush of her silk covered leg, or a seductive stance in her high heels could erase the tip-consuming errors of burnt toast, a forgotten item, or a weak alcohol concoction.

"There you go gentlemen. Slippery little fork, huh?" she asked with a broad smile. "I'll get you another. Is there anything else I can get for you fellas?"

"Yeah how about that fork again?" the man on the right asked with more than a little hint to his voice.

"We'll see," she commented with a wink as she spun around on one foot knowing full well their stares were glued to her backside as she sashayed her way back into the kitchen. So were the other patrons of the speakeasy, a few lumber buyers like them, while four loggers sat in the far corner watching her antics as well.

For the next twenty minutes Betty busied herself with all the tasks that besiege a waitress. She took a drink order, hustled some coffee, and even got two pieces of pie for the two lumber barrens before getting back to the table of four loggers. Just as she walked up the table, another utensil hit the floor, this time it was a spoon though, and far more obvious that it was purposely put there. Betty was already nervous about serving the loggers dressed as she was; they had a nasty reputation in a city that merely endured their kind.

Without even hesitating, Betty swooped down, but this time bent at the knees, scootching down to pick up the spoon without showing any of her assets to the foul-mouthed and obnoxious loggers.

"Here you go. Now is that all for you?" she asked, making sure to keep out of arms distance as she asked the question. All four men could not help but notice the indifference in her speech and mannerisms towards them, but it was the older, heavier set logger that brought it to her attention.

"What, no little peek for us?" he asked dropping another spoon on the floor, only this time making it so obvious that it infuriated Betty.

"No, you can get that yourself," she said, not bothering to dispense of any more questions as she dropped the check onto the table and turned to walk away. The oldest logger was not about to be treated so coldly and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her backwards onto his lap.

Betty made a little shriek at the infraction, but was unable to free herself from the arms that had built themselves so strongly from swinging an ax and wielding a crosscut saw. Still, she thrashed regardless and felt his hand wander up to her breasts. When it pinched her right breast, she let out an especially loud cry, but the speakeasy bouncer was already there. So was Sal, who saw the entire episode and had no intention of letting the four men treat one of his waitresses in such a way.

The bouncer was quick to pull the logger's hands off Betty and land a few punches that stunned the man enough for Betty to get out of his grasp. Sal strolled up and delivered a few hits himself, before speaking to them in a voice that demanded respect.

"Nobody touches my dames. Got it?"

The logger's knew there was little to gain from a brawl, and nodded, content to take a few punches and leave with their dignity then to end up floating down the Penobscot River by the hands of a well-heeled restaurant owner.

The four loggers left Sal's without further incident but faced Sal and his men as they retreated back up the stairs and onto the street to find other entertainment opportunities. There were many options, but for the moment, all the excitement the lead logger had generated had caused Eugene's bladder to look for release.

Stepping into the shadows of the alleyway, he stood relieving himself when he heard a noise further into the alley. He looked around, but already his trio of logging friends were walking down the boardwalk, their voices laughing and joking at what would certainly be a sensationalized story the next day at their logging camp.

Eugene moved closer, investigating cautiously as his drunken mind whirled with curiosity. He stepped closer, and then onto a sewer grate as the sound came again. Then suddenly there was another sound, the sound of metal pivoting on metal, and then the grate zoomed out from under his feet. For a split second he realized he was falling, but it was too late to yell out a scream. He descended into the bowels of the city, bouncing twice off a rough planked ramp that sent him sprawling onto the floor of an underground cavern.

Eugene lay on the cold granite cobble stoned floor for some time before starting out in the complete darkness to feel his way around his confines. It was a small room, perhaps eighteen feet across in both length and width, with brick walls and a single arched doorway. Passage into it was barred by a thick wooden door, locked from the other side. The room was empty except for the door and a chain that was strewn about in one corner.

Unable to see in the darkness, he grabbed one end of the chain and felt his way up the links towards it end. When he felt the wrought iron shackles on the other end, he knew where he was.

Rumors had abounded of caverns under the city. Caverns designed to capture unsuspecting drunkards as they stumbled from the taverns so they could be pressed into service aboard the many sailing ships that left Bangor's Waterfront. He too had been duped, and now waited in the darkness for his fate to unfold.

He did not have to wait long. There was the distinctive sound of a key being rattled in the door, and then the sound of antique hinges squeaking upon the steel as the heavy planked door opened and a bull's eye lantern nearly blinded him.

Eugene knew his fate rested in his own quick actions, and he rushed whoever stood behind the lantern. He had a good head of steam as he plowed forward like a linebacker, but the lantern holder jumped to the side and let Eugene plow by and sail shoulder-first into the plank door with a crunch. As the sound of mashed flesh and bone echoed in the dimly lit interior, Eugene spun around drunkenly just in time to hear the sound of something swirling through the air. When it landed, it hit the plank door hard and stuck.

Writhing in pain from his shoulder injury, Eugene stared straight dumbly into the lantern until it moved away from the person's face and lowered near his crotch. Looking down, Eugene saw a two bit felling ax buried into the heavy planks, a mere inch from his genitals. Slowly, the lantern's glow illuminated the person's face and he was shocked to see Betty the waitress standing there with grim authority.

"Haw," he grunted, and the man went to move, thinking he could overpower the slender woman easily, but her reflexes were quicker, and she withdrew the ax from the wood and placed the blade up against his throat. With the dexterity of a surgeon, she gave it a quick flick and left his neck with the tiniest of cuts from the glistening sharp edge, drawing a trickle of blood.

"Don't even think about it. I'll slit your throat right here."

She said it with such conviction, that his resistance escaped him, and turned to questioning her.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he sputtered. "I only grabbed you. I meant nothing." But she ignored his pleas and pointed to the shackles, sweeping the room with the yellowish light of her lantern.

"Put those on," she commanded. He ignored her and began to stare, trying to decide upon his options. His drunken mind was too slow, however, and she slid her ax down his shirt, its razor sharp bit severing the flannel cloth clear down to his waist, only to bring it back up to his throat again.

"I said put those shackles on."

It mattered little that she was a dame. He had never seen such a keenly sharpened edge on an ax before, far sharper than the axes he had used all winter in the woods, and her dexterity with it was unmatched by any logger he had ever seen. He moved forward, his mind confused, but slid the shackles onto his wrists as she asked, hoping to appease the woman.

He lay spread out on the floor, and she put the lantern down and moved to each wall in turn. At each wall, he could just make out the outline of weights connected to his chains. As she lifted these weights off a hook, there was an ominous creaking sound as the heavy chain ran itself through pulleys mounted to the walls. Then the slack was pulled tight in the chain.

"You're ripping my arms apart," he complained as Betty strolled casually towards him, her body now being illuminated by the flickering yellow light of her kerosene lantern.

But the weights were well calculated, being just heavy enough to pull his arms and legs out into an exposed X, but not so heavy that they might pull his limbs from their sockets.

The lovely woman looked larger than life at this angle, staring down at him without pity as she ignored his complaint. Her waitress uniform had been discarded, her little skirt and blouse replaced by a dress that was both darker and... more alluring.

The dress was scandalously short—it showed much of her thighs—and it was made of fine black leather. It clung to her as tightly as her black silk stockings. These ran down over her knees before disappearing into a tall pair of black, oiled logging boots that rose well past her ankles. They looked out of place of course, for a pair of high buttoned boots would have complemented her outfit much better.

Other than a douse of perfume to her wrist and low neckline, this was all Betty wore. Her breasts jutted out of her dress with the obvious lack of any under garments, the round mounds nearly showing their nipples.

Eugene had heard stories about women like this. Maneaters.

"Ripping your arms out, eh?" she sneered. "I thought you loggers were tough. Tougher than a keg of railroad spikes. That is what my husband used to say. Used to brag..." she said mockingly.

"Please, ma'am," he pleaded, unsure what her intentions were. He could say nothing more. He did not know what to say.

"Please what? You seemed so arrogant with your friends. You don't seem so confident now." She placed the ax up to his throat again.

"No... no, I'm not," he muttered. "And I'm sorry.... Ma'am, I am so sorry!"

In the meager light, he saw a smirk come over her face, and then he felt her move. In a slow calculated motion, Betty brought the edge of the ax along his red and black flannel shirt. The keen edge of the ax, sharp enough to shave hair, easily parted the heavy material again. Together with the cut she'd made earlier, it left her able to remove his shirt from his torso entirely, exposing his underclothes.

"Did you— Did you sharpen that yourself?" he stammered as she briefly struggled with his belt. She lifted the buckle out rather than cutting it for fear of dulling her ax on such a heavy piece of leather.

"My husband showed me."

"Sharp," he said, the single word coming out quick as she again placed the edge of the ax to his trousers and removed these from his heavy set trunk as well.

Now only his long handled underwear remained, and these Betty severed with just as much skill and dexterity. His chest was thickly muscled and hairy, a man's chest. With a few more strokes, she could yank away his union suit. Her captive was lying on the cold cobblestone floor, naked before her gaze but for his boots.

She noted his erection, or at least, half-erection, no doubt excited by her bare chest and scantily clad body, while the cold cobblestone floor and sheer fear kept him from growing to full length. She smiled at the sight nonetheless and then placed her boot upon his hairy balls and gave them a nudge.

Instantly the man tensed up, looking down upon his nether region as the yellowish light reflected off one of the sharp metal points of her caulked logging boots. She twisted her foot again to show the man that the bottoms of her boots were riddled with the sharp razor points, and she toyed with genitals again. He felt them scrape, then rake his pubic hair, then felt a single point pierce skin. His fear turned white hot, and he let out a scream.

"Scream, scream my good man. No one can hear you down here," she said as she pushed again, this time harder, and a small trickle of crimson blood began to form where one of the sharp tips pierced his tenderest skin.

"Please stop! Please don't do this!" he begged as her foot pressed harder and harder onto his balls.

"Then get hard," she commanded, easing the pressure now on the ball of her foot only to use the toe with just as much dexterity to toy with his shaft.

"Why are you doing this?' he muttered.

"I need a man," she growled. "I need a big, strong logging man with a prick that can satisfy me."

Her captive's prick began to jump and twitch at the feel of smooth black leather. She rubbed harder, not forcibly but erotically, and watched as the man's loins began to respond to the sensation. It steadily grew in length, curving upwards and to the left as her toe slid from the root to the tip and back again in a slow, steady rhythm.

"Come on, big fella," she cooed. "Betty needs it good and hard."

When it reached what she thought was full length, she swooped down, straddling him on the cold floor, and pulled her hem up to her waist. This only gave the man a second to view her exposed sex, and then it disappeared, for Betty seized his shaft, placed it at the apex of her legs and settled upon it in one smooth—and practiced—motion.

Between Betty's moist vagina, full weight pressing onto it, and his hardness, his erect manhood easily sank to its full depth. A loud moan escaped her lips as it did so, while a lesser one was conveyed from the man's lips as well. Her pussy felt good, snug and warm, though the thought that he was being raped by a woman slowly came over him.

"Why?" was all he could wonder as she began the work his meat in and out of her with slowly steady rhythm. She gazed down at him and answered merely with a finger to her lips, gesturing him to silence as she played with her new servant; her man-toy.

The woman clearly loved the control. No touching, no kissing, no man looming over her and pinning her to the floor so that he could get his pleasure from her and fail to return the favor. Bound as Eugene was, Betty had all the power, and used her legs to control the depth in which he entered her, the speed, and even the angle. The latter was important, as she could rub along his shaft, touching a sweet spot within her that few men knew about.

The maneater pulled open the front of her dress to expose her bare breasts and closed her eyes as his manhood grazed the wondrous spot. A low moan escaped her lips, and she twitched and rocked on top of him in the light of the bull's eye lantern with her first powerful orgasm. It had been months since a man had given her this pleasure, and yet she was not content. She began to move her pelvis in slow, gyrating circles, letting the warm wetness of her orgasm pool on his stomach as she plied his body for another.

A long, stuttering moan began to overtake his own lips, and Betty could feel him moving urgently under her. Rocking and thrusting with his legs as best as he could to get more of it into her, trying desperately to enjoy that which was forced upon him.

"No!" she cried and clamped her hand around his vulnerable throat. Her grip was not that of a man's, but it was strong enough, and he began to get light headed form the lack of oxygen. Slowly, she felt his thrusting cease, his body lowering from a boil to a simmer.

She removed her hand from his throat. "Not yet, lover, " she said with a grin. "Together." He had been very close to climaxing, and she was more that a little smug with herself for being able to control it... and make him gasp for breath.

He was also beginning to go soft within her, she could feel. Betty adjusted herself to compensate by turning around backwards, and began to stroke her sweet spot with her fingers. She thrust harder and faster than before. The man reacted in turn and began to grow within her again, and Betty now felt his shaft harden and fill her to her depths.

She rocked atop him rhythmically again, shaking her naked breasts in the chill air, and soon felt him thrusting more urgently in time with her. She groaned and growled like a mountain lion in heat.

"Now, now!" she cried and began to thrash on top of his body as a second orgasm rocked through, her vagina squeezing and kneading his cock in wonderful gyrations until it spurred him to his own orgasm. With a loud grunt he thrust, sending his shaft deeply into her body as a copious amount of his seed jetted inside her. Her spasming womb milked every drop and pulled the jism deeper inside her.

Betty gasped and fell back at the climax of their sexual union, her hair in his face. She could feel his seed thickly welled up inside her, warm, sticky and teeming with potential, and she intended to keep it right where she was. She did not move; she did not react even until she felt his cock inside her withdraw slowly by the fraction of an inch until it was too flaccid to stay inside her.

When it came out with a sticky pop, she quickly rose off him and went to a mat on the floor near the wall. She lay down on it on her back with her legs against the wall, boots pointed towards the plank ceiling, and massaged her pleasure spot languidly. Only her captive's words brought the solitude of the moment to a thunderous halt.

12
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