Let the Lady Do Her Job (revised)

By hughgee

The boss told him to follow the broad. That's all he knew. He was just doing a job. As one of Louis Rocco's many notorious "thumb men," Ray Baby Ray did his job consistently better than all the rest of the two-bit thugs, and this was widely acknowledged--he was better at beating people up, tailing people, extracting information, extortion, you name it. This was why Louis put Ray on this job of tailing the broad, that pesky dame private detective who was getting a little too close to Louis' illicit "operations." Louis' instructions to Ray: find out who she is, find out where she lives, find out what she knows, and, above all, find out who hired her.

Walking some distance back from her on a crowded city sidewalk now, tailing her down the sidewalk, Ray's three day surveillance stake-out had paid off. Actually, it had paid off twofold: not only did he locate the ballsy gal and pinpoint her daily comings and goings, he also, in tailing her now, had a front row seat for the side-to-side motions of one of the finest female tails he had ever actually seen in his life. Oh my, holy smokes, thought Ray, puffing on a cigarette, weaving in and out of pedestrians; Oh my, what an ass! True, in pictures, the gal's face was nothing special to look at, covered in red freckles as it was--even in the black and white photo which Louis gave to Ray, Ray could tell the gal was a redhead because of those freckles. Nobody had freckles like that who wasn't also a redhead. She also had the pink complexion Ray was expecting--also typical of a redhead. Ray never liked redheads, really, and up till now, the only attractive thing about her had been her from the photo had been the flowing carpet of hair, wavy undulations sprawling all about her shoulders and down beyond. But still, Ray thought, how many redheads were actually truly worthy of being called "beautiful"? Not many, he'd concluded, and when he first found her on the street after those three sleep-starved days, he'd initially figured that he was right: she was, in fact, not all that special to look at. Just another brassy broad parading around bare-legged in a manly business suit, the type of business suit made for women who think they can cut it in the dog-eat-dog business world of men.

Still, Ray had to admit, watching the undulations of her ass right now while she pounded the pavement in her black pumps, briefcase by her side, the gal had one helluva seat on her. She was in all a strongly built gal, with powerful feminine shoulders, but wow, her hips really, really stuck out from her somewhat slim waist. She had a swimmer's body--a very stout female swimmer. Ray puffed the last puff on his cigarette, his eyes transfixed on the wobbling ass 30 feet in front of him, and he even surprised himself when he whispered aloud, "Damn bucket ass." Her thighs were stocky, her bare calves muscular. But her face told more about her: she wore a grim, confident, in-your-face stoicism. Like she would always know exactly where she was going at any given time, and you'd better not get in her way or else. Louis had warned him that the gal was brassy all right. Boy, she looked it too. Ray was going to enjoy this. He was getting paid to knock some sense into this gal and, he thought, he'd probably get in a few cheap feels while he was at it.

The lady detective wheeled abruptly to the left, entering into the Covington Inn, a well-known and rather plush hotel. Ray followed. He saw her in the lobby, waiting for the elevator. With his keen eyesight, he took note of the floor button she had pushed, then Ray quickly headed over to the stairs and made the ascent.

As expected, Ray got to the 12th floor ahead of the elevator, and, finding a dark corner to fall back in, he waited. The elevator bell rang, the doors opened, and out stepped the voluptuous private dick, pumps clacking on linoleum tiles. Damn bitch, Ray thought to himself. You give my boss trouble, I give you trouble. The gal veered right and headed down the long hallway. Ray followed her. When she got seven doors down, she stopped and reached into her purse. Apparently this was her room. Ray knew this was his chance, so he pounced.

He grabbed her from behind, his big paws enveloping her. "Sorry lady, it’s just business," he grunted.

Instinctively, in one deft, fluid motion, quick as you please, the redhead thrust her butt back, forcing Ray's lower body back. Her black-pumped heel then shot up like an angry mule, catching Ray's crotch dead on. It was such a quick, powerful motion, and it actually made a resounding thump echo down the hallway. Ray Baby Ray, Louis Rocco's number one thumb man, the guy who was built like a gorilla and carried out his various violent jobs like a gorilla, collapsed in a heap on the floor like a thrown-down burlap sack of potatoes.

The redheaded private dick stood over him blocking out the hallway light, her exaggerated silhouette on the wall opposite like a comic book drawing of the feminine form: shadowy huge hips and shoulders and legs, a tiny, wasp-like shadow of a waist connecting them together. The gal had her hands on her hips looking down at the man. Ray was in a curled up ball, clutching his stricken nuts, deaf and dumb to the world, and most of all mute, except for the strained breathing.

"Who sent you?" she said sternly down at him.

Wasn't that what he was sent to ask her??? Ray couldn't believe the pain he was in. He wanted to throw up. He wanted to take a dump. Most of all, he wanted her to just go away and leave him be, leave him lie there, nursing, cupping his balls, his poor balls, “Oh my,” he thought, “what that girl just do to my balls.”

She prodded his abdomen, poking into the center of his protected abdomen with the sharp toe of her black pump. "I said, ‘Who sent you?’" She sounded even more serious that time. Yet even if Ray had wanted to answer, he couldn't have.

The gal crouched down alongside him. Bending, her freckled face was very close to his ear. She stroked his hair in a gesture almost of pity, of sympathy for him. Her voice even changed to a coo as she knelt there. "Look, I don't care if you can't talk right now. You better start spilling your guts or I'm going after them again. You know you don't want that." Ray felt her fingernails gently scraping the side of his neck, running under his clenched chin, tickling his five-o'clock shadow of a beard. "You know you're not going to be able to stand it if I go after them again. Talk, please. Don't make me have to hurt you anymore." She laughed subtly right next to his cheek and Ray felt the exhale; he could tell what kind of perfume she was wearing. The gal sounded worn out, kind but impatient, like she'd just had a very busy day or something. "Look, you're actually kind of cute. I don't like hurting cute guys. Just tell me who sent you." Ray wanted to answer. She seemed so kind and considerate. Didn't she know he couldn't?

The next thing Ray knew, holy crap, sonuvabitch if the gal's slender, fair fingers weren't probing, forcing, thrusting their way through his own fingers which where still keenly covering his crotch. He felt the sharpness of her nails. She was not going to be denied; Ray was in far too feeble a state to resist her anyway. Oh no, Oh no, thought big Ray, as he felt the gal unbuttoning, then unzipping him. It's done, she did it. He winced as her hand jammed its way down his trousers, underneath his boxer shorts, because he felt the sharpness of her nails as it jabbed into the sensitive flesh of his package.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to do hurt your johnson," she said--and she was sincere about it! She was hurting him, she was freeing his package up for who knows what painful purpose, yet she didn't want to cause him any more duress than was necessary, at least not to his johnson. She just wanted his balls. Something in the tone of her sympathetic voice made that clear. There was something clean and surgical about her method and demeanor.

Ray shuddered helplessly on the floor as the gal's grip gained full grasp and mastery over his ballsack. Her hands were cold.

"Up! C'mon, up!" she demanded, pulling his nuts gently upward. Ray was slow to follow only because he was still trying to recuperate, and didn't she realize that? "Look," she bent down extra close to his ear now and whispered, "your balls are coming with me. I suggest you follow."

And Ray did, to the best of his clumsy, enfeebled ability. Ray followed his balls. The gal led him backwards across the hall, and down a ways. Ray's pants fell down at his ankles and he had to hobble in reverse, somewhat bent over, to keep up with her insistent, unyielding tugging.

"C'mon," the girl in the business suit mildly, almost playfully exhorted, sounding like a mom encouraging a baby to learn how to walk for the first time.

When they got one door down and opposite in the hallway, the gal reached into her purse. Ray felt he could finally talk now, but as he did, the gal's grip tightened a bit, causing his voice to involuntarily come out falsetto. "What are you doing, lady?" he squeaked pathetically.

"I'm teaching you a lesson."

"What lesson?" he squealed in a higher octave than before, as she must have given his nuts a rude twist suddenly.

"Not to follow Daphne Wojciewski. Not to sneak up from behind on Daphne Wojciewski." She was rummaging through her purse as she said this, not looking at him, but her crippling grip on him remained constant. Ray could hear some clinking sounds, perhaps some hardcase cosmetics being jostled in her purse.

What was she rifling around for?

"Look lady, lemme go, please? Hey, I'll never bother you again, okay?" Ray was writhing and sweating, his back to the hotel door. Who's hotel door? The woman remained at his side, clutching him, controlling him easily. At last she appeared to find what she was looking for.

"No can do, big guy. If you're not going to talk to me, fine. But at least I'm gonna teach you a lesson you'll never forget."

"What lesson, lady?" Ray twisted and exclaimed. He'd meant to be loud but he wasn't. He'd meant to cry out loud, to cry out for help even, he didn't care at this point, just so the pressure on his balls would cease and desist. Anything, anything, just so the vice his balls were caught in would turn him loose. It seemed to Ray that his vocal cords were directly, inexorably linked to his balls. When his balls were harassed, his voice fled from him. Fled in panic. He had very little control over anything right now. All the control lay with this freckled faced chick detective, in her balled up punishing, oh so punishing fist.

Ray gasped aloud as he felt the coldness of cold metal around his privates, surrounding them, imprisoning them. He'd heard the clink of metal too. It felt like a hard, unforgiving noose had just been placed around his balls, just above his balls, and clamped down mercilessly. And that's exactly what had happened.

Private detective Daphne Wojciewski let loose the man's balls and tugged back on the handcuffs. Ray shuddered again as a cold metal intruder bumped up against his butt, in between his two cheeks. He let out a shrill sigh like a man diving into a cold bath. Another clink, this time metal on metal. Ray had no idea what was going on, but that sound was unmistakable.

Suddenly, casually striding over, the red-haired broad, the woman detective, was standing in front of him, hands on her hips, even as she had been standing after she had originally incapacitated this big unwanted brute. For a split second, Ray thought she must've turned him loose, and he tried to make a break for it, tried to run to the side, down the hall, to freedom, away from this vicious ball-squeezing bitch--only to feel the hellacious pain of his balls being yanked about a full inch out of his body. Ray fell back; his back against the door, and let out a muffled mewling sound. He realized now--the rudest of all realizations--that this lady dick had just handcuffed his nuts to the door handle--AND FROM BEHIND EVEN. A million thoughts raced in big Ray's head, most notably of which was the awesome thought: What will Louis think when he hears what happened. Ray began to huff and cry openly. Real tears came out of him. With his pants down at his ankles, with his butt up against the door knob, he stood there, stooped over, sobbing convulsively.

"Lady, please..." he tried.

"Call me Wojo."

"Okay, okay, Wojo, please--"

"It's too late for that. Save it for the police," she said tersely. Then, bending in to kiss him on the darkly whiskered cheek--whether it was in mocking coyness or actual, genuine feminine sympathy Ray would never know; indeed, it could only confound him for many years to come, whenever he mulled it over in his head, long after he'd gone on to change his occupation to a safer, more pedestrian one--the lady detective whispered something into his ear. Ray felt the smoothness of her skin on his, the slight hint of womanly peach fuzz on the side of her face, her thick mat of deep red hair piling onto his own shoulders just for a moment. She murmured something--Ray could never be sure--but something that went a little something like this: "I'm sorry I have to do this to you, big guy. I love balls. Has anybody ever told you yours are huge? I'd love to suck on them and hear you squeal. I'm sorry. Brace yourself, 'cause old Ms. Robinson does NOT like being disturbed."

With that, she flung herself at the closed door, pounding like mad with both fists flailing, her arms thick, muscular, but womanly fleshy and soft as they grazed rapidly in succession against Ray's shoulder. "Room service! Hey, asshole, room service! Open up! Open up, you old fart!" Just as suddenly as she'd started the pounding, she fled away down the hall, two doors down to her own apartment. Quickly retrieving her keys from her purse, she opened her door and partially went in, careful to peek her face back at the trembling, beseeching, imploring face of big Ray, who only had the slightest, foggiest notion of what was now happening to him. All Ray did know, in fact, was that it wasn't good.

A yell from behind the door. "Go away! I didn't order anything."

Ray was starting to get the picture finally, standing there against the door, stooped and helpless and in shock as he was. He looked up and over, pleadingly at detective Daphne. His eyes were like bulging golf balls as his finger went to his lips, begging her to keep silent, shushing her.

But the Lady Dick would have none of it. She poked all of her head out, smiled and winked at Ray, then, shouting, "Hey in there! I said room service! Open up, you old bat!"

The jiggling of the cold doorknob was unmistakably felt by his naked butt cheeks. His balls clamped and chained to the door knob, Ray freaked. He began shaking, crying over to lady Daphne, "Please, please…don’t…" he whimpered. He begged frenetically. The detective pushed a finger up to his lips, shushing him, shaking her head.

“It’s just a little tug.” So sincere, so damn sincere in her reassurance, his fleeting thought.

“No!” he protested.

“Oh, hush,” she chided. “It’s just a couple inches.”

‘Easy for you to say!’ his next thought.

She stepped away from him, pumps clacking. Ray Baby Ray struggled away, reaching under his crotch for the doorknob in a desperate attempt to keep it closed.

“You men,” the Lady Dick mused. “Such babies.”

“NOOO—“

This last, most vociferous protest was cut short, and the red-haired brickhouse-built bitch, halfway across the hall, from her open doorway, wheeled and feigned a curtsy, and she actually blew him a kiss. The door thumped, and thumped again, thumped against butt cheeks, thumped against the annoyed slippers of person on the other side. Detective Daphne witnessed Ray’s silenced face go palsied, the person on the other side of the door still struggling to open it.

From deep within the mantle of his manhood, a cry of "Oooooooaaaaaaaa!" finally exploded from Ray’s gaping mouth.

"What the hell? Damn door—oh my—oh my…”

Detective Daphne's door slammed shut. She headed for the phone to check her messages. Men. Couldn’t handle a little tug on their privates. Thank goodness she was a woman. Maybe now guys like Rocco would get the hell off her case.