FPI -- Frilly Pantied Investigator / Chapter 1

Copyright 2018 by Heather Rose Brown

I had the idea for this story a long, long time ago, and it's one of my favorites! I still don't have an ending, but I do finally have an idea where it might go, so I rewrote the beginning here, and am working on adding a few more chapters. Enjoy!

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I had spread a brand new box of crayons around my coloring book, and was trying to decide if My Little Pony's mane should be orchid or lavender, when I heard the faint, unmistakable scritch of the lock to my apartment being picked. More out of instinct than any specific plan of action, I rolled towards my bedroom door, slid into a standing position, flattened myself against the wall, and switched off the light.

The almost imperceptible hiss of a muffled mini-saw slicing through my deadbolt with a well lubricated whisper blade told me I wasn't dealing with an amateur. Reaching under my skirt, I silently swore at the layers of lace before I found my weapon in the holster strapped around my carefully shaved thigh.

On the one hand, wearing a gun under a frilly, baby blue party dress felt odd ... even odder than wearing the dress. On the other hand, years of service in the Bureau had made carrying a weapon second nature to me; I felt naked without it. Before I could start getting seriously bitter about my forced "retirement", the sharp snick of a chain being cut snapped my attention back to the present.

The door creaked noisily as it opened. It was a creak I had purposely fostered for such an occasion. Light flooded the entry hall, followed by a shadow, which was my uninvited guest's first real mistake. My heart thumped under my ribcage as the shadow approached. An ancient floorboard in the hallway let out a low groan, and the shadow froze outside my door.

I held my breath, and hoped the thunder of my pulse could't been heard. The mother-of-pearl handle of my firearm was beginning to feel slick in my sweaty grip. After wiping a palm as quietly as anyone can on a starched linen apron, I shot an arm around the door frame, grabbed what felt like a handful of collar, and yanked hard.

Before he could react, I slammed him against the door, and shoved my weapon in his face. Yes ... I said he, him, and his. The hair and body language suggested female, but the general shape I could see under his heavy overcoat said male. At that particular moment, I was too pissed to be politically correct.

"Okay buddy," I said in a hoarse whisper, "you're seriously cutting into my playtime. Tell me who you are, and what you're doing here, before you're neck winds up enjoying a pleasant breeze."

My captive mumbled incoherently around a mouthful of steel. Realizing my mistake, I pulled the muzzle back a few inches. "Okay, try that again."

"Richard ... is that really you?"

I lifted the muzzle and pressed it against his forehead. "I'm the one asking the questions. So lets try this again. Who are you?"

"D-Don't you recognize me? It's your old boss, Barry."

I took a second look, and realized he was telling the truth. My former supervisor went cross-eyed as I released the safety. "You're not giving me a very good reason to not blow your head off."

"Please, I n-need your help."

"After the crap you put me through, you've got the nerve to come asking for help? Why the hell should I?"

"J-just. ..." Barry paused and closed his eyes. "Just open my coat. It'll explain everything."

I undid the top two buttons. Underneath, I found a pink peter-pan collar trimmed in white eyelet lace. "Okay," I said as I reset the safety and took a step back, "you've got my attention."

A sharp, hot pain blossomed at the back of my neck as he opened his mouth. If he said anything, I never heard it. I was too busy cursing the stupidity of leaving even part of my back exposed to an open door, and too numb to feel anything when I collapsed like a sack of majorette batons.

FPI -- Frilly Pantied Investigator / Chapter 2

Copyright 2018 by Heather Rose Brown

In this chapter, our protagonist wakes in the dominion of a mysterious woman, and discovers an unexpected side to his former supervisor.

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My head was throbbing when I woke. The blinding light burning through my eye sockets wasn't helping. I tried using my hand to block out the glare, which was when I realized it was bound somewhere above my head.

"Good," said a voice that slid through the air like a shark fin gliding through water. "You're both awake now."

I squinted and turned my head towards the voice, but could only make out the silhouette of a tall, curvaceous figure. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

The figure jiggled to a deep, yet unmistakably feminine chuckle. "I rarely respond to such impertinent questions from someone in your ... position."

The shadowy apparition approached, transforming into a beautiful, raven-haired woman when she stepped into the light. "Still, I consider myself a courteous hostess, so I'll make an exception. You may refer to me as Madam X, or Mistress."

She leaned closer, enveloping me in a perfume for which a thousand muskrats must had died. Her warm breath tickled my ear when she whispered, "What I want, is answers."

"Ah," I said while trying to not breathe through my nose. "That's an easy one. It's forty-two."

Confusion flitted across her expression for a moment, then a cruel grin crept into the corners her blood red lips. "So ... you want to play games?" A twinkle in her eyes made me envy any prehistoric mammals still frozen in glaciers. "I am *very* good at games."

Hearing a piteous moan to my right, I lifted my head as far as I could, then peered over my arm. My barbiturate encumbered brain could only categorize what I saw as an unusually tall little girl, who's wrists and ankles were fastened to the corners of a table by padded metal cuffs.

Reality popped back into something more familiar, if not entirely rational, when I recognized my former boss’s voice coming out of the girl's mouth. "Please," he said to the woman looming over me, "you promised not to involve anybody else!"

Madam X stood up and turned to her other captive, then said in a soft, lilting voice, "Sweetie, if you'd only been more discreet in performing your task, I would have been able to keep that promise."

"I can still do it on my own," he said as he began to tremble. A whimper crept into his voice as he added, "Honest!"

As much as I'd hated Barry for his part in getting me fired, I couldn't help appreciating him trying to talk me out of whatever he was wrapped up in, and it was hard to be mad at someone on the edge of tears. I turned to his tormentor and shouted, "What the hell are you making him do?"

There was a blur, followed by a sharp pain on my cheek. Madam X lowered her hand as she said in a cold, no-nonsense voice, "Little girls are *not* to use such language."

While considering a searing rebuttal to the "little girl" comment, I glanced down, and realized I was still wearing my dress. Deciding my sermon on the careless use of gender specific identifiers might not be on the firmest ground, I shifted tactics. "I'm sorry," I said in the meekest voice I could manage.

Cavities began forming in my molars when she switch tone and said, "Of course, sweetheart. We'll say nothing more of the slip. It's already forgotten."

I was having trouble wrapping my head around this woman. I didn't have enough first hand experience with dominatrices to really know if she fit more than my stereotypical image of one. On the other hand, I had met enough nuts in my line of work to be able to say she was a whole bagful.

"Mistress?" I asked, hoping all the practice I'd done in private made my attempt at a shy little girl voice sound sincere, if not authentic.

"Yes, dear?"

"Is it okay to ask ... why were we brought here?"

"To do what every little girl dreams of doing ..."

She held up a hand, and snapped her fingers twice. Purple blotches swam across my eyes like psychedelic jellyfish in the darkness that followed. There was the click of stiletto heels on a hardwood floor, then a moment of silence before a spotlight shone on small table.

Our hostess's voice sounded tinny, and seemed to be coming from several locations at once as she said "... having a tea party!"

FPI -- Frilly Pantied Investigator / Chapter 3

Copyright 2019 by Heather Rose Brown

In this chapter, names are named, genders are reconsidered, and something ceramic tumbles to its doom.

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A harsh buzz was followed by several mechanical snicks. My hands tingled as blood rushed back into them, but they weren’t too numb to notice the velvety lining of the restraints as I drew my arms out.

Eager to take advantage of my freedom, I lurched forward. My headache followed, thundering like a bass drum being played from the inside. I wrapped my arms across my stomach when it sloshed like a sewer rat trying to claw out of a colostomy bag.

"What the heee--ello kitty did you drug me with?" I asked, scrambling to cover a swear word as my most recent meal tried to escape.

"Nothing to worry your pretty little head about,” said the annoyed voice of our captor through hidden speakers. In a more pleasant voice, she added, “While the sedative administered was powerful, it was precisely measured to last the specific amount of time needed, and the after-effects should fade after a minute or so. Just sit still, and you'll soon be ready for your party."

I wasn’t about to let a minor thing like vertigo get in my way, and leapt to my feet with cat-like reflexes. Unfortunately, it was a cat who's kibble had been spiked with one too many shots of whiskey, and I tumbled to the ground in a tangle of arms, legs, and petticoats.

I could hear a smile in the mistress’s voice as she said, “Tammy, would you be a lamb, and help your little friend to her feet?”

While struggling to find a less prone position, I noticed a soft, flowery scent. I turned towards the sweet aroma, and saw Barry crouching down beside me. “Take it slow", he said as he pulled my skirt back down below my waistline. In a much quieter voice he said, "I'm so, so sorry for getting you involved in this, Richard.”

Despite the murderous feelings I'd harbored in the past, it was difficult to apply those emotions to the kinder, gentler person who was helping me now. I reached up and brushed the bangs of his wig out of his eyes as I said, "It's Rebeccah."

His expression began changing from utter misery to much more utter confusion. I could almost smell the smoke from his brain straining to form a coherent thought before he finally said, "What?"

I allowed myself a small smile as I answered, "That's my name when I'm dressed like this, but you can call me Becky if you'd like."

I accepted the offered hand, pausing only a moment as I recovered from my surprise at how soft it felt. I was a bit steadier once my feet back under me, but my mind was whirling with questions. I started with the simplest one as I said, “Sooo ... you go by Tammy?”

Tammy's face lit up when I said her name. And yes, I’m switching pronouns. There didn’t seem to be any he-ness about the person beside me. Deal with it.

I wasn't able to get more than a nod from her before my interrogation was cut short by Madam X’s firm voice. “Come along now, girls. The tea is getting cold. You can continue chit-chatting once it's been poured.”

Tammy jumped to attention like a private being barked at by sergeant-major-general, then grabbed my arm before running to the table. Being rather attached to that particular appendage, I was soon stumbling in the same direction.

I tried to ignore the rub burn when she let go, and concentrated on being outraged when I said, "What the hhh--elium do you think you're doing?"

My comrade in crinoline froze. "I'm so sorry," she said. "For a moment,I thought you were ... someone else." A shimmering crystal bead formed in the corner of her eye. "But now she's gone."

Several tears trickled down her cheeks when she squeezed her eyes shut, then then blindly reached for the tea tray as she said, "and it's all my fff ... it's my fa-fau..." Her long sleeve caught on the filigree handle of a teacup, sending it rolling across the table.

I said a silent prayer to the gods of all porcelain products while reaching for the cup, then mumbled something rude in Klingon when it bounced off the tips of my fingers.