Tai Anne Roper

by Nicole Sutter

The Wenche groaned as she slipped over the edge of another orgasm. She was sitting on the toilet while Tai Anne kept her head between The Wenche's thighs and accepted another faceful of girljuice.

"Gaaaaawd, Roper," The Wenche said. "That tongue of yours ought to be bronzed and sent to the lezzie hall of fuckin' fame." She groaned. "I want you to teach slavecunt Drew all your oral tricks, understood?"

"Yezzz, Mizzwenche," Tai whispered.

"Now lets get you taken care of." Still naked, she got off the pot and looked down. "Roper... you missed a spot."

Tai Anne Roper licked The Wenche's fresh gush off the toilet seat. Tai blinked away tears as she felt her face flame with humiliation and heard The Wenche laugh.

She pulled Tai up to undo her crotchstrap and sit her on the toilet. "There! Now do your business like a good little doggie."

Tai wiggled in her straitjacket. "Canna have privacy, Mizzwenche?"

"Privacy?!" The Wenche laughed. "You have no privacy, and you will never get any privacy! Besides, your arms will likely stay bound like that for most of the rest of your life anyway. So you'd better stay on my good side if you want me to wipe that fat arse of yours!"

Tai nodded and did her business on the john while The Wenche tidied up her makeup. True to her word, The Wenche did wipe Tai's bottom, but she also reset the crotchstrap a notch tighter out of pure spite.

The Wenche led her painfully back to the bedroom. Tai's ankles where shackled to a ten inch step.

"Get used to this, Roper," The Wenche hissed in her ear. "Once Fiendly and I sell Jessica to the highest bidder, we'll have more money than God! And I intend to keep both you and Drew as our sextoys for-evah!"

In the bedroom, Drew Thrasher was strapped to one of the heavy oak bed posts that made up the base of the canopy bed. Shiny, tightly buckled, black leather straps bound her to the post at her neck, shoulders, below her breasts and across her corsetted belly. Her legs were apart and secured seperately, leaving her newly shaved cunt spread wide.

Drew looked at Tai and blinked. She was gagged with a rubber ball secured with another strap around both her head and the bed post.

"Go to your Mistress," The Wenche said to Tai. "And pleasure her until she looses consciousness."

Drew's eyes went wide as she hummed into her gag trying to shake her head no no no... even as Tai Anne Roper licked her lips and kneeled down before Drew's cunt and got busy.

The Wenche heard someone at the front door, and hurried out of the room to see who it was. Drew looked down at Tai and tried to get her attention.

Tai looked up from her work. Drew saw that Tai's eyes looked faraway and glassy.

"Ah knowz whacher thinkin, Mizdrew..." Tai whispered. "But itz liike... fate. Or sumpin. Ah alwayz endz up all tied up... Always a slave t' sum woman..." Tai giggled. "Leastwayz I getz t'be your slave now..."

Drew leaned her head back and bit into the rubber ball as her first orgasm swept over her like a wildfire.

***

The Wenche caught Fiendly just as he was coming through the door. She jumped into his arms and kissed him.

"Hurrah! All hail the conquering hero!" She exulted.

"Let's not break out the champagne quite yet, Wenche!" Fiendly replied. "Altho things are moving along on schedule."

"Ummm... that idiot Grackel called a while ago."

"What did he want?"

"He wouldn't talk to me, luv," The Wenche replied sulkly. "I'm just a woman... a 'nothing', remember?"

Fiendly smiled. "Of course. And how are our new pets?"

"Coming along beautifully!" The Wenche gushed. "I ran a little more current through Roper's brainpan awhile ago and juiced her in the arse with a lil synthetic LSD... She is Out There!"

"Well, just don't underestimate her!" Fiendly said as loosened his tie and went to the bedroom. "Last time I thought I had the better of her, she kicked me right in the pills!"

They entered the bedroom. Tai was still working hard on Drew, who was moaning and jerking uselessly against her straps.

"Don't mind us, girls!" Fiendly said as he flopped on the bed and used his cellphone to call Crowe T. Grackel, his mole within Paige Torne's organisation.

The Wenche watched the action as she listened in.

"Yes, boyo, what did you want?" He listened. "Really, are you sure?" Pause. "Alright then, I will meet you there." Fiendly looked up at The Wenche "Yes... you will recieve your payment tonight... in full. Goodnight, boyo."

Fiendly clicked off. "He's an eager little beaver! Says he can deliver Jessica to me tonight. All I have to do is be waiting at a certain doorway of the Brickyard, at a certain time tonight, and he will simply drop her into my grasp!"

"You believe the little freakazoid?"

"Of course!" Fiendly said. "He wants you so bad he can taste it! So to speak..."

"So what's next?" The Wenche asked.

Fiendly looked at his Rolex. "Get our things together, get dressed and be ready to bug out at a moment's notice."

"We're leaving this place?"

"Not unless we have to," Fiendly said. "I must say those Fist of Allah blokes give me cause for concern, but the security here at the Mandarin Oriental is phenomenal. And leaving here with this entourage," he nodded at Tai and Drew, "might get us pinched as well. Just be prepared for all contingences, Wenche."

"Yessir."

"Meanwhile, I have one more person to see." Fiendly got up and straightened his tie. "Hold down the fort while I'm gone."

He gave The Wenche a peck on the cheek. She pouted.

"Is that all I get?"

"Well what do you want?"

Fannikins Wenche grinned like the Cheshire Cat and went down to her knees and proceeded to give the good doctor the Blow Job of his life.

Sobbing, Drew looked over at what they were doing, while Tai seemed to be oblivious to everything except pleasuring her.

Drew grunted and rolled her eyes. She felt like she was descending into the bowels of a sexual madhouse.

***

Tucked away in his little rabbit warren of a room somewhere in The Brickyard, Crowe T. Grackel sat before his computer which was hooked into every security system on the premises.

From where he sat, he was in total control. And Control was an important concept to Crowe. It meant that he was still top dog. Riding the crest and calling the shots. One could only act or react in this world, and he considered himself a man of action.

He flicked around on the various security cams, but he kept coming back to Paige's Throne room, where the bound and rubbered up Iwana Binder was still being kept. She had stayed on Paige's bed in a near fetal position since Kunta had left her hours ago.

He sighed. He should be keeping a low profile, considering he was going to give up Jessica McClintock to Fiendly tonight. But the proud and haughty Iwana Binder kept haunting him, drawing him in like a moth to the flame.

Besides, in a worst case scenario, this might be his last night here. Paige could finally put together the pieces and realize he had been the one who had compromised her security and sold out McClintock. Just like he had done to a half dozen or so other bitches Paige had tried to help.

He wasn't worried tho. He had over a quarter mil in payoff loot stashed away, plus he had contacts in the Asian bondage market in case he had to make a getaway.

Hell, might be for the best anyway, Grackel thought. Here in the states there were just too many fucking rules. In places like Bangkok, Macau and Singapore, life was cheap... and the bitches were plentiful.

He took a strong pull on a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels black label and flicked back to the image of Iwana Binder.

Without another thought, he took the feeds from the security cams in the corridor and the Throne Room and started running them in a 20 second loop, so that anybody else looking at another monitor would think nothing was amiss. Hell, even the timestamp in the corner was perfect.

He got up and stretched. He was wearing black leather pants and a matching leather vest. He pulled on a pair of cowboy boots and checked the charge on a police issue stungun which he clipped to his belt.

Grackel moved out into the darkened corridor. There were a few of the bondage models still hanging around upstairs, and Paige was still in Club 28, but mostly this place was as empty as it ever gets.

He entered the Throne Room and strode over to Iwana who was still curled up on the bed.

God, she looked ripe for a fucking. Big, fat nipple ringed titties and a big round ass... all wrapped up like a candy bar in shiny black latex. Her belly corsetted and her arms sheathed helplessly behind her.

"Get up, slave," he growled. She responded instantly, sitting up in the bed with arched back and head down.

He caressed her shiny rubber head, admiring how the cowl left only her eyes, ears and piercings visable. She looked perfect without a mouth. The perfect bitch.

"I am now your Master," he said. "You will do as I say or be punished. Remember, you are nothing... I am Everything."

Iwana looked up at him and blinked. A single tear coursed from her left eye and down her rubbered cheek.

Grackel took her out of the room and down the deserted corridor. He had to help her, as the seven inch heels on her latex boots made it impossible to walk or even stand on her own.

He took her into an unused dungeon that only he had the key for. It was small, but well equipped, with an attached bathroom and a fridge. Once he had spent a week there with an anatomically correct rubber lovedoll that he had bought over the internet for two thousand bucks.

"We can be alone here," Grackel said to her. "For as long as I need."

He groaned as he squeezed her breasts and pulled hard at her nipple rings. He unbuckled the straps holding her sheathed arms behind her back. He wanted to stretch her out. See her booted feet dangling off the floor as he laid into her with the whip.

He reached up and pulled down a steel tackle and hook from the ceiling, only to have the chain snag on the wench.

He dropped Iwana down to her knees, her hands still useless rubber flippers and walked over to the wench that controlled the tackle. He released it and turned to find Iwana Binder standing right beside him.

Her face was still in tight, shiny latex, but her eyes glowed with a feral intensity.

"Oh... shit." Grackel whispered. He went for the stungun on his hip as Iwana made a fist with her flipper and punched him as hard as she could in the chest just under the ribcage.

He lunged at her, the stungun buzzing away. She grabbed his wrist with both flippers and jammed the stungun into his belly.

Crowe T. Grackel twitched and jerked as he took a long, full charge of 50,000 volts of electricity. The only reason Iwana didn't get a shock was because she was wearing rubber and was grounded out.

She finally stepped back. Grackel fell forward on his face, one leg doing a twitch.

In truth, Iwana could walk in her seven inch heels, just not very well. She walked now to the bathroom and got in the shower, setting the water to an almost scalding tempature.

The water washed over her rubbered arms and legs, the heat loosening the hold on the rubber goo that sealed the arm sheaths and thigh high boots to her body.

Iwana bent down and hooked the steel rings at the ends of the sheaths under the heels of her boots. Muscles tensing, she rose up, pulling the sheaths off and freeing her hands.

She stared at her hands in amazement as she flexed her fingers. She used those fingers to pull off the cowl and dig the black rubber ball out of her mouth.

Iwana pulled off the long boots and the corset. It felt great to be able to just stand on her own two bare feet. She used the bottle of bodywash to soap her body up good and to wash the sweat and cum and grime off her body. She realized she was crying even as she scrubbed and scrubbed at herself, not stopping until she felt clean once more.

She toweled herself dry and looked at herself and her shiny, bald head and the collection of rings and chains on her ears and nose.

Naked, she walked back into the dungeon and patted down Grackel's body. He had a big set of keys and one of those Gerber folding tool thingees that had everything from a corkscrew to a pair of pliers. She used the wirecutters to relieve her body of her collection of chains and rings.

There were several racks of women's clothes in one corner, but most of them were what one would expect to find in a bdsm dungeon. Corsets and boots and micro-minis of leather, latex and PVC.

Iwana finally went with a pair of black leather short shorts, over-the-knee bitch boots with 3 inch clunky heels and a triangle cut black leather halter top that barely held her large breasts in place.

From an array of wigs she chose a golden brown afro, whoch fit her head fine, only now she looked like Foxxy Cleopatra herself.

She then looked back at the still unconscious little man who wanted to be her 'Massa' so damn bad. Hmmmm.... now what to do with him?

***

Crowe T. Grackel woke up from his electrically induced slumber chewing on a rubber ball. Despite all his years enjoying looking at women wearing ballgags, this was the first time he had ever worn one himself, and he didn't like it.

He also didn't like the position he was in. He was still in the dungeon, suspended a few feet off the ground in a strict hogtie of leather straps. Looking down he realized he was wearing a skintight, black latex catsuit. He also realized he had large, rubbered breasts and quite a girlish figure, courtesy of a corset that barely let him take a breath.

A leather harness covered most of his face, but allowed a long blonde wig to hang down from his head. He saw his reflection in a mirror and hummed into the gag. He looked like a bound girl.

"Don't worry, 'massa'," Iwana said as she cinched him off. "You just look like a girl. Mebbe dat'll give you somethin' to think about while you be hangin' 'round for awhile."

She gave him a slap on his rubbered ass and left him there. She pulled on a long black leather cape with a hood and closed the door behind her. She locked it with the set of keys she had taken off of him, breaking the key off in the lock.

Iwana Binder strode down the dark corridors of The Brickyard, her heels cicking on the concrete and her cape rustling behind her. She cracked her knuckles and flexed the soreness out of her muscles.

She began to sing softly to herself...

"Ohhh... Ah'm makin' a list...
Checkin' it twice.
Gonna see who wuz naughty 'n nice...
Iwana's comin' to town..."

***

As The Marquis packed his things, he remembered a song by that American balladeer, Kenny Rogers...

You gotta know when to hold'em,
Know when to fold'em,
Know when to walk away
And know when to run...

The Marquis seldom played cards, except for solitare and the occasional game of baccarat, but he did know when --as the Americans would say-- the jig was up.

"Hey Marquis!!!" Samarkand called from the den. "Get your butt down here!"

The Marquis sighed, as he slipped on his summer weight Givenchy blazer that matched his slacks. He went down the stairs of their magnificent mansion in Pacific Heights with his suitcases. Their french slavemaid Babette was on her hands and knees in the grand hall, polishing the floor.

"Babette!" The Marquis called. "Be a dear and take these to the garage, and wait for me!"

"We-wee, Mon-sewer," Babette answered glumly. She hefted up the heavy suitcases and tottered off with them, her cute, pert bottom just visable from under her short, black satin skirt.

The Marquis entered the den, where Samarkand was once more playing cards with their new 'guest' Lisa.

Lisa did not seem to be appreciating the new wardrobe Samarkand had gotten for her. She was wearing a shiny black sheath dress of PVC that was buckled and locked onto her from neck to ankles, severely hobbling her movement. Her hands were cuffed in front of her, allowing her to hold her five cards, but she was also ballgagged, and drooling down the front of her shiny breasts.

"You called?" The Marquis asked.

"Yes," Samarkand said. "I ordered in from that gourmet catering company we've been using for tonight's dinner. Charmer said he'd take care of it, but I was wondering if you could police up dear Babette? They're likely to be here awhile and i wouldn't want her to show up screaming some nonsense about white slavers and what not." He smiled at Lisa. "Right, my dear?"

"Emmph fmmph ewww!!!" Lisa replied angrily.

"God, I love gagtalk!" Samarkand chuckled.

"Excuse'm moi, mon ami," The Marquis said. "But did you give any more thought to my proposal?"

"Don't be such an old woman, Marquis!" Samarkand replied. "I've already cleared things up with the Fist of Allah by telling them Fiendly was a stool pidgeon. As for the mallrats in Hawaii, they were never here! So there's no way the authorities can trace us to this residence!"

"But leaving here would be safer..."

"My friend," Samarkand said gently as he dealt Lisa two cards and himself three. "You give the American police much to much credit. The police here are... pigs. As their own countrymen call them! Stupid, fat pigs who like to root about in the garbage. We are safe. Trust me!"

"As you say," The Marquis replied benignly. "Now I shall see to Babette."

The Marquis left as Lisa wailed loudly over loosing yet another hand and yet another chunk of her life.

Walking through the mansion, The Marquis thought of his good friend Samarkand. A fine fellow indeed! Quite able to see 'The Big Picture' only to have the finer details of a plan elude him.

The Marquis entered the garage to find Babette leaning into a corner, her long legs straight, playing with herself.

"Babette!"

"Pardon ma-wah, mon-sewer!" she cried. "But... I c-can't help myself anymore!" she started to cry, even as she licked her fingers.

"Oh, mon petite!" The Marquis said, comforting her with a gentle hug. "I know this has been hard on you. But things are about to change for the better! Here, help me get these things to my car..."

His car was a classic red, ragtop roadster. a 1991 Alfa-Romeo Spider 2.0, with a five speed stick and right side drive. It even had French diplomatic license plates.

"Put them in the back seat, mon cheri!" The Marquis said. "I have plans for the trunk."

Babette managed to get both suitcases wedged into the small rear seat. "Now what, mon-sewer?"

"Please place your hands behind your back, cheri."

Babette groaned and complied, placing her hands palm to palm behind herself. She bit her lip at the first bite of cord as The Marquis expertly bound her. She was juicing up again, dammit!

"You're... taking me?" she whispered.

"Oui," The Marquis replied as he bent down and bound her ankles, noticing she was dribbling down her legs. "I am afraid my business partner is a bit blinded by his new found opulence... Unable to see 'the forest for all the trees' as you Americans say. Open wide."

Babette opened her mouth and accepted the rubber ballgag that was strapped into her mouth, along with the latex blinder that was fitted over her eyes.

The Marquis hugged her from behind, playing with her large, American breasts.

"Do not worry, mon cheri!" he whispered to her. "We will first be driving to the airport, where I have a cargo plane waiting to take this car --and you-- nonstop to Paris. From there, I will drive you to your new home... my chateau in the south of France, that I call... Bunnyville!!"

He slipped one hand between her legs and let her have her orgasm. Then while she was still semi-conscious, he slipped her into the trunk and locked it.

Whistling a tune, he got in the roadster, used the remote to raise the garage door, and took off down the front drive in a swirl of gravel, turning right onto Washington Street and exiting this story until the inevitable sequel.

***

Not five minutes after The Marquis left, a long, blue Ford van pulled up to the front gate of the same mansion.

From inside, Charmer looked at the van from the security monitor in the kitchen. On the sides the words Gourmet to Go!!! were emblazened. Also, he could see that the license plate was the same as the last time they had come with the dinner.

He keyed the release to open the main gate. Can't be too bleedin' careful, he thought.

Actually, if he had been a little more bleedin' careful. he would've noticed that the van was riding awfully low on its springs.

The van pulled up to the front porch of the mansion. Then the side and rear doors of the van popped open and ten members of the FBI SWAT team leaped out and started to surround the mansion, while out on the street SFPD black and whites sealed off the perimeter and police helicopters circled low overhead.

Special Agent Steve Estabrook got out of the driver's seat, like all his men, he was wearing black ops gear and a flak jacket. He monitored his men's progress with an earbud and commanded then via a wiremike hooked into his comm unit.

Hopping out of the passenger seat was a slender Asian woman in her late thirties, gravely pretty, with long black hair. She was wearing a long, white cashmere coat over white knit stirrup pants, boots and a white ribbed spandex top. She looked cool, calm and ready to kick some ass.

She was Michelle Qwan, Detective Chief Inspector, Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

Estabrook looked her over and sighed. "Now remember, Inspector, you're only here as an observer. Those Interpol credentials don't give you power of arrest."

"I am well aware of that, Agent Estabrook," Qwan replied. But Estabrook had already moved on, yelling into his comm. Qwan hurried to catch up with him.

***

Charmer hurried into the den, lugging a .12 gauge Benelli riotgun and a CAR-16 automatic carbine. Samarkand was still playing poker with the bound and gagged Lisa.

"'Scuse the interruption, Guv," Charmer said. "But the police are here,"

Samarkand put down his cards. "When you say, 'the police are here', are you talking about two flatfoots in a black and white or..."

"I'm talkin' bout a dozen or so Swatties inside the grounds, cop cars all over the streets and choppers above us."

"Well... fuck," Samarkand said. He put his cards down and looked at Lisa. "Looks like you win after all, my dear."

"Will you be wanting the streetsweeper or the scattergun, Guv?" Charmer asked.

"I'll take the shotgun," Samarkand replied. Charmer tossed him the Benelli and a bandolier loaded with double ought buck shotshells. "Where's The Marquis?"

"I believe he took a powder, Sir."

"Damn... He didn't rat us out, did he?"

"No Sir, he was just a wee bit smarter than you."

"Touche, Charmer." Samarkand tromboned the shotgun. "Can you get us out of this?"

"I have my doubts, Guv, but we'll give it the old schoot try."

Samarkand made sure his lucky red fez was on straight and nodded.

Samarkand followed Charmer through the house and out to the balcony overlooking the rear gardens.

A swat cop up on the roof yelled, "Federal agent! Don't..." Charmer turned and rattled off a short burst from his CAR-16 that caught him across his flak jacket. He was knocked backwards, tumbling to the ground and screaming all the way.

Charmer and Samarkand hopped the balcony and dropped tto he ground, running past the ornate fountains and into the deep woods and underbrush of the gardens.

***

"Man down! Say again, man down!" Estabrook shouted into his wiremike. He switched tactical freqs and ordered up the SFPD TAC Squad to back them up. He looked around and just then noticed that Inspector Qwan had disappeared on him. He just hoped she didn't get into any trouble. Going by the new Federal regs he had refused her permission to carry a firearm.

***

There were a series of garden paths snaking through these woods. Samarkand and Charmer both knew the route to an old flood runoff tunnel accessable by a covered manhole on the grounds. From there they could just come up on a city street two blocks away and just stroll to freedom.

"Okay, Guv," Charmer said. "You go on ahead and I'll slow 'em up... I reckon after a few blown kneecaps they'll move a lot slower!"

Samarkand nodded. "Be careful, Charmer!" And then he took off.

Charmer hunkered down behind a deadfall tree and aimed the CAR-16 up the wooded path.

A few seconda later he heard someone coming through the heavy brush behind him.

He turned and advanced along the treeline, spotting a moving white form amid the green. He unloaded a long burst on full auto at it, the stacatto chatter making his ears ring even more.

He moved in, realizing he had just shot up a white cashmere coat hanging from a branch.

He turned around just as Michelle Qwan drove her fist into his sternum, grabbing the short barrel of the carbine and knocking it aside as Charmer fired off the rest of the clip into the air. He then got a fist to the throat and an elbow to the nose, followed by a flip through the air that relieved him of his carbine and sent him crashing to the ground.

Qwan reversed the double-taped 30-round magazine and worked the bolt while looking at her ruined cashmere coat.

"My daughter gave me that for Christmas, you scumbag!" She said angrily as Charmer tried to get up, going for the .38 snubbie in his ankle holster. Qwan unleashed a vicious spin kick that put his lights out.

She slung the carbine over her shoulder and took out her hinged handcuffs. She quickly frisked Charmer and relieved him of the .38 and a throwing knife. She bent his right leg back and held it against his butt while cuffing his hands behind his back, effectively trapping his leg so he couldn't wonder off.

She unslung the carbine and went after Samarkand.

Meanwhile, the man she was pursuing was lost.

Samarkand leaned against a tree, breathing hard. He could hear shouts from the mansion, sirens from the streets and choppers overhead. All that was missing was the baying of the hounds.

He kept moving though the brush and finally came to a clearing. There was the high, red brick wall that surrounded the mansion and the the rusty, raised manhole cover that would lead to his escape.

He giggled and ran to the manhole cover. Halfway there, the ground erupted at his feet as he heard the crash of a carbine.

"Don't shoot meeeee!!!" Samarkand cried, tossing away the shotgun. He turned as Michelle Qwan stepped from the underbrush, her carbine aimed at his chest.

"Hands up, Samarkand!" Qwan barked. "Go to the wall and spread'em!"

"Well I'll be damned," Samarkand said. "As I live and breath, Inspector Qwan!" He laughed. "Slumming with the Federales? now?"

"I'm still RCMP," Qwan replied. "But I was on the first plane south when I got wind of your little operation here. Now get over to that wall!"

Samarkand moved, slowly. "Won't you even give me a... sporting chance?"

"Like you gave those seven girls in Montreal last year a 'sporting chance'?" Qwan sneered.
"Now move it!"

"We'll take it from here, Inspector!"

Qwan sighed as Special Agent Estabrook and two other swatties made it through the brush.
The two swatties started to frisk Samarkand while Estabrook relieved Qwan of the CAR-16.

"You know the regs, Inspector!" Estabrook admonished. "If you even fired this weapon I'll have paperwork out the wazoo!"

"Can't have that," Qwan muttered. She looked dubiously at how the Feds were handling Samarkand. "And be careful with him! He's escaped custody twice before!"

Estabrook smiled. "Maybe, Inspector. But we're the FBI!"

One of the swatties had just cuffed his right wrist and was bringing his hands back behind his back. That's when Samarkand swung around, grabbing the arm of the first swattie and slamming him headfirst into the brick wall. The other swattie got a got a vicious savate kick to the face that knocked him out.

"Hey!" Estabrook shouted. He was trying to pul his holstered Glock as Samarkand moved in close and punched him in the gut and then chopped him hard across the bridge of his nose..

Samarkand relieved Estabrook of his Glock and was bringing it up to target Qwan when she kicked it out of his hand. He watched as it spiralled away, and retaliated with a hard kick to Qwan's chest.

Qwan was knocked back, but managed to stay on her feet. She maintained her trained bai jong defensive stance, a hallmark of the Wing Chun school of Kung Fu.

The two adversaries faced off. There were guns on the ground and on the Feds, but Samarkand knew that if he took the time to snatch one up, Qwan would be on him like white on rice.

"There's an old saying in the White Slaver Community," Samarkand said. "'Always leave yourself an exit strategy.'"

And right now his only exit was blocked by Michelle Qwan.

He charged forward in a flurry of kicks, Qwan sidestepped and ducked, dropping to the ground to execute a leg sweep that knocked Samarkand flat on his back. He rolled out of it and was back on his feet in time to receieve a series of body kicks and a final spinkick to the face that slammed him into the brick wall.

He pushed off, swinging. Qwan blocked his punches and gave him a fist to the gut, another fist to the throat and an elbow to the nose. She then body kicked him into the brick wall again.

Samarkand blinked, watching as little stars, moons and tweeting birds circled his head. With a grunt of determination, he pushed off from the wall again and promptly fell flat on his face.

Just then, several more swatties burst through the brush. "Inspector Qwan! You okay?"

"I'm fine," Qwan replied. She nodded at Estabrook and the two unconscious swatties. "Better see to them, though."

She bent over Samarkand and finished cuffing his hands behind his back. She hauled him up to his feet by the scruff of his neck and even picked up his fallen fez.

"Y'know, Sam," Michelle Qwan said as she stuck the fez back on his head. "We have an old saying the RCMP as well, 'We always get our man.'" She grinned and handed him off to one of the Feds. "Book'em Dano."

Qwan walked over to Estbrook, was was trying to control a nasty nosebleed.

"Thank eww, Inspector!" He said with his head tilted up. "You certainly were... needed."

Well," Qwan said. "It was a good thing I was here to... observe."

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