Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

I will never understand the human notion of naughtiness. If they had ever had to wear a collar for real, or get their ears clipped or rear branded for identification purposes, they would see that S&M is really just Sad and Mean. But maybe these toys are for B&D. My canine cousins know about Bondage and Discipline all too well. Luckily, we felines are usually the S part of S&M.

However, the whip hand, so to speak, is held by the little ladies with the captured Berettas and switchblades and even metal nail files, oh my.

Well, Satin is hissing along with the commando girls now, and we dudes—the Fontanas and myself—are seriously outnumbered.

Aldo takes the lead and answers. “We were bound for a harmless little bachelor party at a harmless little bar. Not here. Not for a brothel, however well staffed and really well decorated and, er, manned by such lovely ladies. If you want to condemn anybody, condemn yourselves. You picked this place.”

There is a long sentence.

Then one clear soprano answers, “But you didn’t

pick us!”

The nasty black spandex masks peel off.

I gaze upon beauty bare, an octet of lovely ladies in the prime of their twenties and thirties. Their expressions are intense.

“Why are we always the bridesmaids and never the brides?” another demands.

“Aldo may be tying the knot—the only real man among you!—but you younger brothers are still playing the field. And we, the field, don’t like it,” says another.

Silence prevails.

The Fontana brothers eye the women they chose to play bridesmaids to their groomsmen in the imminent wedding.

“Hey!” shouts Macho Mario. “I’m not even in the wedding party. I am an innocent victim. Take my nephews. They are philandering dogs! But I am innocent. I should be sprung.”

“He is ‘sprung’ all right,” one woman says, sashaying over to cluck Macho Mario under the chin with the business end of a confiscated Beretta.

While he sputters his indignation, she eyes the ladies of the house arrayed along the walls.

“Okay. Here’s the deal. This is between us and these handsome but sadly maritally backward guys. We can confine you in the house B&D room, or you can put these sweet baby blue and pink faux rabbit-fur cuffs on our hairy-wristed guests. It is up to you, ladies. Nine ought to do it, if we include Mr. Macho shaking on the lounge chair over there.”

Fontana brothers pale in unison as the blue and pink fuzzy handcuffs are flourished.

I sympathize, observing with a low growl to Satin, “These rogue bridesmaids are mean. Real guys do not wear pink. Especially in fetish wear!”

“Really? I think the baby blue at least goes rather well with black hair.” She bats her eyelashes at me.

Yes, we felines do have eyelashes outside of cartoon representations of our kind. Take a close look at yours sometime, if you can do so without a faceful of shivs.

Me? Bound in baby blue? Pretty in pink? I do not think so!

One thing I find consoling: Mr. Nicky Fontana is also missing. In a blitz of brothers I can understand how the berserk bridesmaids overlooked a married one they seldom saw. Those full-coverage masks and bug-eyed sunglasses do not permit much peripheral vision. And these little dolls are totally focused on the objects of their frustrated affections, not any spare and ineligible dude.

“This is just a girls’ idea of a bachelor party they can control,” Miss Satin sniffs. “They have no criminal intent and are paying for the staff’s time.”

“Fur-covered or not, those handcuffs are effective,” I say. “I do not like to see dudes of my gender, if not my species, lose their dignity, not to mention their hardware. What do these dames hope to gain by this?”

“Have a little fun at the guys’ expense and remind them that the girls have been taken for granted. That is why many of our gentleman callers visit the Sapphire Slipper. They feel taken for granted.”

Satin slips me another long-lashed look. I have a sick feeling that she is also referring to my amorous attentions back in the day when we were an item on and off the Strip.

It is likely true that no real mayhem is intended here, except that Mrs. Nicky Fontana will be anxious if her wandering spouse is not home by the wee hours of the morning, and it sounds like this captivity is shaping up to be a twenty-four-hour deal.

I would not want to be hanging around the penthouse suite at the Crystal Phoenix when Miss Van von Rhine discovers that Mr. Nicky is not only not coming home tonight, but the Gangsters’ limo is lost in space.

Champagne Suite

“What do you think the rascals are up to tonight?” Van von Rhine asked as she refilled her three guests’ champagne glasses. Electra had come when called, leaving the Circle Ritz on the Hesketh Vampire motorcycle. Her helmet sat at her feet, the words SPEED QUEEN printed on the front.