Here's a slightly scary, cautionary tale about Jack McCoy, a strange bar, a strange liquor and a strange woman on All Hallow's Eve.

By Beth C.

"You have no idea how erotic this is," she breathed in his ear, "having you spread-eagled and helpless. Like a delicate little morsel set out for me to devour at my leisure." Her fingertips, soft as rose petals, ran lightly up and down his penis. "I'm going to enjoy this a great deal," she told him in a soft, honey-coated voice.
Jack struggled against the leather restraints holding his wrists and ankles to the bed (or whatever it was he was lying on) but they only seemed to tighten their grip. His eyes were covered and the honey voice and the soft touch unnerved him, coming as they did out of the unknown darkness that surrounded him.
Desperately, he tried to remember what had happened, how he'd gotten into this mess to begin with. Slowly, bits and pieces began to return.
It had started at that damn Halloween party! How had he ever managed to let himself be talked into going? A charity benefit for the families of slain police officers, Lennie Briscoe had told him. A nice gesture for the EADA to make an appearance. A tame, respectable affair, over by midnight. "Hell," Briscoe had joked, "you can dress up and come as a lawyer." Adam had thought it was a splendid idea (meaning he personally didn't have to do it) and so he'd shown up, fully intending to have one Scotch, be as unobtrusive as possible and make a quick exit.
Everything had been going as planned until a police officer he didn't know had come up to him and thrown down the gauntlet. "Briscoe says you're the best damn dart guy in New York." he'd growled. "I got 10 bucks says the NYPD can beat the shit outta any damn pansy from the DA's office any day a the week an' twice on Sunday." Jack had started to beg off, then seen Lennie grinning at him from across the room, surrounded by a knot of policemen. It was more than his Irish pride could stand.
He remembered about a half dozen games; every time he won, there'd be a new challenger and a celebratory Scotch. About 10:00 p.m., Lennie had poured him into a cab, saying he was about a hundred bucks ahead. When the cab had pulled up in front of his apartment building, he'd gotten out and paid the driver, but instead of going in, he'd decided to go for a walk in the unseasonably mild late October night.
How long he'd walked, he didn't know. Eventually, he'd found himself in a part of town he didn't recognize. The bright green neon sign in the window of a small dark bar had attracted his attention. "Lucy's" it had glowed invitingly. Inside, the place was deserted except for the bartender, a huge man with thinning snow-white hair and pale, icy blue eyes. Impulsively, Jack had ordered a double Scotch. Silently, the bartender had reached down and produced an old bottle, poured out Jack's drink and retreated to the other end of the bar.
The liquor wasn't like anything Jack had ever encountered before; dark, like a liquid smoky topaz shining in his glass, catching and reflecting what little light there was in the bar. It tasted wonderful, strong but soothing, mellow and warm. Finishing it, he'd motioned for a refill. Again, without a word, the bartender had obliged and then moved away.
Somewhere in the middle of his second double, Jack had begun to feel fuzzy. Not a pleasantly buzzed fuzzy, but like his mind was turning to molasses and his body to jelly. When he'd tried to get up from the barstool and leave, he'd found that his body refused to obey him. He could feel himself getting sleepy and he knew he was going to pass out. Opening his mouth, he tried to speak but nothing came out. Then, everything had simply gone black.
Consciousness had returned slowly, emerging out of a dense fog, wisps of which still clung to his brain. First, he'd realized that he was awake, but that his eyes were covered by some kind of blindfold. Then there'd been the feel of smooth leather on his wrists and ankles, stretching his body like a medieval torture rack. And he was naked, a breath of cool air wafting over him.
"Oh, you look absolutely delicious." He felt her mouth on his, her tongue searching hard and frantically, the smell of her as sweet as the honey in her voice. She held his head in her hands, keeping him from moving; he felt as if she were sucking the air out of his lungs. "You taste good, too," she laughed. "Your name. What's your name?"
"Jack..." he breathed hoarsely, "Jack McCoy. Who are you?"
"No need to talk, Jack McCoy," she answered, putting her lips on his again briefly. "My name's Lucy."
"Where...where am I?"
An amused chuckle escaped her again. "Between Heaven and Hell, Jack McCoy. Between Heaven and Hell." She put her hand behind his head and tilted it up slightly.
"Drink this." He felt a small glass being pressed against his lips. Something in the fog still clinging to his brain told him to fight it, but he seemed unable to do anything except what this mysterious woman wanted.
"What is it?" he asked, trying to turn his head.
"A magic potion," she told him, forcing the liquid into his mouth. "Filled with pleasure the likes of which you've never even imagined." It was water thin with a touch of something bitter at the edge. There were only about two mouthfuls. Almost immediately, Jack began to feel his body growing warm, his blood flowing faster. And the cloud in his mind seemed to grow thicker, darker.
There was a slightly ticklish sensation as he felt her long, soft hair brush lightly down his chest and stomach. "You have a very nice body, Jack McCoy," she whispered. "I want it and I mean to have it." He felt her mouth close around his shaft, her hand massaging his balls as she began to work. In spite of his fear and discomfort, he found himself responding. "That's it," she purred, stopping for a moment to admire her handiwork. "Give yourself to me."
Jack moaned softly as the sweet torture began to build. She seemed to know his body completely, taking charge and making him the center of his own erotic universe. It seemed as if every nerve in his body, every inch of his skin had become super sensitive, super receptive. He could never remember a sexual encounter like this in his whole life. And it seemed to be intensifying by the second.
"I want you, Jack McCoy," she repeated in a throaty, sexual growl, "I want your body and your soul. But I can't take them. You have to give them to me." He felt the slight weight of her body as she straddled him. The feel of her naked skin on his, sent his temperature climbing and his blood racing. Raising herself, she took him in her hand and guided him inside as she settled herself slowly onto him.
The feel of her was like immersing himself in molten lava. Jack felt as if he were going to burst into flames. As she slowly moved up and down over him, the feeling was more intense than he'd ever felt before. She was like a velvet vice, holding him inside her, alternately milking him gently and squeezing him with an almost painful ferocity. As her fingers played lightly on his skin, he felt as if she were trailing fire over him. And the feel of her lips made the blood pound in his ears.
"Do you like this, Jack McCoy?" she whispered, brushing her lips along his cheek.
Unable to catch his breath even to speak, he nodded, feeling his body stretched almost to the breaking point. He wanted release from this exquisite punishment, but she seemed somehow able to bring him steadily upward while still keeping him suspended just below climax.
"Surrender, Jack McCoy," she ordered quietly, "Give yourself to me. Let me have your body." She covered his mouth again, her sweet, hot breath filling his mind and making him dizzy with passion.
"Give me your soul, Jack McCoy."
He was sure now that he couldn't bear it any more. His body was trembling and shaking from the pleasure. He needed to climax.
"All right," he half whimpered, half sighed.
"What Jack McCoy?" she insisted, increasing the tempo of her rhythm but still not allowing him to come. "Tell me."
"My soul," he breathed, "You can have it."
The climax shattered him, rushing down on him like a tidal wave of sensual ecstasy, flooding him and breaking him open, convulsing his body like an electric current and sending multi-colored flames through him and out the top of his head like gold stars from exploding fireworks. There was nothing in the world but the cascading, whirling avalanche of physical pleasure that swept over and around and through him, each wave throwing him to a higher plateau, taking his breath away, causing him to writhe and cry out with the unbelievable power of it. It seemed to go on and on, every second rocking him with a physical pleasure he hadn't believed his body was capable of producing.
Finally, his body relaxed and he tried to catch his breath as the orgasm subsided. His ankles and wrists throbbed where they were shackled, his arms and legs ached from being stretched. But even those physical sensations paled against the ecstasy he'd just experienced.
He felt her body laid out on top of his, sweaty, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, her head on his shoulder. After several minutes of silence, she kissed his chest lightly. "Did you enjoy it?" she asked.
"It was incredible," he murmured. "But please, take the blindfold off so I can see you. And the handcuffs. They hurt."
"They're supposed to, Silly," she answered, slapping his chest playfully. "That's part of the game."
"I don't like games."
"That's all right. It'll be over in a little while anyway." He felt her slide off him.
"Lucy?" he called out tentatively. "Lucy?"
"I'm right here," she answered from somewhere out in the dark.
"Please take the blindfold off," he repeated, more urgently. Cold shivers of dread had begun to replace the warmth of the orgasm. As he had when he'd first awakened, he was feeling very naked, very vulnerable. "I'd like to see you. Touch you."
"That isn't necessary," she told him, coming back to his side. "It's almost daylight and I have to go soon." The feel of cold metal, thin and flat, moved slowly, almost gently across his cheek. "All that's left is the little matter of your soul, Jack McCoy."
"My soul?" Fear gripped him, tightening the muscles in his body and churning his stomach.
"Of course. We made a bargain. I held up my end, now it's time for you to hold up yours." The sharp edge of whatever she was holding made a quick dart across his throat, leaving a sting and the warm feel of oozing blood.
Wincing, Jack struggled futilely against the restraints. His pain seemed to amuse her and she giggled. Running her finger along the slash, Lucy smeared Jack's blood on his mouth. Kissing him hard, she flicked her tongue over his lips, licking it off . Jack felt his stomach turn.
The tip of the small blade moved slowly, lightly, down his breastbone, stopping over his rapidly beating heart. Lucy tapped the blade's point over the spot a few times, the last one hard enough to pierce his skin. Jack jumped and cried out, but she held the knife in place.
"Such a beautiful body you have, Jack McCoy." she breathed, pressing the blade down ever so slightly. "I'm almost sorry." He could feel the thin, sharp metal sinking into his flesh by millimeters, tearing slowly, painfully as it went.
"Why?" he gasped, the pain and confusion penetrating the fuzzy curtain in his head. "Please..."
"Don't beg," she reprimanded sharply, "it doesn't become you. As to the why, I too made a bargain that I have to keep. In order to be paroled from my Hell, I have to bring my boss a gift. A soul given willingly." She forced the blade a little deeper, the pain getting sharper, more intense. Jack flinched and screamed, lurching the knife sideways and farther down. "Be careful, Jack McCoy," she warned. "The blade'll find your heart soon enough. Struggling just makes it worse."
He could feel his blood spilling out and running down his side. The pain was getting worse with every breath. It was as if the roller coaster heights of his climax were being matched by the depths into which he was being pulled. There was nothing but the mounting pain and the realization that she fully intended to kill him -- softly, slowly, painfully. Clenching his teeth to keep down his cries, he willed himself not to move. She was right about that; even breathing was bringing the razor-like metal closer to his now racing heart.
"I usually like this part," she said after a few moments of rocking the blade fractionally back and forth, widening the wound as she slowly pushed it lower, "but somehow it's not fun with you. I don't like watching you suffer. Perhaps it's that beautiful body of yours. And I have to go soon anyway. So I think I'll just put you out of your misery now. One quick, merciful plunge and it'll be over." Lucy bent down and kissed him lightly once more, her hair falling like a soft curtain around his face. As she did so, he felt her grip the blade and press down harder. "Good bye, Jack McCoy."
The last thing he remembered was a blinding, excruciating agony exploding in his chest and the distant sound of her laughter echoing away as the darkness engulfed him again.

And then he was awake, sitting straight up, naked, covered in his own sweat, his heart racing, his blood pounding in his ears. It took several seconds for Jack to realize he was in his own apartment in his own bed. His blankets were in a heap on the floor, the sheets soaked. Little yellow lights danced before his eyes in time to the throbbing in his skull and his whole body hurt.
It was a nightmare, he told himself as he laid back and tried to calm down. Nothing more than a bad dream. He couldn't remember ever having a nightmare this real, this scary. Closing his eyes, he could almost hear her voice, feel the knife blade cutting into him. Instinctively, he looked down at his chest, running his finger under his rib cage. There was an angry red welt about two inches long directly over his heart, but no knife wound, no blood. Sore and tender, it was still beating.
He glanced at the clock on his bedside table. It wasn't quite 6:30 a.m. God, he thought wearily, he still had to get up and go to work. At least he didn't have to be in court today. After a few minutes, he dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom. A pale, gray face stared back at him from the mirror, salt and pepper hair in disarray, huge black circles under his bloodshot brown eyes. Lifting his chin slightly, he was surprised to see a thin red line across the base of his throat. Moving his finger gingerly across it, he realized with a chill that it seemed to be a fresh cut.
Don't be stupid, he chided himself sternly as he reached into the medicine cabinet for a couple of aspirin. Considering the condition he'd been in the previous night, it was a miracle he'd managed to get home at all; there were a hundred ways he could have cut himself, none of which had anything to do with a silly nightmare. After all, it was hardly the first time he'd awakened the morning after unable to remember the night before. When his head cleared and he'd had a shower and some coffee, things would start coming back.
Turning on the shower as hot as he could stand, he stepped in and leaned against the tile, letting the water pelt his naked skin and flow over him. As he started to soap up, he noticed the red marks on his wrists, dull scarlet bands about three inches wide, completely circling them. Raising first his left foot and then the right, he saw there were identical marks on his ankles. Despite the hot water, another chill ran through him.
Jeez, McCoy, he told himself angrily, get a grip! You had a nightmare for Christ's sake! You weren't tied up and you weren't raped and you weren't stabbed to death! If you had been, you wouldn't be standing here in your own shower, hung over and feeling like shit. In fact, when you finally do remember what happened, you'll probably feel so stupid, you really will wish you were dead.
Jack shut off the water, toweled himself dry and climbed into his suit. Normally, he would have worn his jeans and leather jacket and taken his motorcycle to work, but today, for some vague, uneasy reason, he decided to take a cab. It was probably just as well, he rationalized, considering that he was not feeling completely himself this morning.
By the time he'd smoothed down his tie and combed his hair, he was actually beginning to feel human again. The aspirin had taken effect and the throb in his brain had reduced itself to a dull ache. His clothes covered the red marks on his throat, wrists and ankles. The welt on his chest continued to hurt, a small, sharp pain that the aspirin seemed to have no effect on. But after his second cup of hot, black coffee, he was ready to face the world.
Arriving at his office, Jack found a voicemail from his secretary telling him that she had been called away on personal business but that she'd arranged for a temporary replacement while she was gone. There'd been no one available from the office pool so she'd had to contact an outside agency who'd assured her they would send a competent, experienced legal secretary. She'd apologized for the short notice and told him she'd be back as soon as possible.
Just then, he heard the outer office door open and close. "Hello?" had come a muffled voice through his closed door.
Jack crossed his office and opened the door. A woman was standing by his secretary's desk, looking around the deserted office. She was beautiful, tall, well built, in her early 30's perhaps. On the shoulder of her light gray suit jacket, was a large silver pin, shaped like a medieval dagger, a small laughing Satan etched on the handle and a tiny dark ruby set on the tip like a drop of blood.
When she saw him, she flipped her long mane of shiny raven hair, fixed him with her deep sapphire eyes and smiled. Taking a step toward him, she put out a long, slender white hand.
"My name's Lucy Spengler," she purred in a soft, honey covered voice. "I'm here for Jack McCoy."


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