PART 1
It was the early 1950s when Dorothy Parker walked into the underworld of organized crime as a detective—a woman in a business where smoke, whiskey, and men’s laughter filled the room. In those days, the heavy cases belonged to the boys’ club; women were tucked away in the “women and children’s bureau,” safe, silent, and unseen.
Her colleagues didn’t hide their smirks. They chuckled into their mustaches, betting she wouldn’t last a week. But Dorothy knew the weight she carried. Every step, every file she opened, every suspect she faced was more than just another case. It was a statement.
She wasn’t only fighting to prove herself. She was carrying the fight for every woman who’d ever been told she didn’t belong in the dark alleys and smoke-filled rooms of real crime. And in that city of shadows, Dorothy was determined to leave her mark.
In the dead of night, a bank had been hit. No one was certain of the car’s color, but thanks to shaky eyewitness accounts, the make and model had been nailed down. Detectives swarmed the case, chasing shadows and whispers, desperate to track down whoever had pulled the job.
Dorothy sat buried under a haze of smoke, her eyes bloodshot from reading reports far past midnight. Another cigarette burned low between her fingers, and when the coughing fit came, it rattled through the silence of the office. But she didn’t leave. She never left—not while the trail was warm.
From across the room, David, ever the cocky partner, leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Hey, Parker, don’t you have dishes waiting at home?” he jeered, sparking a round of laughter from the boys.
The kind of laughter that was meant to sting.
Dorothy’s lips tightened around the cigarette. Dishes. Laundry. Aprons. That’s all they think I’m good for. They’d like to see me fold, pack up, and leave the real work to them. She turned another page in the case file, letting the smoke curl upward like a curtain between her and their laughter. But I know better. Every late night, every line I read, every clue I chase—I’m carving out my place in this rotten city. One they’ll never be able to laugh away.
She didn’t flinch. Their cracks didn’t break her spirit—if anything, they fed the fire in her chest. Every sneer, every joke was just another reason to stay later, dig deeper, and prove that she belonged in this smoke-choked room as much as any man alive.
And in that moment, with the clock ticking past midnight, Dorothy Parker made herself a silent promise: They’ll laugh now. But soon enough, they’ll know my name—and they’ll choke on it.
The night had dragged on like wet cement, heavy and slow, until Dorothy’s eyes landed on a line in the paperwork that made her sit up straight. She read it once. Twice. A third time, just to be sure.
And then it hit her.
“Eureka!” she shouted, her voice slicing through the dead quiet of the office. The sound startled even herself, echoing against the walls like a gunshot. She slammed her palm against the desk, scattering a pile of cigarette butts and crumpled notes.
There it was, black and white: a rental company downtown listed a vehicle matching the witness descriptions. The same model. And most importantly—the chipped left taillight.
Her heart hammered in her chest. This could be it… the break I’ve been crawling through smoke and ashes to find.
She leaned back in her chair, a grin flickering at the corner of her lips, cigarette dangling forgotten between her fingers. The men had all gone home hours ago, laughing their way out the door, thinking Parker would drown in paperwork while they slept easy. But she had something they didn’t.
The file. The lead. The chance.
She stubbed out the cigarette, the ashtray hissing as if to seal the moment. Tomorrow, she’d walk into that company, badge in hand, questions sharp as knives. It could all collapse into nothing, sure—but it could also unravel the whole case, drag the thief right out of the shadows.
Dorothy closed the file gently, almost reverently, as though she were tucking away a secret only she was meant to hold. The office was silent except for the ticking clock, each second whispering the same thing: You’re one step ahead.
And in that silence, Dorothy Parker allowed herself a rare thing—a laugh, low and sharp, carrying more promise than any smirk the boys had ever thrown her way.
Website Migration Update
I moved the website to a new host, which I think will be more tolerant of the content this website hosts. Nevertheless, I do want to take a moment to remind everyone that the stories and content posted here MUST follow website rules, as it it not only my policy, but it is the policy of the hosts that permit our website to run on their servers. We WILL continue to enforce the rules, especially critical rules that, if broken, put this sites livelihood in jeapordy.
*CALLING FOR MORE PARTICIPATION*
JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
THE FEMINIST M /F
THE FEMINIST M /F
Last edited by sofya 1 month ago, edited 1 time in total.
PART 2
As soon as the first rays of the morning sun pierced her window, Dorothy sprang into action. Every minute counted. She grabbed a quick breakfast, efficient and no-nonsense, yet she didn’t skip the small ritual of slipping into a skirt that clung just so, fashionable for the times but practical enough for a day on the streets.
Today, she was determined to see this case through. She clutched the file close as she murmured under her breath, Let’s hope this lead takes me somewhere. And if it does… I’d like to see the faces of those jackass.
Maybe then they’ll learn to respect a woman.
With that, she adjusted her jacket, straightened her posture, and stepped into the brightening streets, every step a statement: she was ready, sharp, and unafraid of the shadows that waited to swallow the city whole.
By the time Dorothy reached the rental agency, the sky had turned a steel-gray, and a fine drizzle slicked the streets, turning neon reflections into trembling puddles. The city smelled of wet asphalt and brewing coffee, but Dorothy barely noticed. Every sense was tuned to the file in her bag, the lead she hoped would crack the case wide open.
She pushed the glass door open, the bell above jingling in a way that sounded almost accusatory in the quiet office. The clerk looked up, surprised to see a woman alone at this hour, hair still damp from the morning mist, eyes sharp and unwavering.
“Good morning,” Dorothy said, her voice steady, but with an edge that hinted she was not here for pleasantries. “I have a few questions about one of your cars.” She laid the file on the counter, tapping it lightly. “This one.”
The clerk glanced at the paperwork, then back at her, a flicker of uncertainty passing over his features. Dorothy noticed it and allowed a slow, knowing smile. Good. They’ll feel the weight of attention soon enough.
She began asking questions, each inquiry precise, each glance measured. The drizzle outside turned heavier, streaking the windows with liquid silver, casting shadows that moved like ghosts across the room. Dorothy felt alive in the gray light, every detail sharpening her resolve.
Her heart beat faster with the thrill of the hunt. One slip, one careless answer, and she’d know she was on the right trail. One misstep, and the trail could vanish, leaving nothing but smoke and mirrors.
But Dorothy Parker didn’t flinch. She had learned long ago that shadows could be read, that men who underestimated her would always leave traces. And in that small office, with rain tapping its rhythm against the glass, she began to untangle the first threads of the crime—threads that would either pull her straight to the thief… or lead her into the dark heart of the city itself.
Luckily, the man at the rental agency was cooperative—a gentleman, polite and measured, with none of the arrogance Dorothy had learned to expect from men in positions of authority. She shook her head slightly, muttering under her breath, Our guys could learn a thing or two from this man.
After careful questioning, the truth emerged: the car had indeed been rented the day before the heist. Its model differed slightly from the eyewitness descriptions, but the color matched perfectly. Dorothy felt a thrill in her chest—this had to be it.
But she didn’t act on instinct alone. First, she asked about the car’s previous mileage, running a small calculation in her head. Yes… just enough for a quick getaway, and nothing more. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.
She noted the renter’s name and surname, though she suspected it was almost certainly false. That didn’t deter her; in her line of work, false identities were as common as cigarette smoke in a police station.
Next, she reached for gloves and carefully lifted fingerprints from the steering wheel. Later, back at the office, she could cross-check them against known offenders. Every ridge, every swirl, could tell her a story—if she read it right.
Dorothy paused for a moment, letting the gravity of the lead settle around her. This wasn’t just a file on a desk anymore. It was a map, a puzzle, a thread dangling in the dark—and if she followed it carefully, it would lead straight to the man behind the mask of the night.
She allowed herself a small, sharp smile. Step by step, Parker. One clue at a time.
Back at the office, Dorothy laid the file flat on the desk, fingerprints carefully preserved on small cards beside it. She adjusted her fingers nimble and steady, and began the meticulous work of cross-referencing the prints with those of known offenders. Each ridge, each swirl, was a line in a story only she could read.
Hours slipped by in the quiet hum of the office, broken only by the scratch of pencil on paper and the occasional cough from the radiator. Then—finally—her eyes widened. One set of prints matched almost perfectly. Her heart skipped a beat, but she didn’t let it show.
Bob had a few arrests under his belt for drunken driving, and a smattering of parking tickets, but beyond that, his record was clean. No real crimes. Just a security guard at a local company.
Looking at his photo, Dorothy couldn’t help but note the obvious—he was overweight, and had clearly packed on more pounds over time. Good luck losing that in jail, she thought wryly to herself.
As soon as the first rays of the morning sun pierced her window, Dorothy sprang into action. Every minute counted. She grabbed a quick breakfast, efficient and no-nonsense, yet she didn’t skip the small ritual of slipping into a skirt that clung just so, fashionable for the times but practical enough for a day on the streets.
Today, she was determined to see this case through. She clutched the file close as she murmured under her breath, Let’s hope this lead takes me somewhere. And if it does… I’d like to see the faces of those jackass.
Maybe then they’ll learn to respect a woman.
With that, she adjusted her jacket, straightened her posture, and stepped into the brightening streets, every step a statement: she was ready, sharp, and unafraid of the shadows that waited to swallow the city whole.
By the time Dorothy reached the rental agency, the sky had turned a steel-gray, and a fine drizzle slicked the streets, turning neon reflections into trembling puddles. The city smelled of wet asphalt and brewing coffee, but Dorothy barely noticed. Every sense was tuned to the file in her bag, the lead she hoped would crack the case wide open.
She pushed the glass door open, the bell above jingling in a way that sounded almost accusatory in the quiet office. The clerk looked up, surprised to see a woman alone at this hour, hair still damp from the morning mist, eyes sharp and unwavering.
“Good morning,” Dorothy said, her voice steady, but with an edge that hinted she was not here for pleasantries. “I have a few questions about one of your cars.” She laid the file on the counter, tapping it lightly. “This one.”
The clerk glanced at the paperwork, then back at her, a flicker of uncertainty passing over his features. Dorothy noticed it and allowed a slow, knowing smile. Good. They’ll feel the weight of attention soon enough.
She began asking questions, each inquiry precise, each glance measured. The drizzle outside turned heavier, streaking the windows with liquid silver, casting shadows that moved like ghosts across the room. Dorothy felt alive in the gray light, every detail sharpening her resolve.
Her heart beat faster with the thrill of the hunt. One slip, one careless answer, and she’d know she was on the right trail. One misstep, and the trail could vanish, leaving nothing but smoke and mirrors.
But Dorothy Parker didn’t flinch. She had learned long ago that shadows could be read, that men who underestimated her would always leave traces. And in that small office, with rain tapping its rhythm against the glass, she began to untangle the first threads of the crime—threads that would either pull her straight to the thief… or lead her into the dark heart of the city itself.
Luckily, the man at the rental agency was cooperative—a gentleman, polite and measured, with none of the arrogance Dorothy had learned to expect from men in positions of authority. She shook her head slightly, muttering under her breath, Our guys could learn a thing or two from this man.
After careful questioning, the truth emerged: the car had indeed been rented the day before the heist. Its model differed slightly from the eyewitness descriptions, but the color matched perfectly. Dorothy felt a thrill in her chest—this had to be it.
But she didn’t act on instinct alone. First, she asked about the car’s previous mileage, running a small calculation in her head. Yes… just enough for a quick getaway, and nothing more. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.
She noted the renter’s name and surname, though she suspected it was almost certainly false. That didn’t deter her; in her line of work, false identities were as common as cigarette smoke in a police station.
Next, she reached for gloves and carefully lifted fingerprints from the steering wheel. Later, back at the office, she could cross-check them against known offenders. Every ridge, every swirl, could tell her a story—if she read it right.
Dorothy paused for a moment, letting the gravity of the lead settle around her. This wasn’t just a file on a desk anymore. It was a map, a puzzle, a thread dangling in the dark—and if she followed it carefully, it would lead straight to the man behind the mask of the night.
She allowed herself a small, sharp smile. Step by step, Parker. One clue at a time.
Back at the office, Dorothy laid the file flat on the desk, fingerprints carefully preserved on small cards beside it. She adjusted her fingers nimble and steady, and began the meticulous work of cross-referencing the prints with those of known offenders. Each ridge, each swirl, was a line in a story only she could read.
Hours slipped by in the quiet hum of the office, broken only by the scratch of pencil on paper and the occasional cough from the radiator. Then—finally—her eyes widened. One set of prints matched almost perfectly. Her heart skipped a beat, but she didn’t let it show.
Bob had a few arrests under his belt for drunken driving, and a smattering of parking tickets, but beyond that, his record was clean. No real crimes. Just a security guard at a local company.
Looking at his photo, Dorothy couldn’t help but note the obvious—he was overweight, and had clearly packed on more pounds over time. Good luck losing that in jail, she thought wryly to herself.
PART 3
Dorothy arrived at Bob’s apartment and knocked sharply. The door swung open to reveal a large, stocky man, dressed in a tank top, somewhere in his mid-thirties. His face betrayed three days’ worth of stubble, and his broad shoulders filled the doorway.
He blinked at her, clearly taken aback. Standing there, a woman in a blue suit, chestnut hair perfectly styled in 1950s fashion, with carefully applied makeup and heels clicking on the threshold, was not what he had expected.
“I’m a detective,” Dorothy said, steady and confident, letting her gaze meet his.
“Wait… you?” Bob stammered, confusion flashing across his face. No kids or women here… he muttered under his breath, his expression twisted into a crooked sneer.
Dorothy felt a flicker of tension but forced a small, controlled smile. “No, but there could be other things,” she replied evenly.
Bob hesitated, then let out a dismissive laugh, peering at her like she was some curiosity. “Alright, come in, ma’am. I was just making some tea—want some?”
Dorothy nodded politely and stepped inside. The apartment was a mess: clothes tossed on the couch, dishes piled high in the sink, scattered papers everywhere. It was clear that Bob led the solitary, bachelor life of someone used to living on his own.
She took a sip of tea, the warm liquid grounding her for a moment, and began her questioning. “A few days ago, there was a robbery,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “Some clues led me here. That’s why I’m here.”
But then her eyes suddenly grew heavy, a strange weight pressing down on them. Something was happening… or maybe it was nothing at all. She blinked rapidly, wondering if it was some trick of the tea, some subtle effect she hadn’t anticipated.
No… it can’t be the tea, she thought, steadying herself. Still, a prickling unease ran down her spine. The room felt smaller somehow, the shadows deeper, and for a fleeting moment, even the quiet ticking of the clock seemed louder.
After a few moments, Dorothy began to stir. Her eyes opened slowly, the world around her hazy and distorted. What’s happening? she thought, her mind foggy, the edges of her thoughts blurred. Why had she fallen asleep?
Instinct urged her to move, but her body betrayed her. Her hands, her feet—they wouldn’t obey. Paralysis gripped her like a cold shadow crawling up her spine.
What’s going on…?
Panic prickled at the edges of her mind as she struggled against the invisible weight. And then, finally, awareness cut through the fog: ropes.
Her body was bound tightly, pressed against the rigid back of a wooden chair. Every movement was restricted, every breath a reminder that she was no longer in control.
Fear coiled in her chest, but beneath it, a flicker of determination sparked.
Dorothy tried to shift, to test her surroundings, but her hands were bound tightly behind the back of the chair. The ropes bit into her wrists, unforgiving and taut, refusing to give even the slightest slack.
Her feet and legs weren’t spared either—they were lashed firmly to the legs of the chair, locking her in place. Every attempt to move only tightened the bindings, making her feel smaller, more constrained.
Even the rope threaded beneath her chest and around the chair anchored her torso, pressing against her ribs and pulling her forward. Each breath she took reminded her of the inescapable hold, the meticulous way she had been restrained, every cord winding tightly across her body, hugging and pressing against her curves, teasing her skin with merciless insistence, leaving her breath hitching and every nerve alight as she felt just how completely she was ensnared
He stepped closer, a crooked, unpleasant grin stretching across his face. “Hello, ma’am,” he said, his voice oily with false politeness. “I apologize for the bindings. After all, I’m a gentleman. I don’t want to hurt a woman—especially a beautiful lady like yourself.”
His eyes roamed her, lingering on the ropes that held her captive. “Being tied up… well, it’s actually better for both of us,” he added, as if the statement alone justified the restraints.
Dorothy felt the ropes cutting into her wrists behind the chair, biting into her skin with each slight movement. Even as he spoke, the bindings reminded her that every inch of her body was under control—every motion anticipated, every instinct restrained.
“You wouldn’t harm a woman,” Dorothy said, her voice sharp, eyes locked on him. “But a man… or committing a robbery? That, I suppose, is fair game.”
She straightened slightly in the chair, letting the ropes remind him of her constrained position. “Sir, I suggest you undo these bindings immediately and turn yourself in to the police before it’s too late. Trust me—that’s the best course of action for you. Any harm, any resistance… it will only make your sentence worse.”
Her words carried authority, a calm edged with steel. Even tied and vulnerable, she radiated control, forcing him to weigh his next move carefully.
Bob suddenly burst out laughing, a deep, rough sound that echoed off the bare walls. “You’re really something, you know,” he said between chuckles, shaking his head. “I mean, why would they make a woman a detective anyway?”
Dorothy arrived at Bob’s apartment and knocked sharply. The door swung open to reveal a large, stocky man, dressed in a tank top, somewhere in his mid-thirties. His face betrayed three days’ worth of stubble, and his broad shoulders filled the doorway.
He blinked at her, clearly taken aback. Standing there, a woman in a blue suit, chestnut hair perfectly styled in 1950s fashion, with carefully applied makeup and heels clicking on the threshold, was not what he had expected.
“I’m a detective,” Dorothy said, steady and confident, letting her gaze meet his.
“Wait… you?” Bob stammered, confusion flashing across his face. No kids or women here… he muttered under his breath, his expression twisted into a crooked sneer.
Dorothy felt a flicker of tension but forced a small, controlled smile. “No, but there could be other things,” she replied evenly.
Bob hesitated, then let out a dismissive laugh, peering at her like she was some curiosity. “Alright, come in, ma’am. I was just making some tea—want some?”
Dorothy nodded politely and stepped inside. The apartment was a mess: clothes tossed on the couch, dishes piled high in the sink, scattered papers everywhere. It was clear that Bob led the solitary, bachelor life of someone used to living on his own.
She took a sip of tea, the warm liquid grounding her for a moment, and began her questioning. “A few days ago, there was a robbery,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “Some clues led me here. That’s why I’m here.”
But then her eyes suddenly grew heavy, a strange weight pressing down on them. Something was happening… or maybe it was nothing at all. She blinked rapidly, wondering if it was some trick of the tea, some subtle effect she hadn’t anticipated.
No… it can’t be the tea, she thought, steadying herself. Still, a prickling unease ran down her spine. The room felt smaller somehow, the shadows deeper, and for a fleeting moment, even the quiet ticking of the clock seemed louder.
After a few moments, Dorothy began to stir. Her eyes opened slowly, the world around her hazy and distorted. What’s happening? she thought, her mind foggy, the edges of her thoughts blurred. Why had she fallen asleep?
Instinct urged her to move, but her body betrayed her. Her hands, her feet—they wouldn’t obey. Paralysis gripped her like a cold shadow crawling up her spine.
What’s going on…?
Panic prickled at the edges of her mind as she struggled against the invisible weight. And then, finally, awareness cut through the fog: ropes.
Her body was bound tightly, pressed against the rigid back of a wooden chair. Every movement was restricted, every breath a reminder that she was no longer in control.
Fear coiled in her chest, but beneath it, a flicker of determination sparked.
Dorothy tried to shift, to test her surroundings, but her hands were bound tightly behind the back of the chair. The ropes bit into her wrists, unforgiving and taut, refusing to give even the slightest slack.
Her feet and legs weren’t spared either—they were lashed firmly to the legs of the chair, locking her in place. Every attempt to move only tightened the bindings, making her feel smaller, more constrained.
Even the rope threaded beneath her chest and around the chair anchored her torso, pressing against her ribs and pulling her forward. Each breath she took reminded her of the inescapable hold, the meticulous way she had been restrained, every cord winding tightly across her body, hugging and pressing against her curves, teasing her skin with merciless insistence, leaving her breath hitching and every nerve alight as she felt just how completely she was ensnared
He stepped closer, a crooked, unpleasant grin stretching across his face. “Hello, ma’am,” he said, his voice oily with false politeness. “I apologize for the bindings. After all, I’m a gentleman. I don’t want to hurt a woman—especially a beautiful lady like yourself.”
His eyes roamed her, lingering on the ropes that held her captive. “Being tied up… well, it’s actually better for both of us,” he added, as if the statement alone justified the restraints.
Dorothy felt the ropes cutting into her wrists behind the chair, biting into her skin with each slight movement. Even as he spoke, the bindings reminded her that every inch of her body was under control—every motion anticipated, every instinct restrained.
“You wouldn’t harm a woman,” Dorothy said, her voice sharp, eyes locked on him. “But a man… or committing a robbery? That, I suppose, is fair game.”
She straightened slightly in the chair, letting the ropes remind him of her constrained position. “Sir, I suggest you undo these bindings immediately and turn yourself in to the police before it’s too late. Trust me—that’s the best course of action for you. Any harm, any resistance… it will only make your sentence worse.”
Her words carried authority, a calm edged with steel. Even tied and vulnerable, she radiated control, forcing him to weigh his next move carefully.
Bob suddenly burst out laughing, a deep, rough sound that echoed off the bare walls. “You’re really something, you know,” he said between chuckles, shaking his head. “I mean, why would they make a woman a detective anyway?”
Last edited by sofya 1 month ago, edited 1 time in total.
PART 4
He still grinning, but there was an edge to his amusement. “Still… let me tell you this—if it had been another man in my place, he could’ve done a thousand times worse to you. So, I’d say… be thankful you’re tied up the way you are.”
Dorothy’s eyes flared with anger. How dare you! she thought, the words burning behind her clenched jaw. “In a burst of rage, Dorothy lunged forward, but the ropes bit into her skin and yanked her back harshly, reminding her with cruel force that she was still bound., but she let none of it show in her expression.
She twisted, but the cords cinched harder, each tug making her more aware of how helplessly she was bound.“And you expect me to thank you for tying me up so tightly, sir?” she shot back, her voice sharp and unwavering.
“I’ll remind you,” she continued, the fire in her gaze unrelenting, “that I am the first to find the robber. A woman. Ahead of my male colleagues. Don’t forget that.”
Bob grinned wickedly, a cruel twist to his lips. “You’re in front… but you failed. After all, it’s you who’s tied up. If it had been a man in your place, maybe there’d have been a chance. But this? Clearly, this work isn’t quite suited for you.”
Dorothy’s face flushed with fury, heat climbing her cheeks. In that moment, she felt the sharp, irresistible urge to slap him—hard.
Lucky for him, she was bound to the chair. The ropes clung mercilessly to her body, drawn so tight across her wrists and thighs that every small movement only fed their grip. She writhed against them anyway, her pulse quickening, each rasp of the coarse fibers sending a shiver of heat through her skin. Fury burned in her chest, but the cords made sure it had nowhere to go—trapping her breath, holding her anger, and forcing her to feel every last knot like a brand of control.”
Still, the fire in her eyes could have ignited a room, and Bob felt the weight of it, even through the ropes that held her captive.
Dorothy’s voice was loud, sharp with controlled fury. “you are not just a robber,” she said, letting the words cut through the tense air. “It’s clear you are sexist, too.
Bob raised an eyebrow, a crooked grin on his face. “Sexy?” he asked,
Bob's lips curled into a sly, teasing smile. “With this belly?” he replied, his tone light but sharp. “I hardly think of myself that way—but thank you… I suppose I should appreciate that you like me.”
Dorothy muttered sharply, her voice cutting through the tense room: “He’s not just sexist… he’s downright ignorant. Not ‘sexy,’ sexiest—in your language, that makes you the enemy of women.
Bob’s crooked grin widened . “And just because I tied you up, you think I’m some kind of woman-hater?” he said, voice laced with amusement. “Quite the opposite, actually—I’ve always have a thing for women. Except my ex-wife, of course,” he added with a sharp laugh. “she is a real pain in the ass.
Dorothy began to think the man is a complete fool—but the truth is this fool had tied her up somehow, and she couldn’t even shift an inch.
She spoke, her voice calm but edged with steel. “No, sir,” she said, eyes locked on his. “I meant it in the sense that you underestimate women. You’re one of those men who think a woman’s place is nothing beyond housework.
Bob shook his head, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “I don’t exactly think that way,” he said, voice smooth but edged with condescension. “But clearly, you’re one of those… femnon types, huh? One of those anti-men women who think they’re just like a man.”
“Femnon?” Dorothy snapped, her eyes flashing with controlled fury. “Feminist, you fool. And we’re not anti-men either—we just want equality.”
Even as she spoke, her fingers worked quietly, deftly tugging at the knots that bound her wrists. Each twist and pull was careful, precise—every movement a small rebellion against the ropes that sought to restrain her.
Bob waved a hand dismissively, a crooked grin on his face. “Whatever,” he said, voice dripping with condescension. “Men and women have different roles, don’t they? Besides, women already have everything anyway… And, most likely, you lot are being funded by the communists. The goal, of course, degradation of the Western world and turn it communist.”
For a moment, Dorothy paused, ceasing her struggle with the knots. Communism? she thought, incredulous. What does that have to do with equality?
“Really, it’s a shame for you. Women are constantly working—running households, taking care of children, cooking, cleaning… all at the same time. Why does it bother you so much if we do the same work as men?”
“You still don’t get it,” he said, voice dripping with condescension. “The world of men is one thing, the world of women another. Look around—everything, every discovery, every conquest, every invention… it was all done by men. And even then, it was men who protected women, who kept women safe.
Yet still, it’s never enough, is it? Naturally. Whatever you’re given, you want more. Honestly, I think every woman should be tied up for a while, just to learn her place.”
He still grinning, but there was an edge to his amusement. “Still… let me tell you this—if it had been another man in my place, he could’ve done a thousand times worse to you. So, I’d say… be thankful you’re tied up the way you are.”
Dorothy’s eyes flared with anger. How dare you! she thought, the words burning behind her clenched jaw. “In a burst of rage, Dorothy lunged forward, but the ropes bit into her skin and yanked her back harshly, reminding her with cruel force that she was still bound., but she let none of it show in her expression.
She twisted, but the cords cinched harder, each tug making her more aware of how helplessly she was bound.“And you expect me to thank you for tying me up so tightly, sir?” she shot back, her voice sharp and unwavering.
“I’ll remind you,” she continued, the fire in her gaze unrelenting, “that I am the first to find the robber. A woman. Ahead of my male colleagues. Don’t forget that.”
Bob grinned wickedly, a cruel twist to his lips. “You’re in front… but you failed. After all, it’s you who’s tied up. If it had been a man in your place, maybe there’d have been a chance. But this? Clearly, this work isn’t quite suited for you.”
Dorothy’s face flushed with fury, heat climbing her cheeks. In that moment, she felt the sharp, irresistible urge to slap him—hard.
Lucky for him, she was bound to the chair. The ropes clung mercilessly to her body, drawn so tight across her wrists and thighs that every small movement only fed their grip. She writhed against them anyway, her pulse quickening, each rasp of the coarse fibers sending a shiver of heat through her skin. Fury burned in her chest, but the cords made sure it had nowhere to go—trapping her breath, holding her anger, and forcing her to feel every last knot like a brand of control.”
Still, the fire in her eyes could have ignited a room, and Bob felt the weight of it, even through the ropes that held her captive.
Dorothy’s voice was loud, sharp with controlled fury. “you are not just a robber,” she said, letting the words cut through the tense air. “It’s clear you are sexist, too.
Bob raised an eyebrow, a crooked grin on his face. “Sexy?” he asked,
Bob's lips curled into a sly, teasing smile. “With this belly?” he replied, his tone light but sharp. “I hardly think of myself that way—but thank you… I suppose I should appreciate that you like me.”
Dorothy muttered sharply, her voice cutting through the tense room: “He’s not just sexist… he’s downright ignorant. Not ‘sexy,’ sexiest—in your language, that makes you the enemy of women.
Bob’s crooked grin widened . “And just because I tied you up, you think I’m some kind of woman-hater?” he said, voice laced with amusement. “Quite the opposite, actually—I’ve always have a thing for women. Except my ex-wife, of course,” he added with a sharp laugh. “she is a real pain in the ass.
Dorothy began to think the man is a complete fool—but the truth is this fool had tied her up somehow, and she couldn’t even shift an inch.
She spoke, her voice calm but edged with steel. “No, sir,” she said, eyes locked on his. “I meant it in the sense that you underestimate women. You’re one of those men who think a woman’s place is nothing beyond housework.
Bob shook his head, a sly grin tugging at his lips. “I don’t exactly think that way,” he said, voice smooth but edged with condescension. “But clearly, you’re one of those… femnon types, huh? One of those anti-men women who think they’re just like a man.”
“Femnon?” Dorothy snapped, her eyes flashing with controlled fury. “Feminist, you fool. And we’re not anti-men either—we just want equality.”
Even as she spoke, her fingers worked quietly, deftly tugging at the knots that bound her wrists. Each twist and pull was careful, precise—every movement a small rebellion against the ropes that sought to restrain her.
Bob waved a hand dismissively, a crooked grin on his face. “Whatever,” he said, voice dripping with condescension. “Men and women have different roles, don’t they? Besides, women already have everything anyway… And, most likely, you lot are being funded by the communists. The goal, of course, degradation of the Western world and turn it communist.”
For a moment, Dorothy paused, ceasing her struggle with the knots. Communism? she thought, incredulous. What does that have to do with equality?
“Really, it’s a shame for you. Women are constantly working—running households, taking care of children, cooking, cleaning… all at the same time. Why does it bother you so much if we do the same work as men?”
“You still don’t get it,” he said, voice dripping with condescension. “The world of men is one thing, the world of women another. Look around—everything, every discovery, every conquest, every invention… it was all done by men. And even then, it was men who protected women, who kept women safe.
Yet still, it’s never enough, is it? Naturally. Whatever you’re given, you want more. Honestly, I think every woman should be tied up for a while, just to learn her place.”
Last edited by sofya 1 month ago, edited 8 times in total.
PART 5
The women called witches you burned in the Middle Ages, those killed after being raped… not to mention all the others—you’ve done a fine job ‘protecting’ them throughout history, haven't you?”
Marie Curie, Florence Nightingale, Amelia Earhart, and of course Hypatia—you’ve killed them mercilessly, and yet you glorify yourself for murdering your opponents, for the massacres and genocides committed in the world.”
She tugged at the ropes, testing their strength, her body twisting and writhing silently.
“I’ve never heard of these names,” Bob said, shrugging dismissively. “Besides, war is in human nature. You didn’t fight because you were physically weak, not because you were merciful.”
Well then, since you’re so obsessed with power,” she continued, her eyes narrowing, “Jean d’Arc, Zenobia, Ching Shih… you see? If a woman wants to fight, she very well can. We’re not naturally drawn to aggression—it’s a choice.”
The ropes still bit into her wrists, taut and unyielding. Every inch of the restraint a mockery, each knot tied with smug carelessness. She could feel the sting in her skin.
Being bound so tightly in front of a fool like Bob is humiliating, a constant reminder of the vulnerability imposed by someone else’s ignorance.
Bob’s voice cut through the room, cold and unyielding. “A few women commanders don’t change the rules,” he said, his tone dripping with arrogance. “It hasn’t even been ten years yet. America and the world? We men saved them. We shed the blood. When the Titanic sank, we prioritized women and children—but still, you cry that men are merciless.”
As he spoke, his eyes flicked toward Dorothy, a calculating glint in them. Slowly, deliberately, he began rummaging through the room for a scarf, intent on gagging her before she could respond. The motion was casual, almost practiced, but Dorothy noticed every subtle movement. The ropes still bit into her wrists, the knots tight and unyielding, and now the threat of silence added a new edge to her struggle.
Dorothy couldn’t hold back any longer. Her voice cut sharply through the tense air. “And what opportunities did you give women?” she demanded. “You blocked us from universities, denied us the vote, locked us in our homes, even prevented us from finding work—and yet, according to you, our flaw , right?”
Her gaze locked on him, unwavering. “Don’t forget,” she added, her tone a mix of accusation and irony, “it was a woman who raised you.”
Quietly, she added under her breath, though she didn’t do a very good job, but she kept that part to herself, letting the weight of her words linger.
Bob had found the scarf he intended to gag Dorothy with. “I think our little chat has come to an end,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “It would be better for me if you stayed quiet now.
Dorothy spoke, her voice edged with bitter irony. “By all means, go ahead and gag me. The truth has always been hard to hear… After all, you’ve been silencing us for centuries anyway.”
Her wrists were burning, the ropes digging deeper against her skin. Even as she tugged and twisted, trying to find any give, there was none. She was helpless, completely under his control . and now, her voice will being taken away too.
Bob’s voice rose, sharp and commanding. “Women!!” he barked, and with a swift, practiced motion, he tightly gagged her mouth. “This is better. You women never stop nagging. By the way, I love my mother… even my ex-wife. I’d have given my life for them. But no—especially my ex, nothing was ever enough. Rings, bracelets, jewels? Not enough. Cars? Not enough. Trips? Not enough. I slave until I drop, you take, and then complain we don’t care. Give a woman the world, she wants the stars too.”
He leaned close, his grip firm as he placed Dorothy’s purse onto her lap. “I’m leaving now. In two days, someone will find you. But of course, since you’re an independent, strong woman, you’ll figure a way out before then. And remember,” he added with a smug grin, “you can’t survive without your makeup kit in purse. right?? . # Good day, ma’am.”
With her mouth now firmly gagged, she was left to struggle silently against the bonds that held her. Her chest rose and fell furiously, her eyes glinting with an untamed fire. She was powerless and vulnerable, yet her defiance was unyielding.
Dorothy let out another muffled groan from behind the gag, the sound trapped but defiant, carrying all her frustration and fury. The ropes groaned against her bound wrists and ankles as she struggled, the gag muffling her words to nothing more than unintelligible noises. "MMMMPPPHHH!!" she tried to protest, though her efforts were just as futile as her words.
Bob went his bedroom and gathering up his belongings efficiently. After a while the door burst open.
Dorothy entered like a storm. “Hands up, sir,” she said, letting the handcuffs dangle and swing with a metallic jangle that echoed in the tense room. Her other hand held the gun, steady and unwavering. “You’re… under arrest”
FIN
The women called witches you burned in the Middle Ages, those killed after being raped… not to mention all the others—you’ve done a fine job ‘protecting’ them throughout history, haven't you?”
Marie Curie, Florence Nightingale, Amelia Earhart, and of course Hypatia—you’ve killed them mercilessly, and yet you glorify yourself for murdering your opponents, for the massacres and genocides committed in the world.”
She tugged at the ropes, testing their strength, her body twisting and writhing silently.
“I’ve never heard of these names,” Bob said, shrugging dismissively. “Besides, war is in human nature. You didn’t fight because you were physically weak, not because you were merciful.”
Well then, since you’re so obsessed with power,” she continued, her eyes narrowing, “Jean d’Arc, Zenobia, Ching Shih… you see? If a woman wants to fight, she very well can. We’re not naturally drawn to aggression—it’s a choice.”
The ropes still bit into her wrists, taut and unyielding. Every inch of the restraint a mockery, each knot tied with smug carelessness. She could feel the sting in her skin.
Being bound so tightly in front of a fool like Bob is humiliating, a constant reminder of the vulnerability imposed by someone else’s ignorance.
Bob’s voice cut through the room, cold and unyielding. “A few women commanders don’t change the rules,” he said, his tone dripping with arrogance. “It hasn’t even been ten years yet. America and the world? We men saved them. We shed the blood. When the Titanic sank, we prioritized women and children—but still, you cry that men are merciless.”
As he spoke, his eyes flicked toward Dorothy, a calculating glint in them. Slowly, deliberately, he began rummaging through the room for a scarf, intent on gagging her before she could respond. The motion was casual, almost practiced, but Dorothy noticed every subtle movement. The ropes still bit into her wrists, the knots tight and unyielding, and now the threat of silence added a new edge to her struggle.
Dorothy couldn’t hold back any longer. Her voice cut sharply through the tense air. “And what opportunities did you give women?” she demanded. “You blocked us from universities, denied us the vote, locked us in our homes, even prevented us from finding work—and yet, according to you, our flaw , right?”
Her gaze locked on him, unwavering. “Don’t forget,” she added, her tone a mix of accusation and irony, “it was a woman who raised you.”
Quietly, she added under her breath, though she didn’t do a very good job, but she kept that part to herself, letting the weight of her words linger.
Bob had found the scarf he intended to gag Dorothy with. “I think our little chat has come to an end,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “It would be better for me if you stayed quiet now.
Dorothy spoke, her voice edged with bitter irony. “By all means, go ahead and gag me. The truth has always been hard to hear… After all, you’ve been silencing us for centuries anyway.”
Her wrists were burning, the ropes digging deeper against her skin. Even as she tugged and twisted, trying to find any give, there was none. She was helpless, completely under his control . and now, her voice will being taken away too.
Bob’s voice rose, sharp and commanding. “Women!!” he barked, and with a swift, practiced motion, he tightly gagged her mouth. “This is better. You women never stop nagging. By the way, I love my mother… even my ex-wife. I’d have given my life for them. But no—especially my ex, nothing was ever enough. Rings, bracelets, jewels? Not enough. Cars? Not enough. Trips? Not enough. I slave until I drop, you take, and then complain we don’t care. Give a woman the world, she wants the stars too.”
He leaned close, his grip firm as he placed Dorothy’s purse onto her lap. “I’m leaving now. In two days, someone will find you. But of course, since you’re an independent, strong woman, you’ll figure a way out before then. And remember,” he added with a smug grin, “you can’t survive without your makeup kit in purse. right?? . # Good day, ma’am.”
With her mouth now firmly gagged, she was left to struggle silently against the bonds that held her. Her chest rose and fell furiously, her eyes glinting with an untamed fire. She was powerless and vulnerable, yet her defiance was unyielding.
Dorothy let out another muffled groan from behind the gag, the sound trapped but defiant, carrying all her frustration and fury. The ropes groaned against her bound wrists and ankles as she struggled, the gag muffling her words to nothing more than unintelligible noises. "MMMMPPPHHH!!" she tried to protest, though her efforts were just as futile as her words.
Bob went his bedroom and gathering up his belongings efficiently. After a while the door burst open.
Dorothy entered like a storm. “Hands up, sir,” she said, letting the handcuffs dangle and swing with a metallic jangle that echoed in the tense room. Her other hand held the gun, steady and unwavering. “You’re… under arrest”
FIN