Stories of Tie Up Games

Disclaimer: this is more men in peril than tugs... but still in the neighborhood of bondage!

This is a R18 story and there will be mature themes, albeit not in episode 1, so proceed with caution.





Episode 1: The Pilot

Rusty slouched in his cramped office apartment, staring at the peeling white sticker on his door—Hale PI—a mocking relic of the grand investigation firm he’d dreamed of building.

Months ago, he’d walked away from the force, fed up with the rot. Most of them were useless, and the ones worth a damn were filthier than the gutters of Shackleford. He’d had enough of being a black line in a corrupt ledger. Rusty wanted to fight for the little guys—the ones whose sons vanished into the city’s shadows, the ones cheated out of their inheritance—not prop up a system that thrived on despair.

That was the pitch he’d sold himself, but the reality was bleaker than a Shackleford dawn. This city had a way of shackling you tight, grinding you down until you ended up face-down in a ditch—or a pauper’s grave if you were lucky enough to have connections. Shackleford didn’t care. It locked you in its grip and never let go, a festering hellhole where hope came to die.

The building door creaked open below, but Rusty didn’t even twitch. It was never for him. He rummaged through his desk drawer, hunting for a bottle of whiskey—there had to be one somewhere. He found it! Empty—dry as his luck. He reached for his pack of cigarettes. Last one. Of fucking course. He flicked his lighter, the flame casting jagged shadows on the cracked walls, and took a long, bitter drag, the smoke curling like a ghost of his fading dreams.

“Mr. Hale?” a voice quavered. Rusty looked up to see a nervous man hovering in the doorway, his cheap suit soaked with sweat.

“Yeah,” Rusty grunted, slumping back into his chair, the creak of wood loud in the silence.

“My name is, er—I don’t think you… er—I need you to find a dangerous man and get back some information he has on me. It’s gotta stay buried—can’t let those pic-, er, pictures reach anyone...”

“Look, I don’t need the sob story,” Rusty cut him off, smirking darkly, his voice rough as sandpaper. “Just tell me who and where I can find ‘em.” He didn’t mind the shadows on this one. Some cases were better left half-lit.

“Marlowe…”


“Leo Marlowe?” Rusty’s eyes narrowed, “Why the fuck did you get tangled up with him?” Leo—a name that burned like cheap whiskey—was a dealer straight out of Shackleford’s underbelly, a venomous snake in velvet. Rusty had had his fair number of run-ins with Leo. Another dance with him wouldn’t hurt—or so he told himself.

“He promised, I er… Look, are you doing it or not?” The man dropped a thin envelope of dollar bills on Rusty’s desk with a soft thwack. Rusty snatched it up, counting briefly, “Twelve bucks—that’s it? That’s what it’s worth for those pictures to return to you?”

The man stayed silent.

Rusty’s eyes leveled on him, hard as steel, a cold edge in his gaze. He sighed, “That seems cheap for keeping your dirty little secrets secure, is all I’m sayin’.”

“I’ll give you triple that if you finish the job.”

The man’s desperation was a stench worse than the docks at low tide. Rusty felt that familiar itch in his gut—he couldn’t turn this one down, had to help this sorry bastard. “Fine. Swing by The Rusty Nail tomorrow night—I’ll leave your pictures with Mick, the owner. Don’t worry, he’s solid as a rock—trustworthy.”

The man tipped his hat, hands trembling, and slunk away into the shadows.

Rusty glanced at the map of Shackleford pinned to his wall, the city staring back like a spider’s web, its streets veins of betrayal and despair.


Leo… usually skulked around 36th Street. That open tenement was a likely haunt. Bet he’s holed up there.

_SOOTHING JAZZ INTERLUDE_

A short subway ride later, Rusty stood across the street from the crumbling building, the cool sea breeze whipping his dusty blond hair into his eyes, stinging with salt and regret. He reached into his trench coat pocket for his pack of cigarettes, pulled it out just as he remembered —empty. “Fuck,” he spat, the word swallowed by the wind.

He leaned against the brick wall, bracing against the chill, the damp seeping through his coat. This was gonna be so much longer without a smoke.

At least an hour crawled by, the city’s cold heartbeat echoing in his bones, before Rusty spotted Marlowe—he was unmistakable. The perfectly tousled black hair, his sharp jawline like a blade, the velvet blazer jacket and silk shirt unbuttoned to show off his chest, that damn serpent pendant. Yeah—subtlety wasn’t Leo’s forte.

Rusty tugged up his trench coat collar high, hiding most of his own features as he watched Leo stroll by, a predator in a city of prey.

Leo headed to a rusted back door and knocked three times. It creaked open, the sound sharp against the night. He scanned the street, his gray eyes catching Rusty’s hiding spot but sliding over him—oblivious.

Once the door snapped shut with a metallic snap, Rusty slunk closer. A Centurion 620 lock—child’s play. He pulled out his credit card—at least it was good for something—slipped it into the gap, and the door clicked open with a soft click. He slipped in, the darkness swallowing him whole.
He was in a long corridor that stretched ahead, with flickering fluorescents buzzing like dying wasps, casting jagged shadows that danced on the peeling walls. Voices echoed somewhere up ahead, low and dangerous.
Rusty tiptoed down the corridor, boots silent on the grimy tiles, to where a light spilled from an open door. He peeked around—empty…

That’s when he felt the icy presence of someone behind him.

Before he could react, a dull thunk exploded against his skull. He felt his body crumple, and that was it.

_SOOTHING JAZZ INTERLUDE_

As Rusty clawed his way back to consciousness, the familiar throb in his head pulsed like a bad hangover. Fuck—knocked out again. He blinked his eyes trying to focus, the throbbing subsided just enough as his predicament became clear.

He was seated on a rusted metal chair in the center of a dank basement room, the air heavy with damp and despair. Cardboard boxes were stacked around him like tombstones in a maze of shadows. His ankles were lashed to the chair’s front legs with coarse hemp rope, the fibers biting into his skin. His thighs were spread apart and tied to the chair arms, leaving him exposed, raw. His chest was wrapped to the chair back with about twelve loops of rope—twelve lousy loops for twelve lousy bucks—pinning him like a moth to a board. Finally, he realized his wrists were yanked behind the chair back and tied together, the hemp rope chewing into his wrists like a hungry dog.

His first instinct was to squirm—test for any slack, he rolled his wrists, flexed his chest—the ropes didn’t budge, the hemp scratching at his skin raw and bloody.

“Rusty, Rusty, Rusty…” Leo Marlowe purred, stepping closer from the shadows, his voice a velvet blade, “I clocked you the minute I crossed the street. That blonde mop of yours—it’s a dead giveaway you know.” Leo straightened his jacket, “The force is actually doing some of its best work since you left—and by best work, I mean they stay in their lane while we get to run amok in the city.”

Rusty tugged at the ropes around his wrists again—still no give. He’d have to talk his way out of this one—again. “Leo,” he rasped, his voice gravelly, “I see you’ve been demoted to thug. Doesn’t suit you—I always believed you were cut from a higher cloth.”

Leo’s calm, pretty face twisted into a scowl, “No! There isn’t anyone else here—if the thugs were here, I’d leave you to them.” The scowl softened into a dangerous smile, “But you’re lucky—you’ve earned a private session with me.” Leo pushed his thick black hair back, the motion slow, deliberate, his gray eyes glinting like steel.

He leaned in close, placing a hand on Rusty’s shoulder, his touch warm but heavy with threat. “You know, I hate that I need to do this. Another day, another place—we could be something, you and I.” Leo’s soft, manicured fingers gripped Rusty’s chin, tilting his head up, “You’re too pretty to burn, Hale.”

Silence stretched taut between them, a spark flickering in their locked gazes—Rusty couldn’t deny it was there.
He caught a whiff of the deep lilac cologne, choking on its intensity—then his nose caught another scent, sharper, acrid: gasoline...

Rusty broke eye contact with Leo and spotted the canisters of gasoline—six of them, scattered like a death sentence, some tipped over, empty. Gasoline stains spread across the floor like a spiderweb, pooling around him, the air thick with fumes.

“Adding fuel to my charm, Leo? You shouldn’t play with fire, boy.”

Leo smirked, dark and cold, “You don’t get it, do you? This time, it’s over—I’m gonna miss you, Hale. This ‘will they, won’t they’ tension we had—it’s been a thrill.”

“How about we turn that into ‘they will’ tonight, huh?” Rusty flashed his best grin, a lopsided grin, voice low, “For old times’ sake, Leo.” Behind his back, Rusty is frantically searching for any sign of give in his bindings, fingers clawing at the ropes. “I just need the pictures of the man you’re squeezing—and I’ll be out of your perfect hair.”

“Hah!” Leo spun around, dramatic as ever, his velvet jacket catching the dim light, “I knew it—here you are, on another job. Thought maybe, just maybe, you came for me? Too bad. This guy—your client—he’s some zoning pencil-pusher at city hall. With him in our pocket, we get new turf on the docks—a second headquarters. Business is booming—so, no, you can’t have the pictures.” Leo produced a few photos, flipped through them with a sneer, and tucked them back into his pocket. “Now, where were we? Right—you’re about to burn.”

Leo sauntered back to Rusty, bound to the chair, his hand brushing Rusty’s knee, then tracing up his exposed thigh, the ropes forcing his legs apart. He stopped just shy of Rusty’s crotch, a tantalizingly close, cruel tease. “Unless…” Leo whispered, his voice a velvet promise. Leo leaned in, his breath brushing Rusty's lips. Rusty closed his eyes, if it had to be tonight it was as good as any other night. He waited for the passion as he had felt once before–after all this wasn't his first tussle with Marlowe.

The kiss didn't arrive and Rusty swallowed hard, a flicker of heat stirring in his gut, but he kept his cool, “Perhaps, Marlowe—but I’d need a smoke first. Got a cigarette, old chap?”

Leo pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a matchbook—Rusty clocked the label: a Black Cat. The Black Cat Speakeasy—a lead.

The match flared to life, Leo lit a cigarette, taking a long drag, the seconds crawling by like hours—and then dropped the match. “Oops,” he purred, turning away. “You’re my burning desire, Hale—fitting your end will be in flames.” Leo spun on his heel and made a swift exit, the flames already creeping closer, hungry and relentless.

The flames licked closer, their heat searing Rusty’s boots, the air thick with the stench of gasoline and his own sweat. He writhed against the ropes, the coarse hemp tearing into his wrists, his chest heaving against the loops binding him to the chair. His hazel eyes, bloodshot and sharp, darted around the basement, searching for a way out—anything to cheat the inferno creeping toward him.

The fire caught a cardboard box to his left, flames roaring to life with a crackle that drowned out the buzz of Shackleford’s distant streets. Smoke curled upward, choking the dim light from the flickering bulb above, casting the room in a hellish orange glow. Rusty’s heart hammered—he wasn’t about to let Leo Marlowe turn him into a charred memory.

He scanned the room again, his gaze snagging on a rusted screw protruding from the chair’s armrest—a jagged little savior. He twisted his left wrist, gritting his teeth as the rope burned against his skin, and managed to hook the screw under the hemp. He sawed back and forth, the fibers fraying with agonizing slowness, the heat now blistering against his thighs.

“C’mon, you bastard,” Rusty growled under his breath, sweat dripping into his eyes. The rope on his wrist snapped with a soft twang, freeing his left hand. He shook off the loop, fingers trembling as he reached for the knots on his chest. The flames were inches from his boots now, the gasoline fumes making his head spin.

He clawed at the ropes binding his torso, unraveling the loops one by one, his movements frantic but precise. With a final tug, the chest ropes fell away, and Rusty leaned forward, using his free hand to untie the knots on his thighs. The fire roared closer, a wall of flame devouring the boxes behind him, the heat scorching his back through his trench coat.

Rusty freed his legs, the ropes around his ankles still tight, but he didn’t have time—He yanked the chair backward, dragging it across the concrete floor with a screech, away from the fire’s grasp. His right wrist was still tied to the chair back, the rope trailing behind him like a leash, but he was mobile—barely.

The flames hit a pool of gasoline near the center of the room, erupting with a whoosh that knocked Rusty against the wall, the chair clattering beside him, snapping and freeing the last of Rustys limbs. He coughed through the smoke, his lungs burning, and spotted a broken window high on the wall—a sliver of escape in the inferno.

Rusty gripped the remains of the chair, using it as a battering ram to smash the remaining glass, the shards raining down like Shackleford’s own bitter tears. He hoisted himself up, the rope on his wrist pulling taut, and kicked the chair away, snapping the last binding with a grunt of pain.

He scrambled through the window, rolling onto the alley outside, the cool night air a slap against his scorched skin.

He rolled to his feet, panting, his trench coat singed and streaked with soot, his wrists raw and bloody. The tenement behind him groaned as the fire consumed it, orange light flickering through the broken windows like a devil’s grin. Rusty spat into the puddle at his feet, the reflection of the flames dancing in the water, as he heard the fire truck sirens approaching.

“Burning desire, my ass,” he muttered, his voice a rasp. He patted his pocket—his lighter was still there, a small comfort in the wreckage of the night. The Black Cat speakeasy—that matchbook was a lead, the case wasn't over yet–but tomorrow is another day.

Rusty limped down the alley, the city’s cold embrace wrapping around him, and headed for The Rusty Nail. Mick would be there, pouring whiskey with that steady hand of his, ready to patch Rusty up—again.

_SOOTHING JAZZ INTERLUDE_

Rusty pushed through the creaky door of The Rusty Nail, the faded red neon sign buzzing above like a tired heartbeat. The bar was a dim sanctuary, the air thick with the scent of spilled whiskey and old wood, the jukebox crooning a mournful jazz tune in the corner. A few regulars hunched over their drinks, their faces shadowed, but Rusty’s eyes went straight to the bar counter where Mick Callahan stood, wiping a glass with a rag, his broad frame a steady anchor in Shackleford’s storm.

Mick looked up, his piercing blue eyes narrowing as he took in Rusty’s sorry state—singed trench coat, soot-streaked face, raw wrists dripping blood onto the floor. He set the glass down with a heavy thunk, shaking his head, his shaggy dark brown hair catching the dim yellow light.

“You look like you went ten rounds with a furnace, Hale,” Mick growled, his voice a low rumble, as he reached under the counter for a bottle of whiskey and a first-aid kit. He poured a generous shot into a chipped glass and slid it over, then grabbed a damp cloth to clean Rusty’s wrists.

Rusty slumped onto a barstool, wincing as the movement pulled at his burns, and downed the whiskey in one gulp, the burn a welcome distraction from the ache in his bones. Mick’s calloused hands were firm but gentle as he dabbed at the rope burns, his brow furrowed with a mix of irritation and concern. “One of these days, you’re gonna limp in here in a body bag,” Mick muttered, wrapping gauze around Rusty’s wrists with practiced care. He glanced up, a smirk tugging at his bearded face, “Guess I’ll have to start charging you for the nursemaid gig—my hands ain’t just for pourin’ drinks, you know.”

Rusty managed a tired smirk, the whiskey warming his chest as Mick’s hands lingered a moment longer than necessary, steady and sure. “You’re a damn fool Hale!”

Hubba hubba! This intro knocked it out of the park! Theme, tone, mood... I could see it all in my mind as I read.
This is going to be a classic. Bookmarking for sure!

I'm a little jealous. I was working on my own story with the same theme and you beat me to the punch! Lol.
I'm definitely holding off until this story plays out. I want to give this one my undivided attention.

Oh, I absolutely love this! Cannot wait for more.

Yes! Yes! Yes! The atmosphere! The banter! The tension! I am chomping at the bit for more!

That is a awesome start to this story.
Well done, I can tell this one is going to be great

Amazing start!

You call this an introduction, but it has everything I can ask from a noir story already: an immersive prose, wonderfully gritty descriptions and a dangerous yet tension-laden rivalry with our gumshoe hero and his target.

Rusty makes a great captive, I'm looking forward to future perils he'll find himself in.

@wataru14 lol... thanks for the review and sorry I beat you to it... perhaps the two stories share a universe...

Thanks for all the interest!

I'm already polishing Episode 2.

A great start, I do love stories of men in peril. Now that Rusty has escaped I'm sure he'll bring down Leo and his criminal enterprise after he's gotten himself captured and tied up a few more times.

Hey there, ho there, hi there... here's some more! I hope it still hitting the marks!

Episode 2: The Alley Ambush

Rusty rolled out of his sagging bed, his muscles screaming like a choir of damned souls. His eyes, still red-rimmed from the smoke of last night’s inferno, burned like embers, and his wrists throbbed where the ropes had chafed raw, a scab crusting over the bloodied spot. He stumbled across the cluttered room, his bare feet kicking over an empty whiskey bottle that clinked against the floorboards like a tolling bell. Standing in his boxers, he faced the cracked mirror—his body a map of bruises and scars he couldn’t trace, each mark a ghost of some forgotten brawl, yet beneath the wreckage lay a lean, sinewy frame forged by survival. He shoved the pain aside and shuffled to the kitchen, pouring coffee black and bitter—matching the bleak prospects of his life in this cursed city.

He was still sipping it, the scalding liquid a meager shield against Shackleford’s chill, when a knock rattled the office door—not the apartment, the office. He yanked a loose t-shirt over his head, the fabric clinging to his damp skin, and shuffled through the connecting door. Opening it, he found a scrawny kid, all nerves and jittery hands, clutching a crumpled note. “Pa said to give this to you, sir.”

Rusty snatched the paper, his fingers brushing the kid’s trembling ones: Please find my grandma’s stolen necklace, it’s the most valuable item I own, taken from my pawn shop two days ago. Please, I can pay upon delivery. He sighed, a low growl escaping his throat—another job, another promise of payment after the fact. This was his crusade, helping the little guys in Shackleford, where the downtrodden rarely had cash to spare. He rubbed his burning eyes, the smoke’s ghost lingering. “Sure, kid. Tell your dad I’ll deliver if I dig it up.” The boy turned and bolted, disappearing into the city’s gray maw.

Rusty pulled on his faded white shirt, the collar frayed, and looped his black skinny tie, a noose of habit. Best place to start was Frankie Doyle—a dirty cop from his old days, the only soul he could trust to be untrustworthy. Frankie always looked out for number one, and that made him predictable. Rusty shrugged on his trench coat, the fabric heavy with the city’s damp, and headed to the precinct where shadows ruled.

Jazz Interlude

Rusty loitered outside the precinct, the brick facade a tombstone of corruption—no way in hell he’d step inside that den again. He knew Frankie would slink out soon, always chasing some con or another, his greed a beacon in Shackleford’s fog. Sure as the city’s misery, Frankie emerged, scanning the street like a rat sniffing for cheese, then trudged up toward Old Town—the original Shackleford, where buildings older than anyone’s memory sagged under the weight of neglect.

Rusty tailed him, boots silent on the cracked pavement, and when Frankie ducked into a side alley, Rusty seized his chance. He slipped into the shadows, spotting Frankie haggling with a thug. The guy clocked Rusty, shook his head in disappointment, and slunk off.

“Ay, fuck you, Hale! That was a lead I was chasing—now I gotta find a new rat!” Frankie spat, his voice a whiny snarl.

“The only rat in this city is you, Doyle,” Rusty shot back, his tone cold as a winter grave.

Frankie bolted, but Rusty nabbed him, grabbing a fistful of shirt in each hand and slamming him against the wall, lifting him just off the ground. Frankie was wiry, light as a scarecrow. “What do you know about the pawn shop robbery on 45th?” Rusty growled, his grip tightening.

Frankie’s eyes darted away—his tell. The rat knew something. “Tell me, or Shackleford loses its favorite alley scum.”

“OK, OK!” Frankie squeaked, breaking faster than a cheap lock—almost too easy. “Look, don’t know who ordered it, but the loot’s being sold. Tonight. Alley off 36th. That’s all I got, I swear!”

Rusty lowered him, patting down Frankie’s suit, finding an opened pack of cigarettes. “I’ll take these,” he pocketed them with a smirk, “now scram.” He watched the rat scurry off, a solid lead in hand. Doyle knew every shady deal in Shackleford, though Rusty couldn’t rule out a tip-off to the seller. A shot was a shot.

He had time to kill, so Rusty decided to scout the Black Cat Speakeasy. A subway ride later, he stood across from the lavish joint, its gaudy lights a stark contrast to this rotting corner of town. He wasn’t going in—just watching who came and went. Burlesque dancers sashayed inside, a couple of men—bartenders, maybe—followed, then a delivery of whiskey and gin rolled up. Nothing shady. The clock ticked on, and he needed to head to the sale spot.

As he rose, Leo Marlowe stepped out, sleek as a panther, with an older man—square-suited, serious. The man glanced up, and Rusty caught his face: Lucien Stowe. He didn’t look pleased—Rusty guessed they’d learned he’d cheated the fire. Oh, Marlowe, you’ve climbed the ladder—back then, you’d never have a direct line to the boss. Rusty filed that away, a thread to tug later.

He turned heel and dropped to the subway, emerging at 36th as dusk bled into darkness, the few working streetlights flickering like dying stars, fog rolling in thick as despair. Rusty crept into the alley, senses sharp, but before he could scout further, a sharp *click* sounded behind him. Three men pounced, wrestling him to the ground with brutal efficiency, their breaths hot and rancid. He thrashed, but they pinned him, each seizing an arm and yanking it behind his back.

“Doyle squealed you'd be here, even if you knew it was an ambush.” The three thugs laughed, a murder of crows pleased with their latest find.

The one thing you could trust about Frankie, he's untrustworthy, Rusty reminded himself. “Get on with it then,” he muttered under his breath.

“Get a load at this one,” the same thug spoke, clearly the brains of the operation, “A hero for the city? A hero under my boot!” He placed a foot on the back of Rusty’s neck forcing Rusty’s face into the street grit.

He posed for a moment as if someone was taking a picture, then stepped back “lift him up boys.” The other two thugs each pulled Rusty up onto his knees arms pinned behind his back.

On his knees, gravel biting through his faded jeans, he glared up as the third man approached, a wicked grin splitting his face. “Nighty, night hero!” The thug soaked a dirty rag with chloroform, the sweet stench hitting Rusty like a punch. He had nowhere to run, his lungs burning as the intoxicating sleep dragged him under.

Smooth Jazz Interlude

Rusty’s mind clawed through the fog, the memory of his capture snapping him alert. He tried to sit up—couldn’t. Duct tape sealed his mouth, a thick rag lodged between his teeth, the taste bitter and alien. His arms were taped to his sides, his torso cocooned in layers of adhesive, locking him in place. His legs were free—for now. He scanned the gloom, taking in the junk-strewn garage, antique relics cluttering the space like forgotten sins. The necklace had to be here somewhere.

If he could break free and grab it, he’d be out in minutes. His eyes locked on a rusted metal edge at the garage door—a jagged promise. He struggled to his feet, heart pounding, and crept toward it, the tape creaking with each step.

“Oi!” The shout ricocheted in his skull—he was spotted. He dodged around the clutter, adrenaline surging, but three against one was a stacked deck. They hauled him back, slamming him to the floor where he’d started.

“Now let’s make sure you don’t pull that again,” a thug growled, dragging over more tape. He wrapped it around Rusty’s calves and ankles, securing him tight.

“We should just box him up now—save us the hassle later,” another muttered.

Box me up? Rusty’s gut twisted. He glimpsed a crate nearby—were they planning to ship him with the stolen goods? Before he could process, a knock echoed from a distant door, and the thugs vanished, their footsteps fading.

Rusty seized the moment. He strained, squirming, struggling to get to his feet, with great effort and some sweat Rusty managed to get to his feet, he balanced precariously. Once he felt stable he gave a hop toward the jagged rescue he could see a few feet away. He hooped again and again, careful not to clatter the junk.

Success.

He turned, rubbing the tape against the jagged edge, his body moving up and down with desperate rhythm. The adhesive gave with a soft *rip*, and he tore it from his torso. Lying back, he lifted his feet to the edge, sawing through the tape on his legs, the metal scraping his skin. At the same time his newly freed hands clawed at the tape wrapped around his head but he couldn't find a catch to pull on— later, he sighed.

He stood, free—now to find the heirloom. His eyes roamed the chaos, and the gods must’ve smirked—there it was, glinting on a shelf amid the junk. He snatched it, then inched toward the door where voices murmured.

“Boss don’t want us to sell yet—he says a bigger haul’s coming tomorrow. We’ll move everything at once,” a thug said.

Rusty ducked behind an old grandfather clock, its tick a faint heartbeat in the silence, waiting for his chance to slip out into Shackleford’s unforgiving night. The chance came quickly as the thugs slammed the door and headed back to where he just came from.

Rusty slipped to the door — if it was unlocked — more good fortune As the door opened and Rusty dashed out, just seeing a car driving off, he glimpsed the number plate GBN274K he made a mental note.

He ran off in the other direction hearing some faded shouts from behind as the thugs discovered their prey had escaped! He was well versed at losing tails and soon found himself alone.

In the silent and dark cover of the city Rusty had chance to remove the gag. He peeled it off and spat out the rags that had been lodged in his mouth.

He pulled out Doyles cigarettes and lit one as he made his way to the subway, the retrieved heirloom a heavy success against the endless war of Shackleford. The good fortune of the night didn't rise celebration from him, he new the good luck was bound to be balanced—but when.

Smooth jazz interlude

The subway ride back was a blur, the clatter of the train a dirge against his throbbing skull. He emerged near Downtown Shackleford, the Rusty Nail’s faded red neon sign a lighthouse in the gloom. Pushing through the door, the bar’s familiar scent—whiskey, stale smoke, and worn leather—wrapped around him like an old friend. The jukebox hummed a low blues tune, and a handful of patrons nursed their drinks, their faces etched with the city’s weariness.

Mick Callahan looked up from behind the bar, his shaggy dark brown hair catching the dim light, his piercing blue eyes narrowing as they landed on Rusty’s battered form. He set down the glass he’d been polishing with a soft *thud*, shaking his head, the silver axe pendant glinting at his chest. “You look like you danced with a meat grinder, Hale,” he rumbled, his voice a gravelly anchor. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a rag, motioning Rusty to a stool. “Sit—before you collapse and I have to haul you out myself.”

Rusty slumped down, wincing from sore muscles, and accepted the whiskey Mick poured, the burn a balm to his frayed nerves. “This city’s gonna chew you up and spit you out one of these days,” Mick smirked, a glint in his eye, “Guess I’ll start billing you for the doctor’s touch.”

Rusty managed a tired grin, lighting a second cigarette from Frankie’s pilfered pack, the flame casting shadows on the bar. “Keep patchin’ me up, Mick, and I might just stick around for the service,” he rasped, exhaling a plume of smoke. The necklace sat on the counter, a glint of hope amid the ruin, but his mind churned—Lucien Stowe, Leo Marlowe, the Black Cat Speakeasy. Shackleford’s web tightened, and Rusty knew he’d be back in its coils soon enough. For now, though, the bar’s warmth held him, and Mick’s steady presence was a rare reprieve.

Those goons really should've boxed Rusty - he's one slippery sleuth!

For all his gritty appearance, our hero can be a pretty nice guy. I'm really enjoying his friendship with Mick.

I love the detective noir atmosphere, can't wait to see how Rusty gets captured each time...

More thrilling scrapes and daring escapes for our hero! Such wonderful atmosphere. I feel like I'm watching an old black-and-white movie.

Rusty is very lucky the goons took their time in securing him! Though I hope he does end up boxed up soon! I'd love to hear how he gets himself out of that one!

I'm so glad Rusty is getting an audience...

@DeeperThanRed , yeah he's so sure of himself that he doesn't even get phased anymore when he gets captured... he just rolls with it! Yes! Mick, is probably Rusty's only friend at this point, and it is an adorable friendship - it's what I was aiming for... a safe zone, Mick is always there in the Rusty Nail (and do you think the name is a coincidence... I think not!)

@Ryankage me too! It's one of the most fun parts of this story... I get to think of all the ways Rusty is going to be tied down, suspended, buried, boxed, ect.

@wataru14 yay! Feeling came across well then. I want it to read like a TV show episodes... hence the chapters being called episodes 🎞📽

@gag1195 yeah, Rusty was very lucky in the last episode and as he rightly noted... good luck balances out somewhere!

Whoa, I'm REALLY enjoying this story! Thanks for this!

Love it, @MountainMan_91

The period touches are superb. From the Dick, Rusty (despite his rough bark, he has a heart of gold) to the Bruno -- Marlowe. What a great tip of your Borsalino to The Black Cat of Silver Lake. Particularly love the way Rusty and Marlowe give each other the Double O.

Who's going to get the fix on whom? I'm rooting for Rusty -- he's a right gee.

Heyo!

Thanks @stimle for the read! You are so welcome!

And thanks for that review @KidnappedCowboy having so much fun with this... the tone seems to write itself once you get into it!

And now ready for Episode 3.

trigger WARNING: Drug use ahead!


Episode 3: The Sauna Sweat

It was Friday, and Rusty had clawed back a few good dollars after returning the heirloom, a fleeting victory in Shackleford’s endless grind. He slouched at The Rusty Nail earlier than usual, nursing a whiskey, its amber glow a dim beacon against the bar’s shadowed corners. The air hung heavy with stale smoke and the sour tang of regret, the jukebox crooning a mournful jazz tune that echoed the city’s pulse. Mick stood silent behind the counter, his presence a gruff anchor, the pair sharing a wordless communion amid the gloom.

As Rusty drained the last drop from his glass, he broke the silence, his voice a low rasp, “I saw Stowe yesterday.”

“The mob boss? He the one greasing the wheels of this crime?” Mick’s tone was flat, but his eyes narrowed.

“Think he’s got a hand in it, yeah. And Leo’s his right hand now—climbing the ladder fast.” Rusty’s lips twisted, the memory of flames still searing his mind.

Mick’s gaze hardened, a silent sermon of disapproval etched in his weathered face.

“I know, I know,” Rusty cut in, raising a hand. “Don’t worry—it’s over with Leo. Last time, he tried to turn me to ash. But I’m too hot to handle, even for a pyromaniac like him.”

Mick gave a derisive grunt, shoving off the stool to lumber behind the bar, his boots thudding against the worn floor.

“What? I’m dead serious. Over,” Rusty insisted, though the lie tasted bitter.

“Didn’t say a word,” Mick shot back, pouring another whiskey with a smirk. “Seems you need more convincing, though.”

Silence settled again, the glass refilled, a few sips swallowed in the dim light. “Mick, you bastard,” Rusty muttered, “I was so sure it was done. Now you’ve got me tangled in my own head.”

He downed a few more sips, frustration boiling, then stood with a groan. “Later.” He stalked to the entrance, tossing over his shoulder, “You did this!” Mick shrugged, a lazy wave his only reply.

Rusty dug into the city’s underbelly—rumors pointed to Stowe frequenting a sauna a few blocks off. Might as well poke that hornet’s nest. He trudged three blocks, the damp seeping into his trench coat, until the sign loomed—a garish beacon in Shackleford’s decay. He stepped inside, ushered to the changing rooms by a small Chinese woman, her eyes unreadable in the flickering light.

He stripped, facing a warped mirror—his lean frame still held strength beneath the scars and bruises, a testament to battles half-remembered. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he padded down the hallway, the steam already curling like a predator’s breath. The sauna loomed ahead, clusters of older men huddled together, others sprawled alone, their faces etched with the city’s wear. Stowe wasn’t among them.

Unsure of protocol, Rusty nodded at a couple who glanced his way, a tight smile his only shield. He claimed a bench, the wood slick under his palms. Every few minutes, a young man shuffled in, pouring water on the hot rocks with a whoosh, the steam thickening, coiling around him. Sweat beaded on Rusty’s skin, his sore muscles relishing the heat, though he wasn’t sure what he’d find here—just a hunch in Shackleford’s fog.

One by one, the men filtered out, leaving Rusty alone, the silence pressing like a vice. Coincidence—or something brewing? Then someone entered, pouring water on the rocks, the whoosh louder, steam billowing thicker. Not the same lad—Rusty’s gut twisted. Something’s afoot!

He tensed to react, but his head swam, a dizzy fog creeping in. He lurched up, spinning the figure around—gas mask, black holes staring back, cold as death. Startled, he stumbled, and the man shoved him onto the bench. Rusty’s limbs turned to lead, no will to fight as the figure produced handcuffs. He tried to rise, escape clawing at his mind, but the steam—laced with something noxious—drained his strength.

The stranger cuffed Rusty’s wrists behind his back, the ratchet clicking tight, biting into his skin. The second pair slammed onto his ankles, binding him hand and foot once more. The steam shifted, a strange euphoria seeping into his mind, soothing his aches—then a flare in his groin, his dick hardening under the towel, the drug’s aphrodisiac edge lingering even as its haze faded.

The gas mask lifted, revealing Leo’s smirking face, his gray eyes glinting with malice.

Rusty tried gathering his wits, “Well, well—Leo, you’re back to spice up my day, huh?”

A devious smile curled Leo’s lips as he yanked Rusty’s towel away, exposing him in all his vulnerable glory. “I recall you being… well… more,” Leo taunted, his voice a velvet blade.

Rusty groaned, “Try harder to shame me—you, of all people, know I’m unashamed. Well, get to it then?”

“Get to what?”

“Your speech on how you’re gonna off me.”

“Oh, Rusty. Cockroaches don’t die—you know that as well as I do. I’m here with a sweeter deal.” Leo’s hand gripped Rusty’s erection, his touch deliberate. “Boss has an offer. He can pay you—more than those scraps you scrape by on. Chief of investigations at any precinct you want—he can make it happen.” Leo stroked him absently, the stimulation keeping Rusty hard despite the fading euphoria.

Rusty grimaced, a sharp “Aaah” escaping as the sensation warred with his resolve. He had to think with his brain, not his dick. “Never,” he spat, rattling the cuffs—too tight, no thumb-breaking trick would work. How do I get off—get out? he corrected himself.

“Honestly, Rusty, your crusade’s admirable,” Leo pressed, “but imagine your reach from police HQ, serving the whole city…”

“And be part of the corruption? Shackleford’s force is a gutter—I’d never work for them—aaaah!” Leo squeezed his balls, stepping back with a chuckle. He produced a rag and a bottle. “This is WhiteLily—the drug I hit you with. A euphoric aphrodisiac Stowe’s developing. He’ll love these results.” Leo eyed Rusty’s erection, pouring liquid onto the rag. “Let’s see how much it takes to overdose?”

Leo fitted the gas mask onto Rusty’s head, the seal tight around his forehead, cheeks, and chin. Rusty inhaled through the breather, the scent hitting—stronger now. He glimpsed Leo holding the drug-soaked rag over the oxygen tube, the fresh air tainted.

Rusty squirmed, the drug pulling him under.

His mind drifted, body feeling distant. A warm sensation enveloped his dick—he looked, his mind’s eye floating out, seeing himself bruised and scarred on the bench, Leo sucking him off, the nemesis reveling in it. The tension built, muscles convulsing, release hitting as the cuffs held him fast. Sweat coated his skin, every droplet amplified by the drug, his senses dialed to excruciating detail—smell, touch, heat.

Leo spoke, but Rusty’s mind drowned it out, lost in the haze. He felt hot, sweat streaming, his mind swimming to a shore with Shackleford’s skyline looming. A white lily bloomed in the cracked sidewalk. A subway rushed by, passengers reaching, begging for help—a single voice cut through, “Rusty, can you hear me? Rusty! You damn fool!”

Rusty latched onto that voice, air flooding him as he floated toward the black Shackleford sky. “Rusty, there you go. Can you hear me?” A hard smack jolted him awake, Mick’s weary eyes above him. “Oh, thank God. You’re back.”

“Back from where…” Rusty looked around, surveying the scene, he realized he was sprawled on The Rusty Nail’s floor, a few regulars hovering, Mick cradling him. “How’d I get here?” he croaked.

“You were delivered in a fuckin’ body bag, this on your face,” Mick growled, holding up the gas mask.

Rusty glanced down—sure enough, he lay in a body bag, naked, wrists and ankles still cuffed, “Classy exit—next time I’ll spring for a hearse.”

Mick didn't react; he sent a regular for sidecutters, and they snipped the chains on the cuffs. Rusty rose gingerly, the crowd averting their eyes from his naked state—he didn’t care. He staggered to a barstool, rasping, “A whiskey, if you will…” with a weak smile at Mick.

Mick’s face stayed grim, no smile in return.

The regulars drifted back to their corners, their whispers a low murmur, while the neon sign outside flickered, casting red streaks across the grimy windows. His body ached, the snipped cuffs’ still on his wrists, the memory of Leo’s touch and the WhiteLily haze a bitter stain on his mind. The heirloom job was done, but Stowe’s offer—and Leo’s treachery—loomed like a storm cloud.

Mick loomed behind the counter, his shaggy hair damp with sweat from the rescue, his broad shoulders tense as he poured another shot. He slid it over, his calloused hands lingering on the glass, then grabbed a lockpick and started working on the cuffs. “You’re a magnet for trouble, Hale,” he rumbled, his voice a gravelly lifeline. “Next time you go snooping around, I’m chaining you to this stool.” He dabbed at a cut the cuff left, his touch firm but careful, a flicker of concern in his blue eyes.

Rusty managed a crooked grin, lighting a cigarette with a shaky hand, the flame casting shadows on the scarred wood. “Keep nursin’ me, Mick, and I might just let you,” he rasped, exhaling a plume of smoke. The WhiteLily lead burned in his thoughts—Stowe’s empire was growing, and Leo was its venomous thread. Shackleford’s grip tightened.

Another masterfully crafted chapter.

Leo definitely seems like he wants Hale to keep finding him. Letting him live with such an operatic flair and message? He's got another "deal" planned for Hale if they cross paths again. Which of course they will. Perhaps that box mentioned earlier and a one-way trip to a private island? And I feel like there's something deeper between Hale and Mick. But we shall see as this gritty yarn untangles...

Our gumshoe keeps stepping into it! Boy, did he land in the hot seat! His latest scrap with Leo gave me the heebie-jeebies!

@wataru14 is onto something. Rusty doesn't walk into any gin joint in the world. Mick does not just sling shooters. That barkeep is there to pick up the pieces for Rusty. It would be interesting to see if Leo ever saunters into that joint, slips Mick a Mickey, nabs him, and plays more than a game of cat and mouse with Rusty with Mick's life hanging by a thread.

KidnappedCowboy wrote: 2 weeks ago It would be interesting to see if Leo ever saunters into that joint, slips Mick a Mickey, nabs him, and plays more than a game of cat and mouse with Rusty with Mick's life hanging by a thread.

A man after my own heart.

This just gets better and better. Your writing is so evocative of the time-period. And, of course, I just love seeing Rusty getting into (and out of) a new predicament in each installment.

Now see here, boys @wataru14 and @KidnappedCowboy you ain't gettin nuthin out of me about the future of this daring saga...

we'll wait, read and see... there are ten episodes in Season 1... hopefully enough chances for @stimle to read about our gumshoe hero in peril!

Thanks for the reviews friends!

I'm starting to think Leo has something big planned for Rusty - possibly looking for an ally/fallguy for a scheme against his boss?

I agree that turning down a man like him continuously will endanger people close to Rusty sooner or later.

MountainMan_91 wrote: 2 weeks ago Now see here, boys @wataru14 and @KidnappedCowboy you ain't gettin nuthin out of me about the future of this daring saga...

we'll wait, read and see... there are ten episodes in Season 1... hopefully enough chances for @stimle to read about our gumshoe hero in peril!

Thanks for the reviews friends!

OMG - So you're a tease, too?!?!?!