by Jillian Rose
Chapter 3.
Kink Incorporated was exactly what it sounded like. A fetish shop situated in the seedier part of Midtown, near Chelsea. Laird took a few days to recover from his scuffle with Ronnie the body guard, bitterly reminded of the fact he was no longer a young buck full of piss and vinegar, but a forty five year old man with a drinking problem and a bum hip courtesy of a 7.62 round in the ass delivered by a child soldier somewhere in Fallujah. The doctors did their best to rebuild his shattered left hip using a metal ball and socket deal that ached like a mother fucker on cold nights and didn’t respond well to direct trauma, say a size 13 Gucci clad foot kicking you square in the ass.
On top of that was the goddamn gout, which showed sometime in his late thirties after all his years of eating burgers and drinking beer down at Capelli’s Corner with the boys caught up with him. He switched to whiskey and club soda and munched on chicken and salads instead of the burgers and stout, got put on meds and only had to deal with the incredibly painful flair ups once a year if he was a good boy about his diet. But when they came, it was always at an inopportune time, like when he was in the middle of the most important investigation of his career.
He’d been drinking more since Walter’s death however, which his gouty left foot was quick to remind him didn’t help matters. As he walked with the slightest limp into the god forsaken smut shop, he thought of his partner’s dark skinned smiling face. Walter was the closest thing he had to a best friend. They faced the hellish deserts of Iraq together, became partners when Walter found Laird down on his luck as a security guard for a bank, a raging alcoholic and recently divorced, offering him a job on the force. Walter was there when no one else was. Helped get Laird’s drinking under control by telling him he could only drink when he was at Capelli’s with the boys. No drinking alone, no drinking when you were pissed. It was a simple rule system that kept Laird’s relationship with the bottle in check.
He could still taste the cheap bourbon on his breath as he entered Kink Inc. This mixed with the overwhelming smell of latex and leather almost made him gag. He controlled his gorge however, trying to not be conspicuous. He immediately stuck out like a sore thumb, a middle aged ruddy faced man in a peacoat among a crowd of people his estranged daughter’s age, their skin marred with pierced metal and tattoos. He had to stop and gaze in amazement at the assortment of leather dresses and masks he saw. Walls of whips and chains, aisles filled with nothing but dildos, including one that was the size of his leg.
“Hi… Can I help you?” a friendly female voice said. Henderson turned and was greeted by a skinny rail of a woman with pink hair and gauged earlobes the size of silver dollars. She had on a tank top with the words SLIPKNOT emblazoned upon it. A small name tag that said CHERRY was stuck to one corner of the shirt.
“Uh, yes. Hello Cherry.” He said, trying not to gawk at the nipple rings he could see through the thin fabric of the shirt. “Tell me, where can I find uhhh, one of those pocket pussy things? A flesh light or whatever they’re called.” He said, a blush rising in his cheeks as he fumbled for an answer. The woman smiled awkwardly and pointed past his shoulder down to an aisle that said FOR HIM. “Thanks!” He said, and proceeded to walk casually down the aisle, taking a curious glance at the prostate massagers before coming to shelves filled with tanned fleshy looking tubes, the ends shaped like vaginas and assholes. He picked out the cheapest one he could find, and proceeded to walk over to the front counter.
“This it for you?” Cherry asked, ringing up the Velvet Kiss Anal Emulator to a total of twenty something bucks. Henderson dug a crumple twenty and a five out of his wallet, nodding. She bagged the sex toy up and slid it across the counter to him. “Anything else I can do for you?” She asked. The detective looked around the store, saw most of the customers were preoccupied and out of ear shot, and leaned across the counter.
“Yeah, there is actually. Listen, I’m a guy who uh, likes it rough, if you know what I mean. I like me a real badass woman to put me in my place. You know where a guy could find those sorts of uh… services?” He asked quietly. The woman raised an eyebrow at him and laughed.
“You mean… Like a dominatrix? Huh, I wouldn’t of pegged you for a sub, pardon the pun.” She said, Henderson not understanding what was so punny about that but not interested to find out. He nodded in ascent. She laughed again. She pulled out her smartphone and waved it in his face. “Dude, it’s the 21st century. You can literally order escorts right to your door. Just search local dominatrix’s in your area. It’s fucking New York City, they’re everywhere.” She said, as if explaining something very simple to a child.
“Right… I tried that. See, I’m looking for someone specific. I do believe she goes by Miss Crimson? That name ring a bell?” Laird asked. The woman blinked, and swallowed, taken aback by the question.
“And you are?” she asked.
“Detective Henderson, metro PD. Homicide, specifically.” He said, wondering if it was a good idea to approach this like he was on the books. So far as the PD was concerned, Wallace’s death was closed case. Man had a notorious taste for hookers and the extreme stuff. Was found in a hotel bedroom with phenobarbital and Grey Goose in his system, his body drained of blood, his organs gone. A text conversation on his phone revealed someone named Mizz Crimson was going to meet up with him and give him that “life changing experience” he asked for. It was simple on the surface. Ol’ Wallace’s pension for black market pussy put him in league with some shady characters. They find out he’s a cop, lot of people hate cops. An opportune man or woman in the trade of organs and other nefarious goods would be notified.
“Whoa dude, okay. I wanna like, talk to a lawyer before I tell you anything.” She said, taking a step back from the register. Henderson smiled.
“You aint gotta talk to a lawyer sweetheart. I just wanna know where I can find Miss Crimson. You’re not in any trouble and whatever you say won’t get you in trouble. I’m a cop, remember, I can’t lie to you. That’d be entrapment. Please, Miss Cherry. It’s a matter of great importance.” Henderson said, trying hard not to lose his temper. If one more person told him he was a nobody to someone like Miss Crimson he would shove that four foot horse dildo in the corner up someone’s ass.
“Look, I don’t know her personally or anything, okay? But she does come in sometimes. I only know it’s Miss Crimson because she special orders the body bags once every six months. Most people don’t buy those because of how expensive they are, plus you need the pump to go with it or the things are basically just huge balloons.” She said.
“…Body bags?” Henderson asked, unsure if he heard the woman correctly.
“They’re for people who are into vacuum and asphyxiation fetishes. Basically huge bags with special nozzles on them so you can vacuum seal them. Some people get off by sealing themselves inside, unable to move, feeling paralyzed.” She said with a casualness like someone discussing stock prices. Henderson took out a note book and began writing.
“Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. You got an address for me?” He pried. She shook her head.
“First of all, dude, even if I did have the address, you’d need a warrant for me to give it to you, that’s private client information. We promise discretion with our clients. Second, she comes to the store herself to pick them up. When I asked for a name on the account that’s what she gave me, was Miss Crimson.” She said.
“Okay. Can you give me a physical description at least of this woman? Short, fat, tall, skinny, hair color, you know.”
“Uhhh, sure. She’s pretty tall, like, freakishly tall for a woman. Very busty, She had very pale skin, jet black hair down to her ass, and her eyes were a…weird color.” She said, her voice distant as she tried to remember.
“Weird colored? Weird Colored how miss?” Laird implored.
“Like… I don’t know. I can’t remember exactly but like, when you tried to look into them your eyes just sorta slid away. Looking at her made me feel kinda funny. Also, I think sh
e was like, part Asian or something. Her eyes sort of had that slanted look to them, but again, it was hard looking at her face.” She said.
“Excellent. Thank you. Any identifying marks or tattoos? Or anything else you can tell me about her?” He asked. At first she shook her head no, but then paused, remembering something.
“Wait… yeah. This probably doesn’t help, but I always found it kind of weird. Every time she came in to pick up the bags, it was always right before closing. We don’t close until 11, so the fact she always waited that long before coming in was kind of weird. And it was fucking rude on her part, pardon my language. But at 10:55 I’m closing this bitch down. Then I gotta go all the way back to our special orders room to get her heavy damn bags and drag them all the way to the desk.”
“I see… And she was alone all these instances?”
“Yes.” The woman said, and looking around. The customers had stopped milling about and were casting glances towards the register. “You better get out of here man, you’re gonna spook my customers.” She said under her breath. Henderson nodded but didn’t put away the notebook.
“Just one more thing Cherry. Can you give me the product…er uh, model name of the bag she ordered? Then I’ll be outta your hair.” The detective said. Cherry sighed, and typed something into the store computer. Thirty seconds and four mouse clicks later she gave him the name of the company and specific model bag the woman ordered. He tucked the notebook away and reached into his wallet to pull out one of his cards. He slid it across the desk to Cherry.
“Look, if she calls again and sets a time and place to pick up some more bags, let me know, will ya? I got a hunch this broad might be someone very dangerous.” He said. She looked unsure, but nodded just to get him out of there.
Chapter 4.
Laird lived on the fifth floor of Locust Street apartment complex B, which was just as glamorous as it sounded. A ten story building where the higher up your number, the ritzier the digs, his small one bedroom unit was one of a hundred in the huge sterile white building, he just another middle class drone in the hive mind of the complex. Since Walter’s murder, he didn’t come here much. The monotony of the many doors he had to walk past in order to get to his place reminded him of the dull pointless life he was living, with a pointless career in putting away bad guys in a city that never runs out of homicidal nut jobs.
He had just stepped out into the hallway from his front door, heading down to the parking garage, when he noticed the two men walking behind him. They came out of nowhere, and he didn’t start to notice them until they had followed him down the six hallways and four flights of stairs to the garages. They kept their distance, heads down, wearing black jeans and t-shirts. They didn’t look like wise guys, but they didn’t look like most of the miserable middle aged people who lived there either.
He took a swig from his flask as they finally parted ways with him as he took the second door out into parking garage A. Getting fuckin paranoid old man, he told himself as he limped to his car. He’d been up late, trying to track down the manufacturer of the “body bags” only to find out some company in Taiwan made them, and they could not give out order history without an international warrant or some shit. So instead he stayed up all night, perusing the kink forums on various websites, trying to find his elusive Miss Crimson.
Thinking back on it, he told himself if he’d had more sleep (he’d only managed to clock two hours last night and three the night before that) he would have been more vigilant about the assholes who jumped him. But it was 5:30 in the morning, he was hungover, his left foot felt like a Doberman had been chewing it apart all night, and he had to face it: The punks got him with his guard down.
He’d been bending down putting his briefcase in the back seat when a flash of movement in the rearview mirror caught his eye. He shoved his fist up just in time to block a hand with a foul smelling rag in it. He shoved back, slamming the car door into the rag handler and eliciting a grunt of pain from the assailant as he did so. He turned around to see a man in a black pea coat stumbling back and slamming into one of the concrete pillars situated throughout the level. Henderson started walking towards the man when he heard shuffling feet from behind, and threw up an elbow that connected with somebody’s jaw. The bastard had a chin like a brick house, he’d struck his damn funny bone on it and his whole arm went numb as the guy’s momentum carried them both forward, the man dazed but still determined to get him to the ground.
Laird cried out as he was forced to put all his weight on his left foot, which was currently swollen big enough to make his shoe look like a moon boot and felt like it was being stabbed by rabid fire ants any time he put his full weight on it. That was the clincher, that was what did him in, was the fucking gout. Shouldn’t of had that bottle of Turkey last night, he thought as he tried to buck the guy off him. But Mr. Rag handler was getting to his feet and dog piled on the old detective like an NFL lineman in full tank mode.
Henderson was wrestled to the ground, and the rag was shoved in his face. He had no choice but to breathe in, just that little scuffle had taken the wind out of him, his head pounding and lungs on fire. He inhaled deeply and judging from the sharp tang knew he’d be out like a light in a minute. But he fought hard for that minute, kicking and writhing and struggling like a bull with a Texan strapped to it’s back, until finally the world washed gray.
Chapter 5.
When Henderson awoke, his hangover was back with a vengeance. He felt like his head was a in a vice, with a power lifter turning the handle. The thump of a bass drum and a synth like a screeching cat sounded through many walls and layers. Fucking club music, he thought bitterly. He could faintly smell the tang of shitty weed somewhere, but it was dark wherever he was. He disappeared again for a little while and when he came to this time the world was painfully bright.
When his eyes finally came adjusted to the harsh light, he saw that a woman was standing in front of him. She wore black stilettos, with long muscular legs clad in fishnets. An hour glass body was clad in nothing but a thin black line bikini and a leather corset that just barely contained the swell of her breast. Her long luscious black hair fell almost to her thighs, enshrouding her like a cloak. When Henderson tried to look at her eyes, he found that Cherry was right. In the light they radiated a strange azure that made him dizzy when he tried to look directly into them.
“I hear you’ve been asking around about me. Poking your head where it doesn’t belong. Tell me who you are.” She said in a silky soft voice that was like butter to his ears.
“The names Laird Henderson. I’m a detective for Metro PD.” He said, not caring if they got his identity. He was all out of fucks to give at this point.
“A cop?” She said, and grinned. Henderson thought he must be seeing things from the ether he’d inhaled because the set of dental hardware that woman packed look more at home on a sabre tooth tiger than a human being. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, have you old man?” She asked.
“I know you probably got some fat cat friends in some high places. When your name is mentioned people in the room get shifty. Something tells me you got quite a bit of fuckin clout to swing to garner a city wide reaction like that. Nah, I think I got an idea.” He said. He tried to move, found he couldn’t. When he looked down he saw he was tied to a wheel chair. He laughed. “You on the mafia pay roll or something? I bet there’s good money to be made stompin on some good fella’s cock and tellin him he’s a cock roach. Bet that’s one hell of a—” he began, but in the blink of an eye the woman was upon him, strong hands gripping his throat.
“No, you really don’t have any idea. Don’t worry, I’ll give you a grand tour. And just for your tenacity I’ll even throw in a little show before we dispose of you. You deserve it.” She said, and let out an inhumanly long tongue, the tip circling Laird’s Adams apple, plump lips planting light kisses where his carotid artery would be. The lips lingered, teeth nicking his stubbled skin. He found himself breaking o
ut in goosebumps, his cock giving a twitch of arousal despite the dire situation he was in. She shivered as she tasted his blood, and when she pulled away he saw a small red smear at one corner of her mouth. “You’re incredibly lucky I’ve just fed, or you’d be dead already. Tell me, what is a NYPD detective doing sniffing around fora specialist such as myself? Marital troubles at home?” she said, one long slender finger as pale as alabaster stroking the tan line on his ring finger.
“You killed my partner. I don’t know what kind of sick fuckin black market organ trade you got going on but you used the wrong asshole that time. You’d been talking to him for awhile, saw your number saved to his phone as ‘Mizz Crimson”. The number he texted was a burner phone, go figure. Ever since then I’ve been trying to track you down.” He said. He planned to spit in the woman’s face when he finally found her, but now that he was in her presence, he couldn’t help but find himself hopelessly seduced by her.
“That’s very noble of you, Mister Henderson, but one thing you need to understand is I only service those men who want what I offer. If your partner had my number, then surely you’d know he asked for what was done to him. He wanted to become like me.” She said. “Fortunately your species has created such an inaccurate lore about us that people actually think a bite is all it takes to turn someone. It does not work that way. Nor does Garlic have a repelling effect on us, nor do wooden stakes through the heart kill us.” She said, smiling again, revealing eye teeth that glimmered perfectly white save for a small smear of red at their tips.
“You’re fuckin crazy, bitch. Talking like you’re a fuckin vampire. Christ just bump me off and get it over with.” Henderson said impatiently. He was expecting mafia, hell maybe even cartel involvement. But this? A bunch of goth kids pretending to be Dracula? He caught another glimpse of the teeth. She even payed for dental implants or some shit. Incredible, he thought.
