CORKTOWN
Ty Hutchinson
For my wife, Mila
1
To be honest, I never had many girlfriends growing up. They seemed to come and go. As a teen, I was a bit of a tomboy. I preferred hunting trips with my father to hair braiding sleepovers with girls from school. I liked boys, but second dates were hard to come by after my suitors met my father; the tall, broad-shouldered Irishman that hovered behind me. In lieu of dating, my father taught me to bare-knuckle fight, a favorite pastime in Ireland, he would say. When I graduated from Hong Kong’s Police College at age nineteen, unheard of for a woman, he told me, “I’m proud of you, son.”
I like to think he was joking.
From that point on, my career in law enforcement became my focus; it took over my life. It left little time for what few friends I had and completely ruined any chance of a romance with someone other than myself. My relationships were pathetic at best and upsetting for my mother. All she had ever wanted were grandchildren. What about me, the child you birthed?
“Why Abby?” She would start over Sunday dinner. “Why are you not married? What is wrong? Are you a lazi?”
“What?”
“I knew it; you’re a lazi.”
“I’m not a lazi!”
I finally proved my mother wrong eight years later when I married a man.
Peng Choi was my first true love. He also showed me there was more to life than the job. We enjoyed six months of marital bliss. I say six months because that’s how long we had been married before my old partner, a good friend, sat me down and told me my husband had just been found brutally murdered.
We had no motive and no knowledge of enemies Peng might have had. I wasn’t prepared for that—life shoving its hand into my chest and ripping out all that mattered.
He left me with two young children, Ryan and Lucy, and a mother-in-law, Po Po. Peng was a widower when we fell in love; now I was a widow, and a stepmother to boot.
I dealt with his death by throwing myself into my work. I had all but abandoned the family during that time. My stepchildren were strangers to me and Po Po was fast becoming their mother, a job I slowly started to realize I wanted. So I did what I thought was best. I quit the force and moved the family to San Francisco for a new start on life. Mine, mostly.
• • •
I checked my watch—ten to seven. I picked up the pace on my Sunday morning run, enough to get the endorphins flowing and the hair tangled. Po Po would already be up, puttering around the kitchen, doing the job I should have been doing—the job of mom. I turned onto Pfeiffer Street and walked four houses toward our Victorian—a fixer-upper.
As soon as I stepped inside the two-story, the smell of pancakes filled my nostrils. Po Po stood next to the kitchen counter in her blue and white nightgown making a batch of everyone’s favorite, blueberry. Her arm jerked back and forth, mixing more batter than necessary. Ever since she’d discovered Bisquick, we’d been eating silver dollars quite regularly.
“Why are you cooking now?” I asked. “They won’t be up for another half hour.”
“You eat,” she said, staring at me in her loving yet authoritative way.
It irritated me that she made the kids breakfast every morning. Does she know that? That should have been my job. I worked during the week and almost never got home before 5:00 p.m., when old people and small children liked to eat.
I should have been grateful to have a mother-in-law who wanted to help out. But deep down inside, I wanted to be the awesome supermom fixing her kids’ meals yet still managing a career. In the meantime, I focused on mastering the not-tired-when-I-came-home-from-work role.
A month after arriving in the states, I took a job as a federal agent investigating white-collar crime, mostly fraud. I know it made no sense for a burned out detective to join the FBI, but I needed a J. O. B.
“I’ll eat after my shower,” I called out to her.
I headed upstairs to my bedroom and started the shower before stripping off my running gear. With my new career, I actually had time to practice an active lifestyle. Even though I had the metabolism of a cheetah, I missed the high those double-digit runs had fueled.
I moved my finger across my stomach and traced the noticeable six-pack before clucking my lips and patting my tummy. You still got it. I couldn’t take all the credit, though. Both of my parents passed along their best genes, except for one thing; my Chinese mother blessed me with her short stature. Despite that, I stood proud at five foot one.
My hair, however, was another matter. I longed for curvy body but settled for straight silk. I turned so my back faced the mirror. I had started to grow out my shoulder length hair; it popped nicely against my fair skin.
In the shower, my skin tingled under the delicious warmth. I had one of those rain showerheads and it felt like hundreds of fingertips tapping away on my body. Speaking of tapping, my bathroom door had opened and the tap-tap of tiny feet made their way across the floor.
“Is that you, Lucy?” She was my youngest, age five. Ryan was eight.
I heard her yawn before she answered. “Yes, Mommy.”
“Didn’t Mommy tell you not to come into the bathroom when other people are using it?”
“I had to pee-pee.”
“What’s wrong with the hallway bathroom?”
“Ryan’s hogging it.”
Lucy was the only one who called me Mommy. Ryan called me Abby. It didn’t bother me. I completely understood. He was old enough to remember his mother. She had died shortly after Lucy was born. As far as the five year-old was concerned, I was her mother, and I liked that.
By the time I had made my way back downstairs, both kids were eating their fluffy stacks. I poured myself a cup of tea and sat at the table, where the San Francisco Chronicle waited for me. I picked up a knife and fork, preparing to cut Lucy’s meal, only to see someone had beaten me to it, and that someone had already read halfway through her copy of the Sing Tao Daily.
Before I could think of a clever remark, we all heard impatient rapping at the front door. All eyes fell upon me, so I got up and did my duty.
“Abby, sorry to disturb you so early.” My unofficial partner, Agent Trey Wilkinson, stood outside my door and he didn’t look too happy.
I stepped onto the front porch and closed the door behind me. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, adjusting his Oakland A’s cap.
While we weren’t exactly assigned partners, he and I had worked closely together on a number of small cases. Wilkinson was a rising star inside the Bureau and was a great help to me in the beginning. We had a friendly relationship; I occasionally called him Wilky. Whenever possible, we would seek the other one out and team on a case. We respected each other’s abilities.
“You remember telling me how you enjoyed your job with the FBI, how easy breezy it was?”
My right eyebrow rose, giving him my answer.
“Well, Detroit Metro Police had a couple of homicides pop up. There are similarities between the cases and the detectives think they might have a serial killer on their hands.”
“Really? How many so far?”
“Two.”
“Don’t you need three to officially qualify or is it different in the states?”
My partner shrugged and nodded. “That’s not all though; they want us to fly out today.”
My gut tightened a bit. I didn’t expect to hear that.
“We’re to be briefed first thing Monday morning,” he said as he looked down and kicked at the porch with the tip of his sneaker. “Sorry about ruining your Sunday.”
I knew it wasn’t his doing. He was only the messenger. I poked him. “Hey, we can enjoy each other’s misery on the flight.”
Wilkinson smiled again.
He may have been thirty, but he looked twenty-two.
Breaking the news to everyone wasn’t something I looked forward to doing. For the last six months, we had lived as a normal family. We were happy, content and gelling. My new job allowed me the flexibility to take off for an hour so I could walk Ryan and Lucy home from school on a somewhat regular basis. I had even attended my first PTA meeting.
And now the job was getting in the way, again.
As I headed back inside, Po Po saw it on my face. She knew what a hushed conversation outside meant.
Five hours later, Wilkinson and I were sitting in coach and halfway to Detroit. I already missed Po Po and the kids. But to be honest, the chase excited me.
2
“I’m horny,” she said.
“I’m driving back from Kalamazoo,” he said.
“It’s Sunday evening. Why aren’t you home?” she cooed, allowing the last word to trail. “I need you to take care of me.”
“I’m three hours away.”
“Hurry.”
Recently divorced, with her kids away in college, Marian Ward had started to enjoy her single life. It got better when she met Paul Poole, an engineer at Ford. He had turned Marian on to her first screaming “O,” as well as a slew of other sexual firsts. He also opened her eyes to the wonderful world of BDSM. She couldn’t get enough of the whipping, clamping, and toy-infused lifestyle. From the start, she was hooked.
Completely nude, except for the dangles of bling around her neck and wrists, Marian stood in front of her oak-framed, floor mirror. She twirled around, bent over and struck other seductive poses. Not bad for a forty-six year-old. By all accounts, the five-foot-seven brunette took the term MILF to a whole new level. Marian was extremely proud of her tight stomach and taut butt. Her early morning gym visits kept those areas in check and her social calendar full. She paid for a lift in the bosom department, but you couldn’t blame her; her age and two kids made it inevitable. Plus, she had a life now.
She entered her walk-in closet and continued toward the back wall where there were four customized drawers built in. All were filled with fun stuff. She reached for the third one and pulled it out. It was five inches deep and lined with black velvet material. Neatly displayed inside were all sorts of vibrators and various sized dildos and butt plugs. She had metal and fuzzy handcuffs, rubber and metal cock rings, and a slew of G-spot stimulators. She even had a strap-on harness. The other drawers were filled with whips, feathers, chains, blindfolds, mouth gags, numerous latex outfits, and assorted bottles and tubes of lubricant.
Marian felt extra naughty that day and plucked out her favorite butt plug, the one made of clear safety glass with a colorful jeweled bottom. She decided against lube, preferring to feel the plug grip her. It was a wonderful way to prepare for Paul.
Reaching around, she slowly inserted the toy until it popped in and only the sparkly base was exposed. She then pranced around the room, accentuating the shift of her hips from side to side. With each step, the plug moved, giving her the most wonderful of sensations. She often dared herself to spend the day at work with the toy inside of her, but hadn’t yet built up the nerve.
The dancing beauty made her way back down to the kitchen where she uncorked a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and flipped through Saturday’s mail. With time to kill, the wait made her want it more. She grabbed the bottle and a glass and headed back upstairs. A good soak to relax couldn’t hurt.
Marian relished every bit of the warm sudsy water while she puffed lazily on a joint, something else Paul had introduced her to. It didn’t take long for her to start dreaming up scenarios for the evening. She liked Paul and was grateful that he had helped her open up sexually. He would always hold a special place in her vagina.
With her eyes closed and her mind flying high, she thought about Paul and how he knew her body so intimately. He knew exactly where and how to touch her and, more importantly, how to give her the most wonderful feelings. She absolutely adored the way he made her quiver when he kissed her lips lightly. She loved it even more when his tongue dotted her neck. But the best was when he would let his fingers linger along the outside of her folds before letting them slip between them to her happy button.
Her coral nipples responded quickly to the pinching and pulling. Soon she had both hands fondling, thoroughly enjoying the foreplay before the foreplay.
Even though she had completely submerged herself in the tub, she could still feel her wetness increasing. With her eyes closed and her body limp, she encouraged her fingers to explore every part of her landscape. God, that feels great.
Yes, everything felt great right then. Marian was in heaven, enjoying every bit of it—until the obvious presented itself. If both of her hands were busy with her nipples, then whose hand was busy between her legs?
3
She tried to scream. She gave it her all. But the orange gag strapped to her mouth had done a wonderful job of shutting Marian up. She lay flat on her back, tied to her bed with the same leather straps she had enjoyed many times before. She twisted and turned from side to side but could not free herself. Her head hurt and her eyes were crusty. The last thing she remembered, before awakening, was a cloth being pressed onto her face.
“That’s the downside of being into kink,” the stranger said, startling her. “You never know if the other person will forget the safe word.”
The blond man sat casually on the chaise lounge in the corner of the bedroom. She was surprised to see him and thought for second she had smoked too much whacky weed, but the bindings holding her legs open were a firm indication that she was wrong.
Her legs were tied in a way that she could not close them. She felt exposed as he stared between them. He noticed the toy still inside her and waved a finger. “You’re a naughty one, aren’t you?”
He stood up, fixed his brown corduroy blazer, and straightened his khaki pants before walking around the bed toward her walk-in closet. “You have such fun toys. Many I’ve never seen before.” He disappeared for a moment and then reappeared holding something in his hand. “This one is my favorite. It’s genius.”
Marian’s eyes widened when she saw what he had returned with.
He walked toward her and sat near the edge of the bed. His eyes soaked up her nakedness, paying extra attention to the details between her legs. He breathed in, chest expanding. “I can smell your scent.” He breathed deeply again. “Fear. It excites you.”
Tears flowed as she shook her head from side to side. The straps dug deeper into her wrists and ankles. He held the gift Paul had bought her last month—the only one she refused to use. The one she even considered throwing away.
He moved closer as she desperately tried to scoot away, her legs flailing hopelessly. Marian let out more muffled cries for help. Her eyes, wide and wet, begged for him not to.
“You haven’t tried this, have you?” he said.
Marian shook her head, hoping he would understand.
He did. The stranger reached up between her legs.
Marian screamed at the unthinkable. Her body, now rigid, shook uncontrollably. Her face drained itself to an ashen white. Her fists tightened into balls and her nails cut into her palms. As much as she tried, as much as she wanted to, she could not tear her eyes away from his hand, from what he held.
And in an instant, before she could gasp, she watched his hand thrust forward.
4
“It’s a fist.”
Detective Vince Solis had bent down near the bed and looked straight up between Marian Ward’s legs. The life-like piece of rubber was still lodged inside her vagina.
“A what?”
Solis motioned with his hand. “You know. A rubber fist.”
Detective Ray Madero stepped forward for a closer look and saw an object sticking out of her. “How can you tell?”
“Played with one in a porn shop once,” he said while standing up and fixing his jacket. “It’s like a dildo only in the shape of a real arm, and the part inside of
her, it’s shaped into a balled fist. Except I think this one is a double fist.”
Madero crinkled his eyebrows. “Why buy a fake one? What’s wrong with the one she’s already got at the end of her arm?”
“Why buy a fake cock or a pussy? People get off on it.” Solis knelt again next to the body.
Madero shook his head. “I’ll tell you why; women don’t have cocks, so it makes sense to buy one. But she,” he pointed at her, “she’s already got a hand.”
Solis looked back up at his partner. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe she can’t reach with her own fist?”
Madero’s fat head pondered the conundrum for a few seconds before he waived off Solis. “If she can wipe her own ass, she can reach.”
• • •
“Reach what?” I asked as Wilkinson and I entered the bedroom. The two detectives turned toward us. They both had ignorance scrawled across their face. The one standing showed his intelligence first. “Miss, this is a crime scene.”
They always do that, assume I couldn’t possible be there for the crime. I didn’t get it. We were dressed in suits, though I thought I looked cuter in mine than Wilkinson did in his. We made it past all the uniforms downstairs but still the idiot couldn’t connect the dots that I might be somebody.
Unbelievable. I whipped my badge out. “FBI. I’m Agent Abby Kane. This is my partner, Agent Trey Wilkinson.”
The detective who had spoken sauntered toward me with a stupid smirk on his face. He looked roughly six feet tall and probably had about three hundred pounds on me. I may have been short, but I had a powerful upper cut that was perfectly aligned with what had to be his tiny set of balls. Before my father left Ireland, he was the best bare-knuckle brawler to ever come out of his town. Did I mention that?
“Look. This is our case,” he said. “We appreciate your help, but it’s not needed.”
Corktown Page 1