by Pascal Scott
He filled her glass to its bell then did the same for me. She ordered the filet mignon with gorgonzola sauce. I got the braised, bone-in short rib au jus.
“Do Buddhists drink?”
“No,” she answered. “It’s the Fifth Precept: no intoxicants. Which is why I take my Buddhism with a grain of salt. And a glass of wine.”
“All things in moderation,” I said.
“Even moderation,” she added.
Tanika lifted her glass.
“A toast. To nights we’ll never remember with friends we’ll never forget.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said. “This is good. What did you call it?”
“Malbec,” she answered. “It’s sweeter than most reds and has a wonderful mouthfeel.”
“You sound like a wine label,” I said.
“Oh, I’m a little bit of a wine snob, I’m afraid.”
“Then you have to come to Altamont. We’re home to The Most Popular Winery in America. Betcha didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t,” Tanika commented. “I don’t usually think of North Carolina when I think of wine.”
“Most people don’t. But we’ve got over a hundred wineries. And, of course, there’s the winery on The Vrek Estate. That’s how I got my start.”
“Remind me.”
“My first job out of college was Security Guard at The Estate,” I said.
“I remember now. You told me about that when we were on SGATF.”
“Yeah, it was that or the Altamont Mall or leave the mountains. We had a son of a bitch for a Sheriff back then who didn’t think women belonged in uniform. But then Brad Jones, the Head of Security at Vrek, made a run for Sherriff in 1999 and won. Brad persuaded me that the good citizens of Hemphill County needed me more than a bunch of tourists from Florida.”
“Was he right?” she asked.
“Hell yeah. I’ve never regretted the decision.”
“So. Let me ask you something,” she said. “Do you believe in business before pleasure? Or is business your pleasure? I’m afraid for a lot of us the job becomes everything.”
“I know what you mean,” I replied. “There’s no clocking out when you’re on a case. Law Enforcement has a way of taking over your life.”
“That it does,” Tanika said.
“But I do believe in pleasure,” I added quickly.
“I’m glad to hear it. All right, then, business first. You wanted to discuss a case.”
“Skyler Leppard,” I said.
I took a small notepad out of my blazer’s pocket along with my pen, a Zebra F-701. It’s steel and in a jam, I can use it as a weapon.
“Leppard, yes. They say a cop doesn’t work a case, a case works a cop. This case is working me.”
“A hard one, huh,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
“I can tell you what I know,” Tanika began. “Early Tuesday morning, the sixth of August, Dispatch gets a call from a man reporting an unresponsive female at a home address on Peachtree Court. We know now that man was Robert Mosby, one of the defendants charged with murder. Mosby tells the dispatcher, ‘It looks like she was attacked by somebody.’
“She, meaning the unresponsive female,” I clarified.
“Yes, the unresponsive female who we learn later is Skyler Leppard. The dispatcher says, ‘What do you mean, attacked by somebody?’ “Mosby says, ‘She’s got a whole bunch of bruises on her.’ “Dispatch puts out the call, two units respond, including mine. I’m with my partner, Detective Williams. We arrive on the scene, the front door is open, we enter. We conduct a walk-through, we find Mosby in the living room with two of his housemates, a married couple named Flynn. The victim is lying face-down on the floor, naked, with a towel draped over her body.”
Tanika seemed to be reciting by rote. I wondered how many times she’d been asked to repeat this story.
“EMS arrives. Detective Williams and the other two detectives secure the scene while I take statements from Mosby and the Flynns. Mosby tells me there are two more housemates who have already gone to work. I take names and numbers. The medical examiner checks for pulse and respiration and finding none, he pronounces the victim dead. The apparent cause of death is determined to be blunt force trauma. The scene is processed while Detective Williams and I escort Mosby and the Flynns to the Midtown Precinct for further questioning.”
“And?” I prompted. “What happened under questioning?”
“Under questioning, Mosby tries to feed us some horseshit about Skyler getting jumped in a Walmart parking lot that morning. Have you seen his mug shot?”
“I’ve seen it,” I said.
“Mope,” she said, dismissively. “White trash.”
She looked at me suddenly as if she’d just realized I was a white girl.
“No offense meant,” she said.
I chuckled.
“None taken.”
“Meanwhile, the body goes to the coroner’s office for autopsy, and we’re locating next of kin and picking up the other two housemates, Shelby Mason and Lucille Lyon.”
“Lucy Lyon, yeah, our MISPER.”
“Right. At Midtown, we put each of them in their own interview room, Mirandize them, and offer them the same deal: the first one to talk gets the sweet end of the lollipop.”
“Sweet end of the lollipop,” I repeated. “I’ll have to remember that one.”
“So, we’ve got Mosby and the Flynns, Mason and Lyon under interrogation. And the prize goes to…”
“Lyon,” I said.
“Lyon,” Tanika confirmed, “Lucy gets the lollipop.”
“And what did Mistress Sinestra have to say?”
Her eyebrows shot up.
“Oh, you know about that. Mistress Sinestra said, and I quote, ‘That is not the way we punish slaves.’”
“Slaves, huh?” I asked.
“Yeah, they called Leppard their house slave.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Different strokes for different folks,” Tanika commented. “But assault is assault.”
“Exactly,” I said. “So, what happened? Exactly.”
“Oh lord,” she sighed. “It was one of the worst beatdowns I’ve seen in my career. Around two a.m. that Tuesday, they gagged Leppard and hung her from a ceiling hook in the living room and then they took turns beating and punching and kicking her. For four hours. When she lost consciousness, they revived her and started again. At the end, Mosby used a fireplace poker, which is probably what killed her. The autopsy showed she had thirteen broken ribs, a fractured sternum, and a lacerated liver. And bruises, head to toe. We have pictures. The dirt bags took pictures on their phones. Probably to show off to their friends.”
“Jesus,” I said. “Who did the beating?”
“That’s the interesting part. According to Lyon, it was Mosby and the Flynns. Lyon says she had taken an Ambien and fallen asleep with her bedroom door closed. She said Mason was with her, asleep in bed.”
“Mason was her lover?”
“No, Mason was her sex slave. So was Leppard. Lyon is what they call a Lesbian Lifestyle Dominant. She had multiple sex slaves. Lyon said she had given Leppard to the household, sort of like community property. As the house slave, Leppard was tasked with domestic chores like cooking and cleaning. Lyon said Leppard had moved in just a few weeks earlier after she had lost her condo to foreclosure. She said Leppard had been unemployed for more than a year and had gone through her savings and was on her way to being on the street-homeless when Lyon took her in.”
“Hard times,” I commented. She nodded.
“Robert Flynn was a sex slave to his wife, Sandra Camp, another Mistress like Lyon. Mosby was the only one in the house without his own sex slave.”
“Maybe that’s why,” I suggested.
“From what Lyon said, Mosby had been pissed-off even before the beatdown. She said he was angry that Lyon hadn’t shared Leppard with him. Lyon said that in BDSM, a slave is
expected to have sex with whoever her Mistress chooses. Lyon told me she never trusted Mosby and that’s why she hadn’t shared Leppard with him.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“So, Mosby wanted a piece of ass that he wasn’t getting,” she summarized. “He was pissed off even before he started the beatdown and then he told Detective Williams that, quote, ‘Rage took over.’”
“Rage,” I repeated. “And did Rage accompany Mosby to the interview room?”
“No! Mosby was a choir boy during his interview. He sang like a castrato.”
“Sang like a castrato. You’re funny, you know that?”
“I get it from my dad,” Tanika said. “He was a cop, too. So, Mosby confesses. They all do, they turn and tumble like a bunch of Weebles.”
“Except Lyon.”
“Right. Lyon and Mason insist that they did not participate in the beating. The others back them up.”
“Because they were sleeping,” I suggested.
“Yes. Lyon says when she got up at six-thirty a.m. to get ready for work, she was told only that Leppard was in the downstairs bathtub. So Lyon and Mason left the house and drove to work. They both work for AT&T, in the corporate offices downtown. They say they didn’t find out what happened until two officers showed up and took them in for questioning.”
“Why’d they do it?” I asked. “Mosby and the Flynns. Why was Leppard being punished?”
She sighed.
“It was because of Mosby. He told Detective Williams that he had tasked Leppard with making a pot of coffee for him and the Flynns. This was about one-thirty Tuesday morning, after they had all been drinking. Leppard was waiting for the coffee to brew and had lined up cups on the kitchen counter. When Mosby looked into his cup, he saw some white powder that he thought was cockroach poison. He accused Leppard of trying to kill him.”
“Was she?” I pressed.
“No. It was powdered creamer.”
I closed my notepad.
“One more thing,” I said. “The suspects are in jail, right? Being held without bond?”
“Yes,” Tanika confirmed. “Atlanta City.”
“And Shelby is where?”
“Back on Peachtree Court.”
“It’s not a crime scene?” I asked.
“Not anymore. It’s been processed.”
“And where is Lucy?”
“Well, that is the question, isn’t it?” Tanika asked quietly. “Lucy is in the wind.”
Brett
Skyler was late. She apologized, sent a message, “Still on 85, should be there by eight”. I called Les Deux Magots and cancelled our hard-to-get Saturday night dinner reservations. It was June, and all the damn Floridians had flocked to Altamont like sand fleas jumping out of the heat. They filled up the restaurants and hotels as well as the six-lane Interstate, making the Tourism Development Authority happy and everyone else miserable. It annoyed me that I had to cancel, but I almost expected it by now. Lesbians are known to be late for everything, like the old joke about Standard Lesbian Time. Skyler was no exception.
I logged onto Perv and brought up her page. I’d read her profile a dozen times but I read it again:
Being a sucker for a good quiz, I could not resist the Dominant/Submissive Test. Surprise! I’m a submissive. ‘You are a Classic Submissive. You like giving over to your Dominant’s will, not just giving in to a Top’s sensation. You have a few boundaries and limits to what you will or won’t do, but you are eager to do what it takes to please and pleasure the one to whom you submit. You may love pain or love to give service or adore sex, but your desire for giving over is what drives you the strongest.’
Sounds right. My friends say I am classy and classic. A writer by profession, I’m a romantic by nature. I love red roses and white wine; great literature, theatre, and art; timeless fashion, film, and music. And food! I’m a foodie.
I have only just begun to explore BDSM and while I have made mistakes, some of them painful, I don’t imagine my exploration will end any time soon. When I first began this journey down the Rabbit Hole, I took the BDSM Test. My results showed that I was eighty percent masochist. For fun, I took it again this year. I am now one hundred percent masochist. My inner masochist has bloomed. The only question is: Is it an annual or a perennial?
Her inner masochist has bloomed. That sounded like Skyler. Roses and thorns. I shut off the computer. It was after nine and she still wasn’t here. She needs discipline, I thought.
It was almost ten by the time she found my cabin. Her GPS had delivered her to the wrong address, another cabin that was dark and empty and didn’t seem right. She called and I told her how to get to my place. I know the cabin she was talking about and where she lost her way. It’s an easy mistake to make, just a wrong turn in the night. Technology can’t protect you from everything. That cabin was empty, abandoned by its last inhabitant. It was a couple of miles from me; we drove by the place as a shortcut when I was house-hunting, and I pointed it out to my realtor. He said, “forget it, you don’t want it, it’s nothing you’d be interested in.” “No one has lived in it for years,” he said.
I heard her car, the purr of her BMW Coupe, and I was tempted to go out and meet her. But, instead, I waited. I let her come to me.
“You found me,” was the first thing I said when I opened the door.
“I did,” Skyler said.
She was wearing a black leather jacket over a cashmere V-neck, skinny jeans, and short boots. She looked good. Parking a rolling suitcase a few feet inside the front door, she said. “You live way the hell out here in East Jesus.” Then she thought better of it and corrected her tone.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a long day. May I use your bathroom?”
I pulled her suitcase into the bedroom. Stepping back into the great room, I saw that the bathroom door was closed. I made a mental note: another correction. Skylar will be required to keep the bathroom door open when she needs to use the toilet, if that’s where we were going, if she wanted to be my submissive.
When she came out she looked fresher. She’d washed her face and reapplied her makeup. She looked at me as if seeing me for the first time.
“Hello,” she said.
Skyler smiled, a beautiful smile, straight white teeth, perfectly aligned.
“Well hello,” I said. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“I would love a glass of wine.”
The kitchen was immediately off the front entrance, a galley with updated appliances. I’m not a gourmet but I cook on occasion. Across from the galley was a nook with a weathered oak dining table and four chairs. Opening the refrigerator, I took out a bottle of white. For the occasion, I had bought a California Sauvignon Blanc at a wine shop in town. I used a wing corkscrew. I never did get used to the idea that a good wine can be sealed with a screw top. Besides, I like the ritual. Rituals are important. Skylar watched me.
I poured the wine into a stemmed glass. She took a sip.
“Nice.”
“Good,” I said. “I’m glad you like it. It’s from Napa. Sauvignon Blanc.”
“Sauvignon Blanc,” she repeated. “My wine. You remembered.”
“Of course. Have you ever been to Napa?”
“Yes! I love San Francisco. It’s one of my favorite cities.”
She was looking around.
“Let me give you the tour,” I said. “You’ve seen the kitchen and guest bathroom.”
“Umm-hmm.”
We walked past the kitchen to my office, which held a glass-top table, an ergonomic desk chair, a filing cabinet, and a bookshelf overflowing with paperbacks. From my desk I can see Cold Mountain in the Blue Ridge, the flow of cerulean curves that look like a woman lying on her side. At dusk, the mountain range softens seductively until I find myself waving my hand in the air along the line of her body.
“And this is where I write.”
There was no view now, nothing but darkness for miles and miles. The next room was a black leather couch and a
rmchair, coffee table, flat-screen TV on the wall, and a floor lamp.
“The living room,” I said.
Following me into the bedroom Skyler commented, “Wow. Somebody likes fireplaces.”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “That would be me. There was an ugly mantle here that I took out. I laid these stones myself.”
“Nice,” she said. It’s her favorite filler. The way I said cool, the way Brigitte said geil, Skyler said nice.
She turned to me. “It was a long drive. I’d like to be clean for you. May I use your bathtub?”
“You may,” I replied. “I’ll run a bath.”
In the bathroom was a claw foot tub, porcelain over cast iron, with a freestanding faucet. The tub was another thing that sold me on the cabin. There was a long wooden shelf where I’d provided items for her visit: fresh towels, washcloths, a loofah, tea candles, French soap, and a bottle of luxury bubble bath. I lit the candles and poured the lavender-and-honey foam into the hot running water.
She came in naked. I’ve seen more women naked than I can remember, have had more sexual encounters that I can count, but Skyler was different. The sight of her took my breath away. Skyler was all girl. There wasn’t a single boyish thing about her. In Ancient Greece she was Artemis; in Rome she was Diana, goddess of the full moon, the Huntress. Like women everywhere on the hunt, Skyler had blood on her lips and nails.
Skyler slipped gracefully into the bubbles.
“More wine?” I asked.
I refilled her glass and left her to soak. Twenty minutes later I heard the pull of the plug that started the water draining. I gave it enough time to empty. When I went in she was standing on the rug, drying herself in a big towel. Moving closer, I took the towel and turned her around, her back to me. I told her to stretch her arms over her head and found the few drops she’d missed.
The thing I loved most about her body was her back, the way the muscles of her shoulders flexed when she lifted her arms. She was small, petite, only five three. I’m taller; I like that, five nine in my boots. I loved the bones of her back, the skeleton under the skin, the imagined whiteness of it there. As she moved I watched her muscles, seeing the outline of cartilage. I saw the point where wings would sprout if she were an angel. I let the tip of the towel trace the line of her backbone down to the curve of her ass, to the flawless round flesh. Tossing the towel over my shoulder, I cupped her cheeks. They fit perfectly in my hands. I squeezed. Her head tilted back. I leaned in, breathed on the back of her neck.