inbox, the account she had created before responding to the personal ads. She was pleased that all five potential candidates had written her back. She took her time reading through the correspondence, mentally noting which ones she had the most in common with.
In the end it came down to two men, both of them living and working in the Cleveland area. Bachelor #1 was Paul, a thirty-eight-year-old accountant living on the east side. A divorcé, he was a single father of two kids and, understandably, didn’t want his young sons to know about this part of his life.
Discretion was Paul’s middle name. Perfect.
But it was Bachelor #2 who really snagged her attention. Perhaps because she liked his photo more, perhaps because his writing had a poetic flavor. It was fluid and graceful, masterful and certain. It felt like the writing of a Dominant, if such a style of writing existed.
Dear submissivegrrrl,
To answer the question foremost in your mind, I have been involved in the D/s lifestyle for over nine years. I am a professional by day, a Master by night . . . .
Nikki savored the entire email, her mind already wondering what he would be like in the flesh. If he looked anything at all like his photo, then he was as handsome and well-built as he was dominant. She smiled.
An added bonus. She was more interested in the dominance.
Bachelor #2 was a thirty-six-year-old schoolteacher named Richard. A divorcé like Bachelor #1, he had a daughter who lived with him full time.
Nikki smiled as she clicked the “Reply” button in her email program. She typed up a five-paragraph response, indicating her interest and expounding upon their commonalities. Before clicking “Send,” she attached a photograph of her body in profile, her face turned away from the camera. She wasn’t comfortable enough yet to show him more.
But this was a start, she thought, feeling equal parts excitement and nervousness. If he liked what he saw and wrote back, maybe she’d work up the courage to send him a photograph of her face.
She bit her lip, her heart racing. Maybe, one day, she’d even meet him.
“Black leather.” Thomas grumbled those words to himself as he plunked down into his office chair and ran agitated hands through his hair. “Shit.”
By itself, a black leather fiber wasn’t much to go on. All kinds of people wore black leather jackets. Damn—he didn’t even know if the fiber had come from a jacket. It could have come from gloves, a pair of pants, or even a pair of underwear from a novelty store.
The hell of it was, black leather could be found on anyone. From Hells Angels sporting black leather jackets to sixty-year-old grandmas carrying black leather purses, it was a common material. Apparently too common, he thought on a frown.
Thomas yawned as he stretched his muscles. His body was tired from a lack of sleep, but his mind kept refusing to rest. There was a correlation here somewhere, he knew. A correlation he was missing.
He stood up and trudged to the back of his office, and then into an adjoining planning room where he had photographs of Lucifer’s victims pinned up in a straight line across two walls. He took his time studying the death-scene photographs, looking once again for that small lead he knew was there if only he could find it.
All of them had been tied up.
He frowned. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of killers tied up victims before they whacked them. It made torturing and killing them easier because they were defenseless to fight back.
There was also the bondage aspect inherent in tying a victim up. Most serial killers who also fit the profile for sexual sadists, which Lucifer definitely did, were aficionados when it came to collecting bondage porn. That this killer in particular had reenacted bondage death scenes with the victims wasn’t exactly noteworthy as far as an investigation goes. Still, it was something. Information to file away in the corner of his brain, to be retrieved at a
In the end it came down to two men, both of them living and working in the Cleveland area. Bachelor #1 was Paul, a thirty-eight-year-old accountant living on the east side. A divorcé, he was a single father of two kids and, understandably, didn’t want his young sons to know about this part of his life.
Discretion was Paul’s middle name. Perfect.
But it was Bachelor #2 who really snagged her attention. Perhaps because she liked his photo more, perhaps because his writing had a poetic flavor. It was fluid and graceful, masterful and certain. It felt like the writing of a Dominant, if such a style of writing existed.
Dear submissivegrrrl,
To answer the question foremost in your mind, I have been involved in the D/s lifestyle for over nine years. I am a professional by day, a Master by night . . . .
Nikki savored the entire email, her mind already wondering what he would be like in the flesh. If he looked anything at all like his photo, then he was as handsome and well-built as he was dominant. She smiled.
An added bonus. She was more interested in the dominance.
Bachelor #2 was a thirty-six-year-old schoolteacher named Richard. A divorcé like Bachelor #1, he had a daughter who lived with him full time.
Nikki smiled as she clicked the “Reply” button in her email program. She typed up a five-paragraph response, indicating her interest and expounding upon their commonalities. Before clicking “Send,” she attached a photograph of her body in profile, her face turned away from the camera. She wasn’t comfortable enough yet to show him more.
But this was a start, she thought, feeling equal parts excitement and nervousness. If he liked what he saw and wrote back, maybe she’d work up the courage to send him a photograph of her face.
She bit her lip, her heart racing. Maybe, one day, she’d even meet him.
“Black leather.” Thomas grumbled those words to himself as he plunked down into his office chair and ran agitated hands through his hair. “Shit.”
By itself, a black leather fiber wasn’t much to go on. All kinds of people wore black leather jackets. Damn—he didn’t even know if the fiber had come from a jacket. It could have come from gloves, a pair of pants, or even a pair of underwear from a novelty store.
The hell of it was, black leather could be found on anyone. From Hells Angels sporting black leather jackets to sixty-year-old grandmas carrying black leather purses, it was a common material. Apparently too common, he thought on a frown.
Thomas yawned as he stretched his muscles. His body was tired from a lack of sleep, but his mind kept refusing to rest. There was a correlation here somewhere, he knew. A correlation he was missing.
He stood up and trudged to the back of his office, and then into an adjoining planning room where he had photographs of Lucifer’s victims pinned up in a straight line across two walls. He took his time studying the death-scene photographs, looking once again for that small lead he knew was there if only he could find it.
All of them had been tied up.
He frowned. That didn’t necessarily mean anything. Lots of killers tied up victims before they whacked them. It made torturing and killing them easier because they were defenseless to fight back.
There was also the bondage aspect inherent in tying a victim up. Most serial killers who also fit the profile for sexual sadists, which Lucifer definitely did, were aficionados when it came to collecting bondage porn. That this killer in particular had reenacted bondage death scenes with the victims wasn’t exactly noteworthy as far as an investigation goes. Still, it was something. Information to file away in the corner of his brain, to be retrieved at a
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