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I thought this story was captivating, found it so hard to put down. It is Piper’s first book, and I look forward to the further tales in this series. Let me tell you a bit about the story.
Detective Wes Ellis’ life consisted of mixing kink and pleasure, even where his job was concerned. That is until the death of a young Jane Doe rocked the core of the BDSM community. Her untimely demise becomes Wes’s new case. Was it a kink scene gone horribly wrong, or was there a serial killer on the streets of his city? The answer is intertwined in the delicate balance of Wes’s life, and everything could come crashing to the ground in an instant.
I thought you might like to read a bit more so here is the Prologue and Chapter One
Prologue
Her phone had chirped with the text message invite about an hour ago. It was the address for a pop-up bondage club at a warehouse downtown. Excitement coursed through her from head to toe as her eyes scanned the message to re-read it again and again.
She recognized the address vaguely, enough to know it was in a bad part of the city. She bit her lip anxiously as she checked the address on her computer just to be sure. Her initial assumption about the location was right, and her teeth bit down a little deeper. Admittedly, part of the thrill was leaving her posh middle-class apartment to venture into the city at night, but she couldn’t ignore the voice in the back of her head that told her to be cautious.
Pop-up fetish clubs were the new raves—a vacant and abandoned warehouse one evening, the site of a killer bondage club the next, then back to a warehouse by the time the sun rose the next morning. The patrons valued their clubs, so there usually weren’t any signs of the activities from the night before.
She had attended these parties before, and she always had a great time. The city was a place she had been warned about since childhood —the fetish clubs and the old ways of the world were less refined than their own—but it added to the excitement of doing something so taboo. She and her friends must have been to a dozen parties over the years, maybe more. However, it was always with her usual group of friends that she attended, and tonight none of them were available to go.
Unfortunately for her, tonight some of them were out of town or on dates, while others had just ghosted her invite. Typical. While they were indeed her friends, most were entitled bitches that she just kept around for appearance’s sake. Petty, yes, but this was the way her class of luxury and money lived and operated on the second tier.
The fact that none of them were available to go to this party made her hesitate as her finger lingered over the confirmation of her RSVP on her phone. Sure, she could take a car down to the city by herself … but should she? She had never gone into the city solo, but tonight she was in dire need of some fun, and this club was calling her name.
Fuck it. She confirmed her reservation on her mobile, and that was that! She chose one of her favorite outfits—a short black vinyl skirt with matching bra. They were shiny and smooth, and in the light, they glistened like slick oil against her tan skin. The lack of a shirt openly exposed her golden necklace that bared her initial, a lower-case “y.”
Her shoes were silver glitter platforms—not the most efficient to dance in, but they gave her an additional four inches of height. She would silently tolerate the pain if they made her look that much taller.
She was going to paint her nails, but she didn’t have the time or patience, and her makeup received the same minimal treatment. She knew she was beautiful without it, and she had the confidence not to spend hours in front of the mirror to make herself up before going out. Maybe it was more than confidence, bordering on ego, but basic foundation, some soft pink lipstick, and mascara was all she applied. She brushed her bubblegum-pink bob haircut, roughly the same shade as her lips, and was ready to go.
***
By the time she arrived at the fetish club, it was in full swing. She always knew how to time an entrance.
Various bondage scenes were already set up and underway, scattered throughout the open play space. In the far end of the warehouse, a makeshift stage was assembled, with speakers pumping trance music to a crowd of eccentric dancers. Retro seemed to be in this season. The song changed to what she recognized as a remix from the group Daft Punk from nearly fifty years ago, maybe more. The crowd went up in a cheer at the first indication of the song, and broke into an energy that matched the music’s rhythm.
Some of the club goers were holding plastic cups, while others danced with glow sticks and hula hoops that came to life with LEDs. Radiant pinks, greens, oranges, and yellows all lit up the crowd. Many were in bondage gear, including collars, harnesses, and fishnet clothing that was either traditional black or obnoxiously loud neon, while others were wearing nothing at all.
The music swirled and intermixed with the scenes of pain and pleasure all around her. It made her feel alive in a way nothing else did in this world, and it all created a natural high that she coasted on in her head. Embracing the adrenaline being released along her limbs and the dopamine in her brain, she realized this is why she ventured into the city at tonight alone. This is what she lived for.
She found a place along the wall where she could watch a scene with a few other gathering spectators. A tall Amazon beauty with golden skin and long black hair was in control of her bottom, another woman with a shaggy blonde pixie haircut streaked with wisps of pink and teal. She was chained from a rig that was suspended from the ceiling. It was raised just enough that the petite woman had to stand on the balls of her feet—nearly her tiptoes—in order to avoid hanging from her wrists. Her slim, naked body was stretched out, vulnerable to her tormentor.
The Amazon stalked around her prey. The young bottom had her eyes squeezed shut in anticipation, and a slight bit of dread at the oncoming sting of whatever implement her Mistress chose to use on her exposed skin made her bottom lip tremble. Y could feel the buzz amongst the crowd as they watched the scene unfold in front of them.
The Amazon’s black leather boots, stretching up to her knees, clicked on the concrete floor. They were far enough from the music that even the audience could hear her calculated footfalls. The beautiful Top wore skinny jeans, accentuating her beautiful ass, and a black halter top. Her slender yet powerful arms were covered in ink that crawled along her skin and surely worked its way down her back.
Her confidence spoke volumes, and she didn’t need flashy club wear to impress others or communicate her stature in the scene or the experience she harnessed. A flick of her raven hair and a curl of her lips as she stalked her prey made each and every spectator want to be beneath her, or crave to Top her. Y had seen this beauty before at the dungeons, and she knew this one would never, ever yield beneath another.
She brought the whip that was in her hand over her bottom’s right breast with uncanny accuracy. It struck its target, kissing the flesh and leaving its mark upon the supple skin. The restrained girl yipped, and sadistic smiles spread throughout the crowd. Another quick lash from the whip struck, this time hitting her on the left butt cheek, making her almost lose the footing she struggled so desperately to keep.
Across the room, Y met eyes with another spectator. He was tall, clad in leather pants and matching shirt with combat boots. He was the definition of “tall, dark, and handsome,” with eyes that were always on her as she moved hers coyly away and then back to him.
This could be fun, she thought as she separated herself from the group, seeing if her watcher would follow her. As she made her way away from the crowd, she definitely felt someone in her peripheral vision moving alongside her a few dozen feet away. She grinned to herself, thinking how she’d successfully baited her handsome suitor.
The problem with clubs like this was there weren’t many places to be alone, unless you wanted to brave the rest of the warehouse, which was usually dilapidated and in shambles. However, there was usually one place in every warehouse that she could utilize.
She pushed a door open, leading to the fire escape. Fortunately there weren’t any smokers on the metal landing at the moment, and she was able to be alone to see if her stalker would follow. She leaned on the railing, positioning herself in a coy and demure pose, trying to play innocent, with the intentions of ravaging him upon his entrance. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
The minutes crawled by. Where was he? She was beginning to get impatient, and that would soon lead to aggravation. Just as she was about to turn to go back inside, she heard the click of the door as it opened behind her. Finally, she thought to herself.
“It took you long enough.” She grinned into the night air, still facing away from the door.
She felt his hand trace along the side of her body, warm and smooth against her skin, cool from the night’s breeze. Suddenly his light caresses ceased and he grabbed her from behind, pulling her into him, yanking her back so hard her fingers slipped from the fire escape, her nails scratching the metal railing and making an awful noise.
Instinctively she tried to pull away and turn to face him, but she wasn’t strong enough as the leather-gloved fingers dug into her arms. Something in her brain instantly knew this wasn’t play. She was now prey. All of those stories about the dangers of the city flashed through her mind, and instantaneously she knew she was in trouble.
She kicked and struggled, trying to get out of his grasp. One of her platform shoes flew off in her attempts and clattered down the fire escape stairs, where it descended into the darkness beneath them.
The leather-clad hands moved to her throat where they began to squeeze, literally taking the breath from her before she could scream. She struggled fruitlessly as the grip tightened. She opened her mouth to yell for help, but all that came out were the last gurgles of air she had being pushed out of her lungs.
Her eyes went wide with fear and she desperately tried to claw at the hands that kept her captive. She could feel the adrenaline begin to fade from her muscles, and the lack of oxygen was closing in on her vision. She desperately tried to stay conscious, thinking if she struggled hard enough or stayed conscious long enough, someone would find them and help her. After what seemed like fifteen minutes of struggling and not being able to breathe, which realistically was probably less than a minute, she could feel herself slipping. Her muscles were becoming tired and her lungs screamed in pain. She was wrong; no one was coming for her. Suddenly everything went black and her fight was over.
Chapter One
Detective Wes Ellis rolled over in his bed. Red satin sheets were strewn aside, and his once brown hair, now long turning grey, was tousled from his sleep, or perhaps from the activities of earlier that night. He pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead tightly as he rolled away from the edge of the bed and onto his back. Next to him, he heard a small noise come from the twisted mess of a duvet and saw a mop of golden hair poking out from beneath it.
The night before slowly came back to him as his eyes wandered the floor on the opposite side of the bed. Bondage gear of all types was scattered across the bedroom beneath the highly raised bed. A spreader bar, various canes and crops, and a pair of heavy elkskin floggers all littered the hardwood floor. Smaller toys intermingled with the larger ones, including clover clamps, an o-ring gag, and vibrators ranging in all sizes, including a menacing-looking dildo. Last night had been a light affair because he knew he had to work the next morning, but they’d still made the most of it. It was so rare their paths crossed these days, he thought.
The stirring of the small noise from his side came again. He reached down to remove the blanket gently from his companion, who still slept peacefully at his side, and finally found her. Pulling back the blanket, he revealed a beautiful pale face, young and smooth. Luscious lips that had worn red lipstick the night before were now bare and gorgeous in their natural beauty. They slightly parted to release a small sigh as she slept.
In the puffy duvet cocoon, her features popped against the white fabric and gave her an angelic appearance. She looked so peaceful as she slept, so young and frozen in time. Removing more of the blanket, he revealed her slender shoulders, and that little sigh came again. It brought a smile to his lips. She was somewhere in that state between awake and asleep, where you could wake up with enough effort, but easily fall back into the dreamscapes you’d just left. He didn’t want to disturb her, not just yet.
That crooked smile that had crossed his lips accompanied the amusement in his steel blue eyes as he admired the young woman, half his age, lying beside him. He continued to lower the blanket, now revealing her breasts that were once as pale as the rest of her, but were now swollen and held a bright, angry pink glow from the cane he had used last night to strike them. She had lain on her back, bound to the four posts of his king size bed. In this spread-eagle position, he was able to leave mark after mark, line after line, from his wooden cane.
Perfectly thin lines matched symmetrically on each breast. He admired his work for a moment before he completely removed the warm blanket she slumbered in. The cool morning air greeted her skin, and her nipples became perky and erect. They were no doubt sore to even the softest of touches.
He wanted to take one of them in his mouth this morning and suck on it as he had done the night before, then graze his teeth along the tip. This morning, even his breath would make them scream in pain, so to bite them would be a wonderful way to start the day for his lovely little masochist.
Watching her breasts rise and fall with each breath she took in her sleep, he remembered last night’s events vividly. First, his fingers had caressed her gently, rolling her nipples between his fingertips until they became red, swollen, and hard. That was when they were the most ripe to bite, and that is exactly what he’d done. Her screams of ecstasy from the pain had only encouraged him to bite harder. She’d run her fingers through his hair and pulled, but this had not deterred him from his course. He would release, open his mouth wider, and envelop a mouthful of her soft breast with his teeth and bite down hungrily.
He bit her much more deeply than he would any other partner because he knew this one could take it—this one was different. He could have drawn blood and she would have gently pushed him away, tasted it on her fingertips, and then pulled him back to whisper in his ear to continue. This girl was special.
While that particularly deep bite mark made the left breast different from the right, still bearing his teeth marks this morning, they were nearly identical as she lay next to him. As his eyes traveled from her face and down her body, he could feel her body heat radiate against him. The scent of sex, sweat, and natural body pheromones escaped in a musky waft as lowered the blanket to the floor, fully revealing her naked body.
Her pussy was waxed and clean. Looking at it now only made his already hard cock ache with desire. Her thighs were covered in beautiful welts that would soon turn black and blue. They would then fade to a sickly yellowish green before their eventual departure from the skin.
Having played with her often enough, he knew these marks would only last five or six days maximum, and when he saw her again they would be long gone and he would have the pleasure of starting over again on a clean canvas. That is, if she hadn’t found someone before him to leave new ones.
She was his go-to girl, what he considered his primary, but with the life he led, he didn’t have as much time for her as he wanted, and certainly not as much as she deserved.
He also damned well knew he didn’t deserve her. A man his age, currently kissing fifty years old on the ass next month, with a job that kept him away all hours of the day and night—he didn’t deserve such a luxury. In fact, he was probably the last person worthy of her company.
She, however, was popular amongst the kink and polyamory circles alike. The fact she threw him a bone at all made him grateful. She could have anyone she wanted any day of the week, man or woman, and for all he knew, she did. But on their nights together she chose him, and hell if he knew why.
There had been many nights when he had requested her company and she had arrived with marks, both fresh and old, but he never asked about them and she never divulged their origin. Other times she would have cuts along her skin, some shallow and resembling scratches, others running deeper and still bandaged. Once again—don’t ask, don’t tell. It wasn’t their way.
That was one of the cornerstones of their dynamic. Love had absolutely nothing to do with what they had; it was purely primal and sensual. They weren’t indebted to each other in the slightest, and they didn’t owe the other a single thing, let alone an explanation for the marks that graced her body. When they were together, it was their time to embrace the other’s company—nothing else, and no one else, mattered.
He had on more than one occasion given her a mark from toys, blades, or teeth that left a long-lasting impression, and on very rare occasions a permanent mark of his own when she’d asked for it. However, through his experience and respect for her, he never left it in an obnoxiously obvious spot as untrained Tops and Dominants have been known to do.
Her creamy thighs, red and warm to the touch from the pain he’d bestowed upon her last night with a riding crop, led to her slender legs and perfectly manicured feet. Her toenails were painted red, as they always were, to match her fingernails. Red, in their world, meant many things—a safe word for “stop,” a color they strived to turn the skin—but to her it was the color that made her look the most stunning and delicious when it adorned her body.
While catering to who knows how many other men and women, she always made him feel special. She always made him feel like he was the only one in the world that mattered to her—the mark of a great submissive.
Whenever she spent time with him, either out on the town or at his apartment, she knew what he liked and was happy to oblige. In his presence, she would wear either a blouse and pencil skirt, or a beautiful long dress with a slit up the right leg, revealing Cuban thigh-highs. The seams were always perfectly straight as they ran up the back of her legs, from her heel to just beneath her voluptuously round ass cheeks where they met the garter straps.
She’d be wearing heels, of course. It could be snowing, with three feet of snow already accumulated on the ground, and she would be navigating the sidewalks effortlessly in her stilettos. Her hair would either be up in loose curls, or straight and framing her delicate face. The two things that were always consistent were her red lips, and the golden necklace she wore bearing her first initial, a lower-case golden “c.”
In their world, whenever someone wore such a necklace, it would either display the initial of their own name, or the name of their Owner. Tops displayed capital letters, while bottoms displayed lower case.
If it was their own name on the chain, this was an indication that the individual was not claimed, either by choice or by circumstance. However, if it was the initial of their Owner, they were off the market unless their Owner expressed otherwise.
Watching her as she slept, now he pondered this. He knew a lot about her. Actually, no, that was incorrect—he knew what she told him about herself. As a detective, he of all people knew that what people told you could be anything but the truth, so who knew if what she told him was just that? Yet to him it didn’t matter; that was a luxury when you accepted the other at face value and didn’t owe the other a thing. He didn’t need the truth form her. Their relationship was purely physical, carnal, and indulgent.
What she had once told him was that she wasn’t owned. She easily could have been, with her looks, experience, and skills. However, as she explained many times over when asked both by him and others in his company, that was not what she wanted. She wanted to be free and have experiences an Owner would never allow—experiences he or she would no doubt keep her from as a kept submissive. She wanted to be her own person. She wanted something that was an old-world concept—free will.
This was not a shared goal in their culture. In fact, it was extremely rare, since that meant she had to make her own way in the world, and their world was not always the safest place for a young, single female to be doing so. With his past caseload of victims, he should know better than anyone. Those who made their own way were usually in the lower ranks of society—the tertiary tier, as they called it. These citizens were ones who commonly led a life of prostitution and unsafe kink.
When he first met her, this was the most remarkable thing he had ever heard. A beautiful woman not wanting to be owned? Girls and boys from the age of eighteen who were submissive in nature begged to be owned, to be cared for and taken care of, to slave beneath one man or woman for the rest of their life. From their tenth birthday, they were trained in the ways to please prospective men and women.
No, not sexually, of course—not at such a young age. However, at ten they began their training in skills that every Owner would want in their bottom, the person who would serve beneath them. Education, culinary and domestic skills, how to hold and maintain proper conversation, as well as an array of very specific skill sets to cater to hobbies and interests their potential Owner may have and require of them, even if the bottom themselves had no personal interest. These were all valuable traits learned from their education structure, and, as you went up in the hierarchy, it only became stricter and more refined.
Ten years old may have seemed young to the world decades ago, if not centuries, but it appeared to be the age when the child would have an inkling if they leaned more toward the Dominant side or the submissive. Were they a Top or a bottom? Would they command others or be commanded?
Parents would take their children to a specialist in the field who would administer a scrutiny of psychological tests and come up with a result that would confirm or deny the child’s own inner feelings. If the child came out as a switch, someone who enjoyed both Top and bottom experiences, they were shunned from being both and were forced to choose. If they refused, their parents would make the decision for them and their education would begin.
It was dangerous to be a switch, because it went against all of the rules their world had established. Men could be submissive and women could be Dominant, but never could one fall on both sides of the D/s slash, as they called it.
For a culture that was widely accepting of social and sexual ideas and ways of life that were once considered taboo in more repressed societies, being a switch was one of the greatest practices of the scene. However, Ellis had an inkling this was exactly what this girl sleeping beside him was. He’d assumed it the moment he’d laid eyes on her as he’d watched how she interacted with others at the bar they’d met at. She catered to some and ruled over others, but it was in the slightest and smallest of ways only a trained detective would be able to notice. The glint in her eye, a hand gesture, the guidance of walking half a step ahead or behind another, even her posture while sitting with someone spoke distinctly of her nature.
To the untrained eye she hid it well, but you can never really hide your true self from those who knew what to look for, and he knew exactly what those things were.
While her license said submissive, he didn’t believe it. Not for a minute. There were other indicators too that went up like red flags that he mentally bookmarked as they continued to see each other.
For instance, when she came over and her skin was unblemished and clean, showing no indications of bruising, scoring, or marks of any kind, this was an extreme red flag. No way could someone who enjoyed receiving pain so much go so long without having any marks from receiving any. That is, not unless they enjoyed giving it as well.
He never questioned her unmarked skin; he could hear the excuses now, and, frankly, he didn’t care. Somewhere deep down inside himself he knew her nature of being a switch was one of the things he enjoyed most about her. It made her unpredictable and extremely interesting, but he would never admit it to himself, let alone another person.
Hell, his job was taking these people who practiced both sides of the culture into holding to be evaluated. In their world, it was believed that when a person could not choose to be a Top or a bottom, this was an indication of a disturbed mind.
It seemed primitive and wrong, but he had seen far too many switches commit crimes to argue with the facts. However, that didn’t mean many other disturbed minds who committed crimes every single day didn’t identify on just one side of the slash. He had his suspicions that condemning switches was just the government’s way of making the public feel safe from the prospects of living in an unpredictable and chaotic society.
As he pondered, she now began to shift and stir from her sleep. Reaching her arms above her head in a blind stretch and arching her back, she let out a cute little noise from her lips. It was the noise she made every morning before she opened her eyes, a noise that always made him smile.
Finally her black eyelashes fluttered open, revealing icy blue eyes from behind her sleepy lids. They were bright and beautiful, especially in the early morning sunlight.
“Good morning.” She smiled warmly as she rolled over on her side to face him, tossing her long locks onto one side of her head and using them as a makeshift pillow beneath her left cheek as she looked up at him. She yawned and blinked a few times to clear the sleep from her eyes.
He stroked her hair that fell on the pillow, liquid gold forming small waves and pools on the red satin beneath. “Good morning, Celeste.” His own eyes stayed on her hair as he played with it between his fingertips. Even after their late night adventures, her hair still smelled wonderful, as did her skin as he leaned down to kiss her shoulder and gently nibble on it.
She giggled her wonderful, tinkling laughter and ran her fingertips through his aging hair. She playfully pulled it back in a sharp tug that made him gasp as he was forced to lean up from her. Another red flag, he thought to himself. This girl is trouble, he admitted to himself as he straddled on top of her, but didn’t care as he leaned down to seal her mouth with his.
She embraced her newfound position beneath him, raising her hips to feel his hard morning cock glide against her, warm and stiff. He ran two fingers against the entrance between her legs and felt the warm heat welcome him as she softly inhaled into his kiss. She was already wet and waiting for him to enter, but that wouldn’t be the plan for today as his phone at the bedside chirped.
It had occurred so often since they had met over a year ago that it didn’t disappoint her anymore, not that she would ever admit it if it did—a good submissive would never admit to such a thing. However, she wasn’t just a submissive now, was she? Knowing how to read people, he acknowledged her reactions, and it indeed used to bother her. Another red flag.
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Also coming soon. Dates to be announced.
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