Page 11 of Vengeance of Childhood Proportions (Till Death Do Us Part #7)

Chapter Three

Mal

I hate crime shows, but the truth was that I was also envious of them.

If life were a TV show then I’d already have a final cause of death, my toxicology report, and a name for my John Doe.

One would think that the uprise in fictional crime shows would make civilians think twice before committing crimes because it led the common person to believe the facts of a case were easily obtained and that detectives were only working on one case at a time, solely devoted to bringing that specific killer to justice.

Reality was a lot less…dramatic. While pathologists did perform an autopsy on all bodies with a suspicious COD, they didn’t do so immediately because they were busy .

Toxicology was taken but the autopsy itself wasn’t performed until two to three days after discovery.

A preliminary report was then given to the detectives.

Full results, depending on what else was going on, took six to twelve weeks.

That is six to twelve weeks where a killer was running free thinking that he got away with it.

Many found it hard to believe that Alaska had the nation’s second-highest crime rate in violent crimes. We were a big state with a lot of undeveloped land and harsh weather. I had a total of fourteen open cases—and the murder in Atelihai Valley wasn’t even fifteenth on my priority list.

The raven-haired owl from Snow Chains was on my mind more than that case was.

That is, until another body was found.

Two weeks after the John Doe was discovered at the high school, Mira and I found ourselves on our way back to Atelihai Valley. A Jane Doe had been discovered—only this time, it wasn’t in the high school. She was found handcuffed in the back of a police cruiser.

I was still trying to wrap my head around that when we arrived on the scene. Due to the public display, the townsfolk were crowded around with their phones, taking pictures and videos in the hopes of becoming the next viral sensation.

Due to Atelihai Valley’s small population, they did not have a budget for a massive police force.

Their cruisers were outdated and did not have surveillance cameras.

A quick glance at the old brick building in front of me confirmed that the parking lot where the cruiser had been parked overnight did not have cameras either.

“We need to look to see if any of these businesses have any cameras,” I told Mira under my breath.

“Already checking,” she said, her face tipped towards her always-present iPad.

Mira was extremely efficient and I was lucky to have her as a partner.

Despite that I had seniority, she was more ambitious about climbing the bureau ladder than I was.

She wanted to be Section Chief by the time she was thirty.

Personally, I liked where I was. I might have my frustrations about how the system worked, but I liked being the agent who got to slap the cuffs on the perverts, killers, and lawbreakers.

For me, that was more important than the title on my office nameplate.

I didn’t judge her for her ambition, even if it had cost Mira her marriage and custody of her two kids.

That was her life. While I admired her for her tenacity, occasionally there were moments where it seemed like she cared more about closing the case than if we had the right culprit.

That I did care about. I had seen a superior agent’s career halt abruptly when he was so gung ho to arrest a man that he was certain was the killer that he’d been caught planting evidence to frame him.

Personally, the fact that Mira had been married and had kids while doing this work was admirable.

I couldn’t do it. I’d tried in the beginning, like most green agents.

Even dated a few women who were in the lifestyle and were willing to match my needs, but there was always something that drove us apart.

The reoccurring ‘something’ being that I didn’t love them.

I was a domineering man. Some might even call me an asshole.

Actually, that was a lie. Most would and did call me an asshole.

Discovering the BDSM lifestyle had been an eyeopener to say the least. The Dom who trained me, Master David, had taught me not only the art of domination but the respect for it.

I couldn’t dominate before I learned to submit.

In my early twenties, I spent six months under the hand, and whip, of Mistress Charleen.

The woman, who then had been in her late forties, had been ruthless, strict, and passionate.

I never thought I could submit, and I fought her for a good number of weeks, which resulted in a number of rightfully earned punishments.

I felt like submitting to Mistress Charleen was emasculating, even though no one outside of Mistress Charleen and Master David knew about my tutelage with her.

It took me a long while to discover what submission truly was about and appreciate Master David’s insistence that I submit before I dominate.

My newfound respect for submission, be it man or woman, made me a better Dom. I understood who held the power in a way that most Dominants didn’t because they’d never spent time under the whip.

The submissives I’d been with over the years were wonderful women.

Beautiful in their own individual ways. I enjoyed every single experience with each of them…

but I was never going to be their Master.

The few times I had contracted with a submissive woman, it had been more like what a vanilla relationship would call ‘friends with benefits’, two people who mutually agreed to get together on certain weekends to relieve themselves of everyday stress with no emotions involved.

At the end of the contract dates, we went our separate ways.

I had never been with a woman I wanted to extend a contract with.

Not because they weren’t enjoyable or I didn’t like spending time with them, but there was nothing outside of sex.

I didn’t want to know about them, had no desire to know their history or to even question why they were in the lifestyle.

They were a means to an end to me as much as I was to them.

I’d even asked Master David once what made his wife, Nat, stand out amongst the rest. He told me it was her eyes.

The raven-haired beauty from a couple of weeks ago at Snow Chains came back into my head.

I couldn’t remember seeing her eyes. In fact, I was fairly certain she’d had them closed while she was dancing on the pole.

Lost in her world of music and movement.

It made me wonder what had drawn me to her, if not her eyes.

I hadn’t felt a need like that in a long time.

The main area of Snow Chains did not have rules against public nudity or sex.

There were many who liked talking with their friends while their submissives pleasured them in one way or another.

The stage with the dancing poles was not the only performance stage in the place.

Several bondage devices and even a relief station were spread around the main room.

Both the men’s and women’s restrooms had a stall for piss slaves as well as hooks to chain your submissive by the door while you used the facilities.

Two glory holes were also located in each restroom.

Private rooms and party rooms were available by reservation-only on the floors above.

Sex was common place out there, as well as the bar area.

Taking the beautiful little owl on stage as I had was not against the rules.

She was not collared, nor had she stated the common safe word for all submissives within Snow Chains.

Smartly, the owner wanted to have one word that all submissives knew that they could tell any employee or Dominant at any time without having to explain their individual safe word.

I felt that was a good policy to have in place and had even told the owner of a club I frequented in Quantico when I’m in the lower forty-eight about the rule.

Last I heard, he was planning on implementing the same or a similar policy at his club too.

The little owl had wanted me to fuck her. She’d come on my cock in front of her admiring audience.

The sex had been fast, rough, and fantastic. But I’d had fast, rough, and fantastic sex before. What was different about sex with the little beauty was the fact that I couldn’t get her out of my head.

I’d been back to Snow Chains twice since our public encounter, and both times I found myself looking for her.

Granted, she’d been wearing a large owl mask that covered half her face when we’d met, so there was every possibility that she was there and I didn’t recognize her.

When I’d asked Joey the bartender who she was, he’d given me the useless name of ‘Dani’.

All I knew was that she was a submissive and she moved with the grace of a swan.

Maybe she was a ballet dancer in her mundane life.

It would explain the mask. Unless the club was throwing a masked party, those were only regularly worn by people who wanted to remain anonymous because they had a public or important job.

It was against the club rules to take cameras or recording equipment inside.

Lockers were kept at the front desk for that reason.

However, that didn’t stop people from trying.

Reporters were notorious at trying to get footage of someone in a compromising position, even if their methods were unethical.

I did not wear a mask because the people I cared enough to hide something like my lifestyle from already knew.

It was an unspoken rule at the Mallory family gatherings that no one talked about the fact that I was a sexual Dominant.

I appreciated that because it was none of their business.

No one wanted their mommy to know about the time they tied up a woman and fucked her six ways to Sunday.