Detective Roger Corso is open about his sexual orientation. He's less forthcoming about his leather lifestyle. There's only so much his coworkers can take. He thinks he's doing a pretty good job of keeping it covert, but then something happen that changes his mind.
Someone delivers an elegantly clothed corpse to his home. His couch to be precise. And that corpse is carrying a leather flogger. Roger's taking that personally.
Additional distraction comes in the form of the victim's younger brother Sean. He's annoying. Knows something about the murder he's not telling. Wants something from Roger--and is everything Roger ever wanted. But before he can make Sean his, he's going to have to solve the mystery of the elegant corpse.
Publisher's Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable: Anal play/intercourse, BDSM with significant D/s play, male/male sexual practices, spanking, strong violence.
Roger had neither the time nor the inclination for the usual meeting and interview, though he generally savored that process. Roger's entire body had been an agonized knot of outrage since he'd crossed his living room and discovered the corpse where his tuxedo pillows were supposed to be.
The building was a nondescript red brick without a sign. The window and pneumatic door Roger pushed through were opaque gray. The room he entered had a rubber black mat floor and unpainted drywall supported between open beams. A dusty boot heel-marked front desk and posters from old videos sat in the corner manned by one lone youth with a white face and dyed purple hair.
"Is Peter here?" he asked the receptionist, presenting his ID. The young man's wrists were encased in black cuffs with metal studs; he checked Roger's ID, cracking chewing gum, and said, "Yeah. Peter's in tonight."
"Tell him I'm here and ask if he has time."
"Sure." The torn green vinyl on his chair creaked as he leaned forward to punch numbers into a phone. "We got Mr. C here for Peter."
A few minutes later a rear door opened and a man in his midthirties, light brown hair and eyes, wearing jeans, loafers, and a short-sleeved cotton dress shirt came across the room and shook Roger's hand. "Where've you been keeping yourself?" he asked as he escorted Roger through the door and down a long concrete-floored hallway.
"We've been busy at work."
"Tell me about it," chuckled Peter, shaking his head. He opened another door. "Here we are."
The room was opulent compared to the hallway and reception lobby. Gray soundproofing showed through behind deep burgundy curtains. The floor was wooden except near the center, where black rubber again muffled the sound of Roger's shoes. The cross, bench, and horse there were not quite what one would find in a men's gym.
Roger looked around. "This is fine."
"Great. Well, I think you'll find everything you need over there," Peter waved in the general direction of a wet bar-type area. "I'll be just a minute."
Roger went to the wet bar, opened a closet behind it, and hung up his suit coat. He unlaced his tie and hung it carefully there as well. There were empty hangars, and he took off his work shirt and hung that up, buttoning it to the top. He placed his watch and the slim silver ring from his right hand into a tray there.
The mirror mounted in the door of the small closet reflected his massive shoulders and bulky biceps. Roger didn't keep himself shaved, as did many practitioners of his art, but he wasn't overly hairy to begin with. A spattering of black hair arched from brown nipples to encircle his navel and point toward his belt buckle. Green eyes sharp with canny intelligence, something that often startled witnesses, met themselves in the glass and dropped away.
Peter reemerged from the door by which he'd departed. He was stripped down to a black jockstrap. Instead of talking to Roger, he walked to the middle of the room and stood, hands clasped behind him, head down.
Roger closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, entering the scene. As he did so, he felt a small amount of tension coiled at the base of his neck just unfurl and float away. The tension held stiffly in every muscle of his back would take more work to release.
"You may speak," he said.
"Master," Peter's normally jovial voice was subdued, barely a whisper. "My safe word is ‘jello.'"
"Understood," said Roger. As the scene descended on him, he felt the rigidity in his knees and calves, the result of extreme self-control, relax into a powerful rolling walk as he paced around Peter, looking the familiar sub's body up and down.
Grasping Peter's joined hands by the wrists, he gently guided the man to a St. Andrew's Cross mounted on the wall as if at some Spanish minimalistic shrine, raising each wrist to fasten it securely, but not too tight.
Then he went to the wet bar and opened a door in it. There were quite a few dildos and butt plugs. Roger studied each one, and finally selected a long wide smooth butt plug and a simple jelly dildo. He liberally oiled the butt plug and, holding Peter's hip with a firm hand, worked it into him very slowly. Peter made a deep sound as the butt plug was fully seated.
Then Roger went back to the wet bar and opened another door. An array of riding crops, canes, and floggers hung there. He selected a traditionally designed flogger with velvety-looking, light-colored tails and returned.
Roger stretched his muscles, working the flogger through the air. He walked back and forth, rolling his head to stretch out his neck and working the flogger in the air with both hands before stopping at a point about five feet back from Peter, the flogger loosely hanging from his relaxed hand.
Peter sighed as the first blow struck his round white ass cheeks. Roger swung the flogger with a smooth quick rhythm, the tails painting figure eights in the air as they struck the subs buttocks and thighs with precision. Peter's creamy skin flushed and his eyes closed as Roger laid one bright mark after another across that beautiful behind.
Roger worked into a rhythm, the flogger's tails beating against Peter's skin like a drum. Roger paused on occasion and surveyed his work, running his palm lightly against the fiery hot skin like a sculptor caressing his clay. Peter's body trembled beneath his touch. His armpits were damp and a trickle of moisture had already begun sliding down each of his sides.
Roger removed his belt, his shoes and socks, and slacks. He folded and put each away carefully. Then he went back to the wet bar and exchanged his flogger for another of suede. The tails were longer and when he swished it against Peter's legs, they seemed less flexible.
This time, Roger swung the flogger over his head and laid it on Peter in a snaking motion. Peter moaned. He flinched with every blow, and soon his entire back was red and he was pulling at the restraints. He was breathing hard now, shaking visibly. Roger paused, panting. Sweat was rolling down his body.
He ran his hand lightly over Peter's hot skin again, checking the man's face, too, for any sign of distress. Then he moved behind him and slowly removed the butt plug.
Peter's head tipped back. His ass cheeks tensed noticeably. He was panting as Roger carefully oiled and inserted the dildo, moving it back and forth until it slid in and out easily. A small needy noise came out of Peter's throat and Roger murmured in an assuring way.
He took up his position behind Peter and began the sinuous flogging routine again. Switching from hand to hand this time, his speed increasing, the weight of the blows mounting as well, as he stepped closer into Peter's body.
When he stopped, both he and Peter were fully erect, drenched in sweat, and shaking.
The building was a nondescript red brick without a sign. The window and pneumatic door Roger pushed through were opaque gray. The room he entered had a rubber black mat floor and unpainted drywall supported between open beams. A dusty boot heel-marked front desk and posters from old videos sat in the corner manned by one lone youth with a white face and dyed purple hair.
"Is Peter here?" he asked the receptionist, presenting his ID. The young man's wrists were encased in black cuffs with metal studs; he checked Roger's ID, cracking chewing gum, and said, "Yeah. Peter's in tonight."
"Tell him I'm here and ask if he has time."
"Sure." The torn green vinyl on his chair creaked as he leaned forward to punch numbers into a phone. "We got Mr. C here for Peter."
A few minutes later a rear door opened and a man in his midthirties, light brown hair and eyes, wearing jeans, loafers, and a short-sleeved cotton dress shirt came across the room and shook Roger's hand. "Where've you been keeping yourself?" he asked as he escorted Roger through the door and down a long concrete-floored hallway.
"We've been busy at work."
"Tell me about it," chuckled Peter, shaking his head. He opened another door. "Here we are."
The room was opulent compared to the hallway and reception lobby. Gray soundproofing showed through behind deep burgundy curtains. The floor was wooden except near the center, where black rubber again muffled the sound of Roger's shoes. The cross, bench, and horse there were not quite what one would find in a men's gym.
Roger looked around. "This is fine."
"Great. Well, I think you'll find everything you need over there," Peter waved in the general direction of a wet bar-type area. "I'll be just a minute."
Roger went to the wet bar, opened a closet behind it, and hung up his suit coat. He unlaced his tie and hung it carefully there as well. There were empty hangars, and he took off his work shirt and hung that up, buttoning it to the top. He placed his watch and the slim silver ring from his right hand into a tray there.
The mirror mounted in the door of the small closet reflected his massive shoulders and bulky biceps. Roger didn't keep himself shaved, as did many practitioners of his art, but he wasn't overly hairy to begin with. A spattering of black hair arched from brown nipples to encircle his navel and point toward his belt buckle. Green eyes sharp with canny intelligence, something that often startled witnesses, met themselves in the glass and dropped away.
Peter reemerged from the door by which he'd departed. He was stripped down to a black jockstrap. Instead of talking to Roger, he walked to the middle of the room and stood, hands clasped behind him, head down.
Roger closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, entering the scene. As he did so, he felt a small amount of tension coiled at the base of his neck just unfurl and float away. The tension held stiffly in every muscle of his back would take more work to release.
"You may speak," he said.
"Master," Peter's normally jovial voice was subdued, barely a whisper. "My safe word is ‘jello.'"
"Understood," said Roger. As the scene descended on him, he felt the rigidity in his knees and calves, the result of extreme self-control, relax into a powerful rolling walk as he paced around Peter, looking the familiar sub's body up and down.
Grasping Peter's joined hands by the wrists, he gently guided the man to a St. Andrew's Cross mounted on the wall as if at some Spanish minimalistic shrine, raising each wrist to fasten it securely, but not too tight.
Then he went to the wet bar and opened a door in it. There were quite a few dildos and butt plugs. Roger studied each one, and finally selected a long wide smooth butt plug and a simple jelly dildo. He liberally oiled the butt plug and, holding Peter's hip with a firm hand, worked it into him very slowly. Peter made a deep sound as the butt plug was fully seated.
Then Roger went back to the wet bar and opened another door. An array of riding crops, canes, and floggers hung there. He selected a traditionally designed flogger with velvety-looking, light-colored tails and returned.
Roger stretched his muscles, working the flogger through the air. He walked back and forth, rolling his head to stretch out his neck and working the flogger in the air with both hands before stopping at a point about five feet back from Peter, the flogger loosely hanging from his relaxed hand.
Peter sighed as the first blow struck his round white ass cheeks. Roger swung the flogger with a smooth quick rhythm, the tails painting figure eights in the air as they struck the subs buttocks and thighs with precision. Peter's creamy skin flushed and his eyes closed as Roger laid one bright mark after another across that beautiful behind.
Roger worked into a rhythm, the flogger's tails beating against Peter's skin like a drum. Roger paused on occasion and surveyed his work, running his palm lightly against the fiery hot skin like a sculptor caressing his clay. Peter's body trembled beneath his touch. His armpits were damp and a trickle of moisture had already begun sliding down each of his sides.
Roger removed his belt, his shoes and socks, and slacks. He folded and put each away carefully. Then he went back to the wet bar and exchanged his flogger for another of suede. The tails were longer and when he swished it against Peter's legs, they seemed less flexible.
This time, Roger swung the flogger over his head and laid it on Peter in a snaking motion. Peter moaned. He flinched with every blow, and soon his entire back was red and he was pulling at the restraints. He was breathing hard now, shaking visibly. Roger paused, panting. Sweat was rolling down his body.
He ran his hand lightly over Peter's hot skin again, checking the man's face, too, for any sign of distress. Then he moved behind him and slowly removed the butt plug.
Peter's head tipped back. His ass cheeks tensed noticeably. He was panting as Roger carefully oiled and inserted the dildo, moving it back and forth until it slid in and out easily. A small needy noise came out of Peter's throat and Roger murmured in an assuring way.
He took up his position behind Peter and began the sinuous flogging routine again. Switching from hand to hand this time, his speed increasing, the weight of the blows mounting as well, as he stepped closer into Peter's body.
When he stopped, both he and Peter were fully erect, drenched in sweat, and shaking.
A.M. Riley is a film editor and amateur poet living in Los Angeles, California. She writes murder mystery, romance and urban paranormal with GLBT characters. In addition to writing, Riley enjoys politics, police blogs and ice hockey.
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