The Demimonde - Pt 1

I realized she was blonde when I first caught sight of her, though the light in the room I had been ushered into by a set of concerned, well-dressed managers made it difficult to ascertain for sure. She was naked, of course, well-toned, athletic, a rack you could hang your head on for a awhile if you swung that way--which by the looks of it most people here did. She was a real looker. A catch. A peach. A woman you would brag to your friends about. One you might take home to the folks, too, so long as they didn't inquire about where you two lovebirds met.

"What do you make of it, Detective?"

I turned to the voice beside me, shrewish, slightly balding man with a pencil-thin mustache that went well with his sallow,rat-like face. He could have been 42 or 62 - men like him always seemed a caricature of middle-age - and he looked worn out from a life spent catering to the debauched pleasures of the rich and powerful. One wouldn't think that would be so hard on the body, but given a place like this the mileage no doubt accumulated pretty fast. Her's sure did.

"She's dead."

Of course Mr. Duplaine already knew that. That's why he called us--the police that is. We normally don't get called out to a place like the one run by Duplaine or, if we did, it was to take a few envelopes of cash in order to look the other way. Duplaine and his high-roller clients didn't like attention. They came here, as they saying went, 'to get away from it all.'

"I'm afraid we know that, Detective..."

"Max. Thomas Max. Sergeant Detective, actually."

"Yes, well, you see things like this don't normally happen here," said Duplaine.

I returned my gaze to the dead blonde strung up like a Christmas turkey on the bondage cross in front of me. Rigor hadn't set in yet and she was still warm to the touch. She had just checked out and if you didn't know better or weren't watching carefully you could mistake her for being asl**p. How one could sl**p being hung up and spread open for all to see, though, would probably be a good question.

The cross itself was made of stainless steel and fashioned in the form of an 'X' with the two lower legs set into the ground and the two upper legs attached to the ceiling. One wrist was tied to each upper leg and one ankle to each lower. Snugly so she couldn't wriggle free but not so tight there there wasn't play, so to speak, between her and the metal beams that comprised the shape of the X. The whole contraption was tilted forward at about a 15-degree angle so that she hung suspended from her constraints.

Other than her and the cross there was very little else in the room. A few toys were hung on the wall and were what you might expect in such an establishment. Various whips and riding crops, gags, ropes of various sorts, and several items that were obviously meant to be inserted in places best let to the imagination.

Which was no doubt meant to run wild as the room was dark and plush all laid out in brown shag and black leather. It looked to be sound proof and when I asked Duplaine about it he nodded in the affirmative that it was. One dim bulb suspended from a chain was flickering over head. A charming place perfect for high tea with the queen.

I paced around the suspended stiff and tried to order in my mind what I knew about the case so far. Her ID and police records said she was one Leigh-Anne Smith, aged 25, formerly of Mississippi but on scholarship at Tulane Medical School. Parents divorced. A resident of an apartment complex near her school on St. Charles Avenue. She obviously came from money or had it as her purse and discarded clothing, found in a corner, were high-quality luxury brands. No known record of any type, just your all-American country girl come to the Big Easy to study medicine--and BDSM.

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Posted by satrynguy
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