Puss In Boots

Puss In Boots

Lady Midnight

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Twelve years after the Alphabet Murderer went free on a technicality, the death of Dom Pierre Navarre, the prosecutor, stirs the cauldron. The Alphabet Murderer strikes again on Dom’s lover and secretary, leaving his daughter, Marquie, and his slave, Donnell to unravel the web of danger.  

 

Donnell, an ex-cop who worked on the homicide division’s investigation of the Alphabet Murders, is certain Marquie is next on the hit list.  But his motive is much deeper than his love for his Mistress.  For the damage those murders caused hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, he needs to commit murder to be free of the nightmares. He won’t allow himself or the community to suffer the agony and humiliation of another trial.   

 

Only Marquie knows the real identity of the Alphabet Murderer.  But will anyone believe her, the daughter of a confirmed schizophrenic who committed suicide? That the defense attorney for the Alphabet Murderer was none other than the Alphabet Murderer, who’d forced his slave to take the rap? Why will no one believe that her own brother means to kill her?

 

 
PUBLISHED BY: loveyoudivine Alterotica
ISBN: 978-1-60054-053-0
PUBLICATION DATE: 2009
WORD COUNT: 57000
SEXUAL CONTENT RATING: 5 5 5 5 5
EBOOK READER RATING:
CATEGORIES: BDSM, Erotica, Fem Dom, Multiple Partners
KEYWORDS: BDSM, Master, Mistress, slave, sub, love, sex, discipline, pain, ball torture, murder mystery,
 

EBOOKS BY loveyoudivine Alterotica

EBOOKS BY Lady Midnight

 
EXCERPT
COPYRIGHT Lady Midnight/2009

 Donnell used the back driveway. By turning off the security system for the moment it took to drive through the gate, he could get on to the estate without notice. Immediately he went to the garage to hide the car. In the back seat of the limo, Marquie was already asleep. As if he handled a piece of priceless art, he picked her up and carried her inside.

The soft hues of twilight melted through the sheers on his bedroom window diffusing the myriad colors on the mottled cream walls. For a long moment, he stared at the languid beauty in her  narrow fingers imagining them wrapped around the grip of a whip. As he removed the sandals, the skin felt as soft as the leather his Master often wrapped him within. He was powerless in the presence of her potential power.

She doesn’t need a shrink. All she needs is confidence.

He closed his eyes and opened the snap on her jeans. To the feel of her flutter, he opened them to see the unconscious movement of her arm. The grating of the zipper didn’t seem to disturb her. Peeking from behind the open jeans was the most intoxicating sight of petal pink lace he’d ever beheld.

You can do this, he assured himself even as his cock quite shamefully rose. Carefully, he grasped the waist band and tugged it past her shapely hips, the vision of that lace captured in the corner of his eye. Her scent rose around him with inebriating force further rending his sanity. Mindlessly, he folded her jeans and placed them on a chair. With a throw at the end of the bed, he covered her.

Unable to stand himself, he went directly to the shower. With the least amount of warmth, he soothed himself into his proper position. Until chill blains raised on his skin he stood under the cold water. He forced himself to think of the Alphabet Murderer, for whom Marquie was the next target, he was certain.

How many times had he told his fellow investigators that the killer worked on a strictly emotionally level? Every woman they found, from eight years of age, asleep in her parent’s home, to seventy, he had wanted only one thing. It wasn’t money; it wasn’t sex. The killer wanted only to feel, to feel pain perhaps, to feel alive. In every instance he had slashed their bodies open and made away with their hearts. In the case of Patrice Evans, he wanted to still her heart. Or maybe there was no time to slip the still beating heart from under the bone and...and do what with it? They were never found.

That it was his fate to be tortured by these memories into eternity, Donnell had accepted some time ago. Every detail of the investigation was burned into his psyche as if by firebrand. Pierre Navarre had accepted the role of special prosecutor and in his own words he had said repeatedly, “I’ll pull the switch on that son of a bitch, myself.” For Pierre Navarre, it was personal. The youngest of the victims was the daughter of a senior partner. When Peter accepted the job of defense attorney in the case, the rift between father and son widened into a chasm...and was permanent.

Tirelessly, Donnell had worked with Pierre Navarre on the minutiae of the case. Hair samples, blood, DNA, MO’s. Eighteen victims into the case, they finally found a strand of hair that wasn’t the victim’s. It turned out to be a lover’s. Angry and frustrated, Pierre Navarre slammed a shot glass on his desk. “I’ve never believed in ghosts, but I’m beginning to.

Sergeant Donnell McLaughlin shook his head. “He goes in nude, swaddled in plastic wrap. He slashes the victim, puts her heart in a plastic bag. Unwraps himself, puts all of that in plastic and then walks out the front door with clean plastic shoe covers. Goes to his vehicle, puts his clothes on and probably stops for a burger and fries on the way home. I’m telling you now...it’s either a cop...or a doctor.”

“Our very own Jack the Ripper,” Pierre had said.

By that time, two of the eight investigators had mysteriously died. Donnell took a break only to attend funerals, but at the mention of Jack the Ripper, a case that remained unsolved a hundred years later, he broke down. In Pierre’s office, he burst with the emotional toll it had taken on him. Pierre rushed around the desk and lifted Donnell into his arms. How long he sobbed on the man’s shoulder, he couldn’t have known. It was in that moment the connection was made.

The investigation had ended too easily. When fantasies of finding the fiend in the act and committing cold-blooded murder had plagued Donnell incessantly, it was the notes the perp had written to the press that defined Donnell’s defeat. Through those carefully crafted lines, Donnell knew exactly where to find him. At lunch in a neighborhood diner, in full view of the public. Shooting him was out of the question. It would have been murder. Keith Landry held out his hands as if to welcome the cuffs. And then he said to the waitress with his usual smirk, “Don’t worry about the bill, honey. I will make it up to you.

The trial lasted eight grueling months. No less than fifty two times, Donnell was called to the stand to explain this detail or that oversight in the investigation. Every time Peter Navarre made him look the fool. Incredulously, Donnell listened to the verdict, the droning of, “Not guilty,” twenty six times until his intestines twisted into Gordian knots. Without thinking or will, he drove back to the precinct. In the Captain’s office, he laid his badge and his weapon on the desk. Still defeated, still numb, he removed his uniform and left it in a puddle. He turned and walked out of the office wearing only his boxer shorts. And he went straight to Pierre Navarre.

Because of the events of the last few days, these tortures returned with vengeance. Only the sound of a cough could turn his attention. He peeked around the bathroom door to see Marquie staring up at the ceiling, herself looking a little like a corpse. Hurriedly, he pulled on a pair of sweatpants and stood beside the bed.

“I can’t believe what is happening,” she whispered.

Slowly, he nodded. “Feels like an eruption. Let me get you some tea.”

Moments later he sat beside of her, tea in hand. “I need to explain something to you,” he started.

Laboriously, she pulled herself up to sit against the upholstered headboard and then took the mug from him. Quietly, she sipped it as her bleary eyes bored into him. “I’m listening.”

“I met your father a long time ago and I’ve worked for him ever since. We worked on the Landry case together. I was a cop then.”

“Seriously,” she said with a strange grin.

“Since then I’ve been in your father’s employ as a body guard.”

“I thought you were the gardener,” she said quickly. “I see you in the gardens constantly.”

“I like to garden,” he said softly. “But when you came home from college, what... four years ago, your father made some changes. You see, your father hasn’t trusted your brother, maybe, ever. But when you came back, he became very worried about your safety.”

She interrupted with, “So he put you in the gardens to watch over me.”

“Yes,” he murmured. “I rarely take my eyes off of you. I know what you’re doing just about every moment. I take you every where you go.” He closed his eyes remembering some of the more intimate moments she’d  thought she was alone - like in the bathroom.

“That’s kind of...creepy.” Thoughts of what he might have seen caused her skin to crawl. “Yet my father loved me that much.”

“He did,” Donnell said quickly. “My orders were to kill anyone who might have threatened your well-being. Even your brother.”

“Wow.” She nestled into the bedding and held the steaming liquid under her nose to open clogged sinus passages. “I knew you and my father were close.”

Donnell gasped as the tears once again blurred his vision. He dropped his face into his hands.

“How close?” she asked.

Donnell shook his head for he couldn’t respond.

“I know you were lovers. I could often hear your hushed voice through his bedroom door.”

“Oh god,” he cried out. Helplessly, he slid off the bed and landed on the floor. With his arms folded over his knees, he wept shamelessly.

She returned the tea to the nightstand and rolled to her side. Tenderly, her nails raked through his hair to soothe him a little. His voice broke every string of her battered heart, and together they wept past nightfall.

 
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