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The number flashed through her phone. “Precinct Desk—Sergeant Mirante.”
His deep voice, distinctly Hispanic, was official-sounding, manly. She liked it when he worked the desk. She liked the Sergeant.
“Hi Sergeant, may I speak to Detective Lindholm, please?”
“Brianda? It’s gotta be you. Sexiest voice in New York!” He didn’t wait for a response but knew she was blushing. “Hold a moment. I’m putting you through.”
“Gang Division, Detective Lindholm speaking.”
“Well, hello, sweetheart! What’s happening at college this day in May?”
“I’m not at college, Daddy,” she gushed. “I’m home! Sitting right in the driveway! And guess what? Anitra’s on her way! It’s Mom’s birthday, remember? We’re surprising her! Please say you’ll both come straight home after work. Please?”
Typically composed, her father seemed edgy. “Uh…huh. Yeah, I mean, with Friday traffic…and if we can make it out of Manhattan…”
Bri sensed his nervousness. She assumed the usual, that he was distracted by some hot-button case. Growing up as a cop’s kid, she’d seen her share of them.
“Daddy? Is everything all right?”
Adam Lindholm had breezed through the Police Academy after miraculously returning home in one piece from a dangerous tour of duty in Afghanistan. Ever since, he had risen quickly through the ranks of the NYPD. A decorated Black Ops lieutenant; he now reveled in the danger of directing the city’s Gang Division, an especially challenging assignment.
Adam was married to the beautiful Eileen Lindholm, a successful businesswoman. Though she had stayed home while the girls were growing up, once they went off to college, she moved back into the professional world she had left when the loving couple decided to have a family.
Everything about her was sexy, from her chestnut hair—worn short the way he liked it—to the deep blue ‘Bette Davis’ eyes, which enticed the men around her. But she was loyal to her Adam. Ani and Bri never questioned whether their mom was interested in anyone other than their father. Mom was Mom, her devotion absolute.
Residing in Brooklyn, the pair commuted to Manhattan each day, Adam, to the 53rd, Eileen to her recently re-opened employment agency for women.
With their daughters off at school, the Lindholms spread their social wings, and instead of slowing down as many couples do, they sped into the fast lane, a mystery that intrigued their daughters.
“Is everything OK, Dad?” Bri repeated, warily, this time.
Adam’s girls often romanticized his work, but deep down, they knew that the never-ending pressure to make arrests and to keep the brass upstairs happy wore at his nerves. Detective Adam Lindholm talked less and less about the job and grew moody, even sullen.
“Everything’s fine, kitten,” he answered. “It’s helter-skelter here, that’s all. The usual. You know how it goes.”
The mayor had created a special task force around Adam, its responsibility, to tame biker criminality, notably the resurgent Pagans, a crowd of bad boys then infiltrating the mob’s drug scene. It was a dangerous game, one played for high stakes.
“Mom…yeah…she’s, she’s great; she’ll, she’ll be happy. You say you’re at the house?”
“Just got here, Dad. Anitra had a late class, but she won’t be long.”
“Listen.” His tone was abrupt. “I need a favor from you girls.”
“Um…sure, Daddy. What?”
“When your sister gets home, drive over to see your grandmother. She’s been asking for you.”
“Well… ah, of course, but we usually visit with her on Saturday, right? I think we’ll…”
“I said now! Go now—as soon as Anitra walks in!” His inflection startled Bri. She worried something was wrong.
“All right, Dad,” she yielded soberly, her voice tapering off. “We will. Remember, though; don’t tell Mom we’re home. It’s a surprise, OK?”
“Yeah, that’s great hon. But I need you to see Gramma,” he repeated sternly. “Gotta run.” The call went silent.
Lindholm’s puzzling responses baffled his elder daughter. After all, she had called her grandmother the day before, and all seemed fine. She lived on Elm, just around the block, leaving Bri wondering what the big deal was. She called Anitra’s cell. “Ani! Where the fuck are you?”
“Two minutes away, Brianda!” Little sister tended to snap at her when she was under pressure. “There’s an accident on the Parkway!” Bri, disregarding her sister’s excuses, went on to explain their father’s unusual request.
“Oh no, not today!” Anitra responded, exasperated. “I have a tattoo appointment! What’s wrong with seeing Gramma on Saturday like we usually do?”
“Shit,” Bri snapped back. “Dad insists. You know how he gets. Let’s just fucking do it, OK? Besides,” she added sarcastically, “when Mom sees that tattoo, you’re dead! I mean really, Anitra, a snake? Slithering its way down your arm? How do you expect to hide it from her? Plus, she’s going to find out about the old one, that stupid gecko on your butt! She’ll demand canlı bahis to know how much of your ass the tattoo artist got to see!”
“Brianda, lay off the shit, will you? I’ll be right there.” She hung up. Minutes afterward, Ani pulled into the driveway behind Brianda, and the two went inside. A quick hug later, Ani began dropping questions. “So, what’s with Gramma? What’s with Dad?”
“I don’t know,” Bri admitted, dismissively. “He’s obsessed. Obsessed! We better…”
“Hey, what’s all this?” Ani asked, looking into the living room. Toppled glasses, open wine bottles, and crumpled napkins were everywhere. “What a mess,” she puzzled. The ultimate neat-freak, it wasn’t like their mother to leave for work in the morning with the house in chaos.
“I can’t believe this,” Ani added. Picking up an empty DVD case from the coffee table, she asked devilishly, “Wonder where the disc is?”
“Probably got left in the player,” Bri joked, offhandedly. She hit eject, and the tray slid open.
“Mystery solved,” she said, picking it up. “Hey, look. There’s writing. It’s Dad’s.”
“What’s it say? I’ll bet it’s a crime scene like on ‘Law and Order.'” Ani was interested, so her sister held it up for her to read: “‘Southampton—April 12—Disc # 3:14.’ God. It means there are thirteen more?”
“It’s odd,” Brianda murmured, putting it back in the tray. “Probably one of their boring weekends. And there’s more of them? Imagine? Ugh! How much video can parents take? Anyway, we better go to Gramma’s.”
It was already too late, and Bri might as well have been talking to the wall. Anitra’s curiosity had gotten the better of her. With her signature rascality, she giggled, then nudged the DVD tray with her finger. “Let’s play it!” she insisted.
“It’s spying,” Bri half-heartedly cautioned.
“Don’t be such a goody-two-shoes,” Anitra retorted, adding, “Fuck it. Maybe it’s something hot.” She grabbed the remote and pressed play. Grainy mages appeared on the screen. “What’s…what’s with this?” she murmured, her voice turning sober.
With her eyes glued to the screen, Bri whispered, “Not sure,” The girls simultaneously plopped onto the couch as the picture sharpened, focusing on the back of a woman’s head. She had short brown hair, but because the room lacked natural light, contributing to a balmy, almost film noir atmosphere, it was hard to be sure.
“It’s chintzy,” Bri observed defensively. “Someone’s practicing with a first-time digital recording. Who cares anyway? Let’s shut it…”
Her sister raised a hand. “I’m watching,” she gave notice. “Besides, even you don’t believe what you just said. Look! She’s blindfolded!”
Bri thought back to the phone conversation with their father. He had not been himself. Maybe the unannounced visit was not a good idea. Grabbing the remote, she pressed pause. “Ani, listen. Remember, I told you I talked to Dad?”
“So, he acted funny.”
Ani shook her head slightly and asked, “What do you mean funny? Dad’s a cop. Cops are weird. So what?”
“So, this was different. He didn’t want us here, Ani—home, I mean—at least not today. It was strange, that’s all. And besides, I know Gramma’s OK.” Ani narrowed her eyes and slowly glanced over at the screen’s static image.
Brianda talked faster, fumbling her words. Her instincts were harping on her to shield her little sister from what might be on the mystifying DVD. “Nitra, I’m nervous. Maybe…maybe Dad, you know, maybe Dad…he was antsy on the phone because maybe he forgot—and then remembered leaving the disc in the player. Maybe he was worried we’d…”
“…may…be,” her sister cautiously admitted, nodding her head.
Bri tried to redirect the subject. “His friends are all cops, right? The DVD must be evidence…in a…in a murder. He doesn’t want us seeing it. Maybe it’s about those dead girls, the call girls…the ones whose bodies keep turning up on the South Shore!”
“Listen, Ani,” Bri demanded. “Anybody can see Mom and Dad had company. They watched—whatever this is. Mom and Dad didn’t just…just,” she glanced about the messy room. “Look around!” Both girls scanned the disheveled living room.
“They obviously didn’t know we were coming, so it all got left this way!”
Without warning, the sleeping disc player timed out. Resuming play, it instantly refocused their attention. The lens panned the woman’s body, moving from her hair down her narrow spine. “Anitra, look! She’s naked—and that blindfold! I mean, what if…what if we’re witnessing a murder, a snuff film?”
Bri stood up. “I don’t want to see it, Ani,” she snapped. “Besides, Dad might walk in any minute and catch us.” Ani stared up at her, but her eyes were blank, her attention wrapped in the video. “Please, Ani,” the more cautious older girl pleaded, “We shouldn’t watch.”
“We have to!” Anitra cried, suddenly snatching the remote. “There’s no audio,” she remarked. The speakers of the surround-sound crackled as she pressured the volume control. Hesitating, the sisters bahis siteleri listened intently. Suddenly, they heard a cough.
“There! It’s got sound!” Bri noted. The audio, though slight, implied movement somewhere in the room. Then the picture jumped. “A person is holding that camera,” Bri whispered sharply.
They watched the back of the woman’s head as the camera’s light focused first on her hair, and then, pulling back slightly, it drifted down her torso, lingering on a tattoo at the small of her back. There, it revealed a smiling pixie girl, her body’s outline a hazy blue, her wings, pale green.
The woman, it also revealed, was naked—completely, except for the blindfold. Her skin was especially white, flawless. Shapely and with narrow shoulders, she had a slim waist and full hips. The bare soles of her feet projected out from beneath the cleft of her bottom. Her wrists were tightly bound to her ankles with white rope.
“Who runs around with a pixie tattoo?” Ani asked softly.
“They’re all the rage upstate,” Bri informed.
“Anyway, turn it off!” she demanded. “I don’t like it.”
It was too late. Ani was transfixed, her eyes searching the screen for details. “It’s porn, Brianda. Even though he’s Dad—well, he’s still a man, right? Men watch porn.”
“That’s so dumb, Ani,” Bri snapped protectively. “It’s evidence…for…for an investigation, like I said.” She didn’t believe it.
The bound and kneeling woman did not struggle, but instead, waited silently. Both sisters had poked around YouPorn, and once, their dad had even discovered the site open on Bri’s computer, though at the time, he acted like it was nothing. Ani had dabbled in porn since she was a kid. Then, it was fun, daring even. But when then-boyfriend, Bobby Webb, showed her that gang-bang video, it disgusted her to the point of walking out on him.
“I don’t like dirty movies, Brianda. They cheapen women, and besides, guys jerk off to them.” She pointed at the screen and gasped. “Bri, look! More people!”
Redirecting her attention, Brianda watched as the invisible cameraman moved his lens about, eventually coming to rest on two previously unseen women. Except for their shoes, each was naked. Each was shapely, beautiful. Looking ahead blankly, mutely, they stood facing both the camera and the kneeler.
“Who are they?” Ani asked rhetorically. As expected, Bri stayed quiet, saying nothing.
The girl to the left wore black T-strap peep-toe pumps, the other, exactly the same, only red. She sported heavy, hurtful-looking nipple clamps. The clamps were attached to each other by a strand of delicate gold chain. A second chain descended between her breasts, down her belly, to the thick hair between her lean thighs.
“She’s clamped! There, look between her legs,” Brianda said, pointing.
“I see it,” Ani acknowledged. “And they hurt…” Bri eyed her quizzically. “OK, so I wore them once—to Zach’s party—what’s the big deal? Bobby wanted me to. It was agony, and I hate him.” Attempting to shroud what her sister labeled her ‘judgmental side,’ Brianda kept quiet.
Their attention reverted back at the screen, where, as if awaiting orders, the women stood at silent attention. Whoever operated the camera took his time, wandering over their naked bodies, first to one, then the other.
The women turned around, each exhibiting her back. Like the kneeler, each had a pixie tattoo at the base of her spine. At precisely the same time, the women turned again. They were older, fortyish, both brunettes.
“Cougars,” Anitra murmured, half-smiling. “The tramp stamps show it’s some kind of club.”
The girl on the right had full, swollen breasts, her areolas dark, purplish-brown. The sisters could see that the nipples were bruised from the pressure of the clamps. She was striking. She had had a baby. Though slender, and absent stretch marks, the horizontal crease at her navel gave it away.
The second woman was tall, so thin that her ribs protruded. She was prettier, but she looked malnourished, anorexic. Her hair was tied tightly, with two long pigtails extending down over tiny breasts. Her nipples were small, pink, puffy, her tummy tight and trim. Her legs were long, joined at wide, bony hips. She had muscular, athletic thighs, which she kept faintly parted. There was a look of pride about her, arrogance even, as she raised her chin as if to say, ‘I am blue-blooded nobility.’
The statuesque nudes mostly stood still but shifted their weight at times on unsteady heels. The less-endowed girl had heavy-looking weights attached to her vaginal lips. Six in all, they pulled at the loose skin, distending, drawing it down from her body. Any motion made the weights clink against each other, generating a kind of cryptic metallic harmony.
“She’s built like a model,” Ani opined jealously. “Wish I had her body.” Having inherited their mom’s full-figured shapeliness, the girls simultaneously rolled their eyes.
“Anybody can see she has an eating disorder,” Bri remarked. “No girl, her bahis şirketleri age is that slim.”
Anitra’s animation cooled with the scene’s unfolding rawness. Bri, sensing her sister’s nervousness, draped an arm around her shoulder, hoping Anitra would not detect her own queasy chill.
“Ani, look! Wedding bands! They have wedding bands! And get a load of those diamonds! How big they are!” The ample stones were hard to miss as they glittered, capturing light and flashing it in twinkles back at the apprehensive viewers.
The girls sensed these were not just any women. The presence of the rings meant they were special to someone.
“Nothing’s forced,” Anitra added in a puzzled tone of voice. “Whoever these girls are, they want to be here…to do this. I can’t imagine, can you?” She cautiously gave her sister a glancing look, but Bri was occupied, her eyes blank.
The lens pulled back, revealing still more. Each woman stood next to a man, one to the far left, another to the right. The men, excepting for their scrotal sacks, were naked too.
The camera zoomed, panning the rippled muscles in their mid-sections, then moved on down their bodies. Their testicles were enlarged, purple in color. Ani paused the video. “What is that?” she asked, curious.
The girls got up from the couch and moved closer to the screen. “It’s rawhide,” Bri said, looking carefully. “Their balls are wrapped. It explains the deep color; it’s restricting the blood flow. And look, Ani, they have the same wedding bands.”
The camera jerked back suddenly, in a blink, giving the girls a view of the surrounding room. Its windows were covered with delicate white Priscilla Curtains, the shades drawn. The place was luxurious, parlor-like, a Victorian sitting room with silver candlesticks on a jet black, burnished grand piano.
“Couples, Anitra,” Bri asserted stoically. “They’re couples. Look how they hold hands.”
“Yes,” Ani agreed. “It’s affectionate, a little anyway. I think it’s the wedding bands. Makes me think they’re lovers. Are they lovers, Bri?”
It was a charged question, and each knew it. A young woman’s fantasy, Ani needed to think the fright seeping from the screen might diminish if the players were doing this for someone special, and not in love’s absence.
It was not new. When threatened, Anitra sought assurances—refuge even, from older sister. Bri nodded on cue. “It’s peculiar, though,” Anitra added skeptically. “Why would a true lover put his wife through something like this? The movie is homegrown. These guys must have made their wives do it!”
“It’s true, Ani, it’s an amateur production,” Brianda agreed, sidestepping the love issue. “Girls in professional porn do a ton of moaning and get asked stupid questions like, ‘What’s the first time you swallowed?'” Her sister blushed as if Bri was not supposed to know about oral sex.
Ani nodded. “Yes, porn stars act like bimbos. This is different. These people know each other— swingers maybe. Think they’re swingers?” Not waiting for an answer, she moved the thought another step. “But I don’t get it. What’s it doing here? At our house?” Silently, and shaking her head, she reiterated, “I don’t get it.”
The video had had the opposite effect. Its silence overpowered the viewer. Including whoever was working the camera, there were six people in that sinful room. What little sound there was, came from subtle body movement, not moans, and groans. Suddenly the cameraman’s hand appeared, apparently, like a director, motioning instructions at the players.
“Should we make a copy?” Brianda asked. The sisters glanced over at their mom’s sleeping laptop.
“Shhhhhhhhh…listen,” Ani cautioned.
“Hear him? The man behind the camera?”
“How do you know it’s a man?” Bri whispered. “And why am I whispering?” Ani shrugged.
“Didn’t you see his hand? He’s the kneeling girl’s husband. He has to be.” They quieted, listening more intently as the sensitive mic captured the cameraman’s breathing.
Bri’s face went vacant. “It’s Mom,” she whispered. “The kneeler, Ani. It’s Mom. Dad’s filming her. She turned to her sister, her eyes searching. “I’m scared. It’s Mom’s skin! It’s her hair! I know it’s her!”
At that moment, fear officially seized the girls. Each was convinced. But almost fortuitously, the still-unfolding scene distracted them as one of the men stepped in the direction of the kneeler. Impossible not to, the sisters focused on his erection. It was huge and bobbed as he moved.
Mercifully, the kneeling woman’s face was hidden, and instead, the camera focused on the back of her head and on the standing couples. Given the way her head moved, it was clear the bound woman had taken his erection into her mouth. Aside from breaking the silence with a throaty whimper, the man stayed businesslike as he stared down at her, his demeanor, detached.
Holding her slender shoulders, he thrust hard into her mouth—slowly at first—then forcefully. That’s when the cameraman reacted, shifting his angle, showing for the first time, the woman’s profile. “Oh, God!” Bri cried, defensively throwing her arms around her sister. “How could she? How could Dad make her?” The girls sobbed, streaming tears on each other’s shoulders.
Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
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