Tag Archives: mystery

Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery 14

So I’m standing there, not really believing what I’m seeing. I’m asking random people in the crowd, “what happened” and getting various stories.

But wait, hold on. Fast forward, a few weeks. I’m sitting at my desk. Jimmy comes in. He walks over to my table, and throws down a copy of the New York Post in front of Mark, sitting next to me.

Jimmy says, “look at this shit, can you believe this shit?”

So, you know, Jimmy and Mark are looking at the paper, so I stop pretending to work and look at it.

“Wha?” I kind of do a double take.

“What?” Jimmy asks.

I don’t say anything. It’s not everyday – well none of this shit is the kind of thing that happens “every day.” But it’s not everyday you see a guy you used to work with, bound and gagged, on the front page of a tabloid.

Jimmy looks at me suspiciously. I don’t say shit.

Ok, ok. So two years earlier, in California … there was this waitress named Rebecca…

5345449-pretty-tied-up-stock-photo-tied-woman-girl

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“I say to you: our wombs have been filled with the children of fornication by those sons of apes and pigs who raped us. Or I could tell you that they have defaced our bodies, spit in our faces, and tore up the little copies of the Qur’an that hung around our necks? By God, we have not passed one night since we have been in prison without one of the apes and pigs jumping down upon us to rip our bodies apart with his overweening lust. Kill us along with them! Destroy us along with them! Don’t leave us here to let them get pleasure from raping us.

Leave their tanks and aircraft outside. Come at us here in the prison. They raped me on one day more than nine times. Can you comprehend? Imagine one of your sisters being raped. Why can’t you all imagine it, as I am your sister. With me are 13 girls, all unmarried. All have been raped before the eyes and ears of everyone. They took our clothes and won’t let us get dressed. As I write this letter one of the girls has committed suicide. She was savagely raped. A soldier hit her on her chest and thigh after raping her. He subjected her to unbelievable torture. She beat her head against the wall of the cell until she died, for she couldn’t take any more.Brothers, I tell you again, fear God! Kill us with them so that we might be at peace. Help! Help! Help!”

johnny5

MEMORANDUM FOR THE RECORD

SUBJECT: Visit to Project [deleted]

1. On this day the writer spent the day observing experiments with Mr. [deleted] on project [deleted] and in planning next year’s work on the project (Mr. [deleted] has already submitted his proposal to the [deleted]).

2. The general picture of the present status of the project is one of a carefully planned series of five major experiments. Most of the year has been spent in screening and standardizing a large group of subjects (approximately 100) and the months between now and September 1 should yield much data, so that these five experiments should be completed by September 1. The five experiments are: (N stands for the total number of subjects involved in the experiment.)

7. A Very favorable impression was made on the writer by the group. The experimental design of each experiment is very carefully done, and the standards of detail and instrumentation seems to be very high.

Though she didn’t know it, her modeling career was facilitated by Richard Fuisz (pronounced fuse), a former actor, psychiatrist, pediatrician, congressional candidate, whistle-blower, and entrepreneur who declines to comment on a published report that he has intelligence ties. Fuisz, who owned a company that did joint ventures in Moscow, was approached by the then-Soviet ambassador to Washington, Yuri V. Dubinin, to set up a modeling agency to prepare the first waves of Soviet beauties for American commerce (which often meant substantial dental work) and protect them from “adverse influences” and bad publicity like magazine “spreads about their teeth,” Fuisz says.

Gagged Businessman
Gagged Businessman

Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery 12

Life On Wall Street
Life On Wall Street

They say truth is stranger than fiction. And since this is fiction, imagine how much stranger the truth must be. Maybe a month after Catherine Two’s funeral, I drove down to DC to pick up a load of product. I was a high roller back then, making six figures at my regular job and supplementing that with my, er, “side business.” I always lived the party lifestyle, and I had long standing connections in the DC area, people I had known since college that I knew I could trust. I had the business cards of lawyers from every state between NYC and DC in my wallet in case I ever got pulled over, which I never did. I figured with most law enforcement resources now dedicated to fighting terrorism, this was as good a time as any to take risks.

So while I’m down there I look up an old high school buddy and he invites me to a party. Really nice suburban house, and as we drove up, I noticed there was an American flag on their front door. I was prepared for the worst, as most of the country had gone insane, virtually everyone in a spell, believing all the nonsense about “Al Qaeda” and expecting another attack any day. I barely socialized with anyone, in fact, spent most of the party in a corner, whispering to my friend about the various things that happened. I hated it when people did this, but everyone I knew, friends and family, would all announce, “hey, this guy, he was in the Towers” and everyone wanted to hear my story. I came up with a truncated version to tell, one that didn’t include too much about the bombs in the lobby, the suspicious activities at the World Trade Center in the weeks leading up to the attack, and the implied threats my co-workers and I were getting, reminding us to not say too much, to go along with the story, if we knew what was good for us.

So my friend tells me, “you know, most of the guys at this party are low level military intelligence types,” and introduces me to an active duty Army soldier. I tell him a bit of my story, and he tells me a bit of his. His father, a life long Army veteran, had died a few months prior, and on the morning of September 11, before work, he had gone to bring flowers to his father’s grave at Arlington national cemetery, thus, having a relatively clear view of the attack on the Pentagon. He told me a very interesting story.

The Target
The Target

He told me he saw the plane fly near the Pentagon, and another plane, one that was never mentioned in the media, until hints about it began cropping up years later. He said he thought it was an AC-130, and told me a confusing tale where he was obviously choosing his words very carefully, and leaving out key details. Depending on how one would interpret his story, it was either the “official” commercial jetliner being followed by the AC-130, or the AC-130 flying close to the Pentagon, with something else either leading the AC-130, or being shot from the AC-130, actually making contact with the Pentagon, with the AC-130 pulled up and flying away afterwards.

True or not? Who knows? It was just some guy I met at a party.

He told me he had taken out his camera and started snapping pictures, and said he had many interesting pictures of the event. But not long thereafter, he was approached by an FBI agent and had the camera, or the film or the drive, confiscated. He strongly implied he had kept the actual film or drive and given a blank to the FBI. I urged him to put the pictures online. The internet wasn’t really new, but it was still somewhat fringe, it had not really become the mainstream media platform that it is today, still mostly used by tech people, early adopters, and college students.

He asked me, point blank, “why would I want to do that?” I told him, “hey the public has a right to know, right?” He sort of smirked, and said, “oh yeah, sure, of course.”

The newspapers reported that the FBI had confiscated all cameras from any individuals near the area, and videotapes from all security cameras anywhere near the Pentagon, most famously, the security cameras at a nearby gas station that would have had the clearest view of the event. That film would not be released for years, and when it finally was, they only released a very few short stills, which were low resolution and blurry. Whatever it shows in those stills, it doesn’t look anything like a commercial airliner.

This Looks 'Shopped - I Can Tell From The Pixels
This Looks ‘Shopped – I Can Tell From The Pixels

The day of the attacks, the news showed Donald Rumsfeld “assisting” various staffers dragging bodies out from the Pentagon, in what can only be described as a “photo op.” Now, anyone with any knowledge of security would think that high ranking Pentagon officials would have been rushed to undisclosed locations immediately in the face of such an attack, in the case more were coming. But Rumsfeld didn’t have a problem mugging for the cameras right after the attack, making sure he was covered as a hero, just doing what any good American would do, helping to rescue the survivors. Comparing the news coverage at the Pentagon to various pictures that were released later was instructive, as the live shots don’t show much in the way of airplane debris, while the various stills showed strategically placed pieces of an airliner.

I spent the rest of the party getting wasted, I didn’t even try to flirt with any girls. I just could not get into the rah-rah USA USA USA mood that most everyone was in. I wasn’t sure exactly what was happening, but I knew it wasn’t what we were being told.

So when we left I just passed out on my friend’s couch, picked up my product the next day and drove back that night.

Years later, I would come to find out someone that I knew, a soldier involved in all sorts of shady intelligence work, had actually been at or near the Pentagon that day. He kept his mouth shut for years, until he had retired and had his rural farm ready and stocked for doomsday. His story, which I heard from one of his family members, made it pretty clear that at least a faction of the military intelligence establishment had been quite prepared for the attacks, just like FEMA, which had set up shop in Manhattan on September 10, the day before the destruction of the World Trade Center.

Most of us were still wandering around in a daze, not quite sure what was happening, and expecting the other shoe to drop at any time. I was busy falling for crazy bitch, the woman that would define much of my life in the coming years, and drowning my sorrows in alcohol and casual sex.

new-york-dolls

Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery 11

TiedUp

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kids_giving_finger_201

Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery 10

As if the mystery of Catherine Two’s death wasn’t enough, soon another mystery presents itself.

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The Life and Times of Hipster Racist

Comments, criticism, and hush money welcome.

hipsterracist@yahoo.com

Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery

Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery
Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

Baltimore Stories

hooka-chicks

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5

The Slut Power

The Slut Power
The Slut Power

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5

Heartbreakers

Heartbreakers
Heartbreakers

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

High School Harlots

High School Harlots
High School Harlots

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Holly

girl-bondage-wallpapers_8850_1152x864

Strugglefucking Holly
Helpless Holly
Holly In Harm’s Way
Hazardous For Holly
Holly’s Heart
Catch Holly
Hurting Holly
Busting Holly
Forgetting Holly

The Tree Of The Knowledge Of Good And Evil

teen_love_by_thebestcabinboy

Part I: Jenny
Part II: Carrie

AE911Truth: Experts Speak Out
Zero: An Investigation Into 9/11
9/11: Press For Truth
Hypothesis: The Story of Dr. Steven E. Jones
Architects and Engineers for 9/11 Truth
WTC7 Research
Remember Building 7

sssh

Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery 9

Evidence Found
Evidence Found

So I wanted to find out what happened to Aisha. After a month I guess they allowed limited access below Houston St. and a few places right on the border opened back up. I wandered into one place two blocks away and decided to ask around about her. These girls all floated back and forth between bars around here anyway, following the crowds and the tips, and all knew each other. So I order a beer and randomly ask one of the girls at the bar, “hey, do you know Aisha over at so and so?”

“Oh sure, they’re still closed. You a friend?”

“Sort of. I just wanted to know, you know.”

“I talked to her, she lives in the East Village. Slept through the whole thing, ha.”

“Cool. I guess they aren’t opening up any time soon.”

“I have no idea.”

I sit down at the bar, pull out a pack of cigarettes – you could still smoke in the bars back then – and start packing them, slapping the top of the pack against my palm. Slap, slap, slap.

I get to the third slap and in the door walks a fireman, half his gear still on, followed by a couple of others. So there I am, packing the cigarettes – slap, slap, slap – and everyone in the bar looks up and sees the firemen walk in. In a reflex of patriotism and general conformist behavior in a crowd, having been primed to know to worship firemen as heroes – and considering how many had died – it just seemed fitting that a few people in the bar assumed I was clapping and started applauding the firemen. Then, everyone else joins in. The entire bar is now looking at the firemen, just inside the door, giving them a sitting ovation.

After a few seconds when it dies down, the one fireman looks at the other and asks, “what did you do Joe, pull out a ten dollar bill?”

So I’m wandering up 10th Avenue, it’s about seven, just walking, breathing in the air, which smells … wrong … clearing my head, trying to figure out who I could talk to, who I could inform, if anyone. I find myself blocks away and see some titty bar that’s open, with a sign out, so I go in. There’s maybe three rough looking girls in bikinis sitting at tables next to a few guys. I sit at the bar and order a drink – you could still drink in the bars back then – and everyone is watching the TV, giving everyone up to the minute updates on World War III and how underground terrorists cells are lurking everywhere in America, from the big cities to the small towns. Another attack is imminent, almost a certainty. The news helpfully suggests that Al Qaeda may poison the water supplies, blow up a neighborhood with a truck bomb, irradiate a town with a dirty bomb, or use automatic weapons to shoot up a crowded shopping mall. Be on the lookout for backpacks, trashcans, and Muslims that use toothpicks, because meat residue between your teeth is haram for radical Sunnis.

Passport Trajectory
Passport Trajectory

The FAA, the Air Force, the CIA, the NSA, the Pentagon, the FBI, the flight controllers, the pilots, the passengers, the guys who are supposed to shoot down anything that comes close to the Pentagon, all completely unprepared for this devestating surprise attack. It was so creative too, no one could have predicted using planes as missiles. The Salomon Brothers building had simply disappeared, not just physically, but from the public consciousness, as it was simply not discussed on television, or in the newspapers, after the first day.

One of the dudes sitting next to one of the strippers starts ranting something angry about terrorists and for whatever reason starts getting into something with one of the other strippers. Alcohol I guess. Whatever the hell they are talking about, it starts getting heated and the stripper says, “fuck America. We deal with this shit all the time. Go Israel!”

The dude gets angry and says, “If you don’t like America, what the fuck are you doing here?” The stripper says, “hey the terrorists hate us too. We told you, these people bomb us all the time.” The bartender, paying close attention to the tube, starts yelling something about America, no talking politics in the bar, and one of you ladies better get up there and start dancing.

Catherine Two: Passport Not Found
Catherine Two: Passport Not Found

I figured it’s time for me to go home. I hail a cab to Grand Central Terminal and take Metro North up to Connecticut, to my friend’s place. I think about calling the reporter back. A friend of a friend, he had hoped to get some scoop from me, so he calls me that night. My first instinct was to call him, to tell the story, but I had balked. What exactly was I going to tell him? Would it get printed any way? I saw what happened to the demolition expert in Nevada that gave an interview with a Phoenix newspaper Tuesday night. By Wednesday’s edition, he had retracted everything. His mistake. He doesn’t want to get involved in any “conspiracy theories.” He’s sorry he ever said anything. Please stop calling.

So, yeah, I didn’t talk to the reporter. Get your Pulitzer from someone else. They reported that one of the hijacker’s passports was found in the rubble of the World Trade Center. Amazing. The plastic passport had survived, blown out of the airplane and floated down far enough away that when they are digging up the rubble, they found it. Thus confirming what the TV was saying. Solid proof, a burned passport found by a heroic rescue worker.

It sent a message, really. I certainly got the message. Especially after Catherine Two’s funeral.

They never found her body, not even her ID card.

To Be Continued

911-business-card

Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery 8

Knock Knock. Who's There? 9/11. 9/11 Who? You said you'd never forget!
Knock Knock. Who’s There? 9/11. 9/11 Who? You said you’d never forget!

I finally got a hold of a friend from Jersey, and he said he’d let me stay at his house, since there was no way I could get back uptown. He wasn’t home when I made it to his place, so I used his spare key hidden under the mat in the back. I turned on the TV. They were showing the towers blowing up, over and over again. And the plane crashes. The Pentagon. They were all saying “Bin Laden, Bin Laden, America under attack.”

I made a fateful decision that would affect the rest of my life. I turned off the TV. I would never turn in on again. I wanted to preserve my memories; what I had actually witnessed. What I had actually seen. I did not want my memory of the day’s events to be spoiled, ruined by whatever lies were coming out of the boob tube.

I knew someone was lying, but I didn’t know who. I used my friend’s landline to call up just about everyone; family, friends.

Patty.

Patty. I still feel so guilty about her. She was “the one that got away.” I had met her at work, the year before I moved to New York. There was some problem in the HR department with my recent signing bonus, and my boss, a hot headed white Mexican who fit just about every stereotype in the book, walks over with me and starts chewing out Patty’s boss, screaming and yelling and cursing and embarrassing the guy. So when my boss leaves, the guy pawns me off on Patty, the new girl. The poor thing looked like she was scared out of her mind, she was literally shaking a bit, just having her boss get chewed out like that.

Patty
Patty

So I reassured her. I smiled. “I’m so sorry about this, he can get out of hand sometimes. It’s no big deal, I’m sure we can figure this out.” Another smile. I whisper to her, “he’s like that with everyone, don’t worry.” I laugh. She laughs. She starts relaxing a little bit, we make some wry comments about the company, and then I notice she’s being kind of flirtatious. A few days later everyone is out at happy hour at the place a few blocks away, I notice she’s there, so I sit down next to her. We talk, flirt a bit. I suggest we go out sometime, get her number. We make a date, it’s wonderful. She winds up coming back to my place, for everything but sex. I didn’t mind. She was super hot with an amazing body. Blonde haired blue eyed Irish Catholic girl. Sweet as can be, with a sarcastic sense of humor. She wants to get home, so I call her a cab, but it never comes. She winds up waking up at like 3:00 and I’m apologizing, calling the cab place back, and she finally goes home. She lived with her parents, who were kind of religious. I’m sure some rules were broken, she wasn’t supposed to spend the night out on weekdays.

A few dates later, I take her out on the town and rent us a room in the fanciest hotel in the city. We go “all the way” for the first time. I felt like a teenager again. We mostly tried to hide our little office romance, but we became the talk of the company in short order. We would take our breaks together, and she would do this little routine that brings a smile to my face, to this day. She would email me first thing in the morning a color: red, blue, yellow, etc. Then, when we would meet up to take our break in the morning, we’d get in the elevator alone. I’d just attack her, pull up her skirt or reach down her pants to verify the color panties she was wearing. She would squeal with delight. Then a few seconds later when the elevator reached the ground floor, we’d put on our serious work faces again, and walk out like we were just two co-workers picking up coffee. We’d got to some bench that was partly secluded and make out like horny teenagers.

It might be Catherine Two
It might be Catherine Two

I was planning on marrying her. We made a perfect couple. We got along great. I just needed to get set up in New York, get stable in the job, and I’d propose and move her out there. There was only one thing that made me hestitate about her; she was a TV junkie. More hardcore than most. She wanted the TV on at all times.

She didn’t have “it” either. A sense of the tragic. She was sunny. Extroverted. Cheerful.

So when I’m talking to her Tuesday night, she had spent all day long watching TV. I’m trying to explain to her that something’s wrong, they aren’t telling the truth. She thinks I’m just shook up, that I’m acting crazy. That’s the treatment I – and everyone else – would get, from that day forward. “You’re crazy. You’re a conspiracy theorist. You have PTSD, you can get free drugs and therapy in your sign these papers. Put yourself on the health register so we can keep track of any long term complications.”

I never signed the papers. I never took the drugs. I never went to therapy. I didn’t trust them. Still don’t.

But it cost me Patty.

Mystery

Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery 7

LargeCorp
LargeCorp

“We walked down the stairs, and when we made it to the lobby, it had been bombed out. Everything was burned. And the plaza was empty. We thought they put a bomb in the lobby.”

She was speaking in hushed tones.

“When I woke up the next day I didn’t even remember what happened. I was in a daze.”

She was explaining her escape from the building.

“They told us to remain at our desks, but no way. We got out of there are soon as possible.”

Patty
Patty

We were in the temporary offices now, a few days later. Everyone was scrambling to get things back online. Everyone was hunched around a conference table with their laptop. Almost no one spoke. Walking to the kitchen to get some coffee, I notice someone had hung a map of Central Asia on the wall, with Afghanistan replaced by “Lake America.” Gallows humor. There would be a lot of gallows humor.

Someone said, “Hey, there’s 300 openings at LargeCorp.” Another said, “yeah, they are looking for 300 more suckers.” That was dark. That wasn’t a joke. Someone knew something but they weren’t saying.

“Catherine didn’t make it. She was at a meeting at LargeCorp on the top floor.”

A few weeks before, I had taken the elevator up to Windows on the World, for lunch. It was the most amazing restaraunt I’d had ever been in. Luxurious, but of course the big attraction was the view. You could see for miles, all of the city and beyond. I had a drink, and was thinking about our conversation about the security vehicles, and what she had told me about ’93. That’s when I had it, a premonition. I’ve never believed in such things, but I had a thought. “Man, imagine if an airplane flew into here. It would be like a disaster movie.”

I remembered it, but didn’t say anything. No one would believe me anyway.

That night I made a fateful decision. I called crazy bitch. I asked her what happened. She said, “We were in midtown. I already had given my two weeks notice and was just about to start the new job. My apartment was downtown so I couldn’t get home anyway. We watched TV and I stayed at a friend’s that night. What happened?”

no bombs here!
No Comment
She sounded totally calm. Very much unlike Patty. I had called her first, that day. The cell phones didn’t work, so I waited in line for the one payphone on the block. It was only 5:30 in the morning, she was sound asleep, but she woke up and answered anyway. She said, “hi, why are you calling so early?” I realized she wouldn’t even know yet. So I just told her, “I’m fine, I will call you later. Just go back to sleep. Just wanted to let you know. Call me when you get up. I love you.”

“Hmm ok I love you.”

I didn’t answer when she called back. She just left a message. She sounded like she was about to cry. “Hi.” she whined. “What happened? Call me please. I hope you’re ok.”

To be continued.

Mystery

Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery 6

Reverse The Image
Reverse The Image

It may be fiction, but now it’s getting serious huh? You see we have rules for a reason, and breaking those rules can have very serious consequences. A woman is dead, her children orphans, her husband a widower, all because someone broke a rule.

Deception is a constant in nature, things are rarely as they appear on the surface. I told you crazy bitch was never my sub, and that when she dressed up in her outfits, a lot of people thought she was a dominatrix. Looking back on it, I swear sometimes I wonder if she actually was a dominatrix, and I was her sub. BDSM people will tell you, sometimes it’s in the bedroom, sometimes it’s out of the bedroom, and sometimes it’s both.

People make choices and choices have consequences. Songbird and I went out on Saturday the 8th. I don’t remember what we did, but we had a great time, talked about a great many things, and very much enjoyed each other’s company. Twice I made a fateful choice between crazy bitch and Songbird. The day after crazy bitch and I signed the lease and had sex for the first time, I moved into the apartment. I didn’t have any furniture, and actually slept on one of those fold out sofa chair things for the first few nights. Crazy bitch was going to move in in a few days. One night crazy bitch, Songbird, and I all went out together. Songbird didn’t know that crazy bitch and I had had sex and neither of us told her, but she figured it out that night.

At the end of the night, we’re on a street corner near the apartment, and crazy bitch and Songbird are going to share a cab downtown since they lived close to each other. I wanted to fuck crazy bitch again, and I didn’t want to wait, and I didn’t want to spend the night alone. So as they are getting in the cab, I grab crazy bitch’s arm and tell her, quietly, so Songbird won’t hear, “stay with me tonight.” She sort of makes an excuse to Songbird, and gets out of the cab, we go to the apartment, have sex, and sleep together on the little sofa chair thing. It was kind of romantic really. Even though Songbird knew that I was sleeping with crazy bitch, Songbird and I still dated a few times, and she made it clear she would sleep with me if I wanted. Women love a man with options.

People Wearing Masks
People Wearing Masks

That was actually choice two. Choice one was Tuesday night. I had emailed Songbird after our first date and told her how much I liked it, I’d like to see her again, and was looking forward to the show. At some point on Tuesday she responded, saying, “Yes I had a great time too but oh my God are you ok? Call me please.” It was interesting to see who tried to get in contact with me on Tuesday and who didn’t. Of the friends that I had known for years, some called me or emailed right away. Some didn’t. You really find out who cares about you and who doesn’t in a situation like that.

Of course, crazy bitch never emailed, never called, never even asked. Which of course just make me more curious about her, for whatever reason.

I suppose I could tell this story as a fateful choice between two women, one good and one bad, and that I chose the bad woman. I have often wondered what my life would have been like if I went with Songbird instead of crazy bitch. Songbird and I drifted apart in the next year, and she eventually married and invited me to her wedding. I didn’t go, for various personal reasons, and I never saw her again. I did get in touch with her a few years later just to see what happened to her. She wound up having a son, and promptly divorced her husband. Her exact words: “he was crazy and abusive.” That’s the funny thing about women and men. She chose to marry, have sex with, have a child with, and divorce a man who, according to her, was “crazy” and “abusive.” I chose crazy bitch. I couldn’t really tell you why.

The Meeting
The Meeting

The mystery remains: who killed Catherine Two? Perhaps a clue is her location. She would have been at the top of the tower, trying to get onto the roof through the emergency exit doors, which were illegally locked. On a normal day, she wouldn’t have been anywhere near the top floors, and would have walked down, not up, like most of the people she worked with. But she had been summoned, along with many other people, to a meeting, in a conference room, near the top floor.

The person who arranged that meeting did not show up, thus, survived.

To be continued.

Mystery

Kinky Sex Fetish: A Manhattan Murder Mystery 5

Catherine One
Catherine One

Although fictional, the tale of two Catherines always held some sort of transcendental meaning to me. Both wound up in situations completely outside of their control, put there by men they barely knew. I was one of the men that put one of the Catherines in a situation completely outside of her control, the other Catherine was put there by other men, men that I don’t know, and men that have, to this day, never been identified. One of the Catherines wound up orgasming a few times and having a grand old time. The other Catherine wound up dead. The first Catherine was just some little piece of ass I picked up somewhere, probably from online, and the other was a woman that I worked with. I met both Catherines only a few times. They were very different women.

Catherine one kind of reminded me of little Swiss Miss, she had shortish blonde hair, and was relatively short and petite. Catherine one has huge breasts and had even gotten breast reduction surgery. She was one of two women I have known that had breast reduction surgery. Neither of them were fat at all, in fact, had rather slim figures. But for whatever reason, they had huge, huge breasts, like double D’s or whatever. Catherine one told me she was even featured in a “Girls Gone Wild” video, flashing her tits for the camera at Spring Break or something. She was the first woman that explained to me how hot it was for her to be restrained. I’ll never forget the twinkle in her eyes when she said the word “restrained” afterwards.

Catherine two was a woman that I worked with. I really didn’t know her that well but she was really popular at work and everybody loved her. She was married, with two little children, about 6 and 7, and was one of those women that men always say nice things about behind her back. Not sexual things, complimentary things, about how wonderful she was, what a great personality she had, how popular she was, how much everyone liked her.

Catherine Two
Catherine Two

I had Catherine one bent over her bed with her panties pulled down to her knees, that was the only “restraint” there was, but she totally got off on it. I had a handful of her hair in my hand, and I was sort of pulling her head from side to side, by her hair. I would come to find out later this is a real turn on for a lot of women. It’s not the pain, it’s the fact that they are not in control of their own bodies, their lover is. I’m thrusting in her and she is trying to spread her legs farther apart but can’t, due to her panties being around her knees. I don’t remember how many times she came but she was moaning and writhing and wiggling for a long time. Her moans were muffled because I was forcing her face down into her pillow while I was fucking her. We only had sex a few times but this time was definitely the best for both of us. When I came in her, I growled like an animal, this gutteral kind of noise. It was really fucking hot.

This is the thing I’ve never understood about crazy bitch, the more women I was fucking at once, the more she wanted to fuck me. The less women I was fucking, the less interested. Crazy bitch became super interested in me when I was fucking someone else, and her interest would always cool significantly when I just wanted her exclusively. That’s why I would introduce her as my “roommate” instead of my “lover.” It would often work this way, I would bring someone to the apartment, fuck them, crazy bitch would be in the other room listening, and if I sent them home, crazy bitch would come in my room and then I’d fuck her. This happened surprisingly often.

Locked
Locked

In fact, I think Catherine figured this out and that’s why she stopped talking to me after about a week and a half. Her last words to me were, “keep it” when I lamely tried to meet up with her again to return a CD I had borrowed. No one ever plans to become a slut, it just sort of happens by accident. At some point you just start to forget various women. An article in the NYT said the hookup culture in Manhattan went into overdrive as a response to the attacks, even as a response to post traumatic stress disorder: fucking to forget, and to balance out the creation of death with the creation of new life.

I don’t know exactly what happened to Catherine two, but I can make an educated guess. I’m guessing she was at the top of the emergency stairs, banging on the doors, desperately trying to get to the roof where she could be rescued. But the doors were locked. There are very strict fire codes in all skyscrapers and emergency doors are never supposed to be locked. If I remember correctly, this information came out the day of the attack. People asked why they didn’t send helicopters to rescue people on the roof, but I don’t think anyone made it to the roof, because someone locked the doors.

So Catherine two probably burned to death, screaming.

Her kids are old enough to drink now.

To be continued.

Mystery