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Chapter 15 Sorry for Your Loss
Officer Radnor found the wallets of the couple in a trash heap behind the warehouse. I didn’t find it surprising they were charter members of the intelligentsia. Smart people can get involved in some very dumb things.
They were in their mid thirties and considered rising stars in the academic world. The female was Margaret Powell Worthington, professor of Chinese history at Harvard and current occupant of the Lunenburg Chair for Asiatic Studies. According to her bio she was a leading authority on the Han Dynasty.
The owner of the separated penis was Wendell Myers Worthington, her husband, and a full professor at the Harvard School of Government. He had recently published a well received text on macro economic theory.
Penelope and I had the responsibility to convey the bad tidings to their restored Cambridge home in the Historical District where we encountered the Worthington’s two minor children and their maternal grandmother, a Dr. Carrie Nicholson, a GP with a private practice in nearby Belmont.
Informing relatives of the fatality of their loved ones is the job we cops hate the most. Standard procedure required that a grief counselor accompany us and luckily for me we were assigned, Nancy Aimes, an associate of mine who I occasionally boned to get past such unhappy situations. Nancy considered it her duty to not only comfort the families but to provide the accompanying officers with a hot piece of ass to help them relieve stress and focus on solving the case.
Penelope and I arrived at the Worthington home before Nancy arrived and were obliged to wait in the car for her. The waiting gave me time to think and I found myself thinking about Nancy’s non standard approach to grief counseling.
Some of my fellow officers have guiltily admitted to looking forward to informing families of their loved one’s demise knowing that it meant a roll in the hay with winsome Nancy who pulled out all the stops preferring to begin her therapy by playing the officer’s Rusty Trombone.
After my last visit to the bereaved wife of a lawyer killed at random in a liquor store holdup, Nancy had swabbed out the first two inches of my rectum with her tongue then proceeded to give me an incredible blowjob with a Las Vegas finish that rocked my world.
That brought to mind the tale that Matt, the office asshole, was spreading about his most recent tryst with Nancy. According to that deviant, he had persuaded her that only a chili dog would allow him to process the trauma of informing a husband that his bride of two weeks had been raped, tortured, mutilated, and killed by a homicidal maniac.
Nancy, always a trooper, agreed to Matt taking a dump between her large breasts then using the poo as lubricant for a tit fuck. Unbeknownst to her, a concealed video camera operated by Matt’s perverted wife captured the scatological event. Seventeen minutes of hard core HD video was making the rounds of the department. I considered Matt’s behavior very unprofessional in its treatment of a fellow officer.
In my experience, chili dogs were only appropriate for females who had betrayed their significant other by having sex outside the relationship without permission and lying about it. That normally involved filling the miscreant with booze and/or drugs until she was helpless but not comatose. It was important she be impaired to the point she was mentally aware but physically helpless. Perform a chili dog on a totally passed out female was considered pointless. The woman had to know she was being shit on as punishment for her misdeeds.
In my college fraternity, we had an elaborate ritual. The offended partner and selected brothers would consume several 14.5 ounce cans of Hormel chili at a formal dinner. There was some debate whether the “with or without beans” variety achieved the best results when it came to the consistency of the dump. A diarrhea like bowel movement was obviously superior to a pile of well formed logs.
Once the female was properly drugged, she would be stripped and a set of “before” pictures made. These began with her fully clothed and ended with her naked, spread out on a plastic sheet and the words, “whore”, “slut,” and “cunt” written in block letters on her anatomy.
The offended frat brother would then take a pair of needle nose pliers and capture the tip of her nipple. He would extend the tendril of flesh to the maximum and give it a couple of twists. His best friend would then tie a slip knot of fishing line at the base. This was repeated with the other nipple connecting the two breasts and giving the brothers a means to hold her boobs close together during the chili dog.
Ducolax or some other strong laxative was then passed around to the chili dog team. The offended party went first. The brothers braced his squat as he evacuated his bowels. The look on their face when they saw the sphincter open and spew a half gallon on loose shit was priceless and one we worked hard to capture on film. If offal went in her mouth, so much the better.
As soon as she was coated in excrement, the offended party took a seat on her chest, positioned his cock between her breasts, grabbed the fishing line and gave it a twist to create the bun effect and began to pump toward her open mouth. If she refused for hygiene reasons to open her mouth, a two pronged hook made from a coat hanger was inserted in her nostrils and pulled, creating the desired open mouth effect.
Still images and pictures were made of the event carefully omitting the face and any identifying features of the shitter. As soon as he dumped his load on her face, the next shitter took his place. By the time, the ritual ended the girl was buried in poo from her waist to the crown of her head.
Images and video were carefully edited by a frat brother skilled in the visual arts. The final product was loaded onto what we called the, “Server of Shame,” located in the frat house attic. The Server’s URL was emailed to the student body and the girl’s parents. It was about as apt a punishment for an unfaithful lover as one could imagine. College memories can last a lifetime.
My reverie was interrupted by Nancy’s arrival.
“Are you going to shit on her tits and do a chili dog,” asked Penelope as we watched Nancy park?
Her question surprised me. The woman seemed to know everything of significance about Boston PD.
“I haven’t decided. But it does not seem an appropriate way to treat a fellow officer of the law,” I said.
“It’s not so bad. Happened to me a couple of times,” said Penelope as we exited to the sidewalk.
The grandmother proved to be a stalwart individual. She summoned her husband and several friends to be with the children then sat down with us to be interviewed.
“I told Margaret not to go. Clubs like that are dangerous,” said Dr. Nicholson. “There was no need to go anywhere. There is a fully equipped dungeon in the basement.”
“What club was that,” asked Penelope?
The grandmother looked uncomfortable while she made her decision to talk. It isn’t easy to reveal your deceased daughter and her husband were perverted and into serious S&M. But once she made her decision, she held nothing back.
“Club Macabre, it’s an organization that caters to certain exotic tastes of a sexual nature,” said Dr. Nicholson.
“It’s a local BDSM club, very exclusive,” I offered for Penelope’s edification. “It’s tied to my other case.”
“Your daughter confided in you that much?” asked Penelope surprised that the mother and daughter were that close. Your average sibling would find it hard to confess to Mom and Dad she gets off having her ass whipped for fun. However, I recalled that Cambridge and especially the area around Harvard was a center for hardcore S&M. There were a number of campus organizations devoted to bondage and sadism. And it was common for more than one generation of the same family to join and play together.
“Margaret and I were very close. We used to play together when she was younger. Lately, she’s become more extreme in her play. I blame her husband, Wendell. He was into edge play and refused to set limits. That can be very dangerous when you play with strangers,” said Dr. Nicholson.
“Do you have any idea where they went Saturday?” asked Penelope.
“Not exactly, but Wendell mentioned something about it being a quick trip to the South End,” said Dr. Nicholson.
There was an area of the South End filled with warehouses and lofts. It was a favorite locale for raves and similar out of control drug fests. It was a frequent destination for Boston’s college population. The warehouse district averaged several gang rapes a weekend.
“Anything else,” asked Penelope?
“Only that he was looking forward to an extreme session with a new couple who were both dominants,” said Dr. Nicholson.
“Your son-in-law was a submissive,” asked Penelope?
“Sexually yes and so was Margaret, that was why they needed others to play. Herman, that’s my husband, is a sub while I am dominant. We were able to enjoy each other,” said Dr. Nicholson.
“But your daughter and her husband needed others to dominate them,” asked Penelope?
“Yes, at first, I dominated them along with Margaret’s Uncle Travis but Travis had a minor stroke while applying the cane to Zenobia’s bottom,” said Dr. Nicholson.
“Zenobia,” asked Penelope?
“His wife, she’s British. You know how much our cousins love the feel of the lash and in particular the Malacca cane. I suppose that comes from their school system,” said Dr. Nicholson.
The interview ended with a tour of the basement dungeon. It was similar to other S&M play spaces I’d experienced, perhaps a little better equipped than most. There was a punishment station consisting of a St. Andrews cross and an English style whipping bench. Both appeared well used.
“Margaret was a talented submissive. She could orgasm when a quirt was applied to her breasts,” said Dr. Nicholson picking up a short vicious looking whip from the collection hung on the wall.
“Beautiful workmanship,” said Penelope taking the whip from the doctor and examining it.
“It’s Australian. They make the best from kangaroo. It doesn’t absorb blood and change color,” said Dr. Nicholson.
“Turks Head knots,” said Penelope admiring a flogger.
“Yes, only for the serious and experienced pain lover, I see you know your whips. Is that something they teach at the FBI Academy?” said Dr. Nicholson giving Penelope a knowing look.
“No, just something I picked up after graduation. I specialize in sex crimes,” said Penelope.
I was beginning to think working with Penelope wouldn’t be so bad. We asked questions as Dr. Nicholson showed us the rest. Several models of fuck benches were lined up beside a swing.
“They were both bisexual and loved to fist,” said Dr. Nicholson giving the swing a slight push.
Next was bondage with lots of implements for tormenting the sensitive parts of the body. If your idea of a good time was being suspended with an inflatable butt plug in your ass and twenty pounds of weights stretching your balls, the Worthingtons could accommodate you.
One corner of the room contained a toilet, a rim seat, and enema gear. A three quart pumpkin bag hung from a hook and there was a large bottle of Castile soap. They had all the equipment need to fill your colon and keep it filled until you begged them to let you shit.
“They both loved estim,” said Dr. Nicholson pointing to a jumble of control boxes, probes, and contact pads.
“It can be a marvelous experience,” said Penelope examining a G-spot double electrode.
“You have experienced electro play,” asked Dr. Nicholson?
“Not as much as I would like,” said Penelope staring intently at the device.
Things were getting a little heavy so I changed the subject. Next thing I knew, the good doctor would have that probe in Penelope’s snatch feeding her G-spot enough amps to blow her mind.
“They filmed their sessions,” I asked pointing to a tripod mounted video camera.
“Oh yes, they loved to play before the camera,” said Dr. Nicholson opening a nearby cabinet to reveal hundreds of DVD discs.
“We’ll need to take them as evidence. They may have played here with their killers,” said Penelope a little too eagerly.
I expected an argument about privacy but Dr. Nicholson quickly agreed and even located two empty cardboard boxes to carry them. Penelope quickly divided the DVDs between the boxes.
I had reached the conclusion my FBI partner was definitely into kink and BDSM. I found myself fantasizing I was shitting on her tits after I had whipped them bloody.
“Interesting case,” I said loading my box of DVDs into the trunk of my Crown Vic.
“Very, we can split the DVDs. We both watch half,” said Penelope looking too excited for a serious hard working law officer pursuing serial killers. Just being in the Worthington’s dungeon had turned her on. She was going to go home, pop one of the DVDs in the player, get naked, and jerk off. I was starting to like her more because I planned to do the same.
“It’s getting late,” I said looking at my watch.
“Let’s meet tomorrow at 9:00 and review the evidence,” said Penelope scurrying toward her car with her prized box of S&M porn.
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