Digimon Fan Fiction ❯ Leather and Lace ❯ Pink Pasties and Blue Skin ( Chapter 4 )

Brief note: Jenrya is Henry Wong from season 03, and, from the first chapter, Izumi is Zoe from season 04.

Also, the Iori who was killed in Chapter one is NOT Hida Iori from the series. You'll see why later on.

 

By the way, I'm sorry for such the delay. I've been busy with exams, and then work. And I've also had a HUGE writer's block on this chapter. So, I'm hoping it turns out okay.

I know it's seems a touch boring'ish near the end, but I need to give at least a part of the profiling, just to help influence future chapters. You will see.

 

Chapter 4

Pink Pasties and Blue Skin

 

The station was not like those described in typical police novels, or any of the movies she had seen. It was not crowded, nor was it utterly empty, devoid of any person or being whatsoever. Instead, it was similar to a typical business building, with a reception desk, a clean, comfortable waiting area, and doors and hallways leading beyond to offices, labs, detainment cells, rooms for questioning, and the ever famous, morgue.

 

She wouldn't have minded going to the labs and watching them perform the experiments that helped solve mysteries, nor would she have minded going to the offices and watching them work the puzzles out in their minds as they fought against time and death to solve confusing puzzles. But the one place she actually feared going to, was the morgue.

 

It was a place of death and decay, where whomever went it never came back alive. There, she would be able to smell the stench of death and rotten flesh, to watch as they wheeled out the cold, lifeless bodies for her to examine and touch, to poke and prod like they were some fascinating item. Surely the body was quite fascinating, but she preferred to deal with the mind; it was far more interesting, and required her to stay clean in the process.

 

But, as she followed him into the back, listening as he told the officer behind the desk who she was and why she was there, she knew, deep down, that she would be going into that room of death, no matter what she tried.

 

She had made a promise.

 

She heard the words, heard the sounds of sentences being formed, but she could not make sense of just what was being said. They were nothing but sounds, strange noises coming out of the throats of those around her, watching her follow their leader. She could feel their eyes on her back; hear the soft, echoing sound of their whispers echo down the hall. If only she weren't so numb, then she would be able to hear their words.

 

She just barely saw the brightly lit hallway, but, for some reason, she could not see all of it. Instead, wherever there were shadows, she saw blood. The handprints on the walls, smeared down, as though someone coated in the red liquid had tried to bash the wall in, tried to crawl away, but were forced to give up in the process. She saw their lifeless, open eyes, void of any glimmer or brilliant sheen, dull and purple-blue in the pale light.

 

She remembered becoming tangled in the sheets, slipping on the warm, slick blood, and nearly falling forward onto the desecrated bodies.

 

Warm arms grasped her, holding her up, and she glanced towards the man who held her, her eyes meeting a brilliant, blue gaze.

 

“Tachikawa-san? Are you all right?”

 

A soft gasp escaped her lips, and she jerked away, unconsciously dusting her body off, attempting to regain whatever composure she had within her. Had she really just tripped in the middle of an empty hallway?

 

But she had thought that she was in the room again, slipping on the blood, tripping over the blankets, falling onto the torn, bloodied forms. Nearly coming into contact with the slits throats and destroyed torsos.

 

Swallowing thickly, she closed her eyes and willed the images away, yearning for them to leave her alone for the time being, just so that she could be able to walk straight and not fall.

 

“I'm … I'm fine, Lieutenant Ishida. I just slipped a bit; my boots are, uh, a little slippery on the floor.” She let out a sharp, barking laugh, giving him a good signal that apprehension was currently flooding her body. “I guess the floor isn't dirty enough.”

 

Smiling softly in return, he simply nodded. “All right.” He turned to continue walking. “The morgue isn't too far off. You'll need to clean up a bit first, put some proper shoes on and all that. So, I'm going to take you to the lockers, get you some proper clothes, and then we'll go to the morgue. Sound good?”

 

She wanted to say no, to say that going to the morgue did not sound good at all. But she couldn't; she was going to keep her end of the bargain, no matter what consequences befell upon her.

 

“Okay, Lieutenant.”

 

He knew that he was getting odd looks from the women on the squad, he could tell from the moment he had first stepped in and all eyes fell upon him. He remembered distinctly when Ken actually came up, grinning broadly, and looked him over.

 

“Well, Lieutenant, I see you're enjoying being the dominant one on the squad,” the brunet had said.

 

Yamato had actually wanted to blush at that, and he rarely blushed. Instead, he slugged the unsuspecting man in the arm, chuckling as the younger man rubbed the injured spot.

 

“Now that was cheap.”

 

“So was your comment,” Yamato had retorted before continuing to lead Mimi away.

 

Now he was leading the young woman to a room that he was positive she would never want to enter. He recalled her reaction at the crime scene, and he had actually feared for the worst, that she would vomit, pass out, and go into the worst kind of shock.

 

Yamato actually admired the young woman; the crime scene had not been a pleasant sight, and she had reacted quite well to such a bloody mess. He recalled clearly the images of the bodies lying prone on the bed.

 

They had been massacred, torn apart in such a furious show of rage that it had even made bile rise in his throat. Blood had been splattered on the walls, coating the floor in a layer of the red liquid, soaking the sheets until they were drenched in blood. The scene had been like the others, throats slits, genitalia abused, and bruising that could not be visually differentiated from those caused in the act of love and those caused from fighting back.

 

But the one thing that had stood out was the sheer brutality of the scene; the bodies had been hacked viciously with what he suspected was a machete, or a large enough knife. The cuts had been bone-deep, causing a great amount of blood loss, which was the definite cause of death for both victims. So why had it been necessary to cut the throats?

 

The best conclusion that Yamato made was that it was personal this time, and that the killer had everything to gain in savagely tearing apart the bodies of the deceased. For some reason, the killer had not spent as much time focusing on his victims, aiming to not only kill them, but also destroy their very bodies. He wanted them to suffer.

 

Sighing heavily, Yamato continued to lead her down the sanitized hallways until they reached two sets of doors. Slowly opening the one labeled for women, he peeked his head in, calling out to anyone in the locker room. Once he was assured that nobody was inside, he led Mimi inside.

 

“I'll just find you some stuff. I'm pretty sure that Miyako's clothes will fit you; they might be a bit tight, though.”

 

Arching a brow, Mimi was pulled out of her thoughts as the man, clearly, insulted her weight and body composition. Frowning, she glared daggers at the blue-eyed man standing before her.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

He jerked his head back, having been rummaging through a locker. “Hm?”

 

“Unless I'm very mistaken, I believe you just insulted me.” Her hands automatically fell to her hips. At his perplexed glance, she continued. “You just called me fat.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about?” He stood upright, moving away from the locker. “Are you having auditory hallucinations or something? Are you a schizophrenic and not tell me about it?”

 

Her scowl deepened at his questioning insults. Hallucinations, she could live with, but being called a schizo did nothing to appease her irritability. “You told me that her clothes would be tight. I'll have you know that I can fit in a variety of sizes, ranging from a size 2 to a size 5, and those are pretty fucking small sizes.” She gestured to her body. “Do I really look fat to you?”

 

His gaze followed the movement of her hands, trailing down her lean, curvy torso, to her long, slender legs, before going back up once more. His gaze lingered on her full breasts, before coming up the pale slope of her throat to her heart-shaped face. He swallowed thickly. As soon as his gaze had fallen upon her body, erotic images had begun to consume his mind, making his body tighten with need and primal desire.

 

Turning his gaze away, he went back to rummaging through the locker, trying to do something, anything, to pull his mind away from what lay under all of that black vinyl.

 

“No, you don't look fat.” He sighed. “It's just that, uh…” How was he supposed to say that she was far more well endowed that poor Miyako? `”Tachikawa-san, you have bigger boobs that this chick.” Haha, no; that will get me hurt. Uh, how about “You are a bit more gifted than my friend?” Oh jeez, hell no, she'd kick my ass for sure. Aw fuck.'

 

“Well, Tachikawa-san, I guess you could say that being in too-good shape, not that you're not in shape, does not have too many benefits for women. You know, they, uh, get too thin in areas, and, well, you're a bit… fuller in those, um, areas…” He hoped, prayed, that she understood his hint.

 

She couldn't help it; she smiled coyly, moving slowly forward. “Why, Lieutenant Ishida, are you saying that I'm … endowed?”

 

He found a comfortable, simple white blouse and placed it aside. Keeping his back to her, he searched for a pair of pants. “Exactly.”

 

He hit his head on the top of the locker when he realized what he had just blurted out. Cursing, he rubbed the top of his head, pulling out of the metal confinement, squinting slightly from the sharp pain exuding from his skull.

 

“I, uh, Tachikawa-san, I didn't mean, uh, I'm sorry if I offended you?”

 

For just a moment, a very brief moment that seemed to last years, she kept her hands on her hips, eyeing him in suppressed irritation. The moment passed, and laughter exploded from her throat, escaping her lips as they curled into a bright smile.

 

“Lieutenant Ishida, you sure know how to distract someone from their impending doom. Thank you.”

 

“Uh…no problem?”

 

Frowning in confusion, he turned his back to her, sticking his body back into the locker, focusing intently on finding a pair of pants that would not be too long on her; Miyako was also a few inches taller than the brunette standing by him.

 

As he withdrew, his eyes fell to her boots.

 

“Oh jeez.”

 

Frowning, she picked up the blouse and looked at it before glancing at him. “What's the matter?”

 

Yamato sighed heavily. “I don't have any shoes for you, and those little, rubber plastic things will be too small to fit over your platforms.”

 

Nodding in understanding, Mimi turned her gaze away from him to focus on the blouse. It would most certainly be a tight fit. It would probably added quite a bit to her cleavage. Perfect, just what she needed, something to distract the cop even more.

 

Then a sudden realization hit her, and she blushed darkly in response. Her outfit was basically a one-piece; although the belts on her stomach could be detached in the front for easy removal, they were attached to her skirt, which she would not be able to wear if she was going to be wearing pants. This meant that she would have to take off her top.

 

All she had under her top were flower nipple pasties.

 

Neon pink nipple pasties.

 

Oh shit.

 

“Uh, Lieutenant Ishida, how, uh, transparent is this top?”

 

Frowning at her unusual question, Yamato searched valiantly for a pair of shoes for the girl to wear. Glancing towards her, before refocusing his attention on the locker, he shrugged. “Probably see-through enough to see skin. Miyako tends to wear tank tops under it and we can usually see the lining of them. I can't find any of those in here, so I guess it's a good thing you have that top, eh?”

“Oh.” She swallowed thickly, before looking away, pondering about her sudden dilemma. To be uncomfortable, or practically flash this poor officer. What was a girl to do?

 

She would not be able to wear those pants with that skirt.

 

Damn it.

 

“I think I found you some shoes. They might be a touch big, maybe half a size, but they're made small, so they should be okay.” He pulled out a pair of simple, black, ballerina flats. “Sound good?”

 

Nodding, she thanked him and took the shoes from him. Shutting the door, he sat down on the bench, watching her patiently.

 

Scowling, she crossed her arms the best she could, and eyed his suspiciously. “Aren't you going to leave?”

 

“Huh?” He turned to glance at her, before blushing darkly. “Oh! Oh, I'm sorry Tachikawa-san. I'll leave you alone now.”

 

Before she had a chance to say anything, the Lieutenant rushed out of locker, the vermilion hue still on his cheeks.

 

Shrugging, she turned her back to the door and proceeded to change.

 

Well, at least she was wearing underwear.

 

******************************

 

He sat outside of the changing room, head buried in his hands as he stared at the white, pristine floor. Sighing heavily, he closed his eyes and nearly groaned aloud at the sight that assaulted his mind.

 

How was he supposed to tell her that, the reason he had been distracted was because he was imagining her changing? Not only would it seem unprofessional, but it would also have seemed quite perverted.

 

But the image, the sheer thought of her sliding out of those clothes, exposing her pale, creamy skin made his mind whirl with desirable fantasies.

 

How was it that his body instantly ached for her, despite her being nothing short of a stranger? Sure, he had felt arousal before when seeing a good-looking woman, such as Carmen Electra, but this had been the first time he had been aroused just by her touch. Usually the woman had to be wearing provocative clothing, hair done up, and et cetera. But this time, just the sound of her voice, the feel of her touch made his senses grow wild and erratic.

 

So what was it about her that made his yearn with need?

 

He was completely and utterly unsure of himself and his desires at this very moment, and it frightened him. He was always so in control, in-check of his emotions and needs, always so straightforward and sure of himself. It created a great wave of confusion when this one lovely stranger filled his thoughts and consumed his mind.

 

Lifting his head at the sound of footsteps, he choked on saliva, air, and words as Mimi stepped out of the locker room. Maybe he should not have given her a white shirt…

 

The blouse was tight, very tight, and pushed her cleavage as high as it would go without a bra. How did he know she wasn't wearing a bra? He could see the pale tone of flesh just underneath the thin, white top. He was actually very grateful that he could not see her nipples; he probably would have shoved her back into the locker room and never come back out.

 

Although, despite the fact that he could not see her nipples, he knew exactly where they were located, the brilliant, flower-shaped pasties, at least, that's what he figured they were, stood out brightly through the pale top. He wasn't sure whether he was supposed to chuckle, or groan with delight.

 

The black pants were tight; she was not as leggy as Miyako, and her legs seemed to contain a bit more muscle than his lavender-haired friend. She had rolled up the bottoms, exposing the flats that were just a bit too big. However, he barely glanced at the flats, focusing his attention on, as she spun around slowly, the way the pants hugged her tight buttocks.

 

It was the most fascinating thing he had ever examined; it captivated him, drawing him to it, making him want to see her in different outfits, to see just how his body would react to other clothes.

 

Instead, he stood, clearing his throat loudly.

 

“Well, Tachikawa-san, I guess it's not too bad a fit.” No, it was a perfect fit, and, as she moved, he noted how her breasts shifted against the thin material, aching to replace that material with his hands and mouth.

 

She smiled in return. “Thank you, Lieutenant.” A sigh escaped her lips. “I guess we should get this stuff done and over with, eh?”

 

“Oh, yes, of course.” He turned away from her. “Follow me.”

 

The door swung both ways, was large, metallically silver, and had a large, circular window allowing people to see in and out. The room beyond possessed the faintest of bluish hues, almost as though the neon lights were blue as opposed to a brilliant white. The floor was pristine, clean, and as clear as ivory, while the walls were whitewashed, unadorned of any sentimental or personal effects. A few anatomical diagrams here and there, signs indicating proper hand-washing techniques over the sink, and a white x-ray board covered the almost bare walls.

 

In the very middle of the room was a stretcher, upon which lay what appeared to be a sleeping human being. But, as Mimi entered the room, the knowledge that the human was not sleeping came into sharp focus. The reason for such was the man leaning over the body, pulling out what looked to be a desecrated, fatty liver.

 

“Death most probably caused by internal bleeding of the liver. The organ has been torn nearly in half from a large, jagged, sharp object, most likely a knife.” The man leaned closer to the liver, using his upper arm to adjust his glasses. “From the faint ridges on the inside of the liver, it would seem like the knife has the same serrated ridge pattern as that of a bread knife. The estimated length of the blade is 5.5 inches.”

 

“Hey, Jenrya, can you do me a favour?”

 

The man lifted his head, arching a brow in the direction of Yamato and Mimi, before placing the liver aside and pulling off of his gloves.

 

“And what can I do for you, Lt?”

 

The man tugged a cap off of his head, exposing a head full of dark, bluish black hair that fell just short of his ears. Beyond the glasses designated for magnification of objects, was a pair of dark chocolate eyes.

 

Smiling, the blond stepped forward, gesturing from Mimi to the man named Jenrya. “Jenrya, this is Tachikawa Mimi,” he turned to Mimi, “Tachikawa-san, this is Li Jenrya, our coroner.”

 

He stuck out his hand in an automatic reaction to the introductions. Smiling faintly, she leaned forward; grasping his hand with hers in a solid, yet not too tight hold. She was trying to let him know that she was strong and was not as nervous as she felt.

 

He then turned to Yamato as they separated.

 

“So, Lt, what is it you want?”

 

“I need you to get out the victims of the killer.” Yamato sighed. “Yoshite Sakura, Ita Hiro, Horata Rumiko, Sato Mamoru, Hiragusawa Setsuna, and Yuuto Iori.”

 

Mimi swallowed thickly as she heard Rumiko's name stated under the characterization of `victim'. Instantly, fear clenched tightly around her chest, suffocating her and lodging her heart in her throat as she fought for the strength to see poor Rumiko. The last time she was seen the beautiful woman, the girl had been dancing the night away at Dungeon's, laughing and smiling.

 

Would she be able to bear seeing her friend lying on a stretcher, beyond all help, gone from the world?

 

Only time would tell.

 

“Oh, certainly.” Jenrya turned away from the two at the doorway, moving to the far, left wall. The wall was covered in what appeared to be a few dozen filing cabinets. But Mimi had watched enough CSI shows to know otherwise.

 

Those were cells that contained the bodies of the deceased.

 

Jenrya looked along the bottom cabinets, checking the front tags for names, flicking the lock on each he found. All six were on the bottom, and, without waiting for them to say otherwise, he opened up, one by one, all six compartments. Immediately, the insides of the compartments lit up, as though the simple movement of the opening door caused the lights to turn on.

 

Moving along the aisle, Jenrya pulled out the stretchers, one at a time, exposing the forms, each of which was covered by a simple, white sheet.

 

She wanted to move back, to pull away, but she knew that, deep down, she would be able to do this. She just had to tell herself that it was nothing, that the bodies were made out of plastic, and that all she had to do was analyze the patterns and bruises. That's all she had to do.

 

Jenrya leaned forward, reaching underneath each stretcher to unhook the wheels that attached just underneath the metal bed. The wheels clicked down, reminding her of an airplane's landing wheels, and clicked into place. Slowly, one by one, Jenrya wheeled them to one side of the room, keeping enough distance between so that someone could walk around each bed without bumping into another.

 

Yamato stepped forward to help the coroner, locking the wheels in place so that the stretchers did not budge. That way, if they did hit one, it would not roll away and hit something.

 

Turning, one he completed the brief task; Yamato faced Mimi, who had grown pale with fearful anticipation. He knew that her heart was pounding in her chest, ramming violently against her ribs. He knew exactly how breathless and helpless she was feeling; he had felt the exact same way his first time in the morgue.

 

At least he hadn't thrown up, unlike Taichi.

 

Placing his hands on her shoulders, after thanking Jenrya, Yamato focused his gaze on hers.

 

“Now, Tachikawa-san, I understand that you must be nervous. What I want you to do is take a few deep breaths, and try to focus all of your attention on the belief that these are dummies. All right? Just pretend that they are made out of wax, and you're studying for an exam, or teaching a few students about the reasoning behind the injuries.” He could see the fear aglow in her eyes, and could almost read her thoughts, her incessant worries. “I promise you, they will not smell. We have already taken care of that, so you won't have to smell anything that will make you think they're real.”

 

She slowly nodded, taking in several shaky, deep breaths in an attempt to ease her erratic nerves. Closing her eyes, she took in one last deep breath, willing herself to focus on the `fact' that the bodies were plastic. This was nothing but a demonstration, an exam by Itashi-shacho to prove that she was still able to create psychological profiles. They were simply fake bodies. They were not real.

 

Opening her eyes, she tied her hair back into a ponytail, ensuring that strands of it would not fall onto the victims, no, cut that, dummies, and `contaminate' anything. Taking in one last breath, she nodded a second time.

 

“All right, I'm ready.”

 

Smiling down at her, Yamato lead the way over to the two bodies on the far right side. He gestured to them. “They are the first couple who was attacked, a couple weeks ago. We will start from the first attacks and then go down to the latest ones. You will not have to do the ones we found tonight; you have already done more than enough for those two.”

 

Jenrya lifted his head, glancing towards the therapist and Lieutenant. “Hey, Lt, you might want to get some paper to take notes. I have a clipboard on the counter over there.” Yamato gestured a thanks and headed towards the clipboard and searched for a pen. “And you might want to wear gloves, eh?”

 

Tossing a pair of latex gloves to Mimi, Yamato said another thanks to Jenrya, before returning, and slowly pulling back the first two sheets.

 

She couldn't help it; she gaped in awe and fear. Both bodies were lean, yet short in stature, and the woman possessed a very small chest. However, these small things were barely noticed by the living woman; it was the hue of their skin that seemed to amaze her. The tanned flesh had grown pale with death, gathering a blue undertone that seemed to shift and grow duller or brighter depending on the amount of light on the skin. This flesh was mottled and dotted with bruises, ranging in size from large to small, marring the skin that was, most likely, unblemished and beautiful. Skin that used to glow with life.

 

She slowly walked around the bodies, noting the placement of the bruises, noticing that they were placed in the same spots on both bodies.

 

“Lieutenant, can you tell me which bruises were caused by the killer, and which ones by the lover? Or is it impossible to tell which ones were formed earlier, and which ones were done later?”

 

“Ah, hold on a second.” Yamato turned and walked over to a filing cabinet nearby, pulling six folders. He opened the first two, placing them onto a moving table usually used for placing organs on.

 

“According to the examiner, the bruises were caused within such a short amount of time, meaning that they were formed so close to one another, that it's difficult to tell which ones were caused during sexual intercourse, and which were caused by the killer.”

 

Nodding her head slowly, she continued to walk around the bodies, examining the waxy flesh with her focused, trained gaze. “Both were sexually assaulted.” She gestured to the genitalia of both people. “The woman more so than the man, in this case.” She couldn't help but lean forward, grasping the flaccid, lifeless shaft of the deceased male. “He was cut. Almost as though someone was trying to circumcise him.” She lifted her head. “Had this man been circumcised before death?”

 

The blond Lieutenant shook his head, disgust clearly visible on his face. “Past medical reports do not list any circumcision, meaning that no, he was not circumcised before his death.”

 

Swallowing thickly, she closed her eyes, trying her hardest to remain calm, cool, and collected. “Obviously the killer has some strange idea that circumcision must be beneficial, or good. Perhaps it is his particular religion or belief he possesses. Maybe it was something that enforced upon him as a child.”

 

“You say him. So you are suggesting that the killer is a male?”

 

“Only a male would be able to take on the strength of this man.” She gestured to the body of the deceased man. “Furthermore, it would seem as though the killer had been far more entertained in torturing the female. She is bruised far more than the male, and there are more cuts on her. So, it would seem that he holds a grudge against females.”

 

Yamato jotted down these notes, quite content that they were going somewhere with the profiling.

 

“Lieutenant, do you know whether this woman was a Sub or Domme?”

 

Glancing up, Yamato looked briefly over the files. “Well, taking in the fact that she wore a collar with a loop, we can automatically assume that she was a Sub.” He quickly glanced through the other three females' profiles. “As a matter of fact, all of the females were Subs.”

 

Nodding, she examined the woman's body. “So, the killer has something against powerless women. Or, well, women who have the power to chose who they want to be with, and allow themselves to be degraded sexually. Women who enjoy being treated as such.” She chewed on her bottom lip. “This man must have been denied before by a Sub, a Sub he wanted really badly. And she, a lower, supposedly powerless woman, had told him off, telling him that he wasn't good enough for her.” She noted the rope marks on the woman's wrist, knowing fully well that no Dom would have tied the rope tight enough to bruise and mar the wrists; those were one of the few places Doms were allowed to mark, as they were usually seen in the public.

 

“He wanted to make her powerless; he tied her down. He wanted her to be powerless, he wanted to be in full control for once, and not have a woman deny him.” She gestured to the bruising around the woman's lips. “He gagged her, forcefully. Doms do not gag or tie a Sub hard enough to create bruises in visible places; the bruising and marks raise questions that do not want to be answered. This man, the killer, wanted to be sure that he had control, and that she would be in constant pain.”

 

Jenrya couldn't help but pause in his work, glancing towards the psychologist as she examined the meaning behind the bruises, the marks, and the death.

 

“Just by looking at these two bodies, I can already assume that the killer had been abused as a child, most likely by a female. Most probably by his mother.” A light lit in her mind.

 

Without asking for consent, she tossed off the blankets of all of the female bodies, glancing at them one by one, slowly making connections in her mind.

 

“These women look alike. Some have similar hair colour, some the same facial structure, others same stature. But, in the end, all of the women possess some similarity.” She looked to Yamato. “These woman are just for practice. He's working his way to the one woman he wants. And something tells me that it's the Sub who turned him down, and he's not going to be nice.”

 

******************************

 

He sat behind his desk, several hours after they had completed the examination of the bodies. It was nearing 4 in the morning, and he had yet to call Taichi and inform him of the circumstances and profile. He knew that Taichi was most likely sleeping, or `distracting' his lovely Domme.

 

Rubbing his face as weariness hit him, Yamato chugged down his fifth cup of coffee, his eyes falling on the woman who lay on the couch in his office.

 

Some colour had returned to her skin, but she was still quite pale. He knew that when she woke up, she would still feel queasy, but would slowly grow ravenous. The poor woman, when Jenrya had wheeled in a latest victim, the stench of death had been far too strong for the woman to handle.

 

She had run to the bathroom and vomited.

 

He knew that she was embarrassed, and had told her not to be; she had done great for her first time in the morgue, and done an excellent job in forming a profile. They were done for the time being, until they were able to create a deeper, easier to follow profile.

 

For the time being, he was content in watching the woman's chest rise and fall with each breath, his eyes following the line of her lean body, of the curvy shape as it turned on the couch, falling onto her back.

 

Oh, the view had grown delicious; the blouse had popped open, further exposing her lush, full breasts.

 

He felt his groin tighten, his shaft twitch against the smooth leather of his pants. How he ached to go over there and wake her, to tug off her pants and use his hands and mouth to bring her into a wakeful state. Then, he would show her just how much he wanted her, just how hard she made him.

 

He could already tell how she would want it; he knew that she would beg for him to be hard, rough, to treat her like she was his and nobody else's. He would take her and show her again and again just whom she was.

 

Groaning with delight, he could help but rub his hand slowly against the aching bulge in his pants. Just once, one long, slow rub before forcing his attention on his work, and he would begin the process anew, like a never-ending circle of lust.

 

Just what was it about this woman that made him want to break away from the chains and take her in every place, and almost every way?

 

Sighing heavily, he lay his head down on his desk, and barely fought when waves of weariness consumed him, dragging him into the welcoming darkness of sleep.

 

I hope you guys enjoyed it.

 

I promise to post the next chapter a lot faster!!

 

Ciao.