Derek Bennett lived in a Greenwood Village mansion and drove a silver BMW flagship. That night, after dark, Aspen and Christina parked down the street from his house, not really expecting anything to happen.
But it did.
Bennett pulled out shortly after eight-thirty, and they followed.
“We’re officially crazy at this point,” Christina said.
“You watch,” Aspen said. “He’s going to lead us straight to more bodies.”
“Yeah, ours.”
Bennett wound his way to I-25, headed north, drove all the way through Denver and out the other side, and finally exited at 56th Avenue. A mile or so later, he pulled into an industrial park. Aspen continued down the road and then circled back.
“There it is,” Christina said, pointing.
Sure enough, Bennett’s BMW was parked in front of a detached brick building, in the company of eight or ten other vehicles. They killed the lights and drove past. The only signage consisted of small white lettering on the door.
Tops amp; Bottoms.
“What the hell is this?”
Aspen backed into a dark deserted area about fifty yards away and killed the engine. Then she pulled out her cell phone, called information to get the number for Tops amp; Bottoms, and dialed.
She got a recording.
A sexy female voice.
She listened and then looked at Christina. “The best I can tell, it’s some kind of a dungeon.”
Christina slapped the car seat.
“Do you mean to tell me that Derek Bennett, senior partner in our prestigious law firm, is in that building over there, even as we speak, chained naked to a cross and getting his cock whipped by some lady?”
Aspen grunted.
“No more visuals, please,” she said. “Or it could be the other way around. He might be a top, working some woman over. Or a guy, even.”
They waited.
Just to see how long he stayed.
It turned out to be an hour.
“The old Richard’s got to be hurting a truckload,” Christina said.
“All red and irritated,” Aspen said.
“Wondering what it ever did to justify all this.”
After Derek Bennett pulled his BMW into the night and disappeared, Aspen started the engine and pointed the Honda towards the street, but instead swung into a parking space in front of Tops amp; Bottoms at the last second.
“I’m going in,” she said.
Christina unbuckled her seatbelt. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“No,” Aspen said. “That’ll look too suspicious, like we’re cops or something. Just wait here.”
The door opened into a small waiting room with barren white walls, no chairs or furniture, a red door, and a sign that stated this is not a place of prostitution and that it is against the law to solicit a sexual act. Aspen hadn’t been in the room more than ten seconds when the red door opened and a woman walked in.
She was strikingly beautiful, young-younger even than Aspen-and wore her breasts falling out. She looked Aspen up and down, then hugged her and said, “‘I’m Jasmine. We don’t get many women.”
Aspen shifted from one foot to the other, nervous.
“I’m Aspen. I’m not sure you have me yet,” she said. “I just stopped in to get more information.”
“Have you visited our website?”
“No. I didn’t even know you had one.”
Jasmine turned, opened the red door with one hand and grabbed Aspen’s hand with the other.
“Follow me,” she said.
They entered a hallway and walked past several doors, each painted in a different cartoon color. Aspen felt weird, holding a woman’s hand, but didn’t pull away. They entered the room with the green door. And Jasmine said, “This is our green room.”
It was a well-equipped dungeon with a hospital smell.
“It’s fully soundproof and totally private,” Jasmine said. “Are you a top or a bottom?”
Aspen knew she better have an answer.
Quickly.
The thought of surrendering control to a stranger terrified her.
“A top,” she said.
Jasmine smiled. “No problem. We have three subs working tonight. None of them have any problem surrendering to a woman. I think you’d especially like Antoinette. She’ll do bondage, light spanking, cum control, obedience training, submissive wrestling, and just about anything else you might have in mind.”
Aspen pictured it.
“The room’s totally soundproof,” Jasmine added. “And totally private. There are no cameras or anything like that. Whatever happens in here is between you and your sub. The rate is a hundred dollars an hour for the room, which goes to the house. The girls work for tips. The minimum tip rate is a hundred an hour. So, would you like to meet some of the girls?”
Aspen nodded.
“Sure. Why not?”
48
DAY EIGHT-SEPTEMBER 12
MONDAY AFTERNOON
On the way back to Denver, Draven swung by the stripper’s apartment. She scrunched her face as she looked at the Granada and almost didn’t get in, but changed her mind when he handed her the remaining eight hundred dollars.
“Nice ride,” she said, sliding over on the bench seat until she was next to him.
“My Porsche is in the shop.”
Her face brightened.
“You have a Porsche?”
“A 911 Turbo,” he said, which was true. That, his house on the beach, and his whole other existence was in Malibu, all under his real name, Jack Brentwood.
“Red, I hope.”
“That’s the only color,” he said. “If it ain’t red, it’s dead.”
She rubbed her hand on his thigh. “Do you want to know what I have in store for you, for paying me so well?”
He pulled into traffic.
“Sure, why not?”
She moved her hand to his cock.
“Okay,” she said. “But don’t come before we get there.”
He drugged her on the way to the cabin, then carried her into the second bedroom, stripped her down to her thong, and secured her spread-eagled to the bed, double-checking the knots to be absolutely sure there was no way she could escape.
Then he walked into Mia Avila’s room, carrying the logbook that he’d gotten from her tattoo shop, and bitch- slapped her across the face before she could make a sound.
