Little Sister
Chapter 2

Copyright© 2009 by Maxicue

Mystery Sex Story: Chapter 2 - Waikiki PI story #2. A fetching Vietnamese woman lures Joe into a troubling world filled with ghosts of his father's former life. Much edited and improved reposting of "Sister Lovers," the second Waikiki PI story (formerly attached to the first). Please read "The First Case" before this to understand characters.

Caution: This Mystery Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Ma/ft   Consensual   Romantic   NonConsensual   Rape   Heterosexual   Interracial  

"I don't know how to proceed, Lieutenant," said Nakamoto with a timidity not completely quelled. Sam was a nice enough man, forthright and honest to a fault, and maybe that integrity made one pause in his presence before making a possible ass of oneself. The question he needed answering amplified the intimidation. But need being the operative word, after a too telling pause the detective continued. "Except to ask you some questions regarding the modus operandi of the case."

The sharp young detective asking Sam permission to step inside Sam's office gave the hapa haoli lieutenant a sense of dread, and the nervous attitude of Nakamoto did nothing to quiet it. The kid (actually a man in his late twenties with years of experience as a cop, if a little wet around the ears as a detective) wasn't the most garrulous of souls, shyness a definite part of his character, but he was a proud man, proud of his intelligence and his experience. The questions he wanted answered scared the young man to trepidation. There could be only one line of questioning. Ten years of festering, getting moldy in the dark, the monster returned to life.

The night filled with surprises. The day following contrasted. After a lack of sleep because of a vigorous "getting to know you" session with my brand new lover, Kim, I felt more than a little bleary-eyed doing some shit work for Sandy, gathering and typing her mess of notes on the latest success. She relentlessly teased, seeing right through my transparent attempt to kiss and not tell. The idiot smile probably clued her in along with puffy eyelids and red laced eyeballs.

Reliving the fresh memory in my head out loud gave spice to a day of drudgery, which both Sandy and I considered the writing of reports. The spice brought on the hardening and lengthening of my tool and the unmistakable odor of my lovely mentor getting turned on. Removing my jeans and underwear and suckling my rigid rod made her horniness clear. Being ensconced in her safe little office on her comfortable leather office chair, my naked ass rising and falling from the uncontrollable pleasure she gave me, I needed to feel not just her tongue and lips and mouth, but her nether lips and the tunnel they guarded.

I pulled off her blouse and bra, barely distracting Sandy from her quest to blow me to oblivion. I finally coaxed her away from my cock. Before embedding in her cunny she let it play with her tits. My fingers stroked the nipples taut while my penis slid around their smooth surface, finding sanctuary in the cleavage. Exciting, if a little awkward, we decided we preferred hiding my cock deep inside her body.

A moment later her breasts pressed against my face as I guided my cock into its sheath. Once I lodged the head inside her pussy lips she plopped down on me, sending all seven inches and change inside. We measured each other's pulsations, frozen together, sighing over the perfection of being completely joined. My tongue and lips began to tease and lick and suck her breasts. My hands took hold of her supple ass and guided the motion, my ass squeaking on the leather cushions. Even with her exquisite fellatio, I found delay in my orgasm from the very thing that began this fuck, an over-used organ. Flesh slapped together faster and louder. I could hear her oncoming orgasm in her groans and sighs and her repeating "Oh God Yes!" faster and faster and louder and louder. She froze up as I pummeled her with several quick, hard strokes until my own orgasm pealed forth. Out chests heaved against each other. We basked in the pleasure pouring at our throbbing juncture. There's nothing quite like a quick mid-day fuck in her office.


That night I visited my first strip club. Exotic Nights, a non-descript front on the most public corner of Kalakaua and Lewers in the epicenter of Waikiki, after entering opened up to a modest club. Maybe ten or fifteen plain, wood veneer tables circled an appropriately titled thrust stage which glowed with footlights and overhead floods, clearly the focus of the space. It seemed to be a slow night with barely half of the tables filled. A couple of college age kids and an older gray haired gentleman and his equally grayed wife were the exceptions to mostly mid-thirties, predominantly haoli, seemingly expensively dressed businessmen. Onstage danced a pretty if unexceptional blonde with a lot of flesh, slightly but not unpleasantly rounded at the tummy, the extra weight augmenting her impressive and real breasts and her wide and well formed ass, both holding strong against the power of gravity. She danced slow, subtle and erotic. The smoothness and effortlessness of her dance suggested real dance training. The flaw came from her eyes which seemed introverted, non-communicative and surrounded by hardness in her face. A naïve, country girl look slowly transformed by a tough, unsavory, unsatisfying life. Watching the blonde's gyrations, I took a seat at a table in the back closest to the bar and awaited my new found lover to appear, second guessing my presence there. The place made me sad.

Hoping the gin and tonic ordered from the black hair and blue eyed nearly naked beauty would relax my critical eye, I took a big swallow. The music changed from an old disco standard, music I hated at the time and felt lacked danceable syncopation, revealing more of the blonde's ability as a dancer, to the slow, smooth tenor crooning of Smokey Robinson and "Cruisin'". It was Kim's song.

She casually strolled onto the stage draped in a see-through blouse, red with black piping which hung over her amazing breasts. Her narrow hips swung out teasingly from the draping, revealing matching red and black see-through panties covering her tight little ass. She leaned away from the audience, bending from the waist, revealing through the non-existent gusset of the panties her red pussy lips lined with black hair. Her naked tits could be seen as well, dark nipples pointing down.

Did I want to share the newly found riches she had given me the night before with these horny bastards staring at her? Surprisingly, I felt saddened rather than bothered by the show. It lacked intimacy; no sharing of skin on skin, no real communication.

Her clever smile, so knowing, beamed out from her sharp little face at her audience as she removed the blouse. A matching uplift bra held her magnificent breasts. She swung those prize melons at the appreciative males lining the stage, receiving tips for her generous exhibition. Releasing them from the bra, she made them spin and dance for her captives. Then bending forward again, she pulled her panties tight against her scrumptious little pussy, giving the gawking men a last and lasting vision of her body as sex toy and drawing further tips in appreciation. After gathering the swag from the edge of the stage, she made final contact with the audience and with me. Her smile seemed more genuine and more sensuous, sparking my heart to beat hard and my cock to finally tighten my pants, especially when her cute little tongue slid across her lips.

Moments later, while I watched the vivacious black haired lady who had been my waitress strip down to her g-string revealing tight little tits and ass to the music of "Call Me" by Blondie, I felt the lithe fingers of my new lover tap me on the shoulder.

"Hello, big boy. Did you enjoy the show?" she asked directly into my ear. Her high, rough, accented voice thrilled me.

"You were great, sexy. But I like our private dance better." I said, smiling at her as she moved in front of me, dressed in her see-through negligee again.

"Me too," she said, returning my smile. "I can't talk long. We do have private rooms for some one on one dancing, but they're not really so private and cost a bit. Let me buy you a drink."

I gave her my choice of drink. She spun away, a girlish, happy move. It made me feel like she was truly happy to see me.

While she waited at the service bar, I caught movement near the club's entrance. A tall handsome Japanese man flashed silver at the bouncer. Even without the tell I knew it was a detective, though one I had never met. He had the plainclothes look peculiar to Hawaii, aloha shirt, casual slacks and linen sports jacket. The weather and culture made the suit and tie uniform of mainland detectives impractical here, but they still looked respectable. Either too fresh or too innately suave to show the rumple of those clothes being worn too long at his job, sitting in a car for hours, the daily abuse, etc suggested a rookie. After the badge flash and the flash of a photo, the bouncer pointed at Kim.

My drink and the detective arrived simultaneously. When he showed her the badge, I saw her expression change from a happy, business smile, to a look of horror. I saw the change because she glanced at me both before and after his introduction. They exchanged words into each other's ears through the noise of loud strip music. The exchange seemed to increase the pain in her face, and her body began to sag. She pointed at some curtains then raised her finger. "Wait a second" the finger symbolized. She walked over to my table, drink in hand.

She handed me the drink and looked around to see the management watching her. "Fuck it," she said, grabbing back the drink with shaky hands and swallowing half of the contents. "Come on," she said, grabbing my hand and pulling me to my feet and quickly through the curtains, the detective directly behind us.

"Polly, can you give me a minute?" Kim asked unsteadily to a gorgeous and shapely Japanese girl in a light pink robe which didn't hide her perfect body. She had the high cheekbones featured on what I considered the most radiantly beautiful Japanese women. For such a beauty in such a disreputable place, her acknowledging nod and swift exit made me think of her as a nice person. I regretted not getting to see her dance, a moment of stupidity only a man and his testosterone addled brain could have. I glanced back at Kim whose tears flowed. No sobs though. Kim was the toughest of the tough, and I soon found out why. She sat at the makeup desk. I sat beside her. Her hand remained in mine, holding on for dear life.

"I don't think the kid should be here," said the detective quietly. Somehow I could hear the intelligence, the book learning, despite the colloquial words.

"I need him here. Besides, he's a detective, too," said Kim, the right side of her mouth curving up, attempting unsuccessfully to smile.

"Uh, private," I said, pulling out my identification. "Joe Solomon."

"Detective Donald Nakamoto." We shook hands. Suddenly his face shifted from a serious interviewer to one of surprise. "Is Ned Solomon... ?"

"Of East West Imports my Dad? Yes. Why?"

A reshuffling of the interview Detective Nakamoto had planned in his brain and/or in his notebook before entering the club became visible as he paused.

"Miss Nguyen, I have a photograph I want you to look at. Not so much that I want you to look, but I need you to look. Is this your sister Cathy Nguyen?"

From his black leather brief case appeared the photo of a dead woman. Despite it being black and white and only a head shot, the face seemed lifeless, soulless.

Kim nodded.

"Are you sure," the detective asked gingerly.

"Yes, that's my sister." She handed the photo to me. The resemblance was remarkable.

"Twins?" I asked.

"No Joe. She was a year younger. My little sister. We looked alike, though. I'm sure we would have been seen as twins if we had been together once fully grown."

I returned the photo to Nakamoto who seemed glad to stow it. A thousand questions popped into my head. A pause lasted long enough for me to think this detective wisely gave me time to think up questions. He would have possibly found out some things he hadn't thought to ask about. I let the silence stay silent. I sipped the gin and tonic and handed it to Kim. She finished it off.

"I know you're young, Joe," Nakamoto began. Why talk to me? "But from your brief experiences, have you come to any conclusions about coincidence?"

"I haven't really thought about it, but I guess from the little investigating I've done, and from pure intuition, I would say no, I haven't put much faith in coincidence."

"Me neither. So Miss Nguyen, how long have you known Joe?"

"Why?" she asked, defensively.

"Yes, detective, tell me why."

Nakamoto took a deep breath. All kinds of emotions played across his face. This was no inscrutable oriental. Regret seemed to be the emotion most emphatic. He searched in his brief case, finding another photograph. He handed it to me.

"Do you recognize any of the people in this photo?"

Though taken at least ten years before, and everyone in the photo had changed with age, fattened, lost hair, wrinkled here and there, I knew them. My dad stood tall at the center, surrounded by visitors to my house. There was Charlie, Fred, John Henry, and my Uncle Sam all dressed in their finest officer's uniforms. Sam proudly showed his big NCO stripes of a high ranking sergeant. I identified them to the detective.

The blonde and Polly, the gorgeous Japanese girl both entered the room.

"Can we find some place private? I don't want to put you in an interrogation room. That would not be appropriate since I neither think of you as criminals or even informants," said Nakamoto at his most gentle. "Can you take off early Miss Nguyen?"

Kim nodded. I think it would have been impossible for her to work anyway, maybe not even for a few days. "Come back to the club. Then give me a couple minutes." She sounded a little less overcome with grief, but still held my hand tightly, leading me and the detective back through the curtain. When she finally released my hand, she said, "I'll meet you at the door."

We watched as Kim walked up to the glaring manager. The glare softened instantaneously. She must have told him of her sister's murder. He nodded and spoke briefly. She hurried to my side.

"Let me change. I won't be long. I'll meet you outside," she said before hurrying away.

"You know Lieutenant Kamalua?" asked Nakamoto once we exited the club. The trade winds felt especially refreshing, blowing away the smokiness and tawdriness of the previous atmosphere.

"Uncle Sam is like my second father. I've known him since childhood. You know how some sons worship their fathers to the point that they follow in their footsteps. For me, it's Sam I worshipped and followed. I love him. He loves me."

"Like you, I'm pretty new at this detective business," began Nakamoto after a large intake of fresh air. "I went through the ranks quickly. I knew what I wanted and found out the quickest way to get there. I volunteered for the hardest assignments, the most uncomfortable, the most boring. I worked nights most of my career, catching the worst of the crimes. I proved myself as much as possible to the powers that be. But I never groveled or brown-nosed. I knew the Honolulu Police loathed sycophants, which made me happy. I guess if it had been otherwise, I might have gone to those extremes to get where I am now at a young age. This has been my dream since my teens. Still, before entering the Police Academy, I had a Masters in criminology and in anthropology, more criminal and gang anthropology. I also became an expert in Kapu, in murderous cults of Southeast Asia, Indonesia, Japan and China.

"That is why I caught this case. Somehow Sam knew of my expertise, though I certainly didn't flaunt it. Being an egghead isn't a good thing to be as far as moving through the police ranks. Anyway, because of my lengthy college experience, I didn't jump right into being a policeman until I was 23. I'm 28 now. I'm no rookie. I've seen a lot. But I haven't been a detective for more than a year now. It seems that all the experience, all the training, all the learning, along with Lieutenant Kamalua's incredible insight or knowledge or resourcefulness has led me to this. This case my young friend is the first thing that has ever made me regret anything. And it makes me regret everything. Do you think you're an honest person?"

The question made me uncomfortable. It was simple enough, but full of traps. It was a silly question, because both an honest man and a dishonest man would answer yes. So I told him that, which made him laugh.

"Like if I said that I always lie, which is a paradox."

"Integrity," I said.

He nodded. He didn't have to say more. He had caught a loaded case. It could bring down a hero to both of us. It involved my dad. My dad may have created a house of cards which I had lived in thinking it made of the hardest stone. It involved a girl, a pretty Vietnamese girl, probably in her earliest adolescence, even a year younger than my dear Kim, in her mid twenties at the time, so in her early to mid teens when that haunted photo had been taken. Nakamoto investigated the worst kind of ghosts, capable of murder years later.

"I have the perfect place to continue our interview," I said. And to myself I said, "In the heart of the beast."

Kim rushed out dressed in her normal clothes, not in her work clothes of undergarments and sleepwear. She looked sexier dressed normally, the white man's button down dress shirt open to her cleavage and the ends tied high enough to reveal her firm tummy and cute navel, the blue jeans tight enough to remind me of the spandex she had worn the night before.

Her eyes contained pain and, when she couldn't hold her glance at my eyes but had to quickly look down, guilt. But she needed me for some reason. We hugged. She held me tight. She felt good. I hoped I felt good to her. When I began to respond sexually I also hoped she didn't notice, though figured she did. She looked up at me, her eyes staying this time. She pulled my head down and kissed me on the lips. I could feel the dampness and heat of her despair.

"I know you shouldn't and I shouldn't," she whispered into my ear, "But you turn me on too. Your desire for me is my one comfort."

Right in front of the club sat Nakamoto's dark blue Impala, parking being a perk of having a police license plate. He had the door to the backseat opened for us.

"No way detective," said Kim. "All three in front."

Nakamoto thought about it a moment. The idea fought against the norm. Of course he relented, getting in the driver's side and leaning across the seat to unlock the passenger side.

I watched Kim look around knowing who she searched for. With the barest of gestures she signaled Moe to follow. I couldn't see him, but what else could her gesture mean? How did he know she would leave early? Did she have him dispatched or did he hover nearby when she worked?

I gave the detective the address to Uncle Charlie's private club. Charlie believed in the hierarchy of class. He owned three different establishments.

From the bottom tier first, he owned a bar for college students and lower class lushes located in the grungiest part of downtown Honolulu and disappeared into the grunge like a polar bear in a snowstorm. The only place in town where you could get two shots for the price of one, and the one cost a dollar, Moby Dicks provided a service. The alley beside it smelled of piss. The toilets rarely worked and even if they did the clientele found the alley a more comfortable and less disgusting place to relieve themselves.

A large step up, the Pequod Bar & Grille catered to families or more often fathers of families looking to clan together watching sports on the biggest TV in Hawaii or to meet some "mistress," women looking for a ride on an upper-middle class dick. Sandy and I over the years found it helpful for investigating indiscretion using it a couple times even before 1980. Placing it near the entrance to the Pali Highway on the Leeward side made it easily accessible to the upper middle class around Honolulu and Pearl and Kailua. The place stayed full.

For the upper class Charlie provided a private club, Peleg and Bildad, where capitalist royalty, Hollywood royalty, sports royalty, or any human being whose physiognomy would barely register the spending of six figures on anything or nothing, as easy as a common man pissing, could meet and eat with the highest of discretion and security. The food was beyond delicious. The service was impeccable and absolute. Any and all needs and desires would be hunted down and captured to the ends of the earth and brought to any member.

Outside the place looked like a small non-descript cinder block building, pedestals lifting it above the parking lot of the Ala Moana Center. Limousines and fancy autos released their passengers at the incongruous ornate elevator hidden within a shaft at the center of the building.

The building featured three floors. Most of the elite saw the first floor, the elegant dining room, "Peleg". "Bildad" a room that would be notorious if any but an extreme few ever knew, a place for orgies, opium parties, illegal trading, even assassinations hid a floor above. Charlie's office constituted the third floor and the most secure and exclusive in the building. Only his best friends could enter. So why did I have a key?

At the age of fifteen, for a month, I waited tables. My dad wanted me off my lazy ass and working at the youngest age feasible. Colonel Charles Russell Boyle IV, a large man with an even larger head and an ego to match, handsome and graceful despite his obscene size, had always liked me. When I first met Charlie at one of Dad's and Mom's frequent cocktail parties, he scared me. Many feared him forever. But once introduced, he turned on his brilliant charm. I got a kick out of the giant.

 
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