Sex Story: Chapter 5 - I'm Winter Jennings, 32, former police officer, current private detective. A now-single mother with a horny son, a friendly-enough ex. My father is about to retire as a respected homicide captain here in Kansas City, Missouri. My work is usually routine, mostly computer-driven. Except when it isn't. Revenge porn, a cult, a wife beater, insurance scams, pimps. A particularly nasty psychiatrist. On a personal front, everyone who knows me well, knows I like sex. A lot.
Walker and Mindy sleep in the nude on Mindy Weekends. Neither one tries to hide it from me, which I decide to regard as mature on their part. One Saturday morning, the sheets were down and I appraised her. Not pruriently, I was simply curious what my son’s girlfriend looked like in the buff.
She looked good. About to turn 16, Mindy had just the slightest hint of baby fat around her waist. Which she told us more than once she hated and was working furiously to get rid of. Fortunately that fury didn’t extend to diet ingredients in the dishes she cooked for us.
Asleep, her face looked so innocent, younger even than Walker’s.
She was slender with good teenage boobs -- firm and perky. Tight butt. She kept her pubic hair in a closely trimmed triangle. She’d probably go through various looks over the next few years.
Walker ... well, I saw Walker nude five mornings a week. No need to study my son. The only question was morning wood or not? More and more often, the answer these days was yes.
This Saturday we were having Gene and his daughter, Cathy, up for dinner. The Austin family. Gene owned the Wrigley and had had it remodeled from the new penthouse suites to the alley-entrance speakeasy in the basement. The total renovation included our glorious loft.
Cathy was my part time researcher. Gopher. Snoop.
Mindy would cook tonight, she and Walker now did all the shopping. When she wasn’t here, Walker now took care of that particular chore. And Mindy was teaching him how to cook. Anything Mindy was interested in, he was more interested. It would be nice if one of us learned to cook.
I left the kids, gently closing their bedroom door, and strolled around the loft, taking it in, something that pleases me. Sunlight was streaming in the huge windows on the east side, the Main Street side. With these gleaming oak floors the place seemed to glow.
The kids had bought fresh flowers and arranged them everywhere. In anticipation of their first ever dinner guests.
I rearrange our furniture every two or three months. The biggest piece, a huge light-tan chesterfield sofa from RH is on lockable casters now and easy to slide around.
Our furniture, like our artwork, is eclectic. A lot of deco, a lot of contemporary.
Some Biedermeier mixed in, like a Secrétaire with book-matched walnut veneer and a drop-down door that forms a writing area. Although I don’t write on it, that’s where our black Eames House Bird lives.
And we have two blue Biedermeier fireside chairs, even though we don’t have a fireplace. Hey, they look good.
I’ve been thinking a lot about furniture lately. And food. And sex. Anything to get my mind off Blenheim and his crushed, useless hands.
Now please understand, I applaud Bear for what he did to the fucker. I love him even more. And I feel zero sympathy for that cunt, Blenheim.
But a couple of things bother me. One, that I panicked and called Bear. I could have thought it through more, planned it better. Somehow carried it off by myself.
Two, the sheer brutality involved. Was that the only solution? Bear could have beaten him up a couple of times, run him out of town. But Blenheim would have reverted to form, some other place, some other woman would be brutalized. Probably more than one.
Maybe. For a while. But unless he got in serious trouble, he’d be outside eventually and be meaner than ever. He might well get in the soup in prison, but I wouldn’t want to bet some woman’s life on it.
Right before I called Bear, I thought about shooting Blenheim in the knee as he lay on his floor. I’m right-handed so I’d do his left knee first. Then the other one. But I didn’t have an endgame after that. So I lost my nerve. And I’m glad I did.
I heard Walker’s shower turn on and glanced at Como’s modern version of the grandfather clock. Orange, with exaggeratedly long thin legs, over 6 feet tall. It wasn’t yet 8:30. Good, we could make it to Town Topic in plenty of time to be hungry again for lunch.
That fucking Blenheim.
One Saturday morning on a non-Mindy weekend, I smiled at my son, “Okay, hoss, show me the nude.”
Walker didn’t pretend Peggy hadn’t sent it. His cheeks colored a little, but not a lot. He scrolled and handed the evidence over. The photo looked like exactly what it was. A shot of me, just out of my green bikini reaching for the even skimpier pink one on the bed.
Unaware that Peggy was about to snap a picture.
I was half turned away from her and the sunbeams slanted down across my body, lighting my left shoulder, boob, half my tummy, all of my bald pussy and all of my left leg.
Both pink nipples were fully erect, I hadn’t been aware of that at the time. I could kid myself and say that it was in anticipation of a romp with Peggy. But I knew I was excited to excite Walker.
I looked good. Looked sexy. I work out three times a week most weeks and I was pleased how flat my tummy looked, even as I was slightly bent over reaching for that bikini. A good metabolism helps. A lot. Walker and I were fortunate to be born with good architecture.
In our kitchen, Walker’s eyes were darting from his cell to my eyes. No doubt curious what my reaction would be. Well, I never claimed to be a PTA mom.
I handed him his cell, smiling, “How often do you jack-off to me, baby?”
He hesitated, but I knew he wouldn’t lie. We don’t do that with each other. “Not every day.”
“Good answer. Keep it that way.”
“Could I show it to Mindy?”
I started to speak and he held up his hand, “No we don’t shoot each other. Not naked I mean. And no sexting.”
I guess that law enforcement lecture I gave the kids had sunk in.
“Why would you want to show it to her?”
“Cause of how you look.”
“Another good answer. But think first. How will it make her feel? I mean a almost 16 year old girl can compete with a grown woman in some areas. But not others.”
I left him musing about that.
I was working another pro bono, but at least this one didn’t involve domestic battery.
Red Lonnigan, my AAA contact, called me. But it wasn’t to send me after another insurance scammer. “If it’s all right, my wife is going to call you. Blondie. On a personal matter.”
I laughed, “Are you kidding me? Red and Blondie. What are we, in the comics?”
Red was silent.
“Sorry, PI humor. Of course she can call me, Red. Anytime.”
Blondie wouldn’t go into details on the phone. She came to my office. So it was serious. Whatever it was, I would try to help. Red had given me my first ever insurance case. And continues to feed me steady work.
Of course I perform well for AAA and the other insurance companies, otherwise those assignments would have dried up long ago.
Plus, I like Red. He fancies himself an artiste and isn’t as boring as most of the insurance lifers I’ve known.
Blondie lived up to her name. The color came from a talented stylist, but it looked good on the woman. She was around 28 or 30 with what someone from my father’s generation might call a Va-Va-Voom figure.
Boobs larger than mine on a vigorous body. I flashed on my water skiing couple, Vinnie and Mitzi. Like Mitzi, Blondie also wore skintight Capri pants. White. Blondie’s camel toe wasn’t visible, it was blatant. She must have enormous pussy lips.
Well, her business. And Red must surely approve.
Their problem, Red and Blondie’s, was becoming all too common these digital days -- revenge porn. Posted online of course. In this case, it was their daughter Callie Lonnigan.
Blondie handed me her cell, it was open to a nude photo of a miniature Blondie. Callie. “She’s only 14-years old.”
Callie already had Blondie’s figure, including impressive boobs. A prominent pussy. She looked around 18, although she didn’t yet have her mother’s blonde hair.
I looked at Blondie sympathetically, “There’s more.”
“Yes.” She hesitated, gathering her thoughts, “ Sex tapes. More photos. Callie has always been ... mature for her age. Physically and emotionally. Straight A student. Popular, has three really close girlfriends.” She sighed, “Popular with boys. Men too.”
I let Blondie tell it in her own way.
“Red and I trusted her. We still do. Callie and I are close, she tells me everything. Well, probably not everything, but a lot.”
I was in full psychoanalytic mode, letting the patient talk, wander conversationally wherever she wanted to.
Another sigh, “I put her on the Pill. Reality is reality and she was ... active.”
I sat quietly. Nonjudgemental.
“Red agreed with me. Once they start ... well, there’s no turning back the clock, is there?” She nodded at the nude photo, “This appeared on PornHub this morning. There’s a lot more that that bastard can post. Wolfgang Kant. Calls himself the Wolf. I call him Wolfgang Cunt. Excuse my French.”
I held up my hand, stopping her. “Callie’s full name?”
“Callisandra O’Neil Lonnigan. O’Neil is my maiden name.”
I punched a button on my office phone. Jessie Sullivan answered. Sometimes it’s her twin brother, Jesse. Don’t ask.
I said, “Callisandra O’Neil Lonnigan,” spelling all three names. “ Here’s the photo. PornHub. She’s 14, chop-chop.”
I turned to Blondie, “Digital Millennium Copyright Act of 1998. We’ll register every photo and video of Callie under her own name.”
“What about Wolfgang?”
“Doesn’t matter who the photographer is. Callie will own the rights to her own images. We’ll issue a take-down notice to PornHub and every other site that posts any Callie stuff -- photos, videos, comments.”
I didn’t yet tell Blondie that each of those sites would have to be contacted individually and that some would cooperate, some wouldn’t. Although given Callie’s age, it would be unusual to find an organization that wouldn’t rush to take down that particular shot.
As we talked details, Jesse Sullivan knocked on my door. Good, he and his sister understood the need for speed. Jesse and Jessie had found a fascinating niche business.
Like when Ikea opened in neighboring Johnson County, mom and pop entrepreneurs immediately cropped up. An instant field of specialists that assembled Ikea furniture. Ikea helped by making their instruction booklets confusing. No copy, only stick figure diagrams.
The Sullivan twins are paralegals. And paralegals can do the lion’s share of work in attorneys’ offices and corporate offices with a legal staff. The Sullivans set up their own independent shop and hire out to whoever needs immediate and temporary help.
They’re among a series of freelancers I contract with around the metro area. Like Squeaky in Independence and Buster in Raytown. I’ve worked with Jessie and Jesse on revenge porn cases before. The field is, unfortunately, trending upward.
Jesse had been tapping on his iPad when he came in. And hadn’t stopped during the introductions. Serious face, flaming red hair. As petite as a little boy.
The Sullivan twins use TOR, just as I do. It’s not perfect. Can’t guarantee total anonymity every time, but it’s pretty good. ‘The Onion Router’ sends encrypted digital traffic through thousands of relays, generally masking the originator’s IP number. TOR was actually developed by the US Naval Research Laboratory and its security is continually enhanced.
A lot of people became aware of it when that drug and arms bazaar, Silk Road, was busted. But TOR is invaluable to honest citizens living in government-oppressed countries.
For me, it’s just one extra layer of protection. Like the steel rod that bolts into a floor plate in our loft. At bedtime, Walker and Mindy secure it to our front door. One more courtesy from Gene Austin. He knew the vast majority of my work is sitting on my butt, clicking on a keyboard. But Daddy had told him about the other five or so percent.
Although when I think about my work, the way it’s trending, more and more of it is becoming old school. Shoes on pavement. Partly because the youngest generations of junior executives are so computer literate. They can now do chores that they had been farming out.
And while crimes like revenge porn are digital, eradicating them requires skills such as insider knowledge, connections, hacking; talents that only a pro would have.
The first thing Jesse did was take a screen shot of the Callie nude on PornHub. Shots like that one, and any comments posted on any site, could be evidence in a criminal case or a civil suit.
I told Blondie, “There are a couple of things in your favor. Most importantly is Callie’s age. No site, except for the CP ones would dare to post a 14-year old kid. The copyright process we’re doing is backup, good backup, but her age alone should do the trick.”
She nodded. Still tense, but feeling at least something was starting to happen.
“Jesse and his partner, and a team of their freelancers, will do a search of the usual suspects -- sites that publish ex-wives, ex-girlfriends.”
Jesse murmured, “Already started.”
“Good. The second positive is that you live in Overland Park. And Kansas recently passed a law, that fucker Brownback even signed it, making this sort of thing a felony.”
Blondie sat up, “What could the Cunt get?”
“His main worry is an older man fucking an underage girl. But do you want Callie caught up in all of that? A trial? Publicity?”
To her credit, Blondie thought about it before answering. “No, I guess not. I’ll talk it over with Red tonight, but I don’t think so. And not to protect Callie. She’s strong enough.” Blondie gave me a thin smile, “And she’d make a good witness, too. She’s more pissed at him than Red and I are. And that’s saying something.”
I was curious, “Then why not prosecute him?”
Blondie showed me some class. She looked directly at me as Jesse continued his rapid-fire typing. “Because Callie went into the affair with her eyes wide open. And the Cunt wasn’t the first grown man she’s been with.”
“Got it. First thing, I’m going to have a heart-to-heart with Herr Wolfgang. I’ll convince him to cease and desist immediately.”
“Yes. Again, Kansas. Legally, he raped Callie because she’s under the age of consent. He sodomized her because she’s under 16. Same with sexual battery. Then there’s the Sex Offender Registry that will follow him the rest of his life.”
“I despise the bastard, but he doesn’t deserve all of that.”
“Your call. Now I’m going to go see Kant.”
Jesse, clicking away, said, “He’s at work, Bank of America branch on the Plaza. His aunt is manager there.” He swiped to a different screen, “Started as a teller, four months later he’s one of three assistant managers.”
Blondie said, “Can I go with you?”
“Of course you can.”
I didn’t need to think about it. Mr. Kant will be groveling. No one will ever scare me again like Hugo Blenheim did. Well, that’s my plan anyway. Nevertheless, I double check my shoulder bag, yep, my glittery canister of Bling Sting pepper spray was right where it should be.
On the drive from the stockyards in my red F-150, through downtown, past the Wrigley on Main Street in the Crossroads, through Westport to the Country Club Plaza, I gave Blondie a frame of reference for revenge porn.
“It’s fluid, of course. Some states like Missouri don’t even have any laws yet. Other laws are inconsistent, some of them violate the First Amendment. And, it doesn’t feel that way to the victims, but that can be worse than the revenge porn itself.”
Blondie didn’t respond. I understood, it’s difficult to be interested in Constitutional rights when your daughter is so suddenly vulnerable.
I said, “Recently, some major good guys stood up. Reddit, Twitter, Facebook, were among the first. They instituted policies against involuntary porn.”
“Good for them.”
“Yes indeed. Then Google, Yahoo, Bing, Instagram followed. The search engines went a step further, they ‘deindexed’ revenge porn. Which means it’s a little harder to find.”
“But not impossible.”
“No, but every step in the right direction helps. Then, and this was a big step, PornHub said it would honor requests to take down involuntary porn.”
“So Callie won’t be on there?”
“She’s already been taken down, Blondie. The Sullivan team has a direct contact at PornHub.”
“Already? That’s amazing.” There was quiet awe in her voice. And gratitude.
“Officialdom is starting to wake up. Several sites have been shut down and the operators are doing serious jail time.”
Blondie nodded, beginning to feel better.
I parked in the Bank of America lot on the Jefferson Street side. Blondie and I walked past the unarmed guard who paced in front of the outside ATM.
The Plaza had its usual throng of shoppers and lunch goers. There were 20 or 30 bars and restaurants that had outdoor seating. Sidewalk tables, patios, roof decks, balconies. A sort of European feel. Just across Jefferson to the east, we could see outdoor diners in the noodle place, in Zocalo, Coal Vines. That reminded me, I need Walker to pick up another pizza. The Coal Vines owners are closing the joint to open with another concept in the same corner location.
We pushed through the twin sets of glass double doors into the bank lobby. Blondie nudged me and nodded to a small suite of offices in the back. One of them was occupied by a young guy who looked about 16.
Wolfgang Kant. The Cunt.
He had a slight build, slender, maybe 5’ 7” with dark hair, slicked down with something that smelled pleasant. His hair was deeply parted, precisely in the middle. Short on the sides, trimmed exactly at the top of his ears. Which, like his cheeks, went bright pink at the sight of Blondie.
The jacket to his suit coat was on a wooden hanger on the back of his office door. The rest of the cubicle was glass.
As we had strategized, Blondie sat down without saying a word. Without introducing me. I remained standing. Kant was trapped in a half crouch. He’d stood politely when we entered, started to sit back down when Blondie did, stopped himself when I didn’t.
I gave him a quick flash of my mail order badge, then tucked it away. I remained standing, just looking at him, as he remained half sitting, frozen.
Kant came to, “Hello, Mrs. Lonnigan.”
He looked up to me.
He sighed and sat down. Collapsed down. Face, ears and neck. bright pink blotches on his pale Teutonic skin.
I showed him the nude digital picture of Callie. “Underage.”
Kant’s chin started to quiver. He knew he was in the shit.
I lied, but it would be the truth by the end of the day, “My team traced the PornHub posting through your Internet Service Provider to your personal IP address.”
Kant swallowed nervously.
I said, “She’s a Kansas resident so we have you for several Level 8 Felonies -- rape, sodomy, and sexual battery. We’ll run the sentences consecutively, not concurrently. In English that means separate prison time for rape. Then more time for oral sodomy. Then sexual battery takes its turn.”
Tears were forming, chin quivering wildly.
“I just heard about you this morning so my legal team is only in the initial stages of finding additional charges.” I nodded at his office surroundings, “Say goodbye, Kant. One you’re a Registered Sex Offender you’ll never find work in as nice a place.”
I twisted the knife, “If you survive prison that is. They don’t appreciate kiddy fuckers once the gate clangs shut.”
He peed in his navy blue suit pants.
Sometimes I have too much fun in my job. I brought the cruelty act to an end. He was already beaten, I had taken it too far. I told myself to dial it down. I had conflated the wrong thing Kant had done with the blackmail / revenge porn of the worst subspecies of male ugliness.
“Look, Kant, all of that -- prison, Sex Offender Registry -- doesn’t have to happen. But it’s up to you. If you cooperate. Right here, right now. First, Callie. Online photos. Where have you posted them? Tell me every single site.”
Turns out, only three places. We’d caught him in time. I texted Jessie, “watchmygf / seemygf.” The Sullivan team had already taken care of PornHub.