Meeting the extended family

Sitting at your computer at home with the first names of the Dahlbergs, tracking them down is a formality. Janet and Edward, married 1999, adopted the twins in 2001, and live in the Ely area, 2 hours north of Duluth at the **** northeast edge of St. Louis County (and pretty damn close to Canada). Lived anyway. Edward passed away in 2010 at the age of 35. A small amount of digging reveals that it happened as part of a **** deal gone wrong. The Iron Range is known for its meth trade, and, since the bottom fell out of the mining industry, people there have done whatever it takes to survive. In Edward’s case this clearly meant acting as a go-between for a local cook and, coincidentally, the OMC. It’s beginning to feel like it’s your destiny to go head to head with them.

The girls’ Facebook pages are pretty vague, implying scholastic achievements and artistic endeavors without giving any real information about where they attend university. As frustrating as this is, you approve. Caution on the internet is admirable, especially because people like you exist.

Janet’s page is a little more intriguing. A (dyed) blonde 30-something who’s managed to stave off the unfortunate effects of time on her figures and features, many of her public pictures show her in leathers astride a Honda Shadow Phantom. So the girls’ mom is a biker bitch.

“A hot biker bitch.” Chrissy listens to your description with some interest, and only the occasional skeptically raised eyebrow. “Are we fucking her too?”

Your laugh is cut short by the sound of your phone ringing. You take a couple rings to stifle the impending giggles before answering. “Hello?”

“Mr. Woolshire, Marcus, I mean?” You recognize that voice. Fire Marshal Melissa.

“Why, hello Ms. Lundberg, you wouldn’t believe how happy I am to hear from you.” You gesture toward Chrissy for silence and are momentarily terrified by the impish grin that creases her lips.

“Marcus,” her voice drips with arousal, indicating that something else may be dripping as well, “I just wanted to give you the heads up that my team has concluded our investigation and that all signs point to malfeasance on the part of a third party. I’m recommending that Ms. Anderson’s insurance claim be processed.”

Ms. Anderson has throughout this exchange dropped to her knees and pulled out your cock, slowly jacking it while you try to keep your thoughts clear enough to recall what lies you used to get Melissa to agree to all this. “That’s wonderful news, Melissa! It’s been a pleasure working with you on this.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Marcus. So... uh...” you can hear her professionally constructed image beginning to crack, “Would you like to go out for a couple beers sometime?”

Chrissy’s warm wet mouth descends on your purple helmet, her pink tongue darting forth to lap at the frenulum.

“Well, since you’re closing this case, it wouldn’t be a conflict of interest. What do you say to Friday at 10? Builders in Superior?”

Chrissy continues building up to a fever pitch, her head bobbing in your lap.

“It’s a date... um... I mean... yes, that sounds good.”

“Wonderful, Melissa.” Chrissy takes you into her throat and stays there, gazing up at you with rapidly tear filling eyes, “I’ll see you then. But I should go. Something’s just come up here at the office that I need to attend to.”

“Until then Marcus.”

You hang up the phone and set it down on your desk, and look down at your half sister on her knees with your cock sheathed in her esophagus. The white choker around her neck catches the light streaming in from the window, giving you an idea.

You grab her by the hair, pulling her off your cock with an audible pop. “Bad girl, that was very distracting.” She responds with an impressively substantial pout. “You know that I love your slutty little mouth, but that could have resulted in something very bad happening. That phone call was about the insurance money for the fire.”

She looks at you appropriately chastened, but you’re not done. “Last night you accepted my collar, didn’t you?”

She just nods, now looking a little frightened.

“In accepting that collar, what did you accept?”

“That I belong to you. That you own me. That your will is the only thing that is important.”

“You accepted my authority over your body and mind. Now, while I appreciate your playfulness, I also recognize that you were pushing the boundaries of that authority. What should I do with you for being so bratty?”

She swallows hard, her face beginning to flush with arousal, “You should punish me, Master.”

“Lay across my lap.”

She complies immediately, possibly before even realizing she’s doing so. You yank up the hem of her dress exposing her bare ass and glistening slit. You gently caress one monumental alabaster cheek, then simply say, “Count,” before raising your hand and bringing it down with a ringing thud that causes ripples on her glorious skin.

“One! Thank You for correcting your ****, Master.”

Your hand rises and falls again and again. After the fifth swat, your erection is evident. Finally you reach...

“Ten! Thank you Master!”

“Good girl.” A visible shiver runs through her body. “Now get on your knees and finish what you started.”

This beautiful white cheeks, now marred by angry reddish handprints slip from your lap as she prostrates herself in submission before you and begins to worship your now raging manhood.

You’re in the car driving down Highway 1, passing the Ely city limits. Chrissy is out house-hunting now that you know that the check is coming through.

Unlike the rest of the Iron Range, Ely still gets a bit of incoming traffic due to being one of the best entry points for the Boundary Waters. But it’s still a dying town. The main drag is lined with closed or decrepit mom & pop stores, a Zup’s grocery store that seems to be the only local source of food, a shuttered former Pamida (Pamida was a regional chain of department stores, like the deceased KMart and ShopKo. In the hierarchy of department stores; Target, Walmart, ShopKo, KMart; it came in last. Pamida was where shit that KMart rejected came to die), and the only really thriving businesses, bars.

The Dahlberg house is about three blocks off Highway 1, a split level prefab that was clearly built as company housing for the mines a long time ago. It’s nearing five o’clock and the winter sky is already starting to dim as you park your Camry in front of the house and check your look in the mirror. Always dress to blend, but always look a little bit better than your mark. Black jeans, red button-down, no tie, nice (but not too nice) North Face jacket, topped off with a black wool Herbert Johnson trilby. Five o’clock shadow and the beginnings of a Van Dyke complete the look.

Your approach to the door is cautious, noting the closed garage and a light shining in the window. No other visible cars, so if Janet is home, she’s probably not entertaining company. You ring the doorbell and wait.

The cougar who answers the door takes you in skeptically, sweeping your body from top to bottom like she’s eyeing a beef roast, before looking you in the eye and saying “Who the fuck are you and what do you want?”