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Authors: Lynn Lake

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BOOK: The Red Scare
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We wildly kissed, frenched, feeling up one another’s breasts, fingers flying in each other’s cunts. Then we simultaneously broke apart at the gasping mouths and cast our feverish eyes sideways and downwards, onto the desktop covered with all those lush glossies of lovely Constance Cumming.

She was the third lover in that overheated office, the most important one, who had brought Adele and me so improbably passionately together. We shared the lady in lustful common, shared in each other’s lust for her. Adele jabbed a third digit into my dripping sex and drilled away as I hooked into her pussy at ramming speed.

‘Oh God, Megan! I’m –’

‘Me too!’

We crushed each other’s tits and thundered into each other’s cunts, our crazed eyes kaleidoscoping over the laid-out pictures of Constance. Adele shuddered violently, and cried out. Her pussy convulsed around my pistoning fingers, her hot juices flooding my knuckles, her breast jumping in my hand.

It was the Big Release, the Sweet Send-Up – for me too. The woman’s fingers curled inside my red-hot pussy, her nails almost piercing my reddened breast-flesh. I jerked, jolted by electric orgasm, lit up with absolute delight.

We spasmed and shrieked and spilled ecstasy for what seemed like for ever, coming on the ends of each other’s fingers. In the dreamy face of Constance Cumming’s steamy body.

It was truly a two-and-a-halfsome of soul-shattering intensity.

Chapter Two

Constance was even more gorgeous in person. Her pictures did her justice, but in the flesh she was a sexual law unto herself.

Adele gave me the 22-year-old’s home address and telephone number, along with her likes and dislikes, her turn-ons and turn-offs, her measurements. And I took it from there with a zeal that would’ve made Mike Hammer blush red.

I was camped out in my ’55 Chevy two-door across the street from Constance’s Georgetown apartment about two minutes after I’d staggered out of Adele’s office. My legs and hands were still shaky, and the wet, warm tingling in my tits and pussy started all over again when I saw Miss Cumming push her way through the frosted glass doors of the four-storey brownstone and skip down the concrete steps out in front.

It was a stunning sight for any woman, or man. Constance was wearing a bright red cloth coat with big black buttons and a thick black belt. Her exotic dancer’s legs were sheathed in black nylons, pretty perfect feet and shapely ankles and calves encased in shiny patent leather black boots. Her long, lustrous, dark hair bounced in waves on her shoulders, framing her porcelain, oval face like a cameo. She had just a trace of make-up on her plush lips and high cheekbones, around her sky-blue eyes, accentuating to heavenly heights her natural beauty. She moved with a carefree, exuberant step, bounding off the sidewalk and into a waiting taxicab.

I sat there stupefied for a moment, fingers choking the steering wheel. The yellow cab was already turning left on to Wisconsin Avenue by the time I gave my dazed head a shake and goosed the engine with gas.

The cab swung neatly in and out of the noonday traffic, and then pulled up to the kerb in front of the State Department Building. Constance popped out and pranced over to a dumpy, dour-looking woman dressed in various shades of brown, from her headscarf to her shoes. She touched Mrs Brown’s elbow, and the woman came alive like a wind-up toy, her moon face splitting a grin and her horn-rimmed glasses sparkling.

The two women hot-footed it on down the crowded sidewalk for two blocks, then slipped into a small corner restaurant. I managed to muscle my way into a parking spot across the street, and there I squatted, keeping watch. There was no point in going into the eatery – Constance had looked just as brunette coming out of her building and the cab in real life as she had in her posed pictures. And Mrs Brown didn’t look like any touch-up artist. What I was tracking for was a pit-stop at a beauty salon. Tailing had never been more attractive.

Constance wrapped up her luncheon with the lady in brown just before one, then jumped into one of the cabs out of the pack of six that leapt at her on the sidewalk when she held up a slender hand. The taxi journeyed on out to the Pentagon, stopped about a block past the huge, five-sided Defence Department building. In front of another stout, secretarial-looking, middle-aged woman. Except this one was dressed entirely in formless grey, like a Chinese party official, with a grey tam where her starred cap should’ve been.

Mrs Grey and the vivacious Constance piled into the cab and were whisked off to a café in the Watergate complex. If Constance was putting away the food, she certainly wasn’t packing on the pounds – except where it counted, of course.

I idled around for an hour or so kerbside, checking for meter maids and my Constance. Finally, she and her dowdy companion at last exited the café and entered another cab, drove back to the Pentagon, where Mrs Grey was discharged onto the sidewalk.

The taxi then sped away, to the Capitol Building. The time was just after 2.30, the personage this time around a pleasant-looking older woman garbed in a black coat and pillbox hat. Constance picked her up, and the pair was deposited in front of a diner three blocks over.

While Constance’s luncheon schedule apparently extended all over town, I wasn’t getting anywhere. The woman was a vision of sexiness getting in and out of the cabs, strolling in and out of the dining establishments; her hair fading not a bit. As much as I admired the view, though, I was getting paid for results.

So I nosed my Chevy out into traffic and drove the distance back to Constance’s abode, deciding to take a more direct approach to the matter of frosted-or-not follicles. Her nametag, in flowing script, was carded next to the buzzer labelled 304. I caught the door on a departing dirty old man who stopped to admire my somewhat voluptuous feminine physique in my masculine attire, and then I climbed three red-carpeted flights up. The lock on Constance’s apartment door was just one notch better than a latch. I popped it open with the third skeleton key in my brown leather keyholder, slipped inside the woman’s home.

Breaking and entering is always on the menu for my meal ticket. The PI biz is highly competitive, especially in the capital of secrets – Washington, DC. I’m sure that’s what Adele was counting on. Fortunately, most of the homes, offices, cars, and hotel rooms I illegally enter belong to people with illicit activities of their own to hide, so I seldom get prosecuted.

Constance’s nest was a one-bedroom, bathroom, living room, kitchenette job, with flower-wallpapered walls and hardwood floors, light fixtures and radiators left over from the turn of the century. The furniture was minimal and nondescript, as befitted a woman on her way up; the contents of the refrigerator sparse, as befitted a model. I helped myself to a glass of grapefruit juice and then wandered down the short hallway into the bathroom.

Clean, with old-fashioned black and white tiles on the floor and walls and a claw-foot iron tub with shower attachment. The towels were pink and smelled sweetly of woman. I set my glass down on the sink and cracked the medicine cabinet open up above.

The usual assortment of feminine beauty, bathing, and blotting products – and a couple of bottles of brown hair dye. Bingo! It looked like Adele’s apprehensions had some basis in reality; either that, or Constance was worried about going prematurely grey. There were a few ways to confirm one or the other for sure.

I picked up the pink comb from the bottom shelf of the medicine cabinet and gave it a tine-by-tine search. Clean as a surgeon’s fork, unfortunately. I delved a digit into the drain, came up empty, repeated the spelunking process down the tub drain, came away dry again. Either this girl had a cleaning fetish or super-strong strands that just didn’t want to shed her head, or both.

I crossed from the bathroom into the bedroom, eyes peeled for hairbrushes, and other exciting Constance intimates. Her bedroom was as pedestrian as the other rooms – an iron-railed cot sporting a beige blanket and a pair of white pillows, one blondewood nightstand with lamp and phone, a three-tiered blonde chest of drawers with mirror on top, and a small closet.

I could’ve been ogling any modestly-priced hotel room in the Washington area, complete with hissing cast iron radiator. But I walked over and yanked the top drawer of the dresser open, and things got interesting again.

There was a hairbrush lying in there, all right, amongst a silky, sensuous assortment of panties, bras, and stockings. My eyes went wide and my heart thumped burlesque. I plunged my dampened hands into the pile of close-contact body garments and washed around in the frilly girl-froth, a dreamy smile adorning my trembling lips. Then I gathered my quivering mitts together and scooped up two handfuls of silk, satin, and nylon, and bent my head down and bathed my face in the wispy bundle.

I thrilled at the slick, soft, warm feel of Constance’s scanties on my burning red skin, caressing my forehead and cheeks and lips. My head spun and my nostrils sucked in body scent.

I stood there, bent over with my faceful of feminine underwear, for a good, pussy-palpitating minute or so, revelling in the erotic feel all of those girly garments that clung to Constance’s breasts, pussy, and legs so closely, wishing in my addled mind that I was one of them, becoming one with the succulent woman’s body. Until, finally, I had to jerk my dizzy head back just to breathe. My body trembled with wanton emotion.

I tumbled the finery back down into the drawer, and then reached out a shaking hand and picked up the hairbrush. It was as clean as an unblown whistle, like the comb and the drains – except for one fancy-free follicle.

I carefully plucked the last strand standing out of the brush and held it up to the light. It appeared auburn, maybe even red. I pulled a tissue out of my pocket and bedded the hair down, returned the treasure to my pocket. The microscope back at my office just might break this case wide open.

In the meantime, I went on exploring, leaving no drawer unturned. I yanked the middle one open, and my glassy eyes popped and my dry mouth watered. This wide shelf was neatly divided between skirts and blouses at one end, sex toys at the other. Dildos, dongs, and vibrators of all shapes and sizes and colours and a few different textures. I ran my quivering hands over the pussy pleasure devices, picturing in my fevered mind how Constance used them for her personal use.

Then I was seized by another wicked idea – where there was smoke, there must surely be fire. Leaving the drawer hanging open like a panting mouth, I scampered over to the closet and played open on the flimsy accordion panels. I hit my knees, rummaged around at the feet of the saucy collection of high-heeled shoes and platformed pumps, found the plain cardboard box I was looking for.

More sex toys, of an even naughtier nature. Feathers, fronds, leather straps, leather masks, handcuffs, nipple and pussy clamps, bits, bridles, spurs, riding crops, paddles, folded-up batons and coiled whips, a cat o’ nine tails. Apparently, Constance took her work home with her, the conscientious little minx. Or work was play, and always had been.

I lifted the box out of the closet and dumped its dirty contents onto the bed, added the half-drawerful of pussy and clit stimulators to the lewd pile. I gazed down at the erotic mess, vowing to put it to good personal sexual use once my search was completed.

I riffled through Constance’s hanging dresses, slips, and jackets in the closet. The garments ran the gamut from gingham innocence to full rubber mischief. The shelf up top was crammed with hats and scarves, the floor down below the ped-holders I’d previously encountered.

I went back to the chest of drawers and bent down and tugged on the bottom one. It budged maybe an inch. It wasn’t stuck – something was holding it deliberately locked in place, for some reason.

Senses tingling with more than just sex now, I stood up and levered the chest away from the wall a few inches. There were two chains looped through holes cut into the back of the bottom drawer on either side, secured to a pair of iron rings embedded into the wall at floor level, the chains locked in place with brass padlocks. The lady leaves her perverted pleasure and pain devices open to inspection by any pussy burglar, but feels the need to lock something else up?

The question was: what?

My palms grew clammy and my nipples buzzed like red lights as I scrunched down on my knees with my face to the wall and wedged my hands in between the wall and the drawer in back, my trusty skeleton keys dancing in my outstretched fingers. This lock-picking took longer, the tension building, my excitement mounting like Lady Godiva on steeplechase day.

At last, I popped the padlocks open on both sides and pulled the chains free of the drawer. Then I scuttled back around in front and ripped the mystery shelf open.

It wasn’t at all what I’d expected – a stash of hardcore film reels and pornographic books and magazines that told and showed all of the purple pleasures of Sapphic enrapture; or maybe a sister stash of illicit narcotics. No, it was a startling compendium of Communist pamphlets, leaflets, manuals, and coded message logs, complete with a Comrade Lenin quote sheet and Chairman Mao’s
Little Red Book
writ large.

It all spelled out revolutionary, as un-American anti-capitalist as beet-red borscht pie. Constance wasn’t just maybe a redhead; she was a sure enough Red!

I gaped down at the tools of Cold War propaganda in dismay, my pussy sinking, my nipples shrivelling. Then I jumped as high as the Kremlin onion domes, went white as the Czarist forces at Tannenberg, when somebody suddenly said, ‘Looks like I caught you red-handed!’

I swivelled and gaped.

Constance Cumming was standing in the doorway of her bedroom, a small, snub-nosed .22 pistol clenched in her pale fist. Her pretty face was set grim, her perfect body in a black, form-fitting stretch-dress motionless.

‘Who are you?’

‘I – I work for the building leasing agency,’ I told her. ‘I was just –’

Constance thumbed back the hammer on her purse gun. The metallic click matched the one in my throat when I gulped.

‘Try again.’

‘I’m Megan McCarthy. I’m a private detective. Adele Katz hired me to find out if you’re a natural-born red – head.’

Client confidentiality always went out the window in an emergency. Just ask any other dick.

Constance’s lush lips curled up into a slight smile. ‘Uh-huh.’ She gestured with the lead dispenser. ‘Turn around, and put your hands behind your back.’

I turned around, and put my hands behind my back. Her voice was commanding, as well as damn sexy.

I watched her sidelong in the mirror, as she walked over to her littered bed and plucked a pair of fur-lined handcuffs out of the pile of play toys, her gun sights trained on my back all the way. Then she stepped over to me in her high-heeled black boots and slapped one of the furry rings onto my right wrist, snapped it shut, did the same to my left wrist, shackling my hands together; quick and professional, like she’d done it many, many times before.

‘We’ll just see if your story rings true,’ she breathed in my burning ear. Before walking back over to her bed and setting her gun down on the nightstand and picking up the telephone.

I slowly turned to face her, as she dialled a number. The kinky lady was secure in the knowledge that her handcuffs could hold me, as they’d probably held other women in even more exciting situations. What she didn’t know about, however, was the key I keep in a special little sewn-in pocket in the back of my panties, just for occasions like these.

BOOK: The Red Scare
2.7Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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