Authors: Lake, Lynn
THE RED SCARE
An erotic novella
Published by Xcite Books Ltd – 2013
Copyright © Lynn Lake 2013
The right of Lynn Lake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY
Adele Katz’s office was in the Borland Building on D Street. Not far from the power brokers in Washington, but not exactly rubbing padded shoulders with them either. The politicos probably preferred it that way, if they knew about Adele at all. For the woman’s sleazy publishing enterprise was not something any self-respecting, expecting-to-be-re-elected 1950s public official would want to touch with their ten-foot pole, if they were so endowed.
At least, not openly.
Adele Katz published “photo-books”, cheesecake and beefcake pornographic magazines packed with black-and-white pics of busty broads and buff boys, some of the silliest text this side of the Congressional Record. The small, sharp-featured, 40-something woman did it all by herself, with the aid of a free-thinking printer and freelance corps of free-spirited models and below-the-counter shopkeepers. The woman with the dyed-blonde semi-beehive and acerbic wit had made herself a pretty penny with her photo-books of pretty people, and she didn’t like to spend a dime of it if she didn’t have to.
That helped, slightly, to explain her brusque greeting when I strolled into her cubbyhole office at one minute past the hour of our appointment. ‘You’re late. Time is money, you know – my money.’
‘Pleasure to see you too, Miss Katz,’ I replied, draping my suited form into one of the two wobbly wooden chairs the lady kept for her fleeting guests. ‘You said on the phone you had some work for me.’
She eyed me with a pair of shrewd, grey orbs, took a pinched gulp out of the teacup in her right hand. She had a cigarette burning in her left hand. She didn’t offer me either. ‘You’re Megan McCarthy – the PI?’
‘Guilty as charged.’
‘Probably a few times, I bet.’ She took a pull on the cigarette, blew smoke out her nose. ‘What’s a dame doing in the dirty PI racket?’
‘Who’s calling whose racket dirty?’ I countered. ‘I’m earning a living, that’s what I’m doing. When a client actually hires me and tells me what they want me to do.’
‘Just about anything, I imagine.’ She set the teacup down and pushed a photo-book across her cluttered desk. ‘Ever heard of Constance Cumming? Or seen her?’
My nose twitched like a bunny’s at the gates of the Garden of Eden, just hearing that sexy sounding name. And when I eagerly leaned forward and plucked the slim magazine off Adele’s desk, excitedly flipped through the glossy pages, my breasts in my tight, white shirt started to tingle, my pussy in my tight, black slacks started to buzz.
‘Um, she’s a model or something, isn’t she?’ I feigned ignorance, feasting my baby-browns on the photos of my favourite bondage model in the bound book.
Adele’s thin, red lips formed a wry smile around the butt-end of her cigarette. ‘That’s right.’
The right stuff, I thought to myself, leafing through the pages of
Good Wenches Make Good Neighbours
. I’d seen busty, leggy, luscious Constance Cumming in many a brown bag “art” book and back-alley blue movie, pictured the curvaceous brunette more times in my fevered imagination than my cunt could remember. And now I was seeing her again, in the office where it all began.
The photo-play portrayed Constance with two almost equally buxom women, in a bondage scenario, of course. The story was stunning in its simplicity: Constance had just moved into the white picket fence neighbourhood, and her provocative figure and effervescent personality had stirred up the juices of the menfolk, forcing the two jealous housewives to take it upon themselves to teach the lovely lady some manners, before things went too far down adultery alley.
After a forced display of coffee, cake, and polite conversation, they mussed Constance up a bit on pages 3 to 5, pulling her hair and slapping her face, “accidentally” tearing her modest floral housedress off. Then they handcuffed the fine, flustered woman up to her living room curtain rod, in just her black torpedo bra and black lace panties, pages 6 to 7. By page 8, the action really got going, the wary wives of safe, sunny suburbia whipping Constance’s creamy-white, writhing form, paddling her outthrust, heart-shaped bottom in the tiny panties, flailing her long, curved, arched back with a wicked array of cords, rods, and cat o’ nine tails. Apparently, the two women were married to a cop and a school principal, respectively.
By page 25, the heated, flogging encounter had turned utterly flammable for all concerned. There was a fine line between hate and lust, after all, drawn here with a blunt instrument. The housewives had shed their Mamie Eisenhower outfits and Constance had turned into a wriggling pleasure-doll from all of the pain. The three lipstick ladies were lip-deep into their inner-Sapphism, kissing and tonguing each other. Then urgently caressing and petting one another, in just their wild cone-bras and wanton panties.
My fingers shook like the last few sticky pages, as I followed the sultry story to its logical, lustful climax – all three women handcuffed together on Constance’s canopy bed, with their lithe naked limbs wrapped around one another, their buoyant bared breasts pressing together and bouncy buttocks clenched, pantied pussies riding thighs to poetic pictorial ecstasy.
I crossed my legs and there was an audible squish. My nipples were just about bursting the buttons on my shirt. It was a keeper issue, all right, for my personal collection, for long, lonely, private nights in the toilet and tub.
‘Five bucks,’ Adele was saying.
I blinked my bleary eyes and licked lips dry as kindling, swallowed hard. ‘Sold,’ I croaked, pulling my wallet out of my jacket pocket and spilling a fiver onto the woman’s desk.
Then I tucked the mag into my other pocket and cleared my throat. I remembered –
was the one supposed to be selling my wares here. ‘So, what do you need my services for?’
Adele leaned forward in her straight-backed chair, stamping her butt out in an ashtray. ‘Constance claims she’s a natural brunette. I think she’s actually a redhead. I want you to find out the truth.’
I stared at the woman, pulled the photo-book back out of my pocket and studied the blissful final shot of Constance laid out on her bed with her dark hair spread out on a pillow, her two fully charmed neighbours using her breasts as their pillows. ‘Why do you … What possible difference does it make if –?’
‘I don’t like reds!’ Adele snapped, like so many were mouthing in DC. ‘You understand? And I don’t like my models deceiving me.’
I closed the book, keeping a damp hand on the cover shot of coyly smiling Constance. It was the height of the Red Scare, sure, a Commie under every bed, or in it. But this was taking it too far – banning redheads? That seemed excessively patriotic, especially for a woman in the immorality racket. Then again, maybe the dame did demand honesty, for her own homely reasons.
‘You want me to find out if Constance Cumming is a natural redhead?’
Adele cracked her all-weather tan and no-nonsense temperament with a smile. ‘Give the lady a dildo. That’s right. And your methods of investigation can be as straight, or as
, as you want to make them. I just need to get to the root of the matter.’
She got up out of her chair, rising to her full five feet and walking around to my side of the desk on her black spike heels. Her whip-thin body was sheathed in a black satin dress that matched the shoes, her lips and nails varnished blood-red. The poking nipples on her small breasts were twin exclamation points on the provocative outfit.
The smut-peddler placed a slender, ringed hand on my shoulder. ‘You may have to go – undercover to find out, Megan. We in the skin trade can only display so much T&A for public consumption, you know. Or risk certain shutdown and a one-way flight south of the border.’
Her sharp nails bit into my flesh. ‘Constance has to keep her panties on for my shots. I’ve never actually seen her womanhood.’ She grimaced. ‘Despite all of my best efforts. But you can take it as far as you want to go – get the girl right out of her panties, maybe.’
I looked up into Adele’s gleaming grey eyes, down at her tan, red-tipped claw clutching my shoulder, back up at her breasts bobbing beneath her tight dress, then way down to the smiling, bra and panty-clad Constance on the cover of
Good Wenches Make Good Neighbours
. I suddenly had very good feelings about where this case was headed.
‘Fifty dollars a day, plus expenses,’ I husked.
Adele flinched only slightly. ‘Agreed.’
I stood up, spread my photo-book open on Adele’s desk. She dug more dirty books out of her drawers, spread them out up on top, as well. Giving the both of us a panoramic pornographic view of our subject.
There were so many Constances my head spun: the beautiful, bountiful girl getting enthusiastically kissed, tongued, primped, caressed, tickled, spanked, slapped, whipped – by other equally attractive women; Constance eagerly playing with herself all by herself, squeezing her full breasts and twisting her thick nipples, petting her panting pussy in her thin scanties. Adele felt the same way about it all as I did, our hard breathing filling the stuffy office.
‘You should be paying
,’ the woman rasped next to me, almost ruining the magical moment.
But then she tore her eyes off the erotic diorama and looked at me, sizing up my somewhat plump physique and well-developed chest. She stroked some strands of my curly, brown hair, turned my head to stare into her glaring eyes. ‘Have you ever considered modelling yourself, Megan? I think you’ve got what it takes – for the more mature crowd. One hundred dollars a set.’
I shook my dizzied gourd, murmured, ‘I don’t think I could take all the excitement.’
Then I grabbed onto Adele’s small head and jerked her pensive face close, planted my hot lips on her lips. Before all this jabber about money sullied our sordid appreciation of Constance. Sometimes, there are more important things in life than just dough, even in the skulk business.
Adele’s arms shot around my waist, hugging me tight to her heaving body, her wet lips agreeing with mine. I grabbed her thin shoulders and we pressed, impassioned, together, our breasts squishing and nipples indenting, mouths moving and sucking. It was pure spontaneous combustion fired by that comely redhead Constance. How Adele got
work done in that office, with all those sexy photo representations of the curvaceous Miss Cumming hanging around, I had no idea.
I squeezed her shoulders, smothering her lips and tits with mine. Her hands dove down my waist onto my bum. She kneaded the thick, tingling flesh back there. I thrust my tongue into her moist, heated mouth, tangling it with her now softened, slippery, pink mouth-organ. Her nails dug into my buttocks. We twined together, tongue and arms.
I grabbed onto Adele’s neck and cupped her cheeks, forcing her tongue out even farther. Then I caught it between my teeth and lips and sucked. She moaned in my face. I could feel her breasts beating against my breasts, her nipples throbbing against my nipples, tasting the tea and nicotine on her outstretched licker.
I sucked and sucked on her tongue, bobbing my head back and forth. Until, finally, she reeled the budded appendage back into her mouth and pulled a hand off my bum and plunged it down into the front of my pants.
Her tiny hand penetrated right into my panties and covered my pussy. I jerked, gasping in her face, her fingers brushing through my matted fur and over my swollen lips, grabbing my moistened mound. She glared at me, gripping my bum and cunt. Then she rubbed me finally the right way, petting my pussy fast and furious.
I pulled my hands away from her face and dropped them down onto her breasts, squeezed the small, firm, heated handfuls.
‘Yes, suck on my tits!’ Adele hissed.
I brushed her dress off her shoulders and pulled the black satin gown down, baring her breasts,
bra as I’d expected. Her tits were tanned the same uniform caramel as the rest of her, her hard nipples a slightly deeper brown. I covered her naked breasts with my hands, pinched her nipples between my fingers.
‘Yes!’ she groaned, tossing her head back and thrusting her boobs into my hands. She still clutched my ass, and rubbed my pussy.
I kneaded her little mounds, rolled her jutting nipples. Then I dipped my head down and pushed her breasts up and sucked her right nipple and most of her same tit into my mouth, pulled on the spongy flesh and rubbery tip with my lips. Adele spasmed, her hands clenching my ass and pussy.
I sucked hard on her one breast, my cheeks billowing with the vaccing effort, my eyes rolled up to look at the woman. Two of her fingers slid right into my slit, penetrating my slick folds, and I spat out her one breast and bobbed over to the other, inhaled that hump of raw nerves. Adele tremored and stared down into my eyes, kneading my butt cheek again, now pumping her pair of fingers back and forth in my pussy.
I sucked on her breasts, stuck out my tongue and twirled the cherry-red tip around the gleaming, rigid caps of her tits, painting her nipples with pleasure. Then I impulsively shoved both her boobs together and wagged my tongue back and forth across both of her buds at once. She vibrated in my hands and mouth, against my tongue, her fingers sawing away inside of my juiced cunt so that I was leaking my own joy.
It couldn’t last. We were too worked up; Constance was watching us in all her semi-nude glory. I pulled my hands and lips away from Adele’s breathless chest and pulled the buttons of my shirt open, baring my breasts.
Adele grinned and brought her hand up from my butt and grabbed onto one of my hanging, shimmering tits, the other one, groping the pale, heated flesh; her fingers still pounding into my pussy down below.
I jammed her dress down so that it slithered right down to her high heels. She
wearing panties – a red lace pair through which her dyed-blonde fur showed.
‘Constance wore them once,’ she mouthed, turning my burn inferno.
Looking the woman full in the flushed face, I snaked my hand into her waistband and palmed her pussy full length. She shivered, her fingernails latching onto one of my buzzing nipples and biting.
I rubbed her muff. She pumped mine. Her pussy fur was soft and springy, her pussy lips thick and slick and rubbery. I clutched and squeezed one of her tits as she grasped and worked one of mine. Then I ploughed three of my fingers right into her slot and pumped away like she was pumping me.