The nightclub was a busy place, the costumes pretty much predictable with lots of leather and chains, and a little lace adorning some submissives. There were Dommes who looked like men and those with lipstick and wild hair that had a real flair for being feminine. There were submissives of every persuasion. A rather eclectic gathering on the whole.
As Leslie made her way about the club, there appeared to be at least a dozen rooms on two levels, connected by a broad metal stairway. The predominant color was black, though it surprised her the variety of light and dark that greeted her eyes. In some places there was blinding light, and white walls. In other areas it was dark and smoky so she could hardly see in front of her face. The music changed with the rooms, though it all seemed to blend in a gentle cacophony, thankfully not some heavy metal harshness that would have made her head pound in seconds.
The raw sexuality of Sapphos In Chains impressed her the most. She could not ignore the lesbian bonding, the open expression of female/female sensuality, which was often so difficult on the outside. In that respect, the place was no different from other lesbian bars with softer themes. It was not uncommon to see tender gestures between top and bottoms, and subtle love songs being sung between women whose proclivities were hard to pinpoint.
No one was aggressive with her, which Leslie liked. Perhaps the sign at the door stated the rules, “No one’s forced to do anything inside this place, don’t forget it!” She almost snickered imagining the woman who wrote that rule.
There were plenty of winsome smiles from unattached women, eyes that beckoned her closer, and a few mild physical gestures that warmed her, though she didn’t respond to anything overtly.
Leslie sat down at the bar, ordered a coke and looked around, trying to feel her way into the playground around her. The scenes were so fascinating, each one so different, she could have stared at the little soap operas for hours, mesmerized by the relationships between these women. No wonder why Robin liked this world; her former lover was a real student of the drama of life and its personal relationships. Although she might often lose her perspective when it was a relationship of her own—Robin had some really bad ones—she’d become a master of discernment when it came to other people, no doubt because she was willing to walk into most any situation, sit down and study it for hours. Leslie thought that rather boring, wanting more action in her life; but here in this unusual atmosphere she found the unique theatre of S&M something you couldn’t find elsewhere, all of which made observing a stimulating adventure. Leslie wanted to take it as slow and easy as Robin would; she could always ask her questions later.
Leslie especially liked the look of chains. Just seeing a submissive wearing an extended collar of a dozen chains dangling over her naked torso produced a raw and unexpected heat in Leslie’s groin; so much she found her crotch moving against the stool. The youngish-looking blonde was led on a leash to a table where she was ordered to sit. Her hands were immediately tied behind her, so that her breasts were about as blatantly displayed as Leslie had ever seen a chest displayed. It didn’t hurt that these were at least “C” cup tits, natural ones at that, with large brown aureoles and nipples the size of hard pebbles. Goosebumps were scattered across the surface of the blonde’s white skin; and since it wasn’t particularly cold inside the club—in fact it was rather warm—Leslie assumed the sub must be sexually aroused. Her butch top left her at the table with a stern order spoken tersely, her lips just inches from the sub’s wide-eyed face. Leslie couldn’t hear what the woman said, but she could see the blonde shiver in response, while a look of fear registered in the girl’s heavily made-up eyes.
“You planning some fun, a scene, perhaps?” a tall black woman said, on approaching Leslie. The curvaceous female was dressed in a short skirt, a leather bustier and a pair of stiletto boots. She was well over six feet tall.
“I’m just looking around, it’s my first time here,” Leslie replied.
The woman looked down Leslie’s vest, apparently admiring the softly jiggling flesh inside.
“You sub or Dom?”
“I’d likely switch.” Leslie tossed off the comment without much thought. It sounded good. The woman looked at her with an air of approval.
“I switch myself. I like to top most of the time, but I do like my ass beat on occasion. Not more than once a month, mind you.” The woman’s thick lips were gilded with the most amazing lipstick; the red and gold hues seemed to glisten as she moved her mouth. Leslie wanted to kiss that mouth, feeling that soft bounty of fleshy lips surround her own much smaller ones.
“Leta,” the woman announced her name as she sat down on the bar stool beside her.
“Leslie.” She felt a little more comfortable with someone sitting next to her, a little safer, maybe. Safety in numbers. This woman was not nearly as forbidding as some in the crowd, and Leslie especially liked her eyes. They were made up beautifully, with dark eye-shadows in rich color. Extreme, perhaps, but exotic like the woman herself. And yet, nothing about her fetish attire took away from the gentleness that seemed natural to the alluring female.
“May I?” Leta asked, while deliberately gazing into Leslie’s gaping vest.
“Yes, sure, why not?” Leslie answered, a little nervously. She hadn’t expected to experience this level of arousal—after all, she was working. Working or not, she imagined herself slipping off to a private room with Leta to spend the evening. A little ironic, perhaps, especially after she’d joked with Robin that she was going to the club so that Robin wouldn’t be distracted from the job.
With the lovely Leta taking such an interest in her, Leslie could hardly rebuff the advance. The woman reached inside Leslie’s vest, found her nipple, and pushed the vest aside. She squeezed it harshly as she pulled it out, making Leslie jerk. Although she winced with pain, the sensation wasn’t without its pleasure. She felt the effect all the way to her pussy—which was growing more moist with every second. Just one tiny nipple pinch and Leslie realized how horny she really was.
“Oh, my!” she softly gasped.
“Such a pretty pink,” Leta said. “I’d love to clamp them both. Hum?” She looked into Leslie’s eyes. “Later, maybe? After you get accustomed to things, we could find a room and I’d give you a wonderful introduction to B&D.”
Leslie smiled, thinking that she would be a perfect partner for a first time. “Well, I don’t know, maybe. We’ll see what happens.”
“Yes, we will,” the woman assured her. Then Leta slid off her stool, pressed her lips against Leslie’s neck. Backing off, she smiled and walked away. Her graceful gait was slow and easy—easy to be seduced by a subtle siren like Leta. Only after the woman was out of her sight, did Leslie remember with some regret that she didn’t even think of asking Leta about her suspect.
About an hour after Leslie arrived, she saw Jane Hugh walk through the door—looking almost the same as she had on the afternoon when she and Robin interviewed her. Only her clothes were different. She wore pants, cowboy boots and a leather shirt that laced up the front. Her breasts pressed against the fabric, making them look larger than Leslie remembered them. The grim expression on her lips was a bit unnerving, although a soft but rather nondescript submissive landed on her arm almost instantly, and whispered something in her ear.
Jane put her hand on the woman’s cheek and held it in her palm, gently, but with an unmistakable authority that could have easily slapped the woman in the face. Jane’s submissive kissed her adoringly, and called her “sir”, which seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to call this dominant femme.
Leslie turned on her stool just enough so that Jane wouldn’t see her. This wasn’t exactly a stake-out; it was much more a subjective fact finding mission. And though she didn’t intend to remain incognito all night, she hoped she could remain unrecognized for a while longer.
After Jane’s quick greeting was over, she made her way past the bar, not seeing Leslie, and disappeared into the back of the club.
“You like her?” a
voice asked.
Leslie turned around a little startled to find that her watchfulness had been observed.
“Yes, I suppose. She fascinates me,” Leslie said truthfully.
“You haven’t been here before, have you?”
Leslie gazed at the woman in the black t-shirt and skirt. Fairly unremarkable, was her first impression, although the woman’s head was shaved bald and she had a half dozen earrings pierced into each ear. In her left ear, the earring at the bottom hung almost to her shoulder.
“No. It’s my first time.”
“Sometimes she runs things here, Jane does,” the woman went on informatively. She’s like an electrical current. You really should see what she’s going to do with Dagne tonight.”
“Who’s Dagne? The blonde that was kissing her?”
“Oh no! Dag’s a real bitch, and Jane’s gonna beat her ass tonight. Getting uppity.”
“I see.”
“Yeah, Dagne usually tops, but every once in a while, we all think she needs to be taken down a peg.”
“So tonight’s the night, hum?” Leslie said. This was one conversation she needed to keep going. The loquacious woman might tell her everything she needed to know.
“I think so, although the fireworks won’t start for awhile, Jane’s into Chris a lot now, so they’re probably getting it on privately.”
“How long do these scenes go on?”
“Who knows,” she shrugged. “Sometimes hours, if they’re really into something.”
“A lot lately you say. Chris her girlfriend?”
“Yeah, but not really. Jane’s been kinda messed up since her lady was murdered.”
“You mean Felicia?” Leslie guessed.
“Yeah, you knew her?”
“A friend of mine used to live with her.”
“Really? She was a strange one but I think Jane really had something for her. Brought her here a couple of times. Once she made her really sweat on the pulley’s back there. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so wild as those two. That Felicia woman looked as though she never wanted to stop.”
“What were they like?” Leslie asked with eyes brightening in admiration, so that her talkative friend would keep talking.
“They were in here a month ago, I think. Jane had the dame crawling on the floor; I’ve never seen anyone lick boots the way she did. I’m told she was a Dom most of the time, but the way she acted, you’d never believe it. The brand on her ass? They say Jane did that, but no one really knows for sure.”
“A brand?”
“Yeah, there’s lots of woman doing that now. I guess it’s not as painful as you’d think. I mean if you’re into pain, how much worse could it be? That bitch? She had one right in the middle of her pretty ass. Some weird something, musta meant something to them.”
“Did you see them in a scene together?”
“Kinda, part of one anyway, when she had her on the pulley’s, but you see I’m getting awfully hot while it’s going on, and this little thing comes in and leans on my arm, and I couldn’t wait any longer, so I took out my stuff on her butt. We were both really roaring.” She remembered the delicious moment with a lusty grin. “Anyway, by the time I’m done, Jane closes the door on the audience. Damn, that lady screamed like holy hell. But she was the most peaceful bitch I’ve ever seen when she left. I think she must have looked like that when she was dead, that peaceful. They say she was tied up when she died. I’m surprised they didn’t arrest Jane, though you know we don’t talk to police much here and we never use last names. Keeps things pretty clean. I figure most people aren’t using real names anyway, not at first.”
“You think Jane might have killed her?” Leslie asked in her best gossipy, non-detective tone of voice.
“Wouldn’t that be a hoot!” she exclaimed. “But nah, Jane’s not like that. I think she really liked the bitch even though she treated her like dirt.”
“So, you saw them together a lot?”
“No, just a couple of times. I don’t really remember any other scenes together. But I think the Felicia lady liked to show off. Seems like one night she was masturbating in the middle of the orgy room with everyone watching. Yeah, I remember that,” the woman’s memory was suddenly refreshed. “She was just really getting herself off. That’s probably the first time I saw her here. Her hands in her crotch, some flimsy dress all messed up. Yeah, she was a real nasty whore that night, too. She was whipping herself, while Jane stared at her, barking commands in this weird whisper you couldn’t quite hear, but you could feel the stuff between them. Damn insane if you ask me.”
“She was whipping herself?” Leslie asked.
“Little leather thong whip. Real little, like maybe she carried the thing with her all the time. Her face was vacant. I remember that the most, and suddenly how her vacant expression would vanish and she’d become a whole new woman, animated and alive—right in the middle of flailing herself with that whip. I was thinking that it really had to hurt her cunt, but she seemed real happy about it—even as red and raw as it was.”
“I never knew the woman, I guess it was my loss,” Leslie said. She was finding it difficult not to be aroused by the way the woman talked and the stories of Felicia, though it seemed a little crass to be getting off on someone who was now dead, and not yet in her grave.”
“You ever see Betsy, the woman they arrested?” Leslie asked.
“No, at least I don’t think so. God, her picture has been plastered all over the place. Cute thing. I’d guess she was submissive, so I’m not sure how they’re pinning this murder on her, but if you’re in the scene, I think you can really go either way depending on your mood. Except Doms like Jane; they never switch.”
“You played with her?”
“Naw, but maybe some time. I’ve never come on to her. I like my Doms more feminine, kinda like you.” Her eyes suddenly gleamed with interest. Finished talking, she was ready for a change.
“Sorry, I’m waiting for someone,” Leslie said.
“Sure, I know,” the woman replied smiling, not at all hurt by rejection. For the second time that night, a woman slipped off the seat next to Leslie, moving on to something they needed that Leslie wasn’t ready to provide. At least she was getting somewhere, maybe if she remained in her seat, she’d eventually find out everything that she needed to know.
***
In her apartment, Robin mulled over the pieces of the puzzle so far uncovered. Felicia, Betsy, the three women, Jane Hugh. She wondered about these five who had been so close to Felicia the night of her death, as if they’d been appointed to the position. Was there some cosmic force that had brought them together this way? Even more important, was there some connection between them? Had they all conspired to murder? She remembered an Agatha Christy, Murder On the Orient Express, Poirot discovering this band of travelers had each sunk a knife into the old victim’s body. Was this the case here? Certainly these women might all have wanted her dead. But the wounds didn’t suggest multiple murderers. The knife wound was deliberate, deep and very steady, made by someone with a very clear motive.
Up until this time, Robin had thought about the murder in the abstract, not yet ready to think about the woman who had tied up Felicia Roman one night, only to stab her in the chest. Now the questions came freely, some answers clear, others as obvious as mud.
She thought if she could imagine it clearly enough in her head, the picture of the killer’s face might just miraculously appear. Had it been an impulse, or something carefully planned? Had a B&D scene gone awry? Was there a woman who placed Felicia in bondage only to have another stab her in the chest? Did one woman tie her up, another use a whip, while others watched? Or was it, as everyone assumed, the act of a solo assailant?
And what was Felicia thinking at the moment of her death? Did she even know that it was about to happen? Did she have any idea that there was a knife poised and ready to strike? Would her expression not have been more surprised at the moment of death? Would there not
have been more signs of struggle, more tugging against the bonds that held her? According to the police report, there were no signs of a struggle; she seemed as peaceful as a lamb in death.
How many times, Robin wondered to herself, had her own eyes been closed to the outside world when she traversed the inner realms in a moment of masochistic frenzy. She could never imagine opening her eyes at a moment when a whip struck, unless she was ordered to. Britta had done that before: made her look into her face as she wielded the whip. It was another kind of submission that was almost impossible for Robin to agree to. Too intimate, too fucking intimate! Maybe she needed to love someone for that. But she’d endured Britta’s demand, regardless; submissives do that.
Robin would rather be blindfolded during a scene, or remain with her eyes closed. She assumed that most submissives preferred that too, and how easy it would be to kill a bound submissive when their eyes were closed. The very fact that Felicia enjoyed the bondage and had likely asked for it was a surprise. Perhaps she was more of a bottom than anyone knew. Certainly it seemed she trusted someone more than she had a right to.
There was no way to paint a pretty picture of this ugly event. During all of her years of kinky sexuality, never had she known of a murder between a top and bottom – no matter how weird things got. A safe, sane, consensual lifestyle was the mantra players swore by. But for all the sane sounding suspects in this curious murder investigation, perhaps one was not so sane after all.
The three women were Robin’s concern now. It was clear that Remy and Martha were hiding their past, one that was obviously troubling. And Zelda—a wild card. There for murder? Or there by some fluke of circumstance? Robin didn’t know when she’d had a more fascinating set of suspects.
Lizbeth's Lesbian Collection Page 24