Lizbeth's Lesbian Collection

by Lizbeth Dusseau

  “But you must have stayed in contact with the woman for her to come here several years later?”

  “She was very sweet to me at the hospital, the first friendly face I remember, just that face, those lovely eyes, she does have lovely eyes, don’t you think?” Remy’s eyes looked faraway and she seemed more agitated the more she talked.

  “Yes, she does have lovely eyes,” Robin agreed, wondering if she could take much more. No wonder why Martha didn’t want her talking. “So you must have written each other regularly?”

  “Not really…” She thought back, “until recently. But I was very excited when she wrote me. Then she called. She was one of the best friends that I’ve ever had. She and Martha both.”

  “Were you two ever lovers, you and Zelda?”

  “Oh no! I was a patient, she was an aide, you didn’t do those sort of things with the staff.”

  “But your relationship with Martha?”

  Remy smiled confused, the expression on her face troubled. “But Martha’s different…” Her dreamy eyes drifted off again.

  “How is she different?”

  “She loved me, she’s given up so much for me, and I’m so grateful.” There was a singsong sadness in her voice; you almost thought she’d float away. Maybe she’d learned enough.

  ***

  From a first floor window, Martha looked out seeing the three women in the garden.

  “Damn! Those detectives,” she voiced aloud, meanwhile Zelda sidled up to her, putting her arms around her middle.

  “You’re scared of what she’ll say?”

  “Damn right, I am. Remy’s still not right. Those women will twist her words, assume all the wrong things from her confusion.”

  “But you don’t believe she killed Felicia, do you?” Zelda asked. “I wouldn’t worry, she’ll only tie her tongue in knots the way she usually does. What on earth would she say?”

  “She didn’t kill her,” Martha insisted.

  “Of course, she didn’t,” Zelda said, although there was some hesitancy in Zelda’s voice. “I still think it was Betsy, unless it was Jane. But I wouldn’t worry about Remy. She’s more savvy than you give her credit for. You worry too much.” Zelda felt up Martha’s breasts through her shirt, her fingers moving for her nipples, which seemed to grow instantly hard with a teasing squeeze. “You suppose, maybe,” she purred in Martha’s ear, “since we have a few minutes alone, we could… you know?” She rubbed her body against Martha’s like a seductive cat.

  While enjoying the playful massage, Martha continued to peer out the window every few seconds, distracted by what was going on outside. “I don’t know, I’m not up to spanking you, Zelda. I need to lie back and relax. The tension of this is sometimes more than I can handle. Keeping Remy together, it’s so hard.” She sighed, settling back into Zelda’s comforting body.

  “I know, but you do it very well. Remy’s so lucky to have you. You were really all she wrote about in her letters.” She kissed her gently on the back of her neck. “But now that she’s so occupied, you can take some time for yourself. Maybe turn the tables?” she suggested.

  Martha’s eyes un-focused now, as she listened closely to the woman behind her. “You do that? I mean, you’d be the aggressor?”

  “Sometimes. With the right person. I’ve never been one for all this silly Dom and sub protocol.”

  Zelda’s warm body felt so good against her back. Martha had little trouble with the idea of lying back and being taken by the woman; might just be what she needed.

  “How about you just relax and let me take you to some place special,” the warm-bodied Zelda cooed. Her hands were inside Martha’s blouse and pulling at both her nipples. She stretched them out long and slowly until they hurt, and the pain traveled downward to her sex. Martha seethed quietly. This was so rare for her. Once she remembered Felicia tortured her this way, but just once. Felicia was only occasionally dominant with her—she often wondered why, when Felicia herself was known as a Domme.

  “You like this, don’t you?” Zelda asked.

  “Don’t you dare stop,” Martha said. One of Zelda’s hands dropped down to Martha’s crotch and she began to fondle her there. Then she moved to the waistband of her pants and slid her fingers down inside.

  “My, how wet you are? Pent-up again, are we? You shouldn’t wait so long to take care of these things, but don’t worry, I’ll take care of what you need.” Her voice was so soft, and still so commanding. Exactly what she needed.

  “Humm…” Martha moaned. The lusty redhead had played an unexpectedly needed role in the last few days, giving her relief she was unable to find elsewhere. Remy could never do this. Martha started to turn around, and face her.

  “No, no, stay right where you are,” Zelda said, continuing to whisper in her ear. “You let me be in control this time, just you relax.” She moved with Martha to the nearby sofa, laying the woman down on the thick comforting cushion. Zelda tugged at Martha’s blouse, pulling it up to find her breasts undulating before her, as the woman breathed in and out. “Just keep your hands over your head, hum…” Zelda said smiling. “Let me do all the work.”

  Martha gazed up into Zelda’s glowing eyes, letting everything about the moment arouse her.

  “This is so perfect,” Martha moaned.

  “Of course,” Zelda said in a voice that faded away as her red curls descended to Martha’s chest and her lips kissed the soft flesh. Her teeth captured a nipple and held it tightly, while she gazed into Martha’s rapturous face. There was a smile behind Zelda’s biting teeth, a dark and wicked smile of lust so pleasing that she could be lost inside it.

  “Martha!”

  The sudden sound of the voice coming from outside the room made both women freeze. Then Zelda’s teeth let go of their hold on Martha’s nipple and the hefty breast fell back against her chest. “Oh my god!” Martha bolted from the sofa and pulled down her blouse.

  Meanwhile, Zelda stood up almost laughing. “My aren’t you nervous. The door’s closed, silly.”

  “I know, but we should be more careful. Damn! I bet it’s those two detectives.” She quickly glanced out of the window to see Remy still working on the roses. She was by herself.

  Leslie and Robin stood in the hallway, waiting for Leslie’s call to be acknowledged.

  “Remy was very odd, wasn’t she,” Robin whispered.

  “Still a little wacko, I’d guess.”

  “Definitely,” Robin agreed. “I kept thinking as she was praising Martha that Remy really is an unhappy woman. I think her doting lover’s wandering has bothered her much more than she admits.”

  “I agree with you there. I wonder if she wasn’t under the same kind of stress seven years ago when she tried to kill her lover. Perhaps she snapped again.”

  “Killing Felicia would make a lot of sense if she needed to get rid of the competition.”

  “Anybody here?” Leslie called again, as they waited in the foyer for someone to appear.

  The door to the study suddenly opened and a disheveled Martha emerged with a pleasant expression plastered on her face, a hand running through her messed up hair. “May I help you?” she asked. Zelda stood behind her, grinning.

  “I’m sorry if we’ve interrupted something,” Leslie said, realizing with some interest exactly what the two were doing.

  “No, no not at all,” Martha answered politely. “I see you were talking with Remy in the garden.”

  “Yes,” Leslie said. “She was very helpful.”

  “Helpful? And how’s that?”

  “She confirmed some information we have about her past, and yours, and yours, too, Zelda,” Robin said, nodding to the other woman.

  “About her past?”

  “Yes. What you haven’t told the police.”

  “I don’t know what you could mean,” Martha replied defensively.

  The two detectives made their way beyond Martha into the study. Zelda had taken a seat by the window and was looking out on the garden. Martha b
acked off, intimidated by the Leslie’s remarks.

  “We know that Remy was hospitalized at Brightwood Psychiatric Hospital for a violent incident with a former lover. Her condition was described as extremely confused and volatile.”

  “Are you suggesting that Remy killed Felicia?”

  “We’re suggesting with a violent history, that the possibility is not unlikely.”

  “Remy’s problems were years ago,” Martha reminded them. “And except for the use of the knife, I don’t really see how the two crimes compare.”

  “Regardless, I think the police will be interested in this information.”

  “And I think you’re complicating something that’s already been resolved,” Martha charged, regaining some of her composure and her protective attitude.

  “That’s possible, but you’ve been less than candid with us. Perhaps you can explain that.”

  “Well, doesn’t it stand to reason?” Zelda suddenly interjected, “Remy would obviously be a suspect if the police knew about her history. Why would we want to offer that information?”

  “So, the two of you have been making up stories to keep Remy from suspicion?”

  “That’s about what it adds up to,” Zelda replied flatly.

  Martha looked annoyed by the redhead’s interference. “I think it’s more a situation of not placing undue stress on Remy. She is still a delicate woman. I know that she didn’t murder Felicia, so why put her through hell, she’s had enough in her life.”

  “Do you really know she didn’t commit the murder?” Leslie asked. “Or are you just hoping that she didn’t?”

  “I beg your pardon, Remy did not kill Felicia!” Martha snapped.

  “Because you know who did?” Robin refused to let up.

  “I think that Betsy is the murderer, I’ve thought so from the beginning. The only possible other suspect could be Jane.”

  “We’ve though that too,” Robin said kindly. “But I’m not so certain she’s much of a suspect.”“Well, you can’t go telling the police your half cocked story. I mean look at the murder scene, so precise, so perfectly executed. Do you think for a minute that Remy would have been that careful with the details. You’re right, she’s not a completely well woman, but she doesn’t have the temperament for the crime.”

  “You speak very passionately for her innocence,” Leslie said. “I admire your loyalty, but that explanation doesn’t completely add up.”

  “What do you mean?” Martha said suspiciously.

  “Remy is a chemist, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are not too many fields that require more precision than chemistry. I’d say that our innocent, shy, confused woman has a side to her personality that is very sharp and meticulous. The precision of the bondage and the wound does not necessarily rule out your lover.”

  “But I can rule out my lover, she was in bed with me,” Martha was practically shouting.

  Zelda moved off the sofa and put her arm around the woman. “I think we’ve all been stretched to the limit, ladies, any further conversation about this is not going to get us anywhere. Do what you have to do with your information, but please leave us alone. We’ve said all we’re going to say.” She leveled the two with a penetrating stare. As far as she was concerned, the conversation was over.

  “Sorry to have bothered you,” Robin nodded, as she followed Leslie to the door.

  “Boy, they are quite a pair,” Leslie said, as Robin joined her on the front porch and they walked briskly toward the garden on their way to Jane’s cottage.

  “One protecting the other, protecting another, I agree.”

  “A little strange, don’t you think, those two together. It looked pretty sexual to me, when Martha opened the door.”

  “I wonder what that means.” Robin pondered.

  “Perhaps Martha misses sex with Felicia. Looks like Zelda might be up to the same antics. There sure is a lot of bed hopping in this little S&M community,” Leslie said.

  “Is that some sort of judgment?” Robin asked.

  “No, no, not at all, just an observation. They were right about one thing, the police will chew up Remy in seconds, if they start to interrogate her.”

  “I think it’s time we had a talk with our detective friend downtown,” Robin said.

  “Perhaps he won’t think it’s such an open and shut case anymore.”

  “Isn’t it strange? Two such very different women, the two likeliest suspects?”

  As the two retraced their steps to the garden, they spotted Remy some distance away, moving around to the back of the house with a bouquet of flowers in her hand. “Maybe Remy and Jane aren’t so very different, they’re both duplicitous women. They’re just duplicitous in different ways,” Leslie suggested, as they watched Remy slip out of sight on her way to the garden shed at the back corner of the property.

  Reaching the cottage, Leslie rapped loudly on the door. “Jane,” she called, hoping to find the woman at home.

  After a time, she remarked, “Doesn’t look as if she’s here.” She put her hand to the knob and turned it easily. “Or maybe she just didn’t hear us.”

  The door swung open and the two women looked inside.

  “Jane!” Robin called this time. She stepped inside, urging her partner to follow.

  Inside the cottage they had a different view of Jane’s life than the one they witnessed in high relief when they watched Jane and Zelda engaged in their sex. Her home was much prettier than they expected. Of course it was without the fussy flowers that were splashed throughout the big house; but Jane’s taste in interior decoration included a dozen well-tended house plants, and sumptuous leather that was a cozy accompaniment to her earthy style. Two large abstract oil paintings hung on the one wall, companion pieces, depicting nude women in states of bondage, although so uniquely painted one would have to look at them closely to see what the wild shapes represented.

  “Tasteful, don’t you think?” Robin said.

  “Yeah,” Leslie replied. A cold shiver raced down her back. “I don’t feel comfortable here. Let’s go.”

  “Why, what’s the problem?” Robin asked.

  Leslie looked at an empty place on the wall where there were rings embedded in the brick, remnants of the cottage’s former use. She spied the cabinet where the crop Jane had used on Zelda came from. And the bench that Zelda had mounted during the scene sat innocently in front of Jane’s leather chair.

  “You want to submit to Jane, don’t you?” Robin asked, wishing she could really press Leslie on her newfound desires.

  “Maybe, but I’m just not comfortable busting into someone’s home uninvited.”

  “Since when has snooping around bothered you?”

  “What’s there to look for?”

  Robin didn’t reply, but continued a typical ‘Robin’ perusal of the place, as if the walls were speaking, telling her their secrets. “The more I’m in her environment, the less I think she could have murdered Felicia,” Robin finally said.

  “I agree, but our strongest evidence still implicates her,” Leslie reminded her.

  “Then perhaps we should go to the police now.” Robin turned around to face her partner.

  “No. I still want to talk to her one more time,” Leslie said. “I just want to see the look on her face.”

  “You’re sounding like me,” Robin said with a laugh.

  “I guess I am,” Leslie concurred, “And is that so bad?”

  Chapter Twelve

  “I don’t think we’re going to find her tonight,” Robin said, as she looked at the outside facade of Sapphos.

  “Two hours already,” Leslie looked at her watch. “Not much going on.” The two detectives sat in Robin’s Suzuki waiting for Jane to show. After a quick dinner, they’d checked inside the club and were told that Jane was expected later. They’d waited for the Domme outside the club, but that proved fruitless. Jane didn’t show her face.

  “We could check back at the estate,” Ro
bin suggested.

  “Or we could give up for the night and look for her in the morning.”

  “I want to find her tonight,” Robin said. “We need to get this resolved now, show the police what we’ve learned. See if they’ll look at the evidence a little differently. We might even get Betsy released.”

  Leslie nodded.

  “But, I’m getting cold,” Robin added, “Let’s stop by my apartment for a few minutes so I can change. Then we’ll drive to the estate.”

  Robin drove to the old brownstone neighborhood where her apartment was located, finding a parking place just in front.

  Leslie gazed up at the quaint building, remembering when Robin had moved out of their shared apartment into this place. How she’d cried. The warm yellow lights now glowing in several windows gave the place a welcoming appearance.

  “I’ll wait for you here,” Leslie suggested.

  “Hey, I’ll be a few minutes, how about a cup of coffee?” Robin suggested. “If we’re going to be on this all night, we don’t have to hurry.”

  Leslie agreed.

  After serving her partner a steamy cup of espresso, Robin went into her bedroom to change. She returned with a heavy sweater replacing the thin blouse, and grabbed a coat from the closet, tossing it over the back of a chair. Then, sitting down opposite Leslie, she took a sip of her coffee.

  “You were kind of spooked at Jane’s cottage,” Robin said.

  Leslie shrugged, looking rather sheepish for the normally self-assured detective. “I guess I can’t hide much from you, can I?”

  “You never could. Thinking about Jane and her sex games, perhaps? About being in Zelda’s place at Jane’s feet the other night?”

  Leslie chuckled. “Maybe…” she answered vaguely. She didn’t want to look directly at Robin. Anytime in the last few days that the conversation turned to sex, her palms had started to sweat, and she felt a strange prickly heat between her legs. It shouldn’t feel so strange anymore as often as this sexual response occurred – at the club, when she looked at the murder photographs, the photos in Felicia’s room, the sex in Jane’s cottage, and then this morning when they obviously interrupted Martha and Zelda in the middle of something sexual.